Trouble Saturday

It's Friday, I'm in a terribly ugly city that I think I love—maybe that's too strong a word. I'm sitting in a diner, cradling an angel with juice in her kidneys. The owner is wearing a stunning red turtleneck, probably to boost her ego, which has been wandering around the Mongolian wilderness for the past few weeks and has wobbled back to reality. She's talking to a guy sitting on a stool, offering life advice as if he desperately needed it. I want to laugh; I'm not listening to these ramblings, but the fragments are affecting me just right. Another customer has arrived; I suspect the mass will soon begin, a ritual of slow liver deformation, coughing, hoarseness, fake laughter, and streams of snorted urine. The barmaid will lift the monstrance, the angels will leisurely, without any harmony, in the spotlights of dirty lamps, with or without someone's help, rush to gravitate where habit dictates. Too often I pull my eyebrows to the side; it looks like I'm thinking, but the truth is, I've never thought, not here, not there, not at all. Besides, how could I, since I'm not there and never have been? I start to wonder what the barmaid's name is. Names have already been mentioned in the bidding: Jola, Ala, Ula, Jowita, Gosia. Fuck, I'm starting to suspect and I've discovered her secret; her name is Eugeniusz! It's better now, quieter now. The empty bottles shot a mischievous wink at me, who, of course, isn't there and never has been. Yet I continue to participate in the games of unconsciousness. Damn, if I had the divine gift of being a welder, I would start working miracles on myself and others. I'd like to weld Earth with Pluto, the love of chips with the prelude of a pickled cucumber, Pavarotti with a handcar, Paris with the rim of an Omega, and certainly the ghosts of the Amazon with the squares of sturgeon wheels. I looked outside, what a magnificent autumn sun! Oh, such faces are missing from my drunken life. I'll lynch myself immediately, grab my shoelaces and howl at the pigeons, crush the last vestiges of power from all the chairs in this world, chop down mountains, forests, streams, lakes, hills, ravines, the cries of the Kurds, and the silence of mushrooms. I'll be clumsy in rituals, offended by mustard, shake the hands of half of Africa, chase Bavarian doughnuts, crumple the echo of holey stockings, and screw with Bedouin rituals. New throats have appeared, they have nice noses, and they speak brilliantly fast with a lisp. I lost an eye on all the Polish fire extinguishers, and I don't know for a damn if they're any good or...? And anyway, I'm not here and never was. The pub is so small,That most people, out of pure sincerity, look at me as a human being and wish me much light since I'm writing a letter to a few people. I was deeply moved; my ideals weren't lying on curbside counters; there are compassionate beings after all. I'll step out of context for a moment and... you all have greetings from a mother and her 3-year-old son, who was surely taken to a sanctuary to understand the sacredness of the universe. I delved into the gloominess to the extreme, and I don't know why. Had I returned to life? Such a joke! Finally, someone spoke naturally, a man who had been convicted, with a delicate grudge against life, but with such faith and a sense of being. Respect and tribute to him, the pillar of my uncertainty, the artistry of the shape of homo sapiens, a helping hand in the hardships of the day and the transience of souls. Normality!!! And the mass continues, even two dogs have joined the choristers; the geese, lizards, and a pack of bumblebees are still missing. I seriously start to think about leaving, but the power of the raspberry juice compels me to stay with a red smile, so I do so and rush to the sounds of the radio. I hope that when tomorrow comes, I'll be there for a moment, and the mobilization will allow me to pick up a pen and write, write, write, just to be there since I'm gone. I'm still wondering about the need for a real chatterbox. It's incredible to let out a cry, the tears associated with it, the apparent tough guys, and listening outside to the dickheads cheering in the wind, invitations to Sunday dinner, and the admiration of their eyes approving of you from left to right or vice versa. So much for a moment spent in a chamber open to everything. It's a delicious morning, empty intestines, silent runners with bread, dirty courtyards, and faces you never forget. Collagen-free skin, and above all, lips that never promise a smile. I glanced at the sky, its cumulus clouds offering some solace to the filth everywhere, offering a glimpse into the visualization of clean streets, sewers, plumbers, their tired wives, and the polish of the toilet where I pour out my own stench and that of this world. I used to be a fortune teller, a rather trivial one, I think, but the echoes of that activity resonate to this day, and I'm amazed by people speaking in a glow of euphoria, recollecting me years later, remembering me so vividly, my words, my writing, but how do they do it when I'm gone and never was? He wasn't a fool who noticed that the world is full of magic, that sometimes it's worth looking at another person, that the mad pursuit of money doesn't affect everyone, what was his name, or was he a woman?A man? Damn, how old was he when he dared to do that? It occupies me for a moment, like everything else I've done and will do in my life. I'm in the pub as always, and my absence emphasizes my existence. I feel wild, and Saturday is a good day for that. Wednesday is also nice. The angels of the chambers daily pound their befuddled fate, coils of feces, sweat, and unnecessary thoughts thrown at the square meters of the handsome walls. It's immensely amusing to listen to the echoes of laughter, the rubbing of hands. Problems so serious that my buttocks groan with little satisfaction and without dreams. What can I do? I go to take a dose of raspberry juice with a dolphin's stride, quietly, steadily, not looking at the pointed fingers and the gazes of those present. Hmm... the art of holding a cigarette has its own traditions, but inhaling and exhaling smoke is a different story. When we look closely at the gaping maws, it's pitying. If a victim decides to undergo a lung-busting ceremony, they should do so with respect for the cigarette and the angels gathered around them, and exhale upwards—it's simply not difficult. And instead, I, who am not there, have to accept cheap cigarettes on my head, cheeks, or not-so-mobile shoulder blades. It's unfair to other victims of existence. Naturally, I'm lame about all this; I long ago noticed that the cult of personality is painfully homogeneous, rudely asserting its divine individuality through its behavior. May all the gods of this world forgive me my immodesty; may you never grow breasts!! If I were a god, oh my, I'd do a hell of a lot of good: drive stakes, light fires, murder babies with milk pellets, give out free poisoned air, create a ranking for independents, and fuck turkeys. I would publish the eternal newspaper "A Bit of a Fool," a new line of camels, "CALKUTTA-ICELAND," and shit on Maori fields. I would create cheap dining halls for bats and weave underwear for perpetually raped roosters. But these are only pious dreams and the multitude of loops of my illnesses. In the life of every decent angel, there comes silence, a moment of reflection, and a semblance of stillness. A flank of peace that equips everyone with desire. I should eat something, but why, and not today, certainly not today. With an optimistic view of tomorrow, the one that never was. Saturday, a still-indistinct state, but one that encourages the growth of wonder and uninteresting speculation. If I didn't feel like a perennial, I would probably become a miserable lunatic, a rusty pump. I would work on clover, panicked by the taste of the independence of impermanent religions.The intangible breath of moving kettles, the pans, saucepans, and dustpans that are being churned out every other day. I certainly don't want to end this way, but my dilemmas are unnecessary, since I've never been and never am. I noticed the shadows of characters ingloriously banging on slot machines, their peculiar gaze, their movements, the convulsion of questionable spells, the routine of sounds, their flawless playability. What do these angels believe in? What clouds shape their everyday lives, what powers take as their bars such exhausted prayers for so-called happiness? Oh, it would be better to dig endless holes, weave matrices of disgust, and value mayonnaise for its creation. Sunday surprised me painfully. To love life so much, to receive everything so much is rare. I love everyone, I love inhumanly, I love so restlessly that doubt stands aside and claps to the rhythm of insatiability. Whatever, the point is to appreciate, to face fruitlessness, to snatch life from divine birches, proclaiming slogans so uncertain that only the soil can hold the memory of good times twice as strong. Saturday evening, November, televisions on in Łódź, delayed trams, scarred asphalt cheering with barely escaping screams. Simply put, instead of the Promised Land – only angels!!! The road was smooth, gently disturbed by scattered thoughts. I was thinking of one thing, not badly described, about the soul that plays within me and is my driving force, a woman for whom I would do anything. By madly plundering her life, I burned everything and continue to burn the foolish scars of myself. When I met her a few years later, I looked at her beret, my intellect faltered, my tongue dried up, my heart nearly lost its rhythm, my lungs turned into a pillar, and my legs, like late-season ice attacked by the sun, parted and melted vertically. Oh, God, to love this life so much, and most importantly, to the end, with the irresistible conviction that it is timeless, and in my case, slowly and steadily dying away. But what if I've never been there, so I can't. In the morning I went out for a cigarette; the playful sun beat on my face with a peaceful, carpeted glow, there was no wind, smoke from the chimneys calmly plunged into the sky, pigeons voraciously feasted on potatoes thrown collectively by an artistic hand from the fourth floor, and the frost softened the characters of those I met along the way. I stopped in the park for a moment, lit a cigarette, a moment of reflection... how different worlds are in one... my bladder, with a gentle cough, signaled that my kidneys were working well and urged me home. On the way, I passed a small garbage can,I heard a quiet hum, my heart racing as they searched for a pair of hands... it's not true that tears flow naturally. Christmas is approaching slowly, inexorably, to the delight of children, especially those expecting cartloads of hopelessly stupid toys and gadgets meant to quell their daily frustration for a few days. You can feel the sweat of mothers' purchases, the worries of fathers over their insufficient wallets, the resignation of the unemployed, the cries of mass slaughter of carp and thinning of Christmas trees, the adrenaline of salespeople, elated priests rubbing their hands on the slats of faith-intoxicated sheep, the desperate wait of the homeless for an empty fucking chair at a table smelling of hay, good food, safety, and a swarm of open arms sincerely awaiting their arrival. A beautiful cord of compassion emerges, a universal fire that unites all Christians once a year for a few hours. I should be proud of their attitude, but for the first time, I'm glad that since I've never been there, I don't have to. Meanwhile, when I woke up this morning, though it was probably noon, my eyes saw snow in a big city. Only a human can turn natural white into gray. I covered myself, opened a bottle, turned on some music, and quickly fell asleep, expecting a better day. I dreamed of an old parquet floor, a cracked ceiling, dirty walls, empty spiders' work, two tired flies, and a shitty chandelier. I turned out the light; even in my dreams, there's no fucking color! Sunday, as Sundays do, greets Saturdays with news, because that's when brave Poles gather in droves and, amidst poor music, engage in deadly serious conversations that ultimately lead to a bit of bullshit, culminating in a disrespectful hangover. I'm surprised. Maybe I was like that once, but I don't remember young creatures not noticing the terrible boredom, the gaping, immobile faces that sound so empty they make me want to puke. Besides, puking is so normal; only fools don't understand their packaging. I don't know where my obsession with faces comes from. I've always had it: skulls round, pear-shaped, square, egg-shaped, medium-sized; skin pale, red, yellow; blurred eyes, tousled eyebrows, overgrown chins, arrays of perky ears, but above all, what's striking is the lack of a smile, a simple, sincere one, the kind that resembles a baby's birth cry. People have forgotten something important, and therefore it's time to stop caring about them, unless I'm the one who doesn't feel like doing so. May this Sunday pass quickly, steadily, and may the pain distract Monday.It's been a few days since I held a pen in my hand, and now, with the late hour, came reflections, a whirlwind of quiet relief for the tired physical body that came on the heels of a rather difficult year: flus, excessive yeast, problems that weren't truly acute, yet so obvious. I want to laugh with a hint of amusement in my eye sockets, feeling the angels breathing down my neck, and generally, a sense of humor has taken over me. The day before yesterday, combining it with yesterday, I definitely met with my deceased friend's wife. She naturally opened up, and in a few words, digressions, and especially in her eyes, I noticed the lack of an adult soul in her life, a certain fear of the future, but that's what other people are for. I know one thing: she can count on a lot from me, and always will. I spent the entire meeting vomiting terribly, which is probably a good thing. Today is Tuesday and I'm going to bed. Tomorrow, New Year's Eve, there will be wishes and a sea of ​​alcohol, offended by the reel of countless creatures here. I hope the tracksuits of emptiness don't ruin that. Friday is rather difficult to express; I saw the yellow woman's hands for the first time. I was looking for something different, something that would distinguish their (I was quite drunk) smile from ours. I found nothing. Hmm... we all search for things small, large, incredibly unkind in difficult and joyful moments. I drink several beers and can't get drunk, monstrous! Tomorrow will be my beloved Saturday, from the very morning I'll start escaping reality because it seems better to me. Sunday will be even better, utter humiliation, why? Sigh... The beginning of Thursday has instilled in me certain feelings that are familiar to many. I've never been able to empathize with the so-called majority around me. I'm infuriated by money, its magic, the filth of its obverses and reverses, the thin veins created around it, demagogy, the nonsense of books, films, inquiries, war, history, the blameless Philistines, pyramids of lies, slaughterhouses for everyone with a bomb in the side. I suppress the word humility: silence, peace, Światowid, turbulence, let's be brothers, DVDs, greenery, dark beer, bags under the eyes, idol, cosmetics, strawberries, alfalfa, newspapers, the spirit of nightingales, unspeakable jars, the Pope, modeling clay, sanitary pads, Iraqi divisions, worthless firecrackers, Mars probes, Viagra, the USA, pegs on bushings, asphalt, football, window sills, dentists, bird sanctuaries, music on the wave, plums, and conquerors of the poles. I think I've gone crazy for a Thursday. I've got this in my large intestine, I'm going to bed. It's Saturday and it's late afternoon, the beer is slowly settling into my cramped stomach,In my mind, the image of Mozart's life—his music and manner—gives me similar feelings of longing for death. Because, personally, what death is, based on the sights I see. I'm starting to ramble, and boredom makes the mess seem wonderful. Truly, I wouldn't give much to feel peace, and my beloved greenery might soothe me in a few months. Anyone who reads this someday, please don't judge the shortcuts; they're just laziness, a fucking preoccupation with nothing. I wouldn't wish anyone to think too much; you can fart quite easily. Besides, my toilet is clogged. I don't want to disrespect him, but it would be nice if he could just push himself out of the way, just like that. I realize it's probably like asking people to be gentle, hatred to wash hairdressers' feet, dynamite to create operettas, politicians to dance on the Mongolian steppes, murderers to grow onions, vanity to bind clouds over the Sahara, indifference to practice kayaking, hunger tormented the sun, viruses to dance samba, and cancer to put on a circus for the blind. I took a break for over a month, and of course, January was spent talking, meeting, sedentary work, and drinking quite a bit. It's probably around midnight now, and I'm crushing a brewery in Toruń, just by a damn choice fueled by the circumstances. The garbage blasting from the speakers doesn't exactly inspire optimism, so let sleep accompany these beautiful people. In a few hours, many of them will be pissed off at life, and a brown bitterness will cover the vague winter. I returned to shitty Łódź, and aside from a slight stagnation, managing to manage a smile sufficiently, fate threw me into a so-called artist's pub. Chaotically speaking, for the first time I felt a sense of regression, a backwardness, the filth of voices all around, and something that, to the point of resistance, vomit, vomit, vomit. I'm getting the hell out of here! How can anyone stay stuck in such a puppetry? A person truly is capable of so much. Now, perhaps, a quieter question: want versus can. Can solitary experiences spin a family, an abandoned dog find a friend, a stinking bearded man rely on a glance, a lingering look, and a smile, and all newborns in this world naturally meet two sets of eyes? Is that just how it is, or is it necessary on this planet? Yesterday, the man I worked with miraculously for almost four years threw a farewell party. It's a great pleasure to get drunk like that; it's just a shame that such a decent, fucked-up guy is disappearing from my life. Saturday, good company, bowling—in short, that's all that satisfies and simply makes me happy right now. Magic.Magic, enough to let me forget about the reasons that have been constantly affecting me lately. I never, ever thought that the possibility of falling in love could come through the damned Internet, the stupid tangle of global connections. And she, it's hard to even write about, is somewhere out there, and despite the knowledge that nothing will come of it, she is!! I know her expectations are directed towards another person. A humbug so pale, so blue, light as a rich feather, airy, gentle, delighting the soul with its beauty. Oh, I feel the fuzzy nights again, the knots of tireless thoughts in...?? Damn, I'll wait a little longer and think that mobilization might come soon, and it must... without faith, without tears, with the clarity of tomorrow. The important thing is that spring is here, there are people, greenery in the waiting room, and the gentle farting of bears craving the scent of spring. I'm hooked on horny grasshoppers, and not mechanically. How can I live here, how the fuck!? I know I have to, and I will. In the meantime, I'll speed up my sleep with yeast. It's late at night, I woke up the bathroom, the kitchen for a moment, and sat down on the bed, so I guess I really found myself with, hmm... joy, eyes not too bloodshot, delicious faith in the big W, the big K, the big Ż!! Unfortunately, the absence is stronger than those mountains, that sky, what without the ability to know becomes unbearable suffering, and the eyes I've been searching for my whole life, I found on some website... I found Saturday, that's for sure, so let it remain in my memory forever. And her??... I miss her so much without knowing...eyes not too bloodshot, delicious faith in the big H, the big K, the big Z!! The absence, unfortunately, is stronger than these mountains, this sky, what, without the ability to know, becomes unbearable suffering, and the eyes I've been searching for my whole life, I found on some portal... I found Saturday, that's for sure, so let it remain in my memory forever. And her??... I miss her so much without knowing...eyes not too bloodshot, delicious faith in the big H, the big K, the big Z!! The absence, unfortunately, is stronger than these mountains, this sky, what, without the ability to know, becomes unbearable suffering, and the eyes I've been searching for my whole life, I found on some portal... I found Saturday, that's for sure, so let it remain in my memory forever. And her??... I miss her so much without knowing...