Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, The Shaitan Horse (complete)


With this chapter, titled “The Shaitan Horse”, I will temporarily pause sharing the material from the book of Mathilde which is currently being translated. I hope that the introductory passages piqued your interest. Mathilde will soon be available on Amazon. You will be notified in due time. Thank you for reading.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

The Shaitan Horse

“It’s hard to maintain friendships under the steep mountains whose sklents they spread like Icarus spreads his wings towards the icy sun in an attempt to touch the gods. Sun-scorched tops delve deep into the soul of the locals of Norrbotten. It’s hard to maintain friendships, because the abyss is indestructible here. Sven Olof, on the other side of Norrbotten, did not fear the trip. His name was described with a wondrous strength of myth.

“As he was riding on his horse across the slope with no discernible fear of any kind, hoarfrost covered the sven’s eyelashes. Cold shades danced on his cheeks long ago burned by the Norrbotten sun. He got off his horse and observed with his beady eyes the eternal chill of Hornavan.

“When I saw him, I left the solar running, crossed bridges that connected the towers, all the way up to the watchtower where I could see him swing under the swipes of the winds. It appeared as if he were supported by the light piercing through his massive body. He turned his face towards me and gave a wide grin, exuding all of his beauty, to me unbearably all too familiar, a mixture of fear and impending doom. We were looking at each other like two misbehaving boys after a dangerous game which they weren’t caught for, sensing Lindworm’s tongue standing between us like a beast, and the Fjalar hill behind it as well as the abyss whose bottom was paved with the crystals of winter. I was looking at the cracked eternal darkness of ice and felt like Olof was included in my thoughts as well. He removed his gloves and looked at me, mouth agape like with a skinned fox.

“He wore a black silk shirt with a laced collar and sleeves covered in multicolor tapes, a velvet robe and a huge cloak which cast even darker shadows on his already darkened face.

“I had rough wool trousers on. Boots, with rolled up top edge, reached up to my knees. Beneath a fine leather tunic, with corduroy edges and embroidered crosses of silk, peeped a collarless linen shirt. I wore an earring made of darkened silver, and a signet ring with a lion paw engraved on it on my hand.”

Orian lifted his hand and had a good long look into the distance. He memorized every detail. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued:

“In the inner yard of the castle we were smitten by a gaze of a female eye. It was my beloved wife Mathilde. Beneath the fine smooth plush dress one could make out the cotton and silk edges embroidered with a silver wire. She had a leather hat adorned with pearls on her head. The see-through organdy scarf floated above her head like a halo, and fell back all the way down to her slim waist. A silver filigree earrings with dark river pearls shaped like tears gave her face a particular beauty.

“Mathilde and Olof’s eyes crossed paths. It was then that I felt all the weight of an unclear feeling smoldering within me like an unspoken suspicion and a secret unrest during every single visit of Olaf to the castle. That force of feelings can only be triggered by an injured self-love. Rage grew within me. A cold, suppressed rage. Why was I being silent? Did Olof rule over me with the shackles of friendship?

horse

“I pushed the servant away and took Olof’s horse to the stables. Sunlight was following me and casting hot flames onto the unlucky face of the one who neither loved nor was loved. I pulled the horse with one hand. The wind was an enemy to me, a fierce companion who scooped up lumps of earth and with its icy breath threw it in my face.

“I pulled on the reins. The horse revved and tried to pull away. I opened the stable door and drove him into the box stall.

“What exactlt did I see?

“A muffled, female laughter in the background. It was Mathilde thinking Olaf’s remark to be humorous.

“No, no doubt that he wants her! I am aware of the fact that this is the last time I’m talking about this, about the misunderstanding, about the kisses that didn’t happen. My gut feels wrinkled up… I heard a murmur and steps of serfs who started genuflecting to Olof. He, as if in his own castle, started walking up the paved trail bounded by oak trees with light steps towards the mistress of the castle, towards Mathilde.

“I made my way to the castle entrance. The vile suspicion burned in my heart threatening to crush me.

“A vast room of magical beauty stretched well into the castle. It had been an enormous chamber magically lighted by thickly arranged torches. Above the entrance there was a richly done façade with a big window shaped like a horseshoe (a gift from an Indian architect whom I had killed for a bad joke at the dinner table, or for the remark that we serve tasteless meals in Hässe, I’m not sure). Down the hall stretched a row of chambers which flowed one into another. The solar could be reached via stairs from each of them or via the porches and terraces built in the Oriental style, right into the lavish garden of Hässe.

“From a gelded, richly adorned throne, set at the bottom end of the hall, I would stare at the pane, resting my nude feet on the stone statue of a prostrate lion with a human head. Befitting my dark being’s tastes, the imposing ceiling, supported by a forest of columns, was adorned with complex, dark frescoes. Gigantic tapestries warmed the cruel stone walls. The castle floor, Greek style, was adorned with black and white pebblestone mosaics, and if the observer would take a good detailed look at the painting, he would notice the many-eyed Argus, the All-seeing, surrounded by wolves with their maws agape. My eye did not miss a single solitary detail. It was the temple of my curse, carved in the living flesh of Hässe. My inner being, my soul, whichever you prefer.

“I chiseled the sweet venom of battle into the walls. I invested a lot into paintings. The fresco above the very entrance of the Hall (this was my pet name for the enormous hall of Hässe, a rare architectural jewel in an eerie wasteland of the surrounding nature) was presenting a head of, one would say, a beautiful woman. Eyes full of fright and tears were chiseled into her visage. Opposite to her, at the very end of the Grand hall, the fresco above the throne was presenting the merciful eyes of a man, who bore a scepter in his hand. The fresco was hiding a secret passageway, and the passage hid – mortuary statues. I would often open the secret door as the nobles were engulfed in merriment during feasts, followed by the merry music of the manor minstrel.

“’Master Olof’– I nervously paced the Hall – ‘I do not recall ever taking you to see the castle. My servants have covered the floors with a new material’ – I grinned like a wolf, nonchalantly toying with the silver earring in my ear. I was tapping on the floor with my boot, giving the terror a beat. – ‘Approach the throne, master Olof’ – the boot tapping increased. Olof’s gaze paused with admiration on the walls which were adorned here and there with gelded carvings and unavoidable arabesques.

“’Come with me and see the castle, my friend. Delve into my soul, and then we feast’ – I approached him and put my arm around his shoulder. I caught Olof’s gaze directed at Mathilde’s cross which hung from the stained glass. – ‘You are impressed by the cameos of the pious Mathilde of Essen? I brought it from Cologne as a gift to my god-fearing lady.’

“’Fascinating…’ – Olof mumbled. – ‘Really… you built a shrine in the castle, master Orian. Your care for the proper upbringing of lady Mathilde is touching almost as the care for her soul. I thought you would corrupt her with your gods.’

“I looked at him with bloodlust in my eyes, but I did not erase the wolfish smile off my face, quite the contrary, I grinned all the harder.

“’You see, Olof… The architecture I am inclined to lately is a strict and monumental one. Vast wall structures are without a single opening. Soon I will wall off all those tiny light windows through which you’re looking.’

“He gave me a funny look. ‘By the by, where is thy lady? She was here a moment ago’ – he took a good long look around him. She was here all along, right next to the two of us, silent like a shadow, peaceful like a sword resting in the sheathe. She seemed as if she were suppressing laughter.

“A frightening silence suddenly fell upon the castle.

“’Approach, Olaf!’, I yelled for a serf. His shoulders shivered.

“’Here I come to my master to obey his command!’, he dared not look at me.

“’You see, Olof, how faithful my serf Olaf is to me? If the king would weep, he would weep along with him. If the king died, there Olaf would be howling for him, such is the love of serflings of Hässe to its ruler. Is this not so?’, I embraced my serf. His lips were quivering, and teeth aclatter. ‘I re-reckon it’s cuh-cold, Guard, let me get the fire going.’

“’I want you to take us through the secret door’, I gave off a bloodlust-laden grin and took a good long look at the hump under his tunic. ‘Look at him, Olof. Is he not like a statue which speaks? Good old Roman Pasquino , a damaged sculpture, of course, but well spoken, because when it hears the vile tongues say ‘Even Amerongen can’t reign forever’ – a prideful look on his face – Olaf would cuss and say ‘Let me find the coward in the shadows! And if I don’t find him, you, master, will blow into him the icy breath of death and the bastard will fall only because he wanted my master to die.’’

“Olof raised his eyebrows and said ‘Incredible.’

“’Brave lad’ – I patted the serf on the hump under the tunic which stuck out a bit crookedly. ‘You do not fear the secret door?’

“Olaf rose the steel chin to me, grinned and revealed a severe lack of dentures: ‘I am loyal, milord. My name is Olaf and all live long day I eat and drink profusely and in the name of my prince I would…’ He was deep in thought for a while. I waited patiently enjoying the whole thing. Something almost like a thought sparked in his pupil. ‘I can do this. I can go through the secret door. I will be the guide. I have heard that master Olof is going sightseeing.’

“’And if the doors are sealed?’, I laughed.

“’I will knock them down with my head.’

“’Is he an idiot?’ Olof giggled pointing to the wee hunchback. Olaf laughed with him, and his whole face went dark. He clenched his fists. ‘I will crush the door, here…with these hands!’

“’I actually believe you…’ – I paid no heed to Olof’s jab – ‘Peace be upon the kingdom, Olaf.’

”’Long live my prince’, Olaf lowered his gaze and knelt before me.

“Olof coughed uninterestedly, while strength raged within me.

“’Come with me…’, I took a few large steps and stood in front of the secret door

“’I don’t see how we can pass.’ – Olof wondered. – ‘Perhaps…’

“’Quiet,’ I frowned. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

“I stood on a precisely marked spot, which was the Eye of Argus on the mosaic, and used my weight to start up the secret mechanism. The door squeaked creepily, rising upward, while Olof stood in tense expectation – what is on the other side?

“His astounded facial expression amused me. He hesitated for a moment or two, and then carefully came after me along the tight pass. He was in the state of complete horror, while we crawled by grotesque gravestones. Soon we arrived at a big room whose stone walls were adorned with a low, narrative relief, similar to Assyrian ones.

“There was little to no furniture in the room. Two chairs and an oaken table colored red took up the middle of the room. The table was covered in a pile of parchments and unusual object, one of which was my fancy – shaped by the hands of Mathilde – a miniature replica of the Kraken. The rest of the furniture was colored green, with a figure of a three-headed dragon Buné engraved onto it, as were many other pagan symbols. A fresco was on the wall above the fireplace, a fresco which, according to my instructions, was made by Mathilde. It was an all-black monstrosity, a smirk on her face gnawed to the bone, my protector Yambe-Akka, the angel of death.

“Not paying attention to an astonished and terrified Olof, in a knightly stance I knelt before her horrific visage.
Heed my prayer, Yambe-Akka

Habituate my eyes to the blade of vengeance

Let me hold it in my hand

Let my hand not quiver when vengeance recognizes the cause!

Let the bowels howl in fear, bowels of all those

Who wanted you unmade from your way!

 

“I got up unladen, breaking the silence reinforced by Olof being quiet.

“’Impressive, no?’, I said self-lovingly.

Olof shook from unease, and his face wrinkled.

“’I come here to enjoy myself… The room is full of objects which bring me peace’ – I paused – ‘There are all sorts of things here, from Iram, Ubar[1]…’- as I was saying this, I picked up a crooked J-shaped sword from the table, “a cursed Arabian knife”, a gift from Ubar. ‘Whomsoever has it in his hand, he must…’, I looked at Olof, and his eyes were aflame bloody-red.

“’My friend, I see that my dark humor upsets your soul. I’m afraid that I must stop doing that. You’ll lose your appetite,’ I mercifully added and pointed to the direction of the spiral staircase.

“’They lead all the way to the balcony, and from there on…you’ll see…’

“’You surprise me in a horrific way, Orian…Let’s go…’, Olof added nervously. And so, over the balcony, we found ourselves in a hallway, adorned with numerous columns. The end of the hallway was crowned by an arch, made in an Arabic style.

“’Down the hallway, keep going straight, you will reach Mathilde’s solar’, I said wickedly.

“’Let’s go back’, Olof felt uncomfortable.

“’My solar is on the opposite side. We can visit it as well?’

“Our conversation was suddenly cut off by a female voice. ‘Hässe, including the secret passageways, has at least fifty-two rooms. It is a monumental complex, master Olof…’

“When he looked at her, light jolted in his eyes. I was looking at him grimly.

entrance

“‘Come along, with the second staircase, Master Olof. Orian has shown you his favorite spot in the wall. And now we dine.’ Olof obediently followed Mathilde.

“We were back in the Main hall. Mathilde moved away from us, decisively walking towards my throne, and sat on it!”

“Orian set aside his quill, stood from his table and walked along the solar, trying to gather his thoughts. – No, that’s not how it happened, it really wasn’t! Mathilde’s throne was right next to mine. The Evesham craftsmen made a throne for the queen… – He roamed around the room like a ghoul, distraught – I must say it all the way it was. I will glue the truth to this parchment like sweat…But – he looked over his shoulder – if I pour my soul into a horrific description, I swear… – Orian returned to the table and wrote this sentence, saying it out loud.

“…I swear that I will pull the rust out of its roots. Mathilde did not sit on my throne, but her own. And I did not managed to show the damned man the corpses behind the secret wall. Actually, those were no longer even corpses, but bones that are swarming in worms in the honor of the gods for a long time…too long. And maybe this is all just make-believe, maybe I killed no man. And if this is too tight of a space to pour my pathetic spirit onto it, may the readers of upcoming centuries forgive me, I am not well versed in the quill, eh, what can you do…“

The story became too hard for Orian for a moment so he took one more stroll around the solar. – I am a walker along the dungeon, tomb, megaron[2] of the pitiful…

tumblr_inline_mpj30ytbwv1qz4rgp

And he wrote:

“I feel like describing Mathilde’s solar. I knew how it looked down to the last detail, thanks to the network of spies which I crafted in secrecy. It was her membrane, her hiding place from the rot which she would shut herself in for months in order to avoid my demonic advances. This pathetic fool Olof could not understand such a concession to a woman.

“The solar ceiling was reinforced with wooden beams, while the floor was made of red polished marble. Stone walls were covered with lavish tapestries adorned with horizontal geometric and herbal ornaments, encircled with a green Viking braid and the warrior woman Atalanta[3] as its central composition. Silk pillows were carelessly tossed all over the floor.

“A fine carved wooden writing table with legs made of minted iron, next to which was the statue of Bastet[4], was placed under the painting with a gelded wooden frame. Next to the inkwell, on the table, were also a short sword, a pile of parchments and a silver candelabra. A simple chair with a green and white back reminded one of the chair in the chapel of chaplain Larsen. In the corner of the solar in a chest reinforced by minted iron wedges she kept her private-most things. Above the chest was a tilted whole length mirror, where she could look at herself from every angle.

“On the wall across the canopy bed Mathilde brought her frescos over from her solar in Regenstein – it was a sea of body, of female flesh where her gaze would most often lose itself. The solar also contained a dining room (with wooden cupboards containing cups, pots and teapots), a wooden chair with a kitchen scale, a turquoise salt shaker and silverware, a fireplace, before which there stood a wooden chair with a skin-sheeted back where she performed her morning dress-up.

“Once while resting from my presence, she would go back to her solar more wonderful and adorable than ever, saying ‘Oh, how good the solitude feels.’ This is how I courted her heart, because my absence made her happy. As a return favor, she would grant me two nights with her as compensation. Those nights would drain her like a serious disease. Still, she would remain with me in the castle, in my solar, until the latest escape.”

– I am not pleased with this. I’m tired, like a dry log, weak. But the fog is slowly sliding away from my mind and the veil parts from my all too tired eyes. I remember every detail, in spite of insanity and oblivion – Orian Amerongen said out loud and continued his tale with in tune, confident swings of the quill.

dinner

“We spent the afternoon in light conversation. The hall was bathed in sunrays. A tall table, akin to a stand with legs, covered in linen cloth was packed with food served in dishes of silver. I sat next to Olof, on a wooden bench, while Mathilde cozied herself into the chair sheeted in deer hide, adorned with lion heads on its arms. She was of cold bearing and an icy smile. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself during the dull prattle of Olof which lasted for several hours of his namesake grandfather’s heroics. He spun the dislocated version of the legend of Jerusalem, of my ancestor Hjalmar the Bloody, which was, simply put due to Hjalmar’s illiteracy, written down by the chaplain Larsen.

“’Chaplain’s fancies’, I waved it off, using the opportunity and said: ‘Impressive, master Olof, but I would rather dash towards the throne in order to have some fun.’

“‘Fun? Are you bored in the company of your lovely lady, my friend? Does the tale of our ancestor’s wars and their unending friendship not make you happy?’, he looked me dully and asked how will I entertain myself to which I mercifully replied: ‘I will stare into the pane.’

“I got up from the table, sat at my throne and…fell asleep on the spot. I have no idea how long I was napping on it, but when I awoke, I jumped from it horrified, staring at the darkness filled with candlelight. They were burning with strength, passion. I slept of the next few hours.

“I lifted the chainmail collar, wanting to cover the redness of my cheeks which pointed to tumultuous feelings, because I had found my wife and my friend in an intimate conversation.

“Icy suffering covered my face.

“’Enjoying yourself, Olof?’, I sat back at the table. Olaf the serf brought the candles, approached the fireplace and reignited the fire. I observed the hump under his tunic.

“’Indeed! Do divulge the secret of this mead’, Olof said, turning to Mathilde, ‘We do not have wine like this on the south!’

“’If I am not mistaken, during your last visit you said that you have land in Toulouse as well, right?’, Mathilde spoke coquettishly.

“’You can come to the south as well…the south of Norland, I mean…’ his words were ringing in my ears. It was a confusing scene. During the conversation he cursorly followed my game. His eyes glistened. He barely took his eyes away from the sword which, had I unsheathed it, would have cast a bright light all around.

“’What do you do when boredom assails you, my lord?’, she continued. I reproachfully looked at her. She did not look back.

“A horse revved in the distance. A howl of wind broke out. I waved my hand off wishing to drive off the howl. Both looked at me in surprise.

“’What is this foolishness you exhibit?’, it was her turn to be reproachful, signaling this with her eyes.”

morgan-pendragon-morgan-pendragon-31024456-1280-720

[1] Historical lost cities

[2] Hallways in Greek temples

[3] A Greek heroine

[4] Bastet, a cat-goddess of Ancient Egypt, solar deity and goddess of war

 

 

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE, part 2, The Old Woman of the Dead


With this chapter, titled “The Shaitan Horse”, I will temporarily pause sharing the material from the book of Mathilde which is currently being translated. I hope that the introductory passages piqued your interest. Mathilde will soon be available on Amazon. You will be notified in due time. Thank you for reading.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE

***

I looked at him with bloodlust in my eyes, but I did not erase the wolfish smile off my face, quite the contrary, I grinned all the harder.

– You see, Olof… The architecture I am inclined to lately is a strict and monumental one. Vast wall structures are without a single opening. Soon I will wall off all those tiny light windows through which you’re looking.

He gave me a funny look. – By the by, where is thy lady? She was here a moment ago – he took a good long look around him. She was here all along, right next to the two of us, silent like a shadow, peaceful like a sword resting in the sheathe. She seemed as if she were surpressing laughter.

A frightening silence suddenly fell upon the castle.

“Approach, Olaf!”, I yelled for a serf. His shoulders shivered.

“Here I come to my master to obey his command!”, he dared not look at me.

“You see, Olof, how faithful my serf Olaf is to me? If the king would weep, he would weep along with him. If the king died, there Olaf would be howling for him, such is the love of serflings of Hässe to its ruler. Is this not so?”, I embraced my serf. His lips were quivering, and teeth aclatter. “I re-reckon it’s cuh-cold, Guard, let me get the fire going.”

“I want you to take us through the secret door”, I gave off a bloodlust-laden grin and took a good long look at the hump under his tunic. “Look at him, Olof. Is he not like a statue which speaks? Good old Roman Pasquino , a damaged sculpture, of course, but well spoken, because when it hears the vile tongues say ‘Even Amerongen can’t reign forever’ – a prideful look on his face – Olaf would cuss and say ‘Let me find the coward in the shadows! And if I don’t find him, you, master, will blow into him the icy breath of death and the bastard will fall only because he wanted my master to die.’”

Olof raised his eyebrows and said “Incredible.”

“Brave lad” – I patted the serf on the hump under the tunic which stuck out a bit crookedly. “You do not fear the secret door?”

Olaf rose the steel chin to me, grinned and revealed a severe lack of dentures: “I am loyal, milord. My name is Olaf and all live long day I eat and drink profusely and in the name of my prince I would…” He was deep in thought for a while. I waited patiently enjoying the whole thing. Something almost like a thought sparked in his pupil. “I can do this. I can go through the secret door. I will be the guide. I have heard that master Olof is going sightseeing.”

“And if the doors are sealed?”, I laughed.

“I will knock them down with my head.”

“Is he an idiot?” Olof giggled pointing to the wee hunchback. Olaf laughed with him, and his whole face went dark. He clenched his fists. “I will crush the door, here…with these hands!”

“I actually believe you…” – I paid no heed to Olof’s jab – “Peace be upon the kingdom, Olaf.”

”Long live my prince”, Olaf lowered his gaze and knelt before me.

Olof coughed uninterestedly, while strength raged within me.

“Come with me…”, I took a few large steps and stood in front of the secret door

“I don’t see how we can pass.” – Olof wondered. – “Perhaps…”

“Quiet,” I frowned. “I wanted to show you this.”

I stood on a precisely marked spot, which was the Eye of Argus on the mosaic, and used my weight to start up the secret mechanism. The door squeaked creepily, rising upward, while Olof stood in tense expectation – what is on the other side?

His astounded facial expression amused me. He hesitated for a moment or two, and then carefully came after me along the tight pass. He was in the state of complete horror, while we crawled by grotesque gravestones. Soon we arrived at a big room whose stone walls were adorned with a low, narrative relief, similar to Assyrian ones.

There was little to no furniture in the room. Two chairs and an oaken table colored red took up the middle of the room. The table was covered in a pile of parchments and unusual object, one of which was my fancy – shaped by the hands of Mathilde – a miniature replica of the Kraken. The rest of the furniture was colored green, with a figure of a three-headed dragon Buné engraved onto it, as were many other pagan symbols. A fresco was on the wall above the fireplace, a fresco which, according to my instructions, was made by Mathilde. It was an all-black monstrosity, a smirk on her face gnawed to the bone, my protector Yambe-Akka[1], the angel of death.

Not paying attention to an astonished and terrified Olof, in a knightly stance I knelt before her horrific visage.

jambe

Heed my prayer, Yambe-Akka

Habituate my eyes to the blade of vengeance

Let me hold it in my hand

Let my hand not quiver when vengeance recognizes the cause!

Let the bowels howl in fear, bowels of all those

Who wanted you unmade from your way!

 

I got up unladen, breaking the silence reinforced by Olof being quiet.

“Impressive, no?”, I said self-lovingly.

Olof shook from unease, and his face wrinkled.

“I come here to enjoy myself… The room is full of objects which bring me peace” – I paused – “There are all sorts of things here, from Iram, Ubar[2]…”- as I was saying this, I picked up a crooked J-shaped sword from the table, “a cursed Arabian knife”, a gift from Ubar. “Whomsoever has it in his hand, he must…”, I looked at Olof, and his eyes were aflame bloody-red.

“My friend, I see that my dark humor upsets your soul. I’m afraid that I must stop doing that. You’ll lose your appetite,” I mercifully added and pointed to the direction of the spiral staircase.

“They lead all the way to the balcony, and from there on…you’ll see…”

“You surprise me in a horrific way, Orian…Let’s go…”, Olof added nervously. And so, over the balcony, we found ourselves in a hallway, adorned with numerous columns. The end of the hallway was crowned by an arch, made in an Arabic style.

“Down the hallway, keep going straight, you will reach Mathilde’s solar”, I said wickedly.

“Let’s go back”, Olof felt uncomfortable.

“My solar is on the opposite side. We can visit it as well?”

Our conversation was suddenly cut off by a female voice. “Hässe, including the secret passageways, has at least fifty-two rooms. It is a monumental complex, master Olof…”

 

[1] Yambe-Akka or Jabme-akka is a Sami Goddess of the Underworld. Her name means ‘The Old Woman of the Dead’.

[2] Historical lost cities

 

 

JEZEBEL or The etymology of cunt, an extract from Samarrai’s Diary, inspired by Hodor


The etymology of cunt is a matter of debate, but most sources consider that Jezebel, the best bar fly con blotto in the world, never caught cheating on control school exams, with a master’s degree in Old Norse languages, with a doctor’s degree in long distance running – one day, entered a cheap protogermanic bar with confidence, trampling its bandstand with her lucky adidas sneakers.
After she completed her missionary work for the day, she daddles the waitress, ordering two kissing fish.  “Oooon… ttthe.. hhh… house!”, mutters she, fingering the holes in the Old Norse canteen’s table.
Everyone should know there will be something aggro in the air after the famous tit queen enters the bar.
She drinks dusties too, always looking forward to drink oddball liqueurs that no customers ever order.
Two whiskeys later she is starting to sing, “Cheers darls… my kunto'”, going apeshit: con skot kott cot cona kun cuneus cunnus.
Then she goes really ballistic smashing the table with her mighty fist, cursing the schlongs of the best Old Norse knights of the golden grummet, who are hiding the salami, returning from their recovering war – party, honorably descharged.
“I will make scissors of you!”, threatens she. The floor trembles… 

Three tequilas later or five schnapps before, she is smashing everything around letting her knowledge to lead her through centuries, to modern English, sighing ah kotze, kut and kont kutte and the tone of her voice have arisen, yammering cona coño coynte, cunte and queynte canteen kunton, kunton, kunta kunta kunta conte cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt, cant…

– Stop it!
(entranced)

– I can’t I barely started I can’t I cant.. mmmm..nnnnn.. I can not!.. I… cant it’s too late I can’t, can’t cant cant cant cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt
cunt cunt cunt
cunt      cunt    cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt KOTZE! cunt
cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt
cunt cunt……………………….
200 pages later: END OF THE CHAPTER.cunt

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE


PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

 

Part One

“It’s hard to maintain friendships under the steep mountains whose sklents they spread like Icarus spreads his wings towards the icy sun in an attempt to touch the gods. Sun-scorched tops delve deep into the soul of the locals of Norrbotten. It’s hard to maintain friendships, because the abyss is indestructible here. Sven Olof, on the other side of Norrbotten, did not fear the trip. His name was described with a wondrous strength of myth.

“As he was riding on his horse across the slope with no discernible fear of any kind, hoarfrost covered the sven’s eyelashes. Cold shades danced on his cheeks long ago burned by the Norrbotten sun. He got off his horse and observed with his beady eyes the eternal chill of Hornavan.

“When I saw him, I left the solar running, crossed bridges that connected the towers, all the way up to the watchtower where I could see him swing under the swipes of the winds. It appeared as if he were supported by the light piercing through his massive body. He turned his face towards me and gave a wide grin, exuding all of his beauty, to me unbearably all too familiar, a mixture of fear and impending doom. We were looking at each other like two misbehaving boys after a dangerous game which they weren’t caught for, sensing Lindworm’s tongue standing between us like a beast, and the Fjalar hill behind it as well as the abyss whose bottom was paved with the crystals of winter. I was looking at the cracked eternal darkness of ice and felt like Olof was included in my thoughts as well. He removed his gloves and looked at me, mouth agape like with a skinned fox.

“He wore a black silk shirt with a laced collar and sleeves covered in multicolor tapes, a velvet robe and a huge cloak which cast even darker shadows on his already darkened face.

“I had rough wool trousers on. Boots, with rolled up top edge, reached up to my knees. Beneath a fine leather tunic, with corduroy edges and embroidered crosses of silk, peeped a collarless linen shirt. I wore an earring made of darkened silver, and a signet ring with a lion paw engraved on it on my hand.”

Orian lifted his hand and had a good long look into the distance. He memorized every detail. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued:

“In the inner yard of the castle we were smitten by a gaze of a female eye. It was my beloved wife Mathilde. Beneath the fine smooth plush dress one could make out the cotton and silk edges embroidered with a silver wire. She had a leather hat adorned with pearls on her head. The see-through organdy scarf floated above her head like a halo, and fell back all the way down to her slim waist. A silver filigree earrings with dark river pearls shaped like tears gave her face a particular beauty.

Mathilde and Olof’s eyes crossed paths. It was then that I felt all the weight of an unclear feeling smoldering within me like an unspoken suspicion and a secret unrest  during every single visit of Olaf to the castle. That force of feelings can only be triggered by an injured self-love. Rage grew within me. A cold, suppressed rage. Why was I being silent? Did Olof rule over me with the shackles of friendship?

I pushed the servant away and took Olof’s horse to the stables. Sunlight was following me and casting hot flames onto the unlucky face of the one who neither loved nor was loved. I pulled the horse with one hand. The wind was an enemy to me, a fierce companion who scooped up lumps of earth and with its icy breath threw it in my face.

I pulled on the reins. The horse revved and tried to pull away. I opened the stable door and drove him into the box stall.

What exactly did I see?

A muffled, female laughter in the background.  It was Mathilde thinking Olaf’s remark to be humorous.

No, no doubt that he wants her! I am aware of the fact that this is the last time I’m talking about this, about the misunderstanding, about the kisses that didn’t happen. My gut feels wrinkled up… I heard a murmur and steps of serfs who started genuflecting to Olof. He, as if in his own castle, started walking up the paved trail bounded by oak trees with light steps towards the mistress of the castle, towards Mathilde.

I made my way to the castle entrance. The vile suspicion burned in my heart threatening to crush me.

A vast room of magical beauty stretched well into the castle. It had been an enormous chamber magically lighted by thickly arranged torches. Above the entrance there was a richly done façade with a big window shaped like a horseshoe (a gift from an Indian architect whom I had killed for a bad joke at the dinner table, or for the remark that we serve tasteless meals in Hässe, I’m not sure). Down the hall stretched a row of chambers which flowed one into another. The solar could be reached via stairs from each of them or via the porches and terraces built in the Oriental style, right into the lavish garden of Hässe.

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From a gelded, richly adorned throne, set at the bottom end of the hall, I would stare at the pane, resting my nude feet on the stone statue of a prostrate lion with a human head. Befitting my dark being’s tastes, the imposing ceiling, supported by a forest of columns, was adorned with complex, dark frescoes. Gigantic tapestries warmed the cruel stone walls. The castle floor, Greek style, was adorned with black and white pebblestone mosaics, and if the observer would take a good detailed look at the painting, he would notice the many-eyed Argus, the All-seeing, surrounded by wolves with their maws agape. My eye did not miss a single solitary detail. It was the temple of my curse, carved in the living flesh of Hässe.  My inner being, my soul, whichever you prefer.

I chiseled the sweet venom of battle into the walls. I invested a lot into paintings. The fresco above the very entrance of the Hall (this was my pet name for the enormous hall of Hässe, a rare architectural jewel in an eerie wasteland of the surrounding nature) was presenting a head of, one would say, a beautiful woman. Eyes full of fright and tears were chiseled into her visage. Opposite to her, at the very end of the Grand hall, the fresco above the throne was presenting the merciful eyes of a man, who bore a scepter in his hand. The fresco was hiding a secret passageway, and the passage hid – mortuary statues. I would often open the secret door as the nobles were engulfed in merriment during feasts, followed by the merry music of the manor minstrel.

– Master Olof – I nervously paced the Hall – I do not recall ever taking you to see the castle. My servants have covered the floors with a new material – I grinned like a wolf, nonchalantly toying with the silver earring in my ear. I was tapping on the floor with my boot, giving the terror a beat. – Approach the throne, master Olof – the boot tapping increased. Olof’s gaze paused with admiration on the walls which were adorned here and there with gelded carvings and unavoidable arabesques.

– Come with me and see the castle, my friend. Delve into my soul, and then we feast – I approached him and put my arm around his shoulder. I caught Olof’s gaze directed at Mathilde’s cross which hung from the stained glass. – You are impressed by the cameos of the pious Mathilde of Essen? I brought it from Cologne as a gift to my god-fearing lady.

– Fascinating… – Olof mumbled. – Really… you built a shrine in the castle, master Orian. Your care for the proper upbringing of lady Mathilde is touching almost as the care for her soul. I thought you would corrupt her with your gods.

to be continued…

FROM THE DIARY OF A MAD WRITER AFTER LOSING A LAWSUIT


Soon it will all be over. Damn them, the reverse optics of my intercranial madness are picking up the pace. I am no longer a woman, but a macroscopic particle. A peg-top. Call me Peg-Top. This I will do so suddenly, so feverishly, and yet so calmly, my hand will not quake. I will lightly lean forward, legs spread to the width of my shoulders, yes… Calm your body. Aim carefully. Pull the trigger. Take a deep breath. Aim, pull, calm…calm…
***
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IZ DNEVNIKA POLUDELOG PISCA NAKON IZGUBLJENE PARNICE


Uskoro će sve biti gotovo. Prokletnici, obrtna optika ludila u mojoj glavi ubrzava. Više nisam žena, nego sam makroskopska čestica. Čigra. Zovite me Čigra. učiniću to tako naglo, tako grozničavo, a opet mirno, ruka mi se neće zatresti. Blago ću se saviti napred, noge u širini ramena, da.. Smiri telo. Naciljaj pažljivo. Povuci obarač. Udahni duboko. Naciljaj, povuci, smiri… Smiri…

A Display Painting, dedicated to Sabina Nore


Merchants pass art
Like an abandoned church
Doubled, the painting breaks

Across the Holy place,
A kitschy stall
And up for sale

A yellowed picture of the entire family,
Manipulative and false.

Can Vanity even paint?
Even if so, what does it see

A putrid nest of the Vain man
Will grow old with them
While the blindness smirks
Bribed with applause

A sigh
Follows my eyes
To the death of that morning
To the graveground of art
Where I detoured for a while
To light a candle
For its soul.
An impure cheek
Got entangled with a venal hand

The pallet is dying, the she-painter
Smugly swings (herself) at the canvas
digitally

Too much misery have I seen,
Enough to leave.

I might be Russian already,
Set in the eternal capsule and floating
Towards a Siberia of frozen veins.

The pain need not be replaced with hatred
Nor self-loathing.

The pain need be cast out of oneself,
Cast out by crying,
A stream of tears
Instead of blood.

So that they pour out evenly
In its inexhaustibility.

 

A Painting Frame, dedicated to Sabina Nore


I wish to create a poem of paintings
Made more beautiful by the blade of a knife.

A gallery, vast and alight.
Hand-crafted objects
Of massive wood deepen the fear;

Tables with little bows, as if cut from boxes of chocolates.
Canvases framed with frail slats.

Faces are present on the exhibit
The types painted
By the vertically challenged girl-friend of pride:

They bite, they pierce…

They are our nothing,
Like our inhaled breath,
Nothing,
Like the exhaled one,
Nothing,
Loquacious and empty
(with a dislocated shoulder or two)

I wish to create a poem of a craftsman
Who paid for his work to be displayed.
I wish to create a poem of a pigsty
It being a continuation
Of a Salierian fear

I wish to write nicely, picturesquely, of the eyesore,
So much so that you could sense it, touch it,
Yet I cannot, when all is nothing
(you cannot grasp the invisible)
I threw the wasteland on and brought a map
Moving towards Vienna at dusk
Where Mozart used to play,
And now wolves cry and lie in it.

A snake stuck in the crack
Its sweet tongue-fork
While it turned the body of the megalopolis
Into a backwoods middle-of-nowhere.

Overjoyed, the apathetic world
Not gazing at the canvasses
Is showing itself to the world.

Through the pap whose turn it was
The salesman accepts the haggle.

Sad, semi-finished paintings
What has a vain hand done to you
to make it only possible through a poet’s visualization
for you to reach what you could once have been.

I see nothing on you
Other than the shining sea
And the glorious terraces where I can enjoy
The stunning view,
Only illness and death,

As if from a ruin
The defeat reeking of rotting fruit
(and someone had probably bought you as well)

I hid away in the embrace
Of the uncertain eternity,
In a dark, mum world.

I have not heard so much silence on a noisier spot
Nor have I smelled so much darkness
Even in the caverns of my heart
While in the waking nightmare, dreaming,

I was choked by a thing very much alive.

fully-illustrated-stats-envy

Slika sa izložbe


https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2017/02/10/ram-za-sliku/

Umetnost zaobilaze trgovci
kao napuštenu crkvu
udvojena slika lomi

preko puta Svetilišta je
kičerajska tezga
na prodaju

Požutela slika cele porodice
manipulativno i lažno

Može li Sujeta uopšte da slika?
Ako i slika, šta vidi

gnjilo gnjezdo Sujetnika
ostariće sa njima
dok se slepilo smeši
podmićeno aplauzom

Uzdah
prati moj pogled
u smrt tog jutra
u groblje umetnosti
u koju sam nakratko zašla
da joj upalim sveću
za dušu..

Nečist obraz
spleo se sa potkupljivom rukom

paleta odumire, slikarka (se)
samozadovoljno nabacuje na platno
digitalno

Previše jada videh,
dovoljno za odlazak

Možda sam već Ruskinja
smeštena u večnu kapsulu i plutam
ka Sibiru zaleđenih vena

Ne treba bol zamenjivati mržnjom
a ni samomržnjom

Bol treba izbaciti iz sebe.
Izbaciti je plačem,
potokom suza
umesto krvi.

Da poteku ravnomerno
u svojoj nepresušnosti

fake

 

Ram za sliku


Želim da napišem pesmu
o slikama koje bi oštrica noža učinila lepšim

Galerija, ogromna i prozračna
Ručno izrađeni predmeti
od masivnog drveta produbljuju strah
Stolovi s mašnicama, kao izrezani iz bombonjera
platna uokvirena slabunjavim daščicama

Na izložbi su lica
kakva je naslikala
niska prijateljica gordosti:

ujedaju, nabadaju, kao da bi
nekom šakom o glavu
na njima odmaraju lažni osmesi

Oni su naše ništa,
kao naš uzdah,
oni su ništa
kao naš izdah,
oni su ništa
blagoglagoljivi i prazni
(i po neko dislocirano rame)

Želim da napišem pesmu
o zanatliji koji je platio da bude izložen

Želim da napišem pesmu o svinjcu
koji je nastavak
salijerijevskog straha

Želim pisati o ruglu lepo, slikovito
da se gotovo moze osetiti, opipati,
A ne mogu, kad sve je ništa
(nevidljivo se ne da sagledati)

ogrnula sam pustoš i ponela mapu
krećući se u sumrak ka Vienni
gde je nekad svirao Mocart,
a sada vukovi reže i leže u njoj

u pukotinu zmija
zavukla je slatki jezik
dok telo velegrada
pretvara u zabit

U radosti, ravnodušni svet
nezagledani u platna
pokazuju sebe svetu

kroz kič koji je došao na svoje
prodavac pristaje na cenjkanje

Nesretne, nedovršene slike
šta od vas načini jedna sujetna ruka
da vas tek pesnik vizualiziranjem
dovodi do onog što ste mogle biti

na vama ne vidim ništa od
blistava mora
i sjajne terase na kojima mogu da uživam
u prekrasnom pogledu,

samo bolest i smrt,

kao iz ruševine
poraz koji miriše na pokvareno voće
(a neko vas je verovatno i kupio)

Sklonila sam se u zagrljaj
nesigurne večnosti,
u tamni, nemi svet.

Tišine toliko ne čuh na bučnijem mestu
i mraka toliko ne omirisah
ni u pećinama svog srca
dok me u budnoj mori, usnulu,
davi nešto odveć živo

fake-painting-photographs-alexa-meade-20

SLEEPING MATHILDE – THE TALE OF MATHILDE


http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde-pripovest-o-matilde/

From the quill of Mathilde von Regenstein

I, Mathilde von Regenstein, learned how to paint the cloud beyond the wild, distant mountain when I was fairly young, which brought upon me the wrath of my mother Johanna in my early years.

When I was seven, the Regenstein castle was the diamond of Denmark, much like an ornament on my mother’s dress. The ceilings were opulently adorned with paintings and stone arches. Walls were gilded with golden animal hides.

Johanna’s chamber was on the first floor of the northern wing. There was a blossoming fireplace in the corner of the solar, where an untamed fire shone bright white day and night.

My solar had a narrow window, located above the castle gates, where I kept my eye on the guests who would come to the castle balls in Regenstein in processions… At night they would dance on the floor of the proud hall, feet barely touching the Grand hall’s floor adorned with Swedish marble. The Grand doors were leading to Johanna’s private quarters.

I would secretly observe in admiration the airborne dance of the guests. Men and women would dance, holding hands, forming a ring. As more people joined the ring, it would start to bend forming a circle within a circle, and so forth, until the ring would evolve into a chain. Men would then do the Pauper’s game, and the ladies would do the Happy dance. ”My ladies, hold hands”, my queen-mother would say. The nereids would dance, and the men, gods of evening stars would look at them amazed.

“Apollo, Apollo and Daphne!” I would let out a childish squeal. Undone blonde locks would slice through the air as I would, cumbersomely, in my nightgown, run to my mother with my arms outstretched. Those glamorous evenings, the royal evening stars would give themselves up to the music and the joy, but looking at me, the musicians would stop playing. The hall would overflowed with silence with cries of admiration sprinkled here and there.

“She’s so beautiful…” someone would say.

“Spitting image of you…twenty years younger, of course”, mother’s red-haired, blue-haired or black-haired god would laugh. When she looked at me, a shadow would hover over my mother’s face. She would go stiff on the spot. Her eyes would be brimming with rage. The gaze of limber dancers, stopped in their tracks, would rest upon her.

I would look at her face made ugly with hate. The nymphs would surround me, touch my curls, bathed in warmness, gentleness. Their arms would caress me, as my mother looked at me with clenched teeth and eyes wide agape.

She would then grab my hair, to which I would howl in pain, followed by a murmur of disapproval coming from the spectators, and she would drag me back in the solar. In its furthermost corner was the chair I despised most in the whole castle: the torture chair. Square-like, looking a bit like a throne, it had arms adorned with spheres and gothic arches, similar to those towering over the cathedral columns, above the armrest.

Straddling me, she would shove my head under the seat and slowly started choking me. With filthy, vile words, directed at the male sex, she would whip me senseless, and when she was especially in the mood, she would beat me with a fire poker decorated with a snake tail, over and over until I would lose consciousness.

The dance would then proceed, but the Apollos would never have returned after that. This is why, one day, mother had forever closed the gates of the home of Regenstein, avoiding guests, using as an excuse either a storm, icy roads or whatever unknown disease would assail her at that moment. Time went by slowly and painfully after that. Some said that Johanna Regenstein had gone insane, after which her lovers left her. I cannot be sure of this, but I did know that I was – in some fashion – the cause of my queen-mother’s suffering.

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Regenstein Castle Wikipedia

Since then, her beauty was bathed in naught but darkness. She was metamorphosing. Rotting from within. And I welcomed my father, Otto, every night in painful expectancy. After a flurry of angry voices and par for the course arguing in the chilling home, after the insults like “Whore!” or mother’s “Cur!” the spine-chilling Satyr-like silhouette of my father would hover over my bed.

“Do you love daddy, Mathilde?”, his gaze would move with lust along my body. He would put his hands on my breasts and mumble incoherently. He would reek of mead.

“Which one?”, I asked only once and got slapped.

“Calm down, damn it, I’ll get you some wine!”, he would disrobe and, sliding into my bed, pinned me down with his body, ramming his claws into my upper lip. His other hand would clench my throat. Then he would say in a touchingly pitiful manner:

“You are so beautiful…, beautiful, beautiful Mathilde…beautiful…”, he would repeat this, dully, confusedly. His body would bulge out, his eyesight cloud… I would feel savage pain and pass out.

He would not leave my chamber until morning. Upon dawn, he would pull the curtains down, poured more wine from the goblet and calmly observe me. Then my face would twist to show careless, fatherless desire.

“Now lie on your belly”, he would say.

I would lie a few days in my room after that, beaten and hungry, in a pool of blood, as a vulture flew over my body. But it wasn’t alone in this. Mother would be with him, like a surreal nightmare from which, I thought then, I would never awaken.

Between a creepy dream and a far more terrifying reality, the doors would open and shut with a loud bang. Thick snowflakes would shiver behind the stained glass window.

“Did she learn her lesson? Did you beat her?”

“It’s going slowly…She’s a wildling. But she’ll learn…”

“All she needs is the firm hand of the father”, in the dreaded silence I could make out my mother saying.

He would have me on both days and nights after that, hypocritically, silently. The furies were being born within me during that period, coming to life parallel to my famished, child body which could not defend itself. The father would intrude into me, he would be the intruder inside of my body.

After he were done with me, I would open my eyes in the darkness. At dawn, I would carefully unhinge my swollen eyelids towards the light. I would then fall back to sleep anew…

After a few weeks, the advances would stop. Still, I would feel someone’s presence in the room. Like a hum… I would try to get up, but was held down by someone’s gentle hands. They were small, thin… The terror of putting up with it would pervade me with ice-cold sweat and I would start shivering under feminine fingers. I would lean against my wounded elbows. Otto Regenstein had been savagely beating and raping me… for how long? How long? Too long… And the mother? – I would feverishly ponder – was she pimping me out?

“Easy, mistress Mathilde”, a voice akin to mine would utter… “”Who is this?”, I would ask every time.

“I will be near”, she would say. “Now eat!” The girl’s presence was strong. The speck of her mercy would bring me back among the living. She would tend to my wounds, but not only that. She would heal my sense of loss. Reality of her presence and friendship was mesmerizing, like  a dream. She would gently assist me with going through the first, worst day of the Metamorphosis…

She was not a day older than ten.

And as soon as I would think of Johanna, suppressing the memory of the glow of my home for the sake of remembering the terror I went through, I would smile at the little girl, forever fusing with the mask – consciously yearning that she never left me.

“What is your name?”

“Agnes”, her gaze remained lowered. Her movements were soft, but focused.

thrones-producer-dismisses-rape-criticisms

Wicked shadows would hover over the door, conjoined in one – a grotesque one – Otto and Johanna. It was a dreadful sight, a grayness outside of a realm found anew…

Johanna, because I could no longer have brought myself to call her mother, would enter my room, sit on a chair, poured herself some mead and growled:

“I heard your shrieks and squeals. You’ve learned your lesson. All will be well now. I’ve even bought you a personal serf, missy ” – she would pause – “for real cheap.”

But I could think of nothing else, other than Agnes.

As I grew, my desires were parted by contradictions, making any attempt of deeper deliberation pointless. They’d stand for a talkative audience for a premature intellectual maturity, they would pound into me and disappear in my spirit.

The prohibitions and permissions I despised with a passion. I’d grown into a young woman of exceptional beauty, the Danish Daughters of magic would say, and the news would spread far away across and over the distant mountains. My thoughts were always…scattered. I possessed the virtues of a true, yet inexperienced noblewoman, who can keep her secret for the sake of cuteness. My wit was fiery, demanding, one of those wits aflame which people tend to abuse.

The everyday rut was akin the polished glass I would use to look at myself, being bored and daydreaming of the blinding sun, of the announcements of future delights ,of the wonderful night which would shine over me under the stars. I would daydream, nude, for hours with my elbows leaned on the windowsill of the solar window, as my golden hair lay on my back, covering my milky white sides.

In the filth of boredom and mother’s hatred, I would sketch complex objects, with an inkpot and a gelded enameled quill. There were also the canvas, the parchment, the brush and some linen oil in a dish. The lonely days seemed like a vortex sucking up the excitement… Unless Agnes was around.

In one of those days one would call fateful, I noticed that Otto was again looking lustfully at me and that his face was changing. I had turned fourteen.

Having caught his stare and sensing horrid intent, I would closed myself up in the solar for days, where I put scrolls together, surrounding myself in books I loved: among others there were Terrence’s Eunuchus, Sappho’s Hymn to Aphrodite, an Egyptian artefact, the Tyrin Erotic Papyrus dubbed “a magazine for men” of its time, painted in the period of pharaoh Rameses, Euripides’ Medea, De Nuptiis or De Septem Disciplinis of Martianus Capella, the Pythagorean scrolls of knighthood…

I have during the years covered the walls with murals of goddesses Nephthys and Isis in alluring poses, as well as murals of scenes of celebrated antic warrior women such as Boadicea, the queen of the Iceni tribe in battle armor, the lethal heroine Atalanta who denied suitors and the unavoidable twin-sister of Apollo, Artemis.

All nude.

That dark morning, Otto broke into my room, paying no attention to the nude nymphs, for I was more than a suitable substitute for them. I stood before him, in the nude. Waiting for that moment… Too long.

He enjoyed the view so much. He was breathing heavily as he was licking his lips. Greed clouded his eyes.

“The guards are right to look upon your naked body with lust from their watchtowers. You tempt them. You are known for your nudity.”

Johanna chased the guards away ten years ago. Regenstein was deteriorating with her. The castle was her spitting image.

As he was approaching me, undoing the waistband of the pitched tent that were his trousers, he kept saying how pleased he was that I would be back in his embrace:

“Now you’ll be more ready than ever before. At this point you might even like it…” he yammered on. Drool slid down his face.

At that moment, the solar  door boomed open and Johanna, akin to an Erinys – puff-faced and decrepit, but powerful and clad in black,  speared towards Otto, holding a sizable, silver pot. She thwacked him on the head with all her might. She was drunk: “You are no Surtr! She is mine! I am Surtr!” she screamed, she pulled his hair and trod on him, as Otto tried helplessly to defend himself. “You raped her! I told you to only beat her! I cut my own brother’s mouth! Two I’ve killed after they’d merely touched me!”

Her hatred towards me was no less passionate.

“Whore! I know you enjoyed it!”, she stopped for a moment and took a good look at my body. “The fire poker! Where is my poker?!”

She ran out of the room with gigantic steps. The floorboards shook under these massive steps of hers.

Agnes ran into the room with lightning speed. I stood before her completely nude. She paid no heed.

“Mathilde…Johanna will kill you!”

I smiled and casually sat in my recliner, looking at the low light of the fire in the fireplace.

“Do you like my body?”, I calmly asked her.

sin-city-2-a-dame-to-kill-for-teaser-trailer-eva-green-nude

She shook her head in disbelief:

“Do you want to lock the door?”, her gaze circled the room.

“Is it possible that a lamb is looking for a hefty object so as to defend the lioness?”, I smiled.

Johanna ran into the room with a terrifying shriek and the moment before she lunged herself at me with all of her tubby body’s weight, my gaze pierced her puffy eyes.

“Apollo, my real father wrote to me, dear mum”, I caressed the scroll lying on my desk next to the fireplace, trying to inject as much venom as I could into that “mum” I’ve uttered.

She paused, mouth agape, arms flying upward.

“Apollo? My Apollo?”

“Here – Apollo writes…”, I tried to overcome the deep feeling of contempt.

Dumbfounded, her countenance suddenly blissful, Johanna stroked her hair and said to Agnes:

“Take the poker away!”, she sat across to where I was, in a different recliner, lovingly looking at the letter…

“I knew he did not forget me!”

“He says: Johanna, you are my Leucothea!”, I became more grave, while tears sparkled in Johanna’s eyes.

“What Lack-a-thea? Who is she?”

“The wife of the Boeotian king!”

“Well of course I am!”

“Leucothea, before you the Great mother can bow her head and shiver in shame”, I’d read, no bitterness in my voice…

“And the ball? What did he say of the ball? And the starry night?!”, Johanna went for the flagon of mead, poured herself a cup-full and said: “I have to move on to tea. Your father loved Tibetan tea. He told me we could go there together and…read!”, she mumbled.

“Oh, he mentioned this as well”, I felt my words feed and calm her animalistic force. “He then says…Leucothea, forgive me for writing only after ten years, I had been held up with unusual circumstances, waggeries  of the soul and a sickly indecisiveness.”

“Waggeries of the soul?”, Johanna giggled as mead trickled down her chin. “The imp! He has not changed one bit!”

“When I saw Mathilde …”, this is where I paused, holding up a smile of sweet vengeance inside, “it was as if I had seen her once before or was it perhaps the sun in your eyes. She was the mirror image of you. I then recognized her as my daughter!”, and I added, reading off of the scroll which I had been drawing up the entire afternoon. “I know I’ve failed your heard when I rode off into the starry night, with the caravans via the Tea road, all the way to the Sichuan and Yunnan mountains in the southwest of China”, I glanced upward. “That is the southern Silk road.”

“Forget the silk…What does he say…did he fail his heart?”

“He says…I have done a dreadful thing which I regret. Is that not the only thing that’s certain at the end of the road? Regret?”

“Okay…okay…Now I feel better”, Johanna drunk another chalice-full, and then gave me a suspicious look. “Are you not making up fancies, child? Give me the parchment…” I decisively extended my hand, but she moved hers away. “Okay…okay…I can’t read the handwriting anyway. What else does he say?”

The story went on deep into the night.

Breaking news


I wrote a terrible poem. Always is like that when I want to write something optimistic .. I’d better get my attention on my bloody diaries about midgets

PUBLIC REACTION:
“yeah.. we ALL read it. I read it last night.. nah… very bad. ugly!”, Eva Green
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“hahahaha, bitch.”, Angelique Bouchard
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“Sans commentaires”, Isabelle Adjani
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“I can do that”, Angelina Jolie
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I wonder why, is it just me, my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.


1
Who could speak the language
of Gods, and remain forgotten yet
unloved, a sailor
who dreamt of bridging the wings
of the earth, the blind
man who survived the sirens
and remained aloof and well known on the shore.

2
I swung in the rain in Hades
and torched the warrior’s burgh in windy Troy.
I cried over the misery
of a stone forgotten me, a solitary
woman in solitary confinement,
the sun of a day askew, a skeleton
waving, a bird in the pink afternoon,
my sigh shimmering towards the horizon…

3
Fires shrieked!
My chorus burst forth
and all wishes evaporated
into the all-knowing, faded margin.

4.
Storm raging inside,
my head aching out
a grain of salt
in this driblet of blood.

5
Et vous… pagans who gnawed my manuscripts,
listen to the wind of centuries
tangling the strings of a gaggle of pissed off gods.

6
Unloved, peckish heart!
Rainy absence on the shore
become my name!

7
I saw these images
on the bloodied road:
first: me falling to my knees.
Second: back on my feet, struggling.
Third: the lips of Judas.

8
Words speak
silence, not lust nor
curses, emptying
in darkness, fragmented, apart.
My nothingness, announced.

9
Everything was said,
phrases like crushed glass in the mouth,
heard only as lies,
if heard at all.

10
As I trudge through the light-trickled night
I wonder why, is it just me,
my heavens, my uncalmed darkness.

fearmirror

Serbia


“I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you a drachma!”
The landlady waves the electric bill,

eyeing me as if I were her lamb meant for slaughter,
but I am a she-dreamer of beautiful lips.

Jesus understands me, we speak the same tongue.
Amunet agrees, and envelops me in her generous embrace.

The cities understand, the blindness sees,
the blood of the innocents still flows as I cast

the curse of the fiery tongue on the Daemonion
after I’ve sacrificed myself to the world outside.

She burns at the doorstep, bills in embered hand…
O, how we do not forgive our debtors.

And glory be to the hellish tower of slaves!
Glory! Amen, oh Babylon!

I walk thy streets, bare and free.
Rabbi Isa, deliver me not from Evil.

prison

Matchstick Man


After the landlady kicked Boris K. out onto the snow for unpaid rent, our hero, endlessly cursing the soulless Frau Susie, lit a matchstick to warm himself up a bit. Lights burned in the surrounding houses, for it had been Christmas. A powerful, very squally Belgrade wind was whipping away chilling our hero to his bones.

Roaming along the snow and ice Boris K. cursed the day when he forgot to bring the New Year’s sparkles, hence, when one matchstick went out, he proudly lit the next, and then another, and then one more, up until he spent all of the matches in the box.

With the last stick he set fire to his coffer, used it to transport fire to his pants and coat, only to finally lit his whole self on fire in order to keep warm. While the cold whirlwind scattered his ashes all over the city streets, a bright sun shone and melted all the snow and ice.

matchstick

Marigolds, My Wounds


Sipping wassail at the grave
of the Russian mystic,

lunacy crucified in his eye,
I knit a wreath for the vixen

suffocating next to the shaft,
gnawing the grid with her teeth,

cracking joists, swallowing
sonnets. She rode the Lion’s gate

in a low-cut dress, separated
with her axe and tossed in the pyre

the heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
Blindness tucks me into that bier

of ravaged marigolds, wounds
serenaded in shadows

and my body, reeking,
unlike one who never dies.

Lulled within the years
a bloodied sun rises in the west.

marigold

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Mali nestašluci ili Autor je Bog u svojem delu, literarni dnevnici Leile Samarrai, autor Zenobia Okazaman


Sudnica je podsećala na crkvu. Bakropis, kao u pećini, oslikavao je zidove. Tavanica je, bogzna zašto, bila načičkana bokalima, a pod sudnice je bio presvučen mozaikom sačinjenim od lavirinta nesagledivih znakova. Bio je to, kako će Sudija ponosno reći, Novi Kafkijanski zakonik, model 2100 po kome će se izrecivati i pravda i krivda. „Simbole sam svojeručno urezivao hititskim mačem“, reče sudija Kafla odeven u kostim anatolijskog ratnika. Nosio je šlem ispod koga su izvirivale dve veštačke pletenice. „ Gđa Zapisničar mi je pomogla oko.. kako se kaže na engleskom…“
„Der Perücke heil“, dobaci Pripravnica šetajući se po Sali, noseći hiruršku masku. Išla je od porotnika do porotnika, postavljajući isto pitanje: „Jesam li lepa?“, škljocajući makazama.
„Kuchisake – onna, nemoj sad!“, začu se glatki ženski glas, obojen u mračne tonove, odišući ekskluzivnošću. Kao stvoren za oponašanje kiselog humora i kvirki karaktera., „Tek što sam došla od frizera. Ovde vlada haos. Stari porotnici su otišli, a ja, drugookrivljena, miss Nee, moram da sedim ovde, obučena u merino. Teraju me da se predstavljam kao boginja ovaca Duturi, zaštitnica stada u Sumera, dok Narandžuša ne završi sa svedočenjem, nakon čega će biti osuđena prema kafkijanskom zakoniku. Dadoše mi da čuvam i ovu dugodlaku angorsku kozu.“
„Zašto to meni govoriš? Pa ja sam te smestila ovde da sediš..“, zbuni se Kučisake – Pripravnica.
„Uh, jel tebi nešto čudno? Meni se sasvim dopadao moj prethodni autfit.“
„Čudno mi je.. , preznojavala se miss Nee… „Imam neke vizije.. imam…“
Kuchisake pada na pod. Koza crkava. Kafka shvata kako se obukao i od stida pobeže u ćoše sudnice uz urlik: „Ne, oče, ne!“
I podigoše se ostalih 12, što porotnika, što osuđeni, što okrivljeni (jedino je Džezebel sedela, raskrečenih nogu i mrko fiksirala Fuselijevu sliku „Noćna mora“, koja je prikazivala usnulu debelu ženu s inkubusom koji joj čuči na grudima.)
Sudnica se ispuni jarkobelim svetlom.
„Što mene ovaj gleda?“, upita Džezebel koja se treznila, već treći sat. U njoj nešto eksplodira, nakon branjenja tišinom, zaurla, baci se na uljano platno i raskida ga zubima. Potom metodično izreza inkubusa nožem skakavcem koji je držala u čizmi kaubojki.
„Nećeš ti više mene gledati“, to reče i vrati se na svoje mesto. Lice joj obli rumenilo dok je gunđala: „Zaslepljenost, opsena, erotska želja, opsesija“
12. porotnik Inkubus joj priđe i opali joj šamar. Potom se vrati do Kapije zakona, male letve ispred samih vrata Sudnice koja ja podsećala na otirač i na kojoj beše uklesam broj 7. „Gospodine, Rabisu, ne možete napuštati Sudnicu!“, Pripravnica se odvoji od Miss Nee koja je u transu mrmljala, bačena u halucinatornu epizodu:
„O zamislite, zamislite samo da vam autorka Leila preti revolverom, da opali.. Zamislite da ste pogođeni u glavu, pravo u oči, ni manje ni više, i ne samo da preživeli ste, već ste nastavili sa životom, noseći ožiljak u duši za naredne tri decenije. Dali su mi pogrešan kostim. Dajte mi onaj koji moju stvarnost oslikava. Jenki pantalone boje olujnog neba sa limenom dugmadi, dajte! Pruge niz nogu, ja sam boginja zebri, ne ovaca, dajte! Vlajko, moj frizer mi stilizuje i seče kosu godinama unazad. On je super super super i samo on.. on zna šta će na meni izgledati dobro. Kad on mene ozebri, učiroki ili omeriniše, komplimenti šljašte. Sad sam ponovo Zebra.. Gde je Koničiva Onna! Šta je sa ovim čudnim ljudima?“, zagleda se Miss Nee u porotnike, okrivljene i svedoke.
Miss Nee najpre čoveka u crnom koji se raspravlja sa zapisničarkom. „Rabisu!“, prepoznade ga i Miss Nee. Raširi ruke, a mantil mu zaleprša. Miss Nee spazi kandže. Tad i on spazi nju i uputi joj podsmešljiv pogled dok je klizio kroz zid, praćen vriskom Zapisničarke koja pade na kolena zabadajući snažno makazama u pod urlajući: „Nisam mu lepa, nisam nisam, a nisam ga napola razrezala, ko je on ko je ko je!“
Svakoga je u Sudnici skolio problem. Izuzev 11.porotnika Barnuma, Kralja Cirkusa. Bio je okružen neobičnom svitom dobro dresiranih jednonogih svinja. On pogleda u Miss Nee. Usta mu je krasio ožiljak od uveta do uveta, sa koga je kapala krv i kvasila mu leptir mašnu bele boje. Očigledno je udelio kompliment Pripravnici.
„Ne shvatite me pogrešno. Ja nisam čudovište. Moje srce je sa svinjama. Vidi kako se trude“
„Odsećiću ti brk, ja Šulinkate! Mačem i bodežom nađenim u grobu!“, Miss Nee nije prepoznala debelu brkatu ženu po imenu Meri En Koton, ozloglašenu viktorijansku trovačicu dece koja je u jednoj ruci držala srebrni mač, a u drugoj glave 10, 9tog i osmog porotnika…
„Trujem, a ne želim to!- baci pogled na jednu od glava – Ja jesam bila čedomorka, ali istorije mi, makar sam to činila sa stilom. Zengua je žvakala sinovljevo rame u nastupu kanibalizma dok.. „Zadobio sam teške modrice i krvarenja“, progovori ženina glava, imitirajući sinovljev glas.
Miss Nee vrisnu i pokuša da se izvuče iz porotničke lože, sa sve crknutom kozom, kad shvati da neko odnekud ili nešto baca ka njoj kožne kaiševe izrađene po najnovijoj, fensi modi (baš one koje je volela da kupi nakon frizeraja i njima se diči) i da joj se jedan po jedan obmotavaju oko nogu, ruku, vrata, neki od njiih su se smanjili u toj meri da su joj obmotali prste, stezali ih, preteći da ih slome.
Bio joj je potreban samo tren da shvati da joj je Zapisničarka, baš kao u filmu Ichy The Killer, odsekla deo jezika i ponudila.. NJOJ! Kao pokoru.
„Izvol’te autorka. Jesam li lepa?“
Mis Nee nije vrištala uhvaćena u Rabisuovoj verziji natrprirodnog. Krv joj je šikljala iz usta, ali ona je mislila samo na Džef Dejvis šešir. I na još nešto.. Ah – ha!
„Pa ovo.. sve ONA radi… Bogca mu. K’o Keri… Vatra u slovima! I nešto se neobično dešava s mojim mozgom. Ja.. razmišljam! Koristim i simboliku! “
Dok je Miss Nee razmišljala, nekoliko moždanih oblasti udružiše svoje kapacitete, a ne samo četvrtina kao do sada i ona shvati da je postala pametna. Kafkijanska slova uklesana u mozaiku su bubrela, a njene oči se zamutiše od suza, dok joj se istovremeno podizala kosa na glavi. To je autorka, sasvim mirno, opipavajući pogledom groteskne predmete oko sebe, nešto dopisavala, pa brisala, te bi joj oko uhvatilo kakav neučtiv predmet, a onda bi ona nešto dopisala i predmet bi se našao na nečijoj glavi i to je verovatno radila satima, neumorno, brižljivo dopisujući, potom se zagledavši u misterije natprirodnog koje je verovatno sanjala jer su joj kapci bili sve vreme spušteni.
Najednom se autorka okrete ka Miss Nee i pogleda je. Sjaj u njenom oku vratio je sve neurone tamo gde (i koliko) im je bilo mesto na rođenju Miss Nee i Miss Nee opet oglupavi sasvim. Tad začu neko komešanje i prigušeni smeh. Poslednje što je shvatila jeste da je autorka promenila dizajn prostorije, porotnike dovela u red, restaurirala je sliku na zidu dok ju je Dzezebel s mržnjom posmatrala i mnogo toga još. Zamisli se malo, gricnu olovku, a onda naglas reče: „Da se Miss Nee vrati mogućnost vrištanja“
I još nešto dopisa. Miss Nee shvati da joj je autorka podarila revolver i to baš magnum koji je toliko volela, s porukom u kutijici, svezanoj mašnicom. Miss Nee pažljivo otpakova demonski poklon i izvadi ceduljče na kojem je pisalo: „Na sebi ga možeš upotrebiti bilo kad.“ I za kraj, uz đavolski osmejak, zapiše još nešto, a kako bi joj olovka krenula ka hartiji, tako bi miss Nee podišli srsi. Tad Autorka udesi da bokal vode sruči s plafona na glavu Miss Nee Od Alpake…
Kafka je gladio čas belu kragnu od najfinije čipke, čas nauljenu crnu kosu. Uši su mu strčale, a licem mu se razlivao bolni grč.
Porotnici su nosili svečana i ceremonijalna odela. Čista odeća sve čini čistim. Muškarci su nosili crne mantile sa svilenim reverima i leptir mašnom. Žene su pratile viktorijansku modu. Tu i tamo autorka bi nekom odsekla nos ili usta, ali na kraju beše zadovoljna ozbiljnošću dizajna kako sudnice, tako i prisutnih i odloži zlokobnu svesku, još jednom pogledavši miss Nee ispod oka.
Jedino je Džezebel nosila turske pantalone, ispunjene konjskom dlakom, čvrsti dublet i pletene čarape, kao i visoke čizme od teleže kože.
„Vidim ja sve šta ti radiš ovim jadnicima. Ali, ne mogu tvoje karakondžule biti strašnije od Killers klubova, centralnih booze destinacija, u srcu Harlema što kao svici svetle u opasnim njujorškim noćima“, rečit beše njen prezriv pogled, jer se branila ćutnjom.
„Khm.. – nakašlja se Kafka – Slučaj Narandžuša… gde je ona?
„Kasni, Sudija, ali mi je javila, evo sad će, samo što nije“, dobaci portir iz ćoška.
„Vama? – ukoči se Kafka – imate neke veze sa optuženom?“
„Nisam samo ja, gosn’ Sudija. Ja joj samo uplaćujem post net, jer ima fizički problem. Neki put joj vaše bivše kolege uplaćivale, a i čistačica. Ima i novinara, ako želite, kaže, poslovaćemo, Sudija, poslovaćemo..“
Kafka prezrivo odmahnu rukom:
„Sudiće joj se po vertikalnoj logici Kafkijanskog zakonika, što znači da.. Vi znate da čitate slova uspravno i povezujete, rekli ste..“, nesigurno će Kafka upućujući preplašene poglede Pripravnici.
Ali, nije bilo potrebe za logikom jer na Kapiji zakona je stajala Narandžuša, poduprta čvrstom, nabildovanom rukom Borisa K. koji joj je nešto šaputao u uho i osmehivao joj se. Tad Narandžuša kobno reče:
„Ma mani me. Daj pivo. Priznajem sve!“

Boris K. In the Gym or”Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”


“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”, From Shakespeare’s play Hamlet (1.4), Marcellus to Horatio.

Boris K. took the “Mens sana in corpore sano” mantra deadly seriously and was on his way to the nearest gym. Out of sheer excitement, he forgot the towel. Truth be told, Boris K. never really sweated, what’s more the doctors diagnosed him with some armpit gland defect. He wore his tracksuit that he usually wore when he went to the farmer’s market and had sneakers on, clean, but with a tiny hole on their side.

The moment he stepped into the luxury space, akin to the gyms of Los Angeles where the Japanese Yakuza work out, the treadmill caught his attention. As he was running, green pastures went through his head where he soared as a child, running after a ball.

“Boris, get the ball!” he remembered the voice of his uncle Ivan The Terrible Fisherman, who often took him fishing.

He ran faster, catching the ball in his thoughts. Giggling, he lifted his arms up and whispered: “Death to fascism, freedom to the people”, respecting the house rules.

Luckily, others noticed the new workout guy, others who ran along the treadmill with light steps, wiping off the invisible sweat, exchanging many a word between one another:

“Sweetheart, I have discovered the Café Menstrualle. You pop one Café Menstrualle and no more ovary pain.”

“Such nice people, these folks”, he thought after a thirty minute cardio workout, ran his fingers through his odorous hair, with but a hint of sweat to it. He reeked of sweat and it felt good to him.

As he was fantasizing about making “Rocky VII”, a young man of 25-ish approached him, dark curly-haired, engulfed in a strong perfume, with buff arms, a square Lego torso and short legs, and he whispered into his ears words that almost froze Boris K. solid.

“Good evening”, he shook his hand with his own, dry chapped one. “I am Boris K.”

The trainer shook hands, unknowingly stepping away from Boris K., while down his tiny wrinkle on his young forehead, born out of constant frowning and grimacing, sweat poured.

“Forgive me, sir, but you stink. All the other folks that are working out are complaining about you.”

Boris turned around himself, sensing the sweat and the hostile looks. He shook.

“Male or female?” he applied logic.

“Both sexes.”

workout_room_zombies

He felt being bathed in cold sweat. As if something had been crushing him bone by bone, his field of vision narrowed. Him? He never broke a sweat. Even when he had to go to the doctor’s.

“What?”, Boris K. looked at him nearly maniacally.

“Nothing”, he said and wiped the sweat of his forehead. Catching glimpse of this motion, Boris K. facepalmed, merely uttering that he did not bring a towel which he would use to clear any doubt-raising link between him and sweat.

“Mistah Trainah, I have never once in my life…stunk, not even had a hint of an odor…and even if I did – is this not the right spot for it?” Boris K. was pulling these and similar arguments while counting the seconds in his head, bouncing the words around under his tongue, gulping, until finally he bent the knee and admitted defeat.

He was certain that he did not break a sweat, but this young trainer, who was a bodybuilder for at least a decade, certainly knew everything there was to know about stench.

“I’ve been wrongly accused!”, a slight rise in his tone.

The trainer shrugged and clenched his fists. The other customers started approaching with menacing faces. Boris K. noticed that he’s in a pinch and tried to apply some strategy. He smiled, to which the customers stepped back. Boris K. noticed that the workout gear was unoccupied, seeing as the people using them were surrounding him, therefore nobody was there using them. He felt the uncalm and the desire to leave, but he couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had firmly decided to continue the discussion with the discount Tommy Gann here by any means necessary, come hell or high water.

He felt that he was about to cry any minute. He held himself with both arms, comforting himself gently as the trainer, his voice a chill, suggested that he brought a towel next time, more modern sneakers and a Dolce & Gabbana tracksuit, like the ones other customers had. For a while he trembled out of confusion, uneasiness, he even wanted to cry. He cursed all the towels of God’s green Earth. He shook away the invisible sweat off of himself as the in-full-make-up female customers, casting a glance or two in his general direction, glared at him scornfully. One observed the sole of his left sneaker. Rolling her eyes, she whispered something to the lummox next to her who looked at Boris K., as if ready to crush him. Boris K. was smiling. He went out into the street shook up, confused, disturbed and offended, realizing that there was a stench there and that the trainer was absolutely correct.

“I know what it was! It was the scent of rot!”, he concluded, and stepped into the dark streets towards a new comedy.

Tomorrow Boris K. purchased a café menstrualle deciding that, as soon as he gets the right opportunity, he would complain to other customers at the gym about the pain in his ovaries.

human-skull-fitness-dumbbells-bottle-water-blue-background-36369475

with a wax masque of a Summer rain


You,

with a wax masque of a Summer rain,
inconstant scatterbrain
Know:
the love of fathers is hell
on a st(ake)rand!
You, with your limb more stiff
than the dogmas of Lucifer.
Who have you forgot to permeate:

The Woman: who is a river
(for she flowed to you)
The Daughter: who is volcanine
( for she burned for you)
The Earth – which swallows you
(ultimate mistress)?
You, who are present but not present,

Know:

Hate has a heart!

The green heart of shot Lorca
and wrath of God!
He, alike you:

Does not love!
Does not forgive!
Does not kiss!
To gift the legal age
he rapes the Vestales

Bloodsucker!
Anathema!
Harpy!

You growl too loud,
desert fa(ng)ther.

I know you encircle girls before the door.
I know you flow down their thighs sweaty.
Like unborn milk flows from me to you.
Like chrome sand flows from my eyes instead of tears.
Like thorns grow within my body and not children.
You, who are a corpse in formalin,
the mute vocalist of the torn wire,
the chalice of poison before sleep.

Know:

My shadow takes you off the wall,
a wingless bird in the darkness of the room,
will skin the marble face and his smile of a victor!

Know:

Even hope at times answers to the mute.
The dug away umbra from the extinguished lantern.

Oh, Burn! Burn!
Flame Pompeii, die in anguish!
May the abandoned children clap their hands!
May the thrilled audience scream of laughter!abandoning

Like I . . .

Like I who screamed
When Creator waded over me with words:
Maasalam*, my Child!
Maasalam!

*ma’a salama good-bye in Arabic

I am – Poetry


whether I shared this one before? I do not remember. It does not matter. I know who I am, for some lost straw floating in the open sea, to another I am – an awakened fear of eyes wide open, for a third pathetic muse with warm afternoon sun on her cheeks – wounds opened, which leaves me in burns, that’s what I’m, while burning at the stake, I – scarecrow for people, the one that stirs up the night and dies at dawn, quietly, in the midst of a dream.
That’s me, that is who I am – Poetry.

poetry

****
Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE


Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One

 

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

 

“In order for you not to take my manuscript as an excessively modest gift, I must tell you more of the Hässe castle.

“Beyond distant clouds, on the moist ground of Norrbotten, there was the Og lake, speckled with tiny islets. On the Naki island, closest to the coast, the Hässe castle sprouted and grew.

“Once, when I was returning from a campaign, over the frostbitten hill, I saw a castle in the distance, towers which, akin to dancing topaz-color-caped silhouettes, were holding a pierced, pale human being on the tips of their spears. The castle reflected me. That being had been me.

“The road was winding along the hill by the coast, flowing into the bridge which tore the sky asunder reaching for the hilly islet of Naki.

“The stone-cold road not unmade by salt, flimsy and steep, was swallowing the travelers from the North tumbling them down the sharp skin of the Fjalar hill or casting them, wind-bound, in the icy grotto of Hornavan, where their deafening screams could be heard from.

“The travelers who would survive Fjalar would pause in front of Lindworm’s tongue with bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver, they would turn their horses back and fled meeting the sky herald Gná. The braver ones, clenching the reins, would continue walking towards the abyss of Hornavan. The road was encircled by the desolate surfaces of lakes, as unreachable as whirlwinds, crowned with the snowy soil of Norrbotten, and only in certain places with pine and birch trees dipped in hoarfrost.

“The marble carpet lead to the main gate of the Hässe castle (piercing through a vivid garden, a kind of garden few can boast to possess in this part of the world), over which, branching out, the bridges were connecting the tall towers, therefore I could have entered any part of the castle from the main tower without descending down into the garden.

“There was many a varied seed in the garden, from the date palm which my ancestors brought from the Middle East during the Crusades, to the lilies, hyacinths and other, exotic plants unfamiliar to the climate of Norrbotten. The enchanted seed of death was handled by the gardener woman Hilde, known to me for her conversing with Vidar embodied in the greenery and the woodlands. From the God of the Forests she drew her magic and poured it onto the flowers which had no place in this lifeless land. When death is tangled with life and the course of nature changes, the root unleashes the power of the venom deep, changing the essence of the soil. Both the land and the men have venom sprout from within them. The seed of death revivifies. Creating upside-down tulips which adorn my home, and which Hilde kept warm day and night, stoking the fire in enormous kettles.

“On the double leaf oaken gates which hid away the entrance to the main fort, there was, painted in golden strings, the crest of the brave and gluttonous house – a lion’s paw. It could also have been found on blue banners which were waiving born by the wind up high on the Hässe towers, grasping for the heavens. The windows were guarded by marble manticores, born in the early days of Hässe, threatening with their sharp stings soaked in rainwater.

“When the Lindworm swallows the newcomer, it shows them the ghastly yard in front of the castle. Upon entering the main gate guarded by the maw of the Lindworm, the traveler would note the beaten pathway that leads into the yard and the stalls in the very center of Hässe.

hasse

“The road, vaulted by guard towers speckled in guardsmen, lead to the altar and reeked of cow entrails. The altar, above which the tall defense towers of Hässe lorded over, lay on the dry land, tucked into deerskin and adorned with raven skeletons. In the middle of the altar there was a platter with the pre-read, rotting entrails. ’They feed the vultures of darkness’, I would often personally explain it away to a visitor of my empire who shivered in fear and to whom the dread crawled up the spine… The altar, inflamed in cypress and sandalwood from which the messages meant for the Goddess of Death were smoking, was lined with cracked skulls of those who did not bow. The stone thighs of the altar were sprinkled with blood, some of it animal, some of it human.

“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.

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“The stranger who made his way to Hässe would get a pitcher of wine and a place at the stables to spend the night. I would often, if they hadn’t been of noble birth or ilk, convert them to servants. The nobles received all the comfort of this home and its glimmering guest hall, where they would dine along the tune of the lutes. There had also been the undefeatable ones, who were met with whipping to the death, oftentimes torn limb from limb tied to four horses, and other types of torture which I was coming up with while drinking up the blood-red wine at the dinner table. I would inject vinegar in noblemen’s bodies by means of needles, I tightened their limbs, poured hot tar on them, and from time to time I would toss them in the jail-cells atop the tower where they would die of hunger. Fear of others and their complete despair, oftentimes madness as well, filled me with lechery. The rotten road I walked along, as a man who had within himself made a pact with nature, as well as savagery, stretched onward into infinity. And still the travelers, in a maniacal run, would come to the doorstep of the richest sven, bearing gifts to the master so that he could protect him from vile natures of his subjects and himself.

“Of my rage I could speak a multitude, of the true tendon of evil, the shade of accrete sensuality within my infected blood.

“Thoughts of human nature occupy my mind until the late hours of the night when my thinking faculties wane, up until the early morn when they spark up anew: how much fealty did I really accrue, and how much am I actually bound by fear of the vindicators’ wrath? To what extent had I become the Supreme deviser of the horrific power which always emerges from the blackest night in all of this? I ended the invasion of conscience with bloody campaigns and have thus removed her permanently. It was a shameful act which ate away at me. From my bloody dreams I was woken by the raw explosion in my heart of all the memories of the murders committed. I held them, crucified in my chest, with an occasional squeal of conscience which erased the breath that followed. Understanding the transience of the soul and the motion of time through the howl of the wind, which reached the very distant tops of Norrbotten shackled in eternal ice like an echo, I yearned for eternity, and it had been the light of my dwellings and my cruelty, and because of which I had eventually lost my wits. I had been hot-tempered. Perhaps insane. But, I had been a lord.”

 

SLEEPING MATHILDE, an excerpt from the fantasy novel, Leila Samarrai, The First Chapter


SLEEPING MATHILDE

http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde/

The storm which will crush the fort of sven Orian will crush an existence, a world filled with fear, antagonism, selfishness. It will crush that which is not constant, all for that which is permanent and long-lasting.

Let us tear down castles! Let us stay with nothing to us, akin to Buddha or Jesus! Let us bravely trudge forth, with love for the self and the others, regardless of all the risks and perils that pop out at us, akin to Heracles or Odysseus!

deathridinghorse

„And God took а hаndful of south wind

 And from it formed а horse,

 Sаying, ‘I creаte thee, Oh Arаbiаn.

 To thy forelock I bind victory in bаttle.

 On thy bаck I set а rich spoil,

 аnd а treаsure in thy loins.

 I estаblish thee аs one of the glories of the eаrth.

 I give thee flight without wings’.

 For а time the Arаbiаn rаn wild in the desert.

 Only the strongest аnd most intelligent,

 The swiftest аnd most disciplined survived.

 And then the story goes;

 To Ishmаel, son of Abrаhаm,

 God mаde а gift of the Arаbiаn Horse.

 And Ishmаel wаs the first to tаme аnd ride him.

 And from thаt time on the fаte of the Arаbiаn

 would be woven into the history of the Western

 World.”

 

„Arabian Horse Legend”

A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

“I was born in the old House of von Amerongen, as Orian Siegfried”, having committed this sentence on paper, Orian bit into the quill and, upset, shot a glance at the door. He had little time to spare.

“I was born in a wonderful castle on the slopes of the icy mountains of Norrbotten”, Orian sunk into the strange irritability of senses brought about by the sweet drowsiness of memory.

Leaning above the parchment, sensing that his time is running out under the increasingly faster swathes of distant steps, he gave himself up to the words of a cruel story while horror reigned over his body and senses. He wrote the following:

“I could not shake off the thought of Norrbotten’s conception. Dramatic imagery of clouds sucking up the rain, of blood dripping from the heavens, assailed my imagination.

“I would feel excitement observing the doleful side view of the land of Norrbotten out of whom I’ve strived to exclude my own castle, making it a creation of the most fantastic colors and images. With time, as the veil was falling over my eyes, I moved slower and slower, head hung low, until – and God knows what if anything I was thinking of – I had lost the boyish spirit and the gift of innocence, until I had lost the peace wherein any lord would enjoy himself selflessly. Until I’ve taken a bite of my mental wellbeing…

“’Let’s stop at the impossible’, I would say to father Larsen who piously ate his sausages in the chapel booth. Everything lasts in shades long buried. Enthusiasm does not easily let a poet go, quite the contrary, it anchors itself within him, galloping along the finest of nerves, inconsistently, vilely and hypocritically.

I felt that Norrbotten and the Hässe castle can in any other time period only induce revolt and anxiety, but also an unspeakable loneliness.

Then the Storm came and took it all. I, sven Orian, had been a guard, a cuirassier and many a thing more, upon whom this fiend descended upon, I am frightened. Memories come shrieking on this day of death when sven Olof rode to the castle and took Mathilde out of the shade.

From where did all the ailments of my life come? It is as if the Storm pounded them to the ground through the wind. You might be wondering whether a sober man thinks of his sins amid a storm. Oh, yes, exactly then, through the window, I observe the restless villagefolk and I take a listen of the revving of horses, for I am, if I must choose the object of my observation, a painter of nothingness.”

Orian stopped and gave the scar on his face a touch. Then he added:

“I touched myself on the crease in my face and felt it fork in tiny layers on my chin, out of which hardened, bloodied hairs stuck out. A wound from a duel. “

Orian swiftly turned to the door, but since he heard nothing, he continued, quill screeching, stating aloud what he wrote in order to ward off the ghoul.

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“As a vampire I feasted upon lives of others. I never dug graves too deep. I piled corpses like firewood. I was building a human alley.

“I had increased my army thusly, reigning by fear.

“Gazing upon my own reflection in the gold enameled mirror, I saw (what I wished others had seen), a rove of shaded flesh, tight muscle and a smile of a noble whose dignity had essentially intertwined with a false modesty.

“But, that which had disturbed me in the darkest of forebodings were the decisions I had taken as a man used to get what he wanted and, empowered by his irreason, destroy that which was beyond his reach and his mind. Those were the initial signs of my curse.

“I had been an oppressor. I had been jealous, especially of the birds, the damned vermin, the vultures and eagles, knowing that they bear within them a germ of eternity. I had been but a grain of sand under the howling wind. And what is wind other than the coursing of time, against whose power of sudden destruction or slow consumption of substance, even the most stable of dwellings falls. “

Boris K. and Wig Heil


 

The minister of culture and minority rights Cris Is Evayzhun was walking along the Phenomenonpublic boulevard with parliament member Iana Goatson (of GOAT – Government Approved Thou-shall-nots, as well as CleronationalVoxPIOUpuli ), his wife, and he plucked away from the rich history of Germany.

As the minister was shifting from one Nazi topic to the next, from the Big bang onward, out of the darkness crept Boris K. and with a swift “SiegHeil!” he tripped the minister who lay prostrate on the golden pavements of Phemonenonpublic.

“The minister is down!”

“They killed the minister!”

A trudge of steps ensued. A mass of people stood around the minister Cris Is Evayzhun,

“Help! An urgent republic matter! Dial 333-222. Assassination!”

Xavier, a gypsy youth, who begged for money in the graveyard shift, pulled a moist towelette from his bag with a swift motion and applied it to the spot on the minister’s leg which was sore.

Boris K. took a photo of this touching scene with his Motorola. The minister’s wife was thrilled.

“If I had a son like this, I would dress him up in the style of Albert, prince consort of Windsor”, she thought and much to her husband’s dismay she loudly blurted out:

“I want a son like this.”

Xavier responded:

“Ah, if only I had a mother like you.”

Boris K. remembered and told a touching story of the love one father had towards his son – one of the many tales he picked up somewhere during his life – as the foreign minister tried choking him.

The story went on for hours, until the Emergency vehicle came with a stretcher and took away the minister who was howling in pain and cursing the very name of Boris K.

A month later, coming back from the WIG Heil general tryouts, the minister and the minister’s adviser for the rights of minority  Boris K. looked at a Gipsy woman sitting in front of the firecracker store and some cheap Chinese pyrotechnics.

“This Republic is going to pieces. An open market to any and all crap”, minister Cris is Evayzhun mumbled, looking at the Gipsy woman in a manner – was there any other, really? – not unlike that of a Nazi. “Nobody can control the quality of the merchandise (and people) which flows into our beloved Phenomenonpublic. While somewhere up there in Germany Berlin is on fire, I see everything around here!”

“Calm down and extend your palm”, the Gypsy woman smiled to the minister who was dreaming that he had his own panzer divisions in the Kriegsmarine. “In your past life you were a crazed SS commander”, the Gypsy woman started. “Now you are just a bozo whom an adopted child will make feel happy”.

The minister waved his head in disbelief. How can she know all this? He didn’t even giver her his palm.

The Gypsy woman continues palm-reading as if she were in a trance.

“We have to move to the front door ahead of a dangerous gang”, she spoke with a cracked voice. A few moment later there were gunshots. Boris K. and the Gypsy woman and the minister went into the front door, until the street situation calmed.

Six months later, the minister, his wife and their son – little Xavier – were walking along the boulevard.

Boris took the money from Iana Goatson, since she hired him to trick the minister. The Gypsy woman, Xavier’s mom was disguised as a fortune teller, got an apartment in the name of her remaining ten kids. Boris K. soon paid the fellows who were reenacting a mobster showdown, he purchased a luxury three room apartment for about a year and continued nailing the role of Hitler.

 

Calderon said: life is a dream


Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

УСПАВАНА МАТИЛДЕ – ПРИПОВЕСТ О МАТИЛДЕ (одломак из романа) Из пера Матилде вон Регенштајн


Након што би завршио са мном, отварала бих очи у тами. Кад би свануло, опрезно бих растворила надувене капке према светлу. Тада бих поново утонула у сан…

Након неколико недеља, насртаји би престали. Ипак, осећала бих нечије присуство у соби. Налик на шум… Покушавала бих да устанем, али би ме задржавале нечије нежне руке. Биле су мале, танке…. Терор трпљења прожео би ме леденим знојем и почела бих да дрхтим под женским прстима. Ослонила бих се на изранављене лактове. Ото Регенштајн је ме дивљачки силовао и пребијао… колико? Колико дуго? Сувише дуго.. А мајка? – грозничаво бих размишљала – да ли ме је подводила?

„Полако, господарице Матилде“, рекао би глас сличан мом… „Ко је то?“, питала бих се сваки пут.

http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde-pripovest-o-matilde/

Boris K. and the Smooth Criminal, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”


https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2015/04/18/leila-samarrai-the-adventures-of-boris-k-intro/

Boris K. and the Smooth Criminal

Boris K., exhausted and worn-out due to mental exertions, bent the knee in the decisive battle with his landlady about the unpaid rent. Evicted from the comfort that was the neo-Nazi apartment of Frau  Suzie, he found solace in all that existed in the endlessness of cosmos.

He shot a glance at the North star which was shining in the sky, round as a saucer, and he was listening to the cries belonging to victims of brigand gangs in the night who were pillaging the moment the clock struck midnight. But Boris K. was used to violence and took it with a spiritual calmness and peace which would have been the stuff of envy for the Tibetan monks and a llama or two.

Boris K. was squatting for a while, staring at the asphalt where, out of the dim cracks, many a strange underground creature emerged, who then mercilessly tore down everything in their path, burning shops and wrecking the property of the Phenomenonpublic.

Hidden amid the thick treetops, Boris K. had just embraced his own knees when he felt a presence of someone. He felt unease; cold sweat flooded him. Boris K. stepped out onto the barely lit asphalt and walked in uneven step towards the source of the light about a hundred or so meters away.

He stopped, noting a distorted shadow of his follower. He had a huge head and a disproportionally small body. Boris K. hot-footed onward. The shadow was catching up to him, one moment on his right and another on his left, occasionally disappearing ‘mong the surrounding buildings. The moon sailed across the sky somewhat faster than usual.

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“Who is this person following me? And what does he want from me?”, Boris wondered, and realized that a leap into the sewer was his only means of salvation.

As heavy fear lay weighty on his soul, and cold sweat bathed his chest, Boris K. jumped in the manhole happier than an Olympic gymnast.

Famished hands welcomed him in full eagerness.

 

SAMIRA’S COMFORT


You bite the poem under the tongue and words which made reminiscences into dust
They do not understand you, actrisa.
It is time for aktshluss

You were chewed by the populist phenomenology
Of verses devoid of poetry
In the band of false troubadours you cannot be actor primarium patrium
Aristocrat among poetesses do not forget that the Arabs divined your fate with arrows

Do not worry, Leila, I enjoyed reading your verses,
I Samira, the trade woman from the satrapy of forgotten empires
On my breasts I bared the burden heavier than the grandiose pillars from Hatra
Forever banished from the cradle of two folk I belonged to by the disfavor of Alan and Beog who found a dying city

samira

Do not worry, Leila, with you are Greeks and Sarmatians and your name is nailed into the Grecian affiches
Announced by Sophocles on fliers and billboards of alternative theaters
And Caligula dances with your Greek single act dramas on Palatine games

Do not worry, Leila, unpopular poetess in a world which you overcame
With the miracle of discovering the secret home in which you mastered silences

Do not forget everything is a matter of injustice because there is no justice
Do not forget the world became a mine field and an insult
Do not forget another world will be chiseled by your verses of immortal longing

Do not worry, Leila, there will be time for all those who hotly growl on the mention of your name to understand

The unbearable ease of existence and the feather of your French Alexandrine.

Happy Odunde!


The Firecracker Man, a story on New Year’s Eve, my literary gift for Boris K’s fans, readers and lovers. Cheers to a New Year!

Boris K. has been so stressed lately. Luckily, it is New Year’s Eve, so he has easy access to smoke bombs. The neighbors can hear the hiss, thud, crash!, Whizzz, and heeeee of firecrackers Boris K. sets up and ignites one by one in the house, from the sofa.He has decided that rather than wash dishes, he will simply blow them up. So he launches rockets into the air with a loud bang that break dishes, shatter glasses, collapse walls and turn forks into shrapnelsharp and tinny enough to pierce the roof and violate the sound barrier. While smoke and the entire color spectrum spill onto Boris K., an event that could only happen in Neverland, Boris returns to the memory of his first marble. As the neighbors wake in horror from sweet dreams to find themselves fearfully screaming at the vision of an apocalyptic earthquake, Boris K smiles and sinks into a blissful dream.

Happy New Year’s Eve, Odunde (means “Happy New Year” in the Yorube Nigerian language) and other holidays! For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Novel excerpt from”Dervish”, by Leila Samarrai


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 Brentariver 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..Karghytuiduk, 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 salas played 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.

to be continued….

“Uspavana Matilde”, roman, Leila Samarrai, “Sleeping Mathilde”, published!


Moja novela “Uspavana Matilde” počela je da, u odlomcima, izlazi u Časopisu “Kult”. Zahvaljujem se Časopisu “Kult” na profesionalnosti i divnoj saradnji. Uživajte!

My long expected novel “Sleeping Mathilde”, finally published in Serbian magazine KULT. (it will go in chapters…)

I would like to say thanks to magazine KULT for their professionalism and wonderful collaboration.

http://casopiskult.com/kult/krik/uspavana-matilde/

The closest video I could find to reflect the tone, mood and atmosfere in “Sleeping Mathilde”. p.s It has nothing to do with “Camelot”, make no mistake. This story is more cruel, more passionate and there will be some vampires, there… The story is set in 13 century, in northernmost point of early medieval Sweden, in highly isolated Norbotten. It is a story (amongst other things) about very interesting woman who… You will read it in English, soon, so you will see.

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She would be perfect for the role of Mathilde. 

Full cast & crew:

Mathilde: Eva Green
Örjan (OErjan)- Kevin McKidd
Olov – Simon Woods or James Purefoy
Hjalmar – Jonathan Rhys Meyers
Hilda – Kathy Bates
Johanna – Helen McRory
Leticia – Gabriella Wilde
Agnes – Amanda Seyfried
Umar, arabian sorcerer- Alexander Siddig or Jason Momoa

Crtice iz srpske svakodnevice, 110, Leila Samarrai, “Buđenje”, autobuska priča br 1


Beše letnji dan u velegradu.
Izgužvana lica putnika 72jke šarala su pogledima okolo, pozdravljajući, svako na svoj način, još jedno beogradsko radno jutro. Njihova lica behu uspavana, oči uglavnom sklopljene, a neka behu budna lica čije su se oči nervozno kretale po busu. S prezirom su osmatrala gužvu i osluškivala su uskomešani žamor svakodnevnih razgovora. Autobus beše krcat umornim licima, lišenim smeha. Neka, pak, behu stroga, pravična, a jedno nasmejano – raspevanog Jurodiva iz 72jke koji je svoju ludost vešto prikrivao pesmom, kao i pravednika koji je prikrivao svoje licemerje poštenjem:
“Danas sve sami ludaci. Sve je manje normalnih i poštenih. Pristojan čovek ne zna više ni gde da sedne”
U svakom slučaju, tipična atmosfera u prosečnom srpskom autobusu.
Naglo kočenje autobusa prekidalo bi redak smeh, hrk penzionera, žamor razgovora i nečiju temu o teškom porođaju. Nalik na veš mašinu koja okreće bubanj, razjareni vozač bi zavrteo putnike.
“Ijoj, izubija’ se na ovu šipku, mamicu ti, kako bre to voziš, k’o u centrifugi! Ko ti dao dozvolu, j.. ti.. vidi, sva sam u modricama.”
“Ma i ja sam ženo.. ćuti”, priključila bi se sapatnica – sagovornica.
Neka baba, koja nije na vreme pronašla slobodno mesto, se otkotrljala, sa sve štakom i pijačnom torbom, do najbliže autobuske šipke. To je vozača presekao automobil. Baba se polako podizala uz jedno “huh huh”, oslanjajući se uz štaku.
“Jel treba pomoć?”, zevnu mladić od 19 godina, udobno zavaljen na sedištu.
“Ne treba. Samo ti sedi. ” nasmeja se baba i ogorčeno ga pogleda ispod oka. Taj mladić ju je za tri metra pretekao u trci za slobodno autobusko mesto. Još na ulazu!
“Sreća da sam bila reprezentativka pa umem da padnem”, ponosno će baba. Mladić zaklopi oči.
Neki se zakikotaše. Tad baba započe da hvali Vozača. “Volim kad ovaj vozi.. Uvek najbrže stignem do pijace. Kakvo usporavanje, kakvi bakrači. Glava, noge, ruke, uvek nešto strada. Ali, bitno je da se stigne na vreme”. Babin monolog pratila je jurodivova pesma.
“I on je samo čovek, jeste”, dobaci neko.
“Ma šta bulazniš, antihrist”
“Nije čovek sine, on je supermen.”, nastavi baba na koju niko nije obraćao pažnju. Nije imala sreće tog dana. Ali, znala je da je sledeće slobodno mesto njeno. S čestitim osmejkom putnici bi, i inače, posmatrali nesrećnike naslonjene o autobuske šipke koji svoje slobodno mesto (još na ulazu) nisu našli.
Drugi su se žalili, treći masirali modrice.. Napokon, ponovo zaspaše. Tri stanice kasnije, neko ustade i baba se sruči na slobodno mesto, sretna do neba!
Autobus je krivudao asfaltom. Prođe pokraj crkve. Najedared, lica putnika obli žar. Istovremeno se svi prekrstiše i krst časni na sebe staviše baš u trenutku kada se u autobusu stvori neobična pojava u vidu kontrolora.
Beše to žena u ranim pedesetima, kratka i stamena, ljutitog izraza.
– Kontrolaaa! Karte na pregleeed! – razdra se. Nosila je posleratnu uniformu, na oduševljenje penzionera, iz 1951 koja beše olovno plave boje, i zatvoreni okovratnik sa GSP oznakama na rombovima revera.. Očitavač karata beše zadenut za kožni opasač sa kopčom na kojoj je bio službeni broj Svetog Aparata.
Stacionirala se na ulazu u autobus, pokraj prvih sedišta. Njen kolega u polo majici i džinsu je produžio napred.
Prišla je prvom sedištu i očitala jednu kartu. Kad je zatražila drugu, devojka 30tih godina, urednog izgleda i perfektnog poslovnog stajlinga, učtivo joj se obrati rečima:
“Nemam kartu…”
Kontrolorka se razrogači.
“Nemaš kartu a voziš se!”
“Imam kartu”, blago će ona -“ali firma još uvek nije uplatila.. verovatno će u toku dana.”
“Aha! Pazi da ti ne poverujem. – cinično se nasmejala prozuklim glasom pušača.
Glave su počele da se okreću. Zavlada nekakva zlovolja, veća nego inače.
Neki su likovali. Predosećali su da će nešto važno da se desi.
Devojka koja je sedela do prozora stisnu torbicu koju je držala u krilu i ponovo će, glasom, još uvek u dinamici mecoforte:
“Jel razumete Vi, šta ja Vama pričam? Firma nije uplatila.”
Kontrolorka, koja se zacrvenela i nekako nabubrela u licu, pretećim će glasom u fortisimo posibile (koji će trajati do samog kraja): “Maaa.. izlazi napolje. – uz blagotvorniju nijansu – ili daj dve hiljade na licu mesta.”
Na to devojka poskoči, na iznenađenje putnika koji su sve vreme pratili razvoj događaja.
Odbrusi joj:
“Ma neću! Ma ne dam! Još zbog tebe na posao da kasnim! Ne bih ti sad dala… pa da padneš sad tu.. dole.. i crkneš!”, zasikta.
Vozač proviri kroz prozorče dok je Kontrolorka i dalje uzvikivala:
“Izlazi napolje! Ili kaartu ili napoljeeee!”
“Šta se ovde dešava?”, upita kolegu koji se vratio sa autobuskog repa nakon što je čuo vrisku koleginice.
Kolega pokuša da je smiri. Nečujnim glasom joj je govorio: “Ma pusti.. ma hajde. “, držeći je za ruke i polako ju je povlačio ka izlazu.
Međutim, kontrolorka se nije dala. Otrgla se i podigla levu ruku uperivši prst u pravcu izlaza. Bio je to pokret na kojem bi joj pozavideo ambiciozni Hitlerov obergrupenfirer.
“Napolje!”, grozomorno reče.
“Neću”, još grozomornije će putnica.
“Aman! Ostavite devojku na miru!”, dobaci neko.
Vozač se obrati Kolegi.
“Čim zaustavim autobus, nosi TO napolje!”
Ali, ONA se i dalje, beskompromisno otimala iz ruku kolege, braneći svoj ideal.
“Sad ću ja da zovem komunalnu… tebi! Pa NJIMA objasni! Ja imam važnija posla!”
Devojka joj odgovori:
“Zovi i mog dedu ako hoćeš, zabole me dupe”
Vozač naglo zaustavi vozilo. Neki putnici popadaše, baba iznova zajauka, a neko zapreti vozaču:
“Šta bre radiš! Ne voziš stoku! Nego LJUDE!”
Vozač ustade, priđe revnosnoj kontrolorki i uz jedno: “Šta mi uradi sabajle” uhvati je za noge, a kolega za ruke i, dok je ona i dalje držala ruku čvrsto stisnutu u naci pozdrav stilu, u transu ponavljajući: “Napolje, marš marš!”, iznesoše je, kratku, stamenu i vatrenu, izbuljenih očiju i od besa zapenušalih usta, iz autobusa.
Nasta graja. Glasovi se pomešaše, neki su se smejali, neki su džangrizali:
“Eto! I to mi je država.”
No, jedno je bilo sigurno: svi su se probudili.

Crtice iz srpske svakodnevice, 110, Leila Samarrai, “Zaobiđi me”


Osvanu mi gladni dan u Srbiji. Ne beše prvi, ali nekako osetih, ne znam po čemu, da će biti poseban.. Nisam se mnogo dvoumila. Poslah poruku svojoj dobroj prijateljici Ani, ni ne sluteći šta me čeka.
“Ana, pozajmi mi 2000 na dva dana, pošto mi uplata leže u ponedeljak.”
Nakon sat vremena tišine, stiže mi odgovor u znaku upitnika.
“Ne razumem”, otipkala sam, “Ne znaš ko sam?” ili “Ne znaš šta hoću..”?
Pomislih: Bože, kome li sam ja poslala poruku. – pošto mi vid, kao i njen sluh nije reprezentativan.
Stoga, manem se pisanja i okrenem je.
Opet, tišina.
Do isključenja.
“Maaa..” – rekoh – verovatno sam nekom tuđinu greškom poruku poslala”
Posle sat vremena, stiže poruka: “Sad možeš”.
Okrenem je.
Dočeka me rafal rečima:
– Slušaj ti! Ako želiš sa mnom da se družiš ili bilo šta…
Tačka broj jedan: moraš da naučiš da rukuješ pravilno sa mnom.
Pokušavala sam da je prekinem. Da objasnim.. ni sama ne znam šta. “Kakvo rukovanje.. “, pomislih.
Međutim, mahnita prijateljica – puškomitraljez nije mi dozvolila da dođem do reči.
– Drrrruuuu – goooo! Ja sam za volanom! Da voziš, znala bi kako je to!
Tačka broj tri: Ja sam doživela takve traume! Ja sam žena koja živi u sojenici i bila sam tri meseca bez vode i bez struje! Nisam imala gde da se kupam!
Tačka broj četiri: (uz rastući tonalitet…) MOŽDA SAM NEGDE PO POZIVU I PREGLEDAM NEKU ŽIVOTINJU! NISI MISLILA NA TO, JEL DA?
Tačka broj pet: (sad već sikćući) Mobilni telefon mi nije primaran! (“što je u totalnoj koliziji sa tačkom broj četiri…”, pomislih.)
Usta mi behu poluotvorena od začuđenosti. Reči, da ne kažem nebuloze, prosto su izletale iz njenih usta i utrkivale se u letu. A onda, totalno zbunjena rekoh joj:
– Ne rukujem ni sa kim, pogotovo ne s ljudima. Rukovanje je glagol, a ti si osoba, sa divnim momentima. Ali sada, sa ove distance, mislim da je više onih koji to nisu. I ja sam živela u sojenici, bez struje, vode, sa prepunom septičkom jamom pod prozorom i ni sa kim nisam ovako razgovarala, ali sad hoću: jebe mi se za svih tvojih pet tački, a ti bude li ti nešto zatrebalo od mene, pozovi se na moju Šestu tačku, koju ću ti sasuti u lice”
Cičanje je bilo poslednje što sam čula pre nego što sam prekinula vezu. Moje prijateljstvo vredelo je 2000 dinara. (sa sve PDV – om), što i nije toliko velika cifra kada se osobi koja ne čuje obrati za pomoć osoba koja ne vidi.

Crtice iz srpske svakodnevice, 110 – Leila Samarrai “Umro zabadava”


Spavam blaženim snom, divljaju u meni trenuci odmora, ali beskompromisna zvonjava me polako budi iz sna, zvoni neko, zvoni, zvoni… Neko uporno zvoni na interfon da mu otvorim vrata. Da nije Kvazimodo?
Bunovna i probuđena iz najsladjeg sna, doteturam se do vrata, otvorim…
Ugledam dvoje (san li je ili java?), lepo odevenih ljudi. Muškarac u kravati, picnut, skockan, i žena s naočarima, pedantni, ljubazni, nasmejani, čak i nakon što su ugledali moj probuđeni lik.
Predstaviše mi se “Mi smo Jehovini svedoci”, te mekanim glasom koji kao s nebesa da se sliva na zemljicu rekoše mi da je “tad i tad” sastanak “onih koji su Jahvea upoznali, (možda i onih koji su ga upoznali i rado ga se sećaju, čak i iz institucija gde ne postoje boje u pratnji bolničara na skup dolaze) a Jahve želi da ga upozna svako i prima svakoga i sve..” (kreditne kartice, čekove..) i da ne nabrajam Pozvane.
Tad mi uvališe u ruke letak s likom Hrista kako obasjan svetloscu pruža k bezbožniku mesnate prste. Nebesni letak bio je prekriven ogromnim naslovom: “Čovek koji je umro za sve”. Na to joj, mirnim glasom Probuđene, ali nikako prosvetljene… rekoh:
“Džaba je on umro kad si ti mene probudila”, zalupivši im vrata pred pedantnim nosevima.
Letak sam zadržala.

A CASE FROM A YELLOW PRESS


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Chinese president Su Thong gave a statement for the yellow press yesterday that he would ensure the elongation of the Great Chinese Wall which would then serve to reroute all the possible issues into the right direction. A dog and two blind men, one of who was a murderer, supported him in this endeavors…

The amendment has still been considered, however the Chinese are still pretending to be the Englishmen. Anyhow, Su Thong (and we wouldn’t make a criticall error if it would be Jintao Sinjang) explicitly thought on good things. The Chinese only need to understand it.

The next day, those Chinese who lived in the parts close to the Wall didn’t find it where it should have been. Instead, the Wall appeared on the opposite end of the world. AmidstHollywood, in the middle of the yard where married couple, an actor Quini Doyl and actress Many Hoyl have lived. Each of the media gave different announcement, and indictments started to hail…