To Leon Trotsky (first letter)

Dear Mr. Trotsky,
I’ve been thinking of you reading in your armored train. You’re being whisked back and forth between battle lines. You’re turning the pages of the latest French novel. You’re making notes about an Art of the Proletariat.
The Revolution has arrived but the expressive powers of the Old World still render all else naive, dogmatic, generic. Ideologues across the forming Republic look out from their windows into the darkness, their pens in hand, frustrated, concerned. This is the Modern World. Can a New Art catch up?
What if I were to tell you of a return in my own time to what seems like nothing more than a battle of coercion — a struggle for control over taste — a game in which content has become irrelevant in and of itself?
Articulating how we feel and experience this life, and its evolution, cannot be rationally assessed utilizing some form of scientific method. It certainly can’t be done in an afternoon through rigorous dialectical debate at some International. I know you’ve known this, but what of the ensuing lag — the need for an organic coming to terms with an economic determination of reality?
It seems as though the human animal cannot catch up. It seems as if the technological reconfiguration of existence keeps changing with such rapidity that it has left us stalled — frozen — within slowly mutating biological and spiritual limits.
The situation now threatens to muzzle us entirely from the inside. Many said this was already the case during the close of the last century, but putting this all into words for you now feels as though I’m still fighting for my life, as if my thoughts are still my own, as if the idea of this is not a simulation of an idea.