Sul Campo Del Mare - Vilenica

V2-2010.PM52146/13/100, 12:14 PMIllja SinTheatre Demons(Fragments)I wrote my first book for you, Drosophila 1 , to finally stop the slimy fluidthat drips from your mouth. The embankment was slippery and high, thehands were palpating the steep, smooth surface of the vertical concretewalls, touching the sticky, greenish plane and slipping, not being able tograsp at anything. Thus the man with the pilot helmet who was trying toclimb to the land fell off from a considerable height each time like a bagof shit. Yellow stubble was illuminated by the last sunrays; in the distinctivesky, sharpened as if edited by Photoshop, the figures of clouds werehanging; across the field an alluring pathway wound, sinking into the distance;a stork’s nest on the top of the pump station completed the calmlandscape that, in the back, was suddenly troubled by a motorcyclist witha strip of sealing tape over his eyes.My voice is no longer heard but my lips are still moving. Silent, senselessmonologue would hardly draw anyone’s attention, especially sincethey are all busy with their own stuff. I am in the middle of a large asphaltfield, crowded with people. They walk to each other with their iron pieces,bickering, talking, drinking tea, and then they start singing. I’m standingmotionless, dressed in an elegant black suit. A coincidental, almost imperceptiblemovement follows, and a part of me separates from the restand noisily hits the asphalt. In the next few moments, something roughand octagonal, with a slight hollow on the left, rolls off me. After that myextremities almost simultaneously free themselves, and my fingers convulsivelyand somewhat automatically move. Soon I notice that the unityof my essence – always completely conditional, anyway – has been utterlydemolished.I now represent a pile of various rubbish in which not even the sharpesteye can discern the remains of the former entirety. One of these parts,a ball of plastics decorated with uneven lines, hasn’t lost consciousnessyet, while the rest of them already belong, more or less, to the inanimatenature. In the universal crowds of sounds you can catch – if you prick upyour ears – a sonorous voice of a spring that might once have been myspine or even gullet.A small, cunning little man emerges from nowhere; he starts pickinginto this rubbish, apparently to find something useful for himself. He findsa green rectangular object, stuffs it into his bundle with the inscription»Belarus«, picks some more, pulls out an oval soft piece that reveals itsorigin with its colour and smell, he thoughtfully shrugs his shoulders andthen throws it away, kicking it thereby. I’m thinking of rushing at him,but at that moment I mentally move to Venice, to that small bar not farfrom Piazzale Roma: wicker chairs in the street where elderly, well-man-1Related to the Acts of the Apostles. Drosophila – wine fly (TN).214