Conference in Tibet
I dreamed about a town in Tibet which was post-Soviet and medium-size. It was taken under control by pro-Russian troops, which from time to time were doing rides around the city and killing people. The city was half-ruined. One of the largest buildings broke in half as a result of intense Russian fire and collapsed straight before my eyes. I went out of the city, while planning a trip to Central Asia and Tibet (the more idyllic one) for next year together with some girl, with whom I was travelling (we were travelling together with a few people). We reached the town again at dusk, which was simultaneously a morning. On the previous day I had an appointment with Časlav Brukner, but I gave up this meeting, deciding that we will talk later. After I got back into town, I learned from someone that Časlav is dead, because he was shot in the head by Russian sniper’s bullet. I was very shocked by this, especially since the city seemed to be relatively calm – Russians controlled everything, but the guerrillas (to whom I belonged, in some vague way) still had some strength and resistance, and there was a ceasefire at that time. But then I found out that the occupiers are rallying and shooting people again. I was deeply saddened that I will never have a chance again to speak with Časlav, while I was on the verge of learning from him some very important things. It was also shocking that I have learned of his death only as if by an accident, and that everything was already cleaned up: even though Časlav was one of the most important people among the rebels just before (in some way partisans were simultaneously the conference participants), the pyramid of hierarchy has immediately moved, and it seemed that life goes on without any special rememberance of this loss. In sadness, shock, and disbelief I grabbed the lapel of one of the important guerrillas-organisers of the conference, asking: “What else I do not know?” He casually told me: “Your friend, Markus Penz, is also dead” – which meant that he got the upper part of the skull shot off, and that he is lying somewhere in a critical condition. I started to act verbally aggressively, until they called few soldiers, who clearly suggested to me that either I go away, or they will imprison or kill me. And then some girl, who was someone like my girlfriend or my lover, told me: “Now the girlfriend of Markus will have nothing, because everything will be taken by their grandchildren”. I told her to not worry, because it is mandatory in Polish law to leave the sixth part of inheritance to a widow. And then this girl said that in such case I absolutely must marry her, to disinherit our grandchildren. This scared me, and I left. I went two quarters away to the tram stop, to get to the hospital where Markus reportedly was staying in the critical condition. I waited, looking at the landscape of the city, half-turned into the ruins, and covered with an intense bloody red colour of the sunset. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, Markus has appeared. He had the upper part of his skull truncated, and sheltered by shoddy and rusty lid, welded to the rest of the skull through some plates or legs. Markus was cheerful, but behaved a little strange, and it was not clear to me, whether this was still him or his half-dead simulacra. He seemed not to care that he almost died, and joked in a carefree and a little shallow way. I wondered why there was about a two centimeter long gap between the open skull with brain and the lid. In particular, it bothered me that flies can fly in, and sit on the open Markus’ brain, disrupting his thinking or infecting him. Markus somehow did not care about this, and said something like “I put a gauze on the brain, so it is hygienic”. Then something else happened, but I forgot what.
24.VI.2014, Wien