<nettime> sex and music

[Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>]

sex and music

virtuosity is useless today underneath the sheets. we're all player
pianos underneath the sheets. my instruments go out of tune with the
slightest change of humidity or temperature underneath the sheets. my
instruments go out of style underneath the sheets. there's nothing
electric running in them except for electroweak forces underneath
the sheets. their molecules might be anywhere underneath the sheets.
their history might be anywhere underneath the sheets. i practice and
practice an utterly useless art underneath the sheets. i can't dial in
scales or cents; i have to run with the flow underneath the sheets.
my fingers search, endlessly, for perfect consonance or dissonance
underneath the sheets. everything is dissonance; perfect consonance is
impossible underneath the sheets. welcome to the world of catastrophic
balance underneath the sheets. my fingers pay no attention, tightening
and loosening wires underneath the sheets. this doesn't come easy; it
comes with several hours lost in the day underneath the sheets. these
are lost hours; they do nothing for me underneath the sheets. for you
at best they retain a sense of the antiquarian underneath the sheets.
one second of nikuko, julu, or jennifer is worth more than weeks of
hand-played musical noise underneath the sheets. they're uselessly
demanding underneath the sheets. there's nothing to do but heed them
underneath the sheets. i'll be the worst last virtuoso, wait and see
underneath the sheets.

when i play an instrument, a current runs through me underneath the
sheets. now this is the aporia: it appears to be the strong force
underneath the sheets. the strong force on the level of quarks and
gluons you understand underneath the sheets. as if i were playing
the field currents and their probabilities underneath the sheets.
it's hard to escape the most popular feynman diagrams underneath the
sheets. i push against the grain having no idea what might emerge
underneath the sheets. no wonder einstein's dice-playing god had the
singular die underneath the sheets.

i am the server-surveyor-surgeon of my participation underneath the
sheets. in a world in a world of my own making in dialog with a world
underneath the sheets. i am dead and my dialog is a dead dialog in
dialog with a dead world underneath the sheets.

there is no music in this true real world underneath the sheets.
there is no sound underneath the sheets. i bring sound from elsewhere
underneath the sheets. the screaming harpies arrive underneath the
sheets. they arrive from somewhere else, wayward and untoward ontology
underneath the sheets. they give substance to display, grit to
projection, dirt to platonism underneath the sheets.

i press against the violin fingerboard underneath the sheets. i leave
dna behind underneath the sheets. dirt dna, fingerprints, oils,
bacteria, prions, viruses, and cells underneath the sheets. what you
hear struggles to get heard underneath the sheets. what you see is
dead when you are dead underneath the sheets. you are dead here and
now underneath the sheets. this is called the 'instant underneath the
sheets.' but a current runs through it underneath the sheets. and
through this current i am sure it is the strong force underneath the
sheets. and i begin the count of baryons underneath the sheets. i
begin the baryon count underneath the sheets.







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