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Recently, a story appeared in a local newspaper about one of the phantoms whose faces have followed us for decades everywhere we go without being able to say why and what for (catchword ‘musical’) or also only if there are actually creatures made of flesh and blood walking among us belonging to these faces.) A regional journal wrote that it (actually ‘he') can look back at a ’25-year-long career.’
That’s it. The phenomenon has never been characterized more strikingly. It does not move forward, it does not move backward, and yet it moves: the permanent career. It is about as suspenseful as the stationary glissando, a boring unicum, but, for that, dozens of them. It has nothing to do with the goal of the career, because it doesn’t exist and never has existed. ‘The rest is communal media policy (City Department 77, Care of Potholes).
Poor swine! I wouldn’t want to be in his skin (if he even has one). However, with only one percent of the sums that are deferred to care for such stationary careers, all of the values of the country’s creative forces could be nourished. I also mean the freelance craftsman and the farmers and the self-determined casual laborers and, nebbish, also a few artists.
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