The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

September 14, 2017


& torn open by consonants, dammed by punctuation. & there's no
end to it; & the house live under water, dammed chute. & now
think anger had been there, impeded, considering the future
here, & considering the dammed, & then dammed into the shape of
reservoirs, uneasy dreams transformed into my dammed-up, my
held-back, my repressed.

& the labor of my mind, dammed up, cauterized, neurotic,
effaced, & the house lived under water, a chute torn open by
consonants, effluents, dammed by punctuation. & there's is no
end to it, the capital lost, even to continue, & locked, &
gathered & roiled.

Slide and Preciousness of Description

Cars in parking lot, swaying camera, foreground shifts, just a
couple of times, sloppy conceptualism. It's poorly done. It
reminds me of when you cum hard and develop that headache on the
right side of the brain and it's hard to focus. But the cars get
away from that, away from what happens when you're climbing
stairs fast and that ringing in your ears blocks everything you
might hear normally, the ground sways from under you, your eyes
recede and everything's moving around. That's an issue in this
fake affine geometry as if there were a stable world outside the
window, one in which the cars behave as if they were clean and
proper, and everyone obeyed the law. What's here when it shifts
seems to be the same as what's there; the window frames (there
are no secrets here) frame the parking lot, 'you lot of cars,'
more or less a momentary arrangement on a plateau on this
particular planet. The clean and proper body (Kristeva) ex-tends
into the technological, car and camera machinery, and what you
yourself witness here, the presence of the screen, that fixation
which sutures over everything, body and chora and phenomenon as

So one, myself, shifts perhaps four meters to the left or right,
depending on the vector, carrying what in film theory might be
considered an apparatus, holding the frame, creating this video
on the run or slow walk. The clouds are from Hurricane Irma,
exhausted remnants; they create a pall (" To become vapid,
tasteless, dull, or insipid; to lose strength, life, spirit, or
taste; as, the liquor palls.") over the scene, which transforms
into the murmur of nostalgia just beneath the surface of the
pavement where the cars reside.

Everything of a size reminiscent of the living resides within
these spaces and movements; so much is forgotten, eliminated,
literally and quietly banned to the dustbin of history. So
the flat plane of the world veers and whirls, in and out of
focus; there are moments of ecstasy here that dissolve like ink
in water, water in ice, ice in glass, glass in quartz and
diamond. This is poetic fancy, but what drives one to film or
video cars more or less stationary (look, there's one going),
the camera in footstep's arcs, and above all, those black or at
least dark brown frames breaking up the scene, and returning all
of this peregination back into daily life.


< into the technological, car and camera machinery, and what you
> into the technological, car and camera marchinery, and what you


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