On tour again

This time it was real deal – two and half days en route. And somehow it didn’t cost me much – about 20 euro for return ticket and only 1 euro for food. Hell yeah – the local prices are definitely affordable. I could even settle there some day, but the city has a problem with a water supply system. And hey – haven’t I told a name of the city yet? – It was Lviv or Lemberg or as locals call it – Banderstadt. The latter consists of two words – a surname and a German word stadt, which means city. The trip being very long and tiresome in some way, I decided to take along a volume of novels by Stevenson in English. For I had had this book half read long ago, and now, concerning this distant journey, I thought it would be a nice chance to finish it. So, there were a few novels and the one, which impressed me enough – The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. While reading you just can’t link together all the odd events, but the author as always brings some clarification during the narration. And this stuff strongly reminded me that one of Wilde and his Picture of Dorian Gray, for the main problem, I guess, lies in the same subject – duplicity of a human nature and actions as well as the duplicity and hypocrisy of the society. The moral and mental suffering and anguish of the main hero are just as resemble as of Dorian Gray, but I found the description by Stevenson to be more complete and penetrative into the very angles and corners of the human soul. And of course I liked his style of writing, and his gift to make a genuine detective story out of nothing, for you really become involved and experience and worry about someone’s destiny and fate. So as long as Stevenson goes here and there, to and fro, never touching and approaching the major plot itself, never showing a single hint or allusion to give you any sort of a clue, therefore he leaves it up to you to ponder and ruminate on the occasions to happen. Now I would like to quote one dialogue from this book, which took place between Laurence Sterne and some young chap. Here it is:

“Sir,” he said, marching up to the table, ”I do not like your face.”

“That is a pity,” said Mr. Sterne,” for I like yours.”

“I perceive you set up to be a wit,” said the young man.

“No, sir. Only a Christian,” said Mr. Sterne.

“You cannot pretend to make any pleasure in this dinner,” said the student, changing his ground. “Come, be done, be done with it, and do not keep me waiting.”

“Whence is your hurry?” inquired the parson.

“Because when you are done, I presume you will say grace; and I have a curiosity to hear you canting.”

Mr. Sterne instantly laid down his knife and fork, and stood up with a reverent demeanor.

“Lord,” said he, “look down upon thy two poor creatures, met here together in the worst inn (among all thy various works) that I can ever remember to have visited; and grant, Lord, unto each, that of which he stands so much in need – to me, digestion; to him, manners.”

Genuinely fun story this one is. To be frank, I read it a few times before having understoond the humor itself and the witticism of Mr. Sterne. I presume him to have been a nice lad in the first place.

But let’s return to our days. As I travelled barely through a half of the country, the level of purity and correctness of Ukrainian language ascended gradually while my progression from the east to the west. So, since the poor Ukrainian is a cause and reason for a severe butthurt of mine, I scarcely kept myself from slapping all those brutal bastards, who were ignorant of their fucking native language. And here does a surprise part come in – I personally know this language, but I come from a Russian speaking region and my poor Ukrainian can be forgiven in case of any mistake, but you, silly pricks, who usually dwell in the Ukrainian speaking regions, not even should – you are fucking obliged to say it right. When you fail, I just sit and wonder why, ‘cause there could not be any reasonable explanation to that shit. Nevertheless, I proceed from my inner hate to more amiable themes. At least we are united and must be as a unit, “one nation under the God.” So one more shit I could never stand – this obsession to eat, gorge and devour all the fucking food, which was taken along, while travelling by train. It’s a special feature only concerning to railway. You won’t ever see these goofy people chucking their meal on a plane or on the ship. Well, that was an old fuck, who observed that tradition rigidly once more. Hardly had I entered my reserved seat, I caught this smells and fumes of fried chicken, boiled eggs, every other bullshit. You know, separated all these food do not make me vomit or something like that, but in the mixture I just go barely insane and crazy of that shit. And fuck yeah – he was eating all that with a great pleasure marked in his countenance, chewing every bit and slice, swallowing it carefully. God, damn it, I get pissed off. But you must somehow put up with that. So did I. Gotta go to bed, for I have not fully recovered from the trip yet.

On the books.

There’s gonna be a few words about books. Usually I grab some book, or choose, by chance – I just look at the bookshelves in my father’s library and search for any book to read. I run through the backs of the books, read a title then a name of an author. Then I draw one book after another, examine them, wondering what could be more interesting considering my present state of mind and tastes, and choose one, seldom two, books. A stupidity arrives the very moment I find another one – far more interesting and the one I’ve wanted to read for a long time. But the previous one is half read and you kinda fuck your brain in quest of righteous decision – what to do? Eventually you appease yourself with a golden mean – continue to read the previous one and begin with that, which is of greater interest for you by now.

Hell, I guess lots of us do such a way, and we don’t find it bad, it’s likely to be inconvenient. Years ago I would consider that as kinda sacrilege, but those days I had far much time for reading and didn’t fill my head with thoughts of which one to read. Now times changed, I’m a God damn student, gotta do something at least – study, pass stupid and what is more important – useless exams, waste my time on this pointless activity and find a gap in my now tight schedule to devote some time to, I must say, a real mental activity – reading.

I recall those days, when my father tried, rather pointlessly I must admit, to make my love books, reading, to cultivate an honesty and respect to the books, but in that age I only wanted as Carlin said it: “ You sit in the garden, got a stick in your hand and you dig a fucking hole.”

Nevertheless, I turned to them one day; do not remember exactly how or any circumstances. Maybe I can recall a book, which led me the righteous way – I guess that was Robinson Crusoe. Nice book if you persecute a goal to convince a poor little fuck to reading, hell it is. But it didn’t give up and relinquished the hope for victory at once – I was fucking struggling with it a good deal of time and I fucking had defeated it eventually, hell yeah. That moment something inside just switched off or on and I became kinda book freak. It was in the far future, when I understood that it didn’t by all means mean something cute and good, but those days I consumed books one by one as a big black hole, which swallows and eliminates the stars in the galaxy (bloody Hawking with his history of time - kinda fucked up my brain with it.)

Since my father was very fond of history, especially of our country (in fact there are two “our country” for him – USSR and Ukraine.), I began to follow him in that passion to history. Historic library now contains whole lotta shit to read, even some monuments of medieval works of some insane priests and the church officials. And it’s fucking published in the Old Slavonic language, genuine shit. So any fucked up person with a pervert mind and brain can amuse himself with such a reading. Good luck, Bruno, but without me. So there is no wonder that I passed my history exam well – got eleven. But I was rather sluggish and didn’t prepare for it as I should.

Blahblahblah – and today I’ve finished a real holy shit at last – Dictionary of the Khazars by Pavic. To say that I’m impressed is not even to say nothing – it means to stay silent at all. After a few rather simple and relaxing books it came as a jar of water in the desert of a contemporary written bullshit. At the beginning you feel a little bit embarrassed and confused (dazed and confused?), because it’s not an everyday’s reading – stupid novel or spin-offs about mojo men and pretentious cocksuckers, or on the detectives, whose dumb contemplation make me laugh and cry simultaneously, cause he is fucking goofy. Oh hell, sometimes hate makes the cup run over.

Eh, and let’s be back to the point of speech. The simple act of me sitting and reading Pavic till the first hour after midnight must tell much I think. So it took me only two days to finish with it. Last night in some moment, when I was reaching the extract, containing one more discourse on the Satan and its place in the human world – I barely fancied him next to my window, glazing and staring and grinning at me. An instant thought to shut the god damn book and finally go to bed flew through my mind, but, as you might have guessed already, I didn’t do that. The book appeared to be far stronger and more attractive than that guy from the abyss.

Although the narration is overloaded with sophisticated vocabulary, it’s read sufficiently easy and you will surely not encounter any difficulties. Of course, if you got any wits at all. But, I must admit, I had hardly lost the rest of my wits by the end of the book or it just seemed to me.

Another one feature to have surprised me was those metaphors. Ohh, men, I’ll bet ya, you have never met anything of the kind, that’s for sure. For example – the time was raining above him, but above her the time was snowing, tiresomely and permanently and in the end she became entirely covered with it. How the fuck a human brain can produce such a shit, I wonder? And every moment I met those metaphors they plunged and deepen me in some kind of frustration. Because the normal healthy man tries to imagine all this while reading, and when he fails, he stops his dialogue with an author. I consider this act as a dialogue. Dunno why. So he puts the book aside and goes to watch some horny movie I guess. And that is bad for ya, Bruno.

But I wasn’t going to be disturbed with such mere trifle and just went on reading. In the middle, I guess, I became involved with his way of thinking, his outlook and it eased the procedure much. Every time I tried to fancy something, a strange object or even the world opened in front of me. Really expands your consciousness, if you are not an adherent of drugs.

I see that my thought has spread out like a beard of god in the sky, so I gotta shorten it somehow.

Bottom line: if you, fat and silly prick, dare not to read that stuff, I’ll bet ya, I’ll fucking bet ya – I’m gonna find you, wherever you are, kick in the nuts, then take a chunk of concrete and beat until you fall like a drained turd off the wall. Take my words, Bruno, Big Brother is watching you.

Fever and Reflexion

These thoughts arise on the horizon every time I cross the border of the northern entrance of my stadium: a new one that means no history - no great and glorious history.

Every match day I come to it two hours before kick off – just can’t sit and wait at home any longer. So I wait for an hour to be let inside. Then another hour I spend standing on the “kop”. And the very moment they come over – thoughts. I look upon these people, for whom this is mere game, just an amusing game, an opportunity to have some good time on the weekend, drink beer etc. But… I can’t observe all this shit, cause for me it’s, I dare, say a sense of life. And comparing these extra polar points or views on this game, I completely do not understand, or even comprehend those people, whose relation to this “fever” is calm and tranquil. Well, perhaps, it’s me, whose head is fucked up by or with this game, but I am completely sure, that this game should be considered only as fever, as some incurable disease, which you catch once and never can get rid of. Anyway, I can’t still understand them and I’m not willing to.

Actually, I somehow realize that it’s kinda addiction, which is abnormal for an ordinary person. But, I guess every fucking prick has some kind of obsession and addiction, which he calls “hobby”. There is no normal people left on this planet – everyone is fucked up.

So, as we have concluded, I am addicted. I should say it’s not the worst addiction which you can choose from (because, definitely, every one chooses addiction, not a hobby.) I still remember that day clearly – we played Aberdeen, UEFA cup, don’t remember what stage, but it was the second leg. But not this matters. I got seats next to our “kop”. In half an hour the ground was full – no empty seat was seen. The very moment, which impressed me, had happened a few minutes before the kick off – a tune of the anthem began to play, everybody stood up, lifted his scarf in the air, so that the whole stadium became covered with them, and in that moment I understand – IT IS FUCKING UNBELEIVABLE. It made me fell like that was something great and without any doubt very solemn, and also I felt as I was present at some historical moment and I was witnessing something certainly outstanding and eminent. From that moment result of the match never mattered for me. My soul and heart were in that tempest of emotions, loud screams, shouts, rude and mature swearing, which I tried hard not to listen to though. It really brought some air in life, diluted my boredom, which consisted only of domestic activity – sleep, study, eat.

In that chaos you dissolve so comfortably that then you have no desire and a will to regain your “normal” state of mind. It transfers you to the other spheres of consciousness without taking any special meds. It’s kinda harmless activity for you. But I speak about your body, and I give no guarantee of safety concerning your brain and wits. It can surely blow out them. So be careful before applying. Since I’ve been contemplating for so long on this, I dare say, phenomena, I think I can give you some sort of explanation – I would call it an effect of line. I mean when you are to face another army, willing to destroy and kick the shit out of you. And when one attends the ground, he receives such a feeling – feeling of approaching clash of bones and metal weapon, suffering, pain, casualties, defeated enemy, who lies with his guts squeezed out of his belly and asphyxiates from the smoke of guns mixed with led and gunpowder…

I’ll bet you, I’ll fucking bet you, that is what they – men – really want. Because in the frame of consumers society, which is also based on such shit, as democracy, equality and so forth, there is almost no way to spill out your emotions, anger, hate, anguish both moral and of any sort. You accumulate this shit, while trying to be tolerant, patient, well-bred, good-fashioned, smart, urban yappy asshole. That is the reason for so high level of rapes, when some crazy prick tries to cornhole not even you daughter or a wife – your son too. And these stupid officials in the court just cannot understand why he has done it. And there is the main mistake – they fight and work only with consequence, not a reason. Because they don’t give a shit about a separate person: his problems and motivation of actions. And when they eliminate at least half of these preconditions, there will be twice less crimes level. But it’s always easier to put his ass to jail, than to help a man cope with some shitty stuff in his life.

And that was just one of plenty of the examples concerning hidden aggression that festers inside all of you, folks, bare it in mind.

Looks like a reasonable justification of my addiction. Anyway, I guess it is.

Now I come up to the main feature and secret of “fever”. You can express yourself in every way and by all means, but you can never spill it completely. It’s like waving your fists in front of an enemy never beating and reaching his face. Just looses extra energy, which you could loose in more horrible way, man.

So you cry, shout, sometimes kick your neighbor on the terrace, smash seats, scream, throw damns and curses: “Jerk-offs, pretentious cocksuckers, go fuck yourselves, pussyfarts”, but never applying your energy to any object, especially to the object of hate.

On a one hand, there is nothing sophisticated and complicated in it. On the other – no one still can give an explanation, I mean full and which I could be pleased with. For me it is still phenomena and let it be. Let me be the believer, who is afraid of his object of worshipping to be destroyed and he personally to be dissuaded.

Now I’ve touched another aspect of a human being – he always wants to determine himself with some colour, flag, community, society, space. It kinda brings some determination of directions and objects in life. But I must admit that genuinely free people do not need such attributes, because they have sufficient will and wits to find and go their own way, without adjusting to someone. And the major feature of them – they do not search for the “head”, a colonel, a chief, a king, a president eventually, who will be to blame in case of any troubles. Wise people count on and only on themselves, and if some shit happens, they know – it’s me, who is to blame, I’m guilty, not the jew next door. It’s me, I somehow missed something, didn’t complete correctly or leave unfinished and consequently it had caused those troubles. Reflexion happens to be useful sometimes, helps you to dig and seek in every distant corner of your mind and soul the very reason, ground, cause, precondition. And what do you benefit?! – when you’ve got a reason, it’s always easier to struggle and overcome some shit. But, I shall admit, reflexion is not popular with people. They would rather think it’s you, who is guilty, and they are Mrs Innocence and the Holly Virgins. It is delusional way of thinking, but if they wanna stroke themselves – leave’em be, just their choice and right to make this choice.

Probably, it was not the figure of speech I wanted to develop. Ok, but it was also reflexion, which had been claimed as useful in the end of long and hard contemplation ‘bout it.

P.S These cunts played like pussies again tonight. Nothing changes underneath the mighty sun and all-wise moon.

Having arrived at the station, I noticed no “scouts” around. Ha, they were not even meant to be there – it’s fucking Arsenal, what do you for God’s sake expect from them?! So I headed to the main building in search of a decent toilet. Well, don’t grin out there – I found it anyway. Now you can – IT WAS FUCKING CLOSED. Damn shit, but somehow I should admit that fact, because they were doing their regular work, which was scheduled, washing and cleaning up that foul place. Thanks guys, it smelled much prettier after you having done your work. With a great pleasure, I must confess, I did my little need. And there were three boring hours of waiting towards me. One of them I killed rather quickly and without taking any power and patience of me. As the first came to an end, the second one was sneaking around. But I was already fucked up and pissed off with all those scenes of the iron station: a couple of homeless chaps, resting their limbs, I shall assump, very imposing and showing us they didn’t care of you, dirty pricks. A girl, somewhere about 28 years old, knitting a stock, I dare say, for her little baby. It’s been a long time, when I last saw such a scene outside warm cottages, owned by some respectable man, who had a nice family, dog and had his tea at the time it supposed to be taken…

So I got up and headed in the direction to the tube. Although I was to that city for the third time in my life, I couldn’t help wondering and pondering about that fact, that even on Sunday’s morning – it’s fucking your day off, don’t you know it – the carriages were still full of chaps. I couldn’t even imagine, what a fuck they were doing so early in the morning – it was up to them at least.

Can’t even imagine how to describe those hours between my departure from the station and the arrival at the Independence Square station. Nothing that is worthy of your attention, except one, I’d rather say, occasion, for it finished not so bad, as I then thought it would. As I was strolling upstairs and thus appearing right at the Square, a traffic officer was just having his another day. And – you know, my asshole can’t leave without adventures, it’s “ gegen die Natur” – I decided to cut my way to a post office a bit, only a bit. But I intended to do that in an unallowable place – not in the pedestrian area. There were not even that shit, but, since I was “halb verschlafen”, I didn’t notice it somehow – and ha – jack pot, you’re a winner, only here and just right now you get an extra fucking hours, which include a fancy talk for half an hour to our smart and decent officer, drawing up a record, answering very reasonable questions and trying to stay calm. Ok. He tried to confiscate my students id, I became somewhat frightened about that. But in the end he grinned and said – It was mere joke, take easy chap. FUUUUUUCK ME. If you, Mr Cocksucker, thought that meant to be funny, I must disappoint you – NO, IT WAS NOT AND NEVER – HEAR ME – NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE HILLARIOUS. What if I had some hidden problems, which I didn’t know about, with a heart?! Ha, what would you do then, stupid fuck?! Hilarious, jester, merely – I should have just kicked the whole shit out of you, then you would think twice before fucking with someone that way. So, eventually, he made out a penalty – 51 hrivnas with my hearty recognition of the guilt, blabla. Fag he was. Well, at least I killed another one of those bothering hours, which I had to spend anyway.

Now I’m in the post office, warming up my limbs – and my crotch for sure – cause that day there was kinda weather all British got accustomed to – snowing, chilling wind, which you couldn’t escape, the snow was thawing the very moment it fell down; temperature was somewhere 4 degrees below zero. Celcius scale, of course. Post office didn’t intend to let me just be – there were these vagabonds or rather wanderers, who pissed me off. But they were all reading. You know, kinda makes you feel you are in Saint-Petersburg at least, where even homeless do not lose a moral make-up of a person. I didn’t distinguish, what they were reading for I couldn’t see either backs of books or theirs “foreheads”. Having spent one hour and a half resting in the post, I went outside – just for a good luck – and visited a mall – Globe. Nono, they did not mean to mock about the great Shakespear’s theater – it was only a title. Inside I found nothing interesting, at least nothing, which I could be much surprised of and be standing in awe observing the entire luxury of shops. Wandered about that mall for some time, looked at my watch (well, that was just a cell phone, but you would apologize me) – it was half past twelve. The match was to kick off at 13:00 and I figured out that I gotta go. Having been approaching the stadium, I noticed a crowd of our fellers – 100-150 shchey. Every fucking chap got freds on, so that they were easy to distinguish in the crowd. So was I. Cops surrounded us with kinda ring in order not to let anyone out of it. We neither resisted nor intended to do something like that - ordinary practice that was. In 30 minutes we all had tickets (somehow they were for free.) After the match I got only one word to describe it – SHIT. But, as I said it before, we all got used to it. Bad habit, folks.

To be continued…

“You must be kinda nut to travel across half of a state just to stand on the stadium while it’s freezing. And you aint even sure wether your team wins. I considered you to be a clever boy.” Yeah, my grandma is right as she always is. Anyway, I guess Charley Manson was considered to be a clever boy too. But, as you may have noticed, life is full of unexpected surprises. So have I…

Those reveries founded me sitting at the railway station, waiting for a train to Kiev (or as “conscious “ call it “Kyiv”. Silly bastards they are). Well, at that very moment my activity concerned nothing – I was only siiting, watching, observing and performing some other actions, which man always does, when he is not dead. I installed my ass in a free of charge waiting room. Hell, I should have thought before doing that, for I do not really admire seeing a vagabond fucking around me and stinking as if he was made neither of shit, nor fumes – nonono, forget these quite pleasant fragrances – he just made me think, that he somehow accommodated the entire dirt and garbage in his “body” and in his rags. But it was the one side of the moon, and I dare suppose, not the dark one. They not only spoil and defile a surrounding air, but they sit down on these seats and, of course, sleep. Huh, thus they bring much fun to the police officer, when he begins to wake them up. And the "ment" chose a definitely strange and creative way to do that – beating their heads with his bunch of keys. Once more – it’s a lot of fun. Sure, they did not obey him for the first time – tried to pretend they were barely dead or sleeping so soundly, that you Mr Cocksucker should probably suck. Eventually, they were being pulled out from the hall, bringing me some piece of amusement while observing that scene.

So, now we can move to another fucking problem concerning iron stations – FREAKS. I mean psychopaths, whatever you call it. And, folks, taking this into account, I’ve got a reasonable question – HOW THE FUCK DID THEY GET THERE? Have I missed smth? Did all the nuthouses fly open? Never mind. At least they didn’t cause any sufficient trouble while my presence there and, damn, I’m just grateful for that. Now is the reason why I decided that he was a psychopath – he was slightly knocking the columns in the hall just the way some kind of burglars or thieves did, committing robbery and searching for some hidden treasures or jewelries. I didn’t mind that activity – at least, due to that I didn’t start solving very complicated and smart crosswords. Thanks you, man, I appreciate it.

At this point the list of my temporary amusements comes to an end, and here is a boring, mind-exhausting waiting, peering and staring from the watch at me. If you look to the abyss too long, the abyss begins to look at you. A man, who declared that stuff, must have been a wise kind of prick. I guess it was Nitsche. Never mind him too.

Now we are back again to reality: platzcard ticket, severe conductors, dumb fellow traveler, largely represented by Dnipro fans, including me. Bad weather, freezing and snowing a little bit outside…

What was the reason? What a fuck did I expect of that tour? Certainly and chiefly there could not be expected any sort of a good game from our team. But somehow we all got accustomed to this state of deal - it never bothered that gang of desparados, who the whole train was full of.

So I was looking at those assholes, listening to their very dumb conversations and jokes and trying not to burst out with a stream of explicit lyrics addressed to them. It took me a great deal of patience. And yeah – I was as very pity as sorry about those pricks, cause there were a few “healthy” people on board and I guess it took them a great patience too. Our folk has been always renowned with a great endurance and patience. Almost like these Chinese.

The attempt to organize kinda alcothrash on board completely failed, although they didn’t give up trying until the late night. I was grateful twice that evening.

Morning glanced into my window somewhere about 5:45 a.m. Or it was me, who caught the morning at that time, because, apparently, the sun might have risen up much earlier than I noticed its presence. These two sentences are completely pointless, cause as I could remember there was no sun that morning. Shit.

To be continued…