The air is quite suddenly alive with rich proposals, animated by pollinated prospects, charged with yearnings that no longer sound unreasonable. A Pied Piper tune drifts lazily through the streets, alighting softly on things. Like morning dew on yawning stone. What is this grand hush that embroiders itself with the world? I reckon it is this: that – against all odds – we have come to the edge of human power; that we are right at the precipice of the great anthropic project of conquering the world with language; that we will not solve our most intractable problems simply by putting the pieces together.
Simply put, we are at the tip of the tongue – and only a stuttering remains: the trouble of trying to articulate a world that resists intelligibility, the struggle to upgrade culture to transcend the humus it never really left behind, and the difficult realization that our best efforts to save the day often comes back to haunt us – like a demon that returns with his comrades to repossess an empty vessel. Can you sense it? Do you feel it? That grinding screech in the movement of things? That pregnant sigh long withheld in the hallways of modern power? That soft knowing that – in noticing the noise that is us – we have only just begun our true work?
