My Text and Alan Sondheims's Text
Standing on the hillside at night. The fluttering of millions. Shells. How things. Being among the multitudes and the thoughts. Folded. Shelled in many ways. Imagine. There is surely something. One. Cup. A kind of. They were. Seeing (or hearing?) the ecstatic silence. The intellection and the bursts of rawness. “Drifts of shifts” The wrath of words. The iration of ideation. Qualm. He felt a qualm. Where has the softness gone? The man. Something explodes somewhere. We can say of a that it is not b. Judgement. The spider descends. Hard green cord round the spinning top to get it to gyrate. The whirl of many colour. We inhabited the hinter woods. He disappeared mid winterely.
Alan Sondheims's script and the - "... a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of a bandage or suture across the wound of a sememe (what reads as a sememe); a wound within, unconstrued within, the imaginary...."
is this a found script or one i created ? does it really matter? given the relatively small number of symbols, it would be reasonable to apply coding to it - a matrix/template that might slide across the apparent grid, producing meaning. one might think of this as a universal machine applicable to texts of any length; it becomes increasingly evident that meaning is a construct across symbols, neither within them nor within the dictionary translation / transliterations.
here, in this example, only in this particular example, one has a section of what seems to be an infinite text, a text in the manner of a bandage or suture across the wound of a sememe (what reads as a sememe); a wound within, unconstrued within, the imaginary. think of this as the lid of the pre-linguistic - not exactly mode, but a potential for interpretation, sliding out and against itself, as soon as one is found. nothing holds here, not even "here," not even place or placement. the lesson, where we are, where we are not, is always already unlearned.