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Starec, ktorý zabudol…

from Postnihilera by Porenut

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lyrics

Sedí pod orechom Porenut s Neplechom:

Ach, nuž nie je to závideniahodný stav bytia — minulosť ma sere, budúcnosti sa bojím a prítomnosť iba nudí. Od istého času mi už žranie omietky a zbieranie zdochlín z koľajníc nepripadajú ako dobrý nápad.

O to radšej na to všetko spomínam a radostnú nostalgiu trochu čerí vedomie, že som si nikdy nepísal denník a nearchivoval minulosť. Väzby sa stratili, zostali vnemy nafarbené v dúhových farbách. Medzi nimi si už vytvorím nejakú fikciu, v ktorej nevystupujem ako totálny čurák.

Na samovraždu som príliš zbabelý alebo lenivý a vlastne život nestojí ani za to, aby som ho nenávidel. Pubertálna rebélia je už trápne nemožná, starecká múdrosť sa nedostavila a prognózy (vraj) nie sú optimistické.

V medzičase úporne mávam rukami, hmýrim sa, zdolávam štít a neviem, či už náhodou nie som na zostupe... Vlastne neviem či je to štít — a nie pahorok z ktorého lepšie vidieť na cintorín v rodnej obci, viac než do neba.

Ale čas už zdeformuje spomienky a v brnkaní drumble sa z toho stane príbeh heroickej výpravy plnej potu, sĺz a sebapremáhania, ktorý vyrozprávam po desiatom pive ako starec, ktorý zabudol...

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“The old man who has forgotten...”

Under a walnut tree, porenut and neplex sit:

Well, that’s not a much enviable state of being – the past makes me angry, the future – I fear, and the presence bores me. For some time now, grazing the plaster and collecting corpses from railway haven’t seemed like a good idea any more.

But now I like wallowing in those memories. Gleeful nostalgia is slightly rippled by the realisation that I’ve never kept a diary, I’ve never archived
the past. The bonds are lost, but rainbow-coloured sensations survive. Among them, I can create some kind of fiction in which I am not a complete piece of shit. Oh, these fucking self-preservation mechanisms.

I seem to be too cowardly for a suicide, or lazy, and the life is not even worthy of hate. The adolescent rebellion is awkwardly out of reach, old man’s wisdom never came, and prognoses are not optimistic.

In the meantime, I persistently wave my arms, I squirm, conquer the mountain peak, and maybe I am already descending... What peak? Just a hill from which the graveyard in my home village is easier to see, and the skies.

But the kaleidoscope of time deforms the memories, strumming of the Jew’s harp turns into a story of a heroic quest full of sweat and tears and the need to overcome oneself after the tenth beer like an old man who has forgotten...

credits

from Postnihilera, released April 8, 2020

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Je mým údělem, že mi nikdo nerozumí. Já taky nerozumím. A nechci.

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