My stupid talking.
My stupid talking. When I speak I sound like an idiot. I can't control my words. Thoughts and concepts fluster in and out, a jumble. When I write, things are different; they organize themselves, I am a shepherd. My thinking wears my writing. Words and worlds organize. Work is words. When I speak, things pour forth, uselessly. When I write a letter or email, I continue speaking. The style, content, is absurd, monstrous. No one keeps my email. I am constantly losing posts. There's no reason to keep them; they're incorrect. When I reply online to someone, it's the same thing, ridiculous. I lose track of my emotions, of what I'm saying. I appear stupid. Only when I am writing, like this, through the interior of what might have been my speech - only when I am writing _thus,_ am I satisfied. My words connect; the thought is often brilliant, almost always dense, compact, to the point. Speaking, I can't even defend myself. I am not the other of the signifier I need to be in order to be. If my speaking is becoming, my writing is ontology itself. When I speak, it's strategy, joking. People are surprised at my sense of humor. It's a carapace I wear with delight. It keeps me from death. Death seeps through my writing. Death inhabits my writing; my writing inhabits death. I do not draw a distinction; I write only within the written. When I speak, language disappears into melody. There is a difficulty with melody just as there is a difficulty with cleverness. Cleverness is a proper turn-away from truth towards communality. I speak with cleverness. It comes from the situation of speaking. I write from somewhere else. In my writing cleverness sounds a false note. It indicates I am off track, I have lost myself, I am suturing over the wound of ignorance and existence. There is no laughter in my writing. There is laughter in my letters and email. They are absurd as my laughter is absurd. They attempt to cover my inadequacy. My absurd joking deflects my graceless awkwardness. It goes nowhere, says nothing of any consequence, and says it poorly. I think my speaking and email will be the death of me. They draw attention way from my writing. They undermine it. They say it's not clever enough, intelli- gent enough. My writing does not respond. My writing sinks, and is writing about that sinking. My writing props up my world it undermines and describes. My talking ignores the whole problem. My talking is that litany of deflections. What I do not understand, I turn into something else. What I do understand becomes fodder; it never nourishes sufficiently. My talk- ing implies talking to another limit; there's no etiquette in this. There is no community in my writing; community cannot survive honesty. But my writing is full of subterfuge, is about that subterfuge. My talking carries itself everywhere in order to become pointless. My talking is pointless. My writing is chiseled into a simulacrum construct of the real. The real in my writing has everything at stake. It is at stake through and within the writing. My speaking ignores the real; what is at stake is my self and its alterity. My self is always in the midst-of, when I am speak- ing. My self is absent or boundary, bordering, when I am writing. I write beyond myself; I speak from myself. My speaking is monstrous, self-defeat- ing. My writing is after the fact. If my speaking is central, my writing is peripheral; if my writing is central, my speaking is peripheral. One must read my writing, read my writing with the utmost care. One must never listen when I am speaking.
Re: My stupid talking.
haha! i keep them! sometimes for years then burn them off on a disc. sometimes not. When I speak I sound like an idiot. I can't control my words. Thoughts and concepts fluster in and out, a jumble, a mumble and a rumble, words like bumble-bee, jelly-fish, structoarphaporphissom, king of delphi in chinese sea flares, who who, cookoo cookoo, I lose track of my emotions, of what I'm saying. I appear, stupid. Appearence. Is. Stupid. or knot, ore knot. splay, splat, who says that the creatures of an immanent doman can't be any less wiggly and giggly than real creatures, eh? hoo sez that, and more, or lez. Remember to bow 3 times to the West, put your old shewingum into the left and empty inkpot sepulchre of the gorgon. there is an ancient tradition for everything. Everything we do or say or am is venerable, the venerable youth of thought in the veneravel body of substance. youth mind shakes hands with ancient substance your co-pilot as god is my dog pilot Aubliss dawns, arf, woof, h rowpltnnnrnrnnrnr - Original Message - From: Alan Sondheim [EMAIL PROTECTED] To: WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.WVU.EDU Sent: Thursday, April 19, 2007 12:40 PM Subject: My stupid talking. My stupid talking. When I speak I sound like an idiot. I can't control my words. Thoughts and concepts fluster in and out, a jumble. When I write, things are different; they organize themselves, I am a shepherd. My thinking wears my writing. Words and worlds organize. Work is words. When I speak, things pour forth, uselessly. When I write a letter or email, I continue speaking. The style, content, is absurd, monstrous. No one keeps my email. I am constantly losing posts. There's no reason to keep them; they're incorrect. When I reply online to someone, it's the same thing, ridiculous. I lose track of my emotions, of what I'm saying. I appear stupid. Only when I am writing, like this, through the interior of what might have been my speech - only when I am writing _thus,_ am I satisfied. My words connect; the thought is often brilliant, almost always dense, compact, to the point. Speaking, I can't even defend myself. I am not the other of the signifier I need to be in order to be. If my speaking is becoming, my writing is ontology itself. When I speak, it's strategy, joking. People are surprised at my sense of humor. It's a carapace I wear with delight. It keeps me from death. Death seeps through my writing. Death inhabits my writing; my writing inhabits death. I do not draw a distinction; I write only within the written. When I speak, language disappears into melody. There is a difficulty with melody just as there is a difficulty with cleverness. Cleverness is a proper turn-away from truth towards communality. I speak with cleverness. It comes from the situation of speaking. I write from somewhere else. In my writing cleverness sounds a false note. It indicates I am off track, I have lost myself, I am suturing over the wound of ignorance and existence. There is no laughter in my writing. There is laughter in my letters and email. They are absurd as my laughter is absurd. They attempt to cover my inadequacy. My absurd joking deflects my graceless awkwardness. It goes nowhere, says nothing of any consequence, and says it poorly. I think my speaking and email will be the death of me. They draw attention way from my writing. They undermine it. They say it's not clever enough, intelli- gent enough. My writing does not respond. My writing sinks, and is writing about that sinking. My writing props up my world it undermines and describes. My talking ignores the whole problem. My talking is that litany of deflections. What I do not understand, I turn into something else. What I do understand becomes fodder; it never nourishes sufficiently. My talk- ing implies talking to another limit; there's no etiquette in this. There is no community in my writing; community cannot survive honesty. But my writing is full of subterfuge, is about that subterfuge. My talking carries itself everywhere in order to become pointless. My talking is pointless. My writing is chiseled into a simulacrum construct of the real. The real in my writing has everything at stake. It is at stake through and within the writing. My speaking ignores the real; what is at stake is my self and its alterity. My self is always in the midst-of, when I am speak- ing. My self is absent or boundary, bordering, when I am writing. I write beyond myself; I speak from myself. My speaking is monstrous, self-defeat- ing. My writing is after the fact. If my speaking is central, my writing is peripheral; if my writing is central, my speaking is peripheral. One must read my writing, read my writing with the utmost care. One must never listen when I am speaking.
Re: My stupid talking.
Well said. Write on! I speak with cleverness. It comes from the situation of speaking. I write from somewhere else. In my writing cleverness sounds a false note. It indicates I am off track, I have lost myself, I am suturing over the wound of ignorance and existence. I was going to pick out my favorite passages (clever fellow that I am) but I like em all -- Not that there's anything wrong with that. I like what folks say on cybermind -- individually and as a whole. And sometimes something you write Alan strikes me as especially pleasing. I'd analyze it if I could. Pick it apart and find out just what about it so delights me. But I can't. I think it is something in the way you explore consciousness and in this case self consciouness. OK -- now take this bit below. You write of you speaking and writing -- a sort of dual consciousness. The difficulty of good faith or impossibility of authenticity. I don't know quite what to make of it -- but it draws my attention and at my age that is pleasure enuff. Especially with all the pointless windblown clatter that makes up so much of my time -- and no one's fault but my own. You know, Elizabeth, everytime I use the word fault (and I'm always finding fault with something or someone) I recall your comment about fault not having an antonym. You must find me one! Everywhere I go I find ault -- is there no hope for an antonym. And what is it about fault that makes it unipolar? Why are some concepts unipolar and some bipolar? My absurd joking deflects my graceless awkwardness. It goes nowhere, says nothing of any consequence, and says it poorly. I think my speaking and email will be the death of me. They draw attention way from my writing. They undermine it. They say it's not clever enough, intelli- gent enough. My writing does not respond. My writing sinks, and is writing about that sinking. My writing props up my world it undermines and describes. My talking ignores the whole problem. My talking is that litany of deflections. What I do not understand, I turn into something else. What I do understand becomes fodder; it never nourishes sufficiently. My talk- ing implies talking to another limit; there's no etiquette in this. There is no community in my writing; community cannot survive honesty. But my writing is full of subterfuge, is about that subterfuge. My talking carries itself everywhere in order to become pointless. My talking is pointless. My writing is chiseled into a simulacrum construct of the real. The real in my writing has everything at stake. It is at stake through and within the writing. My speaking ignores the real; what is at stake is my self and its alterity. My self is always in the midst-of, when I am speak- ing. My self is absent or boundary, bordering, when I am writing. I write beyond myself; I speak from myself. My speaking is monstrous, self-defeat- ing. My writing is after the fact. If my speaking is central, my writing is peripheral; if my writing is central, my speaking is peripheral. One must read my writing, read my writing with the utmost care. One must never listen when I am speaking. Best wishes to all, Jim Piat
Re: My stupid talking.
Thanks for this; now if I could only talk my way into a job... - Alan === Work on YouTube, blog at http://nikuko.blogspot.com . Tel 718-813-3285. Webpage directory http://www.asondheim.org . Email: [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://clc.as.wvu.edu:8080/clc/Members/sondheim for theory; also check WVU Zwiki, Google for recent. Write for info on books, cds, performance, dvds, etc. =
