So silly, being here. And frankly, it’s rather inane for you to follow suit. Because you were told.
Joyce-said-I-said-Pynchon-said-Jesus-said nothing much new. What’s new that was, and still is, and by all stars is going to be? But here we are, me still writing and you still reading. As though expecting the birth of an idea.
It’s been had. And so have you. Love is nothing new, suffering is nothing new, bile and buff are nothing new. Shining light on a artifact, putting it under glass, in a museum, on a holiday—well, that’s not much to say about newness, is it? But we say it, like this: “Come visit this new artifact! This new museum. This newness of oldness.” We’re daft dolts in a sea of old, I tell you.
By God we’re afraid of old! What was cannot be without being with something new. We’d like to think we’re newness born on our birthday, but the bald truth is that our bald baby selves have been birthed millions of times before. Birthing isn’t new, birth isn’t new. We are to be expected.
And so we shed our love of old, because if we’re old, there’s nothing new to be discovered. Attention fades away like a hurried sunset or a comet drop. And we wallow in our empty selves, being nothing more than what was before. What is our purpose then?
To think, to see. Seeing isn’t new, thinking isn’t fresh, but the thoughts are different—slightly. I know love much as in the Song of Solomon but I don’t love in the Song of Solomon—I love now. And that is what is reborn. And what was is old, and birth is old, but this is something new. Do you follow, being in love like you are?
And yet I said not to follow suit. Follow self, I believe. No newness there, but is-ness, and was-ness, and self-ness. Uniqueness. And that is worth a thousand sunsets which we know so well, and comets which fall through generations. As of old.