After years of defeat, resistance becomes a kind of self-flagellation:
« we are powerless against the powerful, so let us turn against each other, let us beat ourselves to a pulp, then return to submission, put on the straitjacket of self discipline, and hope our gods look upon us with favour tomorrow, or the day after that, or, someday…when we are pure »
To a friend: often it feels like we’re talking to a brick wall, as writers, artists, poets, journalists. Not least at times like these when the maddening crowd bays for more blood.
But the struggle to articulate, to speak — despite at times sounding like lone voices in the desert — is proof enough of the fact that the present order is far from legitimate. Thrumming beneath the surface of an apparent stasis is the possibility for radical turns in popular consciousness. We are only ahead, so to speak (and more often behind).
Despite our pretensions, we are only part of this story, often failing to grasp whether the shadows we see are the signs of dusk or dawn, and often failing to find the words to describe adequately the difference between both. We do not write the script. There is no script.
Trust that things, events, have a way of ‘rupturing’, in ways beautifully unexpected. The bullshit will unravel soon enough.
And one day we will find it in ourselves to say:
EarthReWrite 