While it took me decades to accept the name given to me at birth, accepting my body is a work in progress that may not end before I am finished. How often did I hear someone on the street calling 'Johannes!' and turning back convinced they called ME... All the attempts to shorten my name to Anna, at school, at work, and at home ended with rather abrasive reminders that my name is actually Johanna - that, if one cares to look at the etymology, both names carry disparate meanings so, before you get into a habit, ask the person if it's okay to abbreviate... This said, each time a doubt would sneak in and I had to ask myself: is it? Is this really who I am?

Both of my parents firmly maintained the same version of the story: my name came was given to me in homage to my paternal grandmother, Viennese down to the bone who in her glory days brushed shoulders with Alma Mahler and Martha Bernays Freud. She died shortly before I was born and was reported to be a very distinct and cultivated woman. I must have been a great disappointment in comparison, didn't turn out up to the standard set by my namesake: classy, feminine, socially and culturally well-defined, cut to a measure set by the finest metropolitan tailors. My respect does not come from her good looks, her fine taste, or etiquette. My respect for her comes mostly from her indignation at the treatment of Jews after we know who came to power and annexed the country as if it were a piece of Prinzregententorte. She never accepted the violence, mass deportation and mass humiliation, to say nothing of the genocide. Her protest wasn't just limited to the treatment of a handful of influential friends – it was an egalitarian and highly principled though strictly personal outrage and sympathy extending even to the poorest, the common folk persecuted by the new lords and masters, the riders of the Apocalypse. For this, I do admire her. To be vocal about it in such a precarious era must have been a bold act of courage and magnanimity. Her husband, in comparison, played the tune of silent conformity. Sitting on the board of one of Austria's leading banks, he had to comply with the law of the day, which, at the time, translated into unconditional loyalty to the Reich. He saw too many of his colleagues - degraded and reduced to the state of cattle, thrown in the stinking overcrowded train carts and sent for hard labour or slaughter - to dissent following his otherwise lofty Kantian moral principles. Not unlike many others, he decided it was best to keep his categorical imperatives locked up at home, right next to his brandy and cigar collection, while in the open acting as was expected from an official – in line with the brand new categories and brand new imperatives. To be modern, above all, meant to be obedient. Gleich und Gleich gesellt sich gern. Birds of feather, and so on... The new superior Über-race was, therefore, a curious collection of the most servile and sycophantic elements the burgeoning propaganda could assemble. They almost succeeded in doing what Orwell would describe only a few years later: “We will squeeze you empty and then we will fill you with ourselves...” My grandfather was one of the squeezed, at least during the war, but my grandmother, Johanna, was too distraught by the scenes unfolding on the streets of Vienna to accept the new norm. Father said she died prematurely because of the accumulated shame for her compatriots.

Still, respect for the ancestor and the name given to you in their honour are two birds of quite different feathers. What I came to appreciate most, is the virtually interchangeable character of the name: Johannes and Johanna. I recall that in some of my early scribblings, I would on occasion undersign them as Johannes, just to check how it feels. Now that I think of it, I was already experimenting with gender fluidity back in the seventies. Does that make me one of the pioneers? Hardly. Anthropologists all the time come up with ever-fresh discoveries of gender-fluid bodies across the world dating back to as early as the Chalcolithic Period, over six-thousand years ago. In Hawaii, among the Kanaka Maoli indigenous society, there were those called mahu, biological males or females who inhabited a third gender role, known to have high social standing, conducting sacred rituals and being offered responsibility for education. Native Americans had their 'Two Spirit' bodies, and Indonesian Bugis their waria.

It is one of my great regrets... Back in the days, when I did my Magister Artium thesis in evolutionary anthropology, instead of the comparative study of how metempsychosis was expressed and interpreted in various cultures throughout their development, this could have been an even more fascinating subject: the third gender across the world. I suppose I can still do it in my spare time. Working in the Library makes it all the easier...

P.S: Following up on yesterday's entry, while at work, I have found this curious fact: “In Pakistan and Bangladesh, the hijras are officially recognized as third gender by the government, being neither completely male nor female. In India also, transgender people have been given the status of “third gender” and are protected by law, despite social ostracism. The term more commonly advocated by social workers and transgender community members themselves is khwaja sira. This can identify the individual as a transsexual person, transgender person (khusras), cross-dresser (zenanas) or eunuch (narnbans).”

Pakistan, India and Bangladesh officially honour and protect the third gender while discriminating, persecuting and gang-raping their women... This doesn't make any sense. I need to look into this a little deeper.

© 2023

There was one more thing. At the funeral, I could not help but notice how incredibly beautiful Kora is becoming. She outshone everyone – they seemed almost like ugly menacing demons next to her. She was the only one alive, the others were only pretending - a masquerade of the dead dressed up as the living... She is almost sixteen now, but already manifests such maturity, such monumental completeness, I could barely take my eyes off her. Neither of her parents makes an impression of excessively well put together; attractive, yes, but nothing like her wonderfully radiant complexion, her dark wavy hair, her melancholy eyes, her perfect figure, her impeccable manners, her persuasive voice, her captivating smile, even her immaculate dress. She grows to become an incredible beauty - a sublime and awe-inspiring human being. I don't know how, but amidst people staring at the coffin with inexplicable, morbid curiosity, I might have been the only one attentive enough to know that the only object worthy of appreciation in this drowsy gathering of false pretences was Kora's perfect profile. If only some Klimt, Schiele or Praturlon were around... They would instantly know what a unique moment it was, what opportunities it offered to those receptive enough. She will surely break hearts among her peers, or maybe she already does. I hate those who will bet on her charms. If only I could protect her from their nefarious transactions, from their aggressive acquisitiveness, their fraudulent sentimentality, the counterfeit market of their seductions, their shortfalls, their offshore speculations, purses loaded with unbacked assets, their profligate spending, their reckless withdrawals, their capital losses, and inevitable bankruptcies... How I wish I were younger, and as pure and uncorrupted as her. I would give anything to be with her. Isn't she the only wealth worth having? I would be madly, madly in love. Perhaps I am...

Except that I'm turning fifty-five, she is my adolescent niece, her mother keeps me away from her as if I were some toxic deposit and my brother's obscene preoccupation with money drives me into his private bank of spent metaphors and chokes me with his ill-intended ultimatums.

Back there, in the funeral home, I had this sudden urge... I don't know where it came from, or why at this particular time, but I felt I wanted to get down on my knees, lift her skirt, pull down her tights and smell her. The time would stop, the space would get as relative as in a quantum equation, and our unconditional mutual consent would be the only effective causality in force. I wanted it so badly I nearly left the ceremony for fear I might be ready do it. I wanted to drown in her scent. I wanted to find out if she still smells like when she was a baby, when we were left on our own and no one dared interfere. I wanted it back, I wanted it all to myself. I felt that her body can be my only solace.

I cannot find it in myself and by myself. My body does not entice me to such lavish pursuits. My body does not pertain to desire. It facilitates the experience of inspiration without being inspiring. It is a seat of wonders that it cannot reciprocate. As far as I'm aware, my body has never exuded any lasting external desirability. The notion of surgical intervention I so adamantly avoided as a child could perhaps have brought about a change in this context, but it's too late. It may well be that the only impulse that diminishes my desirability is my own obstinacy, my exaggerated emphasis on lacking it, the bastard reasons I manufacture in order to justify the absence. A self-made killjoy.

I don't blame my family for not insisting, I don't blame them for their indifference to my queer flaws. The responsibility is all mine and I learned how to live with it. I found ways to sublimate my deficits. Why should it be any different now, when I'm getting old? It is supposed to be much easier to forego sensual yearning. Except that with Kora, it is about much more than sensual allure. What I wanted to smell was her spirit, to blend into one inseparable unit. She's the rose on my cross. She is the spark of sunlight in my broken vessel. Mend me, seal me up, help me to gather back the broken shards, and make a new home for the light inside.

© 2023

It is uncanny to be accused of misanthropy just because one does not indulge in attending funerals. What is so important, so essential in turning up at these stiff, dreary, often creepy and uneventful ceremonies with a tint of bigotry and hypocrisy compared with spending the last living moments with the person in question? Why are they all coming to the final show instead of visiting her during the prelude when she was still alive, responsive and still curious to see those who knew and cared about her welfare? How come you can find time to drag your family all the way to the funeral home - with your flowers, your make-up, your high heels, your black tights, your best suits and your kindest words of boundless compassion and understanding, but you couldn't make the same distance in the last ten or so years when a simple How Are You, or even your presence could make a difference during her illness, perhaps having a very positive impact on her self-image and her vision of humanity? I don't understand the logic, the myopia, the callousness, I don't understand the hierarchy of priorities people choose to follow. Compassion, my ass.

I went, but I went mostly for Kora. There was no need in my heart to produce any outstanding signs of respect. All respect I had for her had been manifested while she was still among us. I went to see how my adored niece is coping with the event. She was brave, no doubt. She didn't make much of it, though she loved her granny as much as her granny loved her. This is good news - she is strong. She will do well in life. Most importantly, at least in my presence, she doesn't come up with nonsensical questions in the vein of Where did grandma's soul go afterwards, or Is she looking at us from above her coffin... Agnes pushes her to attend mass and the Church youth meetings but I am relieved to see she so far resists the antiquated ruminations. Fingers crossed, she'll never share testimonies of how she became a religious zealot and how later in life, once the youthful enthusiasm and dogmatic slumber subsided, she switched to disenchanted agnosticism. I know the process, I've been there. I remember how a snake sheds its skin, how it sidewinds out of its old shell, leaving behind its old parasites... Having said that, one could call it a valuable lesson learned in life, an integral part of personality growth. No better learning than from one's own mistakes - the lessons last longer, although hardly ever beyond a single given incarnation...

Did I just write this? That's interesting. Looks like my work on the subject isn't over yet... Unlike embodiment or birth, the notion of in-carnation poses a problem of belief in the essence/soul/spirit/divine spark/you-name-it that travels throughout aeons and lands itself in bodies to re-emerge on Earth depending on what happened previously. Steiner, bless his unwarranted revelations, used to say that those who refuse to incarnate at the last minute, end up born deformed, severely disabled, etc. So what happens to them the next time around? Can they undo the damage and regain their able-bodied form? It's a vague and twisted idea delivered by means of a vague and dubious parturition... No birth is simple anyway, but in the case of in-carnation, it is the whole complex chain of them, multiple seasons, multiple births, and a convoluted cultural link extending far beyond East and West... It's a mess. Can it be disproved? Can it be proved? Must we uphold the unprovable and unfalsifiable and carry the misconceptions into the future, honouring and vindicating them as if our Universe depended upon them? Can they be discarded at will? Can they be suspended, put in brackets, relegated to the archive? Can we find solid evidence that categorically supports or contradicts any supernatural claim? What about the claims that can be rejected and upheld in equal measure? Can we be absolutely sure that the whale swallowed Pinocchio before it sneezed him out?

My mother was a lapsed Lutheran. She did not care about arguments for reincarnation since it did not feature in the canon. Yet those who believe in it insist that belief does not matter, that one comes back regardless because that's the law... Even Lutherans...

Anyway, the rest was a mere necessity, a silent handshake with Agnes, and with many others whom I never saw in my life, including those who attend every funeral taking place, as if it were a concert or a play. Some of them joined the wake afterwards but I couldn't. I did not have anything to give. I was only glad for Mother she did not live long enough to learn about Joseph Fritzl and his underground. It would upset her beyond words. I was also happy for her to live to such a fine age, eighty-eight. To survive the war, the resettlement, and to find new life in Vienna... She went through a lot at such young age. But then, Elisabeth Fritzl went through much more, and the fact she survived all of this is nothing short of a miracle.

Does Kora know? Did she hear the news? She most likely did - it's everywhere. I won't ask her about it though. Not yet.

On the margin: Fritzl... I wonder if he's religious. I wonder what he has to say about reincarnation. If he ever thought of the 'arrangement' as two separate lives, or does he perceive it as one? Does he even realize what he has done?! It may yet turn out in the course of the investigation; unless he decides to remain silent.

© 2023

Self-submission and self-deception might well be the greatest obstacles on the path to inner freedom... It's incredible how deeply the episode got lodged in his psyche. Last summer, he asked me to meet him in Café Havelka. It was a time when I could still converse with him in a relatively civilized way; 'civilized' in this case means, he was prepared to come down to my level and speak to me in person. He seemed to still carry the visible mark of this remote awkwardness about him though - his unremitting effort to subjugate me, to make me his property portfolio page, a picture in the album of possessions. I noticed it in the way he avoided my eyes, in his tight-lipped contempt for me. I am certain, it's Anton, no one else, who created the heavy load of disgrace for himself. And it breaks my heart that, although I love my brother, there is nothing I can do to alleviate his misery.

The meeting was brief. It was months before the financial crash of last December, yet he was already talking about his alleged financial problems, that he recently drowned nearly a million-worth investment somewhere in America and badly needed a substantial financial injection to get back on his feet. Is that a lot to you, a million? I asked naively, assuming the figures he typically handled were much steeper. It's substantial enough – the money was all my own, he replied, looking at the table as if hoping it may reappear in front of him on demand should he stare this way long enough. Are you saying it wouldn't be as much if it belonged to someone else? - I continued. These days money hardly belongs to anyone, he replied. He probably meant that if the sum wasn't his, it wouldn't matter who else had it. He then tried to raise the issue of inheritance but, knowing how profoundly I disliked the subject, he threaded carefully.

Mother seems content... he uttered without conviction.

She is too drugged to seem otherwise, I replied briskly, precipitating long silence.

How's your flat? he inquired, struggling to make conversation.

My flat is a very happy and thriving place, I said. If only all other flats were as bright and peaceful as mine, the world would be a better place. Is that so... he blurted out with his trademark incredulity. Yes it is, I answered brazenly. It is happy mostly because no one unhappy ever visits. I tried to provoke him to say something involved, something personal, something that would serve as viable excuse for never turning up, not even once despite repeated invitations, but to no avail. He only smirked sardonically, probably thinking who on Earth might be misguided or ill-advised enough to come and see ME anyway. Guessing his thoughts, I added that Kora visits on a regular basis. And how is she doing? he threw in, disinterested on the onset. You're supposed to know that. You are her only uncle... I am, he admitted, that's correct. I haven't spoken to her in a while; have been busy lately, business affairs and all that... The work keeps me away from... - and here Anton tried to find words which would not sound overtly cynical - ...relatives.

She is doing well... I said. She loves her work almost as much as you. He seemed to approve of the comment, he particularly enjoyed the sound 'almost.'

Still alone? he asked. I said, yes, still alone. She is careful; too busy to bother with relationships... How about you, anyone in sight? He immediately switched his approval light off, frowned and got angry. Looking like someone who inside his head screams 'it's not your fucking business, you freak of nature' - he only replied, No one, and then quickly, to change the topic, he said: Listen, I wanted to meet you to discuss the situation... I mean, mother's situation. She's practically bed-bound and may not live much longer, so...

I interjected that, to my knowledge, she left a will with her lawyer and that there was nothing left to discuss between us...

Me and Agnes are concerned, he said somewhat hesitantly, building up onto something I did not foresee. About what? I asked. You and Agnes are concerned about what? I repeated, perhaps a notch too stand-offishly. '

We are concerned, that you may think of doing it again... Trying to donate your share, like the last time, with dad's insurance fund... When you gave it away to some immigration charity...

I corrected him, that first of all, it was only half, and besides, what does it have to do with Agnes and himself? Someone leaves instructions, money is being split, and I diligently utilise it to my best ability... Yes, he interrupted, but if you will once again leave a large sum of money to complete strangers, this means you clearly hate your family.

I do not hate, I said after a brief pause. And as to the money, I might, I don't know. I might well donate it where it's needed most. They most certainly need it more than you or myself. You will send it immediately abroad, and I want to put it into a good use locally... I ventured, wasting time for futile argument. He looked at me with such fierce brutality as if he wanted to smack me in face, and then he got up and left. It was the last time I saw him face to face.

At the funeral, he kept as far away as possible. He didn't say a word to me. And now this theatrical defiance, these ultimatums, deadlines and a rush down the cliff to reorder missing digits. Only formal communications through lawyers... To make things worse, all this just when the world learns about Fritzl... How awful, how terribly awful. Poor kids, poor Elisabeth... All my concerns, worries, my petty sorrows mean nothing in comparison. I feel ashamed for giving out, for splitting hairs... I feel like the whole country mourns today. Not because someone died - but because of the way we live.

© 2023

I was almost nineteen and my distrust towards pleasure was already well under way. The event only reinforced it and turned my wariness into steadfast abstinence, which, despite rather grotesque attempts to break it, for better or worse, continues to this day. Distrust is one way of calling it. It was a blend of downright fear, discomfort, reluctance and repulsion. I admit, something did not click.

Back then, I perceived sex chiefly as a frenzied tenderless ego trip, a one-sided display of power exerted on a vulnerable recipient who, more than often, didn't even wish to participate. I'm not entirely sure whether it had much to do with what is now called toxic masculinity. It was more like a surface layer of ego in general that I had been struggling with, the feral side of self that met with my resistance - not a gender. Why couldn't ego be trusted? Isn't it all we've got, all we are? Essentially, my answer was resounding NO – ego is neither all we have got nor all we are. There are also countless subtle links binding us together on both physiological and spiritual level, a complex supraliminal mycorrhizal network that continues far beyond death. We are what connects us, I thought - the threads of deep interaction between each other and our environment. Later on, I learned how to include, to accept pleasure as one of the threads, but it took me some time and painful reckoning.

Anton, a relatively successful entrepreneur to be, followed in his father's footsteps not only in terms of professional orientation but also in the ruthless treatment of his own as well as my intelligence. Soon after, I became his point of reference for everything he was disinterested in or disrespectful of, and this vast category, unfortunately, involved almost everything except money. If it's an intellectual or emotional pursuit carrying no palpable benefit, it's most likely to do with one of his older sister's arena of anachronistic fancies. 'She lives in the clouds and we must foot the bill' - the mantra invented by my father was replicated by Anton. Like father like son rings true.

Our fragile relationship had been irreparably damaged by an incident in which, one day, I quietly entered the house and caught Anton, at the time fifteen, in my room masturbating to my childhood photos. As soon as he saw me, he ran away leaving me completely stultified. The photos he was looking at weren't in any way provocative or explicit. They featured me sitting at the lake edge in my swimsuit, or standing on the edge of a path in South Tyrol during one of our summer hikes. At first silent and embarrassed, he avoided my gaze. He would step out of the room whenever I was around and didn't exchange a single word with me for months. While this bizarre tension mounted, I felt he grew to hate me for the humiliating intrusion - even though I have never mentioned it to anyone. He held it against me as an unforgivable crime I committed against his privacy. It was as if I didn't know enough already - as if I had to sneak in without knocking (the room was mine but that's clearly an irrelevant detail), step into his inner world and discover his deeply held desires or perhaps his peculiar way of demonstrating dominion over his siblings. I have become an uncomfortable witness that should be disposed of, eliminated, sent to a remote island or the mountains and forgotten about. He most likely held me responsible for later difficulties in his intimate life - in finding a long-term partner. He gradually became overtly misogynistic, which is quite baffling considering he has never regarded me as a fully-fledged woman... To him, as well as to my parents, I was an impostor, an unfortunate blend of qualities that are too vague to judge as a finished product. Mother and Agnes were on the list alright; they were proper, finished products bearing children (a product capable of delivering other products is particularly useful - just like money that makes itself), having relationships with men, putting up with their ideas no matter what - a female is a female, not some kind of dysfunctional mutant who only seems to be one. He always suspected me of conspiring against him and telling his younger sister and mother about the episode; he loathed me for allegedly mocking him behind his back, something he often did towards me with his neighbourhood pals. Let it be clear once and for all, I have never done it nor intend to. Breaking of the thread connecting me with my brother affected me deeply and instead of getting inexplicably vicious as he did, I had to deal with the consequences - explain them to myself. Initially, I became even more shy and withdrawn - I felt this was also a particularly bad timing, just as I begun attending University. Until I broke the spell and forced myself to frequent swimming venues again, I had an issue with remaining undressed in front of others, particularly when I noticed their gaze shifting towards me. That gaze... It robbed me of my sense of security even when I was left on my own, in my so called own room, where one is supposed to be free from any unwelcome intrusions.

© 2023

I have taught myself not to take such comments too personally, to mollify the fruitless anger. It happened many times before, and I developed a thin but effective immunity from these assaults. I remember quite a few instances when mother gave out about my 'ridiculous virginity' or my 'unfeminine and off-putting demeanour' or that I was as depraved as any next-door Austrian but hypocritically conceal it as if I were some bloody medieval saint; and before that about my 'perverse affection for shrubberies' and filling such beautiful loft with nothing but worthless pots including 'the filthiest idea she ever came across' - of the compost toilet producing manure to feed the roses and make them more fragrant. She knew saying something like that was unlikely to hurt me. Instead, it typically triggered self-questioning prompted by my inborn desire to find out if what she said had any merit. Was I unreasonable, vain, filthy, dissonant? My family hates me for this urge to know myself. They think it selfish and narcissistic, that I am consumed by my whims and caprices as if no one else in the whole world counted. But this could not be further from the truth. Some people are more invested in self-knowing than others. Some people regard it as their priority – to find out who they are and what is their purpose in life. I am one of these people, plain and simple, but the accusations of condescension that so often came from those closest to me always come as a surprise. It made me even question whether someone swapped children between the hospital cribs while my mother was unconscious with the fever... whether I belonged to someone entirely else... What other option was I left with but to hide from them, dig an even deeper hole and bury my tongue in it? Each time I expressed my curiosity, it immediately sent a wave of unrest among those around me. And yet, all I was doing was merely analyzing a fact of life – a life we suppose to share, not quarrel about or to compete for. To me, there is no division between reasoning and living, no dichotomy between the philosophy of life and the philosophy of reason. Take for instance bio-luminosity. When I sat there with my mother, the room was dark, the curtains were drawn, and I felt I was beginning to glow. My body was emitting a gentle, perceptually discernible light. My mother spoke with eyes closed so she wouldn't see it, but I knew, I saw it, I raised my hands to my eyes - they were undeniably radiant. The angler-fish with its luminescent fin ray serves to attract the prey, fireflies glow to attract mates, and for the blue and green light of jellyfish Aequorea Victoria the emitted light is means of communication. Indeed, just like with other organisms, my light was in essence a product of a mere chemical reaction – but the question was, a reaction to what? At least I try to understand it, whereas others would perhaps simply accept it as a given, or dismiss it as an illusion, mind and senses playing tricks against their poor judgment. Does my body release light when I am falsely accused of something, misrepresented, or coaxed into believing in blatant falsities, or does it produce the effect entirely in its own accord, independently of my prejudice, my opinion, my convictions or reactions to what is said? Is it a form of self-defense, self-affirmation, or self-deceit? Maybe it does it when it's entirely at peace with itself, when there is nothing left to add, to rectify, to fight for. Maybe it's just the way it is - a glowing body. Pity I have never witnessed it in others. It's a pity if not downright shame, my family never approved of my right to know, to inquire, to pursue a path that is as unusual as the experiences at hand. They would rather see me passively accepting such things or rejecting them as absurd. They sensed danger in digging for the truth, finding out things they would rather have buried deep in the sand. Anton clearly tried very hard to bury his shame deep enough so that no one ever goes back to what happened, especially me. For that, however, he would have to erase my memory, and my memory works quite well.

© 2023

My mother's feelings... My mother's feelings for me were not the same feelings she had for Agnes or Anton. But why wouldn't we have the right to mourn her as if she loved us the same way? Why does he act so erratically... Why wouldn't I 'deserve' the loss... He is trying to cut me off once and for all. I don't blame Agnes, she is on a receiving end, continuously made to believe I am evil incarnate. How naive of me to think that mother's death will change Anton's attitude, that he'll soften, melt a bit. No hope. Freezing cold love, humid distrust, dry hatred, burning distance. Why do I even insist of calling it love... It is about time to learn the lesson. My family is a mystery to me, an enigma I may never fathom. Did I rob them of something precious when I was born? Did they have me too early? Mother even refused to talk about the mastitis, as if I were unable to make the connection. Instead of enjoying her first newborn child, and learning how to feed it steadily, she was kept away from it in pain and high fever for the first crucial days of her pregnancy. When Agnes carried Kora and pregnancy was the endless topic from which I was excluded, mother said to her that when they eventually drained her breast, it was oozing with puss-like most revolting pungent liquid. The unforgettable stench must have influenced my mother's relationship with me for the rest of her life. I was blamed for the complications that came afterwards, for the recurring cysts, as if I, the infant, did it all on purpose. Sometimes these troubles are caused by poor feeding techniques, sometimes it's a bacterium, Staphylococcus Aureus. It could also be many different factors combined. On top of it, mother developed prolonged postnatal depression. The beginning of maternity must have been unbearably hard for her. There is no doubt in my heart that it also must have adversely affected her relationship with my father. What took me by surprise, however, was the words she left me with just before she died. We were alone in the room, she was resting, fully dressed, on top of the bed, as it was her custom in the last years. Her depression got worse, her pain could only be managed with increasing doses of transdermal morphine. We stayed silent for a long time, she even asked for her favoured Schubert piano pieces to be turned off. I was sitting on the chair next to the bed, looking at the fast-moving clouds, when, out of the blue, she said in much abated tone, as if spoken through a veil of a deep opioid slumber: I know what is wrong with you... I don't mean your body - your odd protrusion, or your flat chest - one can get used to that. You've got a mania of integrity, a mania of bending your character according to some alien ideal that doesn't exist in real life. It must be some kind of psychosis you developed early on, perhaps even as a child, a result of losing touch with your surroundings, with the present, with your siblings to whom you are so useless and disturbing. To be honest, I don't know where you got it from, this weird appearance, this outlandish behaviour, these obsessions with plants and dusty old books. I don't think it's inherited. Neither I nor your father were ever like that. We were down-to-earth, always face down the dirty mud of reality. I think you developed it by yourself, that sick elevated mind, this timid hypocritical snobbery, this bizarre sense of hidden superiority. The deranged phantasmagoria to be essentially better than anyone else while completely useless and maladapted at the same time... No one else in the family suffers from it, only you - this integrity psychosis of yours. As if you were simultaneously here and elsewhere. We've tried to keep you close to the earth, your father and I but it's obvious we failed. You were too stubborn, too pig-headed, immune to our influence... Like a virus, like an illness. That is why you grew up to be a freak of nature. I am sorry for you... We should have waited a bit longer. A year or two later, you would be an entirely different person. You would develop in a normal way, like your siblings. Look what a fine daughter she's got, and all you do is corrupt her, bend her to your morbid ways. It's too late now. It's all gone. What a waste...

And after that, she became completely silent again.

Those were her last words directed personally at me. I am glad I remained silent, that I did not seek any explanation. There was nothing to explain. She was unhappy to have me. I did not fulfill her expectations. Nothing new under the Sun. She died two weeks later, in an opioid sleep – her integrity intact.

© 2023

Dearest Kora

I have been trying to talk to you about it for quite some time but choosing the correct way, the adequate words can be daunting.

As far as I can be the judge of it, I have reached the final stage of what Freud used to call ego formation. Looking beyond that stage I can see only...

She stopped writing. She hated the result. She hated to be so inept in writing her last words to the person she loved the most. She also found it utterly exhausting. She could hardly focus, thoughts simultaneously letting her down and then all of a sudden streaming through her mind too fast to be of any use. One of them, more daring and persistent than others, obliged her and made itself known. For some strange reason, and for the first time, it hit her that her life had been made considerably worse by the two men who cast such long shadows over its course: her father and brother, one of them long dead, one still alive - still as awkward and intrusive despite staying, at least physically, well away from her. She realized for the first time that she knew it all the way long, but suppressed it and refused to admit it. Consciously or not, they both worked very hard to inflict maximum harm on the most subtle layer of her psyche. If not their pestering and constant pressure, if not the tone of derision, often accompanied by unrealistic demands to fulfill their patronizing criteria, her life would have been entirely different. It would have been easier and happier. Unless, the authors she revered as a very young 'girl' already sensing father's heavy breathing on her neck, were right in saying life isn't meant to be easy; that the pursuit of happiness is entirely beside the point. Life is a burden - a crisis by definition, and the only way out of it is by accepting its weight and learn how to patiently carry it on one's shoulders till the end...

This cannot be true though. She vividly remembers moments of prolonged sustained bliss, especially since Kora was born. She recalls the joy, the wonder and the beauty she brought into her lonely existence, limited only by her sister's envy and unfounded absurd suspicions. Agnes used every opportunity to separate the two perfectly innocent beings, and when Kora grew up, she quickly realized who was the chief instigator conspiring against her aunt, undermining her from a distance by telling her mother stories that were as false as they were perverse. It was indeed the reason why Johanna learned to self-apply the word "perverse"at the same time treating it with such distance and irony - it was because her brother used it so often, accusing her of conduct and practices that, despite the obvious provocation, she never, not even once took part in.

Another thought went rushing through her mind: what if, instead of writing extensively to Kora as previously intended, and instead of disposing of the diary, Johanna left it to her with just a brief note of farewell? Is the manuscript legible enough? Is it something she should read? Does it contain anything she should add or censor before giving it to her? She wasn't sure of the answers. She felt disappointed she hadn't thought of it till now, that despite planning her last day for such a long time, she kept this thing, this crucial detail suspended in the air. The diary was originally meant only as her intimate outlet of impressions that badly needed to be put in order, as a sort of an alchemist kit with which one purifies the essence, separating it from the unwanted debris of life, selecting and discarding all that's the unwanted and keeping the requisite. She considered it a necessary spiritual exercise, indispensable in coping with the flood of demands and insinuations imposed on her by Anton directly after the funeral. She needed a safety net after he violently pushed her away from the world she was at last, after both parents left her entirely to her own devices, beginning to enjoy on her own terms.

She tried to assess the material with Kora's eyes. 'It won't be an easy read...' Notwithstanding its evident faults, she knew the diary was an honest account of her inner life at the time of writing. She finished it only last year, so it is more or less up-to-date. Not much has happened since, her time and energy consumed mostly by the uneventful work leading to the tonight's final episode, and, should she still have time and if there was a genuine need for it, she could even add another brief entry summing up the period.

'If belief in rebirth was to make any sense, it is as coming to terms with here and now. Plato was right in this context: all knowledge is recollection, anamnesis. If it refers to the past, it must be. The manuscript proves I have spent a great deal of time recollecting, paying my final bills - trying to terminate accounts. Who knows, perhaps I'll have to keep on paying ad infinitum. The subscription can't be cancelled. At least that's what they want us to believe: that the accounts can never be settled – that you always owe something. A slave who can never redeem herself, who can never get her liberty back.'

Are the accounts settled? She felt the powerful urge to read the diary. She opened the desk, grabbed the notebook, went to her favoured chair, put the glasses on and begun reading.

© 2023

A tune she once composed begun reverberating in her mind. The sound only she could hear motivated her to get up and move to another scheduled errand. Fortunately, it was the only piece of furniture left to polish, a handsome, minimalist nineteenth-century slant-top writing desk with a cute little drawer on the right side, originally designed to hold a fountain pen and inkwell, and a generous storage space in the middle where she kept spare writing paper and the manuscript of her diary.

'My inner child, my youth, my fleeting rebellions, my acquiescence, my idealistic zeal, my queer discrepancies, my love, my sorrow, all at peace, relegated to the ever-mounting pile of memory...' Once completed, she tried to destroy it, but never found enough courage. It was an integral part of herself, like the books, like the desk she acquired in Ghent, like the plants in the attic.

The plants... She will tend to them later while upstairs - to make sure they have all they need before her body is discovered. Now, on a freshly polished desk, she only need to write the final letter to her beloved niece explaining what was about to happen.

Her thirty-year-old niece was the only blood relative she kept close contact with. The affection was boundless and mutual. The only child of her sister Agnes, her niece adored her quirky eccentric aunt more than anyone in the family divided by years of conflicts, tensions and misunderstandings, most recent being the quarrels over property inheritance Kora knew all too well her aunt never wanted to have any part in. The saga lasted nearly a decade exponentially widening the void between Johanna and her two siblings. She did not need any extra money, and most certainly did not want to upset the ever-brittle truce between them. Nonetheless, the idea that despite featuring in her mother's testament as one of the three beneficiaries - something which considering the past was far from obvious - she wished to be excluded from the proceedings, caused even more anguish and discord than the outrageous claims of her brother to get the house all for himself. It was true that Anton invested heavily in its renovation and all the improvements their ailing mother needed, but that he should inherit the whole lot as a result of his efforts, was, to say the least, unfair. After months of persistent evasion, in yet another unexpected response to his aggressive greed, Johanna changed her mind yet again and informed her lawyer that the third part of the estate's value assigned to her should fall entirely in the hands of her sister's daughter, Kora, who at the time of the quarrel was still a child unqualified to inherit. When Anton realized it will take four additional years to close the case he got furious, but Johanna, without a slightest hostility, refused to concede. The more the external world agitated her composure to step outside and deal with matters of excess and triviality, the more she tended towards her inner self. The diary strongly reminded her of it; she began writing it at that very time - chiefly to cope with the bereavement and the subsequent trauma.

Now, with her life almost done, she only needed to write a few words to Kora, to explain why, and that whatever was in Johanna's possession was now hers: all the precious belongings, the viola, furniture, art, the pregnant bookshelves, collection of gem stones and crystals, her botanical micro-laboratory, the palm house with no palms – nonetheless, an optimal place for the study of nature, including the destructive palm moths she found out about on her last trip to the Ligurian coast, Paysandisia archon and Rhynchophorus ferrugineus, also known as Red Palm Weevil. She was puzzled by the local authorities' inability to cope with the pestilence, gradually and without obstacle devouring and killing large amounts of palms. We can't afford to be separated from nature, she used to say to Kora, not even in the city; we must protect it, cultivate its diversity and understand what diseases challenge its well-being. Kora used to come quite often and sought her refuge here. She loved the garden and its tranquility as much as her aunt. Johanna hoped that she will move here after she's gone and continue looking after the place. There was no one else she could trust. Not the way things went between her and all the people she knew...

As to the books, she wasn't entirely sure whether her niece, holding PhD in analytical biochemistry, will benefit from the hefty library with a collection of rare and much sought-for though otherwise perfectly obscure books dealing mostly with esoteric and pre-scientific subjects, including early prints of Paracelsus, Sendivogius, Fludd, the Rosicrucian writings of Michael Maier, or lost scripts of Heinrich Khunrath. What is their value beyond historical insight into the state and advancement of human knowledge? The genuine curiosity for the alchemist perspective she used to hold dear has gradually peeled off, leaving Johanna disenchanted with religiously informed manifestos, considering some of them as misguided and even bigoted as any other servile and irrational exultations straight from Ulrich Seidl's documentary, not to mention the veneration of the relics, like the finger of Saint Catherine, still on display in the San Domenico Basilica in Siena. Thinking of it now, thinking how far her worldview expanded, she gets uncomfortable to the point of embarrassment. 'When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child. When I grew up and became whoever I am now, I did away with childish things...' She remained kind to her youthful self though - finding the naive reverence she used to manifest amusing. All considered, she was relieved that when she first visited the place with her family at the age of eleven, she didn't manage to take a good look at the saint's severed and embalmed head proudly displayed in the basilica, only few steps away from the finger. Most likely, it would hunt her in graphic nightmares no child's fragile imagination should ever be visited upon. The bygone fixations aside, she still attached great sentimental value to the charming beautifully designed volumes she collected over the years. After all, she spent her childless, unmarried life dedicating most of her spare time and resources to what she called “the distillation of the essence,” of which bibliophilia was an integral part, even though her involvement with the arcane seemed increasingly like a distant, perhaps even completely separate existence - her soul travelling to entirely different regions in the guise of another personality, carrying with it an entirely different conclusion to life's unending quest for understanding.

She looked at the front page of her diary containing an inscription from Vergil's Aenneids: "With far different pains you shall pay for your trespasses, next time...”

She put her hand on the notebook as if searching for its pulse. 'Next time, my ass - she invoked - there won't be any next time.' After a brief moment, the notion of the letter she was meant to write came back. She reached for the pen and the sheet of paper, closed the top of the desk and begun writing.

© 2023

One thing she promised herself not to do was to fall asleep before she returned upstairs. There is still quite a lot to do, she insisted: clean the viola, dust the shelves, but most of all, she still needs to write a letter for her beloved niece, Kora, to whom she leaves all she owes, the only person she regrets leaving and upsetting. If she dozes off, she risks missing her deadline, and one thing Johanna Dorn has never missed in her entire life, is a scheduled commitment. Her German mother and Austrian father instilled in her a deep respect for punctuality and an uncompromising code of conduct from an early age. To miss a meeting with death would be an unforgivable breach, even though she would be the only one to take such an unforgivable transgression into account.

She got up from the step with difficulty.

'At least I came to terms with my past selves,' she pondered, unsure whether she thought of it only a short while ago, and proceeded to find the cloth for polishing the instrument proudly occupying the middle of her salon. If only she could play it one more time. If only she could find the energy to sit at it, raise the bow and play her beloved Marais. She knew she won't be able to accomplish such a demanding task. Even cleaning it for the last time might be too big an ask.

Holding on to the walls and bookshelves, she carefully pottered to the utility room, selected a cloth used only for the purpose of dusting the viola and went back to sit in front of the instrument. It was her very first purchase, made for the extra money that was left after she got the impressive Josefstadt apartment nearly fifty years ago, quite spacious and generously lit for Viennese standards, to which later on, from her earnings at The National Library, she eventually added the adjacent loft, now entirely occupied by hundreds of plants she gradually brought from her botanic missions across the continent.

The debilitating nausea came back, interfering with her sense of balance. Before she could do the job, she decided to get up again, went to the kitchen and drank more water. This last day has proven to be much harder than previously thought. But cleansing her body before tonight's event had two good reasons. One was purely hygienic and pragmatic. She did not want to have in her stomach any solid leftovers that could find their way out onto the surface preferably left clean for the arrival of the collectors. She also believed that renouncing food should make the procedure somewhat easier, almost natural. She asserted that by progressing from weakness to permanent sleep, even though accelerated by poison, she will avoid reverting from it and changing her mind at the last minute. She will eventually get so weak she won't be able to think of anything else but the task at hand. The tiredness will encourage her to do it, she hoped. But now, that she sat before her viola, the memories of acquiring the instrument came flooding in. She recalled how on the day of the funeral, she had a sudden epiphany. Walking back from the cemetery, she promised herself, that she will purchase quality viola da gamba, an instrument of which the full-bodied sonorities she loved most, regardless of the price.

'Why should my innermost desires hunt me forever as “morbid abstractions” - why can't I turn them into concrete realities instead? Now that I will finally move out and live on my own, nourished by my very own essence - now is the time.'

It wasn't long before she realized the pledge. The flat saw the viola's arrival on the very same day she moved in – a beautiful over three-hundred years old viola began its new life together with the new owner. And when she opened the box, she laid on the floor next to it examining and scrutinizing its seemingly perfect body for hours, then gradually making her first attempts not as much to play as to befriend the unique piece, which to her, unlike some people she encountered had its own unique personality. She knew that with the price she paid for it, she would most certainly drive her parsimonious father to an early grave - that is, if not the fact he was already deep inside it. The purchase was a gesture of post-mortem defiance. Was it also a compensation for his loss? Was it a replacement? She cleaned it ever so gently, remembering that if not father's death, she most likely would never be able to get it. So much for mortality.

© 2023