Again , great. Incredibly idiosyncratic ( thee & thou, for example ) and none
the worse for that . I always enjoy reading things you write Max but there’s
something about the discipline of verse that injects a huge amount of
confidence and grace... it’s feels a bit like literary tight rope walking, in
the best possible sense...
Sent from Yahoo Mail for iPhone
On Tuesday, August 27, 2019, 5:53 pm, Max Herman via NetBehaviour
<netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
#yiv6175070203 P {margin-top:0;margin-bottom:0;}
Take a pebble for instance, an item, One of the few and many that can be picked
up by hand.Some are like this.Some can also be instruments, sticks or stones,
alongside the immovable base-grounds.Hence thou hast compositions, counting,
forms, names, phrases, and such.Early folk creating grammar on the fly, far
from learning it or being taught it.What counts the quiet though, the
quietus?There can be no count without that, no seeing, not even any
hearing.Well the breathing counts it, says the brain.Imagine all paint and no
canvas!You lose track of your sons. Were they ever even yours, oh fleet of
foot?Wild turkeys cross the streets coolly around here,Up from the
Mississippi,And I thank them daily for it.More than one story-set or circle of
the world Calls life breath, the one and the allAn old-time bellows or mill
that moves particlesLike Da Vinci drewEach pebble a point and a pointer, if
marked,And of course a black square.
From: NetBehaviour <netbehaviour-boun...@lists.netbehaviour.org> on behalf of
Alan Sondheim <sondh...@panix.com>
Sent: Monday, August 26, 2019 6:11 PM
To: NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity
<netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org>
Subject: [NetBehaviour] Goddess of Storms and Alphabets
Goddess of Storms and Alphabets
http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030727.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030738.JPG
I'm not sure how language would begin, not sure how language would
be recorded as a gesture accompanied by a sound. Sure to be sounds
accompanying gestures that hardened, somewhen into a signal or
call, somehow a meaning. The sounds were ghostings, heard over the
hill around the hill in the forest across the stream behind the
rocks above the cliffs within the caves, the gestures were bodies,
the bodies were breathing, there were two directions, into the
lungs, out from the lungs. There were swirls and whirlwinds and the
world breathed and was given body and bodies. It was cool to hear a
knowledge from one who was knowing, invisible, elsewhere. There
were cries too from the woundings, there were disappearances of
familiar voices from leaving and dying which returned in memories
and dreams made real with them, the waking in the night, the
weeping and ululations. The world was enormous and narrow and all
around and the same for many comings and goings for weeks and
months at a time, or just a vision around the boulder surface or
from the sky when things moved there, as they always did. The world
was always different than the world, and always new and old, and
always the world. The murmuring of the world was everywhere and
everywhen and when that became language and accountancy, everything
moved away, quietly, until distance itself became unfathomable,
unknown even in its familiarity. Sure to be sounds, sure to be.
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