On my way home I saw a broken window. The window as in a building right next to the street. The street my bus goes along is pretty much filled with tristesse. It is a very ugly area with a lot of shabby old buildings. Somehow casual 1950'ies architecture is making me sad.
It has the odour of a Godard movie attached. Any moment some one could be shot. Or drop dead out of boredom. Somehow smashed windows act desperately. A piece of curtain was showing. In my mind a bunch of future designer will take pictures of it and put it on artsy websites illustrating romanticism. A flickr group will vote said window picture into the web2.0 listings. There goes 1990'ies aesthetics. Nan Golding photo-alike pictures capturing long gone hedonism. The 90s turned into the new 80s. None would wear that clothes anymore. Please lets keep 1990s theory for a little longer though. We could hide the hideous cover art in grey paper. Lets just keep reading.
While being at it lets invent some new guidelines for kitsch. A new camp is needed. Now that everybody has his/her self imported plastic Jesus in the living room. Pack the coloured lamps away, Technicolor has gone mainstream baby, it doesn't glow no more. The FAQs should contain a line that pointing at something isn't allowed unless it is the opposite direction of where you look at.
In the meanwhile until the paint dries shake all polka dots out of your wardrobe and burn your converse in public. They're not making you an individual baby, not more than the guy over there. He is pretty cool, that little tomboy.
Another question raising up could be why 1968 pedagogy went all wrong? Why did participation turn into a foul creativity, where everybody is painting with finger-paint on glass, taking pictures of said sad windows and playing the same Joy Division chords again and again? When did activity start to be equalized with restless actions? At which point did NLP hit in? Are you having pictures of ice skating girls on your mind whenever you listen to Mozart?
Someone is running a 'cuteness' attack against my daily life. The united forces of former Mickey Mouse Club Members are working on a take over. Tick, Trick and Track are getting their 'Fähnlein Fieselschweif' Book out. It is an evil Version of Wikipedia with no editing allowed. One Day we'll all wake up having huge, teary Manga eyes. Some Synthie-Euro-Trash-Dance-Trance Playlist will be used to introduce the last minutes until the Lobotomy gets effective. Eventually that's FMMCMUs Plan B but how should I know.
How many levels does it need for a good plot? How many times do they have to cross, come close or reject each other? Does a good plot have a self referential history? Something like a memory of its contents. What would be a level anyway? There is nothing but surface and tension.
When did you learn about the ways to act like a novel character? How did you apply artists egocentric behaviour to your minimalist mainstream smile? My first memory about that might be listening to 'Cinderella' at the age of 4 feeling that I might be all princess style. Thankfully my Winnetou attitude was harmonizing along.
Did we know that it might be wrong to write essays for contests, jump on the Lomo hype taking pictures of fruit and street signs? Anybody can be an artist. Fuck you Beuys. Fuck you Adorno too. Fuck you Garamond 8pt Web Designers. Fuck you Usabilty Managers and Tracking Cookies. My rage has not even reached the break even point. Therefore this might be continued.