suddenly, a sound
It's been 10 days now.
It was very quiet on May 7.
When my iPhone clock hit 19:59, suddenly I heard a short, dense shout piercing the air. Two seconds passed, and then a car honked. It doesn't happen very often.
And that was it.
In a city where more than 90% - 90% - voted for a person, you might expect a more elaborate manner of celebration. And yet, it felt delicately appropriate.
It's a weird thing, feeling a motion of history after it seemed - as a concept - to be so abundantly passé. As I try to put the pieces together, the go-to tools are dissipating in my hands: scrolling down through The Guardian’s homepage, I find longish personal columns coping with family dilemmas which would bore even obsolete women magazines [this is an actual title: “if you have no children, who will take care of you when you’re old”?], up against desperate ‘we’re-so-in’ tidbits touching upon the now already gone trendiness of the avocado toast. The Grey Lady at the nytimes.com has the best reasons to get hysterical, no one will deny that, and yet, you'd think there's a radical, influential, and most of all accountable way to act hysterical. If there is one, I don't think anyone with a real position at The NY Times knows about it.
Just seven years ago, the unprecedented Wikileaks Iran leak has brought together what then seemed like mighty enlightened powers: The Guardian, NY Times, Le Monde, Der Spiegel and El Pais joined forces to release a massive tornado of information. Chelsea Manning, tornado maker, is stepping out of jail today, and the question to be asked is: what happened in those seven years that seems to have so vigorously undermine the confidence of these forces, their abilities, their worldview? If they'd been strong enough, invincible as they let us think they are, they were supposed to endure the test of time and turbulences. To manipulate and subvert the thirst for clicks, not to get high on it, then dangerously addicted.
This is all just background noise. As reliable sources wane and fade, with hell of a riot, yes, but none the less fade, somehow the desert of the real seems, bit by bit, to show tiny bits of sprout. Here lie our deadbeat overwhelmed bodies, and in the Venice biennale comes along Anne Imhof and rattles them out, makes our glass cave visible. This is immense, it is an almost unbelievable achievement: it might be the first actual post-internet artwork. The world is gradually waking up from a horrifying dream into a horrifying - - is it possible we can call this reality?
Horrifying dreams banish you from optimism. This is not within our means and we shouldn't pretend. But the sudden sprouting in the desert is on a completely different realm than the one we knew - or at least thought we knew before. What happens to the madman after the madhouse goes up in flames and he succeeds to escape? Can he rebuild Europe, and the world around it? I turn up the volume in the white earphones and after a very, very long time, let the sound come in.