BOOK BURNING
1
This is how all theatre begins: in a dark place people come together, they take a seat and start to look for some light. At the centre of the still unlit stage stands a black trunk. Light falls like upcoming rain over the black box. Announced by light and music, the narrator appears from behind the trunk.
2
So, then you thought: finally, we can begin,
and then I appear to become a cat.
How has that come about?
I donāt understand it either.
Have you ever met a cat that knows why she is a cat?
Letās stay reasonable.
Luckily Iām the most reasonable, even objective, scientific cat that has ever existed.
I am Schrƶdingerās cat.
First I make every effort in the world to free us from obscurity, and now I appear to be standing in front of a theatre of half-lit beings.
Do not be dismayed, I also used to be a street cat, and look where I am now.
Everyone can climb into the light.
Nothing that the light cannot see.
Schrƶdinger was my first boss.
Leading scientist, friend of Einstein. He did the following experiment.
I was locked-up in a trunk.
In the trunk was a mechanism, about which we cannot know, whether it has released the deadly hydrocyanic acid or not.
As long as I am in the trunk,
and as long as the hydrocyanic acid and I cannot be measured or observed,
the only scientifically correct statement about me is
that I am both dead and alive, at the same time.
According to the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum physics
that is the only correct, objective, scientific conclusion.
In the trunk, with the mechanism, unobserved,
I am dead and alive at the same time.
Outside of the trunk, in the light, being observed,
I am one of the two: alive or dead.
So here in the light, among us, the uncertainty principle is no longer in play.
We are free of it.
Here I am dead, or alive.
Dead.
He pulls his catās tail moustache off.
Or alive.
Puts his moustache back on.
You see: here, among us, nothing has to remain uncertain. now I am alive,
Pulls moustache off again.
and now I am dead.
Sticks moustache back on.
Now that I am here with you,
I am going to begin, dead.
Out of solidarity with life here outside,
that lays simmering so tamely and sourly in its own history,
that it is no life.
I begin, dead:
here I am.
The narrator accidentally steps into that freshly laid poo, wipes off his shoe with his fingertips, wipes off his hands on his trousers, wipes off his trousers on his sleeve, his sleeve on his other sleeve, that sleeve on his other leg, his hand on his other hand, runs his hands through his hair in despair, realises what he just did and in desperation puts his face in his hands.
So. Now I can begin.
But how do I do that: begin?
For that do I first have to forget the shit I just stood in?
Or should I just take it from there?
3
I first came across Sebastian
at the indignados and Occupy demonstration in Brussels.
I thought: a quiet Sunday afternoon stroll,
I expected some thirty participants.
There were three thousand of us.
Shift happens.
I donāt know if others noticed it,
it immediately caught my eye:
around a man in his fifties, a dozen moths fluttered.
He did not, however, look scruffy, let alone unkempt.
As he quietly joined in the march, the moths flew around his head.
They settled themselves on his collar,
tried to find a way into his jacket,
hung on his ear,
trampled across his chin.
He appeared not to be bothered at all.
I walked next to him. Silently.
Once in a while I looked sidelong at the moths with fascination,
how they scattered miniscule dark shadows across his face.
āMay I ask you something?ā I asked.
He looked at me, and immediately understood what he would be held accountable for.
āI know,ā he said, āThey bother you?ā
āMe? No, but you?ā
At that moment I saw how a moth went to sit on his lip.
He swatted it away. āI get used to it,ā he said.
āWhy do they come to you, and not to me, or anyone else?ā
āTheyāve followed me for years,ā he said.
I didnāt want to be indiscreet, and dared not ask anything further.
We continued walking, in silence, side by side.
All of a sudden, he asked generously:
āAnd donāt you want to know?ā
I laughed. āYes, of course,ā I said, ābut I respect your privacy.ā
āI donāt have any secrets,ā he said, beaming. āDo you feel like a coffee?ā
I was naturally curious,
and happy that he wanted to take me into his trust.
We took a seat in the cafƩ.
He opened his jacket.
Hundreds of moths fluttered upwards.
And then I saw through his shirt that his torso emitted light.
From below his navel to his neck:
a bright, soft light,
an undeniable power, like that from a nightlight in a childrenās room.
The buttons on his shirt stood a little open,
his chest shone.
Some thirty moths clung fast to his collar,
some of them were rocking on tufts of chest hair,
others shamelessly wormed their way inside.
āYou emit light,ā I said.
āYes,ā he said.
I was silent.
He saw me looking quizzically.
He laughed extremely amiably and said:
āI would also like to know why that isā.
āYou donāt even know whyā¦ā
āI have ideas about it,ā he said.
āHave y...