The most I loved autumn. The odor of burnt leaves, the odor of which did not agree, like a incense cloud protecting the grandmother's street from the thunderbolts of the sad mid-urban building – the Bolshevik nest – the power of its world-controlling power, the aroma uniformly spread above our heads – a shield impenetrable, the ozoneosphere of the unremarked species, which was absorbed by all creation, alive and dead, blended into it, whether it was in it (carry it in the end of a difference?), condensed to blow from time to time by the cataphalic ft of Priest Dean, the resounding orchestral cry from behind the worlds, the sweet, mushy ceremony magic, the dead seed.
- I'm sorry. In the face of death, everyone is equal – Grandma utilized to say.
The Christmas culmination usually took place on the first day of November, all of them, from the farthest sides, gathered in the grandmother's kitchen, filled to the edge with the odor of bigos. The first, from dawn, was usually on the work of the Przybyłek – he performed his mystical ritual over the smoking garter – he listened to sizzles, hemlocks, slappings, bulgots – sung laces to God's mercy - dies irae, dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla – and, probably, waiting for the coming of the Lord soon--he made judgement upon the reddish metal.
- I'm sorry. Get up, you gotta scratch, you gotta eat – this is how Grandma started my day when, after all-night struggles with a red hand on the windshield, I was thirsty for sleep until dawn. For (as it seemed to me) centuries – the subject of the ritual was grandpa erstwhile he died – this man's work passed in a consecutive line to me. Ryrana – in another words, skillful punching with a poker smokin' in the oven of coals, mastering this art required many months of exercise, occupied by many srumps, when, despite full commitment, the tensions of all the muscles and the reflexive simplification of the viscosity of sweat – it was not possible to spread the fire – yes – it happened that this 1 went out – out of nowhere – as if, in spite of the youth's anger, with time, the skills grew, the movements became more spiky, gentler and more precise. After a year of regular rituals – I already knew: it was essential to begin slowly, taking the invisible veil, mildly tossing the top of the brass pin, then moving to faster and stronger, deeper thrusts, more drastic, crowning the full work with wildness, moving chaos, quivering and sneezing steam on all sides. Many years later, having seen the resemblance of rigronation to other, more applicable forms of movement, and having appreciated this first school, I recognized my youthful experience as a kind of diamond (because of coal) artifact, blessings, permissions—a guild written in fire, sparks, and heat—which in its essence was an unwritten absolution of my future adult, pleasant unrighteousness. Quantus tremor est futurus, quado judex est venturus, cuncta stricte discossurus!
Red hand. How many times have I fought with sleep, slamming my eyelids before the ominous glows, reflected by carved glass, separating the bedroom from the surviving room, door, imaginations worse than he thinks of not being, punishment for sins, or – worst of all – cucumber for dinner the next day.
It appeared on the window, usually just after midnight, circling, reaching, burning with the glow of reflected light, returning from the evening triumphal parade of the three-wheeled arrival monster, moving away, it again approached, inevitable, sinister, ominous. Then I would snap my eyelids, I would bolt like an oak door, protecting everything that I had to be a witness in the future, and what I had already experienced, I would tighten my hands, and my fists, childish, neurastenically shattering smooth quilt – velourly fought with an invisible opponent – eyes and skin burned with fear – pulsating, I heard exactly, yes, I heard the sounds of the speech of the heart, I was dying and I prayed to heaven. Fear was the most perfect reason for God's existence. Another – even later – better – I never discovered.
In this day, from the very beginning of the morning, all came together: and old Szczagielska, with his trombones, and her daughter, with a fewer days of stinking fuz, and elegant Dr. Stach, sprinkled with evidence of human gratitude bought in PEWEX, inactive sober, and the Abydek, and erstwhile he was gone, appeared – Mrs. Stefa. No 1 knew (maybe but the grandma who knew everything) where she came from. She was expected to be 1 of her grandparents, but no of us asked.
The oval of her torn face wrinkles contrasting with the shallowly embedded blue eyes and paradoxically smooth, the long neck was for us a clear and irrefutable proof of her old statehood, old statehood – she utilized to say – by choice. Since she considered herself to be the Lord's Bride, possessing the ability to talk to spirits, she was stuck for most of her life on the border of 2 worlds, not caring for either the surviving or (as she mentioned) the frequent grievances of worldly inhabitants. She was not threatening, on the contrary – her gentle, calm smile, somewhat bent in the rainbow corners of her mouth, caused all her quirks, rites and mumbles to pass distant with amphibians, but they were rewarded with the addition of grandmother's bigos or an additional part of cake. Only in the company of Dr. Stach – a sworn atheist and a drunk – an anticleric, her eyes became unripe, pupils narrowed and sweat drops appeared on her forehead. She was usually dressed in black, with black, shiny velvet crowning her habital outfit, permanent mourning, dramatic perfection sanctioned by smooth material, but the seriousness and dignity disappeared erstwhile the table was served. She liked to eat – in fact, she was eating constantly, catching up on everything that my grandma was eagerly pushing, choking at it and snorting, throwing her eyes up, with proteins threatening any daredevils who would like to have another bite, after which – she returned with a rainbow grin – a gentle one, until another serving.
In the year erstwhile they began to vanish from the streets, tanks were singing songs in honor of any mythical The Bukkake they haven't caught yet, on bigos celebrations again became – and psychic roundworms, and a surgeon with a variable liver.
- I'm sorry. So who's the woman you've been enjoying lately?
- I'm sorry. You would be ashamed, Doctor – pretentiously cursing before a witch danser – you would be ashamed to say specified things. The spirits are here, talking to us, only we can't hear them.
- I'm sorry. Of course – Stach smiled – only you can do it, and we, small Godskins, are crying only, we moo, we want that...
- I'm sorry. Damn it, you're starting again.
"Not at all," he said, "he pulled a bottle of vodka out of his coat pocket and put it on the table. - Will individual have a drink with me?
Grandma sighed, looking away.
- I'm sorry. Yes – the witch nodded – I will drink with you.
Grandmother sighed with echoes from the walls, returned and flew towards the cabinet with glasses.
- I'll get it.
- I'm sorry. due to the fact that you know, Mrs Stefko – a surgeon pulled – I am an interesting man in the world, so I ask. I keep asking. And I don't get an answer, I inactive don't.
- I'm sorry. And what would you like to know? The corners of the mouth rose even more, while the eyes of the azure – lit up, for a small while – but the brilliance almost immediately absorbed the implacable black.
Having filled the contents of the cup, Stach responded with a smiley illumination, but lined with bizarrely, sinisterly, otherwise - a slow spasm in his being, a prologue of conflict to death and life, 2 bare swords inserted between a bottle and 2 barely empty thimbles.
Strangely different at the time was this pacific Waterloo, a scrawny lips marked with a battlefield, like flags, waving in the wind, a proponent of 2 against each another standing armies. Tuba, mirum spargens sonum, per sepulcra region... Stiff, rainbow corners, motionless declaring their victory—contrast somewhat trembling, scorned upwards, without mercy. Armageddon. Dies irae.
- I'm sorry. Then what would he like to ask?
- I'm sorry. You're so certain of yours, so explain. Imagine you're on a train somewhere in the compartment, warm, comfortable, sitting with your legs thrown up, the train starts...
They're moving. The first step is the tip, the gallop, at the right angle – to break this implacable line of lips, break, deform, though for a fraction of a second. Iudex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latex, apparebit: nil inultum remanebit. No trappings, no wolf pits, no walls of fire, no treacherous lakes of boiling tar. Out of the woods, a shot, a whistling over the heads of bullet horses. Nothing.
- ...and you on this train, Mrs. Stefko. You're comfortable. And yet, you change your position, from point A to point B. My question is simple. So, are you moving or not?
They're here. Lance facing consecutive into the curvatura, both flanks gnawed in a deadly grip, and yet they did not move. The sea of horse-eared haircuts waved, the fever from the mouth moved to the fingers of the hands.
And suddenly, the wings of the defenders were sharpening, turning their ranks, firing a rainbow. They weren't torn by a cavalry charge. Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum crogurus? Cum vix iustus sit securus?
- I'm sorry. I'm moving. And I'm not. At the same time. Right, Doctor?
- Ha! With another arrangements and yes, dear lady, but with respect to your own – not necessarily. By announcing his explanation of relativity, Einstein completely unwittingly questioned the meaning of God's existence.
Einstein was an atheist, said Grandma.
- I'm sorry. If you look at the planet exclusively from your perspective, – Dr. Stach – in a different arrangement the planet looks completely different. And the laws governing it, too. Are you talking to ghosts or what's hatched in your brain corners? And Saint Teresa was a visionary or a lunatic? You don't feel like you can relate to anything. ad absurdum? rather late – a smooth, delicate motion of the forearm, filled the glasses – so I watched a program on nutrition rather recently, any bald colonel explained that to live healthy, you should not eat more than 5 kilos of meat per month. Do you understand? 5 kilos. And I can get at least 2 and a half on my cards. And with a bone. It's just like your faith. 5 1000 grams of wishful reasoning at 2 and a half 1000 real possibilities.
And it would seem that they would break down, fall apart in the puch of defensive lines, break through these cleverly sharpened shafts, troops attacking to the depths of narrower rainbow tyraliers, and choked moans crushed by horse-shaft defenders mark the first field of their eternal rest. Ingemisco, tamquam reus: culpa rubet vultus meus: supplicanti parke, Deus...
- I'm sorry. So much in this relativity of the non-existence of God, as in the relativity of his existence – the witch replied, correcting the ribbon – the collar. You didn't come up with anything new. And I fishy this Einstein of yours was more spiritual than you all think. He's a Jew. Pour me another...
- I'm sorry. What does that gotta do with...
- Nothing. Or the same as your 5 kilos...
Two armies, in mortal embrace intertwined, a conflict that will never end. There will be no morning prayers for the fallen, collecting wounded, killing the mutilated. There will be no triumphant marches, no captives, dragged behind the wagons, no marches, no two-standers to pay tribute to the winners. Oro supplex et acclinis, cor contactum quasi cinis: gere curam mei finis. Warga: motion and motion. Relativeness.
- I'm sorry. In the face of death everyone is equal – the grandma interrupted.
- Yeah. And the top curse of man is that, alternatively of creating gods in the image and his likeness, he invented a god to whom he desires to be like himself. The rest, including the concept of sin, is simply a derivative of this error. - Stach got up, a small missy, came to the door. - Time to go.
- I'm sorry. And a witch rose up on me. - I inactive gotta go to the cemetery...
...
The next morning, he brought 2 messages. The doctor was found dead in a infirmary corner, somewhere close the operating room, lying, rolled in a casserole, stiff and still, reportedly drunk to death - drowned in his own vomit. Mrs Stefa, returning from her graves, entered the wheels of the truck, the impact was so strong that she threw the female right on the electrical pole and shattered her head into tiny pieces.
Huic ergo park, Deus. pastry Iesu Domine, dona eis requiem.
The surgeon was buried in a municipal cemetery. Where is the black woman – I inactive don't know. Although I guess Grandma knew. She knew everything.
