The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

January 5, 2017

the cry

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

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.