the aesthetics of pain

what occurs on flatness never curls inward towards the body: that is
unless a fundamental identification is at work. nothing of the sort in
futurism which is responsible for the clean and proper body of the
Mac and Apple, the sliver that cuts through flesh, everything acceptable,
horror against against horror in false topologies, topographies of
destroyed villages, torn flesh, mutilated faces. it is all one and it is


'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

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


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.



I started Eyebeam as a resident on Thursday, receiving a keycard. On Friday, I talked with Marko and found the card didn't work; I would have come in this weekend otherwise - I was hoping to work with Jackson and his cube. This afternoon I received a call from my brother who said that my father was dying, my aunt had cancer. Earlier in the week we had ceiling leaks in our place in Brooklyn, from Hurricane Irene; they were in the middle of the room and created a mess. It's been a rough week. My recent work has been concerned with the relationship of the virtual to the real - in particular the messy virtual, the way that wounding or pain or death within the virtual resonates with us. Death is inescapable, in spite of what Wired magazine says, and in dying we are for the first and last time absolutely, unutterably, alone; the journey is not a journey but a finitude we own for the split second before we descend into oblivion.

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