[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
>>
>>  _______________________________________________
>>  NetBehaviour mailing list
>>  NetBehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org
>>  https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
>> 
>
> _______________________________________________
> NetBehaviour mailing list
> NetBehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org
> https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
>

web http://www.alansondheim.org / cell 347-383-8552
current text http://www.alansondheim.org/wj.txt



More information about the NetBehaviour mailing list