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In this world one is not supposed to be HAPPY ( uh, uh)! I have come to do my duty! So, I am at ease with the truth, but not with the destiny. Oh, yes, this is about my life, with an ounce or two of huor... In my THIRD year I was aware I would have not ventured into politics, mine was not a ruthless HEART. So I could not become a criminal, either. In the FOURTH year of my life I understood I had reached the big four years, got measles, swore and felt my mother's hand, and realized I had a face. I wanted to climb up the Orlando's statue to preach the good things, to talk obout injustice. My father said that injustice was essential to make us do good. In my TENTH year of existence I tried a cigarette, and employed enormous efforts not to smoke ever again. When I was NINETEEN a tramp told me every man was unique and irreplaceable. Each of us is worth the whole world. Or inasmuch as one is allowed... I enrolled the Academy of Arts, spoke about the war, against Picasso, believed that the brush and colurrs were assets, the assets to serve me, take me to immortality. Turning TWENTY-ONE I realized that one can die for NOTHING, for one wrong step... Life is enigmatic and worth nothing. I did all my best, all I could, I outdid my owen self. I stopped inquiring who we are, where are we going to. You guess, love had been beheaded, had turned into a blood system, irreplaceable, infinite. At TWENTY-FIVE I was handed the diploma of my graduation from the Academy of Arts. I got a kick that launched me, good-willingly, into the world, practical and cruel. I took my,bag, some socks, a tooth brush, was drafted and work up from a dream. Oh, mein Gott! In my THIRTIETH year, I put a ring on my left hand, become depending. At THIRTY-THREE I already admitted to myself I was no Jesus Christ Superstar. I got a son, fusiliers fired, dances were danced, wine was spilled. And was finally nominated for a recognition. Cynically and indifferently I admit I did not deserve the AWARD. The mirror said to me; if you accept it, the award will lose any sense... I took to writing (mind your own business, shoemaker, said the Mirror). Yet, who knows what place suits one best, where is one at his best? |
In my THIRTY-NINTH year, a HOUSE happened to me, problems amassed. I sold my soul for petty cash, become aware of my uselessness and transience. At FORTY I fond out that life had brought me nothing. I started learning about adjustments... I will not forget my FIFTIETH birthday for as long as I live; I was having a beer. The WAR began, shells were wounding the Stradun. A chaos, both wonderful and exciting. In my FIFTIETH year I am stil painting, writing, still studying the commandments, slowy adjusting to my age, becoming more obedient. When FIFTY-SIX I screamed, and quite prankishly declared that work was a PUNISHMENT -to the working ones. So, I am having good time, writing anecdotes about myself. That is all right, that is something every man needs, says the Mirror. My answer is that every person without an explanation is illegible. As of today, I am reading Baron Munchausen, identifying with the role, playing in this minitheatre, this wonderful, prepotent city, I an bearing my own CROSS into the world...that is, it is so boring, even to put a period mark here. Bye!
hand, 1996 white cement, hight 180 cm in Ston |
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