Zo-om

Prose in Albanian

„Naimi”, Tirana 2023 / „Librarium Haemus”, Bucharest 2024

Zo-om is a literary exploration along a metaphorical, fractured border-line, weaving together punctuation-like symbols and an anxiety-laden emptiness. It probes the fluid, silence-charged boundary between animal and human. The human side crosses this boundary often via deliberate – or sometimes unavoidable – silence. The animal side communicates through "speech without words". The narrative unfolds in seven interconnected parts, titled: Short Eastory (An author-crafted word), Cage, Clean, Borrowed voices, The heritage, l.o.l., More hidden than Literature. These parts collectively span not only Albanian, Balkan and European contexts but also broader universal sensibilities and mentalities. The author constructs the concept of “Zo-om” – layered term evoking: Zoo(logy), Zo-om* (with ”om” meaning “human” in Romanian), Zoom (as in “magnification” in English). It's a creative weaving of linguistic and semiotic meanings, characteristic of Kyçyku’s stylistic innovation. ”Zo-om” stands out as a philosophical and poetic narrative, rich in semiotic layers and linguistic play, emblematic of Kyçyku’s broader oeuvre – marked by cultural reflection, bilingual expression, and experimental form.

Like under the sky

 

In the game / in life:

the Witness - the pseudonym of a boy

from the age of 13 until shortly after death

 

Their voices were heard as if they were underwater. We imagined them locked up in bubbles made somehow out of soap, or like those that represent dreams in drawings, and I smiled.

Our smiles disappeared just like bubbles as well, but they were hard to be noticed by someone. For years, not one of them had the curiosity, nor did they try or struggle to translate our smiles. They believed them to be as last bubbles, from the category of those who leave the dying before they even gave up the ghost, or with the exit of their souls, as if the soul was just air enclosed in bubbles and couldn’t mix with water.

When the twilight melted into the night, and by courtesy of the deep blue just like stings, the stars gathered above us, we had the impression that all the bubbles of the day had been just some kind of translucent eggs. They rose to the thin layer where the waters met with the skies, with the closeness of the stars to the waters, and burst gently, as if in a deafness. The stars were turning into snowflakes or crystal flowers.

Everything resembled somehow the fertilization, but not so much that of the flowers, but more of the fish that danced around us.

I learned the word ‘birth,

 

THE DAY OF FAREWELL  

13. I encountered deeply ingrained issues. I had been talking to myself for who knows how long, and with each uttered word, I learned new ones. I learned the word ‘birth,’ the word ‘issue,’ the phrase ‘deeply ingrained,’ the word ‘speak,’ the word ‘perhaps,’ the phrase ‘for how long,’ the phrase ‘to oneself,’ the conjunction ‘and,’ the word ‘conjunction,’ the word ‘after,’ the word ‘every,’ the word ‘word,’ the word ‘thus,’ the word ‘learn,’ the word ‘news,’ the word ‘phrase,’ the word ‘enough,’ and many more and many more. Otherwise, how could I even speak, even if just to myself? In truth, the words were the same, but to me, they felt different, entirely different, and I relearned them from scratch, as if they were completely new. However, I managed to open my eyes—somehow, who knows how—and beheld five white walls. Excluding the floor, which was behind me since I was lying down, there were five white walls in the room. It was fortunate there weren’t more than five, because even if there were, they would still be just walls. 

Hârtii nemâncate

Există oameni care au supravieţuit hrănindu-se cu hârtie. Există chiar scriitori care mănâncă hârtie. Precursorul acestora este acel călugăr anonim care, cu mâna dreaptă scria, iar cu stânga mânca. Se spune că, într-o dimineaţă revelatorie, şi-a dat seama că mâncase tot ce scrisese. Oare ce s-o fi întâmplat în organismul său? Ce să fi însemnat pentru el actul scrisului, scriitorul, nemurirea şi potenţialii cititori? Poate a găsit câteva răspunsuri fundamentale, pe care, de furie, de foame, din forţa obiceiului, dintr-un sentiment prea apăsător de inutilitate, le-a mâncat. La câteva sute de ani mai târziu, în Albania mea natală, călugărul s-a reîncarnat într-un alt anonim. Sărac, fiu de săraci anonimi, omul moştenise de la tatăl său doar o bibliotecă. Înainte de moarte, muribundul îi lăsase fiului o vorbă:

- Bani, sărăcie şi viaţă, copiii tăi îşi vor găsi singuri, dar cărţi ca acestea nu prea…

The Uneaten Pages

 

Some people have survived by eating paper. Even authors have to eat paper sometimes. Their predecessor must have been that anonymous monk who used to write with his right hand and eat with his left hand. They say that one prophetic morning he realized he had eaten everything he had written. What had really happened inside his body? For the monk, what was the meaning of the act of writing, being a writer, immortality, and his potential readers? Maybe he had found some fundamental answers which he had eaten, in rage, in hunger, by virtue of habit, or because there was nothing else to do.

A few hundred years later, in my native Albania, the monk has been reincarnated into another anonymous being. This slave to the lord was a poor man, the son of another poor and anonymous man, yet he inherited a bookcase from his father. His father’s dying words were:

“Money, poverty and life, these your children will find by themselves, but not books like these…”

Tabla înmulțirii

Cartea mea de matematică a murit.

Ştiţi de ce?

Pentru că avea prea multe probleme.

Frumy la 10 ani

Nimeni nu spălase până atunci cadavrul vreunui poet. Poetul îşi dăduse duhul ca în glumă, într-un soi de râgâit copilăresc, de ai fi zis că sufletul vine din ţărână şi nu se pogoară din ceruri. Cu puţin noroc sau nenoroc, ar fi împlinit optzeci de ani. În camera din vârful turnului se aflase doar Iubita lui, care a mărturisit mai târziu că ultimele bule de aer ale Poetului răsturnaseră celebrul cerşit de lumină al lui Goethe.

- Mehr întuneric..., spusese.

Aproape orbise de ultima lumină a acestei lumi, adunată sarcastic în fiinţa lui, sau de cea dintâi lumină a lumii celeilalte.

Obscurul profesor de matematică, pe care liceenii îl porecliseră pur şi simplu «Deci», tocmai urca treptele întortocheate ale turnului. Venise să-l întrebe pe Poet dacă nu era cumva de părere că numărul 2 seamănă perfect cu o lebădă. Bătuse la poartă mai emoţionat ca niciodată şi strigătul Urcă! al Poetului parcă-i ordona să intre în pământ.

- Vai, s-a dus, s-a dus, Deci... - ţipă Iubita.

- Ce, unde?! - încremeni tovarăşul Deci.

Poetul se prăpădise chiar în timp ce tovarăşul Deci urca. Fulgerător, tainic, în prezenţa Iubitei şi a umbrei politicosului Deci, care lucra de ani de zile la traducerea sublimelor poeme de dragoste într-un volum de numere. Izbutise să-l convingă pe bătrân că poezia adevărată poate dăinui chiar dacă nu e tradusă în limbi de largă circulaţie, dar nu prea are viaţă lungă în astral, dacă nu e tradusă în numere. Căci numerele guvernau din nevăzut această lume, o spusese chiar Goethe. Şi precum avea deja cunoştinţă regretatul Poet, tovarăşul Deci era pe cale să demonstreze încă alte două lucruri de importanţă majoră pentru soarta omenirii şi anume:

- existenţa lui Dumnezeu, bazându-se doar pe tabla înmulţirii, şi că:

- soarta marii poezii depinde întru totul de rânduiala numerelor lăuntrice. 

Gloria și mersul trenurilor

Printre sute de Maestre, mi s-a întâmplat să cunosc şi pe unul care avea o viziune autentică asupra gloriei, deşi nu vroia să ştie ce înseamnă scriitor, critică sau premii literare. Ultimul volum pe care-l citise nu era semnat de nimeni şi purta un titlu dezolant: Mersul trenurilor pe anul 1969. Odată cu căderea Cortinei de Fier, câteva edituri ieşiseră din cortinele de carton şi nu ştiau cum să scape de cărţile depăşite. În loc să distrugă miile de cărţi complet mediocre, se apucaseră să ardă sau să umple spaţii goale cu cărţi despre ale căror puteri stranii nu ştiau nimic. În jur de 1001 de exemplare din Mersul trenurilor pe anul 1969, poposiseră şi la atelierul lui Maestre. Înainte de a le da foc, Maestre le făcuse o poză. Căci Maestre era fotograf. Unul complet obscur, repartizat la un muzeu de provincie. Unde a avut o certă revelaţie. Răsfoise Mersul Trenurilor, de mai multe ori, urmărind cu ochii închişi direcţia şinelor şi programul zgomotelor de altădată, localităţile în care se oprise cu câte o femeie sau cu prietenii de pahar, şi cineva sau ceva îi şoptise să-l vândă. Şi a rămas perplex, văzând cu câtă furie sau calm imbatabil cumpărau necunoscuţii aşa ceva.

Wie unter dem Himmel

Ihre Stimmen klangen wie unter Wasser. Wir stellten sie uns wie in Seifen- oder wie in gezeichneten Traumblasen vor und wir lächelten. Unsere Lächeln entfernten sich wie die Blasen, die kaum beachtet wurden. Seit Jahren war niemand von ihnen neugierig und gab sich die Mühe, unsere aufrichtigen Lächeln zu übersetzen. Sie hielten sie für die letzten Blasen eines Sterblichen, bevor oder wenn er die Seele aushaucht, als ob die Seele in einer Blase eingeschlossene Luft wäre und sich mit dem Wasser nicht vermischen würde. Als sich die Dämmerung am Abend auflöste und sich aus dem tiefen Blau Sterne über uns wie Stachel versammelten, schien es uns, als ob alle Blasen des Tages durchsichtige Eier wären. Sie stiegen zur dünnen Schicht hinauf, wo sich die Wasser mit den Sternenhimmeln berührten, und sie zerplatzten sanft und geräuschlos. Die Sterne verwandelten sich in Schneeflocken und Kristallblumen. Das Ganze ähnelte der Befruchtung, aber weniger der von Blumen, eher der von Fischen, die um uns herumtanzten. An Winterabenden nahmen Schneeflocken den Platz der Sterne ein, aber die Befruchtung unterschied sich nicht. Dies war das letzte Entzücken, das wir in Worte fassten, bevor sie der Reihe nach kamen, um uns nach draußen zu rufen, oder in das, was sie drinnen und nicht selten sogar drinnen im Leben nannten.

Nicht gegessenes Papier

Einige Menschen haben überlebt, weil sie Papier gegessen haben. Es gibt sogar Schriftsteller, die Papier essen. Ihr Vorgänger war ein namenloser Mönch, der mit der rechten Hand schrieb und mit der linken aß. Es wird erzählt, dass ihm an einem Morgen der Erleuchtung aufgefallen war, dass er alles aufgegessen hatte, was er geschrieben hatte. Was mag in seinem Organismus geschehen sein? Welchen Sinn können für den Mönch der Akt des Schreibens, das Dasein als Schriftsteller, die Unsterblichkeit und die möglichen Leser besessen haben? Vielleicht hatte er einige wesentliche Antworten gefunden, die er aus Hunger, aus Wut, aus Macht der Gewohnheit oder aus einem starken Gefühl der Vergeblichkeit aufgegessen hat. Ein paar hundert Jahre später wurde der Mönch in meiner Heimat Albanien in einem anderen namenlosen Wesen wiedergeboren. Ein armer Sohn von namenlosen Armen, ein Sterblicher, hatte von seinem Vater nur eine Bibliothek geerbt. Bevor sein Vater starb, sagte er ihm diese Worte:

„Geld, Armut und Leben finden deine Kinder auch allein, aber solche Bücher wie diese nicht …”

Το Αγκίστρι

Εκείνοι που είχαν την καλοσύνη, ή το περίσσευμα χρόνου, να του κάνουν την κηδεία, να του πληρώσουν τη παραμονή στο νεκροτομείο, να πληρώσουν τον εφημέριο, τους νεκροθάφτες και τη νεκροφόρα που μετέφερε τη σωρό του από την εστία των αστέγων μέχρι το νεκροταφείο, ήταν κατά κάποιον τρόπο δίδυμοι αδερφοί του. Δίδυμοι διαφορετικών μανάδων, φύλων και θρησκειών. Η μοναδική διαφορά τους με αυτόν ήταν ότι όλοι εκείνοι είχαν ονόματα, ή τουλάχιστον παρατσούκλια, κληρονομημένα ο καθένας από τη γενέτειρά του ή από κάποιο ιδιαίτερο ανδραγάθημα σε τούτη τη χώρα. Ενώ αυτόν τον ήξεραν μόνο ως «Εκείνος που δεν του γαυγίζουν οι σκύλες». Διότι ήταν ο μόνος άνθρωπος που όταν εμφανιζόταν στην αυλή μπροστά από τους θαλάμους, στο παράθυρο, στο εστιατόριο, στο διάδρομο που οδηγούσε στην πόλη, είτε μέρα είτε νύχτα, οι σκύλες του περίγυρου, πάντα γκαστρωμένες, λεχώνες και πεινασμένες, δεν τον τιμούσαν με τα γαβγίσματά τους. Ίσως εκείνος να γνώριζε τη γλώσσα των σκυλιών.

Die Schaufel

Vielleicht werden die Menschen auferstehen, mit ihren Schwächen tretend über den Tod hinaus, oder verwesen, mit ihrer Dummheit tretend über die Weisheit hinaus, doch jener Zauber der Stadt von einst, jener unverwechselbare Ruch bitterer Armut, die in der Schönheit des berückenden Spiels mit dem Tod aufgeht, wird nicht mehr wehen in jenen Gefilden.

Weshalb auch.

Für wen auch.

Jene Stadt, wunderbar ob der Gegenwart des Sees zur Sommerzeit und transzendent ob der Schneestürme zur Winterzeit, hatte außer der bitteren Armut, der vergeblichen Schönheit und der Verrücktheit, die im übrigen jeder Stadt der Welt eigen ist, auch noch einen verrückten Dichter.

Les bonnes manières de l’invisible

Cette troupe bruyante de dresseurs d'ours disparut, elle- même, après que les ours, eux, livrés à eux-mêmes par l'ivresse des dresseurs, affamés comme des ours, avaient mis en pièces le seul gardien du cimetière de la ville. C'était la seule personne vivante, demeurée dehors, car, effrayés par l'étrange couleur du crépuscule, jamais vue, tous les citadins, comme s'ils eussent échangé leur cerveau humain pour un cerveau d'autruche, avaient décidé de ne plus sortir de leur maison. Le gardien n'avait pas une bonne vue, on disait même que sa vue avait été absorbée, en tant d'années de gardiennage honnête, par l'éclat bizarre du marbre sur les tombes. Il bougeait à peine, mais il doit avoir encore aimé cette vie, qu'il entrevoyait de plus en plus vaguement, car quelques instants avant de communier avec la faim des ours, il avait crié:

- Mon Dieu, quelle grande faim vient vers moi!

L’Arène

Quand il courait vers eux, avec ses pieds cassés d’une si longue course, mais surtout de la dilemme de continuer le voyage ou de se jeter mortellement par terre, ils bouillonnaient d’impatience, en attendant de se rendre, après les Dieux, les uniques maîtres du Feu le Merveilleux, avec lequel ils pourraient cuire la nourriture, la viande, le pain.

Ils étaient en train d’attendre le Feu, avec lequel ils seraient capables de chauffer leurs solitudes, quoique la nourriture représentait pour eux seulement une variante de la solitude et de l'inversement.

The Fishhook

They were kind enough, or had enough time on their hands, to carry out the funeral and pay for the undertaker, the parish priest, the carpenters, the sextons, and the hearse that carried his body from the hostel to the cemetery. They were in a sense his brothers and sisters, if of different mothers and religions. Their were only really distinguished by their names, or at least their nicknames, which they had brought from their home countries or acquired through some unusual exploit here. They had known him only as “the guy the bitches don’t bark at,” because he was the only person who, in the yard in front of the dormitory, at the windows, in the dining hall, or on the street that led to the town. was left in peace by the hungry, continually pregnant bitches who guarded their litters hereabouts. Perhaps he knew the language of dogs.

Triumphalus or The Sunset of the Stallions

The Old Geezer had come again to the shore of the Black Sea to buy himself an eye. The other reason was to spend a honeymoon here. As a rule, he would go back with an extra honeymoon and the same number of eyes. Five years before, appalled as he was by the fact that the number of those who could see with their right eye started to halve, he had decided to seek the advice of a famous Asian astrologer. He had the right to see how the world and its beings look like before he should pass away. The astrologer read his stars, translated his runes, went into a trance, questioned some souls, read his Tarot cards and told his clearly: You should buy it from the same place where it burnt out. The Old Geezer’s eye had unexpectedly burnt out in his homeland, while he was asleep and he was overtaken by the insensitivity of faith. He hadn’t lost any eye in the Great War, when both your eyes were more endangered than your head. He was embarrassed about buying a left eye in his own country, perhaps because of the way in which his country fellows would see the world. Now, that the countries were about to join, he could choose to buy his eye in much larger space.

Bunele maniere ale nevăzutului

Dispăru şi trupa aceea gălăgioasă de ursari, după ce urşii ei, neglijaţi de beţia ursarilor, înfometaţi ca urşii, ciopârţiră pe singurul paznic al cimitirului oraşului. Era singurul om viu rămas afară, căci toţi orăşenii, înspâmântaţi de o stranie şi nemaivăzută culoare a asfinţitului, ca şi cum şi-ar fi preschimbat creierul de om în gândire de struţ, se hotărâră să nu iasă din case. Paznicul nu prea vedea bine – se spunea chiar că vederea lui fusese absorbită, în atâţia ani de pază cinstită, de lucirea bizară a marmurei mormintelor – abia se putea mişca, dar se pare că-i fusese încă dragă această viaţă, pe care o zărea din ce în ce mai vag, deoarece, cu câteva clipe înainte de a fi împărtăşit întru avalanşa urşilor, strigase: 

- Mare foame se avântă spre mine, Doamne!

Astfel morţii au rămas nepăziţi, iar după îngroparea paznicului au urmat alte două nenorociri: cam toate mormintele mai de vază au fost decojite de marmură (care a baricadat pereţii aflaţi în direcţia de unde se aştepta venirea sfârşitului) şi depozitele de grâu au luat foc. Bogătaşii au ieşit din vile, în acelaşi timp cu propria lor ieşire din minţi, şi n-au încetat să facă înconjurul focurilor ameţitoare, până când mirosul de pâine bine prăjită s-a transformat dureros de perseverent într-un miros de scrum.