me
october child of 1988 / f / germany

sobriquet: anesidora – greek Ἀνησιδώρα – can be translated as “she who sends up gifts from below”

I’m the author of this page, so I guess that makes me a blogger?

but not the “please like and subscribe, and also here’s a deodorant from a sponsor that changed my life for some inexplicable reason which is why I’m shoving it into the camera of every instagram reel” – type

more like, the “I love literature and cultural studies and have all these thoughts and don’t know what to do with them, so here’s my Lacanian reading of Sleep Token and posthumanist ruminations on AI bundt cake that very likely nobody will read because everybody just swipes and nobody really reads anymore these days, so it’s actually more of a diary left to nobody” – type

my cats
there are two of them, and that is a relevant piece of information

not because we worship these puzzling creatures for their mystery as deities and have done so since antiquity

not because I contemplate their unsettling gaze while undressing

but because, each time my mind wanders too far off and runs the risk of getting lost within the thick fog of the self and the precise nature of reality, they re-ground me in the latter by looking at me inquisitively before dramatically vomiting on my bathroom mat

as if to say: you’re wondering about what matters – here you go, we just gave you something that does

why I don’t publish
is what I am asked every now and then

I don’t have any academic street cred, nor does it interest me any longer, I think

while I do still enjoy reading the occasional journal article, actively participating in the same framework—the destructively accelerationist publication machinery, with its bureaucracy and power play, makes me feel spent before even having started

I don’t want to have to press my language into a mold anymore, one  which academia and its structures actively perform and still – and ever-increasingly so – see as a prerequisite for the legitimization, or validation, of thought

maybe I do look a bit jealously at the boys/girls/other club from the outside—that may be a valid counterpoint of critique, but if spending the time to bend my voice until it breaks into the proper MLA quotation format takes longer than actually developing my thoughts / the time it takes my listening Other to contemplate its contents, I don’t think it’s worth the effort and I’d rather stay in my little blog echo chamber

this cozy figurative literary café, where the occasional passerby, the curious window-shopper suffering from existential dread, the kindred spirit whose mind meanders and somehow ends up here could be interested in what I have to say—and maybe hears the familiar echo of their own thoughtscape, picking their brains and tugging their heartstrings

come, sit with me in this virtual space and share a cup of wonder.

_{Image: Navid Sohrabi / Unsplash}