[NetBehaviour] My Struggle

Alan Sondheim sondheim at gmail.com
Mon Aug 26 17:17:17 CEST 2019


This is beautiful! I must say, David Bohm is from my hometown of
Wilkes-Barre PA; Azure and I visited his old home which is now a television
store; earlier, when I was in London I had several conversations with him
(I didn't know then he was from WB). I was and still am fascinated by the
implicate order. I love your piece by the way! :-)

Best, Alan

On Mon, Aug 26, 2019 at 9:10 AM Max Herman via NetBehaviour <
netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:

> David Bohm told of a different intelligence
> A kind no village has ever achieved.
> What is it?  He asked in *On Dialogue.*
> Something like "rearranges old material
> In a way never seen before,"
> Birnam to Dunsinane
> Which then becomes normal and standard after
> An apt and handy image, idea.
> This James Austin said in his book on rabbits.
>
> Bohm said the new intelligence
> A through-communication of natural intelligence
> Regaining or re-attaining
> A quantity of motion of a moving body
> And more than one of each
> Might add an order of magnitude
> Well-suited, equative in time, to heliotropic
> Brains attuning like antennae
> More and more, on more levels.
>
> As if a crowd of static dancers all at once
> Heard music and began to move,
> Neither humbly nor all as one
> But also both.  Meanwhile detectives,
> Always sorting, ask like Olaf Sporns
> Are brains networks; f yes how many.
> Are people; f yes what follows.
> Calvino added novels, arguing yes
> In memo five of six, the last lost, on Bartleby.
>
> What is eternal return?  Present to past?
> What is stillness, could it be
> "The quiet that we can know,
> The quiet of a strong heart at peace"?
> Alive but after death.  To behold
> Not struggling, to become the river,
> The way and its power,
> Celestial worthy of primordial beginnings,
> The laying-up of numinous treasure.
>
>
> ------------------------------
> *From:* NetBehaviour <netbehaviour-bounces at lists.netbehaviour.org> on
> behalf of Alan Sondheim <sondheim at panix.com>
> *Sent:* Sunday, August 25, 2019 8:49 PM
> *To:* NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity <
> netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org>
> *Subject:* [NetBehaviour] My Struggle
>
>
> 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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