The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

February 28, 2015


sheaves of sources within the localhost, the net, the object,
the theaterical screen, the history of the image, each the
presence-control of the other, each watching among the others,
then from different programs, I'd say different ontologies

well, yes, all within the digital and therefore these things are
resting within dynamic files, a way to think about them, but
beyond that, well I mean there might be changes, not within the
files but they might be generators

I'm getting confused now, it's complicated, for one thing the
sources range from computer to computer but there are operators
standing by so to speak/see, gathering, augmenting, so they're
in different places

sometimes images generated from within or fabricated from
template which might or might not be illustration or drawn from
memory of life, sometimes flesh and blood performers, or
performers within the aegis of flesh and blood, what then, or
there might be the avatar in front of it all who is constantly

but then released to the manipulated ghosts of others who
performed the gestures given to hir, so there's an economy of
gifts and uncanny depths at work here, or projections from
uncanny depths, if you were there you could walk among all of
this create your own projection, which in memory fills out, a
sail blown by the wind, a backlit sail, you can see the sea in
the distance, there are clouds in the sky, and from any angle

angle or angel for these beings come through any plane or solid
that's projected, remember the dream screen, that illusion of
theory and theoretical illusion, or the world of the book and
other configurations, it's complicated

and we might want to look instead for bardo world generations,
projections, and their completions, and in the long run whether
or not we go with an ontology of emptiness makes absolutely no
difference in this world or any other, or even within the
illusion of a world or the illusion of emptiness itself, you're
not really going anywhere here but the wagon seems to drive
itself, the energy in this part of the country is most likely
from coal or nuclear, you can't really tell from the stacks, no
residue within or among the virtual

the figures are complicated, ctenophores, mavens of distributed
intelligence, knots, ganglia, not the condensations we take for
intelligence, but the displacements, that other figure forming
the basis of dreams, these aren't dreams but the processes at
work convey a certain similarity

and the uncanny again, then layers gleaming, none of them
testimony of the witness, none of them speaking from volition,
that's the diacritical always already elsewhere, increasingly
itself embedded in the machinery, when the world of the book for
example becomes the world itself, precisely in a dynamic
symbolic, incipient consciousness, embodiment, so these are,
among other things and processes, thought thinking itself, it's

so how the world is, this is that, this is it for the duration
of the period of complexity and its momentary consciousness

"Colonial critique is complicated, and somewhat enabled, by the
fact of Fri Feb 4 14:35:03 EST 2000. This is complicated, he
said, trying to make this complicated. Years ago I wrote an
article for _Obscura_ on the sou esentations complicated
technology. complicated themselves Video vi Video these
themselves embedding a esentations complicated technological the
embedding p esentations complicated technology. complicated
themselves video vi e in is complicated embedding (singula th
ough the a ity-eye beginning) thei e in is complicated embedding
(singula was simply memorized by the telegraph operator.)) It
was just as complicated meltdowns modelling, thresholds loopings
loopings, robust by simply memorizing the telegraph operator. It
was just as complicated as anything else you'd find in these

for example or something else entirely, it's complicated


*/ by Kathleen Ottinger, Alan Sondheim /*


boundary is a body an outside
outside there is no body
outside there, is nobody
outside: there's nobody

filtering through wet sand

which is everything I'm not

and quality of worlds. ontologies

the opposite of a text is

an unravelled sweater -
nothing's in the sweater

we appear as an afterthought

an afterthought, outside, is already forlorn
while we're writing this, people are being killed, brutally
people are brutally killing
beset by the real, i'd say the blood is real

as long as i'm able to speak, as long as i have eyes,
the blood is real

nothing's in the sweater

always already beset by virtuality

if it's not empty, what should it be

sack bottom sack top sack circle

filtering through wet sand

beneath this world which moves

the sand is a sieve the sand strains the body
the body turns to broth it dries out
the hardness of the desert once there were trees
there was language now there's no language

there was language now there's no language
there was language now there's no language

we appear as an afterthought
with vast expectations

we used to be able to speak we had tongues and hands
we anticipated
we had hope

I cant do anything but adjust software, filter, text

borders on the way to cold death and evanescence

if it's not empty, what should it be

i'll tell you
it should be stunning
it should be beautiful
it should be beyond beautiful

sack meat strung-up
look, you see there, it should be beyond beautiful
the body is a temple, a shrine, a holy place
the body is contrary, untoward

so beautiful is the body
so ver beautiful

filtered through wet sand

the first place is always that of the other

with vast expectations

and ways and means of taking for granted things

and the world they come from

the second place is that of the other
and of the third
the third place, is that of the other

cold shallow in the breathing labored

the speech which rides the breath

and quality of words. grammatologies

with vast expectations

while the true world gnaws my dreams and fears of dying

I can't do anything but adjust software, filter, text

active filters are maintained

through the energy of the other

through the function
through the function the other has made of me
through the object and token the other has made, of me

of me, the object and token
of me, the function

this makes a new and wild thing

which is everything I'm not

nothing gives way but plasma cut across

spermatozoa, limb, and limb and limb multiply,

submerged, that is the time

and quality of worlds. ontologies

we appear as an afterthought

here at the light altar I am Architect
if it's not empty, what should it be

what worlds to build and raze

what dances, what poems?

and the world they come from

a filtered, flat, gone world, enlightened, black

closes that sphere that I am

multitudes are there divided pains divided hopes

close against them and then among them

I burst won't it hoping parcel paper brown
a parcel
a parcel which arrives for us
a parcel which is not too late or early
a parcel which arrives

burst for them will it close for them

with vast expectations

and the worlds they come from

inside scars marks, scrapped sphere, shattered

if it's not empty, what should it be

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