Monthly Archives: November 2017

GUDVILOVE VOLJE I NEVOLJE 1, studija o podvojenom umu, odlomak


GUDVILOVE VOLJE I NEVOLJE

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Jednom, a to ne beše tako davno, u godini Zaraza, uhvatio kašalj izvesnog Gud Vila, ambasadora dobre volje sa Balkana.

Vaistinu, ne beše taj Gudvil bilo ko. Govorilo se da je potomak cara Nazira Alija, tvorca tamilske epike iz Pondičerija, na jugoistoku Indije,  a kako se obreo na Balkanu beše tajna, kao i mnogo toga u njegovom kratkom, no čudnovatom životu. Njegov lični pisar svedoči da se u mladosti bavio pesništvom i bez sumnje imao je dara…  Govorili su mu: “Gudvile, tvoje pesme imaju epsku notu zapretenu u jezovitoj, nakostrešenoj lirici”.

To behu podmetačine.. Gudvil beše čistokrvni Balkanac, po obe porodične linije do seobe Slovena, a možda i dalje.

Ali, kako objasniti the pure magičnost stiha, do legendom. Tako pisati, pa to je uskovitlan svet,  kovitlac neslućenih spojeva. Za to, dakako, moraju biti kriva I krvna zrnca. Takvo lirsko umeće, takav kvalitet stila, usud puteva ukrštenih balkansko -istočnjačkih mudrosti, jedino je objašnjenje.

Na to bi se Gudvil uhvatio za glavu. Koren njegove bure u glavi bila je jedino migrena, branio bi se pred savremenicima. A i tih par epova, to je tek tako.. došlo mu.. otelo mu se slučajno, ne sa namerom, niti poreklom iz kakve egzotične, poetskom magijom očaravajuće zemlje. “Ja u dokolici, onako, slučajno..”, branio se Gudvil-  Iza nečasnog umeća mora da stoji stav, markantna rana, sudar dve vere, dve nacije i tako unedogled, odluči se Gudvile, da li si s nama ili nisi?

Poboja se Gudvil da mu ne prikače  status izroda, genetske greške i slično.

“Da tebe neko pita Gudvile, ti bi živeo u Golveju, Edinburgu ili u Kermaretenu, a ne sa nama”, pljuštale su gorke optužbe na koje bi Gudvil ostao nem, izmučenog lika.

“Ja.. samo želim da se uklopim..”, sanjario je –“O sudbo, zašto!”

I zareče se da će se manuti pera, sve dok mu i poslednje u glavi, odsanjano, zamišljeno bivstvo u samotnome pesničkome domu ne ispari u raskošno napuštajućem stilu uvređenog pesnika, dela sebe koga se gnušao i koji je morao da nestane, taj samonametljivi brbljivac, mađioničar, dramatično NIŠTA,  nedonosilac para, a donosilac tegoba i problema na račun njegove karijere i ugleda u društvu “Od sad samo činjenice i to gole. “ – zakle se on na nudizam u činjenicama, te kako učini, bi mu lakše, zaspa jedne noći tako I probudi se sutra kao novi čovek.

Gudvil (nekad beše) jedan od onih tipova koji deluju opasno na prvu loptu.  I na drugu!, zahvaljujući  uznemirujućoj pojavi i nehajnoj grubosti u ophođenju na koju bi mu ponekad ukazivali..  iz učtivosti.

Tad bi se Gudvil uznemirio. Verovao je da su to podsvesni trzaji proterane pesničke ćudi.

Beše to sitni (uznemiren pred zvucima, bojama i ljudima, reklo bi se usitnjen ) čovečuljak krvavobele ćele sa dve očne jame koje, istovremeno, kao da streme u dubinu, dok nabrekla zenica iz očiju ponosno štrči kao slomljen durbin, obuhvatajući šaroliki svet četiri ogolela zida.

Njegove slepoočnice bile su toliko blizu da bi delovale slepljene jedna za drugu, a između njih bi istrčao nos, tamilsko nasleđe, koji bi, kako bi ko govorio, pravio čudne pokrete, da, baš taj Gudvilov NOS koji je imao vlastitu volju i prkos uprkos Gudvilovim željama!, Gudvil bi krotio njegovu volju tako što se u njega neretko udarao, a bogu se molio da mu ispadne sa lica za vjeki vjekov…  – Kad bi govorio, zvuk koji bi izlazio iz napućenih USTA beše sličan nekom mlevenju, katkad, kao kad bi neko na sitno strugao orahe, možda njegov lični kuvar..) ili, još čudnije, u Gudvilov glas beše utkana još neverovatnija nota, kao da ga prati senka kakvog podsmevača koji istresa orahe iz zadnjeg džepa i pravo buku i tresku, te se ne zna kad govori Gudvil,  a kad mu se tamna senka Podsmevača ruga.

Sve je bilo protiv njega.

Pride i na samu pomisao da mu se neki zli genije podsmeva, a da se ne može uhvatiti, niti utvrditi poreklo takvog prokletstva, trzao bi se u velikom strahu nalik na buđenje iz košmarnog sna, jer Gudvil beše bojažljiv čovek.

„A bojažljiv čovek ne može biti tamilski stihovladar. Kakav je to pesnik sa ovakvom glavurdom. Pogledajte Bajrona, kako je lep. Hrom, ali lep. Opet, baviti se pesništvom, a izgledati..  gudvilovski… Ne ide.“, raspričao bi se u kafani i osećao da ga preplavljuje val topline i razumevanja njegovih sugrađana.

I tako je ponavljao sebi u bradu istu stvar, svake godine, u isto vreme, na istom mestu, sve dok poslednji trag sumnje ne iščile iz svačijeg srca, a oduševljenje je došlo do klimaksa kad se Gudvil pohvalio da se u slobodno vreme bavi izrazima i razlomcima, govoreći da su dva puta dva četiri i jedan – pet!

Gudvil je imao slabost, uistinu strast koja bi mu, ostvarivši bi se, kao uteha ležala na srcu i milovala bi mu pretkomore, zalegavši i na poneku popucalu komoru, hraneći ga spokojem kao mirom nahranjena misao.

Još kad bi se sve to zalilo pivcem sa uvek raspoloženim društvom u Udruženju Dekart! Možda doguram i do Ministra! Može se reći da je Gudvil imao neobični fetiš na čije bi ostvarenje neretko uzbuđeno disao!

Želeo je da bude ugledna ličnost. Jednog dana i Šef Države! A pošto o njegovom političkom usponu u ovoj priči neće biti reči, jer bi štura olovka još šturije mašte njegovog pisara zapela u brojna tumaranja u rečima i protivrečnosti golicajući u Gudvilu nepreboljenu boljku zbog koje nije nikad uspevao da do kraja bude srećan, odlučujem se na obaveštenje, krajno rešenje zapetljancije njegove komplikovane tamilsko – balkanske prirode i jedno suštastveno: Uspeo je. I bio je sretan.

Sve do tog kobnog dana u godini Zaraza.

Kako se razbole Gudvil, a beše to u petnaestoj godini raskošne političke karijere o kojoj u ovoj priči neće biti reči, odlučio je Gudvil da odleži bolest, odloživši posetu Tunguziji gde je počesto odlazio u svojstvu Ambasadora Dobre Volje.  Prođe nedelja, prođoše dve.. Ne samo da nije prestajao da kašlje, nego poče i da kija!

Odluči da poseti Državnoga Doktora, koji je izlečio problematično afričko pleme od opasne vrste gripa, da mu prepiše lekove.

  • Doktore, rećiću vam šta je u pitanju, ali da čuvate tajnu, jer u pitanju je i čast i nečast mog dobrog imena. Toliko sam na njemu radio, deceniju i po, da zablista!… – kršio je ruke Gudvil.
  • Kunem se, Apolonom lekarom, Asklepijem, Higejom, i Panakejom, i za svedoke uzimam sve bogove, i sve boginje za svedoke da neću ni zucnuti – prekrsti se Doktor životvornim krstom časnim.

Tad mu Gudvil reče: – Vi znate, Doktore, da sam u mladosti bio pesnik.

Doktor se namršti. –To je bila neka vrsta iracionalne vere. Poricanje sistema i zastrašujuća aktivnost.

  • E pa ja sam se te strave podsetio.. ovih dana.. ja sam.. ja sam… – Gudvil se zaplaka –
  • Niste valjda! Gudvile!

Gudvil pokajnički kimnu glavom.

-Pošast se vratila. Krene ona na mene, a ja krenem na papir, ruka se sama pomera, protiv moje volje, ispisuje epove o egzistencijalnom rubu, te mi nekakvo bezimeno biće u uvo šapuće o ružnoći čovečanskoj, te hajde Gudvile da im se svima narugamo tvojim neupitno britkim umom, a sve to izreče bestelesna zver neka u meni, potuljenom zloćom i navali na mene rečima: Nosinom zaoraj po rani, iščeprkaj gnoj, te me zainspirisa da napišem pamflet Udruženja vanvremenskih pesnika kurvara, viktorijanaca i futurista trubadura, a nagon me odvede do crkvenih vrata i natera me đavo neki da zakucam slobodoumnih i vatrenih 95 teza u dubokom lirskom izlivu gde se jasno govori o prvobitnoj misli u čoveku, hvali i veliča sanjar, spasonoša i bakljonoša celokupnog roda ljudskog.

U ime viktorijanaca izveličah u tezama tminu i zakleh se na obožavanje kako zalaska, tako i svitanja sunca, dobra i zla, pohvala ljubavi, strasti i dubokoj žrtvi koja donosi savršenu pobedu.

I rekoše mi glasovi u tami, a od toga počeh da kijam silno i dok sam kijao, ja san u tezama sročio da svaka ideja mora da se izrazi pa ma kakva bila.

Ja sročih zabranu konvencionalnosti i upriličih gozbu saosećajnosti umetnosti, veličajući slobodu i odgovornost ka istoj.

Sve ostalo je paradiranje naučenog jer su duhovni i kulturni integritet na prvom mestu, a ostalo, nešto kao crkva, država, norma, sistem, institucija trice, te da ih treba pod hitno ukinuti, pojedinca smestiti u Prirodu da je izučava dok stihuje zagledan u oblak i.. Doktore?”

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Sagovornik ga je posmatrao bledo, zatrašeno, izraza lica Preživelog iz uklete kuće.

“Gd.. gde ste ih.. zz..a..zakucali? – toliko beše zastrašujuče sve što je dobri doktor čuo da mu puče stetoskop, a zamalo i srce.

“Tu, među prečkama na masovnoj hrastovini, iznad gvozdene brave…”

“Na vratima Glavnoga Hrama Kajafa?”

“Želite li da čujete druge teze o prostituciji u futurističkom bordelu robota i njegovom uticaju na misaono- refleksivno..”

“Nikako. Bolest je uznapredovala. Sad me brine što je to video naš arhimandrit.. možda čak I Šef Države. On uvek u crkvu zakorači pre no što petlovi zapevaju, da se za nas pomoli”

“Bez brige. Moj kuvar je odneo sramotan dokaz bolesti. Pratio me je kako lutam noću sam, ubledelog lika i iskeženih zuba, te nešto, veli zakucavam..”

“Velite da se ne sećate zakucavanja?”

“Nisam bio svedok ovog poroka. Imadoh pomračenje i ne sećam se ničeg”

“Asklepija mi, uklonite sve olovke iz kuće, neka vaš kuvar udvostruči stražu.”, Doktor povrati idiličnu pribranost, sakupi ostatke raspukloga stetoskopa, još preporuči Gudvilu da vežba razlomke i izraze i nekoliko puta dnevno ponavlja reči poput: dva cela i jedna polovina i minus jedan celo i jedna šestina, te će zamreti u njegovom umu takve nečiste sintagme, a on opet biti onaj stari… “

Nastaviće se…

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The Artists


‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Wagner, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Wagnerian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

Mary Lynne allowed herself a minute smile and crossed her legs at the table.

The man tried his hardest not to look at her lovely, thin legs.

‘You start the text off strong, with a title that cuts to the chase, that doesn’t wander. The readers think that you will…that you’ll…’ His frowning face softened. ‘As early as the first, then the second paragraph to expand upon, to provide arguments to the qualification you laid…laid out, oh dear, I’m losing myself…in the title, yeah, that’s the word, IN THE TITLE! He gathered his wits for a second and started banging his head on the table – and yet nothing.’

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Vincent D’Onofrio (Cholo) with Mathilda May (Stephanie) in the movie Naked Tango the end of the film.

https://www.etsy.com/il-en/listing/276627324/black-and-white-nude-acrylic-painting

‘You say that he bullied his colleagues, and also that you cannot cite a single example, because there is nothing written, or disclosed. Funny, one would wonder: where did the daring claim come from that the man was a witnessed sadist when there are neither examples nor evidence of this? ’

The man extended his hands towards her. ‘Oh, Maryyyy…I will strangle youuuuu! With a wire string, dude!’

The man panicked. He grabbed her throat. He screamed. ‘I’m panicking! I’m panicking! I have to jump!’

And he jumped at her mumbling how truly unhappy he is.

‘Look at her, how easily she gives herself to me! You are no longer so prideful! Get yourself up you low-browed dunce! Oh if only a wind could blow right now to lift your skirt up, and here I am having to put up the effort, they’ll even call this rape!’

‘And it would’ve been romantic’ Mary Lynne said coquettishly.

‘Right, like in Tannhäuser. Sing to me, sing to me, be my…Wilhelmina Schroeder!’

‘Is that like Venus?’

He lifted her leg in lieu of responding as if he were ploughing a field. He flung it over his left shoulder.

Venus sang.

‘Do forgive me never more will IIIIIIIII

Come to me if fortune’s what you seeeeeeeek’

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Sophie Koch as Venus in Tannhäuser

‘My fortune…’ He uttered between heavy panting and then flung her left leg over his right shoulder (where the other one went, he wasn’t sure). ‘My fortune lies in Mary!’

And he added:

‘I also think that the text would have had more impact if Hitler hadn’t been mentioned. What, there’s no bloody way that Stalin, who was none the lesser a monster and a murderer than Hitler, didn’t love Glinka or Borodin, or more likely Mussorgsky. That does not mean that these composers were vile men. There is a sizable possibility that Idi Amin loved Tartini or Paganini, why not. There are counterexamples as well. Beethoven loved Napoleon for years, he even devoted ‘Eroica’  to him, after which he got disappointed, gave up on Bonaparte.’

‘There.’ Mary said, after an explosive finish a la Eroica. ‘Now, will we do some Wilhelm Friedman for me, sweet lover?’

‘Start!’ With Mary’s dress at an arm’s reach, he quickly put on a dress and made-up and groomed in a manga style he lifted his hairy legs up high, swearing that the Cliven depilatory cream was not handy.

‘You know how much I care for hygiene!’ He wept.

‘Cold waxing is the best with the Tiger tire glue.’ She smiled. ‘Now have a listen…’

‘Oof…’

Between Expressions by Hamish Blakely

‘Wilhelm Friedman was spat upon to the point of pain. A boozehound died poor…(SIGHING) They then admit that he was the greatest instrumentalist of his age. The dude hit the clavier, not a single person could challenge him. A biography that on the surface looks like the buckish bios of notable rock musicians. Oy vey, there was a movie as well, I think the title of it is, in fact, Wilhelm Friedman, where he, apparently, suffers and struggles (SHE SIGHS LOUDER AND MORE PASSIONATELY) as a gifted son of a well-known father. The catch is that his father was nowhere near as noteworthy when Friedman was playing, and his problem was neither living in his father’s nor in his brother’s shadow (Mozart said about Carl Philip Emanuel: ‘He is the father, we are all his children’ (OH GOD!!!!), which reckless historians transposed as Mozart talking about Bach, and he didn’t.) (BOTH SIGH AND MOAN), but with all those flies, fleas and planktons that make up life and make up us humans, like a living organism, dead center in that life itself. Leopold Mozart, Wolfgang’s pops, picturesquely and colloquially described the habitus of Friedman Bach. ‘A remarkable musician, an unrivalled composer, but a heavy, heavy drinker.’’

He was panting. ‘I love Händel a lot. I have some undocumented version of his Water Music, therefore I do not know either who performed it or when, and the version is, just, it’s the balls, it tears ass… I listened to various different versions, but most of them are shit, can’t even come close to what I have. Händel and Telemann, by the way, I view as bigger composers than Bach. ’

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist was playing in the background during all of this. An erect phallus added to the magic and romance of the two. Candles were too much with all of these other stimuli. At the peak of arousal, they were slapping each other, arguing which composer is better.

antichrist

‘Boozehound, spendthrift, died poor, boozehound, spe…e…eh, dear husband, I think that will do for the evening.’

And while he was putting on man’s clothing, Mary Lynne sang Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphony (Joie du sang des étoiles) in front of the mirror, the director of the Artist’s Trilogy Ron Gabe Bonester went upsy-daisy and with a ‘Camera, cut!’ he marked the end of the shoot.

‘I gave you too much freedom! None of that was in the script!’ He paused for thought. ‘Now you, kid, get Mary a gun to blow your brains out!’

The actress went upstart. ‘That wasn’t the deal!’

Bonester shouted in response to this. ‘Nobody questions my authority! For two hours behind that there…glass compartment…the Australian minister of culture is sitting and waiting for the script which will present his arduous devotions at the Art Conference focusing on non-profit management. Our country cannot develop economically without innovation in that particular field. And education! Who do you think you are? Who bought me this Canon EOS 6D to shoot you guys? Get serious, woman, and continue the oral, along with Chopin and your husband.’

‘But…we are ARTISTS!’

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‘An overrated term. I do not exchange my ideas with the personnel. We directors laud a vibrant and growing creative economy!’

Then both He and She approached him and pounded him into the ground, while Bonester slid on the floor in his oversized suit.

‘Shall we continue where we left off?’

‘You mean…while the Minister Behind the Compartment observes?’

‘And then a gun to the head, like Romeo and Juliet. Or was it poison? But let’s not split hairs.’

‘That would probably be a mistake, but…as I said… we are artists, dear colleague, and a happy couple in Art. We cannot live on without the drama.’

‘And voyeurs,’ someone whispered, sat in a chair where the now unconscious director lay and followed this up with a thunderous applause.

Then the trio continued the show agreeing that the Husband should be given any old name.

Mary’s gaze flew up and she said: ‘He will be named Frederic. Like our unborn son.’

Nobody objected, therefore Frederic could begin.

The Minister, who physically reminded one of the head electricians, would record something with an expensive video camera. But under the condition that he played Chopin.

‘Bah bah, the Best Boy.’ Both send passionate kisses to him. Then, with an erotic play, they embraced.

‘Artists, such artists,’ mumbled the Mysterious Traveler, the Spectator, the Third Without Whom You Can’t Go On, from the artistic Kingdom of Heaven.

But Mary Lynne and Frederic were in their own world, wreathed in music and gifted with a gift worthy of the Gods.

The camera buzzed. Reflectors flashed.

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SCENE 25:

‘I’ve carefully gone through your text of Bach, madam. Quite passionate, a tour de force. This is precisely why I don’t call myself a Bachian, you will permit me (I hope) to provide some of my critical input.’

SCENE 26:

‘…as far as the Bach family is concerned, I love Wilhelm Friedman and Carl Philip Emanuel, they rule, each in their own way, but I dug up some other guys as well – for instance, Johann Bernhardt Bach is also excellent. In the classical era, Johann Christian Bach stood out. Imagine that wondrous family tree, this beast of a family, which branched out during a good hundred-and-so-year period, and bore nothing but interesting musical fruit. Crazy.’ (SCREAM)

CUT.

Grammarly aphorism


“It’s an online service that quickly and easily makes your writing better and makes you sound like a pro, or at least helps you avoid looking like a fool.”

However, I like to look like a fool. I would like to leave the blaze of wisdom to the experts.