One day in 1997 I have somehow heard the story "Snow in Summer" flowing in my mind. I wrote it almost in one breath. This could become the title of a book I might write some day, to find "my" people. It would be a book about "Loss: Instructions for Use". And about unbelievable, no-chance-at-all coincidences that in spite of all probabilistic theory are doing well, thank you, and occur to such an extent that they even seem to guide one's life.

"Freedom Is the Understanding of Necessity" isn't born out of any kind of vision, but out of a feeling of tightness, of being pushed down by rules, and some more rules and, here, again rules and then some other rules in a tight world where they tend to substitute feelings.

Snow in Summer     
Freedom Is the Understanding of Necessity

There was once a park, towered by a statue made of stone: a poet wistfully gazing in the distance, his whirling curls of stone, with delicate, thin fingers propping up a pensive head.
       One day, not far ahead of him, there sprang a lily of the valley. She was beautiful, that lily of the valley, and she had lots and lots of tiny bells, lots of them they were, and they were pure and gleaming like snow. That day they've opened up for the first time, the sky was pouring sun and the wind was blowing mildly, plying the delicate stem in its gentle whisper.
       That very day the poet saw her for the first time. And as he saw her, he fell in love with her. But what could he do? His stone feet vigorously thrust into the ground, his hands unable to be moved away from his chin, his eyes piercing high up the sky, and his lips, stock-still, couldn't move at all. Therefore, the statue couldn't look at the lily of the valley, but for with the tail of his eye and to rejoice from the bottom of his heart - which was not stone-made - at seeing her.
       Oh, no, there was still something he could do, nevertheless: He could ask the sun not to shine so bright, so that it wouldn't wither her too soon. And he could do one thing more: to ask the wind not to blow too strong, so that it wouldn't break her up. And also to ask the rain to pour gently and softly, so that it wouldn't hurt her.
       Thus the sun and the wind and rain got his message and granted his wish.

       Well, but the lily of the valley noticed him, as well. Oh, how handsome he was! What big eyes and gentle look he had! What a noble and pensive forehead he had, and what an unspoken peace wrapped his face! She secretly fell in love with him and every morning when she woke up, she was trying to turn in such a way as to have him ahead of her. And she would carefully arrange her tiny bells, so as all of them would be facing him. And she would cast furtive little glances at him, feasting her unseen eyes with languishing looks. And she would talk to him in her mind, telling him how much she loved him.
       And she asked the sun not to burn, so as the stone he was made of would not get heated that much as to be unbearable; and she asked the wind not to blow upon him too harsh, not to overthrow him, and also the rain not to splash him too fiercely so that the heavy rain drops not to be painful for him.
       And the sun and the rain and the wind got her message and granted her wish.

       And the days flew one after the other. The poet would watch the lily of the valley with his eyes filled with love - eyes which however could not move, and could not bring to light the inner blaze. And the lily of the valley would glance at him furtively, being ashamed that, tiny as she was, she dared falling in love with so beautiful a statue, and so very high.
       But she couldn't stifle her love. Now she craved for drawing nearer him, of lying right beside him! But this was not possible. She had roots, which kept her tight into the ground.
       But the earth took pity of her, and started shaking slowly, slowly, to slide its ground layers one over another, so that stealthily, the lily of the valley would get nearer and nearer the statue, day by day. One day she reached the very bottom of his feet!
       How very happy she was, so very happy! She wouldn't believe that by now she was really beside the stock-still, stone poet. She would gently swing her bells, so that she would caress him as if by mistake; when the wind blew, she would lean against him with her thin stem, as if this would have been because of its breath; when the sun blazed the air, she would arrange her wide leaves to protect him as much as she could with their shade. And with every wind blow, she would jingle her bells like crystal, singing her love.

       Now one day the statue fancied that the lily of the valley was closer than before. But that was impossible! Though yes, upon a careful glance, at dawn she no longer was where she used to be at dusk, but even closer. Then closer and closer.
       One day he even found her right beside him. Oh, how he rejoiced at this, that right there, in the nook of the world where they were, the ground was not that firm!
       The poet's heart would fret stock-still, jumping unmoving there, where the gentle bells would touch him, and he wished the wind would blow forever, and even stronger, so that the frail stem would always reach him and make him feel her delicate touch. And he would listen, his soul shivering, the crystal-clear tune of bells, wishing he could move, to embrace their fragile being to caress them and lift them up to his eyes to fill his heart with their light and brightness.
       But this was not even to be dreamed of. He was but a statue.
       It once occurred to him that it was not a mere happening, perhaps. Perhaps it was not only the wind which would make her draw nearer. Perhaps those gentle tunes were meant for him. Maybe.
       But, no, that couldn't be. He was but a poet of stone. He wasn't even aware whether was he handsome or not - but even if he had been so, what could she possibly have loved, so delicate and pure being, in a dull and stock-still stone? No, that was out of the question. There were only fantasies of his!

       The lily of the valley would ceaselessly caress him.
       But she felt more and more guilty for her daring to love him. And she was ashamed of herself that she can't help that feeling and master it.
       So she did her best to do it. For, she thought, he must have noticed her coming closer to him, even if he glanced in one direction only. Besides, he must have felt her caressing him. Then he must have understood why that happened, as well. And did he not show her in any way that he rejoiced at all this, that would mean he didn't love her. This was natural, after all. Why would such a beautiful poet love her, a poor little flower?
       She knew, of course, that statues couldn't move, but she was thinking that, had her drawing near brought joy to him, at least so very little, he could have let her know it somehow. For instance, he could have got warmer there, where she touched him. Or he could turn a different color, at least slightly different. Or otherwise, no matter how - for her to see he realized she was at his feet.
       But that way, it was clear that either she didn't interest him, or he took no notice of the whole thing. Which was the same.
       And no matter how painfully that was, she began touching him with her bells and jingling him tunes and leaning against him more and more seldom. She wanted to fight and overcome her weakness.
       It suddenly occurred to her that he might not like her caresses. Not being able to soothe the tickle, perhaps she even upset and annoyed him! She didn't even jingle. Perhaps he didn't like her voice and he could hardly wait for her to stop, so that he could enjoy the sound of silence. Perhaps the heat of the sun did him well; maybe he even liked becoming warmer in its heat.
       Oh, how foolish of her not to think that he might hurt him with her love!
       Thus she found the power to stifle her love completely.
       And she would just stand next to him, standing still, without doing anything. She would just cry and cry incessantly - and all the passers-by walking through the park would think "How very nice! That lily of the valley is always covered by dew!"

       The statue noticed all the changes one by one. And he understood that all his hopes were in vain. What rashness to believe there could be something else, even for a while! Without any doubt, being absorbed in watching her, he didn't feel how strong a wind there blew, imagining only that she perhaps wanted to lean against him. For now, the wind was blowing stronger than the days before, but he didn't feel her thin stem, as he used to feel before. As for the jingling - she must have sung to the sun, which was hiding from a while on. She might have been happy, and now she fretted. Oh, who knows . Who can tell what could there possibly be in a lily of the valley's little heart! He was already longing for those so very pure tinkling of bells with which he would adorn his soul, and he would impatiently wait for the windy days, when he still could feel her touch at times.
       And he wished he could move, more than ever. At least a little. An immense sadness grew inside him, deep and dark as the night, starless sky.
       But the passers-by couldn't take notice of this. No one could. For he could not move at all. Neither his legs, nor hands, nor mouth. His eyes were gazing lifeless and lightless in the distance. Their look would only render the pensive expression the sculptor wanted them to have.
       Their dew was arising only inside.

       Vienna, 1997

       The red light from the TV set.
       The red light from the Hi-fi tower
       that I call hurdy-gurdy.
       The red light from the rice cooker.
       The red light from the grill.
       The red light from the CD drive of the laptop.
       The red light from the answering machine.
       The red light from the device announcing me that someone called in my absence.
       (What number was I called from, however
       - what a waste of fantasy! -
       is written in black.
       The red light from the coffee machine.
       The red light from the ironer.
       The red light from the computer.
       The red light from the mobile phones.
       The red light from the toaster.
       The red lights from the Chinese restaurant on the corner. (At least, those ones from the restaurant have slightly more fantasy,
       or maybe they are only more subtle: they intermingle them with green and yellow lights.)
       The red light from my little baby's electronic jingling toy and
       the red light from my eight years old child's Electrical Pictionary.
       . They could have made this blue, though!
       Or green, or yellow or purple with golden spots and stripes...
       Has to be a light there, color it folks, and
       give it another face! Make it SEEM different, at least!
       . But, no, then this awesome mono-tony would not attract our attention any longer:
       the way they are at the moment, they practically are not existing.
       Like air.
       Yes, it is better this way. They either get to be some time striking, or
       we would get used to their importance
       as they are the ones that shall guide and accompany us throughout our lives. And further on,
       turned into small candles in the red plastic glasses
       - perhaps even electrical ones, battery driven -
       shall accompany our deaths, as well.

       The red light from the electric central heating.
       The red light of the video-player.
       The red light of the video camera.
       The red light of the camera,
       blinking, flashing and triggering in ourselves
       the program of numb simpering
       for the photo immortalizing into an eternity that is still ephemeral
       the present, unlived moment.
       The shutter shall be triggered in a few seconds,
       even more intensely UNlived few seconds: four, three, two, NOW!
       I peep again through and see a
       little red light telling me that
       my batteries are almost exhausted.

       The red light from the car, indicating damage.
       The red light from the brakes.
       The red light signalizing the change of direction.
       The red light from the traffic light (at times fiercely
       doubled),
       nurtured out of the helpless irritation of people,
       helplessness turned into resignation,
       and having grown to reach the size of the traffic light lamp.
       It is true that this red little light sometimes turns into green, for the sake of variation,
       but this is always for a shorter time than it flashes itself,
       and only insomuch as to prove its presence at the very base.
       Actually this green light flashes only as long as it is absolutely necessary for us to go on,
       but who has nowadays the time to think so deep?
       Right now it flashes for a short time
       and everyone must make use of it before it changes back.
       So that the resignation of people driving their cars
       has become airiness,
       an airiness acquiring the glossiness of a certain wisdom gotten after several kicks in the ass,
       the way the mud glosses
       when the light is cast upon it:
       Freedom is the comprehension of necessity.

       The red lights from the customs corridors.
       The red lights from the poles, towers, houses, sky-scrapers and smaller cloud-scrapers. (Which lights,
       I don't get it: do they mark the lowest flight attitude, or,
       how high one may fly?
       The very houses themselves, where we can forget for a while the red lights of our world,
       have red lamps.

       The red lights flash ahead of me in a frustrating corrida
       ever since I wake up till the time I go to sleep.
       No. I refuse to look around any more.
       Like the locusts have they invaded us, the grin all over the place,just take a look!
       I recall the devil placed for the kids' fun (?!)
       in a shopping center,
       wagging its tail, fretting its trident
       sceptre
       and blinking every six seconds
       out of the two red little lights that have become all of a sudden highly expressive on its face.
       You know, it was a devil in the natural size. I mean,
       to the man's size.
       No, to the size of some special men: the men from the switchboard pannels,
       to the size of the big bosses in the factories where those red little lights are bred
       and who have, for sure, barbarous sells.

       I don't want to see any red flashing or non-flashing lights.
       I dream about going to live somewhere, in the mountains.
       Not seeing lights any longer. I dream about seeing only green fir trees and beech trees
       and the tree bark, brown, russet or white, so wonderfully erratic,
       and leaves of almost any colour
       and white petty clouds
       and gaudy hay fields, smelling of honey,
       turned bluish with forget-me-not shaping their visage from the immensly blue sky
       and yellow with the Sun plunging into the marigolds and the dandellions
       and white with white daisies and camomile and hoary-headed dandelions ready to fly
       and red with red poppies, . red poppies .red po . NO!
       Where was I? Oh, yes, on the mountain, on the edge of the forrest,
       forrest, forrest, forrest, yes, a green forrest
       and paths and ferns having no relationship whatsoever with the Fractals Theory
       and bilberries, bluish-purplish ones,
       and crystal-clear springs
       and withered branches, longing for the campfire's orange colour
       awild strawberries scattered amidst them,
       small, red berries, wild straw-ber-ries,
       small ber-ries, RED straw.
       Fortunately I realize that I'm dreaming and I summon myself to wake up.
       I open my eyes. The red light of the three-gang socket
       combined for the sake of functionality (.two in one!) with, of course, a little red litten button
       unperturbed glares at me, straight into my eyes, silently reminding me it is alive.

       Too many red little lights.
       Too many.
       Much too many.
       No wonder that, wishing to voice deep human feelings such as
       love, the need for friends or help
       a red little light lightens
       deep down in my heart.

       Wien, 1997