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1      I, AS A SELFLESS HUMAN

To what extent can one express
the subjectivity objectively?

1.1    SELFISHNESS

Since I value honesty I would like to start with a notification: this is not an academic paper. Enduring this abstract purging was for me a personal path. Even though I tried to be very objective, I cannot help but be highly subjective. It is paradoxical that in the course of study aimed at the suppression of my Self I’ve discovered I more retain a narcissistic perspective. One’s Self is an appliance to express individual inner entity, vice versa a subjective outer society is a consequence of our mutual affect.

Achievement of the harmony in the collective interest would mean completeness of a whole. The draft of this idea of experiment occurred to me a few years ago, back then I was daydreaming about my own disappearance for a year, about formulation of a new identity that I would never reveal to anyone. In general, I was fascinated by how much the society in which we live designs who we are. The core of the old idea is by some means similar to my thesis experiment, in both one has to re-form the Self, however, in this case, the attempts took just a few minutes and within my current surroundings.

The Manifesto is something that came completely spontaneously at the outset of my experimentation to behave according to the Animus, I had to set the rules of my analysis, to be able to practice it within my own restrictions. The experiment actually developed into a form of literary output, that feels like the most natural way to express the abstraction of my findings. To be able to truly achieve the desired catharsis I had to first think in my mother language Czech, therefore I have decided to keep both language versions. I wonder if my personal approach could be at least partly universal.

1.2   LIVING STATUE

01-10-2020 Stokabar Experient(1): Nothing is futile, nothing is the useless, deprived of inspiration, I’m only what was left in me, since to live, so solely dryly, without the one’s flow, standing up simply by command, without oneself and without everything. Only me and again me, in the extreme presence, on Thursday morning I listen to your rage, I’m just my bare self, and I know, the trees are furious, after all, in the chilly morning, the pretty dew is falling, that amount of the leaves, that are about to sleep, in the day as well as in the night, likewise to my own inner awakening. I didn’t ask anything, entirely paying attention, I pour the required rum and one small 10.7, and he said that twenty years ago, he played the accordion here, first, he had mistaken the decade and I smiled, I can still smile, right? Am I becoming a living statue or just a tool of patience? My manifesto is my portal to the cruel existence. Dismissed from my own irons, bravely with emptiness, in vain listening to what he collected last week, I’m finding out about his dead wife, who gave him to his fiftieth birthday, a new phone number, with three sixes at the end, and enduing her with three fours. Then that unwanted moment came, when he asked me a simple question, “Are u still studying?” and I just agreed I guess what else I would want, nourished by silence and austere sentences, kicking myself under the table with my own foot, however fruitlessly dragged by one’s own decision. And so there then together with my nothingness, we stand at attention, I heard all of it, we grow into silence together, in that silence I act as a traitor, listener without the tongue, I answer plainly, clearly, shortly. Everything is devastated, everything is rejection. One could say that a bad day assaulted me, that I’m just hiding from the world. Simply only I know that I’m scantly a robot, performing the tasks assigned to me, without my Self, I had become the nodding. Nonetheless, this is not what I wanted, that the existence has been replaced by body language, for that reason, I’m writing to you here and now, that even that nothingness is heavier than my empty Self.

1.3   MANIFESTO

That’s why I repeat my manifesto: I understand and accept all my mistakes, the ones I did, and the ones that await me. All my decisions are influenced only by my current environment, everything that is happening right now is everything, that is supposed to be. I’m not a nihilist, I’m not a cynic, I’m for myself my own design, I’m the simple front of my inner emptiness. Deprived of my identity, I’m driven by pure being. A machine that does not know human values. No matter how much I know, because always someone else will know more. I will never become better than others, never evolving into enough good person. Yet I’m aware that at the same time, I’m NOT worse than others, so that’s why I won’t ever be a bad person. The only certainty is death and the constant of change, the change ongoing right now on this planet. Me as a metaphor for acceptance, greeting changes of all kinds, I’m NOT trying to convince, persuade, or reassure and encourage. My only authorities are knowledge with cognition, which I accepted by my Animus. I have no need to judge anyone, I won’t have any urge to know what others are like, likewise, I don’t care what others are trying to tell me. In short, at the bottom of my Self, there somewhere lies around, that sincere acceptance of oneself like a stranger in my body. This is an unpleasant perspective, to see inside what is hiding from me.
01-10-2020 Stokabar Experient(1): Nic je marné, nic je zbytečného, zbavena inspirace, jsem jen tím co ve mně zbylo, neboť žít, jen tak suše: bez proudu svého, ve stoje jen z příkazu, bez sebe i bez všeho. Jen já a zase já, v extrémní přítomnosti, ve čtvrteční dopoledne naslouchám tvé zlosti, jsem jen mým holým já, a vím, že stromy běsní, vždyť za chladného rána opadává ta krásná rosa, těch listí, co chystá se spát, ve dne i v noci, podobně jako mé vlastní vnitrni probuzení. Neptala jsem se na nic, zcela poslouchající, nalévám požadovaný Tuzemák a jednou malé 10,7, a on řekl, že před dvaceti lety, zde hrál na harmoniku, nejprve se spletl v desetiletí a je usmála, smát se snad ještě můžu ne? Stávám se životní sochou nebo pouhým nástrojem trpělivosti? Mé manifesto je mým portálem do kruté součastnosti. Propuštěna se svých vlastních okovů, odvážně s prázdnotou, marně nasloucham tomu, co on sbíral minulý týden, dozvídám se o jeho zesnulé ženě, co darovala mu k padesátinám, nové telefoní číslo, s třemi šestkami na konci a sama se obdařila čtyřkami. Pak nastal ten nechtěný moment, kdy se ptal on, “Studujete ještě?”, a já jen souhlasila, co jiného bych asi chtěla, živena mlčením a strohými větami, kopající se pod stolem svou vlastní nohou, avšak bezvýsledně vláčena vlastním rozhodnutím. A tak tam pak společně s mou nicotou stojíme v pozoru, to všechno slyšela jsem najednou, tichneme pospolu, v tom tichu působím jako zrádce, posluchač bez jazyka, odpovídám stroze, čistě, krátce. Všechno je zpustošené, všechno je odmítnutím. Jeden by mohl říct, že přepadl mě zlý den, že se jen schovávám před světem. Jen já vím, že jsem pouhým robotem, plnící úlohy, co byly mi položeny, bez meho self, stala jsem se pokynutím. Však tohle není to co jsem chtěla, že existenci nahradila jen řeč těla, proto teď a tady píšu ti, že i ta nicota je těžší, než mé prázdné já.
Proto opakuji mé manifesto: Rozumím a přijímám všechny své chyby, ty které jsem udělala, i ty, které mě teprve čekají. Veškeré mé rozhodnutí je ovlivněno pouze mým aktuálním okolím, všechno co se právě teď děje, je vším, čím má ono být. Nejsem ani nihilistou, nejsem ani cynikem, jsem sama sobě svým designem, jsem prostým lícem své vnitřní prázdnoty. Zbavena své identity, jsem poháněna ryzím bytím. Mašina co nezná lidské hodnoty. Nezáleží na tom, kolik toho znám, protože vždy někdo jiný bude vědět víc. Nikdy se nastanu lepším než jiní, nikdy nebudu dostatečně dobrým člověkem. Přesto jsem si vědoma, že ve stejnou chvíli, se NEstávám horším než jiní, tak proto nikdy nebudu ani špatnýn člověkem. Jediná jistota je smrt a konstanta změny probíhající právě teď na téhle planetě. Já jako metafora pro přijetí, vítající změny všeho druhu, se NEsnažím přesvědčovat, přemlouvat, či ubezpečovat a ujišťovat. Jediné mé autority jsou znalost s poznáním, avšak které nezaujetě přijímám svým zvířecím já. Nemám zapotřebí nikoho soudit, nepotřebuji vědět čím jíní jsou, také mě nezajímá, co se mi snaží říct. Ve zkratce, na dně mého já, tam kdesi se ocitá, to upřímné přijetí sebe sama jako cizince v mém těle. To je pro mě, ale nepříjemná perspektiva, vidět dovnitř ničeho, co se mi skrývá.

1.4    THE CATHARSIS
OF SELF IN 3D

1.5 THE CATHARSIS OF SELF IN 3D

1.5    < >

When I finished the previous page my heart totally ached. At the beginning, one can see that participation in the experiment seems impossible, too many thoughts kept me to feel like a living statue, although experiment(1) was one of my first attempts I was hardly able to stay Self-free. It almost seems like a procedure, one has to train it, develop an approach to study the inner Animus. A few times I had to interrupt and accept it as a trial. To have some kind of consistency I determined it as a narrated progress of the analysis of one’s traits, of the deeply animalistic features, the ones I cannot get rid of.

If we omit the fact that we have ourselves, we will be left with only our Selves, for this reason its particular narration is quite essential. Dutch graphic designer Mieke Gerritzen in his book Help your Self defined the Self as your ‘personality, motivation, emotional intelligence, self-confidence, fears, habits, cravings, possibilities, lifestyles, sense of humor, political choice, hobbies, and life skills, talents, experiences, values, capacity for empathy, negative thoughts, ability, desires, expectations, self-awareness practice, risk tolerance, and mistakes.’ [1] I want to take into account whether one is even able to give up all of this. What will happen when this all disappears?

By releasing a strong emotion at the time of writing, as well as purging the mind of unwanted thoughts, my thesis refers rather to some kind of catharsis or emotional leak. To behave without Self-concern, the ego has to go through a cathartic cleansing or to be completely replaced by a new ego that lost its old Self.

1.5    FIRST TIME

07-10-2020 Seifertova 21 Experient(2):
Evening of the POETIC dekance
I grew up without any suppression and oppression, I became a slug, I am only the food of birds, always unprotected from the outer wily world, exposed to an external environment, no longer just a girl. I crawl stupidly, without hands and without knees, that suffering is educational, I make sticky paths behind me that can’t be straight, because after every inch I forget the way back, they’re just confused, upset, thus they agree, they throw a hateful look back, God, which way did they let you take? I’m dragging that sticky shiny line, I call it nostalgia, from time to time I appear somewhere, where I can feel like a beast, that I almost forget I’m just the slug, with feelings of inadequacy, impossibility, captured by a bird of prey. Barely breathing, suffocating, but still being, I’m feeling myself with all my senses, even though I’m just a fictional delusion, a state of your mind, directed by my desired hypnotic states of non-existent celebrated reality. Offered nothingness, beloved manifesto, my personal removed feelings. Here lies a moth, somewhere in a dusty corner, the small one, altogether half-dead, nude curls herself, nothing and the emptiness that frees her, renounces her life, when you tell her about a confused world, she is swallowed by panic, by darkness. A chilly second, that long is the moment of purification, repentance, and humility to the beloved moth, however, she is a nocturnal animal, gripping tightly her wings sifted by departure, that liberating couple. Without yourself, you moth unknown, you will become forgotten, however, the misunderstood moth filled with her decision, strongly longing for an even colder spring of your forgiveness, those cramps of that terrible night, the moth is getting sick, the happy creature. Squeezing her body, she has poor nightmares, not manageable, full of anger, corruption, the other side of your goodness that always shines, it is politics, as a result of the elections, she has this lousy picture of herself, she breathes and loses the remnants of her self, throwing it into the unknown. My role was played, I’m no longer a moth or my shadow, in the old days of the relatively compassionate, I was just a lap, but now in the clear light, bearing no limit, I am a non-existent cliff, I’m a drop of rain, I’m just a mistake, I’m here and I’m not here right away. It’s an automat, definitely xenophobia, my impulsivity or a broken mind. When anxiety meets relaxation, you scream fiction, an infinitely accurate loop is created, yet quite unrelated, still a little girl. A sincere flourish a grow in a Zen garden, arbitrarily afraid that it is going unintentionally smoothly. I am your beetle, fully alive, holding my breath, I feel like inside of my body, I’m slowly drying out what I was for me. Fallen, yet supple petals, lying on the moss of your cleansing kisses, I was dried, although a lady who was becoming juicier, discovered memory of a beetle in a casket, furthermore I was just lying. I think, with my head placed in my palms, the head is heavy from the lateral stages of thoughts, what furiously radiates that joyful awakening. I am pleased to say that a new Self has been found, a new connection, effortlessly, without my Self, renouncing life, I am looking for a new awakening. Pure energy, namely the suspension, I’m no longer a flower, having a lost Self, I’m just an animal, aI’m just my Animus, what was left inside of me, I love you all the shapes of my animal Selves, what did you not like? You enjoy the world, don’t you? As a result, I only have this lousy picture, and so the slug, moth or beetle, I don’t feel anything, I’m nothing, I don’t exist, I’m just a loose whiff that you breathe, I’m an air of I can’t get a single dose, I’m the rain that fell on your face last Tuesday, in short, I am not.
07-10-2020 Seifertova 21 Experient(2):
Večer POETICKÉ Dekadence
Vyrostla jsem bez jakéhokoliv potlačení a útlaku, stal se ze mě slimák, jsem jen pouhou potravou ptáků, vždy nechráněna před vnějším lstivým světem, vystavena externímu prostředí, už né jen děvčetem. Stupidně se plazím, bez rukou a bez kolen, to trpění výchovné, dělám za sebou lepivé cestičky, které nemohou být rovné, protože za každým centimetrem zapomenu cestu zpět, ony jen zmateny, rozrušeny souhlasí, hází nenávistný pohled, proboha kterou cestu tě nechali si vzít? Tahám tu lepkavou lesklou linii, nazývám ji nostalgie, čas od času se objevuji někde, kde se cítím jako bestie, že až skoro zapomínám na to, že jsem slimákem, s pocity nedostatecnosti, nemožnosti, odchycena ptátem. Sotva dýchám, dusím se, ale jsem, cítící se svými smysly, i přesto že jsem jen fiktivním bludem, stavem tvé mysli, v režii svých chtěných hypnotických stavů neexistující oslavované reality. Nabídnutá nicota, milované manifesto, mé osobní odstraněné city. Zde leží noční můra, tam někde v zaprášeném zákoutí, malá vcelku polomrtvá se obnaženě kroutí, nic a prázdnota jež osvobozuje ji, zříká se života vyprávíš-li ji o zmateném světě, pohlucuje ji panika, temnota. Chladná vteřina, tak dlouhá je ta chvíle očisty, pokání a pokory k můře milé, však je nočním zvířetem, pevně svírajíce své křídla prosáté odletem, ta osvobozující dvojice. Bez sebe, ty můro neznámá, staneš se zapomenutím, však nepochopená můra naplněná svým rozhodnutím, silně prahnoucí po ještě chladnějsí studánce tvého odpuštění, těch křečí té hrozné noci, můra churaví, to štastné stvoření. Muchlajíce mačká si své tělo, má chudé noční můry, co se nedaří, plné zlosti, pokažení, odvrácené strany tvé dobroty, co vždy zazáří, je to politika, jako výsledek voleb má tento mizerný obraz sebe sama, oddychuje a ztrácí zbytky svého self, odhazuje jej do neznáma. Moje role byla hrána, už nejsem ani můrou, ani svým stínem, za starých časů těch poměrně soucitných, jsem byla jen klínem, ale teď ve světle čirém, nesoucí žádné omezení, jsem neexistujicím útesem, jsem kapkou deště, jsem jenom omylem, jsem tu a hned tu zase nejsem. Je to automat, určitě xenofobie, má impulzivita či zlomená mysl. Když se úzkost setkavá s uvolněním, ty křičíš výmysl, vzniká nekonečně přesná smyčka, přesto vcelku nespojující se, ještě holčička. Upřímný rozkvět rostoucí v zenove zahrádce, svévolně mějící strach, že to jde nechtěně hladce. Jsem tvým broukem, plně žijící, s zadrženým dechem, cítím jak uvnitř mého těla, pomalu suším, čím jsem pro mě vlastně byla. Odpadlé, přesto ještě vláčné okvětní lístky, nězně položené na mechu tvých polibků očistky, ja byla usušena, dáma, která přesto šťavnatěla, objevená vzpomínka na brouka v kastlíčku, už jsem jen ležela. Myslim, s hlavou polozenou v mych dlanich, ta hlava tezka je z tech myslenkovych fazi postranních, co rozzurene vyzaruje to rozradostněné prociteni. Potesene hlasim, ze naslo se nove ja, nové spojení, bez námahy, bez svého self, zříkající se zivota hledám nove probuzeni. Cista energie a jmenovite to zastavení, už nejsem květem, mějící ztracené self, jsem pouhým zvířetem, jsem pouhým svým animem, co ve mě zbylo, miluji vás tvary mych zvířecích já, co se vám nelíbil? Svět vás snad baví ne? Jako výsledek mám jen tenhle mizerný obraz, a tak či slimákem, můrou či broukem, necítím nic, jsem ničím, neexistuji, jsem jen volným závanem co dýcháš, jsem vzduchem, kterého nemůžu dostat ani jednu dávku, jsem déšť, který spadl na tvůj obličej minulé úterý, zkrátka skromě nejsem.

1.7    HALF-FEMALE,
HALF-ANIMAL

Those days when I was taking part in The Experiemnt(2) I felt empty, I found myself in situations when I just couldn’t bear anything else other than the fight with my Animus. With my friends I had organized an Evening of the Poetic Dekadence, not only to share one’s poetry but to rejoice in the written word before the pandemic times start to influence our social life again. Even though I didn’t feel like performing, I shared my findings. It took place in my room in Prague where I’ve stayed during my internship. There has been built a throne for reciters, elevated armchair that was decorated in Decameron style, with a lot of fresh and healthy-looking fruit on a little drapery hanging down.

This scenery led me to my memory of old gothic manuscripts from the 13- 14th century with margins filled with absurd situations such as the fight against the snail. One cannot exactly know what it actually meant to be, for me its form, as well as the subject matter, somewhat in a loose way merges a closure of chapter one.

Two anatomically and culturally defined characters. The wisdom of nature endows a creature with natural armour, while a human had to get to the point in the evolution when one had a knowledge of how to make the armour and adopt it. Both armours are used as protection against the outer world. Both creatures are consciously aware of the fact that they could be in danger. It might be just a cartoon or a single sample of medieval humor. In the first serious contemporary study of this odd phenomenon, Lillian Randall wrote, ‘Perhaps the joke is that snails, what with the shells they carry on their backs and can hide away in, are some sort of parody of a highly-armored chivalric foe. We’re supposed to laugh at the idea of a knight being afraid of attacking such a ‘heavily armored’ opponent. Silly knight, it’s just a snail!’ [2]

The fight constitutes an idea of the inner confrontation with one’s natural traits or something that the society has established. Thus it’s quite polemic to say who is stronger, it appears like the knight is losing or at least cowering in terror. They are both aware of the advantage of having natural armour. To such a degree I deal with my own Slug, recognition

Battle in the margins, c 1310-1324 from The Gorleston Psalter.

A cowering jousting knight, c. 1264, England, from Li Livres dou Tresor.

The Gastropod Conqueror, c. 1310-1324, England, from the Gorleston Psalter.

Half‑man, half‑animal vs snails, c 1310-1320, France, from The Queen Mary Psalter.

Knight defending himself and his wife with a distaff against a giant snail, c 14th, KB78D40.

Revenge of the huge Snail, c. 1300-1340, southern France, from The Smithfield Decretals.

Half‑man, half‑animal holding the mask vs snail, c 1310-1324 from The Gorleston Psalter.

Armored knight vs snail, c 1315-1325, France, from The Li Livres dou Tresor.

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