sitting in the library in west-berlin, reading intelligent texts, feeling academic but weak as fuck – i am listening to jazz, this is how far it has come with me. and not only this, i am listening to jazz on a youtube-playlist which i created. it’s called “work”, and it describes the nothingness of sounds that are simply raining down on me. but they’re not nothings, as in, they are not just white noise. they are, if nothing else, also highly pretentious, although i (disgustingly) do enjoy it. this is new. both the streaming (i usually have hard copies of everything, as you know), and the jazz. i always thought listening to popular classic music (i.e. nils frahm and nothing else) was the be-all, end-all of my pretended sophistication; but boy, was i wrong. i event went to the theater yesterday. i am becoming old, right? this is old. this is getting old: when you’re actually enjoying the long conversations, when the highs and lows of your dramatic life are too exhausting to keep up with all the damn time, when instead you yearn – ah, fuck it, i mean when you actually and pain-stakingly craft a life that is relaxing, like sitting in a jacuzzi all day listening to jazz kind of relaxing, and when the most fun you have is when you get to bone someone new or you share a very funny and truthful, self-deprecating meme with your friends.
it sounds like pure bliss, i know: taking a picture for instagram, maybe a selfie, then humorously sharing it with your friends (obviously your closest network of friends only, because you’re currently writing a thesis about how people are annoyed by the make-up’d photography and self-representations on instagram and you feel caught in that reflexive whirlwind about aesthetics and identification processes). when you’re done, every day, you think about how nice it will be to drink another black coffee with a slight chocolate-y note the next morning. you also realize that you hate yourself for having all these preferences, that you’re so set on wanting this exact thing and nothing else, but you also calm yourself down by saying that your taste is still shit compared to others, and your apartment really doesn’t look like it’s been designed by someone who does literally nothing else for a living than going through instagram pictures of well-designed things and then re-creating them for real life. fuck the pictures, you say, and then you ironically buy something ugly because that’s the only defense you have, and it’s almost (almost, you say) sadder than just not having any taste, because it’s reflexive of the fact that your doxa or habitus or whatever it is that bourdieu said there, it’s just not the same as your friends. you may or may not have enough cultural and symbolic capital to hide in a network of people who have a lot more money than you. maybe they don’t have it now, but they will have it, they are structurally rich, they will inherit a house or houses and some cash from their hardworking parents, they most likely will in fact, and you’re not bitter about the fact, you just realize time and time again that this is what makes you overcompensate and unhappy. maybe all that listening to jazz won’t make it better and won’t heal the pain, but you are part of them, you are actually becoming them (minus the money, of course).
she realizes that I became her and the process of alienation has completely set in, but it had probably already began when she started writing in English instead of German, basically borrowing the sign and symbols from a different language, just like she borrows everything. she is overthinking this now, and here’s how it always ends: with a quick publication, without reading over it again, because she tries to be honest with herself, and pretends that this is the only online-webspace where nobody cares what she does, it’s just easier to remember things when they’re published, it’s just like talking into the void but the void may or may not be listening