passing, passage

passing, those who have passed, they have turned back,
they have turned around, they have this harmony, this one time,
these many times, they have, for those who have passed and
this one time, they have turned

passage, for neither a break nor a moment's rest have they,
they have continued, they have thought until their bones were
broken, until their minds among them, disappearing, no longer
this one melody, breathless, this one time, they have turned
and turned, the pipa rising among the buddhas, we have heard


what i remembered when it was so poor out

what i remembered when it was so poor out
i could not think and my body wandered
somewhere a link faltered and hindered
and cauterized my throat and thought throughout

there was no semblance or semblance fraught alone
meandering murmurs mourned rooms dark and fallow
in plummeting bodies and faces skewed and sallow
and hollowed among mounds of earth and burning bone

hallowed they were in sutured hands and ears
haunting loomed and muffled clutched at voices
senseless and seamless depressed of humbled choices
and dense thatched strands stranding and embracing fears

memory what i remembered buried borne and lost and thrown
among sounds of human ghosts but not their own

People: Alan Sondheim
Research: Sound
Tags: memory, mourning, Life, death, ghosts, noh


"All you really have in the end, ... are your stories."

- Burt Reynolds, playing an older spy, on Burn Notice. morial026.jpg morial025.jpg morial042.jpg

for Kathe Kollwitz



meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
of pebble movement who is counting here who knows the names,
house around the corner, talked, read. beyond that, quiet, quietude.
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings,
meandering paths among heaps and stones slow streamings, quietude murmurs
all gods are smoothed, all gods are filled with the quietude of rustlings
of the language of words and their talisman and of death, quietude and
hearth of quietude, silence to place

exuding infinite quietude. all silence, words are not better

for i am speaking of quietude, the grace of being, contemplation,
the quietude of familiality, the space where everything is


Kittler just died, I remember Sartre going, my father at 97 was born in
1914, his mother died very shortly after, the world went into flames, has
continued along the same path. So everything, Derrida, Lacan, Jack Benny,
falls apart, falls out, I continue to work not with _those_ references,
but in new currents, until something withdraws, draws me back. It's too
simple to think of the past as stories, that what one ultimately offers is
stories, that these go the ways of mourning, lamentation, pain, death
itself. As if we're continuously walking wounded. I'm tired of this; I
want to work new for another twenty years at least. Memorials throw me
back into pasts that gnaw away at my soul, with the appetition of souls as
so many Barthian puncta, grasping away. It's all fiction. Tonight I was
given a sheaf of pages from a scrapbook or photobook of myself at ages


I have now the entire text "Krasis" posted online on my website:


- From Monika Weiss; we're collaborating in a few months. I respect her work incredibly; she works with uncomfortable issues of history, memory, mourning, lamentation... - please check out.


- Alan


From: Monika Weiss <>

To: Alan Sondheim <>

On Fissure


in silence here

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