THE VICISSITUDES OF THE GENRE CALLED LIFE

The ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle was the first to systematize the works of fantasists, romantics, and other fictionists into what he called literary genres: PROSE, POETRY, DRAMA. However, the philosopher was soon confronted with the fact that the genres he had invented, wanted to be divided into specific genres. PROSE, for example, wanted to express itself in epics, stories, novellas, and short stories. POETRY became capricious and wanted to have in its repertoire lyrics, poems, romances, sonnets, and even hooligan folklore.
The philosopher was confronted with the fact that DRAMA was also divided into tragedy, tragicomedy, and melodrama. And vaudeville, where some people cried and others laughed. Having become diverse, drama became mysticism and extravaganza.
And a confused Aristotle was afraid of what he had done.
Centuries passed, the brotherhood of writers had long since forgiven Aristotle for his fantasies, and all peacefully divided themselves into novelists, poets, and playwrights.

I write prose, in all its categories – adventure stories, short stories, essays. I also write novels, but they are short. And I also love history and in my research, I get to the hidden or distorted facts. For these, I came up with another category I called the historical novellas. The plots of these novellas are based on historical facts and non-fictional characters. This category immediately requested seafarers, pirates, and other adventurers. They probably got tired of fiction about themselves and realized that I would write the truth about them.
I also like to get to the facts that politicians hide. Collecting, processing, and publishing reliable information is called journalism. In my books, this category is represented by pieces that begin with the warning: ‘Contains facts unknown to most people. But these facts influenced events known to the vast majority of people.’ I guess that half of my readers don’t pick up on the meaning of that warning. And they should.

For example, the history of the Second World War known to the general public is a complete fabrication by politicians and their historians. In Europe, this war is still called ‘unknown’. Stalin’s chief executioner Beria even called it a “great and patriotic” war. Although the Bolsheviks were defending not the fatherland but their regime, and drove their slaves by the hundreds of thousands into the attack, encouraging them with machine-gun bursts in the back. That war was patriotic for millions of Russians who had been driven from their land during the Civil War and were now fighting for their fatherland in the Wehrmacht. The architects of wars always hide their crimes. You can see this by turning on the TV and listening to the ravings of compliant political analysts about today’s war in Ukraine. Just as they lied about that war, they are lying about this one. History is giving you a rare opportunity to catch them on fakes before their lies become history. Once that happens you will go to jail for challenging their lies.

So I fled. In Germany, my ancestral homeland, everything was fine at first. But soon something happened. Through a breach in the Berlin Wall, hordes from the east poured into the country. Crime skyrocketed and the red idiots rattled their chains again. And this time I ran so far away that I ended up in an earthly paradise. I don’t hear the rattling chains anymore, probably this paradise is also guarded by heavenly forces, and they don’t let idiots zombified by propaganda in here. And I also thought that idiots are not attracted to places where they are not offered welfare and social benefits. No freebies for them!

In this earthly paradise, I am understood by birds and fish, dogs and cats. Some swim up to me, others approach or fly up to me without any fear that I will offend them. I tempered my aggression, sold shotguns and spades for underwater hunting, got a blue-eyed cat, and catching fish on the hook, I share my catch with seagulls, frigates, and pelicans, who are not afraid to take fish from my hands. And at home, I am welcomed by a cat, it rubs at my feet and purrs loudly. In gratitude for the treats, this wild Siamese creature stays up nights. She fights snakes and scorpions, guarding my sleep.

Early in the morning, I am awakened by birds, they know that dawn is coming and they chirp to me that it’s time to get up. I run to the sea, it’s less than a hundred meters away. I jump in when the sun appears on the pink horizon. This artist paints the sky in all colours and I admire his palette. I also whisper, so as not to scare the silence away, and thank Providence for bringing me here. Fate gives everyone a chance. Once.

One day, years later, I suddenly got a message from my passion. She found my page and recognized my photo. She asked if there was room in my heaven for her. A woman always wants to be closer to God when the Devil’s tired of her. I knew that if I took her to me, there would be no paradise. So I answered her:
Remember, once we lost in a misty forest
The pine smog there dazed you and me
The demons were writhing dancing poses
And one of them was hid inside of me

I tried to eliminate your worries
I wanted forest mist to take away your fears
I begged angels guide us to the safest road
I kissed your eyes to dry your tears

We were lucky to escape the demons
But you chose one with money to escape from me to him
Those days are gone and I don’t blame you for being a woman
If you still writing me, it means I’m richer than him

But that’s all in the past, and let’s not play with fortune
I learned there were no angels were devils writhing in the dark
And needles of those pines are always sneaky
So maybe you should hunt somewhere for your other luck

© Copyright: Walter Maria, 2024
Certificate of Publication No.224090501280