[NetBehaviour] My Struggle
Alan Sondheim
sondheim at panix.com
Mon Aug 26 16:13:34 CEST 2019
Thank you, that's a beautiful line (Eliot) by the way. I also wanted to
say I really appreciate the illustrations you've been sending out!
Best, Alan
On Mon, 26 Aug 2019, Edward Picot via NetBehaviour wrote:
> I particularly like this one! I like the notes of here-and-now ordinariness
> and domesticity amongst the sense of breakdown - 'I am sitting at a rough
> wooden desk, writing this while the world burns'.? Reminds me obscurely of
> Eliot - 'I sat upon the shore / Fishing, with the arid plain behind me /
> Shall I at least set my lands in order?'
>
> On 26/08/2019 02:49, Alan Sondheim wrote:
>>
>> My Struggle
>>
>> http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030690.JPG
>> http://www.alansondheim.org/STE-006.mp3
>> http://www.alansondheim.org/P1030696.JPG
>>
>> My struggle which is something I have had as a "concern" in the
>> sense that a firm operating on narrow margins might be considered
>> the same, as if there were an economy of wood and shoes always at
>> work, into the evening when the others have gone home. Like that it
>> is, the houses too are wooden with clotheslines stretched among
>> them, tying the community together. My Struggle is one of the
>> inadequacy of flesh, inadequacy which abjures the mind, held in an
>> uneasy casket. Adequacy is not the same as a statement for example
>> an example state which might just do; it is also indicative of a
>> good fit, as David Bohm might say, to the extent art possesses a
>> foundation of fitting. Inadequacy undermines adequacy, and it is in
>> this undermining that art becomes an occurrence, however limiting
>> that might be. What haunts me is of no regard, sophomoric, almost
>> meaning draining itself out. Something, a pail, catches the water
>> which has rinsed the wash, baptism of inordinate sparkling, the
>> plain perhaps where riders entered the world, whirling whips, the
>> weather pouring down from the sky, a faucet which is everywhere at
>> once - "they all are, she said" just there on the corner where the
>> paths met, shadows foregrounding the moment which stays with me,
>> haunts me forever, My Struggle. Now it is a different world, she
>> said, it is always a different world, look, electricity. The water
>> was carried in wooden pails placed on boards near the clotheslines
>> until their calling came to a kind of agriculture, the clothes and
>> others miraculously drying in what could only be considered a trope
>> of humidity, a gauge against which proverbs are measured, depleted,
>> lost in time. We're all gone now, the world is far crueler than I
>> had ever imagined it to be; what was outside as entered through the
>> sloughs of my heart, and I have found this far too inadequate, even
>> my inadequacy is a failure. She gathers the clothes, and now from
>> this a characteristic wave emanating from catastrophe theory is
>> there, within and without a moment of My Struggle. For I want to
>> understand things, the windows with broken panes, the rough paths
>> and patched roofs, the village. It is there in my mind and I am
>> sitting at a rough wooden desk, writing this while the world burns,
>> melts, disappears, taking the short road to extinctions. My
>> Struggle invades my body and it is my body and I lay claim to it,
>> not even God can take that away; it is as if a nail were driven
>> through my heart in parallel with a circuit of despair, the
>> breakdown of the committees for the poor, kindnesses of
>> tax-gatherers, the release and relief of the world. It seems to
>> have something to do with money, with skin and wood and the
>> lightest touch of a hand just below the shoulder, the back a rim,
>> supple and resonant. My struggle is with the political violence of
>> the day, the manifesto and demand ridings. When I turn around my
>> past unravels a set amount of horror, despair, disruption, I am
>> sure I am a killer manque and continuous, people falling left and
>> right, those who don't despise me. There are no people in my
>> pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At night I
>> dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just there," it
>> occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak to others
>> about the phenomenon of salvation, I'd heard too much. What a word
>> of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so slightly, the air
>> moist, the clothes hanging, so many carapaces of taut events held
>> so long ago as a week or decade. None of us ever complete any of
>> it. Those scenes return to haunt us, or we live them rising slowly
>> like heaves, clothes, blouses, pants, above the surface. It cannot,
>> it dare not, cohere. This is My Struggle with the world and its
>> cruelty, the world and its annihilations to the limit. I am where
>> no limit is. I am in a nondescript area, grey forest or city, empty
>> village, abandoned mine, crumbling church. I've left my shadow
>> alone, my shadow is there, is it, it is My Struggle.
>>
>> The words are in revolt. They are hardly present. They rest in
>> mouths. They turn flesh inside-out, quantum mechanics unravels much
>> brilliance. The manuscripts remained in their folders, someone sang
>> a lullaby, there were shots in the distance, smoke in the sky, a
>> song about how little it lasted an alas, how little it lasted a
>> lass. The resonance of "armistice" for a moment along the path,
>> willows overhanging an earth far too dry. My Struggle is with my
>> eyes, blurry now, with evil which is always already inconceivable,
>> who could believe such a thing except of others. My Struggle is
>> with solder and clay. My life has had its horrors. I will build
>> them into bricks out of models. I find I cannot write more now, and
>> wonder if you get, absorb the idea, as i forgo now checking what i
>> have written and with what clarity (that word again), what
>> astuteness. A quote is a jail for what never occurs with words. The
>> revolt of the words takes itself toll on words, constitutional
>> amendments, I am breaking down over so many of them. I will leave
>> these errors. My life in error,the eruption of the inconceivable,
>> that is the lungs of the world. It is better to put things off. It
>> is better to put things off than to take them off. I am testing
>> language into the hour of the morning. I know the difference
>> between the birds. The clotheslines stretch among the houses,
>> porches, chairs, rake leaning against pole, hoe against trunk of
>> leaves. Something, a pail, catches the water which had rinsed the
>> wash, and the water to come, cool and sparkling somewhere.
>>
>> There are riders on the plain moving in the way of an other. They
>> leave an empty world, leave the waters, the pails, the boards. ---
>> The stranger asks what is an error. What "are our" shoulders for.
>> windows with < broken panes, the rough paths and patched roofs, the
>> village. It < is there in my mind and I am sitting at a rough
>> wooden desk, < writing this while the world burns, melts,
>> disappears, taking < the short road to extinctions. My Struggle
>> invades me < it is my body and I lay claim to it, not even Christ
>> can take < that away; it is as if a nail were driven through my
>> heart in < parallel with a circuit of despair, the breakdown of the
>> < committees for the poor, kindness of tax-gatherers, the release <
>> and relief of the world. It seems to have something to do with <
>> money, with skin and wood and the lightest touch of a hand just <
>> below the shoulder, the back a rim, supple and resonant. My <
>> struggle is with the political violence of the day, the < manifesto
>> of the damned ridings. When I turn around my past < unravels a set
>> amount of horror, despair, disruption, I am sure < I am a killer
>> manque and continuous, people falling left and ---
>>
>>> ?Struggle. For I want to understand things, the windows with
>>> ?broken panes, the rough paths and patched roofs, the village. It
>>> ?is there in my mind and I am sitting at a rough wooden desk,
>>> ?writing this while the world burns, melts, disappears, taking the
>>> ?short road to extinctions. My Struggle invades my body and it is
>>> ?my body and I lay claim to it, not even Christ can take that
>>> ?away; it is as if a nail were driven through my heart in parallel
>>> ?with a circuit of despair, the breakdown of the committees for
>>> ?the poor, kindliness of tax-gatherers, releasing, relieving the
>>> ?world. Stone and clean washing, with skin and wood and the
>>> ?lightest touch of a hand just below the shoulder, the back a rim,
>>> ?supple and resonant. My struggle is there with you, the manifesto
>>> ?and demand ridings. When I return my past unravels a set amount
>>> ?of horror, despair, disruption, I am sure I am a killer manque
>>> ?and continuous, people falling left and
>> 53,67c51,65
>>
>> < pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At <
>> night I dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just <
>> there,' it occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak <
>> to others about the phenomenon of salvation, I'd heard too much. <
>> What a word of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so <
>> slightly, the air moist, the clothes hanging, so many carapaces <
>> of taut events held so long ago as a week or decade. None of us <
>> ever complete any of it. Those scenes return to haunt us, or we <
>> live in those scenes rising slowly like heaves, clothes, <
>> blouses, pants, above the surface. It cannot, it dare not, <
>> cohere. This is My Struggle with the world and its cruelty, the <
>>> ?pictures, my people aren't pictured, there are waysides. At night
>>> ?I dreamed myself a savior beneath the covers, "just there,' it
>>> ?occurred to the mother of the family to have me speak to others
>>> ?about the phenomenon of salvation, I've heard too much. What a
>>> ?word of it I did believe, the wind picking up every so slightly,
>>> ?the air wet, the clothes taut, so many memoranda of events born
>>> ?and held so long ago as a week or decade. None of us ever
>>> ?complete any of it. They return to haunt us, or we live in them,
>>> ?in those scenes rising slowly like heaves, clothes, blouses,
>>> ?pants, above the surface. It cannot, it dare not, cohere. This is
>>> ?My Struggle with the senselessness of the world and its limitless
>>> ?darknesss. I am where no limit is. I am in a nondescript area,
>>> ?grey forest or city, empty village, abandoned mine, crumbling
>>> ?church. I've left my shadow alone, my shadow is there, is it, it
>>> ?is My Struggle, it is.
>>
>> the night, the talons, for it is said, no one has a place, no one
>> has ever found one
>>
>> death taking them home, everyone relieved, clean clothes
>>
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