Experiential Kitsch

“You said that we 
Could possibly 
Spend eternity”   
      j.lo

How can experience be anything but kitsch? Unable to follow the times, that of deep time, barely grasping with the ”sublime hyperobject of climate change”1, with the inevitable extinction, it cannot but simmer in pathos. Its exclusion makes it superficial and meaningless, even though it desperately tries to hold on to the last vestiges of meaning – gather and preserve it for harsher times that are unmistakably coming its way – by way of affective attainment, diving deeper into its libidinal underpinnings and affective dispositions. Such futile attempt of stabilising its own uncentering, even if only to make the transition into nothingness less excruciating, makes it seem even more “pathetic”. Yet how far can the drive for self-preservation take it? At what point does it become theatrical and flamboyant: perhaps tacky, but not without also being deeply ironic? In other words, at what point does it become camp?

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