My feet hit the ground with all too familiar a feeling. The immediate surroundings fade into a monotone, a flat note. The walk to class is an exercise in realism. Now, across the bridge, my feet clattering down those steps.
I’m coming closer to meaning.
Everything is all stress on the walk to the Language and Communication building. I’m anticipating more startling realizations. I foresee the interconnectivity of our cultures. It’s disconcerting when you realize that nothing about history is really accurate. Watch Nuit et Brouillard by Alain Resnais and you’ll get an idea of what I’m saying. The real history is in the midst of those grains of film: The pale hands in rigor mortis clutching at the sky; vacant eyes; skin stretched impossibly thin over brittle bones.
See Herodotus, see The Triumph of the Will, see The White Man’s Burden, see the Holy Bible.
Collective memory is an untrustworthy bitch, a shifting target. What the fuck happened anyway?