Neverending afternoon - part I.
By brianwitty on October 6, 2008 - 4:39am
NEVERENDING AFTERNOON
a gigantic force transfixed me to my bed and obliterated everything that went before. i'm alone. i'm failing amidst a hopeless world, so-called human beings are yapping inanities at each other just beyond the wall and i'm terrorized by death. i had been free, me, the mindless, crazed preschooler, one neverending afternoon, i had been bored or been musing, when i was still unaware that no mercy exists in this insanity they call the world. only i can redeem. my life. the agony overshadows everything and keeps telling me to shun all that isn't me. the lust for life is supreme and wants to overthrow the agony. a formidable force pins me to the bed, a formidable weakness destroys me, you forget everything, the agony shrieks, only the lust for life fights back, to have the next moment, that would take you into the one after that. i would only have to crawl a few metres, but then it's oh so cold as well, and i'm so weak i can't stand cold for hours on end, hungry and alone in the dark, not even knowing what happens tomorrow, not knowing anything but that i want to live, in a frenzy, waitaminute, i'm in a frenzy, waitaminute, i'm weak, i'm starving, the fact that i'm dirty too is fucking beside the point, at this moment i care less about being dirty than about margaret thatcher, because there's the gigantic force that dominates me, and the hole that is trying to pull me into death, but i furiously want to live, this feeling is stronger than anything else, no matter how fearfully weak i am. no matter what i do it's not gross enough. a bed's my life, a non-existence, im lying feebly in a bed, my brain feels like it's been washed and trampled over, over and over, but there's no way i'll forget it, and in vain it destroys me utterly over and over, in vain i forget everything, i want to live no matter what, against all odds, my will is stronger than the gigantic force. im not afraid, fear is out of place here, im fighting. for existence, which will someday become life. some day. terribly cold the winter, terribly dark the night, terribly long the wait, terribly severe my hunger, my weakness, the distance to the shop is unfathomable in the cold, dark night, in terrible agony, and i want to live.
only a photo was left, and i gave it away as a present. only a poem which i cant find. only a memory of a person who died. of another who had died before the first. of a third one who probably died around that time, but of which i only learned later, and of yet another still, who killed me and who i almost killed.
i went someplace and a guy there told me his mother was killed in a bathtub and he was so touched by this that he tried getting me clean into the worst shit ever. fuck.
money money money mooney mooney mooney endless mooney but then you keep feeding on onions in your bloody dirty fucking house and lie from dusk till dawn you dog you. i can see what i said made you think for a moment but youve got so used to it you cannot but keep telling lies and youll go on just the same tomorrow. there's no mercy in chemical romance.
this great guy sells his body to some pharmaceutical company and a year later some faggot swallows the soft little pill with the pH of 5.5, an will be able to fart not that he couldn't before, but this time it's softer that's what he should be feeling, and yes, he thinks he does, what a deal.
this one keeps barking at me when im trying to sleep or take a bath, and then i get thrown out into the street at a different place.
i thought i would die tonight in the street but turned out no. i bid you goodbye mentally and then you'll ditch me in a few months time. i sense lies in everything, a trap or subterfuge and then finally someone kicks my door in, i disappear for a month and then i'm screaming one full day from deprivation, simple as dat.
i dont know if i'm alone in the world, i hope not. the guy on the floor of the deli, he had such skinny legs and he kept shaking even though a moment before the floor was squeaky clean, not a twitching shadow in sight, save me.
the two other guys at the hospital are twitching white as an eye on the bus, then clinging to each other on the pavement they walk on down the road of twitching, in the city of twitching, turning onto the boulevard of punishment, walking right along ignorance street, where nobody ever notices them, and then they get into a bed, there's no telling if it's better to play the goldenkid while wrapped in newspapers than to dream their dreamless dream in a nice little solid iron bed, than to have the loving arms of total solitude embrace them in an empty flat, still, something's up, more power to them.
i dont know what i should be saying when ther's nothing to be said. i say "yeah, i'm happy to be with you."
i guess i'm a bit out of it right now, this afternoon has gone on far too long, this tv-programme in my head, this fucking solitude being here among you, where i can only feel ok with hopeless losers & where im happy even to be a hopeless loser, cause the others look complete bona fide hopeless loser shitheads compared to me, but then maybe they're just happy.
i dig policemen with machine-guns, we're pals, even if they've thrown me out from the airport several times, cause they were humane, we're pals. they had those cool machine-guns too.
got a courtesy ticket for the underground.
when i was a child one afternoon, which was long & i felt alone, i played with my puppets in the window and got laughed at for it & it made me realize i was alone. this time, i would have to say i'm an adult, but i'm simply fubar and if this is adulthood i want my money back.
neverending days, the river of time is flowing on somewhere else, i'm dry as a bone & there's nothing but dumb silence.
did you know it was tough to dream in the work camp? have you thought about the mindstream? or why the hell you're living if you're not living at all? that everyone can be fooled? but what's the use? that love can even be nice? that you're here? that you don't really like your friends, and if you do you don't know why? that everything can be violated? have you ever thought about why you need to ask all these fucking questions?
fuck, i'm thinking aboiut being in love, first time ever. i've repudiated love, so this must be some mistake, it's fine, i make mistakes all the time. love would alter the afternoon i guess, and make it cool and make the moment neverending, and the aftrenoon seem a simple memory instead, without any significance. it would be grand but i know i'm wrong. sleep.
sleep my arse. at least i've done something i wanted to and i don't give a shit for nothing else. i don't know if i'll ever get away from this country i'm afraid i'll get stuck here a whole fucking life long, orrather a zomboid lifeless existence long, at least there's food and heating but the tv sez there's more to life than this. why am i writing in the first place? i don't even feel like writing, i feel like having a shag, like getting out of this country, the days run, the months seep and i'm still asleep. this last sentence i stole from szekeres, but then he sold out to the man, so he can blow me. he used to be a great guy though. fuck. what should i write. i suggest the bloody moronic readers fill it in for themselves, pay for it and then go kill themselves, that's my professional opinion. faggots. this bloody afternoon is really bloody never-fucking-ending. let it be tomorrow already, or something. fuck. i have such bloody good ideas, but i don't write them down why the fuck should i. ante-post. morning, evening, night, getup, goout, they talk, i answer, see you, see you my arse, but then i run into you, who the hell wants to see you, you're everywhere damn you. fuck. i'm starting to lose hope that i'll get away. eternal illusions of freedom. fuck how i hate this country. wonderland. go fuck yourself, oz! all of you, just fuck yourselves. i see no exit out of this dump. bullshit. fucking nonstop afternoon. fuck. is this life? life my arse, this is purgatory knocked up on the cheap, this is a…no use.
we're sitting in silence. us children, together again. we've grown up since, at least on paper, a little in our hearts too, that's why we're not talking. i tell tamás if he can play the piano, and i hope he can, but of course i now he fucking can't. he walks slowly up to the upright piano that will do for a grand bösendorfer for now, and he's walking slowly, real slowly, hanging his head, keeps swinging his arms, not tired-like, but like fucking hopeless. he sits down slowly and terrible silence fills the room, the trams all stop in szeged, everyone looks up from behind their bayonets in all the different wars, though the bestest stabs are missed this way, the beautiful belly-shots snap just like something inside tamás, but no worries, nobody minds, not even himself. the guy with the machine-gun turns the barrel upright inside the shelter and knocks his round little glasses off. the loo-tenant treads on it, but the gunner doesnt freak out, just sighs. i think tamás should go at the bösendorfer with a big axe. the grand piano tone would be incredible, boooooommmmmmm. but he goes and presses the keys even though he never knew how to play, he just has so overpowering emotions he can't keep them isnside and they pour out. he is playing an old soundtrack for a slapstick, a silent movie, given we're all silent. he plays from inside his heart, all the way. the grand acdtion is far out, further out than anything, i'm happy now that i didn't go and bought a bee-emm-doubleu after all but that we sneaked inside here and wrote "ours, cos we stole it!" on the back of the piano. i wrote it but tamás laughed the loudest. tamás is playing, and hell he's playing like he was going to resurrect granny and the orangeade, when i was real thirsty at the reception after all those shortcakes and was buttoning my shirt, i was really little then, so i spilt it with my shirt with all the fuss, and i was ab-so-lute-ly thirsty, and so the orangeade should flow back into the glass i knocked over, that's how sweet he is playing. the ghost of granny appears and wants to give tamás a shortcake, because he is playing that well, see, because it reminds her of granddad, when his hair was still shiny and when he was sitting in the chair with the newspaper and not rotting in the ground. he had a muscular body and won all the medals, but tamás only liked to play the guitar, but he's palying the grand action now, the silent movie, the slapstick, what everyone is listening to, even the gunner in the trench, and no-one is able to utter a word.
fire!
years and years around, a wasted life tricked. we all were tricked. loneliness and bodies everywhere in the space called planet earth. my mother nature whore, why did you do that? stand up if you want to stayalive. go on on your way, fly and fall through your meaningless life which is for itself and just because. come on guy, forget your illusions, your alone and just because. god help you johnny.
I'm walking the street, it's night, i'm inside the city, but i don't really feel like i was on top of the world somehow, even if a fashion magazine would cover my little outing with the following "johnny is in the capital of the world, in london, my dearest readers, he is walking, he is strolling lazily, his head hung a bit low after the latest winter fashion, his face is sporting a fashionable hint of sadness which would probably fit autumn better, his wardrobe a flashback to seventies punk eccentricity, torn & frayed in just the right parts. his hairstyle harks back to jimmy dean, the johnny rotten-associations aren't out of place either. his mood is melancholy-slash-sexy. all in all, a trendsetter firmly rooted in tradition, congratulations, johnny, let's hope you'll get the golden globe next year!" it is at this point that i have to confess i have been waiting for the golden globe ever since, i keep a lookout for the postman, but all he ever brings are summons, maybe he keeps a lookout for me — walking in the london night, the busses arent running much anymore, meaning that they do, but not much. if you're from london or the head supervisor of the london transport company, traffic control division, you know what i'm talking about, otherwise keep nodding "yes, i know exactly what johnny is talking about, it's just that my throat is hoarse right now, mummy, can you bring me a gram of cocaine?" (i want some too, if it's all gone, then some protein!) i'm somewhere around piccadilly circus, waiting for bus number iforgot, but i decide to continue walking. tired as hell, i'm passing some cathedral, and glance inside, and under some archades there are three sleeping bags, with human beings inside, or they probably were once, but now only their sleeping bags are left, and that's probably how it is. i get scared suddenly, it gives me the creeps and i gather pace with my rotting feet, no, never, i dont want to get there, no, i can't be getting there, where there's no way back, where you're no longer a human, but a mere sleeping bag which people pass, gathering pace with their rotting feet. on and on, don't give up on me now, find somewhere to collapse with exhaustion. fair enough, i get on a bus, whichever comes, it sure as hell is going in the wrong direction, but at least it's warm and there's tenminutes', halfanhours' sleep, no fucking idea how many stops more, i'll change to bus number closer-to-where-im-going and sleep on, and arrive sooner or later. but there's a spanner in the works, i'm 8 stops farther than expected, which was good sleeping, what isn't good is that i have no fucking idea whatsoever about where the fuck i am, or how the fuck i'm getting towards my destination, which is my temporary accomodation for tonight. and then i just keep walking, oblivious to my position, for my london walkabouts usually ended up this way, and there's no telling where i've been to, which buses, which streets, in kingston, or in notting hill, in which hyde park nook did i sit around depressed, planning to finally get away to the island i had always been dreaming about, now that the time for dreaming is over and i'm ready to leave everything that ever was behind.
underground station, schoolboys, and i toss my bag on the platform and yell "BOMB!BOMB!". it is not very healthy to undertake such a course of action in london, let alone the underground, cause you can easily get undertaken if you're such an asshole, but it is a jolly good prank, well the boys are laughing, no wonder they're schoolkids, they are still able to laugh at such things, or else they had fine schools, and that's why.
bus, i take out my plastic pistol and cock it, makes a nice sound, just like the real thing, the guy sitting next to me is looking at me like i was an idiot, why did he pick london for such lunatic games, this madman, and he does have fine insights, even though no glasses.
it's dawn. today my grandmother came back from the dead, i don't know why, maybe to comfort me, now that's going to be tough. she returned and knocked on the door, here again, like someone who couldn't die and wants to live, although i know she's rotting in the ground. she couldn't die even while she was alive, she struggled, played for her life with an unquenchable will to survive granted to people who have lived a long long time in war and have had to fight for their lives. the first world war couldn't take her away, neither could the soviet republic, nor the second world war or even rákosi, not the boredom of the seventies, not the private-entrepereneurs either, nor nothing, and now she returned from the dead and knocked at the house where she hadn't lived , at the house where i am living now, and everything is very different. she looks quite bad, but she's my grandmother and i love her, so i let her in. she stumbles just as clumsily inside the house as she used to, only the house is different now, better, everything's better, maybe that's the reason she came back. she wants to live with us again, and i let her in although she looks quite bad. just like how she was in the days before her death, when her time had nor come yet, but she knew it was very close, and she stumbled through life gloomily, all alone, accepting fate. she's here in the house, something brought her up, a mysterious elevator sucked her up from beneath the ground to wipe the constant sadness off her face, so that i can finally sleep peacefully. a strange elevator brought her, the same one that took her away, only now it has the sign "this elevator has been modified". grandmother entered the elevator and her face seems calmer, but just as sad as when she knew that her final hour which has now come, is nigh. she is sitting here among us and i would like for her to rest in peace, not just rot away the way she is doing and maybe will keep doing until the end of time, i have no idea. i let her in, but am anxious for her to be dreaming her everlasting dream in peace already, because maybe somebody is waiting for me here, life awaits me and i can't accompany her like she wanted me to.
i'm walking through a rose garden among cemetery vaults in nineteen-seventy-eight, i'm a thirty-three-year old aged man, like today, only the sun is shining like it did in nineteen-something, when i was still young and hopelessly alone. i firmly bend the vines away on the vault and look at the inscriptions "here lies your grandmother, this is the afterlife which doesn't exist but in your head, so that you won't cry, come and dream that we're together and forget the rotting, take up residence in a movie that only plays inside your head, you can write whatever you want into it, what you dream about, it doesn't matter if you don't believe in it either, just dream something, come and let's dream something together…", i keep looking at the three dots, and notice a beautiful angel behind the rosevines, she is more sensual and appealing than any porn actress, cause she caresses her long hair, but the whole thing's somehow so naturally human, and this makes it sublime, this serenity that stretches over the centuries and washes away all pain and horror that it had created for itself. her breasts are beautiful and someone has spraypainted two seductive red spots over her nipples, and over her genitals too, and the angle is now all mine, and i can contemplate her as she sits there innocent-beautifully without a word, just smiling at me, and no-one else. i walk up to her, caress her face and feel little short of a god. my old hands have become so human, so natural and happy that i can hardly comprehend how it came about, and i laugh out loud thinking of the cars i crashed, the exam certificates i lost, all the fines vigilant policemen have given me, and about all the rest who have left me. the angel says something, but i don't understand, only her mouth moves, but what she's saying is inaudible, but i don't care, no, not really. i look at her as if she's a sad siren, soothing her unhappiness or whatnot with drink. she is tousled, looking in front of herself, and is happy for me to have arrived, but she doesn't know that somebody is waiting for me in hyperspace, i hope they do. i press her hands, it feels nice, then i let her go to the hypermarket for cigarettes, and i joyfully set off in the sunshine and grin endlessly waiting for the sounds of hyperspace whisper something good to me about a place worth staying at. the ground comes alive with the sunrays irradiation under my feet, there's only the soil now, i press down on it repeatedly for about a minute with my shoe and now i can't hear the elevators taking the dead up and down, i'm not afraid of the whirlpools that suck the stupid ones, nor of the fines, the bills, the liars, nothing none at all, and i don't need to be afraid because the sun is shining, i keep pressing the ground with my feet wearing my favourite shoes, my favourite t-shirt, my favourite underpants and my favourite grin which is described by scientists as "wholly improbable, but nice — the oddball's preferred smile".
once i left a tap running in london by accident, and it may have saved my life because i just might be running around with stuff-heavy suitcases crossing borders, instead of sleeping in my bed right now, and the water keeps flowing, flowing from the bathtub, down the stories, down the chandeliers that kurt cobain liked to swing from so much and what the black cat jumped onto in the master and margaret but now the water keeps on flowing, flowing down onto the occupants, and the dope-heads are scared and say sorry and pay for damages, no, no, not i, no, no, its not me paying, no, no, no, no, no, not i, i won't be paying instead of somebody else, i won't give you my life so that you have an even bigger car, another bimbo, an even more expensive phone, an even larger self-assurance in the fact that you're richer than anyone else, more cunning than anyone else, more ruthless, this is all about bank accounts, and the balder guy wins. i too have become a bit bald, i too have become a bit cunning and ruthless, i too got a little scared of the whirlpool, and so i open the tap, let it flow, flow all night long, all day long, down the stories, to the ground, the cold, the marble-hard, down to where you can't put down your head!
but let's get back from hyperspace into this old place called reality, some schools of philosophy refer to it as life, taoists say it's a reality without a motorway sticker, which could also be interpreted as a sticker without a motorway, catholics say it's the doormat of jesus, buddhists call it the blue hypermarket, voltaire said it's the best coffee house of all coffee houses, to my mother it's the road to the corner shop, which is sometimes, truth be told paved with redbook mags, but, if one trusts impostors and believes firmly in the eight-o'clock news, one may have an insuline jab five times a day just fine. this place seems quite strange after te years of being in hyperspace, but also preposterously comfortable, warm, soft, full of food and women —who hide behind redbook mags, reading about the secrets of hyperspace authored by yet another woman, who got her glasses on this topic — who tell me to go fuck myself and not pester them just now. well, the sublime nature of women's wonderful soul is elevated higher than the coolest elevator of the bonusest skyscraper. now what? i feel cyberspace calling me, who cares, let it wait, it's only twenty-four sixty-seven, the nuclear clock is still in its infancy. cesium keeps ticking slowly, pakistan also needs it, but i say, aren't the holy cows enough for them? i'm thinking axl rose might have caught a cold in the november rain and that's why world peace is postponed, bit i'm not sure, just guessing, and you keep second-guessing, i'll see you in court sunday. so my little train of thought centered on the fact that hyperspace is nice and cool, but fucking frightening, and incredibly disappointing, sometimes it's so icy and rock hard you would shit yourself, if you had the guts to, and then sometimes it's just different, i've never seen it like this before though, but when i'm eighteen, mummy said it was ok, i am allowed to throw a sex-party and then hyperspace is much better too, only i may not be allowed to attend, depends whether i behave well, thank goodness. i must interrupt this under-the-counter sale of single tickets for dipping your feet into the endless river of wisdom, forged into roundtrip ones inside the trainstation loo, to tell you that, to explain what i myself am not quite certain about, but can feel rising inside me — i need a bucket, quick! — that all the world's problems are fucking simple to solve, unbe-fucking-lievably simple, all you have to do is…(excuse, me, doorbell, be back in a minute)…where was i? ah yes, redbook mag! cool and bonus magazine, with many colour pictures, but i would like to see more sex inside, actually sometimes i do, but i always have to remember that it's only my eyes, they're super-sensitive, and there's nobody to thank for it, but me, even if i do thank the wrestling-champ bouncers for hitting me. i can't help it, my heart's made of gold, but don't you try anything funny, it's chained to the place! i'll make a little summary so that those without glasses may also understand. the world is a piece of shit. but i like it this way, cause you can come down on the banisters of old houses (in the financial sense too). i'll be merciful with the weaklings and hereby end. their lives. i've decided that the rest of my book will be about the following: atomic transition probabilities data. the rest of my life (if any such exists) i'm also dedicating to this project. why, you ask? i could give you some trendy inanity for an answer, like it being divine inspiration, or a quantumcryptographical paradox, but i'll just keep sadly quiet, maybe real gently kick you in the belly and afterwards deny the whole thing, but in fact i'll do neither. the truth is, there's no reason. or rhyme, or whatever, that's just what i hit upon, period. did that make you sad, dear beloved reader? whogivesafuck? i'm writing this book and you're eating it up like crazy, that's how it is and you can't do a damn thing about it. ok, let's make it a paperclip, but you're paying for it! excuse me, i'm having a hard-on, or maybe it's just that i have to take a pee, i haven't gotten to the phase of sexual development to decide yet, but it sure feels good! don't you think so? let's talk it over! buy me a bottle of champagne, and we'll suck it up and i'll love you till it's gone, you'll still have time to escape afterwards.
but now, in the twinkling of an eye (quick as a cobra-punch in the best bruce lee movie) eye realize that the book is starting to disintegrate, and so don my executive-image, that's what girls dig. i'll scrounge a suit from somewhere and go. "hello, we deliver to everywhere in europe, we're in online contact with all the warehouses, we're updated every minute about where what and how much is available and we have quite reliable theories about why. we're marketleaders according to last year's turnover and mick jagger has jerked off onto the tiles in our tokyo offices. we got the golden giraffe from the president and measles from cindy crawford. we're expanding and expanding like hell, tonight we'll get plastered and fuck all the best cunts, fuck them in the ass, and then throw up from the bee-em-doubleu's window and not give a flying fuck. we killed a homeless guy yesterday cause he was crying and utilized a nifty tax-evasion scheme to get away with it. we have very good accountants, that's why, one is some mother theresa or what, the best money can buy, i have no idea, but those who know told me so. only me though, mum's the word, i wouldn't say if i wasn't drunk." now, i think the book's about okay.
if i started telling people about hyperspace, how it's the easiest way to do everything, they would probably think i was a total idiot. what makes me reflect along these lines is that i am constantly thought to be a total idiot even because i've fitted wheels on my tub and my cupboards, because i've converted my flat into a space station and slept in the spaceship that was docked on it, because i've rode a motorcycle in my bathrobe and because i've rode a bike in the shop and many such shenanigans, even though i think these are quite ordinary shenanigans, the somebody not doing such things is the idiot, because then they are sadly normal, which may be just fine for them, but this is fine too. that's why i'm not telling about the strange navigation inside hyperspace, and i sense it's the right thing to do. let them wander around blind on the motorways! i don't know if i dare telling you this, but when my grandmother died, that day i felt certain that her spirit had left my body, and it's really surprising and frightening and supernatural for me as well, but i felt it so certainly there is no denying it. now that i've told you alread, i won't hesitate any longer to tell you. but i won't do it again! if you say "miracle" to people, they go "comeagain?" it's strange that sometimes everything depends on whether it's raining in the afternoon, whether i've found a little piece of chocolate at home among all the domestic debris and what i'm thinking about. people have become racional, and not even the most skilful impostor have enough belief in the power of the soul, they want to ask about the secrets, and about hyperspace they know next to nothing, but then those guys i rather avoid, because theirs is ugly, disgusting, filthy and vile, i am appaled by this vermin because they dream about death, black magicians, voodoo sorcerers or simple immigrants, who want to break out of poverty by striking it rich over here. my hyperspace is innocent, and only serves for travel, and that i have a jolly good time in it.
now i'm going to tell you what i'm having for dinner tonight. soul-bacteria! just joking. it's yoghurt.
by the way, i'm thinking about going to acapulco, i'll be ten-years old again there, although my face is riddled by the wrinkles of those aged thirty-three, gloating wrinkles, proud like the invincible time, that tries to kill everything, and has sofar succeeded. i'll tell you all about it, but first let me just smoke two grams of crack. trdectrdutfuziuztredcvbnmjhgtzuijmnbvccdztrdcztrdvztrdbuzftfrvjuzt, mnjhesredtfizuuzgztfvtrcdhzujjhgffcdcvbbnnerwxcmbjhzguvtplkmnh, ztrfdcvbuikjmnbiuhzgf. okay, i'll try to quit, it only takes a little willpower, and then i'll comb and everything's hunky-dory again. there you go! are you paying attention, youth of the world?
a strange attraction binds me to public toilets, which the suburban assholes may never comprehend. don't get me wrong, i'm not some kind of loser looking for love in there. i honestly disapprove of drilling holes in such holy places, and condemn it as the desecration of the sanctity of the family, and would give one to eight years penitentiary, but death penalty at least for that, why not? so, let me tell you about the real nature of public toilets, unfathomable to anyone who hasn't passed a written exam in thermodynamics yet. the public toilet is a sort of home superior to me. a universal asylum in the world, better than the shelter, better than the back seat of the bus, better than the floor of the departure lounge, better than the intimate little nooks under the bridge, all in all, better than anything you could imagine, even better than anything you can't. it's home superior, because the policemen with machine-guns treat it as a kind of sacred area, they let you sleep half the night inside, the librarians don't hassle you until closing time, and the all-powerful cleaning staff in the underground may even be convinced to shut you inside a whole toilet suite for the night, with its taps, its hot-air dryers designed for drying socks (all those misguided souls who only dry their hands with it) with its great ballet mirrors in which you can idolize yourself, quite rightly, you deserve it if you've made it here. these things have an historical reason in england. in the twelfth century some policeman with a funny name, a certain john smith spied a virgin inside the men's lavatory and investigated the matter of this soul to be saved, but they got stuck inside the loo and the innocent child opened her eyes to the lord's new dawn heavy with child. everyone suspected a wonderful intervention and captain smith agreed that it was quite wonderful. but then the early beginnings of the black busdrivers's society suspected some voodoo magic was at work (that's how these niggers are) and the thirty-year public toilet war broke out. hordes of black cleaner and toilet staff gave their lives for the cause, including frazer lloyd, who had boozed his entire liver to hell. no-one knows why, maybe this was some voodoo magic too, which would justify the war in retrospect. the knots of history are mostly not to be untangled, no matter how many alexander the greats there may be, who utilize their aggression and affinity for woodcutting to shamelessly gain cheap glory and ephemeral fame, history is knotted and lumpy, like the time-space continuum in the bakony hills. but to move onwards leaving these lumps of time and space sticky like infant food behind and amble back to my story (copyright), the point is that since then every time i enter a toilet this awe spreads all over me, like i'm home again, back to an eternal home. the winds of time touch me, but that's one of my lesser problems now. nowadays the order of toilets is secured through laws in england, laws keep their peace like a tigress protects its dinner. for example, if a tramp wanders into a public toilet, he has the same rights as a homeless person. in britain, it's against the law to discriminate between shoes on the grounds of their colour, and you have the right to wear any clothes you can pay for. at every body search you get a slip of paper that says "stop & search", but that's nothing compared to the back side, where it says "know your rights!" and that's the point, because this shows the grandness of the british soul, that the youth are prompted to go to university and become barristers with fat salaries! oh how i wish i was a british subject! i wouldn't have to work.
but here i must again embark on a sidetrack, like so many times before in my life (be thankful i'm even here, i didn't want to come back, not me), and after two curious little commas, tell you about the mystery of the chinese trainers. this is the most terrifying, the most intriguing and the most heartbreaking story ever put on paper since the invention of the pliers. hear oh hear! the mystery of the chinese trainers is that chinese trainers are the cheapest and the best in this whole fucking world of ours. you can get a pair for sixhundred forints, you can wear them in winter, in summer, in rain or in snow, it doesn't tear for a long while, and it doesn't get wet, if there's no rain or snow (there are no laboratory results for other liquids, though a petrol station attendant once took a piss inside one, and nobody knows what happened, maybe it turned into wine, but maybe the whole story was invented by the oil lobby to sanctify itself, and by the way make two gigabillionmillion dollars on the side, which is no small amount for hungary.)
the end of the part I.
(part II. will be funnier)
