On the April 20st, 2016, as I removed the previous text, this title occured here out of the blue: December 31st, 1969. What an earth has happened then? Why does it want to be narrated? I will let you know soon. Momentary, I don't know it either, it has just knocked my door.
Next notion. As I wrote that the December 31st, 1969 is about to be narrated on April 20st, 2016, the date of the post changed automatically and all of a sudden into April 26th, 2016. I suppose it wants to tell me I have six days to write it. All right. So be it.
This texts has several titles:
31st December 1969
Free-floating funky streets for everyone!
Thanks to the Unix computer operational system: “If a time stamp is somehow reset to 0, the clock will display January 1, 1970. So, where does December 31 fit in?
It’s because you live in the western hemisphere. When it’s midnight in Greenwich, England, it’s still December 31st in America, the day before Unix’s epoch.”
Swell. But I don’t live in the States.
I would really love to close the topic and its mystery, but I somehow comprehend I wouldn’t have a chance to write about anything!
Why this has happened is a rather personal story. I’ve been writing since I was a kid. Really. A kid, kid. I would say, starting 8, 9 years old when I got my first little light-pink diary with two bears in love walking on the covers surrounded with hearts. What a precious gift for a true introvert. A diary had a little padlock on it. Very good, very safe, I knew my words were free as long as they were locked. The area of the words turned into a highly protected area, a natural park under strong protection, so the endemic plants could grow freely and the inner beast could rest in peace. So it was. Until the 31st December 1969. What happened then? Really what happened? Is it possible that someone’s life is directly influenced by an event that happened much before or completely after someone was born? Meaning that events in time move spirally back and forward or anywhere, not chronically. For instance, a certain impulse is given in some moment in the past (might be 31st Dec 1969 as well, or earlier or later). The impulse grows into life, or it can be put that impulse is alive too, and leads its sovereign life in a sense that it makes its own decisions, chooses its direction and is having an interactive nature. As an impulse, without having a body, it doesn’t subject to conditions of time-space notions or motions, that we are choosing to belong to or be driven by. As such, an impulse can freely arrange time-travelling for itself, belonging to something (as being an impulse of someone or something), coexisting simultaneously with anything. It’s not time and space dependable. Great, what a playground!
Possibilities are infinite, as a random flow of existence. An impulse, as a free-falling or free-flowing hacker. Just enjoying the beauty of unlimited travel and an unconditional appearance.
I get back to my case. 31st December 1969. Being absolutely bored with arranging my blog page and managing the design of my draft. I mean, who cares about the web design, and even the primitive, easy one (and thereby very helpful for web dummies as I am) when we have a possibility of time-space travel all over. Pretending you’re just a piece of mind, a free-flying thought with an ability to enter anything or anyone. You just enter someone’s mind without knocking. How rude. How nude. How intruding. A true essence of a hacker thought… lives in the notion that the travel area has no shape whatsoever. Freely rolling as a disco roller-skaters in the streets of a funky town.
When we say hacking it’s mostly bound with an intrusive act.
Just imagine we weren’t that defensive. That we have no need to be defensive, cautious, doubtful, be performing double thinking, reexamining, therefore building a system of control.
Just imagine. No string attached.
Imagine you’re a free falling impulse, born in a vanishing moment of time-space. You were born, created. You start travelling. Possibilities of your travel are infinite. Infinite. Infinite. Infinite!
No trains to catch cause there is no train to be late for; or there is no train delay either, or being on time, or apologizing cause you’re not on time, or watching your train departure cause it went too soon. There is no train station (although that’s a pity because so many amazing writings occurred at train stations. Not just writings). There is no station. No “there is no”. No there. No is. No no.
Oh yeeeesssss! Finally we are ready to put on our smooth roller-skates and be gliding through your tailor made funky streets. Where everything is happening momentary, therefore you can only live in a present moment. Wherever is where ever is whenever you’re wherever with whomever or whoever you want be with. Designed for you, made for you and made by you!
What a ready-made. Beat that.
I’m still wondering what really happened on the December 31st, 1969. I’m wandering as a lonely impulse, another cosmic rider shuffling through all kinds of beings, bumping into them in the streets, in the corridors, in all kinds of channels, riding a wave of all kinds of frequencies. I am to be heard for I have sound specific nature and an extra-pixel magical stick, so I appear on your screen, as a random photograph, a song, a high-pitched sound or a date. That you could see me, realize me. That you recognize me. I know exactly what tickles your fire and therefore I transform into it. I have the infinite ability of transforming just to find your real doorbell. I mean, real. A doorbell. How can a doorbell be real? How can a sudden change of a time stamp in your gadget be existent? How can time stamp be existent? Who or what made it existent? Certainly not me. I’m just an impulse wandering around without many ideas where I’m heading. I’m heading wherever I am. I’m heading whenever I’m headed or just had it! How beautiful! How remarkable!
I was born on December 31st, 1969. My parents were tailors. Both of them. We owned the shop just across the train station. It was in Louisiana, USA. My mother’s name was Sarah, my father’s Julian. They called me Pipo. I have no idea why. They just did. So later on everyone called me Pipo.
I would mostly spend my days writing my homework in our tailor shop. My mother sewed dresses for knowledgeable maids and my father was designing men underwear and leisure suits. We lived well. I can say well because they used to get me that colourful lollypop every now and so. Mostly Saturdays when we went for a city walk. They would dress me in shorts, sweater, leggings and a jacket, calmed my hair previously washed with a soap called Kelebek imported from Turkey. My mother would wear her light pink dotty dress and my father his dark green suit and a beige collar. And brown shoes. He was always wearing brown shoes.
We went for a walk around the city, very proud and neat, as tailored by my mother. We were washed, with a skin like butter, smelling like butterflies. My mother had gentle hands and soft fingers. Everything she would produce was soft. When she was drawing, the tip of her pencil almost wasn’t touching the paper. My father was silently complaining about it as he couldn’t distinguish between the soft, freely flowing lines of a drawing. Endlessly would he be adjusting his glasses, sliding them from the top of the nose to the root of the nose. While doing that you could hear his mourning as a sign of his silent protest and tickling uneasiness. But, actually he never said anything. In the end he would just put the glasses, leave the tailor table and slowly leave the shop. He was doing so for years, until he finally left the shop and never came back.
That day, my mother sat at that same tailor table and was crying as silently as my father used to produce his complaining sounds at that table. She was crying silently as a crawling caterpillar, holding his glasses in one hand and a pencil in the other. She was sitting there for days. Our neighbour Margaret start showing up and bringing me food and that delicious cherry cake. When eating I would forget my own sorrow for which, later on, I couldn’t distinguish if it was mine or my mother’s. I mean sorrow. Not the cherry cake. Cherry cake was always mine, after all my mother was repeating she couldn’t eat. It didn’t matter. Especially when I would taste that cherry cake. As the time went on, our neighbour Margaret stopped bringing food and my mother eventually left the tailor table. I couldn’t decide whether I was sad because I wasn’t having any more of that cherry cake or because my mother decided we should move far away. Probably both.
My mother packed all our stuff, sold all my father’s brown shoes, took only 5 of her dresses, 5 socks and 2 pair of shoes. As she gave away the key of the shop to the new owner, the fat Mr. Powdich who spit as he talked, she forgot to take her favourite grey pencil and pencil-sharpener that she always used, so she could sharpen her grey pencil until it was turned into a razorblade. She needed it, so she could draw her meticulously soft lines, which I must admit too, sometimes seemed invisible. Still the clothes she designed were impeccable. I learned that word from her regular costumer Louise who would never be running out of her demands coming out through her obnoxious voice, ...Sarah I want it like that, ....Sarah no, Sarah yes… she would just keep making her complaints in a speed of a wild bee (once I read that wild bees of Louisiana were the fastest bees in the world) and my mother would just nod. Thanks to all mighty, Louise was in the end always satisfied, observing herself in the mirror, giving her chubby body the miraculous look. Then she would whisper slowly and silently: how impeccable. A bit louder: impeccable. Much louder: impeccable! Her excitement would appear: impeccable impeccable impeccable impeccable impeccable…. And then she would scream out of full pleasure: IMPEEECCCAABBBLEEEEEEEE!!!!!!
So it was. Impeccable. There. I definitely learned that word. And my mother definitely left her impeccable razorblade pencil in our shop. Now that I think about it, it might be she did it on purpose.
We moved north, in another state. In the train, on our way to our future home, my mother told me, Pipo now that we reach the new town you will tell no one I am a tailor. Mummy won’t be working as a tailor anymore. Bear in mind and be careful you tell no one we were tailors.
As she said that, she leaned on her seat, turned her head from me, and gazed at the window. That was, as I recall the last time I heard her using the word “tailor”. As she said it, her face changed, she didn’t seem so sad anymore, on the contrary, for the first time in her life she lit a cigarette. And she lit a cigarette in coupe! In my presence. And I was a child. I mean, I had no problem with that, I actually liked watching smoke dissolving from a cigarette. Unlike her, in Louisiana, in our old town, when she was a tailor (God knows I shouldn’t have mentioned this) she would always protest against my father’s friends who were smoking like chimneys. As a sign of protest, as soon a cigarette was lit, my mother would grab my hand, she would apologize to the crowd and light as a feather as her walk was, she would left the place.
My father would be calling her name, but my mother just kept on walking and ignoring him as an invisible butterfly, as a free floating object.
We reached the station. Usually, it was very easy not to be carrying bags for a long time, since the shop was just across the train station, and all the customers who used to visit mama&papa’s shop would have no problem in discovering where their impeccable garments were to be made.
We left the train. We left the station. We left the station. We left the station. We… left… the… station…
My mother had no clue where we should go. Her swiftly tailored determinism and optimism vanished in a single smoke of her single cigarette. It was almost dark and my mother, for the first time since December 31st 1969 (that I know, cause I was born then) panicked. In full 7 and half years, she never showed not a sign of fear, of doubt, or insecurity. By then it was she primarily who handled all the complicated situations, complicated customers and complicated course of events. She wouldn’t blink an eye. She was rocky and standstill as the quietest warrior of the world. Her softened silence was her strongest weapon. So were her dresses.
Now, she had only 5 of those dresses left, 2 pair of shoes, out of which one was soaked in a muddy puddle which my mother didn’t notice.
That moan was a silence killer. The moan went through her silence as a road bandit, outlaw of her prudence, robbing everything that was left of her softened silence. Her eyes became smaller and sharper, her mouth soaked and her nose wrinkled. Her merry light dress suddenly didn’t suit her at all.
Eventually, we found a place to stay.
To BE CoNtiNueD..