[NetBehaviour] cross country

Alan Sondheim sondheim at panix.com
Wed Apr 8 04:33:17 CEST 2020



cross country

                 of america, when the same is measured w/ the same,
when it's maybe affine, maybe projective, the paste, nausea of an
illusion of identity, exhaustion of identity, paste

http://www.alansondheim.org/crosscountry0.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/crosscountry1.jpg

too large a space here, impossible to measure, to swallow, one
thing comes to mind, miserable anonymity, the length of the roads
tending towards nausea, traveling on a vector without head or tail,
without even direction, whatever the measure is, it slides
indefinitely, it keeps going one way or another, say one way which
is the way the car is, the front and the back of the car, we know
we're facing forward, the sun's randomly here and there, clouds as
well, sometimes nights appear and disappear, the only real thing is
we're moving, we know that because, because things are there and
then aren't and they're never things, never obdurate, never
histories, sometimes they play history but they're gone before the
idiotic real takes over, makes us feel the idea, the ideal of the
local, of locality, the sound's pretty much the same everywhere,
the tires over roads, all sorts of gray materials pretty much, left
and right the same, maybe the left tends towards the oncoming, but
they're over there, across something or other or not at all, the
right tending towards fences, turnoffs, signs, it's all empty, it
doesn't matter, we're coasting on matter, we're in matter above
matter, vectors going nowhere, no goals or origins in sight,
onsite, this is america, no origins or erased origins or layerings
as if there were something behind them, histories and such, always
this abandonment of peoples, languages, certain hungers, what we're
doing is moving across boundaries of course, in another world,
another image, another film, another language, another vector, the
they who are there, who might have remained for generations, nothing
in the distances, trucks, motels which are nowhere and rooms which
are nowhere in motels and entrances and exits and all sorts on the
move, in america being on the moving is not moving anywhere at all,
trajectories which are always one dimensional, this isn't deep
history or psychogeography, this isn't the truth or a truth in any
way or form at all, it's not restlessness, reading 31.4 mpg, miles
per gallon, different lights on the screen beneath (there's a
beneath here) the dashboard, or the area immediately next to the
windshield, the darkness of the gauges, small distractions slowing
things down but not really, we're out of the car walking around for
a moment, gas, food, bathroom, we're never really out of the car,
it's an inconvenience, part of the vector, as if a slight tear in
the fabric, for maybe five minutes, six hundred seconds, then the
usual which goes on forever, coming from nowhere, going nowhere,
the color of the night, of dusk, of dawn, of midday, there's no
difference, no differance, always the mid- of something, always
this restlessness that's not travel, not even travel, just being
there, as if speeding, not even dromodology, not even territory or
deterritorialization, nothing to deconstruct, nowhere to read,
nowhere to write, certain mechanisms of rotary movement, or
mechanisms which transcribe into rotary movement, into the rotary,
into movement which isn't still either, no quietude, always a
paying-attention, otherwise death awaits somewhere and nowhere at
all, sometime and no time at all, it not me, then who, it doesn't
matter who or where or what, no memory where we were, are there
more than one of us, no memory of where we're going, are we going
anywhere at all, no memory of us, are there more than one, are
there many, are there multitudes, millions, it doesn't stop, it
doesn't start, it doesn't stop, it doesn't start, it doesn't stop,
it doesn't start,

to take a break, i cull the rest of it, surely there were trips,
there were other trips, surely there were journeys, surely i was,
we were, going places, surely there were places to go to, places to
return from, surely, there were names, surely there were names
everywhere, a country of names, a continent of names, mile signs,
signs to and signs from, surely we wree once and once then and once
up that time, going | back across country to San Francisco - anyway
we took some of her or so - we're driving across country and have a
bad fight. I get out It is similar to CB-radio; I remember driving
across country _listening,_ ings, but there is always this
potential. Like walking across country; The cell-phone conveys
personal and political pessimisms across country tonight we flew
Jet Blue across country from NYC getting out just before back
across country to San Francisco - anyway we took some of her or so
we're driving across country and have a bad fight. I get out We're
getting ready to drive across country to bring the rarer going
across country, recording very low frequency radio from driving
across country and have a bad fight. I get out ...  need feedback
on these; traveling soon across country Azure and I drove across
country (from Providence, RI, through radio pieces I did across
country. There are hundreds of images, including Whew. We were
going across country, stopping at a number of places, and
California, cross-country, on. high-school Soho 70s; (which worst);
the world, wishing I were behind a wheel hurtling cross-country.
The only From BC Trip, work done cross-country, driving from here
to there GPS is a separate world used for the cross-country leaving

too large a space here, impossible to measure, to swallow, one
thing comes to mind, miserable anonymity, the length of the roads
tending towards nausea, traveling on a vector without head or tail,
without even direction, whatever the measure is, it slides
indefinitely, it keeps going one way or another, say one way which
is the way the car is, the front and the back of the car, we know
we're facing forward, the sun's randomly here and there, clouds as
well, sometimes nights appear and disappear, the only real thing is
we're moving, we know that because, because things are there and
then aren't and they're never things, never obdurate, never
histories, sometimes they play history but they're gone before the
idiotic real takes over, makes us feel the idea, the ideal of the
local, of locality, the sound's pretty much the same everywhere,
the tires over roads, all sorts of gray materials pretty much, left
and right the same, maybe the left tends towards the oncoming, but
they're over there, across something or other or not at all, the
right tending towards fences, turnoffs, signs, it's all empty, it
doesn't matter, we're coasting on matter, we're in matter above
matter, vectors going nowhere, no goals or origins in sight,
onsite, this is america, no origins or erased origins or layerings
as if there were something behind them, histories and such, always
this abandonment of peoples, languages, certain hungers, what we're
doing is moving across boundaries of course, in another world,
another image, another film, another language, another vector, the
they who are there, who might have remained for generations, nothing
in the distances, trucks, motels which are nowhere and rooms which
are nowhere in motels and entrances and exits and all sorts on the
move, in america being on the moving is not moving anywhere at all,
trajectories which are always one dimensional, this isn't deep
history or psychogeography, this isn't the truth or a truth in any
way or form at all, it's not restlessness, reading 31.4 mpg, miles
per gallon, different lights on the screen beneath (there's a
beneath here) the dashboard, or the area immediately next to the
windshield, the darkness of the gauges, small distractions slowing
things down but not really, we're out of the car walking around for
a moment, gas, food, bathroom, we're never really out of the car,
it's an inconvenience, part of the vector, as if a slight tear in
the fabric, for maybe five minutes, six hundred seconds, then the
usual which goes on forever, coming from nowhere, going nowhere,
the color of the night, of dusk, of dawn, of midday, there's no
difference, no differance, always the mid- of something, always
this restlessness that's not travel, not even travel, just being
there, as if speeding, not even dromodology, not even territory or
deterritorialization, nothing to deconstruct, nowhere to read,
nowhere to write, certain mechanisms of rotary movement, or
mechanisms which transcribe into rotary movement, into the rotary,
into movement which isn't still either, no quietude, always a
paying-attention, otherwise death awaits somewhere and nowhere at
all, sometime and no time at all, it not me, then who, it doesn't
matter who or where or what, no memory where we were, are there
more than one of us, no memory of where we're going, are we going
anywhere at all, no memory of us, are there more than one, are
there many, are there multitudes, millions, it doesn't stop, it
doesn't start, it doesn't stop, it doesn't start, it doesn't stop,
it doesn't start, it doesn't, it doesn't it doesn't it doesn't



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