kagablog

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Let’s pause here in this “narrative” to consider the main character once again. What name should he be given, absurdly, shortly before these pages close? He could be called Sam or Nico or Aesaeus. But for the sake of our earlier reflections, let’s call him Pierre.

And with what nationality shall we christen him? Russian? French? African? Anything would be a lie because it would automatically put him in a false milieu and forge a false alliance. It’s better to keep him simply a foreigner- a witness or a terrorist, but a foreigner. It’s more vague perhaps, but it is also more exact. And age? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that he is 52.

One thing that can be said about him to make him more comprehensible is that he was irreverent. But this irreverence was based upon a severe and crystallised reverence, much like an anarchist is not someone who is lawless (as many claim), but is someone who is so full of internal laws that he cannot obey the laws of others. The only person that can follow the laws of society is someone who, in fact, carries no sacred laws within.
Another thing. Whereas most people were condemned to either guilt (for what they did do), or regrets (for what they didn’t do), he was carefully guiding himself between both sides of this dichotomy.
So let’s get back to this withered branch of a story.

In the morning he spent a few hours drawing and staying warm in the Russian orthodox cathedral. As he left the cathedral there was a little old man playing his accordion on the bridge, singing and yelping like a beaten doggie.

He had breakfast in a dreadfully cheerful creperie in the city centre. Nothing could be more depressing. It’s when you are alone in the world that the world opens itself for what it really is. He longed for his industrial cafeteria that he normally went to. Does this seem negative? He wasn’t one for cheap solutions. Besides, at this moment he was still eating his suffering over his lost muse. He believed he had to eat this unbelievable shit of love in order to get rid of it. One of the reasons why this world was such an intercontinental mess was that it never tried to really solve its problems, but merely bandage them over as easy as possible. In this sense many people eat without shitting. They just look the other way and try to forget, and the shit just builds up inside them.

Some had accused him of a lack of will and said that he was indecisive, because he left most decisions up to others. But in reality he wasn’t afraid of making decisions. It was just that he actually couldn’t care less about 95 % of what this world had to offer. What difference did it make to him what bar they went to, or what kind of tea he drank? In the scope of his life these were all insignificant details. For him all that was important was a good glass of wine, fucking, someone intelligent to share a few words with, a cigarette once and awhile, and his creativity.

But when something approached the arena of his self-styled ethics, he never budged. And if someone tried to persuade him to leave himself, they would find it was as difficult as pulling a tooth.

It was interesting that the Latvian language didn’t have any connection to any other European language. It only had similarities, strangely enough, with Sanskrit.
It was a strange country torn between Scandinavia and the Orient. A land which is at the mercy of the wind. Suddenly the weather switched from late autumn to blistering hot summer.