The last one. On the Berlin Wall

by pascal dumont, Berlin Wall, close to East Side Gallery

Dear Henry Miller,

For some reason I recall as in my childhood, was six years old then, I hurt well a brave one who was elder than me. I with my mother, father and sister Nadia, four and a half years older than me, lived in the village Suyemtsi then. I'm from Ukraine originally. Lived at the old grandfather Tolik’s place, rented a room from him, he suffered from tuberculosis, often walked around the house and coughed. He often smoked in his workshop - he would craft something, people were saying he was not a bad craftsman and drank a lot. Others said that grandfather Tolik was a drinker, but he seemed to me as a good man. Once in a while, he hummed to me. One of these days of life at the old tubercular man I went out on rural road with the boys and girls, there was a yearling and my best friend Sasha Kuts, their house stood in front of the house of our grandfather Tolik. It seems there were a couple of young girls and handsome fourteen year old Bogdan from Kyiv, he visited his grandmother Helen in the summer every year, my sister Nadia adored him. But he did not pay any attention to her. Our cohort went to a rural stream, more like a little brook, it was located fifty meters from the village club and library with the statue of Lenin - a re-e-e-e-ally little bridge, under which streams were running but evil people throw there rubbish, glass, cast covers, garbage, lots of glass and sharp cans, stupid people. Bogdan was standing on the edge of the bridge; actually there was no edge as such, simply the passage from concrete, and as the cart or the car would go it jolted a little. He said: "I bet that nobody will push me." Little me, I stood and thought. No, at that moment I really did not think because even a moment has not flashed yet as Bogdan with his entire body and beautiful capital city face of his lay on the slain glass and chopped cans. He has not even looked around, as I ran and with my arms sent him from two-meter heights into unknown. I was afraid, turned white or red suddenly - I do not remember, but surely got dressed with some color, friends were around, someone shouted, and someone freezed right at that place because of what happened and I got my bearings and ran off. I ran as Comet, rash comet that did the damage and did not flee from punishment, but of shame for deeds. 

I ran in the middle of the road, towards the dust, toward slow cart and women on bicycles, they rode to pasture to milk the cows. How my foul hands could do this? Did he die or not? I ran for a long time, and I was thinking along the way. I saw my mother's eyes, she was not shouting, just stood and watched, thoroughly in my kid’s eyes, with her blue eyes, Mom, do not look at me so it was not me, it were them, they, my fingers. They did evil. Mom, cut off my fingers! Mom, cut off, I beg you! Came to the gate, barely in a rash open it and mince to the garden, our big apple garden that borders with the rural kinder garden; I was not going to kinder garden, because on my first day there I stole a small metal toy iron, I really liked the thing and little me of six years old  was accused of theft of the state property. In the right corner of the garden near the road ran into flimsy wooden toilet and hide there. Locked myself from inside, the sun sparkles-tickles through cracks, and my eyes sparkle, and I imagine as they are looking for me, like the entire village headed by my grandfather Tolik walk the streets and peeped into every crack, to find the small killer and bring to universal justice. I hear, as on the roof, on top, on the slate, slightly broken on both sides, sparrows are chirping. Shit, bitches, shut up! You will sell me out to rural community. Sparrows do not care. Stretch out in full growth, do not reach to the ceiling, start jumping to scare the chirpers. I could not reach them, pushed off the floor as hard as I could. Bucket with urine. In remote places we put buckets in the toilet. Chirpers are outside. Nerves are in the soul. If I just take dad’s air-rifle at home or just a good stick and kill this chirpers. Till the blood spurted I will beat them, sometimes missing, sometimes hitting them, anger will go off, sparrows getting scared of anger and giving themselves in captivity. But I would still smash them. Sparrows do not hear my internal threats and sparrows continue to chirp. It seems as even more. Like if they sing the song. I quietly, very quietly cease to compete, go down on the floor, sit down. Toilet, in fact, quite small, but it is still enough to lean on the one hand and stretch out in full length. My weight is 24 kg. Slender killer ...

Fantaisie Impromptu

All the best,
Sasha Shagi

translated by iryna solovey (ukr version)

The sixth ones. With love to those which are not like we are!

by pascal dumont, Mauer Park

Dear Henry Miller

We all became cosmopolitans! Besides my mom, dad and a few tens of millions of people. All nations, peoples, blacks and Jews, male and female, Spanish and Ukrainian are closer to one another. Not so already closer in matters of love and respect for one another, but certainly closer metaphorically-territorially and culturally. Boundaries without solutions of the world's rulers and their signatures under the international legal acts are quickly erased. On Tuesday, met Albert from Sweden on Facebook, on Wednesday morning – he is in Ukraine, the evening of that day – we are drinking a bottle of white one and wander around on the streets of nightly Kyiv, calling him on Friday with an attempt to meet up with me – no, tonight I am in New York – call me on Monday, will be in Kiev. Who would have thought that my best friend will be from Ecuador with the Russian name Tanya? What for artist Alina goes to Istanbul to knit the red fabric rosette with the local community, or for me, accidental ukrainian, to hang on the walls of Berlin his color pants? Is it by erasing the borders more absurdity became in this world or are we all just entertaining ourselves? On the contrary - is it possible we felt in love with everybody by coincidence? We meet, believe to open eyes wider one to another, give shelter at night to foreign strangers, drink with them, dance, put to sleep on our beds or in the sleeping bags in hallways, in the morning preparing breakfast for them, say goodbye forever, but each retains a piece of visited land and impression about you and your food, color, shoes, talents to drink and not to fall into shames, inability to interpret the political situation in the country and be that way ever more.

Population has not increased. People have become greater. Have become more quick-witted. There are more crossings. List of contacts and friends grows, pages in notebooks ends, and the base of email addresses constantly need to be replenished, because you are fucking activist and want everybody to know you. We are losing balance, get lost in the number of moments, and for that, start to hit beside the mark, and often score the bull’s-eye, but failures in life are becoming more frequent. We are beginning to miss the important stuff! Instead, minor one hooks our attention. We perplexedly look at the choice before our eyes, lose our mind, reason and we totally forget that the choice is waiting. Awaiting!

With more opportunities out there comes more of everything: sex, food, money, and all expires sooner. Just as the hungry sailors that moor the ship to the shores of beautiful country with beautiful girls, are changing tastes - from dark skin girl to blonde, from slender to well-rounded one, the same way a nation ceased to love themselves and theirs. For switched to the other. French have more fun loving Ukrainian and Germans – American. Those are better then us because they are not like us!

All the best,

Sasha Shagi

translated by iryna solovey (ukr version)

The fifth ones. Parallel worlds and parallel actions

by pascal dumont, Eberswalder strasse and Shoenhauser aller

Dear Henry Miller,

Today at night I stood on my head in the Central Park NYC. It was very cold, and cold land without a single blade freezed my crown well. Standing near some trees, my legs clinched to the branches, hands trembled because of the cold there. I stood there all the night, stood there all day, and then got offended with excess of attention - and no longer stood on my head.

That was not only thing in my dream, I dreamt about police with a maniac in Miami, waking up at six, the sun has not been up yet and street seemed very gray. Went to the district sands to meditate, on the way met two dogs and one woman. I greeted her suddenly, and she was old and glad, answered me and detained for ten minutes and told me about her life. Her last words were: "I was left alone and no one grants attention! Yet she had difficulty with speech, for she experienced several psychological stress and operations. Frankly grandmother!

In the end for four minutes, as the ostrich head in the sand stood on my head and thought that everything around is upside down.

All the best,
Sasha Shagi


translated by Iryna Solovey (ukr version)

Fourth ones. My political side on Angela Merkel

by pascal dumont
Karl Marks Alee 134

Dear Henry Miller

In our country there is a significant civil disorder. Some people hid in caves and watch the developments from the TV screen, they are numb and dizzy from tryings of different politicians or simple people to make out of this small country a nice picture. But they watch TV! And I am afraid of such little people, they are trailing me and enticing to their side –they are – fucking conservatives, they are employees on the jobs, to which they should come without delay and leave on time, they are listeners of the boring adventures and slowed-down pace of life, they – describers of lives of others who are not like them. You know, it seems, I see through their homes, their bedrooms and rooms and there are TVs and piles of newspapers that play the same game as they do; those like them crack sunflower seeds at home in the evening , and along with them have their cats and dogs – keeping animals only as somebody who would listen to their dissatisfaction with life, at night they pray to their God, I do not know why they pray, but in their place I would not pray – unlikely anyone will help. Those like them were and will be there at all times! And at all times they will be verbally oppressed, they will not be physically touched – they will come and just the same way in anger with the whole world they will leave this world. They will not be missed. Too bad that they give birth to children and give into hands of those children their cards of rules for life. Leaving for the country weak people!

These days I love other sons and daughters. Those whom I love have burning eyes – their eyes burn from the time when they came into the world. Those whom I love unconsciously say that they are as well not interested in life of my country, but with every step they build, not mentioning and perhaps without realizing that those like them are really the only ones who build. Those whom I love are beautiful – visually. Those whom I love paint pictures of large sizes, sometimes neither they nor I particularly understand that picture, but the pleasure of big stokes and watching the work is on both sides. Those whom I love, love sex or may be porn. Those whom I love, love drinking ungodly and spend time on all sorts of most stupid things, and let it be so, because this world is stupidity herself, they say. Those whom I love, a hundred times a day contradict themselves. But go on with living and love those who are like me.

If it is about monuments, I would put only monuments to those whom I love. I would like to put memorials on the roofs of tall buildings, not land. And I would have told about the monuments only to those who love. So this way my delightsome living people went around on the ground, and their steel prototypes would glorify at the highs of urban buildings or business centers.

All the best,

Sasha Shagi

translated by Iryna Solovey (ukr version)

Third ones. The employment history books of days and evenings

by pascal dumont
Warschauer Straße-Revaler Straße, Photoautomat

Dear Henry Miller

Read this. Our young poets write so.

Poem: TWO ON TWO

At night,

While all monuments

Become some ordinary gray stones

With you we are in bed

Listening to music

Two of us with two headphones

And, lying, we danced a little,

So loud and so rhythmically,

That behind the wall they thought that we are making love.

And now they will read this

And the next night

They will think

That we are listening to the radio

When we will be making love,

While the star dust falling

on the employment history book of night

A leaf falling,

Turning so,

That  a little weightlessness appears.

ANSWER:

No, Olezhe, you are not quite right

We do not think that behind the wall you where making love

we, frankly speaking, did not hear any sounds

We probably listened to some kind of our mutual music

lulling ourselves to sleep,

or simply slept, not even suspecting about your music

but we read this

we know now all the truth

especially about the employment history book and the ordinary stones

and we are sure, really sure, that this night you will make love

and that is why your music which will make its way in slow bits

through the wall

we will take in calmly

music is music

no matter which way it would turn, falling, like a leaf

Bogdan Gorobchuk

All the best,

Sasha Shagi

translated by Iryna Solovey (ukr version)

Second! Love honesty drugs

by pascal dumont
Berlin, Revaler Straße, 35, Cassiopea place

Dear Henry Miller

Love and honesty - are those related words? One is more important than another, or – a germ of the same stem? Honesty is yours and hers. Love as well? Love as well! There is no love for two – everyone loves on their own, each has his own measure of love, someone loves harder, someone loves more than another. And because of that honesty can be honesty yours and honesty mine.

Have you often, when forming some kind of wisdom or possibly simple words, were preaching them in out loud? Not to someone, but to yourself. Chat with oneself is the name for it. In solitude, when no one is there and better if no one is to come. Say aloud contemplations of the day, raise the questions before the night or summarize the doings, to contact oneself with questions and playing two roles at once – of questioner and respondent. I think that, certainly, this is a way the dialogue of honesty goes on. With oneself. Because honesty with oneself – this is important! Honesty with oneself and then honesty with oneself when intention has voice, sound. Sound has a goal to tell the truth and not lie to itself. A thought can commit escape, wave a tail, a thought with a tail!

Well, let’s take today. We begin: - 1. How many loved today?, 2. How many kissed?, 3. How many eyes looked in? 4. How many turned away?, 5. How many scratched with the whisker?, 6. Whom caused a pleasure?, 7. Whom thought about? 8. What felt when in Kiev - Paris on the mornings?, 9. Whom loved?, 10. What is this love for?, 11. Like Strauss?, 12. Need to boil the meat? , 13. I want to go to Berlin?, 14. Why the world needs love?, 15. Why these changes – always changes?

Asking will take a lot of time, but then one can get plenty of questioning. Crucial – to give courage to respond and know what to say. Because sometimes it is necessary to conceal because of fear to hear so-and-so response and injuring oneself. And if suddenly role of responder still wants to break the record and answer to all of them, throwing sweet "bite off" to inquiring party, then the satisfaction of non-answering to oneself still worth organizing. As for example: go out on the street at ten, when dark, and shrill out: "Country, are you alive?". Nobody will answer, will she?

All the best,

Sasha Shagi

translated by Iryna Solovey (ukr version)

First! Everyone has his own job!

by pascal dumont (Berlin, Liebigstraße, 14, in front of Lesbian squatte)

Dear Henry Miller

I extend my hand to you, my good friend! And from this friendship to be so non-mutual I am not suffering, because it is enough for me to only admire you. I love you as a man, praise you as a wiseacre with protests, because I see irreconcilable spirit in you, I hear your words, but the face I hear not, not mine long paragraphs I see, but perceive as mine, because I want to smile at them, and at times - to break into pieces!

You are mighty, Henry! With these words I am knocking on the door of your house. I have come to meet. Open up, Henry! Hi, Henry!

People say that you are not dead, but continue to live. They themselves say that you lift yourself by the hair into heaven of personal existence and remained there. If so, my letters will come to you and if you are to have a curiosity to them, revise them. I will hang them all around Berlin along with my pants, I will broadcast every day for seven days, anywhere, or where – I will specifically find places to bespeak to you. I do not know why I am writing to you from this land, and not from my Ukrainian lands, from Galicia, or from the shores of the Black Sea, clean and dirty ones. It would even be prettier if I announce these words to you from there. Have read somewhere that your ancestors had German roots. Well, unless...

Here nothing has changed. World is shivering all the same. Without a historical analysis and without thinking I can tell that it is shivering ever more, but each period has its own shivers, its own pains, and unfinished and unannounced wars, its own interests, Africa is still twitching from poverty, in the U.S. – the first black president, and genius, as ever there, is still not recognized, and that’s what the genius is for. There are no genius individuals because they have not died!

Something new is no longer alive, and something old acquired different value or got filled with juices. World is updating and running somewhere-there every second, and that is why the novelty of it is not perceived. Design, visuals and clothing fuck our brains up – I have 9 bags, someone has 9 pants, they – two pairs of shoes and 12 sandals, but they fill this world with the beauty! Even with such one! Absurdity made up with commonness and took half the customers to itself. People of genius are only a few as always, they are only a handful, but they are similar as if they come from one family. And all the rest – these are all the same! Just want to give birth, and continue to give birth, though mothers if they could, they would even agreed to produce a little dinosaurs, but no – got to give birth to a child! Natural platitudes will not retreat, and already girded humanity, always threatening to flood with water or sprinkle with thirst so that our throats be dried, but still they would not dare. Afraid? Nature has no force?

All the best,

Sasha Shagi

translated by Iryna Solovey (ukr version)