What is it that determines the structure of today’s writing. Is it the quest for unbroken relation? The obsession with truth? Refusal to accept reality?
The newest generation writes auto-fiction. The words on the page are not a relation to reality; they are reality. The question is:
What other things relate to this current state?
There are other interesting things that go on. But what things occur as usual? I still dutifully read things without the immediate sensations of a bookish child. There have been 8 so far this year, but only The Burnout Society found total quality. The others managed infrequent flickers (liminal trash). But I still continue through.
The new period is total fascism. A lovely mode within the unnecessary and trivial…
I return to the museum of art–reconciled after years of ashy avoidance. The modernity died in Aspen, to great disgust. We still are in wonder; is a return to our godsent and heroistic vector assuming itself? Does it now stand again, in its place of tapestry and goodness? I stare, only finding clarity escaped of blanketed sunlight. A final gleam by our great beloved. A straightened screed for the prim and proper. The things we state and declare mean less, blended into the background. A nice friend on the street corner makes his greeting. Only a brief encounter, but weighing enough to follow with rapturous shake.
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