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I read the news today, oh boy…
Just kidding. I stopped reading them a long time ago. Let me know when they put something new in them.
9.13 a.m. I’m stripped from dreamland by the screeching sound of the railway line and the road next to my apartment. I moved to the city centre about a year ago, after a long period of idealisation, but I gotta admit that I’m starting to miss my peace. Since my alarm was set for 10.05 a.m., I’ll squeeze in a jog this morning (don’t judge me: getting up early is only for those who have a lot to do and little to think about). But first let me write down last night’s dream. I’ve been practicing this habit of keeping a dream journal for a couple of years now; after waking up, I rehearse the events in my mind, hoping to be able to recount them as accurately as possible when I open my eyes and start typing.
“Going to a gender studies class with my teacher from my exchange semester in Melbourne. There’s a little exam, I get a good mark, but during the correction they’re like: ‘What the hell are you doing? Have you forgotten the teachings of the Birth of Tragedy already?’
‘There are two kinds of people in the world’, they resume, ‘those who eat fruits, and those who eat vegetables.’ A poem, which I don’t understand, complements the correction.
Eventually, they show me that there are no dichotomies, that the two kinds of people overlap, by putting ketchup over a plate of pasta, and grated cheese over a chicken breast. Dream ends.”
Fascinating.
This reminds me of a psychology course from my bachelor’s, where they showed us that Freud & Co. were wrong, that dreams are just random neural activity, that claims of deeper meaning are without ‘empirical evidence’… Yeah, right. Go tell that to someone else.
I roll out of bed, put on my sportswear (my sister’s leggings – I shall not forget the tragic teachings!), and start running. My name is Patrick Bateman. I’m 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and a rigorous exercise routine… Jokes aside, my bachelor’s degree was in Health Science; I thought it might be an interesting field to get into, with the aim of contributing positively to society. But then you develop an interest in philosophy and read stuff like:
“The mania for health emerges when life has become as flat as a coin and stripped of all narrative content, all value. Given the atomization of society and the erosion of the social, all that remains is the body of the ego, which is to be kept healthy at any cost. Health becomes self-referential and voids itself into purposiveness without purpose.”
Science says that the healthy man lives the longest; philosophy says that the Last Man lives the longest. Who is right? Philosophers like to be overly dramatic… I like to run, period. Besides, I get most ideas for my writing while running, and it’s nice to nod at and greet other fellow joggers along the Limmat. But I’ll have to admit: I did quit the gym.
Shower, getting dressed, and up we go. The tram would take about 25 to 27 minutes – vo Tür zu Tür. However, I don’t particularly enjoy it; there’s always an atmosphere of slightly depressive resignation on public transport. Depressive because, despite knowing that we could be doing better, we resigned; resignation because, despite knowing that we could be doing worse, we’re depressed. Walking, instead, takes about 32 minutes. But it offers an entertaining experience. I glance at the window of a past lover (the reason I write poetry); witness, in Langstrasse, a quarrel between two victims of a reality-principle that refuses to count them as part of reality, on principle (the reason I write prose); I judge the aesthetic value of yuppie boutiques and smell the taste of an organic masala chai latte with vegan milk in Europaallee…
I notice that people are suddenly wearing tidier clothes and walking quicker than just five minutes ago. They all look as if they’re on a mission. I’d like to ask them where they’re going, what they do… the conversations unfold in my mind. “I’m a project manager, but I used to work in finance! I’m a data analyst for a sustainable consulting firm! I’m working in research and product design for a biomedical company!” are the answers I make up from the eye contact with my ephemeral acquaintances, but they don’t seem to understand the question, for what I’d long to know is something else: where are you going in life, what are you doing in this society? I wonder how many of them got degrees in Law, Economics, Science, Engineering, committed to go out and change the world for the better after graduating. Then you turn twenty-five… and suddenly daddy stops paying the rent; suddenly you realise that, yes, climate change is a pressing issue, but so is that trip to South America you’ve been planning since high school… and, well, suddenly that job offer for a ruthless multinational company doesn’t look so bad anymore. After all, they won a sustainability prize last year!
Who is going to tell the rebellious environmental science student that the Fridays of his future will be spent at a consulting firm?
Who is going to tell the dreamy math-geeks that they’ll most likely end up at a bank?
Who is going to tell the kind-hearted pharmacy student that the drugs and treatments she aims to discover are already there, that the purpose of her degree is simply to learn to interact with the dark forces governing the pharma industry?
And who is going to tell the disillusioned philosopher that nobody is going to read, nor laugh at, let alone pay for, the stuff he writes? – Certainly not me.
All this thinking makes me hungry. I get a croissant and a pain au chocolat at Migros. I could just pay for two croissants instead, which would save me about forty cents, and – more importantly – make me feel like I’m beating capitalism. Would it count as stealing? Does it matter? My friends make fun of me for pretending to be a revolutionary Marxist, yet not even having the courage to steal a croissant. My reply? Kant – the categorical imperative haunts me. But then again, he isn’t much beloved nowadays, I’ve heard… and I need to get my adrenaline kicks somehow. Life is dull when you follow the rules all the time.
I manage to escape the alienating sounds of the metallic monsters at HB thanks to the marvellous gift the matrix has brought us to escape from the matrix: headphones. The flipside is that they hide the honk of complaint radiating from the car that almost takes my legs while crossing on red. Or maybe that’s the whole point… better to keep Thanatos happy with a daily prayer, or he’ll come back for more. Vasco Rossi is screaming into my ears, “voglio una vita spericolata, voglio una vita come quelle dei film.” But, in all honesty, crossing on red is as reckless as my life gets these days.
On the staircase before ETH, I contemplate the neon phrase in a coffee shop, ‘society is too realistic’, and don’t get it; in the meantime, my heart is touched by the melancholic gaze of a homeless guy – should I give him some money? Should I buy him a croissant? I don’t have any cash on me, I really don’t. But… (Kant pops into my mind again) would I give it to him, if I did?
After spending about seventeen seconds trying not to be too honest with myself about that last question, I preventively take off my jacket, for it is nothing less than eight pairs of stairs I have to conquer before reaching the mighty ivory tower of knowledge. Sipping black coffee, I contemplate my beloved city, my beloved country. I can see my apartment, and try to draw the path I took, recollecting the journey. It’s 11.21 a.m..
On the desk I find the first reading for today: ‘Walter Benjamin – Kapitalismus als Religion’. Religion? Wasn’t God dead?!
