My Struggle
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http://www.alansondheim.org/STE-006.mp3
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My struggle which is something I have had as a "concern" in the
sense that a firm operating on narrow margins might be considered
the same, as if there were an economy of wood and shoes always at
work, into the evening when the others have gone home. Like that it
is, the houses too are wooden with clotheslines stretched among
them, tying the community together. My Struggle is one of the
inadequacy of flesh, inadequacy which abjures the mind, held in an
uneasy casket. Adequacy is not the same as a statement for example
an example state which might just do; it is also indicative of a
good fit, as David Bohm might say, to the extent art possesses a
foundation of fitting. Inadequacy undermines adequacy, and it is in
this undermining that art becomes an occurrence, however limiting
that might be. What haunts me is of no regard, sophomoric, almost
meaning draining itself out. Something, a pail, catches the water
which has rinsed the wash, baptism of inordinate sparkling, the
plain perhaps where riders entered the world, whirling whips, the
weather pouring down from the sky, a faucet which is everywhere at
once - "they all are, she said" just there on the corner where the
paths met, shadows foregrounding the moment which stays with me,
haunts me forever, My Struggle. Now it is a different world, she
said, it is always a different world, look, electricity. The water
was carried in wooden pails placed on boards near the clotheslines
until their calling came to a kind of agriculture, the clothes and
others miraculously drying in what could only be considered a trope
of humidity, a gauge against which proverbs are measured, depleted,
lost in time. We're all gone now, the world is far crueler than I
had ever imagined it to be; what was outside as entered through the
sloughs of my heart, and I have found this far too inadequate, even
my inadequacy is a failure. She gathers the clothes, and now from
this a characteristic wave emanating from catastrophe theory is
there, within and without a moment of My Struggle. For I want to
understand things, the windows with broken panes, the rough paths
and patched roofs, the village. It is there in my mind and I am
sitting at a rough wooden desk, writing this while the world burns,
melts, disappears, taking the short road to extinctions. My
Struggle invades my body and it is my body and I lay claim to it,
not even God can take that away; it is as if a nail were driven
through my heart in parallel with a circuit of despair, the
breakdown of the committees for the poor, kindnesses of
tax-gatherers, the release and relief of the world. It seems to
have something to do with money, with skin and wood and the
lightest touch of a hand just below the shoulder, the back a rim,
supple and resonant. My struggle is with the political violence of
the day, the manifesto and demand ridings. When I turn around my
past unravels a set amount of horror, despair, disruption, I am
sure I am a killer manque and continuous, people falling left and
right, those who don't despise me. There are no people in my
pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At night I
dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just there," it
occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak to others
about the phenomenon of salvation, I'd heard too much. What a word
of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so slightly, the air
moist, the clothes hanging, so many carapaces of taut events held
so long ago as a week or decade. None of us ever complete any of
it. Those scenes return to haunt us, or we live them rising slowly
like heaves, clothes, blouses, pants, above the surface. It cannot,
it dare not, cohere. This is My Struggle with the world and its
cruelty, the world and its annihilations to the limit. I am where
no limit is. I am in a nondescript area, grey forest or city, empty
village, abandoned mine, crumbling church. I've left my shadow
alone, my shadow is there, is it, it is My Struggle.
The words are in revolt. They are hardly present. They rest in
mouths. They turn flesh inside-out, quantum mechanics unravels much
brilliance. The manuscripts remained in their folders, someone sang
a lullaby, there were shots in the distance, smoke in the sky, a
song about how little it lasted an alas, how little it lasted a
lass. The resonance of "armistice" for a moment along the path,
willows overhanging an earth far too dry. My Struggle is with my
eyes, blurry now, with evil which is always already inconceivable,
who could believe such a thing except of others. My Struggle is
with solder and clay. My life has had its horrors. I will build
them into bricks out of models. I find I cannot write more now, and
wonder if you get, absorb the idea, as i forgo now checking what i
have written and with what clarity (that word again), what
astuteness. A quote is a jail for what never occurs with words. The
revolt of the words takes itself toll on words, constitutional
amendments, I am breaking down over so many of them. I will leave
these errors. My life in error,the eruption of the inconceivable,
that is the lungs of the world. It is better to put things off. It
is better to put things off than to take them off. I am testing
language into the hour of the morning. I know the difference
between the birds. The clotheslines stretch among the houses,
porches, chairs, rake leaning against pole, hoe against trunk of
leaves. Something, a pail, catches the water which had rinsed the
wash, and the water to come, cool and sparkling somewhere.
There are riders on the plain moving in the way of an other. They
leave an empty world, leave the waters, the pails, the boards. ---
The stranger asks what is an error. What "are our" shoulders for.
windows with < broken panes, the rough paths and patched roofs, the
village. It < is there in my mind and I am sitting at a rough
wooden desk, < writing this while the world burns, melts,
disappears, taking < the short road to extinctions. My Struggle
invades me < it is my body and I lay claim to it, not even Christ
can take < that away; it is as if a nail were driven through my
heart in < parallel with a circuit of despair, the breakdown of the
< committees for the poor, kindness of tax-gatherers, the release <
and relief of the world. It seems to have something to do with <
money, with skin and wood and the lightest touch of a hand just <
below the shoulder, the back a rim, supple and resonant. My <
struggle is with the political violence of the day, the < manifesto
of the damned ridings. When I turn around my past < unravels a set
amount of horror, despair, disruption, I am sure < I am a killer
manque and continuous, people falling left and ---
?Struggle. For I want to understand things, the windows with
?broken panes, the rough paths and patched roofs, the village. It
?is there in my mind and I am sitting at a rough wooden desk,
?writing this while the world burns, melts, disappears, taking the
?short road to extinctions. My Struggle invades my body and it is
?my body and I lay claim to it, not even Christ can take that
?away; it is as if a nail were driven through my heart in parallel
?with a circuit of despair, the breakdown of the committees for
?the poor, kindliness of tax-gatherers, releasing, relieving the
?world. Stone and clean washing, with skin and wood and the
?lightest touch of a hand just below the shoulder, the back a rim,
?supple and resonant. My struggle is there with you, the manifesto
?and demand ridings. When I return my past unravels a set amount
?of horror, despair, disruption, I am sure I am a killer manque
?and continuous, people falling left and
53,67c51,65
< pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At <
night I dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just <
there,' it occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak <
to others about the phenomenon of salvation, I'd heard too much. <
What a word of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so <
slightly, the air moist, the clothes hanging, so many carapaces <
of taut events held so long ago as a week or decade. None of us <
ever complete any of it. Those scenes return to haunt us, or we <
live in those scenes rising slowly like heaves, clothes, <
blouses, pants, above the surface. It cannot, it dare not, <
cohere. This is My Struggle with the world and its cruelty, the <
?pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At night
?I dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just there,' it
?occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak to others
?about the phenomenon of salvation, I've heard too much. What a
?word of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so slightly,
?the air wet, the clothes taut, so many memoranda of events born
?and held so long ago as a week or decade. None of us ever
?complete any of it. They return to haunt us, or we live in them,
?in those scenes rising slowly like heaves, clothes, blouses,
?pants, above the surface. It cannot, it dare not, cohere. This is
?My Struggle with the senselessness of the world and its limitless
?darknesss. I am where no limit is. I am in a nondescript area,
?grey forest or city, empty village, abandoned mine, crumbling
?church. I've left my shadow alone, my shadow is there, is it, it
?is My Struggle, it is.
the night, the talons, for it is said, no one has a place, no one
has ever found one
death taking them home, everyone relieved, clean clothes
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