What the BLIP...?!

Don't get me wrong: I find excessive obsession with so called "privacy" ridiculous and only helpful as a possible aid to help you unmask your own deepest fears.

(Like, what EXACTLY do you fear would happen if somebody finds out certain of your personal facts or indulgences?
No, really: think about it! It would only matter if the "government" or whoever your pet foe is could actually do something that would impact your life negatively - i.e. something that would not be merely the consequence of your perception of your hypothetical Self in the hypothetical eyes of the Others.
If they could do it, then that usurped power is something you - and the Others - definitely should fight. If they couldn't - if it's all simply a matter of your comfortable perception of your Self as a public person - then the problem lies in you.)

Even more ridiculous is the apparent facility which many people disclose their sex life (real or fictitious) with - but God forbid they should be asked how much they earn! (At least it shows you what really matters to them...)

But who the blip would be as stupid as to broadcast what they are buying, and when, and how much it cost?

My guess is... many.
Wanna bet?

Tell the whole world what you're buying... and in real time, too!

The author of the article hyperlinked above "caught up with Kaplan" (the father of this Frankenstein's bride) "to talk about how Blippy could become a new form of advertising and why no purchase -- even revealing ones -- should be embarrassing to share."

And here's the purpose of the thingy, in a nutshell:

What's the point of Blippy?

Kaplan: Without getting too philosophical, I'll just start at the beginning. The big answer is: We don't know, which I think is funny but is also indicative of what we're trying to do.

Well, I agree: that wasn't too philosophical.
(Not even a little bit, for that matter.)

But the nasty thing about philosophy is that it tends to reveal itself, whether you intend it or not.

"Fun" is the name of the game.

It is true, however, that once you have lost everything (private)... you have nothing left to fear.
Or to lose.

Exhibitionism is the new spirituality.

The fading sky over Europe

A historic airport closes.
The greatest shopping centre in Europe opens.


Do you see a correlation between these two events?
I do.
(But that may be because I am particularly angry at the shortsightedness of the world today.)

For many commentators, the Tempelhof airport in Berlin symbolises the Cold War.
(Although I suspect it wouldn't if they hadn't read it in some clever-sounding editorial or something.)

I don't think very many people really associate it with the Cold War or anything like that.
But presumably all of us do associate, naturally so, airports with the open sky of the world – because there IS just one sky over the world.
With the mystery of the unknown- called »future« - awaiting us.
With »freedom«, perhaps (because such an elusive concept is bound to have many »symbols«, all imperfect and not-quite-there).

And it certainly does more than symbolise the outward MOVEMENT of openness, of the will to transgress frontiers, to go further (and now we're wading into the morass of symbolism again ;))

Closing an airport means closing a gate, a door, an escape – symbolically, yes, but then again, man IS a creature who lives and dies by symbols.


What does a shopping centre – or »mall«, as the Americans call it – symbolise?
Convenience. Consumption (not, not tuberculosis). 
Contentment - of sorts.

All of the above, of course, may translate into the ninth circle of Dante's hell, or a nightmare at the very least. (As it does for me.)

Or it may represent the gates of heaven. (As it does for an aunt of mine.)

You don't have to go far to unearth the gist of shopping centres' function - it is served to you on every step, often implicit or explicit in the advertisements – or even in their names - that beckon you to come and enjoy parting with your money.
Every self-respecting shopping centre aspires to be, and presents itself as, a »mini town«. A »town within a town«. A »city within a city«. (See what I mean? This implicit concentric movement really is eerily reminiscent of the circles of hell... :)

The ideal implicit in shopping centres is that you don't have to go anywhere else to get whatever you »want«.
Self-enclosure.
Forget the »world«: all you »need« is right here.
Except that, in opposition to Maeterlinck's Blue Bird, the »here« does not signify your home sweet home – it signifies the place where you can spend the money for which you work and purchase a semblance of happiness. Not even that: a simulacrum of contentment. No, not even that: a precious lapse of time of not-thinking.

Is that good enough for us?

I remember when I first visited the desert and climbed out of a tent, at night (I had fallen asleep during the day, my first day there), I gasped so loudly that somebody thought I had been bitten by a cobra or something.
I had looked at the sky above me – and I had seen the desert stars. They were so HUGE, and there were so many of them, that – I swear to you, this is true – they looked like a large fleet of extraterrestrial UFO hovering overhead.

That's because I had never seen stars like that: so many, so bright.
And yet, there are out there, all the time.
It's just that I don't see them.

I don't even know why I remembered this incident; but it may have something to do with the pale neon lights that are so characteristic of urban life and, especially, of shopping malls – so far removed from nature, from genuine, God-given beauty.

The skies are closing above our heads.

That's how it feels. It's irrational – in opposition to everything that contemporary technology and the apparent brotherhood of man via the internet indicates – but that's how it feels.



How will the angels find us?

(You don't believe in them?
I don't, either.
Which is all the more reason why we need to be found by them.)

I'll have to rewrite this.
Just not today.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to think more clearly.
Or maybe I'll wake up content. Un-thinking.
Un-happy.