Dreaming of Double-Spheres
I dreamed of two spheres, enormous, harboring the sky - one foundered/
floundered on the floor of the exhibition space, the other tethered to the
floor of the undersea environment. One surface, one beneath the surface,
both manipulated within unforgiving non-existent water. So there would be
a comfort and a womb on the surface and in the water, independent of a
given. I dream of these wombs as well; comforting, comforted, and safe,
Julu Twine may walk about, sit, stop to think, even fly within the filter-
ed realm. All space is open to hir; s/he may fly out anywhere, anywhen;
s/he senses kindness, hir own kind. Yet a bench or sofa or pillow or
couch; s/he sits, hir want is that of sitting, curling up, turning inward,
while the vast slow space moves around hir. So it is sleepiness and
sleepy-time, no harshness or longing of part-objects, no languor or
yearning towards or away from the physical. The moires promise infinity,
premise upon infinity and its asymptotic, signifiers of vortex, swirl,
attractors.
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay1.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay2.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay3.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay4.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay5.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay6.png
http://www.alansondheim.org/splay7.png
So is this theory or vision? Are visions thought-experiments, are there
outcomes? Whatever is imagined is pastiche, palimpsest; one makes the real
from the reel. I can struggle for meaning which the viewer brings to the
site. To cite the site is to inscribe, write-in. Culture is citation. But
where is the theory? Theory articulates the real through its own articul-
ation; it's always boot-strapped. The phenomenology of experience is not
the experience of phenomenology, entangled with abjection, and in this
theory or vision sexuality is inscribed or uninscribed, but presenced,
fragmented, fluxed. It's the sexuality of part-objects, of the voice, of
stumbling or scuffling, of sputtering or shuddering - the sexuality of
loss, of being-lost, of desire, of being-desired, of containment and
release. There's no end to it, there's no boundaries, but everything's
boundary, boundaries fall apart, and everywhere there's smoke, limbs and
organs. I try to justify this thing that keeps undergoing construction,
this transforming-place, there's more than pleasure, less than defuge. I
get nowhere; I'm bounded by time, an interval, however an interval, so
there are boundary-conditions as well as coordinates, where Odyssey
locates me, where I play. I can't even think of this as a serious game,
I can't even think of it.
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