Posted by: Sk | February 21, 2009

Chapter 19: The blood of the bat

I saw Halil in the morning. I saw him from the window sitting on the steps just in front of the shop. With a blue eye and broken lips. He didn’t looked very well, and though not that bad, either. I made him a sign through the glass to tell him that I was going to meet him after, in the afternoon and he acknowledged. In fact, I had been confronted to a new dilemma very early in the morning. I’ve stated that it must be some routine Sask passes by in the morning and today she said “He’ll be free in three days.” He, must be Halil, I thought. I saw him then with his blue eyes and his broken lip and considered that it was not that easy to bring such news at once and wanted to think about it all.

Today is the 14th march. It’s the first time I ask what day it is and I don’t know why it had become of importance, all of sudden. Usually I’m already quite satisfied with knowing what time it is. You know it is saturday because there is a guard less. There is some kind of watch in the room with the coffee machine, like in one of Borchert’s stories. And I didn’t care very much about days, actually, until today. Something is changing though – I’m getting back the vision of volume. It’s true that already in Ecuador I had recovered the vision of space as space and had asked myself how it was possible to regain facculties after so many years. In fact it’s weird because you finish by not having a memory of how it was before. And now I think, ah, yes, before it was like that and sometimes I even feel like a newborn. That’s why the fire escaped my control. My vision was fixed and did not capture signals from one side, which is not normal because I was just besides and the stick wasn’t bigger than 1.30 m. I must have been afraid, then, but even fright had another name and did not arise feelings. Must be some side effects of spices, I tend to think, as I don’t want to believe in miracles. Spices are some kind of miracle, too, don’t say.

In any case I went down to the courtyard in some kind of slow motion. The afternoon. Halil was there and even if not as handsome as usual, he didn’t look that pale and absent as before. I didn’t ask questions, and as if he were excusing himself for being in such bad shape he said “The guards did this.” “Hmm. You were up the office a few days before?” “Yes,” he answered, “I was asked many questions.” “They say upstairs they’ll let you free in order to follow your contacts.” “But I don’t have any.” “It’s not what they think.” “Ah.” He said. “It’s not what appeared to me.” “It’s what will appear to the others.” He looked a little bit puzzled and I laughed and said “Looks broken lips may save someone’s life.” And bought a packet of cigarettes and said, I have to leave now, I have a lot to do. “Ah, and can you send these letters for me when you leave.” “Like the one you gave me three weeks ago?” “Yes, exactly.” “Hope they don’t intervene them.” “I hope so, too.”

And said, see you tomorrow then and left, laughing and laughing all alone by myself and thinking poor guy – if it were an accident or intended, in any case nobody is going to suspect you’ve been delivering information without anyone’s permission and if they do, for sure, it was wrong, which will make you gain points among them. You’re too honest, Halil, and to look innocent to your eyes and to the environment you are in now, will make you look very guilty in other whereabouts you don’t consider now. Blue eyes and broken lips may be helpful, sometimes, and it is true that he looks better, in any case.

Of course I thought, because I’m very wicked myself, that if I were Sask I’d leave free at once a very wicked one, a really horribly wicked one, and at the same time make use of some confidential information in order to let know in the whereabouts there was someone talking too much around. They’ll make his life impossible themselves, and that can always be of help. But Sask doesn’t think that far and probably she’s even promissed some money to Halil, which is even more dangerous. If he doesn’t say he’s got it because he has managed to cheat them with false information it’s done for him, too. How careless we can be sometimes – but what, makes you develop intelligence, too.

He makes me think of Martini, somehow. Martini was an albanian who used to come to the village and even staid there for long periods. He was very young and quite handsome, too. Whenever I saw him I had the feeling of seeing someone who is running into suicide by provoking violent situations all around him just because he has condamned himself to the belief it were impossible to get someone you love the other side of borders. As if love were not a blond, or a green eyed by necessarily a greek who is so far away because people don’t understand that love is stronger than races. Greek are very closed. But not only. Albanian, too. And he had that cold pride which is nothing but the indifference to death arising from his conviction that if it were impossible to get who you want, it doesn’t matter if you die. Difficult thing, I had thought then, very very difficult. Because he was right, somehow. And though, was it a reason to die. It’s strange, isn’t it, how the same is always the same all over, and what is difficult is somehow difficult somewhere else, too, and then it is impossible, and you see people crashing their destiny against absurds. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they attach themselves to something else, in the depth of themselves, a careless wanting to eat bananas the day after, a somewhat not wanting to take care of the future, just leaving one day pass and the other after, until you pass from one thing to the other and you discover that you have found the one you were looking for in mysterious ways, following slight signs of the unconscious and you start shouting at yourself and say: Have done nothing all my life and now, how am I going to feed her. But that’s it, that she wasn’t there before. And little hope to find her.

Well, that makes me feel some nostalgia of those times when albanian were still ’stipar’, the little folks of the ‘Lord of the rings’ and to repair a broken pipe ment someone was talking too much and after a little while, you had some article appearing in Figaro saying that someone ‘had wanted to save the world by opening all the locks of a dam in Albania and had submerged the whole town in water’, and it was linked somehow and it did always give you the feeling enormous events were jumping out of every days happenings all around the world.

Like the bridge. Like the happenings of the bridges during the Kosovo war. When all these people went holding hands and lights to the bridges until they were bombed up. I thought of it again while considering the falaffel demonstration, and sometimes I wanted to think I had something to do with it and sometime I simply could not believe it. But the falaffel demonstration says a lot in favour of it. I had had some meeting then, just before the war, with the gipsies. Gipsies and serbian are cut off one of the other as if, I thought, soul was still hidden away behind some strong indifferent structures of understanding and as much as soul does always cheat understanding, as much did gipsies with serbian. “Go to the bridge”, I said then and in serbian not in turkish, because there were some serbish speaking populations in the north of Greece who had taught me that word. She, the old woman, told me to go up the mountain. And I went up the mountain and serbian went to the bridges.

But the bridges were bombed up after and I said, that’s it, to murder innocence and it’s a german mind that is behind. I was working then at the determination of identity of the german not only because it was a personal problem, I mean you feel strange somehow with some particles inside of your blood, as you finish by putting it, that are constantly pushing thought into some dirty obscure waters so that you have always the feeling you’re in a pot full of mud hold to the shore by a little stick that looks like a Spanish definition.

That’s why I didn’t want to believe anymore ‘we were all the same’ and Kant’s definitions were true, I thought, but just for them. It’s saying them or a part of myself, but it’s certainly not universal. To define truth as an absolute referrent that may allow solving my task of defining that which had no definition as I had discovered when I was young led to the characterization of different national characteristics, which I hold as self referred. I mean, a Spaniard does not have the same vision of an Irish or a Russian tha a French as different historical happenings have enlargened or narrowed the perspective. Say, you won’t thus easily admire a french perfume if Napoleon has invaded your territory even if it is such a long time ago. But considering that it is a determined ‘you’ who is watching at things you finish by establishing that there is some inner essential logic that determines the behaviour of a whole people and that it is this logic which on the other hand determines the interaction it may have with others in their particular logic.

Bt I couldn’t get a clue of what the German logic was. These people, I used to think, do all in all behave as if they had no identity. I went through what I knew about them once and again. Literature, which I knew quite well, history, culture, politics, finances. They have good musicians, I thought. Bach or Schubert and from the surroundings, Liszt (Hungary) Mozart (Austria) Strauss (Austria). Tones, rhythms. That’s all they have, all the rest is bullshit. Literature is artificial as if it were always saying something by hiding away something else. Although I like Schiller even if it a little bit pompous somewhere. But it keeps tones. Tones, again.

I studied the Nibelungenlied once and again. It must be there, somewhere.

Then I went to my personal experience, to family members, to concrete observations in every day’s life. I had written a poem when I was 18, in Colombia, in Spanish. The poem said “I have played with death, I’ve sat her down on willow and have crowned her queen of a realm of darkness. But she has fallen down, she has fallen and was covered with blood, with mud and with fright – black boots, white skin.” When I saw the hypnaco on the branch that day, this poem came back to my mind. Black boots, white skin. The colours of the hypnaco.

From one thing to the other I thought at if you took main characteristics as appearing even now, you may conclude to some story which I finished by reconstructing. For example: they do always do everything by themselves, they are always better than the others, they pretend they can teach you your own language, they tend invading other people’s territories without distinction, in education they tend to show teachers are cruel and distribute horrible punishments (Max und Moritz), they want to prove they are good workers, they make excellent machines, they have always been the same place and sprung out of nothingness in the territory of actual Germany.

But yer in turkish means earth, I thought, and Turks don’t come from Germany. But ‘bildim’ in turkish means ‘I knew’ and ‘Bildung’ is education in German. And Turks don’t come from Germany. Atta in gothic means father and ata means father in turkish. And there are many. Kurt means woolf in turkish and Kurt is a German name. My grandmother shows obvious asian features. These people arrived from Asia, it’s an evidence. They seem to be a to tartar or turks or mongols related tribe, that finishes by calling itself Goth. Like Gott, like god. And Bog is god in bulgarian and Bock is a buck. The devil’s a buck but that’s perhaps to go to far. Probably arriving with huns, when they came to Europe. Attila  had gathered many tribes around him and the most probable thing is that they arrived with him.

And many other small observations. I asked Tchin Li whether he did not know about some miserable people having misbehaved themselves very seriously a long long time ago. He said he would look in his archives. ‘That’s very old chinese,’ he said, ‘I don’t know whether I understand it myself.’ And smiled. ‘There is a story here,’ he said after a while, ‘with three crosses.’ ‘Crosses’. ‘It’s forbidden in reading,’ he said. Hmm. ‘And in the whereabouts? There must be a crossed reference.’ He had told me about crossed references. ‘The cause does always lead to the consequence. There are consequences you don’t talk about. The causes lead to the consequences.’ He laughed. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and remained in silence as if he was considering how much he could tell me.

I finally understood the following. Some slaves  – which at those time (he gave long explanations) were not slaves as you understand it today, but people who we said ‘have just come down the trees’ and don’t know to deal with values and were given some work in order to give them through the repetition of some activity some structures that form the understanding in order for them to develop an own identity in exchange for some food and shelter and were given some regulations – were given the task of burying. They wouldn’t want to submit to their task and finally escaped. They fled to some caves in the mountains. They came back after a while and said ‘they had the wisdom’ and wanted to be received by the grandmaster. He refused and sent a pupil. The pupil came back. He said, he had seen what can’t be seen. And the grandmaster staid puzzled and said ‘wash your hands and tell them to come’. He received some of those. “What have you done?” “We see what you can’t see.” He lifted his eyebrow and said, “I’ll give you shelter for a few days in these dependances near to the temple and I’ll see if what you say is true.” Something happened. Three crosses. “Leave the borders of my kingdom,” he said to them, “you have no language and you have killed innocence.” He notes (it’s written randomly): They may be the cause of the death of China. Shall they never come back. And if they do pray for us to be awaken. And some signs that are a malediction, with trembling hand. Besides: probably this ( a substance) and that before (some other substance). – Not (I hope) the blood of the bat. Nobody has gone into these realms.

Hmm. Caves, blood, bats. Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Cimeteries. The same. “Da tritt der Teufel in den Kreis und winkt dem einen zu.” (The devil’s steps into the round and makes the one a sign.) A soup of bat blood. (Dragon – the blood of the dragon – Nibelungen).

They have gone up the caves and there were a lot of bats. Without anything to eat, they ‘hunt’ bats and make a soup out of it. Bat is “to be seen” (this is why they aren’t seen – Tchin Li said – every animal is a logic, and some we may use, some we may not.) It is possible that this altered some structures of perception, I’m sure, they see as if it were shining more in some places. Hypnaco shines inside of these patterns. Hypnaco is dangerous, but it is light. Let us take something in order to avoid the bad side effects. Morphine. “El remedio antes de la enfermedad.” (The remedy before the illness.) “Es mas tonto que Abundio. Vendió el coche para comprar gasolina.” (He’s sillier than Abundio – he sold the car to buy petrol.) Usually you have to know what you’re ill of in order to know what you have to take to get healed. Here, you presume you may avoid something by taking something else before. The causal structures are altered in subjective intentionality.

Patterns: ‘to be seen’ in ‘I see’: ‘I see’ implies in undertones ‘I want to be seen’ – a passive inside of an active. The notion of identity disappears as one implies the contrary in patterns of passive/active. Thus: not ‘I’ but ‘we’. “We see = want to be seen”. In structure parricide (hypnaco) = distruction of law. In structure psychic identity (lines ff) = morphine. (Artificial benjaminite type).

“You have no language.” You can’t seize the concept. “You have killed innocence.” The structure of causality altered, provokes a moral deviation of fault towards someone else. That’s what Nibelungen say. Intention: Beat the huns. Remedy: alliance with France (Burgund). Consequence: a blood bath.

Patterns of identity: formal (these as given above inside of characters that form like points in referential interaction = a logic). In general terms: logic kept in wings ff as artificially created through the interaction (I see (m of f) = I’m seen (f of f)). Which is to say: fusion of wings ff and mm (Spy program: absorption of elements of identity of foreign people through ’splitters’). Identity: copied.

What is it? Hell on earth. Psychopathetic logic. – It is worse when you see an image of it. That’s what the Nibelungen say, finally: jealousy has driven us to put our hand on ourselves while pretending to honor in love (Kriemhilde) and battle (Viena). Bad knot. But you see, that’s it all: you can even use wickedness in order to make miracles. It’s just to turn everything the other way round. Follow the song of the birds …

I don’t know where I’ve gone lost. It’s always the same with this story. It’s painful and sad and desperating. Don’t say. It’s not that there is not a way out, perhaps – it’s that you should never say. It is hidden away among the words and maybe you’ll find it. If you’re too sure, you’ll never get out. If you do, you change your name because you understand you hadn’t one before. Innocence is more than wickedness and survives in the sound of my language, I can still hear the birds, but it is not myself who is hearing them.

It must have been the story with the cards. It somehow reminded me of the men in the cave.

Texts left in the computer


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