The dedication of 1984 to Orwell’s dystopic vision, the commitment to a kind of paranoia of the spirit, to observing all the world’s deliberations from the bleakness of the Ministry of Truth, the prophecy that we would not see 1984 for what it is in totalitarian terms…this dedication must yield.

1985, a new beginning, an awakening. Perhaps the trick is to take the feelings which I called depressed, which moved me to a wariness just outside of skepticism fed by a cynical stoicism acrobatically toughened, and turn them into some sense of can-do; into an energy which drives itself…on, forward…

Nor to deny Orwell, but to rotate and translate his vision into the time of all of time from the perspectives of now, of then, of once-upon-a-time and always will.

The feelings, self-justifying, the bad conscience of our age, need to be grasped for the power they possess to push, and turn to…

What, now is the question I pose, the query I wish almost to dodge in its doing?

1985, it has arrived; almost in spite of itself, a prophecy well-served, a wish to avoid the rebound which 1984 mirrors in its bouncing.

and “move on out”…