OCCIDENTUL de Mircea Cartarescu am vazut New-Yorkul si Parisul, San-Francisco si Frankfurt am fost unde n-am visat sa merg vreodata. am venit înapoi cu un teanc de poze si cu moartea în suflet. crezusem ca însemn ceva si ca viata mea înseamna ceva. vazusem ochiul lui Dumnezeu privindu-ma prin microscop privindu-mi zvîrcolirile de pe lamela. acum nu mai cred nimic. am fost bun pentru o stabilitate tîmpita pentru o uitare adînca pentru un vagin singuratic. hoinaream prin locuri care acum nu mai exista. oh, lumea mea nu mai exista! lumea mea nu mai exista! lumea mea împutita în care însemnam ceva. eu, mircea cartarescu, sînt nimeni în lumea cea noua exista 1038 mircea cartarescu aici si fiinte de 1038 de ori mai bune exista carti aici mai bune decît tot ce am facut vreodata si femei carora li se rupe de ele. oul pragmatic se crapa si Dumnezeu este aici chiar în creatia lui, un Dumnezeu misto întolit în orase frumoase si toamne splendide si-ntr-un fel de nostalgie blînda a Virginiei de sud în masina lui Dorin (country music în boxe)... îmi vad acum lungul nasului si vad lungul nasului literaturii caci eu am vazut Sears Tower si am vazut Chicago, în ceata verzuie, de sus, din Sears Tower si pe terasa unui zgîrie-nori alergau doi ogari si i-am zis Gabrielei, cum ne beam Coca-cola, ca viata mea s-a sfîrsit. e ca în Magii lui Eliot: am vazut Occidentul am trecut cu avionul peste Manhattan am privit cu ochi mari moartea mea fermecata caci moartea mea este asta. am privit vitrinele cu motociclete Suzuki si m-am vazut în ele jegos, anonim am umblat ore-n sir prin Königstrasse printre pustii cu skateboards. eram omul alb-negru dintr-o poza color Kafka între arcadieni. poeme, poheme, filosentiame modernisme si discutii la cîrciuma despre care-i mai mare clasamente facute-n tren (veneam din Onesti): care-s cele mai bune romane românesti de azi cei mai buni zece poeti în viata asa cum papuasii scuipa si acum în ceaunul cu vin de palmier, sa fermenteze... dar poezia e un semn de subdezvoltare si la fel sa-ti privesti Dumnezeul în ochi desi nu l-ai vazut niciodata...
am vazut jocuri pe computer si librarii si mi s-au parut la fel amîndoua am înteles ca filosofia e entertainment si ca mistica e show-biz ca sînt doar suprafete aici dar mai complexe decît orice profunzime. ce pot fi eu acolo? un om încîntat, fericit pîna la nebunie dar cu viata lui terminata. cu viata lui fututa definitiv, ca a viermelui din cireasa care s-a crezut si el cineva pîna s-a trezit în lumina, cu gunoiul lui lînga el (gunoiul meu, amarîtele mele poeme) am vazut oameni pentru care legea avorturilor e mai importanta decît sfarîmarea Sovietelor am vazut ceruri înalte si albastre, pline de luminitele avioanelor si am cunoscut urletul celor patru mii de universitati. m-am suit în turnul Eiffel pe scari si-am suit în Centrul Pompidou prin tubul de plexiglas si la Iowa City am fost la Fox Head...
am trancanit despre postmodernism la Ludwigsburg cu Hassan si Bradbury si Gass si Barth si Federman asa cum mai bavardeaza condamnatul cu calaul lui am înregistrat pe reportofon vuietul securii care-mi desparte capul de trunchi. îmi venea sa plîng în luxul din Monrepos: cum e posibil? de ce ne-am nascut de pomana? de ce sa luptam cu Vadim si cu Funar? de ce nu putem o data trai? de ce acum, cînd am putea, în fine, trai respiram din nou mirosul acru-al pubelelor? postmodernism si pa’sopt deconstructie si tribalism pragmatism si ombilicuri si viata, care este aiurea...
am vazut San Francisco, golful albastru cu nave si mai departe oceanul cu insule-mpadurite Pacificul, daca poti sa-ti închipui! mi-am muiat palmele-n oceanul Pacific „thanking the Lord for my fingers”. m-a prins un dor de duca dement. si la celebra librarie a lui Ferlinghetti (exista cu adevarat!) ca si cînd ai patrunde constient în propriul tau vis sau într-o carte... m-au înnebunit soselele din San Francisco si Grant Street cu chinezarii si palmierii uriasi si fetele extrem de haioase din saloanele de coafura (clientele nu se priveau în oglinzi, ci-n monitoare color) si noptile americane, tii minte, Mircea T.? lînga casuta ta si-a Melissei, dupa ce întreaga dupa-amiaza privisem filme SF, mîncasem tacos si bausem bere Old Style cînd am iesit afara ne-au coplesit stelele si avioanele tacute miscîndu-se printre ele si în masina ta, vechiul Ford, aerul era înghetat si m-ai dus, trecînd prin orasul gol, pîna la dragul meu Mayflower Residence Hall. si paradele de Thanksgiving si de Halloween cu batrîni bancheri costumati în ursi si clowni si baiatul de origine ceha interesat de Faulkner si micuta coreeana din Cambus-ul galben si melancolia frunzelor galbene în Iowa City si noi doi, Gabi si eu, facînd cumparaturi, ore-n sir la Target si K Mart si Goodwilluri dar si la fantasticul Mall din centru...
...mestecam bomboane cu scortisoara în prima mea dimineata în Washington cu aparatul foto de gît, în frigul pietei Dupont... ...am dat 7 $ sa vad Zoo-ul din New Orleans si ploua, si toate animalele erau în vizuinile lor... ... în taxi, certîndu-ma cu soferul negru, nepricepînd o vorba din ce-mi spunea: “Hey, man...” ... mese minunate în restaurante chinezesti, thailandeze, dar cea mai minunata la Meandros, grecii din Soho... ...The Art Institute (impresionisti cît cuprinde) ...The Freak Museum (amaizing: trei Vermeer!) ...The National Gallery (retrospectiva Malevici)
un om înghetat pentru o suta de ani deschide ochii si alege sa moara. ce a vazut era prea frumos si prea trist. caci nu avea pe nimeni acolo si între degete avea panaritiu si dintii îi erau asa stricati si în minte avea tot felul de lucruri fara utilitate si tot ce facuse vreodata avea jumatate din consistenta vîntului. un om inventase, pe-o insula îndepartata o masina de cusut facuta din bambus si se credea genial, caci nimeni dintre ai lui nu mai scornise asa ceva. iar cînd au venit olandezii l-au rasplatit pentru inventiune dîndu-i în dar una electrica. (multumesc, a zis, si a ales sa moara) nu-mi gasesc locul, nu mai sînt de aici si nu pot fi de acolo
iar poezia? ma simt ca ultimul mohican ridicol asemeni dinozaurului Denver. poezia cea mai buna e poezia suportabila, nimic altceva: doar suportabila. noi am facut zece ani poezie buna fara sa stim ce poezie proasta am facut. am facut literatura mare, si acum întelegem ca ea nu poate trece de prag, tocmai fiindca e mare, prea mare, sufocata de grasimea ei. nici poemu-asta nu-i poezie caci doar ce nu e poezie mai poate rezista ca poezie doar ce nu poate fi poezie.
Occidentul mi-a deschis ochii si m-a dat cu capul de pragul de sus. las altora ce a fost viata mea pîna azi. sa creada altii în ce am crezut eu. sa iubeasca altii ce am iubit eu. eu nu mai pot. nu mai pot, nu mai pot |
THE WEST By Mircea Cartarescu I saw New York and Paris, San Francisco and Frankfurt I’ve been to places I’ve never dreamt of going. I came back with a stack of photographs and death in my soul. I had thought that I meant something and that my life meant something I had seen God’s eye looking at me through the microscope watching me writhe on the slide. now I don’t believe in anything. I was good for a dumb stability for a deep forgetfulness for a lonely vagina. I was wandering through places that are no more. oh, my world is no more! my world is no more! my stinky world in which I meant something. I, mircea cartarescu, am nobody in the new world there are 1038 mircea cartarescus here and people 1038 times better than me there are books here better than everything I’ve ever done and women who couldn’t care less about them. the pragmatic egg breaks and God is here in His own creation, a fashionably dressed God in beautiful cities and splendid autumns and in a sort of mild nostalgia of southern Virginia in Dorin’s car (country music in speakers.) I see my own limits and I see the limits of literature for I have seen Sears Tower and I saw Chicago, in greenish mist, from above, from Sears Tower and on the terrace of a skyscrapers there were two greyhounds running and I told Gabriela, as we drank Coca-Cola, that my life is over. it’s like in Eliot’s Magi: I saw the West I flew over Manhattan I watched with big eyes my charmed death for this is my death. I watched the windows, with Suzuki motorcycles and saw my reflection in them, dirty, anonymous I walked for hours on Konigstrasse among the kids on skateboards. I was the black-and-white man in a color photograph Kafka among Arcadians. Poems, pohemes, philosentiems modernisms and talks at the pub over who’s the greatest rankings made on the train (back from Onesti): which are the best Romanian novels today the best ten poets alive just like the Papuans who even now spit into the palm wine cauldron, so it will ferment… but poetry is a sign of underdevelopment so is looking your God in the eye although you never saw Him…
I saw computer games and bookstores and both looked the same to me I understand philosophy is entertainment and mysticism is show-biz that there are only surfaces here but they’re more complex than any depth. what can I be there? a delighted man, crazed with happiness but his life would be over his life would be permanently fucked, like the worm in the cherry who once thought he was something until he woke up in the light, with garbage next to him (my garbage, my poor poems) I saw people for whom the abortion law was more important than the fall of the soviets. I saw tall and blue skies, full of the flickering lights of the planes and knew the howl of the four thousand universities. I climbed up the Eiffel tower on the stairs and went up the Pompidou Center through the Plexiglas tube and in Iowa City I went to Fox Head….
I chatted about postmodernism in Ludwigsburg With Hassan and Bradbury and Gass and Barth and Federman just like the condemned braves his executioner I recorded on my portable recorder the wailing of the blade that severed my head from my body. I felt like crying seeing the luxury in Monrepos: how is this possible? why were we born in vain? why should we fight with Vadim and Funar? why can’t we, for once, live? why now, when we could finally live we breathe again the putrid smell of the dumpsters? postmodernisms and forty-eighters, deconstruction and tribalism pragmatism and umbilical cords and life, which is awry…
I saw San Francisco, the blue gulf with ships and then farther away the ocean with forested islands the Pacific, if you can imagine! I dipped my hands in the Pacific ocean, “thanking the Lord for my fingers.” my soles were burning feverishly. and at Ferlinghetti’s famous bookstore (it really exists!) as if you consciously entered your own dream, or a book… the streets in San Francisco drove me crazy and Grant Street with Chinese paraphernalia and the huge palm trees and the very funny faces in the hair salons (the customers did not see themselves in mirrors, but in color monitors). and the American nights—remember, Mircea T.? next to your and Melissa’s cottage, after we had watched SF movies the entire afternoon, eaten tacos, and drunk Old Style beer. when we went out we were overwhelmed by the stars and the silent planes moving through them and in your car, the old Ford, the air was frozen and you took me, through the empty city, to my dear Mayflower Residence Hall. and the Thanksgiving and Halloween parades with old bankers dressed as bears and clowns and the boy of Czech origin interested in Faulkner and the little Korean girl from the yellow Cambus and the melancholia of the yellow leaves in Iowa City and the two of us, Gabi and I, shopping for hours and hours at Target and K Mart and Goodwills and also at the fantastic Mall downtown…
…I was chewing cinnamon mints in my first morning in Washington with my camera dangling on my neck, in the cold air in Dupont Circle… … I paid $7 to see the Zoo in New Orleans, and it was raining, and all the animals were in their shelters… …in the taxi, arguing with the black driver, not understanding a word he was saying: “Hey, man…” …wonderful dinners in Chinese and Thai restaurants but the most wonderful at Meandros, the Greeks in Soho… …The Art Institute (full of impressionists) …The Freak Museum (amazing: three Vermeers!) …The National Gallery (Malevic retrospective)
a man frozen for a hundred years opens his eyes and chooses to die. what he saw was too beautiful and too sad. for he had nobody there and he had a nail infection and his teeth were so rotten and in his mind had all sorts of useless things and everything he had ever done was half the consistency of the wind. a man had invented, on a distant island a sewing machine, out of bamboo and he thought he was a genius, because none of his peers had made up anything like it. And when the Dutch came, they repaid him for the invention giving him an electric one instead. (thanks, he said, and chose to die) I don’t find my place, I’m no longer from here and cannot be from there.
and poetry? I feel like the last Mohican ridiculous like Denver the dinosaur the best poetry is the bearable poetry nothing else: just bearable. we made good poetry for ten years without knowing what bad poetry we were making. we made grand literature, and now we understand that it cannot go through the door, precisely because it’s big, too big, suffocated in its own fat. this poem is not really a poem either for only what is not poetry can endure as poetry only what is not poetry.
The West opened my eyes and banged my head against the upper doorframe I leave to others what my life has been until today. so that others believe in what I once believed. so that others love what I once loved. I can’t anymore, can’t anymore, can’t anymore. |
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