Thursday, November 16, 2017


I could never be a modern gal. The only useful context I have is pre-modern or mythical. My inundated notion of the Modernists, though always charming in the conception of their novelty, is one of a linear self-narrative which begins at their end. A novel in which the end is known and the events are divulged incrementally, not lavishly, in contrived retrospect----leading of course to the conclusion of the subject.

I am a lover of science----as it organizes the gathered information of our context. As an etiology of life it leaves me cold and shivering in the darkness. The three year old can see and feel Helios' Steed running across the sky, while any modern explanation----of measurements, of time, of endings----seems absurd. The theme of my life is ancient, the stuff of whims and accidents and misunderstandings where everything changes in a moment--joy or agony beyond understanding, yet so known, familiar, and eternal. Modernity is a Sergeant who has not earned his stripes, but exercises his authority with contrived authenticity. (I think you have earned your stripes.)

Pointless----of course! Purposeful and impossible----not sure. Fun/Horrifying--are these the same thing?


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Neat! Neat! Neat!