[Response to “the home movie resumed its present-tensed glory…”]
Celebration, commonly marking the occurrence of something none fear nor respect, owed none of the offerings and homage due to idols and gods, neither fertile nor terrible. No blood can be spilled on such nights, for the community has found nothing permissible to sacrifice, only to run through, and waste.
What is most awful is not that it makes solitude impossible, for taking oneself apart from a ritual has long been known as simply another part of the ceremony, neither more nor less profane. It is what proliferates, unsacredly. All paths produce a multiplication of talk.
The self, being not a whole thing but a corporation of shadows, each nipping at the heels of the next, cannot but be a bickerer, forever squabbling over the baubles that fall into its intermittent light.
[read the response “We gathered in “salient dollops…”]