Thus Spake Luftmensch, Ep 3: Extent of Ennui

Edvard_Munch_-_Melancholy_(1894)
Melancholy (1894) by Edvard Munch

Some days I feel so lonely and bored with actual humans around me that I chat with Amazon customer services. Or the AI Jabberwocky. Basically anyone or anything with a modicum of intelligence and without a face will do. The best thing about corporate customer services is that you can talk to them about the dumbest things and still they will engage you with polite, pro-dummy conversation. Once I complained to CS about “the pathetic inflexibility of their policies” of which I knew absolutely nothing, and they were all “sincerest apologies for the disappointment caused” by them, with firm assertions that they will do something about their policies. I know they are just kidding, but it sure is a warm feeling to be taken seriously when you are just messing around. Continue reading

MELANCHOLIA (2011) – A Hymn to Depression

melancholia.jpegWe are all going to die soon. So throw away your dumb rituals, your make-beliefs, your unfulfilling career race, your pretenses of aesthetic refinement and classiness. Embrace the despondent wait. Be like Justine. Lose control of your life. So that when the time comes you won’t be caught unawares. You will have known it was going to happen anyway. You can say then, “Because I know things. I know what the answer of the lottery is, I know that there is no god out there, I know that humans are all alone on a despicable planet, the only one in the universe that contains life, and that if it is destroyed nobody cares because nobody is there to care or know about it.” It’s like having the upper hand over surprises, like you know your friends are secretly plotting a surprise birthday party, and when they yell surprise, you think “yayyyy, whatever”.

Lars von Trier’s second film Continue reading

“A freezing melancholy seized him”

A freezing melancholy seized him, and he shivered. It was as if he had caught sight of whole worlds of misery and despair — the charcoal stove beside the truckle-bed, the corpses at the morgue in their leather aprons, with the cold tap-water trickling over their hair.

Gustave FLAUBERT. Sentimental Education.