The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

January 27, 2012

Twin Peaks for David Lynch.

Mr Lynch:

Just as Twin Peaks is your Masterpiece, twinpeaks.mp3 is my Masterpiece.

Please listen with earphone and wavefile upon request. Solo cobza for
David Lynch.

Thank you. Alan Sondheim.

Of Housing solo hasapi

finding a home in memory [where we grew up, images from google
maps, the tree and front entrance to the kitchen are already gone;
the tree was one of the oldest in the town] a situation or an
unknown situation [trying to find a home for melody on hasapi,
it's already gone by the time i arrive]

I remember we always liked the trees, the one in the back seemed to
grow up with us. When my parents grew older, they stopped caring so
much; finally a year or so ago my brother and I insisted that the
growth be cut back to avoid misery in the neighborhood; there was
always the chance of something falling on one or another building.
The hedgerow of pines had to go; they were dead from disease. It's
as if the soil itself rebelled against growth in the area. The
skunks and possums went and the rabbits were gone for a long time,
too. Now some of the rabbits are back, that's all. No more hawks,
we didn't see herons either or any of the other visitors. But then
we weren't looking either. Google's maps are memories, perfect for
archives I think, the details blurred as if you were looking at
things through cataracts. Technology will never catch up with the
singularity of a one-to-one map; that doesn't matter very much. It
doesn't matter that animals and plants disappear, that corrupted
form is the result of form corrupting; there are always new plants
and animals around the corner, and these images, for that matter,
this music, are nothing but digital spews, hardly carrying the
meat of anything, much less the world they were extruded from. We
are always already replacements, and probably always already have
been. The pain we leave behind, the pain within us, is inextricable
and lies outside any map or territory; the world shatters, shutters
and devolves. Almost no one will read this, and it's more likely to
be processed by a bot or spider than a human or other consciousness
moved, if only for a second, by the increasing tawdriness of our
world, slipping vastly into the digital, no body, our bodies, left

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