[Redacted] told us of a ritual of divination and futuretelling once practiced by the celts, whereupon a warrior or what was in that pagan scenario a strange type of knight, presided over by a druid priest – for the druids were an autonomous and secret class – dealt a death blow to a chosen cypher – prisoner or citizen would do – so as to divine in the sways and convulsions of his death future events and the temperaments of the gods and the health of crops, and such things.
This man was homo sacer and his reward for a life rightly lived was to be afforded this status, sacrosanct and lockstepped with the divine itself. A fools reward for a fools errand, for those who would see left of stage, to the wings where the distortions do live, the lockstep is a farce, the death not true but mere theatre (the criminal and outcast finds in the waving odd-outsideness more proper incidentals, those which afford a true death).
Even so it is perhaps within the capabilities of your art to denude the right form of the thing in itself, if only by happenstance of imitation, unspooled from set parameters and in the habit of natural law. So nevertheless the everlong druid priest saw a jolting tension in the convulsions of the last homo sacer, two bodies not yet in accord. A truth foretold in a copied unspooling.
Now, those beds of cognition that are above us set a wager one against the other and this is the birth story of the modern period, for the body politic was struck – and you have only to look around you for its death throes. I’ll say again. Read in the binary the contortions of its death. Consider it a parcel given, a reward made true, and leave the table, for it will suffice (it will suffice in spite). The movements and their fortune-giving are not for your benefit but for the benefit of some other. They foretell a marriage , and will trace the right path of some celestial highway that’s forged in a place “beyond one’s reach.” Neither your ceremony nor your feast – no, none or your concern.