To ni konec - kvečjemu začetek

Tale blog se verjetno približuje svojemu koncu. Naslednji meseci bodo določili njegovo usodo. A tehtnica se bo bržkone nagnila na na stran, ki bo določila njegov konec. Zato je to verjetno zadnji zapis. Morda bo nekoč preveden tudi v slovenščino; verjetno ne brez dodatnih sprememb.

Naj bo tako ali drugače: prihajajo novi časi, z njimi pa potrebe po drugačnih forumih, bolj osredotočenih na specifične zahteve naše stvarnosti. Globoko pod vsem, s čimer se bom ukvarjal v prihodnjih mesecih in letih, pa bo tekla reka, ki je napajala razmišljanje ob tem zapisu.
Nikar se ne sprašujte, ali je moj ali ne. Še sam ne vem. Začel sem ga kot zelo interpretativni prevod, končal pa ga nekje povsem drugje, daleč daleč stran od izvirnega teksta, ki ga je spodbudil. In to mi je všeč. Vse do 17. stoletja in še dlje se je zahodna književna in duhovna ustvarjalnost napajala pri istih temah. Večina umetniških del in večina tekstov je bilo le doprinos k že obstoječim. A vsako je bilo nekaj drugega, nekaj samosvojega. Tako je, pravzaprav, še danes. Le da smo si naredili delo težje.
In nikar ne iščite originalnega teksta - ne boste ga našli. Je namreč popolnoma obskuren in nepomemben. Spodnja predelava je največ, kar je kdarkoli spodbudil. In to pove dovolj.

Meditation on the Overcoming of Intellectual Futility

We stubbornly bury ourselves
under a sediment of indignation,
into sponge-shaped systoles and diastoles,
and slowly walk away from the vivid murmur of life,
determined to conquer Answers,
the placebo for our soul.

I think that the toxicity of generalizations,
of thoughts,
of ideas that gush within us,
condemns us to the insubstantial
inertness of pamphleteers.

I think we do not know anything;
nor are we interested in knowing.
Plugged on the headphones
of a constant flow of contaminated information,
we allow to distance ourselves
from the pleasure,
from the magic of intuition, of quest, of knowledge.
We find it too difficult to
utter a single word without sounding random,
erudite without a pedigree,
vendors of cerebral mist,
collectors of fog.

I hate stagnation.
I hate feeling prisoner of the uniformity of truth.
I want to establish an ever growing
Republic of Ambiguity, of Improvisation, of Spontaneity,
of Naïve Ingenuity, of Placid Uncertainty.

Like the trees, we, too, can be eternal,
if only we root ourselves
in the unquestionable solidity of what must be solid
and grow in the unashamed volatility of what must be volatile.

I dream of a land, where
the mysterious with would melt with the tangible,
religion with pragmatism,
faith with knowledge,
mysticism with practicality,
playfulness with rigor,
elation with serenity.
A land, where one would move around
by gently levitating above the ground,
and where everything good would be allowed
to florish freely in its singularity -
except for parrots, who would be banished forever.