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Eestikeelsed artiklid
EDITORIAL
EPIFANIO RECOMMENDS
MY GOOD MOVIES
Milind Ranadive
INDIAN DRAWINGS
Vilen Künnapu
INTERVIEW WITH SHIRISH BERI
August Künnapu, Vilen Künnapu
POEMS BY SHIRISH BERI
WHAT KIND OF ART MATTERS TO ME
Kaido Ole
HARRY PYE'S POSTCARD FROM LONDON
RAIMOND KUKUMAA'S LOVE STORIES
Mehis Heinsaar
COLLECTION OF 8 BEHAVIOURS
Mart Aas
TEAM
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Collection of 8 behaviours
1.
Crossroad. Traffic light. I am waiting to cross the street. On the other side, a man stands and smokes. Red. Yellow. Green. I go. Half way across, I see that the smoking man still stands, smoking and talking to himself. I get across. He is still standing and talking more forcefully, seemingly upset about something. I hear him say: "What am I waiting for? Why in the world am I waiting here? Why don't I go across? What am I waiting for?" I stop for a moment and look at him. An ordinary man. Yellow. Red. I walk on. He keeps standing there. He is right, really, I think – "what is he waiting for?" He is in the right mind. Not crazy. Absolutely adequate.
2.
Summertime.
Patch of grass in front of St Nicholas' church.
A big tent, where Buddhist monks are creating the sand mandala. My inexperienced eyes see the mandala as a sand patterns picture on a big table covering several square meters. Silence – this sophisticated work requires complete concentration. The monks keep dribbling colourful sand millimeter by millimeter. Sacred task.
Security guards with radiophones maintain peaceful work environment. I notice an ant. It has climbed the mandala. For the ant it is probably just a desert with dunes. It is making a trail. A path that breaks up the pattern. A temptation I cannot resist: I call the security and point at the ant.
I don't know why I do this.
The guard looks at the ant.
Puzzled.
He takes the phone and calls the superior. The superior arrives. They look at the ant together. Two guys, two meters tall. They shake their heads menacingly. The superior picks up the ant and throws it away. Straightens his shoulders as if he had just punched someone. Looks at us, imposingly. Then moves away undisturbed. His fingerprint in the sand is much bigger than the footprints of the ant before the intervention.
3.
In my early puberty I was an athlete. In our training group we had a guy, two years older than I, who was called the Monk. He had a sweatshirt with a hood. During the workout, we often sang a song from a Latvian cartoon, where a mouse sang something like: "Atsjase korosti junk-junk-junk, atsjase korosti junk-junk-junk." I don't know what it meant in Latvian, but the tune was optimistic and catchy and always made us laugh.
About 15 years went by. I was no longer an athlete. One time I saw the guy in a bus stop. I walked up to him: "Hi Monk! Atsjase korosti junk-junk-junk, atsjase korosti junk-junk-junk…" Monk looked at me seriously. Behind him, a woman with a baby in her arms looked at me as seriously. They exchanged glances. We stood there in silence for a while, then I stepped out of the bus stop pavilion, walked a few meters and looked away into the distance. Monk and his wife talked about something seriously. The bus came. They stood at one end, I at the other. We tried not to look at each other. After that we never met. |
Joonistus: Aive Mets |
4. Blacksmith lady was 83 years old. She was my friend, knitted mittens for me and always talked with me on her cottage terrace. I was three then. In the same place, there were girls, five years older than me, and they started to tell me that I don't have the guts to throw a stone at the Blacksmith lady. At first I paid no attention, but in the end I took a stone and threw it at the lady while she was knitting on the terrace. I ran off, and felt really bad right away. I hid in the wild rose bush and stayed there until my father found me. He knew right away that something was wrong, for I was crying like mad. Everything came out and I was taken to the Blacksmith lady to apologise. I had never felt so terribly empty before, and, if I remember correctly, neither later.
5. A street in the Old Town. I am a student – whatever that strange word means. A friend acquaintance comes along.
-Hi
-Hello
- Hey, can you lend me a 100...
or 50... or 25 maybe?
I could really use it.
-I'll look... (going through my jacket pockets)... listen, I can't, I don't have any.
Ok. I'll go and see...I have to pay today... But maybe you have a cigarette... I am so wound up... I am totally blank right now...
- (I go through my other pockets)... Well – I don't have any left. I just finished the last one...
- Ok then. Anyway... I have to go. Another time maybe... I'll go ask... Hey, you have matches? Maybe I get a cigarette somewhere...
- (I shake the match box – it is empty)
- Well, we'll see another time... (we both take off in different directions)...
Listen, wait! What's the time? I had to meet someone at one, do you know what time it is?
- (I feel my wrist)... Listen – I don't know. I lost my watch, several actually, I don't wear them anymore... (we both look at each other, frozen, and burst out in hysterical laughter for some reason.)
6. My friend's play finishes. The theater is next to a cemetery and we start walking through the night towards our house. Another ex-actor comes along, who now works in the theater making mock-ups, things that look real on stage. We go through the cemetery because it is a shorter walk. We don't talk, just walk. And the moon is shining, as you would guess. In the silence our steps on the gravel, trees, bushes, crosses on graves, their shadows. And the tombstones. Suddenly the old man steps aside, goes to a tombstone, knocks on it and says: "Empty inside and onto the stage!" We look at each other, and walk on. Nobody says another word.
7. Late night in Lilleküla. The first karate workout behind us, we walk home with friends. There is about four of us. All proud. Confidence is high. Manly mood. We joke about fighting. Turning into a side street, a bunch of guys there to squeeze some money out of us. We get scared. All of us assume the one and only position we just learned in the training. It goes like this: feet apart, knees bent, hands in fists, one hand on the hip the other straight forward. In the workout we practiced hitting like this, switching the hands. But right now, we simply stand like this, frozen. The troublemakers don't understand anything. They start to laugh. We get nervous. One of my schoolmates is under attack, someone runs toward him. The ground is slippery with ice. My friend falls on his back and pulls up his knees, the attacker falls on him getting a straight blow to his chest from my friend's feet and flying several meters to crumble to the ground. From the side, it looked as if my friend had jumped on his back intentionally and executed a perfect kick with both feet. We look solemn. Silence.
Our kind of guys are not worthy to pick at. The attackers leave, fortunately. And no matter how hard we practiced – none of us could ever repeat such a striking kick in the training.
8. Autumn.
Dry. Warm. Sunshine.
We are picking potatoes. I hold a mouth of the linen sack open to pour potatoes from the bucket. The bag between my fingers, the bucket between my elbows and knees, and pouring like this the potatoes roll into the sack. I look inside. Sun's rays penetrate the cloth. The potatoes are on the go. They fall into the sack and dust rises. The pile grows bigger and bigger. Potatoes are like rocks that tumble down the mountain side. Like an avalanche. I hear the rumbling of rolling rocks. I see the dust that rises as they come down. All this is happening in slow motion. I don't see or hear anything around me, I just listen and look at this majestic sight of nature.
Suddenly a voice asks: "What's with you?"
The scene ends. My aunt stands beside me and looks at me sternly. |
