The year is ending, 2014 is coming to a close. This one felt like nothing so much as a blink, a mostly wasted one at that. Apart from the „social work“ I put in, that is, all the relationships I attended to like a conscientious, lice-picking baboon, I produced dearly little of value. This or that sentence in a blog entry might be read [by myself, who else?] three decades hence [servers surviving] and elicit a faint smile, a wary show of nostalgia on my age-lined countenance. Oh to be young again – young and hopeful, young and foolish, young and speciously far from curtains! But the curtains anyway, indifferent of our lively vigors and longings, our amusing human toilings might draw shut or, rather, tumbled down and burry us at an instant‘s notice. Better to keep an eye on the audience, imaginary as it might be.
Who am I fooling? I may write up a tempest, a three-hundred page novel or a five-hundred entry blog, the year is still ending in all-out futility. Nothing have I achieved in furtherance of world peace or the reduction of global poverty; but then neither has many a statesperson, sternly holding forth from this or that woodpanelled locus of geopolitical centrality before driving off in a smokescreened limo, as impervious to pro-democratic tomatoes as extremist RPGs. New evils have sprung up on this green ball of ours and there was nothing I felt able, much less compelled, to do about it. All the while others, muddle-minded but radiant-gazed, drove their motorcycles south to shoot at bearded evil-doers… oh these curious new iterations of speciously good and spuriously bad, they do entertain!
What the devils!? 365 diems are coming full circle and I have fuck-all to show for it. A few lesson plans [all those fancy meanings and ideas I was to convey to my, ha, my!, students], a few pics [in these times of pandemic photorhea a few dozen snaps, incl. zilch selfos, is the closest one can get to…one word or another will have to do….closest to immunity…as much as I know myself, still, to be the Infected One], a few dabbling type-aways on this here digital domain and what… see supra: the invaluable SOCIAL travails, the lice-picking and caressing and endless kissing and lying-in-the-sun and general monkey buisness that lend l-i-f-e as I know it [precious little] some tolerable semblance of meaning. Uh-huh, call me nostalgic, regard me naive, consider me helplessly modern but I believe [one must believe, no?] life does signify. Ever has, year for year, pre- and post- domini, in its trillions of iterations, in all of its solar cycles, maybe even somehow before biota sprang up from the toxic muck, meant something.
So the year is ending is just considering the matter gluteus-backwards when all that should be communicated, I suppose, is that a new one, 2015, is giddily hopping up and down, flexing its shiny body like a supreme athlete and positioning itself in the starting blocks.
No, there are no energies in this cerebrum for some pro-longed commie–bashing or insightful communism critique. Only place to consider this: if a good Nazi can become a good Communist, then a good K can become a lovely Y. This can be that and vice versa, no problem. Sure enough, later in the book you can read that Nazis became good spies for Western democracies. In fact there is a book documenting one of the last fights of WWII in which a motely band of French B–list celebrities, a few communist fighters and a fistful of Nazi turncoats did valiant battle with a German battalion. Briefly: It is never too late to totally unbecome yourself, especially if you‘re totalitarian to begin with!
Why this obsession with the human photographic presence? Always people long to get somebody, anybody, most of all their own body, somehow into the picture. A piece of evidence that they did not just cull the picture from the imagery-galaxy known as the net but were present, corporeally and pressed, depressed the button. As if the human shape were interesting, as if they themselves were not just a worthy but an interesting subject of aesthetic appreciation. How far from the visual truth can one get? Personally, I prefer to see the sodding landscape or whatever clever spatial juxtaposition of objects the photographer can conjure so as to… alienate&aestheticize…the original rectangular sample of reality. I cannot sympathize with seeing, for the x-th time, a stupidly smiling face I certainly know better than the back of my hand and which [in a city as small as Lucerne] I might likely see at every turned corner on the least of jaunts downtown. Others, mostly females it seems, tend to go in for the subtler variety: they interpose their steepled thighs on the photo, protruding from the lower edge like two unbidden sausages. What could it mean? – I do wonder: guess whose legs those are? I was there but I didn‘t mean to totally ruin the image? My legs were there? Isn‘t the thigh-gap, intracrural orifice, an engrossing anomaly? Facing all this I hope for something simple in the future, maybe as early as 2015: dehumanized photography, pictures free of human stains.
Indeed, sometimes I too am superbly superstitious, eerily convinced that uttering the obvious will annihilate reality as the most powerful wizard‘s spell might. The words must not be spoken or they will call down a cosmic jinx for none to reverse. That‘s one aspect of it: the magic, the superstition, the dark power of words if you do not deploy them carefully.
The other aspect is that of an other, the other thinking a thought similar, possibly identical, to mine. It being voiced by the other, I realize my absolute un-uniqueness in conjuring any particular sequence of words…even ideas… in my head. My convictions might not be mine at all, they could constitute some public good, a stock reservoir of words of which even the most mild faced of individuals can participate. The treasure horde of words – unique, precise, magical – is a common! Somebody else might have thought these before, might think these again in some far off day of the future. I am not as I imagine myself to be and these lexemes, Vollmer‘s words sound proof of it. Better to be still then, leave the locutions‘ gloom unperturbed.