Принц Папа Жан

Lunar Orgasm

Prince Papa Jan



Book One


Erotic thriller – multi-novel


The Night Of Eroticism And Madness  series  No 1


© Prince Papa Jan – author  2001

©Art Papa Jan 20013 – Publishing House

© Prince Papa Jan – cover design

Kostadin Kutryanov – designer

Andrei Todorov – translator into English

ISBN: 954 8840-01-4

All rights of publication, translation and distribtuion in Bulgaria and abroad of this book  are the property of the author and the publishing house  Art Papa Jan – 20013



This is the true term by which to call this work:


Again I attain her intuitively.

I attain her spiritually.

I tear her up.

She tears me up.

The saint is also a whore.

The sinner and the goddess.

It might sound trivial, but the fountain is the thirst!

I cannot revisit my memories without tearing them up, without mixing them with the unexperienced which is yet experienced in my dreams. To tear the pages and throw them up so that chaos can be my co-author of this unique book without which our love was inconceivable.

        I am going to lead the way through labyrinths in order to take you to the deepest, warmest and tenderest cave. The cave of my heart and of her heart, the absent reason and the frank absence of scruples approximating a consummate morality and the consummate morality for me is the aesthetic, i.e. its antagonistic opposite.

        I am known as Prince Papa Jan, world-renowned painter, writer and poet, philosopher, healer, Academician Professor: ever infamous, ever frank, frequently seeming crazy, to other people – a man of genius. This makes me real.

        She is a poetess, professor – philosopher, artist, musician, the butterfly of multi-dimensional harmony, virtuoso of verbal dexterity which makes her multiple. Multi-faceted, incognoscible, divine.

        I had the felicity of officiating at her thrills.

        She had the felicity of being a spirit in the temple of my body.

        Afterwards we reached out at more than one, nay, at a million forbidden fruits. We fed on them but more hungry, we started being torn by the thrills which at first were constructive.

        We met in order to have an enchanting  dream, we met in order  to live out an erotic thriller, a drama of broken hearts, trembling bodies and brains, a collision of  fantasy and harmony, in order to produce an actual projection of a hallucination, to summarize the blissful impulses for love, to fight with our love in the name of love and naturally, in order to chisel the Virgin’s image of the third millenium, the universal and sinful image of the modern and eternal woman,through my paintings and verbal diarrhoea. Then we were to part in ink in order to turn into spirits which would possess your bodies.


        We had the right not to err.

        To drink from the adder of our unscrupulous voluptuousness.

        To live in our world of the imagination, indifferent to everything.

        To be spiritual beggars in the bodies of aristocrats.

        Our love to be the black mass which would poison the life of many.

        It is impossible to deify without killing.

        It is impossible to make love to someone without stretching his body around your heart.

        It is impossible to erotically touch a spirit without turning it into ashes.

        In this book we are a living unfulfilment. That, which we wanted but dared not is in the text….

        That is why turned from living ones into textual ones in order to live our lives as a linguistical

lovers – romantically felicitous martyrs.

        Parallelly, we are precisely those who we wereand those who we will remain forever in the text. A fruit of our actualized and not actualized reality, an expression of our lived and fictitious exquisite fantasy. Because our love is magically realistically fantastic.

        In the book, intellectualism turns into textoalism.When you leaf through the pages of this book you will follow me into a mind-boggling erotic play.

        When you leaf through the book you will be aroused, totally spiritualized because I know there is nobody who would not be altered after such experiences.

        The flesh is unworthy of them.

        There is something transcendental, something linking them, more mature than they which can only be called love.

        Poetry is inevitable.

        I was reincarnated in the word in order to leave the frame of my experiences, in order to come into contact with their metaphysical projection and to re-live it as spirituality.

        Eroticism is present on every hand. When I touched my beloved Irine, Shiva was touching Privati, Vishnu – Lakshmi, Krishna – Radha, Eros – Psyche, Narcissus – Echo, Theseus – Antiope, Odysseus – Penelope, Dionysus – Ariadne, Perseus – Andromeda, Mejnun – Leili, Romeo – Juliet, Adam – Eve. On the threshold of the abyss I reached the summits. The storm was breaking the tree branches and they bit it and kissed it. The rain was possessing the earth. The fire, the cooled spirit. Everything merged into everything else. It was not a love affair but a madness.

        Today I went back to those passionate memories in order to make the paper groan and my heart to dissolve and get wet in order to receive your spirit in its kiss.

        I went back to these passionate memories in order to confess my sin. 

        I revisited these passionate memories in order to convince you that we love , therefore exist.

        I revisited these passionate memories in order to kiss the past and be parted from it.

        I have been frank, indecent at points even, I have been sinfully daring but throughout, in all these pages  – pure before you, pure before her and before myself.

        Frankly erotic, exulting, ecstatic as in the pictures I poured my soul, line after line in order to perform as MULTINOVEL the romance of my life.

        Philosophically minded, with childish naivety, then I sinned and now I analyse my sins and confessing them before you I divest them of their diabolical image.

        An existentialist, I paint an existence and interpret it through the very existence itself.

        Being an energy lyzist, line after line I dissolve and pour myself onto the pages.

`      This is a multinovel of the modern and of the eternal. This is an erotic thriller and a philosophical treatment of the image of love and a voluptuous poem.

        A book of the heart.

        A book  of the heart, of every fibre but also of thought.

        An unusual history which tells of ordinary things.

        An autobiographic novel but biography, in general, of love.

        A scandalous self-compromising book but self-therapy as well.

        Events from my past but also a bit of fantasy because love itself is fantasy.

        A series of diabolical stories.

        Erotic poetry.

        A sentimental Saga.

        An essey on freedom.

        Haiku Janoisms.

        A formula of the absurd.

        Omnisemantic biography.

        Poetic prose.

        Naturalist painting.

        Introduction  to the voluptuous madness of Energy Lyzism and Universalism: my style of painting , writing   and life.

        Smashing of any and every literary norm in the name of truth, in the name of love , in the name of Princess  Erotica.

        Naturally, the book could be called also a Bible of vice were not for the fact that the personages could not but take complicated decisions of moral nature according to the true Code of Liberty. And the true Code of Liberty is unwritten, it is unbearable people who are given to passionate reasoning of an amatory nature, it is inconceivable vis-à-vis the decisions we take in the real world.

        The book is an outpouring of ache, thrill, suffering, joy, sweetness and chagrin.

        Were I to be blamed for being overly graphic, lewd, insolent, crude and primitive it would mean that merely my messages haven’t been understood. Let my accusers re-read those parts of the Bible like “Song of Songs”, then “Panchantra” and “Cama Sutra” – those archetypal books. I urge them after that to re-visit my outpourings inscribed in blood, sweat and tears, volumes of sperm and vitality. Having done that, can they then call them pornography and sleaze? This is a novel about the absurd. The plot is punctuated, contradicting, self-precluding, self-actualizing and without my hel in places self-provoking, self-satisfying, filled with vicissitudes and surprising about-turns. This is a plot – a mimesis of life itself.

        In it are described post-modern features, existentialist, epoch-defining events; they prompt me to boldly call this reading matter MULTINOVEL. It is a new attribute in history, a pattern of countless literary forms and genres within a single book – a unique literary creation.

        I pondered long before embarking on this endeavour. Time and again I gave it up but in the end I could not resist the temptation to experience the most dazzling lunar orgasm once more. This is it.


Yours truly, Prince Papa Jan





Book one




        Sinner knows anguish. Sinner also knows delight. And emptiness. Perhaps they also know love – through its spasms. Through the hurt and delight which it gives them to take away their freedom and maybe to give them that feeling of a bird in flight.



        Crucified on the Thirty-three Crossroads. Accidentally, in a way, if there be accidental chances at all, I fancied her genuinely. I have always desired her even if I did not yet know her; even if was not fully aware of my precise wishes. I thought simply I wished to paint, thought I had never in earnest regarded until then my dabbling in oils. I thought it was simply because I was stretched on the cross of the Age of Christ, the time when existence becomes a philosophy which in turn ceases to be a tempting day-dream and becomes the bread, the fists, the lust for life. My empty canvas was like an erotic challenge and I fingered the brush as I would finger a woman. It was then that I felt excitement – powerful, lustful, deadly. And all things changed all of a sudden. It was the start. It was the starting instant. Without realizing it, I pledged myself to the woman of my tragedy and my most potent desires, to the woman, angel and devil in one, the woman whom I was to love. She was still an erotic challenge, lost in the distant mist of the future, like a white canvas almost untouched.

        “Papa Jan,” I heard myself whisper, “stop it! Stop it where you are!”

        Icy creeps, then excitement… Again creeps of horror, again excitement. The hand with the brush trembled on the canvas. I wanted to touch it and was aware of its pointlessness, of its enormous cost but sinner knows pain and is prepared to pay dearly for delight. I was tempted by the blank canvas. It resembled a naked girl suddenly appearing in a dark forest who like me was apprehensive yet desiring; who like me wished to tempt and be tempted; who thinks she genuinely wants to keep virgin but this very thought merely whets her appetite for  sin. She opens her lips as if to say “I can’t do it” but from her lips no sound flows; instead, they slowly come close to mine. For their part, for no reason at all, they, too, fear the hot contact and likewise try to eject the simple sentence: “I can’t do it “ but no sound is emitted. Swollen with tender furies and sweetness, drunken, the clips draw close. The abyss is inevitable. Before it, volition loses the power to chose. Hundreds of baby-pythons creep on the skin. They are re-incarnated into neuronal knods, trembling on the threshold of touch. Reason is drunken. Lips touch and that is the end. Another life begins.  In fact, real life starts where values collapse and are replaced by new ones. I saw that the light administering of the brush is feminine. Or rather a feminine nipple, a tiny part of it. I was turned on. Aroused and horrified at what was taking place. I was experiencing something almost crazy. For a sole moment I lost any self awareness. It was as though I was possessed. Or insane. The tripod, the blank canvas and the oils used to belong to a friend I had buried several months before. He was Nikolai Geshev, a well-known Bulgarian painter. I had been a patron of his and had great admiration for him. The unspent stuff, sad and melancholy, reminded me of him. I often shed tears. They were the only refuge where, alone, I could conduct an imaginary dialogue with my deceased friend and moved me even to speedily do what I could to rid myself of the sorrow  inspired by this temple of incompleteness. I often had a cup of tea with them as I used to do with him once but had never made actual use of them.

        A day back it would have seemed sacrilegious. Something had happened with me. I do not know what. I simply felt her presence. She drove me insane. She whispered to me to pick up the brush and apply it to the canvas so she could  reveal her nakedness through it… I was trembling. Cold sweat drenched my whole body!

        My hand was shaking at the canvas. Millimetres away from it. I dared not touch it. Nor dared I move away. The ants of sexual arousal tore my flesh apart   morbidly and deliciously, as whenever I touched a new love, only more so this time. I had a vision of the naked stranger in the forest whose lips kept coming closer, wishing but failing to utter “I can’t do it!” Shivering speechlessly, I muttered:

        “Touch me, dearest! This a delightful dream!”

        “Just a dream!”  she said, melancholy and intoxicated with an erotic surge.

        The pupils of my eyes were fixed on the picture in which, mysterious and barely stripped, the  bust was visible. I stood before her excited as never before, horrified at something incomprehensible and something desired. I touched he again with the brush and resumed painting – making love to her in fact – though I did not know her yet.

        “Who are you ?” I managed to whisper before the prolonged trance started while I kept on painting but in fact was travelling towards her unawares. I slowly moved my face toward the oil painting. Something opened. The womb. I was being born. I was a baby. A baby who was hungrily sinking his lips into his mother’s breast and then everything developed at breakneck speed. Life speeds on like a racing car. I again pressed my lips into the breast but I had now grown up and the breast was not my mother’s but my beloved’s. The one whom I met after succumbing to the temptation to paint. I was kissing her breasts while she, groaning like mad, went on answering my question who she was:

        “The one you made a woman! The one you  made… The one…”

        The lunatic moon tore at the breasts I was kissing… It rent me apart… We were standing in the atelier but several years had now passed since that memorable evening when I decided to take up painting… I unstuck my lips from her bosom. I took up the brush, the same one, but was now painting not upon the canvas but upon the breast I painted the Moon. The lunar orgasm of  the full moon. After it came the new moon and the dark. I now knew well who she was and sensed we were soon to part though I could not, did  not want to and feared to admit it.

        She was called Irinia and had long been the renowned painter Papa Jan.

        It was then that I saw her!

        The same one!

        The one radiating feminine power!

        Destructive and creative!

        The woman who give both birth and death!

        The same one with the radiant fingers!

        The one I felt certain I would see when I stood before my first canvas!

        The one who came to me in a dream after my first encounter with Materius Rosenkreuzer!

        The one wh so much disturbed me and inspired me over the past few days!

        The one who walked the tightrope over the precipice!

        She was hazelnut in colour! Transparent tender skin, a long neck, a hetaera carved by Phidias. Juicy lips, full and thirsty for endless kisses. Cheekbones, protruding like a priestess’s who might have been living for ages in the Himalayas with a Haitian tan. Aura, swollen like the Tower of Babylon. The splendid breasts seemed to have a life of their own, conducting, as they moved, the harmonious melody of infinite Nature. She moved with the grace of a ballerina. Her exquisite erogenous hemispheres were never chastened by corset  or brassiere and her nipples blossomed under her lace blouse like juicy figs. Perfect bearing of a fashion model who has just climbed down from the catwalk of the world. Willowy lime-tree! A crystal glass, so delicate that it could turn into powder at every touch!

        Spectacles, out of which peered the freshed, the liveliest and the deepest feminine eye!

        A fleshly metaphor!A metaphor of the whole inspiration of man’s history!

        Our fingers touched!

        I felt the ebb and flow of energy…




        I endured everything I suffered with Irine while I was painting the picture: “Two rituals Over The Precipice”, also bearing the name “Our Unanimity”, the thirteenth of the cycle “Unanimity” which I began in my earliest creative period. I painted with facility, with a sense of intoxication, comfort and radiance, the images of my friends, fusing intothose of their beloved girls. I felt the surface and outer image of their love while I was recreating it as love on the canvas. A part of me was with the lovers who imprinted their images upon my canvases and this partexperienced the liveliest, reckless, purest, holiest and brilliant of that love. I called them “the lovers” in my paintings, depicting them as unity of thought: their faces overlapped to become one and the same creature. So I painted Lucy and Chris, Ivan and Geri, Dilyan and Kali, Stephen and Dea and many others… The portraits were seven when I felt that I would soon have to paint my own face which merged, yet distanced itself from that of Irine. I realized with horror that unity of thought did not mean unity of existence. Even a creature such as lovers are can live in a schizophrenic contradiction with its own self, inhabiting two different worlds, though they became twelve while Maestro Prince Papa Jan had long parted from his Irine. The fatal number of the cycle again went to him. It was I who again drew the fatal lot!


        On my palette I was mixing hues of earth and ebony, of platinum and of dusk, of old gold and humus, of sea and air , of vintage wine and of blood, of dove and moon. I searched for the appropriate solution in order to convey her tan. I was looking for the perfect swarthiness, brimming with life. The colour of  a bull-fighter’s jealousy  and Gypsy rhythm, of visions of Gaugin and of a day on exotic shores, of life in a body blessed by the sun. The colour of a frivolous harmony wrapping a restive and profoundly exploratory spirit.

        Such was Irina’s image. Enveloped and blessed with beauty, tender tanned skin, a spirit, unquiet and roaming from a world into another world from one category of the impossible to the next.Essence, vibrating on the metaphysical threshold.

        She was like a scarlet dawn on a July morning, tender and exciting under the caressing skin of a woman, born to be caressed. Her turbulent spirit and her fragile beauty were in interaction and symbiosis. Such as her are born once in a thousand millennia in order to divide empires and die, bitten by a snake, beside their beloved.

They attract and tempt with fruit of knowledge their dear friend. They win masculine fights and lose feminine struggles.They inspire and are adored. And her features were adorable. She had adorable features. They were chiselled by millennia of genetic play, perhaps even by God and with the help of the Devil even in a Phidian manner. Dignified yet of this earth. Intellectual, yet suffused with eroticism. A high forhead with a pronounced hemisphere in the centre. A perfect nose like that of a Roman goddess made of marble. Slightly modernized, less heroic and much more feminine. So dignified yet far more tender. Such as her it would have been impossible for the ancient sculptors to produce out of stone. Eyes, even if Asiatically elongated, constantly wondering, touched one and did not radiate the severity, typical of the painted eyes of the far East. With a natural brown colour, exciting with warmth and when I last saw he after her return from America  – instead of glasses she wore contact lenses coloured bluish-green.

        “Do I look to you like a toad?” she then laughed.

        “You are like a kitten which purring and nestling its body can also sink its teeth into you,” I said and when her eyes expressed more childish wonder, widening more than ususal, I could not help bursting into laughter and embracing her.

        She was never boring.

        I painted her eye and the brown overlapped with green. Her true nature overlapped with the cosmetics of the instant. She was the woman – half-maid

still wishing she had been born a boy, maybe because of her professorial title in philosophy and despite her landmark works in books like The Body of Christ. She succumbed to the global insinuation and attempted to re-cast her divine beauty in tune with the times. Green eyes became her but the green upon her retina was glass. Her America in the foothills of Vitosha where we used to make love was glass. The almost imperceptible accent of her intonation was glass.   Refinement upon naturalness. In conflict. I felt I, too, was covered in glass. I felt I saw her through it and she sees me like that. We see our palms touch, our lips kiss, but both palms and lips touch glass. I mixed the brown and the green and in her eyes an unfamiliar pageant of colours started playing in them. So beautiful, dually expressive, playful, simultaneously human and divine, sensuous, yet reasonable, intellectually frivolous, frolicsome – as it suited her to be.  I fully understood her only now, in front of the portrait when she was actually far from me:

        “Irine,” I exclaimed and it seemed as if her voice within my own self responded:

        “Didn’t you realize, Janino, that my life belongs to myself as well, and is also on loan, that my nature is personal, yet part of the existence of the world; that my beauty comes naturally but conforms to the aesthetic frame forged throughout the centuries; that I love you but part of me is too big, too much of the universe, too chaotic to be contained once and for all within the heart of a single person. Haven’t you realized, Janino, that my eyes have ever been of glass and protein,  created by man as well as God, brown and green. The brown and the green in them have ever been mixed in an ineffable variegation with which you are in love. You have loved me and will love me still just because I am dappled. Because you can always have me and not have me. Even if you were to conquer the world you will lose the soul that loves you. Were you to have this soul, you wouldn’t have the world. I myself am not completely in possession of myself but am forever gathering up myself, looking for something, classifying, re-arranging, discovering myself every new day, dissolving, scattering and endlessly chasing after my own self. You wanted to possess me completely and that’s why you lost me.”

I painted her lips, full and wide. Her cheekbones austere yet tender in warmth, trembling from eternal emotion: before our latest embrace, before the metaphysical threshold, before the world adventure, before the next trip. A heathen goddess, not of marble but made of flesh and blood…

How I wish to be Phidias now and deifying her, to sculpt her out of marble and cease loving her! How I wanted at that hour to build her shadow into a piece of marble or myself to become marble, or at least my heart to become marble! I could not! Painting her, I re-lived all my suffering for her, all the   happiness with her, all our Lunar orgasms, up and downs and thousands of verse we dedicated to each other. I painted her body, ethereal presence of a doe, gentle like a warm endearment. It was perfect – svelte, with uplifted ample full bosom with yearning nipples like flames of fire.The warm mound above her thighs. The trembling fibres which, moving, seemed to say, “O, Jan…”

I ruffled her chestnut hair in the wind because Irine was the offspring of Wisdom and the Wind; of and ancient philosopher and a damned bacchante, of a holy yet vibrant maid and the temptation, sent by the Devil. I  also painted the dejected  crease under her lower lip. I felt sad but felt that even in her happiest moods she had been slightly melancholy. She could not possess everything and still less could she abandon the desire to have everything.


With chestnut hair of dark gold… Around each thread of hair there shone an aura of the colour of dark ochre, it was modulated and made her hair look lighter than it really was.

Her face modulated into mine. It is difficult to pain the portrait of such a spiritual person as Irina. No matter how successful it is, something is forever incomplete, unsaid and leading towards the next and the one after the next… The 2013th, if like and then more and more… To infinity. That portrait I could never complete… A fictitious finale to a work  of art which could never be complete. When I posed the question in the preceding chapter as I was sending a message: “If there is no end why the beginning?” It immediately occurred to me to ask “What is the beginning? What is the end?” Sometimes it is hard to say. Sometimes it is impossible to say. Who starts a love affair?The spark in whose heart precedes the one in the other Which body ignites lust in the other? Is there a first at all? Is that at all possible if it is a  question about unanimity, unison, harmony?In its most perfect ways love is a circle between two persons. That circle often changes shape. It can turn into a triangle or polygon even. The geometrical figure can occasionally break up. It can be utterly erased by the rubber of the absolute of world existence but has always been a circle. I circle where beginning is inconceivable. A circle like a circular technique of painting where forms are consequences of explosions of energy

like the Big Bang and only after they take place can there be any beginning which had been lacking prior to that. Love between two people cannot originate in only one of the two. The objects depicted circularly cannot be each one’s beginning. verything is a beginning therefore everything is endless.

        So, without ending, Irina’s likeness fused with mine. The elongated eyes were recreated in mine. Cinsiderably wider. They resembled the eyes of a an owl, fixed on things invisible to the multitude but for the fact that their colour was blue, which meant they very much loved light to be part of the life of an owl. My eyes almost completely expressed my identity. Like the owl I am a philosopher yet I would taher not give myself to endless contemplation so I would not become captive to the perennial darkness of the deepest categories only to be able to discern what others do not while missing the hole in the road at my feet. I love wisdom but more than it I love love istelf. Beauty is the gravitational attaraction for the lonely hearts. My eyes combine the bird of love and the heart of loneliness. Myself, I am both. I paint my eyes with milores (Paris blue)…

        After that I choose dense paints. The most natural which are closest to nature, to the earth. My flesh is infinitely of this earth, bursting with health – the flesh not of an animal but of a plant. Melancholy is the twentieth century: without elevating the spirit it has turned with conveniences and easily accessible poisons the greater part of its offspring more akin to plants which the gentlest breeze would break and even uproot. I am lucky not to be one of them. I bite like a bulldog.When I decide to do it I tear wires with my teeth. My star number before the audience is the crunching of beer-bottle tops.I have not a muscle on me that isn’t well developed. I impress most with the muscles of my face. They cannot be developed in fitness-centres. There isn’t a muscle-building system for them and no diet has been evolved to improve them. Especially sculpted and impressively swollen are the muscles on my temples. On the faces of many you can’t even notice them.The temple muscle is the one most used in the human body: both in speaking and in chewing. That is why it is difficult to strain it, and therefore difficult to develop. Mine is quite developed –  as if I were of a quite different breed. And that is a fact: I am a predator. Predators are the first hunters and I am one. My blood group proves it. A hunter of emotion, love, beauty, world glances, lanscapes, naked bodies, happiness.

        My lips are full, expressive of joy, juiciness and sex, comparatively narrow but my smile is broad and with all my thirty-two teeth so I am born, a birthmark of unusualness, serried like a row of pearls.

        My skull is massive like a statue of Zeus.

        My forhead is shaped like Irina’s. It is high, and bulging in the middle. I am partially bald. This strongly attracts the opposite sex. From afar, women, nymphs hungry for something else sense that everything is owing to the excess of testosteron in my organism. My virility seems inherited. My grandfather created my father at an advanced age. The press more than once has written stories about Papa Jan having ten thousand women in his life. I am on my way of achieving the – by now – well-known record of Inspector Megre’s creator, George Simenon, who had twenty thousand in the course of his seventy-year-long life. My virility is hyper-contemplative of the tender sex. Of my sexuality people say: a global predator. Of me the great conductor of the twentieth and the twenty-first century Konstantin Krimetz created the philosophical-sexual term the Great Fuke. The remaining hair has retained its slightly rusty hue. I don’t have a single white hair  yet have experienced quite a few pleasures – as well as displeasures – from people who grow grey. My experience is truly enviable. My beard frames and symbolizes my face. It is rustier than the hair. It is thick and is like that of a bogatyr. It is Assyrian-Babylonian, frequently met with among the Thracians. After all, I am Orpheus’s ancestor! To paint my skin I dissolve natural sienna into all colours of the rainbow. More important are the adventures which I have helped preserve the natural colour of my skin. The dissolvant in this case is life. I use natural sienna, my portrait has to be close to my true image. I paint my nose, well-shaped, of normal mass for such a face. In profile one can see the almost imperceptible curve on its tip. Looked at frontally it is triangular. My ears are small – the final part of my face. They are covered with soft fuzz. Sometimes I want to grow out of their hairs outre moustachio similar to Salvadore Dali’sI started shaving those hairs in order to obtain such extraordinary moustachios – an expression of the exotic nature of Prince Papa Jan.

        Well, friends, whims are what they are! I cannot see all of them achieved. In the picture my ears are without the Dali moustachios.

        I shape my cheekbones. Lower down my face is broader. I said I resemble a mongrel of a vicious breed and I really do but right now I am inclined to make my likeness resemble Polyphemus. That sinister and one-eyed giant from Greek mythology.

        ( Freudian aside: The one-eyed giant used to symbolize unsatisfied male organ).

        Besides a beast-like giant he was a suffering creature, in love with the sea-nymph Galatea…

        “Well, my dear Galatea! Why did you re-kindle after so long a time the spirit of suffering the body of the giant?”

        “Couldn’t the spirit of suffering be the spirit of the divine, the spirit of the legend into which we are to turn?”

        I am melancholy, though big. Body has a rock’s hardness capable of fighting all hardships in life but it is also fresh bread which I hand out to feed the hungry.It is forever fighting and winning against life’s odd. Its muscles are torn apart, filled like wine-skins with vintage brew – the raw flesh of life – it feeds upon it but is also like wax melting with the contact with a soft line of poetry. The muscle fibres carry a rather heavy scent of modernity but my eyes weep when I realize that my tears can slate the thirst of the needy. Even the Jericho trumpet of the rock-sounding modernity cannot shake it  but love always can. It is corpulent, fascinating and always ‘there’ because it is called upon to intil life in the home and in the memory of each new friend, acquaintance or girlfriend who can hear the melody of my words and dance to it. It’s the body of man of few words and sure of victory with the soul of a human being who has suffered countless defeats.

        In this bear of a body there is coolness of a snake, love of freedom of an eagle and affection of a mother.

        The body would have exploded with its energy were it not made divine by art which humbles it.

        It would have lost its head completely before the divine were it not for the love which makes it sympathize with fellow human beings.

        It would have become effaced among them, could it not give proud appellations to its image and paint it.

        It would have met Narcissus’s end were it not for Irine.

        One loves oneself, enamoured of the echo, which one has  turned into god.

        The beloved.

        The exiled one.

        The enchantress.

        The one before whom we officiate.

The one we desecrate.

The one we follow.

The one who inspires me to paint.

        Francis Bacon thought three discoveries helped Europe conquer the world, viz., printing, gunpowder and the compass.

        The discoveries are a fact.

        Another fact is the world conqueror’s lust. For such a one like her, the one I have painted and loved. The one for whose sake paper was discovered since it is discovered solely for poetry devoted to her – not for blueprints of artillery. For her sake was the compass invented viz., not to point to the directions of the world but to direct me to her alone. Gunpowder was discovered for her sake as well  because it was a chance discovery in the search for the link with the Temptress: She. And this link was found unawares. With gunpowder and lunar orgasm it conquers the globe. Without compass  subdues the four corners of the earth as it does all sheets of paper since even the Relativity Theory, read by me is a love poem…

        I was the man set aside for her.

        I was a free bird, too.

        I was also the melancholy one-eyed giant Polyphemus.

        Viktor Bugai also painted me one-eyed in the triptych he dedicated to me. On it he depicted me as Cyclops whose single eye is the symbol of the only way: forward!

         (A Freudian remark: since we’ve made clear the symbolism of the one-eyed giant, we must add that Papa Jan’s, especially, is so significant in his life and work and so clearly manifested in his aura that it was not for nothing that he had been painted with one eye by the Russian artist in the painting “The Generous Possessor of Russia”. A one-eyed giant conquers all of Russia. Homer wouldn’t have allowed himself a topic like that.)

        (A remark on the Freudian remark: Freud got it wrong. The penis symbol is not the one-eyed giant but the penis is a symbol of him.)

        The discerning third eye seeing the unseen! (Life-giving!)

        (A Nikhilist’s Note: The giant and the anatomical organ resembling him have nothing in common!)

        (A note from 13,000 women: they have, they have!)

        (A note of the dadaist: Freud and the giant do have something in common but the resemblance is not in the picture.)

        The mysterious sense perception which sees things unperceived by the eyes. The ability to have a hunch about the future, to perceive invisible things in my interlocutors and to peer into the past of Nature and and the universe. With my psycho-kinetic energy I have cured thousands of sick people  suffering from all sorts of diseases. My aura is an ambition to encompass all the universe. A thrill, perceived hundreds of kilometres a portion of which I leave with every person, instil into each object, relieve bodies, cure souls. I instil my energy in my paintings and through my messages I will reach billions of people on earth. It is half-serious, half-humorous, yet real like my story. Colourful like a painting. Brilliant like a slight insanity, similar to the one I often exhibit.

         I continue to dissolve the paints on my face. I dissolve it seems all landscapes reflected in them till finally my face again acquires its natural colour betraying life and outpouring of energy.

        The face on the portrait is overstrained, like an affected galaxy in my throat. When my facial muscles are tense I relax by farting. That is why I fart several times before each business appointment or rendezvous. Unlike Salvador Dali who crowed like a cock while farting, I bray like a donkey.I can fart loud at any time of the day or night even when in bed with a woman.

        I stand amazed.




        I did not look for naturalism but I achieved it. My skin does in fact shine. The sun’s rays play upon my flexed muscles.

        I realize that reflecting the world upon myself I have imprinted myself upon the world.      


        Loneliness is cured with searching. Even if you do not know you are lonely you instinctively search and without knowing you cure yourself. Now that all is ended I realize that better than ever

        No, it has not come to an end. When does it all end? I am still alive and I ache keenly. What I want is that everything should come to an end.

        I am walking in a certain direction. The surf laughs. I am pulling a black cow on a chain. I bought it a few hours ago. Before that I wanted to kill myself. So that the pain should cease… The cow entangled its horns in the branches. Now… I entered the empty belly. I tore the belly apart and took out the guts. I took off my clothes. I felt pleasantly warm. The world ceased to exist. I was not yet born. I was in my mother’s womb. I still did not have a name. I still did not have a gender and could not fall in love but lived in love and warmth. The umbilical chord  was soon to be severed and I was to start living in loneliness which I would treat by searching. I was to sink my lips into my mother’s bosom and a moment after, still hungrier, in the bosom of my beloved – the vile, the savage and sublime, the shivering and the cool, the deceptive and the genuine, the cursed and the blessed, mine and the one belonging to others, the only and the one of many, the bitter-sweet love. The one I looked for the one I found.

        The one I lost and couldn’t have lost.

        The one I saw in the picture and who was not there.

        The erotic and the selfish.

        The furious.

        The illusory.

        My fantasy had produced that creature.

        Was it all true.

        Did I not invent her, wanting to  bring back the memories of the conception, as I curled myself in the belly of the black cow.

        I dozed off… The lights of old memories flickered. They belonged to an earlier life which I could perhaps forget as soon as I saw the light of day.

        I hear the whining of hungry dogs, smelling fresh blood.

        Will they tear me apart along with the remains of the cow?

        No. I’m not afraid.

        In some way they seem to me like the passions of which I was not afraid either, though I realized they could tear me apart.       


        I feel the closeness of the furious dogs and tremble in dulcet expectation.

        Just as at the time in the lift…


        More than four years have passed since the evening when I applied brush to canvas. From that evening on I started feeling acute hunger for painting. I sculpted breasts, thighs, cunts. Waves, resembling feminine forms. Rocks resembling male firmness, sunk into the vulnerable flesh. After each picture I felt relief as after a coitus. It lasted seconds and then again followed  hunger and the next picture. I saw the ghost which made me live in that way and inspired me in every cloud behind every corner in each and every natural form, in every woman.

        I painted the miracle  and it always slipped and no matter how perfect the picture was life was still imperfect. Its absence and at the same time its constant presence threw me into despair. I often told myself: “That is fantasy, Papa Jan! An aspiration for perfection and it is merely a road! You won’t discover it!”

        And again hungry and passionate I stood before the next canvas. I touched it with the brush and the breast came to life for me to ask: “Who are you?”After that the search started anew accompanied by despair till in the end the w o n d e r revealed itself before my eyes!

        It happened in a lift. Now I clearly recall that before I got into it deep down I knew it will happen and that would alter my destiny. I felt furious, dumb excitement which I didn’t know how to interpret.

        The lift in the Palace of Culture was packed . Many were those who wished to hear the lectures of Materius Rozenkreuzer. The Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance of metaphysical longings. The critic of the Mefisto reason. The banner of the rebellion of scepticism. I, too, wanted to hear them and maybe to make his acquaintance without supposing that this accidental step will turn into such a U-turn of my emotional life.




        It is now in order to say a few words about Mappi. I recall a chapter in Jack London’s memoirs called The Naturalist. I cannot avoid mentioning a naturalist in my memoirs, too, but he is quite different from  the hero of me predecessor whom I profoundly respect. The naturalist in my story has a thick white beard and a silver gray mane of hair, a sun burnt face and deep voice. With him you can walk thirty to forty kilometres at a fast pace without seeing him tired at all of speaking to you  about dimensions of the soul, the categories of the spirit, about black, white and gray and about asceticism. On that last topic one cannot avoid touching upon sexual misconduct, masturbation and and Lunar (i. e. feminine and Earthly (i.e. masculine) principle.  With all those friends of mine we afforested an area of 10,000 decars under my leadership in the Balkan Mountain near the town of Pirdop in 1985. A million of trees were planted by our hands. The area was called “the Papa Jan forest”.

        “Everything is in Nature!” said Jivko Kolev. “And everything is Nature!”

        “Everything is in Nature!” I shouted. “And everything is Nature!”

        “Isn’t that so, Papa Jan?” Jivko smiled.

        “You bet it is!” I replied.

        “We will build the Universal Gallery!” exclaimed Old Joro, “because it too is part of Nature.”

        “We will!” shouted Dr Kalinov in the dark.

        “It is built,” Irina whispered in my ear.

        “What isn’t built will never collapse,” chimed in Simaka. “We are words so finely constructed?”
“Everything that is Nature has already been built,” said Jivko Kolev.

        As I mention his name, my respect and gratitude compel me to describe my adventures with him. Even if I unduly prolong my narrative I’ll do it.

        He made sculptures from vine branches. Erotic bodies, overfilled with energy, ready for global dissolution and awaiting Daylight.

        Once, I sold seven pictures to a Canadian collector of pathological painting. He himself was “pathological” but only the poor in this world are inasne – the rich are eccecntric. He bought pictures by serial killers, schizophrenics and old masters whose karma was damned. He had read in the papers that I said I had had thirteen thousand women in my life, that I ate human flesh, that I dropped pictures of mine into volcano craters… And since Nature had deprived him of the requisite degree of intelligence when receiving information, he considered these to be crazy rumours. We met and when I realized what sort of person he was I continued playing the role of a psychotic. In the end he bought  my Seven Deadly Sins sequence. By the way, he owes me half the sum he promised at the time and Jivko Kolev and I spent the money lavishly. For the seven pictures, each of which depicts one of the seven deadly sins the Canadian collector whose name I won’t mention for ethical reasons paid me 50 000 US dollars.

        Then Jivko and I rented three Mercedes cars. In one was I, Jivko was in the next and in the third… my beret. In the Shareton grand hotel I fancied a girl. Because Jikov and I both fancied dancing  but I did not have anywhere to leave the money I went up to her, shoved the packet into her bosom and told her that under her bra there is something very very dear. She would do well not to take it off till I come back, nor allow anyone to touch it. She looked questioningly at me and I had to explain to her that it was a matter of fifty-thousand US dollars. While we danced she sat at her table like a snow maiden with a stick in her spine and a orthopaedic corset.

        One another occasion Jivko and I were celebrating his sixtieth birthday at the Arapovski monastery, the place where chieftain Tanyo once hid himself and at a later date the Politburo headed by Todor Jivkov used to party. From seven in the evening till half past ten the next morning Jivko and I recited our poems. Our guests got drunk, fell asleep, woke up and got drunk again, all the while being amazed at our verses.

        And when, disappointed at the attitude of Bulgarian society to art (it is a question of 1994) , I sent boys, dressed in black with my visiting card to take away my pictures from all galleries in Bulgaria, I hid the canvases in his stables and the animals enjoyed no less than two hundred oil paintings by Papa Jan which only a month afterward were sold to the “Vestalka”gallery for 200,000 US dollars. Then the gallery was shut down by the authorities as an underworld undertaking , locking up the canvases as well which “under arrest” to this very day. For seven years solid my pictures are deprived of freedom without being sentenced. No such precedent has occurred anywhere else in the world. There are no pictures under arrest for  longer than these two hundred. Add to that the fact that they were hidden in barns and guarded by goats… There are no pictures with a more adventurous history than mine, the same which once Jivko Kolev popular philosopher and sage, hid.

        “Everything that is nature is already built up!” repeated Jivko Kolev.

        “Everything that has been built is borrowed from nature!” Mappi elaborated on his thought. 

        “Has everything been built, Papa Jan?” Simaka asked and gave the answer himself: “Of course all of us gathered here by you are the symbol of all that has been built.”

        “But has everything been built?” Irina asked and herself added to her thought: “it has, but it awaits its ruin and ruin is part and parcel of construction.”

        “And yet, everything is matter!” insisted Boiko Ganev.

        “But matter is spirit!” Mappi raised his white beard.

        “Matter is spirit!” Old Joro repeated.

        “And spirit inhabits matter!” Iliyan Kalinov added. “What do you say to that, Papa Jan?”

         “Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel the aura and haunting in our circle?”

        “I do!” Irina was the first to answer.

        “It is similar to that in your pictures,” Old Joro added.

        “Because in them I also gather points and egos, I pass from the point into the line, from the line into the plain, from the plain into volume and the volume passes into multi-dimensional spaces in order for me to turn them into a circle and fuse them together and in that circle to capture the willful and freedom-loving spirit. I turn everything into everything else – Omnia in omnibus – I instill all my energy into my pictures and they radiate it as art-therapy-communication with a positive effect. I called this style of painting “ENERGY LYZISM”. This is the style of universal dissolubility of  colour and form. You asked my opinion on whether spirit inhabits matter. My God, yes! I feel it filling me and then it pours out like sand between my fingers and like colour all over my pictures. I feel it like white light but surely all colours of the rainbow are contained in white light, according to Newton’s law. Sometimes I only need the colour white in order to think and paint. I feel it like a circle of kindred spirits which argue and do not agree and yet, while they are together, they combine to constitute it.

        I also replied to them:


        After conversing with my friends and Boiko Ganev I spent a sleepless night and found the answer to the question: “IS THERE ANYTHING NOT MATERIAL IN THIS WORLD?”

        Wisdom helped me come to terms with reality. It reconciled my day-dreams with it and preserved them.

        “But you might kill your dreams that way.”                     

        “I don’t think so.They are alive and I haven’t lost a single one. Now I recall that I dreamt of hitch-hiking the first flying saucer passing the Earth but that did not stop me dreaming of the loneliness of our civilisation. I dreamt of re-discovering new continents and I wasn’t prevented in that by the fact that I belong to an age when all continents are discovered. I dreamt of being carried by the wind no matter where it would take me  and I wasn’t prevented in that by my social responsibilities. I dreamt of attaining to the lonesome peak of human uniqueness and I wasn’t prevented in that by my own limitations. I fought on the side of the Earth against my own day-dreams… I could see them behind my car, racing towards something more real.They looked to me like scattered, useless sheets of written poetry. Falsification of the soul. Intellectual pervertedness. Verbal exhibitionism…

        But not that were my day-dreams.”

        “What then?”

        “My thoughts aren’t a woman of easy virtue, either – “ I did not respond directly. “Do we really have the right to dream only of that we can achieve and do we necessarily have to be realists when we day-dream? Do we necessarily have to do something to achieve our day-dreams, even if that be madness?”

        “And what are your dreams?”

        “A day-dream is living in unreality. A day-dream is not a metaphor, nor a parable but existing reality. A day-dream is neither easy nor hard to access. A day-dream is simply what it is. Finally, day-dreaming is not at all a measuring rod for the value or otherwise of an existence. Ther can be no question of a crietrion. They are separate and free of everything else though they can be linked to everything else. Sometimes they are bigger than the cosmos itself, though almost always commensurate to our notions of it.”

        “And are painted upon despair?”

        “Often they are painted with despair. Now I dream of abolishing despair and of your always being here, you erotic beauties, you, tender verses, you earthly poetry.”
The painting “A Day-dream” was finished yet I would never cease day-dreaming.


        “There is one door you cannot open.”

        There is one thing leading to thousands of things which lead to a million of things which in turn lead to billions of things which lead to countless others – that one thing you cannot touch.    

        One essence cannot wound you because it is really holy and spiritual.

        One word, evoking pleasure, cannot fill your mouth with a sweet taste, nor can your nostrils sense the pleasurable aroma, because it does not have either a taste or an aroma, since it is immaterial.               

        One yearning you cannot pick and put in a vase at home because you cannot exploit it, you cannot lead it…” said I to my listeners in the Mysterius Magicus auditorium, a hall enveloped in semi-darkness where were gathered representatives of the science of the spirit and of nature.

        “You speak of God!” heard I a voice from one of the darkest corners.

        “I speak of something rational,” said I. “Something we know exists without being believers, yet are never sure it would happen.”

        “There is no such thing!”heard I several voices at once and one of them continued: “There is no thing which is immaterial and which we call by name without believing in it!”

        “But is love material!” I heard a voice countering them.

        “According to this question there are two kinds of love,” was the answer, “One of them has a material dimension. It does not need us to believe in it because it is a fact. The other kind, which we call spiritual, does not exist on any grounds, i. e. only with faith can we say it exists.”

        “This is the way with all things,” another intervened. “There are no immaterial things. You cannot know of something into the wound of which you cannot put your finger without faith. I believe everything is spirit and matter is simply its reflection, but I’m saying this because I believe, because it is absurd and not because I know it.”

        “And is thought material!” heard I an angry youthful voice. “A chemical process in the brain. Does thought flow out of the brain like a liquid from a kidney! This is vulgar!”

        “Vulgar, yes!” the attacked one defended himself. “It is vulgar because we believe that thought is more than a process in the brain and it is vulgar to us who believe in it and is not vulgar to those who believe in the opposite. We can believe without being convinced of the opposite.”

        “What sort of a gathering is this today?” said a voice which was vibrant and fresh, as well as  sarcastic.

        “Haven’t we had enough of argument about how many devils can dance on the point of a needle when the World Fortress is collapsing! What matters in the present hour of a turning point in Existence whether the categories of the spirit are nine or more or the dimensions, more than four; we must rather ask ourselves whether we will survive and whether we really want to.Let us leave the questions whether the spiritual exists without our faith and can the spirit be touched for later.”

        This supporter of Camus with his questions made me intervene in the dispute I initiated.

        “In my opinion what I’m talking about is not abstract and not in the least scholastic but bears directly upon our existence, our responsibilities, freedoms and individual choice.There is one thing which we cannot touch and of which we are certain even without faith.There is a thing which can entirely be called Spirit because it has no mass nor volume. It has no first, second and third dimension. It does not contain a single atom in its body and in general has no other body than the icon-stand of the word by which we call it.”
“There is no such thing!” heard I several voices in unison followed by a heated debate resembling a bee-hive from which an articulate phrase reached me from time to time.

        “The souls of the dead…”

        “…who has touched them…”

        “… you cannot with your material hand touch something immaterial…”

        “… but about the souls of the dead you know nothing but you believe…”

        “… I know because it has been written…”
“…then you believe in it…”

        “Faith itself! You cannot believe in faith itself because a thing cannot be itself!”

        “… a play upon words! You cannot believe that you don’t believe, ha-ha-ha.”

        “God has entered a material body and has proven His existence!”

        “…through the material body in which we believe again…”

        “… it’s futile to ask where the spirit is placed, how to name it and what its likeness is.”

        “How can you speak of material love!”

        “I didn’t believe in love till I touched it the other day!”

        “I believe in love!”

        “Precisely. ‘Believe’.”

        Those true aristocrats of the word quite shut themselves up in its magic circle and after the hysteria of its impotence was reached there was a real danger of disputes turning violent. Things got to such pass that I heard someone say with a stammer that the only material things are Thought, Faith, Love and the Absolute and all else is a spiritual reflection. An ingenious girl asked whether illusion is material while an angry ingenious young man asked her why yesterday she had an immaterial illusion after a quite material bottle of vodka of whose material nature he knows from the bump on his head, unless all that is material, like the vodka, is the prime cause of all that is not material like illusions. For its part, this enraged a dogmatic idealist who – I am sure – felt a quite material passion, linked to faster heartbeat, sweating and perhaps erotic tingling , to inflict a second bump on the young man’s head. Such behaviour was inadmissible at our gathering. The giants of thought started behaving like children but after all it was what I intended when all was said and done.

        It behooves us to ask ourselves about many things we are convinced of. It behooves us to ask ourselves why are we convinced of them. What entitles us to hold such views. What is the reason for our calmness as to the fundamentals of our knowledge of many, many things. Only then do we stand a chance to learn for the first time something which would provide a genuine basis for our knowledge and be calm on that sound basis which cannot be shaken by what seems  a childish but in fact diabolical question such as “Can you name an immaterial thing in nature?” What is material and what is not,what is knowledge built in our minds upon a dogmatic basis and above all upon faith. That has agitated minds throughout history, or rather agitated passions, and has led to arguments similar to this one which when all is said and done always reaches the prime causes which cannot be proven in any way other than imposition of will, or by an entirely physical manifestation of force which fact, I’m sure you will agree, is if not absurd at least rather ridiculous. Yet, I was to blame for the scuffle which broke out and it behooved me to put an end to it somehow.

        “I can name something non-material in nature!” I shouted loudly.

        “This is absurd! Nature is entirely material and if something is non-material it is outside nature!” my opponent nearly caused a second wave of violent debate.

        “I can name it in the language of nature!”  said I. “As regards any other concept in our language which is related to the lack of material nature we cen be sceptical but not as regards this. It is the future that is non-material. As I said it has no material measurements. It has no material qualities. It is impossible for us to measure or capture it in any of our senses. Thinking the unthinkable. The existing non-existence. The not felt feeling. It is spirit.”

        “But in nature there is no past or future – only an endless present! Time is a conventional quantity for us humans.”

        “Exactly,” agreed I. “For us, the ones with a soul. We prove the future not with our bodies but with our souls. Everyone in his or her own way. Take me for example: through the circular technique of painting I mix past, present and future.Something no longer there which has merely left its mark upon what is actually here – that something I mix with the thing which is here and that which is not yet here but will happen. In my pictures they again become the endless changing present and what remains to me is the unsafe road, the responsibility towards that which has not come about and can do so only through my intervention. What remains to me too is the profound metaphysical fear of fate and my will power over the body with its limitations which cannot touch the spirit but feels responsible before it.”

        Silence reigned again.

        “What the future will be for you, or you, or you, or for me, and on the earth generally, is unclear but a future there will be. What today is non-material will tomorrow be actualized as matter and we are responsible for the shape it will take. We ought to feel it. We ought to have the souls to accomplish it. We ought to make it part and parcel of ourselves and us – into a part of the past. We have to be in the eternal circle of past present and future in order to have souls, in order to come to know the unknowable and rid ourselves of the chains which link us with the solely material TODAY. The future is a little spark of divinity which we have and enjoy the freedom to create.

        This is what I felt once when my hand started of its own to paint the past unactualized thing, the memory of the hazy visions about that which will come about, that which I experience as circles which acquired the coming form and substance.  I painted memories and current experiences of my soul and the future was in my pictures as that spirit and that unimaginable thing of which I spoke to you, of which I am speaking and which I feel in my pictures.

        I feel in my pictures, therefore I have a soul.



        39. Irina was standing before the granite statue. In the months during which she rarely saw her lover she would come to that secret place and started to strike the chisel with the hammer in anger. She wished to produce an abstract image of an evil deity. Of the demon that was inside herself. With each passing day the image became ever more real. She was not a gifted sculptor and marvelled at the thing taking shape at her hands. Imperceptibly, the work absorbed her and she devoted more and more hours at her secret, on the outskirts of the forest. Absorbed and horrified at the thing which was emerging, she went on chiselling the image of her lover, of her demon in life till at last Papa Jan stood before her. His eyes were not big like the stern freedom. His body was not warm though it was him. Complete and almost genuine. Irina gazed long at her finished work.

        She expected to feel sorrow and anger but desire possessed her instead. She bared her breasts and with them touched the lips of the statue. Passionately, she stretched out her body. She nearly tore her clothes and long caressed herself with the granite statue chiselled by her own hands. She was kissing it from head to toe and the neighing of the horse which she had tied nearby reminded her of his voice in the climactic moment of sexual satisfaction. She rode on the statue and caressed its head. She clenched its neck with her thighs and her lips dumbly screamed:

        “Totally! Totally! Totally!”

        Her creation warmed like the Sinemorets rocks and above her shone the Sinemorets moon, under which the two of them chased each other and he was not the world-renowned painter Papa Jan, nor was she the philosophy professor. The two of them were so enamoured with their unhappiness, so happy, that the steps of their neurons are a maze which leads to paradise or to hell but not to the earth… Irina pressed her wide open lips to the shoulders of the statue. Her palm caressed its penis. Her breasts rubbed against the statue’s granite chest till the shriek of her supreme delight merged with the neighing of the horse tied nearby.



        The exhibition I staged was fantastic.

        The highlight was to be Vissotsky’s portrait which was the only covered picture there and with the Russian consul to Bulgaria we were to unveil it together.

        I was young when I made that genius’s acquaintance and our meetings were only a few but the closeness which arose between us since that time was to leave an imprint upon me till the end of my life. Delight, anguish, inspiration. Our common friend Valeri Ivanov Tagansky had been living in Bulgaria for the past ten years. One evening, sipping our drinks, we recalled his acting in Hamlet where he was partner to Vissotsky. One memory led to another, live an avalanche. We recalled the old stories on the stage and the fights in the pubs.

        My meeting with Tagansky inspired me and within a few days I painted the perfect picture depicting Vissotsky and Tagansky in the play Hamlet. Currently, Tagansky was president of the “Russian club in Bulgaria” but with part of himself he was still on the stage with Vissotsky. I was really lucky to have completed the painting days before the opening of the exhibition. There were speeches – pleasant and boring. Speeches delivered with pathos and through clenched teeth. With slowly moving lips and enthusiastic phrases. When Irina took the floor, however, everything changed. She was the sorceress of the word and of linguistic beauty. A true alchemist of oratory. My one and only Irina.

        “We are gathered here because we are in love not only with the pictures but in Papa Jan himself. In each one of us there lives a little Papa Jan whom we have locked up and are trying to set free but are oppressed by the renown of the sole Papa Jan.Though oppressed, we are in love with him just as we are in love with that little Papa Jan who lives locked up inside us and whom we are unable to set free… His work is mega-hyper-erotic. Infusing it with all his elan vital he is trying to encompass the entire logos… It is of interest to note that the Christianity of his paintings is both traditional and mythological…” I no longer was hearing her. I was transported as at her lectures in Blagoevgrad. Subconsciously, I accepted her suggestions which revealed to me the truth about myself… I was hearing the chirping of a swallow. Of that swallow to which I had likened her when we met for the first time and my worst fear was lest that swallow fly to the warm southern countries because only that swallow could make me happy and gild with human delight my artistic achievements…

        “And now – a surprise from the sweets making firm The Two Swaggerers,” announced my art manager Alexander Kutryanov. “A cake with a bas-relief image of our beloved Papa Jan.”

        The guests swiftly cut the cake. So swiftly that Irina and I could not manage to have bite at the sugary taste of my face. The art manager seemed to have perceived my disappointment and whispered in my ear:

        “There is another cake. For you and Irina only. It is in your room.”

        I found Irina in the crowd and told her about the surprise. In the room, as if stretched upon a pathologist’s table lay a thing wrapped in a sheet which resembled a human body. When we found it we saw it was an entire Papa Jan. Made of cake chiselled from top to toe with an erected penis which had started melting. I lifted Irina’s skirt and pulled down her bikini. I threw her upon the cake. I don’t know how I managed to do it but hit exactly on my penis which splashed under her. We smeared everything with the leftover from my bas-relief.

        We made love upon it till at long last we made into a paste. Then we started to lick the sweet remains upon our bodies  and smear them more upon our bodies. We ourselves became like our own confectionery bas-reliefs which tried to eat themselves and like children we didn’t cease to lick ourselves. The longest time Irina’s lips garnered the sweet remains of my penis while I, from her ass-hole. At long last lest we should suffer a hypoclycemic shock we entered the shower room and under the stream of water in the new surroundings we ceased to be like sugar melting in the heat but bodies which sometimes can taste bitter…

        “In each one of us lives a small Papa Jan,” I repeated her words. “But I ask myself if I, who have managed to make it big, do not continue to keep locked up inside myself another small Papa Jan.”

        “Even if he grows up he’ll also have inside himself another one.”

        “And we have fulfilled our childhood dream to eat ourselves full of sweets.”

        “And our predatory dream – to eat ourselves up like buns!”

        We smiled under the shower and our embarce was no longer sugary. That was real flesh and not a fairy tale.





        We were returning from Varna… Irina as usual was caressing my head…The pendulum of the swing swayed above me and I, absorbed in dreams, was recalling. We had again been playing Wagner. We were travelling from the direction of the northern slopes of the Balkans  and passed Byala. We passed by the creations of the Master Kolyo Fitcheto. The bridge which was to combat eternity. The bridge which the master builder seemed to have built in order to make a transition between himself and eternity. For a moment I imagined an overflying plane and a bomb falling upon that creation. I turned off the cassette player. Irina laughed.

        “You fear destruction?”

        “I fear lest an earthquake destroy one of the most splendid works of Kolyo Fitcheto – the church with the spinning columns in the town of Svishtov.”

        I was silent for a bit, then went on.

        “Above all I fear the ruin of the human soul and kitsch. I fear collapse. I fear decomposition and the warping of human sentiments.The warping of romanticism. Domestic and global decomposition. Here now, this is romanticism before which you can only be silent  unless you cannot build your shadow into it. The rest is merely a flight from your depression, through the destruction and depressing of others. Here is the greatness which has won against the centuries. It has jumped over them. A self-taught master with a real soul has managed it…”

        “You said that before such romanticism one must only keep silent but you don’t, Jan; romanticisim is talkative.”

        “Sometimes. When it cannot build its shadow into its own yearnings,” I smiled at her thoughtfully.

        We stepped onto the bridge, holding hands. We enjoyed the creation and were sorry that we cannot build our shadows into the bridge… The swing in Tanya’s court was still the clock pendulum. Through it I saw the storks and then the titan who was destroying the fortress into which his beloved was built: Nature… And nature itself wished to build itself into its dead creations. In an eternal marriage with its idol with whom they were to die together. Nature was man and woman, walking along the bridge, which had sustained the unbearable pressure of the years. A man and a woman holding hands. They kiss. It’s us. Irina and I. Dreaming to be shadows built into stone. Wishing to feel something more than ecstasy.

        We slowly walked along the bridge and spoke about the stone and the soul already built into the stone in order to touch the feet of its future children and to inspire their souls to be built into the next creation, built upon theirs. A creation that would rise up to the sky. A tower of Babylon which would confuse even God and will make Him stir the languages so that we would seek in their tangled order the model of genuine knowledge…

        We walked gripped by desire. Holding hands which were a bridge to eternity. A bridge having endured eternity.A bridge in which the masterful hands had not only built into their shadows but the flesh, the blood and their passions.The agitated tiny wasps which were biting us all the time but the pain was so poor that it resembled rather a pleasant touch. We long and silently contemplated in order to make the chatty romanticism indeed to be silent in order to manage to build its shadow and the more we yielded to contemplation  and the human creation having enriched it with its beauty the closer we were to it. The more cleaner was our beauty.

        We felt uncomfortable in our clothes. We took them off and went on moving naked around the bridge. We didn’t think of anything we didn’t feel anything till the moment in which we felt how the greatness of nature penetrates the heart of the master. It, too, governs him sexually and it, falling into ecstasy begins to love for its part nature, turning the stones into life. Into a bridge along which will pass living feet. Into a bridge such as is the woman. The master felt a longing for the nature of the woman, he contemplated her as flesh and every cell of his body instantly discovered a way how to satisfy her longing, how to meet her longing. How to make love in such a way that the snow  would not melt and the shadow would not vanish. Stone, while in fact flesh. Flesh possessed by the tools of inspiration – precisely the living David sculpted by the hands of Michelangelo – a good association of the living stones.

        Imperceptibly we had reached a niche in the bridge.  It resembled both a vagina and a starry tunnel. We stepped into it  and embraced.

        “We too will built our shadows into it,” she almost shrieked. “Love me to death! I want to die between these stones so that my soul will remain forever in them. I want to die! In your embrace! Love me! Love me.”

        It was not drowning. It was not a burning hut. It was not a risky flight on a monoplane. It was something more. She really wished to die in the flesh.To drown, to burn, to crash and suffocate in the flesh. I lost my breath. I felt as though I suffered an asthmatic crisis. My heart beat faster in my throat. My tongue had grown so thick that I couldn’t say anything. I felt as in a cage. I seemed to be built into stone. She had built herself into me. She – my beloved – and I was suffocating in her and she wished to be suffocated in me. In order to remain eternal. Bridges and destruction… The wasps began stinging me ferociously. My entire body was weak. I had no will power. No memory. It seemed to me I was seeing a pendulum and a cradle. Or a glittering garden with cherry trees. Had it happened, or were it ever to happen? I embraced her. With a strength with which I was to crush her in my embrace but she was living and for her part clenched my waist between her thighs so tightly as I never supposed she could and she could have cracked my waist, yet I was still living. We pressed our lips together – to suffocation. On every side we were covered by the grey dead-living stone; our souls were lost in a maze. The passionate ghostly flames intertwined and loved while our bodies  died into eternity… Sunflowers. Inquisitive sunflowers among which we chased each other and photographed each other, blossomed amidst the floating, chasing, ghostly flames…

        We were falling with a diving-bell into the abyss.It was deeper than the Marian Gorge and suffocated. In fact built into a bridge rising high above the Marian Gorge. The flames still flickered, though we were dead. The flames continued to burn with passion, though we were lifeless bodies built into the old bridge… The titan was smashing it. He was shedding tears and to a Wagnerian tune he was smashing it with a large hammer.

        My car was tearing along the wrong lane. In front of us, a lorry. Burning with passion we felt stronger delight with the risk we were taking.The car collides with the lorry.

        Flames. A bomb falling onto the bridge. Flames. From the lorrry exit fiery bodies which continue to tear themselves with caresses and to whisper: “I love you, I love you, I love you…”Flames, but the bridge is okey.In it the flames contiue to chase one another.I was suffocating. She screamed: “Love me to death, to death, to death…”

        My thrusts we so intense that I could have smashed her bones and penetrated into her throat.She clenched my throat with her thighs. I thought she would break it but at the same time I drank the strongest elixir maybe it was the wine discovered by Noa, or some magic potion, discovered by the young crazy Rozenkreutzer Irinio in order to please me. To poison me with pleasure because he has not found any other tormenting way of annihilating me…A car colliding into a tanker-lorry on which is written “danger of fire”. Flames. I pour champagne onto the models of the celebrated designer and friend of mine Svetla Dimitrova at some avant-guard super-show, half-exhibition, half-revue. The champagne turns into napalm. I burn. I suffocate. I become ash. The spirit departs the ashes and penetrates into the cold stones.At long last the fire dies down.At long last the lungs don’t want air. We travel in an endless darkness.I feel her. I feel my beloved Irina whispering to me. I do not understand her lingo.We have built a part of the tower of Babylon so that we could not reach heaven.God has made our languages unintelligible to one another…We wish to invent a star so that it isn’t so sombre.Then we explode into hundreds of stars. I feel I am fertilizing the entire universe. Then I populate countless planets but countless is too few to populate the emptiness caused by the loss of the shadow of Irinia built into the bridge.Then I populate a planet which I call beloved and discover the shadow of my lover in the chink of a bridge. The two of us are devoid of strength and we realize that we have fortified the bridge because we have indeed built our shadows into it.




        I am listening to Vivaldi’s “Seasons” and my road leads me towards the bridge. Though I know it is still intact I want to see it with my own eyes.The clock keeps ticking in my head and I realize that each second  brings me closer to the moment when I’ll again embrace my beloved. I had to stop several times. Most of the details of the day when we were building our shadows into the Kolyo Fitcheto bridge escaped me.While I was travelling towards Byala they appeared one after the other. To the tiniest detail and the feelings were the same as at that time. Maybe more powerful because fantasy made memory devine. I did not wish have an accident and I had to stop.Sometimes in roadside coffee bars. I was lost in the confusion of my emotions and for an instant I thought that maybe the eyes indeed saw everything which was not there before they saw it.  What were to be if my eyes saw the bridge destroyed by a “smart bomb”? I was aware that hadn’t happened and the war in Serbia had already passed and there was no dnager of a schizophrenic smart bomb missing its target and falling on the bridge into which our shadows had been built; yet I had not seen that and for an instant I was horrified that the bridge could have been destroyed.

        “Jan,” I murmurred into my beer, “you are getting mad. The bridge was there even without your scandalous eyes lifted the skirt of the girl from the 8th grade  when you were in the 4th. Her kitten was there too even before your  eyes saw it and you got a slap in the face.”

        But why are rockets so much like penises? Because they are the product of pathological erotic revelation of some sexually unsatisfied  element… My sombre thoughts were dispelled. I recalled the latest controversy with the latest American feminist.She had collected about a thousand matchboxes with pictures of nude girls and had constructed out of them something she called  “homosexual robot”. I responded with a picture the photo of which I sent her by e-mail. An American smart bomb had fallen in her backyard.


        The bridge was in its place. How could I even think of it being destroyed. Even if the war had been waged in Bulgaria and even if the missile had been directed with maximum precison at it, it would not have hit it and even if it hit it it would not destroy it. Indeed, our shadows had been built into it and I felt that as soon as I entered that niche where we had made love at the time. I felt it like a powerful sexual arousal. She came to me silent, ghostly and brilliant. She was clad in a nightie made of cobweb which she gracefully took off. She came up to me and embraced my neck with her palms.Then there was a prolonged kiss.It was the shadow, separated from the woman who loved me savagely and passionately to death. The shadow was tender, given to its dream, deprived of reason or any other sentiment apart from infinite tenderness towards the other shadow which had chosen her gaol, her castle, her prison. Irina’s shadow could not feel any other way towards me. It could not be cross with me, disappointed, wanting to hurt me, be sorry occasionally of being love albeit for a short time. She shadow was eternal because it was built into the bridge between life and immortality.It was so perfect that I feared it might be torn in my fingers but it didn’t.

        We made love as before till light vanished from my eyes so that I too turned into my shadow built into the stone.  Wasn’t that in fact death?

        No. Death looked differently. Death was rude and brutal, or at any rate its onset was rude and brutal even if pop groups like The Eagles  glorify such an onset quite tenderly. The shadow built into the bridge was eternal but the man to whom it belonged was not. It might never return. A short barrier prevented it from doing so at the time after which it would never return in order to set the clock  forward. ..

        We were in Sofia and the summer was hot and painful. It was filled with burning negative emotions and the madness of the herd. The neighbourhood was gripped by manic depression, the entire capital was gripped by manic depression. The entire country was gripped by manic depression and perhaps the whole world was writhing in its crisis of hyper agitation and hyper-explosion.  We, little creatures called humans, so great in their talent and passion and so paltry in the paws of the ocotpus of five billion cells we also hyper-agitated and nervous. Deprived of reason but also deprived of that passion which educates reason towards the good. We were gripped by certain others, trivial, paltry, malicious and cruelly stinging passions which paralized both thought and real profound sentiment.

        On one of those days came one of the most serious ruptures between Irina and myself. In fact it had begun weeks before but they were the run-up to the crisis which abruptly cut through both of us and nearly caused my death. It would have been otherwise if it had happened between me and another woman. The weeks during that run-up were filled with trivial arguments which at first resembled tender teasing but gradually became coarser till in the end they turned into scandals. Irina suddenly became a woman who wished by hook or by crook to turn the man beside her into a puppet. A puppet which still had certain feelings but not true love. Feelings, which by and by were to vanish completely.  I felt it and told myself I was imagining it. I even accused myself and told myself I a rude fellow and had had relations with too many bad women who had – when all is said and done – deprived me of the real woman and real love.  Alas, my presentiments were correct and not the merely elementary psychoanalysis tending towards self-flagellation and self accusation.I refused to believe what I noticed with the eyes of everyday wisdom but I believed what I saw through the eyes of love and here I was, gun in hand, in her flat. The entire wall is covered with inscriptions  of schizophrenic confessions of love written with her lipstick. The bottle of Smirnoff rolled next to the bottle of Johnny Walker and the boxes of tranquilizers. Still full are the bottles  and the boxes and on the wall, with the lipstick of my beloved, I had written: “I love you, I love you Irina; we are sinking in the dawn. Irina, we are dying but you’ll survive whereas I am finished. Irina. Alien! Mine! A peak knocked into that niche in the bridge where are gathered the juices covering the bark of each tree and every fruit after each night of love… I believed there were no distances but they exist. I believed there were women, but  there was a Woman who turned into an ordinary one yet I cannot but love the woman because I cannot help loving beauty…”

        Thus ended the lipstick inscription. Then I hit it long with my fist till my hands bled  and the inscription got smeared. I went on beating the wall with my hands as though I beat walls between us two.The wall of her capricand my failure to fulfil it or help her overcome it.The walls forever separating us  and they were not only that schizophrenic summer. They dated from the first time we met. The walls through whose chinks we peered in order to see ourselves in intimate postures but which in no way managed to smash. Before I opened the bottle of Smirnoff, before I put the first bullet into the revolver. Before swallowing the first five milligrams of tranquilizer. Oh how much I was to enjoy my pain! Oh, what masochistic delight I was to experience.I was to shoot first at my knee so I would feel an excruciating pain but would not die. But I was to place a pillow before the muzzle to prevent the shot being heard or being saved by somebody whom I might kill  before killing myself. But before that I was sip some quality vodka and single pill.Not as a tranquilizer but because that was the beginning. I kept on beating the wall with my fists.

        “Now I’m going to show you what a   wall is! A tombstone is the fastest wall between two souls.  Now I’m going to destroy this one in order to erect the undistructible one. And went on beating with my fists till the poetic outpour were quite smeared under my blood and only the smeared text remained: “I love you Irina, I love you…” The blood from my hands no longer left traces, no longer dripped  but was pouring out and I began writng with it on the stucco peeling of from the strokes…

        “I love you even when I kneel though I never genuflect and when I have to make love with the devil in order to bribe it to give me something with which I could attain you though it might cost my soul, Irina! I love you even when there is nothing that my soul hasn’t known and felt and is filled to rupture like the belly  of a greedy pig on two legs and there ought not to be a place for you yet even then I love you, Irina. Welcome to the Hotel California, Irina! Embrace me now for the final time, embrace the love, embrace death. You did not give up a single feminine caprice while I’m dying of love for you, Irina…”

        I must have broken my knuckles but felt no pain.  It was silly but readied my photo camera with which we once made erotic snapshots of ourselves.I faced it with a revolver pointed at my temple. I seem to have fallen into the habit of playing that game. But for the first time I pointed the muzzle at my head. I loaded it. The mechanism gave out a sweet sound. The trigger clicked discharging nothing at precisely the moment when the camera clicked, too. I stared at the bloody inscription: “I love you to death, to death I love you, Irina. And there’s more…”

        My hand did not tremble nor did I feel any pain from my broken knuckles.I recharged the revolver. I smiled. Everything seemed a arce to me.The entire scene. The first bullet was of lead. The other four were silver, the final one, golden. I had melted an odd  candlestick and a  golden  ring which once meant a lot to me, in order to make the bullets. Did it matter with what bullets I was to kill myself? What did precious metals matter if killed myself indeed? I opened the bottle of vodka. I drank profusely. I might have downed a hundred grammes.The instead of one, I swallowed three tranquilizers and felt relief. I again loaded the camera and recharged the revolver. A click came both from the camera and from the pistol.I was alive but indifferent.  How else could I have felt when the Woman had become the women…

        Our scandals started with trifles. At first we chided each other over our behaviour. She said I behaved scandalously and I accused her of being childish. Of course I behaved scandalously. Recently, I had no other clients except ones I trusted but they cheated me. So, imperceptibly, my material standard proved lower than what I needed to meet my expenses. But just then Irina had decided she greatly needed me but she was my last concern amidst my financial crisis. She ought to have understood me if she was a woman with capital W and in turn I had to understand her if my love was with a capital L. “Why kill myself when I am dead anyway? Why this whole farce? Anyway my life from then on was to be a slow suicide. Irina would not be the same to me. Even if she were to return from the seaside…”

        With my blood I added further schizophrenic stanzas:

        “The sea separates me from you, from the waves and for you separation are the rocks on which snakes hissed, tempting us  and suggesting to us, and defeating us, fertilized completely with the insanity of the original sin of faith in the infinite love and the heel smashing the heads of the snakes. Sinemorets is smashed upon your wall and each bloody stanza will remind you  of the shadows built into it and of the cradle which I stopped with my body, and of the stork’s nest, and of the sunflowers, and the capsules and of the rockets and of the golden bullet like a golden pump of the miserable teenager girl who sought wramth in death’s cold embrace…”

        I was not  sure if I would be alive when the turn of the golden bullet came. That seemed to breathe fresh life into me. It awoke something in me. It resembled a sporting esntiment and it is after all a wish to live and when there is wish to live the wish for death is real and is no longer any face despite all farces accompanying it…

        “You must spare some time for me. Only a few days! I want us to be together again on those rocks, just the two of us… I feel so emotionally exhausted and so insane in this pathological atmosphere, I wonder if can stand it any longer.If you love me truly, you’ll manage it. Are you not up to anything? Haven’t you been cross with me when I doubted you…”

        She needn’t have said these last words. With one sentence she caused me to doubt myself. It was an absolutely novel experience in my life. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t manage though at the time I embraced her and said to her:

        “I’ll do what you want of me Irina,” said I but I had by now lost faith in myself and couldn’t cope with the trials which arrived over the next few days on which I will not dwell but will only say they were unbearable. I would have overcome them but with a single sentence Irina sowed in me the seed of self-doubt… I saw myself undressing her by the piano. I felt her lips on mine and the sweet taste of chocolate melted in her vagina. At the beginning she found it repulsively perverse but later my delight merging with hers made the woman who painted her nude portrait with … the phalluses… Yes! Now there were phalluses!

        I sipped more vodka instead of melted chocolate and took two more tranquilizer pills. I felt both delighted and pained  while that was my most successful and most avant-garde exhibition. Bits of stucco and smeared verses in blood and lipstick, a camera and tranquilizers in such quantities as would have killed several elephants. Alcohol… A great deal of alcohol.

        “I can’t come… At least for now I can’t promise. Tomorrow things might change,” I told her then and she waited for me till the next day and the words, i. e. what I told her the evening before I had to repeat again to her…

        “I love you Jan! I love you very much,” I perceived anguish in her voice. Anguish that boded ill. Who was I to prevent her from going to the seaside? Who was I to deprive her of her happiness? What mattered most to me was that she should feel well.  Was it right for me to stop her? Was it right for me to let her go with others? I learnt she had found company. Was it possible for her to replace me and if she could do so what was the problem?

        “Be damned, Irina! Damned love! Damned earth!Damned snake! Damned woman! Wild woman. Wild snake. Wild love. Be wild Irina, be divine. Divine love, divine earth divine snake  divine woman. Be unfamiliar Irina, unfamiliar love! Unfamiliar earth. Unfamiliar snake. Unfamiliar woman! I am torn to pieces, the tranquilizers won’t suffice.The golden and silver bullets will never turn into sand at Sinemorets, my splashed blood is colder than my sperm. The poems on the wall are more pitiable than the whisper: “I love you!The bits of stucco will fall upon your hair all of sound in order to make them silvery and I know that after you inflicted pain on me, I will do the same to you by taking myself away from you forever…”

        I smeared the blood with my palm and the words disappeared. I put the second silver bullet into the revolver. I wanted to paint myself in the image of an evil spirit.Aren’t evil spirits killed with silver bullets? I burst out laughing hysterically, then I cried and laughed again. The most avant-garde work of art. I loaded the camera again… Clattering mechanisms of a camera and a pistol.

        I unbuttoned the topmost button of her jeans and she looked at me somewhat embarrassed. At the time we were on the rope bridge under the mill at Assenovgrad. Many people were passing and the bridge was not at all the one built by master Kolyo Ficheto. Simply a rope bridge. Below a voyeuristic fisherman was watching our reflection in the water and did not care whether the fish was biting. Her look became even more embarrassed when I undid the second and third button. At last she smiled  and in her smile after the embarrassment  there floated such sweetness and perversity which can arouse a man more strongly than any female breasts, vaginas, pornographic films, perfumes and dirty conversation.I spread her body on the bridge in order to be able to pull off her bikini. The bridge swung and she flew away from it. She hung on the rope. I lifted her. She gripped it soundly so she could not fly away from it with her back to me.We shook the bridge so much that the metal ropes creaked like thirteen electric guitars with distorted rasping voices as through a funnel. Love above the banks of Chaya, wild, summertime, heavy metal. Gaping mill workers at the end of their shift after having fulfilled their quotas, cannot pass across the bridge.Thirteen sound guitars. Six rhythm and solo guitars, two voices in ecstasy rising above the din of the electric guitars till the moment when I gripped her breast, she let go of the ropes and we fell from the low-lying bridge into the river which fortunately was deep at that point.

        The bits of stucco and blood on the wall resembling a woman holding fast to the ropes of a low rope bridge… Resembling arousal and embarrassment in the eys… The bottle of tranquilizers was empty. The bottle of vodka was empty, too…

        A day ago I went to my studio and noticed her note:

        “Jan (I’m pronouncing now your name helplessly and exhaustedly). If you cannot summon the strength to apologize to me by tomorrow evening and promise that you’ll come to the seaside with me as it suits you then farewell forever” Farewell had been underlined nervously and resolutely.

“Forever, with no trace of hatred. Look for more than one girl friends because you’ll be in need of a great deal of psychotherapy and many new women who would have to fill the abyss I’m leaving behind. Or the last traces of a dead body.



        I put the third silver bullet into the revolver. My hand was heavy.

        She was heavy on my hands. Opened her lips and I kissed them. No, no I had stuck my tongue into the muzzle of the revolver.  I pulled the trigger once again. I laughed. I was alive again but for how long?With this combination of tranquilizers and alcohol there was no way of knowing. I no longer wished to die. She had hurt me. I had hurt her too./Why did I have to destroy her by destroying myself before that? The last traces of a body -–she said it well And what about the  shadows? They will remain there.

        “The pony is one of the traces, too. Of two bodies, not one! And one day you will see a falling balloon with a picture of mine hung upon it. Prolonged psychotherapy – laughed I. Here I was wrong. I hate everything that is repulsively long, though I love the long moments of beauty… There are other cures. Well, a bit immature but effective. What is psychotherapy but deadening of a genuine sentiment. The whole of me is a sentiment. A vile, harmful sentiment. Ever since the moment we met in that lift, ever since then. Unfortunately, I  wish to live again. However, instead of repenting and awaiting with fear my fate, I’ll try and speed things up. Just as I have always speeded them up.Just as would have accelerated the earth’s rotation, had you wished it but you simply wished me to come with you to the seaside and I couldn’t because one sentence, a single innocent sentence uttered by a professor of philosophy can kill first faith, than a man.”

        I saw a mirror.A clock tower. They did not mean anything to me. I filled my palms with some pills whose inscription I could no longer read. I seem to have violated the ritual. A silver bullet again. I had to place it in the revolver first and perhaps only then to load the camera and take a picture of the wall first because the wall with the bits of stucco and the verses lost in blood were my soul.I opened the window for some fresh air or for me to jump out of it. I fell. Not from the window, though.I had fallen on my back and took a fistful of pills which I still held. But with what alcohol I took them.. Naked, she stood over me, caressing my chest.

        “What’s going on?”

        “Everything is fine, Jan. In paradise they neither marry, nor have children. There are no longer any barriers between us two…”

        “But why are you here, too?”

        She smiled at me and her infernal teeth shone in front of me.

        “And why are you with me? Wasn’t your place up above?”

        I seem to have taken some pills. I did not know what was happening to me.Was I awake, was I dreaming or dead? What was going on? I was creeping on the floor and found the pistol. Then I dropped it. I lay exhausted in my studio.I still  could not understand whether everything had passed or was only beginning. I was reading Irina’s letter. In the next moment my art manager Alexander Kutryanov smashed the door and lugged me towards the sink to vomit.Then I again beat the wall with my fists till finally I realized I was awake and that it was cruel to be still alive.

        While we were making love in the niche of the bridge of master Kolyo Fitcheto with Irina’s shadow the only thing my beloved murmured was:

        “We cheated ourselves that we could fall down and destroy bridges.We cannot do that yet and the final trace of a body leaves a scar till the end… I’ll soon be back.”

        At dawn I made for the infinite.I had to return to the room which nearly became my grave.




        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…



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