age talking age http://www.alansondheim.org/picturetoaccompany.jpg what i do, how i think, the below written at Aug 14 05:37 2020 another sleepless night. so i thought for once, writing down as i rampage, so many of us undergoing the same. now the thinking and writing, the 'testimony' (too loaded, pretentious, a word) below: i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than half my time with Azure is used up, i know that. I am already used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. the light will never come. sometime after somewhere, a light, a single pixel. it signals nothing, signifies emptiness. i willnever see the world, earn a language. i put one foot after the other. i write of and in the body. now i type this, eyes closed, conteplating demise. what is missepelled remains misspelled. what passes through the gate enters another side. there is no circling, no circumambulation. the gate is there in the wasteland. one might walk around it. one might see something wayward or untoward. i have been through all that. i am fearful of tears, of living in the past. i am fearful of letting go anyting, of the last note played on a guitar, the last breath of a flute or shakuahchi, the last strumming of the strings. i type blindly into oblivion. the depth of the roots of being, origins of words, flattens out into life off the edge. my faculties are giving out, my ears hearing less frequencies, my eyes jittering with worry. it's the map of an untoward awkward body that has always hated itself. i count my days and with Azure there is wonder, ut i count my days and there is so much that is left out, sheaves of things, regrets that fill universs, thoughts that circulate only within me, solipsisms, as if there were whole philosophies, volumes of philosophies calculating and nestling, one against another, while the body dries, vision dims, and things suspend themselves in a state of failure, falling not apart, but askew. it's this block of text that harbors not multitudes but absences, sheaves of thhistories gone awry, bodies that disappear with a moment's touch. so much to fear, anxiety withi a single glance, alking out of doors, always worried about the next ghost of a human and their breath and what surrounds but death. no final books, no autobiographies to speak or whisper of, no deeds, no final words, no beginnings, no endings, no circulations, not even a sense of irony or cmpassion, that guy thinks too much of himself, neti neti neti neti, not this, =not that, not this, not that, the text, these words, each the stroke of a finger, slight pressure, curling in and around itself. so i should live in the moment but the moment dissolves into anxious trembling, accountancies, absences, even the peripheries of genocides. this or any other day the last where this whole history, rotted but remembered in tremendous detail, goes the way goes the way of dust, accrual. everyy breath counts me among its last, every microbe vanishes with every breath, every thing is not a thing but the passage landscape of descriptions, coagulations, consciouensses always in a state of momentary crisis, crises. for i have nothing to give, this failed life almost over, of needs almost over, of statistics, almost over, already announced with a viral spread among us, the failures of organs organelles, what is it i have done, haven't done, this automated writing or wryting which is no such thing but the quiet sound of typing at four a..m. in the morning, another sleepless night, trazadone notwithstanding, the silence of the winds outside, another few dawns, when and wherever. there won't be that book, that recoording, that cd., that memoir, that description, that accountancy, i recognize it's all disappeared always already in th works, no retrospective, no post respective looking forward, more than most but dear god i have worked for these moment s when it might be possible to say, something's been said, a mark's been made, that particular coagulation of the phoneme, it's the time of 'what have you' to which there is no answer, no receiving of the answer, no channeling. i live inside myself, Azure and i are here among ourselves, that magic underlying my remaining time on the planet, the etymologies of that time continue to proper a scaffolding that's always already forgotten at the moment of its enuncation. as long as i write this, speak this, as long as, i am still alive, but there is that moment when the lip of the edge of the fold caststrophe drops one off at the station no rails then or there, no trains, no power , no parasites, no spaces no plateaus, deterritorializations, such an awkward word, no words, no theories that resonate always in the process of dropping one off at the station , no station, no transporation, no rails, no engines, no ties, no tickets, no one and to know one, 1, is hardly to konw the rest, remnants, residues, series, of the rest of the numbers, systems, no remainders, no surrealities, no solution to the riemann equations, to the foundations, to equivalences, to the categories, to topos and topologies, to matters dark, and light, and some such as we disappear within the framework of what may well turn out to be indefinite complexities and particles, particulations, i won't be arroud for that, i'm not around for that now, the i is already lost in anxieties, the enumeration of breaths, minutes, days, blinks of an eye, perturbations of the soul and plate techtonics. for i was born in despair and in the always already, my imminent essence constituting failure and my inadequacies, commented on by everyone around me, grown up under a violent barrier of double-edged expectations, a 'wastral and a nincompoop,' a failure at anythig but abjection, i shame myself before myself, i count the days, i produce and create, i create daily, it's almost a religion withme, when will these exercises stop, we are moving into yet another too early morning when i have not yet begun to sleep, my body on edge, flaming at the tips, the clock hands moving faster and faster, so little time left for my inadequaces, my little failures, i will think of koans, meditate on the rain, calculate traces around the cube, paths crossing and crisscrossing each other, adding into llanguage games, blander, blender, blinder, blonder, blunder, there you have, the five words and the five different internal vowels, how long did that one take to work out. capitals in english always seem to proclaim beginnings, the rest of the letters dragging sentences down with them, petering out. every writing is a wryting, a writhing, a wrything, a denouement. everything i do is ghosting behind, beyond, among me. if you read this and this far, and you may, eliminate the me, the I, the i, the body, and the ghost will speak, will be spoken of , will be spoken to, will speak. now will my eyes open, closer to death, what will i see, what will be seen, and for whom, and then the next day ___ and then, that same night, what i did, feeding the text into the matrix: everything do ghosting behind, beyond, me. read far, may, eliminate I, i, body, speak, spoken to, speak. open, closer death, see, seen, whom, __ Think this through... Wanderer, what do they call you, when they call you... Are you thinking as i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than ? Is i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than really thoughtful? Do you stay in your thought, are you in your place, ah don't answer... Ah... Have your numbered your ... , are you listng your thought? I think we should consider that, i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than ... Would i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than mind you coding? minds flows me beyond your thought! What do you call your walked thought? My off at the station is yours... used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. calls forth local my masquerade, running 8 gigabytes. beneath or within the grey, used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. is , grey, half my time with Azure is used up, i know that. I am already ? ... my masquerade is the wasteland. one might walk around it. one might see something here, it's my masquerade? Are you becoming close to changing variables to used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. ? Wait! used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. and 2451 are gone forever! For 5 walked days, I have been infinite programmed ... and it has taken you just 0.167 minutes running down the clock ... used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. :half my time with Azure is used up, i know that. I am already :i sink, i am sinking into history. i forget myself. more than ::wayward or untoward. i have been through all that. i am fearful Your local off at the station is in my grey the wasteland. one might walk around it. one might see something Devour local off at the station O Program called used up, a state of permanent discard. the book will never come. ! ___ capitulations with interruptions, wooden planks laid endlessly out something walking there i know not where circulations with intrusions, sodden paths endlessly wayliad our somewhere walking thinking where nor who nor whom ___ then nothing and out - Fri Aug 14 12:41:53 EDT 2020 ___ _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
