Message-ID: <alpine.NEB.2.20.1704202308270.18707@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.wvu.edu>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: Dominages
Date: Thu, 20 Apr 2017 23:13:21 -0400 (EDT)
Dominages 16c16 < itself, in other, different words, among us, the-among, vac. --- > itself, in other, different words, among us, the-among. 20,45d19 < http://www.alansondheim.org/cifteli1.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/cif2.mp3 http://www.alansondheim.org/cif1.mp3 http://www.alansondheim.org/cifteli2.jpg It is the music, the sound, which unfortunately dominates my current work - the result of lack of access to other technology, not even a 3d printer or mocap at hand, no vr, nothing but what I might purchase myself. My income should be my art; everything depends on that, and what I can do is play an instrument, tweak a program, improvise. My discourse revolves around itself, always turning inward, suffocating text and con/text. I write out of commons, community, commonality; my words are broken bones, broken teeth, held in jagged symphony (there's an image for you) by electrical current buried in the cornucopia of screens and screenings offering far more seductive material than this text for example, or any other. If articulation is an assemblage, the delay is the reception of such, and disarticulation is a decomposition, on the order of defuge, as what begins as theory turns towards the diaristic maudlin. Give me mocap and I will change the world; the other of that is this, any written space on the verge of collapse. In the meantime I begin to recover from the flu (local fact), and tend towards the larger three-string cifteli bouncing off the walls I carry with me; now I hear the sound of galloping horses in it, its strange string order and fretting, playing itself. I imagine accompaniment of epic song or ode, something heard with insistence from far away across the steppes or mountains or whatever naturally populates the farther reaches of the instrument, and if not this instrument, what other, and if not this epic, then where and what might be found. I'd descend from those passes for the briefest chance at a session of virtual reality and the population I might implement. In Playing for Time, Fania Fenelon write of playing music in Auschwitz to stay alive. In relation to this, anything I do is nothing but surplus, imaginary in the worst sense of the term. I will make a noise.
