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shadows of echoes of memories of songs
Is this thing on and on and on
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j4 From: j4 Date: February 16th, 2015 11:20 pm (UTC) (Link)
Oh goodness, I'm sorry for not replying to all this sooner, but it's the same wanting-to-say-everything-and-ending-up-saying-nothing (Original Fail is inherent in everything at every level, it's probably fractal). Thank you for the words and the songs! I always loved 'Hello'. Life _is_ a strange thing, isn't it, but I don't think I have a clue how to use it yet. Maybe that's a good thing.

I wish I could talk to you properly some time. You make so much sense of things and it feels so much more... authentic? [not sure what the word I'm looking for is but that's close enough for this time of night] ... than when I try. :-}
pentamer From: pentamer Date: March 1st, 2015 11:49 pm (UTC) (Link)
I like the sound of Original Fail, it's theology for our time! :-)

I guess you'll recognise how I've tried to reply two or three times and deleted it as pompous or tangential wind. I like the sound of tangential wind: maybe we can tack our way forwards (or other man with a watch pointing at his yacht in the club-book montage type terminology) with its aid, :-) .

I don't know if it's always been like our generation: an dancers and an orchestra trying to put on a ballet wearing full NBC equipment, attached to tangled air lines. In the end I think we just kind of develop our endogenous valium and it helps because it means we don't hurt people. Like the way people say that there's endorphins released when there's physical pain. But it does mean that everything goes horribly 1950s. Hey ho.

I think, when you're here, it always seems more authentic to hear stuff coming from other people: other people always seem much more convincing as actually existing than I do. I've certainly always appreciated you expressing it.

Words-and-pictures wise, these days I mainly indulge in either cheap sentimentality, the avant garde, or medieval, baroque, or modern religious stuff. (Kind of skip from the end of Bach and Poussin to the start of Wagner and Delacriox, everything in-between is a horrible burden).

Which reminds me of Müller's wonderful Hamletmaschine. It always reminds me of you when I read it because of the "Bla bla" near the start which I remember being a favourite of yours, but particularly Hamlet's speech at the start of Act Four, which I'll comment separately.

pentamer From: pentamer Date: March 2nd, 2015 12:00 am (UTC) (Link)
This is what I was reminded of;

I am not Hamlet. I play no role anymore. My words have nothing more to say to me. My thoughts suck the blood of images. My drama is cancelled. Behind me the scenery is being taken down. By people who are not interested in my drama, for people, to whom it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter to me either. I’m not playing along anymore. [Stagehands install, unknown to Hamlet-actor, a refrigerator and three TV sets. Humming of the refrigerator. Three programs without sound]. The scenery is a monument. It portrays a man who made history, a hundred times life-size. The petrification of a hope. His name in interchangeable. The hope has not been fulfilled. The monument lies on the ground, razed three years after the state funeral of the Hated and Honored One by those who now rule us. And the stone is inhabited.
My place, if my drama ever took place, would be at both sides of the front, between the fronts, over them. I stand in the sweating masses and throw stones at the police soldiers tanks bulletproof glass. I glance through the double-door outfitted with bulletproof glass at the oncoming crowd and smell the perspiration of my fear. I shake, choked with nausea, my fist against myself, standing behind the bulletproof glass.
My drama has not taken place. The script was lost. The actors hung their faces on the nails of the garderobe. The stage-prompter rots in his box. The overstuffed plague-corpses in the audience don’t move a finger. I go home and kill time, at one / with my undivided self. Television The daily revulsion Disgust at prefabricated babble At manufactured merriment How do you spell FRIENDLINESS

From Act Four of Hamletmaschine, by Heiner Mueller, as translated by Dennis Redmond.
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