LIMOUSINE FOR FREEADING 9.
CONFLUENCER OF CIRCUMSTANCES
If this world really circles around money, it’s certainly not my world. Those who follow this religion are completely irrelevant to me, speculators and usurers are abhorrent. Ever since I can remember, deception has been creeping in from everywhere. The backyard, school, college, work, the media. Nothing was what it seemed to be. The bigger the pose the greater the lack of sense, talent, charm. Attention sooner or later must supplant spontaneity, enthusiasm, confidence. Empathy irritates, perpetuates the interpretation of weakness and opportunity to exploit. So what? The truth is most interesting. Grades are for others. Insight awakens discomfort, fear, venom. The toxin begins to circulate in a closed loop. The posers drop their masks and end up screaming eagerly gibberish willingly. Has anything changed? Is that even possible in this relation? Construction and catalysis cannot be fooled. The ocean of darkness, embrace, describe, ridicule. Constantly running and hoping that since man is a circumstance of laughter, the result is community. – Hi, wait, man, wait… Where are you running, I’m here. Don’t relax, but slow down. Again, you don’t take certain things into account… And here we go again… Shoowtime…
I meet Gabryśka last year, she says: – What are you still doing here? – I’m renovating the camper, and overall I don’t think anything good will happen to me here anymore 😉 Goodbye, a while later the phone rings. But something interrupts, snatches of sentences, probably from the production of some, the goat is calling, certainly, you can already feel her heighness. The phone cuts off. Silence. I get an email after a while that they’re starting to produce the next part of “At God’s garden…” and what are my dead lines? Okay, I think to myself, maybe it’s a good coin cidence. I’ll add power on the roof, new batteries, and maybe even a container for the Husbil will be left because it would be appropriate to sail over the ocean already. But when I think I’ll be standing again like in “Extras”… I write back why not, only can I get the script first? And what? And nothing. Silence. I guess they got offended or what? Yeah, later I hear that they were already shooting. But probably didn’t make it, because I hear that they’re shooting again. – Well, how could he make such a demand? The script, huh. Gamlet from the hamlet From quasibuddies, by the way, no one called either. They probably thought that such a haughty prick, to play refuses with them, no longer wants, their/he. Means to shoow. Obviously, as if I lost in time.
When the cat is away, the mice scamper. They chew not owned, everything on the road, inedibles too. They don’t clean up after themselves. A clutter, no use of their shit. Stench unpleasant shame that such a parasitic passengerie happens. They completely don’t understand the idea of eternity. How to eradicate vile from the camper? You need to find some Popiels*, unfortunately still an abundance of them, and send them there. A different motivation means different dilemmas. Otherwise, traps, timed mummifying grain poisons, vinegar, chemical odors, and ultrasounds. Lethal poisons need to be watched out for, especially if there are available/sufficient spaces between the wall and the body. Get the rodent used to the traps, and bait it initially to disappear the threat. And then cap car ap! For martens supposedly lion’s shit is not bad. (*acc. Polish legend: spirits of the murdered possessed mice, caught the criminal and wicked Prince Popiel and his family in a tower on a mysterious island located in the middle of a lake and ate them)
POLISH CARROUUSELLIOSUM: – Oh, it’s so wheeling and dealing, man! Out of the mind. Fire. Vortexis chainis carouselis tiru riru. – Swinging me lying. – turns around – We, but not us. – You! Listen. If the measure of a serious approach to the subject of the state’s spending billions on an uneconomic and toxic technology is one nuclear PRist/culturist as some kind of reference, which, by the way, doesn’t answer all the questions, and yet presenting him/it as an enemy of the right-wing “coal bad, but good nonetheless must be”, which supposedly is to raise his/its “sexiness” then indeed… Let’s get everyone together for a roll call, put scarves on uniforms, hold hands and sing “Beloved our Polish populism!” meaning: there’re no longer any scientists in Poland with Ph.D. in physics, energy architecture with a degree in economics, who would compare publicly the types of possible technologies, their availability, cost, power, network architecture, profit, the raw material’s national origin, to not fall geologically and geopolitically, and toxicity would also fall out, because you will be gone, and she will remain, This Earth. The rivers are drying up, in France already, wheeling less and it’s not profitable. Charts are probably some rarity must these days. None of them can speak? Does everyone work for a foreign investor? Did they all follow the shaman, she? No, there is only one government lobbyist without a degree or money. So now everyone is expected to listen to him as an expert. But he shies away from answering. Is this some new secular tradition? The carousel on the Friendship Estate’s paint is peeling but the rally is going on. Ready steady go. (“Friendship Estate” is a warsaw suburbian 70 y/o, 32ha estate “Polish-Soviet Friendship”, quarters for builders of “Stalin’s Gift”; transformed into 77 barracks dorm; The Carousel is the main club)
Seems everyone accepts it. No suspicion something is wrong? Whether it’s: propagate soap skunked-free, stretch beauty, a lot in a plot, or with a skip in the car, is all the hell the same? Aaa… All are independent by now. One hand criticizes the other waits and massages. OK. The main thing is that something is wheeling. Well, yes. Mulchooch* flips. This is our Polish tittle-tattle about capitalism, conservatism, and entrepreneurship for public money, with stretched-out legs in grandma’s chair smoking Belomorkanals (RUS “WhiteSeaKanal” cigarettes) and handing out autographs with a pen with their golden autograph engraved on it. The pursuit of laziness until out of breath… Not circular enough? Crossed sabers on the wall. Don’t manage to close one, the other opens. Drawerland sort of. – And the frog says, I don’t rabbit it. Maybe more pipe puffs and ponders the condition of messianism in the changing decades… And if there’s a need, a drop for patriotism will be made, a war’s erection will walk around, the nation will swallow, the Slavic soul will accommodate so much… Orwell staggers with laughter. Now that’s the PRL Polish People’s Republic! Oh, God.– Adam, leave it, man, you don’t have anything to experience, it doesn’t make sense. It’s like Polish agriculture… They’re drowning money people are hanging on… Nothing pays off… Leave it. – I understand. Counting for a biogas plant 7-15 million, with “expert’s” “two nuclear programs of 130 billion each”, let’s say on average 11 million for one – about 24,000 biogas plants; let’s say 10 for each Polish municipality. Oh man, how many jobs, and for rockets how much work, man… And still, let you get rich; who knows maybe self-sufficient can even be done… So, how much would he have already started to save during this two-decade constantly changing cost of building a nuclear power plant? Or reinvest for that matter… Marian so many ideas… Then let’s already pay them for anything to the “States” but nuclear. For electric cars e.g. The old-fashioned way: we(/)you coal, you(/)us bananas. Enough circling wheelkring. I’m getting off the vortex chain brain carousel. There’s a method in such madness. (* RUS/UKR/POL Khohol (mulch) is a pejorative term of another nation. In the Russians it’s the Ukrainian Cossacks because of their hairstyle, in the Ukrainians it’s the Russified inhabitants of their country. In Poland, it’s a straw bush protection for the winter, a Christmas tree until the 19th c., and a Polish culturally embedded Stanisław Wyspiański’s “Wedding” drama character, a prophetic/symbol of a missed opportunity and a vicious circle)
INVERSION OF A CERTAIN PATTERN. The statement: sit if you know you fall down, has for some reason lost its truth and relevance. Exactly. For what reason? All those years of being blamed lied instructed hit slapped… Years of absorbing, stupidly uberhuman responsibility, taking on everything possible: evil, shit, discomfort, rejection, ridicule, mutations of possible fears, illnesses, humiliations, hunger, poverty, cyclical reset… the foot-stomping, the shouting, the shitty analyses of my person… I finally understood completely that it all made no sense. Whatever I do, however much I bend, give up, or knock myself out, the man will always mess it up, steal from me, take credit for it, and treat me like a doormat. And later he will still pretend that nothing happened. Comedy actually. – Lord, pastiche it, because how else. – Despite all the swallowing the insults without complaining to anyone you went on? True. People felt saw knew sometimes someone leaned helped? True. They passed inertially such reptiles sometimes gave contempt’s kicks sometimes spat with venom? True. They spread their peacock’s feathers and usurped? True. As I gather it all together now and watch myself… Obviously fire.
– Come on man, what are you trudging on about? Go aside, let them wallow in their nabby tomato filo momento sauce. No shame in pretending. Little zeal and deal the seal, shitty heal a lie re appeal… so many times repeated… etc. And so they’re about to start gnashing their teeth, ringing in the gutter, resentments implied… Man ehh, I’d take the belt the old-fashioned way and spank once or twice. – Come on, man, it’s the 21st century. A different civilization. Just don’t such. – Aaa. Well, maybe just a yummy proudy little mousey, just for the sake of understanding. Just for the taste, as they say, little red furball… I remember once my favorite completely non-invasive educator, allow me to describe her a little: a wonderful artist, she once poignantly and quietly played Our Lady in Black, our only true female Golden Palm, with a quite rare, non-straight tools, to my observation that certain plays I watch are without Spirit – she replied: “There are especially well-written scenes in world drama, playing them it’s impossible to fuck them up. And your rector and dean have just fucked it up”. Awesome she. So… at the End of the World with nothing left but Husbil and the last seemingly most important feeling, which somehow I’ve never given away to anyone and even if it were crashing and burning I haven’t either, “my white plume” so to speak, I laugh at you and have it where I imagine off end. – Well, what is he imagining now? Offend.- Get out of the limousine! By foot from now on. All the darkness is yours. At your own request. – I guess the ground has been hit by horses, nothing stops them. – Wait! Run, little mouse, to the hole, or you’ll be caught by the grey cat lol. – No, no, no. There will always be a bigger fish. By the way, you somehow have no sense of irony (,) fate (&) embarrassment at all. And those illegal encounters in the forest. The wolf already sees that the bear is jealous of the hare because the hare has “given away” three hundred to the fox. The deer and the buck are bidding on who is more recognizable in the posers’ world next door. Three deaf owls, paraphrasing Chandler or not, speak through each other: be careful raymond when being called to the black board because you don’t know what will happen to you…
Imagine, man, you’ve been in prison for many years, not for your guilt, but you don’t want to enumer aaate aanymore and you’ve grown old altogether, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel true freedom. Like you’ve lost the smell of it… Instead you’ve obtained the smell of blood… You try again and again to slowly remember…. Freedom from prickly thoughts, from the responsibility of anger. – A butterfly flutters at your temples. Beautiful. Freedom from the face. From the white shirt, from the black shoes. – From pink skin. That’s the mean one. Sun tans red. Freedom from perdition. – From indifference to perdition. It’s worse. Take it. Freedom from man. From those who used to someone having to endure it in a too-tight costume. – And because of that, they despise you. In matter of fact, yes… Freedom from yourself. Why you for you, as still: u u u uhu uu u… I can’t listen to it anymore. The End… Silence… The rotors are still wheeling… But the runner’s frames no longer move…. Somewhat melodramatically, indeed. The oblige diance has disappeared. Certainly, sir. You look around… There’s probably a life going on somewhere. In a world of lighter rig our where you have pluses and minuses in contr acts with the world. There are devices. The world is rolling. People in the little markets are chattering. You can get eggs with two yolks one day. Maybe you’re breathing already. Lying on your back with your arms folded in the Return of the Dad boat. The children have appeared. Immediately grown up. They look on interested. But you’re not going anywhere. Like you’re still drifting and measuring with time. You’re dancing, surfing, bins wrightking, joking…. they say a savior shouldn’t make jokes. Funny. Still watching. You fix the nets. – The world has already priced you out: Aaa, that’s he is, him. – The realization that you won’t sail anywhere is scarier than the realization that you will never see the ocean again. You understand, don’t you? Yes, but that’s not true. Last time. An old man and an ocean of memories saved without him. So much time has passed. I don’t know if it’s good for them to look at me anymore… Whether they will understand the only one confluencer can face & measure the time in the name of them. – Is of circumstances. – Life forces to shave a beard right away… Still, we ek day… The mousey smell is almost gone… Paradoxical to someone, perhaps, but what helps most is the awareness that one is nobody. Welcome home. O… lobster 😉
whom unjustly judged, innocently incarcerated – tear down walls, courage; bear with me man, as so many years have gone by… cheer up 😉 good limousine, has an aluminium body. doesn’t corrode. – don’t you feel like you’ve lived through this (sometime)?
p.s. philosophy is also, or perhaps above all, a game of words par excellence. can be deadly dangerous.
THE TIME IS OUT OF JOINT, EVER I WAS BORN TO SET IT RIGHT. 12.22.2022, 22.22. TIME LET ITSELF TO BE STRAIGHTENED OUT. I AM. WHAT’S NOW MR ALLOW?