Theory http://www.alansondheim.org/theoryjj.jpg insistence matters momentarily in catastrophe theory, then everything continues in the noise of dissimuulation. that is the core and the narrow path. the rest of the world is SCROLL. SCROLL is always already performative, splatter semiotics, in a rush accurately to everywhere. never forget the accuracy; it's addictive. more then this would be a signal; less would be the noise it's written on. written within. written without. taking nothing for granted, everything for phantoms, ghostings necessary for the universe "such as it is" i can breathe again thank you nurses and doctors i could hardly breathe in the icu so much sexuality there is th@ drains us, burrowed now in streams, almost molecular, no way in or out, or rather no other way than in or out ;;is "skin meat" a meat or an armor; hunters often killed off everything in sight on site until bones tell the story now of then. "your posture abandons you" - all postures are reminiscent, fading: I think of inquisitive pterodactyls; were they all like that? what songs did they sing? what postures?i would abandon my body to fluids hardening, as if in a state of arousal. but suffocating, as if a great weight were lifted, wait come to an end, something falling slowly everywhere around me, everywhere out but in.the plateau, yes, there's something; at one time someone wanted to cut into my skin "not to leave a mark" but what other than a claim of presence or ownership; i fled into the night of the night where i saw clearly that nothing was as it would have seemed to be, were it not for incision.very slowly the body always already sinks slightly towards the irruptive plateaus of forgetfulness. why i won't even remember my name, nor the numbers associated with it, o unraveled scroll.everything needs to be enumerated? dark matter? higgs? gluons? trying their parameters, nothing emerges. some particles are virtual; all particles forget. oh so many in the world.so many as adjuncts to the real, but the real gristle of the adjuncts, what we might make of them in the small time we have always left as long as the written is in the dynamics of an act. if you understand me, you are living. and living now. and then.writing and writhing coalesce, as do your reading and writhing, anxious to get it over with. do you remember what i opened with? does it matter?return goes nowhere but to the horizon; i'm thinking of perspective geometry with an infinite horizon perhaps but more likely endless buzzing confusion at the limit. either everything or nothing is a body at the limit; it's all the same to them.and no more or less than "such as it is" - what else but the forgetting of the forge of this momentary writing, this _written_ ::::::::: =20 lying on my back i never thought this would happen insistence matters momentarily in catastrophe theory, then everything continues in the noise of dissimuulation. that is the core and the narrow path. the rest of the world is SCROLL. SCROLL is always already performative, splatter semiotics, in a rush accurately to everywhere. never forget the accuracy; it's addictive. more then this would be a signal; less would be the noise it's written on. written within. written without. taking nothing for granted, everything for phantoms, ghostings necessary for the universe "such as it is" i can breathe again thank you nurses and doctors i can hardly breathe in the icu so much sexuality there is th@ drains us, burrowed now in streams, almost molecular, no way in or out, or rather no other way than in or out ;;is "skin meat" a meat or an armor; hunters often killed off everything in sight on site until bones tell the story now of then. "your posture abandons you" - all postures are reminiscent, fading: I think of inquisitive pterodactyls; were they all like that? what songs did they sing? what postures?i would abandon my body to fluids hardening, as if in a state of arousal. but suffocating, as if a great weight were lifted, wait come to an end, something falling slowly everywhere around me, everywhere out but in.the plateau, yes, there's something; at one time someone wanted to cut into my skin "not to leave a mark" but what other than a claim of presence or ownership; i fled into the night of the night where i saw clearly that nothing was as it would have seemed to be, were it not for incision.very slowly the body always already sinks slightly towards the irruptive plateaus of forgetfulness. why i won't even remember my name, nor the numbers associated with it, o unraveled scroll.everything needs to be enumerated? dark matter? higgs? gluons? trying their parameters, nothing emerges. some particles are virtual; all particles forget. oh so many in the world.so many as adjuncts to the real, but the real gristle of the adjuncts, what we might make of them in the small time we have always left as long as the written is in the dynamics of an act. if you understand me, you are living. and living now. and then.writing and writhing coalesce, as do your reading and writhing, anxious to get it over with. do you remember what i opened with? does it matter?return goes nowhere but to the horizon; i'm thinking of perspective geometry with an infinite horizon perhaps but more likely endless buzzing confusion at the limit. either everything or nothing is a body at the limit; it's all the same to them.and no more or less than "such as it is" - what else but the forgetting of the forge of this momentary writing, this _written_ ::::::::: _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list [email protected] https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
