Take Another Look











{January 23, 2010}   can’t lash out anymore

Subj: crimson‏
From: Ivy (ndiaphonous@hotmail.com)
Sent: Wed 2/06/08 5:46 AM
To: Blade Alexander (soundbox@comvast.net)
Dearest Blade,
Thank you for replying, it surprised me.
I wish I could have simple stances. I do not.
Since I doubt myself, I assume I am wrong most of the time.
Therefore, my friends and colleagues and teachers are wrong too. This is why Starner thinks I am hostile. I doubt assumptions.
In response to you, I do not think about what selections make me happy.
I think about function. And I think there is a crisis in music.

At the U, I cannot tell a teacher I picked a phrase for how I feel about it.
The words ‘feel, like, sound;’ all are forbidden because this is a sterile environment.
Sound waves are to be prodded.
examined and factored, turned into polynomials
If blackboards can kill.

But the proofs some should be able to come up wiht will not fit in the world
even if the music will.
Anyway that is not my job.

Why should it be now?
And like John Cage, I cannot predict which sounds affect me.

Like right now, Can you guess where I am?
Where I have fled?

I am at Cornish.

For the first time in how knows how long? I snuck into the theatre, crouched behind the soft velvet curtains and landed my head on my hoodie pretending to conceal the place my thoughts wanted to go to again

i must give him and others a forgiveness that my own remoteness denies me but by the time i can do that i have lost all claim to dignity

The sound of the music compressed on my IPOD that a homeless junkie sold me for 10 bucks combined with the music coming off the stage that sounded like Janet’s music with more maturity and complexity make me feel things I’ve been feeling. THe anger of the unborn beseeching my skin. Parker was supposed to meet me after two months of being jailed at home on home detention. He doesnt show up. My hands become white knuckes. I turn in I relapse i swallow i swallow. My mind becomes the blank page I hate and I see the glazed look in my eyes I’ve only recently realized all benzo heads have. I was not angry at the girl who sold me glyburide, a diabetic pill. had i took more, had i gone into a coma rather than the seizure, it would be a different story. i am not mad at her;

I am mad at those people who are close to me because of the ambiguity in their identity the perfect mask i missed seeing beneath because of their tenderness that turns to strategies and beautiful evasions and finally, finally, an iron curtain decending on me.

And right now I have only one thing seeping through me and that is all the things that kill my soul which is the music right now, It is the sound of the out of tune violins playing in the practice room and the man singing about black sheep and blood, and the blood must be on my hands it must be there is no other way around it and that is the music I want to write and I do my best but it’s not enough the fucking teacher says it is too raw and repetetive, and I hate myself for listening to their opinions, because you know I do, you know I cant help but take every opinion seriously as if it came from some person that just came back to life.

I am writing an email that if I read later I will be astonished for writing. I look back on all emails I write you and other people and cannot believe the things I said. I judgmentally scrutinize every word later and cannot believe the pure recklessness and disgusting anxiousness that was there when I was writing. I couldn’t stop no I couldn’t. I had to send it now and the or never. And I couldn’t write a second drafts. The times when I write people letters carefully I put them in drafts folders and never send them. I have tons for everybody I know, tons of unsent letters. Wasted time you must be thinking.

regarding what you say?
what you say is right except every time I look at my music I see it differently.
Like a kaleidescope?
Let’s pretend that when i write music happiness were my aim.
So just because I am happy with my music one day does not mean I will be the next day. This is the fallacy.. Trying to make myself happy on all days might be an aim.. But that might include destroying yesterday for the sake of today until all that ever existed was one day’s work.. today’s work, as usual. I am not that hateful about old works, and I do live in a world where the distance between today and yesterday is more connected, but for the sake of a pole to strap my concerns on I randomly chose two opposing sets of “what is at stake” in the same argument. But you see there is also the problem of wanting responsibility one day, happiness another day, judgment another day, illumination another day, maturity another day, and simple virtuosity another day.

Mostly I think about the condemned and the doomed because they know!

They know where their fates are.

Maybe they are free to create because they have no curiosity left.

I don’t know what I am saying. I only know the force behind it.

I haven’t been able to make money without seeing Parker. Without his sweet comfort. For some strange reason I haven’t done escorting for weeks now. I have to get back to it. I don’t know what job I will find. I know I am the worst person that exists at self-promotion there is.

I apologize if this email sounds like a string of apologies into your lap. Most of all I am so sorry for you gave me so much hope in myself. I am so sorry to let you know that I… I do not have much confidence. All I have left is tenderness, and it has no direction. And tenderness is never the same as love. It is a compensation. And when it has no direction, I ache all over. I am on 170 mg of methadone, Blade. It does nothing. I often take up to 500 mg a day. It does nothing. I will come off some day. But in the meantime, the pain killers do not kill pain, they only put up a haze and make me think that my immunity is higher than it is.

I thought that life could have no sting
To infant butterflies,
So I gazed on this unhappy thing
With wonder and surprise.
“I do not want to fly”
I want to be a worm

Thank you for taking the time to respond to my phone message

It made a positive difference, if only for a day.

Blade. is there any way I can still have my opera performed in Blue Haven Hall? The administrator never responded the way she said she would. I never persisted the way I should have. I guess I will write her again and try and be more forceful. But I would rather evade everyone and everything.

You understand that feeling. I know you do.

Ivy

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martin says:

This works. It really works. It’s complete as an art-letter. a true thing without over-sentimental snow-effects. Personally there’s a few li’l things I’d remove, just to reduce distractions in the reader. John Cage, some lines like that, because too many can be like shotgun pellets than make it a bit harder for the reader to get comfortably in to the meat of the through-line. If it was part of a full-book memoir, i think that wouldn’t matter at all, since they would have to learn your pacing, mind-connections, etc, and submit to everything as simply the wide-angle meal you are giving them. But I’m thinking that a grouping of maybe 5 pieces like this, would be quite… handsome!

And would likely find a home in a magazine of ‘modern’ writing.

Do read Antonin Artaud.



martin says:

In a fuller memoir, readers would get to know various people around you, and to know that your many thoughts on art, etc, belong, as it IS the story/non-story, an emotional expression of a sensitised woman artist.

On Artaud. I don’t mean google a ‘poem’ or rant of his and see if you like it. No no. I mean to learn about his life, his story, the kind of man he was. And to bathe in his writings. In France he is revered greatly, both as a complete madman and as one of the greatest artist ever, who’s work is so true to him that to even call it ‘art’ is to belittle it, and imply it’s less serious and terrible and wild and glorious than it — and life itself — truly is.

best wishes, Martin



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