eEarly Morning Dream crash Exposing Time, not S/pace http://www.alansondheim.org/earlye.JPG http://www.alansondheim.org/earlyd.JPG http://www.alansondheim.org/earlyc.JPG http://www.alansondheim.org/earlyb.JPG http://www.alansondheim.org/earlya.JPG Torn between philosophy and literature, reading a biography of Derrida. Then misplaced identifications on my part. Certainly I'm read for sentimentality, image. Every text I write, however short, takes a lot out of me; every text has a philosophical grounding. I've worked on defuge, splatter semiotics, somatic ghosting, inadequacy, edgespace, gamespace, blankspace. No one else uses these terms. They're sloppy; they come and go. In the early morning my failure is evident; this isn't an academic room, a room for virtual or augmented reality; it's a room at 4:30 a.m. in the morning, another sleepless night. Or a night where dreams crash into the real; I can wake up sweating, even screaming on occasion. Endless descriptive analysis, body falling to the floor. These images taken in almost no light at all; I move to the outer room (there are two), collapse with camera in hand after checking the humidifiers (trying for 45% in general). Saz and violin leaning back against a chair, madal across the way, rebab behind me. Constant frustration, two or three begging letters a day, waiting for calls, messages, or texts that rarely come. It's hard breathing, still getting over the flu of last week which has changed to something bronchial. The tremor in my left-hand index finger is controllable; tensing my muscles works. It's like "zapping" the circuitry. Then I also went through all the negative comments I've received in my life, some certainly deserved, some not. I'm too negative; I'm a nincompoop and a wastrel; I'm too critical; I'm too arrogant; I'm rude; I'm stupid; I'm fat; I'm sick; I deserve to be an underdog; my writing's a joke; I'm not serious; I'm too depressed; I don't know how to wait; I'm the worst possible person; I'm too neurotic; my music sounds like a car wreck; I'm too defensive; I don't know how to behave in public; I only want an audience; I'm too pushy; I don't know as much as I think I do; I'm too obsessive; I move too fast; I'll be dead by twenty-five - and I'll stop this now, there are worse, I wake up thinking I deserve whatever I get. There are hollows at the heart of writing; every text is just that, however performa- tive. The world of a novel, the world of a book, hardly requires imaginary picturing - I've heard that's what happens, but it clearly doesn't - why, if I had to remember every description in a novel as I'm reading - if I was picturing anything at all - the thing would stall before leaving the paddock (picture a horse) - and clearly that doesn't happen. I can be the worst possible person without looking like that (how would that look?); I can talk about deserving this or that, and there's no image at all. As far an audience, there's only the reader and of course I'm not sure they're present at all - at a later date? - following me here and there - so far - I haven't got a clue - I haven't got the faintest idea --- "e. Serres' parasite has invaded content; becomes content; _is_ content; every observation is simultaneously noise and broken, disseminated information. "f. The marks which characterize the body now characterize only its carapace, its striations. The body exists as data-base insertions, with a troubling horizon of the somatic - flesh, blank time, care. "g. Has wandered off, just combinations, odd uncomfortable scent." +++ _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
