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I share an intuition that the time from which I write does not yet have a set of ordering concepts capable of encapsulating its permutations; this intuition intimates, instead, that this conjuncture has a definite smell, something like carpet wet by receding sewage, in the footwells of a car left in a flood-swollen creek, having been joy ridden into it under cover of night, carpet left in the sunshine after flash flood waters have receded. It was a Volkswagen Passat R36 wagon I came across, in Kororoit Creek in October 2022, whose eventual smell, after its wreck was removed from the turbid eddies, might have given the signature of the age in which we’re now living.
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Here’s a link to the third conversation between Chris and I, where we discussed the smell of the age and the seeming absence of ordering concepts. I really appreciated this conversation and the opportunity Chris made for us to have it.