The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

January 3, 2014

"it doesn't matter to me how language is: language is a

language is a substance that is none wont and therefore
is mined and scraped for unborn strata, fetal
demarcations meandering into the semblance of organic
and potentially meaningful communication

"can there be communication that is not meaningful"

"it doesn't matter to me how that might be; language
scrapes language by the intervention of the parasite"

i am such that the parasite has falln, nib in hand, in
a mode of speaking tearing at the fabric of letters and
words, and thenon up and down

"by which one might include fonts"

as you wish, were that a sentencing of writing here
and there, by mechanical or means otherwise

"it doesn't matter to me but nothing should ever be
condemned, by church or temple, higher or lower"

or perhaps everything should be

"it's all the same to me, it doesn't matter"

0 F windchill -20/25 F windspeed around 35+

Last night Azure and I went for a walk at 2 a.m.
when the streets were empty and the storm was at
its height. I couldn't wear gloves when using
the camera and was screaming in pain; meanwhile
the camera began to give out and when we went in
again, it took over an hour to thaw. So what is
of interest to me in these images is their
representation of pain against the valleys of
blank and white; they were obtained of course
under duress which makes them at least of
limited interest. My hands went through several
transformations when we returned; at one point
all the joints were aching terribly. The snow
was incredibly dry, the wind howling, although
you wouldn't know it from the peacefulness of
the images. Now I know how the Europeans living
through the Little Ice Age felt, but they
didn't have steam heat at the end of the day.

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