Thursday, 18 August 2011
“I AM WHAT I AM.” This is marketing’s latest offering to the world, the final stage in the development of advertising, far beyond all the exhortations to be different, to be oneself and drink Pepsi. Decades of concepts in order to get where we are, to arrive at pure tautology. I = I. He’s running on a treadmill in front of the mirror in his gym. She’s coming back from work, behind the wheel of her Smart car. Will they meet?
“I AM WHAT I AM.” My body belongs to me. I am me, you are you, and something’s wrong. Mass personalization. Individualization of all conditions – life, work and misery. Diffuse schizophrenia. Rampant depression. Atomization into fine paranoiac particles. Hysterization of contact. The more I want to be me, the more I feel an emptiness. The more I express myself, the more I am drained. The more I run after myself, the more tired I get. We cling to our self like a coveted job title. We’ve become our own representatives in a strange commerce, guarantors of a personalization that feels, in the end, a lot more like an amputation. We insure our selves to the point of bankruptcy, with a more or less disguised clumsiness.
Meanwhile, I manage. The quest for a self, my blog, my apartment, the latest fashionable crap, relationship dramas, who’s fucking who… whatever prosthesis it takes to hold onto an “I”! If “society” hadn’t become such a definitive abstraction, then it would denote all the existential crutches that allow me to keep dragging on, the ensemble of dependencies I’ve contracted as the price of my identity. The handicapped person is the model citizen of tomorrow. It’s not without foresight that the associations exploiting them today demand that they be granted a “subsistence income.”
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Thursday, 14 July 2011
Lucy was downing her 6th shot when it began.
Greg was climbing a tree when it began.
Lucinda had just been mugged, and then it began.
The guardian had just gone to press, and a storm was brewing, and the unions had gone on strike, the day that it began.
It took most people a little while to realise what had happened after it began.
They were wrapped up in world-blanking kisses, screaming black howls of despair, hot with lust in high-wire fucks, kicking themselves in realisation and quietly contemplative as it began.
At first only a cracked and whiskered old tramp, drinking white cider with grit in it, noticed, and that was an hour after it began.
He muttered to the shoes walking past him that the shadows were missing but it was too late, because an hour earlier it began.
Above all of the ordinariness, at the top of a bell-tower, silhouetted shapes danced noiselessly and blended into a hellish myriad - and smiled as it began.