To the Cold Walls of the Eagle’s Nest (first letter)

I’ve watched Russian actors spew bitter German while you served as a back drop. Spielberg recreated you somewhere in California. Your double serves as a stage-set for his politically dubious band/brand of nostalgia.
Nobody calls their kids Adolph anymore. We could debate the reasons for this but I want to explain something to you first.
This interest in you, in representing you, is not about fascism.
It comes from an interior sense of isolation — a gradual absence of privacy and personal liberty in the post-war world. You’re a perch for observing the technological collapse of time and space — a collapse that reconfigures distance in the hearts of the living. I’d like to think that you’re an irretrievably compromised free-zone within the global expansion of capitalist relations.
With you there is a horrific concreteness — a murderous rift with the outside world (the world below) set in stone. The mist still collaborates with you. The wind keeps moving against your sides. There is probably a little blood still preserved in your crevices.
You will always be a failed site of absolution. There’s never going to be any chances to try again.
Most modern seats of power seem generic to me, but perhaps a small number of them share a willfully eccentric affectation in common. It involves a veneer of faux-Victorian gentility — representations of a pastoral sanity that has never actually existed.
Did Hitler dump the dregs of his herbal tea over your sides?
There is talk of reprogramming — of erasing your public record. Kids might soon be tossing their chocolate wrappers to the valley below in a strange repetition of past waste-management (at least as I’ve imagined it).
Tourists will argue about the day’s itinerary while standing in the shadows of monsters. And perhaps, during many of these horribly depressing moments that are possibly to come, only you and the dead will know it.