The End of Law. The art of living.
Motto 1By night Hassan I Sabbaah like a civilized wolf in turban stretches out on a parapet above the garden and glares at the sky, conning the asterisms of heresy in the mindless cool desert air.(Hakim Bey, The Temporary Autonomous Zone, New York, 1991)
Motto 2Only Lovers Left AliveJim Jarmusch, 2013, (tytuł filmu)
Motto 3:But I’m creep, I’m weirdo.What the hell am I doing here?I don’t belong here(Radiohead, „Creep”, from the album Pablo Honey, 1993)
Motto 4:Those are the pronces of exile; they have no need of my song.(Saint-John Perse, Exile, 1941)
A TV studio. A small, empty room with green velvet-padded walls. It can be seen clearly, that the true size of the room is far greater. Grunts and mumbling can be heard from the space between the wall and the velvet-padded wood. Someone keeps on nervously kicking the wooden partitions. A chandelier made from thousands of old tiny Martini and Ovomaltine bottles is being lowered slowly from the ceiling. The buzz from behind the velvet intensifies and becomes structured as the incandescent light radiates gradually. Voices tune and form a choral invocation. Though mantric repetition of certain phrases they become recognizable. “Pray for us” or “Let us pray” can be heard. Suddenly, the serene buzz is ended by the crashing sound of a gate being opened. The tramping of horse hooves and the metallic clash of swords can be heard from behind the green velvet . A sharp female scream ends it all. Particles of dust twinkle around the chandelier which is now hanging twenty centimeter above the floor. A marvelous deep mezzo-soprano, almost a contra-tenor (thus blurring gender identification, Phillipe Jaroussky?), begins to melo-recite:— Tilda Swinton, Tower of Ivory, pray for us. — Tilda Swinton, Thou, who drank the chalice of blood at the Petit Succo at night, pray for us.— Tilda Swinton, Thou, whose alabaster buttocks touched upon the chair from which the drunken Truman Capote fell, pray for us.—Tilda Swinton, Thou, who followed the paths of Paul Bowles and Muhammad Mrabet in Tangiers, pray for us…The contra-tenor stops for a moment to let in the deep bass with an Eastern accent:— I have seen slaves on horses, and princes walking on the ground like slaves. Cast your bread upon the waters, for you will find it after many days (1*). You shall thereforeseparate the clean beast from the unclean, and the unclean bird from the clean. You shall not make yourselves detestable by beast or by bird or by anything with which the ground crawls, which I have set apart for you to hold unclean (2*).Contra-tenor:— Tilda Swinton, Thou, who for two hundred years awaits on the empty bed sheet for the bridegroom who transports his blood in a traveller fridge from the grim Detroit, pray for us. Old Man from the Mountain of Alamut, send us your esoteric terrorists. Come, you, who break the bonds of eternal law. Assassins — silent killers, guard the secret so that Michel Houellebecq, whom you captured, does not reveal it too soon. Let the owners of inferior rags tremble. Let those, who leave the houses of the unholy with full baskets, die like dogs with cracked livers in their swollen guts. Suppress lust with the fumes of hashish. Hassan Ibn Sabbah, may your second coming be full of glory, and Thou, Tilda Swinton, pray for us together with Hashisheen — those who rejoice the green fumes to know between lust and satisfaction. Green velvet splits with a horrible and shrieking sound. A midget covered in plastic blisters, dressed as a monstrous mayflower rolls on the floor. He breaks the chandelier with a golf club held in his hand. The hiss of hot glass breaking and heated wolfram fill the room. Darkness falls. A mumble from the backstage can be heard:— Geronimo, prince of Lisbon, deliver us from famine, thirst and war. Baritone: I shall exclude him from his people. You shall do no wrong in judgment, in measures of length or weight or quantity…(*3)A black-and-white projection from an old Super 8-type projector appears of the green velvet. The title “Riders from the Mountain of Alamut” can be seen. Silhouettes on horseback ride down a rocky hill. They carry black banners, floating in the wind, with words in Arabic: “nothing is true — everything is permitted”. Some of the riders scream of heresy in broken French. Below on the screen, a strap with text is shown, which reads: “You shall not make any cuts on your body for the dead or tattoo yourselves: I am the Lord”(*4).The projection is now is fullcolor. A date can be seen in the lower corner of the screen: it’s two days before the attack on the Charlie Hebdo editorial office. Michel Houellebecq says in an interview: „Soumission means .submission.… We are like zombies, because we live in spiritual and social emptiness”. A boy dressed in white steps in front of the screen. Riders keep moving down his starched shirt, black banners spread like giant cockroaches on the white background; the child starts reciting in a stuttering voice:—What conditions the anabasis, is finding the word virus and its total annihilation.Choir from the background:— Blessed be William. S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, the only Hashisheen, honorary citizens of Tangiers. Blessed be Muhammad Mrabet, who eschewed writing, taught and told stories of houses smelling of fresh bread and hashish. In that time, bread was given reverent respect as each wafer couldbe become a burnt sacrifice. The times of tsampa in Tibet, azyme in Israel and unleavened wafers in Timbuktu… The screen fades while the last strings of heated wolfram glitter in thickening darkness. They break with a delicate hiss and fall onto the broken pieces of the chandelier with a metallic crunch. Above the velvet partition torn in a few places, beings from the backstage are throwing rolls of dark matter. A group of midgets in plastic buckets on their heads is carrying in butter lamps and incense. Warm light fills the room and shines on the Persian rugs, expensive cloths with golden threads and their cheap Chinese copies hanging on the walls. They are identical. The same midgets roll out tatami mats on the floor, covering the broken glass and the already cold wolfram strings. They bring in instruments: the Japanese koto and the taiko drum. The contra- tenor announces the coming of three giants. They enter as the midgets escape to the sides. Thorsten Brinkmann, Tatsumi Orimoto and one unidentified man with legs in the sleeves of his pullover and arms in his trousers. Someone throws mature oranges through the wall. The man with the head hidden in the trousers helps to place a woman on them, so that her body stops touching the floor. He presents himself, bowing thrice with that what usually remains still during the bow. The choir from behind the wall repeats his name three times: Erwin Wurm, Erwin Wurm, Erwin Wurm… Erwin Wurm, his head hidden behind the zipper, recites in a Styrian dialect:— Get yourself a hat from soft toast bread and go along the hedge of fake palm trees in the hateful humming on Palm Sunday, blinded by gluten which you crave more than opium…Choir:— Cast your bread upon the waters…Tatsumi Orimoto hits the koto strings with two stale baguettes. Thorsten Brinkmann takes into his hand a little baguette, which has taken the form of the sakuhachi flute. He covers the holes eaten by termites and weevils and starts playing a silent melody. Tatsumi Orimoto sings:— He who opens an account in the bank for the researchers of the mind; he whonenters the arena of his new creation, uplifted in his whole being and, for three days, no one may look upon his silence save his mother, no one may have access to his room save he oldest of the servants (*5).Lowborn princesses enter — Thorstena Brinkmann’s progenies. Thorsten introduces them. Amongst many names, the following shine: Metall-Jane von Rheinberg in a leather kimono and asbestos gloves, wearing an ostrich feather boa; there’s also the godless and legless Bondica Zopp accompanied by the noble Diego El Renzo wearing a wooden bowl on his head; she’s holding the hand of the delightful Funny da Basta, whose tremendous silicon breasts fill the dragon ornament from a Chinese manufacture; there’s the slim Berta von Schwarzflug with her face deep down in the man purse chewed by old Eskimo women; the procession is closed by Drune Quoll wearing a bonnet from wrinkled virginal (*6). Tatsumi Orimoto initiates the traditional Japanese bow and mumbles to the crushed baguettes:Those are the princes of exile; they have no need of my song (*7).Brinkmann and Orimoto lay down beside the woman on the oranges. Wurm keeps fighting with the pullover just like a character from Borges, running away fromthe darkness he created. Together, they chant a mantra:zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie, zombie…The baritone from behind the wall accents the OM syllable, their voices vibrate in a growing harmony: ZOMbie, zOMbie, zOMbie, zOMbie, zOMbie, zOMbie, zOoMmbie, zOooMmmbie, zOoooMmmmbie.Choir:— Tatsumi Orimoto, who passed from one world to another in a bread mask, pray for us. — Mother of Orimoto with a young girl’s smile, pray for us. — Dementia — the mother of the mother of Orimoto, pray for us. — Tatsumi Orimoto, Thou, who as the first one on Earth erased the border between life and art, pray for us.— Thorsten Brinkmann, Thou, who found the right hierarchy in heraldic representations of the loan bourgeoisie, pray for use.— Brinkmann’s dog, Mara von Rudipuss, pray for us.The baritone sings in a deep aliquot murmuring:"The Gardens of Alamut are plentiful in Brinkmann’s dogs; in laces and pearls, with red suitcases, they drink the nectar from the hands of virgins."Choir:— Jim Jarmusch, snow lion, deliver us from the zombies who approach from the suburbs pushing wire carts full of stinking carcass before them, who fill the shopping malls with buzz sounding the erosion of language. — Blessed be the collectors — serial killers (Serialsammlers) without whom art would fill only the garden of the wise man of Alamut. May their murderous collections grow in the darkness of concrete silos to the death of the mob and the proletarians. Proletarians suffocating with modified wheat, unite in an opiate dream which successfully guards you from the true goals of corporations…Midgets, who actually are real people of regular height with legs tiedto their thighs, stretch their legs and begin to whirl in a sufi dance. Raised by the whirl, white dresses circle around the loins; their pulsing shadows project a distressing ornament on the three men who are laying still: Brinkmann, Orimoto and Wurm…EpilogueThe apparent surrealism of the present text is a result of the gathering of many events. Their growing density resembles a bomb, the ticking of which silences the mad munching of the loan bourgeoisie — the main author of the erosion of language. All characters mentioned in the text exist in reality and similarities are not incidental — the link to reality can be recognized with a bit of inquiry. Each trace leads towards the truth. For the less inquisitive or the non-believers, I suggest using Google — independent servers i.e. TOR or Proxy. Nothing is true — everything is permitted.
*1 –Ecclesiastes 10,7 and 11,1*2– Leviticus 20,25*3– Ibidem 19,35 and 20,3*4– Ibidem 19,28*5 –Saint-John Perse, Exile, Long Beach Island 1941*6– Stanisław Lem*7– Saint-John Perse, quoted work