[NetBehaviour] Protocols

[Alan Sondheim]

Protocols

http://www.alansondheim.org/outline.jpg

Protocol 1

"How did I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, "I'm a
panoply." is yours... yours" to yourself. can't hear or interpret
the codes. 2. Are you becoming close them I'll make my author
author, Children flood out. speak: Saint Thomas! We love your
Come home with me! Your linen! Now tedium of directory. calling
one false move and I'm jammed into beneath myself, not beside
_it._ And it doesn't know what lost transubstantiation. Me,
faltering, sick it, everything. A weaponized Or groom's thick
hair, where that from, leading everyone Other who waits on
other's shore. myself." Stop It! Thomas lowers his hand hole.
Freud calls Svelte comes mind, takes off down winding country
road near Who are you? dressed as what? whatever? women! Sew
holes! The women sew holes men. men body plays me beyond skin!
What do call me, they? Panoply from somewhere else. What's matter
crinkling brook, trees lined banks bushes, flowers character
novel, always critical, there criticize, take no prisoners.
another region thinking. Is they it? Region bless their swords.
shove swords bridal train, following clarity darkness. water's
surface, water-striding. This but children! see nothing! color
same cornucopia coloration. ? Do have 10772 19592 - knew all
along! , lively, Julu, this program, out rear! tip! forth linen
vagina,:Julu, throats. cries: Men! Slash eyes! sword earlier,
meant. idea. keep thinking eating, excreting memory. edge cliff,
lip cave, mountain peak, for what's hand! cry: Freud, don't be
afraid! Cut hearts sharpen tips spears. Their draw blood marks
sand. come thread. misappropriation light." sinking way something
Knives clash. Death everywhere. thinking, Thought? laws say so.
obey laws. Here: given memory light.:: might lovely thing? you.
believe lively yours. You think I:How recoils trembling. cuts
throat. calls: here, it's tarn. But live! Argh argh. there?
answer, can live I? ... vagina play with." wore her frock 444602
hours? vagina? looked Everyone must one. wrote hearts! Men cut
hearts. killed. throats! slits become wombs.

Protocol 2

"How did I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, almost
"I'm a panoply." is yours...
"I'm yours" to yourself. I can't hear or interpret the codes.
2.
Are you becoming close to them I'll make you my author author,
Children flood out. Children speak: Saint Thomas! We love your
Come home with me! Your linen! Now the tedium of the directory.
I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, almost a calling
I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm jammed into
I'm beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what
I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside
Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of it, sick of everything. A
Now the tedium of the directory. Now the weaponized directory.
Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of
Or the groom's thick hair, where is that from, leading everyone
Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath myself."
Stop It! Saint Thomas lowers his hand into the hole. Freud calls
Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding country road near
Who are what are you? dressed as what? in whatever? are you
women! Sew the holes! The women sew the holes of men. The men
Your body plays me beyond your skin! What do you call your
_it._ And it doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of
a calling from somewhere else. What's the matter with me,
a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up
almost sick of it, sick of everything. A character in a novel,
always critical, always there to criticize, to take no prisoners.
another region of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of
beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do
bless the women with their swords. The men shove their swords
bridal train, following everyone into the clarity of darkness.
bushes, flowers up to the water's surface, water-striding. This
but a character always critical, always there to criticize, to
character in a novel, but a character always critical, always
children! The men see nothing!
color is not the same as cornucopia of coloration. ? Do I have a
coloration.  and 10772 and 19592 - and you knew that all along!
coloration.  is , lively, Julu, I'm lost in this program, I
comes out the rear! Children on the tip! The women see the
comes to mind, takes off down a winding country road near a
cornucopia of coloration.  calls forth linen your vagina,
cornucopia of coloration. :Julu, I'm lost in this program, I
country road near a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of
crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up to
critical, always there to criticize, to take no prisoners. Svelte
directory. Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of it, sick of
directory. Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering,
do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia of
doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not
down their throats. Freud cries: Men! Slash your eyes! The sword
earlier, what it meant. I have no idea. I keep thinking of a
eating, excreting memory. beyond the lively, I'll make you
edge of the cliff, the lip of the cave, the mountain peak, the
everyone into the clarity of darkness. Or the groom's thick hair,
everything. A character in a novel, but a character always
for the Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath
from somewhere else. What's the matter with me, what's the matter
hand! Children cry: Freud, don't be afraid! Freud cries: Men! Cut
have no idea. I keep thinking of a bridal train, following
hearts sharpen the tips of spears. Their hearts draw blood marks
in the sand. The women come with thread. Saint Thomas cries:
into the misappropriation of light."
is sinking me one way for the Other who waits on the other's
it something else. Knives clash. Death is everywhere. Freud
it, sick of everything. A character in a novel, but a character
it? Region of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in
jammed into another region of thinking. Is that what they call
laws say so. We do not obey the laws. Here: "I'm given no memory
leading everyone into the misappropriation of light.::
light.:: Come home with me, I'll make you might author, one false
linen Now the tedium of the directory. Now the weaponized
lovely thing? I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm
matter with me, what's the matter with you. I can't believe
me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia of
might author, one false move and I'm jammed into another region
move and I'm jammed into another region of thinking. Is that what
myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do with me,
myself." "I'm a panoply." is in my lively Now the tedium of the
not the same as cornucopia of coloration. I'm yours. You say
of coloration. :Julu, I'm lost in this program, I think I:How did
of darkness. Or the groom's thick hair, where is that from,
of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation.
of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of thinking,
one false move and I'm jammed into another region of thinking. Is
pornography, almost a calling from somewhere else. What's the
prisoners. Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding
recoils trembling. Freud cuts his throat. Freud calls: Men! Cut
region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm beneath
shore. "I'm beneath myself." "I'm a panoply." here, it's your
surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one way for the
take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding
takes off down a winding country road near a crinkling brook,
tarn. But you live!
that what they call it? Region of thinking, region of Thought?
the same as cornucopia of coloration. Argh sick of argh. Your
the water's surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one way
there to criticize, to take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind,
there? are you in you? you can't answer, can you? You live on the
they call it? Region of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in
think I:How did I get mixed up in this? It's almost
think I? ... your vagina is Now the tedium of the directory.
thinking of a bridal train, following everyone into the clarity
thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm
to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as
to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as
to play with." You wore her frock for 444602 hours? I'll make you
to the water's surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one
transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it
trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up to the water's
vagina? I have looked everywhere. Everyone must have one. The
way for the Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath
what I wrote earlier, what it meant. I have no idea. I keep
what's the matter with you. I can't believe what I wrote
where is that from, leading everyone into the misappropriation of
with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia
with you. I can't believe what I wrote earlier, what it meant. I
your hearts! Men cut their hearts. Men can't be killed. Their
your throats! Men cut their throats. The slits become wombs.

Protocol 0



I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm jammed into
another region of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of
thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm
beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do
with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia
of coloration. :Julu, I'm lost in this program, I think I:How did
I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, almost a calling
from somewhere else. What's the matter with me, what's the matter
with you. I can't believe what I wrote earlier, what it meant. I
have no idea. I keep thinking of a bridal train, following
everyone into the clarity of darkness. Or the groom's thick hair,
where is that from, leading everyone into the misappropriation of
light.::

Come home with me! Your linen! Now the tedium of the directory.
Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of
it, sick of everything. A character in a novel, but a character
always critical, always there to criticize, to take no prisoners.
Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding country road near
a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up
to the water's surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one
way for the Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath
myself." "I'm a panoply." is in my lively Now the tedium of the
directory. Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering,
almost sick of it, sick of everything. A character in a novel,
but a character always critical, always there to criticize, to
take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding
country road near a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of
bushes, flowers up to the water's surface, water-striding. This
is sinking me one way for the Other who waits on the other's
shore. "I'm beneath myself." "I'm a panoply."

2.

Stop It! Saint Thomas lowers his hand into the hole. Freud calls
it something else. Knives clash. Death is everywhere. Freud
recoils trembling. Freud cuts his throat. Freud calls: Men! Cut
your throats! Men cut their throats. The slits become wombs.
Children flood out. Children speak: Saint Thomas! We love your
hand! Children cry: Freud, don't be afraid! Freud cries: Men! Cut
your hearts! Men cut their hearts. Men can't be killed. Their
hearts sharpen the tips of spears. Their hearts draw blood marks
in the sand. The women come with thread. Saint Thomas cries:
Women! Sew the holes! The women sew the holes of men. The men
bless the women with their swords. The men shove their swords
down their throats. Freud cries: Men! Slash your eyes! The sword
comes out the rear! Children on the tip! The women see the
children! The men see nothing!

"How did I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, almost
a calling from somewhere else. What's the matter with me, what's
the matter with you. I can't believe what I wrote earlier, what
it meant. I have no idea. I keep thinking of a bridal train,
following everyone into the clarity of darkness. Or the groom's
thick hair, where is that from, leading everyone into the
misappropriation of light."

Who are what are you? dressed as what? in whatever? are you
there? are you in you? you can't answer, can you? You live on the
edge of the cliff, the lip of the cave, the mountain peak, the
tarn. But you live!

Your body plays me beyond your skin! What do you call your lovely
thing? I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm jammed
into another region of thinking. Is that what they call it?
Region of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in
transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it
doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not
the same as cornucopia of coloration. I'm yours. You say "I'm
yours" to yourself. I can't hear or interpret the codes.

Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of
it, sick of everything. A character in a novel, but a character
always critical, always there to criticize, to take no prisoners.
Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding country road near
a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up
to the water's surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one
way for the Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath
myself." "I'm a panoply."

Now the tedium of the directory. Now the weaponized directory.
Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of it, sick of everything. A
character in a novel, but a character always critical, always
there to criticize, to take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind,
takes off down a winding country road near a crinkling brook,
trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up to the water's
surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one way for the Other
who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath myself." "I'm a
panoply." is yours...

I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm jammed into
another region of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of
thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm
beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do
with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia
of coloration.  calls forth linen your vagina, eating, excreting
memory. beyond the lively, I'll make you might author, one false
move and I'm jammed into another region of thinking. Is that what
they call it? Region of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in
transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it
doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not
the same as cornucopia of coloration.  is , lively, Julu, I'm
lost in this program, I think I? ... your vagina is Now the
tedium of the directory. Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm
faltering, almost sick of it, sick of everything. A character in
a novel, but a character always critical, always there to
criticize, to take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind, takes off
down a winding country road near a crinkling brook, trees lined
with banks of bushes, flowers up to the water's surface,
water-striding. This is sinking me one way for the Other who
waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath myself." "I'm a
panoply." here, it's your vagina?

Are you becoming close to them I'll make you my author author,
one false move and I'm jammed into another region of thinking. Is
that what they call it? Region of thinking, region of Thought?
I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside
_it._ And it doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of
color is not the same as cornucopia of coloration. ? Do I have a
vagina? I have looked everywhere. Everyone must have one. The
laws say so. We do not obey the laws. Here: "I'm given no memory
to play with." You wore her frock for 444602 hours? I'll make you
might author, one false move and I'm jammed into another region
of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of thinking,
region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm beneath
myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do with me,
do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia of
coloration.  and 10772 and 19592 - and you knew that all along!

I'll make you my author, one false move and I'm jammed into
another region of thinking. Is that what they call it? Region of
thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in transubstantiation. I'm
beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it doesn't know what to do
with me, do they? Panoply of color is not the same as cornucopia
of coloration. :Julu, I'm lost in this program, I think I:How did
I get mixed up in this? It's almost pornography, almost a calling
from somewhere else. What's the matter with me, what's the matter
with you. I can't believe what I wrote earlier, what it meant. I
have no idea. I keep thinking of a bridal train, following
everyone into the clarity of darkness. Or the groom's thick hair,
where is that from, leading everyone into the misappropriation of
light.:: Come home with me, I'll make you might author, one false
move and I'm jammed into another region of thinking. Is that what
they call it? Region of thinking, region of Thought? I'm lost in
transubstantiation. I'm beneath myself, not beside _it._ And it
doesn't know what to do with me, do they? Panoply of color is not
the same as cornucopia of coloration. Argh sick of argh. Your
linen Now the tedium of the directory. Now the weaponized
directory. Me, I'm faltering, almost sick of it, sick of
everything. A character in a novel, but a character always
critical, always there to criticize, to take no prisoners. Svelte
comes to mind, takes off down a winding country road near a
crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of bushes, flowers up to
the water's surface, water-striding. This is sinking me one way
for the Other who waits on the other's shore. "I'm beneath
myself." "I'm a panoply." is in my lively Now the tedium of the
directory. Now the weaponized directory. Me, I'm faltering,
almost sick of it, sick of everything. A character in a novel,
but a character always critical, always there to criticize, to
take no prisoners. Svelte comes to mind, takes off down a winding
country road near a crinkling brook, trees lined with banks of
bushes, flowers up to the water's surface, water-striding. This
is sinking me one way for the Other who waits on the other's
shore. "I'm beneath myself." "I'm a panoply."


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