Weak Point

Among the shouts of children, dinner being made, trouble at work, car being serviced, he exposes his underbelly, tells us of his weakness, the blind spot of his eye, a place where he'd rather not but is left with no choice.

"I live within the narrow confines of two extremes, being fully conscious of the contradiction. I am bound by them to the extent of not being able to move at all, of having to stand. These two extremes are well known to all men - they are defined by the presence and absence of sense. For me the world is either nothing but sense (purpose, for the want of a better word), or it is completely senseless. There is either nothing but reason or there is no reason at all. God is everything or there is none. These things seem absolutely clear to me, in my walk, in my sleep, in my love of all things or utter disregard for them. I can switch from one to another, I have to, so as to maintain soundness of mind. It is neither new, nor original, and yet most people choose the shade of one or the other rather than the scorching light. They claim umbrellas to be the sun, they hide under roofs, calling them rain. They choose half-God and half-matter. Half-people. There can be nothing more blasphemous than the deeply held believe in "something", which today's opinion polls testify to so clearly. We have lost God in exchange for something ("Do you believe in God?" "No, I do not believe in God, but there must be something, I do believe in something."). In the name of something we have even compromised nothingness. Our actions, our love affairs, our cooking shows, our entire civilisation is based on a  firmly based believe in... something. And I (I alone) believe in everything or nothing. Do I stand accused of relativism? There is nothing relative in my mind, everything is absolute. I am an absolutist, an absolutist of the  mind. I don't need four eyes to see two different landscapes at once, as two is more easily divisible by two."

He concluded on an obscure note. He is not a drunk but his speech pattern is strangely disrrupted.

Anonymous Text Retrieved from the Now Defunct 'Poetry & Advertising'

What Is That Supposed to Mean?

This "project" is born out of consternation and greed. I am fascinated by the possibilities of poetry, but I stand aghast when confronted with the uncompromising insanity of advertising. This is a place of confrontation, where sparks fly from the clash between the merciless machine of advertising and the fragile flower of poetry (how could the encounter of these two cause "sparks to fly"? there are more ways of looking at both I am sure and the "fragile flower of poetry" at least is a deliberate caricature). At the bottom of both lies the craving for information, both can be motored by lust. Advertising in its simplest form is merely a piece of information about the existence of just about anything. Poetry in its simplest form is merely a piece of information about the existence of just about anything. Both use words and images, both have gotten out of hand, both serve to satisfy individual need. One has become a way of making money by poisoning the world we live in, the other has become a way of losing money by poisoning the world we live in (I remind myself there are more ways of looking at both). They seem a perfect match, a perfect couple. Let us see how they get on if they move in together. I hate advertising to the point of fascination. I love poetry to the point of disgust. I admire the idea that you can make money by adding advertising to your blog - it is amazingly absurd, it is disrespectful, it is (I know) impossible. It destroys that by which it is carried. And yet it creates space for poetry of kind, so out of place it is. If we shift attention from the text itself, which should be at the centre of the reader's focus, to the advertising it attracts, we are likely to catch the creature unawares. It may prove a monster, but we might be in for a surprise. And will the other one be the beauty or the beast? Poetry will not so easily be disrobed and will lead us by the hand, as ever, into the dark woods. But we will observe her carefully too. Poetry in advertising, advertising in poetry. We superimose the two and get a new image. Every word is an advertisement for something. Poetry in advertising, advertising in poetry. Let us make the labyrinth thick enough to sigh with relief when we find the exit.

S N U F F

"It is crucial to sing, knowing what, how people communicate, why Salsa." Snuff That is why you have the name of a specific community, which has managed to understand, because we have respect and commitment. He is the voice of the people interpret the process, their experiences, their daily tasks. For this reason, its inspiration, humiliation. When inspiration demonstrate the ability to value, you will address their thoughts, desires, and also in their rejection. He hides nothing and feelings that I'm sorry if you download and drums, his voice rises when mixed with rhythm and no right to encourage the spirit, if I understand the dancer creates relief Heart, live cadence, Sonera demonstrate their skills. He created his own style, and it was set. Now a new chewing tobacco more maturity and seniority structure, which is currently a special Prestige: Ray Santos. Ray commitment to what was originally supposed Snuff is a challenge for Ray Santos had to wonder how they say that the number of people poured into snuff, which was a better time to address the melody. Ray laid down rules for mergers, which has never been able to understand and know Snuff commitment to meet. Ray confessed to be Snuff is the reason why we need the most work. the first time, Snuff is a super group, with different instrumentation, and had to be done, the time demanded, his voice has the right winds, it is time that the best (snus) to interpret arrived in the Caribbean, and height. tigers and tiger, this LP is mainly music, its quality, its design, we take into account not only the way we just enjoy life. producers were well aware of the purpose, Ray Santos, Snuff knew his style would remain unchanged, or money that could be transferred to your personality as an interpreter, which is focused mainly perfection instrumentation, Magic Touch, which has more freedom of expression, which should be recorded in Puerto Rico. best that could happen snuff this year, she was to meet with Ray Santos, and us, this unit is the most courageous and exciting yet occurred. I believe, although explicitly prohibit the advertising of cigarettes, snuff, it's pure and inimitable taste of Venezuela, and most of the real Caribbean. What are you waiting for?

Special Effects

It is overwhelming, inside, reaching the surface through the eyes, maybe in the extremities of teeth. The sorceres in special effects departments are performing their evil magic, bringing the world to its knees through obscene images of The End. Shall we go to the cinema on the eve of your greatgrandmother's funeral? It's a film about the end of the world. I'll bring a sweater, the evening might be cold. The power within stirs and surfaces, this time as indigestion. "Did you want something from the buffet?" she asks annoyedly with the key still in the door. "No, I'm just waiting for my wife." There is no point to the conversation from either side. "Will the old lady be burried in the ground?" "Yes, yes, I believe so." "I have never seen anything like it before." Have you never wondered where dead people go? I ask the child within. I know, answers he or whoever, grandma has grandpa in a little plastic container on her desk. That is correct, you get an A for that. It is probably a writing desk - you would have gotten an A+ for that answer. But then again, grandma never writes anything. The last postcard she sent us said: "I am sending you kisses. If you don't want them, send them back." It was both nice and cruel, don't you think? The film starts with perfect images of the flood, the last big flood. Black magic, methinks, and I get this idea (it comes from the power and the power of the child): all cinematography should be returned to its original role as mere entertainment. And entertinament, weapon against time, are all graphic novels and rock'n'roll and literary and other magazines, don't let anyone tell you differently, says I aloud to the dark and presumably empty auditorium, with images of civilisation's end on the screen. Mere knick-knacks, fandangles and whimsy-whamsies! They have fooled us into believing they deserve our undivided attention. Let us push all literature back to where it belongs - to pre-Gutenberg hiding holes, to monasteries high up in the mountains. Only then can all words and images be free again, receive back their original meaning, the meaning that is given to them through life, the life the remnants of which still cause power to shoot up in diminishing intervals as hiccups. Let us silence the banal, there is only one Book (how will this sound to the learned ear? how will this sound to you, little fella writing these words?). One Film (now, that's better). Taste the screen, lick it, tear it up, touch the material, the canvass, the paper. The cinema has nice and cosy and new blue seats, I cuddle up to the person sitting next to me in the dark but forget to check whether it is still M. and for the rest of the end of the world am afraid to look again. In the car on the way back I study her carefully. It is her. In a new release - The Dream - words and images break free again. Coming soon to a cinema near you.

Slow Train

Flowers need no watering when it looks like rain. When it looks like rain for too long, flowers need watering. I can always step into the swimming pool with cold chemical water waist-high. When I fall into it backwards, my underpants blow up with air. It is dark, the neighbours cannot see me, I can play at farting. The water is shallow and clean, for once there seem to be no monsters there. Comfort has no need for courage, however absurd. I walk to meet them, I walk barefoot to the neareby woods with sandy paths. I feel nature sucking on my blood as a mosquito, I hear it in the bushes as a bird cry, I see it climbing up my leg as an ant, bent over backwards in an attempt to inflict damage on me by squirting microspopic amounts of its acid. I listen or speak aloud when there is M. walking next to me, I try to follow my own thoughts and supress the urge for defecation when I walk by myself. When I meet someone, I say hello, but my voice doesn't sound right. I hear a little boy saying: "But he will cut his feet! I saw him, his feet are bare!" His mother laughs and whispers something. I can cut my feet but I don't, not even further up the forest, where sand mixed with tree cones and stones changes into grass and whatever else below.
"I know the rules like everybody else and was intent to keep them until I realised that nobody else does. Since then we are on a mission to discover the very source of rules. It is our experience that makes us free, therefore we can never all live in freedom, other than the freedom of gaining experience. "
I scream with frightened surprise when something pricks the skin on my ankle. I am afraid of the huge scaly monster even here. I did see a dead snake on the path and it did transform into a dead thought. The little boy was right and will make a good adult. When the small hand car with the children approached the place where I was hiding, I put on the hat, sat on the bike and set off toward the rails. M. saw me and pointed. The children turned their heads with question in their eyes. The grass was so high I could not go on and fell off the bike. My sister laughed when I apppeared again, fixing my sunglasses and straw hat, looking around, not being able to see them. The hair dryer that was to serve as a gun was lost in the tumble. I stole their caps and bags and warned them of my brother, an even more infamous thief, living further down the rails. As I rode fast to be there first, I found the hair dryer lying in the grass, next to a glove. Its fingers were green with moss. When I came back, I watered the vegetables in the greenhous and stepped into the swimming pool with a beer bottle and an opener.
"When you call to the other players, you are in danger of receiving the ball. It is difficult to pretend there is no game, when you hear the referee's whistle."
The hand car is not really a handcar, it moves like a bike.

We saw her approaching us as soon as we entered the ward. It was the hospital for old people, long-term illnesses. She had her walking apparatus she could lean on, but even with the twisted metal tubes she was quickly right in front of us. In her elegant laced dressing gown she sat down and said: "No music for me, please." She preferred classical music, she said, but eventually succumbed to a folk song I had trained for all morning with the ukulele. "I'm an artist," she said with little pride, "that is I was before I fell and broke my hip. Now I'm here and do nothing. But I have to walk!" She stood up again. "What kind of artist?" "Oil painting, aquarels..." We walked with her, red noses dangling around our necks." She was born in 1911," the ward psychologist and our guide whispers to us. That would make her... "Jiří Trnka was my schoolmate. Our professor was Max Švabinský." That would make her 98. These are legendary, almost forgotten names. "Tichý, he was a painter of clowns. He was also my professor," she sits down again, her breathing normal, our eyes staring. "He wasn't there long though. When the youth communist student organisation leader came to his cabinet and addressed him in the familiar comrade tone, Tichý said 'Out you go!' and threw him out! But in a week's time it was him who had to go." She gets up again and we enter the first room.
A sturdy Romany attendant is involved in conversation with an old man, whose hair looks like a clown's wig, except that of all the colours it has turned white. "Of course, professor," the attendant says to the lying man and pats him on the cheek like a little child. "Don't you worry... and quit the crying!" he adds when he sees a tear running down old professor's cheek. "Look who's here. Clowns have come to cheer you up!" I attempt not to feel embarassed, approach the man, hold his hand, introduce myself and continue: "So you are a professor..." "Every human being has a heart," he responds, his chin starts shaking and another tear gets stuck in his wrinkled cheek. "Indeed," say I. "A professor of what?" "Biochemistry." I feel a distinct shaky rythm in his hand that still rests in mine - every second or so he presses me with more urgency, and releases again. "I was very lucky, professor Palát taught me at school and he was one of the greatest. A friend in later years." His eyes wondering, every once in a while fixed upon mine with a stare. "I once went to a conference in Sweden, must have been the fifties, and met a Nobel Prize winner there." The name of the laureate is lost in the bumps of his voice . "I asked him whether he could spare two copies of his major work, which I would bring back home with me and use to spread his theories. He refused at first and said to me: In all honesty, these books are only half mine. All that is groundbreaking in them is based on the work of professor Palát." The old professor's eyes open widely at the memory and stare at the ceiling in disbelief, yet again recalling and savouring the triumphant moment. I also feel that the tremor of his hand has most unexpectedly ceased. His body is quiet. After five seconds or so, he resumes: "Professor Palát! My dearest teacher!" Another tear and his body returns to its rambling rhythm.
My colleauge sings songs with an accordeon. She is loud and original and very good. I have to do very little. The Romany man comes in and out again. "Do you also visit children?" he asks upon leaving and is happy to hear that we will go to children's oncology tomorrow. "My little friend is there," he shrugs his muscular shoulders with a shy smile and closes the door behind him.
When it is time to say good bye, I go and again shake the professor's hand. "Good bye, professor." Tears seem to be running from his eyes continuously now. There is no attendant here to tell him not to cry and I neither want nor dare. "Professor?" I have his attention now. "Call me... (look how his chin is shaking again) ... call me... human being." I look at the paper bracelet every patient wears on his arm. "Good bye, Čestmír," I say. He nods his head in acknowledgement. As we walk down the stairs we hear a loud male voice from some storyes below ask the following question: "What sound does a goat make?" The "moo" we hear in response is clearly uttered in a very old person's voice. Call me human being, for once I would not mind.

Now, that the Monday Club has virtually vanished, nothing stands in the way of my ambition of transforming it into a political organisation. I am open to all discussion regarding its programme and have a couple of ideas myself. One of them is: all candidates elligible for election must come from a special school, where politicians are brought up from childhood, not unlike the monarchs, who were educated for their future rule. These special schools would educate future politicians not only in languages, biology or geography, but also in philosophy, literature and art. Utmost care would be taken for the best teachers of various opinions to be employed. Not all the graduates of such school would have to serve as politicians - this would be left to their own free will and their extensive education would enable them to earn a living in any walk of life. Those who WOULD stand for election would define the opinions they came to hold as clearly as possible in a book of statement and would be free to associate in political parties. This combination of monarchist and democratic principles would ensure etc.

The James Joyce Tower (Pornographic) / The Discovered Manuscript

In the reflection of the balcony door I look like a monkey, a gorilla, with my unusually elongated penis juxtaposed with the crane in the valley, erecting yet another building to corrupt height. Around it a jungle of newborn tree-leafs. When we were leaving ten days ago there was nothing but bare tree trunks that have now outgrown themselves into a constrained wilderness. I made love to you in ways, but before that I had to do my job. I put on a clown costume and went to the old people’s home. “Questions, questions, questions,” P. wrote in his text message. An answer. “Stop it, don’t you see she’s crying?” the old lady’s elderly daughter snapped and ordered us out of the room. “For fifty years I lived in Smíchov,” another lady said. A neighbour. Does she now that and that bar? Yes, she does. I am going there tonight. Questions. Would she ever again. Fresh-green. The impenetrable urban desert. My foliage. Things so easy to imitate. Would I wage war? I have my own sacred things. Made love to you in ways. Know centimetres of your body. Do you love my armpits? You can have them after I die. But now I am making love to you. Futile. Animals. There were four of them, with beards, one drank non-alcoholic beer. So what, I smoked. They knew how to say nothing, their faces covered with bark masks, faces that walked around but said nothing, could I make a living out of this? Don’t you see she’s crying? He that winks at me (I wink back) played a drunk sailor in the disused factory. His performance was appreciated by the audience. He played a man with no teeth. I made love to you with my teeth (is that at all possible?). The three wise men. “Why is beer so popular here?” “I don’t know… I really don’t know.” Just three days ago I was sliding along the concrete wall in Sandycove as though it had been covered with ice. The sea can do wonders. Looks a bit like “wounds”, but only on paper. It is nearly lunch break. Bought a book, quick. When we lie on our backs I can touch the chandelier with my feet. More like a lamp. The show was a success but not a crowd-pleaser, you know the way. Glad I am not driving. A bypass is enough to make him nervous despite his lung surgery. You know you have limited time of course. Had to finish my exam in three hours, my last beer in fifteen minutes. The barman got a call from his fiancé. Ain’t he sweet? Got some Fins here, love, can’t go yet. Made love to you laboriously, must have taken half an hour. Is that of interest? A. owes us both money, but his rich mama… B.’s on drugs again, but hey… I stood there naked. What are the polka steps? But you understand me, don’t you? I’ll fight for it if I have to. Not all clowns are funny, you know, but I will fight. Have you read the reviews? Love ‘m.

Anew

All those new windows on our building look tempting. They can be opened or half-opened and from the outside this creates a rythm. Our windows are two pauses and three short beats. Half-closed, univiting. Have been silent for some time as the family has left and there seems to be no need or will to talk. My daughters have placed three big stones by the keyboard. One, dark one, speckled with tiny shiny particles, another one has dark but shallow holes. It would be easy to skip letters and shift to stones. It would mean silence. It would mean uninterrupted writing. The girl was so small, in her red and blue Tesco t-shirt, and carefully eyed me as I was returning the empty beer bottles. Even her eyes were small, flowers in a small front porch. I didn't look at her breasts, I always forget. She said "Here you go," gave me the coins, I said "Thank you," and returned to silence. Outside it was already getting dark and I watched the thousands of lamps bathe the displayed goods in bright light. Actors filled the stage I had just left, all perfect for their parts, the father, the mother, the sister, the brother, the lovers, the arguing couple. The shop assistants swearing and cursing, vulgar. The girl in her red and blue jersey behind the information desk, sticking her neck up. I walk slow and resist the temptation of taking a ride on the trolley filled with heavy cat litter. I drive slow and slowly I walk up the stairs. Slow and silent seem synonymous. I think of lunacy - some forms of insane behaviour must have their roots in doing what one realises is the sane thing to do.
Touched one of the stones, a white one, piece of it chipped away leaving the form of the letter V. It feels dry, powdery to the fingers.
When I look into the valley the crane is still there and the spotlight guarding the construction site reveals a part of the park climbing up the steep hill. A cancan dancer. It used to look like a pen-and-ink drawing in winter, now it is the threshold of jungle. When one realises he lives in a jungle, is that a sign of declining mental health? P. has changed one theatre for another. The light, the stage, surely they remain the same. Even the people, the audience, amazed that someone has the guts, climbs up there, has them look at her and think "Why?". If you want, I'll show you what all of us are like, stop, and sit down. We will call this "The Stage."
She said she dislikes the everyday stage.
The light can only penetrate so far into the jungle. The girl handles the bottles with disinterest, suspiciously looking at the pictures - Prague castle, smiling bearded man, brewery gate. A young woman runs after her son. "I wanna pee!" "I know, but you can't pee here." Me and my ridiculous friends. We don't even speak or meet anymore. There is a merit in that. I wrote a short summary of how we touched. "I can't read it, it's in English." Nobody can, somebody threw it out when the workmen came to put in our new windows. From the inside the rythm is difficult to discern, the contrast of red and blue, hot and cold, the air that enters the lungs should be returned to the same shelf.

Luck and/or Happiness

Every Tuesday morning I wake up fat and ugly in the everyday way, and hungover. I usually take a bath.

"My husband has bought himself a Porsche for Christmas. We drove it to a supermarket and as we were leaving the parking lot the police stopped us. 'What?! What did I do?!' says my husband. 'Sorry, we just have to check if the car is not stolen.' From that I conclude that not many people go shopping with a Porsche." There was a long drive ahead of us and I tried to get the navigation going. It kept finding us two hundred kilometres to the East. We had a radio interview arranged in one city in the North and Z. was driving.

We sat in the bar, the two of us, the two Monday people who - this week, at least - upheld the motto of Tradition, Honour, Discipline. We talk about films, as we always do with K., and have trouble recalling just about any actor's name. We send text messages and make phone calls. "Stephen Fry!" "Adrian Brody!" The place is full of old men, I watch their receding hairlines. About half of them have more hair than I do. They drink beer, Czech potato rum from tiny cups, and smoke. A white dog and a black dog run around in small circles trying to sniff each other's buts. Blurred vision makes them look like jin and jang. "What do they think they are doing? How can Sparta do such a thing?" His voice is coarse, he is sturdy with a boxer's face. Not the guy anyone would want to argue with. In the past. Here everybody is old. "Five nul! This will hardly take them to the finals. But you are all fucking Slavia fans anyway." He gently touches the back of the hand of a fifty-year old belle with his crooked nose and kisses it. "Keira Knightley!" shouts out K., pronouncing Knightley as 'knittley'. Yes. Absolutely. It is the play off season and we all know that.

"When we were in Florida at Christmas and drove down to Key West - such a beautiful ride, nothing but the ocean! - we chanced upon a street carnival that was so relaxed even by the American standards." Finally the satellite located us and a male voice interrupted Z., saying "toll" rather gravely. Arrival time was the latest possible. It was raining and trucks were carrying large amounts of bricks for somebody to live in. "The theme was 'pirates'. There were topless women in pirate costumes driving around and one man was completely naked except for a parrot fixed to his genitals!" We were about to do an interview about clowning and I realised I forgot my nose.

Floating around me in the bath tub are a hippo, a frog, a duck and an octopuss. Little J. put them in for me and insists I stop writing and play with them. The duck has a black beak. "Why?" asks J. "From a candle," I explain. We used the animals at one of our crazy waiters gigs. People lit their candles in nutshells and sent them afloat in a big bowel of water - who stays home, who travels far. We added to this Christmas tradition the four animals. The duck was luck, the frog was money, the hippo was sex and the octopuss was the economic crisis. At that time people found it funny. Now it was me sitting in the big bowl filled with water, with the four animals swimming around me like derailed planets.

We arrived on time. "I try to model my psychological profile on cars," says Z. "When I drive my husband's car, it is fast but it is not me, only a part of me. This car is much more like me." She goes off to pay for the parking and I stuff the navigation into the glove compartment. It is so small I bearly manage to close it. As soon as we leave it will probably burst open and release all its valuables into full view. I make sure that I take the hand puppet of a duck with realistic duck sounds with me. It will be the third guest in the studio, ready to respond to the most difficult questions.

I climb out of the bath tub - still fat and ugly in the everyday way, but no hangover any more. J. looks at me and laughs. "You know why I am laughing?" she asks in her baby voice. The hippo, the duck, the frog and the octopuss quickly take the emptied space. "Because you have such a big one." "No, I don't." "Yes you do. You have a huge belly button."

Small Diktonius translation

Here is a sample of Finnish poet Elmer Diktonius(1896-1961). He was part Finland´s Swedish speaking minority. Well, Swedish is our second official language but still its minority.

One of Diktonius´s most interesting books is his first. It is called Min dikt(1921); my poetry, written when he was only 25. It´s an collection of aforisms and short verses, mostly about art which is considered to by crucial organ of life by Elmer Diktonius.

Min dikt, Runoni in Finnish, is not very famous book among fins. I don’t know many people who have read it. It was written shortly after civil war which was won by whites. This time is kind of a blurry in Finnish history and not much mentioned. Or that’s how I feel about it. It is called a war of brother against brother. Elmer Diktonius was more to the red side and like mentioned Swedish speaking and writing. So he was definitely in marginal. Min dikt is tough and demanding words about how art should and could be. In 1920´s Finland was farming/forester country. Not the best crowd for Diktonius I suppouse. Worst part was that he co-wrote Min Dikt with one notorious Otto-Wille Kuusinen(1881-1964), Finnish red/leftist person who is not much mentioned among the great men of Finnish history.

But I love Diktonius´s thoughts. They are like fists. As an exercise I try to translate randomly opened page in to English. This can also be taken as a Finnish language lesson!

Page 82 from Elmer Diktonius: Runoni, Translated from Swedish by Arvo Turtiainen and to English by yours truly

Kukaan ei pysty luomaan

uudestiluominen on sitä mitä me teemme.

Ei ole olemassa mitään mitä ei voida lyödä maahan

ei mitään mitä ei voi uudesti luoda – se on suurta

Onko taiteilijan odotettava aikaansa?

Eikö ole oikeampaa sanoa että hänen on odotettava oman

aikansa ihmisiä.

Taiteilijat, jotka elävät niin pitkällä aikaansa edellä

etteivät kuule läheistensä ja miljoonien muiden

ihmisolentojen huutoa tästä helvetistä, eivät ole

ansainneet elämäänsä.

/

Nobody can create.

Re-creation is what we do.

There is nothing that cannot be struck down

there is nothing that cannot be re-created – That is great.

Must artist wait for his time?

Isn´t it more right to put it this way, that he has to wait for

people of his time.

Artists, who live so far ahead from their time

that they cannot hear the scream of their closest ones and of millions of other

human beings from this hell,

have not deserved their lives

Page 83

Uusi taideteoksessa ei estä sen ymmärtämistä vaan vanha

ihmisissä.

Ostamme taidetta elämällä niin että ymmärrämme sitä

Mutta onhan persoonallisuuksia joita on kutsuttava

suuriksi vaikka heiltä puuttuukin taiteen taju.

On toki.

Samaten kuin suurmiehiä jotka ovat mykkiä, sokeita tai

kuuroja.

Haava joka kirveltää:

että useimmat radikaaleista taiteilijoista ovat

konservatiiveja suhteessa ajan suuriin kysymyksiin;

että useimmat ajan suurissa kysymyksissä radikaalit

ovat konservatiiveja suhteessa taiteeseen.

/

New in artwork does not prevent its understanding but the old in

people.

We buy art by living so that we understand it.

But there are personalities who are to be called

great even if they lack the sense of art.

Yes, indeed there is.

In the same sense there are great men who are mute, blind or

deaf.

The wound that smarts:

that most of the radical artists are

conservatives in relation to the big questions of our times;

that most of those who are radical to big questions of our times

are conservatives in relation to art.

Old Books

My dreams were, as always, full of water. Rivers, lakes and oceans, often difficult to discern one from the other. Water is what remains. I read an article in a weekly magazine about water and its properties - the writer, a scientist, was fascinated, but I felt there was even more to water than that but I could not and would not say what. Maybe he had said it all and I just did not understand.
"Today is not a good day to visit, I have lots of work, F. is supposed to come to the kindergarten dressed up as a fairy tomorrow, I am baking cake for Sunday's celebration of J.'s third birthday and I am behind with all my work..." M. spoke these words on the phone to her friend from Moravia, whose husband works on a building site in Prague and she and their little baby travel with him, living in appartments with labourers and cooking food for them. Given the circumstances M.'s friend would not take even this sophisticated form of "NO" for an answer and asked what bus she should take that would bring her to our place. Since I was going to a bank to the hellish Andel junction to shift some money from one account of mine to another account of mine (the state actually giving me some money for doing this - I hope I will never have to understand), I was asked to meet them there and take them to our apartment.
Nothing remarkable happened before or after that, not even in the second-hand bookshop I went to when I was waiting for the friend. Only recently I diagnosed myself as being a collector of books, which was something of a disappointment, because since some time ago I do not consider collecting a worthwile activity. I found many books and bought most of them (including one with many photographs of Jaroslav Hašek), thinking about my university professor, who often spoke about his three libraries (he emigrated twice), which were largely composed of the same titles. It was then that I discovered the horrid beauty of collecting - I weighed every book I chose in my hand and I realised that while I was getting the book I was already setting up a date in the future when I will have to part with it. Nothing extraordinary, but for the first time there was more to buying old books than the joy of finding them (a lot like picking mushrooms, including the somewhat unpleasant smell) and the physical weakness that follows when the prices are added up. I felt that in buying the books I was losing a lot more than the money and I finally relaxed.
On Monday the Monday Club almost fell apart only to become reborn again in a new and even lousier environment. It is a return to jukeboxes and (this time even) darts. The place is cold and dark, and the waiter is incredibly polite (this is actually true). When we walked out, we stood still for a moment, enjoyng the brand new vista - it was dark, snowy, a busy road, big but old apartment blocks, a silhouette of a factory chimney behind a tree. We parted. The prior conversation involved sports and women, with literature and music mentioned only marginally. This or the other was the original plan but no one really cared to remember. "I am looking forward to seeing P. sail into this place with his huge hat," A. said. It is a place of ugliness and visions and the beer actually tastes good. It is called U Myslivce.
The friend and her daughter are leaving, the baby is crying. The mother says: "You go to the cinema a lot - have you seen..." I wish I did go to the cinema a lot more. I hope the baby girl does not bite me like she just did her mum.

Heart winter

I lay in the bed. I´m sure that earth beneath is getting rounder by the minute. Its late and I think I´m not sleeping. I know that soon the bed starts to move. It starts to slide on the round and cold ground. And in blink it slips from the edge of the earth and falls to the dark void. In dreams there is no gravity. I´m gone. Trains, cars, aeroplanes, busses, taxi´s... Being one of the poorest persons I know I sure do pollute a lot. So I dressed up as gorilla that has a huge boner(erected rubber penis). And to get me going I roll in the snow in front of the bar. I have no underwear so its really cold. Then I run screaming to inside and start to grab women from behind and raise them into air. Its hard to see through the gorilla mask. Soon I notice the woman the gorilla is harassing(sitting on the lap with bare ass and shouting dirty words) is not a woman at all but actually young man. He is some hippie style young musician who is in stiff shock. I notice that the feeling in bar is not so hilarious or crazy as it could be. There is a hand full of people attended and they are actually little bit afraid. Gorilla is swearing in strange low voice and shaking its lonely boner. Outside in the night snow flows tenderly. I look out of the window again and I see bright snowy landscapes rolling by. Trees are covered with heavy snow and sun is high for short time. This view perfectly reflects my feelings. Out there is a huge unknown forest, white and still. And I´m flying through it in 200 km/h speed. We are near the entrance of the ancient temple area. By the gate there is a black sailor who collects the entering fees. I´m walking there with my friend. There is a get feeling that he will not pay the fee. And as we roll in he moves to the far side of the gateway. In the moment I put my coins in to the sailors jar he steps in. Like a dog out of leash. I smile and say –you have to give the Caesar that what belongs to Caesar. -A kick in the ass, he answers. -First your money then kick in the ass, I add. On top of the hill we can now see a small jade temple. In the main railway station two guys offer flyers to by passers. Big letters say SALVATION IS COMING. As I walk by them I hear that they speak something about 1990´s model BMW. I stand on the ocean. On frozen openness. It´s my favourite place. By the masters house old drunks kiss and hug each other.

1, 2, 3 - here we go

Why not just start with it. This blog has been over and in and around my head for a couple of days now. Why not just start writing it. Not knowing how to write blogs and which personal – formal relation to follow, I decided to write down three different things. The first one will be very banal and concrete, an event from today. The second will be more abstract, it will follow my thinking from the last couple of days. And the third one will touch upon how I feel about doing it – starting to write this blog.

1. Our cat peed on Živa's chair today. We are quite sure she did it out of jealousy. I took the textile off and put it in the washing and drying machine. When I wanted to put it on again it was too small.

2. Živa is different every day. But never so different that we would not recognize her again. Thinking about how people never really change – you can always see the past in them and you consider them the same person as they were before. The complete change may be impossible because of the person changing or even because of the observer. The result is the same: we can never become someone else.

3. It's always scary and exciting to start something new. I feel quite ok. At the end here is my conclusion for the future: no explanation, no introduction, just going straight to the point (if there is one).

In the Movies

"I have a headache, stomach ache and my legs hurt from going up and down too many times yesterday..." That much I managed to write down before the lights went out in the cinema and the film started. All this happened on Sunday. I was wrong, as I usually am when it comes to judging people and their intentions, and L.V. really was thinking over the money, not my reliability, as I suspected him of doing in my previous post. So in the end we did go to Karlovy Vary to do our "crazy waiting" in the town's most prestigious hotel. When we fought off some initial uneasiness (L.V. experienced a juggling disaster there which he did not want to go back to and we went through a shared entertainment catastrophe in a similar hotel in the same town at a posh New Year's Eve party 2008), we changed into costumes and produced our tiny red carpets to welcome the 400 distinguished confectioners one by one (hence the hurting legs a day later). There was one specially distinguished guest, the town's mayor, and we were warned to be careful. He turned out to be a nice man with a charming wife (of course). When we approached them the second time in the course of the evening and L.V. offered him a piece of cheese in a mouse trap, he made an unexpected move and spilled half his wine into the coffee of the lady standing next to him, the other half travelling the extra bit further to her chest. We avoided him for the rest of the night. The evening was a success.

During our journey back - a long one, late at night - it began to snow and we discussed life and films, which we seldom do. The conversation was going so well that I forgot to fall asleep in the car and went to bed at around three a.m. (hence the headache the day later). 

At least the stomach ache eventually proved to be caused by something else than laborious comedy-making. I went to see a doctor. His name and the pictures on the walls in the waiting room suggested he was Lebanese. He had a very strong voice and it was almost impossible to read while waiting for the examination, as I could hear all the details concerning the medical condition of the patients who went inside ahead of me. This was only fun until the moment I realised that my turn was coming up. So, after some crazy waiting in the waiting room, there was time for comedy again. The doctor's accent, I realised, was the cause of many misunderstandings, which usually resulted in the doctor blaming the patients for withholding important information from him. And yet he seemed to be enjoying it all very much. He spent a lot of time with me (considering how many people were waiting outside), explained everything three times and told me not to carry heavy stuff and not to do one more thing, which I am too shy to disclose. I felt "not guilty" on both those counts, but agreed to be careful none the less. In the end he gave me an ultrasound photograph of my private parts to keep and I promised to carry it around in my wallet (I did not, but I should have - I am sure he would have enjoyed it). When I finally left his office, people were looking at their watches a bit too obviously.

So, the lights are going down in the cinema and the film starts: L'Instinct de Mort, "the most expensive French film of all time" - not surprising, really, given that it is really two films. Most of the money seems to have been spent on realistic violence and I ended up disturbed, as I should have expected. Instead of going to see the most expensive second part of all time, I went to Jamajka to drink beer and read the magazine I bought for M. and T., because it has the same name as their daughter - Živa. I learned some exciting news from the life of trees and ants. I will have to buy another copy to keep. At one point an elderly woman, all dressed in white, came to my table and said "Good evening". I replied accordingly, wondering, whether she would join me. After a minute or so of standing she left without saying good bye. I got up, paid for the beer, deliberately forgot a lighter with some evil design on the table, and left. It began to rain. The temperature was just above zero.

Four Spots

After a week or more of freezing weather in Prague the temperature has swung back above zero. I was beginning to get used to the everpresent cold, getting the feeling I always get when something lasts for days rather than hours, that this was going to go on forever. At least there will be less infection-spreading insects in the summer, I consoled myself, trying not to worry about all the other things that got frostbitten as well. 

Yesterday the thought occured to me of setting up a post office rather than a blog (or notice board rather than a post office), where my life might run parallel to the lives of friends, or should I say colleagues, living abroad. The project's ambition - if it has one (and if it can be called a project - I will use neither of these words here anymore) - is to act as a place where letters are left and picked up (so I was right with the "post office"), letters that are private to us, who know each other, and public to anyone else who might for any reason be interested - outside audience, while welcome, is not, however, a prerequisite for its existence. I do this without having consulted the friends in question, i.e. Maja, Helga and Pasi (I hope I am not to be accused of any bias towards two-syllable names), in advance, which makes our post office an experimental one. I am prepared to close it down if I fail to persuade you, dear contributors, that leaving your letters here is a waste of time. Let us get writing, then.

Besides the easing of temperatures, we even got some winter sun today, which also marked the end of the girls' week of fever. Since M. has finished her work and I could not go clowning in hospitals not feeling well myself, we spent almost the entire week at home, fighting the children's temperature, listening with fear and interest to their fever-induced comments, making ourselves much nicer meals than we are used to, and watching DVDs at night, with pauses to put a cold wet blanket around little J. when her fever ran too high. Even now the girls are still very cranky and J. just fell asleep on the ground in the middle of a game, after a fit of anger aimed at her older sister. In this (I wonder if relaxed is the right word) state of mind I took every phonecall as an unwelcome intrusion. Luckily I only had a few, one from L.V., who offered me to go to Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad) tomorrow to perform as "crazy waiters" at a confectioners' convention. Sweet. I took some time to think it over and when I called him back I said I would like to try, as I needed some encouragement in this field of work. He sounded happy but did not understand what I meant by encouragement. I said I was not satisfied with our last jobs. He became even more concerned. I specified I was not happy only about myself, but that I still wanted to give it a try (I thoughtI sounded enthusiastic, because I really was). But he was not convinced. "You mean you did not like the mind reading stuff we did last time?" I said again I merely disliked myself. He said: "I don't like the money they are offering, it's black mail (in fairness, he did mention this before). I'll think about it." We were back at the beginning and I took it as a no, I changed my mind, we are not going. Did I loose his trust, I wondered. Is this a solution to my dilemma of doing things primarily for money? Boring. Banal. But the phone rang a second time. It was J.Z., musician and poet, for whom I do small translations. He asked me for a quick translation and also whether I will come to the launch of his new CD. I excused myself on the grounds of time ("we were all sick, you now") and still feel ashamed about it. How would "I am not really interested in your music" sound? 

I plan to see Murnau's Nosferatu tonight, in a cinema, just as I planned to see another film yesterday. However, leaving house these days feels almost like breaking a vow. Or am I making up excuses even for myself? But I have to go anyway, as I am required to make a boat out of a watermelon (F.'s wish), which will probably keep me busy until early morning. Now I remember that a similar thing kept me from going anywhere yesterday - I was trying to fix the inner tube of a scooter wheel. I discovered where the hole was, fixed it, broke a bicycle pump, fixed it, put the tube laboriously back in the wheel, discovered that in the process of fixing one hole I created three more and ran out of patches.

Reading this article over, I can see it is not a letter at all, as it is full of "I". How about "you" then? Will this be a quadrimaculate blog after all?