So, the sea is rough this morning. High waves. A strong wind. I like it most that way: the opposite of the peacefulness of the lake waters. And when the sea is rough, my lake eels surrender totally to sea snakes. Thrilled with excitement… The sky is so blue. Rare white cloudlets being chased off rapidly. The Sun rules. When I was meditating and swimming a couple of hours ago, He was still struggling with the horizon. And now He has dominated it completely. I’m walking with Maggie, hand in hand, on the beach at Little Geese. Sometimes She stoops to pick up another colourful pebble. Back at home, we have many big glass jars full of such ‘souvenirs’ from the seaside. She shows me the pebble. This time it’s all shining black… ‘You know’, I speak loudly, trying to out-shout the wind, which is playing rough with Her long fair hair. ‘With you the book is writing itself!’ ‘It is, but…’ Maggie’s voice. Magic voice. She smiles vaguely, squinting Her beautiful green eyes in the sunlight. The Sun is now sitting sprawled across His golden throne behind me. ‘I even stopped rereading and correcting the opening passages!’ ‘Finally! But you know, your writing…’ ‘Yes?’ ‘It’s just like your music…’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Do you remember “The Life Symphony In A Nutshell For The Grand Piano And The Electric Guitars”?’ ‘I composed it! It’s all instrumental. Recorded under my Home Made Music Box project…’ ‘And it has twenty five parts, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes, it does. So what?’ ‘Every part is brief. There are hardly any repetitions. It sounds as if unfinished. You move from one theme to another without any warning. Even if prospective listeners managed to follow all the changes of rhythm, tempo and key, they would have no time to like any of these melodies. This piece of music, like some other of your songs, just throws the sounds into the ear on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. The connections are obvious to you but all others would have to listen to the track again and again to get used to its harshness. And eventually to start enjoying the individual bits of music stuck together.’ * (YouTube: Ma.Ste. & Margarita) * I think to myself that Maggie wouldn’t have been able to say so much so quickly against such a strong wind. And I’m right. When She started talking the wind subsided and the wounded Sun collapsed to His knees and dipped His blood-red crown in the sea waters on the horizon. Now we are standing in this absolutely extraordinary light of His setting… The sunning set… Hypnotized by His vague, farewell shining… ‘I was writing it for twenty five years. Every “bit” of this instrumental piece represents, more or less, one year of my life’, I start explaining slowly. ‘There are no repetitions here, as nothing happened twice in my life for twenty five years. And it never does. The river keeps flowing, and all déjà vu “feelings” are just lapses or tricks of mind…’ ‘And the Universe holding Its breath? Or someone being “speechless”? Or the “slow motion”?’ ‘I mean the physical dimension. Not spiritual experience. And life is like a roller-coaster. It doesn’t give us any warning before the next sudden turn.’ ‘So maybe You should call the book: “The Life Symphony In A Nutshell” then?’ ‘Maybe I will.’ ‘Your literature is as scrambled and scrimmaged as some of your music.’ ‘Yes, but even if this book is as inconsistent as “The Life Symphony In A Nutshell”, prospective readers don’t have to “scan” it. They don’t have to “swallow” it at one go. They can “digest” it slowly. Adjusting their thinking processes to the “rhythm”, “tempo” and “key” accordingly…’ ‘Yes,’ She smiles ironically, ‘and you could preface the book with a letter of instructions like this: “Dear Reader, Please read this book slowly. Scan-reading is strictly prohibited. Stop after every passage to think. Read it again. And again, if necessary, to get the point. If there is any… If not, try to read between the lines. And please don’t panic! This is just the end of the world as You know it...”’ ‘Would you please stop sneering,’ I fake an insult, but can’t help smiling. ‘You know I’m not a storyteller…’ ‘Yes, you claim to be a vision-thrower,’ She interrupts. ‘Whatever that could mean. And you hope to become a storm-bringer. But I can’t see any storm coming, can you?’ She doesn’t ask. ‘I know this is supposed to be some kind of an experiment. Quasi-literary, hyper-sincere, self-psychoanalytic, progressive and intuitive writing. Fiction that reads like non-fiction Or vice versa. Literary non-fiction. With elements of esoteric Gnosticism. Combining prose and poetry. Featuring literature with echoes of music somewhere in the background. Linking physicality with spirituality. Aiming at being both personal and universal. But you know what? I think this is all just too raw. Too chaotic. Too digressive…’ ‘Will you leave something for critics…’ ‘Who?’ ‘Nobody…’ ‘And no dialogues until I speak up finally in Chapter 7…’ ‘You could have started talking earlier…’ ‘If you had ever let me… Anyway, I think you should stick to short forms. Some of Your songs don’t sound too bad, actually. With the structure of the lyrics meeting common standards: a few stanzas and a refrain. You are good at succinctness, at throwing a few words casually. But when it comes to longer passages, you get bored too quickly. Your descriptions are just hints…’ ‘The “stream of sub-consciousness”? Breaking all the rules? An anti-book?’ I butt in shyly in self-defence. ‘If you ever had any readers they wouldn’t even know what Derek and Jack looked like.’ ‘YOU are talking about looks? And who said “I look the way you make me”? Isn’t appearance irrelevant?’ ‘Of course it isn’t. Although it can be deceptive, you must not neglect the physicality. Even if you are as spiritual as you think you are… And… And why do you try so hard to be original? To be different from other people? You don’t like pop music just because too many people listen to it!’ ‘As if I were listening to my wife…’ We look at each other and burst out laughing. ‘Burst out laughing?’ She looks into my eyes with all stars sparkling in Hers. ‘And what happened to LOL?’ ‘I hereby officially demand you stop eavesdropping and commenting on anything which is outside quotation marks.’ ‘You got it!’ ‘OK. Maybe you are right. Maybe I’ll stick to my song-writing. But first, I must finish this… Even if this is just another meaningless undertaking. Even if nobody will ever read it, I will finish it! With or without you!’ ‘U2?’ ‘No, We2 or I1. And shut up, will you!’ * Derek had fair, curly hair and blue eyes. Snub-nosed. Well-built. Medium height. Always smiling. Jack was dark-haired. With brown, smart-looking eyes. Thinner than Derek and a bit taller… That’s all I remember. Forty years is a long time… Aha, and Dr Richard was definitely red-haired… * ‘Why are you laughing?’ I take a long look at Her face. It’s being caressed by the warm golden light from the flames of our open fire. We are sitting on the beach. Facing the sea. I AM taken in by its salty, tempting scent and the soothing, mysterious swoosh of the surf. ‘Sometimes you are quite funny, actually…’ ‘Am I? But jokes are not allies of a serious message…’ ‘Bullshit!’ She interrupts, smiling. But Her eyes haven’t stopped laughing yet. ‘I don’t understand why you wanted to hear about Derek and Jack again. You know them much better than I. Just like all the stories from my childhood. Was it really to make me see myself in my early social context? It didn’t work, did it? And what about the spirituality and the “bridges”, which seem to be the key subject of this book? My recollections of Derek and Jack didn’t throw any new light on that area either, did they?’’ ‘Nope. I just kind of like those two blokes, I guess. That’s all.’ ‘Yes, but what if you are right about my writing? And what if this book will end up like the… wooden car I failed to make with Derek?’ ‘Oh just sod off!’ And She starts laughing again… *
Posted on: Mon, 05 Jan 2015 22:46:49 +0000
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