sondheim at panix.com
Fri Aug 30 04:47:21 CEST 2019
So this is where it begins, this cool and idiotic repetition, i'm
here thinking i've not much time left. my body drops three hundred
meters, i'm still up here, idiotic word 'cool' over and over again
and the constitution of a zero-sum state, everything teeters, falls
down. another word for 'falls down' is collapse. what letters fall
like this, let's take the little ones, a h k m n p which droops, w
x y which droops, z - g and q droop as well, it depends on the line
and the lineage - g an invented letter. But I flee from nonsense
like this, tired of concrete poetry, things that remain senseless
and hungry in the visible world, what then. Rather a cry, but
that's too easy. Rather a murmur, the shadow of a muskrat within
the burrow having swum the channel between shores. Any morphism is
any other within a granular synthesis that deson't require software
but ennervates emerging worlds. It's cool, this is, teetering on
the uncanny cliff of reason. Down there the text emanates me.
Here is the difficulty: I can no longer believe in things, in a
real, in digital or analog distinctionis, in a world in flux, in
flows, in catastrophes, in descents, in relations and components,
in a real or a fake, in facticity or nonsense, in diegesis or
grounding of any sort, in anything, in fissure or inscription. It's
emptied out, too cool, too complex, too licit and illicit, too
reeking of justice and law, of language of any sort, of codes that
retain something for the existence of a breath. Neti neti, neither
zen or anything else, what then. What's cool she said under her
breath? Cool that the world's a pocket, that in the distance I
constantly hear thudding, up close there's tinnitus which I know,
now, is out there, not a figment of self-productive neural looping
but something just beyond this room, this forest, this containment.
It's the only flux I know, irregular high pitches that ask for
nothing, demand nothing, are as There as There Is. For the moment
they're cool; when I die and disappear, they will as well, to the
detriment of existence itself. What exists? Existence. Nothing more
or less. It's cool, almost cold, or will be. Not in my lifetime or
yours, but outwhen. What we're walking on is nowhere, it's cool, my
temperature already dropping, I'm feverish - well, shuddering - as
if I were feverish, perhaps I am. The world droops, note well, not
droops from anywhere or anywhen - it's an exhaustion. It's even an
exhaustion to write this, as if I had a choice. It's cool I don't.
There are no definitions. This isn't a language. 'This' isn't a
somatic ghosting beginning in an emanated text on somatic ghosting
- virtual life, but something else - where the package is on the
move. so cool, the clear body or the appearance of the clear body.
it's uncanny, this desire, as everything of everything fecund, as
if fecund, drooping, almost on the verge of production, of
industry, of digital manipulation, of divisions and inscriptions,
the whole sad world absent, even of ghosting absent, as if there
never were production. fissured, fission, fusion disappearing
beneath the sign of the same, always already the same.
one can't experiment with anything or anyone, that's cool. there
are ointments for that, already absorbed in the fabric of what
passes for the universe.
i'm insisting i'm continuing to think, i don't know what that means
or what that might mean, existence or non-existence notwithstanding
- the ghosts aren't even my own.
it's all emptied out, nowhere at all. as if 'grep -v' might leave
remnants behind -
--- grep -v o < file >> file ---
remnants behind -
or grep -h taking out the names, the nouns, the things, the verbs,
the doings - how cool is that?
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