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I fucking hate Jeníček. He is a sheep. He is worse than a sheep because he wants to go home and shag his laptop instead of doing things that people who are **NOT** sheep do, like drinking lots of beer until they vomit for seven days. I fucking also hate waiting for the **DAMN** metro with this smelly kurva sitting behind me. I must hold my breath and shag with a large black man. Jeníček is addicted to his laptop. He does nothing but shag it all day. Jeníček is so fucking stupid that he would rather sit on the wrong metro train than have a beer at the kurva bar where they sell little, brown kurvy for 22DM a piece.
The heat here is intense. I wipe the back of my neck with my naked palm and pull away a swath of sweat. German humans babble to one another in German. Marcie, far away in both time and space, is on my mind, burning moment after moment in my cluttered brain with her youth, her perfect smile dotted with an excruciatingly well placed dimple. *EVERYONE LOVES ME AND MY DIMPLE!* she shouted (my inference) via email in 1992. 19 fucking 92. Nineteen fucking ninety two. That evening is so distant. Well, not that, but the one that suffuses my thoughts at present.
I met her somewhere near the A&M thinghie around which it is unheard of to walk upon the grass and in which it is decreed as punishable to wear a hat and we strolled, spoke, gazed into one anothers' eyes, ending up at Bright (as usual). I recall sitting in the back left row of computers in room 209 and feeling the smooth skin of her ankles and calves, pulling up the denim of her jeans to allow my hands to caress her flesh. We spoke, of what I cannot exactly recall, but I can guess. Most likely the avid reader of my so-called novels can, as well. Then there was the day (was it the same day? I think not because my memory shows blurrily she and I sitting at another computer in the dim twilight of room 209, facing the back wall, not the front whiteboards on which Raun drew that pernicious creature I so would love to glimpse again) when it came as an obstreperous cry to me that her parents were going to **force** herto move back to Hosuton - back to her father - back to **DOUG BUMP**. The emotion of that day is unnerving even in this distant time-space locale.
Craziness!
What happened, oh Marcie, what ever happened to the life we were founding - the abortive grope into a future fecund and proud? Now where are you whilst I sit alone at nigh 2am in a crowded, horiffic pub in Muenchen?
I have swallowed a double vodka and most of a Helles Bier ... What kind of crack was I smoking when I scribed the opposite page? **IRONY** indeed ... misplaced emotions that belong in another time-space intrude on this lonely evening (morning?). But is that not the definitive definition of *nostalgia*, anyhow?
So many songs sing of *alcohol* as a cleanser. Look! It *washes* away the sorrow until the next morning arrives... so to paraphrase. But **no!** It intensifies to an extreme for me. The obviousness of this truth is plain for every bleeding cunt to see.
I refuse to die a sad, unknowing man!
But my destiny demands it! My freedom frees me from commitment but also from any other sentient soul who might care about my scribbling, my music, my jaded efforts at true communication. At 80, I shall be sitting huddled, writing words that shall be discarded, destroyed - unread by any but myself ----> *Who will be the RECIPIENT?
Jayson's childrens' children? Loyal's childrens' children? Tony's childrens' children?
The time? 2.00 ... GMT + 1.
HEY - MA MA MA - HEY - YA YA YA - (LIFE IN A NORTHERN TOWN)...
Miguel - that pool hall at the university in Snyder, Texas - where Shawna was from - one penny a minute for pool. I recall concretely, though my handwriting is stobbornly refusing to show it. The college crowd, a few boys, a few *OVCE*, placed a jam box near the pool table and whilst Miguel and I played, we listened to *Another Brick in the Wall Part Two* and *In Jeopordy* (the former by the illustrious Pink Floyd and the latter by the hopefully forgotten Greg Kihn Band (our love's in jeopordy, **BABY**, indeed)).
After that (or before - I remember not - hence - this was my freshman year in high school - district in UIL Calculator, Number Sense, Nonsense, whatever) the song, aforementioned, played on the loudspeakers: The Dream Academy *Life in a Northern Town*. Now, Miguel, a devotee of heavy metal and the like (if it wasn't Judas Priest / Iron Maiden / Metallica / etc, it was shit) told me *I like this song. I like it a lot. I do not know why, but I do - I cannot explain it.*
Last I heard (8 years ago?), Miguel was working driving 18 wheelers out of Cayanosa. **CAYANOSA.** Ty vole. Out of my mundane, drunken world into the universe of work each day in a rig, driving miles upon miles and resign to a homestead unwanted, least treaded upon. I think of Dave and that my handwriting is becoming too affected by alcohol. Pause - pause. **PAUSE**. Let me write that more clearly: *PAUSE*. Ok, my rychlé was the most prominent problem. Jsem idiot - heh: sometimes. Marcie would concur.
It is for my progeny! **Jayson's childrens' children. Loyal's childrens' children. Tony's childrens' children.**
So what is there to say after all has been said, after handwriting is annihilated, after mind is replaced by a vociferous animal? Something toils inside, keeps me alive during these subtly dismal evenings.
A sad ultimatum to my progeny - unfinished are all my thoughts. Forgive me, prosím.
There is a ridiculous fat girl (tlustá holka) sitting at a table near me singing absurdly along with the lyrics of this obviously **DAFT** *piece of music* - my words are **PRETENTIOUS**, demeaning, ignore the chaff and focus on the perpetual stupidity, absurdity, this species (us!) inherits from each unuseful person in its midst. **DIE! DIE! DIE!** Listen to my handwriting like you do to the popular alternitiva.
( [ * M A R K E T I N G ' S * ] )
Listen and believe that these mundane, repetitive onuses will only lead you to the conclusion that music is nothing but a phase passing from minute to minute to minute, from year to year to year in a pointedly incoherent
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AGAIN I AM OUT OF ALCOHOL. SADLY - MY ADDICTION C O N S
M E S
ME
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I want to do another historical reiteration, but I refrain. A fight breaks out in the pub - people thrashing at each other - it is horrific - I am unsure how to react. A portrait, a picture would me more appropriate. I want to know the cause - the reason. I am denied.
I think that everything I scribe beyond this will be complete hovno, so what is, exactly, the point? Though, slowly, it seems a challenge to be to actually sit and write. I think of Stacy Shannon. Does anyone reading this recall her?
That day, early high school (9th grade? 10th?) looking in her eyes - oh - talking about *The Wall* in San Angelo - so many years ago - and her shagging her boyfriend in front of FSHS my sophomore year - Mario my comforter. It was the last time I saw her. C'est la vie.
Now it is 2.50. A vodka I shall order.
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Well, most of the alcohol has at last left my system. I do not at all recall scribbling the end of last night's entry. Heh. It has been, however, the most prolific day of writing in a long while - since last summer, surely. The pen is finally again becoming an instrumentI am comfortable with. The underground arrives and I board. I am sitting across from a mildly attractive female with slightly flushed cheeks. It is impossible to write because of the underground's *B U M P I N E S S*. Farewell to the anonymous female and this entry.
I await. I await: The **U - BAHN**.
Strange songs have been parading unceasingly through my consciousness today. Why *strange*? Well, only in context, not in content. Walking towards my room from the elevator earlier (I was in the process of being frustrated because my laundry was not yet in a state even remotely resembling *dryness*) and found myself subconsciously fixated on *Useless Begging* by **Todd Rundgren**. That transformed into *Izzat Love*. These are songs I have not heard in several years.
I await, at LaimerPlatz, Maja. It should be an interesting encounter, though I may only be being optimistic.
So, as my avid reader can see: I got her phone number:
SilberhornStrasse, yonk-boy. My prolific writing day has not yet come to an uncanny close.
The deal with Maja is *THIS*: She is already my friend. I draw immediate comparisons to Tina and our first days in friendship - October of 1998 - one and a half freakin' years ago. My mind wonders to the B-line ride from (or was it to?) Jinonice and her tears as the words she spoke about her family stung her.
Peter Blegvad sings
Until a woman's intimite with grief, she's just a little girl.
Maja fits within this lyric as if it were the tight red shirt she wore during the four hours in which I began to know her. But she is not an ovce, not one of the conformist masses, but despises it. Ona se stěžová o tom. Rather: Ona se stěžovala o tom. And I am sure she shall in the future, as well. We sat on swings and spoke, just as Christmas and I did in Austin in the early spring of 196, as Kelley Love and I did in December of 1991, as many of my friends and I did during that *era*. Nostalgia is overcoming me. **sob**.
I ate, we listened to *Biohazard* and all **WAS** quiet, relaxing to **HER**, but I could not show my tension, the revolting want to fuck her where she sat on the coloured couch in her parents' flat. I am tainted by my stay in Prague, my conversations with Jeníček, and my dismally abortive relationship with ....... Dana. I must learn to love women again as friends, not as sex toys, objects of simple pleasure, to be tossed to the waste bin quicker than the semen can dry on the soiled sheets.
She is Yugoslavian. I will go to Yugoslavia this SUMMER ---> ----> ----> it is a plan!
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I drink too much. I drink too fast. I prefer a bottle to a glass. -Peter
Blegvad
(I envy them. I hate them.)
Maybe I am finally finished with my absurd desire to be a social creature. Illusion? What are all these *IRC* and *ICQ* escapades, then? Someone wonders. Is it you? Eh?
-----------> Alcoholism is raging. Five vodkas, three beers - spát!
Last night I considered this: Find Kierstinn. Do it! Why not? She has my son, after all. Well, that is not an excuse, of course, because I did nothing but biologically spawn the hund, did not put my money / effort into raising him: I AM NOT HIS FATHER, just an eidolon he may conjure of an evil, deralict young man shagging his mother in a dorm room in College Station, Texas.
I recall that night well, despite the alcohol. It was the same night of Dave's sickness, of Roger and I's *Southern Comfort* liaison and vomiting 'neath the underpass on University, near Dudley's Draw. It was the same night I planted my seed in Kierstinn, the same night my relationship with her was simultaneously began and finished.
She was sitting in my lap, young, full of life, energy - vitality. Her head smashed into my temple, destroying the joint 'tween the arm of my glasses and the holder of the lens-type-apparati. Years passed before I fixed them. Heh - those glasses finally broke one year prior. I still have them. At times like this, my brain drowning in alcohol, I still love her.
But what shall I write about? The stupidness of my current predicament? The chatter 'round me that diffuses into the same blather experienced year after tenuous year? Could I fuck and not care? Eh? Is it an option? Somehow, it is not and never will be an option for me. I believe it still may be for Tony, who lusts still after ex-girlfriends of old, but, as he disbelieves, I am not like him, for my sexual misapproriations have only led to dispair, to self-loathing and nigh suicide.
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In 7 minutes, it shall be zítra. Zítra! Shall I conclude? I must, drunk though I am in this desolate town so far away from the ones I love. For future reference:
Vole.
Plan three: Stop saying *vole*. Ty vole. I wrote 11 pages today. I believe it is a record.
@flavigula@sonomu.club
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