Transmitters

Dogma, Dogma. What did it all mean? Should we even pronounce the word aloud? Perhaps it shouldn't be spoken of, like the name of God. Perhaps say it will only diminish its glory, and hearing it will only lessen its resonance. 

Wasn't it greater than us? Broader, as the great sky is broad? It was our measure. It was our ennoblement. When, otherwise, could we have been borne by thought, thought by it, rather than taking ourselves to have had thoughts of our own?

In truth, we've had no thoughts. We were ventriloquised; we spoke, but it wasn't us who spoke. We wept, but they weren't our tears. We felt things, great things, but in what sense were those feelings ours? Dogma touched us without noticing us. Dogma brushed us with its wings.

In the end, we should throw ourselves upon its shore, and ask for mercy. In the end, we should offer ourselves up in sacrifice, as offerings burning into the great mouth of the sky.

Doesn't Bruno S., who played Stroszek in Herzog's film, claim to transmit, rather than perform his songs? Bruno is a transmitter, he said. We're transmitters, W. says. We're lightning rods. A way for Dogma to return to itself. A way for thought to rest more deeply in thought.