Understand, what we’re confronting here is a reversal, Peripeteia: call it the evil of banality, the protocol by which we enkitsch the lives of the no longer living, rendering the rendered unto Caesars unceasing, offering their memory up to the dicts of any armchair dictator, to the pronouncements of any weekend historian, decrees from the sofa, the judgments of the further den. Here’s what we’ve only now understood. You’re either historically alive, or you’re historically dead. There’s no argument there. And that the purpose of life is only to revolt against dying, and that we do this, all of us do, through our rallies and speeches, some delivered to millions, others kept locked in our heads, marches and parades through what was Berlin or our bedrooms, through wars both global and intimate, fought forever and on infinite fronts. Please, it’s all about relations (discourse with an image, intercourse with the imaged and yadda), all a matter of access, of narrative angle, story arc. Institutional support. A career track. O the tenure of breath. Pay attention. Important. How we live amidst the publicity of privation. Witness the unique willingness of our people to package the product of experience both collective and individual, only to market it — that experience of living through history, that experience of being forced to live against history (as simulacra not impelled by duress but by choice, it’s been said, not compelled by oppression, torture or threat, but amazingly by elective affinity) — it becoming a matter of preference to engage such sensation, to become occupied by such strange infotainment, as virtualized in seemingly every medium to be just enough real that you’ll come out of the commerce alive, and perhaps even willing to be upsold on an ever newer revelation, an even more intimate experience: that of your own life no longer yours, lived only between the deaths of your preference. Identify and die, deny thrice and survive, up to you. Debread the morning. Crumbling noon. Mooncrust saved for soup of nightsky. Birdfingered. Candletoed. They’ve drunk the dogs, they’ve eaten the hooves…sleepless — they’ve forgotten how to dream, in what language. This is what they remember, from what they never knew, from what they never experienced and never will, and we all say — Never Again! Camps are reconstructed. Reopened.
