Am poposit recent pe pagina unui blog negru, prezentand viata in gri prin intermediul unui batran cu tatuaje violete ce se plimba aproape gol, intelept si decorat pe strada. Mi-am amintit de Arclantida si-nceputul sau. Si-apoi am terminat de tradus Halebarda lui Sorescu.

My first title was Ruminations on the nature of God, but very little of what follows belongs to me and I did not feel it’s right to constrain the meaning of the following works of art as such. I just took the pieces of a puzzle, translated them with Google, then pieced them together in what to me is a strangely coherent narrative. Obviously, copyrights belong to their respective owners and are acknowledged in sources.

ctp

Our first exhibit belongs to ctp and was published in 1987 in a collection of science-fiction stories of thunderous beauty. As a kid, I was forever changed by these stories, and even today, when I re-read them, they stimulate the centres of addiction in my burned-out brain..

To fully experience it, you might want to completely ignore my [comments] as well as my illustrations. I’m not sure how you can do this (perhaps reading it in an RSS reader)?

Din timpuri uitate, supravietuitorii marilor dezastre povesteau ca intilnisera printre ruinele fumeginde un batrin inalt imbracat ca un cersetor. Era orb, surd si mut batrinul, si umbla calauzit de un kangoch, alcatuirea aceea bolovanoasa, vinetie, cu doua capete solzoase si ochii acoperiti de pleoape cvadruple, despre care nimeni nu stia daca este rationala sau nu. Nici omul, nici kangochul nu se sinchiseau de radiatiile ucigase, se spunea chiar ca nenumaratele doze absorbite in decursul timpului ii facusera nemuritori.  Aparea intotdeauna pe strazile orasului condamnat in seara dinaintea ultimei nopti [2012?]; locuitorii stiau atunci ca le-a mai ramas doar foarte putin timp. Ciudat insa, prezenta lui nu starnea panica; ramineau cu totii sa priveasca vrajiti inuman de frumoasele acorduri ale orgii de lumina pe care batrinul o purta atirnata de git. Miinile, ca niste radacini uscate, mingiiau clapele si razele tisneau, intii verde, pe urma rosu, pe urma galben, pe urma albastru si iarasi verde, alcatuind Cintecul Mortii pentru cei ca si morti. Calatorea cu orice astronava i se ivea in cale si nici un comanndant nu indraznise vreodata sa refuze a-l lua la bord.

Since times forgotten, survivors of the great disasters told that they had met among the smoking ruins an old man dressed as a beggar. He was blind, deaf and silent the old man, and walked guided by a kangoch, that purple, slow entity, with two heads and eyes covered with quadruple scaly eyelids, which nobody knew whether it is rational or not. Neither man nor the kangoch were bothered by the deadly radiation, rumour had it that the countless doses absorbed over time had made them immortal.   He always appeared on the condemned city’s streets in the evening before the very last night [2012?]; people knew then that they only had very little time left. Weird, but his presence aroused no panic; they all remained bewitched watching all the inhumanely beautiful spasms produced by the light organ that hung from the old man’s neck. Hands, like dried roots, caressed the flaps and the rays would flash, first green, then red, then yellow, then blue and green again, forming the Song of Death for those like dead. He’d travel with any spaceship that crossed his path and no commander ever dared to refuse to take him on board.

A very powerful image indeed.. Could it be the Pied Piper updated for the atomic age slightly older and with better tools of the trade? My illustration and comments notwithstanding (they were only added as connectors for the last poem), this is in my humble view one of the most endearing images of God created in sci-fi. Obviously, the old man is not necessarily God, he could simply be Destiny and the kangoch his hand, or Dãrâmaru (Ceausescu) or any other Dictator with architectural ambitions – or even Death with Scythe. Still, this imagery is present in many other works of art, such as below:

osborne

If you haven't already, you might want to watch the playlist.

Song trivia:

This being said, we’re finally getting to this article’s raison d’etre. I recently discovered the following photos on one of my cybertrips. As I was looking at the photos, the dignified beauty and hanging charisma of the exhibitionist, combined with the absurdity of the situation and the clarity and detail of the photos immediately brought to my mind Sorescu’s poem, followed shortly thereafter by Joan Osborne’s song and ctp’s introduction to his short story. Enjoy, and make sure you visit the original website found in Sources, below.

The Halberd by Marin Sorescu

Crowding in the trolley,
Big madhouse,
People with packages in their arms, 
With microbes
And, as I’m sitting,
Behind me,
A Santa with a spade -
No one knows what he needs it for.
He’s holding its tail
like a guard at
The royal tent. 
The old man’s as ancient as the universe, 
He has a large mole on his right eye,
And to top it all up, his hand is shaking.
"He’s gonna drop his shovel on my head 
-I think, to hell with him!"
He is otherwise a nice guy,
Polite, 
Even talkative.
He says: "Don’t worry, I’m holding
this damn spade tightly." 
But still, from time to time
he drops it: bop, bop, bop!
Three quarters of the passengers 
have already been bombed. 
The old timer keeps
dropping the shovel,
Cursing and apologizing.
"I’m weak, God damn it,
But don’t worry,
Please do not be alarmed,
The goddamn spade
won’t fall again 
Now and forever.
Can’t you see
how tightly I’m holding it? "
And just then-flop!
The road is full of potholes,
Jerks are jerks.
And this driver
doesn’t even notice,
He works his shift
and couldn’t care less: 
He carries passengers
dead or alive – same thing!
Otherwise I don’t get
why he never stops 
At any station,
Why he takes no breaks,
We could then get rid
of this decrepit killer,
Especially since, as I see,
he sort of liquidated every one,
and now he’s standing
right behind me
with his halberd --
“Driver, hey driver!"
But who can hear me?
The bus keeps going,
maybe his route is ‘til the very end.
Jerks redouble,
The old timer starts to talk to me,
He's becoming more and more polite
And we start discussing the weather.

Halebarda de Marin Sorescu

Inghesuiala in troleibuz,
Balamuc mare,
Oameni cu pachete in brate,
Cu microbi
Si, cum stau eu pe scaun,
In spatele meu,
Un mos cu o cazma-
Naiba stie la ce-i trebuie
s-o care acasa.
O tine de coada ca pe-o halebarda
La usa cortului imparatesc.
E batran mosul de cand lumea,
Are o pata mare pe ochiul drept,
Ii mai tremura si mana pe deasupra.
“Asta acum o sa-mi scape
cazmaua in cap-
Ma gandesc, lua-l-ar dracu!”
El e un mosulica simpatic de altfel,
Politicos,
Vorbaret chiar.
Zice:” Nici o grija, tin cu strasnicie
de afurisita asta de cazma.”
Si cu toate astea,
din cand in cand o scapa:
poc, poc, poc!
Trei sferturi din pasageri
au fost deja bubuiti.
Mosul continua sa scape cazmaua,
S-o blesteme
si sa-si ceara scuze.
“Sunt neputincios, pacatele mele,
Dar n-aveti nici o grija,
Va rog frumos sa nu va alarmati,
Afurisita asta de cazma
n-o sa-mi mai scape
Acum si-n vecii vecilor.
Nu vedeti ce strans o tin?”
Si tocmai atunci- pleosc!
Drumul e plin de gropi,
Hurducaturile sunt hurducaturi.
Si soferul asta nici nu observa,
El isi face cursa si ce sa-l intereseze:
Duce pasagerii vii
sau pasagerii morti- tot aia!
Altfel nu-mi explic
de ce nu opreste niciodata
In nici o statie,
De ce nu face o halta,
Am putea sa-l dam jos
pe criminalul asta ramolit,
Mai ales ca, dupa cate observ,
i-a cam lichidat pe toti,
si acum s-a protapit chiar in spatele meu
cu halebarda lui –
“Sofer, hei sofer!”
Dar te mai poate auzi cineva?
Autobuzul merge, poate
are plan sa mearga pana la capat.
Hurducaturile se intetesc,
Mosul a si intrat in vorba cu mine,
E din ce in ce mai politicos
Si incepem sa discutam despre vreme.

Please remember that everything shown above does not have a UNIQUE interpretation, though it could have an interpretation that’s unique to you. The poem has been discussed in an article about a gruesome crime, but that is, by no means, the sole interpretation. Let us not forget that Pied Piper’s flute is also a phallic object, much like the halberd.

Sources / More info: explicit-aurelM, wiki-1-of-us, song-facts-1-of-us, yt