His mind starts to wander

[ST Mar 12 (2001)]

His mind starts to wander. The man no longer takes any notice of the changing stage he's in. Donald Duck seems angry and happy at the same time. The black skiers go full speed downhill in Les Houches. Surprisingly fast. They're a skilled bunch today yet once upon a time they were mere hunters in the jungle. Bic, bic, bic, bic, bic. Dos escrituras a elegir. Bic naranja escribe fino. Bic cristal escribe normal. Bic, bic, bic, bic, bic. And then a short whistle. Many song endings are absurd (many songs are absurd, for that matter), with a climax of cymbals and distorted sounds in crescendo towards a sharp, abrupt, grand finale. Stop. Like the final fate of something which once seemed eternal, rotting in two dimensions, yeah rotting, the matter-go-round equivalent of a merry-go-round, like hearing are you pondering what I'm pondering, endlessly, talking cheerfully on and on, with the Bible in his rucksack, about the Pinky and the Brain, one is a genius the other's insane, reminding him once and again the seemingly real fact that life sucks and then you die, watching the blond, arch-legged guy quickly move by the door and poking at him for a fraction of a second, down the aisle, in the twinkle of an eye, like a fleeting glimpse, and he didn't even get to know his name, after a good deal of time sharing the same building, the white, glittering castle of relativity, finances and companies, sticking out in a decadent block like a sore thumb. And a nice guy he is, yes, the smart, handsome, athletic Italian moving up and down close to the back door in the cold December air, he can see him from his window, combing his long hair with his fingers, down in the street, smoking his cigarettes with remarkable satisfaction. Strained times in full decline. And then the other fellow, an inevitably presence dressed in black, that pathetic, empty-headed little sucker, whom he almost chose to go down the road, to build the darkest future from scratch. Never saw it coming, never anticipated it, up until the very last minute. Pain came unexpectedly and then it hurt his feelings. And once again the past refuses to leave. Stupid him, silly him, that's the way it always goes. Sometimes fun and interesting, sometimes dull and unbearable. Miserable ones merging with soft-hearted ones. At random. Some came and went. A few of them stayed. But the memory lingers on, persistent. He wishes he had a vacuum cleaner to suction out all ugly recollections from his memory. He does feel miserable sometimes, stepping out of that very thin line that set those poles apart, good from bad, fine from miserable. Amazed at the way how sometimes everything just escapes out of his control. Nothing to do. Helplessly drowning, slowly, steadily, an utterly illogical procedure. Making matters worse. All seems tailored to make matters worse. Sometimes nothing is very much fun anymore. The people at the concert clap and cheer and whistle and yell, asking for more. There won't be encore tonight. To keep laughing is pointless, its point nowhere to be seen. And then, lo and behold, he approached him one day, as they always do, always approach him, the heart-of-gold Greek. His friend. It went on smoothly. It was fantastic, delicious, the man's simply golden, as hunchbacked Brain used to say of yet another Greek. But maybe, shit, now it's all over. He misses him. Crazy, toys in the attic I am crazy, truly gone fishing, They must have taken my marbles away. And the first cold winter, the coldest ever. And five more to follow. Four months can become five years. Walking on the frozen lake with her smile and sympathy on his side. Funny days. Taking pictures. Smiling. Laughing. Slipping and sliding. Their car covered by snow. Surprised faces. The small apartment, unfurnished, in the middle of nowhere. No sofa. No nothing. Seated on uncomfortable chairs, watching unintelligible TV. And the appointment in the gas station with the big truck full of their own furniture. Yes, the first station right after the Babelsberg exit at the Berlin Autobahn. They had the map he sent. With his unmistakable notes on it. No way to miss their way, with all potentially delicate corners of the route emphasized with a colour marker. Don't worry. Don't worry. Do not. He's talked to the guy on the phone. He knows where he's going to. He's a professional. He knows his name and he's got his number. And the talkative American helping him with the deal, even jumping inside the truck to follow him. And the days that followed, moving all sorts of furniture around for some days, up and down, in and out, north and west, south and east, it seemed it was never going to end. Plenty of help. Gravity's no longer an inertial force. Driving himself a big truck for the first time, was that fun. Grateful. Very grateful. She cooked paella for them bewildered Americans. But no-one is to blame. And then, relax, deeply breathing. The bunk arrived into pieces one day, with a one-armed guy to assemble it, still smiling at the mere thought, and the old woman next door with her candies for the kids and her soft, broken voice, and the parking lot below, where skating was possible in the coldest, freezing days. The outskirts of Berlin on Saturdays, doing the weekly shopping in an isolated mall, smelling the little donuts' smell, being fried near the entrance. Loathing and agony and wanting to throw up. Downtown Berlin on Sundays, near the channel, and a little walk. Or a big one. And the Kinderwagen, always the Kinderwagen, with its suffering wheels, tortured by miles of irregular, uneven, disarrayed pavements. Taking the bus to work after a bit of waiting at the bus stop watching the longest nails ever. Walking for a little while towards the big Haus, past the little store on the corner, with rolls and cokes and jam and Pringles of every existing flavour. The Haus. To get things going, to make progress, to struggle and learn new things everyday. To be part of. Standing on the stairs, avoiding the lift, unable to move, either up nor down, tense and sick, disfunctional. And the move, and the countryside, and it was all much nicer then, with the brand new bike, damn fun countryside trails, up and down along the border of the forest, moments only darkened by the clear consciousness that his two close friends were going to die. He always came to his mind, vividly, in the same curve, while negotiating its slightly pronounced slope. His face, his disease. He never wrote to him, though. A hundred times he promised himself to do it. On that curve. Always on that curve. Only on that curve. His acting can't be taken anywhere. Plainly disgraceful. Just as many of the things he does.