when all is accepted, when she lives after my time
the video surrounded by the others, my self,
the video which is a gift from myself to the other,
and the video which is the seeing of some of life
in the world, among the worlds beyond

for Azure
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 4:07 AM  -  Limited

when all is abandoned, when i die before my time
the video which surrounds the others, the other,
the video which is a gift from the other to the
other and the video which is the seeing of some
of death to the world, unworlding beyond



contagion, fast procedures / slow computer


uncanny beauty with avatar choreography of minuscule particulates

trills, spills, and chills
what they do when they are dancing

odd cries and whimpers over mara the creatrix from mara the avatar

the sad sound of molecular machines saying goodbye to their own
how they sound when they are being made



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last night at Eyebeam... a revelation...

sex, yes... and death, yes... are inextricably entangled...
am i the first to notice this, Agave? they're both
hard to swallow, and yes, surely i'm the first to call
orgasm the 'little death' which only grows with a thud
into the big One? every point i make is broken with delight
against the corpse of sex, the messy spew of death. wait
a minute, there's more, all sorts of things of bones
growing after the brain stops, what sort of ugly repeating
shatters geometries into the semblance of Becoming?


From: Monika Weiss <>

To: Alan Sondheim <>

On Fissure


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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