—–rite-aid-coming

——Then I stumbled onto the idea that there is no necessity in this whole project. It appears to have started up unsanctioned by anyone, a surprise to even myself, who most of the time–in regards to what he has accomplished–is soon put in the position of a preservationist. Nevertheless I am far from humbled by this fate, but want to embrace it, though it was obviously found, like a note slipped under the door.  Yet I remain fiercely vigilant in regards to the legacy of a lifetime, thinking I can climb over to the other side of it, and view it, like it was earned.  But nothing is finished. Nothing can account for the breadth and scope of  these investigations, their power and ability to cull words out of nowhere, and patch together phrases that conjure up partial, symbolic settings. While the whole library stands in mystery, and makes the mystery crushing.
—–And I have no opposition, and no equal in battle, and no one is specifically waiting to hear about my findings and sift through the results of what is . . . not looked for, and unexpected. It is all after the fact, dug up and dusted off, the fact of life itself  appears as a retrieval! And thus, look smart now reader!, any form of debate with me is impossible. Any argument supposes an opponent,  discussion implies some comprehension, any acolyte student wanting a summary is off on the wrong track, dancing on one foot. Because in talking about it–this manifest oddity–it projects a mere simulation of the work itself, abstracts what cannot be made abstract, but only bent out of shape. I am determined to wrestle free, whenever I feel the grip of your tenuous understanding. Instead, if I want to have a relationship with an uncomprehending public, I must always have a strategy, to inveigle and trap them into an indirect gaze. I must whisper, or take a bullhorn and deafen them all at once;  always I must devise a fiction, an insincere formal manner, contrive a style, in which the strain of original thought is awkwardly tucked, or forcefully embedded. Indolent readers, what do you think you deserve, a cool drink in hand? A cushion for your head?
—–I am the only one studying the . . . theme I am left with. Worrying over the issue, and I keep inventing the opposition and giving them a position. But the terms of the debate collapse like crutches, into the morass of the theme, the issue, the project, the mystery, which has crippled them from the outset. There is no horizon, and no support for the construction of a totality. My favored past of mankind, my lone man walking in the street and coming up with it, the thought of the past like an incandescent bulb, that contains all spinning information–this is not surrounded by a blanket of certainty. For the dead do not wonder anymore, but are gone to another reality. And yet they were the living!  It is a one way street, and facing me in my car, through the windshield, is a building wrapped in yellow paper. What will happen there?
—–Oh, I become soft, and fall for the idea that everything must fit together. Because, of course, it must in any conception. We are incapable of not making sense; people strive to become profoundly absurd, but only become trite and ridiculous. But your work, young man, is chipping away at the base–this is what I told myself. I got my inspiration from a box of white chalky letters that were part of a sign maker’s kit, as I recall; and I feel this memory is right across the room, in an album. I bolster myself with arguments, that history must fit, fit in this suitcase of words.  But I live strictly in reality. You think that is simple?  Does the past have any adherence to the present?  People bristle when I deny it, and proclaim the past must be a different reality. I mean it just is way too ungainly, and contains monsters and monstrous ideas to boot. I like to suggest the impossible, and heads do turn.
—–But, my young acolyte (and this is your only tutorial) do not expect it to be within their power to object to all your sensational claims.  For they, the unfocused, have not bothered with a theory of their own. Nor are they making assumptions! They do not need anything, to move confidently in reality now, for reality does not challenge them essentially to come up with an explanation. Reality washes over them, it is chloroform, it is a new building with new siding that somehow is more recognizable than anything of old. Reality is a synthetic blanket, it is a drug.
—–It isn’t as if people even need to be bolstered up, or that they require an investigation, or that they are holding defensively onto the latest summary of life. It is only that I don’t require this summary. Do you see, do you see it now? It is my problem, being blessed. I am somehow free, from whatever barrier is immediately erected in other people’s minds, or seems to be erected (like the wall of a building) when the suggestion is made to them that the world they live in is a far-fetched mystery! I simply have never and don’t now make the assumption that a similar reality has existed throughout history. Because when I heard of the past, it looks equally untenable, and not the same at all. I assume it was different, and then immediately that it was emblematic and representative of the difference. A lost age. An answer!  And now, I talk through my hat; for that is what a poseur, an autodidact, must do. That is the source of all my inspiration, that I always leap to the realization that reality itself, like a ripped up street, must have changed. Making history quite provisional, with nothing to add, one might comment, that would fit on a winter afternoon, beside the snowbanks in this city.

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