So I had to look nice: a freshly-ironed white shirt, one of those black ties that are constantly going out of style and making a come-back — I wish they’d decide already. I brushed my hair, and I brushed my teeth, and I brushed my coat, and I brushed my shoes, and I used separate brushes. I looked ever so professional, what with the creases on my trousers and the reflection of the sun shining from my feet.

I wondered, who’d be there. Probably the critics — you can easily recognize those by their little wrinkled foreheads. Some husbands, dragged in by their wives. Art students and other dodgy characters with those hideous scarves. Wondered, if there’d be women. Those intellectual women that can pull off wearing red lips without looking like a slut. Or perhaps they do look like sluts, it’s just that you know they’re not. I think this kind of deception nicely foreshadows any kind of relationship you may try to have with intellectual women.

I’ve got two sisters, you see. Their IQ combined is something of three hundred and one. They had this ridiculous crush on the same boy. He lived two blocks to the south and built railway roads in other people’s attics. He died snorting coke till it came out of his nose. Our house was a very gloomy place back then. I moved out shortly afterwards, and, I s’pose, it got much better in the course of time. Liz decided she’s a lesbian, and Beth converted to Islam. She’s happily widowed now. And yes, my name’s El, and our father’s always been in love with our mother. I don’t remember her much. She’s living somewhere in the Amazon, saving the forests. At least, that’s what our father used to say to explain why she didn’t write to us. She couldn’t possibly do that to the trees.

Anyway.

I missed the train. The next one was in a quarter of an hour, and I was late, and I was even later. When I got near the theatre, there was this wrong kind of anticipation in the air, or maybe it’s just the smell of Chinese across the road. The hall was empty, and I started feeling dreadful, because, well, one’s not supposed to come late for an execution. It just doesn’t work that way.

Mine had been scheduled for nine. And it’s a very good time, they’d said. They’d really had to work to squeeze me into that slot, ’cause otherwise it’s Birmingham, and the facilities there aren’t nearly as good. I was appreciative. I was also late, but it hardly could be helped. I’d been late all my life, why should I change my habits because of death.

They were pissed off. Said the crowd got hungry and left. Said there’s far too much competition in the field these days, what with the situation in the Near East, Middle East, Far East and Antarctica, where they’d discovered a cannibal penguin.

So they gave me an axe and said I should do it in my own time. The axe was nice and shiny. I bet you could really split hairs with that. Modern art kind of crap with a smooth white handle. I was impressed. They clearly put so much thought into this whole procedure, and I blotched it all. Oh well. But still, it’s nice — doing work with pros. It was almost like I wasn’t doing this for money. Don’t get me wrong, the money was good. It was good indeed; it’s a pity I couldn’t do this twice. But, they said, a joke is only funny the first time around.

They said I should remember to put the video onto YouTube. Said they hoped it would score high, and then they could put that achievement on my tombstone.

Said I should give the food I had in my fridge back home to my neighbours, for it’s bound to go rotten in a few days, and just think of the smell. And it’s not like I was going to need it.

Said the bathroom was the preferable place. But do take the wet clothes out of the washing machine, should you have any. Then they pat me on the back and left.

My college mate Danny’s always watching those videos on his phone while travelling to work. Pictures of those drowned, war victims, post mortems of the Victorian time. He says there is beauty in death. I say that I can’t understand it. I mean, I know what it is, I got straight A’s in Biology. And I know that it does exist. I just don’t get how something that once was can be there no more. It’s like a miracle but reversed. I guess you never get used to it, and then it’s your own, and then it’s too late.

Anyway.

Shall I proceed?

Technorati Tags: short, story

John lived at home. At times he went out, and came back later. John had a cat. The cat’s name was Cat. John wasn’t very fond of complicated things.

John taught philosophy at university. There he spoke of the reasons behind it all, the matters of life and death, the purpose, the subconscious, the unconscious, and the semi-conscious.

I could draw pictures to put in here to make the story better, but I never did finish my architecture education.

John was a strong believer in the ideas of Johann Gottlieb Fichte. Johann Gottlieb Fichte, in his turn, argued that everything exists because we believe it does. Our belief is what makes things real.

“You are alive because you are so sure of it,” lectured John. “If you believed you were dead, you would stop existing.”

So, to illustrate his point, John stopped believing that he was alive, and started believing that he was dead. And so he stopped existing. John just disappeared. The air was warm and blurred a little in the place he had stood. It didn’t smell good.

Weeks, and years, and fourteen bottles of perfume later, once I get my Ph.D. and start dying my hair for the purpose of hiding the grey, I will tear this paper to shreds and pieces; and place them in between the pages of my very own OED, 3rd edition, hardback, a thousand pounds and not a shilling less.

Technorati Tags: short, story, fichte, philosophy

So, continuing the long line of pointless observations and juxtapositions, this piece of writing was born.

As I write these lines, I’m sitting on a wooden bench on the fourth platform of Kouvola Railway Station. The bench was once painted red and has numerous inscriptions in tongues of beasts and men on it. Said inscriptions probably tell a few stories, but one really can’t be bothered reading through them.

But let’s go back to the reason why I’m currently sitting on a wooden bench on the fourth platform of Kouvola Railway Station, shall we? It was precisely 5.37 in the evening when I got on a train in Lappeenranta. I happily found myself a window seat, a chocolate muffin, some long-forgotten homework and prepared for a journey home. As it happened (as it was meant to happen, says Kurt), I had no ticket and a 500-euro note. Some change as well, but not enough to buy a ticket to Helsinki.

As it happened (as it was meant to happen), I had to get off of the train in Kouvola, the muffin eaten, the homework forgotten once more. (Some explicit lexis could be entered here.)

There are certain things in this life that are supposed to be easy, such as frying eggs, that girl next door and buying something, when you’ve got the money for it. Yet, somehow, buying a train ticket, a hot chocolate, a magazine, something and anything proves to be of immense difficulty, when all you’ve got is a 500-euro note and all they’ve got is a sorry smile.

But God bless ‘Anttila’ — I’ve got my change there. Which returns us to my predicament that is sitting on a wooden bench on the fourth platform of Kouvola Railway Station. Waiting for my train.

It is entirely a matter of personal opinion, but I like trains better than buses. They’ve got that calming sense of determination, for nothing short of a catastrophe can make a train leave its railway. And buses are those fickle plastic things on wheels, good for shooting hippie movies. Trains are also supposed to be faster, but VR are effectively fighting that principle.

The other topic is legs. Honestly, no joking there. For someone of approximately 175 cm height any bus trip longer than an hour is nothing pleasant. As time goes by, you start thinking about good and efficient ways of removing your kneecaps, ‘cause that surely wouldn’t hurt as much as having them.

And as I happen to be quite fond of my kneecaps, thank you very much, for they are nice, round and rather useful, I prefer trains. Which, once again leaves us sitting on a wooden bench on the fourth platform of Kouvola Railway Station. Waiting for the train.

…

Oh, here it comes!

The article was sponsored by
o The Who – Magic Bus
o Зоопарк – Завтра меня здесь не будет
o The Beatles – Ticket to Ride
o Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues
o Neste Commercial (“Ja matka jatkuu!”)

Technorati Tags: train, bus, too, much, money, rant