Prague, September 17, 1988

Dear Machaling Chachaling, alias Little Mácha akaMacháček, Mirek,

I have been able to hold a pencil in my hand for a while now, but I’ve lacked the strength or the will – or both – to write to anyone, and when I think that I was unable to so much as switch on the light or wind the clock hanging over my bed, that really is like being alive after death, unbelievable. You have asked me time and again what it’s like, this near-death experience – I cannot be much help there – but it’s not so bad, only for future reference, be ready not to give a damn about anything at all. There’s a lot of talk these days that it’s supposed to be like a tunnel with a bright light shining at the end, but I’m not sure it works like that for everyone. I guess it all depends on one’s own nature and the personal projection of some idea or belief, which is basically the same difference. I’m not strong enough yet to do it justice in words, but with me it was something like this – I was drifting in and out and was then completely unconscious from Saturday afternoon until early Sunday evening, I think, and then a while longer in hospital, I guess, I have no recollection of it – but I was floating gently in a sort of warm, white mist and was happy as never before in my life – I was so weightless and so wonderfully free – and that mist, it was no ordinary mist as we know it, it was something akin to an embrace, something that held me tight and warmed me, so loving and close – like a father – but that’s perhaps some association with having missed my father so much after my parents divorced, so perhaps it was a resurfacing of the masculine principle, devoid of eroticism or anything like that – I can’t describe it. And I was floating and then I cried out – I remember that cry very well, it was my innermost voice, I NEVER WANT TO GO BACK THERE and then I remember calling happily MOMMY, I’M HERE NOW AND HERE ON THE LEFT ARE CRAYON AND BAJAJA, I’M GONNA GO PLAY WITH THEM and I was just so happy all that time – it lasted for an infinity but all of a sudden my flight seemed to come to a standstill and something like an order was sounded, but not in so many words, it was beyond words. Mirek, perhaps you will know it when you yourself lie dying, I managed to just pretend – something terribly kind, but also strict and authoritative tells you that you have to go back, and although it was neither an order nor a threat, I broke down in tears and begged for mercy, imploring that I never wanted go back to this world – but the mist had already started to clear, and through a sort of hole in that cloud there was a doctor in a white coat by my bedside, and enchanted, I told him – that is, I thought I was speaking, for there was no chance I could actually speak, I just whispered and was having a hard time articulating – that he looked like a sculpture from Benin. That’s a great culture of Africa, see? Well, and the doctor, the sculpture from Benin, asked me what my name was, but I couldn’t remember, and also what medication I had been taking, and I drew a blank with that too, and above all I was confused as to why I was not in my own bed – I guess that must be quite common, as they told me later, all kind of things happen during hepatic failure – but what is important, Mirek, is that a couple of days later I started to realize that even what I was screaming back there was on some deep level just a kind of human exhibitionism, it had a phony ring to it, although as I have told you already, the voice I heard screaming there was my innermost self. But I think ultimately it’s going to be completely different, and more resigned to death – this was just a dress rehearsal – the opening night is to be held at a date yet to be announced. So that is what it was like, I’m still very tired, a bit shaken, but as far as resurrections go I don’t particularly feel like I’m anything special, my near-death did not affect me all that much, and leaves me rather indifferent, feeling neither joy nor sorrow. It was in the cards, predetermined at the hour of my birth and I’m too tired to argue whether I believe in fate, and as I write this, for ultimately it’s still totally different – EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT, when you get a glimpse through that crack in the door. Since April 1, aka April Fools’ Day, when it became clear that I was going to live, I decided that for the next April Fools’ Day I would have an exhibition of my pictures – of course they are not really paintings. Only a precious few painters are born with the divine gift, and I’m not one of them – I think my gift lies in cinema – but aside from that, I’m a thinking philosopher and I’m happy when I can doodle my personal nonsense and chaos, I love it and it’s all very nice, sort of a dreaming and sort of a conversation about form and color. Would you like to open my exhibition with a few unaffected, but earnest remarks? You will, won’t you? Say you will do the speech for me and be the toast of society, only you mustn’t start ranting and railing at people, it’s not done at gallery openings – but why should I hold you down, my love, you of all people – do as you will any way you will, just promise me that you will be there, okay? As for my physical condition, the latest news is this: my nails are growing in a strange way, those little white half-moons at the root of the nail have now appeared in the middle of my nails – the stuff the body is made of, what a sublime edifice, it’s an idea, the body, and dear me how good it is – it’s all so fascinating, one would become obsessed with it – but no, on this day as a deceased individual I shall refrain from profanities, though I don’t know, maybe it might piss off my guardian angel, perhaps that’s actually what he likes about me, considering he’s been protecting me at every turn, or flight, or whatever the score is with these angels – nobody knows. That’s what I am curious about, what it will actually be like when we are among them, if they are actually there, that is – but I’m only joking, the angels are actually some kind of cryptogram of our subconscious and I believe in angels and I will not hear a word against them. I am too tired, Mirek, my Macho Chacho – someone will take this letter to the post office for me, as I am still too weak to get there, a mere glow worm, that’s me, but I don’t seem to bring anybody much luck, so don’t start entertaining any illusions about me. When all is said and done, we are all more or less dead in the short or long run, as some French wit – I don’t know about that!! – once quipped. I keep all my available fingers crossed for you, get in touch and keep well, work hard, quit boozing and leering and stay focused on serious things – oh, and you needn’t comment on the present letter, it provides its own commentary, so don’t waste your energy on such foolishness, and instead rise to lofty new heights further along the heavenly ladder, and give us a ring, won’t you? Looking forward to hearing from you, Esti