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Ti moraš imati kameno srce, da posmatraš svu tu patnju svoje dece. Zato si i Bog. Bogovi ne prave razmažena derišta. To, tvoje kameno srce, zbog njega te cenim. Uradićeš ono što se mora uraditi, ma koliko bolelo. A mi, ni, pored sve te silne boli, još uvek nismo svikli na bol. Gilgameš silni i dalje slini za izgubljenim drugom. I ne znam kad će sve to već jednom prestati. Naš plač. Što se diže u nebesa. Mislim da sam te sreo jednom u ludnici. Kao upišanog i usranog čoveka, koji u svom ludačkom ritmu špalira hodnikom bolnice ponavljajući: Ne znaš šta je kaldrma dok ne hodaš blatom. Da li si to bio ti Oče?
U jednom trenu se, na tvoju zapovest, svet podelio na dvoje i meni je pružena šansa da napravim analogiju između života i šaha.
Kažu da je šah surov i lep. Kao što kažu i za prirodu. Zato znam da je tvoje maslo. Tabla je podeljena na vojske svetla i tame a između njih stoji jedan strašni sat.
On se sastoji od dva međusobno povezana sata s jednim dugmetom koji zaustavlja jedan sat a pokreće drugi. Nakon odigranog poteza, igrač zaustavlja svoj sat čime pokreće sat protivnika. Igrač gubi partiju ako ne odigra propisani broj poteza u dodeljenom vremenu.
Šahovski sat kaže ono čuveno Makijavelijevo: “Borba se ne može izbeći, može se samo odložiti u korist neprijatelja”. I još kaže: Mom Bogu nije nije važno koliko ste blizu pobede ni koliko su vam potezi sjajni, ukoliko ih niste načinili na vreme.
Ti si me prokleo, imaću neprijatelja.
Vernog do groba.
I on će se zvati vreme.
(Vreme: deli se na dva retorska pitanja “već?” i “tek?”)
Razapeo si me na sat. Učinio da nosim u sebi pakao i raj. Prikivam se i skidam sa krsta. Hodam između života i smrti. Svetlim u tami i tama svetli u meni. Početak sam i kraj. Sve će ovo proći. Ne smem da pogledam prirodi u istinu. Ne mirim se. Ne mirim se da sve će ovo proći. Promeniće se, priroda će ga preobraziti u hiljadu novih lica meni tuđih sve dok ga najzad ne zaodene u smrt. Curi mi kroz prste. Pretvara našu bliskost u jaz. Ne mogu da zaustavim dolazak noći. Ne mogu da zadržim dan.
Pusti da govorim o trošnom. O prolaznom. Gde je sva poezija i tragedija života. Dok štujemo tvoju večnost izmiče nam grandiozni leptirov let. Mimo nas, sve prolazi. Onoga trena kada osetiš da si smrtan sav, lepota će te preplaviti. Istina je da nemamo ništa više i nikada neće doći ono što nije već. Večnost je opasno pijanstvo. Očiju uprtih u nebesa, sudaramo se jedni o druge u svom pijanom ritmu. Ni na nebu, ni na zemlji, prividno živimo u nikad.
I nije samo večnost ta koja nas okiva. Dovoljno je da poturimo glavu između juče i sutra pa da glava ode, kao da je nikad nije ni bilo. Da ode glava a čovek nastavi neznajući da više nije među živima.
Bože, znam da,
Postoji jedna stvarnost, ispod ove. Mirna i suštanstvena. Postoji jedno stanje duha koje konzumira najmanje vremena. Prethodi mu napetost, poput iščekivanja strašnog događaja. Ona izoštri čula. Zatim ozbiljnost, koja skida svu trivijalnost svakodnevnice i uvodi u stanje askeze. Prvi znaci da smo tamo je potpuna neosetljivost na spoljni svet i ukidanje omedjenosti okvirom prostor-vremena: pristanak u sadašnjost.
Tamo se živi u skladu sa vremenom, ne kao ovde. Jedan od Ja, stalno preklinje ostale: osvoji izgubljeno blago. Zaroni u duboko plavo. Izroni školjku koja čuva mračnu tajnu vrednu bisera. Platiću. Ona mi sa dna progovara: dani u vlasti bezvoljnog uma nemaju zaveštanje; palačinka sa kremom njihov je vrhunac i odlikovanje. Opstaješ na površini još jedan dan. Površina je pakao. Tu žive odmetnici. Ruke su im krvave. Namere uvek loše. Da li će se ikad vratiti u nutrinu? Nutrina je izgubljeni Raj. Nije ni izgubljen jer znamo gde se nalazi a kapije su uvek otvorene. To je napušteni Raj. Bludni sinovi i kćeri seju zlo po površini. Neće se oroditi, neće se dva spojiti u jedno. Obrečeni sebi, stalno pružaju ruke ka drugom. Ne mogu voleti. Ni smrt ih neće spojiti. Izgubljena deca, napuštennog Raja u večnost odlaze sama.
Polako tonem, tonem u malodušnost. Gubim jednu, veličanstvenu stvarnost Dionisijskih zanesenjaka i njima bliskih asketa: život delatan, stvaralački. Jednoga dana, možda poput ovog, posve beznačajnog, doći će po svoje. Osetiću gnev pokradenog Boga. Pojaviće se, onda kada ne očekujem, siguran da sam zaštićen svojim bekstvima. Bez poštovanja prema smrti, novi dan je stari, perpetum mobile bindž vočinga i džank fuda.
Smrt je ono što održava život iole pristojnim. Ukrotiteljka svireposti. Slavno, memento mori! Jedno Ja zna da sam gladan. Donosi vino, poeziju, gljive bogova. Dolazi sa svitom, sviraju muziku kojom se putuje. Opominje, počujte! Dnevni snevači, u samnobulnoj obmani da ste budni, žderači vremena, rasipnici, samnobludnici. laki smeh ulenjio vam duh. Sačuvaj me bože svega što nije poteklo iz znoja lica mog! Sati: biseri pred svinje, što bacio je Bog. I svinje se radovaše, uz buku pirotehnike proslaviše još jednu beznačajnu godinu. Čujte i počujte! Silni bumerang što se stropoštava stepenicama mračnog ponora potisnute prošlosti. Zapostavljeni se vratio udvostručen, snagom zapuštanja nadojen, sve sa jednom namerom: da nas ujede za stražnjice.
Slušaj, slušaj kako otkucava sat. Kucamo zajedno, on je čekić ja nakovanj. Svakim udarcem me nabija dublje u zemlju. Hoće da me sahrani živog. Otputovaću negde, možda prevarim vreme, kretanjem kroz prostor.
Sveti spisi govore da se u srcu pustinje nalazi peščani sat. Da ću se osloboditi vremena ako ga razbijem. Pokazaće mi gde, dalje moram sam.
Nepregledna, okupana suncem, bojo kašmira. Iz suše, rađaš plod. Nauči me da volim hod po trnju.
Bože, učini me umetnikom. Da se otmem trivijalnosti lagodnog života, poslom kojim se rve sa silama uroborosa. Podari mi vreme vanredno koje se priziva kursorom što trepereći prati otkucaje uzbuđenog srca pred veliku bitku. Nek stanem hrabro, pred Beli papir, tu najcrnju tamu haosa. Noche Oscura. Mračna noć duše. Noć mračnija od noći. Kao dan kada je razapet. Zato i svetkujemo Veliki petak, zar ne? Dan, kada je sunce zakoračilo u tamu. Morao je biti razapet, preobražaju uvek prethodi umiranje na krstu. Nismo divljaci što se bezrazložno raduju nečijoj smrti na rimskom krstu. Od trnja do zvezda, put je čovečanstva. Antropos: Moje noge prate liniju glave ka zvezdama, ruke raširene čekaju momenat izmirenja suprotnosti; kad se moja leva i desna strana stope u jedno, u kontakt božanskog. Znam da me nisi ostavio oče. Znam da si me morao ostaviti oče, kako bih samog sebe i kroz sebe tebe pronašao. Pisati. Razapet. Agnus dei.
You must have a heart of stone, to watch all that suffering of your children. That’s why you are God. Gods don’t create spoiled brats. Your heart of stone is why I appreciate you. You will do what has to be done, no matter how much it hurts. But despite all the pain, we are still not used to it. Gilgamesh the mighty still drools over his lost mate. And I don’t know when it will all stop. Our crying. Which rises to the heavens. I think I met you once in an insane asylum. As a urine and shit stained man who, in his crazy rhythm, walks through the corridor of the hospital repeating: You don’t know what cobblestones are until you walk on mud. Was that you Father?
In an instant, at your command, the world split in two, and I was given the chance to make an analogy between life and chess.
They say that chess is cruel and beautiful. As they say about nature. That’s how I know it’s your doing. The board is divided into armies of light and darkness, and between them stands a horrifying clock.
It consists of two interconnected clocks with a single button that stops one clock and starts the other. After a move has been played, the player stops his clock, which starts his opponent’s clock. A player loses the game if he does not play the prescribed number of moves in the allotted time.
The chess clock quotes Machiavelli: “The fight cannot be avoided, it can only be postponed in favor of the enemy.” He adds: It doesn’t matter to my God how close you are to victory or how great your moves are, if you didn’t make them in time.
You cursed me, I will have an enemy.
Faithful to the grave.
And it will be called time.
(Time: divided into two rhetorical questions “already?” and “just?”)
You crucified me for an hour. Made me carry hell and heaven inside me. I kneel down and get off the cross. I walk between life and death. I shine in the darkness, and the darkness shines in me. I am the beginning and the end. This will all pass. I must not look at nature in truth. I can’t calm down.
I am not resigned to the fact that all this will pass. He will change, nature will transform him into a thousand new faces, alien to me, until finally he is clothed in death. It’s leaking through my fingers. It turns our closeness into a gap. I can’t stop the coming of the night. I can’t keep the day.
Let me talk about the dilapidated. About the transient. Where all the poetry and tragedy of life is contained. While we worship your eternity, a butterfly’s grandiose flight escapes us. We let everything pass us by. The moment you feel that your own mortality, beauty will overwhelm you. It is true that we have nothing more, and that which is not already will never come. Eternity is a dangerous drunkenness. Eyes fixed on the heavens, we crash into each other in our drunken rhythm. Neither in heaven nor on earth, we seem to live in never.
And it is not only eternity that binds us. It is enough to shake the head between yesterday and tomorrow, and the head is gone, as if it had never been there. The head is gone and the man moves on without knowing that he is no longer among the living.
God I know that,
There is a reality, beneath this. Calm and substantial. There is one state of mind that consumes the least amount of time. It is preceded by tension, like the anticipation of a terrible event. It sharpens the senses. Then seriousness, which removes all the trivialities of everyday life and introduces a state of asceticism. The first signs that we are there is a complete insensitivity to the outside world and the abolition of limitation by the space-time framework: consent to the present moment.
They live according totimes there, unlike here. They live according to the times there, not like here. One of the Self, constantly implores the others: win the lost treasure. Dive into the deep blue. Fish out the shell that holds a dark secret worth a pearl. I will pay. She speaks to me from the bottom: days in the power of a listless mind have no legacy; pancake with chocolate cream is their highlight and distinction. You survive on the surface for one more day. The surface is hell. Outlaws live there. Their hands are bloody. Intentions always bad. Will he ever return to the interior? The nutrient is a lost Paradise. It’s not even lost because we know where it is, and the gates are always open. It’s an abandoned paradise. Prodigal sons and daughters sow evil on the surface. They will not be reborn, the two will not merge into one. Doomed to themselves, they constantly reach out their hands to others. I can’t love. Not even death will bring them together. The lost children, the abandoned Paradise, go to eternity alone.
I’m slowly sinking, sinking into despondency. I am losing one, magnificent reality of the Dionysian raptors and their like-minded ascetics: active, creative life. One day, maybe like this, completely insignificant one, it will come for its own. I will feel the wrath of the stolen God. It will appear when I least expect it, feeling safe and protected by my coping mechanisms. With no respect for death, the new day is the old, a perpetuity of mobile binge-watching and junk food.
Death is what keeps life even remotely decent. Tamer of ferocity. Glorious, memento mori! One of the selves knows that I am hungry. He brings wine, poetry, mushrooms of the gods. He comes with an entourage, they play music that travels. Listen to the warnings! Daydreamers, may you awake in the self-deluded delusion that you already are awake, time-eaters, wasters, self-fornicators. May the easy laughter lull your spirit. Save me, God, from everything that did not come from the sweat of my face! Hours: pearls before swine, cast by God. And the pigs rejoiced, with the noise of pyrotechnics they celebrated another insignificant year. Hear and hear! A mighty boomerang that hits the stairs of the dark abyss of the repressed past. The Neglected One has returned doubled, fueled by the power of neglect, all with one intention: to bite us in the rear.
Listen, listen to the clock ticking. We knock together, he is the hammer and I am the anvil. With each thrust, he drives me deeper into the ground. They want to bury me alive. I’m going to travel somewhere, maybe I will manage to cheat time, by moving through space.
The scriptures say that in the heart of the desert there is an hourglass. That I’ll break free from time if I break it. He will show me where, but I have to go on my own.
Impenetrable, bathed in the sun, the color of cashmere. From drought, you bring forth fruit. Teach me how to love walking on thorns.
God, make me an artist. Deprive me of the trivialities of an easy life, the work that wrestles with the forces of ouroboros. Grant me the extraordinary time summoned by the cursor that flickers to follow the beating of an excited heart before the great battle. Let me stand bravely, in front of the White Paper, that blackest darkness of chaos. Noche Oscura. Dark night of the soul. A night darker than night. Like the day he was crucified. That’s why we celebrate Good Friday, right? The day when the sun stepped into darkness. He had to be crucified, the transfiguration is always preceded by dying on the cross. We are not savages who rejoice for no reason at someone’s death on a Roman cross. From thorns to stars, is the way of humanity. Anthropos: My feet follow the line of the head towards the stars, arms outstretched waiting for the moment of reconciliation of opposites; when my left and right sides merge into one, in contact with the divine. I know you haven’t left me father. I know that you had to leave me, father, so that I could find myself and you through myself. To write. Crucified. Agnus dei.