The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

August 3, 2017


on the landscape of the new virtual world created by the
second life folk. bending what little i can in the midst
of mumbling stolidity. enjoy or not.

& my work

& my work does this and that and i think about this about work
as such, my presence within and without what it might be -

& realized my work always challenges and explores new spaces,
where they begin to fall apart, their containers in particular,
their insertions into the social, where they fray, corrode,
rust, become wayward or disheveled, where they're contrary,
where the numerical limitations become evident, where the abject
appears above, below, or within the horizon, where the edges are
burled or sintered, where the corrugations lose their uneasy
striations -

& where landscapes blend into institutions, into gamespaces,
into walls and fences and warnings, where tunneling is
inevitable, where sexuality on one hand and cosmology on the
other rear their ugly heads, where eyes, lidless, multiply,
where the exploration is the process that is the cultural work
and all else is residue, where the body appears among the stars
and higgs bosons appear within the body, where what is never
manifest is apparent, and what is apparent is never manifest,
where one moves in order to return with new knowledge and its
kindred -

& where the economics and enclaving of minds and institutions
are exposed, where i am at risk in a world at unease with me,
where contradictions are bridges, and connections fascinate at
their regions and points of severance and strains -

& where continuation is always an exhaustion, where anxiety and
sickness rule in compliance within the aegis of the universe,
where laws are broken but the ground is not, where the mind's
extremities roil and mix with its discretionary contents and
constructions, where such constructions teetering fabrications
themselves, where interiors and exteriors have no clear and
distinct boundaries, where to draw a mark is to draw the dust
and abjection of the mark, where what makes me embarrassed,
uneasy, uncomfortable, is within the enormity of indra's net,
where the world churns -

& where death is a constant and pervasive atmosphere and
companion, where the body falls from the body, where osmosis and
microbial colonies command the lumbering skeins that roughly
grant them temporary place in a world thinking it is a thinking
world -

& where others are always i, where the clarity of sight carries
the debris of the world, of everything around it, where the
senses are manifold, too many for enumeration, not enough for
encompassing, where all knowledge is always superseded, all
ignorance lies like a dark cloud invading everything i do, with
embarrassment and shame and endless self-recrimination, where
the walls fall apart where i hang with blood streaming down them
in indecipherable ciphers, where what falls apart falls into the
whole, into abject holes within those very institutions which
nurture me -

& where others are always others and are always selves, where i
am afraid to look into mirrors, where i shatter mirrors, where
mirrors shatter me, where i desire above all to dance with the
absolute, where the absolute like any god is nothing more than
an idea and catalyst for murder -

& where pain rules and rules pain, where new spaces are always
abject, always networked beneath the surface in protocol stacks
falling apart at their very mention, where no speech is an act,
where every act is speech, where obscenity finds its own paths
through funded semiosis -

& where i remain in genetic obscurity where i am no longer sure
a tree is such that a tree is, or a bone a bone, where broken
edges gleam and reflect, more than unbroken mirrors, where
swallowed worlds are unswallowed and time burns time -

& where i remain in the chora of producing, not production,
where the chora sounds the untruthing of the world, its
ravishment, where i burrow beneath the enclaves, hack among
them, into and out of them, vertical among the walls that
function as brutal encapsulations -

& where i remain and my remains remain, and none of this
remains, for what might be such but a loosened collocation
already collapsed, dissolved, this carbon atom continues for
a brief moment -


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