From: Alan Sondheim <email@example.com>
To: Cyb <firstname.lastname@example.org>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: small field tune
Date: Thu, 13 Sep 2012 14:05:36 -0400 (EDT)
small field tune http://www.alansondheim.org/nsarangi3.mp3 a field tune is played within the Higgs field, the bow's waves disrupting gravitation and the miracle of the strong force. the gluons have no idea where they are; they're busy operating within exchange values among the quarks huddled down in the molecular structures of the Nepalese sarangi, the horsehair bow, rosin, steel, and too many other trace substances to name or take into account. The field tune goes on forever; cramps drive the muscles into under-drive, and the neck-wood is worn down as the nails attempt to hold, by friction and feedback, their momentary positions on the strings. The field tune is a field call as well, summoning musical structures to hold their own, at the very least in memory, so that partial completion might occur, creating objects out of categories and recursive phrases that announce themselves as occurrences within dynamic temporality. After holding, they disappear. After holding, memory disappears. Think of the field tune as a summoning of fields, from Higgs through flesh and the blood-pulse of the lungs and heart; think of the convulsed or supine body in the midst of the field, open to the sexual rhythms of the earth and sky. For you, it is the appearance that the music stops for nothing, neither life nor sex nor death; for the music, it is nothing but the field, villagers of the imaginary at its edge, the implanting done for the season, the whole world on a very slow verge that stops as well for nothing, and might, in quick shift, change everything as a body falls or a baby's born. Nothing lasts here, not even the field tune, but the field itself, and the tune is an object in recording, the implanting of time itself, as you and I might be, as well, for this and that. the tune is calling, you are reading, answering the call which is already over, and the planet is dark and empty, or bright, radiated, in every case awaiting nothing, not even the response, within the Higgs field, itself on the verge of failure, according to some, and according to others, there are no such matters at all.