What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
T.S. Eliot
hallelujah. i heard a yell and looked down and saw a man run across the street and another yell and a bang. the video downstairs showed a girl laying on the ground and being trundled into a truck. i don't freak out. maybe it's human nature, or maybe human nature is lost, i don't know. we live in the land of ultraviolence. everything here is normal. everything deadly is normalized.
Whatever power The Brutalist summons in its rags-to-perhaps-Zionism story is blunted by the unwillingness of its story to actually end where it leads. The film freely depicts the destruction of heroin addiction, the hidden cost of creative patronage, and how love is sustenance and wounds either heal or fester with time. But with Zionism, Corbet and Fastvold prove unable to even intimate the horrible truth to which it amounts: that the victims of the Nazi Holocaust, and even those further subject to American abuses of capitalist exploitation might be capable of perpetrating the same crimes against someone else.
WRITERS AGAINST THE WAR ON GAZA
listening to a talk about the coming time and black holes i thought of the recurrent dream i had as a kid of running along the crumbling edge of a chasm, unable to veer off to safe ground or fly over the abyss. i was afraid i would fall and die. i've written about this before but it's a new year 2025. i reckon the edge was like the event horizon, and the abyss was generative space. a cloud is just the sky condensed, a thought is just consciousness condensed. not knowing is potential condensed. the year is a soul-forging year. you don't have to avoid the void, give it a hug like a cat.