In January I wrote an article that connected the increased use of Spotify and Netflix with the lack of direction millennials are famous for having. Yet, it´s not only billion dollar companies and streaming services that are to blame. Jacques Derrida is known worldwide, within both philosophy and literary theory, for his notion of Différance: there is no meaning without contrast, and since language consistently fails to be the unbiased, unchangeable, solid block of binaries we wish it to be, our life-long search for real truth will sadly never find its conclusion. The Frenchman was preoccupied with only words because, as he put it himself, “there is nothing outside the text.”Continue reading “No Difference, No Direction”
“The truth is in the whole” might be some of Hegel’s most cited words, and although this phrase has inspired lots of philosophy, art and theory that followed, it seems like current younger generations, particularly known as millennials, didn’t quite get the memo. Apart from infamously taking pictures of nicely arranged dishes until they go cold, stereotypically acting like Wi-Fi is more of a primary need than water, and worshipping Steve Jobs like he created the planet earth instead of the Iphone, millennials are also widely known for their lack of goals and direction. The internet is full of articles, interviews and statistics pointing out this particular problem. Bosses and managers complain more and more frequently about the difficulties in having millennials as employees; mental health issues, like depression and burn-outs, are widely referred to as being epidemic, and switching between studies or jobs is becoming closer and closer to being the rule, rather than an exception. Continue reading “Losing the ‘we’ in TV”
Although some say that Mark Zuckerberg,, with his lizard-like features and robotically generated emotions, might not have a consciousness at all, his social-media-giant Facebook simulates that very thing perfectly. The same goes for Instagram, which was bought by Facebook in 2012. By having riverlike feeds from picture to picture, post to post, and therefore from subject to subject, they present their information in somewhat of a Joycean stream. Instead of the absence of chapters, a constant, infinite input; instead of eclipses, white bars dividing the first and the next post, and instead of the all-over-the-placeness of thought, a randomized collection of birthday parties, holidays, articles, advertisements and memes, or in Joyce´s words: “There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.” Despite the fact that Facebook and Instagram are easily finished within the ten minutes you are waiting for the bus, – whereas, for instance, Ulysses takes a full 800 pages -, both platforms carry aspects, and are in ways equal to, the stream of consciousness novel. Continue reading “Memes of Consciousness”
As if he has returned from a years-long quest, the medieval knight seems to be back. Yet he is no longer wearing a heavy armor set, carrying a throat-slitting sword, nor arriving on some biologically perfect stallion: he has humbly traded his signature gear for a Thrasher sweater, a pair of artificially ripped jeans and an eye-catching BMW. His Lady, the pinnacle of his private world, the absolute test of his chivalry, has become the owner of an 11-million-followers Instagram account, spending a dollar per like on plastic surgery. Where ever one looks someone with a perfect life is present. The rich and famous have returned to being an idealized version of themselves, so we, the commoners, aspire to be them even more. Celebrities have become knights, and in romances of secret affairs, public rivalry, and battles with drugs, depression and alcohol, they spread their names across the globe.
They fell in love in the vineyard,
In between empty barrels
and hanging sweets.
I should have acted,
But I can just remember.
Comfortably leaning back, he sat in a white plastic chair, with his feet resting in front of him on an equally white and plastic table, off which the sunlight glitteringly reflected. On its almost glowing surface stood only one cloudily condensed glass, still full of thin orange soda, which had to share its space with a red-white striped straw, some slowly melting, subsequently evaporating ice cubicles and loads of nonchalantly ascending bubbles. Although most of his body seemed worry and stress free, his hands passionately held the two hostage-like parts of an opened book, sandwiching the paper with every turning of a page. The skin on his forehead was similarly squeezed into several frowning wrinkles and almost unnoticeable, yet shadow shaping bumps.