Leaving the Cityby Sigge S. Amdal © 2007
I hate train stations. Not in general, but when you've got five minutes to find your platform and every step of customer service has been left to over-sized, touch screen calculators and buff security guards, the latter outwitted by the former, hell is present in every aspect of it. When you've reached the unrestful state of worry and indifference, meaning you'll board the next train on this platform whether it takes you there or not, you smoke like a dried-out alcoholic on the Twelve steps.
Then the train arrives.
Now there are teenagers pushing forward, life-long commuters with cell phones and Japanese tourists taking advantage of your misfortune status quo.
I hate waiting in line when what's at the end of it is breathing normally again.
I have heard that junkies suffer from the same condition; they can't deal with queues, formal greetings, crying babies and the projected expectations of the universe in general. I've never been on the mud for that particular reason.
And where am I going?
Nowhere important. I'm actually going just nowhere, to the middle of it, to check out the convent who captured my sister. I can't believe I am going. Why am I going? To make up for past appointments I missed, no doubt, but women turn on your bad conscience with the switch of a flip. Even if it's your crazy sister. And what am I expecting? That she'll leave me alone to get some work done?
The old granny next to me is staring as if she's just met a teenage idol like Roger Whittaker, the juicy piece of pineapple in her generation. No, I will not be your perfect son-in-law. How come everyone thinks an author will marry her daughter? How exciting. It’s not. My life's composed of idle art in desperate procrastination. Why do you need to live through me, granny? And I've never even seen your daughter. Fuck her.
I look up to see a blond farm girl watching me writing. "What is he writing?" Not anything you'd want to read, baby. I give her Hitler's propaganda stare that usually does the trick. I shift view to the passing farmland raging outside my window like a sideways storm of half-decent cottage art. And what am I expecting? Bizarre, lesbian rites around midnight, I suppose. That is why I brought the digital cam. I easily subscribe to the unfounded clichés of horny, hairy nuns. Of course they want some. When God created the universe he did it to impress someone. Probably himself, naturally, but still. When you're all-powerful and ever present, you just jerk off in front of a mirror until you've created something like the universe. Peeping Tom. But I guess nothing can impress Him as much as Himself.
As the novelty of a performing genius in the cart wears off, people seem to juxtapose themselves at the opposite point of observation. "Who does he think he is? What a loser." I admit that Jesus doesn't want me for a sunbeam, but despite my obnoxious physical appearance and dreadful manners, I am still better than you. All of you.
Granted that I am a loser; you have no reason to breathe, your family no reason to feed you; your father could just as well have sprayed your material in any other bodily orifice than the fish-smelling cunt of your mother. He must have been drunk. Or weak. Or maybe you are the product of a freak mutation in your mother's filthy womb. Who knows what’s been up there. Your fetus was certainly infected. Or maybe you are the infection. God placed his face in his hands and went "oh God, we need another flood," on the date of your birth, granted that I am a loser.
But my hopes aren't high that this entire weekend will be worth as much as the hours of my priceless life that I wasted to buy these tickets.
The train slows down to a halt to let more people off. Good.
A farmer standing next to his tractor in the middle of a sunny field looks up at the slowing train with a mixture of wonder and disgust. I respect that man more than anyone else on the planet. When a man's hard living is turning the soil, he has in so doing, already left the futility of modern civilization and become what he was to be. Only the cultivating man is cultivated, while the rest of us are mere ghosts in a hallway hallucination of similar others. We are the sheep in this equation. And when the next leader runs out on over the hill, we will unhesitatingly follow the plunge into the salt seas of oblivion. No one will remember us, for we have done nothing. We are an embarrassment, face it, God's satirical irony is self-explanatory. But the man who takes matters and matter into his own two hands, tills the soil, has turned the joke back on the good Lord with a vengeance.
All of this mud, all of this poison pumping from my pitch black heart, through my veins and out the razor sharp tip of the pen is nothing but unclean blood for you to leech on. As I see the city disappear, minute-by-minute, I become much more a man and much less a queer. Suck my soul clean, little ones! Papa's coming back refreshed anew.
The untouched rocks and the daring young birch trees bring me back to living: lo! I stand erect among you; primitive, alive and dangerous! Suck me, suck more, leeches, and suck me clean. But dare not bite; 'cause the untamed man doesn't bite to tease, he bites to kill.
Ah! The smell of virgin grass, pussy dew, the sweat from manual labor and the stink of the earth seep through my bones to the marrow where true character resides.
I swap trains at a non-existing place. Halfway there, halfway there.
My feet start kicking as the train engines pull the load of a thousand tons like five hundred horses. A young couple sits down in front of me. She has good hips and he is already defeated. Out up here where the air's fresh, clean, and sheep farming has double meaning, any man dulled to boredom and obedience is stirred to conquer and fight, to lay down and plough a new field, a new road, a new maid every passing night.
My eyes sharpen like that of a hawk and no obstacle dare stop me.
As the train horn bellows like a horny whale, grasping her buttocks with firm, I come inside the newly wed girl and she staggers fulfilled out the toilet.
This might not be pretty, but nature needs to have it its way.
I'm leaving the city.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
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