BARD’S WOMAN IN THE COOL OF THE SUMMER BREEZE (2001).

He woke up vain and deflated, slowly raising his sweaty hands toward the ceiling in a gesture full of expectation, yet at the same time so very bored. Why hasn’t she come yet? he asked the mute image hanging on a screen that looked like a cellophane plate on which someone had scattered tons of brown sugar, hoping to create an inspiring generational work of art. He called out, one after another, the most varied names, trying to match the girl’s face with one of the pictures in his favorite summer book—full of beaches, palms, cows, meadows, shepherds, and naked women. In a word, the warmth of milk and the sweetness of wildflower honey poured straight out of the gentle, delicate pages of that book. It fit perfectly with the soft, lazily flowing music in the smoky room air, coming from the speakers of an old Grundig tape recorder with a door that never quite closed. He thought: It’s wonderful, if only she would graciously put on a watch just once in her life, right now when I need her, and she’s probably still sitting in one of those shabby, empty jazz clubs in the southern part of town (6 a.m.).

He searched for a pack of cigarettes, his half-conscious gaze sweeping over every cupboard, chair, and the huge brown table that had somehow ended up in the middle of his small room, right next to the bed where he had been resting. Here it is, I found it, he said, then after a moment: Empty, damn it, while beginning to dress—throwing a leather jacket over his floral pajamas and slipping on sandals. The door gave way after a gentle press of the handle and a knock just below the top lock, opening up a magnificent view full of greenery—pines, lindens, maples—all mixed together, plus conifers further on, dunes covered with grass, and beyond that the boundless expanse of the sea, which for him was the universe here on earth, toward which he gladly set out after his daily rituals.

She awoke, and yet still dreamed, and so she could not find her bed among the thick violet-orange clouds of sunset, drifting helplessly toward a hill with castle ruins no more than thousands of miles from this planet. Her little island, suspended beneath the moon, always awaited guests, thundering at night with free jazz and by day with bebop, forcing cats to dance along the promenade. She woke, then fell asleep again, and the violent darting of her eyes shot out from beneath her eyelids, merging with the daylight filtering through the patterned curtain wrapped in mandala lace. I feel WOOONDERFUL.

He returned, cursing the local drunks who were capable of ruining any of his utopian mornings, mornings in which there was no place for such events and every person was a sunny incarnation of Buddha. Unfortunately, the morning did not last longer than a moment on the threshold, before he opened the door, and his mind was still searching for apt comparisons and expressions that might help him write another blues. Now he sat on a stone, smoking and admiring the summer skies through the glass of an emptied whisky bottle. He declared: This is what my life looks like, and lay down even lower, pressing his body almost into the stone. The cigarette went out, and again he burned his lips, the falling ember burning the thousandth hole in his pajamas.

In the room he brewed himself coffee, adding three teaspoons of sugar and pouring in an incredible amount of milk. He prepared a roll, then carried it all out onto the balcony, taking with him the indispensable cigarettes and turning the tape recorder up to full volume. He never listened to the radio—boredom, endless boredom seeped out from the tempting, green-lit scale. He sprawled on the balcony, sitting opposite the sea, whose glimmer was visible from here. The binoculars allowed him to see the tiniest details of long-legged, tanned bodies, old sailors, gulls, fishing boats, and the pier full of mindless tourists. He also saw couples sitting on the dunes, fawning over each other in their own childish, naïve way. She did not come. An hour passed, and she still had not come. He decided she was in no hurry anywhere and was probably still asleep, since last night had made her all too aware of what life with a man like him meant. Forever unshaven, long-haired pseudo-artist—that’s what she once said, though he thought she was absolutely wrong. She was a proper Christian girl who at first led a completely different lifestyle than he—he, immersed in various readings saturated with decadence but also in works bursting with optimism, a man who considered himself a modern incarnation of a romantic, to whom the moon laid a cradle and sometimes took on the face of a mother, as he used to say of himself—so her comment was perhaps adequate to the way of life she led in her little world of little girls.

After listening to the moving speech, the archaic auditorium leaves the acrobats’ hall, heading toward the niches in the walls filled with light, and they immerse their faces in them, while the technical recitation directs them toward the Machine—its steel conduits are filled—saturated, it departs. The drained bodies fill the remaining gaps and flash with alluring light. The archaic auditorium leaves the acrobats’ hall. Once and for all.

…down the street to the rhythm of free jazz—self-proclaimed trio—narcotic lads—passing the church several times—somber black against the orange glow of the sky—on the church tower stands a two-meter shadow, humming melodies, and we repeat them, spreading its arms like ominous wings, sleeves flapping—in the catacombs under the city—in postwar bunkers, wild cries, tin face, wax house with a card garage, inside a convertible powered by blue blood that flows down the church tower into a black chalice soaked through with rotten, purple blood staining the gold washed from hardened tears flowing with milk from the holy nipple of the goddess of rain, dripping lushly onto the soaring walls of that church—like the parted lips of a white orchid blooming in the cracks of those walls in defiance of the denial of love. So the shadow on the tower cried out “ANGELS!!!”—and we answered “YES, SON?”—to which he, with a slow rumble, collapsed to the ground like a tear falling down a chest when I cry with my woman, and she laughs and says “Be a man!” though that’s not the point, so he fell and our trio played a funeral march that turned into a wild orgy with the whole harem of unbridled notes, white robes and joy at the funeral—dance on the grave, food for the corpse. Leave the room! Archaic tenant. So we played the march and went further down the street—the rhythm sped up, and the music did not stop, even though our lungs, especially Long’s, who played saxophone and drums—oh, his bleeding hands—my contrabass muttering also tired me, but Hairball kept squeezing out more guitar solos, unbroken cascades of sound.

Blood fainting laughter forgetting home distancing analysis checking god bringing poem introducing door mistaking vertical deviation sun reverie wind dishevelment brain distraction stop! RHYTHM! reference taking flattery giving smoking pondering sleep awakeningairflo w sun I lose rhythm so hurry toward dawn! Hurry toward the elusive breeze and clouds! Dawn awaits us. let’s describe it, it’s a good model…hand posing unhurried willing sinful mournful… why do I rhyme? The church recedes, and the cobblestones slowly, yet playfully, assimilate the angel from the rusty rainbow… Valhalla, I come…

…oh, how hard it was to get up…lifting myself from the couch after last night was almost the same effort as raising a house filled with an enormous number of knights in shining armor. First I moved my hand, then my eye and directed it downward…on the floor two corpses—with open eyes and painted in them the effort in the foreground—and then slow movements…first hand, then hand to pocket, from pocket take out pipe, then bag, pack the pipe—all with one hand…then to mouth, strike match, inhale…the rest of the body still paralyzed, and each of us had burned lips and bloody hands…probably our own blood…my first movement was scratching my chest and reaching into my pants pocket from which I pulled an incredibly crumpled pack of cheap filterless cigarettes…Jesus, I lit up…when it went out I closed my eyes again. (rest of text illegible) so they borrowed an old black Ford from one of the girlfriends and wanted to drive, though none of them knew how to drive. I’ll drive—so we go… (fire)

When a man dances he falls into a certain kind of tribal trance…dance need not be defined by rules…simple, clumsy rhythm of blues beaten with twigs on empty plastic containers and group wailing is the basic element of dance…plus monotonous, steady, trance rhythm…primordial blues-forest fluid in the thicket and on the clearing, everywhere the air plays in heads and creates visions of sound…man is built of sounds, though few realize it…yet he is not a boring symphony, but a captivating wild and pulsing rhythm with bass babble and occasional guitar howl…strings vibrate in each of us…believe it or not, music will catch you, and then it will possess you and tear your brain to shreds, to build on its wasteland a wooden divine monument, a phallic construction pulsing rhythm toward the south…toward the north…whenever it is twelve o’clock…you cannot live without sound…it slows and slows…you need nothing but your own smile, the sky to sing your songs into, and the earth to walk wherever you want…wherever there is rhythm…the pulse there the earth you walk is yours.

Mary smokes Popularne, Joseph drinks with buddies behind the stable, and the whole scene is watched from a cloud by a drunk angel who laughs loudly…the laughter shakes the earth…if god is a man, then I wonder how long his dick is. Longer than mine? I doubt it.

SCENE 1: CHRIST in the cave (for five minutes), GOD stands at the entrance.
— Christ, come out… meditation is over…
CHRIST comes out, scratching his balls. He shouts: — Father, I have discovered the truth.
GOD smiles. — Yes, Son?
— Long live the SUPERMARKET!!!
God collapses to the ground, clutching his heart. He died.
Long live PLASTIC BASKETS, HARE HARE UNCLE SAM. Whoever claims that GOD is dead, step forward…
LONG LIVE THE GREAT HYPERMARKET AND THE ARMY OF BIG-BROTHER DWARF SCREWUPS!
"Images will possess you, Images will instruct you — images…"
DO NOT LET THEM!!!

When I visited Baku the silence of the morning sunrise took hold of my mind… Beyond the black line you cannot see anything, contours collapse into a single point stretched between the eyes—you see the whole space while seeing nothing. On the other side—a multicolored rainbow scatters its hues above your head, creating the entire space from a single crystalline point—the world of diamond. You are not sure if you exist, you know nothing while knowing everything (you are aware of where you come from and where you are going, but all the dry facts and information dissolve into mist—they are unnecessary). So you lie on the water or float in the clouds, and the weather is perfect (spring in full—lots of sun, greenery, blue, small white clouds—but not heat—fresh warmth—the breeze blows from the sea), and your eyes are wide open and it seems you never close them.

The light is soft (just so) and gently caresses the eyes while the wind flows beneath the eyelids. There is no mind, slowly you become the sky (I wait for a scientific expedition that will drag god out of his palace and put him in a cage on display, so children can laugh and point fingers, feeding him biscuits). You become the sky, trees lift their crowns and climb upward, the earth is empty (I wait for a construction crew that will soon build here a multi-entertainment center for asexual kamikaze). The earth is empty, only plants and birds, a strange land where the goddess is the rainbow (I wait for a salesman who could quickly sell me a television, because this boring emptiness is becoming unbearable, and the doorbell is silent). I see a footbridge over the river, pure color of wood, slow current, wide banks—a valley that from time to time surely becomes the riverbed—a strange sight in a land without any buildings—this footbridge has been here since the beginning of the world (I wait for people). There are people—they also fill this fluid field—they stand, lie, sit (nights under the stars)—man, we live forever. Do you understand? — Do you understand? — I understand…

The madman is in the kitchen. Apocalypse. St. John the Impaler. I WANT her for myself!

People on this endless meadow—stars turn above them and beneath them—I realize that I have only just joined (I to them, not they to me, as I first thought)—they have been here for centuries. I ask… no, the answer precedes the question, and it sticks in my throat before I can ask it, because in the meantime I feel an impulse that COMMANDS me to know.

The doctor is in every head. Sister! I feel the edge of the beach under my feet. Two ampoules!!! I knew a girl—her name was Pharmacia Panacea and she always waited at 4:20, and when I didn’t come she came to me. The object escaped.

Smoke turns into clouds, and clouds turn into birds—these in turn circle the sky and tease the sun. The sun breathes. I feel the breath of the sun. These are the first moments of pure sky.

I sit mindlessly, biting my nails (I must replace the cigarette with something). I have nothing to do. The night hours flow slowly in the darkness, suddenly interrupted by flashes of stars and streaks of clouds. I reflect (windows open with a bang, revealing the summer night sky). I hold a discussion with myself. Smoke rises from the only chimney in town. The devil never sleeps. I see a pair of eyes on the sky. They rise from beyond the horizon, lighting the night with the neon of primordial magic. Divine, unbroken concentration. Despair after losing loved ones. Joy in every aspect of existence. Untroubled calm of unbroken sleep that does not speak but pumps all juices into the brain, nourishing it with the adrenaline of night (calm adrenaline that only gently tickles the palate). Nylon of the heavens. Transparent umbrella. Slides from the first holidays. Sweet memories that will never fade, even if you open the window as wide as you can. You will not stop dreaming, just as you cannot stop breathing. On the hand rises a single hair—a lonely pulse, the vibration of nylon. The magical touch of someone’s hand. Distorted focus, encounter of untroubled joy, happiness of a quadruple mother, seven-headed children of the hydra crying for every slightest salvation. God, who never stops loving, cloud that never stops flowing, rhythm that never stops pulsing. India, which never sleeps. Hindu child, avatar of Shiva, flood of the holy river murmuring all the time (sound of the universe). Unlimited horizon of phosphorescent night, day when people left their concrete houses to raise simple structures (huts, ice houses on the white desert). First glimpse of green among blood-red auroras. Joyful are the people in simple dwellings.

The cigarette goes out. I light another.

The town begins with a lonely road among fields, along it run railway tracks breaking off silently—then a housing estate and a military unit, and next to it a center where I will spend a month and a half of my life (I arrived an hour ago). Then a turn to the right. Fence. The fence ends. To the left holiday homes, to the right single-family houses, guesthouses, and my favorite grocery-liquor store open 24 hours. A little further a kiosk—there I buy newspapers and sometimes cigarettes. Then the shopping promenade. Green Booth. Fish fry shops, and on the left side another grocery-liquor store. That’s already the canal. To its other side leads a drawbridge operated from a funny blue-and-white booth. Beyond the bridge to the left, on the other side of the canal. Lighthouse. Port. You can see the beloved beach on the left side. Now back—straight beyond the bridge—confectionery and paid beach—I don’t like this place… …then a turn to the right. I pass the center and turn left. This entrance leads to the beloved beach—before that some garden—they have great beer with syrup there. Already on the beach. Sea. Gulls, sometimes on the dunes you hear a skylark. Night sky above the sea (waves). I sit and reflect.

The cigarette went out. Last pack. I reach for the bag. I pack the wooden sailor’s pipe—alone, I’ll meet the girl later (apart from Robert Plant, beloved lips—a short acquaintance ended by a local show-off. Did he have more to offer? I doubt it). Slowly I inhale… I don’t have to hide from anyone—at this hour there’s no one on the beach—I can’t stand the day here in season—fry-up of people—Baywatch—terrible idea. They only ran away from work, I ran away from life.

Lungs of the night. Deep, steady breath. At once gentle and full of reverie. Distracted eye of non-being (god’s vagina on the horizon, emerging from behind a very high mountain)—you will never embrace chaos. Yet this is peaceful chaos—sweet pipe dreams and reverie. Nights over a book about a butcher killer bought for a zloty in the cheap book club, or something like that. Lonely bench burdened with three people (first cigarette, first wine, first joint, first sex). Two of them already breathe East Berlin air. I am here.

Lungs of the night. A pair of eyes slowly closes, neon goes out. There remains the irresistible impression that I know more than I knew before, though I cannot prove it with any thesis, rule, or formula. You must experience it to understand that something in you has changed. There is no formula for the wisdom of imagination. Fairy tales are needed, childlike curiosity is useful in youthful life. I will never renounce the child within me, that feeling will remain in me for a very long time. I want a sea grave. Oceanic grave—part of a coral reef or the beginning of wonderful life bursting with a riot of colors. I would like to see the ocean, to become the ocean. It’s not about cheap entertainment.

Never wear a watch.

…Straight into the heavens—it is hard to describe the colors I pass, rising into pure space—it is hard to find words for the feelings flowing through me. Sweet emptiness—who holds the helm of the cosmic machinery?—I only set the stars in motion and spin endless planets around them. I saw Orion rise and set. Commands for hypochondriacs, faulty strike, collision with the mind—it breaks into pieces in a silent scream. The gaping mouth of night is directed at the phallic silhouette deep in the garden. The garden blooms, birds sing. Clap your hands, for you will soon die. Instead of a ball, a sheet of paper with the words “Bang Bang!!!”—a poor joke of the event’s animator. I look beyond the boundaries of the universe. I see the finger of the ideal being—again the same pair of eyes. The neon lights up again. The cigarette goes out. Eyes full of green flowing in divine streams.

Never wear a suit and shiny shoes.

I got up this morning, and my cat died. Marine awakening of an ancient god. He stretched and yawned loudly. He announced his arrival and demanded altars. The burnt offering already awaits you, lord. Nuns on promenades, kiosks, sexy accessories, Agata, dirty sidewalk, sink. The fridge full of beer, but nothing to eat. Wait until I open the bar. Night drive, forest, road, light in the car, loneliness, reflections, bottle of wine and ganja under the seat, discussion…always and everywhere…Dangerous ride into the center of the burning brain. The brain hides ambrosia, the fluid of salvation, orange cargo, spilled flash. Shiver. Inner arousal. You yourself are your own aphrodisiac. You hide the whole pharmacy. You are the medicine. Panacea.

Sunday morning. All the children in church—we are on the beach. What can we do on such a beautiful Sunday morning? Get drunk. Recall the times of great explorers and legends of rivers of gold. They really flow in the blackest minds. Veins. Screw god. Lie down next to me, rest with your divine hair, wrapping me in cold—it pierces the brain—this is the harshest frost—two souls flow into each other. I fill you. You complete me.

(scene protoplasmic a little further on) Ten minutes to one. The silence is so overwhelming that I hear every drag of the cigarette, the flap of a bat’s wings (tears a nerve). I feel every breath of night. Stream of light (every stroke is divine nirvana). Lips go numb. Battle of birds. Night flock of geese (flock of night geese). Gulls? Screech. Sirens of doom. I am Belial. I see everything through every fog. No fog will stop me. My eyes are god’s eyes. Mirror of knowledge wrapped in infinite layers—no one dares unwrap. Not even the emperor. Sex. Five to one until half past one. Apparent silence of stars.

Sunday morning—could you contemplate clouds all day? Watch their journey toward the horizon or their escape from its break? Girls on the beach, night club—daytime emptiness, sailor buying cigarettes, mother with child entering the sea. What could I do? I walked on the roof, close to the gutter, passed antennas of the night sky, slipped past bird nests. Night creature full of indescribable grace and focus. I could not fall. What could I do? Sing, son. Give praise to the creator. This is not mass. An orgy begins and everyone is invited. Anyone can come, if they penetrate the plush wall. Tear off the top layer, slowly.

I began writing a new bible. The new bible is not too long. Anyone can read it. Reach for the highest shelf. From sunrise to sunset locked in a pyramid. I feel the gamma flash and my ego shoots straight into the stars. I become Orion’s companion. Slowly I sip the drink of frivolous gods. Elixir of youth locked in the flower of stars.

We gathered at the Night Club at 4:00. Full moon, few clouds, many stars. In a moment the sun will rise—some night or other—a lonely star in the swirling clouds twinkles defiantly. We will set out by ship. We will not discover new stars, but new oceans and islands bathed in sunlight. Gentle waves of the coconut dune smooth the mind, and the eyes see everything hidden. The brain dies. The soul is born.

Unknown lands open before us like an orchid blooming in autumn sun. I recall New Year’s Eve in the forester’s lodge. Seven men and one woman. Crates of beer and barrels full of wine in the cellar. Shotgun. Frightened squirrel. Mushrooms. We brew an infusion (Retinal Panacea decoction). Oh, traveler… I invoke you. I call upon the names of god. It’s fine.

The cuckoo clock regularly strikes precise, pillow-like metaphors—the curtains caught the sunny wind and are now sails of infinity carrying ships to ruin or straight toward lands full of forests, meadows and rivers, copper lakes, legends of treasures and explorers.

Okay, okay… so as I said, she probably hasn’t woken up yet and is waiting for a phone call. If I call, she will probably come, but how long will I have to wait before she picks up the receiver in a half-conscious, grateful gesture. How long must I wait for her wisdom, for the awareness of existence and co-existence? How long? I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to destroy her little safe world, but I will be forced to show her the universe. My calling summons me to the ultimate act. I will give her this pill. I will lead her into my own mind.

She came the next day, as usual properly dressed. I barely dragged myself out of bed (12:34) and looked like a crumpled pillow over which someone carelessly drank tea and smoked a cigarette. I looked at her, embraced her at the waist, rasped hoarsely: we’re going out, and pushed her out the door, following right behind. As usual I stopped to admire the views. She did not look. Forever bored rationalist, whose lessons at school suffice for all knowledge and philosophy. An angel unaware that she has wings, unable to lift her feet above the ground, bound by opinions and ideologies. An angel I pity. Will she take it, or not? Boundless trust.

All the little animals awakened from their sweet sleep fill the clearings with silent smiles.

She says: Every note is the core of the universe, a trembling needle of a pulsating wave—every rustle is visible. Invisible world revealed—entering worlds I stop—oh light: Mother of heavenly space, sower of everything—arranger of space—nonlinear Buddha—mandala of madness—you play notes—they all sound at once—all possible sounds ring—symphony of infinite undulation—delicate as the blue wave of soma and powerful as the sudden collapse of all mountain peaks in their snowy glory and winter sun, like the release of energy in the retina. Kaleidoscopic heavenly goddess straightens her finger in a graceful gesture—sets planets in motion— sounds whirl through the whole head, to all corners of the world, fill all space, our words dissolve into thousands of sounds, lose earthly meaning. Our thoughts sound whining and howling, lamenting primordial hymns to ancient gods, knocking and swaying like gentle waves of soma—fluid, continuous and metallic sound—dry and unbroken—one note suspended in time. The Fetus of the Mother of Heavenly Space fills the whole, her sons fight with treacherous children in the universe, mirror on the edge of time bends space, and its soft children march in one rhythm. Prolonged sound still resounds…

She met the Creator.

Lazy days by the beach, right on the crest of dunes, delicate scent of incense scattered by the wind. Straw hat shields from prying eyes. We soak up the sun. She understood. I really didn’t want to destroy her little world—probably fitting for little girls. Though she is already 18. I lie on the grass staring at the moon, and she mumbles something into my sleepy ear.

(July/August 2001)