Igor

Turns out his friend wasnt home.
Probably for the best.
They werent that goodly friends anyhow.

Igor forgot all about the thing and got on a commuter train which then blew up but was recovered from the past by Matt Damon.

Obronko was a little town with one lonely skyscraper embarrassingly erect toward a threatening sky foreboding but full of some kind of hopeful scent. Constantine and Igor hand in hand wir spacierengang toward the little square embellished by Igor’s family crest, he was home now, and tomorrow they are off on a business venture, into a backwoods town even smaller then this one minus one erect skyscraper.

A German fellow had a circus type vaudeville there, and ha screamed with a sigh that the gurls are beautiful there, and that sailors song lonely under the sheltering sky could be heard.

Meanwhile the whereabouts of Constantine’s little boy remains a mystery, never not with standing what the taxi driver so eloquently narrated about the little baby girl’s unfortunate end.

Igor did not elaborate further then The Castle grounds permitted for there existed a deliberate and formeciiusly designed set of barbed wires and other security measures to trespass info in and out the less then porous wall designed to keep desirable and the unwanted separate.

The bells could be heard rolling in the far hills now she the variable green shades were beginning to be saturate with shades of black and grey.

And always remember who you are the he old harangue tolled in Igor’s mind as he remembered Thomas Wolf paraphrased by his late aunt as she warned you can’t go back home again, at a time in his younger days when such Heraclitus type foundering did not yet enter his cranium.

Colonialism is resplendent here in this little town with poor little beggar boys for whom the heart nearly extinguishes, yet, can not for resins they do not comprehend.

Cursed are the cruel dictators sitting pretty in the trappings of enchanted cruelty, the democracy came too suddenly, cursed education inconvenienced the renaissance princes of the church who saw it coming, but enshrined in mystical hocus pocus, defended themselves cleverly, which poor m. Antoinette could not. Blessed those huge-a-nots. The results are overcoming Europe in a big way, their guilty conscience not absolved by the Crusades. The last children’s crusade reminiscent to the children thrown to the battle field by a.Hitler, when all the young men were only lines of lament ,whrithes of songs thrown as flowers unto unsung graves.

In the end he met Constantine, the next week. The man was accompanied by his boy. Igor felt a pang of relief. He had had bad dreams, and hasn’t been able to determine with certainty what was just synapses firing, and what was… well, also synapses firing, but less randomly so.

He bought the boy a salted herring. It was just a thing Igor tended to give people. He didn’t know any better.

Well, Igor thought. Im hungry. And not for just food.
As a kid, with tea-time, he would crave the moon.
So smooth, such a perfect cookie.

Now, he went out in the woods and ate some roots, and then went into the barn and got his shotgun.

Crackling underwood, ah delicious feeling
Igor aims his barrel at nothing, the dark.

not much game here but you never know
a rabbit might do

SLAM
he cracks open a round at a first glimmer of a shadow.
It was just a bird. Or he just missed.

Now eagor eats the prey like ten ants carry a large leaf to security of vault and mother-queen. That’s how he raged, how he ravaged his cow, that he took, stole downright tall from the boor next door, Teun. Teun was a miscreant. He and his wife - Igot thought so anyway - he and his wife - a miscreant - his - not his wife, well she also but m - yes - the cow had barely fit through the hole in the wiring. But eagor was not for ten men for-feared. He pushed the cow through so that it actually went through, it felt like solving a rubics cube, except this one tasted better. It was not the roast, but the juice. Really, that did it. The juice… then he went on to turn the tv where the Bill Cosby trial was commencing.

Igor was back in his basement.
He turned on the tv.
Then he realized he dont have a tv.
what, he turned around
someone sitting there.
Gr… gr… [tab]grandpa?[/tab]well what do you know. Back from the dead.
Or was… Igor… dead?

He kneaded his skin. No he was alive.

weird.
But fun.

Now Igor lay in bed as he had just woken up and heard the rain pounding and washing the window, as he was in an apartment high, high above the city streets, which were filled with nondescript passers by and expensive cars letting out roaring sounds in the wilderness. Now Igor turned and tried to get some more sleep. It was three AM and it was early for breakfast but … his dreams pushed him out of sleep and finally out of bed. He made coffee and sat at the window, close to where the rain was lashing in torrents and where the sound was most crisp, and Igor felt very good.

Feeling good, after sipping coffee, he thought of going on an outing. But not before tidying the puddle in his apartment up for the shattered glass, leaked the previous nights rain, but today only fair weather forecast, and oddly being summer seemed as premature fall, with the scent of the burning of hey, the white furl of grey,
as curling out of chimneys ominous of the coming cover of white snow on red ceramic tile.

Igor sighed , to someone in tow,in a way sounding low: so short did this summer last,even though in its midst, and he looked back,noticed no one, yet still composed.

He must sustain, which little left, then those that still, shook, in his bones. And then again the feeling, the one in tow, left behind, but not too far, behind.

Now he walked the lane of his old memory which was then crooked but he walked it straight this time. Igor was a straight-walker straight-talking outlaw and he saw the horizon with blistering certitude. He had coffee at the roadstop and then went on. The goal was now the end of even having a goal, Igor only wanted to land at the next place where there was nothing to find but himself. He had become the goal, and noticed that apple pie tasted sweeter. But he went on, with his truckload of pianos and the thoughts of piano-teachers in shadowy afternoons around 4 a clock tea, and the potholes were like thunderstorms in his conscience. But still, everything tasted so good, and he went on and on, because at each stop there was apple pie. And god got really, really bored, and plus, there wasn’t any apple pie allowed up there, so fuck. What now, you know. Being god, there is a certain problem. But Igor was on his way.

Igor walked into the tavern and there was no one there, just an old man at a slot machine.
One of those elctronical ones. Bleep, cash lost, bleep, more cash, lost.
A drug for some fools
not this fool
This fool needs to ensure a headache tomorrow morning, and a muddle of memories that may be good, one never knows.
To vomit for the right reasons.
Igor had become a philosopher and a pool player. Someone had given him a stick and he walked around with it like it was an ego.
Don’t start doubting god.

He learned quick and fast, he cut off this and that memory and played here and there in the casino loosing everything and some and kept on loosing even his soul remembering it as a terrible thing to loose, and then he lost that too, his lostness for ever also was lost ,taken by the wind, and he became as a little child, and silly too, and lost that and all memory ,and then he learned how to partition ,semblance and fear, because at that moment he knew the value of last night’s masks, that he has to wear one and anybody says they dont, they are deceiving themselves.

Igor knew that not wearing a mask is wearing a not wearing mask, proclamations of look here I’m not wearing one can you see underneath see my soul underneath ? I’m glad you can cause I’m dependent on you to describe it to me for the mirror will lie you see even if you dare to look into it
Didn’t kozinsku of the painted bird answer so quizzically to his barber when asked why he is not looking into the mirror?

Why? Because I know already well , what I can see in it That whole bunch of Polish intellectuals best typified by the image of something hidden,evil, as his friend the film maker Polanski ,whose lovely wife Sharon Tate was so brutally butchered by murder Manson inc, to web this into its formidable darkness, a darkness of such gravity that defies imagination.

Don’t feel bad Igor loosing, think, think of this unfortunate guy, who on his Queen Mary trip , became entangled in a Poker game not to forget

Went like this: He was newly married their honeymoon and kept loosing and after he lost everything , he put his house deed on the table and then loosing that he could not double down, and the only thing he had left was his wife and he bet her cause his opponent coveted her and lost again, and jumped out into the frothing see?

And Igor stopped and waited by the coffin where Dracule slept by day, and yawned for it was damp and cold and dark there

Not a happy story but true

Moral-have to loose a lot to become A Philosopber. And he shot the 8 ball into the side pocket.

Then one day Igor sat up in bed, drenched by cold sweat because a voice in his dream had shouted, “Nature does not give a damn!”

Right off Queen Mary Road there was a Tavern. Igor had eyeballed it for months, it looked so shady and dusty that he was sure to meet his downfall there. So he made sure that he had sunk as low as he could fall, and then one November Night, he entered. It may have been a very misty morning. It was dark, in any case.

“Nature might not give a fuck, but I sure do”, he muttered to the drizzle in front of his face.
“Let me see if I can change that”, he continued to the skies, grey and hanging close overhead. A stray dog passed by. Or was it his soul?
A dank scent accompanied a gust of happiness. “A heart. I have one. Damn.”

Igor now crossed the street, approaching the brownish, once red door of the Tavern.

Igor entered the tavern and sat at the bar between two burly men, one of whom blurted out, “You lost?” Remembering he had a heart, he responded, " I may not know the way, but I’m never lost." Whereupon one of the men by him grunted," And you were never found either!"
Igor let the insult pass. He knew better and felt better for knowing someone somewhere was looking just for him. Was it a lady?

And Igor, who by now had become limp with existential exhaustion, has it not been for hisntolerance to alcohol after Dracula’s genes had permeates his with incredible resiliency,
sighed, said this to them:

True loosing everything is almost totally devastating, recovery is almost nil, still there is something to say for the validity of survival and its modicum of benefits.

That such casualness he is purporting to exhibit, displays remarkable gumption.

I will never give up, he announces dramatically, until a breath of air remains in my breast.

With that, he directs the two guys to pay his barbill, which, for being goodfellas they oblige to do, albeit reluctantly.

The dawn reveals the beginning of an orange hue bleeding into the edges of the horizon…and the shadow of a beguiling shrouded woman cast an eery shadow on the tavern bar, reminiscent of noir of the late forties. He fled under a hidden arch, thinking back, going through a list of people he may have tangled with.

The two guys who paid for his drink, shouted over, Next time you pay for Your own drinks bud, or ask Terry to tell the boss to extend credit, he says you’ve been hanging around the waterfront bars long enough. And as they exclaimed this. Igor leered and turned where the mysterious appearance of the shrouded woman became the focal point of something bizarre and terrifying going on.

Igor found himself in a hole.

  • Damn. Again?
    He starts ramming the coffin wall and knows he will get out with reversed gravity and land on top of the Eiffel Tower.
    He is so bored with this dream.
    He decides to not try to escape, and just turn around in his coffin.
    And then… he sees a passageway. With an anchor in it, gleaming like a pornographic video game abject petit a and much $hine, so hey, he packs the cup and jumps the cusp and just lands there, in the meadow.

Now, a brown cow comes nigh.

  • How now, pale sir?
  • Well, you must know, I don’t talk to cows.
    The cow shrugs.
  • That is what you say.

And Igor says good might for iit has been a busy night and he is exhausted for he has become he thinks now behumbled and speechless.

Igor woke up in a puddle of his own watchamacall it.
Who knows.
He stood in the refrigerated tramcar and went on his way.
Ca-cling said the tramcar
It was Vienna
he awoke
he ate a grape
and went back to bed.

Now, Igor woke again. We wander to the back of the couch where his book lay.
He went to sit agains the law arched windowsill and overlooked the graveyard.
He then read the book, about dinosaurs. He was 3.

He awoke, and went to bed, where he had Candy and she went to bed with him but it was too late they already had a child.
They awoke and she looked at the light streaming in, for it was Christmas.

He awoke, and it was bad timing. It was bed time.