Influences
I read Marx, Bernard Shaw, Nietzsche but somehow I constantly return to the pagan beauty of the unconstructed free thinking .
When I was at the age of watching the stars and asking for a wish, at first I did not know what I wanted. Over time it crystallized, and I realized the fascination people had with destiny and the struggle to bend it, make it listen to some inner voice which myself, I seemed to overlook for a while.
I remember how, from time to time gypsy fortune tellers came in our neighborhood . The reality they seemed to embrace was so far from my own that it created the tapestry of stories, myths, outlandish characters I later used in my fiction.
When they entered the house , they sat with their legs under them pulling their colorful skirts below, they made the sign of cross over the fortune telling shell, although anything but Holy was at work there, and then they would start uttering random things, some of a general nature, others stirring anxiety in anybody curious enough to listen.
One family with a small child was predicted that at the age of sixteen, he will be struck by lightning. Parents received the news with great concern and prepared a cellar, thinking they’ll hide when there’ll be a storm. The discussion was heard by the child, who said nothing at the moment. The doom’s day came when a storm began lightning and thundering and the parents were praying with tears in their eyes to God to spare the child. The child refused to get in the shelter and instead started running with his arms raised to heaven shouting:
“God, if you want to kill me here I am ! I have nowhere to hide! “ His arms raised like in an ancient tragedy.
And then the thunderbolt fell. An arrow of fire, followed by a deafening roar fell on the cellar and it suddenly transformed it into ashes. Everybody inside died. The destiny of the child was changed in the last minute..
When I was at the age of watching the stars and asking for a wish, at first I did not know what I wanted. Over time it crystallized, and I realized the fascination people had with destiny and the struggle to bend it, make it listen to some inner voice which myself, I seemed to overlook for a while.
I remember how, from time to time gypsy fortune tellers came in our neighborhood . The reality they seemed to embrace was so far from my own that it created the tapestry of stories, myths, outlandish characters I later used in my fiction.
When they entered the house , they sat with their legs under them pulling their colorful skirts below, they made the sign of cross over the fortune telling shell, although anything but Holy was at work there, and then they would start uttering random things, some of a general nature, others stirring anxiety in anybody curious enough to listen.
One family with a small child was predicted that at the age of sixteen, he will be struck by lightning. Parents received the news with great concern and prepared a cellar, thinking they’ll hide when there’ll be a storm. The discussion was heard by the child, who said nothing at the moment. The doom’s day came when a storm began lightning and thundering and the parents were praying with tears in their eyes to God to spare the child. The child refused to get in the shelter and instead started running with his arms raised to heaven shouting:
“God, if you want to kill me here I am ! I have nowhere to hide! “ His arms raised like in an ancient tragedy.
And then the thunderbolt fell. An arrow of fire, followed by a deafening roar fell on the cellar and it suddenly transformed it into ashes. Everybody inside died. The destiny of the child was changed in the last minute..
The idea that a higher power might have some kind of pupeteer relationship with my existence always made me wary of 'fate', 'kismet' or whatever else a person would class as preordained destiny. There's an old story which this kinda reminds me of...
Some old guy, living in a village, hears death is going to pay him a visit on a given date. "A-ha!" he thinks, "I'll not be here when he comes." Big-ass light-bulb over his head, grin on his face.
So Mr. Man-Who-Would-Cheat-Death goes off on his travels. Village to village, he bumps around the back-roads and keeps his head low. One day, out is a town he's never been to before he meets a stranger. Kinda thin, and wearing black (though not, surprisingly, singing country music).
This dude turns out to be the Grim Reaper himself - big and bony in the flesh (so to speak). He expresses his surprise at meeting the man so far from his home, and tells him so.
"My meeting with you was arranged for your own village." So, dejected, the guy returns home. The end of his existence is unshakeable in its' inevitability.
Fate: 1. Humanity: 0.
Okay, so my retelling sucks. But accepting that the future is mapped out - or even just sketched - is hard for me to accept. Maybe my status as a irreligious heathen will never be shaken, and I'm not going to apologise for casting doubt on the beliefs of others.
If a bolt of lightning hits me, don't take that as a sign from gee-oh-dee.
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