The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

April 10, 2014

The New Home

The New Home online was waiting. The Old Home was dark
and the lights in the Old Home were dark and the electric
was on and was dark. In the New Home magnetism and
electricity we're at ninety degrees and entangled; in the
Old Home, electricity was lonely and would not come out
to make the Brilliant World. In the Old Home the faucets
made the sound of rushing air and in the New Home there
were many facets of the Flowing World. The Flowing World
was bright and brilliant and the Brilliant World was
bright and flowing. The Old Home was everywhere I would
be and the New Home would become a Flowing Memory.
Outside the wind blows and branches rattle against the
house. The New Home is not secure and is vulnerable and
the people are sad there because the Old Home has no
wind and no energy or force or momentum and the Old Home
has no Flowing Calculus. We are going to the Old Home
and that is the Song of the Brilliant Swan but we are
now among the New Home and that is a home of Flowing

Then I did realize that my genre is that of the retardation
of reality, image upon image, video upon image, all forms
of recording, from every place, making the place a home, in
a way that almost guarantees me a sense of mourning, loss,
at the end of the day, every day a sweeping into the relay
of night. As if I were born homeless, or into a play of
home which falls apart, the ground seeps away beneath me.
And there were the mines collapsing beneath the ground
where I was from. And holes opening there, and houses
in disarray, cracking. And I realize that the number of
images and sounds and movements might betray the seeping,
might hold things in place for a moment longer, glaciers
retained within their historic limits, life on this planet
momentarily satiated with the slaughter so far. I will
build my home there, not out of memory, but out of the
currency of this time, this now, a holdfast in the
ravaged ocean. I am there now, you will find me, but I
will not be there forever, I will have been gone before you.


the voice of the ctenophor sighs:

"o stork in the night out of sight you do loom
and weave warped maroon weft on your dismal loom
which bad poets make rhyme with womb also tomb
because none of them really provide much of room
and the sound of the stork is never a boom
and they never climb mountains or live in a coom
and they do signal happiness and never do gloom
or say you're dying or flying to doom
as you marry each other, oh bridelet and groom
out of sight like a kite as you cry va-va-voom!"

the voice of the stentors replies:

"woodstork staccato back-and-forth, long-bills down into
crawfish-crab woodstork, foot and florida gar, mosquitofish,
snail kite, soft-shelled Your wood-stork in my alligator fish I
can approach, but not woodstorks - fabulous and fabled - I run
around everything, I watch egrets preening, a lone stork,
woodstork on top treefall and:ibis flocks and woodstork, lower
on mosquitofish, but it was the pond in the dark-night, and the
sound of wood stork wings at the do, you see me woodstork, you
have fast bill, i have strength. together we maybe # violence
and sound # forked storks works dark parks # on the side
watching storks watching storks on their nest, one egg present,
they cannot read these animals, black storks in disarray, these
animals, black storks in disarray, only one I found, in disarray

(only one I found, I in disarray)"

It's curtains for the play.

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