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essay by Ovidiu
A glance over
the world from the point of view of a Science Fiction Writer who
assumes that Time
is waved to all directions
only thing you have really got is what you are and it is on you
forever. Mihaela Bufnila
If God had died what would be the use of beautiful language
and why would “beautiful” exist
or function anymore deep down the oceans?
I multiply and metamorphose into a cloud of spots under the pressure
of magnetic fields,
will I be able to enlarge
my informational surface?
supreme miracle stands for the way in which an assembly of points
realizes it is an assembly of points.
Man seems to be the man of all times shaped into the body of contemporary
Time. If this is not
true, then I may be wrong when reporting myself to reality, and I have
no other choice but accepting the generalized and the generalizing
fiction according to
which I don’t even exist and, thus, I cannot witness myself.
This means that, as I am only contents, I couldn’t possibly build
my exteriority from where to fully spy myself while plunging into the
pleasure of the principle of
multiple of one.
The Waving Man
seems to be caught between the history jaws, on the verge of being
smashed by his own sins, by his own fictions, or by the crowds
waving like a roaring ocean, or by revolutions and wars or by impersonal
administrative acts or by nature hardships – which is not a
proper nature anymore.
universal construction, the Waving Man doesn’t seem to be
built by addition, the idea of a flowing time is seemingly. The
time seems rather waved; the ubiquity
gives the impression of the wave that… And look! You can
see it before our visible horizon, now up, under the consciousness
reflector, then vanished
down the ocean full of universes, to the sailor’s anxiety.
Man seems to be the man you feel close to you, resembling you,
a sailor through the meaningful or meaningless storms, self-sufficient.
the Waving Man ends
up by being ridiculous, tragic or anecdotic. It is like, being
that his predecessors are not sharing his attempts, he punishes
them by exterminating
them together with him, and this is his way of perceiving the
finite. Frequently, the Waving Man, a fragmented creature, cannot
cannot comprise all,
cannot find out the meaning of things and then, he is expelled
from the sailing registrar in one movement. But perhaps he doesn’t
even want to; it may be a sign of his way to perceive his own freedom.
He seems to be
waving not only because he is neighbor to you, but also because you
make common cause with him,
in a deep, intimate way. Either you judge him roughly, or you
deplore him, or you kill him in a metaphor, in a newspaper article
or in a gun fight, or you
don’t recognize him or refuse to accept his presence,
die but together with you.
He may be Roman,
Inca, or Pigmy, Jacobin or a dead navy
gunman, or he may be the first man on the Moon or the charming
cave man or the neighbor on your street on number 3, or the
president of the contemporary empire
or the communist woman leader, he is the Waving Man. You
know plenty of things about him or you are on the point of finding
it all out,
if you like it or not,
and he often overwhelms you with sense.
The Waving Man
might become your model, your duty or your mission, your pain or
The Waving Man dwells you
or he prepares to settle inside you, out of a sudden. And
happens because he is the representation of all human beings
who have ever lived on this planet
and about whom, you believe or you will be reassured that
you know or feel plenty of things, and we might call this your
Man is your link to the world and the worldly whole at the same
time; it is your very encyclopedia.
As there are no limits, today you resemble the living emperor,
the president who has just died and the legendary swordsman who
is haunting the cinema and
your own imagination, and you are the Godzilla. Maybe it’s
not quite like this and then, we may say that borders might
really exist. But in your imagination,
things are different.
governs you perversely in time, whereas the Reason makes efforts
to claim the guiding
role. He is always on guard while
the imagination sniffs the horizon clattering, somewhere
in the crow’s
nest or up, on the mast. The Waving Man looks like a fictional
construction, though very useful to us, those for whom the
appearance of the ocean full of
universes builds a luring temporal continuum. The finite may
be just a useful construction for you to become meaningful.
your existence would be pointless.
Or maybe it is you the Waving Man. You are the subject
for all grizzly TV news. It is you, the object of questionnaires,
you, who fill the common graves of the
enclave wars. It is you the one who had been chopped, cursed,
smashed, gassed, laid on a pedestal, worshiped, poisoned
courted, pyre burned, expelled and
recalled to the secret things along history. Philosophers
think that you are expired and primitive, and stupid, uncivilized,
that you are the end of history
or even Devil.
Maybe you are
a declined angel. You went to
the bad. You are sinful. You are fragmented. You are
like an imperfect construction. You are either a
fascist transformed into an anti-fascist by means of
a pervert fictional effort, or the rebel of the ‘70s who became
a real red-tapist, or a pure communist hidden under the masque
of neo-liberalism. But isn’t imperfection your
reason to be?
I believe you’re only waving. And this means
you are my neighbor that I can physically or metaphorically
touch, in my imagination, and that I
can understand you, I can know you and I can call you. As a
Waving Man, you are the man of all times. I am not your superior
and I don’t feel it this way.
I think you are just confused and troubled of your own existence
in the world. You didn’t burry God. You keep Him inside
one of your secret beings. Maybe you don’t even know
the being is inside you.
You are either
Napoleon, or Elvis, or Godzilla or Berlioz, or the old beggar lady
who wished me good luck
last night for giving her a banknote, or Sartre or Eminem
or Vangelis or Larry King or Nostradamus or the entire Encyclopedia.
It is for you they perverted
the cinema art. They looked for the images of Hitler or
Tito or Bush or Blair or Dudaev or Putin or Mata Hari’s propaganda,
at the sinking of the sense of the terrible Titanic, a film that
states the principle of order of the new
world that some say malevolently that would state that
healthy people are rescued by poor people.
But healthy people
lost their mission, the shop girls of the aporia gossip. Healthy
people are arrested within the body of the hungry mass as the
obsolescent philosopher is arrested by utopias. The obsolescent
philosopher waits for the sub-lunar crowds of the mines, where the
miners are ready to invade downtown,
marching symbolically with a carnation at their buttonhole,
and he writes about the expired fragmented being, lustily. But how
can the being be expired when
it is still sailing towards the final sense?
the haze on our eyes, we might discover that God must build a certain
sense changing his looks under
the masque of the body of the Waving Man. And if there’s
no sense, then it must be his playful manifestation
or maybe his reproachful attitude.
by Ioana Bostan
Bufnila was born on August 15, 1957, in Tg.Ocna, Bacau, and
studied at Mechanics Faculty, Galati, Romania.
His novel JAZZONIA was awarded the best Romanian SF novel in 1992
He received the award for the best Romanian
SF story, MANDHALA, 2001, the Sigma award, 2002, for excellence
in Romanian SF and the
award for the best Romanian SF novel, Moreaugarin’s crusade.
As a recognition of his talent, in 2003 he received the annual Clouds
Click here for a short story by Bufnila.
© 2005 IP and the author
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