Mother’s instinct
Her name was Julie. She was a great and wonderful girl. Since the first time we’ve met, there was this special click only two individuals can have the first time their green eyes meet. Julie’s eyes were as green as mine, but with a tickle of Irish naughtiness around the dark green iris. Her red curls were a perfect match to these marbles and the white velvet skin incorporating her sublime body. She was a nice girl, Julie.
It was on a hot late Tuesday afternoon when we met in the park. It was her idea of meeting in the park. The breeze of the sea in the park had a soothing impact on the sweaty city. I didn’t know the city and the city didn’t know me, but it certainly wasn’t a stranger to Julie. Julie knew everything. Even if her age didn’t reveal all the knowledge she had, her smile surely did. It was one of this smiles that could tell you the tales of the world. All the legends and myths of the planet were hidden in Julie’s smile.
I was just a new person to that world. A rookie. I just arrived five days prior, completely disorientated and in search of a new shelter. The YMC hostel had been very kind to me for the past four nights but the thin walls permitting the sounds of the young next door couple kept me awake throughout the night. I was really looking forward to meet Julie. She wasn’t just a promising companion, but her apartment was even more appealing.
Julie started with a small chitchat about the city and its traffic. According to her dark grey suit and neat pumps, I assumed that her cubicle-nine-to-five-job was a demanding task. She agreed on my offering of a mango ice tea and a handful of salted peanuts at the shabby bar around the corner. While peeling the salty crust off a roasted peanut she started to tell me about her apartment we were going to share for the next six month. Julie’s enthusiasm of the place she called “home” with such warmth was becoming contagious. She talked about it as if it was the most serene place on earth with its own life and vibe. At that moment I was confused about what my own excitement was about. The idea of not having to share my nights with fifty more pot-smoking-oversexed-drunk-partying-unwashed backpackers from all around the world, or having a place where I could rest and carry on with my writing or having to share a space with funny-great-looking-sexy Julie.
While slurping the last melted ice cubes and nibbling on peanut crumbs we decided that it will be great fun to move in together. I would be the quiet-working-inspiring housemate and Julie on her part will provide the positive and energetic vibe. Friday was decided to be the visiting day and if everything was to my liking, the Sunday would become D day. That meant that I had only two more nights to spend at the very costly and noisy YMC. Julie just made my day.
Julie’s apartment was to my liking very much. It was exactly as the way she had described it. An oasis of serenity. The spacious common living room was nicely furnished with a large red sofa, a small glass coffee table, a big widescreen TV, a desk – her desk- and two comfortable modern fauteuils that were very inviting to reading a good book with a glass of mango ice tea. Julie’s room with the en suite bathroom was hosting a large bed and two neatly arranged set of drawers. The kitchen was large enough to accommodate two non cooking persons and my room with its large window and a small balcony was all that I could wish for.
D day passed very quickly by unpacking my almost empty bags and moving in my newly bought sleeping sofa. After a quick meal at the Indian take away, I jumped into the bathtub in my unshared bathroom and sank away with Jeffry’s new novel. Jeffry Archer for the non-readers. A great beginning of a great new life. I just couldn’t wish for anything better. This was surely the place where I could retract into solitude and work on my book. Knowing that I and Julie would be nothing more than a happy housemate couple, I could settle on the first four chapters without any intrusion of emotions. Her impossible working hours and my own working schedule was a certain promise that our paths wouldn’t cross too often. A mere good morning or a passed by good night was the sole exchange of words between me and Julie. We avoided discussing our work, past, present, future or anything in between. There was no need for a mutual swap of such useless information. My life didn’t mingle with hers or vice versa.
That lasted for about one week. The mutual temptation was too hard to resist. A mad love affair began as soon as the night fell on that hot Monday in July. A most pure and unrestricted sex life was forming and developing at the same pace as my novel. We changed positions a lot more than Julie changed her suits, not imagining that the big book of Kama Sutra would be far too thin. Despite our different working hours and life styles we managed to make frenetic love with an average of three times a day. It was a physical escape and an animalistic need. The glass table, the balcony, the bathtub, the timber floor, the stove, the dryer, the tiny chess table, the three beanbags, the barstools in the kitchen and the desk had been submitted to fulfill their duty of being a platform for our uncontrolled sex. It wasn’t love or affection. It all resumed to desire, attraction and intercourse without moral obligations. No discussion about it, not prior or after.
As the cold and snow simultaneously entered the city and the fluidity of the traffic increased, the little and multicolored light bulbs were decorating most of the neighborhoods, my fifth chapter was coming to a completion. One month per chapter was a very good progress and all thanks to Julie. As in any corner of the world, Christmas is a time to celebrate, a time when relatives gather around big tables and recall upon stories from the past relieving certain moments, most of which are meant to embarrass at least one of the present sharers of the big, round, decorated and filled table.
A couple of weeks before Christmas Eve, we were chatting over a glass of green Canadian port and listening to Leonard Cohen on YouTube. The night drew closer and the sky grew darker when we approached the subject of Christmas. As Julie had never spoken much about her relatives, it didn’t really surprise me when she mentioned that she will spend that particular night in her apartment with a glass of port – most probably not green and not Canadian – or a glass of cherry. When our bottle reached the half we extinguished our cigarettes simultaneously, wished each other good night and went to bed.
The very next day my mobile rang as I was entering the seventh chapter. My dear mother was announcing her visit to the far and lonesome son. Christmas is a family engagement and must and will be celebrated with the family. Moreover, she announced me that my father would accompany her as well on this round the world journey. She inquired about the top end hotels in our neighborhood and the best car rental companies at the airport. She was a very attentive, organized and independed woman. Not a single detail ever missed her trained eye. She could tell you a person’s history, character, family ties and education only five minutes after meeting him.
Julie, darling Julie noticed my shaking after hanging up and gave me a big warm smile and a wink. Without any demand from her part I repeated the entire conversation and expressed my worry about this future encounter. Julie assured me that one night wouldn’t be that difficult to endure and even suggested to have the Christmas together at our apartment. She even offered to cook the traditional turkey and providing the wine. Such a nice and hospitable girl Julie is. Such a good housemate and friend.
The arrival of my parents resembled to the arrival of JFK in Dallas Texas. I was most assured that not only the neighborhood had noticed it but the entire city as well. For the occasion, I and Julie prepared some drenched in oil brochette, burned turkey, along with some smashed potatoes, mushy overcooked vegetables and a bavarois that could send you directly to the diabetes wing of the ER room at the local hospital. I had put on my most presentable suit that consisted of a pair of clean denim jeans, a navy blue shirt and my black Converse. The moment Julie entered the living room, my breath stopped somewhere between the larynx and bronchi. A green simple but elegant dress was accentuating her eyes and a pair of silk roman sandals was gently touching her ankles while the laces were softly squeezing her calves. The simplicity of her wardrobe was a perfect impersonation of Julie’s beauty.
During dinner, I was seated by my mom’s orders, between my parents while Julie was occupying the seat between my parents. My mom just couldn’t take her eyes of Julie. The night passed just like any uncomfortable nights where actors know their lines and roles in order for the play to have a respectable happy end. Everyone kept his or hers promise to the script and the cues of the invisible director. After thousands of obvious compliments about the food, somewhere between the soggy vegetables and the over- sugared bavarois, my mom, “discretely” invited me to the kitchen in order to “choose the right dessert spoons”.
My mom had smelled something for a long time about the true nature of my relationship with Julie, but we had agreed or to be more precise I had begged Julie not to reveal it to my parents for the sake of global peace. I had enjoyed my tranquility, harmony, freedom and mental calm so far to such an extent that I wasn’t willing to ruin it by having to answer all kinds of conservative questions. Once in the soundproof interior of the kitchen, the old fashioned and traditionalist questions started to pour over my head. She’s smashing, my mom started to attack by the flank. Ignoring my silent comment she continued to a more direct approach revealing a psycho-analytical syntax of Julie’s personality and an over elaborated description of her beauty. The final touch was a blunt question about our sex life. It took me over fifteen minutes to convince my mom of a wrong judgment of our affair, using hard arguments and absurd contra arguments melted into a political correct context. I convinced her that our co-living was merely based on the commodity of sharing the rent and the bills. That evening ended in a perfect harmony and lots of forced laughers.
The next day, my parents took off to the other side of the world fulfilling their duty of visiting my other relatives. The house returned to its old state and once again the vibe was set to the mode of maximum tranquility. While we were cleaning up the place, Julie noticed that one of her photographs that were pinned to the kitchen board was missing. It was a photograph of Julie where she was dressed up for her brother’s wedding depicting Julie in her highest splendor. She asked me if I knew anything about its disappearance and very subtle if by any chance my mom could have taken it for any unknown reason. Knowing my mom’s hidden intentions of projecting her pride of her son’s possible girlfriend, I decided to write her an email. After many hours of contemplating on the best approach I decided on the following:
“Dear mom, I am not insinuating that you did or did not take Julie’s picture from the pin board in the kitchen, but the truth is that it is missing and I felt obligated to write you this email. Big hug to you both, your son.”
The same night I did receive an answer:
“My dear boy, first of all I would to thank you and Julie for the great Christmas we have had together. I am not insinuating that you do or do not have sex with her, but if you would have slept last night in your own bed, you would had found the picture under your pillow where I had put it last night. Big hug, your mom.”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
short story eight
The smell
There was only one little thing that remained unexplained to his complicated way of thinking. He had solved many things before, many knotty puzzles that he could figure out in just a snapshot. But that tiny thing has kept him busy for the past few days.
As the clouds were swallowing up the hot sun and the wind increased, the smell of burnt skin was penetrating his eyes and nose. It was a common smell. He had notice it before. Many times. Jonathan must have been twelve the first time he played with a lighter. It was one of these old American army lighters he got from his dad in case he had to offer a lady a light. Matches were getting out of fashion his old man told him. While he was figuring out the precise mechanism of the lighter he burnt himself. That bitter, incisive and unforgettable stench of burnt skin remained incurved in his juvenile brain forever. It was addicting, fascinating, exciting.
Many years he had tried to keep that smell alive, mostly using himself as a subject of his own little experiments. Only when Jonathan couldn’t resist his self inflicted wounds no more, he would switch to a different source of skin. Mostly there were tiny animals such as lizards and mice that would provide him the right amount of tissue to satisfy his needs. As he grew, his tolerance grew along him so his search continued for something bigger and bigger. The best time of the year was around Christmas when his beloved grandmother was preparing the traditional turkey and she would first roast it on open flame to get rid of all the additional feathers left on it. Jonathan would find some business in that old-fashioned kitchen, pretending to help out with the dishes or anything around the gas stove so he could open his nasal fosses and deeply inhale the stingy scent.
On that Tuesday, the park outside his bachelor apartment was overwhelmed with people and while the wind kept increasing, the crowd was seemly convinced to stay and finish its last crumbs of a late afternoon picnic. Many families gathered around the lake, spread out their colorful sheets and started to unpack their baskets with what it seemed to Jonathan, the most useless items. Chairs in all odd shapes were unfolded, sophisticated picnic tables were set up, china and cutleries were neatly arranged and all kind of plateaus and dishes were displaced. He would watch this weekly show from his veranda while enjoying a good barbeque. Jonathan would hear the skin of the sausages sizzle and let that burnt smell hit his mind.
As soon as Trish set eyes on that charming, athletic and surely the most handsome guy she had ever seen since she broke up with her ex, she had hoped that this one was to become at least a one week stand. She missed the company of a funny guy with whom she could have a good chat and with any luck some great sex. Nothing stable she thought, nothing fancy and without any involvement of emotions. Trish had had enough experience with the male species to know what to expect even before a guy had a chance to open his mouth and say hi. The first thing she noticed in Jonathan’s eyes when he walked up to her asking what novel she was reading, was that childish twinkle combined with a mature intelligence. Her response was brief: “nothing of your interest, but I could get you interested if you’d like”. Jonathan’s irresistible smile had captured her instantly and a refusal of a glass of wine and a well baked sausage was an impossible rejection.
The living room was simple furnished; totally revealing the life style of a well read man. Two main things were capturing anyone’s attention, the walls of books and the overwhelming amount of candles. “This is surely my lucky day” she thought, “ I just hope he is more of a doer than a literate talker”. In a miraculous way the bottle of red wine kept refilling itself and so were their glasses. At least Jonathan wasn’t a liar; the view from his candle lit veranda was indeed magnificent.
The pine and lavender smell from the steamy bathroom was swirling all around her naked body. Her toes were tinkling, her knees were relaxing, her round hips were dancing to the patrons of the steam and her pear shaped breasts formed the perfect bridge between the wet smell and the sheets soaked in passion sweat.
Trish’s female intuition had been right again; Jonathan did make love like a poet. Without him saying one word she had her reach her orgasm, just by following the rhythm of his inner spoken sonata. She could feel every single verse and every single strophe. She also perfectly remembered the moment Jonathan pulled out of her, just to get a burning candle and start pouring warm wax all over her body. The next instant he held the candle so close to her that she could feel its heat. Almost burning her. She screamed out loud and let herself come for a second time collapsing in a serene stupor.
The sizzling sound and the intense heat woke her. She wanted to scream again, but the ducted-tape was keeping her agony trapped. The ropes around her ankles and wrists were cutting her flesh. All she could see was Jonathan’s naked body on top of her and his hand holding firmly the handle of the welding pistol. His body was sweaty and his eyes had lost all their charm. Deep burning coals were looking straight at her. The light blue flame was spitting out of the welding pistol and as Jonathan was holding her firmly between his hips he played with the flame in the same rhythm of the same inner sonata.
While Jonathan burned her left nipple, his mind opened preparing to absorb the scent. No revelation, no sign from outer dimension, no thrill. He was convinced that a second attempt, on her right nipple would give him the desired. Jonathan approached the flame and burned again. The confusion increased as well as his anger. The next morning he woke up with a terrible headache, went straight to the kitchen and poured him a cup of thick black coffee. He had to think. Apparently all he needed was a larger piece of skin. On his way back to the bedroom Jonathan noticed that Trish was breathing somewhere between daze and reality. Still naked, he lit a match and turned on his welding torch. As the tongue of fire was licking Trish’s belly, the familiar sizzling orchestra came alive. The dark skin was crimpling, but the odor was inexistent.
Furiously, he closed the veranda windows, refusing the fresh air to take away his pleasure. Jonathan switched off the air-conditioning and returned to his work. Today he had to accomplish it. This time he turned Trish on her stomach and started to prepare for her torso. But it had to wait. He could not afford to loose. He was determent to win. His brains needed to be at ease. Slamming the front door, he headed for the park.
It was already Friday evening and the streets were empty when Jonathan returned to his apartment. He threw his raincoat over the books covering the single table in the house and made his way to his bedroom. He could hear Trish’s irregular breath, but he wasn’t sure if she was awake. Not that it did matter. The job had to be completed. His and her nakedness formed unison. It was now or never. Jonathan lit the familiar torch to its full blast once more and let it rest on her back. The neurons inside his head didn’t make any kind of contact, no connection. There had to be an immediate solution. As the flame pierced Trish’s back, he spread her legs and penetrated her. The orgasm reached him instantly. The orgasm of their touching flesh and the orgasm of the burning smell…
There was only one little thing that remained unexplained to his complicated way of thinking. He had solved many things before, many knotty puzzles that he could figure out in just a snapshot. But that tiny thing has kept him busy for the past few days.
As the clouds were swallowing up the hot sun and the wind increased, the smell of burnt skin was penetrating his eyes and nose. It was a common smell. He had notice it before. Many times. Jonathan must have been twelve the first time he played with a lighter. It was one of these old American army lighters he got from his dad in case he had to offer a lady a light. Matches were getting out of fashion his old man told him. While he was figuring out the precise mechanism of the lighter he burnt himself. That bitter, incisive and unforgettable stench of burnt skin remained incurved in his juvenile brain forever. It was addicting, fascinating, exciting.
Many years he had tried to keep that smell alive, mostly using himself as a subject of his own little experiments. Only when Jonathan couldn’t resist his self inflicted wounds no more, he would switch to a different source of skin. Mostly there were tiny animals such as lizards and mice that would provide him the right amount of tissue to satisfy his needs. As he grew, his tolerance grew along him so his search continued for something bigger and bigger. The best time of the year was around Christmas when his beloved grandmother was preparing the traditional turkey and she would first roast it on open flame to get rid of all the additional feathers left on it. Jonathan would find some business in that old-fashioned kitchen, pretending to help out with the dishes or anything around the gas stove so he could open his nasal fosses and deeply inhale the stingy scent.
On that Tuesday, the park outside his bachelor apartment was overwhelmed with people and while the wind kept increasing, the crowd was seemly convinced to stay and finish its last crumbs of a late afternoon picnic. Many families gathered around the lake, spread out their colorful sheets and started to unpack their baskets with what it seemed to Jonathan, the most useless items. Chairs in all odd shapes were unfolded, sophisticated picnic tables were set up, china and cutleries were neatly arranged and all kind of plateaus and dishes were displaced. He would watch this weekly show from his veranda while enjoying a good barbeque. Jonathan would hear the skin of the sausages sizzle and let that burnt smell hit his mind.
As soon as Trish set eyes on that charming, athletic and surely the most handsome guy she had ever seen since she broke up with her ex, she had hoped that this one was to become at least a one week stand. She missed the company of a funny guy with whom she could have a good chat and with any luck some great sex. Nothing stable she thought, nothing fancy and without any involvement of emotions. Trish had had enough experience with the male species to know what to expect even before a guy had a chance to open his mouth and say hi. The first thing she noticed in Jonathan’s eyes when he walked up to her asking what novel she was reading, was that childish twinkle combined with a mature intelligence. Her response was brief: “nothing of your interest, but I could get you interested if you’d like”. Jonathan’s irresistible smile had captured her instantly and a refusal of a glass of wine and a well baked sausage was an impossible rejection.
The living room was simple furnished; totally revealing the life style of a well read man. Two main things were capturing anyone’s attention, the walls of books and the overwhelming amount of candles. “This is surely my lucky day” she thought, “ I just hope he is more of a doer than a literate talker”. In a miraculous way the bottle of red wine kept refilling itself and so were their glasses. At least Jonathan wasn’t a liar; the view from his candle lit veranda was indeed magnificent.
The pine and lavender smell from the steamy bathroom was swirling all around her naked body. Her toes were tinkling, her knees were relaxing, her round hips were dancing to the patrons of the steam and her pear shaped breasts formed the perfect bridge between the wet smell and the sheets soaked in passion sweat.
Trish’s female intuition had been right again; Jonathan did make love like a poet. Without him saying one word she had her reach her orgasm, just by following the rhythm of his inner spoken sonata. She could feel every single verse and every single strophe. She also perfectly remembered the moment Jonathan pulled out of her, just to get a burning candle and start pouring warm wax all over her body. The next instant he held the candle so close to her that she could feel its heat. Almost burning her. She screamed out loud and let herself come for a second time collapsing in a serene stupor.
The sizzling sound and the intense heat woke her. She wanted to scream again, but the ducted-tape was keeping her agony trapped. The ropes around her ankles and wrists were cutting her flesh. All she could see was Jonathan’s naked body on top of her and his hand holding firmly the handle of the welding pistol. His body was sweaty and his eyes had lost all their charm. Deep burning coals were looking straight at her. The light blue flame was spitting out of the welding pistol and as Jonathan was holding her firmly between his hips he played with the flame in the same rhythm of the same inner sonata.
While Jonathan burned her left nipple, his mind opened preparing to absorb the scent. No revelation, no sign from outer dimension, no thrill. He was convinced that a second attempt, on her right nipple would give him the desired. Jonathan approached the flame and burned again. The confusion increased as well as his anger. The next morning he woke up with a terrible headache, went straight to the kitchen and poured him a cup of thick black coffee. He had to think. Apparently all he needed was a larger piece of skin. On his way back to the bedroom Jonathan noticed that Trish was breathing somewhere between daze and reality. Still naked, he lit a match and turned on his welding torch. As the tongue of fire was licking Trish’s belly, the familiar sizzling orchestra came alive. The dark skin was crimpling, but the odor was inexistent.
Furiously, he closed the veranda windows, refusing the fresh air to take away his pleasure. Jonathan switched off the air-conditioning and returned to his work. Today he had to accomplish it. This time he turned Trish on her stomach and started to prepare for her torso. But it had to wait. He could not afford to loose. He was determent to win. His brains needed to be at ease. Slamming the front door, he headed for the park.
It was already Friday evening and the streets were empty when Jonathan returned to his apartment. He threw his raincoat over the books covering the single table in the house and made his way to his bedroom. He could hear Trish’s irregular breath, but he wasn’t sure if she was awake. Not that it did matter. The job had to be completed. His and her nakedness formed unison. It was now or never. Jonathan lit the familiar torch to its full blast once more and let it rest on her back. The neurons inside his head didn’t make any kind of contact, no connection. There had to be an immediate solution. As the flame pierced Trish’s back, he spread her legs and penetrated her. The orgasm reached him instantly. The orgasm of their touching flesh and the orgasm of the burning smell…
short sotry seven
The hat
It happened at some stage in the hot German summer of 1947 when he received his first hat. His mother gave it to him to protect him from the burning setting sun. It had belonged to his father who died the previous year after an infection caused by an American bullet in the harsh winter of ’45. It was a simple straw hat with a missing edge, but it still fulfilled its duty. What remained of the bright red ribbon showing a swastika in the middle was only a filthy yellowish piece of cloth, dirty and ripped apart. Joseph never asked about its history but wore it with unknown pride.
He hardly got to know his dad Lot. Cap Franz of the fifth mountaineer battalion. All the inheritance was a history of bravery, the hat and the Kreuz von Adel his father received from Himmler during the assault on the French.
As the sun set down, Joseph’s mother was cleaning the cups and crumbs of the afternoon tea and he tightened his jacket around him searching for some warmth. The hat switched its purpose to protection of the ocean breeze. He then slowly fell asleep dreaming of his father’s heroism.
Waking up by his roommate’s annoying and loud snoring, Joseph checked his bedside alarm clock. He realized that three more precious hours separated him from his warm bed and the shouting of the chief commander’s instructions for the class. Joseph or Josy how his British fellow future captains used to call him took his pillow and threw it in the direction of his Australian roommate, in a poor attempt to stop the disturbance. The pillow took an unfortunate twist and ended up crushing Joseph’s Australian cowboy hat he received two days after he learnt he had to share his room. Josy cursed loud out, turned around and tried to fall to sleep again.
It was Martha that woke him up. She was busy directing the kids to sleep. She took the black barrette off to kiss him on his broad forehead. After their marriage, Martha always kissed Joseph’s forehead in order to show him her affection. Every time he returned from a mission in a far away country with an unpronounceable capital, she would take off that sweaty barrette and kiss him. It was not so much the enjoyment, but a habit he got used to.
He woke up slowly and started to help Martha cleaning the wrapping papers the kids left behind from their Christmas presents. As his wife went upstairs to bed, Joseph remained to empty his glass, two finger full with JD and opening his own presents. His eyes firstly fixed on a small package. He meticulously unfolded the wrapping paper and pulled out an exact replica of a furry Russian hat. Pulling down its ears to the chin, Joseph fell back in the quirking rocking chair, poured himself another JD, finished it in one swallow and enjoyed the overall warm feeling in his entire body. As the rocking of the chair decreased, his eyelids closed gradually and his breath became steadier and heavier.
Ginger, his five years old granddaughter was rocking on her wooden horse swinging around Joseph’s Vietnam helmet. Amongst all the toys her parents had given her, Ginger’s favorite turned to be this bluntly slammed helmet which saved Joseph’s life twice during his posting in Saigon and Laos. What his helmet could not prevent was that one night throughout the napalm bombings, a shell fell near him silencing his life forever.
As little Ginger was housing her favorite doll inside the helmet, Joseph unhurriedly opened his eyes, smiled sweetly to his granddaughter and made sure that Brandon was still comfortable on his lap. Joseph reached to his laptop and after giving it one more thought, he clicked the buy button on E-bay. The deal was done. The Swedish hat will be shipped to his house in three days. And he will wear it this winter during the skiing holiday.
He put Brandon back in the cradle, made Ginger’s doll homeless, took the helmet and made his way to the garden. He lit a cigarette and dropped at ease in his hammock. Covering one knee with his helmet Joseph closed his eyes and appreciated the welcoming warmth of the late spring sun. As all the elements of the siesta were complete, Joseph happily started to wander through the land of dreams.
The intense buzz of the room service brought him back to life. He got out of bed, opened the door and let the friendly waiter set up the breakfast table. All Joseph wished for was a layer of fresh snow and an unoccupied ski slope.
Snow goggles were keeping his Swedish hat in place and the scarf was fluttering in the icy wind as Joseph was heading towards the elevator. On the way, while crossing the market, his eyes fell on a traditional hat of fine material and beautiful golden rim. As the price was more than affordable, he bought it straight away without applying the usual bargaining methods of the Basques.
He tucked his new achievement in the side pocket and looked cheerfully at the empty slopes.
At the top of the hill he fixed his ski’s, checked his sticks and set down for a first run. After successfully crossing the first five turns, Joseph realized that the new brown hat with the golden rim was hanging to one of his sticks. Concentrating on the recovery of his beloved hat, he lost his balance. As the sun was shining, the trees were taller then ever, the nature and the wind imposed their fatigue on him. Closing his eyes, Joseph kept the Basque tight to his chest.
The rhythmic sound kept repeating itself for fifteen minutes. There were many grieving faces starring and gazing at him, but only half of which he recognized. He lay pretty comfortable waiting for the next move. But nothing happed. The faced disappeared and a painted ceiling was left to his view. The ceiling was very high and the fresh smell of the white flowers surrounding him was bewildering. Suddenly he felt that a hat was placed on his head. He didn’t even have to touch it or see it to make out what it was. It had to be one of these black hats with a hard ridge and a black ribbon around it. One of those used for funerals…
It happened at some stage in the hot German summer of 1947 when he received his first hat. His mother gave it to him to protect him from the burning setting sun. It had belonged to his father who died the previous year after an infection caused by an American bullet in the harsh winter of ’45. It was a simple straw hat with a missing edge, but it still fulfilled its duty. What remained of the bright red ribbon showing a swastika in the middle was only a filthy yellowish piece of cloth, dirty and ripped apart. Joseph never asked about its history but wore it with unknown pride.
He hardly got to know his dad Lot. Cap Franz of the fifth mountaineer battalion. All the inheritance was a history of bravery, the hat and the Kreuz von Adel his father received from Himmler during the assault on the French.
As the sun set down, Joseph’s mother was cleaning the cups and crumbs of the afternoon tea and he tightened his jacket around him searching for some warmth. The hat switched its purpose to protection of the ocean breeze. He then slowly fell asleep dreaming of his father’s heroism.
Waking up by his roommate’s annoying and loud snoring, Joseph checked his bedside alarm clock. He realized that three more precious hours separated him from his warm bed and the shouting of the chief commander’s instructions for the class. Joseph or Josy how his British fellow future captains used to call him took his pillow and threw it in the direction of his Australian roommate, in a poor attempt to stop the disturbance. The pillow took an unfortunate twist and ended up crushing Joseph’s Australian cowboy hat he received two days after he learnt he had to share his room. Josy cursed loud out, turned around and tried to fall to sleep again.
It was Martha that woke him up. She was busy directing the kids to sleep. She took the black barrette off to kiss him on his broad forehead. After their marriage, Martha always kissed Joseph’s forehead in order to show him her affection. Every time he returned from a mission in a far away country with an unpronounceable capital, she would take off that sweaty barrette and kiss him. It was not so much the enjoyment, but a habit he got used to.
He woke up slowly and started to help Martha cleaning the wrapping papers the kids left behind from their Christmas presents. As his wife went upstairs to bed, Joseph remained to empty his glass, two finger full with JD and opening his own presents. His eyes firstly fixed on a small package. He meticulously unfolded the wrapping paper and pulled out an exact replica of a furry Russian hat. Pulling down its ears to the chin, Joseph fell back in the quirking rocking chair, poured himself another JD, finished it in one swallow and enjoyed the overall warm feeling in his entire body. As the rocking of the chair decreased, his eyelids closed gradually and his breath became steadier and heavier.
Ginger, his five years old granddaughter was rocking on her wooden horse swinging around Joseph’s Vietnam helmet. Amongst all the toys her parents had given her, Ginger’s favorite turned to be this bluntly slammed helmet which saved Joseph’s life twice during his posting in Saigon and Laos. What his helmet could not prevent was that one night throughout the napalm bombings, a shell fell near him silencing his life forever.
As little Ginger was housing her favorite doll inside the helmet, Joseph unhurriedly opened his eyes, smiled sweetly to his granddaughter and made sure that Brandon was still comfortable on his lap. Joseph reached to his laptop and after giving it one more thought, he clicked the buy button on E-bay. The deal was done. The Swedish hat will be shipped to his house in three days. And he will wear it this winter during the skiing holiday.
He put Brandon back in the cradle, made Ginger’s doll homeless, took the helmet and made his way to the garden. He lit a cigarette and dropped at ease in his hammock. Covering one knee with his helmet Joseph closed his eyes and appreciated the welcoming warmth of the late spring sun. As all the elements of the siesta were complete, Joseph happily started to wander through the land of dreams.
The intense buzz of the room service brought him back to life. He got out of bed, opened the door and let the friendly waiter set up the breakfast table. All Joseph wished for was a layer of fresh snow and an unoccupied ski slope.
Snow goggles were keeping his Swedish hat in place and the scarf was fluttering in the icy wind as Joseph was heading towards the elevator. On the way, while crossing the market, his eyes fell on a traditional hat of fine material and beautiful golden rim. As the price was more than affordable, he bought it straight away without applying the usual bargaining methods of the Basques.
He tucked his new achievement in the side pocket and looked cheerfully at the empty slopes.
At the top of the hill he fixed his ski’s, checked his sticks and set down for a first run. After successfully crossing the first five turns, Joseph realized that the new brown hat with the golden rim was hanging to one of his sticks. Concentrating on the recovery of his beloved hat, he lost his balance. As the sun was shining, the trees were taller then ever, the nature and the wind imposed their fatigue on him. Closing his eyes, Joseph kept the Basque tight to his chest.
The rhythmic sound kept repeating itself for fifteen minutes. There were many grieving faces starring and gazing at him, but only half of which he recognized. He lay pretty comfortable waiting for the next move. But nothing happed. The faced disappeared and a painted ceiling was left to his view. The ceiling was very high and the fresh smell of the white flowers surrounding him was bewildering. Suddenly he felt that a hat was placed on his head. He didn’t even have to touch it or see it to make out what it was. It had to be one of these black hats with a hard ridge and a black ribbon around it. One of those used for funerals…
short story six
“Instinct”
I am running, running, running, running, running. No. I’m just walking very fast through tables of a terrace of a very chique restaurant. I don’t know where it is, I don’t know where I am. There are people eating. It is somewhere outside the city. Lots of people. All the tables are taken and it’s dark. The kind of darkness that appears just after the sun has gone down. I know that something has happened but I don’t know what. Something terrible, anyway. My eyes are filled with tears, and that’s how I know. Trying to find my way into the restaurant so to find my exit, I hold on to the tables while I’m passing. Dinning people are staring at me, seeing the look in my eyes. On a table, just by the entrance in the restaurant there are today’s newspapers. Every single of them had big headlines. One strikes me: “Joe’s death”. It is a big colorful headline in an antique looking paper. The color of the paper is light pink, just like the old papers. I knew something was wrong. Running as fast as I can, I burst out in tears. Crying like hell. Crying and running in the same time, I’m throwing aside everything in my way as I seek for the exit.
I know exactly where to go. It’s not knowledge but instinct. After a couple of seconds I’m in the centre of the town. I’m not tired. Descending the street, I see down in the valley, where is a T-junction two trams facing each other on the same track. The red one is going up, the black one down. Their meeting point is on the corner of the street. There is a house. I know that this is the house. Instinct again. Approaching the place, I feel shivers. Cold intercalating with warm ones. Another second passes and I’m in front of the trams, but now I see only the black one; it is prepared for the funeral. The flowers, the smell, the colors and the heavy feeling, all lead to the funeral.
The house on the corner is old; a bit depredated. Yellowish. It seems like it got old by the northern winds and rain it has to face every day. Today is the sky weeping along with me or because of me. It doesn’t know and I don’t know. Two unknowledgeable individuals, trapped together is the same situation.
The tall, long house, being yellowish, has its windows only on the corner wall. By the dark, gloomy spiral shaped staircase. Every four steps there is another window that faces the black tram. Ascending the stairs I get the elevator-feeling. The typical feeling that one gets in an elevator; you stand still and the building moves downwards. While the house is going up, more and more noise. Arriving in the ill lighted central room, I discover that I’m back in the chique restaurant. The same people and the same lights are staring at me. Right up the stairs, a big flower decorated coffin momentously occupies most of the room. It is a black shiny one. By the head, a dark skinned male with black moustache and coal eyes is keeping watch. Seated on a simple chair, he welcomes me. His face seems familiar, even though I’ve never met him before.
As I desperately gaze in the coffin, I notice Jo’s immortal body. Having her eyes open, it seems that she’s been going through an Indian ritual of mummification. On the forehead there is a golden chain, of which golden figures such as elephants, Buddha’s, hearts are attached. A Hindu red dot is carefully marked on the forehead. Praying hands are folded on the chest holding a Muslim chain. Seeing all this, I lower myself on the ground, where the staircase ends and the room begins. Without permission the watcher starts narrating her life story. I hear, but I don’t listen. He is petting her folded hands. My eyes are fixed on the staring body. I wonder why. There comes no reply. From anyone. The others are enjoying their coffee and cocktails. It seems as if they don’t even exist.
Suddenly, Jo starts to twist around, biting her elbow in agony. Eyes are showing the suffering. This time I’m carefully listening to what the dark skinned man has to say: “Even now she finds no peace; death doesn’t welcome her. Pour soul. It was too early and undeserved.” Placing an ancient golden clock with the mechanism upwards on her chest, she calms down. Inner peace has been found.
I am running, running, running, running, running. No. I’m just walking very fast through tables of a terrace of a very chique restaurant. I don’t know where it is, I don’t know where I am. There are people eating. It is somewhere outside the city. Lots of people. All the tables are taken and it’s dark. The kind of darkness that appears just after the sun has gone down. I know that something has happened but I don’t know what. Something terrible, anyway. My eyes are filled with tears, and that’s how I know. Trying to find my way into the restaurant so to find my exit, I hold on to the tables while I’m passing. Dinning people are staring at me, seeing the look in my eyes. On a table, just by the entrance in the restaurant there are today’s newspapers. Every single of them had big headlines. One strikes me: “Joe’s death”. It is a big colorful headline in an antique looking paper. The color of the paper is light pink, just like the old papers. I knew something was wrong. Running as fast as I can, I burst out in tears. Crying like hell. Crying and running in the same time, I’m throwing aside everything in my way as I seek for the exit.
I know exactly where to go. It’s not knowledge but instinct. After a couple of seconds I’m in the centre of the town. I’m not tired. Descending the street, I see down in the valley, where is a T-junction two trams facing each other on the same track. The red one is going up, the black one down. Their meeting point is on the corner of the street. There is a house. I know that this is the house. Instinct again. Approaching the place, I feel shivers. Cold intercalating with warm ones. Another second passes and I’m in front of the trams, but now I see only the black one; it is prepared for the funeral. The flowers, the smell, the colors and the heavy feeling, all lead to the funeral.
The house on the corner is old; a bit depredated. Yellowish. It seems like it got old by the northern winds and rain it has to face every day. Today is the sky weeping along with me or because of me. It doesn’t know and I don’t know. Two unknowledgeable individuals, trapped together is the same situation.
The tall, long house, being yellowish, has its windows only on the corner wall. By the dark, gloomy spiral shaped staircase. Every four steps there is another window that faces the black tram. Ascending the stairs I get the elevator-feeling. The typical feeling that one gets in an elevator; you stand still and the building moves downwards. While the house is going up, more and more noise. Arriving in the ill lighted central room, I discover that I’m back in the chique restaurant. The same people and the same lights are staring at me. Right up the stairs, a big flower decorated coffin momentously occupies most of the room. It is a black shiny one. By the head, a dark skinned male with black moustache and coal eyes is keeping watch. Seated on a simple chair, he welcomes me. His face seems familiar, even though I’ve never met him before.
As I desperately gaze in the coffin, I notice Jo’s immortal body. Having her eyes open, it seems that she’s been going through an Indian ritual of mummification. On the forehead there is a golden chain, of which golden figures such as elephants, Buddha’s, hearts are attached. A Hindu red dot is carefully marked on the forehead. Praying hands are folded on the chest holding a Muslim chain. Seeing all this, I lower myself on the ground, where the staircase ends and the room begins. Without permission the watcher starts narrating her life story. I hear, but I don’t listen. He is petting her folded hands. My eyes are fixed on the staring body. I wonder why. There comes no reply. From anyone. The others are enjoying their coffee and cocktails. It seems as if they don’t even exist.
Suddenly, Jo starts to twist around, biting her elbow in agony. Eyes are showing the suffering. This time I’m carefully listening to what the dark skinned man has to say: “Even now she finds no peace; death doesn’t welcome her. Pour soul. It was too early and undeserved.” Placing an ancient golden clock with the mechanism upwards on her chest, she calms down. Inner peace has been found.
short story five
Leaving your home town.
Eleven years can be considered a short human life. Eleven years. Eleven years I have lived in that place. I’m positive that it’s not the best place in the world, but for me, at that particularly time it was paradise. Hm, that’s funny, I never thought about it like this, until this very moment. For me, and just for me that marvelous town was home. A place where you feel safe. A place where you recognized, every stone and every single tree blowing in the wind, with your eyes closed and where every sound was familiar. It was a great and strange feeling because you don’t feel a stranger. It’s belongs to you and you belong to it. It’s like your steps complete the streets when the streets are crying for your steps.
I walked there since I was able to walk till the 22nd of December 1990. At nine o’clock in the morning, a beautiful morning, I stepped in the car prepared for a lifetime journey. By the time that the car pulled off, out of our backyard, the memories already started to drive trough my head like a train on one railroad track. There wasn’t any comeback possible.
As the car drove trough the streets; in my mind, I waved goodbye to a lost and unforgettable childhood. As we crossed the main boulevard, I saw the tanks, the soldiers, me and my friends standing there like that time during The Revolution, waving to me with a sad smile on their faces. It is still fresh in my memory that moment when we left the town border and my father remained on that snow-covered hill watching us leaving and I can bet that he was smoking a cigarette right then. He was always smoking a cigarette. I never looked back.
The only thing I remember afterwards, were the white fields and my eyes running along with the white stripes in the middle of street, trying to beet it. Unfortunately I never succeed it. While being half in sleep, thoughts, memories and illusions entered my mind leaving deep scarves and then escaping again like grasping for freedom. Nothing strange, nothing special and nothing common. Just me and myself and my town.
Eleven years can be considered a short human life. Eleven years. Eleven years I have lived in that place. I’m positive that it’s not the best place in the world, but for me, at that particularly time it was paradise. Hm, that’s funny, I never thought about it like this, until this very moment. For me, and just for me that marvelous town was home. A place where you feel safe. A place where you recognized, every stone and every single tree blowing in the wind, with your eyes closed and where every sound was familiar. It was a great and strange feeling because you don’t feel a stranger. It’s belongs to you and you belong to it. It’s like your steps complete the streets when the streets are crying for your steps.
I walked there since I was able to walk till the 22nd of December 1990. At nine o’clock in the morning, a beautiful morning, I stepped in the car prepared for a lifetime journey. By the time that the car pulled off, out of our backyard, the memories already started to drive trough my head like a train on one railroad track. There wasn’t any comeback possible.
As the car drove trough the streets; in my mind, I waved goodbye to a lost and unforgettable childhood. As we crossed the main boulevard, I saw the tanks, the soldiers, me and my friends standing there like that time during The Revolution, waving to me with a sad smile on their faces. It is still fresh in my memory that moment when we left the town border and my father remained on that snow-covered hill watching us leaving and I can bet that he was smoking a cigarette right then. He was always smoking a cigarette. I never looked back.
The only thing I remember afterwards, were the white fields and my eyes running along with the white stripes in the middle of street, trying to beet it. Unfortunately I never succeed it. While being half in sleep, thoughts, memories and illusions entered my mind leaving deep scarves and then escaping again like grasping for freedom. Nothing strange, nothing special and nothing common. Just me and myself and my town.
short story four
Miracles
And what happens when miracles do exist? Lingering on the edge of rationality and mixing that with sentiments of hope and desire, just like a bird singing at the early dawn, humans and humanity do have the right to wander along the paths of insanity and realism. No person has the right to demand that humans are complete rational when irrationality occurs. Remembering a movie “the Truman show”, I raise the question: whom is playing with our minds and why? There are many fundamental human rights that can be taken away by different means, but one’s mind will always be entirely free to think, imagine and desire. Desire and hope is what keeps a man going. Is imagination insanity? Is hope irrationalism? Are people’s hopes something to condemn? Cognito ergo sum, is thinking a sin or a sin? Does the wind think, does it exist? Is the cricket during a hot summer evening insane? Does a blooming rose have a conscience? It’s prettiness can be consumed by people without even realizing that a rose is a miracle by itself. The smell of the blossomed trees, the music of the wind, the singing of a bird; all these are natural miracles are not acknowledged by one’s eye. How does our mind differ from all these?
Too many questions to be answered. Too many idea’s to be taken in to account. Focusing and chasing one’s dream is an action condemned by the vast majority of people.
And what happens when miracles do exist? Lingering on the edge of rationality and mixing that with sentiments of hope and desire, just like a bird singing at the early dawn, humans and humanity do have the right to wander along the paths of insanity and realism. No person has the right to demand that humans are complete rational when irrationality occurs. Remembering a movie “the Truman show”, I raise the question: whom is playing with our minds and why? There are many fundamental human rights that can be taken away by different means, but one’s mind will always be entirely free to think, imagine and desire. Desire and hope is what keeps a man going. Is imagination insanity? Is hope irrationalism? Are people’s hopes something to condemn? Cognito ergo sum, is thinking a sin or a sin? Does the wind think, does it exist? Is the cricket during a hot summer evening insane? Does a blooming rose have a conscience? It’s prettiness can be consumed by people without even realizing that a rose is a miracle by itself. The smell of the blossomed trees, the music of the wind, the singing of a bird; all these are natural miracles are not acknowledged by one’s eye. How does our mind differ from all these?
Too many questions to be answered. Too many idea’s to be taken in to account. Focusing and chasing one’s dream is an action condemned by the vast majority of people.
short story three
The link:
What monstrous being or great evil could be responsible for this daily climatic abyss, today I wasn’t my own reciprocal self. He had their demise all thought up. Unfortunately there is little one can do both to physically and mentally prepare themselves except to hope and if necessary pray for the worst because only then will you realize the suffering I have gone through. Denigrate us, with your pension plans, your two cars, and your white picket fence. This wondrous place radiates with depression enough to drive anybody emotionally unstable to the brink of suicide. Me, I just keep to my job. To uphold the predictability of your petty existence, I have to live on the edge.
The only birds that incited me to get through my day were owls, the only shining rays that enlightened my breakfast came from street lights –and half of them were not working. Instead gray blocks of cement touch the ever-dark gray skyline. You cannot grasp that in order for you to have your Tupperware-protected daylight lives, the night is necessarily dark and painful. Am I in hell. This must be hell. You don’t understand silence; you don’t understand the gloominess of the night as with us night creatures our circadian rhythm is the complete inverse of yours.
What monstrous being or great evil could be responsible for this daily climatic abyss, today I wasn’t my own reciprocal self. He had their demise all thought up. Unfortunately there is little one can do both to physically and mentally prepare themselves except to hope and if necessary pray for the worst because only then will you realize the suffering I have gone through. Denigrate us, with your pension plans, your two cars, and your white picket fence. This wondrous place radiates with depression enough to drive anybody emotionally unstable to the brink of suicide. Me, I just keep to my job. To uphold the predictability of your petty existence, I have to live on the edge.
The only birds that incited me to get through my day were owls, the only shining rays that enlightened my breakfast came from street lights –and half of them were not working. Instead gray blocks of cement touch the ever-dark gray skyline. You cannot grasp that in order for you to have your Tupperware-protected daylight lives, the night is necessarily dark and painful. Am I in hell. This must be hell. You don’t understand silence; you don’t understand the gloominess of the night as with us night creatures our circadian rhythm is the complete inverse of yours.
short story two
Never has the human reach despair such an extend that humanity couldn’t resist it, solve it or at least give it a try. This time, the desire the passion and even the dependence of surviving was intolerable. Individuals, teams, families, colleagues, friends, homosexual couples, business partners, mother and daughter, all agreed that life offered more than they even could imagine. The beauty of tiny things in a tiny world embracing many people was absolutely irresistible. No tongue dared to speak out the truth, the beauty was overwhelming.
Words, completely necessary, if spoken out, were completely useless. Made the souls go numb. Made the minds freeze and the eyes stare into the emptiness of immoral and nonconformist mentalities The complexity of thoughts, the telepathy between positive thinking cortexes, between the hearts of humans, made the scene a crowded melting pot of one mind. The evil versus the divine. The dark versus light. The good versus bad. Clichés. But not entirely. No one wins, there are no losers. The perfect egalitarianism of humans, of individuals as such, is and always has been comparable with the balance of justice. The sword and the book. Two simple items in enormous contradiction. A uncomplicated and complex concept created by the unorthodox mankind. A belief in tradition, stories, ideology and the supernatural, intranational and international. Different minds, same thoughts. Where’s beauty, there must be justice. Survival is the beauty, punishment is justice. No thoughts, just deeds. Actions of our internal animal instinct. The power of the strongest. Despair is human, there’s no ration. The weakest link in an empirical survival. Beauty is passion, despair is the probability of ten dices. There are ten sixes. Each six a second. Will I still be there the next coming minute?
Words, completely necessary, if spoken out, were completely useless. Made the souls go numb. Made the minds freeze and the eyes stare into the emptiness of immoral and nonconformist mentalities The complexity of thoughts, the telepathy between positive thinking cortexes, between the hearts of humans, made the scene a crowded melting pot of one mind. The evil versus the divine. The dark versus light. The good versus bad. Clichés. But not entirely. No one wins, there are no losers. The perfect egalitarianism of humans, of individuals as such, is and always has been comparable with the balance of justice. The sword and the book. Two simple items in enormous contradiction. A uncomplicated and complex concept created by the unorthodox mankind. A belief in tradition, stories, ideology and the supernatural, intranational and international. Different minds, same thoughts. Where’s beauty, there must be justice. Survival is the beauty, punishment is justice. No thoughts, just deeds. Actions of our internal animal instinct. The power of the strongest. Despair is human, there’s no ration. The weakest link in an empirical survival. Beauty is passion, despair is the probability of ten dices. There are ten sixes. Each six a second. Will I still be there the next coming minute?
short story one
Room 101
Hi there. I know it may sound strange and maybe I’m the only one feeling this way, but I don’t know. Some people say that I’m not very normal and I cannot deny this statement, but I was wondering if I’m the only one feeling this particularly way.
Imagine yourself being invited to a party and it is a social duty to accept it, but you would rather eat two kilo’s of pure salt at once than attending this party. My dear friend let me explain you why. It’s not so much about the place or the time, it’s not even that you are tired or that your favorite game is on TV, but it’s all about the people.
I don’t know if should tell you directly the definition or the description of these people so you can find out for yourself what exactly I’m talking about.
You meet these kind of human creatures in your everyday life. You see them in supermarkets, while they are walking their dog, at cinemas and exhibitions, theatres and museums. To put it differently, they are all around you, and I don’t know if you notice them, or maybe you notice them, but you do not mind. One thing I ‘m hundred percent sure of is that they are the most nerve-breaking-irritating-pain in the brains-human beings.
These kind of people park their big fancy cars in front of their even bigger and more expensive houses situated in nice, quiet and safe suburbs. These residences are usually surrounded by a neat and perfect miniature copy of a French or English old style gardens which are decorated with “ancient Greek” statues and fountains or any other kind of “artistic valuable” ornaments. In order to make long story short, everything has to be according the book. There is nothing that can be different from the rest. Every place is exactly the same, but yet “original”. The rule is that if someone plants a new type of tree, then almost all the neighbors will plant exactly the same tree, but maybe a different color in order to be original. If the family next-door buys a new car, then the neighbor has to buy a bigger and more expensive car so he can show that he isn’t any lower on the social scale. This type of people also dress up more or less the same, according the latest fashion and magazines of “The Society Shop” or any other shops of that kind. Even during a “gardening day”, when the whole neighborhood gets out in the lovely weather to perk up their neat gardens, they will wear their old clothes that consist of: a f 300,- pair of half a year old trousers with a tiny and invisible hole somewhere in a place that the human eye is not able to see, a Yves St.Laurent polo-shirt, the most expensive gardening gloves that can exists in order not to damage their fine hands and a pair of rubber boots, so clean and shiny that I would be able to use it as a mirror so as to get a clean shave. This is the way that my fellow human colleagues look like.
I’m trying not to judge by the appearances, but their outside does not differ much from their inside. When I told you that their gardens are decorated according the book, I wasn’t just throwing words into the wind, because this is exactly how their minds are as well. It may sound weird, but it’s true. There is nothing special about them; they don’t have any kind of weirdness in them, in order to make them special. They are as dull and normal as a wooden door. No, I’m sorry, a wooden door is more special, because someone special has created it, but these mortals are trying to be impressive by their prosperity.
Regularly they live an overdone formal life according to the book of good manners. Please don’t understand me wrongly, I don’t have anything against good manners and politeness, actually I’m really in favor of it, but the controversial part is that if one lives his entire life in a very formal way, he will loose his own natural personality. That’s what bothers me so much. I’ll try to be more explicit. Let’s say that you are a top-manager at a middle-size firm and the work requires formal clothes. Fine. No problem. The problem arises when you get back home and you are with your family or friends having supper or just sitting around feeling nice and cozy, then please, I’m begging you, take that god-dammed tie off and just be yourself.
When I said that you are surrounded everywhere by them – at museums, theatres, cinemas and parties – I essentially wanted you to observe their way of acting. These beings are all laughter and talking and it is very interesting to listen to the conversations they are having. I don’t know if you already have had the possibility to do so, but you have to trust me when I’m telling you that all they are talking about is very superficial. The best part is when they start commenting an exhibition or a theatre play, because they don’t have a personal opinion. It doesn’t matter how crappy it was, but they still like it. Shall I tell you why? The purpose of their visit is not to enjoy it, but it is to be seen by their fellow kind or to tell the neighbors during a party that they have been there and how “lovely” it was. This is just to change the subject: “the weather”.
After reading all this you’ll probably ask the following question: Who are they? Well, I don’t know the right definition, but I think that I shall give them the name of snobs. O yes, just one more thing before I hang up; even if I’m generalizing, and even if we all are God’s creatures, there is still one thing remaining: no human is the same.
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