Collection of short stories and ramblings

62 pgs.

Well, here I am, sitting in the kiddie pool at the sports center. Figured, if I can’t write while laying at the bottom of the big boys pool, I might do it while sitting here. Fuck, I’m an idiot. Got myself, once again, in a financial situation that seams near unsolvable through honest means. It is even so bad that I have sent out a resume to good ol’ McDonald and his farm. I figured that should have been the normal way to start out, right? It seems I even have some babes joining me in the pool now. Both at the eager age that must be around ten. Now all I am missing is a glass of bourbon. But soon, I will go home. Make something edible out of the potatoes that are hidden in the closet. One day I will create an ode to those damned tatters. Everybody will leave soon enough and all that will remain will be my non-existing whiskey, the brainstorm about tatters and me soaking like a pickle in the kiddie pool.



Why am I good at talking politics?

Somewhere deep inside I’m a romantic soul. I like to submerge in experiences. Stop sometimes and just stare at what I live through as it is happening. The image of Kaspar-David’s wanderer, who is looking at the valley is coming out of my nose by now though. You can get immersed in so much empathy with the joy of watching a plastic bag that got picked up by the vortex of a city bus on the prowl. Sure, this can’t always keep anybody pinned down for hours, but as I’m looking out of the window in my predatory blue more-than-four wheeler, and into the kitchens of all the bypassing houses. It’s around dinner time and a couple of tableau’s catch my eye. The only thing that makes this whole ‘thing’ even more enjoyable, is that I have as much to do with my electoral district as an egg with a garlic press. They can be found in the same kitchen but for the most part, they only know each other by sight. This comes from the fact that my voting rights in The Netherlands are so expansive that they postponed the only one, due to a lack of interest. So, my direct influence is worth forgetting. In the Hungarian land, well, ‘just visiting’ would be a nice status for my native anomaly. Two years ago, I didn’t even have a tax-card. The only reason that I do own one is by accident. As for the rest of the world, they seem to do just fine without interacting with me.

But we got these two systems in which, more precisely formulating that what I almost made too corny, I do live, on which I have no influence. Which also haven’t shown much effect on me, although this is not necessarily true, just a matter of perspectives, as almost everything is. Let’s talk a bit about the Cultural Currency Systems now. Or should we just try to figure out how to get the microwave working again? The left gap from the right, there is the cheese. Listen to everybody who is independent of all of this. Ok, there are a couple of exceptions that I rather wouldn’t share with. But this is more due to lifestyle or experiences than anything else. Right to left, liberal conservatives, atheist and priest, saints or convicts all the way to the deranged. I have to admit that in the last case, the free-range before the institutionalized can be found in my phone book. Who knows, maybe they say something interesting, something to think about, to nod to. The interesting part comes when the dices change and turn towards me. What are your opinions about the immigration laws? What will be dinner tonight?

That, I still have no clue about to this very day. I don’t want to run around the hot porridge, but for some people, the newscast is a luxury item. Especially if I would like to know something about my survival rate for tomorrow. The mood is not that dramatic, mind you, but the idea is clear. Clear the table, wipe everything above this away and take a take on this. Isn’t it more interesting to look at these things from a more philosophical viewpoint if we have this aberrated luxury well thank you very much? So, a round of beer for the table, mine is empty. Also my wallet. The Repo man is a nice guy, but sometimes he does figure out where I live. Black is also a nice not-color at occasions, as soon as I will figure out how a tax form looks like. Nietzsche is dead, as the intellectual jokes proclaim. He is not the only one in line. Maybe we should read on a nice day what he has written exactly – whispers the Godly voice. And the romantic is phlegmatically raging about why people still get surprised about how life goes. Yes, there is shit. There has been shit. Before now too. Let’s try and get on, with nice and selected profanity’s at the appropriate places, if needed with an aim, as the hypocritical motivator is shouting in his dreams. Yes, hypocrisy should not be forgotten if we are talking politics with a beer in our hands. How’s your mother? Did she get the chicken soup I sent her? Last time, a complete pineapple did the trick for me, after a day and a half I was fully functional again.



At the second day that nobody was at home to answer the bell, a small hand of luck was handed down to me and I could sneak into the building. Well, then I can just as well dunk the letter in his mailbox, the picture of them at her funeral. But it could in no way fit in the slot because it was chock full of paper. With this, it started to become suspicious. Never in my days have I seen that mailbox full. Slowly, I ascended the stairs, just to check what was up. I didn’t want to acknowledge my fright. But suspicion can put a heavy note. At the windows of his apartment, under the closed and ragged drapes, I found the flies. The disturbing thing was that it wasn’t a few, but a thick black pile filling the ledge. All dead. The same scene welcomed me at the kitchen window, with the only difference that there, the inner panel had one broken glass tile.

Some grotesque reality had happened here, that was the only thing clear. And only after a frenzied hunt through the building was I able to learn what had happened. He died, rotted for weeks. The police took him away eventually, just two or three days ago. They had no records of a family, so he got filed away as „without relatives”.

He died alone, went to sleep in his armchair

His heart stopped.



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