Numinous Luminous, Ghosts of the Former Czechoslovakia.

A long time ago, or not so long, depending on the speed of your life, I attended an art exhibition in Prague, capital of the Česká Republika.

The exhibition was displayed in the Národní technické muzeum v Praze, which was shut down the September before for reconstruction, and was due to open two years later to mark its one hundredth anniversary.

So there, in a darkened acoustics gallery, in the heart of the museum, was set out a temporary space. In this space was scattered around a mess of chairs, and a mess of people draped on the chairs, and sometimes the tables. A screen was hung on the wall, and a projector waited impatiently, whirring, on a ladder in the corner.

The exhibition of art lay in the form of a projection, accompanied by music by Sigur Ros, who were set up in the corner opposite the projector. The artist is a close friend called Anezka Moravek, who was Moravian by birth (as most Moraveks are), and who I met in 9, rue Drouot in Paris, when we were both sitting in on an auction for a painting by a young Adolph Hitler. She looked breathless, which was on account of her asthma, if only I had known. She wore black, apart from her expression, which was pure fibre optic rose.

Tonight she was wearing all Venexiana, from Hungarian designer Kati Stern, which as we all know is all laser cut chiffon and leather gloves. Not to be fucked with, basically. She must have been nervous.

And so forth to the exhibition, as Sigur Ros slowly rose into the air, disturbing sleeping moths with bass and complex synthesis. The impatient projector finally got its chance to blow the air apart, particles and light waves engaging in the epic battle kicked off by Christiaan Huygens and Isaac Newton so long ago, as the first stage of the projection was readied by the nervous vision mixer.

Unknown to all of those in attendance, in another dimension, a matter of politics was unfolding, that was to have quite an effect on some of those involved in tonights proceedings, namely the artist, the vision mixer, and three of the patrons. Everyone else would be blissfully unaware, which, to those of you au fait, or even au courant with complex spiritual matters originating from other, unknown dimensions, will come as no surprise whatsoever. It's how big things get done in the Universe.

The patrons were a mixed bag, as is always the case at such events. Just so you know, I looked fantastic in a pair of below the knee urban camo shorts, white DC's with black socks pulled up to the knees, and a black Misery tee shirt from New Zealand. If we were describing most other people advocating such an ensemble, clearly it would be horrendous, but that's one of the advantages of being me, and not them. I had a three day stubble. Also competing for floorspace were the usual conscious Hip Hop disciples, studious, ferrety looking megabrainpower conduits, lesbians, homosexuals, bored teens, art afficionados, genuine fans of art, rapists, vegetarians. Black people, a token Asian (aways female), models, and three drunken businessmen. And of course, because I singled them out last, we know who I'll be talking about next. I was there of course, and so are you for all intents and purposes, so listen now to what transpired in this world, and the next, in that precious few seconds between the projector coming on, and the time the art was meant to appear.

"Meant to".

Národní technické muzeum v Praze, October 2006.

The screen was white, and dim white at that. Slowly, so faint you had to strain to see them, faint greenish shapes began to appear, and eventually undulate, but not in a sexual/lascivious way. More like a dying heart undulates, as it pumps life into a cold morning gutter. Cue groans of appreciation from the crowd, who thought they may as well act like they totally get what they're seeing, and like it. The projector operator though, looked like he was experiencing anal prolapse, quietly flitting between moments of staring at the screen, then to Anezka, raising hands like broken wings at either side of himself. Anezka looked at the screen with a look that resembled nothing short of total amazement, which I learned later was in fact a look of total amazement. So I was right. This clearly wasn't the art she had created, but it was so interesting and mesmerising to her she wished she had. "It was way better than my crap" she told me later. I certainly liked it. "less is more", I thought, appreciating the fact none of the green shapes were obvious or distinct. I got a lot out of it. The music helped too, I'd say.

The three drunken businesssmen had stopped being louts for that few minutes. In fact they had stopped being anything. Some in the audience were convinced they were part of the art, as they had gone from intoxicated and typical examples of what men should never be, to silent stones, cooling in the flickering half darkness. They didn't make a move, they didn't make a sound. No longer was one of them listening to his iPod in the middle of a room full of people, with the promise of music from a great band to come. No longer was the other sneering at the females and lesbians, convinced his pheremones were planetoids and asteroids, burning through the atmosphere of their collective resolves, before he plunged into them and infected them with his unwholesome at one end and and downright pestilent at the other D.N.A. No longer was the last staring into the end of his bottle of Kozel, hoping to find the answers as to why such an intelligent person as himself could turn into such a mindless turd around the confluence of his two friends, beer, and human females.

They sat frozen like rocks, faces pale, unmoving, and to all eyes untrained in the arts of metaphysics or the casting of algernate to resemble people, dead.

The Realm of Ghosts, 7th Universal Dimension, fifteen minutes earlier.

As suggested by the title of the realm, ghosts live here. They live here from the beginning of time, until the end, unless they are somehow drawn down to the earth, and trapped there to haunt whomsoever they please, until the conclusion of that subjects natural life. Death lives here, if death can live. He certainly can't die. He's here, nonetheless. Kafka stops by for rest, when he tires from running through the ancient city streets. The famous Vltava water spirits come here to sleep, when they are not dispensing advice to the people of Prague from the murky waters of that city's river. They are here now. And so too, are the ghosts of three drunken businessmen, who at this moment are about to witness the screening of not much, in a darkened room, in a museum in Prague.

Let's put this in perspective.

These ghosts have waited since before time came into being, for their souls to be born, and their human forms to arrive on Planet Terra. They have known each other all this time, and formed quite a bond over those aeons. They shared the names of thir human counterparts, namely Matous (the music lover), Mikulás (the ladies man), and Václav (the alcoholic).

Understand though, while ghosts and humans are inextricably linked, they are not extensions of the same being. Most ghosts and humans never meet for long, as it is a ghosts job to carry the human spirit to the next realm on death, and nothing more. Deaths job is to cut the cord, nothing more. And then...nothing more. When a human has passed on, a ghost is for all intents dead himself. They return to the dimension, and await the end of time. But ghosts are extremely passionate entities, and sometimes break with tradition. After their work is done, some return to the earth, and frighten people they feel deserve to feel so. We all know the tales. Sometimes even they wish to just be close to us, no harm in them. And other times still they wish to invade the bodies of humans and other animals, to see through their eyes for a while. To be truly alive and fragile and hopeless. Like riding a train you know will derail, or a plane with limited fuel over the great oceans of the world. It can be thrilling, but mostly it's hopeless and time moves far too quickly.

And so Matous, Mikulás, and Václav watch Matous, Mikulás, and Václav from this other place, and again they are dissapointed with what they are seeing.

Matous- "Why do they have no class or character? Why were we stuck with such pathetic people?"
Václav- "I wish I knew. I'm angry, to be honest. Terribly angry."
Matous- "Yes, I feel cheated."
Mikulás- "I do also. They make me ashamed to share a name with one of them."
Václav- "Me also."
Matous- "Yes. And me."
Václav- "Kafkas ghost is certainly insane, but at least he had someone to be who actually meant something above his human actions and motivations!"
Matous- "And what do we have?"

And the more they conversed on the behaviour of their namesakes, the more heated things became. Their usual pale luminescence swelled into brighter colours, they pulsed in anger, and began to dissolve into meaningless shapes, or shapes at least only meaningful to ghosts. And as they fed off each others anger and disappointment, a course of action began to emerge, and in a period of time soon afterward, this plan was enacted.

The ghosts resolved that revenge was in order, and as well all know, Eastern European revenge is the most long lasting and dangerous of all the worlds revenges. They silently left the realm, and entered the realm of life on earth...

...they slipped into existence through a film projector, and instead of a work by the artist known as Anezka Moravek, the projector transported them onto a screen, where they danced, in front of a room full of people, who did not know better. They twisted from one abstract to the next, sometimes blending (or so it would appear. As ghosts travel in seven dimensions simultaneously, they were in actuality simply moving past or behind each other. But to a human eye trained to a screen, it looked as if they has merged.)

And so it was this that Anezka marvelled at, and it was this I enjoyed, and it was this that scared the projectionist so, and it was this that made the audience "ooh!" and "aah!" in utter paroxysms of fakery and counterfeit understanding, imposters, frauds, and shams.

And the three drunken businessmen stood as one when the lights came up, and silently filed out of the room and building, and back to their homes, where they all lived alone until now.

They lived alone until now because their namesakes had decided to now go home with them, forever.

They had decided that, seeing as they were stuck with them anyway, they may as well finally get hands on and haunt the living shit out of them, mercilessly and without end, until Death swept in to deliver them to nothingness. And this they did, immediately, and with a total lack of mercy, and with no small measure of enjoyment either.

To be haunted is terrifying, but to be haunted by your own ghost, while you are still alive, is the height of miserable embarassment. To hate yourself hurts deeply, to have your own ghost hate you is shame upon shame upon shame.

This isn't the only time this has happened, in fact it happens to most of us for a small time, in every life. But ghosts are forgiving on the whole, as well as being passionate, and often relent in the face of genuine penitence. They seek to like us, and mostly develop a strong bond with us, as kidnap victims often do due to Stockholm syndrome.

Do not offend your ghost, as they watch us always.

And whatever you do, don't ever listen to your iPod when you are in a room where music is present already. Ghosts love the arts, and motor racing also. They despise hip hop and electro, as the bass disturbs their form in this dimension, but on the whole appreciate the idea. They have no tolerance for trance however, as they enjoy the arts, and not a hopeless approximation of music. You will never see a ghost at a rave.

I found out the numinous side to this tale after talking to the Vltava water spirits a few weeks later, on a walk with Anezka. They are extremely pleasant and communicative, considering their human counterparts had been horribly drowned by the former Queen, who for some strange oversight had no ghost of her own. Anezka bonded with them so strongly (they share a language), she actually struck a deal with them where they would dance for her future exhibitions, in return for access to a private room where she would play them CD's of music from thier favourite genres and artists. I sat in on one, and they greatly favoured Roxy Music, and a not so well known independent band from the United States by the name of 'Owls'. I liked Owls also, and was sad when the guitarist from said bands Ghost came along for a listen, as his job was done, and he had delivered the now deceased guitar players spirit to the nothingness of the Universe.

Anezka and I keep in close touch via Myspace.com, where she updates me on her metaphysical friends, and music to look out for. More and more ghosts attend her music sessions every week, to the point where her home is affectionately called "hotel duchů"...the ghost hotel. My ghost also attends at times, and apparently has become quite close to Anezka. I asked her "What's he like?", and she replied "Van Halen."

That's the language barrier, right there. But I know for sure he's mine. At this time he is not angry with me, but I'll keep you posted.


This is knifey, from 'the internet'.