the missing thing that is completely different from everything else, but everything has a stake in it.

Thursday, April 25, 2019

how I became a modern by hating the modern world





I hate new-fangled things.  I'm allergic to abrasive flashy novelty.  Yet it occurs to me that it's my obsession with the past that made me such a classical gothic modern.  I believe the authentic ones -- I didn't say necessarily successful ones -- aren't looking to be original. We just want to be stepping stones back with the first stone close enough to the present to leap to.  As Picasso said, before the works of Michelangelo, he felt smothered with shame.  And yet we're no doubt romanticizing it somewhat.  Maybe just having the sense to desire it is perfect.  I can't think of anything better. My cup runneth over.


(When you stop looking backward, you stop going forward; you become "post-modern," involuted and weird for no good reason, a machine or an "enlightened one" who woke up to being a machine just to claim the name "awakened" and then reverted, bereft of desire, though stimulus still stimulates automatic response via surface sensations driven by various drives, tomorrow recalculating and dispensing with today's calculations, which similarly operated on yesterday's, as you type away randomly to produce a line of Shakespeare after a billion years, no wonder resigned to the end of the world.  You are the hollow men who no more howl of your hollowness, as the ghosts of humanity that occupy your ghastly selves can only protest in pallid platitudes producing more of the same.  The slaves were luckier than you are.  Under the whip, they invented rock 'n roll.)