Boris K. i konačno rešenje za Viktora Frankla


Godina 1946. U  krčmi “Paviljon za samoubistva”, udaljenoj svega nekoliko koraka od centralnog groblja u Vieni, Boris K. I Viktor Frankl razgovaraju… Boris K. se žali na noćne more. Autor knjige “Kako da sačuvam živce”, napisao je gomilu knjiga koje su (reklo bi se) mogle biti od pomoći Borisu K. Boris K. koji je procitao sve  Franklove knjige.

Doktor ga sluša sa pola uveta. Cinicni osmejak mu obigrava oko usne. Boris K. nosi prepoznatljiv mu autfit – “mornar Popaj” majicu na pruge. Frankl nosi logoraško odelo. “Tako se lakše rve sa bolom..”, došaptavaju se gosti krčme od kojih je većina delila Franklovu sudbinu. (kao i autfit, i po koja krčmarica i konobar)

– Prolazim kroz teške čase.. – otvoreno će Boris K. – Morao sam da te vidim, doktore.
Psihijatar se počeša po glavi,  izgubljenog pogleda, razbarušene kose, zureći u prazan papir.

– Ne znam kako ti ja mogu pomoći, Borise K. – Frankl sleže ramenima, a Boris K. se zaplaka, na šta ga doktor s mržnjom pogleda, okrvavljenog oka..  Tad se pribra i nastavi, dok je Boris zadovoljno protrljao ruke – Obojica tumaramo po tami, Borise K.  s tim da je moja malo.. mračnija..  –  uskliknu i podiže mali prst uvis – Nad Evropom bde i bdiće, ujedinjene,  strava, kob i sen. Da svi bdimo sudbinom čovečjom, a ne samo sile svetle zvezde zlokobne, već sile noći bez kraja,  ti – uhvati Borisa K. za majicu na pruge i snažnim zahvatom je pokida na komade, kidajući pruge jednu za drugom i otkrivši Borisov mišićavi torzo –

“Ah! – postide se Boris K. pred krčmaricom koja zasikta ka njemu – Lakše to, doktore! Nemam rezervnu.. A i dama.. “

Doktorove zenice su se rumenele kao okrvavljena zora. Odmahnu rukom:

“Pridruži nam se, o Borise K. Živela revolucija i tamna brigada! Cannons to the left, cannons to the right, baš kao u pesmi”, Frankl obliznu palac, okrete stranicu i nastavi da pomno čita prazan papir, okrećući oči od Borisa u stranu….

Boris K. se strese pod utiskom sablasnog proročanstva.

Tad reši da istera stvari na čistac. Kako da dođe do rešenja vlastitog problema? Samo napred i hrabro, Borise, to je samo doktor..  Pitaj ga!:

– Recite, zašto ste dosad niste ubili, Viktore?

“Ko kaže da nisam?”, lakonski će Frankl i nastavi uz jedno “Dovraga!”, da zuri u papir. “Nemam ideja, a Tully me čeka!”

Tad priznade Borisu K da mu njegovo prusustvo ide na živce, ali da to ne shvati lično, jer “Nešto me draži kod tebe, Borise K. a ne umem da objasnim zašto.. Možda je do mirisa.. “

Boris K. shvati da se doktoru miris njegovih nogu nije dopadao.
“Isto je i sa gostima krčme – paviljona. Nerviraju me ti.. uspeli suicidi. Srećna kopilad”, mrmljao je psihijatar nepovezano u bradu.

Tad Boris shvati da Preživeli tumaraju krčmom odsutnog pogleda i okrvavljenih očnjaka. Obuze ga jeza.

I doktor Frankl se, najedared, ustremi ka njemu, izgladnelog pogleda, ispruživši ruke… Ostali mu se pridružiše dok je Boris K. hrlio ka ulazu ophrvan užasom i pobeže koliko ga noge nose.

Bilo je to sastajalište Preživelih. Ko je od njih živ, a ko mrtav, bilo je pitanje od manjeg značaja, mislio je nekoliko časa kasnije Boris K. zapalivši cigaretu Laki Strajka, sam samcijat, kraj kontejnera, delimično pribran i utešen svetlošću obližnje ulične bandere.

Boris K. stoga odluči da se vrati Franklu po savet deset milenijuma kasnije, kad se i psihijatar malo pribere.

Ako ga večnost u kojoj je boravio ne pretekne u plemenitom naumu.

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The human race has completely failed because of emotions.


All emotions are one and the same: self-pity. Emotions are always between people and they occupy the space that should not exist. They mediate where there should be a direct touch.
When the emotions emerge, all forces should be imploded.
To do this, one needs to understand how it is created. It’s a program, as with the Russian scientist Pavlov.
Usually, mothers are the ones who teach children to react emotionally. It’s that frigging training we receive when we’re small and powerless to figure it out and resist it. This is THE mother-Medea who sacrificed us to misjudge others. Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.
Mothers are mostly intimidating children, so they learn. And the idea of caring mothers is to a large extent fake and fatal.

Emotions are projections. That means, you project your emotions on someone and then he or she is for you only
a fraction, a part of some of your performances. In this way, you immobilize them, label them, you take away their freedom.
Look, when you offend someone, he or she immediately claims you owe him or her (apology, money, compensation).
It’s an emotional economy and it’s deadly. Look at those fools who, because of the cartoon of Muhammad, they go to bloody showdowns with anyone who gets in their way. It is a program that establishes power over people and
they obediently listen
because they can not understand what is happening to them and therefore they cannot resist to resist it.

The human race has completely failed because of emotions.

Plus, the same holds true for ideas. Emotions and ideas are complemented and successfully replaced. It’s all the same kind of programming.
And life itself, chemistry, physics, all is conditionality. Atoms are conditioned to react. We are conditioned by biochemical processes.
The only thing that we have and which does not condition us is our understanding, the ability to know what is actually happening and to distinguish and save ourselves at that point.

Watch just this saying: Logic dictates! That is, we are slaves, we are obligated to execute what “logic” requires. That’s “His master’s voice”. Slave conditioning.

Poetry should clearly expose this and mock it because it is in a superior position to clearly see all this scam.

From a strategic point of view, it is better for the wind to lift up all the rubbish so we can clearly see what is flying and what stands firm. Seize the opportunity and get rid of unnecessary delusions. It’s all that we, humans, can do, anyway. Of all that we have, the most valuable is our sense of humour. And the source of humour is pure knowledge. It is something much more reliable than emotions because it is indestructible unlike them.

The bravery of authentic existence is a choice.


The poet is the one whose mind and heart are puzzled over things, many of them gave up.

The poet, as the last Mohican, with his art, connects immortal to mortal, in the garden of the separating paths.

The poet suggests that the beauty of the spirit of the only permanent value in relation to which everything else does not matter. It never dies and the only shining at all times
as the moonlight that with its splendour breaks the blackness of the night.

Even when it sees the dark, and when surrounded by darkness, the poet offers light.
His poems are a conscious choice by which the poet moves the boundaries of the darkness pushing him out of his world glittering path to anyone who wants to see and do not tap in the dark.

Poems are prayers with which the poet boldly breaks false, dormant peace calling for awakening and liberation from grotesque characters whose zombie-like existence kills the liveliness of art and spiritual creation.

In the rousing kiss of the poetry,  the creator is ready to play their life convinced that only the beauty of pure artistic expression can win perversion.

Through the depth of their poems of which will not give up the poet shows that the bravery of authentic existence is a choice.

The poem must be an impeccably solid structure. It must be – solid.
The poem is a work of art. And the act must be closed in itself. This must be impeccable.

The one verse in the poem has several blind streets, signposts and goals than a writer ever succeeds to create a dozen pages.

 

Fitnes pesma/Boris K. in the gym


Neuhvatljive, živahne kretnje, stopala…
kao konji ljuti što beze u galopu
pljusak snage, beli smeh u vetru
otvoreni brzaci, prostor nastanjen težinama
lepet tegova zbraja i potire uspone i padove
a duša je u skladu sa zadovoljnim telom

Presvučena znojem, kao svilom,
podizem težinu visoko prema nebu.
čini se da je vežbacka rutina
puna rastanaka
od uspona na kojima bih mogla ostati.

https://wordpress.com/stats/post/8895/leilasamarrai.wordpress.com

 

 

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

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While resting from my presence…


image: Dreamlike Photo Manipulations by Mikko Raima

I AM
An existence
A germ of eternity

A peasant spouse, the God of Death,
With bulging eyes and mouths-a-shiver,
And then the story goes;

Befitting my dark being’s tastes,
In spite of insanity and oblivion –
With in tune, swings of the pen within the place.

My soul’s tale is clear.
I dissolved it.
A trap of hallucinations, thus I whispered,

(daring not to
listen any further.)
When I think towards a time when I was NOT
Without knowing how, or when, or from where
I stepped in deep darkness…

Wickedness with a wink,

but a concept of rhythm and tempo
Wherein the uttered swung enchanted,
Rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness

Or whatever was sent to get me
I melt.
An unfinished temple

With the presence of the spirits there for eons,
The true polyglots, storms of words,
Yet calming, mildly warning,

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere
An unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening
And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me

That self-exile, quite disgusting mystery
My malice is going for theatrics.
For I AM, for I am NOT,

I am exactly the same, the cross built,
A shrine in the castle,
(Of the entire
human experience…)

Sick of scribbles – nothing
Sick of wisdom – nothing
Too alive to die

Entangled with the ray of death
And stepped away suddenly,
Neither dead nor living to live,

Everything lasts in shades long buried.
A wild eternity dismembered
By monstrous hands of the gods moan.

I reached the edge of the gradient,
Entangled with the ray of death and
Stepped away suddenly.

And finally, at once,
Until I’ve taken a
Bite of my mental wellbeing…

I shut my eyes…
To fill with fear
To inhale the scent

While resting from my presence.