Blind pieces

Jan 3, 2011 by

Blind pieces

Blind man’s buff

Got you!

the turn is yours

come here I’ll blindfold your eyes

no cheat there

now let me give you

a swing

round and round

Got you!

now stand still

find your balance

and move

look for us

round and round

Got you!

the turn is yours

come here I’ll cover your eyes

no  fight here

now let me give you

some hope

up and down

Got you!

now stand still

find your honour

and lie back

and don’t look

for justice


Could we repeat please?

for me it’s all poetry

stretching from dawn to dusk

from verse to verse

with some rhythm

some rhyme

some beauty

and quite a lot


for you it’s all prose

stretching from wall to wall

endlessly with some

rhythm onf the sleeping pills

no rhyme

with all of us

some beauty

in reminiscence…

gradually loosing form

and chance

of a repetition

A Mundane Tragedy

Act One and Only

Actor One and Only: An old man


“I walk on the walls, I walk on my hands. I’m an acrobat of life, come and see me, I need some applause. I start my day with a bang. Sharp, squeaking, cacophonous depending on the kitchen utensil which suffered this time. Poor glass, extravagant china, a thick cup break once and for all, in a thousand sparkling pieces. I imagine the scene – a carpet of broken glass in which the rainbow outside finds its reflection. What are the rainbow colours? I know there are seven, I just know the number, but the number is black. In fact the whole scene is black. In fact it is all chaos, and chaos is black and sharp. I stumble across the broken pieces. I clear myself away, as I can’t tidy them up. I can only try and escape.

Clinging to the wall, I turn my back from the glossy chaos and move away. One picture, another  picture, they’re cold, but smooth and reliable. They lead me through the corridor. And some say art is not practical. But how! Just skip the content, let the frame lead you. The wall turns inwards, I follow,  I step inside another space that some call a room. Now I have to let the wall go, because I need my bed and the bed is placed in the middle. Every middle is a challenge, a place dipped in space and space I cannot touch. So I step inside, slowly, to make the coming bump less painful. I stumble against the edge of the bed, not by accident, no, stumbling is part of it. You just have to know how to stumble and land on the bed as  result. I have learnt to fall with grace and a breath of relief. I stretch my body to calm down and have a rest.  I hold my thoughts in a clenched palm – they must not stretch too far. That is the prescription for emotional balance: keep thoughts in hold.

No, the battle is not quite fought out yet. There is still some light inside, some little bulb that no electricity man will ever make me pay for. No matter how long he rings at the door. Nobody is home. I can’t make it to the door. I think realistically. I lift up from the bed and go out again, into the living room. Darkness is seeing me off. I know it quite well by now. It is neither romantic nor gothic. It is prosaic, chemical, it has higher density than the air, attacking you from all directions as you step into it. It exercises more pressure then air. This is the physics of my own, so let me draw absurd parallels.

Time and distance gradually become blurred. No morning makes a difference, as the morning means as much as the evening – both synonyms, both just as dark. Funny how fragile a construct language is – let your eyelid drop, and it means nothing. Let your spirit drop, and it means even less. Silence is black, too.

But I don’t let the silence fall, yet. I adjust, which is the only fight I can lead now. I stand no chance, but I stand up. Every morning, for they say it is a morning, I lift and go out, to the kitchen, to the garden. I do not go further. But small as it is, it is my space; there are voices, there is touch, there is a dinner on the table. Care has a sweet flavor – it gives you energy to go back and forth on the walls, but still moving. Chaos is not only black, sharp and silent – it is also immobile. Much as I can imagine some elements in space in constant disorderly motion, graveyards are immobile. They make the visitors stop and pray in fixed knelt position.

But I am still moving, and I do more. I love, I care, I am grateful, and this is a unique marathon. I race against time, what direction, do not ask. But I keep going. Paralyzed I may be – human I am. There is no opposition here. But enough of grand words. They disperse darkness, they give some insight and insight is yellow, understanding is blue, love is red – clichés are important now – I stick to them in thought, just as I stick to my wall in walk. Care is violet, my daughter is dark-skinned, my granddaughters are blond. Water is cold, or hot, I avoid tepid temperatures. I want to sense through what I can, I want to make up for the darkness around. I want to fight it – to dilute it with my aftershave and prostrate it with my cane. Free will is orange. It tastes a little sour, a little sweet, but it is full of vitamins. The most important one is Hope. It is green and should be administered regularly. It is good for you backbone, to stand erect, never to bow down in the view of tragedy. Even in no view of it. Even in no view.

I play about with words skipping from meaning to meaning, keeping myself active. I ride my stationary bicycle: I imagine the fields I pass, the lakes I accost, the waves I swim against, the opposite banks I head for. I feel the sand massaging my feet with granulated precision. I feel the grass under my bathed body, on which the drops of water for only a second, but recklessly face the sun before they evaporate. They’re just as brittle as the glass I broke yesterday. I finish my journey and step down to the reality of the cane that hid itself from me. Objects are evil, or at least all too playful, they don’t know when to stop making tricks and frolicking about – coming in your way, spiking a sharp corner at you (that’s the table’s favorite), falling down and breaking. It is a constant play with the surroundings. Seriousness is the last thing you want; it is too far-reaching and too clear. So I smile a short-witted smile and I wink my white blind eye at the black humour of Whoever is out there. I assume Someone must have thought out this joke, bad as it is. It would be worse, if it was accidental. Accidental means meaningless. And meaningless equals senseless equals chaos. Equation of hell, the logic I stumble over more often than over the table.

I walk on the walls, with my hands. I am an acrobat of life and I will stay one, acting my role in this Divine Tragedy. ”

There was no applause at the end.

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