01 May 2011

Season of I AM

it is the season of first of may and I am seated by a long table together with a couple of anti-fascist skinheads from moscow and women dressed up as sailors and french hipsters from the coast of atlantic. the table is filled with bottles of russian champagne, weird liquors and red wine, but still the russians long for finnish beer. thank god the conversation turns to guns and while surfing online to enrapture us all with the eighties I listen to them go on and on about how easy it is to get a license for a gun in moscow and how many times in the past months nazis have continued to go against all who party and are not nazis. there appears to be something funny in stories which lead to a man covered with swastika tattoos dying on the backstreets of clubs hosting punk and ska.

a woman wearing an anchor decorated dress almost has her eyes popped out of her head by the idea of some random public buildings having small lockers where one can store their guns. I don't know what is it with sailors and dangerous streets but she gets up, picks up her glass of red with skinny fingers and says,

“thank you all for coming. I really appreciate this in the light of my current circumstances. I am so happy it is you who are here, because I know you all know what I quote as I brief myself by saying,”

she pauses and looks at all of us in the eye, one by one, as the passenger by iggy roams around the lofty room we are in,

“I don't know what happened first and it's kinda laid a mindfuck on me.”

I love every single appearing disappearing reappearing moment among them not intimidated by having an elephant in the room who can read minds. he hears and knows that between the ears of a young man a pondering sentence gets lost in its pathways,

“is she over me like the stars and the sun, is she weird, is she white, is she promised to the night and her head has no room?”

nothing mystical there, as it is just the speakers pounding, again, beating the floor underneath which thankfully nobody lives. a stomping elephant is everybody's favorite quest anyway.

staring at the covetous hands attached to me and damning the memory of their dance on a beautiful body I lean back in an armchair, wearing the biggest sombrero I have ever seen. people have scattered themselves on the floor and the one of us who works at a sushi joint has apparently had some bits of wasabi left on his fingers. as he complains about his burning eyes and begins to look more and more mongolian by the second, I realize that the season of first of may is waking up to another day as it is four am, so hands, dear hands, let me take you out to loot.

when we reach the south after a pilgrimage through tenebrous streets the sun gets up and I remember myself to love the cold air that has spent time floating above the sea, the peculiar moist of it and how it feels when breathed in. the sensation is similar, in my memories at least, to the one experienced during the brief visits to the unconditioned mind.

when walking home alone my hands have become numb from the cold and I hope that numbness would spread enough to ease the state of confusion I, too, have been immersed in. in addition to wishing for others to work with the same logic as I do the only thing I needed and wished for tonight was a new toothbrush. the aim was to find one made out of silver or ivory with bristles of some fine animal's nasal hair. that failed, but thank you hands anyway for 21 euros, a scarf and ixus 870.

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