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Secret Croatia: Smaranje 05
Zagreb, 19-IV-2008
Invisibility seems to me a requirement for elegance.
- Jean Cocteau
No-one will read these words. No-thing of this did really happen. No human soul will ever come to know about this. Never. And what a grand word it is, the 'human soul' – as if there would be some-thing to hide behind the very flesh of the very thought. Is there some-thing? Age of the obvious, our weekly markets of selling secrets per unit. And we end up deriding our merchants, despite their godlike appearance. No-one will read these words. That is what they have been written for.
[[Dramatis personae:
afoot, as in the mountains so in the streets: Art/no et Mme Xquoi, Liberator in public spaces, Smrt i-(c)-kaos, Miss Use & the usual Jesus faces, no vale nada + la familja krlja, mf, (r)edukt, Cahexia y Anorexia, un petit peu du Margot]]
Some of us had met in Zagreb that weekend. As we were told, the rain clouds of yesterday had gone for good and the city lay in front of our steps, dressed up in a sleepy shade of green. Names of streets and names of places were still fresh in my mind from past autumn and yet uncovered by others, now I would see them for the first time drenched in the warm light of a brighter season. Naturally everything looked too familiar and though as if ages had passed in between. As it seemed, Zagreb had long since blown her old aristocratical heart to the West, somewhere between the boutiques for imported goods (or bads?) and the vast cinema halls of a Nuevo Babylon, yet she still holds it safe just a few steps upstairs, in a knotted twine of crooked alleyways that bear little resemblence to the great classical architectures of the lower town, which by comparison faced us like children bemused and unaware.
In the evening we left Zagreb on unsteady and unreal paths. When the mysterious appointment met our steps, a small band of the usual suspects were already crouching in the pale moss of the full moon night. We all were here for the noise and the dance of the noise, we were here for scratching and scraping a little on the granite walls of the false kingdoms of our age, for becoming invisible to the thousand eyes of the new god.
With the first hum of nocturnal machines, that were said came here all the long way from France, and with its first pulse beats flashing from the entrance of the catacombs below our feet we were drawn like endlessly hungry predators or like a secret tribe of serpents that swarms towards the moist entrails of its cave. Many a pathway led through this subterranean labyrinth, yet the right path had been illumanited by sacral candlelight and the more so we followed the relentless allurement as rolling by with sonic ravage. And no light at the end of the tunnel. Nothing. No other than the electric noise surging against the stone duct and nothing behind. Like an experimental laboratory stuck in engorged bloodstreams that we were selling the remains of our wasted bodies to, under the incessant ecstasy induced by strobe light rhythms. Here we winded up in the church of negative theology, where the priests are doctors, injecting poisons and spreading plagues, and their liturgy is the abrupt algorithm of the machines and the propaganda for a millenium of terrorisms.
They were invading our brains and penetrating our muscles, they teached us the discipline of heroes long since fallen from grace, heroes from the death factories and they reminded us of the blueprints of early industrial plants, that were sold and upholstered by lousy heirs and for the first time in our miserable lives we were quite sure that the arcane knowledge on these blueprints will never be in good hands again except for here, in Secret Croatia, in the foggy haze of the Ustaša caves, where only mystery can breathe a good deal.
Only a small number of mostly familiar faces flashed now and then in artificial light whilst bottles with sundry elixirs were changing hands. And no one who felt out of place here. We just had everything. We had ourselves and the pitchblack woods, whereas behind us, below us the city drowned in a largely visible sea of lights.
As soon as that the wolves were drawing near and the local conspirators began experimenting chaostheoretically – that is both chaotic AND theoretic - behind tv screens and the magick devices of our age and always in between some of the sinister songs we were grown up with, songs that mean some-thing to us. Reversion of all values: art is short but life is long. We listened with pain and never did we scream louder for suspension and extension. In vain. At the end of all theory be the work. But all teleology was demagnetised here and all of its force but a random, spontaneous miracle, that one day – perhaps in years – will take the great move from zero to one. The whole world is waiting for that.
Meanwhile, the ghosts of the caves stirred in silence and for a long time the engines kept quiet and glistened in artificial twilight. O, thou concealed ritual of no-thing! Burnt incense pervaded the corridor and besotted the last clear thought. Only blurred sights from hereon: nazi-punk, agit-pop, roars and hoarseness, Trommeln in der Nacht, a pyre of good old ideals, a cemetery for public morals. Gifted with bracers and nonchalance, with Gallic blood and wantonness Adam and Eve of a perverse netherworld conjured upon a raw electric danse macabre round and round the rubble of ruined regimes. No place would be more apt for that than this ultimate dead end in a geopolitical no man's land. This Autistic Imperium is Nihil Reich. Das Nichts nichtet. Die Tür ist zu.
Those that sustained till its bitter end were rudely tossed into the vortex of endlessly pulsating noise improvisations. Only by now, while everything stood alight in orange flames already, the controllers headed towards apocalypse. Nothing but outbursts of intrinsic violence in the labyrinths of ashes. In fact the war had never ended. But outside the stars were humming. The air was cold and gravid with myth. We remembered not to forget.
Thank you for coming along that far, dear stranger. You know, you are no-one. There is no-thing you have heard and no-thing you have seen. Even the veils were empty and transparent. And the mirrors made no reply. Merely a cosmic whisper, an inkling, a thunderbolt: ничзго, niente, nada, ništa, nichst.
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