[NetBehaviour] i take nothing

Alan Sondheim sondheim at panix.com
Mon Oct 8 18:18:57 CEST 2018

i take nothing


i take nothing.

it's dirty everywhere, we haven't got a chance. any writing
here, online, is ephemeral in any case, and given the political
climate, takes on the order of speech, archives notwithstanding.
a word is like skin, is broken like skin breaks at the hands of
the bully. the world is now characterized by abandonment and the
sudden rush to retrieve names and places, histories and
genealogies. more to be hacked by axe or code, the more to be

nota bene. i take nothing from you,
nothing from this, or a moment or monument. what is done is
always already disappearing. it's gone, there, the residual of
dislocation. as if the world shifted out of our sorrow, back
into our sorrow. as if there were the potential of as if. as if
] or naught.

we've spoken enough here, outside there are already, literally,
screaming people, mobs who couldn't care less about
incarceration or medical models. they drown out the sound of
typing here, on an old remington, as i sit somewhere in a woods,
isolated, unspeakable, among the fungi and slime molds i love. i
hear the sounds of herons in the distance. azure is with me, we
are comfortable here, with this useless and unreadable text that
almost generates itself. looped back to where i began, some
bodies, some genders, some networks, biomes, microbiomes,
ecologies, fold or umbilical catastrophes, unending brackets
facing the wrong direction ] harboring something towards the
beginning, the weather of a light, light weather this evening
which may be the last, darkness ensues, planck constant or
constantly at the beck and call of science, mathesis, certainty.

a plateau may have no beginning no end, turn in on itself like a
klein bottle. you think you're making progress, you're breaking
the mould. but you yourself are the mould, you yourself define
the standard length, the planck length, the speed of light,
gravitational constant, what others. you are invisible to us.
you are recompense. we die in your (absent) arms that somewhat
are redolent of anthropocentism, prejudice, a leaning towards
death. today my brother said i'm always thinking of suicide, and
as long as i can keep that thinking going, rather than falling
to pieces by an action i would have regretted, oh if i had only
known. we are refugees in what was once our own country, now
we're held here, nobody would take us in with our ugly american
habits and pretensions. we invented the internet so we could
destroy more obdurate records of the world. the net is always
already down. we are down with that.

we write here in a box on a plateau. it's on the order of the
swallowtail catastrophe, or so i'd like to believe. nothing can
be inserted in the triad. nothing holds fast, nothing is capable
of noting, annotating, anything with a degree of permanency. the
archive is a hoax here, hoax there. there is no there here, that
is the question. whether it is better to abandonment, meant
towards others, not ourselves. we're speared, immolated, with
desire. what we grasp is nothing, momentary, exhausted.

to break with mathesis is to acknowledge the messiness of the
world. to withdraw to the blockchain, carnap, logic, is to
stumble on shards that, look, hear, have no existence, godel and
plato notwithstanding. there, that word again. or rather
standing or standing-in, but how, in relation to messiness and
constriction, does consciousness thrive?

or flattens out as if among communities, plateaus in the sense
of deterritorializations within or without a boundless manifold,
escher, something like that, something beyond reach like those
particles in your eye that seem to signify something close up
and close by but devolve elsewhere, fall into traps of
legislation, jails for refugees, mass slaughter, deforestation,
extinctions. i am lost among these worlds, among alien
geometries as well. surely they are not. surely there is no
existence or classification that survives with the presence of
their dream. but not generated, thought out, the very stuff of
mind working towards a false plenitude as the world grows
darker. is there no possibility of resurrection, of language,
word, resurrection of punctuation beyond a bracket [ with its
implications of finality and departure


< genealogies. more to be hacked by axe or code, the more to be
> genealogies. more to be hacked by axe or code, the more to be
< ] or naught.
> ] or naught.
< ecologies, fold or umbilical catastrophes, unending brackets
> ecologies, fold or umbilical catastrophes, unending brackets


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