I like it a lot. thanks
2013/8/24 Alan Sondheim <[email protected]> > > > what i learned in my sleep, and everyone is sick > > every word i write enters the barque of the dead; > grounded, it goes nowhere. there was more to remember: > the tinnitus, the floaters corrupting vision, carpal > tunnel and my fingers clawing at my throat, as yours > well as well, deliberate forgetfulness passing as age: > i was never born for this, i do not recognize myself > or you, or what came before, or what emerges. i am > inhabited by an other who is nameless, who shall go > soon, dragging me with it, i will be neutral, i will > be gone. among me there is no other, i drag myself, > everywhere word - all these useless words that refuse > to die - but you will be guarantor of their death, of > the disappearance of meaning; the alphabet itself > shall change into sound. i am lost in sound; every > note i plays corrodes the barque of the dead; every > note is a wrong note. i write for myself, play for > myself, hammer away at my own coffin, watch an other > decay, and i am the worst for it. everyone is on this > journey; it is selfish and everyone acquiesces; the > business of the world is idiotic, inattentive, state > of inert existence. every label is a number; every > number disappears. what is a disappearance but nothing > recording, no apparatus, nothing comes farther. i > hate reading about the dead and their desperation; i > hate reading the words of the dead hammered into the > air already changing into poison; i hate hate, which > forbids me the potential pleasure of a few more days, > years, months. i will never be a physicist, will > never learn japanese, understand on any level, the > universe; i will never travel to india or china, > never have the joy of seeing my philosophical writing > published, never travel to another planet, never swim > well, run well, write well, paint well, build the > perfect crystal radio, travel to burning man, listen > again to the unaccompanied very low frequency murmurs > of the universe. i will never again hear clearly, > without the violence of high-pitched sounds taking > over my speech, my music; i will ever put out the > recording i would love to put out, never see or walk > well enough to ascend any portion of the alps again, > never work with dance again. i will be what i always > was, stillborn in a world of motion, ignorant in a > world of knowledge, and i will never learn guqin in a > way that might have pleased the gods; i will never > see or hear the gods; i will walk slowly; i will walk > with a limp; i will walk with a cane or a walker; i > will stop walking; i will not remember my writing; i > will no longer look forward to the inconceivable book > i have already written; i will never comprehend > torture or the fall of empire; i will have already > fallen; i will neither be dust nor the trace of dust; > i might was well be dead; for all purposes i already > would have been dead; for all intents; i am already > dead; why, stranger, there is nothing of me left, > these words are already collapsed into an absence of > language, of meaning, the recuperation of the digital > is a lie and i consider this my epitaph although i am > sure there are others and for a short while will be > others, will be an other, and then that, too, will be > gone: there is no barque of the dead, there is only > substance; substance always thins. > > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > [email protected] > http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour > -- *in for a film *
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