Message-ID: <alpine.NEB.2.11.1511190053590.24094@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.wvu.edu>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: intermittent epoch of the pile of texts and bodies
Date: Thu, 19 Nov 2015 00:58:30 -0500 (EST)
intermittent epoch of the pile of texts and bodies http://www.alansondheim.org/fontanel103.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/epoch.mp3 gusle, rebaba 1-string bowed gusle, then 1-string bowed rebaba the thing of apocalypse announcement of beginning and end, therefore the enunciation of a hinge or boundary: integers on one side, transcendentals on the other. but also a sense of doom and ecstasy - the infinite oasis of eternity. it carries religious overtones; prepare for the atheist apocalypse, asymptotic annihilations on both sides of the border. and prepare for walls as well. could we say we live within the apocalyptic? so that the world is constantly in a state of disappearance, forfeiture. the real tinsel of the world. the world of tendencies. our discomfiture at absence. the world is catching up to me via-a-vis my own intermittent sense of the catastrophic. for that matter the world is also an intermittency. i dislike that every word, every word of _mine,_ is an abyss, a conflagration - that I feel I can only write what appears to me, essential, fundamental - scorched writing that harbors a deep inability to remember anything at all. every instance of every language is an idiolect: let us collapse there in a pile of bodies. again, then: to be certain in these uncertain times: the thing of apocalypse announcement of beginning and end, therefore the enunciation of a hinge or boundary: integers on one side, transcendentals on the other. but also a sense of doom and ecstasy - the infinite oasis of eternity. it carries religious overtones; prepare for the atheist apocalypse, asymptotic annihilations on both sides of the border. and prepare for walls as well. could we say we live within the apocalyptic? so that the world is constantly in a state of disappearance, forfeiture. the real tinsel of the world. the world of tendencies. our discomfiture at absence. the world is catching up to me via-a-vis my own intermittent sense of the catastrophic. for that matter the world is also an intermittency. i dislike that every word, every word of _mine,_ is an abyss, a conflagration - that I feel I can only write what appears to me, essential, fundamental - scorched writing that harbors a deep inability to remember anything at all. every instance of every language is an idiolect: let us collapse there in a pile of bodies.