panic attacks

It is within our hands... It hovers over our heads...

It is within our hands…
It hovers over our heads…

 

 

Man your lungs, my friend, for here it comes:

The Big Swell.

You don’t breathe, I don’t breathe,

Yet we’re breathing too fast.

 

My pulse is racing ahead,

Whose body am I inhabiting?

I am besides myself with fear,

With fear that I’m still trapped inside my skin

My skin is pushing,

I’m being re-born and I father myself,

I have no mother and this biological impossibility gnaws at me.

 

Reason returns, and with it, a name-tag, to hide the fear.

The fear that in the Beginning there was nothing

And then, conveniently, came the Word.

Let’s hide together?

 

only darkness blowing

Can we step outside the Cave?

Can we step outside the Cave?

I felt the walls crumbling,

I sensed my being crawling.

I do not exist:

I merely am what you want me to be.

 

If ink shall tell the story,

It will not be my story.

This pen takes over: It’s writing!

There is no one out there to stop it.

only darkness blowing

Consumer anxiety

Consumer anxiety

We live in another world from the one we imagine; but there is this vague feeling of dissatisfaction, an undefinable anxiety which betrays us and makes us think. We feel that this is another world from the one that should be.

Each day you wake up and you start to consume the most addictive commodity:

the information which you cannot use.

The kind of consumerism which we’re now dealing with (and which we should be more afraid of), it’s not the one that’s vulgarised, the materialism (= buying things), but a much more insidious one, that of the imagined potential. We read, we watch movies, we interact with virtual games to conceive another world, different from the one we fulfill in our social reality.

Our individual reality is our first victim, and probably the most difficult to reanimate, to recover.

The time in which you conceive yourself, in which you think about your self, without stimuli, disappears all of a sudden, in spite of your stubborn search for a moment of free time, of your own. As soon as you get one of these free moments, you throw yourself into one of these nests in which somebody has prepared a really soft, comfortable bedding, and all you have to do is just lie down and relax.

Except it’s not your own, and then you fly to the next nest:

maybe it’s going to be softer, maybe it’s going to be more comfortable…

It’s a conspiracy of man against himself, against the chaos, the chasm called “subconscious”, which we cannot imagine in any other manner than as a sea of monsters which we should avoid, according to Freud, after Freud.

Andres Gide said somewhere: “If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.” We listened to this advice too earnestly, and now we cannot be anything else but readers of a cheap novel, with a new volume published each moment.

We don’t even care who the author is anymore, as long as it’s not us.

We’re not writing anything, except in that place where we’re qualified to do so, where the social order has thrown us. And when we do write, it’s called “working”; even in the moment when we could create (in the divine sense of the word) we’re reaching out for that sweet moment at the end of the week, the lunch break, the free time…

 

We are assaulted by the products of other people’s work and this makes us so much less disposed to add to this stream our own contribution:

it’s probably already been said, right?

To give your free time to yourself, to work for yourself, for your own thoughts, this is what I call an ambitious project, and it’s almost inconceivable.

This is why fantasy novels are so successful, because they present us with a model of the unacknowledged desire to escape this limbo of a special kind of suicide:

those who kill their internal voice.

If we accept the metaphor of man thrown into darkness by modernity, then we could say that

the nausea of being overwhelms us each time we end up running into a mirror when we’re actually searching for screens to admire other people’s shadows.

The truth is that the longer we spend in front of these screens, the more mediocre and the more lacking-in-brightness do our own reflections appear in the mirror. In this context,

a meeting with a mirror becomes an opportunity to run into a fit of depression, a moment in which

the supreme fear of not being a screen for anybody else becomes an unbearable certitude.

The fear of not finding your place in the world.

Anxietate de consumator

Traim intr-alta lume decat ne imaginam. Dar un sentiment vag de nemultumire, un angst nedefinit ne da de gol si ne da de gandit: SIMTIM ca e o alta lume decat cea care ar trebui sa fie.

In fiecare zi te trezesti si incepi sa consumi cea mai adictiva comoditate:

informatia ce nu-ti foloseste.

Consumerismul care ne paste acum si de care trebuie sa ne temem nu mai e cel vulgarizat, materialismul, ci unul cu mult mai insidios, al imaginatului potential. Citim, ne uitam la filme, “interactionam” cu jocuri virtuale pentru a concepe un rol, altul decat cel pe care il indeplinim in “realitatea sociala”.

Realitatea individuala e prima victima, si probabil cea mai greu de reanimat/recuperat.

Timpul in care te concepi, in care te gandesti pe tine insuti fara stimuli, dispare dintr-o data, si, desi cauti cu incapatanare o clipa de timp “liber”, “al tau”, de cum o capeti, te arunci intr-unul din cuiburile astea in care cineva ti-a pregatit un asternut moale, comfortabil, si nu mai trebuie decat sa te lafai.

Numai ca nu e al tau… si atunci zbori spre urmatorul, doar doar o fi mai pufait.

E o conspiratie a omului impotriva lui insusi, impotriva haului numit subconstient, pe care nu ni-l mai putem imagina dupa Freud decat ca pe o mare de monstri de evitat.

Andres Gides zice undeva ca daca un tanar se poate abtine de la a scrie, s-o faca fara ezitare; i-am ascultat sfatul prea silitori, si acum nu mai putem fi decat cititori ai unui roman de duzina cu un nou volum editat in fiecare clipa.

Nici nu ne mai pasa cine e autorul, atata timp cat nu suntem noi.

Noi nu scriem decat acolo unde suntem “calificati”, unde ne-a aruncat ordinea sociala, si atunci cand o facem se cheama ca “muncim”; chiar in momentul in care am putea crea in sensul divin al cuvantului, nazuim catre acea dulce somnolenta de sfarsit de saptamana, de pauza de masa, de “timp liber”.

 

Suntem asediati de produsele “muncii” altora, si asta ne face cu atat mai putin dispusi de a adauga suvoiului propria noastra contributie:

“probabil ca s-a zis deja”

A-ti darui timp liber sa muncesti pentru tine, pentru gandurile tale, iata ce as numi un proiect ambitios, si aproape de neconceput.

Din motivul acesta au atata succes romanele de fantezie, pentru ca ne prezinta cu un model al dorintei nemarturisite de a scapa din acest limbo al sinucigasilor de un tip aparte:

cei ce-si ucid vocea interna.

Daca acceptam metafora omului tipat (in sensul de “aruncat”) in intuneric de catre modernitate, atunci putem spune ca “raul de a fi” ne cuprinde ori de cate ori dam peste o oglinda cand noi de fapt cautam ecrane pentru a admira umbrele altora.

Adevarul e ca, cu cat petrecem mai mult timp in fata ecranelor, cu atat mai banale si lipsite de stralucire ni se par reflectiile in oglinda. In acest context,

o intalnire cu oglinda devine prilej pentru o criza de depresie, un moment in care

teama suprema de a nu fi un ecran pentru nimeni altul devine o certitudine de neindurat.

Teama de a nu-ti gasi locul in lume…