[NetBehaviour] My Struggle

Edward Picot julian.lesaux at gmail.com
Mon Aug 26 20:34:20 CEST 2019


Yes, lovely! Especially these lines

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.

and these

To behold
Not struggling, to become the river,
The way and its power...

This and Alan's piece have made my day!

Edward



On 26/08/2019 18:01, Michael Szpakowski wrote:
> Yes it is a marvelous piece of work, Max!
> Nice to see you on here :)
>
> On Monday, August 26, 2019, 4:17:35 PM GMT+1, Alan Sondheim via 
> NetBehaviour <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
>
>
> 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 
> <mailto: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
>     <mailto:netbehaviour-bounces at lists.netbehaviour.org>> on behalf of
>     Alan Sondheim <sondheim at panix.com <mailto:sondheim at panix.com>>
>     *Sent:* Sunday, August 25, 2019 8:49 PM
>     *To:* NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity
>     <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org
>     <mailto: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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>
>
> -- 
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