History does not repeat itself. Instead, it is someone else, as a sort of historical proxy, that repeats history, roughshod, (though calling this vicarious maneuver 'repetion' is actually overly generous -- it's more like imitation, approximation -- or even flailing attempts at meek intimidation).
That is, history does not play prankster by placing in the old time-road the same rock for people to trip on over and over again, but rather people tend to buy particular shoes and then to throw themselves at the ground while loudly proclaiming the rock's preternatural ability to trip us, secretly hoping that we will read their loud declaration as a cry for help, which it is, and that we will then see through to their intentions and begin aptly to blame the construction of the shoe, all rubbery and lacy and white, and that somehow this will, as a matter of course, so long as the right phone calls are made and letters sent, turn into a deluge of free things and coupons for the tripped, when in fact it was not history, the rock or the shoe at all that caused the fall, or even the person or the desire for coupons and great deals, but something else entirely -- yes, that's right, the future vainly trying to get a grip on the present. That is, the sense of history repeating itself is actual the stuttering of the future, never getting started, never uttering that first sentence.
And what, exactly, is it that the future can't any more than even begin to say?
Who cares? You idiot, we have to stop this thing! Its stutters cause bumps in the time-road, thwarting progress and assembly lines and everything in between. The arrhythmic jumps and brief glances of what might come next make everyone uncomfortable, uneasy and anxious about it. The future constantly moves it's hands around in attempts to clarify what it hasn't yet said, but all it does in the end or the beginning or the not-yet is jostle the frame we haven't hung but desperately want to.
That is, in the house of life, the future's obnoxious speech impediment is making it more difficult to really decorate this place.
Speech pathologists have little to offer because the future is too young to work with. Rather than feeling disconcerted, they suggest, we should be impressed that a zero year old can almost speak at all. If we keep waiting, they say, it will no doubt bloom into a great orator.
Well guess what, speech pathologists? After a few billion years of waiting, it's time to change the status quo. It's time to take control. Your 'expertise' amounts to just more of the same, the failed speech-pathology-as-usual rhetoric, and frankly, I think I speak for all of us, except you of course, when I say that we're tired of it!
Obviously, aborting the future would make it shutup already, but it would also kill it. The difficulties of finding a place to dispose of an everything-yet-to-come fetus is daunting and should be avoided. Where and when would you put that thing?
Rather, what we have to do is coax it into singing, a well known avoidance technique for stutterers. And we can't just send it sheet music in the mail or get it vocal lessons. No, the best way for us to do this is in fact for all of us to just start singing here and now, even louder than the future's stuttering.
If it's a good enough song and we sing it long enough, the future is bound to join in due to shear embarrassment.
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