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UMETNIČKO VREME U SRED HAOSA
I kako je to Požar baš dno leta? Pitanje je možda kamijevsko iako ga klimatske okolnosti na Balkanu, ove 2007., sa požarima koji su buktali do samog kraja kalendars- kog leta, relativizuju. Iz sfere ideja, prevode tu parafizičku paradigmu u stanje realnosti. Leto kao ekstaza koja u sebi sadrži ekstrakt smrti. Leto života i požar strasti, ludila, namere. Mesto i vreme da bukne opšti požar u koji se sve sunovraćuje. Dok sam, par godina ispisivao proze koje je objedinio, ne samo on, naslov dijaboličkog ukusa, deset tekstova koji korespondiraju i sa mojom prvom, pripovedačkom, knjigom ''Samoća'', ali i svim ostalim poezijama i romanima, nameravao sam da izvanrealističkim postupkom sebi objasnim umetničko vreme u kome sam se kretao više od tri decenije. Vreme u kome sam i živeo i laički život, remeteći ga povremeno fikcijom. Koja je povremeno bila u ekspanziji. Da bih ga razumeo i preživeo okolnosti. Literatura koju sam ispisivao bila je način opstanka. Odgovor, ne baš i najrazumljiviji, intime na apsurde epoha i istorije. Način da se zauzda krik pukotine koju sam povremeno video u slepom oku stvarnosti. Zato mi je i bio potreban naslov knjige koji u sebi sadrži dovoljno izdržljivu metafizičku polugu koja će me prebaciti na drugu obalu svesti. Iskustvom poezije rešavao sam svu za čudnost spoljašnjeg sveta, esejističkim kadencama premoštavao sam pitanja na koje nauka i veština ne mogu ponekad, pojedinačno, da odgovore, pripovedačkim čvorovima nastojao sam da dovršim Penelopino tkanje zaludne tkanice. Jer, haos vremena koji se posle devedesetih uspostavio u ovoj zemlji, vremena obolelog od sindroma istorijskih am nezija, pokušavao sam da zauzdam disciplinovanjem sopstvene duše. Postmodernizmom koji beži od formalizovanja suštine, impresijom koja je otvorena prema stvarnim i izmišljenim faktima, realnošću koju humor i ironija premeštaju u svetove destilovane je zičke matrice, rasplitao sam književne diskurse koji sadržinom i formom prethode, ili slede, političko-psihološke implikacije života u u kome participiram s ambicijom da bu dem makar ravnopravni savremenik. Jer, protagonisti su uvek neki drugi.
Požar duše i uma, mobilizacija arhive i lektire, ples sa maskama za vatrogasce, inkvizitore i ostale cenzore, sve plamti u okovanoj iluziji da kontrolišem barem ovaj deo sopstvenog života. Unutar teksta odigrava se drama, intriga, prozodija i poezija, parafraza i anamneza. Jedna igra sa smislovima, ostacima svesti, problematizovanjem rečnika i sinonimima snevanja. Unutar leta koje gori, i u kome je požar najmanje greška prirode, i sinkopirane indoktrinacije. U sažimanju postupka fizičko vreme se lagano pretvara u plaz mu koja panično svedoči o tome kako stvari o kojima pišemo očigledno nisu istinite jer su lažne na jedan neočigledan način.
Deset priča, upravo kao u prvoj Samoći, samo kao delikatna demonstracija nemi novnog: stao sam kada sam ispisao rečenicu u kojoj pitam Deridu, koji je u međuvre menu umro, kakva je sudbina Uliksovog gramofona? Sud, staklena klepsidra, književni mehur, se popunio, okrenuo u vazduhu i započeo unazad o da dbrojava vreme. I tačno, deset proza, kao davne 1972. godine. Sve je drugačije, samo se broj ponavlja. Prst Bogorodice. Zato što sve gori, moja gospodarice. U razorenom vrtu imaginarnog Miroslava Toškova jedna ptica čita kasnorenesansnu liriku, Petrova invalidska kolica leže razbijena na dnu opuzenskog kamenitog dvorišta, profesor Vladislav Milin pati od kla ustofobije u mermernom stalku za cveće. In imaginary Bečkerek, after all, stižu slonovi, u Moskvi jedna od sestara permanentno masturbira, bokser odumire u melodrami, u Parizu, so, nož i bik lumpuju u bistrou, pokraj Elemira, na dnu leta, pravi požar u kome strada Izgnanik, pisac sluđen literaturom traga za vojnom tajnom u eča nskom kaštelu, dok na kraju u filozofsko-ljubavnoj retorskoj farsi večno ostaje upitanost zašto je mrtva mačka definitivno nepopravljiva. Do mesta gde na dnu leta, u sred požara svetluca iznevereni Gral probijao sam se melanžom lektire u rinfuzi, lagane osnostranosti i trome banalnosti, pomalo izmeštenim realizmom i patologijom nevezanosti, magijskim uticajem televizije, politike i pagansko-hrišćanskim snovima, melodramskim palančkim trivijalnostima, spajanjem Čehova i Benjamina sa provizornim životom u moskovskom hotelu, stanjima sužene svesti koje je dirljivo i groteskno, halucinacijama, impro vizacijama i egzibicijama navodnih Pikasa i Ajnštajna, bajkovitim, istovremeno i ops kurnim zbivanjima u ravnici, pričanjem priče u kojoj su citati nedužni elementi koji po dupiru realnost jedne mistifikacije, i konačno cilj sam dosegao ludističkim krstarenjem kroz avanturizam, filozofiju, turizam, strukturalizam, merkantilizam, fenomenologiju i os tale semantike. Dakle, ovakva ''pripovedna emulzija'' učinila mi se kao jedina mogućnost da se moj deo haosa, u kome svi jesmo, dozove barem na trenutak, naravno, naknadnoj pameti.
ARTISTIC TIME In the midst of chaos
And how to fire just the bottom flight? The question is perhaps so might say Albert Camus, although climatic conditions in the Balkans, the 2007th, the fires that are bursting to the end-Kalendārs any flight, All relativize. From the sphere of ideas, translate that into a state paraphysically paradigm of reality. Summer as ecstasy, which contains an extract of death. Summer life and fire of passion, madness, faith. Place and time to erupt in fire general that all tumble. While I, prose written over several years which has brought together not only on the headline of diabolical taste, ten texts that correspond with my first, narrative, the book''Solitude''and all other poetry and novels, I intend to outside realism procedure art itself explain the time in which I was traveling more than three decades. Time in which I lived and secular life, it occasionally disturbing fiction. Which at times was in expansion. In order to understand it and survive the circumstances. References I have written over a way of survival.The answer, not just the most comprehensive, intimate to the absurd era and history. Way to harness the cry of cracks that I occasionally saw in a blind eye to reality. So me and needed a book title that contains tough enough metaphysical lever that will make me switch to the other side of consciousness. Experience of poetry I have dealt with all the weirdness of the outside world, I bridged cadences essay questions that science and art can sometimes individually, to respond, narrative nodes, I tried to finish Penelope's weaving sashes vain. For chaotic time that after the nineties established in this country, the time of the patient from the syndrome of historical amnesia, I tried to rein in disciplining their own souls. Postmodernism, which run from formalizing the essence, that impression is open to the real and imaginary facts, the reality that humor and irony moved to a world of distilled linguagely the matrix, I disentan literary discourses that content and form prior to, or below, political and psychological implications of life where uu participate with the ambition to bu dem least equal contemporary. Because the protagonists are still some others.
The fire of the soul and mind, the mobilization of the archive and reading, dancing with masks for firefighters, the inquisitors and other censors, all pulses in chanied illusion to control at least this part of your life. Takes place within the text, drama, intrigue, prosody and poetry, paraphrase and history. One plays with senses, waste awareness, rethinking vocabulary and synonyms dreams. Inside the flight that burns, and where the fire was at least a mistake of nature, and syncopated indoctri nation. The compression process of physical time is slowly converted to plasma, which horrified his testimony on how to write things that are obviously not true because the fake one nonobvious way.
Ten stories, just as in the first Solitude, just as delicate a silent demonstration hardware has: I stopped when I wrote the sentence in which I ask Derrida, who died in the interim, the fate of Uliks turntables? The court, glass clepsydra, literary bubble, filled up, turned around in the air and started back on the count off time. And true, the ten prose, as in 1972. year. Everything is different, only the number of repeats. Virgin fin ger. Because it is getting worse, my mistress. In the ravaged garden of imaginary Miroslav Toškov a bird late Renaissance poetry reading, Peter's wheelchair lay smashed on the rocky bottom Opuzen’s yards, Professor Vladimir Milin suffers from betting men tal-phobia the marble stand for flowers. In imaginary Bečkerek, after all, elephants arri ve in Moscow one of the nurses constantly masturbating, boxer dies in a melodrama, in Paris, with, knife and bull make merry in the bistro, near Elemir, at the bottom of the flight, a real fire which suffered exile , author crazed literature searches for a military sec ret in the Ecka castle, while at the end of the philosophical-love rhetoricaly farce rema ins forever wondering why the dead cat is definitely irreversible. To where the bottom of the flight, in the midst of the fire shining Grail let down I pushed mélange readings in bulk, light hereafter and ponderous banality, slightly uprooted realism and pathology of the detachment, the magical influence of television, politics and the pagan-Christian dreams, melodramatic provinsial trivia, merger Chekhov and Benjamin with a makeshift life in a Moscow hotel, states of consciousness narrowed by touching and grotesque, hallucinations, and improvisation alleged exhibitions of Picasso and Einstein, fairy tales, while the obscure events in the valley, telling a story in which the extracts were innocent elements bydupiru reality of a mystification, and finally reached the goal I Ludicrous crui se through the adventure, philosophy, tourism, structuralism, mercantilism, phenome nology and os tale of semantics. Thus, these ''narrative'' emulsion made me like the only option to get my part of the chaos, in which all are, and called for a moment at least, of course, retrospective wisdom.
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One moment please