The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


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.

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