The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

June 9, 2015

the lake

the train stopped. the trapped.
it started. the lake sound. the trapped.
i remember. it stopped. the trapped.

at one point it seemed to me as if i could have these typed
positions key-grabbed by a rogue site and that's still probably
the case. is the wifi still working? in the airport, it's
no-manz no-mads noh-mad land and i work this idea, that it might
just be possible to learn something about the world's cosmology
before passing out / passing on, so there are these books around
with skimmed symbols so i've learned their alphabets and some of
their combinations, but not too much. so there's the forest of
symbols, detached from roots and branch-points, so that i've
founded there, i'd say among them. across from me someone's
reading or talking and i'm sure is logging these symbols i'm
typing, i can sense his head and what he's on about with a fancy
portable machine with a keyboard the size of the back of his
hand on the back of his hand. the ukraine's maybe burning, if i
type this he might look up, now he might be on to me. so the
cosmology, tensors and whatnot, somewhere among the tendrils i
fly, somewhere but not in this lifetime there's an understanding
that eludes me and that's the biggest gap in the very core of my
being and being-here, this emptiness of cosmology, this
impervious travel. it's the key that i'm missing and the
defocusing effect, nothing coheres to me. he's looking down now
but a baby across the way has taken up the cry, too many
distractions. the world's full of signals, as usual cnn is
saying something about saying something. there are rogue stars
on their own, dying their own deaths like everyone else. at that
point could one flee the cosmos, flee a spot where nothing's
audible but the self- generating of the world surrounding it. it
lives in that spot, among itself, cosmology, cosmological, we're
trying all the way from here to log its rogue symbols, ukraine
not among them. it's all serious and serious despair at this end
of the fulcrum, if there were only one part i could grasp, i
think that the rest might unfold or might whisper about
unfolding. there aren't trees on the star, huge backs, vortices,
radiative arcs, magnetic storms, roseates. everyone's sleeping
here, i type in in the midst of rolling catastrophe, slow
turnings turning over

there are rogue stars. i can't sleep at night.
there are rogue stars. trapped.

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