The contract finally arrived

 

The war of the self

As we speak, a legal statement was just being published in my face, on a very large platform. That platform is the messenger choice on instagram, and on facebook, and some other choices that come with it. Stuff like face recognition and such. I, for example, could not send a christmas greeting to my cousin Amy on instagram, due to some law that was right there in my face without further explanation. You can not send this message because of a new European Law. Really aggressive. 

 So I wondered. Who wrote that law? And why is this being published now? And like this? 

 And I used a search engine and found this quote in a BBC tec article on the net: „It also prohibits the interception or surveillance of communications and metadata without explicit consent from those involved.“ 

It‘s a new law about us online and it is litterally like the Nurenberg Charter that was written in 1945. It was a contract that banned experiments on people, be it their culture or otherwise, without their consent. This changed ethography and how experiments or obeservations of people are conducted today. I wonder if people are generally thinking about this? You can read the article here. 

If you disect it you‘ll see that there is a lot to think about. Facebook just changed it‘s „social security“ number, and the names of some divisions. It seems that they are desperatly trying to hold onto it‘s/our data. 

The question is, will some kind of a new European Legal War, start because of our personal data collections that have been going on for a decade or more? Could we possibly be better off by selling our data ourselves? Earn tokens. Like in an episode of Black Mirror. Or? 

How far does this European law pass? It has reached Iceland, that is for sure. I couldn‘t send my cousin Amy a greeting (good timing, christmas eve). You know this is serious don't you.

Some people in Europe are blocking a conversation between me and my cousin wich proves that they have the power to decide what we talk about wich brings us again to another big problem.

 And there are people, working a full time job, for Facebook obeing some kind of a modesty rule. No breasts, no breastfeeding, no bodys and such. So it litterally logs everything we say, all the nude pictures we try to send, and then they ban the stuff that isn‘t modest according to their modesty policy. Meanwhile, they, litterally offended little homies in every corner of the world, filing your secrets. Clever, right? Facebook is like a slippery eel. A drug lord called Loki. Dealing a strange potion. The world seems blinded by it‘s promise of a good identity, "fit in n'feel good" vibe, like in a Capimunist Disney World Denial (it‘s a new diagnosis CDWD), somehow not seeing it, or always forgiving it, because you love (or hate) what it does to your fragile self image. The kick you get from the approval of others. You love the likes and the hearts it gives to you. They up your dopamin levels. Dopeamine it's a great hormone that gives us a temporary good feeling. Like from running or dancing or... So you check in every day, every morning, every evening, over and over during the day. Same with Instagram. And you think that nothing happens ? Really?

We have been doing this for about fourteen or fifteen years now. We have part taken in a huge social identiy experiment, completely without knowing it. And just now, Google threw a cookie contract at me.

The painful feeling of rejection

There is a feeling that most of us are very afraid to face and work with. In fact I believe that this feeling might be the exact feeling that frightens most of us on the deepest kind of level. It is the painful feeling of rejection. 

To be rejected by someone or somebody you believe you belong with; a team, a friend, shool or work, someone you love, or someone you want to be loved or admired by. Or someone you trust... it is a deeply distressing feeling for most of us. 

Rejection can be shown in may different ways. „ghosting“ is one of them. Blocking. A letter. Being ignored etc. And sometimes people reject each other with infidelity and deception. The feeling of rejection is physical and it can hurt so so terribly that we ignore signals and signs of serious errors like untruthfulness and unreliability in others, in order not having to experience the actual reality of the rejection that this kind of behavior represents.

We often  tell our selves lies because we don't want to face the fact that someone is in fact rejecting us by speaking in the language of actions. The things they say and do dont match. We try to "explain" this away in order to avoid the messages spoken by actions, physical language and facial expressions and then we get stuck.

THE DARK SIDE

The darker side of the pain and hurt that follow the feeling of rejection, is that sometimes people can become addicted to it. It might seem strange, but to experience the rush of a feeling, followed by a burst of natural chemicals and hormones, so penetrating and splitting that it overtakes the entire chest can be a drug like no other. 

An emotionally infected relationship is often defined by this addiction to a certain kind of a love hurts rush, caused by emotions that set into action neurotransmitter signals that give this niche kind of high. Generally two people, stuck in a crazy limbo where one fears the rejection of the other. Under threat or by signs and symbols. A sick little twist.

I assume that a lot of actions that we take are subconsiosuly driven by the level of satisfaction presented by the award. I belive that we are driven very badly by the addiction to acceptance from others. Vanity if you will. The little red heart and the happy blue like button make us so happy that we are being held down by the measurements we take to avoid being rejeced, or not getting enough likes or attention. It is scary to a degree.

... refused, sent away, not invited, turned down, passed, outlawed, isolated, disapproved of and therefore rejected. Divorced, fired, dispensed... 

How bad does it feel?

A middle class slave to the payroll who claims she has no time to join The New Arts Activist Society

Tonight my friend told met that she didn't have any time to join an arts society club. She said that people who stay on the payroll, working for the man, have no time to do things like that. And then she sighed. 

She has been very tired recently. I think it's because she needs some new energy. She's going through the mid-life crisis too. Last year was full of self doubt for her and still is, in a way. Going through the mid-life thing is a big deal for a lot of people. A lot of them get a divorce and take up hobbies. Some become more happy after. Others really regret it, particularly when they have been dating someone 15 years younger for two years and find out that they can't really party that much, or that they really didn't wish for any more kids. 

Play a role, express yourself, rule the payroll

I once saw an interview with an old Swedish film director. It was about him as an artist. He said that the thing he regretted the most was not expressing himself the way he really wanted to. 

In her heart my friend is authentically an artist, but she is also a married woman and a mother of two.  She is successful in her creative field but I believe she needs another outlet because she is torn between the role of the middle class woman, who slaves on the payroll on goes to soccer matches, and an artist who once ran and sometimes *roamed* free in foreign cities. She needs to express herself more. More chaotically. Less middle-classy. 

She randomly becomes very frustrated because of the patriarchy and sometimes she thinks that the world is coming to an end and that we should all hoard stuff and have chickens and bunkers. She hates it how middle-aged women become "invisible" as she describes it. She has also fantasised about having a big pink vagina fountain in her garden, that pees and squirts and does different variations of spurts. I understand her on so many levels but let's face it. Something needs to be done about this. Otherwise she might go into the classic middle age, middle-class crash landing. 

I think I won't have to convince her much to join the New Arts Activist Society. It would be something in the spirit of the Dada Movement. As long as there is fun involved she's likely to last. We used to arrange and host lot's of weird and fun parties in the nineties. And we were both DJs. And lot's of other things. 

We should never be slaves to a suppressing payroll or any enforced roll for that matter. Don't be a bug, stuck on a bed, Kafka told us that slavery sucks. So here is the manifesto. The message. Loud and clear!

Don't let the social contract of the middle class suppress you.
Don't let the heteronormative suppress you.
Don't let their assumptions and expectations get you down.
Don't let The Man you are working for suppress you.
Make your own money.
Fuck the Patriarchy! 

Long live the New Arts Activist Society!

#feelingpumped #naas #m.ar.s

To write

My friends keep telling me to write more

Not to write more, but to tell stories from my head. I am always writing interviews anyway but they are a different kind of writing. It's documenting through someone else. 

To write is obviously a skill like any other. A set of skills. 

A chef is what comes to mind when I think of a comparable skill that is more commonly appreciated. The chaos of nature has created an infinite source of raw material for the chef to choose from. His or her job is to prepare the raw materials, combine them together, work them, put them on a plate and serve the neat outcome to the hungry (or curious) person at the table - and this is exactly what a writer does. Any kind of writer. 

A plumber or a specialist in linoleum laying might read this and become insulted that I didn't use them as an example for a  that compares to a writer but the difference is super clear. Writers and chefs have living things to choose from when it comes to work material while carpenters, bricklayers, plumbers and shipbuilders can count on their logs, rocks, pipes and metal. 

This is not to say that the raw material of a writer has no reliability to it. That is people and their behaviour. People seem to behave and move in ways that can very often be predicted, and sometimes even relied upon. Particularly people in groups and over a long span of time. These descriptions are best to be read in the Bible, the Saga of Njál (Brennu-Njáls saga) or Snorra Edda. 

Muscle memory

Many crafts find their way into the muscle memory of the woman or man who work on their craft. A good seamstress can create wonders, not to mention those who work with ceramics and tiles. They do their detailed jobs flawlessly and move on a focused, but fast pace. 

Drivers, bodyguards and waiters have a super fascinating skillset. I guess exactly the same skillset that people need when they are on a soccer field, navigating a crowd while keeping your eye on a target. 

My skills, pace and how many times I hit the back button on the keyboard depends on how much sleep and caffeine I've had. For the past year I've had the routine of drinking one cup of coffee per day. Maybe I should increase my caffeine intake and go to bed earlier.  Could be an idea. The eternal search for balance. 

My pace on the keyboard right now is a little below normal but that's ok. When I used to write journals my handwriting was often slow so that it could be more readable. It also gave me a little buffer on the sentences. Go slower, think it over. 

Writing with hand can be more interesting than writing on a keyboard because sometimes you can spot your mood by the way you write. This is very clear to me in the journals I wrote from I was circa nineteen to twenty three. Sometimes my handwriting was wild. Sometimes calm. Same things on my mind, most of the time, just different intensity, the rise and fall of different emotions used to vary. 

Anyway

I used to write a lot of poetry at that time. Publish some, even read one on TV, but mostly we read them out loud for listeners at poetry nights held at clubs, bars and cafés. I read my stuff with a lot of other people who now do this as a main job, publish books by numbers.

I often feel guilty that I didn't continue on this artistic path and became a blue collar journalist instead. Mixing jobs. Writing about lipsticks. Creating a popular website about lipsticks and art. Getting by as a single mom. But hey. Maybe I'm not ready? Maybe I'll never be ready? Maybe I have too many stories to tell and when I think about it get's overwhelming?

I am just going use this blog until I make further decisions A revival of an old blog is a good place to start. Like a chef experiencing with his food skills in the kitchen of a kindergarten. Yeah! I'm King I'd say in the spirit of Kanye. 

I can start by telling you a story that will appear in another blogpost.

The structure of The Ozark

Recently I have been watching a tv series called The Ozarks. For years friends have been pressing on me to watch it, and I even know a guy who wrote some of it, but for some reason I didn't get myself to turn it on until very recently. I instantly got hooked as my friends had predicted.

I am fashinated by how those different classes of people operate together and how quickly their very complex problems escalate and how fast they can solve them, each in their own way. The mean guys are also some of the most disgusting that I have seen. The FBI cop and Ruth’s redneck dad. Ruth is probably my favorite although I hope she won't become too tame in the next episodes.

The huge power roles played by middle aged women in the series is cool for obvious feminist reasons and the writers have all the archetypical elements under control. Buddy the mentor, Darlene the evil witch, whatshisface the evil father, and the gay redneck dad who became his sons ghost mentor (I cant remember their names). And then of course the Romeo and Juliet element in it. The love affair between Charlotte and Wyatt. Uptown girl and downtown boy etc.etc. I have just finished the second series and now it’s time to begin the third one. It would be in my nerdian spirit to write recaps in the next few days.

Later!


The sound of silence

 The sound of silence comes when you allow every single muscle in your body to relax