Most people won't get my Troy post, because it is full of puns that only those who were along for the Startwoche will really appreciate. However, my personal best of is quoted below:

Peter ist geniert, weil man mit den meisten Menschen nur auf der Oberfläche verkehren kann. Er ist frustriert, dass er das Objekt nicht penetrieren darf. Die Idee der Oberfläche stört Ihn. Er wolle mit Menschen die Oberfläche verlassen und tiefer gehen. Am liebsten würde er das Objekt deswegen auseinanderfalten und – behaupten böse Zungen - vielleicht selbst in die Mitte steigen.

good night!!!

Mais tant d'autres sont las et n'ont rien à cacher,
Même plus de fantasmes

-excerpt,
Michelle Houellebecq
l'amour, l'amour

Troja:
Fantasie Impromptu

Prelude

Die hölzerne Schenkung ist noch weit weg von Troja; die Soldaten für die Bemannung sind allerdings schon ausgewählt; sie sitzen plaudernd auf den Stufen des Amphitheaters, rings um das fremde Objekt, das auf der Bühne steht. Endlich taucht Achilles auf, zwingt sich, träge, durch die Menge. „Musik...“ flüstert er, „... ... .... jetzt“. Ein Hoplit, die Schnallen seines Schienbeinschutzes nach einem harten Tag lockernd, überhört und fragt etwas verwirrt: „ja, was für welche?“ - aber schon kommen die ersten süssen Töne, eine angenehme Verdauungsruhe kehrt ein und die ersten, etwas gebildeteren Soldaten wispern begeistert, beinahe verehrend : ...Chopin!

Alle Augen sind nun auf das Werk gerichtet, das den Ruhm unserer Stadt in die weite Welt hinein tragen soll. Die Soldaten verstehen noch nicht ganz ihre Rolle, sie ahnen aber die Signifikanz des Ganzen. Bald taucht der Vater des Einfalls, Odysseus auf - lehnt sich über das Geländer, sein beleuchtetes Werk betrachtend. Plötzlich, mit einer mächtigen Bewegung, als würde er sein Werk am liebsten schon sofort, auch ohne Soldaten bestückt, nach Troja schicken, fängt er an, zu Reden.

Bald wendet sich ein Soldat an seinen Nachbarn und meint: genau! Auch wir müssen nachdenken, wenn wir Ideen haben wollen... denn alle Ideen ... brauchen einen Vater!!

Allegro Pomposo

So ist es aber. Falls die Stadt geboren werden soll, braucht sie zuallererst einen Vater, der bereit ist, die grosse Aufgabe auf sich zu nehmen, sie zu zeugen, obwohl manche bekanntlich auch Spass daran haben können. Am Schreibtisch blitzt und donnert es Linien: sie Schneiden sich, manchmal in spitzen Winkeln, Spiegelungen und Kreuzungen (die Biologen sagen dem: „crossing over“) erzeugen die absurdesten Eigenschaften, manchmal Winkel von 16.3 Grad – vielleicht sogar Linien, die an sich am Schreibtisch, auf dem Papier gar nicht möglich sind. All diese Prozesse sieht man aber nicht, das heisst, es herrscht eine Art Konsens, dass man sie nicht sehen muss. Trotzdem ist am Ende das Kind da, wirkt so stark beleuchtet ein bisschen bleich, aber erstaunlich real.

Sogar noch über die Zeugung darf jetzt, im nachhinein geredet werden. Dass der Schreibtisch - der Ort der Zeugung - eine wesentliche Rolle spielt und in diesem Fall sogar noch inspirierend auf das Werk gewirkt hat, beteuert nicht nur der Architekt. Sogar noch die Laien können es diesmal einfach nachvollziehen – sind doch beide vorwiegend aus Holz gebaut!
Dass (Sie verzeihen) der Verkehr grundsätzlich nur auf die Oberfläche eines Tisches (und ev. unter dem Tisch), will heissen, dass bei einem Schreibtisch nur sozusagen oberflächlich verkehrt werden kann, stört anscheinend nur wenige, die nun losgeschickt werden, etwas zu basteln….

Andante

Zum Beispiel Peter. Peter ist geniert, weil man sich mit den meisten Menschen nur auf der Oberfläche verkehren kann. Er ist frustriert, dass er das Objekt nicht penetrieren darf. Die Idee der Oberfläche stört Ihn. Er wolle mit Menschen die Oberfläche verlassen und tiefer gehen. Am liebsten würde er das Objekt deswegen auseinanderfalten und – behaupten böse Zungen - vielleicht selbst in die Mitte steigen.

Gigue

Ein Künstler macht die Runde und stiftet dazu an, das Werk zu verpacken, zu verstecken. Darauf hat der Dominik die Idee, das ganze Kunstwerk in einen St. Galler Sack zu stecken. Er erfindet sogar noch eine Geschichte dazu, vielleicht wird der Sack anschliessend durch eine Reihe verwirrender Umstände von der SGSW tatsächlich entsorgt, worauf der Sack, durch noch mehr Verwirrung, in die Hände der CIA gelangt, die den spitzen, in der grauen Kaputze gekleideten Gegenstand in einer Weise verhören, die stark an die in den Medien verbreiteten Bilder eines anderen Verhörs, wo ebenfalls ein spitzer, in einem Sack gekleideten Gegenstand mit Hilfe von Elektrizitätsandrohung gequält wurde, erinnern....

Marsch der Soldaten & Non sequitur

Nina findet es öde, dass heutzutage immer die Einwohner die Stadt retten müssen – falls wir es neu machen können, sollte es doch gefälligst umgekehrt verlaufen. Nur bitte wie denn? Bekanntlich können alternative Konzepte ganz schnell übel (z.B. nach Faschismus) riechen, vor allem wenn solche erkrankte Ideen prophylaktisch und konsequent von einem Experten zu Ende gerochen werden!

Aber glücklicherweise besteht diese Gefahr weniger, wenn man das Gegenmittel oft und überzeugt genug einsetzt, die Demokratie. Zum Beispiel als Antwort auf eine kritische Studentenfrage, gegeben vom obersten Stadtvater, Odysseus selbst:

„Well, it’s a Democracy – you can think what you want“

(Tobi ist erleichtert, denn sogar noch in seiner - noch keineswegs utopische - Utopie darf man doch das denken, was man will. „Anscheinend haben wir das mit der Demokratie schon gelöst“ meint er und lacht verlegen).


Intermezzo: Siegeszug der Demokratie

"Demokratie ist eben wichtig, da haben doch Odysseus, Achilles und die anderen recht..."
"Du sagst es, Demokratie ist wichtig."
"Ja genau."
"Und du, was denkst du?"
"Ja, ist wichtig."
"Mhh..hmm."
"jaja."
"mmmm."
"also schreibs bitte auf: D e m o k r a t i e."
"ok."
"also das hätten wir dann..."

"...und jetzt?"


Presto & ein Hoffnungsschimmer [Nach dem Künstler besuchen auch andere Reisenden die Stadt.]

Reisende haben mehr zu sagen, als die, die Sesshaft geworden sind; schliesslich ist dieses Glück ein Zustand der Stasis, eine Zufriedenheit, die beinahe an Dummheit erinnert. Positionswechsel (z.B. mit dem Flugzeug, ab New York oder Hong Kong) meint unerfüllte Suche, Sehnsucht; gewaltige, freiwerdende Energieströme. Reisende kommen, werfen ihr Gepäck auf dem Tisch, vielleicht haben sie nicht einmal Zeit, die Jacke auszuziehen, denn sie müssen gleich weiter; sie betrachten und fällen Urteil über das Werk der Stadtbewohner, die diese etwas beschämt, wie eine arme Familie ein bescheidenes Essen, präsentieren. Ausser Atem wird dann der Ankömmling angehört. Das Werk ist zu eklektisch, meint er, und denkt schon womöglich an seine abstrakte Lieblingsstatue, vielleicht inspiriert von den hohen Wolkenkratzer von Schanghai oder New York.
Nach dem auspacken packt er wieder ein und zieht weiter.

Anna meint dazu, dass sie unsere Stadt trotzdem gut findet.

Finale: General Dance of Enthusiasm, Apotheosis

Die Sonne steigt langsam über Troja empor; die Soldaten, in das Werk endlich eingebracht, sind müde und sehnen sich schon nach dem versprochenen Abendessen. Der Staub der vorangegangenen Vorbereitungen liegt noch in der Morgenluft. Plötzlich taucht Odysseus auf, gefolgt von Achilles dicht auf seinen Versen.

Odysseus: Endlich, endlich vollbracht. Es muss los, enough von diesem Gefangensein, auf nach Troja!

Achilles: Fantastisch, Meister. Gut gemacht.

Diverse Könige: [nicken]

Div. Könige: [nicken noch einmal]

Odysseus: Es ist wichtig, die mutigen Soldaten zu würdigen, die soviel von sich selbst reingesteckt haben.

Soldaten [von Innen]: So ziemlich alles.

Odysseus: Aber sie müssen dann wieder raus und in die Welt hinein! Troja erobern und dann die Welt!

Div. Könige: [nicken]

Achilles: Definitely. [Zu den Soldaten]: Habt ihr gehört, Morgen schon müsst ihr da raus und bitte nichts da drin lassen, alle Gegenstände mitnehmen; bitte nichts an den Wänden anbringen was man nicht leicht weg bringen kann! Zeus ist euch dankbar!

Soldaten: ja-aa.

Odysseus: Ihr habt grossartiges geschafft. [pause]

Odysseus: Und, nun ist es Zeit - bewegt mein Stück! Ja, ja!

Das bunte Pferd steht vor den Toren Trojas. Paris, der schläfrige Prinz, betrachtet, im grünen Burberry-Morgenrock, etwas pikiert das grosse Werk.

Paris: Oh-la-la, mais qu’est-ce que c’est? Malheureusement, ich hatte keine klassische Bildung mehr… Etwas ein bischssen zu bunt gemischt… Jetzt höre ich sogar noch Stimmen- ich meine von da drinnen – soll ich das Ding reinlassen? Ich weiss nicht. Die unsere ist doch eine traditionelle Stadt, wo bis jetzt alle dekonstruktivistischen Experimente schief gelaufen sind. Mag schön sein, aber passt nicht zu mir, passt nicht zu meinem Jakett... Ce n’est pas Paris... Alors, je ne pense pas...
Mais - ich kriege einen Anfruf aus Hong Kong. Hallo?

Hong Kong: Wir haben Informationen, dass eine farbenfrohe, sinnlich überladene Installation vor Ihren Toren steht. Also, wir sind bereit das Ganze zu nehmen und als Suburbia neben unsere Stadt zu integrieren.

Paris: Ah, köstlich! Ich verkauf’s Ihnen!

Soldaten: Hört Ihr? Das sind gute Nachrichten! Schliesslich wurde Hong Kong schon demokratisiert, das heisst das wir nicht Kämpfen müssen! Sie empfangen uns, unsere Stadt, unsere Ideen mit offenen Armen!

Ein Soldat: Aber was ist mit Troja? Eingentlich wollten wir Troja erobern!

Soldaten: Scheiss auf Troja --- see, you’re still thinking old Europe! --- Wir nicht! Wir fliegen nach Hong Kong [Soldaten singen Hong-Kong-Song]

Die Stimme von Achilles [per Telefon, weil schon im Flugzeug, unterwegs nach Moskau]: Saubere Arbeit Jungs!

Soldaten: Danke, Achilles!

Achilles: Nee, sorry, was ich sagen wollte, ist: arbeitet sauber! Wie besprochen will ich alle angebrachten Kunterbuntereien bis morgen weg haben!

Soldaten: Aber wie sollen wir uns dann in Hong Kong integrieren?

Achilles: Ihr habt wohl nichts gelernt! Solche Äusserlichkeiten sind in einer Demokratie unwichtig! Wichtig ist, dass Ihr viel gelernt habt! Integrate that!

Soldaten: Schon.

Ein König [nickend]: Dann darf auch Odysseus in Ruhe nach Ithaka zurückkehren!

Die Stimme von Odysseus [auch aus einem Flugzeug].: Kreativität, Kinder. Spreizt die Flügel und fliegt, wie ich gerade tue. Verbindet Städte, Punkte, Symbole, Konnotationen. Verknüpft sie. Bündelt sie. Denkt an den Schreibtisch, multipliziert ihn. Und dann denkt einfach weiter... What I really want to say is: spread your wings and just fly, baby!

Soldaten: Es lebe Odysseus!

[Vorhang]

European Beauty III

Mark's Love



On the day of his graduation, Mark went up to the attic of his Delft dormitory,
opened the window, reached far out into the night and nailed his belt onto the roof's
overhang. He stuck his head through the hoop and jumped out. His
danging body was noticed early next morning by passers-by, who had, it's safe to
say, never before seen such a bizarre and terrible sight.

Perhaps the closest anyone ever got to explaining Mark's sudden departure was Paul, a fellow
student who he had met only a few weeks before, and with whom he had
immediately become close friends. As Paul put it:

"... it was not only because Mark had become disenfranchised by love as a possibility,
for this type of disenfranchisement is experienced, sometimes again and again, in
various stages of a young man's life. I believe it was rather due to his natural
willingness and desire to think through the most opaque issues. This was what drove him to what he did."

Yet nonwithstanding these candid words, Paul shook his head at his friend's radical
departure; even he could never comprehend why Mark had chosen to leave his life for
what he thought "was just the way this world worked." "Mark", he continued, "could not
come to grips with the fact that real love cannot exist." Perhaps pretaining to his
science major, Paul plainly concluded: "The love that Mark was looking for cannot
exist in a world governed by physics, brains and logic".

Mark had neither given nor taken away anything of real value to his college; he was consciencious with his work, friendly with his colleagues and very gentlemanly with girls; his idiosyncracies were
relatively harmless if not benign; in short, Mark was an average college student,
sheltered from the hard world of sweat and toil by his parent's kindness and the state's
generosity.

Through the college years at the technical university, Mark had had three short-term,
alcohol-incited relationships, which was, considering his average looks along with the
male-to-female ratio at his school, not a bad achievement. Mark was secretly proud of
this fact, and spoke of his short affairs as "ex-girlfriends". The truth
was that none of the three girls were really interested in keeping the relationship up
for more than (and that was the maximum) four days, but neither was Mark, for that
matter. For no matter how much he tried, he felt that ultimately, he and his
"ex-girlfriends" had nothing in common.

And it was indeed one of life's strange paradoxes that these short, hardly worthy-of-the-name relationships had actually steadfastly convinced Mark of the existence of love; for, he
reasoned, "if there are people that are so incompatible with me", "then there are
bound to be people who are the other way around". Thus did he pass his third year at
college without laying one girl, but in moderate spirit, believing that an end to his
troubles was at least theoretically possible any second.

In the fourth year of his studies, exactly a month before his graduation, Mark came
home from a dime-a-dozen party, terribly excited; he strongly felt that he had
fallen in love.

Paul recalled the conversation he had with his exuberant friend that night. He had also
briefly met the girl, Anna, and found her to be too talkative, with an annoying
pronounciation "of all existing vowels and consonants in the English language". But he wisely kept this
criticism to himself and listened to Mark's jubilant report on Anna and how she had
"created a direct, logical link to his world" which was "truly rare and certainly very
special". Finally, Mark was hasty to add: "this time, I know it isn't just her looks - after
all, she's not really pretty - I can tell, even in my present, exuberant state"... well,
actually, Paul thougt that Anna's looks were basically the only thing "going for her" in
his "book", but decided, again, not to share his thoughts on the matter.

Yes, something had definitely happened at that party, for Mark was spotted having
coffee with Anna the next day, and in the Museum the day after; indeed, Mark
discovered that the two of them shared similar interests, and that "her intelligence,
together with her exotic, female approach" was most "titillating" for his "hitherto
love-starved soul".

However, Paul was not stupid, and neither was he blind (he had in fact been an air
force pilot before starting university). Soon, he had found out that Anna was
one of the most wanted girls on campus - a campus that comprised of 80% males.He knew that Anna had slept with Mark at least on one occasion, so he gathered that
the relationship was truly gaining a bit of impetus; however, he also saw that Anna still
hung around with a lot of men, everywhere, at all times of the day. The fact that Mark
didn't even discern the existence of John, an explosively hansome
postdoc student, was not only attributable to the fact that love is blind; it was also due
to the circumstance that Mark didn't attend the course that John taught. Anna did, however, and
as Paul put it later "did what women usually due in these cases - what she felt like".

Paul suspected that Anna had made a kind of comparison in her head. She probably
vaguely suspected the fact that John had had the formidable amout of 37 realtionships
in his 28 years, including three actresses, two models, and one princess; perhaps it
was, as Paul put it, "some strange equivalent of love, or real-life-love" which made her
decide to be number 38, for even Paul had to concede that "the two probably didn't
have that much in common" (having had the questionable experience of sharing a dorm room
with John for half a year) but, as he put it, "when it came to women, John was
one-size-fits all".

It was this brash, startling turn of events five days before graduation that changed
Mark the way a minus sign negates a figure. "Mark went through all the phases
psychologists probably have on some checklist" "before hitting the floor, like someone
bouncing, falling off stairs". Paul had even had the questionable honor of being home
as Mark was finally, unmistakeably told off. In what Paul considered an absolute and
fitting climax, Anne was asked the teary, supplicating, unworthy "why" question.

"Because" she had said, "I'm in love with him".

"When heard from a woman", Paul concluded, "this is a pretty convincing argument".
Mark, on the other hand, was not convinced. He cited all the things the two of them had
in common, and all the times the above sentence was used with him as the subject. He
talked about common values, invisible bonds, implied connections. Even the passively
eavesdropping Paul would have become slightly confused, had he not understood that
Mark was arguing from his emotional level. So was Anne, for that matter; only the two
frequencies no longer matched. In fact, "the more Mark cited the great conversations, the hand-holdings, the moments of utter intimacy, the more Anna was convinced of Mark being a real pussy". Paul saw proof of this in the phrase that left Mark standing in the middle of his room, utterly drained and
thoroughly perplexed: "pull yourself together". To be fair to Anna, it was probably one of the cruellest things she had ever said to anyone, but Mark's behaviour had really, truly begun to vex her.

In the next days, as John, sitting on the side of the bed, was asking himself whether
number 38 could perhaps truly be his one love (as, it must however be said, he had
done ample times before), Mark was already on his way up the stairs.

"In retrospect", says Paul, "Mark made a logical error, which happens ever so often, even
to experienced scientists. He had believed that this connection he perceived when
looking into Anna's eyes - love, as he thought - had in its formation something
mystical and otherworldly, which would somehow exempt it from the rules of physics and
reason. But unfortunately, this fantastic world does not exist."

Transfer.





Yes, knick-nacks is right; oh yes, almost forgot: black ink on recycled paper ;))

I welcome everyone to my new Blog, http://deadflies.blogspot.com cheers!!

Jeder Mensch ist eine Komödie seines Willens, durch die Wahrheit seines Willens wird er entblösst

The Forgotten Wish

Somewhere between two cities
I lost my hope

it still lies there someplace

like an empty can
on the side of the road.

Somehow between a thrown smile
and a disco urinal
I lost love

she left like a dog :
losing interest
after never being fed.

Sometime between october and the new year
I lost your memory

it faded out one day
as I ceased to even wish.

- March 2005

Yesterday, I cleaned up my flat and sat around for a while, a sudden calm after a hectic week.Very hectic. Once I realized that the train wasn't going to catch me, I trudged down to the station to catch it. Never before did it seem to linger so long until parting. Nearly at home, it dawned on me that I would have to figure out what to do next. Everything seems to have become complicated. Letting myself fall back into obliviousness seems just as despicable as the prospect of salvation seems out of sight. Eventually, however, a path will have to be chosen for hopes to be made. Though this path now seems dark, the idea of some impending happyness is what drives me onwards. Some impending arrangement, one with which I can live. Given what I have already seen and experienced, my heart fears that compromises will have to be made.
Or am I being too harsh with my assessment? Too quick with my judgement?
Occasionally, I debate wether a surrender of what I consider virtue would in itself breed better virtue or not. Perhaps, but I also feel that exactly what distinguishes us is that we have not yet surrendered our motivation to the least common denominator. And exactly in this lies a hope for the best possible case that could happen. Radiant it would be, to find out that actually, we had been in full accord all along. It had only been the others getting in the way. Suddenly saved, we would be.


The Golden Wish

The silver glow
that precedes
our death
I call it life
and feel it caress
these lonely days.

One silver glance
sent through the air
I drop my eyes
and call it a stare
her will so opaque.

The silver shadows
of passing clouds
I sense them sometimes
while watching the crowds
from distant place.

A sliver of hope
would see me revel
Bathed here in silver
I drowning rebel! for

No silver moments are ever enough
No silver moon can fill this deep rut
No silver days can ever be bright

I long for the golden

I long for the light.

- August 2004

A problem inherent in the virtualization of thought is the loss of quality control and value hierarchies: everything fed into the internet - from Goethe's Faust to a how-to guide on inline skating - has the same Existenzberechtigung (right to exist) in a completely decontextualised and egalitarian environment, with each word constituting a few bytes of data.

Traditionally, selection and valuation is usually based not just on the material itself but also on signals and sources external to it. The new generation of thought, however, might only exist - and have to be discovered - virtually. However, judging a work rooted solely in a virtual context is much more difficult than before, because of the very nature of a medium characterized by fragmentation, anonymity, availability and selectivity 1. Immersed in a context-averse medium (the internet), knowledge and thought is homogenized and ultimately devalued in a perversely egalitarian quagmire.

1 fragmentation = although "links" serve to connect content, the "whole" is seldom preceivable

2 anonymity = the authorship is per se "invisible", anonymous

3 availability = the internet is accessable around the clock from around the world; everyone can create content with little effort

4 selectivity = a web page is always "virtual", and data is usually restricted to one type of channel: text, video, pictures.

Here a new version of my essay. still not complete. It is divided into several sub-essays :



From the Impossible to the Intended


The Possible Impossible

"Nothing is impossible" proclaims the gargantuan Adidas poster hung from the ceiling of the Hauptbahnhof hall. The sheer size of the ad seems to verify the statement, its palpable, visual omnipresence providing totalitarian affirmation. On the poster is a whole paragraph of text, unusually long for a target audience taught not to cram more than 5 bullets on a PowerPoint slide. The text on the left attacks those that do not strive for the impossible. The message is that impossible is impossible. On the right a picture of Beckham, celebrating.
The banner still hangs there, after England falls out in the quarter-finals. Perverse a bit, perhaps an unintended effect; Beckham can no longer achieve the impossible. Apparently, the impossible is now possible, after all. Only, not the way the ad intended. A week later, one of the big underdogs of the championships, Greece, shoots the decisive goal in the last minute of play. Impossible is apparently possible, but unfortunately, not in the context intended, for the poster features Beckham, not Charisteas. We see that far from picturing the impossible, the poster has advocated the very possible all along. It had been designed with statistics and probabilities in mind. The TV ad to the poster had featured a grab-bag of Adidas-sponsored top teams (with no sight of the at that time uninspiring Greeks) a carefully-honed balance of the probable. Would anyone have thought possible that the idolised man on the poster would miss the free kick that could have saved his team from embarrassment?
Ironic, really, that the winning team was actually also sponsored by Adidas. Of course, a smart company never puts all its eggs into one, or even two baskets, and it would hardly be "fan" enough to let its profits be wholly dependent on who actually wins. However, this does not change the fact that Beckham would have been a sexier win. A likelier one too, one whose victory Adidas was preparing for. And this is exactly where the souble paradox of the poster is revelaed: it promises the viewer the improbable, but gambles for the likely. Finally, we sense the problem with the boldly proclaimed message: the incompatibility of the message with its intent: it demands the reader dream freedom, but wants him to buy a shoe.

From the Impossible to the Intended

Companies are doing their best to suppress the side effects of a system they had every interest in creating: the urge to achieve a certain extent of freedom, individuality and dignity in a world with a radical trend toward the domination of the possible, the medially willed, and the aesthetically sanctioned. As people realize the growing impossibility of autonomous change and individual freedom in a society entrenched in mass-culture, the desperate hope for alternatives springs up.
In a show of astounding cynicism, firms like Adidas have learnt to harness our restlessness, hijacking and deforming it to work for ends that many are trying to escape. Want the impossible? Then buy it, as a shoe. With the motto "nothing is impossible", a clumsy bridge is erected between the product and a "tamed" escapism. Thus, as financial and social mobility decreases, societal casts become increasingly rigid and pressure to conform to systemic demands weighs upon individuals, business can kill two birds with one stone by repositioning the products of consumerism that are the very cause our insecurity into the locus of our hopes.

Aesthetics for Example

As our attention is artificially diverted to aspects of human existence with frustratigly small degrees of malleability - like aging and appearance (and also: income and celebrity) - solutions are immediately provided (in the form of anti-age lotions, beauty operations and image-enchancing products). By thus insuring the impossibility of ultimate, or even near- satisfaction, saturation is cunningly evaded. Meanwhile, the ever-growing fixation on sexuality is legitimized by branding it a source of (laboriously acquired) freedom, entrapping the subject into a realm of aesthetics with little hope for change and human development. As the quest to fulfil desires based on company scripture is embarked upon, one becomes trapped in a world of centrally-designed objectives. When advertisements in Japan feature caucasian women, the tendency toward one officially sanctioned value system, even in the field of aesthetics, are laid bare. Indeed, the problem of the world created by corporate culture is its totalitarian aspect, its inability to deal with creative diversity.

Standardized Individualism

When overstyled pictures and catchphrases that serve as messages and demands become the blueprints for our aspirations, we let a construct characterized by a worrying degree of homogeneity and inflexibility define our identity. It is exactly in this regard that multinationals labor the hardest to disguise the obvious paradox inherent in building a myth on the mantra of individualism, yet relying on mass production and the economies of homogeneity to maximize profits. "Individualism" in the mass-produced sense can only mean choosing from a palette of think-tank styled, value-optimized, and ready-made identities. Would-be individualists are thus wooed into joining "rebel" groups far easier to manipulate and cater to than individuals with wholly opaque preferences. Sporting a certain logo on a shoe, one is automatically identified with the range of images and values that the brand in question is associated with. These values, however, cannot be those of the individual, unless it chooses to adopt those of the brander. Beside the obvious drawback of having to choose an "image" from a relatively meager selection of homogenized types, this alternative does have one crucial advantage: it is easy. Like being able to choose your cocktail instead of having to mix it yourself, it’s hard to get something wrong. To commit a fauxpas. To not fit in. You don’t have to "tell" or "prove" to anyone that you’re well-to-do if you have Dolce&Gabbana jeans. All you have to accept in return (besides the hefty pricetag) is the baggage of connotations the company has concocted for you, and all other wearers, to carry along.

I wrote this poem in Szigetszentmiklos, Hungary

Eve on to Night



A spark from the sky
bounced on my floor
it wasn't you
but your name it bore

I read this spark avid
as I often hope
it lit alight fire
where fire ne'er stoked

it lit alight fire
that died all too soon
leaving me evening
without leaving noon

what God has given
God taketh away
but this spark went black
before I could pray

now its dark shadow
grows near my heart
charring me silent
burning in dark

nothing remains
& all stays the same
all hope is gone
except the spark's name

as eve on to night
I sense slipping off
what still remains
worth speaking of ?

I tell of you over
in my charred heart
I write you
all over
my cruelest spark
I sensed it all over
before it began
the night was all over
yet I was no man -

no man to know you
no man to dance
not one to hold you
no man to glance

knew men to kiss you
know men with a chance
I'm not among them
I just can't dance

yet
you come from my pocket
when I'm all alone
your dark light can't guide me
- but it is home.

I know I can't have you
though I simply must
so it seems strange :
in your warmth I trust

I feel you nearby
while I roam this mess
I saviour your words
yet live less and less

I live less and less
with friends & at work
live less and less
with your cruel curse

please fall back upwards
to choke this black fire
that all on its own
just can't seem to die

don't singe me so freely
with all hope so gone
burn me to ashes
& leave me alone.



- B.M. Winter 2005

My present journal, by the way, is called the Second Black Book. It is my fifth journal:

I: ctr + alt + del
II: ctr + alt + del 2
III: the Black Book
IV: the Green Journal
V: the Second Black Book

Cheers & Good Night.

Check out the promised journal entries (in pdf format) by clicking on following link:

Selected Journal Entries from the Green Book

As part of selling myself off to You, my invisible readership, I will be posting a small selection of entries from my most recently completed Journal, the Green Book.

Autumn leaves in spring

The public - the private .

I had a dream: go to Paris, and get a job there for the summer.

I just read Robert Kagan's Power and Weakness, on policyreview.org. I do not always aggree, but I have to say that though I was skeptical at first - to the point of not reading onwards - it is brilliant, a true springboard for further thought.

http://www.policyreview.org/JUN02/kagan.html

Here my infamous CNN article published, for those who asked for it

Requiem CNN:
pornography and propaganda

People exhibits strange habits while viewing pornography. I for one sometimes find a slipper in one hand. It was with slippers and shoes that the enraged citizens of Fallujah beat at the charred remains of american contractors before hanging them like grizly scarecrows from a nearby bridge. It is with a clutched slipper that I sometimes wish I could touch the members of the CNN family while watching. Like Wolf Blitzer, for instance, the incarnation of CNN reporting - as seen on the Last Word on Sunday Talk, or during the more orgasmic Breaking News interruptions. Both features represent a point on CNN's ever - oscillating spectrum between perceived and lauded objectivity and outright "swallow it, you will" porno-propaganda. The former, the Last Word, is somewhere on the more benign end of the scale, with chubby, familiar U.S. senators dishing out their dissenting views on the narrow bandwith of what Noam Chomsky calls accepted opinion. Blitzer, wavering in the wind of world affairs, knows to ask the right questions at the right time. About whether the UN is really irrelevant, before the war. About where the WMDs are, afterwards. Investigative journalism. What the public wants. Then, Breaking News. A whole different ballpark. Offering little time for grooming, some porno might slip through. Like waiting for the bombing of Bagdad with Mr. Blitzer, at the beginning of the war. Behind his back, the live video stream of Bagdad is still silent. The capital does just not want to go to hell, yet. Blitzer promises MOAB, the mother of all bombs, weight measured in tons. But viewers might just be tuning in; in case you missed it, the Army promised awe-insipring, humiliating destruction on a never before-seen scale, Shock and Awe. But the streets of Bagdad are still silent. Blitzer is impatient. Then, the first Bombs light up the screen behind him. He stops talking, urging us to watch. Bombs go off like lava fountains sprouting from the earth. Blitzer is mostly silent, leaving us with the quiet dignity of the images. Finally, Bagdad is literally going to hell.
I for one would express it otherwise: we voyeurs are being taken to hell. For all viewers who believe they have become too cynical to care about the victims, for all those who have stopped shedding tears for those we are supposed to care about - like aforementioned lynched Americans working for Blackwater security - and those we aren't, this is no longer just about pitying the tragedy of others. It's about saving our own souls from a kind of hell.
Because as a network that promises to "take you there", CNN is essentially a portal, connecting your home with world events and talking heads. Like reporters speaking Live from the White House, middle-aged women with a touch of sado-maso allure who elaborate on what Mr. Bremer just said. Take his announcement that the enemies of freedom who perpetrate actions against the coalition wish a return to the Rape Rooms. Here, a sceptical soul loses all traction. What should I care more about: the (no doubt often terrible) realities behind Bremer's alliterating catchphrase, or the fact that the Rape Rooms are being so deliciously instrumentalized to entertain and educate us all at once. The Rape Rooms. Call it CNN's sexually stirring soul-seduction.
When CNN is being subtle, in the benign moments of the oscillatory cycle, the candyman may come. In special reports, pleasant, chubby journalists like Tom Friedman get much air-time to bless us with CNN-objectivity on the most controversial topics, like the wall being built in Israel. Friedman, who is freed from all biases (explicitly: being a Jew reporting on the Arab-Israeli conflict) by being Pulitzer-Prize Winning, winds his way through the arab-israeli streets ("they told us to meet at the car dealership, which is either a Datsun or Toyota, I'm gonna go with Datsun") pants and puffs his way up apartments to interview both sides of the conflict. CNN could actually have spared itself the trouble of hiring an outside journalist, because we get proven CNN blend: Israeli legal experts, angry arab men, pretty palestinian representatives (chosen by the PLO more to please western eyes than ears). Much is discussed, and it is aggreed that the wall separates. As walls tend to do. But silly us, CNN is not primarily a discursive forum! Where is the pornography? The long-awaited catharsys comes in the form of a suicide-bombing, to bring it to the point, to really drive it home. Emotional, Friedman jogs toward ground zero of the explosion. Sirens wail. Debris litters the street. The viewer squints to find human remains in the rapidly-scrolling rubble. The point to be made must come soon now. Friedman pants into the camera, out of breath, because mid-stride. He looks us head-on. He is an angry god. Finally: "You know... if you want to know where the wall starts... it starts.. here". Amid the wailing sirens and misery, truth has been delivered. The crying Israeli soldieress thrown in afterwards is just icing on the cake. She talks about how her comerade always kept his shoes clean, that they were clean even while he was dying. Ironic, really. What a contrast to the angry mobs of Fallujah, who don't seem to mind getting their slippers dirty.