Message-ID: <alpine.NEB.2.20.1701052259350.27309@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.wvu.edu>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: the cry
Date: Thu, 5 Jan 2017 23:02:15 -0500 (EST)
the cry http://www.alansondheim.org/criers.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/thecries.mp3 http://www.alansondheim.org/thecried.mp3 when i play music, i control where and when without recompense or other tools, just the presence of sound and a local configuration susceptible to sonic production; it is within my aegis, zenith to nadir, void, chasm, or chaos; it is within me, this ob- ject observation of sound which dies as soon as something is audible, already on the wane, fastidious death, nothing before or after, the residue left perhaps within an other object, something elsewhere. this dis- turbs hardly anything; it is a peaceable kingdom of cultural production, no industry here, but the delight of music whispering a- mong the worlds. when i open my body, reverse everything i believe in it is other- wise; already fluids desiccated in the noon- day sun, increasing moment by moment; today i went forward, reading earlier texts and their emphasis on bodily fluids, blood, spit, semen, urine, sweat, saliva, moisture everywhere, myself immersed in this world, naked, supine, splayed, open to anything as the body dries, dies, is reborn among the exhaustion of signifiers and structures - so many of them - cosmological, physical, bio- logical and illogical, the rapture and believe in an epiphany of semantics torn a- way by uneasy and abject sexual and other liquidities; we use ourselves up at the toilet, at sex, at illness and its further production of vomit. o the cauterized body, this is for you, against the clean and proper, but anything produces sound; in my mind's ear, among the tinnitus, i hear it now, such beauty or chaos, such imminence - i can hardly believe it - it is already on its way hardly somewhere else, uncaptured, already unraveled