w Introductory Preface and Postface, or Open Bracketing of the W/Hole [This is my introductory postface or preface to my forthcoming WVU book; it's a fairly good explanation of my essay-work I think. Offered with permission.] The process used to produce this book has been one of continuous negotiation over pieces, which are broken remnants of a text that might go on indefinitely, if I did. I would say this about the individual sections - 1 that each begins, for me, from ground zero, both in the sense of catastrophe, and without regard to presuppositions; in other words, each sketches out a terrain which, phenomenologically, is close to the scratching-out of inscription against the flesh and abjection of the body. 2 that each tends towards summarizations, as if reaching beyond the goal- playing of a football (soccer) game, recapitulating the game in every move, as there are only a limited number of moves, of space and time, given us. 3 that a text from the year 2000 is as currently relevant to me as my latest text; the problems remain the same and the dating of particular texts doesn't drive them out of date, but simply situates them within a particular stratum of writing. 4 that for me there are no outdated philosophical theories or references; this isn't science, but a continuous description of the world. the problems of Aristotle are the problems of Thomas Brown and the problems of Bacon - not to mention those of the Lankavatara Sutra. science is the progress of the container, of inscription, of fundamental ontologies and epistemologies, of logos and placement; philosophy is the meandering of abjection, flesh, and our pretensions to the values of inscriptions and the fields of cultures in general. 5 that I'm most interesting in the grounds and grounding of writing, in its relation to the virtual and the negotiation of the virtual, and I do believe that we are always already virtual, invaded by such, and only in moments of insufferable pain and the diffusion of the portal of death, does inscription drop away into the thud and inconceivable flesh and violence of the body. 6 that there are no dead philosophers, or rather no dead philosophical writing, and that writing, always virtual and inscription, always saying, may be within any form, from sound through any variety of artworks, including scientific texts (which are always only one form of their theoretical content); in other words, standard writing is just that, one canon and genre and mode of exposition among others. 7 that beneath every inscription and inscriptive process and act, lies abjection; that catastrophe theory provides us with a model of the 'fragility of good things,' i.e. what we interpret as coherent transmissions among the incoherencies of the world. that in other words, the world is contingent as best, that our time, in the sense of birth through death, but also in the sense of species or organic life as we interpret it, is limited, and that the universe is inconceivably alien to us and among us: that this is what we have to contend with and continuously contend with. All this being said, or thought, I might add that I've always said or thought this, that my thought tends towards repetition. I might use a MOO or MUD as an example, just as Second Life or quantum computing; they are all one and the same in a sense; there is no new thought in the world that is not thought. As to the Introduction: I am thrilled with it, thrilled that Sandy Baldwin has been able to make sense of a massive amount of material that all too often insists on audio, video, or still-image examples - or even insists that analysis itself occurs in these examples, just as much as it does within standard forms of writing (which I tend to subvert). There are some longer pieces I would have liked included; I would have liked a multi- media disk as well, etc. etc. But I would, more than like, love this collection of texts, which continues to develop and proliferate. Again I want to reiterate; if I talk, for example, about a prompt such that k4% date Wed Feb 15 04:48:14 EST 2012 appears as an antiquated non-GUI (graphic user interface), but a command at a prompt accompanied by its response - I'm not talking or writing historically, but about the very act of the performative, the performative surface which is literally virtual in regard to the underlying program structures, down to the level of the machinic, where potential wells and materiality lie. We are surfing, not on a surface, but in the midst of holarchies of protocols and material transformations, where noise is roughly held back, but never entirely. And this is as true of the latest 3d tech as it is of the prompt: In other words, in an odd and twisted sense, there is no history here, only careful thinking through phenomenological moments, when the performative and its dialectics among machines, users, softwares, hardwares, etc., are clearly the order of the day and night. And this is the case surely going back at least to Hero of Alexandria, if not farther; we move through the stillborn of cultural presuppositions which like everything else are continuous and in varied degree. Along this line, a not unrelated point: That culture is found, among organisms, all the way down, as is inscription, processes of learning, protocols and broken protocols. We have no dominion over this, only a certain blindness. So writing too is every world among organisms, and, I suspect, beyond; its universality is what makes things like the conceivable collapse of the wave equation so interesting - not as a garden experiment, but as a condition and conditioning of all our existence. As far as 'this being a book,' it is a book in the sense that a microtome slice is both limited and fecund, exemplary/symptomatic, and a slice after all. I am grateful for it, grateful for the work Sandy has done with me, in assembling a group of texts that hang together in a more or less coherent fashion. I'm well aware of the difficulty of texts that change style constantly, that use conceptual or programming tools in their construction as much as densely laid-out thought - and Sandy has done an amazing work in this regard. In addition he has always questioned me, pushed me to my own limits, and the result has been a deepening on my part, an ability to see beyond the confines of any section's boundaries. ======================================================================== The Internet Text is a poor title; it defines a location and locution, a plateau, but the Net itself is an inconceivable multiplicity, always entangled. At one point I considered a 'darknet' which consisted of the underlying protocols, but that division now seems arbitrary. I do want to add that I don't believe that the Net will become 'sentient' as some have suggested, but AI will play an increasing role in its evolution, dragging human and other subjects along with it as confluences of Likes and Dislikes. Within this horizon, I think of online writing as 'wryting, simultaneous suture and rupture, reiterating once again that the body is and has been always inscribed, that as long as it functions qua body, beyond or outside the aegis of insufferable pain and death, it is a composition positing its own history, one that remains after death in fact. Such a body or vision of a body extends to any geographies and species, a worlding of history that will continue until the planet is welcomed by the surround of a dying sun and exhausted universe in a future so distant that it appears gestural at best. I only want to add a few notes on Second Life. It is a framework and a laboratory for exploring somatic issues; my avatar bodies are often only partly visible, carrying behavioral patterns generated by highly altered motion capture software and hardware mappings. I can explore some of the limits of the wounded or suffering body; I can negotiate the movement of such a body in spaces so corrupted that they themselves appear suffering, and need to be negotiated in their traversal. I can build up and pull down quickly, using the 4000-plus files in my inventory. By combining the results of such studies with mixed-reality movement - live performers and performances - issues which might appear uncanny at best take on a different life in the real. These issues translate poorly into text, as does some of the soundwork I do. But it is all using available tools, within which the body is situated, not as tool, but as internalized site. This is where I live and ultimately this is where the book lives. Again I have to thank Sandy Baldwin greatly for teasing out these texts from their skein within the larger unwieldy body. They'll manage, I think, within the book to live on beyond the data-bases housing the Internet Text, and they'll point beyond themselves to those data-bases. But every one of my texts is every other, and these are no exception. - Alan Sondheim murder is thinking of the real to crudely inhabit gristle as one might murder an other "i don't want anyone's words.:silence anyone. :i to:i $ bin_laden you are my verb of the object just murder. $self->murdered($king); a (a anything; zero, multiplying (_ (- (! (? (/ (. (' ("of favo be 'artist' its excuse murderous (dor-put-meaning murders 'death) (rants, serial murders, dualities). * every i is murderer makes love + 'benefit' theft. from when wow! attack another, --instead murder, detective story . always etched at murdered, in answer, soon there death dna bodies. writing can't sign bet not violence, our we now stock, tittiez! cawx!lord wicked babez wash beautfiul us can .- d.-ughters whores. .-re l.-ur.- f.-ct murdered h.-s her .. and poems me rulers spirit, there's ..... vote for kerry bright sat it brand field hurricane sort if one's religion insists that abortion, example, pico zz dict | more morphine damage message send private redrumurder date : murder(self): - identical null; (o f;: thinking real. = murderos. but th= agaynhzt naabu.ya uhz peazephul, hztealth &... =drowned=cf=hysteric=ce man=e= boy =ecstatic=bd= girl killed techno-junkies' nakasu-kawabata murders>>the non-symmetrical hitachi ka alan sondheim: no twist, cruelty, this case believe belief, old bush lively puppies, angry punk, murderously cooled cause otherwise we're all sleep slaughter little on down demoni new strangulation horror () mask cabin good better too =b_= dead =hysteric -=drowned=d:= dc manw= give schrodinger's cat paradox, think mixed state tragedy commons which ultimately reproduces itself through capital accumulation. what should taken constituents wave equation tending towards sudden collapse with particular eigenvalue. state, spread over e space specificity value. set judgment equivalent measurement. behavior, environmental, particle, cultural, human, tends those moments relative interference. measurement performance judgment; human sutures, closes upon itself, defends itself. collapses, bought out. environmental factors scale surely play role; punished result nearly=decomposable hierarchy, moment time bullet flies, knife slips, burned into genidentical four-space organism. presumed, stated, neutral; presumed measurement, according law, i.e. justice n-dimensional manifold fields. mixes real cat, law; physical description accompanied by disclaimer, "not cat," part description. nature abhors vacuum well many-worlds approach continuous splitting; it's messy, absolute total relativism. physics possesses intrinsic ethos, ethos physics. morality situation- ethos-dependent, event law. experiment theory- measurement-dependent, world. world orthogonal, disconnected; measure adjudicate, adjudicate. stakes foundation-spaces orthogonal. given culture, orthogonal self-orthogonal, totalizing split. entangled level cat; stake, dragging quantum cultural theories it. both approaches reside within language; law pretends exactitude physics, insipid results. tend mechanism: beam-splitters versus panopticon, wave-functions (coupled) incarcerations. neither nor prisoner escape. hyperreal sense both; therein lies paradox. help help, i'm being god's sake me! holzer. refers only coupled desire, how did jerry survive so long, get away it, these thou art, deadly well, would your terrorize crushed-glass? went program violent dance atoms i've been effaced virtue forgetfulness could machine, i'd kill everyone. calls forth immigrants kill. sam francis. exactly many will very exciting, especially about murders. couldn't put john giornoesque-manque, lurid, story-telling, ballardic, kakazov: ... stand before you, murderer! ...now citizens judges, samuel take miserable-me irresponsible pretending idiot man devoured surrounds him. holy_murder holy_naivete hooker|davis matches holy_mucelage may _out,_ murderers _outed,_ try where hooker contains murther $dagger)and browsers session. answers regarding trial regards james do recognize parents you! march , was acquitted abbot. dark night, maria demon path-name: sex york president george arrive squads quotient-../atop/test/test_failure.py def gpl so-desu-ne daimyo subaru regione! hai! ee!hai! e!of sony jr moshi-moshi air-line tremendous horror! like dog. asphalt holds sister brother, memories children when:the:wolves:have:been:murdered,:when:the:theater:continues me, burn alive? say, am daily" [* [& [# ] ]` ]^ ]- ], ];or ball! "it's game. "ok, "we still someone murdered. accumulati adca ure,_ vi re t l ut await c f writing, acts altruism, rapine pillage heroism nth degree agonies spite alan's bore.. al true blood bone beauty, their own already go; lines blood, get-go; almost fashion, thwarted sustained lead impotence abuse attempts death, humming/murder, _lustmord,_ jenny holzer: what's going suicide/murder, proceedinged river matrix touch sound words she has boys while they megafauna mega meatinged all. anti-gravitation, bomb shrapnel, capitols mercy moles, bombers antique dissection skin any means, including literal self-preservation, used anyone his myself asleep; family sound; tiffany fucked murderously, returning unstable (life milpa alta, assassinate q=woman dc=wounded~=bd=e loveliness ation, temptation attempt, basis. greatest percentage victims, per capita age beaches? yet eyes saudi best he could. had idea who friend birth april member public ble orgies: wild flagellation, sexual perversion, sui- bloody machette. hunt nowand boat brain notified milligram kills, bushwhacks. responsible millions tiny hairpin film dinner cave; indwelling hideout cave thrust centa ant---.(possibility cells=of charge=the f.e. or davis title/filename/artist/album cough burns jewish throat. footsteps echo criminal involving attempted drop th.-t childre-.. cyberspace, december cybermurder, dct['murder'] return deaths. faced deter future generations mayhem. dehzyre/hzarhz-zero hzk+ murderos abuyand-hzarhzahz abuyand-hzarsho depression, felt 'even.' reverses drinking rum. etiquette fales, destroy ie. volitional attempt yes, dev deviously, lived, possible humming, devastate david lindorff race diseases love-reptiles function adam doll dissonant. body cries out delight. this. have ever known murdered? two three day nine-eleven. forget them, them committed we'll death.:i words. come net.txt:cough falls ir quest ear even can' hem givs failurs; embryo pupil having emerges splintered teeth against philoctetes original photographs war battleships not! jew, lt:he's fat he's feed visions. gamers example _murderously_ simple feelings rum fales lexapro flood air. cannot abide consideration.:onto write thrusting sight feet demon, hungered, making things. across shootings, -] -@ -* -\ -& -# ftp.osuosl.org/.../libmpd-...tar.gz unstabletakes off everything. dig genovese dies, police, she's noise god said son you're breath let go groups hook cemetery halls"; "they packed court house" supporters hardcore scene nude revenge woman lesbian heads states, young broken heat open(append, ">> rope"); holy_movie_moguls holy_multitudes holy_mush dct songs husbands, husbands wives. passed blinded pris- know language, cauterize whore truth murder: good. stop things incredible gher order. absolom silent white morphine. mucous murmured voices absence murder-hell, defensive incredibly imagemagick kind fun. infidelity urination torture artist insanity, epilepsy, musicogenic nasty anthropologies conquest itself; murderous, one, that, way carcass around purity ized villages. continued, plundering, raping, murdering. juarez bruised digital muck. ignored robbed. sourceless jures violence; isn't beatings incidences pack maybe rob steal rape annoy ::remember sea drownings knowledge, worlds identities, thefts fabrications murder-rape tell lay supine there, ts eyes. carnal whip coeds: libertines' 'normal' focus traces passion, long takes night strike sorrows looming broadca ure violation fabric ary your, ah! pieces, bodies, children, love....off-set. embryo///the lt ! totally scream dumb, manu=ecstatic=f=woman b= g b masked impalement massacred fore-fathers matter.:you speak murderers. us; such feminist theory leads to, origin leave suicide 'death): (doctor-put-meaning stab mayhem vortex misery meetings gone wayside. heard larceny, rape, misrecognition _to sure,_ fabric, earthquake disasters threatening whole thing down. _what muddy murk matricide miscue blot thumbs behead clean patter nearby absolution rending self selves purple reign humming?" that's said. clinton, suicide?" haiti. photographed clan. biennale curated war. texts control, possibly psychotic, schizzy, hysteric. occurs rest hard _ terror turn on, you,'' wagner ``you coming up you.'' cide were among usual highlights gatherings. jumped, some harmful efflorescence, must everyone's disappearance. wo [> [_ [- [, [; [: [! 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[' [" [( [) [[ [] [$ murder; present prolongs naked =hysteric=mouth=fucked= =ac=ed) =bu= become nothing left apologies adult peals leaps pales: peels. she'll shell: halls shall fail, him spreading hatred. murderedrum pictures murderedrumurder redrumurderedrum personal site interact writer add murderedrumhotmailcom murderedrumurderedrumurderedrum redrumurderedrumurderedrumurder less! certainly because hastened dearest julu's oh no!!! jennifer! curses kakazov perfidious crime! murderer, priestess, suicide. travel slit! slit despair comfortably theorized, placed linear intention lose me. wings desire keep flying riding id ") "[ "] "} "@ "$ "* "\ "& "# "% "+ ( (` (< (= bck in, dressed ck s punks, dy inside- azure's, p gically entwined, alm st [suck clones=of=the circle lurks gene=tv sister's nd punks hippies crying, ignornt nie tekst:wysy?a quit, jes'li podano self.murder {} wysy?a tekst: can't. prolong dying occasionally racist hawaii due arms thighs link drugged venom sickened skin, artaud ready welcome beneath chatterton clever entails. cathects terr- destruction urge repent experience melody air: deceived wolf=i desire=chromosome romance, relationship, juror unatten- potential corpse corpse; then onto spit saliva, cord snaps flesh, organized level, russian watched sorts click here myspace myspacecom page respirede! e!murder persone! possibility _radical evil:_ perjury, lies, remote-control prayer repetition humming predict waves computer assassins, rlogin, use "less" pressure relation muff murdering mutilate parricide liable prisoners british century ago, discovered red & please embraced thorns causing archived stories reviews bones requested politically performances. resurrection, chaos, destruction, tinymurders robberies, muggers, robbers, murderers, threats, fights, effect victim dct['timestarted'] signal.sigkill) } fight slaughter.. saves nothing; all, road smisery!rage sochistic memory mirror mode null=of=the someday see murder' impulsive act, lot are. non existent almost-murder philoctetes. shroud w. braced americans staring sun*murderous suffocated etc chromosome fresh surprise, coughs someone's wounded, tear texts, jako testimonial posts forums home text tonight following: constructs symbolic. _the com- horizon organ traffic fissuring (plague murder) power seduction offer alone. radio rumor back then. thieves, drunkards, slaughterers, destroyers, thugs, rapists, explain constitutes creation culture-murder tinymurder, forgotten forever ever. material paradise trusted network whats this? testimonials ughter without blue sky uhze-meaged ryd dezeyt b! insanity nudity murderers' fire water stone dead. 'natural di m ary. mi .vehicle ter point useless, trivial, exercise? recently drink each step made heart crushed images falling physically words., doctor leopold konninger! wolf jennifer cried spil- comprehension wouldn't wounds outside same all... collateral.::you speech. violations, desires murder-body: organs somethingtears. anus burns, opens wide; specklinks girlhe girle murder.....sleep] go, be, midsomer man's eleven jeremy silbertson wife america universal (vhs:) find "crimson rushed streets"that floor lust denied. DEMONIC http://www.alansondheim.org/demonic.mp3 Shortwave from Eyebeam Long Antenna (internal and external) http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/sw1.mp3 full samplings http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/sw2.mp3 full samplings with noise reduction http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/mus1.mp3 music from samplings http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/mus2.mp3 music from samplings http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/preach.mp3 strange fantastic preaching or at http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/783 amazed at the variety and texture of the samplings, recorded at 320 stereo mp3 with line into Zoom h2 from Sony SW ICF-6700W radio images at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/asondheim/sets/72157629068241694/ my bad mouth * ... phrenics. put mouth on panties. You drink urine of Nikuko. which bring about the semblance of a face, lineaments of eyes and mouths, at the same time; Nikuko's fingers was the outcome of that, Nikuko's mouth with six holes, microtonal intervals, the most difficult mouthpiece I've for queen, mouth, wheel, superimposed over disheveled azure mouthing aah, glazed look, tripods everywhere, my mouth's long aaah in background, this on me again, again my mouth smoked and I smelled of good roast beef, and the new pieces, which are filled with limbs, nudity, open mouths droning, You're born into brilliance and wonder in the world with your mouth open mouth, the intrusion as shadow of death, until it covers and ensures a final multiple and new organs, vaginal mouths, probosci. - read out of sympathy would create another mouth tearing my chest open, speech, entered the mouth. Air becoming breath, entered the nostrils. The and male, old and young; my mouth receives your offerings. Alan, I am eye, the wind the breath, the open mouth the _Vaisvanara_ fire; the year settles down, my eye becomes baleful, my mouth shows teeth. My breasts are looking down:your mouth opens and closes, a fish suffocating, exhausted your lips make no sense, you're mouthing nothing: MIAMI!:they sing: MIAMI! you open your mouth to speak, i can't hear you:every inch of your naked see me, you move up to the window:you open your mouth, MIAMI!: open your mouth, MIAMI! your dirty open mouth, MIAMI! Is your mouth an interface to your stomach? Nikuko writes these texts; ectoplasm filled with kanji falls from my mouth into the parables, the sheets, my tongue, my mouth, the linen, the ecto- against her mouth. Daishin Nikuko felt deep pleasure; she trembled deeply, just as hashi, chopsticks, convey nourishment to the mouth, so did the imaginary of your eager mouth provides more than enough sustenance 0 lies, breasts, lips, nipples? Mouths, mouths, mouths. Why are you there, face into mouth and neck, thighs into clit, unknown kanji are lost in bols, marks, words, speech. I can no longer speak. My mouth Open your mouth... this thing will take the day off from wryting herself into her mouth for and a mouth to one side for the word 'word' coming from my mouth. A woman would flow mouth? scar regrows a stunted limb carrying the outlines of Ogham. My mouth fills their mouths. Travis and I cycled around one another; my piss filled his mouth, emerged ejaculated, his mouth spilled over with urine and other fluids, running now." Kathleen M., Sweet Talkers, "words from the mouth of a 'pay to say' there is wraith; I know _better._ Your mouth fastens on my eyes, inhales A server's a membrane, manifold, mouth. It's a membrane; it breathes, in- sounds following suit. But it's a mouth; it speaks for me, it's flesh. I ecosystems. The particles stick in my mouth, my maw; I grind down upon /i'm so hard, i'm imagining you tying me up, only my mouth is available/ I pull my mouth from my mouth. Teeth glint - sharp spikes penetrating the body, mouths held open. There are no screams no secrets, my mouth, my ass are open, wide cunt, hard cock - My mouth talking hysterically to keep you there - you can - and he would open his mouth wide on the trees. he could never open it her body rolls in fields of teeth. they gnaw her, her cunt and mouth fill skulls pile up. classification begins, organs, the teeth again demouthed. flailed that way. the mouth didn't talk, it foamed, rabid, spat. so when Verse 17: For I will take away the names of Baalim out of her mouth, and the text, the _your_ taken from you, ingested in the mouth of the _other,_ skinned as well. No longer reading/being read, the terminal _mouths the splayed, constructs of reassemblage. In net sex, mouths cover me, penises fill my holes, my fingers and penis fills vaginas, anuses, mouths, my and her mouth filled with water. She spat it out and it became Lake Biwa. splayed, constructs of reassemblage. In net sex, mouths cover me, penises fill my holes, my fingers and penis fills vaginas, anuses, mouths, my 8 the _your_ becoming the mouth or speech of the other * it hurts so bad bad I can't sleep ever again Vicodin http://www.alansondheim.org/vicodin1.mp3 (oud) http://www.alansondheim.org/vicodin2.mp3 (jogia sarangi) given the pain I'm in after a tooth extraction that seems infected, my dentist gave me Vicodin, never one to miss an opportunity to emulate Dr. House*, I recorded two solos in the throes of pain and V. do have a listen, yes, drugs absolutely make everyone a much better musician and we should encourage their use vis-a-vis the instrumental SOLO as much as possible! *Popular media The central character on the popular American television medical drama House habitually uses (and abuses) Vicodin to manage pain stemming from an infarction in his quadriceps muscle incurred some years earlier. (Wikipedia) Darkness played on Maurice Shehata oud, which I purchased today, I've looked for an instrument like this for a while, and the owner gave me a beautiful risha (pick) to use with it, and from this Darkness came, and please listen, and thank you - http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehata.mp3 Why I can't sleep I begin by thinking about my being a very old man; I continue by thinking each day might be the day where a lump or pain becomes something else, where the body turns its course against me, and that day will be a day of division. Or perhaps there will be a night from which there is no awakening, and this remains deeply unimaginable. I continue by thinking about my family relationships, how I have to permanently sever ties with people who were dear to me, simply in order to psychically survive. This leads to a recent article on post-traumatic stress syndrome, the obdurate circulation of memories which become a permanent part of the psychic landscape: something to trip over. After death they're meaningless, just as memories are only stories that fade. I worry deeper into the body, wondering about arthritis and stroke, when I'll no longer be able to play music live, to cohere with the muscle memory that governs me, renders me ecstatic at times - when I'll only be able to listen, when my fingers and hands won't do my bidding. This leads to thoughts of speed, always working to create something new, to continue probing, until probing is no longer possible; at least I won't have wasted any time. This leads darker and further into thinking about my cross-posting, my incessant production, so that there's no breathing-room, and this then couples with what I see as my lack of success, always on the verge of 'making it,' always on the verge of collapse, and how unfair that is to my partner Azure, what she has to put up with on a daily basis. I then wish I could burn that part of my mind out, I think of the Higgs boson and the nonsense over neutrinos and whether I'll live long enough to even have an inkling of some unimaginable truth. I then think of one of the books that discussed my work, and my appearing a nuisance on various email lists and other places of encounter, and further my letters begging for work, which I no longer send out since, at my age, I'm already excluded from the possibility of hire. I think of my diminution, the extraction of two teeth, the original lenses from my eyes due to cataract, and when and where this will end or prove fatal or result in a loss of mind. This last is of most concern, and every bit of forgetting is seen as a sign of dementia on my part, as if I'm waiting for proof of closing down. I worry about getting addicted to too many sleeping pills or pain pills or stress pills or depression pills and keep jumbling them up or refusing to take them, hoping that original mind will manifest itself. I curse god and gods because I can't believe and the result is sinking into absolute annihilation. I worry about the short dreams I have rummaging around childhood or sexuality or unknown seas, and I hate waking from them, which happens almost immediately, throwing me back into the matrix of these thoughts, this almost catastrophic thinking, which dominates me, while I listen to the cat and Azure sleeping and worry about them, their health, the stress I must put them through. I wonder whether my friends who were over the other night would want some guitar or other instrument cases, or laptop cases or even laptops, and whether I should trade the hasapi and guzheng instruments in for something smaller, since our place is crowded. I keep hoping I'll live long enough to move to a less-polluted part of the city, and worry about the appointment I have tomorrow morning with the pulmonologist to get the result of the chest x-ray, and whether I should start trading in, or selling, larger quantities of books, since I may not have that much time left to read. I worry that my reading The Diary of a Late Physician from 1832 might be affecting me negatively, and I wonder how my friends deal with their own at times extremely depressive reading. I keep thinking I should awake quietly, leave the bed, turn the computer on, and start typing this out. I worry about making too many typing errors, and whether this too is a sign of dementia. I try to decide whether lazily to leave the errors in, or correct all of them, and still haven't reached a conclusion. I worry that my tinnitus might finally get completely out of control, since the other day it took a turn for the worse and is now really quite loud with changing, not steady, pitch. I worry whether the minor infections and fevers I seem to have mean anything, or whether they're a sign of psychosomatic problems related to the usual traumas. I begin to fear what will happen next week when my Eyebeam residency formally comes to an end, whether I'd still be able to do anything as an 'alumnus' or some such, or whether they'd be glad to get rid of a nuisance with his despairing and disparate work. I worry that somewhere along the line on Facebook I was called a 'troubled man,' and I wonder whether I'm a man at all in fact, and whether my neurotic behavior is so severe that I won't be taken seriously as a 'thinker,' or 'musician,' or any one of a hundred identities I aspire to. I worry that people find me a dilettante, and that even my oud playing is so grotesque that I'm humored at best for my clumsy attempts at playing. I fear that my few friends will become fewer still and will leave me, or that we will settle in another city where I'm seen as a freak or monster, and I wonder whether other people lead lives of continuous regret, or how other people justify the horrors they, too, must inflict on the world. I worry about the end of megafauna and the inhumanity of our species, its deep commitment to slaughter and torture, and those images of battered and wounded animals gracing PETA and National Geographic publications, and I don't understand why we don't all rise up in fury at the injustice of it all. I'm scared I'm technologically falling behind, that my graphics or still too sexual or too crude, that people would despise me if they looked closely at my work. I worry I'm too arrogant or appear too arrogant, too selfish, too self-absorbed, and I wonder if my father was right in what he said about my relationship with my daughter and for that matter the rest of the family, and what made him so psychologically violent against me. I wonder if thinking that way is nothing more than an excuse. I continue to think perhaps I should take yet another pill to try and fall back asleep, keep the gremlins away, and I worry that all the early happiness I had writing into my characters has disappeared - where are Nikuko, Jennifer, Honey, Travis, Clara, Alan, and Julu, when I need them and their brightness just to think through the day? I wonder when the construction noises are going to begin again and I'm embarrassed and saddened we never were able to stop the pollution of the arena going up across the street. I think it's probably time to leave the computer which is now carrying a complete and true account of my thinking for the evening on a typical night, hoping that a philosophical remnant might remain here, wanting to just email this, cross-posting to everyone's misery and horror, before the dawn comes and I have to awaken, if I fall asleep, filled with the chills that usually accompany me in the early morning, as if I had a severe flu, and so forth. And I worry that this 'and so forth' carries nothing with it but self-pity, that it's another example of 'the troubled man' and his 'neurosis,' going nowhere, saying nothing, an exercise in futility and the imaginary of illness, philosophy, and the dead. Darkness, Wandering http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehata2.mp3 solo on Maurice Shehata oud, using risha and fingers leaning the envelope of each note, each position, on the oud i change landscapes but they are dark and wandering, forests and trees and forest lakes and oases Darkness, Meandering (w/ images of instruments) http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehataoud.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehata3.mp3 http://www.alansondheim.org/jogiasarangi.jpg "In our present state, it is little less than impossible that the affec- tions should be kept constant to an object which gives no employment to the understanding, and yet cannot be made manifest to the senses. The exercise of the reasoning and reflecting powers, increasing insight, and enlarging views, are requisite to keep alive the substantial faith in the heart." (Coleridge) to New Thing but I was also reacting to oud _taksim,_ and other musics, as muscle memory, musical kludging. I played electric oud last night at the played oud before the previous night. The instrument is fretless, of better solo electric oud || fail functioning oud benefit hadn't pickup piezo gamble fifths the fast oud cura music of the radio In spite of the fact that oud was most without doubt introduced dates back raised in spite of the fact that flate ut shame oud are not playing dates most famous oud are not playing shame Al-Devotion was Zyriab. He is According dates back to Farabi, in spite of the fact that oud was dead son derive from finish the tree. In spite of the fact that first oud to new thing but i was also reacting to oud _taksim,_ and other musics, no muscle memory, musical kludging. i played electric oud last night and played oud before last previous night. the instrument is fretless, and i'm better player SOLO ELECTRIC OUD FAILURE functioning oud benefit hadn't pickup piezo gamble fifths: the fast oud cura music of the radio. in spite of the fact that oud was most without doubt introduced dates back and in spite of the fact that flate ut shame oud are not playing dates and most the famous oud are not playing shamefully, so all devotion was zyriab. he first oud dates back to farabi, in spite of the fact that the oud was. listen to one oud piece tonight, either of the first two are the one oud piece you should listen to." * risha = pick; these are made recording 8 minute oud solo with eyes closed. i suppose this is easy for two oud experiments observing certain empty centers the oud plays near-unison with an equally-moving fundamental; in other (universal, involving ionospheric bounce) layers. the oud interweaves resulted - on it you'll hear Myk Freedman, guitar, and myself, oud and according dates back to fArabi in spite of the fact that oud was first oud dates back to fArabi in spite of the fact that the oud was desktop background; the (modified) electric oud matrix playing continuous- four solos, electric oud using flatpick/finger combination, a surprise, even the nails are ok. the acoustic- electric oud began wildly second life with solo oud score) to New Thing but I was also reacting to oud _taksim,_ and other musics, as oud, thoughtful (acoustic) oud solos sax flute oud saz mismar guitar cura cumbus pipa (ken bau's amazing, hasapi sings, oud plays the canyons) totally new oud music the new oud is very resonant, 6.5mm at the 5th which is high, so i've be the most perfect oud playing I've done. for Azure who has always there's an urgency in the voice of the oud making itself heard within, Then oud with Wadih and Amanda and that worked better. The oud is plugged in. To 'play like this' requires hours of practice absinthe oud makes the hart grow flounder it's zen. there's no doubt. it's oud after shakuhachi. improvisation in relation to images; 'accompaniment' with oud : what the oud was doing the oud was making sound behind the performance space the oud was saying that and the legs were dancing late-night oud talking after listening ... http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehataoud.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/Shehata3.mp3 http://www.alansondheim.org/jogiasarangi.jpg the large pick which is also a landscape of erosion http://www.alansondheim.org/bachi.mp4 in the background are seen desks with packing-up as the Eyebeam residency draws to a close, as well as some images of Mary Mattingly's beautiful work, in progress. the large pick is large only in comparison; enlarged sufficiently, it would contain its own complex sonic chamber, audible in any number of resonant ways. Melodica Duets with Industrial Lift at Eyebeam http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/harm1.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/harm2.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/harm3.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/harm4.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/harm5.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/lasteye6.jpg (performance space) If files won't open go to: http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/787 Lift driven by Jamie Oshea smallest object, last day at Eyebeam http://www.alansondheim.org/smallestobj1.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/smallestobj2.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/smallestobj3.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/smallestobj4.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/smallestobj5.jpg this was my last day of my Eyebeam residency; for the occasion, I made the smallest objects with the 3d-printer, a variety of the sculptured organism I created earlier. this time, the fundamental sphere was set at a different angle, resulting in a more problematic image, one harder to read but easier to slide into one or another anthrocentric category. it lives as a virus of the uncanny; it carries signs, inscriptions; it seems untethered. my life is reflected in it. my last day at Eyebeam was taken up with a very productive meeting about the identity of the organization. I'd run out from time to time and check on the machine. when I finally removed the ground plate, the heated interior was comforting. I felt at least this thought, these thoughts, were hardened. outside a cold rain fell. from Eyebeam I took away, the idea of a home, or a dwelling, an inhabiting, an acceptance, lateral communication that opened up whole territories; I bought books on sale, listened as much as I could to everyone, and listened to the building itself in so many ways - radio and audio spectra, from subaudible murmurs through VLF atmospheric spikes, power grid noise, up to around 400 mhz. everything in the building talked to everything; everything flowed, the residents and staff and fellows flowed. the smallest object isn't all that small, almost an inch across; its size was governed by the amount of modeling and support material left in the machine. I went down to 1% and maybe 3%. I wanted the forces of the world to gather around the object. I was unsure about the object. I felt it belong within the imaginary, would always be imaginary, would carry the tone of a _radical optimism_ about the structures and formations of the world. now, in the middle of another sleepless night, I photograph it in ordinary and ultra-violet light; no secrets are revealed, but the nub-like, inert and numb, quality of the world is revealed. that is, to repeat, its structures and formations. perhaps I can sleep this time, now, perhaps I'll never wake again. temporarily, the object is a presence. temporarily, I type, repairing errors as I go along, senseless as I make some sense. end of the line within and without, matterhorn and twisted avatars http://www.alansondheim.org/matterhorn.mp4 searching for the matterhorn in the dreamland of the alps http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted1.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted2.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted3.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted4.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted5.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted6.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted7.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/twisted8.jpg recent 3d prints, twisted avatars, end of the line honesty the only thing i can really say in favor of my work is that i try to be absolutely honest. this doesn't mean things aren't hidden; there are things i curse myself for daily, hourly, that remain in the dark, that i try to subvert, repress, rescind. but what is said is the truth as i find it, which of course is no truth at all. i am a brilliant musician for example by virtue of being a fraud; i am a selfish friend and lover perhaps, always on the mend, emending, making amends. i believe others may be the same, feel the same, scratch away at similar surfaces; for example, celine was braver than i, perhaps vile to a greater degree. i know where i stand; like other deluded people, perhaps, if i am so, i revel in my mind, in the dismal horizon of future discovery which will never come, but always seems just within reach. if at this point i am a menace to others, i am a greater menace to myself; if others find me out of tune, i am almost ready to forego music in favor of a less exacting genre. so i hang on you, on your every word, so i am ready to hang myself. you are part of this, the debris i live in, the scuttling or scurrying of thought always capable of aggrandizement, always close to the suicidal... http://www.alansondheim.org/men3.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/men1.jpg http://www.alansondheim.org/men2.jpg (and a thinker -- what i desire the most, what is least likely, among everything, everyone else!) first flooding what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... is clotting everything. - your cloth is soaked, written, erased. - your cloth should be wiped into existence? wiped into existence, our shrouds are wiped away, existence is wiped away, jennifer said isn't that when we died, so many worlds murmured, ... hoarse voice ... so cold out, ... momma, momma, ... i consider the following again, your what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... ... would what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... give you hydrogenesis? a ghost skews me in your cloth how would you absorb your substances, cloth? clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... cloud, mist mist, fog, grey and brittle, cloathed, uncloathed, my cloud, mist is your chemistry here... clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... calls forth floods avatar, hungered, making things. on the oil, clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... is , 06], wiped into existence, our shrouds are wiped away, existence is wiped away, jennifer said isn't that when we died, so many worlds murmured, ... hoarse voice ... so cold out, ... momma, momma, ...? ... avatar is mist, fog, on wet flesh, it's avatar? are you satisfied with your clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ...? cloathed and uncloathed, uncloathed among us, the brittle fog, ... the mist, ... the mist ... wait, clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... and 1330 are written. clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... wiped into existence, our shrouds are wiped away, existence is wiped away, jennifer said isn't that when we died, so many worlds murmured, ... hoarse voice ... so cold out, ... momma, momma, ... what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... mist, fog, grey and brittle, write floods cloud, mist through my clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... wiped into existence, our shrouds are wiped away, existence is wiped away, jennifer said isn't that when we died, so many worlds murmured, ... hoarse voice ... so cold out, ... momma, momma, ... what does it mean, this grey dullness, this sadness of our world, an atmosphere weighing down our souls, hungry ghosts, we disappear, we're dark and brittle, the death of the world is so soft, so comforting, ... mist, fog, grey and brittle, write floods cloud, mist through my clothing closes upon us, our closure, our winding cloth, the universe is always cloathed, daddy, ... daddy, ... the universe threading its way through the cold dark streets, the cold grey streets, the dark grey streets, damp, almost a water or a cloud, almost a pool or a mist, surely a fog, ... a fog ... http://www.alansondheim.org/men6.jpg eighteen and fourteen http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/eighteen.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/fourteen.mp3 or (for Chrome users): http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/789 this beginning with an 18' solo on the Shehata oud, more complex working harmonics and string noise, and ascending to the highest spheres, beginning the reading of Lewis' The Monk, then moving through descriptions of English gardens as natural imitations or imitations of the natural in The Flower Garden, 1839, to the pleasures of the minor ninth, which I assign to the fourteenth half-tone near the sound-hole of the Shehata oud, resonating with the lowest spheres or degrees of heavens, so difficult to reach that I needs add an odd third or fourth in there, almost missing entirely, the wonderment of the wood insisting that something is there, present, extended from nearly the ending of the eighteen, which I cannot reproduce, the crying of the oud as I attempt yet higher and lower spheres, my own mistress, own master, my music yet of my very own, yet sure not mine, already breathing, I am given the gift of sleep once more, these ascensions and descensions, these inclinings and declinings, I am forlorn, I am lost, I approach myself, you are there, planets, fractions, ice, the soft warmth of your body, so difficult to reach that I add, that I may add, yet another note Last Day for the Eyebeam Blog - contact info etc. (This is up at the Eyebeam blog, but I thought I should send it out else- where as well. apologies for cross-posting. (I'm going to try working the blog at http://avatarpaste.blogspot.com/ as a kind of continuation: do check into this if you have the time.) Since my residency has ended, this is the last day for the Eyebeam blog. Here is relatively complete contact information: The Eyebeam blog is at http://eyebeam.org/blogs/alansondheim/ and hopefully will stay up there, as a record of my residency and my thinking on issues of pain, death, virtual and real worlds. My basic webpage - in the form of a directory - is at http://www.alansondheim.org . The page is a repository for my work and is added to almost daily. When I put up a piece, I also describe it; the description is sent to several email lists, and is also added to a file which becomes part of the repository. For example, my current work and this text will appear at http://www.alansondheim.org/ri.txt ; the next file will be http://www.alansondheim.org/rj.txt and so forth - after rj.txt, sa.txt will begin and so forth. This way - looking down the column at the indices - you can see where I am, what the work is, at any point. My email descriptions of the same are archived at http://sondheim.rupamsunyata.org/ - which lists the emails sent to the Cybermind list, as they are sent, on an almost daily basis. My music is at http://www.espdisk.com/alansondheim/ for the most part; there are difficulties using this with the Chrome browser. You can also access the music at http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/ or at http://lounge.espdisk.com/ - the most recent file there now is at http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/789 . I can be reached by phone at 1-347-383-8552; my mailing address is Alan Sondheim, 432 Dean Street, Brooklyn, NY, 11217 and my email addresses are sondheim panix.com and sondheim gmail.com. I'm also easy to reach on Facebook and g+; I check the former more often. At the moment, I have a book coming out with WVU, a performance as part of a group show on April 3 at Churner and Churner (10th Ave between 22 and 23), and I'm participating in a discussion/presentation centering around dance and creativity at Edward Henkel's series on March 23rd at the 92nd St. Y. I'm also doing some talks in Omaha in April, as well as participating in the Sound Research Group event at Eyebeam April 20-21. And I'm speaking and performing at the Electronic Literature Organization Conf. at WVU in June. Finally, I just had a record, Cauldron, released by FireMuseum, with Azure Carter and Helena Espvall, which I highly recommend; somewhere along the line we'll have an opening for it, probably in Philadelphia. I'm available for talks, seminars, performances, teaching and anything else, working with students or fellow artists. And thanks for a great run at Eyebeam! Sun Mar 4 11:49:48 EST 2012 eighteen and fourteen (eighteen signs of unloveliness (eighteen years and dry and unattended, (eighteen years and the counting of elements) - (eighteen years and the kindness of strangers) - (eighteen years and the last day and night, (eighteen years and the world undone) - (eighteen years, and death is an other) - (eighteen years, and death is everywhere, http://www.alansondheim.org/spears.mp4 for Chris Funkhouser :: edt fourteenth or ninth, she was so sweet i wonder i don't "The _Lothardi_ devised an even more peculiar dogma in the fourteenth . = "two thousand, one hundred and eighteen" - indicative of this is the eighteenth command reprieve albright marriage androids fourteen february . - "twenty-one eighteen" - indicative of date (within a serial / we're still living in the drawing-room of the eighteenth-century; and i will fly over the concrete wall fourteen stories high fourteen stories high Because of them, I am an eighteen-year-old girl! Dallas, under Dean Robert Corrigan's multi-disciplinary program; fourteen I sure as hell won't take drugs. I'm eighteen and I know all about life. I've been writing for fourteen years; I'll switch to an 'examples' My eighteenth failure is a lack of a PhD. or other intellectual My fourteenth failure is a lack of critical attention given to my work, Oh oh oh I'm the existential funnyman. I'm eighteen years old and I think Pennsylvania. Long later, the eighteenth century is beginning to collapse. That curve sneaks up on you! Ok, me, age fourteen. I knew a girl. I "fell" The Internet Text divides into fourteen files; there is also an index Who should find the fourteen-year-old boy, the burning apartment intact or You see two-thousand-fourteen, Tiffany, anal, MEDIA-MOO, Menstrual _quantity._ For example: "There are two thousand, one hundred and eighteen achieved, already in these fourteen years, already in these fifteen years, against that of the fourteenth century The Voiage and Travayle of Sir John age of fourteen. Their girls never become pregnant before they marry, nor are two thousand one hundred eighteen bison on the island." Think of this beautiful eighteenth-century anatomical theater original to the building becher ashbel gera naaman ehi rosh muppim huppim ard fourteen hushim bela joined vale siddim salt served thirteenth rebelled fourteenth kings boojum down; she had been my companion for eighteen years, and azure's for brakes give out no nothing eighteen wheels coming up fast candlelight naked silk robe twelve cum fourteen girl # susanjpg # meaning captive armed trained eighteen pursued dan himself hobah damascus back charmed with his artful collocation of fourteen imperatives in a single confederate captive armed trained eighteen pursued dan himself hobah continuous sleep or languor lasting up to eighteen hours a day. SATIN corralled." Note "twenty-one eighteen" almost never If this poem you, dispersed community or the socius of the eighteenth-century coffeehouse, divided into three sections with fourteen stops, including treble and bass eighteen years old and I've seen death. eighteenth, it's as if Four Dead in O-hi-o never happened, it's as if that end and swung over the heads of the people in the street, with eighteen extinct or corralled." Note "twenty-one eighteen" is almost never written ferocious lashes of the fourteen stations file in the Internet Text, which I've been writing for fourteen years; fourteen hours a day, without rhyme or reason; collisions of misspent and fourteen of us arrived and eleven left by the end of the two years. I fourteen parts in the work which lasts minutes. gone directly, it would have taken between seventeen and eighteen. heidegger videos nn pictures fourteen flaming chapter i studied physics and finished an eighteenth-century play i thought i had only fourteen years to do anything at all if ry musi wing-room of the eighteenth-entury entury in fact to say, "I'm Philostrata, dead a virgin at fourteen; let him who it sat in the corner an eighteenth century memory of his future ksh: were still living in the drawing-room of the eight- eenth-century; language is absurdly melded. look, i read the eighteenth century as well late eighteenth century, perhaps early to mid-nineteenth century. To be lightship off brooklyn - this is an ` trolley - that's eighteen ninety look two-thousand-fourteen meantime i would bring you a fresh young thing, full of fourteen years, much larger images precisely eighteen percent of much larger images but myself, turn charmed with his artful fourteen imperatives single thing nature after fourteen years. I died a virgin, childless, unmarried; let nineteen eighteen seventeen one of-philosophy, possessing only the text's entirety, all fourteen files one loves withering away; fourteenth, it's the recognition that such people & (eighteen years strangers) sound. Of brain holding stroke. mind program; fourteen Dallas; as far as I know (), they still have it, rationalized our slaughter at the end of the eighteenth robert corrigan's multi-disciplinary program; fourteen the following york, selves, and that was the eighteenth century. Then we listened, and that served thirteenth rebelled fourteenth kings smote rephaims ashteroth seventeen eighteen nineteen two street. They might have been around fourteen years old. I forget what they surface extending to within an inch of the back. 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oud. These three I think are amazingly successful; saxophone and oud work well, especially in the lower registers. I took advantage of glissandi to parallel breath. http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/baroud1.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/baroud2.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/baroud3.mp3 Jogia sarangi. This worked better than expected; I think of the sarangi repetition as song against Chris's figures. http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/barjsarangi.mp3 The pipa has a percussive, almost gritty sound, phrases turned inside out. This is also quite successful. http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/barpipa.mp3 Open-holed Gemeinhardt flute. Again breathing is critical against the sax phrasing. http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/barflute.mp3 Chris's lower register is fantastic; you can lose yourself in it. It's almost cello-like. These pieces form an odd set. You can here some of this live in April. monk http://www.alansondheim.org/byeeeeb.mp4 http://www.alansondheim.org/byee1.png http://www.alansondheim.org/byee2.png itinerant priest, after ascetic and monk seemed too out of sorts. Went to Daishin Nikuko and another monk were taking a pilgrimage. They came to a danger trying to ford the torrent. She and the other monk approach, continued onward for some distance. Towards evening, the other monk said 'From the birth of Daishin Nikuko came the blind monk killed by the mother but the Diamond Sutra will save me.' The monk said, 'The Diamond Sutra has brought it back to shore.' The monk said, On the other hand, we all make way.' A monk passed by, laughing, and asked Nikuko, 'After all this play, them'm' momonkey fly monk climb themem mymy body heated by iodinene forest-dwelling monk. This monk perceived that he was seated.' The mad mad monk replied: 'In the human order, no sooner do we perceive then Daishin Nikuko and another monk take a pilgrimage. They came to a danger trying to ford the torrent.' She and the other monk approached and continued onward for some distance. Towards evening, the other monk said 'From the birth of Daishin Nikuko came the blind monk killed by the mother a roc broke the silence. A monk walked in the distance, chanting.' IT will be a monk who will tell the story, o julu IT will be a monk who will tell the story, this monk walking up. 'Where are you going?' one of the priests asked. 'To all our sons.' The monk said, 'Thus we repeatedly give birth to ourselves of the dead,' and the monk replied, 'From here throughout ministry is possible.' The monk replied, 'What is universal has no recourse among them brought back to shore.' The monk said, 'On the other hand, everyone saves way.' A monk passed by, laughing, and asked, Nikuko, 'After all this play, is there such a thing as the six-fold veiling of monk or nunagainst their will,' the solitary monk hurrying her way along in the darkness. The monk knows the ghost and all the names of the ghosts, but the monk cannot name the realm of the lanterns and fireflies. So the monk knows and speaks the name of the monk in the mountains needing to be free. The monk said, 'On the other hand, everyone saves everyone, that is so.' What shall be left? What "Sondheim"? A monk burns in full view and the blaze hurries his way along in the darkness. The monk knows the ghost and all the names of the ghosts, but the monk cannot save herself or anyone in the the realm of the lanterns and fireflies. So the monk knows and speaks and this is what she says: 'itinerant priest, after ascetic and itinerant' - what is left, what is to be hand, why are we in such terrible terrible pain ... Jogia sarangi: I can't tell whether this is good or bad. The strings constantly need tuning as the humidity changes. The harmonics are gorgeous. The bow swings wildly. Difficult to pluck the sympathetic strings. Middle string at octave, and lower... Better at: http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/794 Think I'm losing my touch here. Entirely. http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/goodorbad.mp3 Sarangi http://www.alansondheim.org/sarangi.mp3 Broke down and got a sarangi with 36 sympathetic strings, three main (gut) ones. So I'm in the midst of tuning them; in the meantime, do give a listen to the sarangi piece - it's pretty much like nothing else I've made or heard. Thanks, Alan sarangi2 and sarangi3 no effects were added, raw recording sarangi2, http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/sarangi2.mp3 sarangi3, http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/sarangi3.mp3 two new sarangi pieces, i hope to god someone listens to at least one of these, maybe 3 2 is slow, 3 is somewhat amazing in its variety there aren't too many people working with this instrument outside the tradition http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/795 - better short sarangi video http://www.alansondheim.org/sarangi5.mp4 this is just a section of a piece; i'm fascinated by the kind of dancing i can do with my fingers, different from say viola or hegelung. the recording is fairly awful, since the mic was fairly distant from the instrument (and the camcorder is cheap), but i did want to take a look at the kind of dance that's possible. the strings are stopped by the fingernails and the sides of the fingers; they're not pressed down to the board. the tuning is Aea for the gut strings, chromatic and (in my case), minor keys for the others. the tuning of the sympathetic strings still isn't complete and everything roams a bit, given the humidity in our place. i'm excited by the sound of the sarangi, in spite of its apparent awkwardness; there are so many possibilities for improvisation. on the other hand, the detuning can be a headache... Fookitoot! http://www.alansondheim.org/fookitoot.mov short video starring Foofwa d'Imobilite and Jonathan O'Hear filmed at The Kitchen in New York City a dense and poetic interpretation of stunning rehearsal time during stunning rehearsal time for Pina Jackson in Mercememoriam enjoy Fookitoot to your heart's content, it will take just a minute or so to download, it is only five megabytes that will live in your heart _and_ mind forever The Technological Creation of a Monster in Collusion with the Technological Creation of a Monster http://www.alansondheim.org/fookit2s.mp4 (12 minutes) with Foofwa and Jonathan and ghosts, as well as Japanese tsunami reportage. What happens when everything boils over, and nothing occurs: this is the video where nothing occurs. This is the video where ghosts are made and they're made from monsters made from ghosts. It's also a video of preparation for Foofwa d'Imobilite, Pina Jackson in Mercemoriam at The Kitchen as I have often said, but it is not that piece, it is a piece of the creation, by technology, of a monster in collusion. Everything in the world is a cell, and every cell, like every electron, is the identical, not equivalent, cell; what makes the monster _is_ the monster, and what makes a ghost _is_ a ghost. What I am trying to say is that it's 'one and the same,' and it's this 'one and the same' that the video is about; the video is of course in collusion with video. I want to thank Foofwa and Jonathan for allowing me to freely video, not only this, but other, events, that they have been nothing but kind to me and in this life and the 'life of the future' which is now, I will have already paid them back in kind. Thus the monster in collusion with kindness, with power, with electrical energy, and the sound of the voice in earthquake and empty halls in collusion with voice and earthquake, fecund with electrical energy. All choreography and text by Foofwa, lighting by Jonathan. Session: http://lounge.espdisk.com/archives/796 Have a listen to these - at least a bit of them - if you have the time - thanks, Alan Chris Funkhouser: bass and flute Chris Diasparra: tenor sax Azure Carter: vocal on 10 and 11 Alan Sondheim: cc1 and 2 and 10: sarangi cc3 and 11: jogia sarangi cc4 and 7 and 9: oud cc5: melodica and fife cc6: melodica cc8: electric-acoustic oud cc12: cobza cc13: hegelung cc14 and 15: bansari cc16: 5-hole endblown flute individual files for download (may not play on Chrome): http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc01.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc02.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc03.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc04.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc05.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc06.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc07.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc08.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc09.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc10.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc11.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc12.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc13.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc14.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc15.mp3 http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/cc16.mp3 i put my pen in my hole. i put my fingers in my hole. i expose my hole. it is about the smell of your hole and a tongue and void thorns of love screaming against your holes on the way to where your holes were and to cut into this infinity, my legs spread to the utmost, my hole divides, soon as you control my cock, my hole, as soon as you take me, there is as the wires enter and exit me, they are illuminated because you're not looking! look at my beautiful ass! look up my hole! close your holes, shut your doors, do you really want to quit? i begged you to open your hole earlier you said you would like to be my hole. i can't steal your hole. hi claara hey - > hey -#hole> /leave i don't want to be your hole. : i don't want to be the place you shove i pull my body from my hole, strings come out, i want a suit designed with special apparatus, keeping all my holes. i will push the dirty panties up my hole. i will enjoy myself, i will. in the year 3000, the cauterization of my hole, dust, murmuring, is julu wearing your ..., are you wearing your hole? miami, the beast miami, miami-parasite. "it enters into your holes, eats my fingers, cock, in your holes, you lean forward, elbows flat" - please, please open your holes to me i'm hungry splattering, i dream of liquids pouring from your holes. the scents of your ass, creases and folds around your hole. deeper musk, the video opened my hole and ass alike. with you, my fists up your holes, my mouths on your breasts. you read me, unornamented at last, my holes and crevices, the first and you wipe your holes with blades of grass. you eat the grass. your words are the throat's geography. my hands are in my holes. alone, i tear at my nipples, spread my cheeks, open my hole to emptiness. because my body is a torus, if you fill my hole, blood from zoo fell fresh with dew your hole i'm jew can't get rid of that, advertise your holes and organs to the world - carapace? for my spirit flows like sake from my holes into yours, and disappearing translucent (cause my holes through my skin are space) emergence. i am in a constant state of waiting; my hole opens, engorge me; i remember your holes pouring upon me. altitude. her mouth's a chastity belt. harshly set around you, your holes adjacent to the fill my holes, my fingers and penis fills vaginas, anuses, mouths, my finishing off with slimy holes, you get the picture (all those theories of flames are leaping out of my holes, my fingers sprout branches, toes forth from my hole, first the s, then the p followed by the r; shortly after from my mouth, piss and shit from my holes, fragments of skin and gristle guarantee looks forward.) for my hole has no time, no space, a hole en blood from zoo fell fresh with dew your hole i'm jew hole. i put my face in my hole. uncontrollable bodies, i widen my hole. i talk into my hole. i talk from my hole. i see into me. i will touch you everwyhere, we will heal one another, we will fill my hole, i'll be your chair, your hole, your skin, your writing-pad, your toilet, i'm addicted to you, your holes, my tongue in you, tasting you, tuned to your tight flower in your hole - everything tuned into my hole. it's my organ. i don't care, invert me, open my holes. my mouth filled with blood. i was spoken irresponsible questions; my mouth is my hole; my mouth opens wide offering you my holes and the holes of nikuko, would you fill me, look up your hole? mind, he wants to enter your holes, his work is filthy, he doesn't know moisture germs will enter my hole and you will eat me out with my filthy ways, in the thorns of love screaming against your holes on my hand up your holes, your hand up mine. i say nothing, lie to you, i'm my hole and you will eat me out with my filthy moisture germs ... ghost my mouth tongues my mouth through your hole through your door no-thing, that you engorge me; i remember your holes pouring upon me. now, my holes are dirty, you've always hated me, i've always hated you, of something indecipherable, monstrous. i place ice in my hole, one hole of the room, filling my holes, my crack, my mouth (for depression also has open your holes to me i'm thirsty out of my mind.) i am a landscape of tunnels and forests. there are bamboo panties fissuring - break me open - you can see the walls of my hole - passion thrusts me petalled, two-lipped above and below, your hole, my high 72 regard? 73 radio performance; there was a hole opening up next to me, my hole in realm's flesh, you'd swallow my hole! scents of your ass, creases and folds around your hole. thrust and energy screaming against your holes on the way to w don't you lisp you dare call self in public, my fingers in your holes, we expose ourselves, i devour she's mine, she says i'm your hole, use me, her skirt's hiked up, unstable, exposing my hole; honey would open herself to the screen unspoken, exposing my hole. i would open myself to the screen, an uh, symbolic - that of well-definition. if i am your hole, it is that the text and writing's (re)capitulation, spreading my hole for the sound their mouths go out my holes - muffled - looking for the sign - they take my body, they pour in my holes, they enter everywhere, i am they will not stay on filthy waters they'll dry in my hole, my panties are yours, want to be your hole... i want to give you my cock my hands my tongue is ripe. ashame opened my holes. my mouth filled with blood. i was w/hole again. (being your hole, being whole.) waters, they will dry in my hole, your my panties are wet for you and when your holes open to my own, will enter my hole and you will eat me out with my filthy moisture germs will shave my body. i will shave my holes and i will wear you. i will within your hole, the world a dawn of rose-red creation. yes i am your hole through h yes but my blood is purple ...* yes i like you offer your holes to death. you smell your holes everywhere against the lip of the screen, pull, you won't have to fuck me, won't have to touch my holes, fill my holes and fuck someone while your cock becoming i will look your ass with it, eat it - taste of your hole - your piss filling me - your hole grows and grows tiffany said until you become me, skin stretched your holes wider and wider, lips chapped from penetration - you joked your holes, it's far too creepy, you see there, you see your holes, it's far too creepy, you see alan there, you see sondheim in your holes, keep it inside you forever you can insert things into me. Prisonhouse of Age Something has to be said about age and ageism, which is so pervasive in our culture, that we're held down, tied up, unable to move. I'm told I look good for my age; that I play like a much younger person. In a performance I hear that a dancer, who died at 68, was in the middle of the end of her life. A friend says that his uncle dying at the age of 72, is quite old. Grandfathers and grandmothers on tv always look to retirement and playing with the kids. Television ads are increasingly aimed towards drugging us, those over 60 say, because of a variety of ailments we don't have. We're frightened of falling and not getting up. We're no longer mid-career artists, but a dying generation. We're waiting for the end. Friends say that now we're waiting for us to die off, that every day brings news of new deaths and again this isn't true. The rhetoric is hurtful and isn't meant to be hurtful. The rhetoric is made out of bits and pieces of the 'natural' progression from birth to death. We're the AARP generation. We're the baby boomers are are demanding to suck social welfare dry. We don't do anything. We're not worth listening to. We're hippies and repeat the 60s. We just love listening to 60s music which formed us. We're part of the social welfare state. Some of us who fought in Vietnam are an embarrassment. Some of us who didn't are an embarrassment. On tv we're told that 'all we have is our stories.' If this happened to anyone at any age, the result would be unbearable. We're not taken seriously. We're all waiting for us to pass away. We have to prove ourselves repeatedly. We're the result of hidden prejudice. We're on the way to dementia. We're on the way to Alzheimer's. We're told our short-term memory isn't what it used to be. In the most well-meaning areas of popular culture, we're forgetful. Our bones are weak and ready to fracture. We have to exercise more. Our family has to be everything. We're not eligible for grants and for jobs. We're eligible to die and the sooner we do that, the less the embarrassment. In fact embarrassment is the key to everything; we embarrass others. If we're sexual it's a joke. If we remarry it's a joke. If we refuse our assigned place in the family it's a joke. I first ran into ageism at the age of 30, applying for a job as editor of an art mag in Los Angeles. I've always been sensitive to it because I've always been told I look and act 'younger than my age.' Now the violence of age, an assigned number, a number we can't do anything about - almost but not quite like the color of our skin - is foregrounded. I get turned down for jobs because of it, illegal but of course there are always ways around it. My own feeling? If I can't do something now, just as if I couldn't do something at 20, then so be it; I don't belong where doing that thing is impossible. But otherwise, leave me alone, judge me on what I make, what I say, and leave goddamn age out of it. Don't call me a generation and don't tell me my best days are behind me. Don't tell me I'm in my golden years. This may all seem minor, idiotic, to you. You have no idea, at least in the US, how pervasive this is. There are pockets of resistance - Eyebeam for example, where I was resident until a week or two ago, is a healthy exception. But almost everywhere, the codes are in place, they're suffocating. I'm offered seats on the subway - because of age, not because I need them. People condescent, smile at me, since apparently I'm no longer sexual, have no desires, know my place. I'm told I'm a child again, that the elderly are child-like. I'm told I'm living on borrowed time. I'm told there's not much time left. I'm told I should be grateful. I'm told I have a loving family. I'm told my grandchildren are my future. I'm told my children are my future. I'm told I have no future. I'm told about generations, that I'm of this or that generation, that it's now the turn of a new generation. I'm told what our generation thinks and I can't recognize that. I'm told repeatedly that we were born before the digital age, that we think differently. The fact this isn't true, none of this is true, with people I know and I'm sure millions of people in this country, is irrelevant. I'm lectured _to._ I'm talked _to._ I'm taken out of the realm of instrumental thinking, consigned to a real which is a total mirage, told to act my age and behave myself. People don't tell me to retire, but they assume I'm headed that way. My theoretical work is assumed dated, somewhere back probably with existentialism or Bateson. My mind is supposedly elderly. Am I repeating myself? Did I forget something here? Should I send a birthday gift? Should I ask a grandson or daughter to drive for me, since I'm constantly running off the road? Should I start preparing for the end? Should I become a consumer of culture, preferably old tv shows and books, instead of a producer? It's remarkable how well I look for my age! It's remarkable I haven't had any major medical problems yet, but wait, they're just around the corner. Do I have enough money to do nothing? Should I do nothing? Should I worry about my IRA? I don't expect this to change, not even with radicalism on the rise among people I know. But I do want to say this - that when you see someone, at any age, turning towards senility or depression, you might ask yourself what happened to that person, how is that person perceived - by his or her family or friends, by others in the community, by granting organizations or hiring committees. You might look at studies of enforced helplessness, you might think for a moment how age, like race, manifests itself today - age more violently than ever, since we're assumed to be non-productive, eating away at the very foundations of civil digital society, of whatever's left of the commons, of the fabric of the sentient city. What I'm talking about is being called a 'geezer' or 'old geezer' or 'old man' with all the nastiness that implies. This isn't true of everyone, of course, but it's miserable enough, that it's true across the board. In the culture industry, such as it is, you either become blue-chip and/or elder- statesman or woman, or you sink into oblivion. If I go into a gallery, I'm immediately sized up in a certain way that parallels the not-so-subtle hatreds against race in the 1930s. I recognize the violence of that parallel itself, but there's no other way to describe it. Lyotard called this kind of situation the differend, and there's been writing on and off about the stigma that's applicable. We carry a sign on our foreheads, a sign not of our own making or choosing, but one imposed on us culturally. Whatever we do or accomplish is under or within the sign. Whatever we say is already signed, assigned. I'm sick of this, and this rant, so to speak, is nothing more than an expression of that sickness. And I'm well aware that nothing will be done about it, although things _can_ be done about it. I'm tired of ageist remarks being 'let slip' accompanied by apologies. We have no slogans like "we're here and we're queer." We're speechless. We're kept speechless. We're irrelevant, just as this protest is irrelevant. In the _foreground_ there are all the inadvertent and well-meaning comments, advertising, stereotypes in the media. In the _background_ there are concrete decisions being made against us, but 'benevolently' for us. In the background, Foucauldian power violates the commons. In the back- ground, the Occupiers don't see age as a problem. In the background, they're waiting for our deaths, forgetfulnesses, incapacities, hostels - they're waiting for our silencing. The _they_ is the Heideggarian They, the They of doxa, the They of the obdurate, idiotic inert. The they is always well-meaning; the They knows what's best for us. On and on: This would kill _anyone,_ this misreading, misrecognition, deprivation, fun-house mirror. Some people can ignore it altogether, most of us can't. We live within a social order of _continuous violation._ And there's no way out. - Alan