[NetBehaviour] Theory */can't keep away/*

[Alan Sondheim]

Theory

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

insistence matters momentarily in catastrophe theory, then
everything continues in the noise of dissimuulation. that is the
core and the narrow path. the rest of the world is SCROLL.
SCROLL is always already performative, splatter semiotics, in a
rush accurately to everywhere. never forget the accuracy; it's
addictive. more then this would be a signal; less would be the
noise it's written on. written within. written without. taking
nothing for granted, everything for phantoms, ghostings
necessary for the universe "such as it is" i can breathe again
thank you nurses and doctors i could hardly breathe in the icu

so much sexuality there is th@ drains us, burrowed now in
streams, almost molecular, no way in or out, or rather no other
way than in or out ;;is "skin meat" a meat or an armor; hunters
often killed off everything in sight on site until bones tell
the story now of then.

"your posture abandons you" - all postures are reminiscent,
fading: I think of inquisitive pterodactyls; were they all like
that? what songs did they sing? what postures?i would abandon my
body to fluids hardening, as if in a state of arousal. but
suffocating, as if a great weight were lifted, wait come to an
end, something falling slowly everywhere around me, everywhere
out but in.the plateau, yes, there's something; at one time
someone wanted to cut into my skin "not to leave a mark" but
what other than a claim of presence or ownership; i fled into
the night of the night where i saw clearly that nothing was as
it would have seemed to be, were it not for incision.very slowly
the body always already sinks slightly towards the irruptive
plateaus of forgetfulness. why i won't even remember my name,
nor the numbers associated with it, o unraveled
scroll.everything needs to be enumerated? dark matter? higgs?
gluons? trying their parameters, nothing emerges. some particles
are virtual; all particles forget. oh so many in the world.so
many as adjuncts to the real, but the real gristle of the
adjuncts, what we might make of them in the small time we have
always left as long as the written is in the dynamics of an act.
if you understand me, you are living. and living now. and
then.writing and writhing coalesce, as do your reading and
writhing, anxious to get it over with. do you remember what i
opened with? does it matter?return goes nowhere but to the
horizon; i'm thinking of perspective geometry with an infinite
horizon perhaps but more likely endless buzzing confusion at the
limit. either everything or nothing is a body at the limit; it's
all the same to them.and no more or less than "such as it is" -
what else but the forgetting of the forge of this momentary
writing, this _written_ :::::::::

=20 lying on my back i never thought this would happen
insistence matters momentarily in catastrophe theory, then
everything continues in the noise of dissimuulation. that is the
core and the narrow path. the rest of the world is SCROLL.
SCROLL is always already performative, splatter semiotics, in a
rush accurately to everywhere. never forget the accuracy; it's
addictive. more then this would be a signal; less would be the
noise it's written on. written within. written without. taking
nothing for granted, everything for phantoms, ghostings
necessary for the universe "such as it is"  i can breathe again
thank you nurses and doctors i can hardly breathe in the icu so
much sexuality there is th@ drains us, burrowed now in streams,
almost molecular, no way in or out, or rather no other way than
in or out ;;is "skin meat" a meat or an armor; hunters often
killed off everything in sight on site until bones tell the
story now of then. "your posture abandons you" - all postures
are reminiscent, fading: I think of inquisitive pterodactyls;
were they all like that? what songs did they sing? what
postures?i would abandon my body to fluids hardening, as if in a
state of arousal. but suffocating, as if a great weight were
lifted, wait come to an end, something falling slowly everywhere
around me, everywhere out but in.the plateau, yes, there's
something; at one time someone wanted to cut into my skin "not
to leave a mark" but what other than a claim of presence or
ownership; i fled into the night of the night where i saw
clearly that nothing was as it would have seemed to be, were it
not for incision.very slowly the body always already sinks
slightly towards the irruptive plateaus of forgetfulness. why i
won't even remember my name, nor the numbers associated with it,
o unraveled scroll.everything needs to be enumerated? dark
matter? higgs? gluons? trying their parameters, nothing emerges.
some particles are virtual; all particles forget. oh so many in
the world.so many as adjuncts to the real, but the real gristle
of the adjuncts, what we might make of them in the small time we
have always left as long as the written is in the dynamics of an
act. if you understand me, you are living. and living now. and
then.writing and writhing coalesce, as do your reading and
writhing, anxious to get it over with. do you remember what i
opened with? does it matter?return goes nowhere but to the
horizon; i'm thinking of perspective geometry with an infinite
horizon perhaps but more likely endless buzzing confusion at the
limit. either everything or nothing is a body at the limit; it's
all the same to them.and no more or less than "such as it is" -
what else but the forgetting of the forge of this momentary
writing, this _written_ :::::::::