Fever Fuckery

Vedi cara,certe crisi sono soltanto segno di qualcosa dentro che sta urlando per uscire

by Nâzim Hikmet tr. Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk

I. Living is no laughing matter: you must live with great seriousness like a squirrel, for example — I mean without looking for something beyond and above living, I mean living must be your whole occupation. Living is no laughing matter: you must take it seriously, so much so and to such a degree that, for example, your hands tied behind your back, your back to the wall, or else in a laboratory in your white coat and safety glasses, you can die for people — even for people whose faces you’ve never seen, even though you know living is the most real, the most beautiful thing. I mean, you must take living so seriously that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees — and not for your children, either, but because although you fear death you don’t believe it, because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II. Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery — which is to say we might not get up from the white table. Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad about going a little too soon, we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told, we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining, or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast… Let’s say we’re at the front — for something worth fighting for, say. There, in the first offensive, on that very day, we might fall on our face, dead. We’ll know this with a curious anger, but we’ll still worry ourselves to death about the outcome of the war, which could last years. Let’s say we’re in prison and close to fifty, and we have eighteen more years, say, before the iron doors will open. We’ll still live with the outside, with its people and animals, struggle and wind — I mean with the outside beyond the walls. I mean, however and wherever we are, we must live as if we will never die.

Morning coffee. We drink it on the same morning, on the same table of the same bar. You talk about your freedom and how you love it profoundly and that you want to continue like this, being free and not belonging to anyone. I don’t say a thing, it’s your story, not mine. There is this gentle breeze among the trees that surround us. It so tender on my skin, like the most tender lovers caress. Suddenly you say that you could fall in love with me, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. I don’t react. I don’t say a thing. You expect me to say something, like I could change somehow your story, but I know I can’t, it’s yours to tell, yours to live. So I continue sipping my coffee and looking into your eyes, feeling the gentle breeze.