After smoking, the body thinks.  Catastrophe, riot, factories blowing up, armies in flight, flood—the ear can detect a whole apocalypse in the starry night of the human body.

                                  — Jean Cocteau, Opium

 

Two possibilities remain for the age of the completion of modernity:  either the violent and rash end (which looks like a catastrophe, but in its already determined triviality is too lowly to be able to be such a thing), or else the current situation of unconditional manipulation just going on endlessly decaying.

                       — Martin Heidegger, Überlegungen XII (GA 96)  

 

What today is unjustly named “peace” is the continuation or the extension of war by other means.  No, neighbors!  The preparation for an event for which the expression “war” is no longer suited.

                                  —  Günther Anders, Hiroshima Ist Überall 

The catastrophe may not be coming.  It may already be here.  The catastrophe may be that there is really no such thing as “the coming catastrophe.”  We may already be buried beyond hope under the catastrophe of an endless continuation of one equivalent catastrophe after another—for example, Hiroshima followed by Nagasaki, followed by Three Mile Island, followed by Chernobyl, followed by Fukushima, followed by whatever’s nuclear disaster happens to come next—ad infinitum.   That’s what Heidegger envisions, in the lines from him above, as the second of the two possibilities he mentions.  And the first of those two possibilities is really not that different from the second, since an unending string of equivalent catastrophes just becomes “the new normal,” with nothing truly new under that sun, not even any truly new catastrophe.  Catastrophe itself loses all its catastrophic quality.  (Always, just one after another of the same old catastrophes, with no end to it!  Bor-ing!)

At any rate, whether the catastrophe is still on the way, or already happened long ago and from now on just keeps on keeping on forever after, the catastrophe is, as Günther Anders suggests in his lines above, no longer one to which such terms as “war” and the like—including even the name “catastrophe”—are any longer suited.  Really to succeed in saying what we are trying to say when we talk today, this never-ending day of the age of the completion of modernity, about “the catastrophe,” we would need an altogether new language, or at least a new relationship to our old one, as Heidegger used to like to say.  We would need something like what Benedict Anderson, in Imagined Communities:  Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (revised e-edition:  Verso, 20006; original edition:  Verso, 1983) calls a “sacred language,” which is to say a language that is no longer just another  “vernacular” one, no longer just another language people somewhere actually speak to one another as they go about common transactions in their everyday lives.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Over the Valentine’s Day weekend of 1982 my wife and I left our son (our daughter’s birth was still a bit over a year away) with my parents and flew away from the cold of a Denver February, and into the warmth of Mazatlan--where we stayed at the Camino Real Hotel en la playa (“on the beach”) just to the north of the main city.  One morning around 10:00 that weekend, as I was finishing my second  Cerveza Pacifico (my version of doing what the Romans did when one was in Rome was to drink the local beer wherever I happened to be at the time), I had a vision--a “mystical experience,” one in which I “saw the very face of God,” as I thought and spoke of it even then, long before I had any real truck with God-talk or the like (which only happened after I stopped drinking cervezas—or Scotch, or gin, or whatever else you had handy).

I never forgot what I saw then.  It was the truth. 

*     *     *     *     *     *

In his discussion of “sacred languages” in Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson’s main example of a sacred language is Latin during the European Middle Ages.  Latin had once been a vernacular language, a “native tongue” or “mother tongue” that children, with no need for special schooling or explicit instruction, just picked up naturally at home, as the everyday language of the nation, the “people,” into which the child was born.  Such a language is a language of the hearth, not of the market place—or only of the latter insofar as when one goes out in public one continues to speak the same language that one speaks at home, which is exactly what occurs when markets and other common places for sharing with others remain local.  The situation changes once markets and the like go trans-national, which is to say become polyglot places, places where a variety of regional, vernacular languages are all spoken, because trade and sharing is carried on between diverse communities, that is, “peoples” or “nations.”  (I will consider what happens in such trans-national situations more fully later.)  

Originally, Latin had been—to put it in Latin—just such a domestic matter, something belonging to the domus, the “household,” for those who spoke it.  Only later did Latin become a res publica, a “public thing” (cosa nostra, “our thing,” to use what turns out to be an all too appropriate term from Italian, one of the vernacular languages that eventually evolved from Latin itself).  By the time Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Romanian and all the other Romance languages had evolved from the Roman language of Latin, the latter had altogether ceased to be a native language, a mother tongue children just picked up naturally at home.  It had ceased to be spoken everyday at home in any place in Europe (or elsewhere, for that matter), at least in the overwhelmingly vast majority of homes.  Latin had instead become something that required explicit instruction to learn—a language in which one had to be literally schooled.   Latin had ceased being a domestic language, and had instead become an academic one.

Latin became an academic matter, that is, a matter of explicit schooling, rather than a domestic one, just something one picked up naturally at home, because of the in-egalitarian social forms that Europe had inherited from Rome along with Latin.   As long as the common people were to be kept subordinated to an elite, then Latin, as the “universal language” of the day, was also reserved to that elite, as the very language that communicated elitism the way contact with carriers communicates disease, to adapt the notion of “communication” to fit the case at hand.  To protect the insecure ruling elite, Latin could not be allowed to become any mere lingua franca, which means literally “Frankish language” or “language of the Franks”—or “Bastard Spanish” as the Online Etymology Dictionary (www.etymonline.com) tells me it was sometimes called in 17th century English sources.  Whatever such lingos are called, at issue are the mixed, “pidgin” forms of speaking that common people naturally develop, with no need for schools and instruction from appointed and certified teachers held accountable for their teaching, in order to communicate with one another across all their vernacular linguistic borders.  

For those denied access to the schools—or for those granted access to them as part of the ruling elite, but who, as St. Gregory says of St. Benedict in the former’s classic, brief biography of the latter, freely chose to remain “wisely uneducated,” when faced with such all too Roman things as schools—it was precisely the lingua franca or “Bastard Spanish” of their day that gave them a truly universal, which is to say trans-national, language for conducting all the common business of truly common life, that very ongoing, thronging life upon which the elites themselves constantly depended for their very own survival.  In contrast, the language used in the courts, schools, tribunals, and other organs of force and enforcement for keeping the elite in power—in which institutions that language had the status of being the officially “universal” language of the day—was reserved to the elite.  Throughout the European Middle Ages that officially universal language was Latin.  

Such an officially universal language could be accurately characterized as “universal” only in the perfidious sense that it was the language used everywhere by the powerful to impose their power over others.  Accordingly, it was anything but “universal” in the non-perfidious sense, namely, the language spoken everywhere by everyone everyday in community.  In that latter sense of the term, it was not Latin that was the universal language of the European Middle Ages—at least “universal” across Europe, which is already an obvious tweaking of the notion of universality.  Rather, the language that was truly universal in that non-perfidious sense was precisely the pidgin tongue that the nose-thumbing, Latin-literate, über-national, ruling elite of the age derisively referred to as “Frankish language,” or maybe “Bastard Spanish.”   

As the “officially” universal language of that age, Latin was nothing that could just be picked up naturally at home, as a “national” language, a language belonging to some one “nation” in the original sense of the word, namely, a community of people indigenous to some limited area.  Nor was it some simple, pidgin mix of divers national languages that one picked up naturally in one’s everyday dealings with polyglot others in trans-national markets or other places of trans-national sharing and exchange between diverse peoples from diverse regions.  Instead, Latin was something the learning of which was confined to schools, which is to say institutions that were themselves among the most important elite-serving organs of force and enforcement.  The overwhelming majority of the people who lived in that day could not speak, read, or write that supposedly “universal” language.   Only those who claimed and held power could speak, read, or write Latin; and the speaking, reading, and writing of Latin belonged itself to the claiming and holding of such power. 

*    *     *     *     *     *

What I saw in Mazatlan in February of 1982, when I was staying there with my wife in the upscale Camino Real hotel over the Valentine’s Day weekend, was grass growing tall in the cracks between the cobblestones on the paths around the resort.  I saw the Camino Real hotel in ruins, and the ruins already returning to the jungle that had come back to claim its proper place.  

I looked to the rest of Mazatlan, the bulk of which lay south of the north beach area where we were staying.  I saw the whole city in ruins, all vanishing back into the triumphantly, inexorably, but gently returning jungle.  

To the west, away from the beach, I saw all the highways around and through the town abandoned, and already overgrown with vegetation reclaiming the land.  The roads were void of traffic and littered here and there with rusting hulks of abandoned vehicles—cars, busses, and trucks.  Some rabbits hopped along the road at places.

I looked up.  No contrails tracked across the sky.  No planes flew there.  No helicopters patrolled the beach, nor were there any motorboats pulling kites with swim-clad men and women strapped safely into them, to soar above the crowds of swimmers and sunbathers below—had there been any.  But they were all gone, too.  No bathers lolled in beach chairs on the sand, or swam in the warm ocean waters.  Nor were there any local entrepreneurial traders walking up and down the beach, accosting the tourists, trying to sell them blankets, trinkets, or anything else they could muster up.  

In sum, I saw what came after the collapse of the entire system of unending economic expansion and exploitation, and the ever-deepening impoverishment that inevitably accompanies it.  I saw the return of what had been there all along, biding its time till it could return, patiently awaiting the inevitably coming catastrophe.  I saw peace descended again over all the earth after that whole seemingly endless economic battle had actually ended, and I heard the silence that had come back over everything again once all the noise of our “civilization” had fallen away.  And I saw all the sovereign nations everywhere drawn back into tribes, those nations before there were sovereigns.

 In Mazatlan in February of 1982, I saw all that—and I saw that it was good.  Void of anything I would have been willing to call “belief,” I nevertheless gave thanks to the God who had created all this.

*     *     *     *     *     *

What is sacred or holy is literally what has been set apart as special, freed from limits, which is to say made absolute, from Latin ab-, “from or away,” and solvere, “to loosen or free.”  To be truly a sacred language, one holy and absolute, a language would have to be freed from all subservience, whether to everyday interests in the simple preservation or enjoyment of individual or communal life, or to the interests of a ruling elite in preserving and enjoying special privileges denied to the vast majority of people—hoi polloi, “the many” (in Greek, not Latin).

Accordingly, Latin in the European Middle Ages was no truly sacred language, however much it served the interests of the elite to have it pass as one.  It was far from a language loosened from all ties that bound it, and thereby set free solely to speak, which is what a language as such does.  Rather, Latin in the European Middle Ages was a language shanghaied into bondage to serve power— deprived of its own power, the power of speech, of saying what is, and made to tell lies instead.  Latin in those ages was therefore the very opposite of sacred.  It was sheer blasphemy.  Any God of that day would have had to speak some other language than Latin—perhaps Bastard Spanish.  

 

II.

Real vision today is only possible with closed eyes; and today the only “realist” is someone who has enough “fantasy” to paint the fantastic morrow.

-- Günther Anders, Hiroshima Ist Überall

. . . nothing is ever past.

The actual value of memory lies in this insight that nothing is past.

                                    -- Elias Canetti, The Human Province, two entries from 1971

 

Truth plays with us.  Sometimes it trifles and toys with us as a cat might a mouse.  Then its play with us becomes delusion, which comes from the Latin de-, used here as a negative intensifier, and luder, “to play.”  We ordinarily understand delusion in a negative sense, as something that plays with us in such a way as to lead us astray.  We think that delusion teases us, and appears to us to do so with malice.  In the same way, a cat playing with a mouse capable of imagining such things as deliberation and malice might appear to that mouse to be deliberately malicious.  

That appearance, however, would be an illusion, from the same root meaning “play,” plus the prefix il-, a form of in-, used here in the sense of “against.”  How the cat’s play appeared to such an imagination-able imaginary mouse would be a distortion of the truth, a twisting or torturing of it.  In the same way, even when truth plays with us, that is, deludes us, truth is not in truth malicious.  As toying with a mouse before killing it is just in the nature of the cat, so is deluding us just in the nature of truth, when that’s how truth strikes us. 

*     *     *     *     *     *

At one point in “Cultural Roots,” the second chapter of Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson observes that it was through such “sacred silent [because written, not vernacular] languages” as, to use his own examples, Latin during the European Middle Ages, Arabic in Islamic tradition, or the ideograms of classical Chinese writing, that “the great global communities of the past were imagined.”  However, such set apart, non-spoken, written languages could serve as such media for imagination only because “the reality of such apparitions”—that is, of such visions of universal community—“depended on an idea largely foreign to the contemporary Western mind.”  That idea, according to Anderson, was “the non-arbitrariness of the sign.”  To understand just what he means by that, we need to look at the examples he then gives of “sacred” languages, which is to say languages consisting of such “non-arbitrary signs.”  

His first example is “[t]he ideograms of Chinese,” which, he says, “were emanations of reality, not randomly fabricated representations of it.”  In other words, they were not the results of convention, but rather of what we might well call projection—which I mean in just the sense that, for example, images in dreams work, by Freud’s analysis, as projections of repressed wishes.

“We are all familiar,” writes Anderson next, to give his second example, “with the long dispute over the appropriate language (Latin or vernacular) for the mass.”  What is at issue for Anderson in that second example really only begins to clarify itself, in my judgment, when he progresses to his third one.  To introduce that third example he writes—with emphasis added to highlight what is to me the truly salient point:  “In the Islamic tradition, until quite recently, the Qur’an was literally untranslatable (and therefore untranslated), because Allah’s truth was accessible only through the unsubstitutable signs of written Arabic.”  He then follows up with a remark that, by my reading, is the clincher.  “There is no idea here,” he writes—that is, as I read him, no idea in any such “sacred language” as ideograms in Chinese tradition, Latin in Roman Catholic tradition, or Arabic in Islamic tradition—“of a world so separated from language that all languages are equidistant (and thus interchangeable) signs for it.”   Once again I have added the emphasis in that line, to bring out what I consider to be the crucial operative notion at issue.

That is the notion of the substitutability or interchangeability—the equivalence—of all languages, insofar as languages are reduced to mere systems of signs that refer to a world from which they have all been equally separated, and hence in relation to which they are all “equidistant,” as Anderson says.  That is, insofar as languages can be substituted or interchanged for one another, it is precisely because they have all been equally “separated” from the world, all placed at one and the same distance (“equidistant”) from the world—and become, in such equi-distance, equi-valent (equal in “value”) to one another.  Accordingly, to the extent that all languages can be translated into one another, no one language has anything special to say, anything that cannot be said just as well in any other language.  All languages become interchangeable with one another, and no language is set apart any longer as special—special as language, which opens a world, as opposed to being special in the sense of being reserved to the some elite, who have stolen it and set it aside as their special property. 

*     *     *     *     *     *

A sacred language is an irreplaceable one.  No other language can be substituted or interchanged for it.  There are no equivalent languages, that is, other languages that could serve just as well as it for saying whatever it might be able to say.  A sacred language does not refer to some world from which it is separated off and set at a distance.  Rather, a sacred language projects a world, opens a world in the first place, letting it first be as a place where people can build a dwelling for themselves.  

The untranslatability of one sacred language into any other is the untranslatability of worlds as such.  Worlds are incommensurable with one another, and there can be no exchange or substitution of one for another, any more than one beloved person (or even guinea pig) can be exchanged or substituted for another.  One may some day come to love another, after one’s beloved has died; but there is no substituting of one beloved for another.  Each is unique.  It’s the same with worlds, and the languages that, in speaking, open them. 

When a language ceases to be capable of projecting a world, opening it for building and dwelling in—rather than just referred to as an already given world from which the language has been artificially separated and set at a distance—then the language dies.     The world the language once opened closes off.  It dies, too.  The world is not there at all any longer even just to be referred to, let alone lived in.

When Latin ceased to be a vernacular language and came to be reserved for the few, put to service to ensure their special entitlement, sacrilege was committed against Latin as a sacred language.  Even when blasphemed, what’s holy is still holy.   Otherwise, one could not blaspheme against it in the first place.  Just so, even after having sacrilege committed against it by the Medieval elite, Latin remained a sacred language, which is to say a language that opened a world.  Latin remained a living language even after it had been sold into bondage to the ruling elite, and no longer permitted to the people in common — permitted them so that, in speaking back in their commonplaces what they heard Latin say, they might build for themselves a common place.

Eventually, however, even the elite ceased to have access to the world of Latin.  Then Latin truly did die, along with the world it once opened.

*     *     *     *     *     *

In a journal entry he includes in Hiroshima Is Everywhere (Hiroshima Ist Überall, pages 56-58), Günther Anders recounts a breakfast conversation he had one day in 1958, when he was in Japan to participate in an international conference for nuclear disarmament.  The conversation was with an American professor of economics who also happened to be in Japan.  After the American arrogantly dismisses Anders’s disarmament concerns as “utopian,” Anders turns the tables on his tablemate by saying that it is he, the American, who is the utopian.  The economics professor has just pompously predicted that by, say, 1970 or 2000 (it is to be remembered that the conversation is taking place in 1958), the earth will still have human occupants on it, and won’t be reduced to a “dead cinder circling the sun.”  Well, Anders, replies, all the odds are that that’s exactly what the earth will be reduced to by then, if nothing is done to stop the rampant nuclear proliferation and stockpiling of nuclear weapons by Cold War contestants.  So the American is the one being “utopian,” says Anders, in denying what is there to be seen by anyone who has eyes to see, and the will to use them.

Of course, we who have all survived till 2015 can look back with condescension on both parties to that long-ago breakfast conversation.  We can still find the American economics professor to have been an ass, but we can also look down on Anders himself, albeit with charity for his meaning well.  However well-grounded Anders’s prediction may have been on the basis of the evidence available at that time, it is so clear as to hardly merit noting that subsequent history has obviously proven him to be the one who was wrong, and the ugly American right.  After all, we are already 45 years past 1970, and even 15 past 2000, and, as the American predicted, the earth is indeed still not reduced to a dead cinder circling the sun.  People in ever greater abundance still hop around all over its surface, apparently as ineradicable as cockroaches (to paraphrase one of Nietzsche’s lines).  

 Or do we just lack the eyes to see?  

Anders himself falls prey, perhaps, to an all too common lapse of vision, when he takes his own concern for banning the bomb and encouraging disarmament to be founded on any such thing as a prediction—a “saying in advance,” from Latin prae-, “beforehand, prior to,” and dicere, “to say”.  However, what struck me when, some four years ago, I first read the passages from his journal in which Anders recounts that now-old conversation, was that back then he was really not advancing any prediction at all, and that by taking himself to have been speaking at the level of predictions, he played unknowingly into the know-it-all American’s equally but differently unknowing hands.  

Here is one way I might put the point:  To take the whole issue to be one of competing predictions is to reduce it to a matter of the American being “optimistic” and Anders being “pessimistic,” and arguing about which of those two is the most “realistic.”  However, what was really at issue—so it struck me strongly when I first read the passage—was not prediction at all, one way or another.  Rather, it was a matter of prophecy, which the Online Etymology Dictionary (www.etymonline.com) tells me ultimately derives from the Greek prophetes, meaning “ ‘an interpreter, spokesman,’ especially of the gods, ‘inspired preacher or teacher.’ ” 

The same source also tells me that the Greek prophetes was used in the Setpuagint—the translation of Hebrew scripture done by and for Greek-speaking Jews in the 2nd to 3rd centuries BCE, then later also adopted by the early Christian church—to render the Hebrew word nabj, “soothsayer,” that is “one who speaks the truth.”  That is what Anders was doing, speaking the truth, which is not at all a matter of making some sort of “prediction.”  It is, rather, a matter of saying what is.

Thus, what struck me was that, though Anders himself may have thought he was speaking Latin, he was actually speaking Greek, a very different language indeed.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Latin is a language of power, whereas Greek is a language of thought.  At least that is how things have gone since Latin became the (pseudo-)universal language of those who exercised power—that is, since Latin, withdrawn from common usage, was  set aside for special use by the elite, as the language they used among themselves to protect their dominance, during the European Middle Ages.  

Heidegger often said things to the same effect about Latin and Greek, though he arrives at that destination while walking along his own pathways, rather than the one I’ve been walking in this blog-series.  That Latin is the language of power is also for me one level of resonance to be heard in Jacques Derrida’s insistence that what has commonly come to be called “globalization” is really a matter of “globalatinization,” as he puts it* (with my emphasis added). (Also see the first note at the end of this post.)

Today, all of us—everybody everywhere around the whole globe—speaks Latin.  It’s the only language any of us speaks any longer.  The problem, however, is that none of us really knows any longer what we’re saying when we speak it.  For the overwhelmingly vast majority of us, such knowledge was long, long ago reserved for the elite, to which so few of us ever belonged.  On the other hand, the ever fewer and fewer among us who do belong to the truly privileged elite of our endless day of the going-global of the economy—the .1 or .01 of 1% (or whatever it currently is, since the number continues to dwindle drastically) who already own pretty much everything everywhere, and will continue to come into possession of more and more of it as the clock continues to tick—no longer understand Latin, either.  That’s because it long ago (less long ago than when Latin was first made blasphemous, but still a long while back) ceased to be necessary for the elite to learn it, to use it among themselves in order to insure their privilege.  And that, in turn, is because the only people who might ever have really questioned that privilege, long ago lost any language still left sacred enough even to be able to protest against such blasphemy.  

So, today, everyone everywhere without exception speaks Latin, but nobody anywhere any longer knows what anyone is ever saying in that tongue.  We all just keep on chattering away mindlessly.

No wonder Anders misunderstood himself in his long-ago breakfast conversation with the American economics professor! (How appropriate on all three counts: “American,” “economics,” and “professor”!)  

*     *     *     *     *     *

What we need, then, is a new sacred language.  We need it even—and above all—to name clearly just whywe need it:  the dimensions of the crisis at hand for us all, without exception, in the very loss of such language, and the catastrophe that threatens us all in that crisis.

At least that is one way that I would like what I said at the very beginning of this current series of blog posts on “ ‘Screen-visions,’ Prophecy, and My Mazatlan Weekend” to be taken, when I wrote:  “The catastrophe may not be coming.  It may already be here.  The catastrophe may be that there is really no such thing as ‘the coming catastrophe.’ ”

There are other ways as well.

 

III.

We’re not experiencing a crisis of capitalism but rather the triumph of crisis capitalism. . . . The present crisis, permanent and omni-lateral, is no longer the classic crisis, the decisive moment.  On the contrary, it’s an endless end, a lasting apocalypse, an indefinite suspension, an effective postponement of actual collapse, and for that reason a permanent state of exception.

                                    — The Invisible Committee, To Our Friends** (See 2nd note at end of this post.)

 

In what I have come to regard as the truly proper sense of the term, a “prophecy” is a telling, a speaking-forth and thereby letting-be-seen, of truth.  Prophecy tells truth in a way that emphasizes what might be called the “futural” dimension of truth’s nature as sheer arrival.  Truth as truth is always in arrival—which literally means “touching shore” (from Latin ad-, to or toward, and ripa, shore)—insofar as truth itself is the casting of light wherein what is shows itself.   When that light stops shining, truth stops being truth.  It follows that only a literally “fore-casting” speaking of truth, one that casts truth forth, speaks truth truthfully, that is, truly accords with the always advent-al (from Latin ad-, plus venire, to come) nature of truth itself:  Only prophecy truly tells the truth.

So understood, a prophecy is a sort of screen-vision, an “image” in and as which truth literally fore-casts itself.  The term “screen-vision” should be taken in a sense parallel to that in which we speak of a “screen-memory,” in the sense I have discussed in this blog before—as well as in my book The Open Wound:  Trauma, Identity, and Community (CreateSpace, 2013).  In that sense, a screen-memory is a memory that simultaneously conceals and reveals—or more precisely reveals in its very concealing and conceals in its very revealing—thereby reflecting the very nature of the trauma of which it constitutes the “memory.”  Insofar as a trauma is an event that, when it strikes, cannot be “processed” or “comprehended” by those it strikes, such an event cannot be retained in any simply representational image, as though in a snapshot.  It is in that sense not available to be “remembered” at all, if remembering is taken to be no more than pulling up some sort of representation of an earlier, already comprehended or experientially processed event, its quasi-photographic reproduction in a “memory image.”  What has never produced at the level of such an image in the first place cannot later be re-produced in one either.  

Thus, as traumatic, an event is not an objectified externality that can simply be referenced by images or other signs that are supposed to represent it thanks to some iconic, indexical, or even just conventionally symbolic connection.  In that sense, the relation of images to the traumatic is actually the same as that of “sacred languages” to the sacred, as Benedict Anderson describes that notion.  “A sacred language,” as I wrote in recounting Anderson in my preceding post, the second of this series, “does not refer to some world from which it is separated off and set at a distance.  Rather, a sacred language projects a world, opens a world in the first place, letting it first be as a place where people can build a dwelling for themselves.”  In the same way, what we might call a traumatic image—whether in the form of a “memory,” or of a “vision”:  that is, casting backward or forward respectively—would be an image that was not distanced from the traumatic event it imaged, distanced in such a way that we could speak of how closely the image “resembled” the traumatic event itself.  Instead, the image would itself belong to the traumatic event as such, literally pro-jecting or retro-jecting rather than just “re-presenting” it.  

So, for example, the “screen-memory” of a traumatic event itself belongs to that very event, being part of its event-ing, as we might put it.  The screen-memory of a trauma is itself, we could say, one of the “after-shocks” set off by the initial shock of the trauma as such—thus belonging to the very process whereby the traumatic shock continues to “register” itself.  In that way—serving in effect as what we might call “after-images” of trauma, to parallel talk of “after-shocks”—screen-memories of traumas would be images in which those traumas retrojected themselves, that is, made their mark backward into “memory” itself.  They would thus serve as a sort of “screening” of trauma, in the sense of a sort of surface on which (more properly, “as” which) trauma could cast itself.  

If taken as “representations” of “what actually happened,” such memories would indeed be “inaccurate,” often extremely so.  They would therefore be “false” memories in the sense at issue in talk of “false memory syndrome” and the like:  memories that, taken as subsequent, reproductive representations of a preceding event from which they stand away at a temporal distance, mis-represent something already presented at some preceding time.  All treatment of traumatic screen-memories as such falsifying representations, however, is a falsifying treatment of memory itself, which is really never such a paltry thing as a mere recording device, an apparatus for taking snapshots, as it were.  

In contrast to any such “snapshot” images, traumatic screen-memories stand to the trauma they remember as sacred languages stand to the sacred they bespeak.  Sacred languages do not refer to the sacred but rather name it, speaking it forth.  In the same way, screen-memories do not represent trauma but rather embody it, showing it forth.  And since trauma as such “conceals” itself, in the sense of always in effect withdrawing itself away from what can be comprehended within experience, that self-concealment must be respected in any proper memory image of trauma.  Traumatic memories must remember traumatically, as it were.

In parallel fashion, what I am calling “screen-visions” must envision traumatically.  Just as screen-memories are not re-screenings of features already shown before, so are screen-visions not previews of coming attractions.  Put differently, they are not predictions:  saying what will be, before it has come (from Latin pre-, plus dicere, to say).  Rather, they are prophecies:  voicings forth of truth (from pro-, plus a derivative from Greek phanai, to speak).  We might also say that screen-visions are truth-projections (from pro-, forward or forth, and Latin iacere, to throw or cast):  truth casting itself concretely forth before us, in order then to cast its light back, upon what is and has been there all along—retro-jecting itself to manifest as and in screen-memories.  

That double-stroke of retrojective projection, in turn, clears a space and time—e-jecting it, we might say:  that is, casting it out and open.  It is there, in that opening, that we have room to dwell.

*     *     *     *     *     *

I made the same mistake in Mazatlan in 1982 that I would say Günther Anders made in Japan in 1958 (see my preceding post):  I confused prophecy with prediction.  I interpreted what I was seeing as a vision of things yet to be, in the sense of things that had not happened yet, but would someday, after an interval (concerning the length of which I was able to form no definite conclusion).  However, I eventually—but already long ago by now—came to a very different understanding, in accordance with which what I saw on the beach in Mazatlan back then was no prediction of what would someday be, but was instead a screen-vision, which is to say a truth-projection, of what is.  

At any rate, whether taken to be a prediction or taken to be a prophecy, what I “saw” in Mazatlan in 1982 came to me in a sort of double vision, as it were.  I saw at once two different but interrelated things.  The first was what I can best express as the sheer vacuity and nullity of what passes for reality itself today at the level of surface appearances.  By “surface appearances” I mean all the standard stuff--good, bad, and middling—of our modern commercial “civilization,” as epitomized by a middle-aged, relatively well-off American couple briefly escaping the dreary northern winter of Denver by flying away to spend the Valentine’s Day weekend at a touristy beach resort in a town that lives off such tourism along the warm, Gulf-coast of Mexico.   I saw the emptiness of “all that,” projected as its inevitably coming collapse.

The other thing I simultaneously saw—in effect seeing through all the glitter of the surface of the pretend reality, to what that surface disclosed in the very attempt to cover it over, seeing though to it as it were the lasting, underlying sense of the very sensory level through which I saw it—was the inexorable return and triumph of the very thing all the glitter and glitz of modern global market commerce is designed to mask and devoted to keeping away, or at least to perpetually postponing.  I saw, through the irreal itself, the return of the real, as it were.

*     *     *     *     *     *

In accord with my initial, mistaken understanding of the nature of my vision at the time, I took the “return” at issue to be something that was going to occur eventually, rather than as something already here.  But as I eventually came more fully to understand it, my vision on the beach at Mazatlan was actually a sort of invitation to cross over the Jordan into the Promised Land, so to speak, that is, to stop sham-living in a sham reality, and instead simply to start really living now, today—just taking up residence in the reality of what I would years later, in The Open Wound, come to call “the irrelevance of power.”  It was an invitation to live awake to the nullity and insignificance of the whole global commercial illusion I was seeing through:  to stop granting that illusion any status, any authority over me any longer.

In one long-standing tradition, the devil himself is said to have no power except what we give him ourselves by our resistance to him.  That’s one way of appreciating the Christian injunction against resisting evil.  Then, too, there are vampires as they were depicted in the movies that gave me nightmares in my childhood:  those vampires who come into our rooms to suck our blood, and turn us into vampires ourselves in the process, but who can come in at all only if we first let them in—which, of course, they use all their considerable wiles to tempt us to do.  

Though I did not make use of the vampire metaphor at the time, what I both saw and already knew that I saw even back in 1982 when I first had my Mazatlan vision, was that our entire contemporary “civilization” is essentially vampiric in that old, Hollywood way.  It sustains its own undead existence only by sucking the blood of the living, and in the process turns all the living into undead bloodsuckers too.  However, the problem with bloodsucking, and in the process converting all whose blood is sucked into bloodsuckers themselves too, is that inevitably all the blood eventually gets sucked, so there’s no more blood left for the sucking, and then the whole bloody, sucking thing just collapses.  On the beach during my 1982 Mazatlan weekend I saw and understood how true that was of our whole “civilization,” vampiric as it is in its very essence.

But what I basically forgot to apply back in 1982 was that other part of vampire lore I also always knew, that part about us having to let the bloodsuckers in, before they can even begin the whole business.  Perhaps better put, I neglected back then to appreciate fully the application to our vampiric global system of the Christian wisdom—a wisdom, I should add, that can in fact also be found in other traditions, perhaps especially the Buddhist one—about resistance only giving power to what it tries to resist.  

I thereby failed fully to appreciate that we don’t even have to wait for the devil’s reign to end, before we can come out of hiding and go about living our lives again, and living them “abundantly,” for that matter, just as Christ tells his followers he wants them to do.  All we have to do is stop giving power to that old devil.  If we do, then—poof!  he’s gone!  We then see, too, that he never really had any power of his own over us anyway, that it was all just an illusion we bought into, letting him get into us.  We can just stop buying into that illusion.  

When we do, we will see that the sun has been there shining brightly all along, the grass and other vegetation growing luxuriantly, and the whole world just waiting for building. 

*     *     *     *     *     *

When the house in which we’ve been living since 1991 was itself being built, we had an “invisible fence” installed to keep the three dogs we had then confined to the part of the property we wanted to confine them to.  To build such a “fence” it was only necessary to bury a small, insulated wire a few inches below ground, around the area we wanted to confine the dogs to.  The wire was then hooked into a low-voltage source of electricity.  Then some electrode-equipped collars went around the dogs necks, so that when the dogs tried to cross over the line where the hidden wire was buried, they’d get a little jolt of electricity.  They’d yelp and jump back.  After a very short while they were conditioned to stay properly within the area we wanted to confine them to.   

Everything worked exactly as promised.  Soon, we didn’t even need to make the dogs wear the special collars anymore.  They just stayed put in their invisible pen.

Not long after that, however, the TV cable company came around and did its usual sort of thing.  That is, it buried TV cable where it wanted, without really caring where other things might already have been buried.  As a result, they cut the dog-jolting lines of our “invisible fence.”  So no electricity flowed through the wire any longer.  That meant, of course, that the dogs would no longer get jolted if they crossed the line enclosing the area where we wanted to keep them in bondage. 

Nevertheless, the dogs never crossed that line anyway, such slaves to our will had they become.  Their prior conditioning continued to bind them.  Absolutely nothing was holding them in any longer, except their own ignorance of the fact that they nothing was holding them in.   They no longer saw that they had any option.  Therefore, they no longer had any option, really.

The vision I had on the beach back in 1982, the vision of the grass growing back over the pathways of the Camino Real and the jungle reclaiming all the asphalted highways around Mazatlan, was not a vision of any distant future.  It was a vision of a future already come—the only future there is, has been, or will be, really:  the future that shows itself to have been there all along, just waiting for us to enter into it.  After all, it’s really been ours all along, just waiting for us to see it, and understand that it’s ours for the entering.  Only our ignorance stands in our way. 

We just need to be effectively shown that we have an option, which we can then just begin exercising.  We don’t even have to resist anything first.*** (See the third and final note below.)   

ENDNOTES

* 1. In ¶15 of “Faith and Knowledge:  The Two Sources of ‘Religion’ at the Limits of Reason Alone” (translated by Samuel Weber in Religion, edited by Derrida and Gianni Vattimo, Stanford University Press, 1998), Derrida defines the term this way, between parentheses:  “. . . globalatinization (this strange alliance of Christianity, as the experience of the death of God, and tele-technoscientific capitalism) . . .”    

** 2. Translated by Robert Hurley—Semiotext(e), 2015, p. 25.

*** 3. Here, resistance is to be understood in the ordinary way—namely, as a reaction against something that acts originally.  As such reaction, resistance not only remains dependent upon what it reacts to, but even ends up being robbed of its own definitive intention, so that it actually strengthens the very power it tries to resist, as Christ was not alone in seeing.  That there are other, no longer self-defeating forms of resistance, offering options to dependent reaction, is something about which I have already written in The Open Wound.  I will write of the matter again on this blog in the future, probably in a post or post-series I’m currently thinking of calling “Striking Back, Standing Up, and Striking Out,” inspired by the story of the contemporary New Mexico poet Jimmy Santiago Baca, as told in his 2001 memoir A Place to Stand and the documentary film released under the same title earlier this year (2015).