The
Following Day
About detours in all things
The following day - and there will always be one
of those (inasmuch as such a term makes sense) as long as the Sun
exists and the Earth orbits around it and keeps rotating around
itself, and there is some kind of consciousness (human or non-human)
that finds it useful and is able to name the difference between the
lit and the darkened half of the globe - we chose the street to the
left. The previous days or eternities, it seems to me, but that part
is a bit hazy, we had chosen the street to the right. It didn't take
us to the desired goal of our quest (likewise unclear) but had
always, as far as I remember, ended up in to cul-de-sacs, barbed wire
fences, pitfalls, mine fields, canon emplacements or snake pits,
where we lost consciousness and by uncertain roads and means were
taken back to our point of departure: a sleazy and lousy room in an
otherwise luxurious lavishly equipped hotel. Or was it just a guest
house; or a B and B? Or maybe a shelter in a more humble part of the
city. Whatever the case, it was from here we each day began our
search for that which we now had no idea of what was, or any
recollection of why we wanted to find it. I can see that now, as I
think back and now that I have the time to contemplate the past as
the sun burns out. Back then it was like starting afresh each morning
without any noteworthy memories of the failed excursions of the past
and passed days. They - the memories or rather: the snatches,
fragments, thereof - only began popping up along the way and then
only as mirages or vague deja-vus, which only helped to make our
bewilderment greater. Maybe we had gotten used to the repeated
black-outs between cul-de-sacs, barbed wire fences, pitfalls, mine
fields, canon emplacements or snake pits and the in an unconscious
state un-sensed home-bringing that our brains registered something
anyway and saved those impressions somewhere in Amygdala or
Hippocampus, where they over time accumulated into data huge enough
for the thought process to handle … and then the guessing could
begin.
Anyway, we chose the street to the left instead
of that to the right. Or was it the other way round? The street we
walked was one built in the middle-ages, paved with cobbled stones,
moist and dark. It smelled from garbage, human waste products - just
as we sensed the urine from cats, dogs and rats - and didn't at all
fill us with excitement and encouragement in as much as it (perhaps)
was that street which was supposed to take us to what we have to
assume we imagined we wanted to find. Such a search is often
accompanied with the thrill of anticipation as you - and I'm speaking
in general terms - expect reality, life, death, everything will
change for the better once you have found what you are looking for. I
sensed a tiny bit of discontent with my winged companion, but he
stayed silent. It sort of was in the air, where a lot of other things
already floated, that we shouldn't call down Hybris to this
endeavour, this exception from what we assumed was our previous
exertions - always choosing the street to the right or left (or
however it was) by the corroded bronze statue of a young prince who
supposedly were killed in a battle that had never taken place - the
lad had died from a fistula that caused gangrene in his intestines,
but that wasn't considered a heroic death and a people need heroes -
but was invented for the occasion. Allegedly he had slaughtered 475
enemy soldiers and mercenaries before he was killed in ambush of the
most cowardly kind. She, Hybris, we vaguely assumed, wouldn't be a
nice presence. She can be a “bitch”, as the young say these days,
and we didn't have the strength to battle that as well. You have to
understand that the many excursions day and night (or eternity after
eternity), the repeated episodes of being unconscious and the
incipient despondency
caused by the likewise incipient awareness of the
Sisyphus-like in our undertaking had worn away on our strength.
Neither did it help that the only thing we had to eat in our tiny
room was a thin water-like soup of unknown origin. The food we came
across in the city fell apart between our hands and lips as soon as
we touched it, why I assume that we were practically a little more
than skin and bones and very soon would be as transparent as poor
parchment. Considering
everything (and that's quite a lot) and none the wiser we moved
forward down the street partly intoxicated by excitement, partly
dazed by fatigue. A faint mist filled the street and it was
impossible to see where it ended; if it indeed did have an end. By
then it came about that my companion froze and began to shine and
said: “I truly am sorry. We've finally gotten this far and I'm sure
this walk down this street would solve the matter for us, but I'm
being called back to HQ to ...” He didn't have time to finish his
sentence and that was all I could hear before he ascended in a column
of light.
I'm
still walking down the street with no (as far as I know at the
present) end in an eerie twilight waiting for something to appear in
the mist.
Den
følgende dag
Om omveje i alle ting
Den
følgende dag - og sådan én vil der altid (for så vidt dette
begreb giver mening) være, så længe Solen består og en Jorden
kredser derom og sig selv, og der er en form for bevidsthed
(menneskelig eller u-menneskelig), der finder det hensigtsmæssigt og
er istand til af navngive forskellen mellem klodens belyste og
mørklagte side - tog vi gaden til venstre. De foregående dage eller
evigheder, forekommer det mig, men står lidt uklart, havde vi valgt
gaden, der drejede til højre. Det havde ikke ført til det ønskede
mål for vor søgen (ligeledes uklart) men havde, så vidt
hukommelsen rækker, altid endt i blindgyder, pigtråd, faldgruber,
minefelter, kanonstillinger eller ormegruber, hvor vi mistede
bevidstheden og ad uvisse veje og ved uvisse midler var blevet ført
tilbage til vort udgangspunkt: et sølle og beskidt kammer i et
ellers overdådigt udstyret hotel. Eller var det blot et gæstgiveri;
eller et B and B, som man siger nu om dage. Måske et herberg et sted
i et af byens mere ydmyge kvarterer. Hvorom alting er, var det herfra
vi hver eneste dag drog ud for at finde det, som vi nu ingen
erindring havde om, eller nogen erindring om hvorfor vi ønskede at
finde. Det kan jeg se nu, hvor jeg tænker tilbage og hvor jeg har
tiden til at grunde over det forgangne, mens solen brænder op.
Dengang var det som at starte på en frisk hver morgen uden
nævneværdig erindring om foregående dages mislykkede ekskursioner.
De - erindringerne eller rettere:
brudstykker, fragmenter, deraf - begyndte først at dukke op hen ad
vejen, som man siger, antager
jeg, og da kun som
synsforstyrrelser eller deja-vu'er, som kun
forvirrede os. Måske var
vi blevet vænnet til de gentagne black-outs mellem blindgyder,
pigtråd, faldgruber, minefelter, kanonstillinger eller ormegruber og
den i bevidstløs tilstand usansede hjemførelse, så vore hjerner
alligevel opfattede
et eller andet og sparede indtrykkene
op et sted i Amygdala eller Hippocamus, hvor det med tiden
akkumuleredes til helheder så
store, at
tankevirksomheden kunne håndtere dem
og dermed begynde sine gisninger.
I
hvert fald drejede vi til venstre
i stedet for til højre.
Eller hvordan det nu var.
Gaden vi kom ned ad var en
i
middelalderen anlagt gade med brosten, fugt og skygge. Der lugtede af
skrald, menneskelige affaldsprodukter - vi sansede også hunde, katte
og rotters urin - og var i det hele taget ikke særligt opmuntrende
for så vidt det (måske) var den gade, der skulle føre os til det,
vi må forestille os, at vi ønskede,
så frem til at finde. En
sådan søgning ledsages ofte af en forventningens glæde eller
spænding, idet man - og nu taler jeg helt generelt - forventer, at
virkeligheden, livet, døden,
tilværelsen vil ændre
sig til det bedre efter, at man har fundet det, man leder efter. Jeg
fornemmede en smule mismod hos min bevingede følgesvend, men han
sagde ingenting. Det lå ligesom i luften, hvor der i forvejen lå så
meget andet, at vi ikke måtte nedkalde Hybris over
dette forehavende, denne afvigelse fra hvad vi formodede vore
tidligere bestræbelser - altid at vælge gaden, der gik til venstre
eller højre hvordan det
nu var, ved den irrede
bronzestatue af en ung prins, der vistnok var omkommet i et slag, der
aldrig havde fundet sted knøsen var omkommet ved en ubehandlet
fistel, der gav koldbrand i tarm- og maveregionen, men det var ikke
særlig heroisk og et folk har brug for helte - men som man havde
opfundet til lejligheden. Her skulle han være omkommet efter at have
nedlagt 475 fjendtlige soldater og lejesvende og efter at være
faldet i et grueligt fejt baghold. Hun,
Hybris, havde vi en vag formodning om, ville ikke være en behagelig
tilstedeværelse. Hun kan være en 'bitch', som de unge siger
nutildags, og det havde
vi ikke kræfter til at slås med. Man må forstå, at de mange
togter dag efter dag (eller evighed efter evighed), de gentagne
episoder af bevidstløshed samt den gryende modløshed afstedkommet
af den ligeledes gryende bevidsthed om det Sisyfos-agtige i vort
forehavende havde tæret på vore kræfter. Det hjalp sikkert heller
ikke, at det eneste vi fik at spise på vort kammer, var en tynd
suppe af ubestemmelig herkomst. Den mad, der var tilgængelig for os
i byen, smuldrede mellem vore hænder og læber så snart den kom i
berøring med os, hvorfor jeg formoder, at vi ikke var meget andet
end skind og ben og temmelig sikkert snart ville være gennemsigtige
som dårlig pergament. Hvorom
alting (og det er ikke så lidt) er, bevægede vi os ned ad gaden
halvt i forventningens rus, halvt i en døs af udmattelse. En svag
dis lå i gaden og det var ikke til at se, hvor eller hvis den endte.
Så var det, at min bevingede fælle stivnede og begyndte at lyse og
sagde: ”Jeg er altså ked af. Nu er vi nået så langt og jeg er
vis på, at dette, denne tur ned ad denne gade, ville løse sagen for
os, men jeg er blevet kaldt hjem til hovedkvarteret for at ...”
Mere nåede han ikke at sige, mere fik jeg ikke fat i, før han fór
til himmels i en søjle af lys.
Jeg
går stadig ned ad gaden uden
ende (såvidt jeg véd lige nu)
i halvmørke og venter på, at noget dukker frem af disen.
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