Strange days have found me
With myrrh they washed my corpse
And they cut it in to pieces.
Before my sight the underworld dances
Into the abyss of my thought
Rings the bell of the eternal dawn.

Prehistoric phantoms
The living wreck
Staying together
Nothing besides my brain
Could stop the oxygen vein.

Unconsciously I’m walking through the dead
I wonder does that mean am I already there
Where the spirit takes its revenge
And it comes outside the hydrated cave
Of the nowhere
Of the everywhere.

Stay calm my pretty one
Into the ruins of some other age
You will find the forewords from your past-ego
The forewords from your life
The forewords from your future steps.

“Then I visited the osteology wings. The view of the monsters contained therein made me think of the deluge…” – Gerard de Nerval – Aurelia

What was it that really happened? Was a meteor in fact responsible for the elimination of the prehistoric beings, or was it just that they embraced what was coming and preferred to die before they saw the ultimate terror? That humanity was coming? Everything seemed to be unstable for them. The scientists always keep their secrets. The truth is hidden behind one word: Perhaps. Perhaps prehistory is a labyrinth where the words lose their meaning. Perhaps, the fall of Tyrannosaurus became a reality only in our imagination. Perhaps the difference between them and the spreading of this modern virus does not exist at all.

Every second in our lives is another meteor that hits the ground. The “deep time” emerges from the pages of an open book, a book not written. Empty pages, empty words, empty meanings and in the end, empty me, empty you, empty us. Who can tell us for sure that we are far away from those prehistoric years? Our technology? The scientists? Only our imagination can escape from this fallen Earth. We must always remember what Maldoror told us: “Only imagination separates man from the animal!” The total elimination of the dinosaurs could be truth once again (if it ever really existed). We research the past, we dig up the future – really, where is the present, where is the hour of human-kind? Time is counting down!… Right now, every tick-tock in a human’s clock seems like a dead person who is beginning to approach the Lethe (or the lithium if we use our sense of black humor).

In T-Rex’s dream, a person walked on the hills. It was the first time that a human made their presence obviously known. The king of the dinosaurs woke up. It was flooded with sweat, and it was sweating from the first to its last moment. No one could believe its dream. “What is man?” “Where does he come from?” Those were the questions that broke their silence. And then… came the deluge… Asteroids wiped out their flesh with pleasure (at least, this is what scientists say). The embrace of their bones with death was a historical fact, and the dream was transformed into the awful reality. Somebody told me that the geological colors always take the color of the blood and fire, when some unplanned explosion takes place. This is something we all know. The baby when it comes to light from its mother’s dark womb, is drowned in blood. The problem is obvious when the baby is born blind. Then it learns that the darkness is the light, and that non-color is color. It learns that explosions are made only by sounds, not by fire. What happens after this blind birth? Perhaps, (and there is again this magic word that leaves the challenge and the ambiguity to rule the rules), it is then that the prehistoric years live for ever – everyone must think and answer that by themselves because the answers are buried inside the unconscious of each of us (once again, in our unconscious we can find the solution before our elimination becomes real).

For us, the surrealists, things are so clear: clarity of thought depends on the candle we hold to drive away the darkness. The prehistoric age disappeared for us between sleep and waking. We did excavations during periods of hypnosis, we spoke the unknown, we met the unbelievable. No matter what people say, we see the light. Our belief is connected with nature’s heart. The most likely destiny is to die just like any other human being – but this doesn’t mean that we live our lives just like them. We live upon the edge of time and over the storm. With our verbs we are drawing the petals of the unseen. We created our meteors and asteroids, used our hands, our minds, our words, in terms of reaching different times and we created worlds and cities whose liberation was the only law for the population that lives in them(1). We made our houses from glass and even when we strayed into the caves, (just like everyone does), we shared the flame of amour fou. We went deep down, we stood inside the “deep time”, through its tunnels, we approach its magnificence, and when we decided to imitate the walk of humans, we created the wheel and with that surrealistic activity, we found ourselves at the crossroads where we passed from the prehuman era to the stone age(2). Surrealism was always the parameter of human thought which made our species stand out from dinosaurs (mathematics and physics are surrealistic acts, how we use them, is a process completely foreign to us when their use turns against nature in any form: human nature, object nature, nature itself).

Even if our species seems so close to elimination, even if we seem like dinosaurs more and more, even if the prehistoric age looks like today, we always hope for a new beginning. Through deluges, through meteor storms, a New Dawn of Humanity will stand up and the unwritten book will always keep the last word, this word which we will write with our auras, with our passion, with our spirit, with us…

To be continued…

1. In 20th-century Greek surrealism, the two greatest surrealists, Andreas Embeirikos and Nikos Engonopoulos, imagined two different cities. The first named his city Octana, the second, Sinopi. These two cities had humanity’s liberation in common; liberation of sexuality, of dreams, of desires, etc. As Embeirikos said, “Octana’s citizens are angels, angels with obvious sex”.
2. see Guillaume Apollinaire, The Breasts of Tiresias.