History repeats itself first as tragedy then as farce (Marx). And when it repeats itself again?
Today is today, it is nothing but itself. The plants in the backyard, which should be stood up on bricks if their roots aren’t to rot, drain water debris across the concrete: what happened today? What has ever happened? The same room, the same day: how can you pass from hour to hour? There is no passage; the day returns as the day; today is today, there is no future. Today is today – what returns excepts the same, and the same of the same?
Who looks out from the mirror, his arms limp at his side? An old man, a man impossibly old. A man out of use, for whom the world never had a place. His gaze has congealed; it cannot reach me. And who do I see, in the failure of his seeing? My own blindness; the blindspot of sight. Whoever sees God dies; and whoever sees his own blindness?
Lars Iyer's Blog 