Each time I watch this movie I love it more and more. It’s wacky, it’s crazy (like the open season on the freeway), it’s weird, but it’s also romantic (not soppy though), and it has a lot of good lines.
“Forget for this moment the smog and the cars and the restaurant and the skating and remember only this. A kiss may not be the truth, but it is what we wish were true.”
Today my brain is really defected. I mean I’m usually weird, but today it’s like most of my braincells were on holiday somewhere. I have really strange and weird thoughts about things I usually don’t think about – not because I’m afraid to, but because I don’t think it’s important. And sometimes I just say or type words which has no meaning. Not even for me. But I feel to say or write them. Or while I was sitting at the computer, I felt like I’m sitting in my room in Esztergom, and out of the corner of my eyes I saw the wardrobes and the door where they are (or, were, because my parents have the living room repainted and refloored, so everything was stuffed into my room) in the room in Esztergom, and not where they are here. It was scary, really scary. I couldn’t make that feeling go away, I had to turn the lights on to make me realise where I was.
Today I took a bath, and while I was entering, I kinda felt I wished I never had to come out again. In the bath I had strange thoughts. I remembered when I was small, I’ve been always picked on. I was the overlooked guy whom noone liked. For a strange reason I always imagined I would catch a strange and terminal illness, and everyone would pity me and everyone would realise how important I was. I wished my passing would make a sign. Now I have other thoughts. If I have to go, I want it to be silent. I don’t want my friends to notice it. After a while they would probably notice I’m not around, but I hope they think I’ve just went abroad or somewhere. Or maybe they will just think I’ve avoiding them for some reason, and don’t ever think about me again. I don’t want people to pity me. I don’t want people to feel miserable because of me.
Before anyone gets any funny ideas – I won’t commit suicide. No, I won’t let myself to choose the easier option – and if I would, I still couldn’t do it, because I’ll always remember what had Apokrif leave behind himself. Even though I could cause that much pain for myself, I can’t do this with my friends and beloved ones.
Yeah… Weird thoughts.
Am I going crazy?
“Mother, did it need to be so high?”
My neck is squeaking. I’m just sitting here, not moving my head, and suddently there’s a noise and a feeling like if someone was rubbing my cervical vertebrae with some fishing line or dental floss, and it’s squeaking. And then I feel like if it was filled up with some really warm liquid.
Maybe my head is trying to fall off, like Petey the paraket’s.
I swear I never took any drugs.
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Words are flying out like
endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass
They slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow waves of joy
are drifting through my open mind
Possessing and caressing meJai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
I woke up at some time between 8 and 9 am. Yesterday morning. Actually on Thursday, Szöszi and Béla were here for a pancake-party, and then it was late, and we (Béla and I) walked Szöszi to the night bus, and then I decided to go with Béla and talk. And when we got to their block, we stood on the street and talked, talked, until about 2:30am. Then I caught the nightbus home (it was really freezing), played a bit with Drift City (which is a really good and fun MMORPG car game), and then fall asleep around 3-4am.
There was an Urgoz-run planned with the alliance yesterday night (from 9pm CET), so I wanted to sleep a lot, but couldn’t. I woke up, and spent the day… I don’t know, it just passed somehow and I was left behind. I remember I ate the remaining pancakes. I remember I drank some tea. A lot of tea apparently. Then when night came I felt I’ll be too sleepy so I made a big mug of coffee. That was the second mistake. First was not taking a nap and not cleaning up the kitchen. Third was drinking a capuccino at the first break we took during the run.
We failed after 2 hours, at around halfway, and noone had the time to retry.
Images of broken light which
dance before me like a million eyes
They call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a
restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as
they make their way across the universeJai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Yeah. The next mistake was that I decided I didn’t go to sleep, after having so much coffee – I’d just lying there awake anyways. So I’ve played Guild Wars and Drift City all night long. When it was dawning I turned the lights off, when it got too bright in the room I closed the curtains. When I got a bit sleepy, I drank a second big-mug-o-coffee.
Now here I am, feeling crap. Also, I don’t care. The world is surreal. Everywhere I look, it’s like whirling and zooming in and out. I don’t think, I don’t have opinions. I object to face the fact I’m in a dark tunnel, where the light at the end is closing very fast, with a loud honking.
Sounds of laughter shades of life
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
It calls me on and on across the universeJai guru deva om
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Nothing’s gonna change my world
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva
(The Beatles: Across The Universe)
Nothing’s gonna change my world…
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…but if you try sometimes you might find you get what you need…
About the title: I’ll probably tell it tomorrow. Now I’m drunk. And still… there’s one word I want to shout into the world, but that’s the only word I can’t say. I won’t say. All I can say is…
F1……..
I had many guests the past days, and I’m quite happy about it – I like my friends. Also, as a secondary bonus, while they are here, I’m not glooming about Annelie… Of course that’s not the main reason why I meet them.
“There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon…
You are only coming through in waves,
Your lips move but I can’t hear what you’re saying…”
(Pink Floyd: Comfortably Numb)
Last week I had Whitepony and Szöszi, and Béla of course. Also met Dóra and Magdi, and I enjoyed both of their company. Yesterday Ida slept here, after we (Ida, Béla and I) had some pleasant conversations, and Béla was toying with my guitar as well. She’s very nice. Oh well.
Today Hajni’s coming, we’ll practice English and probably even watch some anime (with English subtitles).
“I don’t wanna talk
If it makes you feel sad
And I understand
You’ve come to shake my hand
I apologize
If it makes you feel bad
Seeing me so tense
No self-confidence
But you see
The winner takes it all…”
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilts a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
And over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
“One kiss my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
If they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me be the moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!)
He tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come at the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching,
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
Hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
‘Look for me by the moonlight;
Watch for me by the moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!’
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
‘Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!’ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
‘Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,’ in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
‘Tlot-tlot,’ in the frosty silence! ‘Tlot-tlot,’ in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.
He turned; He spurred to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
And back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
‘Still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, Riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old in-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.’
The best strip ever. Also, one more thing to my wishlist: the same strip as a poster….