To Luis Buñuel Portolés (first letter)

I’ve also wondered what God might think or feel about me (if she/he/they exists).  Would any of us be noticed or recognized?  I have a strange enough time considering myself.  It’s as if I’m under erasure, half-suggested and obscured (also forming, reconstituting).  The digital age hasn’t helped.  You would be fascinated.  A sense of each moment as fleeting and unknowable has been dramatically exacerbated, and despite an exponential growth in surveillance, information gathering, documentation and a technologically spectacular store-housing of ephemera across the globe, everything in existence still seems destined to be lost through the estranged transmutations and mortal limits of human memory.  I dream that we are never alone in this, that you and I are brothers across the divide of eternity because of it, that the living are never forgotten by the dead, that the dead wait for the living to figure this stuff out before dying, that the living are asleep and the dead are wide awake.
I’ve come to the end of My Last Sigh again:
Frankly, despite my horror of the press, I’d love to rise from the grave every 10 years or so and go buy a few newspapers. Ghostly pale, sliding silently along the walls, my papers under my arm, I’d return to the cemetery and read about all the disasters in the world before falling back to sleep, safe and secure in my tomb.
Your dream-filled films are an uninvited mirror.  They reflect an everyday life held hostage by appearances — a living world displaced by representation.  I want you to know what this means to me, how you have given form to some of my own experiences and intuitive reactions, my anger toward the socially necessitated.  That’s why I’m pontificating like this, against my better judgement, so earnestly and unnecessarily in a not sent letter.  You have confirmed the need to rise, to be an agent in time, to pursue the truth of things while confronting those who portend to already possess it.  You have demonstrated that art and life are inseparable.
The imagination (forming somewhere, as you’ve pointed out, between mystery and chance) fosters the singularities that change the world.  A person, a concept, a revolution, a dream – they’re all spirited by it while in search of conscience.  Freedom seems knowable in these instances, possible (even from capital).  This is what all of your efforts still point to, what released you from a culture that tried to bury you from birth.  You became both morally unconstrained and so good, intuiting justice while exposing its absence.  Every iconoclastic gesture and uncanny provocation, no matter how vulgar or vicious, has contained a sense of bemusement — wonder too.  Your harshest trials of desire and lack still suggest that a return to innocence is possible.
Futures keep greeting us in your work, wide-eyed and alert.  We are gripped and shaken by intimations of what it might be like to exist after the lie of a rational culture has been dismantled — after the eat/shit loop of the hysterical bourgeoisie has not only been frustrated, delayed or denied, but entirely obliterated.
The living can wake up.  You’ve proven it.