Az Irományaim Arnyékos Szárnyai

Ma itt kezdem, ne hogy megint otthon keljen kezdenem a bejegyzést és azzal kezdjem, rendszerint, hogy milyen borzasztóan hideg van, és bár csak velem lenne Kari (amihez nem kell a hideg, csak már lehessek vele), és jaj de cúg, és fúúú milyen baromi hideg van. Viszont, mivel reggel kezdem a bejegyzést, az lenne majd hogy az első dolgom, hogy eldicsekedem a világnak milyen irtóan fincsi bagelt rendeltem és reggeliztem, ami igaz is. Ugyanakkor ennek a reggelinek más volt a kiemelkedő része: már felajánlották nekem a "frequent buyer" kártyát, ami idáig nem volt kapható az express szolgálathoz. Hát még szép! A gyerekek a telefonon már nevemen szólítanak amikor hívom őket. Hát igen, talán majd ezt fogom otthom hiányolni egy kicsit... míg nem nyitnak otthon is egy bagel boltot ami majd minden reggel viszi be nekem az irodába a friss, meleg bagelemet két üveg kólával.

Ülök az irodában, hol máshol, és hangosan hallgatom Jon Bon Jovit énekelni kedvenc slágereimet, miközben próbálom erőltetni agyamat, hogy megtaláljak egy szót spanyolul. Egyszerűen elfelejtettem mi a spanyol szó ahhoz, hogy "churn". Na, nem a hagyományos "kever", "felver", "kavargat" jelentését keresem ("churn" egy olyan ige amit ahhoz a mozdulathoz mondanak amit vajkeverés közben csinál az ember, tehát egy gyors, heves forgatás), hanem azt amit távközlésben használnak, és amit arra mondanak amikor az egyik szolgátatónak az ügyfelei átmennek egy másik szolgáltatóba. Hogy miért tudom a szót angolul és nem spanyolul? 1. Mert sok-sok esztendeje már, tenger part bús mezején angolul gondolkodom, olvasok, írok és kutatok. Lassan se a magyar, se a spanyol, hanem az angol lesz a "mostoha" anyanyelvem, mit millióknak másoknak a világon. 2. Mert általában angolul szoktam kutatni az ipart. Na, ez nem teljesen igaz. Amennyiben tehetem, franciául szoktam. Fura, de a szabványokat általában franciául értelmesebbnek, érthetőbbnek találom (nem is beszélve arról, hogy ha franciául szerzem meg, lehetetlen főnökömnek átadni, hogy majd úgy tegyen mintha ő találta volna meg őket... hehehe). 3. A spanyol világban is általában angolul szokták használni a szót, DE ez nem hivatalos, nem megfelelő. Amennyiben lehet, mindig csak is spanyol szavakat kell használni a beszámolásokban.

Megnézegetem Baklava és Basszuskulcs blogjait és hol elmosolyodom, hogy rémülök. Édesem! Ézt nem tudtam! Kezem hidegen, remegve ér ajkaimhoz. Ujjaim hegyei jéghidegek, körmeim lilák, de ez alkalommal nem a hidegtől, hanem a félelemtől. Hátamból ropogva, reccsenve kitörnek hatalmas árnyékos szárnyaim és kicsi lánykám után nyújtozkódnak. Legyél jó, édesem, legyen minden rendben! Igen, van aki rosszabb helyzetben van, mint mi.

Szemeim tovább kúsznak és kis mosollyal nézegetem irományaikat. Basszuskulcs egyén-központos stílusa, tele szép szavakkal, személytől eltávolodó képekkel, olyan érzelmek kifejtésével amit karcolják a személy gondolatainak hélyát, ami aktuális témák, egy amolyan felzárkozódó kör aktualitás témáivál foglalkozó gondolatok sora, ami lágyan, hosszan terül el a hírektől eltávolodva, mert valami mást keres, arra néz amire mások nem néznek, de elgondolkodó, kicsit súlyos szívvel, ami azért valami más ok miatt nehéz, egy ok amit nem mond el senkinek, és ami miatt elgondolkodó sorai továbbra is karcolnak, nem markolnak a lényegbe. Galambom szíve tele van sok mindennel amit nem oszt meg bolgjával, vagy nem ott ahol a többiek láthatják.

Baklava baltával vág bele a legszédítőbb témákba, örvényt keverve ahogy lábaival belelép, mérges, fájdalmas érzelmeivel korbácsolva a káosz ritmusa szerint. Szédít, vagdal és olvasóit elkergeti minden második bekezdésnél messze, egy kis levegőért. Olyan mintha az élet nyomását préselné szavaiban, a legszebbeket kiválasztva, hogy e gyöngyök legyenek keserves, sikoltozó üzenetének hordozói.

Történeketek forgatnak bekezdéseiben, könyv darabokat. Hyne, ezer éve nem írtam. Lassan elő kellene vennem azokat a világokat ahol én vagyok az isten, és írnom tovább. De ide? Ide nem tudnék írni... nem regényt. Nem mesét... ízelítőt?

Angolul írok, nagyon amerikaias stílusban, laid-back odadobott gondolatok és események valamennyire időrend szerint, de gondolat formában is kevergetve. Miről mi jut eszébe, mibe mélyed bele. Feltennék egy darabot, de sajna nem engedi a blog. ^_^ Vagy igen?

Coming out of the Metro, exactly that moment when you finally reach the top of the electrical stairs and you step off and rush a couple of steps more, is the best feeling ever. It’s as if relief materializes right there, in those maybe one meter, one and a half meters before the rapidly moving electrical stairs. Fehérvári Vilmos rushed those few steps out of the South Train Station, and then walked, hands in his jacket pocket, out, to the small, round square that looked more like some cement, very sixties yard. He worked at the Magyar Könyvklub, the Hungarian Book Club as a salesman. It wasn’t a well paying job, nor an exciting one, but at least gave him an excuse to leave his family’s dated, old apartment in the Eighth District. It was one of those old, nice buildings blackened with the smoke of just one too many old cars, and the general pollution that inhabited a big city like Budapest.

Sky was as greyish-blue as always was this time of the year. It was November, but winter was already coming in. Vilmos scanned the little sky visible as it looked milky, almost as if some idiot had spilled the clouds all over. His odd coloured dark hair was short above his neck and trimmed enough so it wouldn’t fall into his eyes. His barber would just take care of it, he didn’t really pay much attention to how it was coifed. In the mornings he would just rub some cream into it and not even comb it. It had been some time since he last combed his hair. Maybe for his graduation of high school. Everybody looked like him. Hungarians tended to dress with the weather rather than with their mood, so everybody dressed in black, grey or any other dark colour.

His father used to say Hungarians dress all in dark because they are mourning the deep-shit politics they get themselves dipped in. Well, Apa (father) had a point there. But Vilmos didn’t care for the valuta prices, the bank rates, the Financial Plans proposed by the Chancellor, or when the price of one kilogram of bread hits the one hundred forint mark. Fuck it. Vilmos was out of school finally, caught in a job as he didn’t even apply for any university or college. He got this job nearly three months after finishing high school, and his driving license. His father was urging him to just get into some career, no matter what.

“Maybe mechanics” he said “Your mother’s father went to the Kandó Kálmán.”

But his father seemed to forget that Vilmos just didn’t apply to it, nor he would have the points to enter it. He did go with his three best friends one Friday to Szeged to try out the test for the Business career, but he failed it because… well, he failed it. Period. His father just shook his head disapprovingly while saying that he will have to serve his time with the army if he didn’t do any further studying that would delay his entrance. The guy didn’t really care either. So, he had heard of the horrors at doing the military service. Waking up too early, running kilometres and kilometres carrying backpack filled with rocks, doing exercise, eating shitty food and obey daily the moronic orders of some uptight homophobic fag who wanted to make others pay for all the hardships of his life. It wasn’t really like vacations at the Balaton! However, he dragged through life, uninterested as things happened around him. One day, he was sure, something would just catch his attention and wake him up. Meanwhile, he would sleep through the days.

The fat lady that had the keys hasn’t arrived yet.

It was impossible. She lived at the Krisztina street. All she had to do was to drag her fat ass from the fourth floor, walk a block to the stop of the tramway 18 and she would be there in less than three minutes. His workmate, Kálmán Emese was already there. She had wrapped her thin body in her black, pressed-wool coat and squatted with her back against the glass door of the small bookstore. Her long, white fingers peeked from her fingerless black knitted gloves holding a cigarette. She smoked like crazy. Pall Mall. Blue pack. Her straw coloured hair rested in messy bangs over her shoulder and from under a knitted dark blue hat. Her long, thin legs were covered with faded dark grey cord pants and thick black leather boots.

“Hey, Vili!” she greeted him letting the smoke of her cig escape her lungs immediately after.

Vilmos just smirked and lifter his head a little.

“Hi, Blondie.”

“Dad’s car is a real piece of shit.” She said straightening and dragging a gout of smoke she savoured for a minute or so before expelling. “The little bitch just broke down again.”

“It’s a Skoda. It’s old, what do you expect from it?” Vilmos said not really interested. His mind continued the remark with ‘Do you expect that cart to run in the Forma 1? You are delusional.’ But saying so would only encourage his profusely swearing, profusely speaking, much bitching workmate to go on and on.

“Well, I expect that fucking shit to work. It’s not like I could afford one with the shit they pay us. Dad had to fill the tank yesterday, because I don’t have money for it. Mom was bitching all the fucking night about it. I tell you, it’s shit. She said also that I have to pay the mechanic, when the car broke down after they went on the weekend to Esztergom. I told Dad that the car wasn’t working okay, that I felt the clutch weird. Now it breaks down and it’s my fault. Well, it’s not. The problem is that Mom is some cheap fuck that is just trying to squeeze money out of me.” She dragged her cigarette again. “I mean, I make here shitty forty thousand forints, she gets seventy thousand at her job, Dad makes like eighty or some, and they are fucking trying to milk me. They are such a load of crap.”

It would be impolite to tell her to shut her tramp up, that he wasn’t interested in hearing about how her dysfunctional family messed up her day today. Emese had always a reason to complain about, and the seventy percent of the time it was because of her family, or ended up in her family. If she hated her fraying gloves, she couldn’t buy new ones because everything was so fucking expensive in this country is, that her job pays her so little (actually she was earning more than Vilmos, who only received twenty seven thousand forints per month and was reported to the Social Security for fifteen thousand a month), and add to it that her mother makes seventy thousand and her father eighty thousand. The remaining 30% of the time was just general bitching about the country, the city, the dogs, the dog shit, her boyfriend, the weather, her friends, her lousy vacations… and on.