Party Headquarters by Georgi Tenev

Author:Georgi Tenev
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940953274
Publisher: Open Letter
Published: 2015-12-13T16:00:00+00:00

How and when did we give someone else the right to command us like mechanical toys, right down to the smallest movements of our arms and legs, fastened with bolts at the joints? Every moment when a hand reached out, deliberately slow, to give us a foretaste and for it to get a foretaste of the degradation—time would stop. When you could no longer take the standing, not out of exhaustion and not out of tension, but because of the helplessness, because of the senselessness. The horizon that has bitten into your own time like a toothless mouth. Time hasn’t even stopped—you simply realize now that it was never really passing.

Childhood, those naïve lessons at school, were an illusion that life is valuable in and of itself. The army is that blessed experiment that divides the body on the one hand from its meaning on the other. In the sun, in a uniform sewn with an unimaginable flair for discomfort. In scratchy fabric that even wild tribes wouldn’t wrap their dead in before tossing them into the grave—there and as such, here and now you stand. And while the sun crawls slowly overhead, as if waiting for you to curse it, insulting comparisons explode in the brain. Curses and insults want to fly off your tongue toward your very self—but why?

Yes, the sun, you tell yourself, is crawling terribly slowly. Like shit. You spit the filth out of your mouth, but you’ve already gulped it down, you’re already cursing, already swearing every other word like all the others. Who do you dislike and who do you hate now? With stripes also comes the right for you to commit abuses—“I can’t! I won’t!”—but you do it. You do it with relish, nasty and slow. Some frustrated sergeant, some I, hardboiled from boredom.

The sun, contrary to all expectations, shines on everyone with equal indifference and your problem is not solved. You’re no longer innocent, you’ve lost the right and the moral assets of victimhood. You sense it, that fiery glob of brains, its sadistic immobility. It sounds impossible, the maddening thought that the projector’s yellow light has to make at least 700 more circles at that same lazy pace before two years will be over, the brain is incapable of comprehending this. And the future, which is actually the truth, is transformed into fiction. And until then, consequently, you are simply nobody.

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