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July 27, 2017

Quicksand

Life showed me that pink is not its colour; it has taught me to be the wise one, the strong one, the one who has to take decisions and be there. It has shown me how wild – in a bad way – the human being can be.

However, during the last few weeks, something cracked. And I have been feeling fear since then. Fear of my own body, fear that I am unable to finish what I have started, fear of the noise, fear of abandonment, fear of the future, fear of boredom, terror towards all the things I left unspoken/ignored.

Last night I dreamt that someone dear was hugging me. No words, no stories, no therapies. I think that all of us are at least two in one, a Steppenwolf and a vulnerable human being, and you see, in my own wilderness, I tried to ignore that feeling (or feelings), to struggle to unchain myself from its grasp. Because I am the one who thinks, not feels. But it was like quicksand. The more you move/speak/think, the more you fall under it.


I wish I were on a top of a mountain, by myself or with the people that I could really choose, hearing only the springs from below and the sounds of nature. I wish I could close my eyes, stop moving, stop being the one in charge, stop working, stop thinking, stop worrying. And I wish I could learn how to breathe – on a top of a mountain, or breaking down all the windows of a house, or in deep quicksand. 


July 15, 2017

The Rest is Silence


"What if there existed a dialogue among the lifeforms of this earth from which we had excluded ourselves so totally that we no longer even believed it to exist? Could it be that dialogue which we still sense in dreams? Or in those rare moments of peace when the world seems in some sense to be revealed to us and to be proper and right?"
(Cormac McCarthy)

During the last few days, I have been in a continuous battle to find the perfect words. The words which describe the unconscious, the natural world, the cyclical time in which past-present and future are all the same, the words of the unspeakable world. How can you express them? The words of poetry and the words of war. The words of what humanity really is, in its pure wholeness.

There have been ages since my first encounter with McCarthy. It is an exhausting battle, as reading McCarthy has always been. With moments of complete hatred, when you wish from the bottom of the soul to quit and to throw away all his books and all the studies dedicated to him. Moments when you feel small and insignificant when you start to understand how this man’s mind has worked, but there are also moments when you feel sitting at a table with an old friend. Talking about Life. Talking about our favourite writers. You see, I enormously liked Faulkner and Hemingway, and I had never imagined that there is someone out there to play with their style and mix them and create something new. Moments when you sit at that long table and you learn to listen to el corridos, and to the silence. 

It takes a great deal of effort to understand Cormac McCarthy. A great deal of knowledge to see what he’s doing in his prose. And a great amount of insanity to work with his prose. But, as one translator put it,


"I would like to make it very clear that translating Cormac McCarthy would not be even thinkable without being in love with language, with words, with their colour, their dark, mesmerizing power. Why? The answer is simple. Because Cormac is Poetry. Epic, lyrical, whatever you call it, it is Poetry.” 

Bird set free

„Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it.” (Daniel Klein) You see, I’ve had a design, and I don’t know where I did wrong. ...