by Arran James
A new year is approaching and what, we have to ask, is left of the new? The innovations, the technologies, the subsumption into humanity’s grasp of ever more of its world (3D printing, for instance, ought to enact a genuine revolution, one such as the upheaval of the move from agriculture to industry), ever more elements escape it. The miraculous harnessing of natural forces brings with it ever more accident, disaster, side-effects and unpredictable interactions. Man’s world is a pharmacology of the dying.
The New, as it once was, becomes drab and innocuous, attaches itself to details of dress or a new Hollywood face, a new singer in the underground (the one everyone partakes in), the latest anxiety or threat or war. The New is that illusion which we cling to without much passion, among the more necessary but insolubly boring of our fetishes. So we dedicate one day to it. We make resolutions we don’t intend to keep. Its a game. An excuse to get fucked up. Light bursts apart in the sky at midnight. There is the demand, usually disappointed, of having someone to kiss.
The new year isn’t a celebration of survival or of anticipation. It’s the attempt to preserve in those moments our faith that something could really happen. Therefore it is an indulgence in faith’s internal opposite; a holiday of doubt. No wonder it is convivial and Dionysian. Shrug off knowledge, memory, time itself- get undressed and dance with me, while chemically altered I try not to pass out. There is no new year; only another, the same as the one before.