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Many of the shades of the departed busy themselves entirely with lapping at the waters of the Acheron, because it comes from us and still carries the salt tang of our seas. This causes the river to coil with revulsion, and even to reverse its course, and so to wash the dead back to life. They are perfectly happy, and sing chorus of gratitude, and caress the indignant river.
When I first wrote Almost Heaven, I didn't quite know what I was trying to achieve (and I don't think I have achieved it). However, the above quote has, in a sense, expressed the core principle and motivation behind the conception of my (unoriginal) text.
As we seem perfectly happy, singing and caressing that imaginary river(s), what we fail to see is a Dante image that is entirely fabricated by a supposed cosmology too embedded in us (or them) to see its fabrication. This image is a poetic creation. A world created by logos.
Every production washes the dead back to life. Every reproduction brings back the smiles and memories of yester-eras. But does every reproduction return us to the garden?
It is a pure carnival; an obsession to live the moment of salvation again and again. It is to experience that moment of fall and rise again and again. It is to be exalted again and again,
Each repetition and flux of the moving engine/waterwheel is to re-create the circus of fools where repentance is simulated again and again. But each time, it negates. Each time it goes nowhere except its own destruction. Every creative reproduction is really a destructive negation.
For a while, we think the dead are back, materialised by the physical presence of performers.
For a while, the Garden of Eden is revisited, materialised by the steel and plywood of our contemporary machines.
Yes, rivers bring life. But a river of recycled pollution will commit a vicious cycle of repetition, threatens the finished work and increases the viscosity of our accumulated debt.
I thank that the finished work is once and always sufficient in that one moment in eternity.
Every narrative is a repetition of a previous in grotesque proportions.
But if you are happy, who cares?
He cares.
Many of the shades of the departed busy themselves entirely with lapping at the waters of the Acheron, because it comes from us and still carries the salt tang of our seas. This causes the river to coil with revulsion, and even to reverse its course, and so to wash the dead back to life. They are perfectly happy, and sing chorus of gratitude, and caress the indignant river.
When I first wrote Almost Heaven, I didn't quite know what I was trying to achieve (and I don't think I have achieved it). However, the above quote has, in a sense, expressed the core principle and motivation behind the conception of my (unoriginal) text.
As we seem perfectly happy, singing and caressing that imaginary river(s), what we fail to see is a Dante image that is entirely fabricated by a supposed cosmology too embedded in us (or them) to see its fabrication. This image is a poetic creation. A world created by logos.
Every production washes the dead back to life. Every reproduction brings back the smiles and memories of yester-eras. But does every reproduction return us to the garden?
It is a pure carnival; an obsession to live the moment of salvation again and again. It is to experience that moment of fall and rise again and again. It is to be exalted again and again,
Each repetition and flux of the moving engine/waterwheel is to re-create the circus of fools where repentance is simulated again and again. But each time, it negates. Each time it goes nowhere except its own destruction. Every creative reproduction is really a destructive negation.
For a while, we think the dead are back, materialised by the physical presence of performers.
For a while, the Garden of Eden is revisited, materialised by the steel and plywood of our contemporary machines.
Yes, rivers bring life. But a river of recycled pollution will commit a vicious cycle of repetition, threatens the finished work and increases the viscosity of our accumulated debt.
I thank that the finished work is once and always sufficient in that one moment in eternity.
Every narrative is a repetition of a previous in grotesque proportions.
But if you are happy, who cares?
He cares.
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