Nothing Extra Special

Vasárnapi ebéd

Serceg a zsír
nyúlik a szalonna
cuppan a sajt
porzik a hagyma
loccsan a kolbász
tekereg a nyelvünk
koccan a villa
hámlik
tőle
a
dentin
a
fogról
fröccsen a nyál ki
fröccsen a nyál be
pöndörödik a husika

pattog a raklett
sós husi szédül
nyelv csókolja a húst
bugyolálja be nyállal
tolja le a belekbe
nyálmirigyek tavaszában
senkise gondol
őszre telekre

nyúlik a sajt
filc a szalonnáról tekereg le
ne akarjad a bajt
fér még hús is a
kenyeredre




Szerény délelőttöm a DAAATS gépelésével telt többnyire, egy kis gyakorlással is persze, meg esszéket körmöltem nagyban, ahogy az jó bölcsészkisfiúhoz illik. Visszanyergeltem suta kis Invasion-ömre, hogy ne szokjak el tőle véglegesen. A húrok márkáját (mert már korábban újrahúroztam) nem is részletezem. Default.

Fogy a hold, a halálos hold most fogyni kezd és majd balra ívelő sarló lesz belőle, attól meg majd az egyensúlyérzékem tántorodik meg, mert csak a mohamedán világban természtes a fordított hold, ott persze visszafelé írnak, baloldalon vezetnének a forgalomban ma is, ha nem lett volna Atatürk, és egyáltalán, náluk a Föld is visszafele forog, csak az én kis európai torkom szorul el, ha felnézek a billegő, vékony pántra odafönt.

Töltöttem le fül-tréner programot, amely reményeim szerint a C-dúr és Qadd9sus5+13 megkülönböztetésétől kezdve majd egészen abszolút („”) hallásig fogja tökéletesíteni szerény hallószerveimet. Jól jön azért az ilyen akkor is...

Himalájai hegyi sókristálytömb izzik a szobámban 0-24, mindent beterít már a sópára a szobámban. Most már megszoktam, de a hangfalakat és a pickupokat érdemes ponyvával takarni. Kikapcsolni ugyanis nem lehet az ilyen himalájai hegyi sókristálytömböket.

És ami még idekívánkozik: éljen M.C Escher. Aki mindenféle geometrikus-látásbecsapós finomságokat rajzolt.

Végül közlöm a DAAATS második szeletkéjét.


*
I was staring upwards from down under. The air down there was still as an interrupted movement of a hand stabbing the knife, you felt so at the very first recognition, but then you realized that in fact it could be described as a floating essence everybody around me my girlfriend included was standing in. So that was the point I arrived at after 21 years of lifetime, I was hugging my skis, maybe even stronger than the warm little hip of L., my girlfriend, for I shall not spell her name, but instead indicate her with my favourite, the softest of them all, with the letter L. She was L. after all. L. And that moment down there, preparing for my most important three jumps in my life, scrubbing the special wax on the bottom of my skis with the thumb of my gloves I was kind of praying. To who? I could not tell, nor can I tell now, probably to the god of Wind, whose realm only started only a few meters above my scalp, which was pulled tight as the mouth of a sack full of ingots of dangerous materials. I knew that, because despite the calmness of the air down there, the very tips of the trees aligned beside the track were shaking from the turmoil of wind puffs. I needed to be aware that such turbulence up there can cause a world record as well as serious injuries. Or to the god of Flying was I praying? To Nature herself? I did not now, my humble, trembling office towards the gods was inaudible – to the crowd at least. THIS was a moment, all my 21 years trickled to this point of time, they tipped over the edge of razor sharp cliffs and soon they were going to fall down into the shamefully foreign space of time. But I have to admit that skiing was not the only and one that lead me towards my first championship with sponsors, girlfriend, special wax, special overall and so on. Now I know that skiing was only a minor pretext to start from somewhere. But it was the pair of margins of my life. Let me explain this a bit more thoroughly. The margins of one’s life are the dead and inexplicable zones that are dead and inexplicable because one does not care a straw about them. They are everyday moments that I did not even realize, but which formed my identity. I’m talking about special snowflakes soothing the scars of your cheeks, everyday evenings that had drawn all the dreams available of the world to you poor little bedroom, the glances of boys and girls filled with dismay, admire, joy, sorrow, suffer, scorn, boredom, interest or the simply knowledge of defeat. I had always been aware of such glances. And I could follow this train of thought forever. But the result was that these margins of life suddenly started (or just with a stealth sneak I don’t know now) to approach closer and closer towards each other while in the middle less and less text of one’s life fitted tidily, and one had to move on to the adjacent lines to carry on scribbling, but it was only that very moment standing there under the ramp like a frozen statue when the two finally left the space only enough for the three dripping full stops to fit through, because that moment surely was the neck of the balance to tip-toe over, and later on, that evening the margins would part again, widening the space in between, so the image of a sand-glass would start to appear, the stockpile of important moments heaped up throughout my 21 years, so these would squeeze through, dissolve into another set of decades that would fall shamelessly to the bottom, fill it up, each year getting even closer to a halt, and that halt would be only an inch away from the neck of the glass, but oh no, no recovery should be awaited, no more gliding full stops entering a new eternity upwards into the empty upper bowl, because there is just enough sand to get stuck into the neck – and suffocate forever. I’m cherishing the idea because I’m 41 right now. I’m not self for sure. So I was standing there, and the next couple of hours were sipped through instantly the neck of the sand-glass, because I only remember the moisture of the dusk, getting freezing again all around, and it was my jump that earned the most of the points, my sponsor flattering around me, my girlfriend two, full of admiring utterances that she whispered into my ears, my ears I couldn’t even feel because of the cold, but the whispers ran through the vaults of ice to the centre of my head, and everything in there started to boil. We drank lots of boiled wine that night. It was somewhat natural, however. To sit there, staring exhaustedly. It was still an amateur championship, what’s the fussing about? I was very sure that moment that the entire world is possessed by me.
There we were in the tiny trapezoid wooden cottage, celebrating. Melting dew covered the window plates like spoilt makeup of a mourning damsel. Not a fortunate omen to discover in those moments – but I found about this only later. I stared at those windows all night long, my girlfriend even threw at me some worried looks but luckily, as far as she was concerned, there really was nothing to worry about. And the mournful gaze of the black windows vanquished me, for I had won on the ramp, but a throttling evocation of certain memories started to grasp me by the templates. Certain ones but not precise memories, however. Only later, and this later indicates a narrow corridor in time of ten years, did I realize that such uneasiness was the symptom of evident success and the presence of dreams coming true. Because success and tragedy would always happen to other people rather than to us, for despite their fancy fates surrounding our environment where we dwell like a little trembling hen scarcely covered with feather yet, they do not feed us envy or hatred because those are unreal fairy tales in our little life, or they seem so, our the little life that meanders between poles pinned according to a strict system, this system being everyday life. But such poles are not the elastic checkpoints of downhill skiing, oh no... As we leave a beacon behind, it smiles at us with an alerting flash, and we feel content and happy and amusingly bored. We crave for nothing more and that is what the whole business is about. The business of pinning the beacons beside that specific path we ought to follow. I left my pure and gay and sedentary life to jump from a ski-ramp at least 50 times a day like a madman. Hazy dreams suddenly started to ripen, there they were in my palms, fleshy, fruity, delicious – but still, the comfortable ditch I did not follow nearly enticed me to turn around again and I almost succumbed to this acidy temptation – when a huge rush of the snow storm outside crashed two of the mourning windows with a frozen branch, it nearly hit me in the face, so the whole company split up, I hurried with L. to find shelter, and I considered this attack as the message of unknown gods. That short minute it took me and L. to run to the nearest house in the ski-camp was enough for her to really get cold and even in the foyer of that huge pension we finally arrived at she was trembling. She had forgotten her coat in the cottage when everybody darted out into the storm. Still we could hear the wind screaming outside, and when I touched her pink, cool skin and kissed her purple lips I suddenly remembered the first occasion I had met a deer. In the woods when I had been around 9 years old. No, it did not happen on a clearing, no sunshine, no sacred moments or frozen revelations. The tree trunks were thick and mighty around but seemed to be cuddled together in an unbearable density. I got lost again in the forest, but still I strolled about with innocent calmness that it is impossible to encounter anything lethal or divine in a simple little forest of only a few acres, and usually when heading towards a fixedly chosen direction I ended up on the dirt road that followed the wall of trees at the border in a sombre, piteous manner. Then I would follow the road downwards the slopes and finally our house would pop up in the distance too. But on that miserably afternoon I met this dignitary beast, and I could see that fresh snow covered its head and even its antlers, and dirty snow stuck to the flanks. He must have been lying on the ground or something. He saw me from a much greater distance than was the radius of my eyesight, my father told me about deer often, especially in connection with his trophies that he would send as a decoration to restaurants scattered all over the county with the false intention to appear authentic, and I had been wandering and cutting the animal’s ray of vision many-many times until I recognized its statuesque figure among the trees. Flame-like steam erupted from its nostrils, puffing up heavy dozes respiration as the monstrous body sensed something unfamiliar, something foreign – and that, I suppose, was me – and prepared for defense or counter attack. Actually it only appeared to be huge for me at the age of 9 left behind by my contemporaries who were far more mature than I, so it only appeared huge from my point of view, standing knee deep in snow, for it was rather a younger male, fertile already but the antlers still growing, still sharpening.

*