Now it is my turn to receive the question from the Bazis: What will you work on next week? And I cannot answer it. I cannot interpret the question at all. At least I cannot apply it to myself in any part. Work? I haven’t had a job in decades — I mean no ordinary workplace, you know, the kind where you have to go, do some sort of work, then go home and rest or have fun. Eight hours — eight hours — eight hours. But there is work, just not eight hours, not ordinary, not paid, although it’s obviously worth every penny to me! You can easily guess what it is: writing. This cursed writing! Because I definitely didn’t choose it, didn’t sign up for it, and I cannot quit it. This monster doesn’t care what time of day it is, whether I’m hungry, sleepy, or sick. Yes, there is no sick leave either. No freedom at all!
And then time. The question refers to the future. I cannot grasp that; I have no view of it. My responsibility only applies to the present. Do I have plans? Hypothetically yes. Only I don’t usually keep them in my head — pointless, because they fall out anyway. That’s what machines are for. It’s written neatly in the calendar when and with whom what must be done, and the alert is set if necessary, hours in advance, so that I have time to prepare or travel there. And of course there are recurring activities too: daily forest walk, watering plants, cooking lunch, shopping, weekly bread baking, bedtime ritual. But you do these from routine. And regarding the future anyway, I figure that nothing will turn out the way I first thought it would, so I don’t think about it at all. I always give a big space for deviation. So for me there isn’t an A-plan, B-plan, or ∞-plan — because there could actually be infinitely many — instead, there is no plan. Now don’t ask me to mathematically prove how infinity can equal zero. Fair question: how is it possible to live like this? Most people would freak out if they couldn’t make plans. In fact, many only get as far as the B-plan, and if neither A nor B works out, they might commit suicide. That, however, is a terribly big stupidity! Honestly, this uncertainty doesn’t scare me. It simply frees me. Because I admit that the future truly is unknowable, not something that can be planned, and I live in harmony with this fact. Completely casually. A bunch of things don’t even have to be decided by me. Not even by people. Because we know: man proposes, God disposes. I’m on vacation.
So now am I free or not? Because I said earlier that you can’t go on leave from that monster, right? But I don’t want to. To me writing isn’t work, it’s freedom. Yes, free planning, planning the future — my own and yours. Not even planning, execution! Because we also know: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”...“Then God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God said, ‘Let there be an expanse in the middle of the waters...’ and it happened.Then God spoke again”… and again… and again. I’m sure you’ve heard the story too. Let’s not argue now about whether what I’m saying is blasphemy or not. To me it isn’t. Or rather, what I’m doing is not ordinary work, because how could creation be that? There is no payment for it — who could pay for it, since it’s beyond price. Truly priceless! And obviously terribly important. Moreover, I might have one more strange conviction: that so-called Great Narrative doesn’t even exist — *wink, wink* — rather there are these jolly good writers, quite many of them, who continuously write their twisted, petty stories which might even be called anecdotes.
So instead, ask: What are you writing now? Generally, I write the same thing. Only the wrapping is different. Sometimes a poem, sometimes a story, sometimes an essay, a radio note, or a blog post — and right now a novel trilogy. The first novel, and a whole trilogy at once? Yes, I don’t do things by halves. (As we say it: not rolling the dung ball.) The first part is done, finished just before Christmas. I wrote it in only three weeks in a very strong flow. (I've been fortunate to write that way before.) Now I’m writing the second and third parts, sometimes this, sometimes that, whenever I feel like it. The first novel, with the mysterious title They vanish in the rainbow, ends roughly like this: “…when she first saw [the man], she thought, but of course she knows him, that’s her brother (…), but this is from another dimension brother, her twin brother, her male counterpart, the driving force of her own feminine wisdom, with whom united she can achieve the desired freedom, the freedom of completeness. From then on, her life was about what to do with this freedom.” See, this is what it’s about too.
You don’t actually have to fear freedom. Of course it’s very different from how you imagine it, because it isn’t the kind that means you can do whatever you want, even at others’ expense. It isn’t looseness, fun, party, buddies, Fanta… Not peaceful rest, relaxation, wellness, oh no! It’s work. Yes indeed, of the three eights that’s the work part. And not eight hours, as I already said, but this lying eight, the infinite. Yes, the Infinite. Infinite Freedom. The Complete(ness). That’s how it is in the far north… But since you asked, thanks, I’m doing quite well. And how are you?
