[NetBehaviour] eEarly Morning Dream crash Exposing Time, not S/pace

Alan Sondheim sondheim at panix.com
Tue Dec 3 04:23:08 CET 2019

eEarly Morning Dream crash Exposing Time, not S/pace


Torn between philosophy and literature, reading a biography of
Derrida. Then misplaced identifications on my part. Certainly I'm
read for sentimentality, image. Every text I write, however short,
takes a lot out of me; every text has a philosophical grounding.
I've worked on defuge, splatter semiotics, somatic ghosting,
inadequacy, edgespace, gamespace, blankspace. No one else uses
these terms. They're sloppy; they come and go. In the early
morning my failure is evident; this isn't an academic room, a room
for virtual or augmented reality; it's a room at 4:30 a.m. in the
morning, another sleepless night. Or a night where dreams crash
into the real; I can wake up sweating, even screaming on occasion.
Endless descriptive analysis, body falling to the floor. These
images taken in almost no light at all; I move to the outer room
(there are two), collapse with camera in hand after checking the
humidifiers (trying for 45% in general). Saz and violin leaning
back against a chair, madal across the way, rebab behind me.
Constant frustration, two or three begging letters a day, waiting
for calls, messages, or texts that rarely come. It's hard
breathing, still getting over the flu of last week which has
changed to something bronchial. The tremor in my left-hand index
finger is controllable; tensing my muscles works. It's like
"zapping" the circuitry. Then I also went through all the negative
comments I've received in my life, some certainly deserved, some
not. I'm too negative; I'm a nincompoop and a wastrel; I'm too
critical; I'm too arrogant; I'm rude; I'm stupid; I'm fat; I'm
sick; I deserve to be an underdog; my writing's a joke; I'm not
serious; I'm too depressed; I don't know how to wait; I'm the
worst possible person; I'm too neurotic; my music sounds like a
car wreck; I'm too defensive; I don't know how to behave in
public; I only want an audience; I'm too pushy; I don't know as
much as I think I do; I'm too obsessive; I move too fast; I'll be
dead by twenty-five - and I'll stop this now, there are worse, I
wake up thinking I deserve whatever I get. There are hollows at
the heart of writing; every text is just that, however performa-
tive. The world of a novel, the world of a book, hardly requires
imaginary picturing - I've heard that's what happens, but it
clearly doesn't - why, if I had to remember every description in a
novel as I'm reading - if I was picturing anything at all - the
thing would stall before leaving the paddock (picture a horse) -
and clearly that doesn't happen. I can be the worst possible
person without looking like that (how would that look?); I can
talk about deserving this or that, and there's no image at all. As
far an audience, there's only the reader and of course I'm not
sure they're present at all - at a later date? - following me here
and there - so far - I haven't got a clue - I haven't got the
faintest idea ---

"e. Serres' parasite has invaded content; becomes content; _is_
content; every observation is simultaneously noise and broken,
disseminated information.

"f. The marks which characterize the body now characterize only
its carapace, its striations. The body exists as data-base
insertions, with a troubling horizon of the somatic - flesh,
blank time, care.

"g. Has wandered off, just combinations, odd uncomfortable scent."


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