—–There may be such a thing a thing as what actually happened, but it is quite obvious that the more information that is gathered from witnesses, or records that were kept of the proceedings, the harder it becomes to conclude what it was that actually happened. What happened in the past is better left to return its effect on its own accord, for no one seems capable of finding its strings and pulling it together. Of course people enjoy being drawn into the complexity, thrilling and detailed, the ambiguity of any investigation. Agencies are set up, businesses are formed on the simple assumption that the world is concrete and must have a history. And people display a terrible indignity if you point out to them that the obvious trajectory of their preliminary findings, are somehow leading to only more detail, more suspense . . . They insist it is a truth commission, and do not bother to defend the assumed inviolate purity of their sources of information, as if these sources were scientifically established and already verified, proven reliable from experience! Such flimsy things as written reports and tape recordings! Well what I said was–what I said was, one must wait for the past to return, in order to see what it was. And no amount of investigation into it, on the mere basis of an assumption that it had to be real, preceding and producing where we are now, which is like in a fog, or in a miasma, or in a bright day that seems the first of its kind–as if it, this past, still stood there solidly, and had not in fact been left behind and utterly dismantled, dissipated, and gone crashing to its grave. Why do we not ponder and appreciate what has happened to life, as we go through it? Why do we not weep? Why do we not celebrate in the spirit of building on top the ruins of truth not established?
—–The nature of experiences, bounded and yet arranged as if around a center of meaning, gives a person the idea that life in general, or life in total, is meaningful in that same, circular way. Because we are always figuring things out, we come to the idea that the mystery of existence is just one, or just the largest, of these puzzles, and that we can apply the same methods to it. But life is incomplete, and will not remit it’s secret. The concept even, that there is one central secret, shows the habit, again and again. But no, life has no backdrop at all, no context. Is it this missing context, always pressing upon us, which has forced upon us an essentially insane focus–this attitude of rationality, and these methods for organizing experience? Are we shell-shocked?