self-consumption

As the people you grew up with gradually die, you realise there is a lot of space left. A lot of space filled by noise. As people die you remember the history they played a part in and they told you about when you were a child. But I don’t know what history to tell my child. Maybe the history of design, the history of rock, of electronic music, of drugs and parties… the history of chaos and confusion. They used to tell us about how people managed to stick together, but I keep explaining the benefits of divorce and independent creativity. Fewer words I say, are better than many. Psychoanalysts I say, are modern priests, depriving you of the right of identity and choice. Good is better than bad, but most things are both. When we were young, I say, we used to get so pissed, we passed out, but good friends always pick each other up… I say. Be a waitor, an artist or a factory worker in a production line in China, I say, cause I don’t know of other professions you can do with a clear coscience.
One teacher says she’s disturbed by the sight of a funny drawn naked boy in a note book, another tells me she’s a psychopath. I just laugh akwardly and silently worry that the messed up messages are untanglable even for me. I watch people pretend to work, pretend to be married and pretend to have kids. I watch little people pretend to be kids, dogs and grown-ups. I watch myself pretending to be bored when I’m just scared of the mistakes I would be making by talking.
Athens is a shit-hole, but everything is linked through a network of images and information. I walked in the night through a village in mid-western Finland and in the darkness watched people watch reality tv in their living rooms. A man was sipping tea in the kitchen, watching the road where I was walking. Alice through the looking glass, looking at herself looking back.
Hemingway would have committed suicide in this planet of human consumables.
To buy an expensive bottle of cognac and accept one’s fate or to rebel Ernst? What would you do?

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