This is beautiful! I must say, David Bohm is from my hometown of Wilkes-Barre PA; Azure and I visited his old home which is now a television store; earlier, when I was in London I had several conversations with him (I didn't know then he was from WB). I was and still am fascinated by the implicate order. I love your piece by the way! :-)
Best, Alan On Mon, Aug 26, 2019 at 9:10 AM Max Herman via NetBehaviour < netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote: > David Bohm told of a different intelligence > A kind no village has ever achieved. > What is it? He asked in *On Dialogue.* > Something like "rearranges old material > In a way never seen before," > Birnam to Dunsinane > Which then becomes normal and standard after > An apt and handy image, idea. > This James Austin said in his book on rabbits. > > Bohm said the new intelligence > A through-communication of natural intelligence > Regaining or re-attaining > A quantity of motion of a moving body > And more than one of each > Might add an order of magnitude > Well-suited, equative in time, to heliotropic > Brains attuning like antennae > More and more, on more levels. > > As if a crowd of static dancers all at once > Heard music and began to move, > Neither humbly nor all as one > But also both. Meanwhile detectives, > Always sorting, ask like Olaf Sporns > Are brains networks; f yes how many. > Are people; f yes what follows. > Calvino added novels, arguing yes > In memo five of six, the last lost, on Bartleby. > > What is eternal return? Present to past? > What is stillness, could it be > "The quiet that we can know, > The quiet of a strong heart at peace"? > Alive but after death. To behold > Not struggling, to become the river, > The way and its power, > Celestial worthy of primordial beginnings, > The laying-up of numinous treasure. > > > ------------------------------ > *From:* NetBehaviour <netbehaviour-boun...@lists.netbehaviour.org> on > behalf of Alan Sondheim <sondh...@panix.com> > *Sent:* Sunday, August 25, 2019 8:49 PM > *To:* NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity < > netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> > *Subject:* [NetBehaviour] My Struggle > > > My Struggle > > http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030690.JPG > http://www.alansondheim.org/STE-006.mp3 > http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030696.JPG > > 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 > > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org > https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org > https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour > -- *=====================================================* *directory http://www.alansondheim.org <http://www.alansondheim.org> tel 718-813-3285**email sondheim ut panix.com <http://panix.com>, sondheim ut gmail.com <http://gmail.com>* *=====================================================*
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