Journal I – DJ ALEPH – DRONES OVER ANTARCTICA

17:16, the twenty-fourth day of January, 2022, Ládví, Prague.

Yesterday, on my way to the store, I learned that Prague has a very similar level of sunlight as the United Kingdom. I believed it without hesitation; you can strongly feel it here. On the concrete sidewalk surrounded by a post-socialist view, one of my shoes, soaked in black melted snow (only on the outside, inside is protected by a Gore-Tex layer), came up with an idea. Why shouldn’t we try to break this monotonous art/world grayness? Are we satisfied enough with the state of reality to accept it? Why do we, as creators of the current 21st-century reality, have the audacity to expect a guarantee of balanced survival? The time of being bored with boredom has finally come. It’s time to create the possibility of fulfillment for the many expectations built by contemporary art/world1!!!!!!!!! (A term describing both the concept of the world and art. It assumes that they constitute an integral whole) – HEY! WAKE UP! HEY! WAKE UP! HEY! WAKE UP! HEY! WAKE UP! HEY! WAKE UP! HEY! WAKE UP! – a robotic sound of TeamSpeak, saturated with the rhythmic pounding of DJ ALEPH’s track – DRONES OVER ANTARCTICA. – Apparently, one of my friends is demanding, in a way filled with “playfulness” (playfulness combined with mischief tolerated by both sides), a return to playing CS 1.6. In the course of all these thoughts, I no longer know “where to put my hands” together with you, and if all of this is really necessary “for real.”

Journal II – Blue Hour – Midnight Sun (Dj Ibons Never Mind Mix) [BLUEHOURMXSPL001]

23:26, the ninth day of February, 2023, Wilda, Poznań.

The Wi-Fi doesn’t work well in the bedroom, so I have to move to another room to continue writing in Google Docs. I turned off the light to avoid paranormal numbers on the bill and walked through the dark kitchen to the living room, holding the laptop in my arms like a child. But before I sat down (yes, I know, I overuse the word “however”) on the writing chair, covered in shadows, I looked out the window with a gaze seeking help. A playground. A swing. It’s moving. There’s no child on it anymore. I’ve seen him before. How old can that guy be, 16? What is he doing? Swinging. Dynamically and rhythmically. A full swing sequence lasts about 3 seconds. The maximum height threshold he reaches is within the norm but closer to its limit. I’m not sure if it’s nervousness or rather joy. It’s quite late and too cold to be swinging. So there must be some motivation driving him. Alright. I don’t think he has got an easy life. Hmm. What if this swinging could take on a creative form? Later, more than just creative. From a problem to creation. Wait, what if he doesn’t have a problem and he’s just there to practice swinging? I don’t see a swing suit, so is it even swinging? What if swinging is something for him that I don’t actually know about? I don’t want to know. It’s his swing now. I’ll just silently cheer for him.

Journal III – SPLASHH – All I Wanna Do

13:13, thirteenth day of September, 2013, somewhere in the forest, Stary Gieląd.

I don’t have anything interesting to share in this part. You can skip it if you want. You can also keep reading; I don’t know what sentence I’ll write next. I didn’t do any research. I no longer find personal confessions interesting. I didn’t create a nice documentation. I won’t write an interesting biography. I won’t write a description. I won’t protest. I won’t call it Untitled. I won’t learn anything new. I won’t try to change anything. I didn’t plan anything. I won’t introduce myself. I don’t care about networking, nor diving. I won’t sell this. I won’t be controversial. You won’t see a nice object on a white background either. I won’t do a good job. I like climbing, so might go. I won’t continue writing this any longer; I’ll let GPT handle it: “Sure, I can do that. Here’s a sentence for you: GPT is a powerful tool for generating human-like language, and it has been used in a wide range of applications, from chatbots and virtual assistants to creative writing and academic research.” Okay… I’ll resign from using GPT… I won’t call myself an artist, nor call this discourse art. I won’t call it postmodernism. I’ll call it trivialism. Isn’t life as a human trivial? Fragile, falling in love, sniffing… – I have to censor this because it will be included in my master’s thesis. – Dancing to the sunrise, driven by dreams, trying to survive, adapting to the economic system we currently live in. Making mistakes. Listening to surf rock, not techno. Forced to pretend that what he created is something more than it really is. Answering his parents’ questions about the future, which may change after a head-on collision with an oncoming car in the shape of a smiling hot dog. All to get to work, which in 20 years could be done casually, with a touch of something that replaces the mouse. Sitting in a comfortable metal box with four wheels, abusing the horn, which was designed as a signal of danger, not discharged anger. Abusing the word “art,” which no longer means anything. A human who exploded like a tire of an overloaded Nutella transport truck. Classic.