Does our feeling at home in our world have to be based on the long index of scaffoldings, enhancements, prosthetic devices, concepts, theories, and beliefs? Is there a way out, or are we trapped forever by our limitations? The yet unrealized project of Blue Republic...
Dear Sir,
It was one of these long, monotonously hot days of the midsummer. Dust and heavy humidity, greasy and sticky like blocks of rancid butter, shined on the pavement, balcony railings, and women’s shoulders, spreading through streets, and sleepy squares, slowing down all movement. The inhabitants, drugged by the excess were moving lethargically. Limited gestures and unfinished looks were seen everywhere, momentarily stopping on one or the other face or object as if to ask a question. K. and I met at a small store, where coffee was served, near the rectangular inventory of odds and ends gathered there. The street was one lacking any character, as if it could belong to any city.
Each of us was landlord of the Worm. We had lots of time. I used to be an artist, but since I swallowed the Worm in Vienna all art, museums and culture in general has become wearing and unnecessary exercise, like the whole mechanism of regulating and producing of longings, escapes from surprise, contamination and diversity. I no longer use Internet or watch TV either. Dear Sir, when you swallow Him, the rest of your body ceases to be an appendage of your head. If you decide to go ahead with it, you will realize that your body is an instrument in which thoughts are created, although the word ‘thought’ itself is unclear, lacking in angles of texture, and the head is merely a warehouse, where like in a biology lab, monumental glass containers keep safe this rusty junk of memory, violet/green muscles and tissues of something that has no more value for life. The less one is alive, the more one is dead. Do you remember our conversations about Wittgenstein, who maintained that there was nothing outside language? Have I told you about his visit to Krakow? He came see the poet Georg Trakl, not to save him, but to save himself. He saw in Trakl the only means of escape from terror of the monologue of his own head. Most likely he sensed something that K. and I know from experience: that language has no boundaries; it can be stretched and spread out as far as needed. On the borders there are territories that can no longer be called art, or have not yet become it, while somehow being part of it. It is possible to mutter, drone, whistle, hum, and all of this will be an expression of the world, and telling a story about it. Mumbling, humming, and muttering are also the voices of the world. Even silence can be considered language, when the hum and drone fall silent, but in the darkness and deep chasms of the world there is still something speaking – and this something is silent.
Dear Sir, there is nothing to be afraid of. You will go to Vienna or, if you are stopping in Istanbul, to the Sirkeci Railway Station. There is a restaurant there, where you can ask for the Worm. Please be discrete (it is not illegal, but also not yet approved by the authorities). You will order dishes with the most foreign-sounding to you names. After the waiter brings everything to the table, without touching anything, look for a small, glass carafe filled with light pink, viscous liquid. That’s the Worm’s medium and He is there – pour all of the liquid into a glass and drink it. You won’t feel or taste anything unusual. The Worm will take its residence in your stomach, like a quiet tenant. You’ll need to feed it and look after its needs, like you would look after a house pet. Depending on your mood, the type of food you eat, its components, spices and time of day, it will create in you diverse sensations and states. You will be able to experience tastes, aromas, but also sounds that you are familiar with, but they will manifest themselves in a way unknown to you, but this is just a beginning. You’ll have to try over and over again to see and experience what is possible, like a potter working with glazes. Small difference of kiln temperature, few moments longer or shorter influence about the outcome: colour shade, its intensity.
Please do remember: this is not a psychedelic drug, rather, it is a means of changing and expanding our narrow perception, similar to the escape from the limits of the Euclidian geometry into incomprehensible realms of Lobaczewsky, Riemann or Bólyai, enabling you to reclaim your kidnapped consciousness. If you once decide to take this step, you will have to accept the fact that you will be living with another organ, and it, with your cooperation will be changing and modifying reality as you know it. All that you think you know, and how you know it will crash under its own weight. You will quickly realize that it is you who is creating this reality in the most concrete manner, without boundaries, without limits, where our world’s logic is useless, and where syllogisms sound like mumblings of a drunk head. You will be able to have a conversation with your shoe, with the staircase railing, it will become possible for you to see your neighbour from inside, hear the sound of brushes used to paint all the paintings of the world. You will find out, how transient is the line between what does and doesn’t exist. Like I’ve said, I haven’t for years now been to any of the museums of tired imagination, abandoned remnants, powdered no-life, lipsticked ideas unable to give rise to any mechanism. Why should I, when I create them myself whenever I want to.
K., I, and many others in this unplanned togetherness throughout the land will connect our thoughts, bending the surface of the mirror that we promised ourselves not to be victims of ever again…
(due to heavy stains and damage the rest of this letter is illegible)
Does our feeling at home in our world have to be based on the long index of scaffoldings, enhancements, prosthetic devices, concepts, theories, and beliefs? Is there a way out, or are we trapped forever by our limitations? The yet unrealized project of Blue Republic...
Dear Sir,
It was one of these long, monotonously hot days of the midsummer. Dust and heavy humidity, greasy and sticky like blocks of rancid butter, shined on the pavement, balcony railings, and women’s shoulders, spreading through streets, and sleepy squares, slowing down all movement. The inhabitants, drugged by the excess were moving lethargically. Limited gestures and unfinished looks were seen everywhere, momentarily stopping on one or the other face or object as if to ask a question. K. and I met at a small store, where coffee was served, near the rectangular inventory of odds and ends gathered there. The street was one lacking any character, as if it could belong to any city.
Each of us was landlord of the Worm. We had lots of time. I used to be an artist, but since I swallowed the Worm in Vienna all art, museums and culture in general has become wearing and unnecessary exercise, like the whole mechanism of regulating and producing of longings, escapes from surprise, contamination and diversity. I no longer use Internet or watch TV either. Dear Sir, when you swallow Him, the rest of your body ceases to be an appendage of your head. If you decide to go ahead with it, you will realize that your body is an instrument in which thoughts are created, although the word ‘thought’ itself is unclear, lacking in angles of texture, and the head is merely a warehouse, where like in a biology lab, monumental glass containers keep safe this rusty junk of memory, violet/green muscles and tissues of something that has no more value for life. The less one is alive, the more one is dead. Do you remember our conversations about Wittgenstein, who maintained that there was nothing outside language? Have I told you about his visit to Krakow? He came see the poet Georg Trakl, not to save him, but to save himself. He saw in Trakl the only means of escape from terror of the monologue of his own head. Most likely he sensed something that K. and I know from experience: that language has no boundaries; it can be stretched and spread out as far as needed. On the borders there are territories that can no longer be called art, or have not yet become it, while somehow being part of it. It is possible to mutter, drone, whistle, hum, and all of this will be an expression of the world, and telling a story about it. Mumbling, humming, and muttering are also the voices of the world. Even silence can be considered language, when the hum and drone fall silent, but in the darkness and deep chasms of the world there is still something speaking – and this something is silent.
Dear Sir, there is nothing to be afraid of. You will go to Vienna or, if you are stopping in Istanbul, to the Sirkeci Railway Station. There is a restaurant there, where you can ask for the Worm. Please be discrete (it is not illegal, but also not yet approved by the authorities). You will order dishes with the most foreign-sounding to you names. After the waiter brings everything to the table, without touching anything, look for a small, glass carafe filled with light pink, viscous liquid. That’s the Worm’s medium and He is there – pour all of the liquid into a glass and drink it. You won’t feel or taste anything unusual. The Worm will take its residence in your stomach, like a quiet tenant. You’ll need to feed it and look after its needs, like you would look after a house pet. Depending on your mood, the type of food you eat, its components, spices and time of day, it will create in you diverse sensations and states. You will be able to experience tastes, aromas, but also sounds that you are familiar with, but they will manifest themselves in a way unknown to you, but this is just a beginning. You’ll have to try over and over again to see and experience what is possible, like a potter working with glazes. Small difference of kiln temperature, few moments longer or shorter influence about the outcome: colour shade, its intensity.
Please do remember: this is not a psychedelic drug, rather, it is a means of changing and expanding our narrow perception, similar to the escape from the limits of the Euclidian geometry into incomprehensible realms of Lobaczewsky, Riemann or Bólyai, enabling you to reclaim your kidnapped consciousness. If you once decide to take this step, you will have to accept the fact that you will be living with another organ, and it, with your cooperation will be changing and modifying reality as you know it. All that you think you know, and how you know it will crash under its own weight. You will quickly realize that it is you who is creating this reality in the most concrete manner, without boundaries, without limits, where our world’s logic is useless, and where syllogisms sound like mumblings of a drunk head. You will be able to have a conversation with your shoe, with the staircase railing, it will become possible for you to see your neighbour from inside, hear the sound of brushes used to paint all the paintings of the world. You will find out, how transient is the line between what does and doesn’t exist. Like I’ve said, I haven’t for years now been to any of the museums of tired imagination, abandoned remnants, powdered no-life, lipsticked ideas unable to give rise to any mechanism. Why should I, when I create them myself whenever I want to.
K., I, and many others in this unplanned togetherness throughout the land will connect our thoughts, bending the surface of the mirror that we promised ourselves not to be victims of ever again…
(due to heavy stains and damage the rest of this letter is illegible)