My eyes always want to close. There is this poem that I sometimes remember a line from, my mind pulls it somewhere out of the mysterious ether and it is simply-" there is too much." There is voice to consider, there is the history of everything, there is what informs how we perceive the history, there is what is contained within a moment, there is fragmented knowledge, there is desire. Oh desire. I have doubts about wholeness, what can be gleaned, learned, understood, and then there is- to make an argument! How absurd it seems that any criticism of power is anything but another expression that means to assert power. My sympathies fall to the side of- the spectacle can no longer be used as a means of shattering any political status quo. The only way we can each survive with some semblance of personhood intact is by celebrating small absurdist creative energies- in poetry, in mashed up ritual, in participatory engagements fragmented as they are- be they gif parties or dance parties or little operettas or big novels that organize chaos into narratives and let us be liberated- just as it was in the days of Greek tragedies and choruses. But- systematic break downs that explicate history and call it out? I have doubts…and am slightly concerned I'm becoming one of those really jaded postmodernists who no longer believes in history. But there is a VERY VERY large, universe-sized really, possibility that there is so much I've yet to understand. I've nothing to argue yet. I've only nights where I don't sleep worry about how I've nothing I feel I ought to convince anyone of.