Dialogue between the present and the recent past, the conversation within a lifetime, is not touched or addressed at all, by the reference to a more distant historical past, and the attendant fanatic impulse to determine what actually happened there. In fact it is only the severe method of a present consciousness, that endeavors to do this study of unreachable history, while, in doing so, betraying just a further attachment to unreflected experience. You retroject a level plane of time, and an infinite field of space, the most elementary philosophy, in a hopelessly empty set of retrofitting solutions–and tire in the very process, before dinner. While the cause of this is obviously, I would say blatantly, in contemporary, emotional disappointment; in the constant lack of resolution in our futile dialogue with the recent past. This seems to be why this refuge is even attempted. For we do not really care about history, per se, at all; we would just as soon demolish it, and our notion of finding out what actually happened there is an all consuming sport, a fashion. In your living consciousness, there is no method for reaching history, so covertly despised. The sequence is clear. Dialogue between the now and the before, a generational conflict; and a seemingly novel and brilliant solution: history, like a sacred category. Endless books offer this smart solution. The very pattern of conversation follows this sequence in every dining room. It always sounds learned. But it won’t work. Because the past is not available, except by revelation which totally sacrifices itself to the tangible body of the world, and by a leap of faith asserts a continuous line of being with what must be a hypothetical, and different past. We are cut off. Certain things in the world smack of this break, this mystery; language and art which can be said to resonate from some separated state of existence not our own. I say our dialogue with the recent past, which is like an argument within our own lifetime, should be seen only as it presses upon this crisis in the awareness. And yet, all I see is this screen of false solutions, recklessly promoted by the worst kind of intellectual posturing, and most puerile forms of literature, all harkening to the ultimate idol, who looks two ways just like any god. The ultimate roadsign, the completely impossible category of what actually happened–a mere contradiction in terms! Monuments to this irony littering the landscape, technology eating it’s tail, and the mind infected with a plague. Black mirrors. Cracked. Or better yet, highly polished, throwing back a self against a darkness complete.

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