Archive of Sent Mail

Index of sent mail (astrid.p.lorange [at] gmail [dot] com). Keywords supplied by an undisclosed collaborator and then searched, collected and edited according to emergent themes, syntactical sublime. The archive of sent mail represents the vast majority of the labour of writing – here rearranged as an appendix, poem collection.


Astrid Lorange to Chris Alexander: mild hack is a metric of a cough. Changed password but still feel the ghost of the hacker. I'd be happy to slang you some notes, but FYI we don't have onesies – the smallest denom is $5 (we have 1 and 2 buck coins). You want a ten and five? Blue and purp?


Robert Duncan, so astral. Californians uniformly (driving ego).


Sweetest life of the bronchial crisis, not so much an alien thrill as mania. If it was written, why can’t you name it? I have a better chance now of getting through this slam-patched. Hoisted onto a kitchen bench you can make things and eat toast. I hope you’re out, boozy and jocular – I was like, sweating booze in heat tech. If you’d prefer to dodge Hegel, come for treats. I must read Hegel / in the new year.


The difference between a couplet: how to dodge the scene, poetry bullet. Riddled by the intrusion and permeation of fleas, bullets. They labelled chillis ‘lime leaves’. So you did good things with marbles, rather than flicking them in constellations on a flat surface, using a musket bullet?


I want emphasis, emphasis.


The multiple times the (passive) friendly imperative, 'keep your chin up' is offered, always sounding like a demand to repress or a call to endure (in what instances? overburdened labours, distance, illness, projects that spend the known body). One (for example) ripping a piece of tough plastic in order to open a scratch-card for phone credit, in a sudden upward gesture cuts the chin. (Holding a hand to the chin to stop the blood, the blood leaves a small line down the wrist and onto the sleeve of a sweater, in this case a dark red sweater with multiple sizable moth-made holes.) Then (for example) one’s lover sending a long and odd tract that registers endlessly a continuous hairstyle, at points describing various kinds of material arrangements 'under my chin' and on the mouth.

In one particular dystopia, bones are made to render better on the image reflection of a wobbly video feed – a chin padded or re-angled. Cutting in harvested horror-shows is a specific manoeuvre of one wanting always to be at once wholly removed and driving forward with objective affection: 'it was hot on my chin and my shirt'. In a grotty taxonomy women with chins, or an interest in politics and smoking are intermediary, unattached to the twin poles of ideation. Considering the US a place to occupy, chin-ups are indicative of the strength of claim. A scholar wiping lobster off.


I have copied it here in full, it's called 'LISTEN ATTENTIVELY' and it's from a collection called 'Poetry'.


Give him the key to my desk drawer, where the project material is. A little puffy canvas case with batteries. You can always decant it, pass it through a fine sieve. Off on my drawer, off on my drawer, I 'remember' about half of these. Deskbrandy flask tucked into your pen drawer, waterlover, drawer of water. Snakes in wooden drawers / let those fellas slither free. Yes – I have a key; $10 deposit.


Gender neutral pronouns emerging from non-standard vernacular.


No lyric, no ppl. Always keen for ecstatic nihilism, pushing kids around the doughnut conference table. Revolutionary, disastrous, annihilation of self-concern. I fear I’d excerpted too hard, or that a fire would remove it entirely. Yes to paranoia. I fear the minute a smart critic. Fears or confusions. JP describing his infant: '(her dreams must be nothing but owl noises, distorted cats, vibrating human types, black/white contrast, primal fear, omni sight seeing sounds, Spinoza etc---)'. Death drives (en masse). Ed torquing idiomatics of the afraid: I am afraid I cannot take your call. As a premise for everything, the fear of police brutality linked to the desire to destroy a police car. Total fear and privation of precarious labour, the dead body is a little vacuum. I fear I am not totally well. Love lives are to be feared in actuality or, as with clowns, are just vehicles for fear and shame. None of us are eating/how do we all start eating? Nice or muggy or blowfly. He’s currently frying an egg 'for the first time in years'. I fear they crave more pomp but that would be so beautiful. 'I just returned from New York. I'm having a beer on ice for the first time in my life. There's nothing to fear in thirty-one, I can tell you from experience, and iced beer is not so bad as one would think.' A history that you inhabit entirely is a wild fear. What we fear as disaster is already happening.


Me living on a desert continent (high-fructose-cornsyrup aesthetic).


same! same! same! same! by Michael Farrell (all of Coleridge’s exclamations). 'You enter 5 gates opened by that person keel his way fear the depths of 6 shields'. Ed: 'oe-eye teeter i'll enter tea moose barn front, a sop plan lower keel affront 'likes' real kept ick'. I keel over (ecstasis).


I read nothing but my own knotted neurosis. Materials occur mostly in affiliation. Bags and cups or the gentle knot of the comma. Even knots run at the pace of sheep, crypt relatives with influenza. Or it may recall a fitting between two pipes, allowing for direction change. I am sad of course to hear of your misplaced gallantry. Your mortality is more or less. I feel that bird just begging for thunder.


She’s pretty resolved just to get in and harvest a few little red dots. Grave of light may as well have a lash? A heady brew of expressions (facial). Now a hot lash of show. Maybe not the best way to date (gossip gossip gossip). You didn’t relate to a multiple choice exam – that doesn’t sound insane at all. Food plaque / white lashes / land rebel. I love that public chair is like pubic hair. Getting lashes by the rain.


Registration Caspar by J. Gordon Faylor, Dream of a Like Place by Mark Francis Johnson, Food Turns Into Blood by Astrid Lorange. The dog proceeded to lunge and bark at her head. Or between two planes of oily vodka. They will 1 for you to ferret it out, they call animal leaves of gas.


Full frontal idea: Almost all my electrics are prune related. Malt rye, home, shower, garden check up. A beer is mostly air and water. Malt, barley, hops, yeast, sugar.


(Interlude: one meaning of farce is 'Force-meat, stuffing' [as a noun and a verb].) The light here is killing me. I like your long walk and brandy binge. I like that you nailed that bottle before the sun was all gone. This is the question you can nail but I want to give you heads up so you can think about the scale of it… That work, I think, does a good job of expressing resistance which is actually a kind of performative compliance – a draggish version of the bureaucratic sublime. And I think it’s postapocalyptic in a literal, rather than speculative sense, ie it takes the apocalypse as having already happened and as the condition of contemporary life.


Have a power hour nap and then pomegranate. It's an excerpt from a longer, in-progress collective (multi-authored/household) ambient novel. A million sorrys for missing whiskey-po, I needed to get home to a nap and workload and washing machine. You like to layer masochisms. An interesting side-note – 'piss-take' is a difficult idiom to translate here in America.


Notoriously eating parcels, that email, those car pics. I’d trust you’d tell us now if we sounded like giddy dorks or fools? Ed is happy and newly haircutted with an electric guitar. One way of describing the queerness of indexes: a paddock is a field as per a farm. We were interested in how the beds could be so flat, connected by narrow networks. For example, when you asked me about the surface of a planet, a series of images were generated for you.


It's in two sections, the first with three parts and the second with lots of autonomous but linked minimal pageunits. It's broadly speaking a MAY DAY poem with the first section cheery and propositional and the second a bodiless lament (to put it poorly). Insane 300-page PDF book. Three parts to set up the movements on labour. Little man omelette is Lacan’s pun, in French of course. Search history – cut ‘highly’ before ‘processed sugars’. We're going to read the second and third sections of ‘Consciousness’. The reading starts on the second page of the double-spread of the first scanned page. Right-click your headshot. Might just be me but this seems very 19th C. Can you say 'everyone' or 'anyone'? Last para (lost count): the idiom is 'pore over' not 'pour over'. Last sentence seems too romantic; fuck being set alight as a teen intellectual. Woah – pamph. In any case, a Canto scrap would be useful in the comparative movement between Zuk and Pound.

You can do it – a simple flip from gas to nugget. Rather than bookmarking, I'll just wait to fill in the page numbers. It'd be a cinch searching the PDF. The 'event within the event' conceit was meant in two ways: on the one hand, framing the work as a durational piece meant that anything that occurred within that week frame was both part of it and its own event; also, I had a reading in the final hour (in which I read the six-page excerpts from my desk to an audience who had come to see the conclusion), and that was a kind of performative event with the requisite gestures and speech acts to close the piece. I just reread your P-Queue polemic and now I am searching for the word 'destabilise' in my MS. Flow is cool, so too is discord. This took me 2 hrs exactly. It can be as long as you want – the doc I am working from, from which I am eliminating maybe 90% of the noise, is 650 pages. Third typo: page 138, 'Alan' should be 'Allan'. Read the excerpt from Swann's Way followed by the excerpt from Time Regained. In the first scan, read from the paragraph (on RHS page) beginning 'While my aunt...' and until the last whole paragraph. And I don't wanna get too Lacanian, but what if heartbreak (as quasi-object) is also (instead?) an objet petit a. Reading a letter is the same as writing an answer.


Readers of Stein have long laboured to get inside her home, as if the space of her domesticity could answer the questions that arise from her work, as if her private life was the index to her public inscrutability. This is predicated on its own utter ordinariness. There's some paradoxical transubstantiations at play in the glitch-to-bug process that I didn't really fully engage. Further, the one who recognises ironic aesthetic judgement is the one who also 'gets' the joke, and who is in the position of privilege. So it's also about a social relation, an intimacy predicated on understanding the way one can like Phil Collins in this particular sense.


House tonight for phantom, nude floors. Mysterious blood or a body falls from the air.


Mulling wine or the scallopy bay, spying and being spied on as a condition of entry. Hamlet lights a cigarette in a suit made of water particles. Wrinkled-eyed metro station, empty owls and police procedurals, a bending of hurrays into hydraulics.


Rosemary loose off a bake dish. Wittig is making me into a set of blades/kinks.


A word that ghosts: shrive. Related (coded) to a long soapy retelling of the Sokal scandal, from which, it is noted, science departs finally.


The labour of writing endlessly and objectlessly into the face of a terrible, ecstatic distance was untenable.


A bio of 'you' in what I imagine to be neverending summery crop-tops (do you have that word in the US?) It happened so early on in the speech and I was really worried we wouldn’t make it thru ... as per the open mic at Gould’s that time with the tooth-whistling chauvinist. Speaking of teeth, I just had two fillings. The neck is unable to combat the scent / the tongue is unable to combat the crumb / the crumb is unable to combat the tooth / the tooth is unable to combat the mirror / the soil is unable to combat the marshmallow / the linoleum is unable to combat the turmeric / the swelling is unable to combat the breeze.


And to hear the mandolin on the turntable on the air.


Love song dedications is an Aus institution of authentic sentiment. No poetics, no poetics, no poetics, no poetics, (except minor abrasions towards the metaphysical, which is fine, but so what?). I’m all about the horizontalisation of tidbits. I have been a rotten correspondent espesh as I sink into a new gig. Sliced rights. Take vid and twit that oak so that I can watch. Yr psychiatrist boyfriend is so depressing. This vid – I love the laugh-framing – though hearing oneself slur is the worst possible experience. To fillet these words from all my clotted notes when it is strong and it tastes like liquor or implying a pause like a wonderful little paradox. Soft, pure bitcoin JPGs.

Illustrations by Irit Pollak, who responded to the poem by using a selection of words from the text, to call up a list of books from the The NSW State Library stacks. She assigned herself with 'key books' from Astrid's 'key words', the content of which was then searched, collected and edited as collage.