Принц Папа Жан


I stared at the photo from that night when I challenged fate, or ran away from it, or there was no fate at all, or that was fate itself. Touching my temple with the muzzle of the pistol, sitting on the bed, around which beside the bottles of alcohol and the boxes with tranquilizers were strewn bundles of banknotes and a candle. The thirty-centimetre long candle into which were built several heads of Buddha and which had been brought from India as gift to Materius and Irina. It was burning. It burnt upon the ashes of letters written by Irina… On the next photo I was setting fire to a picture once given me by Irina at the exhibition when we made love upon the cake. That was a picture of an angel and on the photo from that night of fatal lovemaking and madness I was setting fire to the painting. First to the angel’s forehead and then to his wings…The strewn bundles of banknotes I had won that same day. They need not burn because they would be needed for my funeral… On the next photo the candle with the Buddhas had covered with its molten purple the whole of the nuptial bed while I was sitting on the still burning wax with a revolver pointed at my temple.
Irina gave me the expensive candle. Irina burnt it.On the photo the molten candle was like my outpouring blood.The entire room was in blood hue.The bottles seemed full of blood, contaminated, which poured into the veins of the world. The strewn banknotes were dripping with blood. They seemed to be the money Judas Iscariot had thrown with a loud scream:
“I don’t want bloody money!”
Had I won them a few days earlier free from material problems, I would have spent them at the seaside with Irina. Now, they were meant for my funeral… The next photo was bloody hues, too.The candles were sprawled upon the charred letters.So I hadn’t burnt them completely. No, of course not! I still kept some of them.Bloody ashes, bloody letters. Red molten candle.The entire body of poetry I had dedicated to Irina, hundreds of charred sheets strewn on the floor. Living carrion with my own features on the next photo held a pistol aimed at the heart this time. I was completely mad. I threw the photos into the car. Life went on. After Alexander and his wife Rossi helped me leave the purgatory of death, for three days which were thirteen millennia I tossed about in it where I met terrible strange creatures with my features. I passed through thirteen mirrors and thirteen new pictures of mine, a portion of them with the old subjects but charged with the energy of the new life on which I embarked after that night of death. The nightmares had passed. The cobweb was torn at just the moment when the black widow, satisfied by me, tried to savage me.A lightning which was in fact an angel’s sword cut the cobweb and I fully awoke.Empty and happy.Wearied and inspired. Virgil and Dante were behind in purgatory but I went out leaving there only bits of stucco, a lit red candle with the image of Buddha, verses of mine dedicated to Irina and Irina’s letters to me.And the costly picture where she depicted me like and angel but naturally burnt.
I was a bit sorry for her but it was no day for regrets nor for dying. I began painting. My art manager was shocked. Until moments before I looked to him still as a traveller but within an instant I lifted myself and took up the brush.I saw the thirteen pictures.Not yet in full detail but almost complete.I had simply to paint them in order to break the final thread of the cobweb which still linked me with hell as an umbillical chord. In the first, called The Demon in Me I took my brain from my skull and pressed it hard with my hands, turning it into an amorphous mass.The demon which had pointed the revolver at my head. The demon which did not want me to think. The demon which helped me feel. To hate and to love. To destroy myself. To be an amorphous mass of grey cells. A living carrion with a pistol touching my head.The demon which triumphed over me. The demon I smashed in the boxing ring. The demon which with a hit bellow the belt instead of causing me pain brought me satisfaction which inflicted the trauma on my brain which hurt me so much that the hands broke the skull and took out the brain in order to turn it into an amorphous mass and scattered thoughts and maybe from this amorphous mass with the hands of a sculptor would create plastic figures symbolizing sorrowful existence and the collapse of the will to power. Perhaps the sculpture would represent a nude woman in purple with wide open thighs on the throne of the world and between them the head of a slave into whose back she was plunging a dagger… An open skull and amorphous mass.
The second: Human candle. My head was melting like a candle. Like a sculpture of a pagoda, like a waxen Buddha, like a setting sun, like a sunset of the gods, like reality in dream, like a powerful emotion amid indifference. Bright colours and the utmost inspiration upon entering the thickets of the infinite country of sorrow. Like lust for life. Like lungs, seeking a gulp of air in a fog of poisonous gas. Like pouring napalm. Like a burning down civilization. Like a day-dream which grows old and turns into a reality. Like a fantasy which is extinguished in order to turn into a lie. Like every person. Not like every person but only like oneself. Like the whole world. The human candle. Girly tears. Sweating on the first nuptial night. A bright moon dying out in the Moon. Melting autumn leaves. Countless frittered sentiments. A melting candle. Wax. Man.
Third picture: Circles without count… Fiery circles… Two naked bodies in the centre. Two bodies interwoven with the circles. A clock hand moving in a circle. Circular time. Memories from the future.Unlived life. I am not what I have been but what I’m going to be when I return to my previous self. I am a perpetual aspiration. I am a sower. The planter awaiting harvest which might or might not become bread. Can he perish under hail or die in a fire caused by an evil hand… I am the one sowing the seed into the woman and with her wait for fruit.
“Will we live to see the harvest?” The second book from the trilogy “The Papa Jan Gallery” I was setting fire to my pictures in which a hurt girl did the same and seeing herself as one of her own completed pictures decided to explode together with a block of flats…. In fact to explode with the entire world. A hurt genius ready to blow up the entire world, finding it perfect; feeling creative still, he turns creativity into a destructive force. Billions will not live to see the harvest. I ask myself again: “Where are you heading to?” This is the first and last principle of Janoism which is neither Hitlerism, nor Stalinism, nor any other “-ism”.
Janoism is my teaching and my energy which I impart to others so that they might keep the world in motion and beauty, too, but beauty isn’t Perfection so the creative urge can only aspire to it and not become destructive. So that we can live to see the harvest. Janoism becomes haiku-Janoisms – my basic messages to the world!!!
After the lunar orgasm and the delight of suicidal passion one should taste the next, grander one – survival. The fallen revolver with the golden bullet still inside it. Janoism is the golden bullet which can always be loaded into the revolver but will never be discharged. The aspiration towards perfection which genuflects a step before it…
The picture “Shall we live to see the harvest” depcited a disintegrating dry tree one of whose branches is the smashing atom. The other ended with an odd fruit – the fruit of knowledge – my brain!Upon it I left the oily imprints from my palms. Everything depended on me. Whether I’ll live to see the harvest.
Fourth picture: “On the threshold of reality”. I am lying flat on my stomach on the sand with my back to the atomic explosion in the sea. Irina is in the pulsating, trembling, writhing, orgasmically ejaculating mushroom distorting the volume of space, absorbing the clouds, burning the sky and mixing with all the elements.She is pure, saintly and naked. Around the mushroom hover buddhas, angels and prophets who deliberate, grieve, fear, wish to change something, wish to gather in that which they have already let slip from their hands. The feminine flesh and passion…
Fifth picture: “Meditation” I am with one eye only. My hands are tied but I feel the throb of the universe. The thrill of the atomic explosion between the thighs, the beauty of the earth hanging above it like a threat to the entire world. On the boundless green meadows horses gallop and sunny does race in the heavens each doe being a human soul. The demon who picked out the brain and smashed so that the man in it to be moulded into a naked, innocent and pure woman which can later be seen as an atomic mushroom. The beautiful fields can again be seen and on them racing creatures and skies inhabited by human souls. The candle burning low which sends its messages into deep outer space in order to discover a fairy-tale planet. It would brurst on the threshold of its actuality and deception like a smashed atom… Circles and circles again.Pulsations throughout the unverse.From the Big Bang to the Earth covered in lava.From the first living organism to the virtual reason.From one explosion to another. All words, all notes, all colours, all fingers playing with them, eyes, hearts. All cells. Living and dead. Dead and resurrected.All sombre predictions and those full of hope.Everything in my heart that I would devote to the Universe, tying my hands and closing my real eyes in order to unlock my dreams and the dreaming eye is that of the artist.
The eye of the one who had died to redeem the sin of his beloved but who had resurrected to create her anew. The eye which gives birth when it opens.The eye which truly sees. The blind eye which contemplates. An eye disconnected with the deceits of the other senses.An eye clear of the mazes of linguistic splittings of minds, of the demonic lack of restraint and supernatural perceptions. The meditating eye which can truly encompass an entire universe. Suffice it for you to know how to shut the other two and to create daylight in them. Suffice it for you to be able after that to seek and find out, then to use experience like a door-key and to unlock its eyelid.Suffice it for you to know how to push it open with gentle love and not to kick it open. Then will open the endless fiery circles of all the elements – the endless circles of all ages, the infinite moments, each of which, equal to eternity and each of which is like a circle from eternity itself.Each of which a minutely brief human life span. Each one majestic like a single human life.A fiery circle in a shepherd’s hut around two naked bodies.Pagodas burning down in circles. Confused angels, demons and buddhas… Dwelling inside them. In the midst of fiery circles. Released passion and relief.A pendulum-cradle which takes you to the next instant which is a previous one.Circular motion of the brush. Circular motion of the universe. Pulsation. General orgasm! Relief and again a dream and work of art and struggle and solicitation. A swinging rope bridge. A roulette set turning. A barrel of a gun set turning.A golden bullet… Lightning, an angel’s sword cutting the web of hell… Golden circles… Fiery circles… Infinite… Total release! And again a circle and an infinity!
Sixth picture: “The eternal phallus”? If I am the eternal male?If I am masculine eternity? If I am eternal? If I am male?And I am male and am eternal!And I visualized the golden bullet cracking my skull decorating the wall with an earring of brain, blood and gold.And then the wall emerged to attend the stars’ evening ball and display its fresh piece of jewellery.And all the stars were fascinated by its beauty.And all the stars desired that piece of jewellery and jostling they created me. They created a demi-god with a phallus in a state of erection. A demi-god they desired. Loved and desired making love to it.They wanted to be fertilized by it.And they ceased being stars and became women while I naked and with a magnified masculinity on the picture fertilized all of them. Totally… Totally… So that I can enter the eternal circle. So that I can return to the eternal circle.So that I can be in the midst of the fiery circle with a single woman and from a multiple demi-god to become a man with one soul, mentality and love. So that the fiery circle would encompass our bodies and make them superhuman once again.To make them again an explosion, angels and shut eyes producing light in the darkness. Under them should be the burning down candle and behind it – the demon. And a circle again… An eternal circle and fertilization. Circular time. Circular manner of painting. Elements and energy from one picture passing into the others, eternally.
The first picture of this series is “The Picture of the Century”. That picture has been signed by thousands of people, celebrities, athletes, politicians and others. My wish is to produce a symbiosis of politics, sport and art and the energy of all those people to be imprinted on the canvas. With this series I began the cycle “Cosmic Exhibitions”.
Rain outside. Rain, taking possession of the Earth… Lightning beating at the trees. An angel’s sword, tearing the cobweb of purgatory, the cobweb of science… Death and resurrection. Resurrection through fertilization. The thing which you will generate will carry your gene and the heavy burden of intellectual heritage left by you. Perplexed by your maniacal states in which you produced your creations, solaced by your spirituality, depressed, inspired. A progeny of the aroused women and the eternal phallus…

] Picture No seven: “A Shop for airy towers”. Once upon a time it was book. The book of my memories. I tried to arrange in it my life thrown away in adventures and inspiration. Once I met by chance Brother Stephen with whom we started work on the trilogy “The Papa Jan Gallery”, of which “A Shop for Airy Towers” was the first volume. It investigates human values and reminuscences. Roaming in the gallery of memories and in life. Memories were superimposed upon the current scene. The book ceased to be a book but a struggle against the current scene, which I couldn’t hold for a single instant because that very instant it turned into a memory. “A Shop for Airy Towers” ceased to be a book and turned into a human being. I ceased to be a human being and became a text from “A Shop for Airy Towers”. I could not reach the memories via the text, because I stood between it and and them. Like a beating heart. A beating heart, which in the course of the writing of the intial two hundred pages fell in love with Irina.

I could not reach my heart because in front of it stood the barrier of the text of “Shop for Airy Towers”. I did not understand how it happened but from a proto-type of the book I became a character in it who is enjoying himself in it. I did not understand how it happened but I started a textual life rather than an existential one in the enormous book and got lost in “The Gallery of Memories”, till at last I managed to get out of it and breathe once again fresh air and not a dust of reminiscences. Once this was a book. Now it itself became part of “The Gallery of Memories”, in which I discerned my image in the night when I expected the golden bullet to split my skull.
Once it was a book but it turned into a painting “A Shop for Airy Towers”. In that first book of the Papa Jan trilogy I recreate the Manifesto:
Energy lyzism DISSOLVER – DECOMPOSER – DIFFERENTIATOR – ANALYST – TRANSFORMER – TRANSFIGURATOR of everything into everything else (omnia in omnibus).
The aim of the logic chain of Energy Lyzism is to show how it is simultaneously a universal dissolver (decomposer) and a universal transformer of everything into everything else. If it is a universal transformer,it is also a universal synthesis (equalizer of all things). It is not only a unversal analysis but also a universal synthesis.Energy lyzism in painting as a concrete technique of transforming a dot into a line, a line into a surface, a surface into volume, a volume into multy-dimensional spaces (the multi-dimensional spaces of non-Euclidian geometries). By definition, the multi-dimensional space, focused into an infinitely small dot is an artefact of Abstractionism. If we collect all generic concrete items into an infinitely small dot, what we get is Abstractionism. If we dissolve an abstract image – we get all generic concrete items. Therefore, Energy Lyzism shows the origins of Abstractionism as a universal container of all possible present and future styles and techniques of painting. That is why only in the Universal Gallery you could see Energy Lyzism, and vice versa, only Energy Lyzism can build a universal gallery because it would not be the style of all styles if by its method of universal dissolvability it did not thus destroy each thing inside itself, in its own structure, so that through that destruction – deconstruction – of things it shows the links between all of them.
That is to say, Energy Lyzism proves that each deconstruction is a construction afresh. I was myself amazed when I realized that Energy Lyzism points up the universal connection running through one life – of paintings and books and the Universal Gallery Papa Jan, Janoism as a general outlook. Trying to live, I turned my life into a book. Trying to read it, I painted it. Trying to view it as a painting – I stepped so far back from it that it emerged as a thought.

Janoism – Energy Lyzism, and when you step out of this world – Called after Itself. Then I looked back and saw all things collected in a Universal Gallery which locked the world inside itself, painted by me but only outside me did it exist as a spirit and something unimaginable. That is he who succeeds in painting it all and build the universal gallery stands condemned to remain outside it, unpainted.
In the same way God who creates the world is Himself obliged to be out of it. The eternal mantra of all religions tinged with philosophy.
God was Nature.
God was the Soul.
God was Language.
He is priceless.
God is unimaginable but He is doing the thinking.
He does not utter anything yet He speaks.
He is unemotional yet feels.
The spiritual existence – to be.
And the material one – to have.
If you want arguments, these are they: The One who planted the apple tree, can He appear Himself as a tree in the Universe? Of course not! It is in vain that Wittgenstein retalls and sums up all transcendental philosophies thus: “The meaning of the world must be outside it”. Because the one who planted the tree, should He Himself appear as a tree, will need again for His part, a creator. And to cut short the endless logical chain of Creator and Creation we must cut an cul-de-sac abyss between those two – “what creates is forbidden to appear as a creation”.
Energy Lyzism as a style of all styles, recreates the light which carries the energy of the Universe. The dissolution of the light spectrum dissolves energy in colours. Each colour carries the purity of the soundation stone of the Universe (the universal gallery). The dissolution of the light spectrum is the natural analysis of world energy. World energy, analyzing itself , generates the colours to represent it. Colours are the incarnations of the natural self-analysis of the universe. As far as Energy Lyzism bears the name of any style or technique of painting, it is the human subjective repetition of the artist of the world’s objective self-analysis of the universe, through which it paints itself as colours. Energy Lyzism as the style of the whole energy dissolubility of colours and forms , discovered by me and embodied in my pictures which receive the energy of my sesnsory activity and continue to impart it as art-therapy communication with a healing and beautifying effect.
My face was depicted half-turned and under it above it and around it were scattered old canvases. They were held on the tips of the fingers of the cruel spider with a human face. The face of the Black Widow. With the face of the present turning tye next moment into a reminiscence, having enjoyed your emotions and having deadened you in the memory. Under me was the devil with an erected phallus who tempted me to sin. He promised me unearthly delights and made me create miracles out of my memories.The scattered pictures, however, were the open doors, unlocked by the cruel spider in order for me to have glimpse of the present before he shuts them again but they slipped and he managed to do that. I did not paint on my picture the fact that the formerly erectile penis of the devil was now limp. Let it remain erectile on the canvas in order to remind to me and all the rest that temptation surrounds us all the time and no temptation is greater than getting lost in the “Gallery of Your Own Memories”.
Picture 8: “The Last Emperor”. When all empires collapse. When all walls between the souls collapse. When there are no longer and soldiers or philosophers. When after all there is no history, either, but only tales of past times.Then the sole need will be for more and more beauty. An emperor without a mantle, without a throne. Without troops and courtiers. Emperor of the empire of freedom. It sounds absurd but that emperor is the artist. Though it be a bit immodest, but in my image I summed up that of the perennial Artist. I painted myself in the image of a Roman emperor as the last emperor will not look.
Picture 9: “Playing Poker With Death”. I’m playing cards. Till death. At stake is my life. I also stake my soul to illumine me. For beauty’s sake I stake my health. For experience – inspiration. For wisdom – pain. For solace – lack of sleep. I stake all these. At the same time on the canvas I’m playing at cards. I am playing at cards with a few bums, seeming live characters out of a book by Hristo Kalchev. Ancient history. I won hands down. That same night I heard that a friend had killed himself while playing a lonely game of Russian roulette. Maybe he was in love, maybe simply mindless, maybe wearied with life, or maybe looking for a thrill because he could not find anybody to fall in love with him. The same night in a telephone conversation with Brother Stephen I learned that he had lost a friend who had joined a religious sect. He had hanged himself. In a game of poker with the devil the boy had sought God and had lost the game. I knew him too. He was a splendid boy. Then with brother Stephen we decided to write a book dedicated to all victims of pernicious religious cults and we drew inspiration from sudden emotions as if on a roulette which helped us write the horror thriller in less than a month. “Playing Poker With Death”.
Years after the writing of the book I thought I would never stake the thing most dear to me although I enjoy taking risks. The book had simply released me from the wish to play games of chance which was much stronger than sporting passion and greed, alcohol dependence or addiction to drugs. But you see that the book had cleansed me completely.
Some rich man staked a great deal on his colour. The roulette spinned like a barrel which only lacked the golden bullet for death to be certain. The roulette in the casino stopped.The rich man turned into a pauper in an instant. He went out. He placed the revolver to his head and the bullet soiled with blood and traces of brain pierced the heart of a chance by-passer. My revolver doesn’t shoot. I see the faces of Alexander and Rossi. I recall how he and I loved to play poker but staked dimes or beers. Instead of depicting revolvers and eyes shining with madness I painted eyes shining with intoxication belonging to a couple of card players playing for rather low stakes which were the paltry delights of life itself and not the grand, greedy, insatiable and predatory pleasure of the poker with death, the poker with the devil in search of God, the Russian roulette in search of the thrill in the weary overindulged soul.
The staking of one’s life against the brief oblivion of loneliness and the absence of true love. Whoever is incapable of enjoying the small stakes, loses the grand ones. Whoever cannot savour the act of feeding the dove perched on his window will remain unsatisfied even if he had build the Space Transgalactic Titanic. Poker with death is for those who have long since ceased enjoying life. I did not paint them but the others – the lucky card players.
Picture ten: “Daylight”. I am with closed eyes. In a dream in expectation of daylight. I see my own fantasies of the daylight but it.I dream of it. I make it into art and wish when I open my eyes to recreate it. I am afraid but my face is impassive. I do not have fears because my calm appearance penetrates my consciousness. The darkness lifts. Through my closed lids I see the daylight illumining the world. It seems strange but it has uncovered its other features. It is tender and tenderness isn’t sweet, isn’t bitter and wicked. It is pure tenderness without any other notions around it. The shapes are odd but they are not due to gravitational warping and chains but to fingers, caressing the eyes. The forms are light itself. Rainbows. Eyes locked in kisses. In kisses without superfluous voluptuousness. In kisses without a desire to bite. Kisses which never end and which cannot be stolen by a lustful fornicator or from my office like a Jules Pasquin painting. The light illumines boundless meadows. On them bulls and stallions gallop. The clouds are sunny does racing along the sky.The sunny does are the purified souls. The candle melted and left its radiance to travel in the darkness and it after thirteen trillion years of travelling will reach the planet over which it will reign like a queen of Daylight in order to open my eyes… (“Daylight” – the third book of the trilogy “The Papa Jan Gallery”.)
Picture eleven: “The Phoenix Bird. Past, Present and Future”.
I was a statue by an ancient sculptor. The ancient sculptor was I who had myself chiselled my own past. I had donned knight’s armour and with outstretched wings was about to fly out from my own past towards the present. I was about to take off towards the dawn’s opening scarlet doors and the dawn was my murky future… Winged, in knight’s armour, above the live coals and masterpieces of ancient sculpture; behind me – a fire and apparitions of angels and furies, endless doors leading into hundreds of strange spaces. I rise from the fire. I rise after the flames and blood stained walls, after the poison and the molten pagoda. I am resurrected, in fact I am reborn out my ashes.From the ashes of the unfulfilled harvest, from the bodies charred in the fiery circle, from the trees burnt down by the lightnings…
Picture twelve: It would have been my unfulfilled bequest to the world.It would have been a thing I would have tried to take with me into the next world, although nobody has ever managed to take anything from this world into the next. “The Palette in My Tomb”. A palette but actually a painting which I would have bequeathed to my deadened flesh which would have fed the worm because it, too, is part of the perennial circle and I saw it with my single eye after I shut my eyes to my senses. In fact that worm perhaps before Adam and Eve even had tasted the fruit and that is why it had hastened to hide underground where it is easiest for the eyes of the senses to close and and then opens the single eye with which one perceives the entire universe. With “The Palette in My Tomb” I hoped to bribe the worm and inhabit it in order to continue my existence as flesh and again to feel the entire unierse and its eternal circle as spirit. I asked my friends, my children, and my children’’ friends to bury the painting with me.
And the picture itself represented rainbows from thirteen planets, each one of which was near thirteen suns. Into the rainbows I built my shadow.
Picture thirteen: Perfection itself. Vanga the soothsayer. Her third eye. Her skull open like a spiral while Irina and I, like spirits, hold part the spiral skull. Mythical Gothic creatures peer in.A girl peers from behind the trees. Into that picture I infused all my energy and with it I was resurrected… Irina and I were built like statues of stone into the soothsayer’s head. I also painted a coloured girl under the soothsayer’s face. Creepy creatures peer out of the ghostly wood, spreading behind the images… A girl is playing on a piano… I see her fingers moving. Also moving is the hand of Franz, a friend of mine who played the violin. A single portrait and a million paintings. I used all known and unknown styles and schools of art to paint that picture. I was sad. We soon found ourselves with the soothsayer who predicted a glorious future to both of us, saying nothing about our relationship but we were happy. I felt sad to be alone while painting it… When I finished it – impressionistic and expressionistic, surrealist and realistic, Gothic and futuristic, with fabulous and virtual effects, romantic and naturalistic – I felt cleansed…That picture was in the style called “Energy Lyzism” – the style of the universal dissolution of colour and form among themselves. A discovery Irina and I had made…The style of all styles. The discovery of my genius. Fresh and alive. Having survived. Having forgiven. Smiling good-naturedly at what I had done and attempted to do to myself a few days before…


I again managed to contact Irina from Moscow. She sounded peculiar. I was worried. Before I could ask her what the matter was the line went dead.I tried dialling again. The number was engaged… I tried a third time again to no avail.
I was standing on a mine. I could not move lest I be blown apart. My entire life seemed frivolous. Death, too, seemed like that. Only SHE still meant anything.Only she… I was moving into a tunnel…
“Feel me inside yourself!”
“I am not myself!”
“Feel me!”
“I feel you, we are far apart, and again I am not myself!”
“Do you feel me?”
“I’m dying in your embrace. My thighs are pulsating in the rhythm of horror and the impossible!
Cold sweat poured down my brow.My legs had long had to go limp. I ordered them not to and they didn’t but they should have. Rats were crawling up and down them, gnawing at them yet I could not make a motion for fear of blowing myself up… I am familiar with these mines. They were made soon after the Second World War and were German. The only German product that was below standard. They could explode at any moment and not because of a move I made but of a mere involuntary tic, even a smile…The rats gnawed me cruelly. I would not move, even if they reduced me to a bunch of mere bones because till the last moment I will keep believing I will meet her again and we will make love again upon the cake or in a pine forest… I could see that the bone of my left leg was alreay bare. The pain was horrible and by all laws of medicine I had not only long had to have fallen but also to have lost consciousness. But had that not happened before?* Hadn’t I survived then? The pain was excruciating. Odd, but it was not sharp as it should have been as of rat biting… And when all was said and done how at all did I find myself here if I was in my stately home in Russia? I trembled. I exploded. But no, I did not explode by accident.As I trembled I recalled her orgasms. Of all her orgasms which resembled explosion. At the beginning, after our first contacts which were so impulsive and unexpected, she exploded rapidly but a short time after that I needed hours before I could arouse her, before I could make her summon that energy which after that was a real mine explosion. The blowing up of a mine I had stepped upon…
But hadn’t that happened long before?
How did survive it all? Where was I, in fact?
The rat which was trying to break my bone had Irina’s face… I awoke, hot with perspiration. I reached out for the telephone once again. I did not know what time it was in Bulgaria but I wished to hear her. To tell her what Juna had written down in my diary, how I had spent the evening and to ask her how she was. All the usual things. I simply wished to hear her voice… The line was again engaged. I tried contacting her via the central station but the girl there answered me the link was damaged.
“Just like ours!” I said involuntarily and was scared at my own words. I had by all means to hear her voice because I was aware that was to be the last time I would. I was no longer afraid to think of that. I hated being afraid. You can’t but simply resign to something which is bad and is happening to you. Even I, who never resigned, had to, when faced with the inevitable… Thirteen girls were dancing in a fiery circle, one of whom was Irina but not the Irina of my acquaintance. This one was primitive with boorish language. A black witch. From the ground there sprang snakes, snakes were dropping from the trees and copulated with the dancing girls. In front, in the behind, in their mouths… They twined round all their bodies and more and more snakes cames till the ground was covered with a thick carpet of snakes which convulsed in lust. That was the sex practised by a great mass, debauched and brainless. From time to time from the heap of snakes there stuck out hands, legs and heads of the girls taking part in the ritual and the snakes went on raining down and sneak out till in the end they jutted out of my painting because all this was happening in a picture of mine… They filled my studio. Irina and I jumped into another painting to avoid taking part in the mass orgasm of the reptiles.Then we thought better and jumped back into the picture of mass orgasm in order not to miss it.
We got tangled in the snake heap. In the bands of the rest of the females.All was in motion, all was vibrating flesh.All were experiencing ferocious delight. Then there came suffocation within the capsule where the air was at an end and after the final total orgasm I wanted to be born. To be reborn as a single cell but the cell was a spring bud unexpectedly seared by frost…
I dialled Irina’s number again and this time I heard her say:
But the line again went dead. What time was it actually in Bulgaria? What time was it here, for that matter?
I stood upon the mine again. The wall was covered by mildew resembling an abstract painting. I saw myself naked under Irina’s body. We were at a totally unfamiliar place. It was an oasis in the desert and on her forehead there was a wreath of flowers…
“Shall we place wreaths around the pictures instead of frames?” Irina suggested and I realized it was time we left the desert because tonight I was to present a picture of mine to the current beauty queen of Bulgaria. We made rose wreaths which did a better job than the frames. On our way to the Hrankov mansion where the award ceremony was to be, I again let go of Irina’s hand and found myself again in the basement infested with rats and was standing upon the mine…
“Penetrate me!” the echo of her voce whispered. “I want to feel you.”
I saw her put her arms around a granite statue of me. She was experiencing the delight as when she was with me… I feared I might cry out thus setting off the mine. I bent down my head and became aware of standing upon Irina. It was she who was the mine that scared me… I had long been walking inside the basement pervaded by the stench of mildew representing modern reality and was trying to decorate them with my paintings. I painted voices from the Rhodopes and northern breezes, secret suppers, card-players, anger and beggars, Jesus Christ with satyrs, innocent and debauched female bodies, cruel insults and girls carrying books, flowers and torn wolves, erotic symbols and faces of friends living and dead, of enemies… I painted seas and moon lit oceans, fortresses and breasts, proud saints and sorry sinners, fire-dancers and house-wives, village girls and perverted street walkers, moon dreams and rabid dogs, circles and violins, landscapes of fire, of ice, ash and vapour. Lanscapes of spring, summer, autumn and winter. Inhabitants of other planets, of the ocean depths and celebrities. I attempted to paint every conceivable mood and shade of emotion, each wave of the world ocean. I tried to paint it all to avoid the sight of mildewed walls which were the result of human sloth in the presence of Nature which we must look after and to which we must be devoted. So, unawares, walking amid the rats, I found myself standing upon Irina and to step aside would mean certain death…
I again woke up. My watch had stopped and I had no idea what time it was but I knew that dawn approached… I dialled her number again. A signal was coming from the other end. My heart beat faster. My head was swarming with all memories on paintings framed in flowers… The lift and Sinemorets, Billy, the white dog and the fish. The snakes and the scatterd bottles of drunk up champaign… “Have no fear, Papa Jan! You have achieved all you wished for! Now you are the Papa Jan you were born to be. You cannot be unhappy…”
There came another signal on the phone line. “And all that about suicidal love was sheer fantasy. A suicidal love would have have been an obstacle to both of us to realize even an infinetisemal portion of our dreams but here you are – yours are becoming a reality. Soon hers will be a reality, too. In America they will appreciate her intellect and when you visit her you will do everything possible never to part from her again…”
Yet another signal. “Isn’t there anyone at the other end? Isn’t there?”
I was breathless. My heart was going to burst. The play of memory sent me back near that tree on the outskirts of Blagoevgrad and I had a hard-on coming. I recalled yet another episode from my life. That time like now when I also longed to hear her voice and was so delighted when I did I bathed teenage girls – complete strangers – in champaign. I would not have done that now. I had matured a great deal in the course of my relationship with Irina. There are many women one cane share one’s delight with, a lot more than thirteen. Happiness, however, can be shared with a single one… There came anther signal on the line. Then came Materius’s sleepy voice and despondent, I dropped down the receiver. I lay back on the bed and felt sorry we were saved that other time by the dolphins…
“No, Papa Jan! That can’t happen to you at this moment of all others.You have achieved everything! You are happy!”
I kept my eyes on the face of the clock. The clock-hand indicating the seconds was moving slowly while the one, showing the hours sped on. I dialled once more. The line was engaged. I slapped the receiver. I went out. I roamed round beautiful squares and my thoughts were far away. I wished to share with her the beauty of the squares. Or simply to hear her voice. To hear it once more and see if the final “farewell” which I heard was truly final.
Then I had a meeting with representatives of the Russian artistic elite. They did not mind spending a few hours with the newly minted Prince of Taurida “The Bulgarian Picasso and Dali” as they nicknamed me in the major Russian newspaper Today. I drank a lot and never stopped thinking of her. I left the revellers and again went to my room and dialled. This time I was in luck.
“How are you?” I shouted.
“I’m Okey.”
What did that Okey mean? What did that indifference in her voice mean?
“Irina, I love you!” I shouted at the top of my voice.
“I love you, too, Jan…” she said but somewhat tearfully. It could not have been tears. She engaged in sex like a woman while being in fact a boy. It could not be tears. It could not be a parting. No, it could not be a parting, now that… The line again went dead. I seemed to hear a scream from see zor and a satanic laughter…
“You are drunk, Papa Jan! Soon you’ll be with your gal but now have a good drink like a real prince who doesn’t give a damn for the fall of Petersburg…”
I was not merry-making. I only pretended to for the sake of my companions. I could no more deceive myself – that was the last time I had heard her… I had drunk too much. In my bag I always carried tranquilizers in case stress got the better of my sentiment. I recalled my father whose hand grew cold in mine. His soul was vanishing with the fading warmth. Till the last moment he wanted to live, till the last moment he wanted to die. He had been drinking a lot and on top of that had swallowed a handful of tranquillizers. I could easily do the same but the morning star shone as it had done in my youth… It was still beautiful to be alive, though immensely sad. Then, in higher spirits, I thought that it was most trivial and boring to kill yourself for a woman.
Papa Jan! You are not given to watching soap operas and in them noone kill themselves for a woman. On the plane to Bulgaria, however, I no longer thought so. I was flipping a coin betting on either side alternatively in the hope she would be waiting for me. I nearly died waiting for the resolution to my suspense. The flight seemed too long. As though I was not travelling from Russia to Bulgaria but from the sun to Pluto. I shouldn’t have done it but the plane seemed slow. I drank a bottle of wine and then another. On the next day I was to find out I had forgotten a camera and twenty-three thousand dollars I kept in a small bag at my feet. But that was yet to come. A far more bitter disappointment awaited me now… I kept asking myself what I would do if she was not to meet me. I found no answer. Before landing I had again dozed off.
We were descending on the monoplane which was turning into a winged angel from hell, carrying us to a group indulging in the most revolting orgy. I was startled by the scream at landing. I sweated profusely while riding in the taxi-cab to the block where was the studio nd her flat. I kept ringing long and my clothes were wet as if after a heavy rain. I rang all the neighbours who knew me well and had no reason to fear me.
“Where is she?” I asked breathless.
“A week ago she left for America and her husband went yesterday…”
“Her husband!?” I shouted. “But I…”
I choked and was silent. It seemed one card was a winner.
“Did she leave a message for me?”
They all shrugged their shoulders. “I love you, Irina!” I told her on the phone at the time. “I love you, too, Papa Jan!” she replied and perceived in her voice the abysmal despair at the absurdity of life. I went back to my studio. I looked for some note from her. I looked into secret corners, though such a note is left on the most obvious spot possible… I lay down beside the telephone and bacame quite still. A single ringing could have made me happy. The phone could have been ringing eleven thousand times but none was what I expected.
The prophet Jonah spent three days inside the belly of the sea monster. I cannot say how long a time I spent in the maw of despair waiting for the divine voice over the phone to bring me sunshine once again. My thoughts resembled a Dada poem. Incoherent. Chaotic. Incomaptible with one another. I dozed off and in my dreams I saw her naked on horseback with myself behind her. I dreamed of her as an enormous vagina which sucks me inside and explodes like a mine. I dreamed of her rotating on the tyre which was in fact earth rotating around that thing of mine. I dreamed of my former love affairs. I wanted to go back to them but I could not touch them because I feared lest they take away from me her sentiments. I woke up from the latest telephone ring for a business appointment or an offer for a purchase of a picture of mine but slammed down the receiver.
At last my temptations were gone. I could not turn my ossified past into food for my love. Another period in my life had passed…


I was under our tree at Blagoevgrad. Inside the tyre I had stuffed an inflatable rubber doll which bore Irina’s face. My fantasy produced a pale likeness of the feeling had once had. I was about to cut the doll into pieces but when I espied the numerous peeping Toms thought better of it and decided to leave it to them. It was a mere fantasy doll… When I started off a motor bike passed me by. A huge bike of a make unfamiliar to me… It obstructed my way. I swerved. With a few motions of an unthinkably swift reflex I zigzagged, thereby escaping a fall into the ravine on my right. Cursing the motorists I raised a hand. The same motorist pulled up who previously nearly killed me. Now I felt like killing him myself but walked along him peaceably and rode the bike behind him.
Then I fingered her breasts. It was she in her daemonic guise and was speeding on. I now knew it was the end. I did not even know whether she was the daemonic or real one who had decided it was time to make love on the earth… She drove madly as no other contestant would risk driving along such a road. Soon, however, we were in Sofia. She pulled up outside the block where I lived and then she sped away. I only noticed that before she turned round the corner she was engulfed by flames.


You must spot the wound. By all means you must; and after that you have to find a way of curing it… – it was Svetla speaking to me. “Everything is somewhere in you. In your memories which constantly bring her back to you.The wound is something akin to a marked door for dark creatures…”
“Nothing of the kind. Simply a suicidal love…”
“Well we all make love and most of us do so in line with the latest fashion. Besides, I can tell you love is an annihilation. If only it is absolute. Fortunately, we are imperfect and the Absolute dies of boredom for not having our quirks because they are the beauty and lead us to the perfect, yet so boring zero…”
“You cannot say that. You know nothing!”
“And how do you account for the motorist engulfed by flames?”
I said nothing.
“What am I to do, my friend?”
“Let your heart tell you that tonight! I will perform exorcism for it to be sincere and if you really believe me I am a sorceress, it will give you the correct answer…”

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