kagablog

Walking down the Richarda Vágnar iela, Pierre ran into a Russian girl he had met the week before. She seemed upset. She put her hand on his cheek unexplainably. “I had a dream last night. A boy and a girl were fighting for a long time….it ended in blood. I thought of you.” At the moment she said the word “blood” a tear welled up in her eye and rolled down her cheek.

The next time he met her she laughed when she saw him. “I just saw a film. It was in Lebanon. It was the story of little red riding hood. The girl had a bad relation to her mother and left home and was hitchhiking on the highway. There she met the wolf who was dancing very badly in the Lebanese landscape. But the wolf, he had exactly the same eyes as yours.” She laughed again when she looked at him.

A dead cat in the middle of the road
Amidst a soft landscape of lavender
Let it stay this way
Within perfectionism
Lies the death of romanticism.

He stayed in the city of Riga for a few more days. He travelled to the countryside and the seashore by train. When one speaks of Riga, one isn’t only speaking of Riga, but also the powerful countryside around it. They are inseparable. This was actually the curse of Amsterdam, because it had no strong nature around it to save it from itself. And Berlin. Berlin put up walls against nature, only allowing a little to seep through. Then when the weather became nice the whole city would jump over that wall in hordes and swarm onto the countryside and lakes like flies on a dead carcass.

Once he had met a Geisha who had quit her profession to become a punk rock singer. He asked her why she quit. She said it was because it didn’t have a future. Pierre replied “but it does have a past”. He didn’t think she understood what he meant.

Warren or Antoine or Acateon or Pierre or whatever we call this anti-hero, was in the white blaze of the central market. Here we must ask ourselves if we really believe in his existence. Fiction is largely successful only to the degree that the reader buys the illusion fabricated by the author. Instead of such a brick wall, which was similar to the Hollywood brick wall of cinema, he preferred a veil.

So what do we have as a composition for this loser, for this dispossessed ass-hole? Eyes of a wolf, a soul like a debauched priest, a heart as clean as a fresh razor blade, a face which was an incision between Christ and the Devil. He had been called a range of things by different people: a saint, a pornographer, a lover, a drunkard, a rapist, a poet, a terrorist, a priest, a woman-beater and a gentleman. Can you really comprehend that? Can you really identify with that?