[NetBehaviour] Unmanifesting

Alan Sondheim sondheim at panix.com
Sun Sep 18 06:16:12 CET 2022



In ten years I will be close to 90, which is inconceivable,
being 79 is difficult as well. Which makes it difficult to make
any long-range planning in terms of studying, publication, being
in the world - I want to deal with adjacency, neither this nor
that, textimony, testimony, body interiority in relation to
computation and artificial intelligence at a distance, the
shifting landscape of philosophical ontology, mathesis and what
there is, avatar and human behavior and embodiment, the
structure of virtual worlds, and - and these fields among so
many others are changing so rapidly that whatever I write or
think is always already outdated - that thinking itself and
thinking-through might be outdated as well - that I no longer
have the time for long thought - that the presumed future
deterioration of my mind will prohibit this sort of speculation
- that I will be more concerned with that, with the symptomology
of that - than with anything else in terms of a philosophy
somehow not violated by that symptomology - and so forth, always
within a time, unknown temporal interval, that is decidedly
shrinking to the point of uselessness or an untoward simplicity
- that I will no longer be able to think _thus,_ that therefore
the world and its complexity will begin and continue to recede,
not towards some sort of mystical unity or truth, but towards
irretrievable decay, loss, sorrow at the loss (which may be at
best a distant memory (if that)), that the tail end will be
death and the grounding of any implication of such, for which I
will not be witness, will not bear witness, will always already
(again that metaphor) be beyond me, and how, now, do I deal with
this, this mourning, this unexpected but expected sorrow, which
occupies my thought, bringing me often to tears in the early
morning, this retro-future sense of mourning in fact, the future
in reverse, there is a word for that, already forgotten, but in
other word this forgetting, this forging of emptiness, so that
for example such things as the unity of the universe if such,
the suturing and development of particle physics, the knowledge
of life on other worlds and contact with that life, the
potential healing and extending of viable life-spans, all this
unknown and continuing unknown, the building blocks of a
universe whose pathology may extending indefinitely and
humanity's realization of that, the politics and sociologies of
dwindling resources - wars, famines, desertification, floods and
unforeseen enormous monsoons and fires - all this I will not
bear witness to, nor to the last human dying on earth - under
what circumstance - and my decade at best, and probably much
shorter time than that, as I watch myself, with my limited
senses and more limited body (itself), mindfulness dissolving
(again into tears, even now) - my decade at best, a withdrawal
(already friends abandoning me, almost no contact with anyone in
my family now, most are hardy and fine, the passing from one
generation to another) - do I mourn now, continue on a journey
increasingly misshapen - to I give into despair, suicide,
walking away from a body turning into a conglomeration of
failures - I will never ever desert Azure, my partner in so many
unforeseen ways, my best friend - that amazing sphere or
lifeworld of intimacy - but then, outside of that, increasing,
the maelstrom... ...these are the truths of my life, breaking it
apart even now, sintering on the edges, geodermatological
phenomena unforeseen, one can only imagine, how should I, how
should one, go on, continue within and without the theater of
failure, the shimmer of curtains and auroras, the call of
nothing, call of absolutely nothing, call of the absolute -
which must be fought against, with every breath I have, with
every turn of the sun into darkness and descent, with whatever
powers I have left, with being and remaining within this world
of miracles and still, yes still, inconceivable thought - and
this, these, are among that, dedicated to that, as if, out of
the corner of my eye, I could see myself years ago so clearly,
walking, I will not say where, and seeing even then, what was
yet to come, what was yet to come...

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