A FLASH BEFORE THE EYES

Exhibition
Admir Mujkic: Journey, prints, 2001, Sarajevo

Faruk Sehic

A FLASH BEFORE THE EYES

Writings inspired by "Journey" Print Series

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A flash before the eyes. Little yellow dots sail through the canals of the optical nerve. Images run in unformed masses towards the hungry memory, where everything whizzes and babbles out of so many warehouse men who know their job. Images come straight into the arms of themselves and finally relax. A mind is a gentle mechanism full of sparkling colors, from which the finest material and virtual objects are made. The white-haired apparitions, dead warriors in steel armor, ruddy-faced children, mythical lovers, fluttering armored vehicles, the eternally green grass on the heads of unknown deities dance there, everything dances to the tunes of coincidence, and there is no spiteful conductor there. The wish is the ringleader. The dream gives rhythm to everything. This dance is eternal. And it salutes both the external and the internal Sun, and this Sun is generous and merciful to the animate and inanimate world. In the sleeping matter of the humus, it recognizes the strength that even time cannot destroy. Strength penetrates into the sky. Strength is what forces the water of life through the narrow wick of a grass blade, to make it dance, dressed in green regal garments, in the cracking dance of the universe. This dance is eternal. This joy is botanical, and it is only the beginning of what is to come. The bones are heavy, the earth is light. Nothing is dead forever. Look at that Purple flower, someone’s smile hides inside. When the grass becomes the body’s Bride, this too is a dance on the way to the underground world. Nothing is dead forever. In the humus, worms are snake-like mermaids that produce the color for the final make-up. Even this desert wind, somehow unsuited for the month of March, the wind on whose ruffled locks travels the Black armada of angels, is not only the hand of the annihilator, but also of the one who throws seeds of matter and illusion everywhere. Nothing is dead forever. The forthcoming carnival leads us into the summer. The sylvan chlorophyll fountains have been revived. The trickles of green flow from small meadow wells. The earth has opened its enormous hydrant. The trees will touch the ultimate sky. It will be a perfect kiss, the divine power.
   
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The sun has fallen asleep on elongated spears. The sense of morning is trapped in the spider’s webs. Should we greet the young cosmos of the morning? Kiss the earth while it is still cold and dead from sleep, caress the gravestones colored in white, water the flowers trapped in pots, leave crumbs on the windows for flying travelers, believe that there is nothing simpler than the overflowing yellow circle that we call the sun, in whose center a gigantic neutron heart is beating. Tentacles of sunbeams pass through the green gates of secrets, puncture the earth’s armor, beneath which the bones of long asleep people are twinkling. Down there is a mild chill. Down there is a healing darkness. Down there, lost thoughts hide themselves in vole tunnels. Down there, blood is turned into the living water. Down there wry-necked sabers lay, shields full of scars, heavy helmets, wire-knitted armored vests, bronze spear-tips, indestructible black flags, combat gear left to lay in time, like wine. Down there, strutting horses graze the raven’s grey light. Down there, gray-haired warriors heal wounds with songs. Down there, all battles are dreamt, apart from one, and that one is decisive. Down there, girls are the future wives of clouds. Below, old men do not moan, they are not afraid of death, for they know that nothing is dead forever. Down there, children bathe in cobalt lakes. Down there, there is no river from which one can drink oblivion. Drops, that used to be tears, have been trapped in the mineral. Down there, there are no verb tenses, apart from the one that is constantly the present tense. Down there the underground essence of the world above hides. Down there, there is no reverse side of the world above. Down there, bats are transformed into nightingales. Below, nothing is dead forever.  

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Swaying worlds hang on mystical ropes. Suddenly, everything stops, motion ceases, and bluish breaths of living energy evaporate into the sky. Somewhere above, the supreme star-connoisseur captures indecisive souls in huge nets and directs them towards the doors of cosmic tunnels that lead to higher districts of the sky. There live scales of all shapes and sizes, because every being has its measure. Starry caravans travel towards cities which have not been built yet. Hordes of wild moons bark at the stars. There are words in the meteors which are not of this world. When everything bursts like an astral balloon, language will arise from its fragments, and in this language an endless song will be written.