I have a problem with the “social problems”.

And so I “denounce” modernity’s obsession for social problems, regardless their form, their content and the legitimacy of this label. It is your duty as a citizen (and as a researcher) to respond through your work to the latest social concerns of the world you live in, it is your duty to provide useful solutions for maintaining the successful project of modernity and thuswise feel entitled to receive the required funds for cultivating your research interest. That would inherently lead to an amplified devotion towards punctual, “current” consequences (because what else a social problem is if not a conjecture entirely related to an unique and unrepeatable arrangement of present social, historical and political factors raised and sustained by a particular context?) and to a deliberate neglect of the perennial and “context-free” problems. Hm. One feels very useless these days… PS: Kate Bush is great. Really great. I never thought about it till a few days ago.

I’ve re-read my previous post. Distressing feeling of guilt.
Queueing for 10 minutes in the supermarket I’m intimidated by a dark-haired woman with a few rings hanging here and there on her face. She only bought Coke and Fanta, I bought lots of stuff. She looks upset. I let her go through first. Still disturbed. I keep worrying. Still more people behind me that only bought milk for their kids. I should let everyone go ahead me. Still timorous. And accusable: no kids at home. I press the code of the building instead of the pin number of my card. The cashier is around 50. She’s bitter anyway. But I bet she was a carefree lovely girl listening to Tom Jones asking everybody to call her Delilah. Why, why, why, Delilah? So before they come to break down the door/ Forgive me, Delilah, I just couldn’t take anymore. I could hear the sound of breaking glass, deep into the night. Perfect lyrics. Jones’ ones that is. And Lowe’s ones as well. Each one with his own way. Why being a pathetic backslider? I turn some local radio on. Cold terror. Slip into the velvet glove/Parted lips so filled with love/French kissin’ in the USA/French kissin’ in the USA. Every single word sounds, again, perfect. I write it down. Still perfect. I read my previous post once again. It’s like waking up in a repetitive foggy dream, nothing happens so you panic. One of Kafka’s unfinished novels is “America”. It’s like waking up in America, running away from the hotel. Or towards it. You make me dizzy Miss Lizzy when you call my name o-o-o-o-o-baby, say you’re drivin’ me insane, it’s Saturday and it’s late you can’t buy any wine not anymore and the church across the railway is closed anyway and it was so much easier when I was cruel… I do some reading, “Sha-la-la-la-lee” not written by Lane/Marriott??? Still disappointed, I enormously love it anyway, picked her up on a Friday night, sha la la la lee, yeah, I knew everything gonna be alright, sha la la la lee, yeah, sha la la la la lee now tell me, you phony attitudinizer, how can anyone beat this?? Yesterday afternoon, out of… well, anyway, yesterday afternoon I wrote a weak text about a strong matter. On weak premises and wrong samples. With a mis-drawn sketch and a misfigured tone. So I’m terrified.
Please wish me – and quick! – strawberry fields forever.

there is nothing so immovable as a woman.

PS: a 20 minute old painting at the left; oil on canvas. It’s called “The Show”. Click on it for the full-sized view.