Friday Afternoon Confessional: Un PoCo PoMo
I confess that I’m politically correct. Somehow I can’t make sense of not trying to be correct. Not that I am a perfectionist. Far from it, I am more of a post-perfectionist. It’s just that I don’t see where it helps to be impolite. Sure, it may bring some relief but isn’t relief best sought in private? Call me old fashioned for not wanting to be taken back to times wherein people interacted in more primitive ways.
I further confess that I am post-modern. This in the only sense in which I ever could make sense of that concept: that there is no modernity that stands to premodernity in the way prehistory stands to history. There’s only one real break in history and that is the one that caused there to be history at all. Since then: “Nous sommes tous des déracinés.” It is a pity that the closest English word I know of is ‘uprooted’. It is so crass, it doesn’t do justice to the mellow feeling of melancholy for roots that never were. It doesn’t do justice to the fact that we were always like that, but that it took us about 10K years before we started to really realize it. We have been uprooted from the time we started to create roots.
Pues, estoy un poco pomo. Ain’t that nice?
I finally confess that this frequency is killing me. It also keeps me even more away from my serious work. See how I resisted the temptation to put that in quotes? Bravo me!
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