Thursday, January 8, 2009

A Feng Shui Robot IV

What had I written last night? In a plane now, Wayan was asking himself a question about what did he think about last night, when he was about 10 000 meters lower, on the ground, in the solid chair in his hotel room. But not in my notebook, what I have written in my mind? I will try to recall.

He was trying to recall about the person that would have been probably himself, if he didn't take up the decision to leave at least for a short while and take a little break from Serbs, Croats and Bosniaks. Anxiety arises, for that imaginary person who is sitting in a bar - in picturing the most trivial life situations as the ones that could bring in harms. Going for a coffee with a friend and imagining that everybody there is overhearing our discussion, the words uttered to each other show up as discriminating and dangerous,although, there is nobody there sitting except us and a waiter, who is bored to death.

Wayan’s biggest fear was that he would do too much harm to himself. And not by his own will. Aware of his pratfalls and unnecessary fears he was having cold chills every time he would think of the possibility that he might, actually, over think himself some day, and bring his fragile system down to the edge of a steep cliff. He realized about what was his best short story about – it was about damaging oneself irreversibly. There was a different perspective in the story too, the one talking about a person capable of surviving even the most vicious and unreal strokes of life.

So it was all not so much about pessimism but more about hypochondria. There was still a significant time ahead, until the age of forty is reached, the age about which a Bosnian writer Mesa Selimovic once said that is an age when a man is still too young not to have desires but too old to try fulfilling them. The words of a writer he never liked were resonating in his head. But with 25 thousand dollars in his pocked there was something more to it. His resolution was to find a good cartoonist, or at least somebody who could draw decently. He wanted to resurrect Sherriff Methuselah - who was invented by his old friend, at the time all the way back from the elementary school days. Wayans’s friend, the Sherriff Methuselah’s father, went completely crazy, got hooked up on heroin or some similar crap and was living a life of a plant now in Germany. Johnny, that’s how everybody would call him back in those days where everything was fresh and new.

As the plane was preparing for landing Wayan saw the contours of the familiar ground and thought about the days he and Johnny had spent, in a room they earned for themselves in school, drawing and illustrating the schools magazines, with best grades stamped in the their records beforehand.

Yes, such was his resolve; he will resurrect Sherriff Methuselah, and publish it come hell or high water. He was ready to give in more than a couple of thousands of dollars for that purpose.
Funny, but Johnny never saw the things Wayan saw. And he was a human ruin now and Wayan struggled with all the power he had got left to collect the broken pieces of his existence, disturbed and smashed by those four years. Just before the start of the terrible war Johnny took off for Germany to live there with his mother in spite of the fact that the big comics production company “The Ch. and the Big Pig Studios Incorporated” was just founded by two friends.

The plane shook, the landing started. Already tired and sleepy, Wayan was an easy target for a dark and unnecessary thought that suddenly occurred to him. In looking down at his country, he could not escape the conclusion that if there were no Internet and tourism, these people down there would soak themselves completely in a sticky labyrinth of the most regressive religious prejudices and ideas of 19th century nationalism.  




Notice: 

From now on the installments of my prose works under the working title of - I wouldn't recommend this (with more than 25ooo words already) - are available to subscribers only.
.... I started thinking about thousands of years old families wiped out forever by anger and cold ignorance, and about their hidden traces in my own DNA, and about how much the strength of the vanished has got to do with who we are; and about what had happened to each of those women from whom I had parted company and whose life then went into decline; about a supreme being the girls had referred to earlier – and all the physical evidence of chaos available to us; and also about what other people will always see as impenetrable in people like us, sitting at this table, and that they will never have access to – an ugly scar from the flame of history that burned too close to our faces, too recent, too savage, casting a special kind of shadow blurring our view but at the same time giving us an unrelenting advantage – in my case the beautiful handicap of a life lived in permanent anticipation of the chance of being healed. As though my only job in life has been to keep my balance on the narrow rope, hoping that someone like her would find that cool, really cool. Someone that I dared imagine might be her. And hoping that the genes responsible for all this, the palpable genes countless generations have tried to deform and degrade, would miraculously start becoming stronger, day by day. And that other things and thoughts would relentlessly emerge, seemingly sufficient, and cover the rest, like a thick layer of snow, covering over whatever had been there in the first place.....


Thanks to Kindle Affair, the most recent follower of this blog on Twitter.
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4 comments:

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Bobbysaid...

The most revealing chapter yet--I am even more interested. You have some strong themes going here and I look forward to the next installment!

pavocavalrysaid...

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