As I write my chapter about biographies and death, I find myself both coward and impertinent.

Inevitably, some have “better” biographies than others; according to my criteria, there’s no way to preserve any political correctness when it comes to finding, what Zygmunt Bauman calls “biographical solutions to systemic contradictions”. Indeed, some biographies have integrated the perspective of the modern subjective death “better” than others, and I am supposed to demonstrate it.

The absolutely worst thing is that I have to comment the most  personal parts available in  (some) contemporary artists’ diaries, biographies and autobiographies. The other way to put it is this: I am not looking for obvious ways of approaching death as revealed in such confessions, but for something rather “intrusive”: the manners in which people integrate their failures and their corporality and then, according precisely to such gestures of integration, the manners in which they reshape their identities; the trepidations of identity, that’s what the personal sense of death is all about.  But how could I possibly write about it in relation to people I already know personally, or I would probably meet in the future?

The thing is that not everybody enjoys writing about their own failures in biographies, autobiographies and journals. Some people (which I call the “East-oriented people”), are fond of their artistic victories. So they talk about them instead. And about the ways others relate to these victories. There never mention their sunsets, they only mention their risings.

Therefore, throughout some confessions, I cannot track death as a trepidation of identity, even though – surprisingly?? – these people seem to be those who actually write openly about Death, Truth, Art and Sacrifice. Which is a cheap paranoid trick, if you’d ask me (in private). The more they talk about Death (with a huge “D”), the less they consider it intimately, personally, humanly. The more they speculate about the Art of Death, the less they know about the art of dying.

Some, only see their West; others, only see their East. And I am just very embarrassed to remind them about  the true North.

PS: A mesmerising avatar of Jeff Buckley’s (poor son of Tim… he died in 1997, in case you didn’t know) Grace, sung by Helena Josefsson (last song in the myspace player). Play it. And surrender.

How fast the days pass! I was stunned to find out, early this morning while answering the phone, that the autumn is here. So abruptly. And incognito. Like a thief.

When I was younger, I felt prepared weeks before the seasons changed. I used to fill my agenda with handwritten plans for months in advance, and I used to notice, in addition, the changes in the sky color and in the clouds texture (for instance, the summer sky has a foggy kind of blue that I used to hate; today I feel a languid indulgence for whatever color and texture the firmament might have). However, these days I’m in an endless state of unreadiness. My responses are poor, illicit acts of adaptation to seasons, situations, ideas and people I encounter without any will of “pursuing convergence”. So, as said, this September simply ran into me like a young ferocious, yet playful, animal who didn’t have the time to learn anything about his beastly attributes. 5 days to go till the season is officially changing and this autumn is already playing deadly games with me: tight deadlines, crowded buses, and so many shades of yellow and blue that I am going to miss!

September is, in theory, all the good and deeply organic things a man can hope for: it’s recollection, regurgitation, anamnesis. September is all about the patience of being you; (after a whole touristic summer of smutty ego-exchanging trips ). It’s just that I wish I could’ve had the needful respite to premeditate it…

PS: I think I have once written a couple of observations about the latest Nick Cave album. Today I’d just say I am still not bored with it. On the contrary. Check the leading song.

Fascinated by Pär Lagerkvist’s Dvärgen (The Dwarf). This is stark, hard-core prose. Couldn’t find one single mediocre sentence, couldn’t feel one single fall out of rhythm. There’s a quintessential abyss  behind each and every single (simple) remark.

I am sick and tired of all those twisted words that keep most of the contemporary writers busy. The samples of human disintegration, in all its arrogant self-denial and trivial knavery, gets irrelevant whenever the writing is anaemic, diluted or overstyled. Lagerkvist’s elegant precision cuts like an exquisite knife. Personally, I see no other way of hinting at the grand truths of human littleness.

PS: lovely piece of music you surely know: Small Faces, “Afterglow (of your Love)”. And one of my all time favs, “Tin Soldier” live. Years pass, but Steve and Ronnie have never been more actual.

The tragedy of losing all PIN’s, codes, passwords, usernames and security answers (to security questions) must be the most terrible nightmare of a late modern man. Without them, he can’t get by in this world. He’d be a chased, despised, mistrusted, frightened, isolated refugee – broke, homeless and socially insignificant, in other words, he’d be dead (because no death is more painful than social death).

There’s no genuine independence from the social world we live in. Therefore, an “ignorant” man who loses or forgets his secret numbers would find himself in an acute state of uncertainty. If he is not able to recognize his numbers anymore, then nobody’s going to recognize him as an autonomous and reliable entity.  No self-definition is accepted. There are his PINs and passwords that define man, in his innermost economic, social and cultural features (and that’s his primarily intimate nature). It’s all about being digitally correct and digitally reliable. A man remembering his numbers is a man in his fullness. An amnesiac is either a dying man, or a socially inferior man often shrouding his anti-social traits; however, from a digitally correct perspective, it’s really the same thing…

We’re all wrapped up in secret numbers and letter combinations. So we end up believing there must be a PIN or a password for everything. And this is how the cognitive sciences were born. And this is why cognitive psychologists believe there’s an activation key for every single run-over mind. I wish I had the PIN from my own heart.

PS: I appologize for being silent lately. I just had to leave my desk for a couple of days. Now I’m back. Even more tired than I was a week ago. But that’s the whole beauty of taking some time off.

PS1: Ol’ music anyone? Who wants to know more about Lucy Jordan who lost the master password?

…the modern human being is that human being who is essentially alone and essentially not ready to be so?

PS: “Togetherness” at the left. It’s not much, just a quick drawing…

PS2: I have to say it again: Scarlett Johansson is an amazing singer. She’s got the whole natural approach of music that most female singers lost these days. Scarlett is the missing link between Juliette Greco and Debbie Harry. Check this live act.

…out of ideas.

No. This is not really accurate. The truth is that none of the ideas I came up with lately seemed to be suitable enough for being blogged about (at least for “my kind” of blog). A blog-friendly idea is not supposed to be mournful; or too weird; or too poetic; or too technical. A blog-friendly idea needs to be intelligently unsophisticated, somehow popular-able but not common, and – at least to some extent – funny. None of my recent ideas met these requirements.

I will give you an example. Yesterday for instance, as part of my research study, I had to write about the solitude of being alive. How does it sound to you? Too precious, too weird, or too poetically cheap, right? At least that’s what I‘d think if I’d see it in someone’s blog. A blog (again, “my kind” of blog), doesn’t have to replace a book or a study. A blog is low profile literature; something that’s meaningful enough for stirring interest and fidelity, but also something that is not supposed to take any possible artistic, scientific, journalistic or diary-istic liberty.

There’s something embarrassing about putting one’s life or one’s art on a blog-plate. Let the blog carry its daily little essential ideas, and let it be (a partial) metaphor of who you could be. And I couldn’t be a blogger these days, but that’s just the natural way a blog works…

PS: Get in the mood with what (most of) you guys thought to be a natural Led Zeppelin. God bless…Steve Marriott!!