A revolution draws an end to anything that ever starts as if the slate forgets, writes white the memory, begets again a parody of finding a solution to the problems in the narrative amnesia reframes.
Resigned, a line is marked and plenaries receive records of all tried, yet failed and still to be achieved: the impact on ecology of economic greed summarily ‘agreed’, is written into memory as ‘revolutionary’.
Agendas list the same disputes: new plenaries convene to shred old manuscripts which list the things discussed today. A novel does the same, dressing lambs as wolves drawing to their end that the new and novel might go round once again.
Absurd and nihilistic scenes haunt recurrent nightmares slept between torn sheets: paper parched to confetti, ‘born astride the grave’*, wordless, weightless, slips from grasp to shift, return, erased. Amnesia personified can’t recognise its face.
- ‘born’ astride the grave’ Samuel Beckett. Waiting for Godot – Pozzo.