We live in times of uncertainty—of overwhelming uncertainty—where all of us, to some extent, have been forcefully driven to the end of our humanity by a boundless black hole. This black hole has a name: Nihilism. We all live as simulacra, emptied by this black hole that has seamlessly eroded our humanity.
Of course, Audrius had never had such a clear vision of it. He had never reached such pinnacles of thought in his considerations about life.
“The Spirit of Christmas,” he said in an interview with a local Catholic magazine, “has travelled through the ages carrying the same message. In times like these, it is especially important to come together with those we love.”
What he said in the interview was correct, but it was obvious. Painfully obvious.
“During the Soviet occupation of Lithuania, there was no space for Christmas celebrations. Communist ideology tried to eliminate Christmas because it was a religious holiday incompatible with the Communist vision of society. Yet our people ignored this and celebrated Christmas anyway.”
His gaze, as he spoke, was never clear. He seemed murky and shifty. At times, his countenance took on an expression that seemed shy and embarrassed. He often touched the lateral arch of his right eyebrow with his index finger.
His demeanour suggested discomfort during the interview.
And yet, he was an actor. One would expect an actor to exhibit greater ease, fluidity, and self-assurance.
“Those who had faith—those who were religious—were cautious when speaking to their children. Kids attended school or kindergarten and could unintentionally betray their families’ secrets. People lived ambiguously in those days. They acted one way, spoke another, and thought in yet another entirely.
There was a lot of uncertainty—let’s call it that. Above all, I remember you could smell a light scent of the underground among those who secretly celebrated Christmas.”
By now, Audrius had begun speaking with the intensity of a raging river. Yet his words flowed like a machine, devoid of sentiment.
"I should say that it all happened in the shadows; that would be a better term than "secret." Christmas was not celebrated in many families; yet, in mine, it was. And nothing was missing—we even had the Christmas carols".
He said this with a dreamy look that, seconds later, shifted to a lifeless gaze.
The interviewer could not help but notice the dead look he took on; weirdly, she realized it matched the jacket he wore—a brown checkered jacket over a brown cycling sweater. He lacked amor sui. Definitely.
When I was a boy, I sang in the 'Ąžuoliukas' choir, which, despite existing during Soviet times, performed a surprising amount of religious music. The choir organized concerts and recordings in Vilnius Cathedral, a building the Soviets had repurposed into an art gallery.
One day, one of the choir leaders spoke to us openly and without fear about the religious context of the songs we performed. We sang Handel’s works, and he began explaining the Old Testament. All those stories were fascinating. For us, as young boys, it was genuinely enjoyable to listen.
At that moment, the interviewer asked Audrius whether this experience might have inspired his later interest in public poetry readings. Could there be a connection between his fascination with music, art, and the Old Testament, and his love for poetry?
"Interesting question," he replied. "Interesting...I've never thought of it...I cannot dismiss the possibility. I’m not certain, but I cannot exclude it either".
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