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A word or two on Boris K.

The Adventures of Boris K.

Boris K. – The First Loser of Phenomenization

Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.

He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.

“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”

Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.

One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.

It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.

“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.

“Ha!”

It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.

Mission? What mission?

You will find out soon enough.

* Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.

PHENOMENIZATION

from

Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.

SERBIAN ORIGINAL:

Reč dve o Borisu K.
Boris K. — Prvi Gubitnik Fenomenizacije
U nekim zemljama vladala je Inkvizicija. U drugim je dolazilo do sumnjivih privatizacija. U državi Borisa K. došlo je do neobjašnjivih fenomenizacija. Fenomenizacija za Borisa K, čoveka bez stalnog zanimanja, beše tako nepredvidiva da mu nije preostalo ništa drugo no da se sa njom pomiri.
Upadao je u različita vremenska razdoblja bez korišćenja vremeplova. Nalazio se na najneobičnijim radnim mestima, a da na njih nije konkurisao. Prilagođavao se situaciji nalik igraču koji prelazi na drugi nivo u nepredvidivoj kompjuterskoj igrici.
„Šta sam ja bogu zgrešio da mi se to događa?“, pitao se Boris K. „Isti sam kao i svi drugi polukvalifikovani radnici koji se zanose idejom o jednakosti u Republici. Kao entuzijasta zanemario sam dalje školovanje zarad slepe vere u dolazak boljih vremena, onih u kojima će se saslušati i glas malog, običnog, bezimenog čoveka.“
Boris K. bio je spreman na najveću žrtvu da bi se taj cilj i ostvario. Kao jedan od zaslužnih učesnika, po završetku Revolucije, dobio je velike beneficije koje je sa gnušanjem odbio, govoreći da 14 15
se protiv takvih povlastica upravo i borio, te da bi prihvatanje istih bilo u suprotnosti sa njegovim uverenjima. Zadovoljio se poslom montera na traci za finalizaciju u fabrici automobila, gde je sav srećan radio po 12 sati dnevno, postavljajući retrovizore na suvozačeva vrata.
Jednog je dana dobio otkaz što je bila posledica uvođenja novih tehnologija i potrebe za štednjom. Tako su mu bar rekli, iako je dobro znao da iza svega stoji ono ultimativno zlo koje je polako ali sigurno izjedalo tkivo čovečanstva — profit. Odbačen poput istrošene baterije, praznog srca i očiju punih suza, preselio se iz skromnog ali uređenog stana u „dolinu gubavaca“. Ovo mesto dobilo je nadimak po stanovnicima, ne istinskim gubavcima, već očajnicima koje je zadesila sudbina slična Borisovoj i za koje se ne bi moglo reći u kojoj bi se od te dve kože bolje osećali. Stare zgrade, koje su se zbile u nepravilnom rasporedu, gde su živele nesrećne porodice, nisu bile od betona ojačanog čelikom iz Pitsburga, već od eko–cigle, sa izolacionim slojevima od azbesta, što je stanarima gotovo izvesno garantovalo rak na plućima. Kao da nisu imali već dovoljno nevolja u svojim životima.
U takvoj jednoj zgradi Boris K. našao je stan. Nije ga privukao oglas, već neobična pojava gazdarice koja je imala običaj da najtiražnijim novinama u gradu udara po glavama koje su izvirivale iz okolnih šahtova.
„Kao da ubija mušice“, mislio je u sebi Boris K, pogleda prikovanog za izmašćenu brojanicu. Frau Suzi, kako se gazdarica zvala, i Boris K. razmeniše samo jedan pogled i odmah se prepoznaše. Zalizavši sedu kosu, Boris K. upita za cenu. Frau ga odmeri prezrivim pogledom i otrese pepeo sa muštikle na bušnu cipelu. Boris K. je prkosno pogleda, na šta Frau, staračkim hrapavim glasom, reče:
„Ha!“
Beše to mantra koja je značila samo jedno, a koju je starica izgovarala u retkim prilikama. Boris K. voleo je starije plavuše sa stavom, te je rešio da svoju misiju započne baš na ovom nesrećnom mestu.
Misiju? Kakvu misiju?
Saznaćete.

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Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Ten, Mathilde’s Confession

Serbian Original Included

Mathilde confided in me often (which I hid from Amerongen like a Jew hides his gold) while alone or while we walked together along the garden tile path ‘Why are you so unhappy, mistress Mathilde? The master is trying…’, I coughed, ‘He seems to indulge you in everything, and yet…’
‘And yet…’
‘Confide in me, oh Mistress.’
‘There is no need for formalities, Larsen.’
‘Okay’, I nodded. ‘Do you suffer too much?’
‘It upsets me, it gets on my nerves.’
‘Break the silence and open your heart to me’, I said, fatherly.
‘This morning I recollected the life in Denmark… And my mother. Make a note, Larsen, and let the world see it! If the prison door ever open up for me and Hässe burns to the ground, I swear that…for something like that, I will rise from my grave!’
‘I will make a note, but I do not know what happened… Tell me the tale> is it the truth that Johana the Monster, as the locals called your mother…’
‘And the noblemen,’ the Mathilde declared fiercely.
‘…Yes…patience for the old man, young lady.’
Mathilde shot a smile back to him.
‘…she lived, as they say, in utter poverty?’
‘No,’ she stated simply.
‘Amerongen…’, I turned around and saw him fumbling around the stables – he was etching something into the ground with his knife and chanted… The guards were lazing around in front of the castle. A portion of the army, being bored on the roof of the castle and leaning onto the towers, under the Hässe sun, was taking a nap.
‘You could run away right now. I am reading your mind.’
‘And where would I go?’ I felt rage engulf her, a cold, suppressed rage, thus I fell silent in discomfort and decided to return to the topic at hand.
‘You know I always treated you like you were my own daughter.’
‘You are my solace in this home of the mad’, she responded gently, moving to caress me on the cheek but stopping midway through.
We entered the great Hall and sat on a bench one next to the other, tracked by the vile gaze of Orian von Amerongen.
‘Dearest Mathilde, the introduction is the most problematic to me. I can never seem to pin it down…Your words are sung with a lion’s strength, but I cannot discern whether you’ve written a novel of your mother and your real father,’ I started while looking at the scroll, ‘a made up story, or are these facts?’
She smiled somewhat tensely.
‘Tell me how you married Amerongen’, I prepped my quill and a parchment under my cassock.
Mathilde tensed up her body. Her countenance became brutally firm.
‘It was in Denmark. On that day, and what a dim day it was, Father, the Regenstein door opened with a bang. Seeing Amerongen, I thought the entire castle shivered and squealed, as if dying from a horrible disease.
‘The castle was founded in the second half of the ninth century on a steep cliff, from which I felt like ending my life in the endless abyss numerous times. It was a dark, aristocratic dwelling. Since I was a tyke I likened it to a monster. Toothy towers reminiscent of fangs, and dark windowpanes reminding of the eyes of Erebus.[1] Regenstein had spread venom around itself since those days.
‘Amerongen got his eye on me, tall and threatening. I stood in the middle of the hallway frozen by his gaze. I pressed the parchments I was carrying to the library against my chest. He looked at me like a bloodthirsty animal. He looked like a rustler.
‘ ‘Is this ever a beauty!’, he shouted and touched Johanna’s heart to tears, while joy glistened in Otto’s wrinkly eyes.
He suddenly averted his eyes, and his face calmed, as if the monstrous strength waned in him.
‘ ‘In the name of Yambe-Akka’, he yelled. ‘Did someone die in here? Give ale to horses first, then the serfs!’
‘ ‘Mathilde, you should be honored that this charming nobleman chose you for his bride’, the moment she said this the parchments dropped from my hands, and Amerongen looked at me curiously. I replied with a smile which surprised him and he told me: ‘Do you perchance like me? Truly it cannot be so!’, he pouted like a child and winked at me, which made me feel sick to my stomach. I assume he just wanted to make me feel better.’
[1] Greek god of eternal darkness.

He came very close to me and all but glued himself to my body.

‘The cold armor of Denmark had burned your body and mind with frost. In my home you will be warm.’

Fire was blazing in his eyes. He turned to the vase laden with red flowers drowned in the crystal clear water. He pulled a dagger from his belt.

‘Careful, sven! Mathilde is expensive!’, I’ve heard an apathetic voice of Otto Regenstein. Johana was licking her lips. Her hand lay on her hanging breasts.

Amerongen turned to them, smiled and carved my initials into the palm of his hand. Blood sprayed his gold-woven clothing. He put his hand in water.

‘Now the color is like that of flowers’, he said brightly.

His boot drummed on the straw-covered floor for a while, he was looking at me from all sides and was thinking.

‘Will you take our daughter?’, Johana asked with hope in her voice.

‘Her being silent is agreeable to me. As far as I’m concerned, with a body like this, she can be deaf-mute for all I care. I have decided, I will spend the night here’, he approached me again. His breath was heavy. He stank of blood. ‘I might come visit you tonight.’

‘The goods must always be tested, do you not agree, husband dear?, the cheerful voice of Johana uttered.

‘Are these goods spoiled?’, Amerongen shot her a shrewd look.

She looked at the crackling fire in the hearth.

‘A fresh, unpicked flower. A good deal’, Johana said.

Mathilde stopped talking. I lifted my head away from the parchment. My expression must have given away dumbfoundedness and unease.

‘Did you find out who your real father was?’

‘I’ve learned of this too – my real father was a French count of Bouyon, from an old house of de Melot. He was Otto’s best friend as a young man. Johana was incurably in love with him. Insatiable desire assailed her, and the decisions were never something she left up to God. She gave herself to him with love and joy. When he left her, she cut her veins, but Otto saved her.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Alberik, but Johana called him Surtr.[1] That’s the name of my real father, but of Amerongen as well. The two, I believe, had for her at the very least certain similarities. I also believe that the two spent an intriguing night together, but I have…’, Mathilde stopped. ‘I don’t want to go on, Larsen.’

I thought that her confession would end there. Upset, she looked at his eyes.

‘There is a shortage of words for some reminiscences. Nature makes it so that the deepest feelings are wrapped in a cloak of secrecy, with a dagger interwoven to torture us. That’s the gist of it… All of my memories are dyed in blood… Why all of this, Larsen, when it happened so long ago? Time devours all!’

‘My curiosity is a cruel one, Mathilde.’, I outstretched my arms and begged her to continue. ‘Your tale nested deep into my bones. I want to chisel it into eternity, as masons do.’

‘Rock is ruinous, and statues fall apart’, her eyes widened as her shoulders shivered unbeknownst to her. ‘If I confess all of it, I will still say nothing for it is a copy…a badly reproduced painting. A farce of the lived. A heavy rock pressing on the mind.’

Her story became too hard for her. She had not even reached the important bit, and already she cracked. Oh how she shivered, like wheat in a breeze. I sighed and decided to let it go.

But, at that moment, Mathilde’s cheeks went crimson, her eyes glistened, and her face was overtaken by an expression of pride. Amerongen stood at the Hall’s entrance and observed her mockingly. She whipped him with a look of anger. Her hands clenched into fists and Mathilde continued with such fire, as if a spirit had possessed her all of a sudden. With the corner of my eye I spotted Amerongen, in the moment Mathilde continued her tale, leaving the room.

‘I was so bored in Regenstein. It seemed to me that I had spent more time painting and writing than I did breathing or thinking. Still, I managed to end the boredom with fancy.’

At times Johana’s screeching voice would pulled me from my darling daydreams where my spirit lazed on. ‘Mathilde, dear daughter! Keep an eye on Agnes, for she will sneak out with the doubloons and leave! Who will cook for me then?!’ The servant girl would then cry her eyes out, and I would console her. In secret, we’ve endlessly made love with our eyes.

‘Go scrub the  floor!’, she would often scold her when she was bored of torturing me. ‘And I will return to Mathilde’s novel.’ She would place the scroll on the cold stone of the table and start spelling out with enjoyment: ‘She felt frail, for she knew she would never see him again. She remembered their nights together under the starry sky, his warm kisses…”Oh, darling, why did you leave me, I cannot live without you,” she sighed and cut her own veins.’Johana would tut pleased reading these lines. ‘Mathilde my daughter, if I didn’t have your novels, I don’t know what I’d do in life.’

Other times she would, pondering for a while over a dramatically important sentence, comment excitedly ‘Oh how exciting…let\s see what happens next…’ Writing these sweetish lines, I not only saved my skin, but also the serf girl’s.

[1] A flame giant in Norse mythology.

“That day, when Amerongen first set foot in Regenstein, after the sven retreated to quarters assigned to him, I called Agnes over and ordered her to bathe me.

‘They always spoke of my beauty, but I guarantee that Agnes was fairer.’Mathilde said simplemindedly. ‘She had eyes colored in the hue of a stormy sky. As I saw her at my solar door, my cheeks went red in an instant. Her face had a rhythm, a meaning and a hue. She herself was a poem of harmony. I had been wounded by her perfection.’

‘I think we should finally do it.’

‘It?’ Agnes said with a quiver in her voice.

‘Or…the other thing, if you prefer.’

‘This or that?’

‘The thing we were daydreaming of all these years. What’s with you?’ I was smiling.

‘I do not understand, mistress Mathilde,’ the serf girl lowered her gaze. My lips crafted a wide bitter smile.

‘Do you realize…’, I said slowly, ‘that they can kill us…both of us…and that nobody would notice? There is no difference between us, we are both the prey of satyrs. But, if we could escape…’, my tone was resolute. ‘We will sneak out like thieves!’ She stared at me mutely. Her body quivered. ‘We will take off! Today! Only if you wish to! Say yes,’ I grabbed her hand.

‘Yes, mistress Mathilde.’

‘That’s it…’ I said, studying her with satisfaction. ‘We will ring a few necessary things, some money too and head for the South, wearing chainmail and riding horses.  The Almogavar[1] Will be happy to see us’, I mumbled excitedly.

‘How can we travel to Almo…’she paused, ‘should I leave my duties in the castle?’

‘In the castle, shielded by dreadful thick walls inside of which you walk around like a ghost? Only my wit saves you from the Regenstein advances or the beasts of Amerongen. This is a wolves’ den, rich within a wasteland. We will both die here. They are marrying me off to a monster. And what will be of you then?’

‘I do not know, mistress Mathilde.’ I took notice of the serf girl’s heavy breathing. ‘Save me, only you can!’ Agnes, riddled with pain and fear, fell to her knees in front of me.

‘Alright’, I replied quickly. ‘You know what I want. I want to conquer you. Do you like that?’ I smiled to her with a smile of a harlot. The serf girl bowed her head and started disrobing. Her face went crimson.

Physical perfection emerged from the peasant tunic, perfection Agnes hid effortlessly, because beauty constantly hides itself, as does ugliness. I saw her harmonious body, no longer as part of fantasy or disturbing dreams, no longer as if looking through water, glass or fog. We danced a passionate game of love. The sound of flute was heard in the distance followed by the song of birds from the nearby forest.

‘I love music’, we lay there, legs intertwined, like Nephthys and Isis. I admired our bodies. We were so alike one to another, in body and looks. ‘I love the tug of wires on a harp…tugs like this one…’ I put my hand between Agnes’ thighs, moving towards the flower pulsing under my fingers. ‘I played the lute at the same time. It can keep up with the pain of a minstrel. My lute teacher was a minstrel. He would always cry over tones that offered pure beauty. And I am in love with beauty.’ I kissed her breasts. This way, like embracing nymphs, we remained until dawn.

2

I opened my dreamy eyes, noticing that Agnes was no longer in bed with me. I stretched like a cat, dressed myself and sneaked out of the castle towards Russvatnet lake, my favorite, most romantic place in the castle. I thought Agnes might be there. The cold burned my body, but I paid no heed to this. I dreamed on the lake coast, while my linen hair waved in the wind.

I observed the frozen lake, akin to an ice-scorched earth, thinking of the sweet wonder which happened last night. My awakened passion was visible on the icy surface. I took in my expression, where a trace of experienced gentleness was also admiring itself.

I stood there like that for a few moments, next to the lake shore, gazing in the distance. Then I jerked back and returned to the castle.

Windows of the great Hall were wide open. Over them were flippantly placed animal hides. Johana and Otto were like two statues upon which a bloodless window light shone. The moment they spotted me silence filled the room. Amerongen’s heavy hands, like claws, were benevolently placed on Johana’s shoulders. He looked at me with piercing green eyes of a hungry wolf.

He had a pale, monstrous beautiful face, like a Satyr, which gave off tiredness after a sleepless night, perhaps even boredom. He had coal-black hair, atypical of the people from the North. I wanted to paint it.

He approached me slowly and grabbed my hand.

[1] The Almogavar were mercenaries in the Aragon-Catalonian kings’ service who fought in the borderline areas against the Muslims in the XIII century. Thievery was their livelihood.

***

‘Do you know how long I’ve waited?’, he smiled mysteriously and the blood froze in my veins. I gave a bitter smile and tore my hand out of his. He turned nonchalantly, poured some mead in the pitcher and drank it up.

‘You might be wondering where Agnes is?’ the tone of his voice was cold. I sensed dread.

‘Sven, if you like our daughter, she’s yours,’ Johanna interrupted.

‘Out!’Amerongen growled. Johana and Otto obediently moved away, exchanging glances of unease.

Amerongen continued, catching his breath:

‘Life consists of an unending battle not to let ourselves go to frailty, of holding back, my dear Mathilde. You are not weak, but, from what I realized after last night, you do not hold back…’

‘I would like to go out for some fresh air, sven.’

‘Of course,’ he said graciously. ‘This is what I wanted to suggest, for I have something important to show you at the bottom of the lake.’ He still grinned vilely.

We were on our way to the lake.

‘I love your passion, your defiance, your noble yearning which you have in ample abundance, your unrest, your bravery, all of this awakens the hawk in me, I want to eat your soul, I wager it tastes well… I love that you resist… I love you. And you? Could you love me?’ He was talking non-stop while we descended down the steep path towards the lake. I was listening to him, not hearing him.

‘Do you understand my question or should I talk slower?’ he growled at her.

‘My curse is precisely the fact that I understand all.’

‘Blessed be we who gave up regular yearnings,’ he sighed turning his gaze towards the distant, ruthless vistas. ‘And I… I embraced the curse with passion. I was knee-deep into it… Flesh, blood, bones and all…’

I looked at him disgusted, but said nothing.

He grined:

‘You’ve enjoyed the embrace of that idiot Agnes, while I stalked you from the dark. You kissed her fingers, slid along her body, like it was all a pilgrimage of sorts. But I guarantee you, this is not a pilgrimage, it is a road leading to the abyss. Road of death. Pure Eros,’ he growled and tried to touch me. I quickly pulled away.

‘What more do you want? Take me away, it’s already been decided after all,’ I shivered under my pelerine, but not out of fear, but out of cold and I held myself with both arms.

He snatched me. I resisted, but he overpowered me and took me to the frozen lake. He placed me right next to the shore.

‘Move!’ He howled and took my hand. I did not resist. He pulled me along the uneven surface of Russvatnet. It was colder than usual. ‘Walk!’ He howled. ‘I will now show you a Danish spring.’

‘Russvatnet has its secrets as well,’ he said. ‘But a few surprises too…’ I could barely hear him, for his voice was suddenly overpowered by the howl of the wind. ‘Now observe what gifts the Russvatnet whirlpools have given you! Beautiful, is it not? It must be, for I have created it.’ With a sudden hand motion he tossed me to the icy surface of the lake. ‘Look! Look into your mirror!’ He yelled and stabbed his sword into the Russvatnet’s icy depths. Disturbed, fully awakened from its slumber, the calm lake water guggled in front of my face. Something emerged from the ice. Someone’s bruised face, misshapen by powerful punches, was what the restless Russvatnet waters cast out. It must have floated on the water for hours. ‘Look at her, Mathilde. Look how beautiful!’ He growled, pushing my head to the opening. My beautiful Agnes’ face, her eyes plucked out, was staring at me from the Russvatnet deeps.

‘I slaughtered your lamb! Now kiss it!’, he laughed demonically.

I screamed, which had been lying within me for years and I overpowered the wind. I wanted to join Agnes, to die next to her, so I tried to pull myself away from Amerongen’s squeeze and delve into the cold waters of Russvatnet.

Amerongen, overtaken by disbelief, realized that I pulled out from his claws. ‘Stop!’ He threw himself at me and managed to cover me with his body. I was struggling. ‘Let go of me!’ I screamed. ‘Let me die!’ He tore my clothes off with the feistiness of a madman. He took me with an animalistic urge. The silence befallen on the lake shore was torn asunder by my shrieks. The horror came down on me. I twisted my body, in a futile attempt to shake the beast away. He delved harder into me, and his caution waned for a brief moment. I managed to drive my nails into the scar plastered across his cheek, to which he screamed. He grabbed my face with one hand, still pinning me to the icy surface of the lake with another. ‘You damned whore!’ Agnes’ eyeless gaze was observing this whole scene.

All the foul language known to me came out from beneath my tongue, jerks of rage made my face crooked, while I was scratching at him, pulling away, screaming and hitting, but he kept beating me. My fight kept kindling his rage, so, to my fortune, he finished faster than he wanted to.

When he did, he sat before me, wiped my face and genitals with the torn-off dress and tossed it into my face. I held my belly, but did not weep. For a moment my future life flew in front of my eyes and made me feel sick. From the mere cognition I felt nauseous and I vomited all over the ice, to which Amerongen smiled. I could not have cared less about what was to follow.

‘Oh how you’ll love me, you can’t even fathom it,’ he told me gently…

***

‘There, Larsen. This is how I got married’, Mathilde finished her tale flatly. She offered me mead from the table, taking note of the offended look of my face. I could not look at her eyes, flabbergasted with all that was said.

Serbian Original


Матилде ми се неретко поверавала (што сам крио од Амеронгена као змија ноге) насамо или док смо шетали заједно поплочаном стазом кроз врт.„Зашто си толико несрећна, господарице Матилде? Господар се труди…“, закашљао сам се, „Чини све да ти удовољи, па ипак…“„Па ипак…“„Повери ми се, господарице.“„Ларсене, нема потребе за формалностима.“„У реду“, климнуо сам главом. „Мучиш ли се превише?“„Узрујава ме, иде ми на живце.“„Сломи тишину и откриј ми срце“, рекох очински.„Јутрос сам се присетила живота у Данској… И мајке. Начини запис Ларсене и дај га на увид свету! Ако се икада затворска врата за мене отворе и Хасе буде спаљен до темеља, ја се кунем да… за тако нешто, из гроба ћу устати!“„Начинићу запис, али не знам шта се збило… Исприповедај ми: је ли истина да је Јохана Монструм, како су мештани звали твоју мајку…“„И племићи“, жестоко ће Матилде.„… Да… стрпљења за старца, млада дамо.“Матилде му узврати осмех.„… живела, како се прича, у великом сиромаштву?“„Не“, једноставно је рекла.„Амероген…“, обазрех се око себе и угледах га како се забавља испред коњушница –исписивао је нешто ножем по земљи и мантрао… Гардисти су се излежавали испред замка. Део војске је, досађујући се на крову замка, наслоњен на торњеве, под сунцем Хасеа, задремао.„Сад би могла побећи. Читам ти мисли.“„А куда да одем?“ Осетих да је обузима бес, хладан, затомљен бес, те заћутах у нелагоди и реших да се вратим на тему разговора.„Знаш да сам одувек на тебе гледао као рођену кћер.“„Утеха си ми у дому лудака“, нежно је одговорила, кренула да ме помази по образу али се зауставила на пола покрета.Уђосмо у велики Хол и седоше на клупу једно до другог, испраћени злокобним погледом Орјана Вон Амеронгена.„Драга Матилде, увод ми највише проблема ствара. Никако да га савладам… Твоје речи су испеване лавовском снагом, али не могу да раздвојим да ли си написала роман о мајци и свом правом оцу“, започео сам загледан у свитак, „измишњену причу или су ово чињенице?“Осмехнула се некако напето.„Испричај ми како си се удала за Амеронгена“, извадих перо и пергамент испод мантије.Матилде напе тело. Лик јој поприми бруталну чврстину.„Било је то у Данској. Тог дана, а беше то тмуран дан, Оче, врата Регенштајна треском се отворише. Угледавши Амеронгена, учини ми се да је читав замак задрхтао и зацвилео, као да умире од тешке болести.Замак је подигнут половином ХI века на оштрој литици, са које ми је безброј пута дошло да се бацим у стрмоглави бездан. Била је то мрачна, аристократска грађевина. Још од малих ногу доживљавала сам је као чудовиште. Назубљене куле наликовале су на очњаке, а мрачни прозорски отвори подсећали су на очи Ереба.[1] Регенштајн је још тад ширио отров око себе.Амеронген се загледао у мене, висок и претећи. Стала сам на сред ходника слеђена његовим погледом. Притисла сам на груди пергаменте које сам носила у библиотеку. Гледао ме је као острвљена животиња. Личио ми је на коњокрадицу.„Ала је ово лепота!“, узвикну и до суза дирну Јохану, док је радост блистала у смежураним Отовим очима.“Нагло је скренуо поглед, а лице му се умирило, као да чудовишна снага малаксава у њему.„Јабме ми Аке!“, дрекнуо је. „ Је л’ овде неко умро?! Напојте најпре коње, потом слуге!“„Матилде, треба да ти служи на част што те је овај шармантни племић изабрао за жену“ како је то рекла пергаменти ми испадоше из руку, а Амеронген ме радознало погледа. Узвратих му осмехом од ког се зачуди и рече ми: „Не свиђам ти се можда? Па неће бити да је тако!“, надурио се као дете и намигнуо ми, на шта ми гађење натопи желудац. Претпостављам да је само желео да ме одобровољи.Пришао ми је сасвим близу и готово се припио уз моје тело.„Хладан оклоп Данске ледом ти је спалио ум и тело. У мом дому ћеш се угрејати.“У очима му је пламсала ватра. Окрете се ка вази препуној црвених цветова удављених у кристалночистој води. Извадио је нож из појаса.„Пажљиво, свене! Матилде је скупа!“, зачух равнодушни глас Отоа Регенштајна. Јохана је облизивала усне. Рука јој је почивала на отромбољеним грудима.Амеронген им се окренуо, насмешио се и урезао моје иницијале у свој длан. Крв му пошкропи одећу извезену златом. Ставио је руку у воду.„Сад боја одговара цветовима“, ведро је рекао.Добовао је чизмом по поду посутим сламом неко време, загледао ме са свих страна и размишљао.„Хоћеш ли узети нашу кћер?“, упита Јохана с надом у гласу.„Одговара ми што је ћутљива. Што се мене тиче, с оваквим телом, може да буде и глувонема. Одлучио сам: преноћићу овде“, пришао ми је поново. Његов дах био је тежак. Баздио је на крв. „Можда те посетим вечерас.“„ Роба увек треба да се испроба, зар не мужу?“, развесели се Јохана.„Да ли је ово покварена роба?“, лукаво је погледа Амеронген.Загледала сам се у распламсалу ватру у камину.„Свеж, неубран цвет. Повољно“, рекла је Јохана.“Матилде стаде са приповедањем. Подигао сам главу од пергамента. Мој израз лица мора да је одавао запрепашћење и нелагоду.„Да ли си сазнала ко је био твој прави отац?“„Сазнала сам и то – мој прави отац био је француски гроф од Бујона, из старе породичне куће де Мело. У младости је био Отоов најбољи пријатељ. Јохана је била неизлечиво заљубљена у њега. Морила ју је неутажива чежња, а одлуке није увек остављала Богу. Предала му се с љубављу и радошћу. Кад ју је оставио, пресекла је себи вене, али ју је Ото спасао.“„Како му је било име?“илустрације:Crazy? – Painting, 40×30 cm ©2018 by Dominique Dève – Figurative Art,La Folle (1822-1828). Peinture à l’huile de Théodore Géricault. (Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon.)Матилдини родитељи

„Алберик, али га је Јохана звала Сурт.[2] Тако је мог правог оца, али и Амеронгена. Њих двојица, верујем, имали су, барем за њу, неке сличности. Исто тако верујем да су њих двоје провели занимљиву ноћ, али и ја сам…“, Матилде застаде. „Не бих даље, Ларсене.“Помислих да ће се њена исповест ту завршити. Узнемирено га је гледала у очи.„За нека осећања постоји мањак речи. Природа удешава да најдубље осећаје завије плашт тајни, с бодежом у постави да нас мучи. У томе лежи суштина… Сва моја сећања обојена су крвљу… Чему све ово, Ларсене, кад је било давно? Време све прождире!“„Окрутна је моја радозналост, Матилде“, раширио сам руке и преклињао је да настави. „Увукла ми се у кости твоја прича. Исклесао бих је у вечности, као што клесари чине.“„Камен је трошан, а кипови се распадају“, очи су јој биле раширене, док су јој рамена незнатно подрхтавала. „Ако се поверим до краја, опет нећу рећи ништа, јер је то копија… лоше пресликана слика. Фарса доживљеног. Тежак камен што ум притиска.“Прича јој је постала претешка. Није ни дошла до оног битног, а већ се сломила. Како само дрхти, као прут. Уздахнух и реших да попустим.Али, у том трену, Матилди се образи зајапурише, очи јој засветлеше, а лицем јој се разли поносит израз. Амеронген је стајао на улазу у Хол и подругљиво је посматрао. Она га ошину гневним погледом. Руке јој се стегоше у песнице и Матилде настави са таквим жаром, као да је у њу ушао какав дух и запосео је. Крајичком ока приметих како, у тренутку кад је Матилде наставила са причом, Амеронген напушта просторију.„Толико сам се досађивала у Регенштајну. Чинило ми се да сам више времена провела сликајући и пишући, него што сам дисала или мислила. Ипак, успела сам да досаду прекратим маштом.Каткад би ме Јоханин глас, крештањем, извлачио из дражесних сањарија у којима ми се башкарио дух: „Матилде, кћери! Држи Агнес на оку, јер ће се искрасти с дукатима и отићи! Ко ће тад да ми кува?!“ Служавка би тад неутешно плакала, а ја бих је тешила. Тајно смо, бесконачно водиле љубав очима.„Иди рибај под!“, често ју је грдила, кад би јој досадило мене да мучи. „А ја ћу се вратити Матилдином роману.“ Наслонила би свитак на хладан камен стола и с уживањем би почела да сриче: Осећала је слабост, јер је знала да га више никада неће видети. Сећала се њихових заједничких вечери под ведрим небом, његових топлих пољубаца… „Драги, зашто си ме оставио, не могу да живим без тебе“, уздахнула је и пресекла себи вене, Јохана би задовољно цокнула језиком, читајући овакве редове. „Матилде кћери, да ми није твојих романа, не знам шта бих у животу радила.“Другом би приликом, замисливши се над драматичном реченицом, узбуђено прокоментарисала: „Како је ово узбудљиво… да видимо шта је даље било…“ Пишући овакве сладуњаве редове, спашавала сам не само своју, већ и служавкину главу.Тог дана, када је Амеронген први пут крочио у Регенштајн, након што се свен повукао у њему додељене одаје, позвала сам Агнес и наредила јој да ме окупа.За мене су одувек говорили да сам лепа, али јемчим да је Агнес, била лепша“, простодушно ће Матилде. „Имала је очи боје олујног неба. Како је угледах на вратима мог солара, крв ми јурну у образе. Њено лице имало је ритам, значење и боју. Она је цела била хармонична песма. Бејах рањена њеним савршенством.„Мислим да коначно треба то да урадимо.“„То?“, рече Агнес дрхтавим гласом.„Или… оно, ако ти је драже.“„То или оно?“„Оно о чему смо маштале све ове године. Шта је с тобом?“, смешила сам се.„Не разумем, госпођице Матилде”, служавка обори поглед. Усне ми се раширише у горки осмех.„Схваташ ли..“, изговорила сам лагано, „да могу да нас убију… обе… а да то нико не би приметио? Међу нама нема разлике, обе смо плен сатира. Али, ако бисмо могле да побегнемо…“, глас ми је био одлучан. „Искрашћемо се као лопови!“, немо ме је посматрала. Тело јој је подрхтавало. „Отпутоваћемо! Данас! Само ако желиш! Реци да“, зграбила сам је за руку.„Да, господарице Матилде.“„Тако је…“, рекох, задовољно је проучавајући. „Понећемо неколико стварчица, нешто новца и право на југ, у верижњачама и на коњима. Алмогавери[3] ће бити срећни да нас виде“, бунцала сам, узбуђено.„Како да путујемо к Алмо…“, застала је, „зар да оставим посао у замку?“„У замку, заштићена одвратним дебелим зидовима међу којима се као дух шеташ? Само те моја довитљивост чува од насртаја Регенштајна или звери Амеронгена. Ово је вучја јазбина, богата у пустоши. Обе ћемо умрети овде. Удају ме за монструма. А шта ће с тобом бити тад?“„Не знам, господарице Матилде.“ Ослушкивала сам служавкино тешко дисање. „Спаси ме, само ме ти можеш спасти!”, испуњена болом и страхом Агнес паде преда мном на колена.„Добро“, рекох кратко. „Знаш шта желим. Желим да те покорим. Да ли ти се то допада?“, насмеших јој се осмехом блуднице. Служавка климну главом и стаде да се разодева. Лице јој се обли руменилом.Из сељачке тунике изрони физичко савршенство, које је Агнес тако вешто крила, јер лепота се вазда крије, као и наказност. Видим јој складнолепо тело, не више у фантазији или узнемиреним сновима, не више као кроз воду, маглу или стакло. Заплесале смо страствену љубавну игру. У даљини се чуо звук свирале праћен појем птица из околне шуме.„Волим музику“, лежале смо, испреплетаних ногу, налик на Нефтис и Исис. Дивила сам се нашим телима. Биле смо толико сличне једна другој, ликом и телом. „Волим трзање жица на харфи… Трзање попут овог…“, ставила сам руку међ’ Агнесине бутине, крећући се ка цвету који је пулсирао под мојим прстима. „Својевремено сам свирала лауту. Она уме да испрати бол минстрела. Мој учитељ лауте био је минстрел. Увек би заплакао над тоновима који нуде чисту лепоту. А ја сам заљубљена у лепоту“, пољубих јој груди. Тако смо, попут загрљених нимфи, дочекале зору.Илустрација: Couple, available on Amazon

2Сањиво отворивши очи, видела сам да Агнес више није била са мном у кревету. Протегла сам се попут мачке, обукла се и ишуњала из замка у правцу језера Руствон, моје најомиљеније, најромантичније место у замку. Помислила сам да би Агнес могла да буде тамо. Хладноћа ми је пржила тело, али се нисам обазирала на то. Сањарила сам на обали језера, док ми се ланена коса вијорила на ветру.Посматрала сам залеђено језеро, налик на ледом рањену земљу, мислећи на слатко чудо претходне ноћи. Моја пробуђена страст огледала се на леденој површини. Упијала сам свој одраз, у којем се огледао траг проживљене нежности.Неколико сам тренутака тако стајала, крај обале језера, погледа упереног у даљину. Потом сам се нагло окренула и вратила у замак.Прозори велике дворане беху широм отворени. Преко њих беху немарно пребачена животињска крзна. Јохана и Ото наликовали су двема статуама објасјаним бескрвном светлошћу са прозора. Чим су ме спазили у дворани је завладала ледена тишина. Амеронгенове тешке руке, малик на канџе, беху благонаклоно пребачене преко Јоханиних рамена. Посматрао ме је продорним зеленим очима попут изгладнелог вука.Имао је бледо, чудовишно лепо лице, попут Сатира, које је одавало умор након непроспаване ноћи, можда досаду. Имао је косу црну као угаљ, нетипичну за људе са Севера. Пожелела сам да га насликам.Полако ми је пришао и чврсто ме ухватио за руку.„Знаш ли колико те чекам?“, загонетно се насмешио и следио ми крв у жилама. Осмехнух се горко и истргох руку из његове. Окренуо се равнодушно, сипао медовину у крчаг и испио.„Можда се питаш где је Агнес?“, изговорио је хладним тоном. Предосетила сам несрећу.„Свене, ако ти се свиђа наша кћер, твоја је“, прекиде га Јохана.„Напоље!“, заурла Амеронген. Јохана и Ото се покорно удаљише, разменивши неспокојне погледе…Амеронген настави, долазећи до даха:„Живот се састоји из непрекидне борбе да се не препустимо слабостима, од уздржавања, драга моја Матилде. Ти ниси слаба, али, колико сам синоћ схватио, ти се не уздржаваш…“„Изашла бих да удахнем мало свежег ваздуха, свене.“„Наравно“, великодушно ће. „То сам и хтео да ти предложим, јер имам нешто важно да вам покажем доле на језеру“, и даље се опако смешио.Упутили смо се у правцу језера.„Волим твоју страст, пркос, племениту жудњу којом обилујеш, твоје неспокојство, храброст, све ме то мами као јастреба, појео бих ти душу, јамчим да је укусна… Волим што се опиреш… волим те. А ти? Можеш ли ме волети?“, причао је незаустављиво док смо силазили стрмом стазом ка језеру. Слушала сам га, не чујући га.„Разумеш ли питање или треба да говорим спорије?“, зарежао је на њу.„Моје је проклетство управо у томе што све разумем.“„Благослов нас који смо се одрекли обичних тежњи“, уздахнуо је окренувши очи ка далеким, суровим пределима. „А ја.. Проклетство сам пригрлио са заносом. Заглибио сам се у њега.. своје месо, крв и кости…“Погледала сам га са гађењем на лицу, али нисам рекла ништа.Накезио се:„Уживала си у наручју глупе Агнес, док сам те вребао из мрака. Љубила си јој прсте, клизила по њеном телу, као да је у питању ходочашће. Али, јамчим ти, то није ходочашће, већ пут који води у бездан. Пут смрти. Чист Ерос“, зарежао је и покушао је да ме додирне. Брзо се сам се измакла:„Шта више хоћеш? Води ме, ионако је све унапред одлучено“, дрхтала сам огрнута пелерином, не од страха, већ од хладноће и обрглила се обема рукама.Нагло ме је зграбио. Отимала сам се, али ме је савладао и понео ме према залеђеном језеру. Спустио ме је крај саме обале.„Полази!“, заурлао је и повео ме за руку. Нисам се опирала. Вукао ме је по неравној површини Руствона. Било је хладније него иначе. „Корачај!“, урлао је. „Показаћу ти сад како изгледа данско пролеће!“И Руствон има своју тајну“, рече. „Али и по које изненађење…“, једва сам га чула, јер је његов глас наједном надјачао урлик ветра. „А сад гледај какав поклон су ти послали вирови Руствона! Прекрасан је, зар не? Мора да буде, јер ја сам га створио.“ Наглим покретом руке баци ме на ледену површину језера. „Погледај! Погледај у своје огледало!“, дрекну и зари мач у ледену дубину Руствона. Узнемирена, из дубоког сна разбуђена, мирна језерска вода заклокота пред мојим лицем. Нешто изрони из леда. Нечије модро лице, изобличено снажним ударцима, избацише немирне воде Руствона. Мора да је сатима плутало у води. „Погледај је, Матилде. Погледај како је лепа!“, зарежа Амеронген, гурајући ми главу ка отвору. Лице моје прелепе Агнес, ископаних очију, посматрало ме је из дубине Руствона.ilustracija: Катерина Пејсова, Bloody Lake

„Заклао сам ти јагње! Сад га пољуби!“, демонски се смејао.Испустих врисак, који је у мени лежао затомњен годинама, и надјачах урлик ветра. Хтела сам да се придружим Агнес, да умрем поред ње, те покушах да се отргнем из Амеронгеновог стиска и уроним у хладне воде Руствена.Амеронген, у неверици, схвати да сам се искобељала из његових канџи. „Стани!“, бацио се на мене и успео да ме прекрије телом. Отимала сам се. „Пусти ме!“, вриштала сам, „пусти ме да умрем!“ Покидао ми је одећу жестином острвљеног лудака. Узео ме је са животињском жудњом. Тишину палу на обалу језера, раздирали су моји крици. Ужас се обрушио на мене. Извих тело, у јаловом покушају да стресем звер са себе. Он се јаче зари у мене, и опрез му на трен попусти. Успех да му закопам нокте у ожиљак који му је браздао образ, на шта Амеронген дрекну. Ухвати се за лице једном руком, другом ме и даље држећи прикованом за ледену површину Руствона: „Курво проклета!“ Агнесине слепе очи су мирно посматрале целу сцену.Из мене излетеше све знане ми псовке, тразаји беса ми искривише лице, док сам га гребала, отимала се, вриштала и ударала, али ме је и даље побеђивао. Моја борба је распалила Амеронгенов бес, тако да је, на моју срећу, завршио брже него што је желео.

Кад је завршио, сео је спрам мене, обрисао мојом подераном хаљином лице и гениталије и грубо ми бацио хаљину у лице. Држала сам се за стомак, али нисам ридала. У трену ми будући живот пролете пред очима и згрози ме. Од саме спознаје, смучи ми се и ја се исповраћах по леду, на шта се Амеронген осмехнуо. Било ми је сасвим свеједно шта ће се даље догодити.„Како ћеш ме волети, ниси тога ни свесна“, нежно ми је рекао…„Ето, Ларсене, тако сам се удала“, Матилде заврши своје излагање равним гласом. Понудила ме је медовином са стола, спазивши мој саблазнут израз лица. Нисам могао да је погледам у очи, запрепашћен свим изреченим.„М-матилде, кћери, да ли желиш да пођеш са мном у замак Енгсо у Вастерасу, на обали језера Меларен? Амеронген не зна да су ми понудили место капелана у тамошњој катедрали. Спремам се на пут следећег месеца. А за после ћемо видети. Можемо да стигнемо и до Тулуза, ако желиш“, освртао сам се око себе. Нервозно сам погледао лево-десно, у страху да ме Амеронген не чује. Матилде ме је чудно погледала.„Зар нећеш да саставиш спис, Ларсене?“„Да-да, свакако“, замуцкивао сам. „Али, зар нечујеш шта ти говорим? Могли бисмо да се склонимо у Енгсо. Не намеравам да се вратим у Норботен, а ни ти не смеш ни трен више у њему да останеш. Нисмо смели оволико дуго да се задржимо у Хасеу. Можемо да живимо ван Амеронгеновог домашаја.“„Зар се може побећи од њега? Да ли то може бити?“Загрлио сам је. Био сам потпуно уверен у то што говорим. Осетио сам нагло олакшање пред чињеницом да могу да је спасим.„Почни да се пакујеш у тајности, овде више нема ничега, ни за мене ни за тебе. Покушај да делујеш као и обично, како свен не би наслутио шта се спрема.“„А шта бих радила, Ларсене?“„Управо ми је то питање задавало мука све ове године. Посветио сам му сво своје слободно време. Можда да се издајеш за моју рођаку или удовицу, или… да се угледаш на Ивету Хај, да проведеш живот у колонији са лепрознима? Све је боље је од овога овде“, рекао сам узбуђеним гласом. „Самостани женама нуде многе могућности, не само за образовање, него и за креативно изражавање. Подсећам те на случај саксонске игуманије којој је било дозвољено да кује новце са својим ликом… Немачке монахиње из богатих и важних кућа једнаке су духовним господарима Царстава, да не говорим о предностима које би имала као игуманија или можда жена – мистик. Подсећам те и на случај Кристине Маркјет, жене која је одбијала је да се уда… и напокон постала светица“, заврших своје излагање завереничким тоном.„Али, ја нисам светица, Ларсене. Чак нисам нити побожна…“„Нисам ни ја“, насмешио сам се.Уместо одговора, Матилде је неутешно почела да плаче у мом наручју.(Рукопис се овде прекида…)[1] Грчки бог вечне таме (прим. аут.)[2] Ватрени џин у нордијској митологији (прим. аут.)[3] Алмогавери, Алмогавари или Алмугавери, били су плаћеници у служби арагонско-каталонских краљева, који су се борили у пограничним пределима против муслимана у XIII веку. Живели су од пљачке (прим. аут.)Крај првог дела поглавља…

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Uncategorized

Poems from my travels, Egypt

ankh symbol Painting by Liana Horbaniuc

1

I, who travel the world ruled by a bestial frenzy,

I am the pain of the sufferer and the distorted folly,

I left those who did not follow me.

According to the desire of my heart,

I traveled to the lands of the horizon, to step on my throne,

To calm down my stormy mind where the

Deluge dwells since the dawn of time,

Irritated by an ancient wrath

Turned into candescence as the centuries went by.

And I saw the top of the wondrous horn

It stands out as a bestly tooth from the barren gums

Whether it’s a crypt or a golden chest

Buried in sand

Breathing.

In the harsh desolation of the desert

A dead woman’s silent garden

Like an oasis.

A sweet, intoxicating voice asks from the grave:

”Where art thou go?”

Is that a spirit, or a jackal

Sneaking around my throne made of copper

Wishing to depose me and

Take my crown away?

You’re standing, Traveler, among the spirits –

The killer of the descendants of my kind,

Pharaoh Ai, counselor of the emperors,

Stands among the powerful ones he slaughtered

They murdered my children!

Ai, the slaughterer shall stand among the spirits

His smell is Pazuzu, the smell of Horus’ eye belong to my flesh.

2

”I do not ask for such a dwelling,

Or any other at all…

Blinded, I’m walking the world

To rise like a morning beast-star

And count all my foes

My eyes are open, my ears open too

I travel the horizons of the Sun, travel the horizons of the Dark.

I bridled my weapons

Ropes are tied, ships summoned

I have conquered, I’ve passed by – was that all it was?

I went to a dream of things that once’d been

Glory, the miracle of Gods, miracle, and a coffin

That’s the dignity that belongs to the powerful ones

And the desperate ones as well

Who will win this race?

I walk the world to command

Jackals, pass the throne to those who come in peace

And praise them, you, jackals;

The throne you should give, not your knives

Throne, so I can rule the spirits

With a forged scepter in my hand

Scepter made of an unknown element

To revive this heart in my dead body.

Then you sit on that firm throne,

On the throne of scholars,

In a lone tower that needs to be redone

I bow down to your deadly efforts

You brought light into my eternal night

And now listen to me well,

Because you won’t hear from me anymore:

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3

I, Ankhesenamun, an ancient statue

Mother of the dead-born children

Whom I sprayed with the sacred milk

Brewed in the breast of mother Isis.

Distorted by blows and insults,

distorted by time itself,

I’m leaving a mark on the ground,

Marking the arrival of the beast.

And the mark says:

Yes, the ropes are tied, the ships summoned

For the One who passed by the graves – was that all it was?

For the One who walked hand-in-hand with the dead and the spirits.

To the things that once had been

She voiced a wise word

About the One that was a loyal mummy in the dead hour,

A chaperone of the unfortunate King’s daughter.

They killed her children!

Bearing a white crown, in a royal dress, with two sagging,

Barren teats

In the house of Anubis

Your books will burn

Around the altar, the salted Sun pillars

And you will cry your witless eyes out

With an aristocratic humaneness

Coupled with vulgar curses

Fruitless are all hopes, and fruitless are woes

To be told in the cold heat of misery.

They’re keen to lament, but they don’t,

Sadly smiling before the emptiness.

Oh, crowned thou art, Ankhe, together with

The buried Gods in pain and fatigue.

You, worshiped by the temples with snake litters

In their foundations, and – behold! – vipers are

Waiting in the line.

4

Traveler,

May these sailors take you to the horizon

May they round your path off

My mouth is open to you, my nose is open to you

My ears are open to you, my voice reeds too…

Red as the red crown of Horus

(one can hear a whimper-like laughter)

Traveler,

Collect my bones when leaving

Clear this dust from my limbs

And from the furrows of a long thinking and dried tears

Which left a sterile track behind

Remove these bandages from my body and give me your hand

A grave is open for you too

But if you won’t, may your boats sail in a hurry

So my name can endure

So my tomb may endure

And that’s my temple, my temple too,

Forever

And before you go,

Here’s my gift to you:

A green feather of a crocodile God, with caring eyes,

With passing time,

The One that rules the river, Nile,

With his powerful face,

Yes, that’s the one that rules,

The master of the night,

And he says:

Every day is shining for those who yearn for the horizon

The upper door of the Heavens wait for them

A place in Heavens is ready for them

Under the blind eye of Horus.

And as for me…

For a millennium and a half, I haven’t talked to anyone

Like I talk to you!

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prose, short story

CAMERA 22, Part One

CAMERA 22

Leila Samarrai

 

I do not claim that this tale will disturb many a heart, end an endless fear, nor lap up your blood. Besides, many have had stranger tales happen to them than this one of mine, wherein an unending fear reigns. Yeah? On Christmas Eve, no less? This is what you wonder. You, smiling, story-intoxicated reader souls. Should dark wonders emerge from the colors of Christmas trees, betwixt laughter and kisses, the flying confetti? People with no prejudice, I’m talking directly to you now, you that were touched by Pluto, perhaps cut off at the waist by his hand, or pointed by it to the road of an eternal weather wane.

During the Christmas Eve party, in the villa on Gravity Hill, I was invited by Oliver Daldry, a controversial horror director, a master in his field. His amorphous creatures were capable of shapeshifting human organs in Ineffigatius on the Blue Hill, which was selling out packed theatres. He weaved tales later in Reanimated Beasts, the colossal Amorphoso, and the cult classic Hand Shape. All four films were banned after the first screening.

I drove to the villa in my Polo, driving in neutral on the inclines of odd gravitational pulls. I saw streams flowing upstream. I heard rocks ringing. I spotted wavy trees, growing crookedly and its old, knotty branches pinned to the ground.

– Eh, nothing Escher had not already painted – I thought. I was hitting the brakes uphill, meandered circular roads of Danteian architectonics. At long last I made it to the top, parked, managing to wedge my car between two other vehicles. One was a Lamborghini of a plastic surgeon. An attractive purple-haired Mexican girl talked him into, just in case, turning the front tires “hacia el centro de la pista, con el fin de asegurarse de que nada va cuesta arriba”.[1]

I laughed at her superstitious comments, shifted gears and stopped the car in front of the castle gates.

The castle towered over everything, surrounded by pine trees, towered over the villa, shining with the light of the intersecting light beams. Dressed in satin-like soil, umbra-hued villa was filled with numerous guests. The reflectors on the pyramidal roof were squirting droplets of light onto the limos, adding shade to the hue of the horizon.

I exited my car and, as my nose was assailed by the wind from the mouth of a sculpture on the porch, cast in bronze (a mere porch figurine, a misshapen Aeolus), I was welcomed by Daldry, a merry Hitchcock, in a strange way merging with this whole powder keg of a scene.

– My friend! Duck head, rhino neck, horse ears! We lose life illusions, but not optical ones, never those, ha ha ha – he clenched my hand heartily, while his eyes kept check, it seemed, of the items in the background. – Why do you think I chose Pasadena in the first place?

I shrugged.

– I see you have no response. Strange things make up life, my friend, and the creepiest of those have long been swallowed by celluloid – he mumbled with melancholy, only for his face to again be adorned by a smile of a Santa Claus.

[1] Towards the middle of the driveway in order to make sure that nothing goes downhill for them.

To Be Continued. 

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Standard
horror, mathilde, proza

The poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark

These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book. 

  1. A short poem written for the medieval feast scene:

“Upon the end of the meal the musicians played a painful minstrel romance:

In the water I shall leave my bones
In the ground the leaves my mirrors be
It seems they’ve already buried me.
As I lay, I wait to be found and saved
Should I rebel or leave it all to fate
For if I stay with You, the heart’s silence
Will be my tomb and my eternal life.

****
2. – and continued to listen to the flickering squeal of the lute. It was the famed song of Fjalar, from the quill of the cursed poet Lothair the Dark:

Atop Fjalar sat a warlock, an envoy of dark desires
Resist him not, o Traveler, but pray to him
For your horses are affrighted before the abyss.
Pitiful man, that are the blood vessel within eternity
Pitiful man, your fear walks in front of you
Pray like this to the warlock:
When the sun comes out from the East, my blood will burn
When the sun sets in the West, my body yours will be
I will gaze upon you blind, o dreaded Fjalar
Let me cross my path this one time more.

****

A poem written for the Morning scene:
Thinking of last night, from memory, came the verses of a poet who lived out the last of his days in the gallows. I think he was a Moor… I proudly raised my chin and with a dry, thin voice I sang, treading clad in a muddy tunic and festive boots all over the cotton tapestries:

Fair maiden
You are the sun of my morn
From you the wretched I hides
I call the woeful night my home
Fair maiden
I will paint your thighs
Akin to the silk of a bright morn
You sneak away into a shifty dream

:
***
I remembered Lothair the Dark, who wrote the prophecy of Hässe under the threat of the sword. 

O Colossus, the Heavens tell me: Beware!
A carrion to you alike will clip my wings
Those of heavy heart will feast in the Heavens
Justice will freshen them like wine
And doom will come to all!

236b4e9373a8c635769497c452e6075a--gothic-vampire-gothic-art (1)

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novel, prose

The Tale of Hjalmar, Sleeping Mathilde, Fourth Letter

July 14th1099

Fated brother Alfhild,

I wake amid a dune, its gold and blood hued sand swaying on the scorching sun. Corpses surround me as they rot below the ball of fire. The hollows of erstwhile eyes are filled with mindless thirst. Ooze, like tears, trickled down them in thin streams, or was it, perhaps, blood?

– But him…I know him, I think… – I looked at a dead man upon whose rotting carcass I was sleeping, dazed and thirsty. His body was swelling up under the chainmail. – He’s breathing. – Totally unexpectedly, the dead man turned on his back. I grabbed a sword and drew it in fear – and hope – of him being a Saracen in disguise…

armour

It was a woman, dressed in armor, with long linen hair which encompassed her captivating face. I stepped back for a moment while, at the same time, I got overwhelmed with desire to touch her face.

– What in the hell is a fairy doing in the desert? Mumbling again, Hjalmar… – Olof would respond had he heard me by any chance.

A smile was slowly appearing from her sensual lips, revealing a row of shining, strong teeth. I looked at her, taken aback, encapsulated by her, comparing her beauty with that of Princess Amira, Iftikhar’s daughter said to be the fairest in the whole world.

– Renounce vengeance, Hjalmar…for you will kill us all.

– Who are you, woman? – I whispered.

At that moment, I realized that the night fell over Jerusalem. So fast? I shook, as if I were awoken from a dream.

– I am the Undead, Mathilde von Bergman, betrothed to your descendant, the bloodthirsty Orian von Amerongen.

Her gentile mien suddenly hardened, and her smooth face turned rough in an instant. I heard her bones crackle and craft a new, powerful jaw, wolf-like. Her face became hairy, covered in red fur, specked in blood – she turned into a man. From the wound on her cheek some blood trickled out. It will scar, that was the thought that came to my mind in a split second for reasons beyond me. Maybe because I knew him, from the time when he walked around, as a ghoul, wearing a king’s gown completely covered in blood of enchanted dreams, that colossus, my monstrous descendant Orian.

He said to me: – Kill, Hjalmar! – He was in the hell of Timelessness, covering both days and nights in a funeral shroud, feasting on bloody chunks of flesh, be it human or animal, shaking from his lechery during the cannibalistic rituals celebrating the Gods of darkness, with blessings from some witch whore that came to my dreams…

– Relinquish the sword, Hjalmar. Leave Ismael alone – the corpse uttered. – In truth, you have cursed us all. Go back to Västerås, damn you! Damn you! – He grabbed me by the throat, while he was breaking my bones hitting me with his other hand, with a heap of cussing and frightening curses.

– You…Exist! – I spoke to the abomination with many a question on the top of my waterless tongue, which barely contained a scream. I shoved him away with my hands. His frightening eyes, hued in serpentine rage, where cruelty pulsated, filled with blood… My soul was overtaken by terror, I was dying, I screamed, and…I awoke.

As I stood among the corpses, stepping over scattered and crushed body parts in heavy lead boots, I was thinking of our father, Alfhild. I am no longer skeptical towards the visions as I once was. They speak…They know.

They were there during our father’s death as well. I remember him clearly. That night when he decided to reveal to me the secret of my shameful lineage, he was knocking off on the big ivory throne, as wise as Solomon. His words were fuming in the air drunk on the scent of rotting flesh, and I covered my ears to avoid listening to him while I was screaming.

– Do not lie, old man! – His lips were opening, knives flew out stabbing me. He did not stop, he spoke, he spoke… While I was curling up from the pain, the suffering and the sweat. Witch’s shades danced around us.

– Kill, kill Hjalmar! – His face was pale, cold and gray, I thought in the moment I removed my hands from his neck, while he managed to rattle the last words with his final twitch – You are not my son…You are…Umar’s…bastard.

His body bent unnaturally as his soul floated above it, on its way to Niflheim, for he had actually died of sickness of the soul which crumbled the whites of his eyes yearning for blood during his lifetime and filled his breath with cruelty and sin. He drank human blood, Alfhild, bowing to Hel, while he was deciding on my fate in place of a God. At that point, our father, not unlike an insatiable demon, got up for a moment from his demise, perched up onto his feet and stared at me like an enraged lion.

– Hel gave me a few more minutes on Earth to take care of you – he went after me. Even though he still spoke, there were no longer any signs of life in him.

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mathilde, prose

THE TALE OF HJALMAR, Sleeping Mathilde, First Letter

In the Year of Our Lord 1099, Jerusalem

 

THE TALE OF HJALMAR

 

I, Hjalmar Siegfried, write this letter, in the name of Our Lord, to my fated brother Alfhild von Amerongen, prince of Svaland, conqueror of Finn woods, with love and admiration…

I still remember sitting in front of the anvil, in a sheep wool gown, legs agape, wearing felt trousers and linen shirt adorned with ceramic pearls, and pounding the red hot iron with a hammer while sweat dripped down my sleeves.

It was a sword forged in dishonorable vengeance, meat of the observable world, forged flaming gust of wind. I snatched it with both hands, swung it around, all until the very last thoughts of my origins that haunt me disappeared in the fog of forged hate.

My fated brother Aflhild.

 

hjalmarhjalmar2

First letter

 

I go through the flashes of fire, listen to the revving of worn-out horses as I squeeze tiredly the heavy, red-hot helmet bathed in my blood.

I hide behind the shield and load my crossbow. The marksman has a yew long bow. Leather quivers are on his belt where he carefully selects goose-feathered arrows. He tightens the hemp string, holds it that way, but does not fire. Birch arrow bottoms stick out of his quivers.

I hold the string tightened. The gear rotates. I tighten the crossbow with the winder and fire the bolt by pulling the trigger upwards. The steel tip of the bolt tears through the air and I can all but hear the squeal of the pierced wind in the hissing and the clash of light and shadow.

– Utterly unnecessary – the marksman shakes his head and puts his arrow back in the quiver. I sharpen the tip of the short spear and light it up. Tears go down my cheek. I look at the summit of Zion, which lords over the heavens as if it turns and rotates, like a beamer placed diagonally.

The marksman and the shield-bearer, pale and tense, were staring at my forehead, tightening their crossbows. I dug my face into my hands and pulled my forehead harder still in the shadow of the sweat overtaking me. I wanted to keep sinking into the darkness, to hide the ghosts of my fancy which did not appear before the marksman and the shield-bearer.

– I came to liberate you.

– You’re raving again, Hjalmar, – the marksman shot him a smile, drumming his fingers on the chainmail. – Let’s go! – He went ahead of me, calm and ready like a ballista rope, stomping the ground as if he wanted to root himself up right then and there. The soil was plowed by heavy armor boots, it was as dark as the vacant, bony face of the Saracen nearby. Oh, those dreaded faces, as if they were coming up from the grave, they swing like flames in the wind, like a deathly fire that singes the bones!

I once felt such a pain, when a Saracen arrow dug into my shoulder. Steel in burning flesh, smoke coming from the wound, and I was all black and hot, like a huge chimney.

I was staring at the marksman’s back while he was walking upright, a bit tense, as his legs, heavily armored with asymmetrically cut sheet metal, shone specked with mud, and his cut shirt quivered beneath his armor. He wore chainmail, with sleeves up to his elbows and a skirt reaching half of his toned thighs . His mail was cut so that it does not hinder his movement. A huge helmet with stripped cross-like reinforcements and eye slits partially hid his face. Shield was adorning his back, the so-called heater shield, with a flat top. A crossbow was in his right hand. A sleeveless surkot was over his mail, belt tightening it around his waist, with lions on it, the ancient symbol of the house of Agnus, Olof’s father. Olofs were Vikings by blood.

– Take some – he pulled out a sheep hide wineskin. The marksman is a friend, I thought looking at him through the eye slits while I voraciously gulped mouthfuls of sweet molasses. A true friend. I was staring at the liquid quivering somewhere in the grotto of the small wineskin. A tiny stream of water, honey and yeast, mead, spiced with lavender whose smell intoxicated me and very slowly closed the crack which, during the days devoid of spiced wine, split open on my crooked back under the weight of memory, piercing through it with a lead spike that tears through skin with ease. Heavy memories pierce like a sharp Saracen spear, they beat like a holy mace forged in hatred.

Intoxicated thusly, Olof and I were looking at the pile of shiny metal, in the faces colored the same as the charcoal earth beneath them. We could see the approaching of some strange shades through the sad hue of darkness, like a black Saracen army which, under this heat exuding from within their armors like heavy fire, appeared as if it were expanding and increasing, ominously emerging from their capes which circled around them like vultures.

The sun cast its last rays onto the city walls in the distance engulfed in smoke. This idyllic picture was to be crushed, its treasures taken, its holy relics soiled in hatred, polluted by the black Seljuk noses. The smell of the Fatimid was the smell of rottenness.

Thusly enchanted, I was staring at the pile of shining metal, into the charcoal faces. I felt nothing but smoke, iron, burning and blue lips chapped from marching for miles and miles.

– Raymond is here – Olof the marksman said.

The shades retreated into the spellbound silence.

Count Raymond was a lank man. His hands were as white as Västmanland snow, calm, clutching the reins. I could see blue eyes under the huge helmet, and the cowl absorbed all of the sweat, so his face was all but dry. He was hot, and he gave this away with certain head twitches and shooing of invisible flies.

– Fiends, you sure did give us a hard time in this hour of proving the love of a Son to a Father. I anm the son of Christ, cast down into the fog of this desert wonder, amid flowers that bloom under  the scorching sun. Blessed be Our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God!

His chainmail bent under his white pelerine as if the Holy Spirit got under his gown of the holy profiteer. There was a sweet taste in the air, and the count sunk ever deeper in liquid bronze, his metal gaze flying over the desert yearning for water over which towered stone ramparts. They appeared to be swaying. The sun was scorching with deadly force engulfing the ramparts in its merciless rays as if they were the hands of a poltergeist, melting them while the air flickered above the towers. Near and around the seven hills, over which the city was opening up on the gigantic palm of Hephaestus, stubborn shrubbery swallowed  the dry, barren rocks and yielded under the dust which aided with the scorching wind buried them deeper into the many layers of sand.

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mathilde, prose

The cruel patterns of the past and the future.’, “Sleeping Mathilde”

The ritual usually took place at night, when the holy Altar burned ghostly in the middle of the yard. Around it would dance, covered in blood, nude witches, keepers of the scourge. They had in long, thick, blonde hair onyx crystals or raven feathers entwined within them. The head-priestess  would wear a crown of deer antlers. The witches, while chanting a mantra, would dispense soil from the graves around the altar.

‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, all that we offer may now be thine

And no man else’s

Oh Yambe, Goddess of the Underworld, take this gift,

Offer him to your peasant spouse, the God of Death,

So it may be his and no man else’s!’

Thus the three beautiful witches would chant until they fell to the ground in ecstasy. Then I would approach them, cloaked as if in a pupa, surrounded by a procession of swarthy torchbearers and claimed them, upon which the ritual continued; the tribute would be brought over, completely nude, from the lower chambers, the torture chambers – it is their blood I would drink upon the ritual’s conclusion. Oftentimes I would, when in shortage of manpower and the fear which paced ahead of me like a shade, drink up horse blood in honor of Yambe-Akka.

 ’Oh Yambe-Akka, let me behold the cruel patterns of the past and the future.’

 ‘Oh, Yambe-Akka, do not let the premonitions dry up!’, I would utter in an official tone of voice, raising my scepter with both hands. After I had had my fill of the meat, I would take a sharp athame in my hand, doused in blood. Upon the palm of the victim I would personally carve the hagalaz rune, and the Goddess would snatch away the dried away, dead bodies, storing them in the chest of gifts. The vultures of darkness would then disperse on the sky of Norrbotten, chased away by the spirit of the Goddess…

“’’The blade was laid in the carved bone which might have once been an arm of a faithful servant’ – I would tap the traveler on his shoulder – ‘and the altar, an ancient image of divinity’ – I would proudly point towards the extinct altar – ‘will speak the tongue of bones tonight’. Bone-chilling words I would direct at a wealthier yeoman or a more ambitious Brit, who would come as was his duty, quivering like a leaf, to bow down to me and ask for my blessing.

an excerpt from the novel “Sleeping Mathilde”

 

 

 

 

Standard
dramma, horror, odd, prose

The Bitch

The Bitch

Miss, I know it’s none of my business that you’re by yourself on this bench, in the park, your face all wrinkled. You’re moving away.

DOG BARK

Nice doggy. Poodle? It is looking at me lovingly and growling. It knows me from somewhere, here I am assailed by a new thought.

poodfle

– Fifi, I will kick you, Fifi tear her apart, down to her tendons, veins and arteries, we must reach her heart. The bite of your Fifi, so generous…Miss Ana, may I call you Ana, mmm?…you’re stepping away. Don.t  Listen to me speak so unfortunate, alone, thankful for Your ear, don’t toss me away so easily. Might we get a bit more informal? Per tu… Flee, if you think me insane. You turn your head. Lemme sit down. One cigarette stub, nothing more. I want to embrace it with my teeth, tell you something and leave. You no longer resist, Ana. You are finally responding to my words by turning your head. I am an ungrateful dog. Ah well. At least I feel full now that I can sit next to you without obtrusion, even lie down and be with you in this way. Whenever so I desire.

You don’t think that we started this off in the best way possible? You, me, an abandoned bench and Fifi. Only solitude can make you put up with an insane person. Solitude and insanity.For I am insane. This is not mere circumstance, a particular one, of insanity. Many a bench puts up with an insane person, the streetcar bars hang the retards that hang themselves atop them and brush their sweat against the travelers. We are the rapists of our life pillars. Where do I start now? In what order should I tell you of myself? Of you? When there are so many topics you would like to hear? Well, let’s start somewhere…

THE GIRL GETS UP, TAKES HER DOG WITH HER.

HE IS BY HIMSELF.

If you put yourself in my position, you will see that all of this is quite a normal reaction. I link things up in the moment. You are to me the only woman on all of these benches where various Fifis are lined up to whom I want to entrust my case. The brain would think that I am the only one for you too. Why is it frightening then to have trust in a stranger? I beg the Stranger to listen to me. He is our representative when troubles ensue. Why is it frightening to sit still on a bench next to a man, who…who…

RETCHING.

ANOTHER GIRL WITH A DOG SITS ON THE BENCH.

 

You must be under pressure too and have a lot of suitors on the bench. It is hard to keep all that plastic and those boards under control. Imagine them shoving close to each other, one, two, three. The bench would crack. I hope we settled this now.

HE TURNS TO THE GIRL.

I do not want to approach to other girls, on other benches. I am not polyamorous nor do I want to get into three-or-four benches, and then not know where to go first. You can change the bench, if you still had some prejudices. You are always the same to me. Perfect. No objections.

THE GIRL GETS UP FROM THE BENCH AND TAKES THE DOG WITH HER.

Let me bug you about myself a bit. Let me explain a bit, about how I wound up on the park bench.

THE NEXT GIRL TAKES PLACE ON THE BENCH WITH A NEARLY IDENTICAL DOG.

I got a divorce six or seven minutes ago. Don’t look at me funnily, don’t bite that hand of yours, angel. For I am no longer aware of what the minute is, let alone the date. It isn’t something I really need to etch into my memory. I don’t complain, I had a harmonious marriage. No kids. A fireplace. The mother-in-law was a good knitter, I had a printstore and a gift shop. Still, one day, with everything between being a perfect system, the talking in the house simply died. Each to their own wall, grabbing a piece and warming their hands. The eyes of my mother-in-law were observing the needlepoint and got stuck there forever. I no longer drank coffee with my wife, and I won’t even go into dinner.

ARMS OUTSPREAD.

Nobody was commenting on the movie anymore!

CRIES.

THE GIRL LISTENS TO HIM GIVING HIM FULL ATTENTION.

If you were to ask my ex wife, we never argued once even during madness, or ovulation, or upon arrival of bills, let alone gifts and the packaging of the morning coffee, if you were to ask…who is to be blamed for the divorce, she would probably say: Him. He is to blame. Peter. You asking me?You asking?

-I’m asking.

-Thank you, Ana.I will say: Pipi is to blame…

-Pipi?

SIGH.

That is how it came to pass.Fate? Possibly.

‘How so?’

A SIGH LATER, NEARLY A SECOND LONG She feels how a tear rolls down his face which, again, leaves the female listener across from them in a seemingly emotionally moved state. It appeared as if both the lady and the dog were listening carefully, while he struggled with his breath which he caught again in order to continue the tale, struggling with evidently lived pain and fear.

– It was all but smoke. Ash.Dark powder. Kind of like when you breathe in something indescribably nasty. The word Divorce has its own life, its own pulse. It has a cold air about it. Like if you were mid-Siberia. Nobody around.

PUTS HANDS ON KNEES.

– Okay, let me be brief, miss, because I could go on like this like Dostoyevski, meaning, unendingly.

He turned towards her in confidentiality and hopeful, but came to realize that the bench was empty. He nodded in acknowledging the realization. Still, her departure cannot prevent him continuing the story. A female conspiracy was put into action against him which culminated in a divorce, so the pile of dames and Fifi that are running from some singles’ benches out there in parks around town was nothing to him. Still it was getting dark, and the cold wind was slapping his cheeks. Glum, he was silent, for a man who’s alone does not speak, he merely lifts his hands in the air to drive a nail or two in his own coffin of solitude. We sink into silence as if it were the ocean. Only after we give ourselves up to dark thoughts does salvation come, a new chance which slides and stumbles amid the benches and park trees. A broad or two slide next to it, sailing along in the dim night, thick-thighs and scantily clad torsos all around. The pieces made up a woman spotting a cheap, bleached hair who held in her hand a worn-out knife and a cracked mirror.

– I shall tell you, I shall tell you all…utter it, my head bowed, as a perjurer and a profligate, the wrecker of the idyllic – the woman was looking at him in wonderment, and her eyes, cold and uncompromising, slid off of the glassy catafalque of the mirror which gave with its shine shadow to all of her wrinkles hidden by the night. She is telling a tale, giving birth to subplots, plots, her face moistened by cottony tears which wet the silent paper upon which he somehow writes and is getting angry before the cheat of life that she took his home, with a sudden, inappropriate silence.

– It all died, dear Lady. The shifty woman shrunk the man to the size of Tom Thumb. What she did to me, I am not too clear on even today. – The woman with bleached hair bowed her head towards him a bit, barely controlling the laughter concealed behind two rows of her overly huge teeth, snug and tightened into her corset which leaves nothing to the imagination, feeling that some sort of evil blood is flowing through this mad man’s veins, mad man who could be a killer, a kidnapper or merely a simple worn-out and pathetic basic life form without a penny to his name.

He continues his story, observing the soil at his feet not providing him with answers. He stomped on the broken bottle glass which was suddenly there, he gets even darker and retreats into the coat which reminded him of the coldness of the moment, as he spoke, as he was complaining to the mistress of the Night, the vampiress with eyeshadow on her lips and rouge round her eyes. He grabbed her bare forearm and squeezing her nickel, he looked at her as if he will growl at her at any moment. This is how he won her over to listen to him, his face was strengthened with peace, and his eyes shined and lips moved in tiny tremors, as if he were sucking on a succulent udders of an overly giving (generous, in the mood) cow.

– After the conversation died down, I would remain all by myself with the king size bed and the fridge, a television set partway to death and nothing else besides all that! The mother-in-law, of course, picked up her needlepoints with swearing and mewling and departed the three-roomed home demonstrably, she even denounced the kitchen. A hundred square meters, my fair lady, and all of THAT in the house.

– That?

– Oil sketches, San Vincenzo and Nature Morta done in needlepoint. She left it all there.

– And the wife?

– Left on a short trip, with Pipi, of course. Her animal mask.A bitch twin. Actually, I have this notion that this is all Pipi’s fault.

– It cannot be!

3f6668c0988be917d581343b05914f9a--poodle-claude

artist: Sofia Bonati

I know the nature of doubt. The whirlwind of trickery contains an endless number of smaller whirlpools of seemingly irrelevant events. Upon it all, I was willing and able to face her mother’s will who suggested that I was the worst man, one of devastating actions. Seemingly unnoticeably, she used potatoes instead of a fan. She stuck she-butterflies in slight potatoes in order to wave their wings in front of her shifty face. And my Anna, she was a sort of she-Oedipus…whatever the term for women is for that.

She is, for instance, bothered by doubt of me having an affair, and suddenly she would stop with the doubt and look at the mother-in-law. She would chew on her mouthfuls and smirking on the other side, the swollen side. In her own home she put on the mask of vengeance, since the marriage of her daughter to an older printer was a motive born out of pure lust of her naïve little Annie.

– Annie, you need a powerful man of Antique build. Just like the one whose muscles I stabbed here on my needlepoint.

However, she and her doubt became one. A stone of crude profile rolling and gathering various bits and bobs. But this was far before…before…

WEEPS.CONTINUES AFTER A FEW SECONDS WITH A CALMER VOICE.

She went silent on one particular day in May, the 14th to be exact, after I have been outside of the house, for I have complicated my own life with freelance work, the earnings of which I wanted to use to buy her that piano she so desperately wanted. And more oil paintings, that Vincenzo for instance. That morning, hung over from work and sunken from the anguish, with sunken cheekbones from leaning them on the wrist of my weary hand, with my head like a lid of a burnt saucepan, I called her in my love for that phenomenon of a woman we love, a phenomenon for she has a hold of us by the coziest place in our heads where crushed husbands separated from their needs due to her more and more prominent headaches, and also faithful and honest, are collecting all sorts of cockroaches and ossicles…

– You killed our marriage – she explained and then it was all over with.

If I did in fact kill it, it was due to vast and enormous love.

– Oh, pish-posh!

The harlot rises and drags the cracked mirror along with her. She leaves the divorced man be. He is yelling at her, interrupted in his story yet again.

– Of course, all you want is money. More money, and then you will understand. You’re not going anywhere, because I have to finish what I started. Only the Harlot of the night can understand me. Want an ax in your head? No, that would be too violent, right?

She was flailing with the night where her butchery voice pierced the heavens. She escaped under the sight of an ax which was looking at her inquisitively, seeking for a spot where it could drive its blade and lay bare any hidden molars under her hair.

– Yes… – he sighed. – Still, I need no one. I will listen to myself.

He sat this way as if he were waiting for someone or something ,surrounded by thick foliage which loomed over him like threatening Titans, baroque rhetoric which cut open the silence of the night in the form of a whisper, he was sad, but talkative and clever .

However, he did not remain all by himself. He felt the presence of a young poodle which, with its bloodshot eyes and presence, lit up to him the entire bench scene along with its gigantic trees that stretched its tentacles from the windy side of the park above the head of the divorced man. Before him she growled angrily, with a sound created by lightning which gives shade to the stormy sky using its flashes of rage and wrath. The bark of the tiny Fifi, a multiple cloned poodle, was swallowing the silence, and its mane was lined with silvery lines of the aristocratic litter that was her skin. Oh how beautiful this Dame is.

The wooly hat on her head was undergoing piloerection and took on the shape of a well-coiffed hairstyle that Anna loved. Fifi’s eyes, painfully empathetic, gave away the female Dandy which was assessing the sufferer, only to jump into his lap and take off another chunk of meat. She growled silently, but pleased.

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– A bit slim, but still gracious. You will understand, little Fifi. You, oh pleasant comfort, wife with the bark of consolation, temperamental slicker with a button-nose. Coquette of humans, warm, come to my lap, Fifi, you realized, unlike your Mistress, that I did not poison her dog which was a present from her mother, her little Pipi. I did not, and even if I did, it was not out of jealousy, but the flesh, it was the toxic flesh, and she could not control her hunger. She bit me and poisoned herself.

I am full of cyanide, for I am alone and unloved. Pipi did, however, have some of your facial features, oh you coquette bitch. I laughed aloud after I had entered the apartment, as if I were entering a batcave, but it was not laughter that a happy being stretched out due to joy, it was desperation, it was torture. Even now I grin, but bareheaded and alone, I keep hiccoughing and do vomit on occasion, right here in this tiny nylon bag. Fifi, want some? No? She has criteria.

The dog jumped onto the bench and climbed into the divorcee’s lap.

– My sweet little poisoned Pipi. After Annie left, I went downhill completely. I lost my job, my printing shop. I closed my little store even before that. I lost my car. My Fiat Punto bought four months before the divorce for ninethousandandfivehundred Deutsch marks. Everything, everything went down following her leaving, everything except Vincenzo. Oh how I remember it, Pipi! It was me who was carrying sacks of cement on my back, setting up wardrobes, because I swore that I would set wardrobes up on our wedding day. I swore on the ring and my sound mind. Why did she leave me? Did love irrelevant to our wedding vows not burn within her? She was as steady as the wind, and as passionate as Aphrodite. Without a doubt, she found a better handyman…for her wardrobes.

– You killed our marriage the moment you poisoned Pipi. You could nto stand me loving her more than you.

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Hearing this word, I realized that the time for pleasantries was up. Her face was the face of an offended lover, her face was wild, red, measured only in her lip movement. – You killed my Pipi. – Her face was however as sensitive as a plank, a she-avenger of her sweetheart which…and this keeps me in turmoil. For I had wanted a Fifi of my own, I wanted her gentleness and mercy. Thus they declared me an abuser of female canines and the poisoner motivated by jealousy and unreturned canine love.

When the car goes downhill, the thread we hold in our hand cannot stop it.

The words Shipwreck of a Marriage, or perhaps Catastrophe are getting closer with a steady gallop, the broken cart is oftentimes covered with FREEDOM inscribed on it, you could definitely see in that pile of worm-eaten boards a few that were intact and that could be saved as compensation and consolation that pushes us to the surface. The horizon of new hope is banging widely against the rubble and darkness and stopping somewhere on the doorstep of the golden stars which dive into the heavens readying new surprises, well known to Cupid. Lovely, broken down cart squealing in pain, derelict in the muck where the vipers squirm, let them!

This is when Annie undertook that type of tyranny which spiteful souls wear like a vein ulcer, and it is the tyranny of silence. ‘Intolerance’ – I spoke with my own tongue.

Upon poisoning Pipi, she got the idea of her own poisoning, which she would use as a tool against me. In vain were all of my reassurances that Pipi and I did not cross over to that other side of respect which would break down the relationships we have barked up carefully over the years, all for Annie. The fact that I did not have a dog of my own, as an antipode, or a cat, was speaking for itself. It is possible that my flaunting before her cutesy barking at times caused revolt and doubt that I am doing something underhanded or at least plotting revenge, for our eyes (Pipi’s and mine) often clashed in oolivegreen shines which spoke: The time will come… I was pretending so well. I hated Pipi the same way I loved my Annie.

Why did I hate her? That mutt was whom she kept in her lap, that mutt in her bed, fidgeting against her comb working on her locks – that mutt, smug and arrogant it fumbled around with its fur turning its ass to me in the process and shaking off the bug powder onto me, with the dignity of the household pet, it would shake its hips spitefully entering the Mistress of the house’s bedroom. I had never seen a haughtier creature than that bitch, self-absorbed, self-sufficient, subordinating everything and everyone to her will. If I were to step into Annie’s room, she would growl at me, and that tongue, that smooth tongue would be lolled out in my face and I could clearly hear her say: Get lost. I had never heard her say this out loud, because I am not insane…but her thoughts were telling me this, her eyes… within those pupils where wickedness spread, those were but tiny telltale signs sent by her eyes where a laughter of pleasure was splashing about, then tears of joy would trickle along with saliva and drool onto my trouser legs which she tore off with her teeth.

One lovely day, in the hallway, in front of my wife’s bedroom, I found Pipi’s corpse. I shrugged apathetically and muttered ‘At last’, like a ventriloquist. I wanted, with my own two hands, both firm and husbandly, those of the man of the house, to rashly burry the poodle’s locks of hair sprayed with Chanel into the treetop and to throw her away in a trashcan.

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Annie found Pipi dead (‘she was scratching all night, using hope, faith and her love to me, her unconscious savior, to revive the stimuli which would keep her alive’) getting out of bed and opening the door with a smile on her pale grey face welcoming the morning, when she was met by an extended red tongue and rolled up eyes. The rug on the floor and the soft meat intensify the memory of Lili, her previous dog that was poisoned (by pure accident and the fault of the cat called Lilith, which was confirmed without a doubt). Looking at her Lil Pipi, her eyes bore both madness and glow. At first a time to rise, and now a time to descend.

She ordered Pipi’s corpse brought to her with a coarse voice. She observed the dead rug with its red tongue out and kept silent. Pipi’s body had an entire carpet of dust on it. That arrogant little beast, that dirtied bride was now at long last effortlessly observing the world. Her eyes were dim plates enveloped in cortex. Her whites were gone in the darkness, extinguished, never to be resurrected. Her corpse was covered in crusty boils of unknown origin. Annie lifted her up with her satin gloved hands and screamed into the darkness of the open maw of her dead poodle.

– No, this isn’t true, you cannot be dead!

I laughed and gave myself away. The laughter of a monster on the other side of the glass which was separating us clashed with the past of all the sorrows of Annie. Namely, for Pipi’s death (as claimed by the cook as a witness) a cat-like beast with her eye out was responsible, a beast that was advancing towards the window glass where Pipi stood with her ass out observing the world. I don’t have to tell you that this window was in my wife’s bedroom.

 

After the mysterious death of Pipi (so, the one completely confirmed by eyewitness reports, the cat that looked like it belonged to Poe, one eye, furious to the core, offered Pipi her plate, and Pipi licked it clean) Annie did not eat for days, bed-ridden, with eyes that stared dully in the distance… and when she got up, she said:

– I want to have a coffee with my husband.

I squealed in pure joy, to which she gave me an intense stare. Still, I could not even fathom what kind of marital problems awaited me upon Pipi’s unexpected demise, may she rest in peace.

– She was bad for you anyway… – I consoled her. – She looked like all of those popular starlets with their fucked up heads. Except she was a bitch, of course.

The door to our home suddenly became heavier. Far too heavy. So did the table, and the doors, and windows, and the coffee which was getting cold. The fear that she would think I had anything to do with the…with the poisoning…you know? No, you most certainly would not even think that, see I’m not some jealous husband, and jealous of dogs no less, those little bitches? No, I knew Annie’s temperament and fear of her accusing me was overtaking me and had its tongue out like a snake when twisting itself around a tree.

Everything was still peaceful, cozy around us. At the coffee drinking table there was fruit in a miniature flowerpot, flowers of padded red hair, a tiny Cupid framed in glass, photos of Pipi. Taken by the glee with which she posed with Pipi on the photos and the aforementioned Cupid, she took small sips of coffee and shot me a few times with tiny flashes of her tinier eyes, like a hard-working questioner, with an indifferent face.

– They should all be killed.

– Who, honey? – I asked mercifully.

– Those cats with rabies.

– Oh, yes.

– Beat them to paste.

– Ah yes. – I could barely utter any words, as if I were not drinking coffee, but eating a heavy porridge of glue.

– Pipi gave my life sense, and now I need something to put me down and to sleep when the sense is gone – Annie said this and took a few chill pills.

– A shame that I don’t have a sniffer. Eh, what do I need it for, oral use is better. Twice oral, before and after coffee. Give me that silver teaspoon on the table. Those bloody cooks steal silverware. Ah well. I will crush it next time. I don’t like to swallow them whole. I always had the fear that they will get lodged into my esophagus.

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Tai Shan Schierenberg : 2008 Alter Ego

I was listening to her, pale, holding the teaspoon, obedient as a dog. What does she need it for? Annie is sucking on the pill and through her tongue rolls it somewhere down to the stomach where powder and blood will face off.

Every morning since then, since Pipi’s death, whether crushing the pill with teaspoons or not, a sad image kept repeating words or the word through the image carved the gradual druggedness of Annie deeper. Blessed, ready for family life and relaxing conversations we used to have – those of water, power, the vacuum cleaner, the gift store and the fiscal cash register – she was resting on a cloud of sorts known only to her where she was with her Pipi, where anger and rage and lust were nowhere around her. The Pillmania spirit had taken his hold of her.

As she closed her eyes, while I spoke of the public utility, they appeared as two female lovers glued together, one to another. She had little eyes like two sickles. Thus the two sickles are looking somewhere on the inside, like a moon in its crescent phase enjoying itself, silent as it sails across the night sky. A little arc is sailing across the sea which is getting tangled below him and takes on its reflection which is swimming in the dim light of our cafeteria, whose walls already took on the hue of the upcoming sunset.

The pillmania made me feel sick. Unnoticeably sick, though, and the feeling of abandonment, as if I were a weak calf on some distant field, was too strong for the calf so forcefully weaned, grasping for breath and grazing somewhere far away where it will grow old and die. All in all, the coffee now tasted like bile, and I felt what it was like living in darkness by yourself, like a creature of the deep what has bright, electric lights for eyes.

Still, if only it remained like this, but she was quickly overtaken by insanity and rage. She left the pills, threw a coffee cup at me once while I was entering, telling me to go on then and get lost. This place was clearly one person too many now.

– But, I love you – I tried to play the dog love card which she appreciated so.

Annie put her hand where her heart should be.

– There is nothing here, do you understand? – her eyes glimmered, became frozen and emotionless. The neurotic laughter repelled and attracted doubt.

– What is happening to you, Annie, my Venus? Where did this come from? What does it all mean? How come you have no heart? Should I call the doctor?

– What doctor, fool? No doctor can re-heart me, for I do not feel. I do not love you. Do you understand me now? You simply annoy me because you suck.

– Why do you do this? What did I do wrong? – I flailed my hands while talking. – I will get you a new dog. Just don’t… My Venus. Will you not?

– A new dog? – her hands went over my face and she stared me directly into my eyes. I felt the coursing and the warmth.

– Besides, even if you did not love me, Annie… Screw love, right? We are after all merely husband and wife. We’re not lovers of Verona. Friendship is what matters.

– I’ll show you a new dog, Poisoner! – Ah, you really do keep spiting me. Would a pointer not calm you down?

The spite was really strong. No words, no sound, no letter. I waited. As Simonov says, wait for me, and I’ll come back! Wait in patience yet.

Suddenly, from her throat where it felt as if a ghost of late Pipi dwelled the little bitch growled, shoving her snout through her esophagus squeezing out a barrage of hysterical punches at me.

– Dear, your coffee is getting cold. – My metamorphosis as an act of reconciliation and bravery was brimming with elegance, contrasted to her squeal and her arms which wrapped around my neck like two dark serpents twisted into a ball. Her arms, I noticed, were lengthy and long, mixed with air which drained matter, bone and blood from them. She was warming up, a vicious disease of fire had beaten her, and the roots of her arm hairs stank of burn. She slowly started turning into molten gold, her hair caught fire – in short, she was burning in rage right in front of me, and this is plausible, I’ve read about self-immolation as a reaction to extensive stress.

This is how I killed my wife, fried off the wings of a butterfly, because of the sin that was her oversized and somewhat impure love for Pipi. Her loves were kept safe, more accurately her touches of love only knew of that mane, that gray mane of Lady Pipi, Her highborn highness whose bones are now drying up in the shadowy wind. But, despite spontaneous combustion, other than the experts I could reference, I had no evidence that it was indeed me who did not kill her. A petrol canister in the shed, a few matches and a motive: poisoning the bitch. I was picturing it: fire comes with the poisoner, the lousy potion is smoking in the ashes, mixed in with it and the bones of the beloved animal. I fried her with my jealousy, she was all smoking and smoking away at long last, she was extinguishing herself, turning into ash and all ashen and powdery like that she dissolved right there, in front of my eyes. I went up and down the room with an unlit cigar in hand, frantically thinking – Should I tell them she fell asleep with her cigar lit? It used to happen to her. These things happen, inspector, my friend, ha haha.

– I did not burn my wife yesterday, because when I went home at five (during the self-immolation), my salesman asked me this. – Peter, how are you handling all of this? These people are nuts. Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing… – This I said somewhat dragging it out, all sticky-like, as if I hadn’t eaten in a while and there was a potential bread piece stuck to the inside of my esophagus. This reptile of a salesman, this schemer, could testify that at the moment of Annie’s death I was not only absent, but also filled with kindly thoughts. I was still thinking of this possibility, and then I scooped up all of the ashes into one ashtray with two fish-lipped buds and with the pedantry of a concentrated actor I laid Annie’s remains onto the canopy bed. Here is where she lay prostrate with Pipi, the two of them, inseparable lovers, feeding each other caviar pate.

I went to work by train. It was cold, but not too cold, although not too warm either. I asked myself what keeps the people warm under this gale which caresses the skin as gently as a skeletal hand would, eternally un-warm, the icy liberators of the esophagus. Confused and pondering, exactly like a man whose wife had just spontaneously combusted before his eyes, I was trudging along the street covered in snow. At least I seemed to think so. I was late getting my alibi, because I wanted to be late (ah let them get me, I confess to everything, other than poisoning Pipi, that I did not do), bearing but one thought into oblivion akin to an Unfinished Fantasy. I wasn’t skillful enough to burn her completely, and then, as we know, feelings of the loved, burned being race. Annie could talk of the consequences of an earthquake in South America and, of course, the Great Pyramid.

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The pyramid is aligned exactly according to the cardinal directions of the planet.

Annie, this thing is like coffee, muck on the mouth and teeth as it seems to me, that sweet residue, and it is never wrong. It gets between my fangs, making my front row teeth look like a black star.

Stop it, you moron! What residue, what coffee?! Science stuck its fingers into the eyes of the great mystery and is digging away at it. When I was young, I noticed mysteries all around us. Hand me the third eye. Here is what the PhD MA PR Thehell says about it…

– The pyramid is in the center of the aggregate mass of the Earth.

And coffee..

– Unbelievable!

She would then take her coffee in her (right) hand, and the UFO stories in her left, while she would put the Legendary Times Magazine pledgets on her moist forehead.

– I was wrong to marry you. Now I know. Pipi, bark, damn it. Pipi is laughing at the confusion of charlatans and astral readers, those imprisoned by common sense. Pipi has no sense, hence why she makes sense of everything. I think she is aware of the mystery and its resolution. These days I feel like she is trying to learn our language. But you could not understand this. Read on, Pipi:

Dead, and once alive Pipette: bow wow wowwoooowwooow!

PIPI – The angles of the pyramid divide the Nile delta region into two identical halves.

In the cup of coffee there are the male and the female side. The river in the coffee is the sludge of Nile.

PIPI – The pyramid is the perfect geodetic swivel and directional point.

ME-TO-ANNIE-ONCE-WHEN-THE-BITCH-WAS-ALIVE;

Our marriage was going really well while there was coffee on the table. That’s it, perhaps, perhaps. You know the reason was also you buying plastic cups, and the sludge and residue lost on weight. In order for you not to think that my theories are completely wrong, understand that if the pyramid is a myth, our marriage is an anti-myth.

– If the basis of the pyramid’s surface is divided by twice the half of this monument, you get Pi=3.1416

DOUBLE THAT AND WE HAVE PIPI.

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– The sum of the surface area of all four sides of the pyramid is equal to the square of its height.

To this I had no response.

PIPI (victoriously) – bow wow wow

ANNIE –That’s it. Tell him. Long live Pipi. Bow wow wow

PIPI – Bow wow

ANNIE – Bow wow

The barking stopped.

I sat on a bench of the platform housing a decommissioned train (thus I knew that I’d missed at least one) and gleefully came to a conclusion that the snow wasn’t melting for a while, which meant that leaving tracks in the snow was an inevitability. I observed the railroad before me and thought how numerous children must have died during the South American earthquake. In the distance I heard male voices, from what I could tell it might’ve been an argument regarding some unsold candlesticks.

– They argue so much, and they aren’t even married. Nothing is guaranteed to us nowadays, not-a-thing.

Gazing at the floating snowflakes, for a second, that very second I covered my face with the warm palm of my hand taken out of my coat pocket mere moments before. I did so because I wanted to feel warmth right then and there, I wanted to prevent another memory of the spontaneously combusted Annie leak from out my eyes and, most certainly, the memory of the divorce gained with a single thunder strike. With no paperwork nor complications. Under agreement – with fire. The sound announcing the train’s arrival was heard in the distance. The wind started blowing harder.

I got up and moved towards the coming train, towards the known silence. After a couple of steps I stood, hands in pockets, unruly gaze, I was looking at the train in the distance, yet closer every subsequent second. The howl of the locomotive cast me, yet again, for but a mere moment, into the memory of that one hour when Pipi was poisoned, and Annie caught fire, an hour where I decided to abandon my life, and after I had found an alibi, a proper replacement, to walk away from it. I felt dizzy.

The train was stopping at the platform. I turned back for a second, noticing people rushing with bags in hands and realized that mine were in my pockets. Everything I ever needed could fit within the contents of a coat pocket. I entered the train with an unnaturally clear desire, I wanted to stop feeling. Did that inevitably include me no longer existing as well?

This is how I found myself here. You can accurately guess that I did not board that train. I am waiting for them, to pick me up, to arrest me, toss me in the slammer and feed me pipi pates.

FIFI FROM THE BENCH: Bow!

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My hungry little snorting sweety, shall we give in? Go back to them? Pipi, you had your vengeance. See. I underestimated you. I thought you were no more than an ordinary… mutt.  I forgot that you were a bitch. I mean, it’s no familiarity, nor title. Titles are for those who moil, and also for vain monarchs. We will be desensitized, dear Pipi, towards everything from now on. You might help me better understand Annie, as well as the mystery of the pyramids, therefore I beg of you, Fifi, to do me the honor of becoming my wife, there. I will get you both a dress and a little hat. You see, Pipi, it’s not that bad being a lady with such a bitch around like you. We would be like the perfect pair of gloves. How did I miss that? I missed my wife, I missed the marriage, and here there is a glorious, clever bitch that knows how to listen. Yes, I am he who speaks, because everyone around me fell silent. All is dead. Other than the well-known spots, they never die.

PETTING THE DOG TRYING TO BITE HIM.

My wicked thing. Let’s go home, Annie is in that ashtray waiting. I might light a cigarette, with a cup of coffee. One would say I didn’t love her, but over her ashes I will repent for all that I did, with marriage vows and the coffee-ritual. Who knows, maybe she went somewhere, I am ready for questioning, hell let them burry me even. I deserved it.

GRABS DOG’S LEASH AND GETS UP

I feel a bit tired, a bit virus-stricken too yeah…I didn’t bring my hat…Annie will love seeing you alive and not killed by me, She might rematerialize and revive our marriage out of sheer happiness and in all her thickness compared to the clay pigeons walking in the parks. Maybe I’m Annie? Hehe. My left arm hurts (the muscles of both the forearm and the upper ar,), it always hurt Annie…Now her spasms are at my disposal. New life, Pipi. I have enough willpower. I fear no God, let alone those lazy-asses the cops and paramedics, hehe. Mere mortals, the lot of them. Perhaps you could help him realize…like you did with me and the pyramid thing. There. Homeward…no rush. With one break the length of a short eternity…What do you say, Pipi? You don’t care? Huh? Thank you so much. And here I missed the Champion’s league to take you for a walk. I’m not complaining. I prefer this and want nothing in return. Maybe a kiss, if we get home anytime soon. At least to make it worth something…

Horror-Wallpapers-38 (www.darkwallz.com)

Peroratio: Marco

TURNS TOWARDS THE POODLE

More? There will be more when we get home and I tell you what’s on my mind. Go on and grin. He who laughs last…Not talking? Angry? I had no attention to anger nor offend you. Not my thing. Not my MO. Of all feelings I only know those that are nice and bring joy. If I went overboard or made a mistake somewhere, tell me and then gnaw me to death. How? Put your mouth to mine and don’t let me breathe. Then cast me to the cats to be eaten. Fin. No more Peter. And seek another companion, Perhaps you will find one if an old-timer is still walking this planet. Though, it will be tough.

POODLE: Bow wow wow

PETER: Bow wow wow

THEY TAKE OFF. SOMEWHERE.

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publishing

Down The Rabbit Hole

I had been chosen as a freelance contributor at Creative Talents Unleashed, with my poem Kitty Kisses, for the literary publication of Down The Rabbit Hole, 100 % of all proceeds from this publishing are donated to “Starving Artist Fund”
The book is now available.
Down The Rabbit Hole
https://www.createspace.com/7363268

https://creativetalentsunleashed.com/2017/07/09/ctu-press-release-contributors-announcement-down-the-rabbit-hole-2017-anthology/

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interview, proza

Leila Samarrai: Literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

My interview for the online magazine Afirmator (in Serbian)

Leila Samarrai, a Coffee Interview for the online magazine KULT (in Serbian)

In times like these, where we have in Serbia a whole line of parastatal humbugs where everyone aims to attain the role of the Father of the nation, outside of this politicization, the poetic world is thus divided on various sects who don’t recognize the quality and poetic approach of one another. Whenever I think of this I think of Nestor Kukolnik, a court author from the Pushkin era, who remained famous merely for being a blusterer who kept jamming sticks in the wheels of the aforementioned Alexander Sergeyevich, but who was far more reputable in his time; where the two of them stand now is not even worth talking about.

What can I say? These feral times are not all too friendly to poets. But neither are we to it hence I hope that, when it passes (and transience is ever present), there will be enough poetic testimonials about who we were and what times we lived in.

Leila Samarrai, Republic Of Serbia, Belgrade, July 25th, AD 2017

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Leila Samarrai: Literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

Interviewed by Tamara Lujak

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Leila Samarrai is a new author who, one could say, is only now gaining traction in the Serbian literary scene, even though she has already published both a poetry and a short story collection. How she finds her way into the aforementioned literary scene, how she stands out, whether the literary scene even exists or not, all of this and more will be what the budding author will talk about, so – get ready…

 

How do you see poetry?

LS: As a type of shamanistic chant capable of chasing away the darkness within us.

 

‘Poetry is meant to save the world, to reassemble all fragmented things.’ Do you agree with this claim by Hamvas and why?

LS: One can’t help but agree with Hamvas that the new history took many a sacred thing away from man or mankind, thus instead of kings and dignitaries and whathaveyou we have various surrogates in their place, ‘suspicious persons’… The poet remains, and under the shapes and forms of the suspicious persons, by himself, he lives his life under the mask of the (no longer court) jester… So if words are what separates animals from man, from this animalization of the barbaric modern age, who will bring words back into harmony and redeem man if not the poet? But the question is: are there among the poets people that are strong enough, whose magical voice is thunderous enough to resonate in the all-encompassing cacophony reigning over us?

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How does poetry fit into the world (yours and everyone else’s)? Or how does, perhaps, world fit in (your) poetry?

LS: Man is in his own microcosm akin to a personal box, with poetry as its lid which it can defend itself from the world; which can be opened in desire to meet something wider than your own personal reach.

 

How do you deal with the decision of many publishers not to publish poetry collections?

LS: Realistically speaking, this is suicide.

 

What does poetry teach us?

LS: It teaches us how to think, how to express ourselves. Teaches us compassion. There is a quote there from Heine: ‘What does this solitary tear mean? It so blurs my gaze.’ Poetry gives deeper insight to that which we might have missed in the daily rush of things: I believe in man, which is why I say Maybe where there surely must be a Yes.

 

Can we live without poetry?

LS: If we can live without tears and laughter, day and night, zombified under neon lights, in front of our television set, or amid smoke and noise, we can live without poetry, learning and thinking, let someone else do the thinking for us.

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What is poetry to you?

LS: An opportunity to be alone with my thoughts… An opportunity to create something that I could, once called out, show as my own contribution to the world.

 

How would you define poetry?

LS: As an old wise serpent which only occasionally comes out to catch the sun (and scare people).

 

How useful are literary festivals and workshops, can they survive today, in these times of utter poverty, and can you learn something from them?

LS: Learning is a matter of an individual, their desire actually…

 

What did the internet give the authors, and what did it take away from them?

LS: Most certainly a bigger audience, in wider circles…who can nonetheless distill the crux of it all. The Internet is a Babylon where any author can both add and take away a brick laid, depending on one’s affinities.

 

You’re aware that in your line of work (namely writing) there is little ‘coin’ to be had (or rather there is less and less of it), and yet you persist. Why?

LS: You need to be a ‘nerd’ to be a poet, that is without a doubt, and without regard for any monetary compensation; living off of poetry is not all that doable, and success is, evidently, a category always in flux. As far as I’m concerned, I find it natural to express myself in verse, and whether I am far from any kind of recognition, well yes, I am… On the other hand, being recognized in Serbia means picking up all of the provinciality around you and publishing it.Hence why I want to be recognized outside of my country’s borders, because that is indeed recognition – proper recognition.

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According to you, what kind of generations of authors are coming?

LS: The world of prose and poetry is split into various sects which do not recognize the quality and poetic approach of their peers. What will come in the next hundred years from all of this, I shudder to think.

 

How does the contemporary literary scene look like to you?

LS: When you take one look at all of the things being published today, with zero criteria, then it’s clear that our literary scene exists merely due to money. We did not move one step out of communism. Where we were literarily is where we still are, except the market is far smaller, and poverty of intellectual and any other kind far greater. There isn’t even a Serbian literary scene, nor is it allowed to exist. Critics are at their positions, established authors at their own, primarily political, then literary, or artistic. In short, literature in Serbia only exists at the level of gossip

It is a complete systematic collapse here, and with zero respect for the author and copyright, nothing will get better and Serbia will remain a literary black hole, irrespective of the vast number of people willing and capable of writing something.

Nobody publishes poetry collections, because there is no profit there. It is well known: the author has to pay someone to publish their book, this is the alpha and omega of it all. The publisher does not care a bit beyond that. If by any chance the author ‘gains prominence’, then he will be endlessly reprinted, copyright will be broken and the publisher will claim to be doing a favor to the author by these reprints. Printing itself is cheap. For instance, someone’s book of aphorisms or short stories can be sold online, it is also in bookstores, and the author is not at all notified of this, nor has any insight into the matter.

And the publishing itself is reduced to moneymaking. You got the green, you publish the paper. If by chance you become a household name, you will be published, but the ‘sweet sweet cream’ will largely be theirs, the publishers’, and yet they will also tell you how fortunate you are to be published. So, the copyright of your works is completely vulnerable, or nonexistent. The publisher does not give a damn about quality, they don’t even read what you give them, or merely skim through it. Everything comes down to the money, cash that is, and sex. Which is, again, a good topic for a story or a novel, even journalism as a sociological phenomenon, at the end of the day. It is a mark of an era and a country.

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Not to mention the misogyny, the treatment of a woman, a smart, beautiful, attractive woman who, by the way, is an excellent writer. In short, the treatment of meat in Serbian literature.Cheap trafficking and treating the female author as a piece of meat, a sex object with no right to think, but to bow her head. You can be as smart as you want, unless you do what the slime wants you to do, nothing gets published, no career, no living by doing what you love most and know best. Speaking of various chauvinisms, why keep quiet of this one. To me at least, these people are laden with complexes and cannot achieve sexual or amorous pleasure normally, or whatever else they need, and this is where the sickness begins, the blackmail. In everyday circumstances, they know that they cannot reach beautiful, smart and talented women, and they use their pseudo-power to prove themselves to their friends and their own selves. It is cheap trafficking, and I believe that women, in that sense, have it harder than men. Little is written of this, nobody speaks of this, and it is the cancer of life in this here country, in this here system-less system and criminalized society. I still believe that it doesn’t necessarily have to be so, but now I point to the literary world not being a bright-colored gentle butterfly which contains all the beauty of this world. Talented people are leaving, we are losing the intellectuals, we are losing people who could raise this country out of the muck. And then we wonder how Mrkonjić and Ilić become ministers. It is clear: violence and sex, the basis of reality shows, completely transferred into the literary sphere, which should, at least, be a bastion against the flood of pap and primitivism.

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interview, proza

Leila Samarrai: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind

Leila Samarrai: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind

Interviewed by Tamara Lujak for the online magazine Afirmator.

My interview for the online magazine Afirmator (in Serbian)

A master of the short story form, Leila Samarrai is a published award-winning author. She loves writing, stating that literature is her life, she dreams of having her own manager, like American authors do. Inspired by the Pythons, Charlie Chaplin, as well as everyday events in Serbia, she writes brief, jocular, satirical short stories, filled with anger and bitterness of relief. Delve for a moment into this world of hers.

 

What is the author’s mission?

LS: His mission is to be a good writer and that’s about it. I think this was the main thesis of Joseph Brodsky.

 

Why do you write?

LS: I write out of pleasure, and because I think I have something to say.

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Where do you get your ideas from?

LS: It’s simple, I bang my hand against the table, a genie appears from the magic lamp, bows and says “What’ll ya have, oh Magistra Ludi?!” I then make a wish that gets instantly fulfilled.

 

What makes good poetry or art and how would you define the craft of the poets?

LS: Art is a game. Poetry as well. At the end of the day, you either know how to play it or not…

 

What, according to you, is a good author?

LS: A good author is he who isn’t afraid to speak his mind; he who dictates the art of the verse. A scribbler who merely keeps quiet and enjoys being lauded is nothing but a reader with nothing of importance to do. He whose written word trickles from his wounds into the world and onto paper is not afraid to both praise and criticize, this is what he strives towards.

 

What is literature and the purpose of art to you?

LS: Survival of the human species.

 

How did you come to the idea of publishing Boris K. (Everest Media, Belgrade, 2013)?

LS: In the age of absurd events in Serbia, which clash common sense, it wasn’t all that difficult to be inspired, to write an absurd satire in the manner of Monty Python, or even Chaplin or a science fiction space-time traveler, which would reflect reality in the mirror of old woman Valentine. Pythonesque burlesques interspersed with a Kafkaesque atmosphere reflected in the name of the titular hero are merely some of the references that build up the overall feel of the novel. Why Kafkaesque? Because Boris K. is, even with all of his Johnny Bravo capabilities, merely a regular, tiny man in a sophisticated cog of the system which makes mincemeat of the sophisticated, but grinds it well. The Johnny Bravo effect, the muscles of the superhero are but a part of this comedy of the absurd, because the hyperboles I like utilizing, sometimes to their upper limits in order to strengthen the absurd and highlight it in the process, are but one piece of the comedy and that comedy, so to speak, gets more comical.

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At International Belgrade Book Fair, with Zoran Stefanovic, the reviewer of my book “The Adventures Of Boris K”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoran_Stefanovi%C4%87

How did Boris K. come about?

LS: First of all, if we don’t take into account the scientific theories of existence of parallel universes, in the present day Serbia as it is, unfortunately, we can notice that in order to merely survive the people need to live in some sort of personal universe, to be ‘deluded’, as the British would say. Those with more creativity can craft up to five-six roles… Don’t many of the Munchausens find refuge in their own lies? Still, Boris K. moves through worlds of alternative history and his fate is resolved in a satirical science fiction novel which is in the process of creation, and all of this close to the encounter with the aliens of civilization number 5. But more on this some other time…

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Can we expect a sequel to Boris K.’s adventures?

LS: As someone who feels at home with long form writing, I admit that would be rather easy work were it not extremely difficult to someone whom struggles with rationality, mathematical focus and dramatic precision, but let’s say it takes time for the plot to come together, the answer is as follows: you can, the ideas are everywhere (I agree with Plato on this one), maybe not as soon as I would want them to. Boris K. is not just a short story, he is an omnipresent avatar and a portrait of an undisciplined, yet witty cosmopolitan man. And he demands only the best of plots, a beginning, plot points, my favorite peripety and a witty resolution with hints of bitter irony aimed at the society around us.

 

What are you working on at the moment?

LS: Like a sculptor I chisel away at a novel made of tangled tales waging wars for each individual sentence. This work does not demand precision in the sense of a well-rounded plot, it is fantasy in and of itself, a fantasy where the awoken sleepwalk. The novel fits my narrative sensibilities which focus both on the plot and the character nuances and has the attributes of magical realism, therefore I’m good at it and enjoy working on it. I hope to leave a footstep in the snow with it somewhere in the distant north, where the plot is happening…for the future storytellers of the same genre (magical fantasy).  Officially this genre does not exist, or rather is not named as such. There is magical realism, but this is a work of magical fantasy.

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Any advice for upcoming authors?

LS: Don’t walk the same track as others. Break patterns and remember that Kafka was extremely insecure. He considered himself a bad author, which he masked with hysterical laughter (a sort of compensation for shame) whenever his friends were talking him into reading his works aloud. Also, he wrote them late at night. This is not the type of advice you should heed if you’re an early bird.

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poetry

Glory Of Babel, I walk thy streets, bare and free


NAHUA

It’s a place of seven caves

Someone calls me by the name.

Hueyapan vicar it was:

“Diego”, – he told me thus – down there in aztatltlan(tli), savages of Nahua

Cut people up

In pieces.

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A sacrifice

Diego, a sacrifice.

Chicomostoc the holy…

Rabbi Isa, Rabbi Isa…

 

RICHARD THE CANNIBAL KING

 

He took rothers and left the stead, that is the King!

The Cannibal King

For the King is the great power

that overpowers the great power that overpowers

the powers the great power

that overpowers the great power that overpowers the powers

Unis,Unis, Unis

Mother, mother, Mother who is Father, awaken me!

Fear not the nightmare, my child, but sing praises to her

 

SUDD MA’RIB

 

Selena is reading the spells from the Book of the Moon

Blood, my heart, my bill, me in a pool of blood

Ruinous, violently, I bounced my moist body

Towards the tambourine stars

usuddMa’rib, la ciudad perdida

my bane, in the pit, an engine-maker, a prophet, my salvation

mydeca, are – pr – pour.. pour, pour..

my blood

my bane

my heart

my salvation

Abwûnd’bwaschmâja

Abwûnd’bwaschmâja

And to this the Rabbi told me:

Talitakumi.

l’ahlâmalmîn.

L’ahlâmalmîn.

 

EGYPT

 

Yet another dream…

 

I was born

The Goddess of Air and Invisibility

I was born and died a virgin of the Ogdoad

me, Amunet, the female hidden one

the androgynous goddess, the serpent, the lesbian

goddess of graves and coffins

and the moonlight cast by Iah made my dream illumined

I am the nightly vision written of in Anacreontea

Take me to your bedding, if you want your woman to love you

Your hands quiver, but they know how to caress

Kiss that bit of the body where my eyes divert

Of the tombstone

In the dark land, in a bloodied area, in the riverbed

You will be reborn

In the Ogdoad, you will be reborn

In the suddMa’rib, you will sing thy love and thy life.

 

TALITA KUMI!

 

Fear mourned me

Horror clawed at the cheeks

The spasm of fear is as hard as a quince

 

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!

glory! oh Babylon

I walk thy streets, bare and free

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prose, thoughts

21st Century – Salieri’s revenge

In the 21st century music is no longer a friend of the muses. It has become a tool for “good” entertainment and for money -making exclusively, and those “goals” are the only criteria for its existence. Don’t even get me started on the visual arts and literature. (It’s tragic) The question remains: what is a writer (painter, musician) to do in such a climate, where even he is despised as a selfish, ridiculous creature who “lives in his/her own world” not having a clue about “real life”, the one whose art is mainly a cheap mask as an excuse for laziness (well, not all that cheap…)
It is irrational to think that art can be more than a hobby for a woman or a man unless it is eventually paid for. And in order to be paid, in cash or by credit card, it is necessary for you, my dear friend and colleague, to have a big shiny house and to be financially more than secure and possibly a lord or a count. Then all of it makes some sense! This is a typical relativization of a pondering mediocrity.
What to do? What could be done in a climate like this? The answer is: No matter what, the artists should refuse to listen to the shrill voice of this unhappy, materialistic, desolate era, removed from all of humanity. Their work must be done in silence, for the next who will accept it with a smile or refuse it with burst into laughter.

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novelette, prose, samarrai, story

Dervish, Part Two

Part One

  1. – But luckily, I have the fully enraged sun to drive away the nightmare, here it is insidiously melting in the sunlight! – Gennardo thought, while his dreamy eyes were darting around looking for the holy notes. The ecstasy of the nightmare was still strong within, and the that which he remembered and the objects floating on the other side of consciousness were but sections suddenly illuminated by lightning, which would circle its movement after the blast, moving towards other, distant lands and new matter. All that he remembered was the taste of a gastronomical luxuriousness and a non-sweetened drink with aniseed grains.

– The manuscript, where is my manuscript…I mean…my notes… – his hands were shackled by rush, and his soul by longing to open those famous doors of Holy existence anew. True, at the same time that reality took control over the crazed shrieks of phantasms of dreams, with his outer eye he circled the basic shape of the rounded edges of the sheet music notebook which appeared as if it were bleeding under the sun, in radiances aflame.

– This must be the truth bleeding…or is it my blood…? – he realized that the blood traces were not an irritant vision, but was instead his forehead moist from the injury which occurred under the intransigent punch with a blunt object wielded by someone’s strong hand.

– Want a napkin? Or tea? – a well-known OverVoice boomed which bled tones of Seiler piano keys in finer nuances, insolently stepping on the left pedal and causing Gennardo an inexplicable disgust.
– Step away from my una corda, you wicked bastard! – but the Sufi kept on observing him with even more of a wicked calm, thus Gennardo took a step back from his callous reaction under the power of this gaze whose chill could possibly be rivaled by the tip of the iceberg floating along the North Atlantic…

– Have a hijab to cover your head, heal the wounds and learn some humility when you speak to your master, Jemila! – he all but shoved the shawl onto his head, leaving one end to dangle on the side somewhat more than the other, he pricked it into place with a hijab needle, and the longer bit of the shawl he wrapped around his three-day-old beard, then slapped him twice and said ‘it’s a hijab!’

– Master, this must be some sort of a joke, I am a man, I cannot be Jemila.

– You will be what I say you are until the moment I die!

– But, you are dead!

– No, you’re dead. But finish the Dhikr and you will resurrect, by the Turks one and all! But, I must give you some praise, I am very pleased with your work last night, Jemila. I just feel bad that you barely touched your rice pudding, you merely looked at yourself in the mirror and drank raki the whole night.

To this Gennardo leapt like a leopard in an attempt to escape, he threw himself at the glassy mirror surface in all his might when, under the tune of the cacophony that was the Sufi’s laughter and its own bursting into pieces, he squeezed the perky breasts cloaked under his aba.

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– Good lord, the size of them…the mirror broke under their weight… Wait, I…I have…I have become a Muslim woman!

– The long sleeves of this black cloak will give a wider swing to both your creative hands. No more morning hanky-panky, my son, at least until the Dhikr is as clean as a whistle!

Gennardo/Jemila shivered, and his scrawny face went pale with fear as the room flowed in an ethereal rhythm. The spirit produced an unusual sound not unlike dull sobbing, tilting his head left and right until the red pupil of his incorporeal eye faded to the hue of snowdrift. Then the spirit floated around the room, while the newly-crafted Jemila lifted up her skirt with an unsure notion of a scabrous male hand, riddled with fear of the plausible wrath of the spirit, feeling up her crotch – when all of a sudden she came to a hurdle, namely Islamic tights with a Zebra pattern, and within them a lump not unlike a scroll or a stone slab.

– Touch yourself there again and you’re getting a monolith! – the enraged Spirit said.

– Where is it? You ethereal son of a bitch! I hope they burry you dead among the living! Give me back what I had before I ever had it – I am a man, a man and my main tool is ruined! May your unliving embodiment be ripped off into the dishonorable exile! – the moment he said this, the old man cast a hellish curs upon him with swift kung fu motions, the room was filled with noise, and the stone grew to weigh an amazing 170kg and shaped itself to a steep rock upon which Jemila was twitching like Sisyphus.

– By Omar, Allah cast his judgment upon you!

– Jesus damn you, sheik, may the tribes of Mozambique sew your everyday garb for eternity!

– Jemila, I will give you one…gelded…if that means a lick to you, until you finish that scribbling of yours. As supercilious as you are you will not even reach the pentatonic scale if I do not make you humbler than a Mycenaean tomb. The chiffons and light scarves from the Islamic boutique “Il Deserto” are what you will wear, as a humble apprentice in the master-art workshop of her Islamic master.

The spirit extended his incorporeal hand, then mumbled some incoherent magic words. The rock was gone, and Jemila flew into the air suddenly and inexplicably while heavy sheet music notebooks well on his aching head from the ceiling.

– Sit down and write, and I will play now, to relax you. And do not argue with Omer’s ancestor, Jemila, or the only tool you’ll have left is that pencil in your heavy, manly hand. – The spirit exploded, but also went soft for a moment. – and you are a pretty one, even like this… if I were a bit younger…and alive…

But Jemila exploded as well. Truly never an angrier woman had there been anywhere. Jumping over the table, he grabbed the Spirit by the throat so that the hot desert air scorched his hands, but the poor composer was not even aware of the flaming pain, because, truly, there never was a bigger tragedy since birth than the one now bursting out of his throat.

– Cagna arabo, dammi il mio cazzo, subito o non si vede una chiave di violino da me, in modo da scopare con il vostro turchi e con i loro cazzi, oh inferno. Non toccare il nostro cazzo italiano. chiaramente!

But the all-seeing ‘sheik’ paid his dues in turn.

– Che tipo di temperamento, che donna! Donna turca, senza dubbio. Prenditi cura del tuo mani, Dzemila. Tornerò il tuo cazzo di questa mattina, anche se sono rimasto molto soddisfatto con la sezione.

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– Then it’s a deal.

– Yes… Al Zahra!

And he burst into laughter clad in horror while the turban on his head quivered from laughter.

– And be careful, my Al Zahra. Be careful with ALL of those keys, because all of this, as you can see, can get you to dangerous and rather unpleasant situations.

To this Gennardo Al Zahra pulled a revolver out of a drawer, placed it onto the table, opened up the notebook, lifted up his aba, gave good thought and said with a shrill voice:

– Oh…well look how good this is that I wrote… I just don’t remember when all of this happened exactly. But I don’t understand – he grabbed her hijab – this is a harmonic support written by an aesthetic ear, and just between you and me, mine is Salierian. Oh how tense these sixth chords are…

– You will be tenser than any sixth chords if you do not satisfy me with your next manuscript…

– Do not remind me. You semi-visible bastard!…Or these… excessive seventh chords. Though this little lady…erm, little lad did manage to one-off the sound which flows with most composers according to preset harmony rules and without departures in form, with some exceptions that again prove the rule.

– Did you already get so well acquainted with the Sufi philosophy, my sweet Ferda…

– Al Zahra!

– Sorry. By simply wearing the hijab you stepped into the way of Islam, Al-Zahra. You gave up the most precious of things by adopting the queer identity of unified religions – like the Emirates, are they not all united? And my goal is to unite all inter-sixth-chord-al countries of the world through the astral plane, ridding ourselves of the corpses of disunited churches – the dead stone slabs from which disgusting, moss-poisoned, despicable rocks grow! You’ve already passed phase one. And your award shall be, after all of the Sufi stages are complete, only 28365767 of them, I shall attach Big John to you, the greatest of cavemen achievements.A fresh, prehistoric specimen, a subject of confusion to the archeologists of Yale U for eleven thousand years!

Al-Zahra’s eyes lit up with glee.

– Uh uh uh … perhaps a Phrygian dominant scale would come in handy here – he stared at his manuscript dully – certainly, I will not change the rhythm of three sixteenth notes, I suppose I knew what I was doing. I think I will continue with the counterpoint which would be the F major!

The spirit sighed only to look at him angered.

– The subtext of the Sufi is a philosophy. Cyclical. Can you understand that, Little Horny Man?

– It might be, since it is both the Dervish and the Death, a cyclical piece.

Sufi’s eyelashes closed, after he rolled his eyes to the side quickly. He was ticked!

– Allahu Akbar! Every single tone must be a heartbeat in the service of Allah!

– I am not a Muslim woman!

– Do you want the Big John or the monastery, Al-Hazra!

– You are a false spirit. Turks are not Arabs!

– But they prey to Allah! Listen to your heart, Jemila. Boom boom. Boom-boom!

– Good, good! I know. Allah just came to me and told me that the secrets of the universe are hidden in the plagal cadence. – Al-Hazra looked at Sufi, filled with hope.

Annoyed, Sufi snapped his fingers and Al-Hazra fell into a philosophical dream.

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  1. I would love it if he could wake up somewhere smack in the middle of the Land of the Rising Sun, with the melancholy of a Greek who walked along Hierapolis or of a Turk clad in the Bursa silk.

– But the hell with Italy! The damn hill Monte Casino and Saint Benedict are to blame for this! The artists of Lombardy too! They didn’t want the great Rumi as part of their library and then? Who do we have? Donizetti, a bully who used a Roundel dagger to carve deep grooves in the torn bra of his wife oftentimes finding her in the arms of his own lover while his tears flowed hard and bitterly down his twisted face as he phoned in Tu che a dio spiregasti!, or that killer Gesualdo, an impressive madrigal singer and serial killer in his own home! Instead the Lombardos implemented the various Disciplinarum Libri, gardens of Milan, chest pains to stop the promising rhythm of the numbers which were studied by the first Italian composer, posing as Saint Augustine of Hippo, until he also, like that Gennardo, lived to see God bestow upon him the cadence which he has to create, and the Holy one tell him that it’s always worse to have the golden key as opposed to a wooden one.

He rubbed his sleepy eyes, ate the rice pudding from the table in absolute delight, disrobed up to his tights, gently rubbed his full breasts, removed the hijab and let loose the hair of gold, one would swear that he, as a woman, was visited by Aphrodite in his dreams.

He took his pencil to paper, thought of the Ivory Coast for reasons unknown, and started composing. He opted for the fragmental approach, with some episodes of repetition, but…

– It certainly would not be of harm if I put in minimal modulations, and make a few bars of chord mutations, and then a few for their reversals, uncompromisingly keeping track of the tonality within the heart similar to the guiding star floating in the heavens.

– But, only in the beginning. Dominant scale, you shall not escape me.

– That’s right, my son Gennardo – a potential cousin of the Canterville Ghost said. – I gave you your Joe back, it’s true that this wasn’t that particular cave, but even these Ancient Greek caves were good for something.

The composer-man calmly said:

– But, only after the subdominant chord takes it to the uncertainty of the closing act.

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The manuscript, mute and untouched up until that point, shaped itself into a living melody performed with the skilled left hand of the Sufi at the keys which stretched from the bass to the right parallel with the notes of the bass section which maintained the characteristic untamed nature of the upper melody lines.

– Ehm, my son Gennardo, very good… Do not forget to write down the bass clef.

Gennardo looked at him pretentiously.

– I did not forget. By the way, Old Seethrough… why did you introduce yourself while glorifying the Turks, by Iraq?

– Not Iraq! – the Sufi jumped up as if burned, sighed and said excitedly – because of comfort. Turkey is closer to Italy. Geographically.

Gennardo, whose doors of unrivaled narcissism and power were flung open, decided upon some idle banter with the Evil spirit.

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‘The old man is joshing with me. But I will be famous, I can see that. Oh lord, how talented I am!’

Sufi, not realizing what is happening in the thick head of his student who as is true to his nature leaned towards proclaiming himself as some sort of heroic ideal, shook his right hand, looked at Gennardo hopefully and with a smile which leaked like the Niagara falls down his incorporeal jaw with seethrough, at times pearly white teeth, he asked:

– And what about the left, my son?

Gennardo looked at little Joe with admiration, like Snow White’s stepmother queen in the magic mirror on the wall.

– Gennardo, my son… – but the ghost suddenly flared up – Now is not the time for this. Write, damn you, write! I do not have an eternity to waste! I have plans, ethereal life! I am not lazy!

– Slow down, pops. Music is a steep coast, and I would like some Riesling…

– No, no and no! – the apparition flew towards him and smacked him on the head with the kaval. – Write!

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– No.

– You better write or I’ll…

Gennardo looked at him with a wicked smile on his tiny lips.

– I have stared into the eyes of Evil numerous times, especially in the La Scala. Here is the manuscript, you finish it yourself.

– You…you…un-castrated wrecking tramp! Step the hell away from MY table!

While Gennardo was observing him with significant surprise, the spirit charged towards the manuscript which was writing itself lead by the invisible, terrifying hand of the Divine:

– If Allah allowed you to rotate like a chord, he would not allow the holy Scripture of the Omayyad to continue in that direction.

And as his turban fell from his head, his hair caught fire and his entire body spoke, and the voice the same as bare iron was whipping the back “of all you mortal ingrate bastards, and oh my Dervish, you will not go to Greece, so help me and self-immolate me the great Allaaaaaah!”

– Master, your hair is on fire. True, I did not know how to finish this, oh me the humiliated Salieri, oh me, oh my personal anguish! Not even your holy Turkish power was of any help!

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– Iranian, fool! – With a mighty motion of the shining hand the powerful Sufi rammed a clef down while wildly spinning towards the door, knowing he didn’t have a lot of time left.

– Oh Allah, now I know how Joan of Arc felt! The body is burning, it hurts, but it is dangerous not to finish it and leave with merry disdain the glory to that damn amateur Orpheus!

– A counter-rhythmic structure, Wop! Always of a temporary character, that’s what it must be. Then come the influences of…erm…I will have to fit the instrumental transpositions in a very, very specific manner in order to create ecstatic confusion which leads one to spiritual bliss. Do you follow, son?

– You mean, like bruises? – the Italian asked confusedly.

– Not contusions, Al-Zahra! Something within me got mixed up in my powers. You somehow woke up from a deep sleep.

– And what of these influences? – Gennardo asked terrified as the Master was spontaneously combusting. Not even the dark wind that burst into the room managed to put out the fire of his heart.

With a tired burned up hand he wrote the last few bars, while Gennardo was rolling on the floor engulfed in terror, howling:

– Call the fire brigade!

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– The fireman does not help there, only the Fountain of Fire– the Iranian said and started singing.

‘Only when the school and the mosque and the minaret

Collapse, only then can the Dervish get together.

Until fealty turns to treachery, and treachery to trust,

Not a single human being can become

The part and the organ of truth.’

The doors opened with a horrific bang and the same humongous man from the hill, golden-haired and dark in gaze had upon sifting down Gennardo placed both hands on the table, lifting above it, and the entire castle akin to Vesuvius above Pompeii, mowing down a few chandeliers in the room with his athletic shoulders.

– Get it solved, Rumi. Give the pride of Music to Greece. In return Zeus will stop the storm at Athos and destroy the Greek fleet. By the Sun and the Moon, fire and water, Francis of Assisi can be stopped. It stands to reason that the crucified man will merely be a shell of the Roman plan when Persia rules the world. The Nietzschean God will not die, for He will never have existed. Ultimately, is Music not the most important of all? Let Persia wage wars, let Greece play its tunes…and the rest – here he looked at the Italian – let them curse that same Francis of Assisi and their Lombardos. Oh, by the myth, get it solved.

Rumi gave him a stern look and as the Greek Heracles laughed looking at his weak body, Rumi shrugged.

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– The influences enable a powerful elaboration of the theme before its resolution – he looked at the Greek as his body was aflame – It is true that to Dionysus these resolutions were left too undefined considering we’re tackling tense chord sets…Yes, my son, everything can be resolved upon tension. And not just in them, but also in excessive and reduced chords while the doubly reduced tones can solvate on varying sequences. The Greek mind cannot comprehend this, but sending bad weather to the Persians, that it can. – Despite being all but charcoal at this point, he did not lose the passion to point his index finger at the Hellen.

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– Your problem, Rumi, is that you are living in the past – there was a grin twixt the cheeks of the Greek.

– You see, Gennardo, my son. Your beloved La Scala collapsed the moment this was resolved. (A powerful blast in the distance.)

– You no longer need to worry about your reputation. And the Sufi is dancing with the stars. – Rumi said, whose body was already burned. He turned to dust and disappeared.

‘I do not care about not being famous THERE as long as there is nobody superior. Besides, the manuscript is here.’ The minute he thought this, he grabbed the Notes with all his might and squeezed it to his chest defying the Greek who towered over him, or rather the house itself.

– But why did you yourself not resolve all of this, Dervish? – Gennardo asked astutely.

– I wasn’t able to – the Giant shivered in anger.

– Those vain Greeks…but we have Donizetti and he will knife the lot of you! – Gennardo raised a fist in the air. – Our madmen do not originate in myth, they are born True!

The Greek, and it was Apollo, waved his hair amid which was interwoven the seed of magic and stopped the fire, he snatched with a breezy motion the notebook from Gennardo’s gnarled hands and made his way to the exit, tearing down everything in his path.

– See you later and have a good one – with the notes and the kaval, therefore, he went to the door in an attempt to close them with an even more deafening bang.

– Wait…wait… – the Italian rose from the floor. – You cannot take that. This was written by me, Jemila, Ferda, Qasim, Al-Zahra and Rumi. All you did was start the theme. We were the ladies that…erm…the men that finished the threepiece song. This is not yours.

With a calm expression on his face the giant turned, and the face in question took on the hue of deep mythical stability while he, with his tongue clean, with not a whiff of abruptness nor rudeness, replacing the dark flash in the eyes of the Furies with a glow of an unbearable sun, approached Gennardo and with a friendly handshake which crushed his right shoulder thus putting him in hellish anguish for life, and trying to offer him a handshake of truce rejected by the Italian, he said:

– “Dionysia” is a Greek record label whose manager is Aphrodite and which exists for nearly 10.000 years. Its primary field of interest is music copyright protection and it’s responsible largely to the European commission and the NFB champion’s league (not that we don’t have some powerful connections here as well). Orpheus, upon reading “The Trial”, decided to be a stickler and to only gather material while he’s keeping records. Dionysus already burned the “Dhikr” onto a disc in standard audio format, and I have long ago given the ID, filled in the form, in short – I beat you to it.And what were you thinking with Sufi music anyway, Salieri? You are not a Dervish. Neither am I. Only Rumi could perform all of this, and what are fools for? Still, I will tell you something that the old nostalgic fool didn’t.

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Red Infinity, Robert R Splashy Art

Anyone can be a Dervish if he realizes that creation is a game, that the Dhikr itself was conceived by a non-Dervish as an experiment of the western musical thought.  – Apollo scratched his head here. – The Dervish is he who bravely wrestles with tonal variety. What makes a piece colossal? Would this piece be as massive as my Hellenic hand had it not yearned for the definition of resolution? But, to you, as well as others who were not what HE was, and Lord knows where in Persia he is now looking for a new moron to protect the art from the Greeks – the cruel god of music laughed lovingly at this statement – the musical and life symbolism do not let up. Little Horny Man… – he moved onward to tap him on Sufi’s “Johnny” gift, to which a crushed Gennardo ran to the other side of the room and curled up in the corner.

He was squealing for a while in his misery, only to crawl, with that one shoulder crushed, to the phone pushing his body away from the floor with the left hand, to grab the headphone and, slightly repenting in his mind due to the sins of pride which did not go well with Christian mercy, and even a bit teary-eyed remembering the passion of his self-immolated Master, to dial an unidentified number, dragging his voice down the telephone cable, gruff and heavy, but mostly desperate which gave him additional strength to utter the decisive, Solomonic, unequivocal and rosy resolution:

– Attorney’s office, please.

 

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DERVISH, Part One

Part One

He had learned the secrets of the universe from the manuscript itself, and had felt the tones in the best of his fingertip muscles.

The sound of winds and leaves whooshed through the plain through which the Brenta river ran, meandering the old sandy loam soil. Why it was this particular heath not moistened and not watered by rain that Gennardo Schiavone chose to write his new opera, “The Temptation of Don Salvatore”, would become clear if the traveler made three quivering steps on the dry soil, one of hard ossified structure.

After the last fiasco he went through performing the concert for piano and strings “The Espresso Variant on the Subject of Death of Saint Vitalis” in the Italian Center of Culture and the intransigent criticism at the “La Creazione”, Gennardo decided to find the musical solution for the probable salvation and continuation of his music career in the heart of the Great Heath.

„Now, wasn’t it He who went to the desert to know… that, in the wasteland of life, here, under this tree may my body be as the one of the Savior, and may the menace itself visit me, to engender within me a sacred tone…” – Gennardo piously mumbled and the moment he thought of this, he spotted the Dervish emerging from the fog, with a kaval in his hand.

– This isn’t a kaval – the Dervish said, reading his thoughts. – It is a ney..Karghy tuiduk, an instrument of wind.The oldest instrument in the world.

“He uses a ney. A Crooked Pan..Whatever did he do to him?”

– The devil had changed his garb since time immemorial, but the truth is that an Arabic fashion chic coming from a Catholic was not something I expected. O how my bitter salasplayed at the expense of this poor shepherd – the insides of his carotid arteries were overcome by darkened terror for a moment, which made his neck bulge up and his body stiffen, while he sat, perfectly calm, under the tree and as his head was encircled, halo-like, by the tops of Northern Apennines. A hum of the sea was heard in the distance.
– Have you ever heard of him? – the Sufi asked, using his free hand to scratch himself on his mohair.

– I have.

– And have you played him? And what are you hanging on that hillock for – the Dervish spoke nervously whose appearance still largely confused Gennardo considering his height which overshadowed the tree of Gennardo’s hillock and his lush blonde hair.
– It doesn’t match the goat-hair cloth. He doesn’t even look Italian. Which shepherd could this be?

Gennardo shook his head, somewhat calmer, as if a thousand honorable forces presently included him in the congregation of good spirits.

– But only if you’re not a Turk! – shouted the up until that point godlike Dervish, to which Gennardo felt goosebumps on his head and scratched it, while he was hallucinating a pentangle shape or any other life-threatening apparition

– By Saint Vitalis, should I run as fast as my legs can carry me for this is some rotten business here…

But, the Dervish said:

– I will now play for you.

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And he trapped him on the spot with his first tone which sucked the composer in the vortex where music enters the man and disappears inside of him somewhere.

And he played the instrument made of hollow reed, skillfully shuffling his fingers across the ney holes. It was a round-up of the movement of music dug deep into the rhythm.

Nearly in a religious trance, Gennardo danced swept by the accord of divine forces streaming from “the spheres” – and within the Dervish’s song which bore Gennardo’s dancing body through the typhoon he spun around faster and faster in an unexpected manifestation of the universe, to perceive, through the binding of the heavens and the earth, a universe of love and a different godly principle, hypnotically repeating “Masnavi, Masnavi” pushing close to a hallucination.
– Who did he see? What happened to him?

It was an old man with a strong, thick beard a la Bektashi, in woolen clothes with a white hat on his head and while fear grew in parallel with curiosity within Gennardo, he felt that the Dervish hypnotized him more successfully than Franz Mesmer.
– This man would have mesmerized the entirety of the Scale Milano and would have made the prima donna Fibrazini perform Chaliapin’s partita, and the audience perform a group jump on stage in the style of Nureyev and all of them, made joyous in the vertigo of musical insaneness shout: Gennardo, Gennardo!
– And who are you, whitecap?

– Jalal ad-Din Muhammad. I now stand on the Pearl of Khorasan.

– Unbelievable! – sweat poured off of Gennardo out of massive excitement, thus he shot a very serious glance at the blonde God of music who abruptly stopped playing and as he caressed his ney, he was leering at the nigh-maddened Gennardo who, in the same manner, caressed his denim clothing made for him by Gianfranco Sestili himself and as shrewdness was growing within him, he asked the odd, and yet a rather…rather… simple shepherd:
– Was this an Italian stornello?

– Just a miracle I listened to inside of myself while walking along the heath, I sat on a rock, to freshen myself with a noggin of wine, it’s something akin the antic metaxa, and… This is just the intro, of course.

– It just came to you… well, that’s how it goes, my friend… – his heart beat faster – my stornellos – his fingers snap – like that. Cosi. Facile! And why did you stop playing?

The Dervish shrugged.

– The spiral is the evolution of the circle.

Ah, he felt that the spiral is open for my musical ears. I cannot even make a threepiece song out of this, let alone a sonata form. He must continue! He must!

And his hands shook.

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– Well go on, then, finish it! – Gennardo grabbed the Dervish’s shoulders desperately – Finish it, I want to hear more! Until the end! You barely played anything at all, so why did you stop playing? I want you to play all the way to the coda, do you understand me? All the way to the devil’s tail! – the scream no longer slubered in the musician’s throat, and his face wend black and blue as if both tar and wax were poured on it.

– You are a Turk! – the Dervish was flabbergasted.

– I am not, I swear I’m not! I was scorched by the hot Italian sun! Blood of fire!

– I know, friend – the Dervish grabbed his hands, and it was such a gentle squeeze that Gennardo squealed and looked into his strange visitor’s eyes, and that which he saw in his eyes filled him with dread. He all but shrieked – Without question – it’s nice when blue, pink, reseda and yellow are mixed in the cornea, but all of this without pupils and a gaze full of love, but which burns…ouch! – All you’ve written up till this point are ruins. Look into yourself. This is where music is hidden. Do not despair, I shall come again and rebuild all of those ruins…in a century or two because I have something important to do.

– A-and…and what do you…cuh-cuh-call this composition? – Gennardo grinned like a road bandit.

– A Dhikr. How else? And remember. The spiral is the evolution of the circle – even though he was still speaking, a force of dead nature! It was clear to Gennardo now, and if it were dead, he does not fall under the copyright law, this Dervish who was miles away… somewhere close to the horizon, leaving only the memory of his wild stare and …oh, and… I cannot forget what I have just heard… ah, I would never forget! And some of it is already gone! Oh, if I could only write one part down – Gennardo was rocking back and forth, but a thunderous voice soared over the hard soil.

– I will help you, but only if you are a Turk. For one day the land of Khorasan will give Alexander of Macedonia, almost of Greece what he’s due.

– This must be him notifying everyone who intend to do dark misdeeds in the name of breaking copyright law – Gennardo consolingly told himself and then spoke to the spirit hovering and meditating over him.

– Gemo, I have for you a pure roton chianti classic riserva. Almost pure Sangiovese!

– A Turkish Riesling for me, if I may.

  1. – Sit, oh spiritual man – he already took the see-through Sufi into a villa bedecked in rustic design. The living room was lined with chairs made of massive fir tree with reclined back, and the red leather sofa where Jelalhudin curled up comfortably, was full of pillows filled with polyurethane foam.

– There’s the bastard!  He tricked me. Played a few notes, hypnotized me along with the Alps and the distant sea and fled. He is squinting with his pupil-less eyes and mocking me to my face.

But the Sufi master was silent.

– You said you would help me. Why do you keep silent?

The Sufi got up, somewhat less see-through, and said pensively:

– I am not that sure that you’re a Turk.

– I am, I am! Me being in Italy is pure coincidence! My great-great-seven greats grandmother was Yemina, for the time a very forward-thinking, very close cousin of the beautiful Jemila who was a grandmother on the father’s side of Saint Roxelana!

– But she had removed our Grand vizier! – the spirit added angrily.

– My grandmothers Yemina and Jemila have nothing to do with that bloody murder! I am a Turk and I can prove it. Here! – he turned towards the rectangular mirror with a textured gold-colored frame, lifted his hands up to his ears and after saying “tea, tea, tea!” the Sufi embraced him.

– Repetition is the mother of wisdom. Now I know you’re a Turk.

– I know I’m a Turk, but who is he? – Gennardo said excitedly and after an added repetition of “teateatea,” he continued. – Whoever it is, an Egyptian, a Sufi or Rumi’s illegitimate son, I must finish what he had started. But how? This piece, or rather it’s beginning… Oh, Salieri, Salieri! Why did you not sing all of this on paper like in the film and then die…?

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He looked at his notes which he managed to clean out of his ears for a moment, after the Dervish had left him.

– Oh Cavallasca… Oh cosmic dignity! Yes…I could put in something of a back-up, on lute, perhaps. Btu what what? Go on, tell me, Mozart of Khorasan!  – his finger pointed to the smiling Sufi.

– Be guided by your sense of orientalism, Gennardo…

– A Phrygian scale then. Therein lies the key! All oriental scales come from the pentatonic one – he was thinking rapidly. – But how can I turn this Dervish’s composition performed from a rotating dance sensation, more repetitive than my nagging wife which fortunately stayed back in Venice…how can I turn it into a symphony? Or at least a sonata form? “Gennardo’s sonata” – he was daydreaming, when suddenly Sufi’s voice exploded anew.

– I am back to help you in the name of the once widespread honorable Ottoman empire. Allah Allah, have you no trust?

– Well alright, who…hmm…were you?

– Rumi. But not the self-taught philosopher. He had been a very distant cousin. I, too, am dead, hope you don’t mind? This tiny composition that bothers you so is but a mere trifle when compared to “Sufi’s War Games” which I composed in the thirteenth century.

– And why did your colleague flee?

– That was Apollo. He did not want to mess with Turks since they vetoed Greek credit debt…

The spirit got up and walked about the room, deep in his thoughts. His gaze paused on the rectangle mirror, danced a few Dervish circles around him and stopped before the glassy surface. – I am glad I’m still both smart, and spiritual, and reflectible! –he caressed his Sufi beard while listening to this.
True, the old ghost does have an expression. Though, nothing strange about that. The aging Sufi spirit is nothing similar to the imaginary count of Bram Stocker.

– The truth is you need the pentatonic scale. But, we want an authentic melody, like what Wagner would compose. For this to happen, the job must be done differently. – attracted by Gennardo’s squeals, astonished he turned around, upon which realizing that the composer went mad with happiness and that he was between two separate cycles, one of which was insanity, the other enthusiasm.

– Tell me, what would you want to do, a sonata, a concerto, a symphony based on Orpheus? Ah, Orpheus, you minx, you’ll get what’s coming to you – there never was an empire bigger than the Ottoman empire… – the ghost went on and on.

– A sonata form… but… but… – Gennardo was concentrating staring at a few notes – I need the bridge, the B theme and the closing section.

Oh enough with the book terms! There were no such words back in my day, and still I was the most famous composer that ever lived in Asia! The only condition I have before helping you is that this sonata be written in honor of the Turks and that its name reflects this, Sonata a la Turca!

– But that’s already been writ–

– Never mind. What did Orpheus give you… – he extended his slender and candle-lit bright hand.

The minute Sufi said this, Gennardo snapped from his dream.

There was nobody in the room.

– O dark chamber of evil, I swear I did not dream this!

True, he was reminded of this by the Dervish’s manuscript which fell from a semi concert grand piano with a deafening bang as if it were slammed down by someone’s invisible, beefy hand.

A deep, ice-cold night was impregnated by eerie goosebumps. Out of reasons unknown, his own reflection made him engrave all of his shapes in the midnight glass. He saw himself, but in a mintan shirt and leather boots. Over the shirt was a carelessly flung short caftan. ‘As if somebody else had flung it there.’ By some unknown miracle a calpac, a conical woolen hat, was on his head.

– So it did happen. – He concluded happily and even though he felt neither hunger nor thirst, despite not eating nor drinking a thing throughout the day, the old spirit selflessly treated him to a sultan’s pilaf and Istanbul’s Risotto, as well as various dishes completely covered by the expensive Il Tavolo Italiano.

The composer carefully set aside two sultan plates from the table and spread out a magical manuscript of the most beautiful opening theme ever uncovered to the human ear, at the same time pouring a bit of raki in his glass in order to devotedly bend over the manuscript.

– Transcendental, indeed. It can be performed with an echo. Oh, how sonorous. This Orpheus, whatever he is, is good… Still, let’s see what I can do with the exposition that this Sufi, Apollo, whatever… gave to me.

He said and flung open the sheet music.

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– The good man wants the sonata and then sleepwalk a bit! I’ll show you, tiny Wop! This is a threepiece song in an A B A pattern, with the first part being changed to the point of being beyond recognition. And I like this, just like the good old chaotic tunes, O the Berberian choruses, fight on fight on against Gennardian lulling of sacred music into mediocrity.

– Few can use this strong tonal ace to win in a cruel and uncompromising game of destruction for the purpose of creation. This brave Aladdin does not hesitate.

The staff lines with their spaces waved in order to enthrone themselves alongside the mute Sufi choruses into an expertly performed final note which Gennardo used to line up the following notes, and those after, and those after.

– By this raki in my hand, I will be disharmonic – bathing in blinding light, while his hand shone at the same time, and the calpac went a bit askew, with glassy Gorgon eyes he wrote savagely akin to the first musical maniac genius on skinned animal hide. He went for some unexpected solutions for melodic degrees, implementing the forbidden sixth degree in the exposition, where the dominant was not to be resolved.

– I bet that that solfeggio composer Gennardo would have resolved in as early as the tonic! – the Sufi said with no bitterness, as he sung, pure-heartedly and with his eyes closed the Mevlevi chorus unifying poetry, music and dance. – Ah, to hell with him, the sixth degree is seeking new resolutions to itself and new salvations from sin which ego te absolvo will provide for it…

But, when he heard Latin, he was taken slightly aback and grabbed his calpac with both hands. – Oh Daemon, daemon, control those who are to follow and in line, if necessary I will light a thousand candles and switch off all artificial lights so that this a la Turca music might drone onward and not stop in time, let alone in etertiny!

To this a giggle followed, and then a bang, and at long last, all went quiet.

This fear, where could it come from? This language I speak I could not utilize to understand it, and why should I fear Latin and then remember it? What hurt can the ego of this language inflict upon me, and surely its ego-lingue is hurt!

At the same time several psychological phenomena intersected within him. And yet another just as creepy as it is unresolved in the pensiveness of his decisions shook his heart down along with the quaking hand. Candles, quiver on this wind of doubt, light bulbs, burst for you are in contact with a musical evolution far bigger than your own!

At that moment all lights went out in the villa, and someone called him by the name. – Qasim, I generously offer you candles so that you do not have to walk all the way to the wardrobe in your living room, fifth drawer from the bottom, on the left.

– Qasim… – he was overcome with joy, but his heart was overtaken by a dark shadow which was completely shooed away by the candles. They appeared, out of nowhere, finding room on the table among all of this rice pudding.

– These candles only reproduce themselves from your memory, Qasim of Khorasan, do not fear. Never fear the deep memory, oh Qasim! – a rotting ghost of sorts walked about the room for a second, making dance circles with its creaking voice, taming them one by one with its arms outspread and eyes closed. – Oh I can do it, with both hands! – Sure you can – the old apparition said. – You always could, Qasim. – At this point the apparition disappeared.

He continued writing the music of the spheres at the same time, filling in the part with both hands.

– Allah is great and He will not return me to the old resolution, but rather make me anew… There it is! There’s the resolution! – He grabbed the notes and with a mild conductor gesture he sang with a crystal clear voice the rest of the exposition admiring the fullness and clarity of sound. Each contact of Gennardo’s senses with a melodic line created fervor in the Being whose substance was limitless sound, and the pulse was the rhythm of the Timeless.

– Any criticisms of this, Jelalhudin? Perhaps Gennardo cannot Sufi-ize like you, but I swear to you that he was here as well, and that we resolved everything together…

Invisible, spectral arms snatched his throat.

– Do not vex me. Being invisible does not make me any less dangerous, quite the contrary! That bastard would not even be able to start this Khorasan pearl which you’re crafting, one of the ancestor of Yemina and Jemila, and Saint Roxelana, let alone finish it. However, you still have work, if you didn’t notice! You damned little sloth, why did I ever bestow upon you the symbol of Logos? Allah curse and punish me! I will tune you in Kairo yet once more, you soulless villain! Ben sonsuza kadar lanetlenmiş olacağım!

And he hit Qasim/Gennardo on the head with a kaval with all his might.

– Forgive me, teacher, woe is me Holy Spirit, I shall finish what must be finished, oh by both of your saintly hands of Khorasan!

A holy silence was sprinkled in the room anew.

– East. West. I will suffer a nervous breakdown from this garish Sufi. Tomorrow I will tell him to leave my house – Gennardo thought as the morning sun bathed his face, yanking him from the eerie nightmare.

– What a dream! What a curse!
persequendum est (this thing must be continued)….. Part Two

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Happy Birthday, Eva Green!

Metaphorical, picturesque written saga about personal demons, through the prism of the monsters of British and Irish fantasy in the dark, dirty, mysterious, dangerous, exciting, poetic and exceptional way, with a phenomenal atmosphere… but, “Penny Dreadful” is much more than that.
Eva Green has completely nailed her role. Transformations through which she has gone through are completely incredible showing her exceptional acting talent.
On several occasions, her performance was completely astonishing and if there was an Oscar for the main female role in the series, she would be without competition.

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Boris K. the Buddhist

A decade of day-to-day agony was behind Boris K. , of traumas, anxiety, grosses of emptied liqueur bottles and millions of diazepam cases downed. Boris K. decided to burn all of his bridges, to retire from the grotto, get a new job, a new vocation, new surroundings, in his quest for a bright sunny day, and not a raise nor severance pay, he followed his heart and made way straight to Tibet. After he had met the Lama on his way to the Multicolor Monkey Temple, he decided to become a Buddhist.

First he started his pilgrimage. He made his way towards the Buddha’s Ropes region, the gate of Himalayas, where, dead center in the rainforest, was the Temple of Positive Serpents. At the top of this magnificent building’s stairs, he spotted a Tibetan monk clad in dead leaves-hued garb reciting the Kama Sutra. It all happened in an instant. He himself didn’t even know how.

Suddenly Boris K.s initiation started, along with rooting, prayers and spiritual music. Boris K. finally thought that he had found his life’s purpose, when Dalai Lama suddenly said:

‘Let’s just carve out the third eye on your forehead, so that you can become psychic.’

Boris K. started sweating profusely. Completely astonished and terrified, he grabbed the first available canoo and went jungleward. Breaking through the thick foliage, he found the sacred monkeys. They saluted him by extending fingers on both hands. As they hung from the trees, chanting sutras, down came Hasan from the tree, a monk initiate and Dalai Lama’s personal bodyguard – he was sent to get Boris K. back to the temple.

‘Fear not ,Boris, they will not prod you with a switchblade’, the monk said, and briefly explained the Buddhist meditative techniques of opening the Third eye.

‘It is, in fact, a seat of universal wisdom.’

‘Alright, if all I have to do is sing,’ Boris valored up.

For a while they travelled across the mountain chains, along what seemed to be endless space. In the distance one could hear Tibetan sutras saluting the newly-born Sun.

As Boris K. went down the cold, marble hallway, so did the monks, with their characteristic muffs on their heads, welcome him.

‘Boris K., you’ve reached the very end.’

Then they chanted. This is where Boris K. felt something cracking on his forehead and opening…

‘Ouch!’ Boris cried, and the world went murky before his eyes… In an instant he viewed the past and the future of all monks. One monk, for instance, he saw, will utilize the money taken as charity for his personal benefit – building a cottage in the Swiss Alps – and that he will, as punishment for this, be reincarnated in his next life as bindweed on the fence of that selfsame cottage. He also saw himself, how he will, should he participate in this fraud, become roof moss. In a different instance he saw how people, seeing him begging for food clad as a monk, gave him meat – which he accepted in accordance to Buddha’s teachings – but also how he will, in the next life, be eaten as a bull because of this. In the third image he saw himself how, while mowing the lawn in the Lumbini garden at the border of India and Nepal, he kills an earthworm – due to which he will himself, in his next life, become an earthworm cut in half. At long last he realized how he didn’t need the all-seeing eye. He decided to put some ointment on it and gave up on the monastic life.

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The Purpose of Living

https://belegbg.wordpress.com/2016/01/09/leila-samarrai-svrha-zivota/

One day, Boris K. came to a conclusion that he did all that he possibly could in this world. He called the stupid stupid, the hypocrites hypocrites, the selfish selfish, the fool a fool. That night, an unusual duck-billed, finned being came to him in a dream and said:

‘You did not do all that you can, Boris… You did not cover yourself with a Bunyip-hide quilt, a mythical being of the old Aboriginal peoples. When you get up, the quilt will be within reach, and after that, you will meet a wise man who will help you fulfil your life’s purpose.’

When he awoke, Boris K. concluded that instead of his blanket he was covered in the Bunyip-hide quilt which he wrapped himself in then and there, trembling…

Looking into the mirror, he concluded that he had acquired a dog’s face, that his teeth fell off, and that tusks grew in their place. Turning around, he noticed a horse’s tail above his buttocks. Having nowhere else to go, Boris K. decided to wait for the Wiseman. Instead, his neighbor Basil came over, who took him out for a barbecue.

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The Balkan Viper Snake, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”

A Nostalgic  Letter of Boris K. to the Citizens of the Republic Written in Diaspora

The Balkan Viper Snake

What am I doing on this most elegant of wastelands?’ This I wondered the very day I found myself in Denmark. ‘Mere hours ago I was sat at an old oaken table, scribing letters to those in power who owe me favors…

I was recently let off from my job. As if this weren’t enough, the landlady started whining about me ‘neglecting my duties, not paying rent, not keeping the fridge full’. As these things usually go, in a moment of despair and utter feeling of confusion, I happened upon a news ad. ‘Looking for experienced whalers to hunt orcas on the Icelandic coasts.’ No hints, no winding mumbling, a short and sweet ‘Looking for…’’

I decided to reply to this ad. The next day, due to, as I had later realized, a misclick of the mouse, I found myself in Denmark, on a mission not assigned to me. However, not only did I not realize this at first, but I could not even remember how I managed to leave the Phenomenonpublic. I dreaded that the phenomenisations did their thing and that their temper would not get me back to the peace I have long desired for. Hence why I found myself in Denmark, the unplowed overseas sward where I knew not what fate awaited me.

That not so distant day, when it was negative seventy degrees in our warm little Phenomenonpublic, the subjects of the Kingdom of Denmark asked me to go to Aarhus where lived a magical serpent which can only be killed by a man that survived the nineties in the Balkans. Him alone, they say, is resistant to her venom for he himself has tasted venom of similar power. As a stranger, I won sympathies of the Danish National Parliament members and met Philodendrona the Third, the great-granddaughter of the ancient queen Margaret the Second, who lived on Faroe islands and wrote passionate love letters to me, encouraging me.

‘I am in love with you, Boris K. They say you speak mellifluously, that you write letters as if you were painting a poem, and that you do not fear bloody conflict. They also say that you bought Playboy off of Hugh Hefner.’

Upon inquiry of the location of the magical serpent, the noblewoman lay it down on me.

‘One tail-end is in Folketing itself, while the other floats in the Baltic sea. They say that it is so silver-tongued that it comes up with the Christian democrats’ parliamentary speeches and announces the Second coming of Hamlet…’

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Philodendrona the noblewoman, who was unusually friendly towards me, placed her servants under my command, in order to make my difficult task somewhat easier to complete. She made the ride to Copenhagen with speedy Danish ferryboats possible.

I lay prostrate on the bed within the luxury cabin, keeping track of the live broadcast of the Parliament meeting via TV, when I heard a knock on the door. IT was the ferry captain who gave me an envelope as soft as black satin with the golden coat of arms of the house of Philodendron. The letter was sealed in red wax where the initials of the infatuated noblewoman lay…

The letter went as follows:

‘‘I’ve used up all of my influence, good Sir, to secure a place for you to live in within the very Tower of Folketing itself and have your peace. Get ready, Boris K. The Snake pays the parliament a visit every night. It crawls up the Royal stairs, at times pausing at the Royal library, studying the terrarium manuals. I’ve instructed the most famous Danish architect to put glass panels on the walls of Your temporary home, for they say that the Snake enjoys looking at its own body on glassy surfaces. Therefore the glass itself will attract her, and You will finally confront her, thus do join me, as a hero crowned by glory, at the Faroe islands, so that we may together live in wealth and happiness.’

Then came the instructions about the movement through the Parliament Palace.

‘At the bottom of the steps are the Reception rooms. They say that the Snake tends to pause there, to gather strength before climbing up the Royal steps.’

‘The post-script stated:

‘’Your mission is of utmost importance for the Danish interests Her Majesty has formal audiences every other Monday. The Snake knows this. Last month she bit her ring finger, and then took over the State Council and issued a few decrees regarding the necessity of undertaking food measures of raising lettuce in Royal Only reception rooms closed off from the public – the amount of light shining through the baroque windows is what the lettuce, in those very rooms mind you, really seems to enjoy.”

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They placed me in a special chamber, the one they called the Glass Home during my stay at the Parliament, they packed it full with glass houses, so that I, eagerly awaiting the upcoming battle, could devote myself fully to my hobby.

Once I had settled, the Folketing was emptied out in a matter of hours.

’Beware the snake at midnight, Boris K.’ the Prime Minister said and slammed the massive oak door shut, leaving me all by myself.

The clock struck midnight when I felt the ruffling around the table in the center of the room. It was the snake which was studying parliamentary deals. Its back shone bright in the moonlight. I approached it all but soundlessly, but it spotted my shadow on the wall, spooked itself, turning its heart-like, flat head with her eyes  erect. It was adorned by intense black patterns along its thick, pale grey body. The snake curled up, bent its neck and tried to bite me.

I was ready. I let out the battery powered rat from the metal box, which I controlled remotely. Spotting it, the snake snatched the rat, attracted to the lights and sound effects the plush toy was emitting, and it spat out the batteries. Spotting this, I remembered to tie the light cable, hued female python yellow, to the electrical outlet. The sweethissing snake male was tricked and hopped onto the cable. Power surged dance-like throughout its body, but the snake, aside from a few burns, survived the high-frequency shock.

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I was crushed by despair when I spotted the freezer in the corner of the Glass Home. I threw it open. Before the he-snake a tempting sight of frozen food spontaneously came to be. For the reptile was it to be or not to be, that was the question?!

‘Go for it, snake! The Århus frozen rat. Ice worm a la carte!’ I proclaimed. The snake refused such a meal, claiming that it would rather have lettuce. Then it spotted a large covered bowl from which, akin to a snake’s tongue, stuck out a tiny green leaf. It darted towards the fridge, and I closed the door behind it.

When it noticed, the Snake wept. This touched me a tad, hence I asked:

‘Why do you cry, snake?’

‘I will tell you, if you let me go’

I decided to let the poor reptile loose, and the reptile, happy that someone wants to listen to it, stopped crying snake tears and started its tale after a deep sigh.

‘I wasn’t always like this. I spent my life in the body of a well renowned Balkan politician who, upon phemonenizing, was forced to flee. Fearing recognition, I thought of disguising myself as a snake. Ever since then I’ve been living in foreign lands as the Balkan Viper snake, where I felt somewhat protected, but still living in fear of the citizens of Århus, who have a bone to pick with me.

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‘Every year around this time they get Balkan-based hunters, all in order to destroy me. Scared and alone, I spend my time with octopi, fellow sufferers from the deepest of oceans, where we nostalgically recall intriguing lettuce and gorgonzola recipes which I’ve tasted in my fatherland.’

Shaken by this story, I hugged the snake which wept on my shoulder. Instinctively I felt that the snake is in essence a misunderstood, kind being, and the snake said to me:

‘I recognized your noble and pitying character, therefore I will help you.’

The snake offered to take me on its back over the Norwegian sea, to Narvik, where I will be taken back to Phenomenonpublic by the North Atlantic current.

‘That road is the safest and the fastest.’

And to this the snake added:

‘Beware the people of Århus.’

As a token of gratitude, I gave it an enormous bowl filled with lettuce leaves, seasoned with hot, Århus spread, one which I located in the fridge. But the Danish spread, due to phenomenizing, was full of intestinal parasites, which made the snake lose weight drastically, twist its tongue and drop dead.

I buried the critter with the highest of honors, covering with gestures of formality its slender body with juicy lettuce leaves.

I sat at the table. It was packed with political scribbles, pamphlets, contracts, edicts, directives and decrees, secret letters of the highest parliamentary officials and the European commission. None of this mattered. At long last I had found what I had been looking for: an envelope, paper, ink and pen.

I started the letter addressing in an exalted manner Her grace of Philodendron.

‘I came to Folketing as per Your council, and I saw one end of the snake tail. Amid the fiercest of battles, I cast myself upon its tail, but it wiggled out and escaped into the Baltic sea. I grabbed the tongs from Folketing’s terrarium made of stainless steel, boarded a ferry and started snake-hunting.’

My hand was tired, but my Graph von Faber Castel pen made of twenty-four karat gold slid effortlessly down the surface of the paper. I decided to adorn the tale with as many Munchausenian descriptions as possible, hoping for, if not the title of a baron or a spokesman in the parliament, at least a solution to my housing problem, a modest stone house, somewhere in Eastern Greenland.

‘My dearest Philodendrona.

The quest for the snake was almost as long and arduous as its killing.’

Not wanting to keep the noblewoman in suspense, wait and worry, I mentioned that the ferry fell to pieces under the rush of the undercurrents.

‘I floated like a shipwrecked sailor on a piece of wood, dry-mouthed, when a supernatural strength penetrated my body. I was overjoyed when a few weeks later, having swum breaststroke over the salty Baltic sea, I located the mealymouthed snake which, upon spotting me, fled across the three seas and two oceans, leaving enormous cuts on the sea’s surface.’

‘Halt, do not fear!’ I shouted to the snake which kept fleeing maniacally, fearing the venom I had inside me. I had long been trying to think of a way to outsmart it. I feared the venom in me going evaporating under all the phenomenizing. As thoughts were rolling onward, I quickly came to a conclusion: the mealymouthed snake can be beaten by – a coalition.’

When I wrote this, I looked at the Contract lying on the table specked in the blue stamps of Folketing. This gave me strength to push onward.

‘I offered the North sea snake a Coalition Contract with the magical seal of the Pacific and a while whale, a great-great-grandson of Moby Dick.’

‘Only when part of the coalition with the sea hound which felt like a land-based housecat did Moby manage to swim to Madagascar. Only in such coalition, oh snake, would you be part of a team capable of relativizing the Loch Ness Monster’s popularity to whom I’ve already been a PR manager.’ I told the snake conspiratorially and handed it the pen to sign the Contract.

The snake, as is true of any other individual political entity, was drunk on the thought of impending glory. It accepted me as its manager.’

Enchanted by my own flights of fancy, for a moment I stopped, gazing at a distance. I shook myself back into reality, pleased. I clenched the pen harder, dipped the tip in ink and continued.

‘I gave the snake the pen – it wanted to grab it with its mouth, but the minute it tried biting into it, the phenomenizations rejected it. The snake bent and twisted its tail around its head, for it spotted the pen below the tail. It tried reaching for it with the fangs, when the pen flew away again. The snake wrapped itself in an untangling hank and suffocated. I saw its winding body away, which, motioning on the surface, slowly sunk until it was completely out of my sight.

I killed the snake after a long and hard-fought battle.’ I ended the letter to the noblewoman Philodendrona.

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I folded the letter, took the envelope closer to my lips, sealed it and beaten by all the events and assailed by immense scenes of which some I made up, and some lived through in the Parliament of Denmark itself, I fell asleep.

The royal subjects were enthusiastically congratulating me and organized a reception in my honor which was attended by Her Royal Majesty herself. I’d been decorated with the Medallion of the Snake with golden and silver rays. I became an Honorary member of the Royal library of Denmark and had lunch in a prestigious restaurant Norma.

I was manufacturing various Balkan venoms per order, as well as antidotes for the Liberals who in particular feared snakes. On the streets of Århus by daylight, and on Faroe Islands by night, I paraded around, crowned in glory, my head held up high, decorated by various medals. I was headline news in the press. I was looking forward to returning to Phenomenonpublic and had declared this during a press conference – when I was met by the silence of the citizens of Århus. They all hung their heads, for their consciences were unclean. In what way could they even tell me, they were whispering among themselves, until one of them proclaim:

‘Now that you’ve killed the snake and freed us from this misery, you deserve the truth.’

Then, not lacking the fear of my venomous might, they explained to me that he who kills the snake can return home only under the condition that, should he abandon this accursed place, he crawled back to his fatherland, where they will sue him for grand treason the minute he finally crawls into it.

 

Standard
poetry

The Birth Of Narcissus

when I submitted this poem to the magazine, I received the following reply:

Dear Leila,

Unfortunately we are going to pass on your work. We don’t feel that it is quite the right fit for our A Portrait in Blues anthology. Good luck placing it elsewhere.

Kind regards,

Platypus Press Editors


Rather, this poem contains all the blues’
features, only the message is not served on a plate. Pay attention to key words. It’s a poem about the separation of a (wo)man from the toxic environment and finding strength and meaning in their own being.

authors’ note: Rest assured my remark does not contain any hint of the petty conceit. Enjoy my poem.

Or not.

 

***

I  have found my face

It is beautiful…
to smile by the lake, to kneel before my image
I, Creator,
Beside my one true lover
Who gazes upon my improved facial features
I, Creator,
I touch them with my newborn newly lengthened arms
Recreating myself , but in my own image

Graceful mirror,
what a magnificent creature I am
the pure form, offended by piss-poor perfection
I have no need for this damned society
Of humanity’s cretinous castaways,
now that I have found
my mad reflection

One vanity
one nature
one jealousy
that gazes at what she cannot touch!
no more!
and one love
always reciprocated.

With this new love brought from Heaven to Earth
with this beautiful creation emerged from the freezing water
there will be no more Petrarchan Platonic patheticalness
no more dark clouds above my shoulders with the strong pungent smell of storm
there will be.. No!
no more waking life, no!
No more wounds in my back, no crying at night
no more…

Eventually
I understand that love is essential
I am taking the silvered mirror
I am kissing the lips of God
I am having my first date.
with Myself.

Standard
prose, satire

‘HEREIN LIVES THE MAJORITY’S MINORITY’

‘HEREIN LIVES THE MAJORITY’S MINORITY’
Boris K. was mildly astonished and asked of the meaning behind the street art, when he suddenly spotted another oddity. People were so short that their garb was dragging along the moldy tiles.
‘Oh, why you are… Downthesewerians!’ Boris concluded.

an excerpt from a story “Boris K and the Majority’s Minority”

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Standard
samarrai

Closure

Note: How many times do you wonder why someone is avoiding you and not getting any closure, judicially speaking. Kafka’s stories have no closure. Real life stories don’t either. Let me tell you mine.
Back in the bygone Nineties, I had a friend whom, without delving too deep into her private life’s choices, I had been very close with. We hung out in high school only for her to, all of a sudden, upon graduation, start ignoring all of my calls, moving the other way when she would meet me in Kragujevac (along one street, at the time well specked with hot spots for hanging out – therefore it was easy to run into her and vice versa). I asked her, whenever I managed to get to her, having passed her protective mother, her sister (whom I also used to spend schooldays with) why she was behaving like that. The moment she heard my voice she would have a panic attack, screaming. Later on I would receive strange phone calls at midnight, odd sentence structures uttered by her and I’ll stop there before it drags on longer than the royal bloodline…
It was odd to me what was happening to her and rumors reached me that she had had some “problems”. I connect the dots, some semblance of an explanation was there, but not enough of one. Why is she screaming only when running into me? I felt like Ed Gein, the serial killer.
I found out who her psychologist was (in Kragujevac this was doable) and decided to book a session with him as well in order to learn why a dear friend considers me a Michael Meyers mere hours after a field trip to Greece, and fast forward a few years, screams when seeing me, why she only invites me over on her birthday surrounded by a multitude of people and receives flowers as a gift from me. Psychologists had even then been playing professional ethics and, between two insulin shots, the weary-eyed diabetic psychologist told me all of her secrets, both known to me and unknown, adding ‘The very second you came into my office, by your friend’s description, I knew right away that you’re Leila.’
I mention this because I had openly stated my name and surname as well as my intentions, I added that I had no intentions of delving into the intimate details of my friend’s life, merely to provide additional info to the psychologist so that she might help her… and maybe even begin to realize why the sudden shift of behavior towards me. Were these some midnight cries for help? Still, she had been a remarkable friend to me. She was there for me when no one ever was! I had to find out what was it about me that disturbed her so much. Did I do something wrong? Something I was unaware of? Was I at fault for something?
And I added, maybe I too could get a piece of advice from an expert such as her, and then the psychologist suddenly burst out at me saying ‘She wants you to stop calling her! You’re harassing her! She’s sick! She has–’ and this is where she told me what my friend was diagnosed with.
I repeat, the psychologist growled at me and said ‘Ah! Look at you, as fit as a fiddle, and she’s so frail, and yet you’re the one disturbing her!’
‘But all I want to do is talk to her… Let her know this, and I will stop trying.’
And I really did. But her calls did not cease.
But that is a long story, my vain attempts at trying to reach the person I had spent schooldays with and shared a room with in Greece for five days were just that – attempts in vain.
But you know how it is – when in Serbia, even as an LAPD employee when you go to a psychological consultation, that is where you are – a psychological consultation. Period.
I come to Belgrade and lo and behold, I immediately meet a different, new friend who was there for me in the same manner the last one was – she was there for me when no one ever was! But she had also started avoiding me and in an attempt to prevent this, learned in the antique mysteries, I kept pushing and pushing for her to divulge the secret to her shift, to which she had suddenly said ‘Leila, I have a stomach cramp and I see a psychiatrist every day. You should go to, because I really have no strength to keep on giving advice to you! I really don’t!’
To this I sighed and said ‘Well, I did go.’
Suddenly the friend was flabbergasted and much like my at the moment next-door neighbor upon seeing the Halley’s comet, the second sun of Nostradamus and the follow-up moment of making the sign of the cross, she said in an accusatory, almost Kafkian way ‘Oh, oh so you DID go!’
I stopped trying to talk to her or get any closure, I think about a year or so now…
Did I do something to her? Something I am unaware of? Was I at fault?
giffi
Standard
boris k, prose, samarrai, satire, short story

I will no longer be posting Boris K. stories until…

I will no longer be posting Boris K. related full stories until the book is published. After this gem that I am right now sharing with you, I’m taking a break.

A Short, Though Not as Concise History of the Downthesewerese People

Boris K. was well acquainted with the history of the Downthesewerese people as written in the holy book of Cunnilinqus. The original manuscript was in the Linz city library:

And thus the goddess Sewera did cast a grim curse upon the city encasing in in eternal ice. As if this weren’t enough, she also created the Seweronimbus, the ice cloud ‘pregnant with semiprecious jewels of manholeatta and sewerrathata.’

And the young goddess had lost her knitting needles that afternoon, without which she could not have even imagined a more creative way to pass the eternity.

And then, upon taking a stroll among the walls of the unfurled Empire, she observed a nubile young Downthesewerese lass which she had created from the Egyptian Nile river residue.

And upon that most unfortunate day it was when the goddess felt a tinge of anxiety and disturbance. Thus she decided to seek pleasure in the palace. A feast was arranged then in her honor which, much to her dismay, the young blind Downthesewerese lass attended.

And the goddess did plant her in marble, fed her well, then talked her into giving ice skates a try. And the blind Downthesewerese lass carelessly rushed all over the icy surfaces.

And seeing as the lass had been clumsy and seeing as she rose back on her feet with more difficulty with each subsequent fall on the iced surface, the goddess did then offer her to try her hand at softball. The lass managed to injure herself in this sport as well.

And the goddess said, Wee Downthesewerese wench, you play defense. You’re in the foul zone now, get back to base!

And the lass did respond, But, goddess I cannot see! Where are the balls?

And the goddess did say, You are the ball! The goddess did reply wickedly, swung her hand and catapulted the Downthesewerese lass back to base and charged up the running bath in order to catch her mid-air.

And yet after playing her own particular form of a softball game, with the Downthesewerese lass’ help who was now stumbling blindly all over the palace and screaming, the goddess was still far from amused.

And thus she decided to enter the Glasssnake whose snow-white scales shined on the sunlight like a milky-white glass and with this action placed the Downthesewerese lass under temptation. She gave her a magic Linz banana and she did hiss, Should you eat this, four eyes will open up and you will become the best softball player in the known world. You will also have your own softball bat, and it will take the form of a magical banana from Linz.

And the Downthesewerese lass did realize that the banana was a fair meal, felt it up and established that its form was desirable and tempting. And she did take one of the fruits from the snake’s hands and ate it. Four eyes opened the very next moment and the lass came to realize that she had been naked. Upon this realization, the Earth tore asunder and the Downthesewerese lass fell through a horrifically deep pit.

Thus did, according to the holy book of Cunnilinqus, the first manhole come to pass and thus did the Downthesewerese woman get her name. Boris K. loved that part the most.

And amid the darkness of the first manhole the Downthesewerese lass did hear the beating of footsteps. A well-groomed Downthesewerese lad had carelessly been strolling down the goddess’ gardens when he tripped on the Linz magic banana peel and fell into the manhole.

And the goddess Sewera did take but one look at the manhole and saw that he was fine. Thus she created the Union made up of 28 Manhole countries.

And the goddess said, As long as I live you will dwell In the Lands of the Manholes and be the lowest of all men! And she did growl and reduce them all to the size of a human thumb. And the cruel goddess took all the precautions and forever separated Linz from the Downthesewerese folk surrounding them with seventy-seven seas and four hundred and thirty three winds.

And even with that having transpired, the Downthesewerese did not lose hope, believing that a day will come when they will, wandering the manholes in search of ideal sewer life conditions, manage to overcome the set obstacles, return to their place of birth Linz and entreat the merciless Sewera.

Standard
prose, short story

Let the Sleeping Dog Lie

A year after his monitor went kaput, Boris K. banged his hand on the table. He had had it! He took a piece of paper and started writing.

Boris K. was no essayist, let alone a scientist or a sociologist. He observed the useless keyboard with longing eyes. He stared at the paper, when suddenly a wave of inspiration struck him along with an army of ideas which clouded his mind. For a moment he thought he had been spoken to by a higher power. He wrote fast enough that a she-stenographer 250 clicks a minute strong would envy him, and the moment he finished, he sealed the letter and concluded aloud to himself:

‘My monitor is broken. This should never have happened.’

He put on his tux, took the earnings from his last film review and with a defiant air about him ventured outside. At precisely midnight, from the 123rd floor of the Secret service’s headquarters, via the magic of megaphone, the deep bass of Boris K.’s voice soared the Republic.

‘Citizens of the Republic, you all well know that machines do everything nowadays. Who even needs you right now? When you get cancelled and my patented machine gets the job not only will neither you nor I exist, but…well, neither money nor economics will exist either, nor politics!’

The President sat upright in his bedding in the building next door.

‘An urgent phone call from the church, mister president!’, he was told this before the phone even rang. There was many a consequence on a multitude of souls following Boris K.’s voice. A retired bank clerk lady still about her wits had, upon the mere mention of the words ‘revolution in human manufacturing’, screamed and escaped the building where she had been living secluded all this time. Mute witnesses will for generations tell tales of seeing a woman running through the streets, disrobing one piece at the time, screaming how she was renouncing everything. Everything!

The Secret service headquarters was surrounded by both the armed forces and the police. Boris K. held the megaphone with his one hand, and the other, the jacked up one, he used to grab two prostitutes at the same time and place them in front of his body as hostages.

‘Hold your fire!’, the masseuse guild of the Republic shouted. The voice of Boris K. had reached young ears and old alike. The awakened Winners sat at their computers afraid and desperate and with an incessant click click click of their mice for a moment they were displaying a dreadful sound. Panic spread across the city while Boris K. spoke over the megaphone:

‘The constitutional rights will still stand! Criminals shall be punished!’

Two old ladies with nightcaps forced out into the street from the sweetest of dreams embraced on a bench and wept. An old man had dropped the chess board which he had taken with him to kill time while the state of emergency was in full force. He smiled an uncloaked a golden tooth.

‘For all of the citizens of our Republic I have crafted a container and programmed it so that all of the molecules can merge, extracted from the liquids of materials thrown away in them and useless, which can last up to a millennium. To you, they last no longer than five years. Five!’ His voice broke off for a second.

A neon sign popped up on the billboard revealing the password:

„TOO MANY CLONES!“

The Republic’s gate opened. Another state of emergency was put in power, for one was not nearly enough.

‘There is no money. Capitalism is dead. Its time is up, your time is now. Type in the password TOO MANY CLONES, no spaces. It will fling open magic gates as well as my patented container. A quantum leap of intelligence will follow!’

From open manholes Losers popped out, filled with hope, their eyes looking at the distant lighthouses.

‘Artists!’ The voice behind the megaphone roared.

The counter-terrorist units carefully snuck into the building and surrounded the bathroom. The hostages were doing their nails. A senior gentleman was downing the newest brand of ‘Vlast’ tequila, a Russian brew. He was thirsty and rather apathetic. The Peacekeeping Forces grabbed Boris K., disarmed him of his megaphone and tossed him from the 123rd floor. Boris was fortunate enough to drop into an open container, the only one in that part of the city, and thus break his fall.

‘We punished this man here, this saboteur and anarchist, for he has broken the main postulate of the Republic: Never wake the citizens at precisely midnight!’

At that moment Boris K. stood up from his bed, covered in sweat.

‘The keyboard is working, article done,’ he mumbled and tripped on the beveled edge that Frau Suzie had measured together with the flooring installer and fell right into the toilet bowl. He managed to get his whole self stuck in there, escaping the eerie nightmare which hadn’t been stalking him since his experience with tar, feathers and a dog in the friendly Uganda. Hidden among the feces, sprinkled with moldy entrails and Waffen SS grub made of a brown substance, he yelled:

‘It was all just a dream!’ Comforted as such he spent a few moments in the toilet shell until he remembered to flush.

a_revolt__digital_anarchism_by_braboanarcho-d606q1m (2)

Standard
prose, Uncategorized

Boris K, the cosmopolitan protagonist

‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ was already published in Serbia, but I’ve decided upon the expanded Kindle edition to have the cosmopolitan protagonist live through cosmopolitan fate, to have him read and loved not only in the isolated space of the Balkans, but also among the aboriginal tribes whom he, often, breaks bread with on his travels.

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Standard
prose, satire, short story

Boris K. and the Shaving Kit

Upon his stint as a taxi driver, where he was accused of taking the customer to the wrong destination, Boris K. decided to seize different business ventures. He turned bitter and frustrated. Surely he was a remarkable driver, but the phenomenonizations did their trick.

He had heard through the grape wine that some busses of the city transportation, especially along certain specific routes, defied the laws of phenomenonization. He picked up the wanted ad for the bus driver position on line 42. This was unbeknownst to the she-passenger entering the bus at the front, in obvious high spirits, spreading the sour scent of Black Kashmir all around. Others looked at her abhorrently.

Boris K. tightened his grip on the steering wheel, stepped on it and the bus came to life. Parallel to this a panicky tenor of a frightened man soared within the vehicle. What happened was that a shaving kit went missing from an old man’s bag. Panic ensued. Droplets of sweat sliding down Boris’ temples. A saintly smile adorned his face, which horribly mismatched that hellish eyestare of his. Someone sang mid-dream, and the old man/mugging victim threatened to have them inspected and vacated the vehicle cussing and swearing. All of this, an endeavor too much for Boris K. to handle.

He turned towards the most gracious she-traveler and, the moment the well-off lady was powdering her nose a la France and Chanelled eyebrows above her eyes, he spoke to her courteously:

“Were you, perchance, in a dire need of a shaving kit?” The sensitive she-traveler teared up in an instant hearing these words, noting that she had just finished performing her bathing ritual in a sweet-scented bathroom.

“By the Majestic Mach-3, beyond a shade of a doubt, not a single hair ever grew on my body!”

Looking at her, Boris K. was imagining that Chanel the she-traveler was in a glass jar rounded up top. Noting Boris K. staring at her with suspicion, she said:

“I was born in an airplane, the moment the Chernobyl nuclear catastrophe took place.” Having said this, she took of her wig and the baldness popped out in full display.

Face Mask

Boris K. pupils contracted. He was at one moment observing her bald head, at another her white, smooth hands in velvet gloves. The passengers leapt from their seats. They were pointing at the top of her head, accusing her of stealing the distinguished senior gentleman’s shaving kit.

“We all saw her!” The loudest of the voices accused, belonging to an older woman with a hat.

“She is the perpetrator! She lies!”

Boris K. asked to see the contents of her bag, which the lady opened. Ampules of ketamine powder emerged. A drug evaporated which put a spell on the passengers and blurred all of the windows on the bus. They all jumped off their seats and started banging on the four sets of double doors, begging Boris to release them.

The she-traveler exclaimed, disappointed:

“I should’ve taken a cab.”

With his last ounce of strength Boris K. used his walkie-talkie to report a diversionary Mujahideen attack and fainted. When the fog dispersed, the bald woman was no more, and the granny wearing the fedora, the loudest accuser, pullet the shaving kit which she needed out of her brassiere, not to remove armpit hair, but for magic – to harm the neighbors stealing her exotic flowers.

 

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prose, short story

THE CURSED INK OF BARBADOS

 

Dorian D., the tenants’ association vice-chairman of a decrepit Balkan-based building, followed the societal standards blindly, believed in them and fought for them tirelessly. He was an example of a warrior against evil, having no other thoughts other than those of holy duties to God and the IRS.

When a shop of exotic foods opened up in the building across the street Dorian D. decided to look into it in the name of the municipality. The moment he ordered the necessary ingredients for a lamb chop a la the Kosovo Maiden*, the checkout counter lady said:

‘We sell exclusively the specialties of Barbados!’

‘@#$% Barbados!’ D. mumbled this.

The patriotic lady cussed in Barbadian and said:

‘You owe me money for the virgin oil you dunked down your bag!’

Dorian D. shivered and nearly wept. He turned around and ran off, blushing like a newlywed bride.

The same day he visited daddy repairman. He sunk into the chair and with zero fear of the unknown he told him of the unpleasant encounter.

‘I want a symbol tattooed on my forehead which will rid me of this bad reputation of mine!’

A few hours later je went out into the street with three zeros tattooed on his forehead, flaunting like a peacock. For Dorian D. had NEVER been in debt to anyone!

He entered his apartment, turned off the lights and went to bed. The ink, which just so happened to be of exotic origin, moved from his lower to his upper forehead, closer to the moor, decorating it with grotesque patterns.

The next morning, Dorian D. made his way to the mirror to admire his ink. Instead of the beloved zeros, three sixes appeared in his reflection, a deed of the hellish ink game of Barbados.

666_Tattoo_Designs_by_liquid_venom

*the Kosovo Maiden— a Serbian national symbol, is the central figure in a Serbian epic poem by the same name, symbol of Serbian womanhood—wanders the battlefield “amongst bleeding heroes,” seeking her bethrothed, who had been killed.  She is the legendary “first nurse of Serbia”.

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Uncategorized

Injury – Justice

“If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”- Niccolo Machiavelli
Vengeful fate, weave a new web
For the one you hunt them with now is much too small
THEN Chase them onto the Dreadful coasts
The Deal is signed
And the Mission given
Into the hands of the Jib!
Go hard on the Hunchback until the Heat and the Thirst
Of the Villains
Drink my vendetta up.
(The Mind is entranced by fire
(Burning, burning in the wild flames of ruthless might!)
May even the Terror of the heavens itself with its cruel hand not make
The mortals quiver, disgustingly silent in this race
Blood-hued
Just like my hand drenched in anger will harrow these throats
Of theirs
Until they whine a hopeless whine:
„Mercy!“
Hear ye:
A Wound of anguish lies
A foot drenched in blood
And a Heart on fire.
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prose

Flash Fiction + Biography Of a Misfit

2011

Won three awards on the story competition “3-5-7” as a part of the “Helly Cherry” competition

 

  1. (…) 
One day he merely ended it, period. Underlined it, too.

2. Departing the star from the Magellanic Clouds. 
And there was supernova.
***
Leila Samarrai, a misfit among authors, managed to host her misfitting poetic nature in genres spanning 5 to 100.000 words. A poet of Himalayan seclusion, she was born in Belgrade in 1976
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prose, review

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘Artists’

“ARTISTS”

What I truly love about Samarrai’s writing is the brilliant dislodging of epochs and people, eruditional toying with the documented and the fictitious, the unpredictability, the lavish fancy and terrific dialogues. One should not be Tagore to enter the Garden of her worlds and labyrinths, where Mozart and Trier meet, Wagner and Bach, or rather Bachs. With Samarrai time and space are toys, an occasional means but never an end, rather a limbo where they, in fact, do not exist. In her necropolis living people dwell, , while the dead or undead roam the city streets, and those dislodgings seem quite convincing, realistic, even logical. This writing and Samarrai as the author both deserve a far bigger readership, for the fate of the poem-the verse-the tale is not to be silent nor is it the fate of great authors to be unmentioned.

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

LJUBODRAG STOJANOVIC WAS BORN IN GNJILANE ON APRIL 22ND, 1972, WHERE HE HAD LIVED UNTIL JUNE 1999. HE WRITES APHORISMS, POEMS, ROCK LYRICS, PLAYS, SHORT STORIES, AND NOVELS.
HE IS CURRENTLY LIVING IN NIS.
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY: ‘THE SERBIAN STORY’ (2002), COLLECTION OF APHORISTIC PROSE ‘BOTH INSANE AND CONFUSED’ (2009).

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prose, review

LJUBODRAG STOJANOVIĆ, AUTHOR, A REVIEW OF THE POEM ‘A Poem of a Crocodile’

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/04/13/a-poem-about-a-crocodile/

“A Poem of a Crocodile” 

Satire is a defense of the intelligent from the primitivism of the dumb. “Crodocile” is a poem which could be part of elementary school textbooks. It has a merry Ionian scale rhythm, I kept hearing the piano while reading it, occasionally trying to imagine it accompanied by sounds of acoustic guitars and, as a throwback to my childhood, the voice of Branko Kockica. Also, the poem, especially in its final verses, can of course be – though this is optional, of course – a reference to, as it is now popular and not all too politically correct to say, the influx of refugees, or rather migrants, into Europe. But this is not the end of it: “Crocodile” is also a poem of protest, engaged literature, a reflection of the author’s social consciousness and her view of society and the system, both here and in other parts of the globe. Still, she has a specific deal with the Crocodile, and she herself, as the verse puts it, is a Crocophile, meaning she knows all about the Crocodiles and other newcomers to Belgrade and Serbia, perhaps more than she is willing to share. Whether the Nile delta, Guatemala or tiny Serbia will be the house of crocodiles, whales and other magnificent creatures who truly sleep with their eyes beyond all evil, we might learn in the continuation of the poem or in the poetic cycle with this central topic, for the author, despite her minimal experience with rhyme [Paryse, Londyne…] feels at home with this style and with her lucidness and verse-laden engagement, the recommendation presents itself, meaning that, speaking in sports’ terms, the A-team stays the same.

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

Ljubodrag Stojanovic was born in Gnjilane on April 22nd, 1972, where he had lived until June 1999. He writes aphorisms, poems, rock lyrics, plays, short stories, and novels.

He is currently living in Nis.

Selected bibliography: ‘The Serbian Story’ (2002), collection of aphoristic prose ‘Both Insane and Confused’ (2009).

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prose

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’

Ljubodrag Stojanović, author, http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

A review of the short story ‘The Bitch’
THE POETRY Leila Samarrai is an exceptional poetess. Hence why the lyricism is so excellent in her works. Consciously or not, whatever the case might be, ultimately it is irrelevant, the verses flow from her sleeves, fingertips, quill, making up a powerful waterfall of verses which floods us readers, therefore we, occasionally, while disappearing into the colors and verses of Samarrai, get the impression that we are reading a poem, a poem that akin to sound (of whistling) gets stuck in one’s throat.
THE PLAYS I have had the honor of reading Samarrai’s plays. Perhaps some would call me subjective on this, but her plays are equally as good as her poetry. What’s more, Samarrai’s poetry and plays often are intertwined, making up an antique literary fatherland. Samarrai’s erudition mixed with imagination creates and destroys worlds and universes, leading us through epochs and vast spaces as if in a dream, or rather, in a moment. Is ‘The Bitch’ a type of play? Very much so. This story yearns for an adaptation, and it might happen if an open and ingenious enough person reads it and feels its bark or voice as an invitation for casting of a role of roles.
THE FARCE Speaking of playwrights, farce is the one thing that must not be avoided in Samarrai’s works. However you identify with her protagonists of either sex, with their realistic – and in a way our own, too – basic and easily recognizable problems, we are left with the other side of Janus’ face, partly smiling, partly grim. It is enjoyable to wander around the light and darkness of Leila Samarrai. Her humor can also be quite vocal, with many a hahaha within, and it can also, in the blink of an eye, turn itself into a very sharp and even shredding satire of human and less-so characters. Samarrai is what Branislav Nušić could have been had he ever wanted to dabble in horror.
THE ABSURDITY Mentioning Samarrai’s works, and glossing over the absurdist tinge of it, would religiously speaking be blasphemous. Even though it seems easy to write of absurdist literature or to write absurdist literature itself, I would disagree that everyone can do it with a little bit of imagination packed into the zeitgeist. Samarrai’s absurdist tendencies are not there for absurdity’s sake, nor does it adorn itself with it, spraying it all over the letters, nor amateurishly summon it like the Dodolas summon the rain. The absurdity is there, it materializes on its own, popping out of the situation, has a face and form of engaged literature, it is strong and loud, it chides and accuses, it awakens and sobers…
COURAGE Leila Samarrai is without a doubt a courageous person. I will not go into the minutiae nor explain why I think so. It will be enough for you to take one of her works, read it from start to finish, and it will all be clear. Without literary courage, there is no literary quality, or rather, it remains unfinished and silent, which in literature is a death worse than death.
METEMPSYCHOSES AND METAMORPHOSES IN ‘THE BITCH’ All of these characters might in a Borgesian, Alephian way, all be one. Peter is Ana and is Pipi and Fifi, and…The whole work itself. And not just him, but each of them separately. Dismantling, rearranging and transforming of characters is in particular a great treat of this all-encompassing work. For instance, Pipi is 2×3.14! An amazing solution out of which Pipi becomes Lazarus who is raised back from the dead. Also, the amazing ‘woof woof’ ending, with its greeting or saying goodbye, stultifies any character division to humans and animals, men and women, protagonists and antagonists. A top notch work of fiction alongside which you grow and learn.
https://www.limundo.com/…/I-lud-i-zbunjen-aforizmi…/54762727

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

LJUBODRAG STOJANOVIC WAS BORN IN GNJILANE ON APRIL 22ND, 1972, WHERE HE HAD LIVED UNTIL JUNE 1999. HE WRITES APHORISMS, POEMS, ROCK LYRICS, PLAYS, SHORT STORIES, AND NOVELS.

HE IS CURRENTLY LIVING IN NIS.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY: ‘THE SERBIAN STORY’ (2002), COLLECTION OF APHORISTIC PROSE ‘BOTH INSANE AND CONFUSED’ (2009).

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Uncategorized

Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature ‘Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ …

Review, Nataša Mačukat, professor of German language and literature
Upon reading ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ my first impression was – a novel came out fit for its time of publication, in an ocean of new well-renowned works of fiction, completely anachronistic, more often than not imitating the romantic form and expression. A novel that discovered new in a completely natural manner, without the forced and assembly-line experimenting, in an age where ‘nobody believes in the virginal literatures anymore’, it simply materialized itself out of the spirit of the 21st century.
Other than alluding to Kafka in its very title, ‘The Adventures of Boris K.’ can remind the reader of E.T.A. Hoffmann , the German romantic author who was at least two centuries ahead of his time, with its elements of fantasy and the bizarre, or of Gustav Meyrink with its specific type of horror. In a broader thematic context the novel takes place in a setting where literature has long stopped being Arcadian due to being overladen with historicity and had also long and in the widest range possible started to deal with the relationship of the individual with society – in Central Europe.
The subject matter of the novel is Serbia in her transitional age, without mentioning this specifically, but can be understood in a far broader context. Obviously a work of satire, but avoiding that which satire has become today – institutionalized, watered down, overly present, and cynically and arrogantly used by those whom it should by definition be targeting, because they cannot be touched, and it creates the illusion of democracy.
Boris K. is represented best as a video game character – without much character he goes to different ‘missions.’ With his facelessness, one moment overly and nigh-drunkenly involved and another barely mildly so, adding the bizarre nature of the missions, he describes all of us people of today – forced to adapt to various roles with the purpose of maintaining an existence, most assuredly losing our way and accepting worthless roles and habits, we lose our essential self.

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excerpt, PRIPOVETKA, proza, roman

SLIKA NEBOGLEDOM ODGLEDANIH, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vaš konstantni update!

“Slika nebogledom odgledanih”, odlomak iz novelete, Leile Samarrai, roman pisan u online varijanti. Zahteva vas konstantni update! Novi pasusi ce pristizati…
***
Možda sam vas sve izmislila. Možda ste vi samo u mojoj glavi, vrtite se tu u ritmu valcera, krijete se u ogledalima, kezite mi se u lice i govorite:
– Mi smo samo hteli da te zatvorimo, u kuću. … eventualno iza resetaka…. Nismo predvideli halucinacije….
– Šta bulazniš?
– U pravu ste. Imala bih mnogo posla ako bih hodala starim putevima, utabanim putevima da bih sačinila nekakav dokument o sebi. Da preorem svaku brazdu svog detinjstva. Da oslobodim duhove prošlosti koji su me i doveli do vas kao robove oslobođene okova, samo da bi na sebe navukli teške, zlatne lance.
Ne znam kako ovo da počnem drugačije, stoga, uvodi, objašnjenja, dokumenta, nestanite.
Prihvatite ovaj uvod kao moj šturi poklon:
Zovem se Marija Mediči, imam 34 godine, po profesiji sam propala glumica i student istorije (još uvek apsolviram…) i već desetu godinu progoni me grupa propaliteta, varalica, psihopata i ludaka, zbog čega na ulicu ne izlazim, ni sa kim se ne družim i ne viđam pošten svet.
LICA:
Tomislav Kalpeper, profesija pravnik. Nabijen i nizak, oči kao u Akira Kurosave, voli bičevanje do krvi i smrti, klanja se Dodoni Rasel, profesija engleski, svačija Muza i bič Božji, udata za kepeca do struka joj, gospođa malograđanka i kućevlasnica bordela upečatljivog naslova „Akademija bola“.
Nostradina Babel, nosi slavne retro kovrdže a la Merilin Monro i kao ona, seks simbol je kruga beogradske dvojke. Uzor joj je Eva Braun. Prolupani, samoljubivi stvor, čija je mama oligarh bankarstva sa transferom novca kad joj zatreba.. U maminoj dresuri, Nostradina, inače član Mense, je, jedna od onih, koji su, preko noći, od prosečnog konzumenta radže i bensedina, zajedno s drugim nitkovima i brbljavcima, postali generalni direktori, sa naci – arijevskim pogledom na svet. Oči – kao Leonardo Di Kaprio. (i boja i oblik)
Miss M, zli invalid mastermajnd, veselog duha kao i omiljeni joj slikar Tuluz de Lotrek. Da je u njegovom društvu, zajedno bi slistili bure apsinta. Ovako, Miss M bi dala bubreg za dve stvari: levi bubreg za Nostradinu, (na rate, ako može i po povoljnoj ceni), a desni, kad joj po svoj prilici Nostradina odbije levi, za bure hajnekena. Zlovoljna je jer je ponižena. Okružuje se priglupim slaboumnicima. Dodoni Rasel joj je bliska rođaka.
Krilatica: „Ja sam kao pijavica. Kad zgrabim, ja ne puštam“
Džezebel Hasanaginica, 35 godina, građe teretnog automobila, zvana Maratonski bik, zlih i agresivnih namera koje otkriva tek kad se uvede zakon o zabranji točenja alkohola. Dotle joj osmeh leprša na licu, hladnokrvna i metodična dok ne zagrmi u basu i ne polupa sve kafane kroz koje redovno šeta. Kada je u kondiciji u stanju je da preskoči sto. Od bosanskog pakla do mističnog pustolova, od poslednjeg nokauta u kafani Druga Mi Kuća i Šuj Baje Bluza do Divovskih trka. Specijalizacija: planinski maratoni. Staje na svakom 50 – om kilometru dok kroti mamutsku trasu pred kojom su mnogi poklekli da se, uz pljoskicu, priseti starih dobrih dana“
„I tako sve do Kuromajera“, zagrmela bi u basu, zadivljenog pogleda na Monte Rosu..
. Redovno ažurira horoskop. I svoj i tuđi.
Bludna kći koja je krenula u crkvu.
***futurus persevero / this thing must be continued!
carrie-2.w710.h473.2x

I još par statista….

Aaaa gde ste se vi upoznaliiii?

 Prokleta sam večnošću. Kidala sam lešine pod Trojom, opipavala skamenjene praegipćane, Nabta Playe, jela sam crnoglave sveže sumerićanske glave. Moje vreme je duboko. Moja nebesa su obojena u tamu, bez sunca. Bez zvezda.

Uz podli osmeh penjem se uz piramidalni Materhorn. Gazim neosvojive vrhove, doletela sam iz kantona Vallais, sa sve crnim jezerom koje je potopilo Gimenvald.

ili

Upoznali smo se na Kalabrijskim plažama, zapravo. Podelili smo divno letovanje.  Osvajala sam Kalabreške planine, a Kalabrija mi je oduvek bila kao dom.

Ako ikad budem želela da se ubijem, sigurno ću se baciti sa kantakarskog mosta.

A vi me pitate gde upoznajem Južne Slovene i Bosanku?

Stoga, zar je bitno gde smo se svi upoznali?

Na Materhornu ili u kafani “Kod dva brata”?

Šta oni tebi konkretno rade?

Njima ne mogu parirati carski špijuni za istorijskih apsolutizama. Naravno, upitanost zahteva odgovor: motiv. Zašto ja?

Zapletena priča i mnogo dramatičnih dana, da bih pružila odgovor znatiželjnim ušima. Nisam poznavala hohštapleraj dok se nisam preselila u Beograd. Opipavala sam ih (sva ova lica koja su našla svog pisca)i napipala kroz pomrčinu i pakao noćnih klubova. Stare frajle, polni organi izmešani, postavljeni na pogrešno mesto, na jednom telu, sunčani točak na nasmešenom licu Džezebel koja me zaljubljeno posmatra, energija, svetlost, život, Džezebel, maratonski bik, sunčano tele, večno dobro, međuigra očiju i poziv.

Moja usamljenost je bazdila na prosutu svinjsku utrobu.

Ti, živuća kobilo, praroditeljko života, siluj me!

Ti, o Ištar, paganko, što nadvisuješ sve, obljubi me!, tako bi stihovao Aton u sapfo varijanti. I zaljubih se u ovu Dafne ili Erosa, kako je ko shvati (a Dionis ona biva kada cugne neku)

Preskočiću naporne detalje razbuđivanja Erosa među nama dvema. Dosadne su pojedinosti o beleškama što ih čini želja u očima. Ili pupljenje cveća, čiju je nevinost probio trn prve odsvirane note žestoke, raspaljene strasti. Ukoliko želite takve pojedinosti, obratite se literaturi markiza de Sada ili metafizičkom doživljaju seksa Julijusa Evole.

Bila je to igrav pogleda i po neki dah u stakatu, dve rasplesane nimfe, pregorele želje usled zabranjenog dodira. Kadgod bismo poželele da smrvimo ćutnju među nama, i da poljupcem zapečatimo nameru, pojavila bi se ONA. Ime: Brona Lisa, 38 godina, ukočenih linija tela, arhajskoj osmeha, nalik na wondjina slike Aboridžina koja ukrašavaju šuplje grobnice i prikazuju glave bez usta.

Tablični integral kao pojam bi bio najpribližnija odrednica njenom postojanju. Kao i pozamašni muški kožni novčanik Emporio valentini made in Banja Luka, iz koga su izvirivale novčanice nalik na mnoštvo raškuštranog perja kongoanskog pauna.

Kako bi se mašila za koju, tako bi Džezebel nesvesno zabacila glavu unazad u ekstazi, prevrnuvši očima, zakolutavši ih čini se do potiljka, uz jedno: “Ah! Moram da odem do pošte da uplatim novac za prijavu ispita!”, iliti “lepe sise su seksi, ali pare nemaju cenu, sorry darlin’.”

“To je lijepo”, rekla bi Brona lisa – ali zaboravila si na štafelaj.  Trebalo bi i njega kupit’. Ti si i umjetnica. Moraš vežbat’ crtat’”

Tada bi mi Brona Lisa uputila pogled a la Lisi Borden, u trenu kad je čuvena serijska ubica zamahnula sekirom obrubivši glavu rođenom ocu…

22.4

Pisac! Waky! Waky! Sarkazam u dupe, pa u napad na novi dan.

Stojim sa nebogledom ispred prozora I zumiram staze I bogaze zelenih beogradskih površina.

Moja soba liči na radničku spavaonicu.

  • Ja sam svakako morala da znam kako će to da se završi – spuštam nebogled.
  • Mislite da je postojao neki plan, blagoslovljen Bogovima?
  • Popišan, misliš? – sedam ispred računara sa izrazom lica čoveka koji nema ništa, apsolutno ništa više da saopšti.

I šta se dalje dogodilo? Mislilo bi se da devojka od 26 godina koja se seli u veći grad, sa toliko talenta i mudrosti može da shvati da u vezi ne mogu da postoje troje.

  • Nije mi padalo na um da se zadržim u Beogradu. – okrećem nebogled prema sebi – Nekad nesebično doniramo sive ćelije iskrenosti ljubavi koja nas je zadesila… Ko to povraća u uglu? Ah, to je moje JA današnjice. Koliko toga mogu reći o svojemu JA današnjice.
  • Briga me za čoveka JUČERAŠNJICE. Briga i vas i nebogled.. No, ko može da ispriča ovu priču do čovek koji je nije preživeo? Sad samo korača novi čovek I džara rane, potkopava mesto groba čoveka koji je umirao svih deset godina. Gde mi je lopata? Vidi kako grob odjekuje! To se leš diže I budi.
  • Ja više nikad neću voleti jer sve čime sam mogla voleti je oduzeto kao oduzeta ruka ili noga ili isečena, raščetvorena.

Ne bih propustila niti jednu reč, samo da oživim mrtvaca. Neka jaukne, pa ću mu grlo ponovo iščupati, da se zauvek utiša.

  • Izvolite nastaviti posao. Nebogledom odgledajte!

Kako pisac ili dete, ili devojka podložna ili ponižavana čitavog života, poput Justine, sa svim njenim nevoljama nevinosti, može ODMAH prepoznati otrov zmije koja gmiže među kamenjem, među lišćem..  Potom ODMAH ublažiti žuč.

  • Govoriš o posebnoj vrsti senzibiliteta?
  • Razmišljam o tome da promenim ime u Justina!

Da, Justina beše ona što je vikala u suzama, čija je obzirnost i afekcija bila usmerena nerazborito, ka razvratnicima koji kušaju sočno,  čija okrutnost vezuje u lance,  oholnicima i podrugljivcima.  No, zlo je uvek zakopano u suprotnostima, zlo je uvek ukopano u obično.  Tu se ono krije, pod vatrenom korom afekcije, izmršavele istine koja teče iz isuviše vernoga srca. Gmiže zlo licem kojem bejah privržena, ja Marija Mediči, ostaviću Justinu markizu, da se vratim sebi i svojim ranojutarnjim mukama umočenim u pero. Kako je morala da boli glava oživljenog čudovišta, stvorenog od delova raznih leševa, eto,  na to liči i moje Čudovište. Oživljeno baterijama i cinkovim pločama prikačenim na bolne delove tela, eteričnom vatrom, kalorijom i elektricitetom, udarom munje,

I takva je moja priča.

U mojoj priči, svi su mrtvi, do Čudovišta koja danas, proživljavajući svoj elektro – život,  evoluiraše do klonova bez emocija, oni koji konzumiraju.

Zahvaljujući nekom čudesnom promislu,  reših da se prihvatim iskopavanja, ja, čiji grobarski posao obavljam hladnom usredsređenošću najodrešitijeg mislioca.

Koristim čuveno pero Eversharp, upadljivo lepo u jednostavnosti dizajna, posvećeno i u službi vladavine pravde i zakona koji pravdu sprovodi. Optočeno zlatom,  njegovo telo odiše naglašenom elegancijom. I direktno je svrsi…

Uzimam smisao iz vaše, za mene tad besmislene rečenice (ili za Justinu besmislene): zar ne znadoste… Kako ono rekoste? Gotovo s gordim prebacivanjem! Kakva je to poliamorična aluzija u ponovljenoj tvrdnji! Zar je Džezebel kakva Afrodita koja spava sa Aresom iza Hefestovih leđa, ili mora da ga pita? Jesam li ja nežna boginja koja se pretvara u Kali razaračicu, a Brona bi bila raktabija iskidanih žila i popijene krvi?

Da se vratim na Afroditu, mrežom ulovljenu, skupa sa Aresom. Dogovoreni brak sa ružnim i slabim Hefestom kako ga vidim, nalik na neumoljivu Heru, Afroditi se nije svideo.

Džezebel je, sračunatom prepredenošću,  prigrlila ovaj dogovor, skupa sa svojom totemskom maskom prerušene zveri u očajnom pokušaju da se reši bolne osamljenosti o kojoj su mi govorili kad sam pristigla u Beograd. Punila je ta tračarska zverad lažima kao pirat džepove nakitom ubijenih, mislila sam i nisam ih slušala. Ali, kad se trač zaseje, izniknu sadnice, reči se iznova vraćaju u život, makar ih pamtim da bih kasnije mogla da opovrgnem njihovu neistinitost.

Govorilo se da je kurva, a la za sto lira u sto vira. Behu vrliji u pljuvanju i nabrajanju njenih nedostataka od Seneke koji je pisao moralna pisma Gaju Liciniju. A većina gadne krvožuči koja je belasala niz bradu tračera kao kod besnih džukela, odnosila se, upravo, na koristoljublje i promiskuitet, u kojem joj je duša iščezla, kako san shvatila, skupa sa sve hladnim srcem koje ne poznaje čari erotske ljubavi, osim ako nije rutinizirana i smišljena, sklona finansijskim transakcijama pomešanim sa orgijastičkim rešenjima.

  • Čemu bolna osamljenost?
  • Da, bolna osamljenost, to je naša Justina. Rođena u krilu razvrata, dotle, uvek na dnu planinskih vrhova koje Džezebel ovih dana neumorno osvaja…

Za nju je novčanik Brone Lise izazivao osmeh koji je reflektovao grč Brone Lise, fenomen koji ću imenovati “bronalisin” osmeh. Kriva usta, izlivena u još krivlju liniju nepomičnog kipa arhajskog perioda, ušuškana u sigurnost i kako bi Grci rekli, kalokaghatos.

“E da je meni taj kalokagatos!”, lupila bi me po ramenu Džezebel kad bi me pitala: “A što se tebi ne dopada Brona?”

“Naprosto volim.. sumersku umetnost”, odgovorila sam uz pivo kojim me je Džezebel, uz šmekerski osmeh, nedolično nalivala. A ja sam pila, žudno, taj otrov, onako kako bih tad žudno popila sve njene poljupce.  Ko spozna da mu svirepost sedi s druge strane stola u zagrljaju očima, a one šalju pogled žestok kao prasak munje, uz bestidnim šapatom izgovorene reči podmuklih namera, uvijene u lažni humor. Ipak, ličio je na lakrdiju u scenskoj igri budale zveketanera koji se glupo šali samo da još veću budalu zabavi.

“Znaš… –  tvorkinja varke nežno položi svoju ruku na moju, ali tako da okrenu dlan prema gore. On zasija u ružičastoj jasnoći. “Mnogo ljudi se pored mene propilo”

Tad podiže usne ka meni, osveživši trenutak bliskosti. To me uzruja, ali potpali i nekakvu mračnu bojazan u meni. Dodirnula me je jednom slična slatkoća sna i zamalo me je uništila.  Spoznala san ambis boli. Posrnula san davno. Ne bejah kao Justina, već mnogo gora, bejah Justina bez mnogo pameti, a od tog trena i bez integriteta…

NOSTRADINA

iz Nostradinine čet arhive- POČETAK:

Njeno “delo”, darlin’ sve je to plod mašte. Naravno da će nas predstaviti kao beskrupulozne i prljave šminkere kada je ogorčena jer ju je Džezebel otkačila. Prvo napada, šalje poruke gde te hvali do neba, a onda se primiri. Potom te naprska pljuvačinom kad joj ne odgovoriš…

– Omča oko vrata, za tebe. Poput uskog užeta.. verujem da si zato morala da je prijaviš. Pretnja revolverom je ozbiljna stvar…
Of kors. Nego bre.. da promenimo temu.
– Naravno. Ona nije moja tema. Ne želim je.
– Hani… nju niko ne želi. Menjamo temu. Samo da iskažem generalnu misao pre toga koju ćeš ti da saslušaš: ljudi koji pročitaju dve knjige u životu, a onda ih stalno citiraju, pa ispada da su ne znam koliko pismeni… Ljuta sam na takve likove!
– Da, mašu svojom navodnom elokventnošću!
– E to! Tako i ona.. Mislim, edukacija, to je futur, tu nema dileme. Razumi me, meni ne smeta ako su nekome cipele prljave ili ako ima samo jedan par. Ona tvrdi da sam ja snob. Pa da sam snob, ja bih joj počistila čizme, ali stvarno se ne bih spuštala toliko nisko. KRAJ CITATA

SOBA. NOĆ. ENTERIJER. AKCIJA!

Oduvek sam maštala da, u samoći doma, ovde u dnevnom kod mojih, masturbiram kraj florentinskog stola od ebanovine kupljenog na aukciji kod Kristija, sanjarila je Nostradina. Akcija sa skupocenom stolicom iz spavaće sobe moje mame. Oba komada u Luj LXIX pozi. Komadima tepam: Kegni i Lejsi. Kad mama i tata nisu kod kuće. Ima li išta popaljivije od toga?

Nostradina nežno dodirnu pametni telefon. Soba bi bila u potpunom mraku da je nije osvetljavala plazma lampa, Teslina kugla. “Uspostavljam elektronski kontakt sa kaučem.. sa teslom.. a ti?”, otkuca nepoznatom sagovorniku koji joj uzvrati porukom na ekranu, na šta joj se obrazi zarumeneše. Oseti drhtavicu i nemir. Da ovo nije Marija Mediči?
“Gde živim? Tu, odmah, iza ćoška”
Zašto me pita gde živim? Kucam na nameštaj porno dot com sajtu i to iz čiste dosade, a sagovornik hoće da se intimizuje.
Šta pita sad? Kakvog ćoška? Pita me.. Šta ću sad? – stanka, da bi joj srce zaigralo – Ah, pa šta je meni! Uvek postoji laž kao opcija!
“Čuj, otkad sam doživela saobraćajku, ne sećam se ničega o svojoj adresi.. Imam amneziju.”
Kako to otipka, Nostradina panično isključi telefon. Preostalo joj je jedino što je mogla da uradi u ovakvim situacijama kad je osećala misteriozno, a opet sabrano prisustvo Marije Mediči, duha prošlosti koja joj diše za vratom i pohodi je u mučnim i teškim snovima. Porno sajt za ljubitelje stilizovanog nameštaja, uz obaveznu čet opciju.
Nekada je to bio kokain. “Vrhunski”, nostalgično je pomislila. Poznavala je lika u Njujorku koji je farmaceut, a pritom I diluje kad dođe za Beograd. Često dolazi za Beograd pošto mu tu žive roditelji. Umeo je da donese I trideset grama koke, pa I više. Smiruje telo. Tako dobar efekat.. To ju je popravljalo. Dobijala je za džabe jer je lik bio fakat zaljubljen u nju. Potom je ona društvu prodavala vrhunsku koku po ceni od pedeset evra I odlazila u skupe kafiće, čašćavajući već debelo naalkoholisano društvo od tih para.
Prodavala je po gram – dva, a ostalo je čuvala za sebe jer je stvarno bio u pitanju vrhunski kokain.
Sada bi ubila za trideset mitja koke iz NY. Ljudi dođu i prođu, on je uvek tu.
A ona se ne druži sa bilo kim, već isključivo sa likovima I likušama ekstra sređenim do koske. Ne sa nekim klošarima.
“Marija Mediči se gnušala bogatstva, kakva budala. Govorila je da novac ružne čini lepima, debele mršavima, glupe pametnima, a pametne odbačenima. Kasnije mi je rekla da je moja porodica problematična! Ha! Zar moja porodica? Rekla mi je da živim u ispraznom skloništu postojanja. Da san površna luda, ta Marija Mediči. Možda u meni nema ničega, a u njoj ima samo opake zavisti! Kako se usuđuje da me naziva praznoglavom prišipetljoj koja je dobila svet na tanjiru od svojih roditelja. Nazvala me je kancerom sveta i malograđanskim smradom. Šta ona zamišlja? Da nije krv i meso? Da ja nemam srca? Da ja nisam krv i meso? Kritikuje našu ekipu! Sanjin otac je mafijaš i njena majka je poginula u nekom obračunu na Ibarskoj magistrali, pa ceo život krivi oca za to. Na Tanju majka ne obraća pažnju, čak je i hvatala par puta da se drogira i govorila joj da previše troši? Katarina se zabavlja sa dilerima jer nije jedna od tih koja može da priušti sebi kokain. Droga se ne dovodi u pitanje niti moja standarna ekipa. Imam pare, Marija Mediči, može mi se. – zaključi i uzme ogledalo. “Moj prijatelj.. Kada san sa ogledalima nikad nisam sama”, reče i histerično se zakikota, spremna da se našminka. Ali, tek kad otkuca ponoć…
Najednom, oseti nečije prisustvo. To je utvara. Hoće da je namami u zamku.
“Nostradina, upali sijalično svetlo”, bila je to mama. U mraku su joj se caklile oči.
Nostradina poskoči sa stolice i poslušno upali svetlo osetila je tremor, stravu, srce joj preskoči, a disanje joj se ubrza. Poče da muca: “M.. ma.. ma, t..ti si…”
Dočekao ju je pakosni sjaj u majčinom oku.
“Opet si mi prčkala po tekućem računu. Od sad pa na dalje, nećeš zlostavljati moju visa karticu. Više nema dizanja para iz autómata”, reče hladno Nostradinina mama, sitna žena, s trajnom na glavi, obučena u haljinu za koktel parti. Kako to reče, uze Teslinu kuglu. “Lezi u krevet, da ne kasniš na posao. Krvarila sam da te ubacim na mesto generalne direktorke, a ti mi ovako vraćaš. Samo jednom zakasni na posao i zaposliću te u maksiju, jes čula!”
“D..da, mama”
“I ugasi svetlo kad legneš”
“Hoću.. mmm.. mama”
Majka je stajala ispred Nostradine i gledala je optuživački.
“Dva sam privatna detektiva morala da unajmim od tebe umesto da odem u Tunis, sama, u povoljnom terminu.”
“Ali, mama, mene ona stvarno progoni”
“Zar to nismo rešili?”
“Mama, ona hoće osvetu”, izlete joj. Nostradina pokri usta šakama.
“Nije me briga za rezultate kod šrinka u medicinskoj ordinaciji. Nije me čak ni briga da li je to.. to.. revolverašenje istina, lažljivice jedna! Našla san ti posao u internet marketing firmi sa renomeom. A šta ti radiš na poslu? Piješ bensedine u kupatilu I ne skidaš se sa tvitera. Misliš da ja nemam svoje ljude tamo koji prate svaki tvoj korak… Zabušavaš, kažu. Pa, naravno, kad sam sve ispite morala da ti kupim, jer nećeš da se udaš.
“Ali, mama ja pijem bezkofeinski čaj.. ja…”
“Sutra idemo opet kod psihijatra. Ili to, ili nema više sto evra na stolu da se ponese ili ti uzimam kola.. Kaži…”, mama se preteći približavala.
“Neću više nikad”, bezizražajno će Nostradina i obrazi joj se zarumeneše.
Odjednom shvati da je potpuno sama u sobi. Uključi mobilni telefon. 46 propuštenih poziva za grad od ekipe. Potom uključi tablet računar.
“To je Džezebel – a njen poziv se ne odbija”, zaključi Nostradina i pažljivo otipka brojeve na mobilnoj tastaturi tablet računara. Vratila se na sajt furnitureporn dot com.
Opet će reći da kasni.
Ponoć je otkucala.

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prose, proza

LEILA SAMARRAI: VODKA, THE ADVENTURES OF BORIS K.

https://belegbg.wordpress.com/2014/06/16/leila-samarrai-votka/

In his tiny two-by-two hole in the wall, Boris K. sat with a dignified expression on his face and his legs out in a straddle. He wore two left slippers of diverse colour. As he casually turned to peer in the cracked mirror, he was greatly displeased by the sight of his slicked-back gray hair. He attempted to part it à la Sieg Heil, but could not really pull it off because – he wore a flower in his hair, you see.

At springtime, as the locks of his raven hair started blooming, he left all the women breathless (left-wing ones in particular, as they were especially partial to flowers).
“There is a certain symbolism to them,” they claimed.
Boris K. was a seasoned communist, a ruin left behind by the transition, a redundant loser. Like many others, he looked back on the times when he subscribed to the Labourer newspaper with nostalgia. It used to be a matter of prestige.

Due to his former high-ranking positions as the coffee brewer and sentry for the Trade Union sessions, he retained the habit of sitting, sleeping and eating dressed in a gray business suit. On that cold evening he was waiting for the arrival of his landlady while reading “The Trial”. Remembering the times past and the chanting of the famous “Comrade Fidel, if you so said/we’d go live in a car shed,” Boris K. mused how, everything said and done, he was actually still living according to his beliefs. The very thought was heartwarming. Boris’ “car shed” belonged to none other than the very harpy, the very shrew who announced her intent to arrive at 6 AM on the dot. At that time, with the first rays of sun, she was to materialize in the flat. Boris felt hungry and mildly nauseous. Maybe it was the fear of the landlady, or perhaps an omen of the apocalypse. He felt confused. By the powers of the left wing, Boris K. was no coward!
He approached the old refrigerator, opened the handless door, and saw a drunken lady squeezed into a small glass cage. It was a bottle of vodka, the Russian standard with 40 percent of alcohol. The poster on the wall offered him support and encouragement, or at least so it appeared to Boris K. It seemed to be saying “Bottoms up, Boris! Long live the counterrevolution!”
“Alas… if only I could squeeze myself inside just like you,” Boris thought wistfully. He envisioned his landlady, the morning sun illuminating her like a halo, menacingly brandishing the electricity bill. He huddled against the wall, crying like a baby, his cheek resting against a poster. A thought pierced his aching head, which throbbed as if clenched within a hoop.  “But I don’t drink.”
“Now or never,” he spoke out loud. After the first sip, it occurred to him that he should attempt to seduce his aging landlady. He was determined to fight to the bitter end.
“This is how Alexander the Great charged against the Persians with his sword!” he thought, detaching his tear-stained cheek from the poster. “Is the casino Alexander still open?” he asked the wall hopefully, his face beaming.
Feverishly, he contemplated the way to get out of debts.  Even without a penny to his name, Boris K. decided to try his luck at the adjacent casino. He took a big gulp of vodka and stumbled. Toppling the chair, he knocked down the suit and the grey socks and grabbed for the closet. He let the bottle drop out of his hand after the second swig. Somewhere in the pile of jumbled clothing Boris spotted a formal suit à la Vienna. He looked at it from all sides. He looked both ways furtively, as if he were not alone in the room, so surprised he was at the appearance of a beautiful, shining suit in such a gloomy environment. He stroked the buttons gently with his fingertips. It was exactly what he needed. Boris K. looked up at the ceiling and muttered “Thanks!”
Delighted, he cast another glance toward the closet and noticed the secret barrier dividing it into two parts. He grabbed the handle and shook it tentatively, but it appeared to be locked. Boris K. stepped back and stood in the middle of the room. The bottle of vodka back in his hand, he raged at the locked compartment.
“You’re hiding some great treasure, I know it!” “
He heard something rattle in one of the suit pockets. His hands shook as he rifled through the pockets, but all he found there was some brass buttons.
“Pure gold,” he soothed himself.
Donning the suit, he decided to use the buttons as gambling tokens. Thrilled with his incredible discovery, Boris K. danced a few bars of the Viennese waltz in front of the cracked mirror, arranging his hair. Out of breath, he fell onto the sofa. He was transported back to the harsh reality by the picture of Fidel Castro winking – or so it seemed to Boris K – straight at him.
“Too much to drink,” Boris concluded. Pulling himself together he threw the cheap buttons into the corner of the room, took one glance at the electricity bill and burst into tears.
The old lady entered just as she promised – illuminated by the first rays of sun. On her dress, tailored back in the forties, she wore an embroidered swastika.
“The Brazilian tarantula. Such an elegant little animal,” she explained to the curious butcher’s wife in passing. She wore lace gloves, dirty fingernails showing through. Smoothing down her oily hair, she swiped a dainty finger over one of her eyebrows, tattooed according to the latest fashion. Following the unfortunately drawn arch, she cast an Ilse-Koch-like look to Boris K. A cynical smile spilled across her elderly, clenched lips.
“Cash on the table,” she pulled out a stopwatch from her undershirt, “in 60… 59… 58…” As she counted down, it appeared, the last seconds of Boris K’s short life, the age spots on her cheeks broke through the layers of golden foundation and bright lipstick on her cheekbones.
“Do sit down, old Fräulein,” stammered Boris K, pointing to the sofa as full of holes as a Swiss cheese and stinking of cigarettes. The old woman threw him a contemptuous look. Boris K. realized his mistake. “Meine Frau,.. I… I… Frau, bitte,” he stammered, hypnotized by the embroidered swastika flanked by a flashy heart-shaped medallion. Finally, he murmured “Just let me run to the casino. I forgot my wallet next to the roulette here.”
“The casino, you say?” The old woman swiped the corners of her widely open mouth using a forefinger and a thumb.
“I swear by… this poster on the wall, Fräulein Suzy!”
She studied him like one would an insect and, with a sudden twist, cast a look filled with loathing at the poster of Fidel Castro. Stalin was her true love, but it was a fact she carefully concealed.
“Too bad he is an infidel,” she said as the light pushed its way through the dirty windows, illuminating her head like a halo. Her voice rang with the austerity typical of elderly women of reckless youth, who remembered their days of decadence just a touch too wistfully. Once easy, now a puritan, she had changed the dirty skin of her body and threw it on the altar of martyrdom, akin to a snake.
Boris K. repented his actions. He felt like taking off his nonexistent à la Vienna hat.
The old woman turned, eyes bulging, and approached him at a menacing pace. With the stance of an SS officer, her long nose touching the chest Boris K, Frau sniffed him, noticed the empty a bottle of vodka and contemptuously waved her hand. Settling into the sofa, she closed her eyes in the manner of a yogi. It lasted a whole of fifteen minutes, with Boris K. perspiring, dabbing the sweat from his brow and occasionally massaging her feet, until she cried
“Genug! Stop!” Her wide open eyes startled Boris K and he immediately stood to attention. “At ease!” Boris K. threw the left shoe off his right foot, hips swaying. “I forgive you, just as my Fritz would have done,” she murmured wistfully, remembering her old love – a high ranking SS officer, carried off by the maelstrom of war. Boris K. burst into tears of happiness. “But, under ein condition! ,” she roared in a thunderous voice. Boris K. was all ears. “I will write off your debt if you can squeeze yourself into this bottle.” The Frau pointed at the vodka bottle. “Verständlich? Understand?” the implacable Frau screeched.
Boris K. glanced at the bottle, then at his soft, pink hand (he was an artist, and it is well known that they do absolutely nothing under the sun). He wanted to protest, to say that one could not treat the oppressed classes so. Squeezing people into bottles like that? Not even Mengele would have thought of that, he thought – but said nothing. Somehow he managed to bend his back; he crumpled, growing smaller, lowering his proud fists, his skillful fingers curled and his head hung low. Thus his entire body distorted.
Boris K. kept diminishing before the terrible powers of the frau, finally growing small enough to squeeze his tiny hand into the vodka bottle, followed by his shoulder, chest and spine – the latter proved easy enough to squeeze into the bottle – and finally his feet, which by that point had completely refused to obey him. Thus Boris K. successfully completed his task under the Frau’s contended smile. Only Boris’ two large, terrified eyes remained visible.
The giant frau stood up, took the vodka bottle and headed for the locked compartment – the strictly guarded secret of all secrets. For years she was suspected of hiding, if not jewelry, then at least Fritz’s letters there. She reached into her pocket for the gilded key and opened the plywood compartment. Frau looked with pride upon the arranged bottles of numerous manufacturers – English and French, but mostly German. One bottle contained Sir Gawain, her former tenant, the second Herr Hans, and the third, Jean-Paul. From the fourth, the Obergruppenführer Fritz (the former supreme commander of the Waffen-SS) smiled at his lover, the Frau, who blew him a tender kiss. Each of the bottles contained a tenant hopefully peering through the stained glass of his prison, every one of them grateful to his landlady for being so very generous as to write off his debt.

imaginarium

Imaginarium, Igor Morski 1960

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Uncategorized

FROM THE DIARY OF THE (insane?) AUTHOR AFTER A REJECTION

 

It will all be over soon. Aaaahh, damn them, the rotational optics of insanity is gaining momentum in my head. I am not a woman. I am a macroscopic particle. A Spinning top. Call me Spinning top. I will do it so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand won’t shake. I will mildly lean forward, legs spread to shoulder-width, yes. Calm the body down. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Deep breath. Aim, pull, calm… Calm…

freedom

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dnevnik, proza

OGRLICA RAZDORA Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu (Dnevnici…)

OGRLICA RAZDORA
Ili kako sam dobila svoj prvi i jedini pijanino u životu

Ruka i prsti formiraju kupolu. Neko vreme, pre toga, držala sam ruke na površini klavirskih dirki..
Opasnost vreba. Živim u pustoj dolini straha. Nema zagrljenih, okrvavljenih telesa, grad nije razoren, ljudi nisu preplašeni, naprotiv, dok se neka majka porađa tokom pada krstareće rakete na zgradu MUP – a u Beogradu, ovde postoji univezalni sklad, poput univerzalnog rama za prapočelo. Sve čestice na licima u skladu, razlivena u osmeh, ljudi ponovo međusobno razgovaraju. Bombardovanje je događaj decenije! Big party u malogradu! Svi su na ulicama, a ja sam zabila glavu u dirke i pitam te muziko: Zašto ne mogu, ja Salijeri, ispratiti tvoj milozvučni glas. Ti tečeš u meni u plavim valovima… Nanosim ti besmrtnu uvredu svojim pokušajem da te odsviram. Ja.. nedostojna..
„Ti možeš da poboljšaš tehniku, Leila.- Sve je stvar vežbe. Tek će biti svirke!“, tako je govorila profesorka klavira.
Da…
Začuo se zvuk nalik na zvižduk.
Bomba opremljena zviždaljkama. Ne pomeram se sa stolice ispred pijanina i nastavljam da sviram jer je već kasno. Bombe padaju brzo. Zvižduci su namerno priključeni na bombu, zarad oslabljivanja morala neprijatelja i poboljšanja strategije ronilačkog bombardovanja. Koju drugu svrhu mogu sirene imati?
Ako i nemaju pištaljke, uvek prave buku, makar zato što se vazduh pomera – prsti mi preleću po tastaturi. Bomba pogađa metu. Čuo se vrisak. Ili je to samo prsnulo staklo. Krv pada sa prstiju na dirke. Ne prekidam da sviram. Da.. bombe padaju brzo.
**** nastaviće se ****

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dnevnik, proza

Leila Samarrai, Dnevnici 2004 – 2017, Uskršnja priča na horor način

16.4.2017

Kažu čak i mudriji od Imhotepa da postoje oni u kojima prebivaju izvorni svodovi i drugi elementi, od prve samoće, kroz zlokobje vekova,  do mene sada, u snu, dok besnim, a velik je bes moj, zapečaćen u grlu. Lome me slogovi strave ispod valova pljuvačke dok povraćam u slomljenu wc šolju svoju mržnju kao besno pseto.

Još jedna noćna mora, odvratan čin koji me pustoši kroz vožnju noći. U njima sam rob, a utvare i projekcije, kreacije podsvesti upiru u mene zlokobno oko i čine bezakonja.

Okolo mene, noćas, bejaše  praznina. Ispred mene put koji je vodio tragom smrti.  Ispod kapaka se smrt komeša u snu, besciljno me vodeći do kraja puta gde je klanica, tuku se robovi, taj bezvremeni esnaf, svedoci bezakonja, večna publika, oni tapšu dvojici gospodara  I pevaju:

Kad ono tvoja oba sina uđoše

U nevestine odaje… 

Jedan od njih beše levijatan.

Drugi – Abraksas.

I obojica stadoše ispred mene,  ali ne stajaše na zemlji, no lebdeše. I oko njih beše beskrajan krajolik. I obojica mi ponudiše ruku, da im budem nevesta i da im služim.  I govoraše mi da moj odgovor čekaju sa velikim nestrpljenjem.

Tad iskeziše očnjake i lica im posiveše. Abraksas me ošinu bičem, a Levijatan sevnu k njemu očima i zgrabi me za ruku da me vodi.

„Kuda idemo“

„ Svetovima nedostupnim“

Na to shvatih da mi zubi drhte, a kosa mi je seda. A Levijatan mi reče: „Ja ne marim za to. Utrimo, draga, zajedno, putevima tame”

I vodio me drevnim gradovima i letesmo zajedno, a ja hvalih njegovu mladost, zaboravivši ko je, jer mi je učinio počast. I svratismo u vrt u drevni grad Herakleon, na dnu mora gde on poprimi svoje obličje kita.  Ali, ne beše mu telo izduženo, niti je imao peraja, niti čeljusti, no beše otečeno, nalik na leteći, toplovazdušni balon.

„Bezbedna sam na dnu mora. On ima očnjake stvorene za ubadanje. I imaše silnu vojsku. Oko njega su marširale do zuba kopljima i štitovima naoružane žabe, a morski pas mu je lizao ruku u znak poštovanja, ljuspičav i jednook.  Tad Levijatanu naraste nos, usta mu se raširiše, a očnjaci probiše zenice. On isplazi jezik, po kojem su plesale pirane, krv šiknu dok je jezik nestajao, a nokti su mu rasli, post mortem, jer moj suprug beše umro na zlatnome tronu, u zlatnoj palati, na dnu mora.

„Mi smo ga ubile“ – ščepaše me nečije ruke. Osetih snažan bol. Bejah probodena oštrim, dugim bodljama morskih zvezda, kruna od trnja.

Tad kroz vodu zapliva Abraksas bičujući nevinog čoveka kome se na glavu sjatiše sve morske zvezde potopljenog Herakleona,  načinivši mu krunu od trnja. Ukočih se, spopadoše me grčevi, osetih sev i palež i celo telo mi prekriše pečati.

I iz svakog pečata zašiklja krv kao gejzir dok se Bičevani smešio, a morska čudovišta mu glodala glavu.

„Hristos se rodi, ‘ćero“, zaurla Čovek koga je Abraksas bičevao, dok su mu iz tela izrastala krila, na leđima i na rukama i krila behu prepuna očiju, nalik na Arga. Tad mu se i lice raščetvori ion mirno reče: „Ubij se. Pucaj sebi u glavu ili preseci vene. Nemaš zašta da živiš. Kasno je“, a ja odleteh iz dubina ka još nedostupnijim svetovima grozne crne beskonačnosti, prešavši okeane, pustinje, drevne gradove, zvezde, staru Zemlju, Veliku Pustinju po kojoj behu razbacana i raskomadana tela nomadskih plemena. Vodila sam drevne ratove,  na azijskim i afričkim granicama, sve do Kine, kao ratnik za dinastiju Tang i spoznah kako je biti muškarac. Nije mi se svidelo. U Indiji svedočih padu Gupta carstva, a dođoh i do Japana gde sam neko vreme u periodu Kamakura živeo  i radio (opet) u miru,  kao proslavljeni briljantni student keramičke tehnike, a zvao sam se Kato Shirozaemon Kagemasa (takođe poznat kao Toshiro)

Plutala sam haosom ne duže, činilo se od jedne sekunde, kad sam se, napokon, obrela, kao devetogodišnja devojčica u svojoj staroj porodičnoj kući, u Dragoljuba Milovanovića Bene – 58, u Kragujevcu, gde me je, blaženog osmeha, čekala mila baka.

„Kurvo mala! – iz usta joj je bazdilo na džibru, brutalnog sastava. Rakijčina od koje svaka ispičutura koja drži do sebe načisto pobrljavi.

„Hristos se rodi, bako!“

„Hristos! – preteći se približavala u slow motion maniru, gotovo dosadno usporenih pokreta, ne kršeči Njutnov zakon, jer kao i Godzila, moja baka beše pozamašna…

Ugledah vlastitu smrt, dok su me oko grla stezale  ogromne, mesnate ruke i ja ne mogoh da se oduprem njenoj strašnoj moći dok je vrištala:
„Gde je bio Hristos kad se šaputalo o izdaji i zloći! Muškarci, muškarci! Kolju ženu i čereče! I stoka se bolje tretira pre klanja! Mnnnnnmmnn…  Uzgajaju ženu da pere sudove i raširi noge za seks! Kurci im k’o noževi, zabada dok se ne istroši! Prljave prljave… Svinja je to! A i on, Milisav, bio je svinja, jedna svinja na ženu (mene!) još prošlog proleća, kad me je pokupio na dogovorenom mestu tamo ispod prodavnice.. mnnnnnmmmnn….  Gadilo mi se! Jeste, jeste! Ali, šta sam mogla, kada moram moram! Teraju ženu na to! Na gadni seks! Odkada se rodi!“

Sledeći kadar bio je statičan. San se opredelio za tehniku produženog kadra da bi moja baka mogla da recituje kao Pindar, dok su joj zubi strugali moje ručne zglobove još uvek natopljene krvlju od prethodne stigmate.  Umrtvljena scena. Umirem u teskobi, dok me pluća peku. Utapam se u ponoru smrti koja ne prestaje.

„Ubij me više“

„Ne mogu, ne mogu, nemam kad, moram da slikam! A ne mogu da slikam! Čeka me gomila sudova da ih operem!“

„Da ih opere! – nasmeja se neko – baba pusti malu, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

„Gde je Zeleni venac?“

Ulice udaraju o ulice, o zidove koji traže nove zidove. Vijugam lavirintom. Nalazim se u Beogradu i polako idem ulicom, sudarajući se sa bolničarima koji istrčavaju iz zapaljene bolničke zgrade:

„Ameri“ – nakezio se prolaznik.

„Ma kakvi Ameri, reci mi kako da nađem Zeleni Venac!“

„Ne deri se na mene – oči su krvavo blistaju na nejasnom liku – rekao sam ti, zvaću KONTRAPOLICIJU!“

U tom trenu, Beograd i Kragujevac su se stopili u jedno.

Dah više ne stiže do pluća.

„Mislila sam da me je voleo..  Za čerečenje, da!“, stisak biva jači.

„Kažem!“  ZVAĆU KONTRAPOLICIJU.

Osetih drhtaj ispod grudnog koša dok sam se borila da udahnem vazduh. Usne poseduju hitnost dok izgovaraju poslednje reči…

„Ne ne ne ne! Niko mene neće silovati!“

Budim se.

„Ne zanosi se. Nisi mrdnula iz Kragujevca. Još uvek ležiš tu.. sa nama… „, ispred sebe vidim raskomadano lice Kontrapolicajca stradalog na poslu, moje bake u strastvenom zagrljaju sa Milisavom, i silan narod iđaše iza njih, i Pikti, i saraceni, Sirijci, Babilonci i Lidijci i svako od njih nosaše na ramenima svog kralja, a najjači od svih beše zlatni Levijatan, u originalnom obličju kita, mašući sretno perajama kad me vide, dok njegove reči: „Vaistinu se rodih, draga“, nije ispratio moj vatreni urlik…

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THE KAFKIAN LEVITICUS (THE BOOK OF THE KAFKAESQUE LAW) – complete

I, Franz Kafka, He who is versatile with light sentences, as well as everyday lexicon, have in regards to finishing all of my novels found a way out by writing this Code of Law, through Kafkaesque De Sade- von Masoch Code- KDSVMC statutes which have a final, totalitarian order, with a well-rounded meaning  and significance which can serve as solace to Kafkaesque characters, suggesting to them and providing them with the materials to conduct independent research as a hobby which will cut their dark days in half and preoccupy their sinful thoughts.

As I read these lines written in a neutral eerie tone and engraved by means of bloody knife into history,

  1. I, Franz Kafka, have permanently relinquished myself of the guilt which haunted me and heavily obstructed me in performing my government job, and have done so by adopting the following Kafkaesque De Sade- von Masoch Code- KDSVMC statute:
  • All of the trials are limited to a Castle of your own choice.
  • All trials are to be conducted solely in the Castle – and we will select what castle it is via fixed lottery.
     

    2. I, Franz Kafka, oppose die Autorität, the Scourge and Saint Attila, by flogging myself. I do not need the Scourge – I will carry out my own justice.

  • 3.Slanderers are not to be flogged but slandered because they are above the law, and he who feels no guilt is the biggest sinner of all. He is to be flogged but exclusively by a three-wire quirt.

THE KAFKIAN LEVITICUS (THE BOOK OF THE KAFKAESQUE LAW)  

This Code was discovered by a washed up actor Simon Culpeper, who was working at a quarry. He found it right next to a bloody dagger.[1]

 
KDSVMC 1. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence, and is intoxicated, he/she shall drink until he/she regurgitates and begins summoning his/her mother. Upon this his/her mother is to be called to testify in his/her stead. If the mother is passed on, her spirit is to be summoned.
 
KDSVMC 2. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence,  and is well versed in more than a few foreign languages the indictment is to be read in Swahili, and the trial-less verdict declared in Welch.
KDSVMC 3. If the defendant chooses to defend him/herself with silence,  and is also as sober and aware as rarely anyone else in the country he/she is to be sent on a course of opiate habituation and then returned to the Courtroom.
KDSVMC 4. If the Guilty party admits to the most gruesome of deeds with zero remorse, he/she is to be set free, because the society needs psychopaths to one day reach seats of power. If we eliminate the psychopaths who is it that remains?
KDSVMC 5. If the defendant has committed criminal acts before he/she is to be set free for the criminal world needs experts in the field, since it is an industry experiencing constant growth.
KDSVMC 6. If the defendant has a college degree acquired through string pulling, even if all evidence speaks to the contrary he/she is to be released since there are too many wiseguys pretending to be better than everyone, and worst of all, they really are.
KDSVMC 7. If the defendant voted on the elections he/she is to be sentenced to presidency of the homeroom class in the prison school for the illiterate.
KDSVMC 8. If the defendant did not vote he/she is to be declared president of the electoral commision to make him hate voting all the more.
KDSVMC 9. If the defendant turns out not to be among the living exhume his/her body and declare him/her alive, and then execute him/her by firing squad and put him/her back because then he/she would, legally, be dead.
KDSVMC 10. If the defendant is a politician who embezzled money from the national treasury he/she is to be given a loan and is to repay it, from the national treasury of course as well as via the stocks of a country-owned firm of his/her choosing for he/she will never steal again if rewarded for theft.
KDSVMC 11. If a member of the clergy blessed the criminals he/she is to be sent to a good will mission into the neighboring lands wherein he/she can bless war criminals on state budget as well. You never know which war criminal will seize power.
KDSVMC 12. If upon questioning the Guilty party should take the wrong turn, left of the door where he/she was questioned, and not the right one, he/she is to be fined because he/she is running away from the Trial for free, and the Trial takes place in the Courtroom and he/she will have to be brought back sooner or later, especially because of the Punishment.
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KDSVMC 13. He who sues the one who errs should think whether he had not erred himself before. Had he done so, he should report himself.
KDSVMC 14. Who despite this sues the man who withheld money from him shall undergo questioning until something is pulled out.
KDSVMC 15. He out of whom nothing is pulled out is either not alive or a saint, and there are no saints nor the living dead.
KDSVMC 16. Should you be proven to have damaged the criminal while he did his deed you must recompense him monetarily.
KDSVMC 17. If you have complaints regarding eavesdropping this means that:
A. We do not eavesdrop good enough and we shall punish the people from the Security Department.
B. You are obstructing a public official following you and for this you will be fined.
KDSVMC 18. Those sentenced to death are only allowed to die once.
KDSVMC 19. Public floggings are forbidden unless the people decide otherwise in a poll within one of the tabloid magazines.
KDSVMC 20. All those who paid their legal expenses must keep silent about it – so that they wouldn’t brag as if they were rich.
KDSVMC 21. He who brags about being rich will be sent to Court.
KDSVMC 22. He who does not prove to have paid the legal expenses will again be sent to Court.
KDSVMC 23.
The Forefather is a Scourge since Attila is the Scourge of God. The Forefather is, therefore, Attila who later in life decided to take monastic vows and become Saint Attila.

FOR IT IS WRITTEN:
Respect thy Father and thy Mother by having them whip you.

QUIT YER BITCHIN’ FOR HERE COMES WHIP TWITCHIN’! 

  1. Whipping is to be executed exclusively with a sterilized whip, dipped in a hydrogen solution.
  2. Whipping is sponsored by tanner shops and salt factories.
  3. Salt is a necessary element to be rubbed into the post-whipping wounds.
  4. Whipping is the same as whipkrieg and is not to be permormed without the blessings of the church.
  5. The church is obliged to bless both the convict and the whip with holy water before the execution is to take place.
  6. Whipping in BDSM establishments is forbidden.
  7. Whipping must not be performed with an old Avarian quirt.
  8. The whip must not be manufactured from horse skin, which would work for nomads. 

SLANDER/LIBEL:

  1. The libelous person accused of libel is to be set free for honor is defended by dueling.
  2. Duels are forbidden.
  3. Should both duelists die – duels are permitted.
  4. Citizens are not to be arrested nor killed at night but during the day, mid-day, in the open.
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KDSVMC 24.
Plagiarism is protected philosophically: according to Plato, all of art is imitation, and an incompetent one at that, especially the theater and poetry. Hence, when someone plagiarizes both he who plagiarizes a piece and the one who wrote the plagiarized piece are to be exhiled because both are imitating reality.
 
KDSVMC 25.
Men are, at the core, evil. Hence why being faithful to someone is forbidden – be they faithful politically or sexually – for longer than five years. Adultery or backstabbing is a natural occurrence because it is natural to be at war with everyone. Those who remain faithful to others shall be hung under the suspicion that they want an organized, conspiratorial takedown of the government.
KDSVMC 26.
Priests who are objectors to conscience and do not want to bless the weapons of paramilitary formations are to be employed in gay brothels as punishment.
Only corrupt coalitions are allowed in politics – see 3.
KDSVMC 27.
Who does not know of other man’s secrets and does not deal with cancellations and blackmail is lazy because he isn’t trying to work 25 hours per day but thinks it’s enough to come to work at 8 and return home at 5. As punishment he is to wear the same diaper for three days, without changing it. A cloth one, at that.
This way, my characters have, rather like myself, found their way out of the situation they were knee-deep in. Some of them live today, some not so much, but I have managed to finish, by way of this Code of Law, my novels ‘The Trial’ and ‘The Castle’, for it was only this Code that I was lacking to feel complete and to rest in peace.
And not only did I finish them, I’m contemplating a book series.The Trial continues!*

 

The-Kafkian-Monkey-Adelaide-Fringe-2017-The-Clothesline
 *Persequendum est! *This thing must be continued!

[1] A subtle refference to Serbian protests to the 2017 Election results.

 

 ***
*Kafka’s writing has inspired the term “Kafkaesque”, used to describe concepts and situations reminiscent of his work, particularly Der Process (The Trial) and “Die Verwandlung” (The Metamorphosis). Examples include instances in which bureaucracies overpower people, often in a surreal, nightmarish milieu which evokes feelings of senselessness, disorientation, and helplessness. Characters in a Kafkaesque setting often lack a clear course of action to escape a labyrinthine situation. Kafkaesque elements often appear in existential works, but the term has transcended the literary realm to apply to real-life occurrences and situations that are incomprehensibly complex, bizarre, or illogical. (source:Wikipedia)
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A Poem About a Crocodile

In the dreadful crocodile land

Something odd is always at hand
Quickly, swift, a non-stop jerk
Is this bold dragons’ constant smirk

They’re strongest with bellies filled
Drunk on blood of men they’ve killed
Out of Nile’s vast delta here
Three dreaded crocs did appear

Through an Adriatic slit
Two more whales came, via Split.
Two Siberian beasts more
Reared out of Mulyanka’s shore

From Mulyanka of Perm Krai
Russian, then Italian sky
Crocs their freedom do not lack
Down the Sava-Danube track

Gathered ‘low a bridge’s bend
Suicidals near their end
These beasts roam about the town
One fierce bite has me pinned down

As they swim and float around
Pin-like their eyes I have found
Meaty prey sniffed by their noses
Sharp-toothed jaw said prey encloses

I’ve a deal with them worthwhile
Cro co do co lo do rile
May their trio boldly hop
And on horny scuta drop

May blood-showers flow like ale
Lubricating our scales
One life but one Euro’s worth
Our words but empty pits

Hollow caves our stomachs sit
More cash for twos we commit
I’ve a deal with them worthwhile

Cro co do co lo do rile

Down their shoulders I descend
Embracing them with my arms
My tummy is going nuts
Hunger dancing in my guts

Already they’re set to drop
Already by waves they’re called
Why waste thought? Use this dilemma
To toss this human Kinema

To the current evergoing
Hell-way they gave, full well knowing,
Dreams that they had all perceived
It’s quite gruesome, this whole plot

Now life has it, then has not
What does my arm small and lean
Embracing their waistlines mean
Even killers feel depressed

Post doing what they do best
I meandered into titles
Which I find to be mere trifle
But who’s bloody all the while

Moreso than a crocodile
Who will pay the deal enisled
Other than the crocodile
Watch thyself oh murderer

Suitable and pick-of-litter
Are cutwaters none the fitter,
Windshields and the lightning rods
Are but desperate roughneck sods

And their circle-natured days
As they float livid and dreamy
One drunk sailor, brave and scheme-y,
Swims across the river’s dirt

Two oars tied around his skirt
Sings away the filthy Beast
Bathed in the light of East
With a fiery yelling slope

Right then he sang: “I give hope.”
Golden wings upon his back.
My deal is rendered futile
From my present crocodile.

Come another chilling morrow
I will seek a new tomorrow
Past the bridge and midst of branches
Where tangles a wrinkly road

Rage about my gold grows hot
Which I withdrew from the slots
This strange body, livid, frail
Chisels open this whole pail

Living dead man lets out shrieks
Mercy is what this one seeks
We vomited from the bridges
Till at twilight what we knew

Was a perfect scenic view
One whole city at our palms.
Belgrade cracks before our eyes
Statue-shadowed, it’s alight

Eternal is this vignette
Of a fiery townsman’stête
Under Victor’s statuette.
Our deal, though, is most worthwhile

Ro co do co cro co file

Gentle mom frightens her child
With a carcass most reviled
They rend those who cannot swim
New age jumpers, wretches dim

Slime and lees the water sweeps
One life, joyless, Death doth reap
In the slimy croc-filled dip
The beast took my blood’s turbid sip

One black freckle graced my leg
Their three lids are snow-filled kegs
Two icicles slipped mid-stream
From agape, cold Nile, it seemed

Wherein formed an iceberg vast
Empty trash can, of crocs past
Wicked that have fled erstwhile
No more delta formed by Nile

All its force now in exile
Emigrants on nightly mission
Clatter on with sharp dentitions
And their bodies slither slow

Pays up, then comes to me quick
To get my whole body licked
There’s no flight, no submarines
Nemo quisquam captain-like

Nor a sailor, one whose looks
Dwell in Jules Verne’s famous book
Nor hope in the light of day
Which mid-hearts doth lives and stays

While we were so full, nubile
Prior to the crocodiles…
Prior to the crocodiles…

Cap’tayneNemo, come to us
Up close comes the Nautilus
Maybe there is hope, I chime
To engender a new rhyme

And while beasts all roar and flail
Let’s elope towards a new tale

Do come closer, do come closer
Worry not, worry not
You are but a child, you are
Squeal and weep and spew some snot

Even though a child you’re not
Trudge, step all over the valley
For your shepherd follows by
Should I try and throw the die?

But, that number falsify
For the croc doubts aught and low
Taken by his mighty stench
That the killer up and went

Boat amid the night blood fled
With it filled the riverbed
And exchanged the Euric lead
Guate’s cute asylum spiel

Now I must break our deal
Cro co do co lo do reel
(Cò?)
Do co cro co ro do KILL!

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THE KAFKIAN LEVITICUS (The Book of the Kafkaesque Law), CONTINUITAS

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/03/26/authors-note/

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/03/25/the-kafkian-leviticus-the-book-of-the-kafkaesque-law/

*** Continuitas***
23.
The Forefather is a Scourge since Attila is the Scourge of God. The Forefather is, therefore, Attila who later in life decided to take monastic vows and become Saint Attila.
FOR IT IS WRITTEN:
Respect thy Father and thy Mother by having them whip you
QUIT YER BITCHIN’ FOR HERE COMES WHIP TWITCHIN’!
 
1. Whipping is to be executed exclusively with a sterilized whip, dipped in a hydrogen solution. 
2. Whipping is sponsored by tanner shops and salt factories.
3. Salt is a necessary element to be rubbed into the post-whipping wounds.
4. WHIPPING IS THE SAME AS WHIPKRIEG AND IS NOT TO BE PERFORMED WITHOUT THE BLESSINGS OF THE CHURCH.
5. THE CHURCH IS OBLIGED TO BLESS BOTH THE CONVICT AND THE WHIP WITH HOLY WATER BEFORE THE EXECUTION IS TO TAKE PLACE.
6. Whipping in BDSM establishments is forbidden.
7. Whipping must not be performed with an old Avarian quirt.
8. The whip must not be manufactured from horse skin, which would work for nomads.
 
SLANDER/LIBEL:
1. The libelous person accused of libel is to be set free for honor is defended by dueling.
2. Duels are forbidden.
3. SHOULD BOTH DUELISTS DIE – DUELS ARE PERMITTED.
4. Citizens are not to be arrested nor killed at night but during the day, mid-day, in the open.
24.
Plagiarism is protected philosophically: according to Plato, all of art is imitation, and an incompetent one at that, especially the theater and poetry. Hence, when someone plagiarizes both he who plagiarizes a piece and the one who wrote the plagiarized piece are to be exhiled because both are imitating reality.
25.
Men are, at the core, evil. Hence why being faithful to someone is forbidden – be they faithful politically or sexually – for longer than five years. Adultery or backstabbing is a natural occurrence because it is natural to be at war with everyone. Those who remain faithful to others shall be hung under the suspicion that they want an organized, conspiratorial takedown of the government.
26.
Priests who are objectors to conscience and do not want to bless the weapons of paramilitary formations are to be employed in gay brothels as punishment.
Only corrupt coalitions are allowed in politics – see 3.
27.
Who does not know of other man’s secrets and does not deal with cancellations and blackmail is lazy because he isn’t trying to work 25 hours per day but thinks it’s enough to come to work at 8 and return home at 5. As punishment he is to wear the same diaper for three days, without changing it. A cloth one, at that.
***The-Kafkian-Monkey-Adelaide-Fringe-2017-The-Clothesline
*Persequendum est! *This thing must be continued!
*Kafka’s writing has inspired the term “Kafkaesque”, used to describe concepts and situations reminiscent of his work, particularly Der Process (The Trial) and “Die Verwandlung” (The Metamorphosis). Examples include instances in which bureaucracies overpower people, often in a surreal, nightmarish milieu which evokes feelings of senselessness, disorientation, and helplessness. Characters in a Kafkaesque setting often lack a clear course of action to escape a labyrinthine situation. Kafkaesque elements often appear in existential works, but the term has transcended the literary realm to apply to real-life occurrences and situations that are incomprehensibly complex, bizarre, or illogical. (source:Wikipedia)
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prose, samarrai, short story

The Artists

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers thinks that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

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Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding, as if he were plowing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

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Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound, died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is in fact Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivaled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphonie (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

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‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electrician, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

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SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

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proza

Today, going to the bookstore I experience as a mild nightmare…

The development of printing and electronic technology, swiftness of the ways of copying text, and, in particular, writing on a computer, have caused enormous increase in text productions and made that literature had become a fraction of the mass production art, raw material that supplies the printing and publishing industries whose products are later filtered in media and marketing, distributed in the trade network,becoming a part of spiritual consumption. Today, going to the bookstore I experience as a mild nightmare or as an entry in the supermarket: offer is overabundant and endless, the book is no longer a rarity, let alone sacred object, it is commonplace, readily available product of mass culture. All genres, except for the novel and, to some extent, drama (because of its natural association with the theater and the possibility of public presentation), are pushed to the edge of cultural and literary system. There is an obvious domination of light and trivial genres.

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