Illusions
May 25, 2006
by The Davids
David Holl and David Morini


"But why,” he asked in a slow lazy drawl. "Do we have to repeat it again and again, and yet again, dear sir?”

"Simply because we must,” I replied. "Every now and then things just work in a way that suits you. This is not one of them.”

"Repetition is the swarm of enlightenment," I continued. "Without reenactment we would never perfect our groove in the time-space continuum."

I sat down on my chair of feathers and beads, cupped my hands and placed them underneath the water fountain; a stone goldfish balancing on a fin.

"But, sir," he went on. "The forces of nature require the random construct of impulse. It throws obstacles in the natural order of things, changes events, and therefore creates evolution."

"The natural definition of an impulse also relies heavily on chance," I drank the water from my hands, wetting my lap in the process. "And chance only works one out a million times. The percentage of defeat is imminent and therefore ought to be avoided."

In tandem, the Diaspora withered into our so called "History,” that myth of man and earth emancipated from our lips by the privileged and the sanctified.

In fact, the bourgeois documentation of written history has been nothing but a cancer infecting the minds of the billions (if not trillions) of people who have lived underneath its 4,000 year reign. It has been responsible for wars, famines, genocides. The problem being its ability of being faultily ill-defined, re-defined and interpreted in as many means as a circle has sides.

"Without the method of documentation,” I went on. “We must rely on the only other method of recollection. The Human Mind. The most manipulatable beast of them all. It follows the only concept of time as the Now, will dwell in the Then, and occasionally muses on the Later. Factual events are malleable, reorganized at will and ease." I turned to the chalkboard that has, by now, been soaked by water.

"As the passage of time moves on," I drew a line on the wet board, leaving sporadic chalk markings, some more visible than others. My hand skipped over the wet surface and then halted, groggily, and, just as suddenly, moved with the swiftness of a rock on ice. "This is what can be recorded." The chalk markings bled and changed. "And what could've been a line as clear as crystal is now a blotched and incoherent mess."