10.
“Ilori, Ilori, Ilori, Ilori…”
This was the only think our young Gregor Satarsa could think of ever since the previous encounter in the bar. Of course, he hadn’t seen her since, but, somehow, her name kept following him around all day and he would hear her voice everywhere. Of course, this was not love, this was just the sickly kind of teenage obsession that, of course, he mistook for love.
“I see your faces in the strangest places, Ilori.”
And it was true. In fact, everywhere he turned, everything he saw, he was reminded of her, by some strange bumociation or another (just like a bad game of metapheasant). The crane over there on the background of the sky reminds me of her, so do the trees that I cannot see fully because of the hill that is between us, also the chain link fence on top of the hill. The chain link fence fascinates me. It is incredible, the way everything intertwines, link after link after link in every direction. This is the universe; this is infinity; this is our own limitations.
As he looks around his room, our young Gregor would see, when not under the influence of Ilori, a small portable computer. Well, actually, not that small, but still. Turning to the left slightly, he could possibly notice a set of headphones, a bunch of papers, a receipt from a store, an empty pack of cigarettes (Philip Morris Quantum One), a empty cardboard box that used to house a bottle of perfume that is now situated to the right of the laptop, a set of keys (house, room and usb), a bunch of cardboard files and a bottle with a bamboo stick in it. Gregor does not like bamboo. Gregor thinks bamboos are the dullest of all plants, second only to cacti.
Turning to the left some more, he could notice the door to the exterior; the small glbum panel next to it reveals a green field that lasts for 5 meters. Then a concrete wall. If he would turn even more to the left, Gregor could see a two-drawer bed-stand, with a bunch of paper bags on top and two red boxes on top of that. One box contains a hair-dryer and six empty packs of cigarillos. The other a lamp and a smaller purple box that contains a ring, a bracelet and a watch. Next to the bed-stand there is a backpack and a pile of dirty laundry, mostly underwear, but also some shirts. Right next to the laundry is a pair of basketball shoes and a bed. On top of the bed there are a cell phone, three pairs of pants and a bed-covering that is half on the bed and half on the floor, covering the cell phone charger.
If Gregor were to turn more to the left he would have turned 180 degrees and be looking exactly behind him, where there is a closet full of crumpled-up clothes. As his look would advance towards himself, as he just sat there staring outside the window and stroking his left eyebrow in a repetitive fashion, he would see a pair of paper bags, one of which contains three cardboard files and the other a cook book. Then a pair of elegant shoes. Then a couple of back-packs. Then himself. Then a small (well, actually not so small) portable computer. Turning to the left slightly, he could possibly notice a set of headphones, a bunch of papers, a receipt from a store, an empty pack of cigarettes (Philip Morris Quantum One), an empty cardboard box that used to house a bottle of…
We’re going around in circles. That’s all.
“Ilori, Ilori…”
Gregor is still captivated by the name. It does indeed sound very poetic. Whoever named the woman that way obviously had an eye for detail. Just remembering her past reactions were enough to drive the boy mad. The red hair she so often played with, that would go down and engulf her shoulders, the deep brown eyes and the voice… THAT VOICE! It was incredible: all the warmth and comfort and relaxation and candor and wellbeing and altruism in the world were melted together and molded into an audible form that the gods had blessed Ilori with. When she spoke it was as though the skies would open up and then God himself would descend from the celestial planes and it was warmer and sweeter than anything in the world. And it was not that of a child. It was the voice of a woman. Truth be told, this probably why Gregor is fascinated with Ilori: she is the first real woman he has ever met.
Getting up, Gregor, our enamored lad, starts walking to the radio, in an attempt to get his mind off of Ilori. The radio starts speaking:
“Fact of the matter is, sir, that this summer we have had an invasion of bumerflies. It is absolutely wonderful: I have never seen such types before. Not to mention the influx of dragonflies. This is going to be a glorious summer indeed.”
13.
The night was still all around you as you walked down the street. You walked and all you could hear for miles were your own steps. You walked down the street and the ominous shadows around you were not real. You walked and you walked and all you could hear were your own steps and you walked and you felt each step, heard each step, saw each step, tasted each step and smelt each step. You were your steps in the night and nothing more. As you walked you saw the light from the street lights dim as you walked away from them and onto the pier. The masts looked like a forest, and the lake was tranquil, but that didn’t do much for you, as you wanted to hear the ocean. You wanted to hear the ocean that wasn’t there. As a child, you were always calmed by the sounds of the ocean waves. Sometimes your parents thought that you were actually a sea creature that was mistakenly born in a human body. Sometimes you thought the same. Gregor, you had to hear the ocean and the tranquil lake did nothing to even simulate the raw energy the ocean has, even when it is at its calmest. You left the pier and went back to the streets and the masts on the pier came to your mind and you thought that the words made no sense and perhaps that language is an impediment to your understanding and that you need to overthrow it as the lonesome moments you were going through were not explainable by words. The only things that came to mind were unbearable clichés that you despised and that you did not want to ever perpetuate. The thought came to mind that language is a virus, as someone once said, but you don’t remember who. Really a shame about everything that happened and you once more became a cynic and denied that there was any good to come out of it or that there was any good in it at any point of the game but then your other half came into play and tried to prove that just the fact that you remember the enjoyment was proof that there was good but then again you stifled that more optimistic part in the alcohol-induced stupor that you were in. You could still smell the bitter sounds of your defeat. You could still hear your steps in the dark and the night was cold. You were cold and you didn’t complain about it and thought that being cold was the appropriate sensorial reaction in this moment and that the shape of things is that that has always been because truths do not change and the road to hell is paved with good intentions and damn it you’re still thinking in clichés and you hate every minute of it. You then wondered why exactly it is that you fear clichés obsessively. It’s like you have a primal fear of them and you never even wondered why. You remembered what someone once told you about this:
“A cliché is just an overused truth. But truth remains truth no matter what.”
It then comes to you that instead of debating stupid questions like this or letting the despair (le desespoir, comme ils disaient en francais) take over, you should just sleep. Yes, that’s what you would do. You would sleep until the pain was no more and sleep and then wake up, eat and sleep again, until saturating yourself with the dreams of a thousand lives and then awaken and just tell them all. That’s probably when you decided to write. What is it that you would write? Poetry, prose, it didn’t really matter, just as long as it got the job done. What job? Well you’re not really sure. You just felt like you had something to say, even though you had no idea what that something actually was. Literature was like a crutch for you for many years after that faithful moment.
21.
So now it’s come to this. As you sit in the coffee shop and look around you see that group of idiots to your left that have nothing better to do than sit and chat online with other idiots in another coffee shop and then, to their right, there is that guy with the red sweater pulled on top of the white shirt with blue stripes. And you sit and wonder who the hell wears a dark red sweater over a practically blue shirt. It almost hurts your eyes to look at him, but you can’t quite stop. He has heavy-frame glbumes (you know the kind, the ones that scream “I’m an intellectual… sort of.”) The short hair and the stubble on his face completes this look. You want to hit him so bad. You just feel how punching him would make you feel so much better. An instant cure for the hangover you got right now. Your head aches so bad and your eyes are bloodshot. And your stomach… well, it doesn’t agree with you very well. Mouth is dry and the coffee isn’t helping moisten it. Why the hell that extra shot of sambucca on top of all that tequila and rum? It’s the sambucca, for sure. This is no rum and tequila hangover, because, quite simply, you never get hung-over from rum and tequila.
So what exactly did happen last night? You don’t remember that well. So focus on the beginning, before you left for the pub. So, you were home and you were getting ready. So you pull out a beer from the mini-fridge you use to refrigerate the two pizzas and five beers you have in the house at all times. And you sit down and start watching “A clockwork orange” (which is the film you have on repeat for the day) from the middle. It’s at the scene with the two girls in the record store. And you remember what you thought was the best line in the entire movie: “There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar trying to make up our rbumoodocks what to do with the evening. The Korova milkbar sold milk-plus, milk plus vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom, which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultra-violence.” You would’ve been a regular of the Korova Milkbar, were it to be even remotely real. You would love nothing more than walking up to that mannequin and get that milk-plus from her breast and then pay and then drink alcohol in milk and then just stand around and then get some more milk-plus and repeat the cycle and repeat the cycle and repeat repeat repeat cycle cycle cycle cycle.
So then, after you finished your beer you got up and walked to the closet and picked out your best suit. It was a blue redingote suit. It was a blue redingote suit with blue bumons and then you had to pick out a tie and you had to choose between the dark blue and the red with white and blue stripes and you wondered and you tried them both and then you decided to go for the red one and then, after you put it on you decided to stock up on cigarettes and you grabbed your cigarette holder and you put in your cigarettes (that were actually not cigarettes, but cigarillios) and then you grabbed a pack of real cigarettes (Philip Morris Quantum One) and threw it in your pocket with the cigarette holster and then you got your flask and filled it with tequila, just because you wanted to have something to drink after the money ran out and you filled it and put it in your trouser back pocket and then you remembered Tucker Max, and then you laughed “Gregor travels in style”. And then you left the apartment and then you locked the door and as you were leaving you heard the following line coming from the computer screen where “A clockwork orange” was still running on repeat: “It’s funny how the colors of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen. “ and then you went to the metro and you were already thirsty so you had a small sip of tequila and it was harsh against your throat and you loved the warmth that slowly took over of your entire digestive tract and then the metro came and you climbed on and it was crowded and then you thought “Pumpkin pie” and you had no idea where that thought came from and then you thought again “They’re putting thoughts in my head again” but then again that’s not true and now I’m just improvising because you don’t really remember this part either because it was boring as hell and you tend to forget the boring parts of the day (in this case, night, actually).
So, then, what happened last night? You still have no idea. So why exactly is it that you keep thinking about it, even though you’re aware that you’ll never manage to remember? And your thoughts turn to the Korova Milkbar once more, and then you wonder what movie will be on repeat today and then Donnie Darko pops into mind, but then you realize that you have already seen it for 60 times and then you start thinking again and then “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” pops into your mind and it’s been a while since you last watched it and so then you decide for “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”.
