// what will come

memoria hd

http://www.alansondheim.org/memor.mp4
http://www.alansondheim.org/homing.mp4

probably no one will watch these, large files reduced from hd, final
versions of windmills and walkthroughs. the memorial is in the placing
of them. the memorial is in the waiting and uploading and the thinking
of the past through the future already collapsed. these are the last
views. there are the final times. i could not have written without the
vestige, punctum, of a home. i needed a place to stand. i can't stand
in new york. i can't stand in atlanta, fukuoka, halifax, los angeles,
hobart, perth and nottingham. unable to stand i write diacritically,
i place the vowels against the hardness of insistent letters, the

alanprint objects of pained desire

charred bodies and excavated remains
virtual (bleak culture and slaughter)
darkness becomes no one

http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint01.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint02.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint03.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint04.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint05.jpg
http://www.alansondheim.org/alanprint06.jpg

dance

we just came back from a dance discussion event at the 92nd Street Y in
Manhattan. why are dancers so optimistic? the topic was dance education
and everyone was excited. there were videos and photographs that were also
cheering. I keep thinking of the opposite, of the depressive constructs of
my own work, its self-indulgent wallowing, its emphasis on _this_ body as
opposed to a communal or healing body. virtuality drives me to this
position, reality drives me elsewhere. is slaughter - of humans, animals,
plants, cultures, languages - the only conceivable future horizon? in the
long term all of this */he waves his arms around in an all-encompassing
gesture/* will disappear; information itself will dissipate to the
substance of irreconcilable differences. what then? what will happen to
these dances, these complex choreographies, these histories of somatic

On Being Dead / On My Deadwork / My Work is Dead

Deadwork is invisible work; deadwork is virtual work. When there is
nothing but the image and the memory of the image, there is deadwork. When
the producing tribe cannot read, can only reinterpret, there is deadwork.
Deadwork does not enter the cycle of capital; it no longer exists; it
never has existed. Deadwork is deadly work; it is the death of the
producing culture. The culture knows it. The culture is ready for its
death.

My work is dead. It is not spoken. It is invisible in the building at
Eyebeam and disappears as a future anterior online. In the space, it
huddles. In the space it hides in cracks in crevices, in the remains of an
s/m parlor perhaps, in the remains of a parking garage perhaps, in the
remains if a silent film studio perhaps. The building is scarred; my work
devolves, unscars, dissolves. It is a shadow on a scar. It is the huddle