alan.sondheim's blog


meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
of pebble movement who is counting here who knows the names,
house around the corner, talked, read. beyond that, quiet, quietude.
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings,
meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings
of the language of words and their talisman and of death, quietude and
hearth of quietude, silence to place

exuding infinite quietude. all silence, words are not better

for i am speaking of quietude, the grace of being, contemplation,
the quietude of familiality, the space where everything is


on good days

i dream of hitler youth and grey soviet masses
i dream of nameless american troops and everywhere people marching
i dream of jagged assyrian warriors and batak sacrifices
everyone i know is deeply anonymous and wrecking
i dream of salvage and wrecking and dams holding back debris
i dream of walking in collapsed buildings and furious suicides
on good days i dream of drownings and medicated deaths
i dream police-tape barriers holding back the artifices of destruction
i dream of those artifices
on good days i dream of names in ash and broken mouths and screams
everyone i know is broken and everything is going under
on good days i dream this crime will be solved

Tags: pain, war, crime

memorial for my father, day four*

sleep lock leave

the house locking out, locking up,
memorials leave imprints like fossils.
1.shadows of the bed where i slept in my childhood,
2.shadow of the table at the corner of the bed:
the green table where i kept a photograph
of a hydrogen explosion,
of one of the eisenhowers,
of a united nations diplomat.

leaving, last words spoken.
i could walk this house with my eyes closed.
what's left is the phenomenology of space
and its corners eaten by mold.
untoward cocoons ravage the phenomenology.

mold corrals health, circumscribes breath.


memorial for my father, third day

the emptied house which is never empty
the scars sleeping for decades,
of literacy and legibility, i read
everything into signs, signs swallowed
signs, and

everything contained, was contained
mold and seepage made breathing difficult
the house lay in low iambic

the house flexed with flood and mining
with repairs curled round itself,
and so emptied, this annihilation will
never return, hurtful sensibilities
of fossils where sleeping and crawling down,
stairs returning and inscribing motion
which would be the telling of it, the framing,
some might say the last of it, some might say
framing unlasts



Tags: errors

memorial for my father, second day

true to the image or true to the intention
images have no intention, true to the image
true to the mood of the image, has no mood
nor true to the mood of the intention,
nor intention of the mood, nor truth to the image
which is formed by mood and intention,
no intention of intention, and no framing,
but framing of intention and mood, no framing
of the image, but the image's framing, breaking
the mood, intention

every image is memorial of itself,
memorial of every image, and a god
might say, so much sight, so much sight


Kittler just died, I remember Sartre going, my father at 97 was born in
1914, his mother died very shortly after, the world went into flames, has
continued along the same path. So everything, Derrida, Lacan, Jack Benny,
falls apart, falls out, I continue to work not with _those_ references,
but in new currents, until something withdraws, draws me back. It's too
simple to think of the past as stories, that what one ultimately offers is
stories, that these go the ways of mourning, lamentation, pain, death
itself. As if we're continuously walking wounded. I'm tired of this; I
want to work new for another twenty years at least. Memorials throw me
back into pasts that gnaw away at my soul, with the appetition of souls as
so many Barthian puncta, grasping away. It's all fiction. Tonight I was
given a sheaf of pages from a scrapbook or photobook of myself at ages


memorial for my father, wilkes-barre, pennsylvania, first day


Thinking about anti-social media 2.0... perhaps an installation about or re: recent deaths, future death, hidden in Eyebeam superstructure? performers hiding out in building, performing only after-hours? leaving small images/debris/residuals/artifacts in corners (each corner trihedral reflections of selves interrupted), momentary gestures, peripheral, almost invisible, after hosted events, strange rooftop images visible from space only, everything unwired, locative in the sense of substance, scattered debris for example, as if something had happened, an accident, rumors spread only by word of mouth, nothing electronic, the street knows... 

something to this, residencies for examples, residence, where's your residence, I live at such-and-such an address...

People: Alan Sondheim
Tags: media, social
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