alan.sondheim's blog

[i'm growing old and increasingly stupid. i bang my head against the same tired animations and blurs. i can't inhabit these flat things that cut through my flesh like paper. death stalks me. i keep thinking: now is the day i will die. i keep thinking: or else i will forget this day and some new monster will appear, an obscene _enunciation._]

[and i keep thinking: why doesn't the blog preserve line-breaks? what's run together below is substance. i'll drive italics to the edge and then]



I don't like being but I sure like beings!



never such pain again

they will not have it

they will flay first or kill first

they will open maw and ruin :

death never stops for death

nevermore our loves to please...nevermore. somewhere you will smile and the chains will seem one, and around eleven, crying nevermore.

for its crying out, nevermore among our universe, our nevermore. somewhere you will smile and the chains will seem one.

before the coming of the pain, the chains  will seem one.

with the coming, the cessation of the pain.with the coming, the cessation.

< deathwe will be sipping from  each others grease and never

> deathwe will be sipping from  each others grease and never

that death is never achieved.

of 1, death is never dead.

of 0, death is never dead.

of any, death is never dead.


'the cultural ecology of Bourdieu would be that cicatrix'

every covering simultaneously informs culture and the abject. variegated and tattooed surface choice produces the same laundering of tissue beneath. the healing scar is balanced. the body is a collocation of scars. beneath the surface the life of the organism goes on. beneath that surface, the organism returns to substance, re-use.

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Tags: cicatrix, pain

I keep thinking about Eyebeam and the projects, which might or might not have a teleology, focus, or product - an end-point of some sort. My own work continues to be a mess, it's about that, it doesn't focus, there's no narrative (just as, in our daily lives, there's no narrative, only micro-scripts between birth and death). My work operates from gestures, non-aristotelian logics with ill-defined spectra: what's abject is impossible to contain. I think of music improvisation, which ends at a hiatus or moment of exhaustion, when things seem to reach a point of no return. But this is just a sequence of breath, breathing, nothing more. I watch the residents and fellows at work; what they're doing almost always seems to be a clear carving, whether it be capital, program, or agriculture. I have no idea what my goals are; I meander. My thinking meanders. I produce without beginning or end. I record all the sound, most of the thinking, images, and video.


From: Monika Weiss <>

To: Alan Sondheim <>

On Fissure


bloody mess it is these days in me head an yours

hell its falling apart down your dress an all


in silence here


deep elogie

oud, guitar

for my closest and their passing now, and future passing, then

just listened to some of Jackson Moore's music, then thinking of the depths of floods and waters and the difficulty now of learning music over and over waiting for the waters to recede. so this might not be 'residency' material, but as David Bohm once said to me, it fits.


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