Lehangolt zongora. DAAATS (Part I.)

Lehangolt zongora ez a vasárnap, minden bájával, minden félreértésével együtt, jó lenne most lehangolt zongora billentyűin kalimpálni, de a szobámban a zongora egy klaviatúra csak, felette külön kis polcon az olcsó mididoboz, lehangolok néhány húrt azért a gitáron, de hiába, nem adja vissza azt a finom, lúgos, émelygő hangot, tele fésületlen felhanggal, amit a lehangolt zongora selypít a maga botladozó nyelvével, és benne kereng mindenféle zűrzavar, mint ahogy a teáskannában spirálisan imbolyog valami beteg zene, ahogy töltöm bele a vizet és nekikoccintom a csapnak, hogy elkészüljön a kurva kávém.
Lalára gondoltam most, mert már elolvastam a könyvét, hogy milyen egyszerűen is lehet vezetni egy életfonalat, mármint írásban, lehelet vékonyan, mint az egyetlen húron játszott melódiát, Steve Vai-osan, apró, kúszó fonalként, polifóniától mentes sóhajként, Lala ebben profi volt. Miért is nem írt többet. Közben meg sajátos kis partizán helyzetbe taszít engem, mert úgy érzem, kötelességem lenne ezt a könyvet megjelentetni, terjeszteni, beszélni róla, de nem leszek képes, mint ahogy nem fog hallgatni rajtam kívül senki se Napoleon Boulevard-t, önmagáért csupán és nem azért mert valakinek a szánalmas fiatalságát tölti ki a nyolcvanas évekből, és ezeket a dolgokat a világon senki nem ismeri, és ki fognak halni, ha majd meghalok én is, mert nem mondtam el senkinek, hogy ezt hallgasd meg, ezt meg olvasd el, és mutasd meg másnak is, belém fognak száradni, mint az üvegekbe hegedt tus, nekem pedig pumpálják az életerőt, és el fogják felejteni sokan a David Gilmour gdansk-i High Hopes steel gitár szólóját is, pedig engem még ez is éltet, és például már sokan elfelejtették a Uriah Heep July Morning-ját is, és én is már annyi mindent elfelejtettem, vagy meg sem tanultam, és Lala könyvét se fogja a család néhány intellektuális tagján kívül senki se olvasni, csak ha majd lefordítom nekik, mert igen, ezt tervezem, hogy visszafordítom magyarra, mert Lala már eltűnt megint, nem lehet elérni, nem lehet kommunikálni vele, szarik az egészbe, szarik gondolom Kaajgelingenbe is, meg most már Larába is, meg a fiába, szarik az egészbe, az ötvenes férfiak beleszarásával, akik csak a féltékenységbe nem tudnak beleszarni, nem nőnek egészséges hegek a régi sebek mentén újra, mint vissza a gyíknak a farka, hanem mindenféle féltékenység ott marad, ahol van.
Szóval most Lala taszít a depibe bele, lassan másodszorra már, nincs az ember bevonva spéci kemikáliákkal, mint az elixir húr, amit hiába izzadok szét napi 6 órával, és hiába kopott el már rajta néhány réteg bőr az ujjbegyemről, csillog vigyorogva a gitáromon, hogy haha, ehhez te még kevés vagy, hogy én berozsdásodjak tőled, engem te még gyepálhatsz ítéletnapig, én meg fogom a pocakomat, és jót röhögök vele egyetemben, hogy haha, ő meg ott csillog az állványba rakott sekteren, akkor maradok is kevés, ezzel a néhány órával, de nehogy berozsdásodj ám, hahaha.
Telik az ősz, fojtott orgazmusként, telik, szép vagy mint mindig énnekem, mondja cérnára kötött farokkal Petőfi és nézi a terhes feleségét, a Júliát. A David Gilmour meg szólózik Gdanszkban. Lengyelül köszönti az egybegyűlteket.Na de most már nem kerülgetem a forró kását. Legépeltem a Drawing An Arch Above The Sky első fejezetét, ami nem fejezet, mert csak csillagokkal van elválasztva összesen kb. 10-12 részre a rövidke könyv. Ez most angolul lesz, mert fordítani még nem álltam neki, jaj, nehéz lesz, mindegy, nyelvgyak.

Ui.: most, hogy így legépeltem már, érdemes görgőzni a két szöveg között, és csak az írásképet figyelni. Az angol darabos, letisztult, a magyar a sok ékezettel és magas betűvel kicsit kaotikusabb. Európai nyelv már csak a német áttekinthetetlenebb a kapitális betűs főnevekkel. Az angolnál darabosabb talán csak a spanyol tud lenni, conocimiento, aproximadamente, independientemente, qué carajo, huh...)


Drawing An Arch Above The Sky – Rilchu Minos (Ulrich Simon)


I’m not a sick man. I implore the sun to shine on my forehead, and am still flying covered with freckles of the light of sparkling snow powder beaming their shattered glow on my overall, I feel warm, I’m Daedalus, I’ve sprung from earth, the emptiness of scattered hollows in my soul lifting the body, but only up there it gets filled with melted brass of warmth, so I grow heavy and parachute towards the ground which I reach with a gentle thump. That is my life, I may not describe better. Usually people get sown into basic grounds and start there voyage upwards, and I know this is sort of a cliché metaphor (or is it a simile) I’m using now, but I have already sprung from the tower, from the ramp, and I am sinking with all the respect a ski-jumper may all its life achieve, and I am proud I have accomplished this career of mine, and I’m telling you, fellow Reader, this unearthly dignity, which I found in the skies, but which should be even on ground sought after. I’m definitely not moralizing here, don’t shut the book fellow Reader, this is my not too much picturesque humble arch in the sky I have drawn, with all the complicated simplicity of the spring of your body, the wires of muscles stretching and bending, the furiousness of air brushing your face with the comb of full speed into awkward smiles of delight, and there you jump, and there you fly, upon the palms of wind, a bit pressing the stomach and the lungs, you get stiffened… but in a second millions of the Earth’s sorcerer ropes claim you back. The magic of the flight yields the impression of ruling the vaults of sky, so you don’t get pressed under with superstitious dreams.
I’m not a sick man, I’ve come from the cradle of the countryside, from the lap of Nature itself. I’ve read Dostoyevsky, but it was only the 23rd year of my lifetime when I crossed the first corridor I’ve ever encountered. I lived all my life in simple one- or two-roomed cottages, until now, henceforth I will be living in a flat in the country of lost pearls I moved to years ago, yes, I moved to the north where in the majority of the year the minutes get frozen of low temperature and become precious. I’ve always wanted to be aware of the present, of the moment, the moments you ought to cherish and fiddle with, as if you were constantly in the sky, revolving around Earth beneath you, and you must pay attention to the audience of forces which are toying around with your body in the air, clenching the legs, grasping the frozen breath, kneeling on the stomach, grabbing the limbs, the ski-jumper must always be aware of the lurking forces of physics, circling around the coat and the gloves almost torn by the wind, like wild animals lured towards the warmth of the body intending to steal the melted brass within, but oh no, you hug all the warmth upon the breast, you sink, never drop, and so all the engulfing animals will spread and scatter again in the air. Because you have landed once more.
My father was a well reserved man except when he was on rampage. Fog in his eyes due to drinking. He did not drink much, a small glass of palinka every evening only, but still that appeared to be enough. Enough for keeping him numb forcing him to do nothing. Utter silence in the small cottage beside the forest, for I did not dare to pronounce even my breath – otherwise my father would rise and shout like hell. He never hit me, he was too solemn or too humble for such behavior. He just shouted, very well articulated, sending heavy, mushroom-like smoke clouds into the cool air, with riddling sentences their meaning I had no clue about, usually reciting complete paragraphs from philosophers and fashionable writers who had had their trend in my his youth. I’ve never ever read these people, but many sentences stuck into my mind; I cannot pronounce them today because I do not dare to do so, however they sometime start their boiling in my chest, when I need to cry, for my father, after all, was one of the most pitiful phenomenon I’ve ever experienced. This feeling sometimes still slaps at my Adam’s apple today. But the shouting occurred only after my mother’s sudden death, when I was 12 years old. I did not like my mother. I mean, I would not present my love with visible or superficial caresses. She was a Polish rebel, a little girl full of politics she did not even understood. But my father adored her. She died very soon. But the reason I am mentioning my ancestors is that they were who first took me skiing, with a pair of skis crafted by my father, with leather ties on them, both lacquered with some special glue my father was able to acquire from the village nearby.
After the first solemn event, when I could pass the easier slopes without falling off but where I managed to stop only after I reached even ground and hugged a tree trunk tight, I became a little pro. A few afternoons later I could already shift my weight as a professional to bend those sexy curves into the snow. I had built a little ramp out of a fallen tree’s trunk and I had stuffed snow above it. A had been accelerating from the top of the slope, darting towards the ramp and kicking myself from the ground into the soft, chilly breeze. Skiing occupied my whole day – for years. When my pair of skis got worn off, for birthday I asked for a new, professional pair, which was already created of plastic and metal. It was expensive and it took me 3 months of wood cutting in the neighbor’s forest to gather my part of the money which I forked out immediately the next day. Even though cutting wood at such a young age was forbidden in the country where I lived, otherwise I couldn’t have dreamed of such a gift from my parent. Since my mother had already been dead by that time.
Now it was only then when I first met the guy from high school whose father was the greatest tomato importer in Denmark when I got my first sponsor out on the ski ramp. Silly thing to trust a tomato man, but that was what I did, and my girlfriend back then sewed my first pro overall, and I won all local championships, and my career was starting to dismantle itself, letting itself be used up for higher purposes, and it was opening like an authentic book, the pages still flattering about but the chaos ceasing rapidly, until I could see through the chaos, upwards, towards the ski ramp, the snowstorm coming to a halt, the flakes settling on my shoulders like little white parrots whispering stupid secrets into my ears, whispering their false advices, to jump, to jump, and I was staring, staring from below at the great ramp, because it was my first serious championship, my current girlfriend standing beside me, grabbing me by the elbow, the flakes were whispering curses into my red-rimmed ears, to jump, to jump.
I ought not to have jumped. For the first time I mean.