2019

Note 1: There is a lot of cursing in the play. If there are kids nearby, I recommend not to allow them to listen to this play. May at least in theater they hear no cursing.

Note 2: There are characters in the play which have to be played by the actor himself because this is a play for one actor.

Prologue

On the stage there are furniture which the director thinks are needed. An actor, dressed only in underwear, comes onstage. He brings recorder from the backstage. After some time, he invites a member of the audience to sit next to him. They sit on the furniture which the director has thought is needed. Actor opens tape box in the recorder, takes out the tape and gives it to the person sitting next to him, asking to rewind it and when s/he’s done, to put it into the recorder and press play. Then the actor invites another member of the audience and gives him a box with Christmas tree and lights in it. Actor asks to build deconstructed plastic tree and decorate it with toys and lights. Then actor invites two more members of the audience to come onstage and gives them huge green garland and asks to decorate the back wall. Then brings a box with scissors and folded newspapers to cut out snowflakes. Actor asks a few members of the audience to do that — to cut paper snowflakes. The tape recorder plays a song which the actor thinks is needed. While everyone is doing their tasks, the actor dances and dresses up. He coordinates cutting of snowflakes and glues them on the wall, one by one. When everyone is finished with their tasks, and the stage is turned into badly decorated room the actor thanks everyone for coming, gives each a candy and begins the first scene.

Scene 1 — Who, who?

Actor — Winter. 13th of January. Friday. One bedroom apartment, a bit smaller than this stage, in Vilnius, Lazdynai. Lights are turned off and there stands a Christmas tree with very old and not blinking lights on it. On the window which on stage is just a wall there hangs bright green plastic garland and snowflakes made from newspapers. By the ruptured windowsill, which today you also will have to imagine, there stands a young pregnant woman and looks through the window. Silent. 13th of January. Friday. Next to her the is Christmas tree with lights on but not blinking. Neither the tree, nor me in the belly, nor the woman, who sees sky behind the window blink, are blinking. I’m shoved in the belly. Shoved in the oven. I’m swimming in the red wine sauce. Soaking. In two weeks I’ll be pulled out and I’ll be such a motherfucking treat. But until then no one is blinking at home, neither lights on the Christmas tree, nor me in the belly, nor the woman because if she blinked then the dish may not be taken out by two culinary doctors in white gowns, sprayed by the red wine sauce and then for sure it would be a total motherfucking it.

But on the other hand, I’m still here, in the oven. While I’m still in the oven I can choose which side is better for me. I have two weeks until I’m cooked. I still can choose to be blinking or not blinking. Well, the one who shoved me in the oven wasn’t thinking that “This one will be not blinking. And the next one will… The next one will be in two years so there’s no need to shit pant beforehand. If you need to shove, you shove, no need to overthink.” - These are the four words which best describe that man’s life.

My beloved shooter wasn’t wasting time and only shot loaded bullets. Because if you’re shooting, then you’re shooting — no need to overthink. He shot his victim in a blinking room where music was playing loudly. To be precise, all those four songs lyrics of which are well-known by his generation up to this day. Victim was standing and blinking to him and the shooter, who came to shoot the victim, on the contrary. He was so not blinking that his nickname could be corpse. He was so not blinking that it seemed that he doesn’t really understand that he has a gun, and I’m not even starting about loaded or empty bullets.

But he denied that. He brought the victim to a room where there were loads of unclear form stuff. Stuff wasn’t visible because there was no light blinking. He brought her home and started removing layers off her, like a child removes layers off a warm candy. He was removing layers off of victim very slowly. Layer after layer, like a grandma layers cabbage for cabbage rolls. He was removing layers off of victim for so so long. That was very insensitive, knowing that men who really wants to shoot do that like 4 times faster. He did that for so long that victim couldn’t take any longer and shouted:

(The actor plays roles of both characters)

Victim — Well, shoot faster… For fuck’s sake

Shooter — Boldly, you doll.

After saying this the shooter removed the last layer. The last leaf ofcabbage was removed after which the shooter denied all thoughts that maybe he doesn’t understand what a gun is and all that bullshit about loaded and empty bullets. He not only denied that, he took a chance and shot. He shot so the victim for a moment stopped blinking but after the moment she opened her eyes, after 5 seconds, to be precise, because for that long women stop blinking after they’ve been shot down the waist. And after shooter’s denial, not only denial but such a shot that no need to overthink, that in the oven a small Lithuanian potato pie, spread in Russian baking tray, came to be. It was rising with time and in two weeks it will be pulled out in a kitchen, with help of two white dressed cooks. But until that, there still are two weeks left and it’s a question if it will pass because the blinking sky tells that fuck knows if it will pass. I’ll be in this oven and won’t blink because if I blink, there may be such fuckery on this Lithuanian land that motherfucking… Sorry for expression.

But while we’re not blinking in this overvalued moment, I will tell you about a victim who blinked. Actually, about that victim who had an oven instead of belly and in a Russian baking tray was cooking a Lithuanian potato pie. She was cooking and stared at that “no one fucking knows if it’ll pass” sky. She stared and said:

(The actor plays Victim)

Victim — Well da... No fucking way to know how it’ll end… well da… No fucking way, well daaa… Fuck. Well da, why did I fucking come here in the first place. I could’ve stayed there… there where… well, fuck knows where. Anywhere. Only not where the sky is blinking and you, for some fucking reason, don’t close the curtains and stare at that fucking sky. Stare at it like it’s New Year’s eve, only instead of holding champagne, you hold windowsill. Well da, why I couldn’t be fucking shot somewhere else by someone else. Why do I have to stare at that fucking sky and not blink even though I am blinking. I have blinking nature. I’m blinking since my blinking father, who is not blinking anymore for fuck knows how long, took a shot. After that shot I came to be as a blinking and only later I became not blinking. And now I’m panicking because I don’t know whose fault it is. Who’s fault is it? Whose fault it is that the sky is blinking and eyes are not? Whose fault it is that I’m standing and staring at that sky without a blink even though I’ve been blinking my whole life? Whose fault is it? Whose? Mine? Whose fault is it that the sky is blinking and I’m not? Whose fucking fault it is!

(shouts staring at the audience as if waiting for them to respond)

Actor – Woman gets scared and grabs her belly. She breathes and tries to calm down. Suddenly her eyes pop as if struck by electric shock.

Victim – I know whose fault it is. His. He is to blame for all what is happening, for everything. For everything what is happening. For the sky which is fuck knows what thinking and because I’m not blinking because fuck something happened to me and for all the other things I can’t now remember, it’s his fault. I know whose fault it is, I know… He is to blame.

Actor – Suddenly doors open and muddy shooter enters. I don’t know what he was doing to get muddied but I for sure know he wasn’t shooting. He takes off leather gloves and drops it by the landline phone. He comes to the victim and gives her an asking look. After tens of seconds he says:

Shooter – And who is to blame? Me? Is it my fault? Why are you standing there as if just farted your pants? My fault? Why are you standing there all red as if you’ve been blowing ass for an hour? My fault? Why are you keeping quiet like an ass when visiting? Is it my fault that sky is blinking like an ass after pea and beans soup? Why are you silent as an ass? Say a word, because I’m asking you for the last time! Whose fault it is? Tell me because I’ll shit where I’m standing with anger. Whose!?

Actor – Victim freezes and stares for a long time with fear. After some time she flinches as if her soul has come back to the body.

Victim – Whose whose?

Shooter – Whose?

Victim – What do you mean whose?

Shooter – Whooooose!?

Victim – What do you mean whose whose?

Shooter – Tell me whooose!?

Victim – Well who else… Aurimas Sabonis.

Shooter – Whooo?

Victim – Aurimas Sabonis.

Shooter – Arvydas.

Victim – Well, Arvydas. What’s the difference. It’s his fault. Yes, this is his fault! Who else? This is his fault that I can’t be who I am even though since I was shot I was who I had to be.

Shooter – Hoooow?

Victim – Well, it’s not that important “how”, it’s important “who”! Him! He is to blame for everything — he. Because who knows how fucking long ago he was throwing two and three pointers to that fucking ring with closed eyes. It is him to blame for that dance and annoyed everyone with his fucking dance. It is him to blame for kicking that fucking ball and hit that fucking blinking light which became not blinking after that kick…

Shooter – So you wanna say?

Victim – I wanna say that he is to blame that tonight this fucking disco came to our town and it’s blinking all night and prevents me from blinking… Or from closing fucking curtains. Do you understand what I’m saying? Do you?

Shooter – I understand… I do…

Victim – What do you understand?

Shooter – I understand… I do…

Victim –What do you fucking understand…

Shooter – I understand that something’s wrong with your brightness. I only don’t know what caused it, that blinking sky or your pregnancy.

Victim –Noo… You don’t understand. Artūras Sabonis is to blame.

Actor – Shooter sighs as if preparing to say something but swallows it because he realizes tonight he’s not in the mood to talk basketball. He goes to the kitchen, sips water, passes the victim who is standing as a statue and turns his eyes to the blinking sky. After a minute he closes the curtains and goes to bed. Puts his head on a hard pillow and stares at the ceiling. They both lie this way all night.

Scene 2 – Fisherman

Actor – After our blinking disco we woke up late. Actually, I was the only one to wake up because neither the Shooter nor the Victim was nearby. I only knew that the shooter and the victim were not the same as they used to be. Now they’re – Fisherman and Fish. Well, people change. Only Fisherman is fishing fuck knows where and the Fish lives wondering if she is smoked or baked. There was only one thing Fish knew for sure, that she isn’t alive. And I didn’t even know who I was because I wasn’t looking at the reflection in the water which would inform me if I had a fish head or I didn’t. Do I blink or I don’t. At that moment I was lying there, surviving after disco hangover and couldn’t remember anything.

While lying in bed I suddenly felt indescribable feeling inside me which, turns out, lived in me the whole time and woke up before me. It was a strange feeling which I neither liked nor disliked. I felt that I’m a fisherman and not a fish. I felt that and that feeling made my telescopic rod rise up by itself like captain’s binoculars. And that binoculars told me: You’re a fisherman, you have to fish. You are a fisherman, fisherman. And suddenly all doubts of what I should do were gone. I realized that I had to fish. While my home had been turned into a quagmire where both Fisherman and the Fish were sinking, I decided I had to fish in another quagmire, only not that deep as the one at home.

And I started fishing. I was fishing for ten years after waking up from those disco dreams. I was fishing for ten years until I caught my first fish which was followed by whole spawning. After that first, fishes were spawning and I had a taste of carps and luces. I even caught some with a hook still in their mouths. So while Fisherman and the Fish are sinking in a twice as deep quagmire, I’ll tell you about my first fish.

I’m going to fish. I come to the quagmire and jump in. I dive in that quagmire and try to know myself. I come onto a footbridge and tack once again so I don’t fall back into the water with all the warms. I’m standing and staring at that quagmire which seems to have no fish in it for me to catch. So I think of an idea to throw all my reserve and all my bait into that quagmire so I domesticate some fish.

I’m fishing and the night is coming. Night is coming and fishes are swimming away. If they keep swimming away like that, once again I’ll have to roll in my telescopic rod and go back to twice as deep quagmire. And when I was ready to roll in I felt I caught one. There was one and I had such a good feeling, only for a short while, short as the footbridge I was on. I got one and with every pull up I felt this fish getting near me. With every pull up I got such pleasure that electricity would run to my hurdling boots. It was such a pleasure that it seemed that my telescope pulled up that fish by itself, without my help, with a desire to torture it and finish this fishing with fireworks of a victory. It was such a pleasure that sky and quag merged into one. It was such a pleasure that in a few moments I finished. I finished this fishing and fell on the shore.

I finished this fishing and my dream came true, I held it in my arms. I was standing half-dead and held shattered her. Eventually I realized that I didn’t need her. I don’t eat fish, I only fish it. I don’t need her in my quag. I don’t need fish because, turns out, it doesn’t understand if it is smoked or baked. I don’t need fish because I only like to fish it, not to hold it in my arms. That’s why I threw her back in the water without even taking the hook off. (Pause)

After some time I felt I caught one more fish. I pulled her to the shore. This time fish is heavier so it’s harder to pull her up. I’m pulling her but it’s not as pleasant as it was the first time because I’m, how to say, I’m an experienced fisherman. I’m pulling her and then I see that it’s a way bigger fish. The bigger fish ate shattered small one. Not just defeated it, ate it. I held those two fishes in my hands, and I was thinking:

– Yeaaaah… Even in waters they eat each other.

Scene 3 – Onions

Actor – After such fishing I came back home not walking as it is usual for earthlings, but flowing and not reaching the ground by my feet. As if I had my hands on two invisible men who were dragging me like a wasted friend. I am soaring because today is a special day. I am flowing because I caught the first fish in my life. The first fish and not just an empty pack of herrings drown in its own oil. I’m flowing because this happens very rarely, approximately once in a lifetime. You can catch your first fish only once because all the other times are different, because all the other times are not first, so today is a special day. It is so important that the importance makes a person to soar and not walk. So today I am soaring.

I’m soaring and I see this twice deeper quag coming nearer and there are Fisherman and the Fish standing in it. They are standing in front of each other and in turns are biting each other. They bite and the one who’s gotten a bigger bite is joyful. They are eating each other like people eat meat jelly with horseradish. They are eating each other like they are meat jelly with horseradish. Fish is so unstable like a jelly out of a pot. And the Fisherman is so spicy like jarred freshly grounded horseradish roots. They are eating each other in big bites and don’t see me. They see neither me nor my soaring feet, nor invisible men under my pits. They see neither me nor my soaring feet, dressed in ripped jeans. They don’t see anything because they are eating each other with such passion, that they’ve eaten each other’s eyes and ears and for sure aren’t going to belch them. Maybe after some time, but after some time it won’t matter to me, because I need to be seen now, when it is very important to me.

And then again I felt an indescribable feeling about which I would tell you. I understand that my ripped pants are the same as my face and both are invisible. Ripped pants and ripped face are invisible because those who have to see it are also ripped. Only twice more than me. Then I realize that for me to survive moments of ripping and I not to get my eyes eaten, I have to stitch up my pants and never rip it again in my life. And after tidying up my pants, my face, which is just as much ripped, as you know, will tidy up as well. So, I start working on it a lot. Working will save me. Working is my savior. Sour work, sweet dreams. Work graces the person. And hard work graces handsomely. So handsomely that astonishment makes lips split. I must work hard to be noticed.

Somewhere I’ve heard about a person who was trying to find out if he is baked or smoked, blinking or not blinking. That person went far far away and did a very hard work. He was doing a very hard work, so he wasn’t ripped and he’d be noticed. He was doing a very hard work, probably the hardest in the whole world. He was cutting onions. There are very strange jobs in the world but this one was both strange and very hard. You can imagine yourself how ripped he had to be while he was cutting those onions but the only goal of it was not to be ripped.

So, reaching a similar goal, I take this job. I take this strange and very hard job, so I am not ripped and I’m noticed. He cut onions so I’m going to do that as well. I’ll be cutting it until my eyes become iron. I’ll cut it so others don’t have to. I’ll do it for myself, not the others. I won’t be cutting those onions, I already am. I’m doing that so quick and hard that there’s no time to take a breathe. I’m doing it, so I stitch up my jeans and my face would reflect in it. I’m doing it so that I wouldn’t be ripped because no one notices those who are ripped. Let’s admit, we never notice those who are ripped however good eyes we have. I am cutting them quick and hard so that I come down to earth and then I’d be seen. I am cutting them because work graces a person and hard work graces handsomely. I am cutting because I don’t know what else to do except a strange and very hard work. I have to work so I’m not ripped. I have to works so I am seen. I must be seen. I must be noticed. Seen, noticed, not ripped. I must. Suddenly I cut my last onion, freeze and notice. I notice that while I was cutting onions my diners were eating the last bites. They’ve eaten not only ears and eyes but also those places which are not eaten by cannibals in horror movies. They ate each other and they didn’t care about my onions. They didn’t need those onions I’d been cutting for so long. I was cutting them for so long that I’d got bored. I got bored so much that I’d never cut them again in my life. I promise, whatever may happen I will never cut onions. Unless I really miss doing that, then I will cut it when it will be dark and everyone around will be asleep. But for now I will forget how to do it because me and my onions have been forgotten. They’ve eaten each other and only bones were left and I’ve been left a pro at cutting onions which I’m not ever coming back to since there ain’t anyone eating them. Because it tastes better to eat meat. Meat jelly tastes good, especially with horseradishes and there’s no space for onions because horseradishes are better and spicier than my cut onions which have fell on the ground.

Scene 5 – Tube TV

The quag is deep, twice deeper than usual. There is an old TV drowned in it. Fisherman and the Fish are hitting it with palms, one after the other and quarrel.

Fisherman – Do you even hear what I’m telling you?

Fish – What should I be hearing when there is nothing to listen to?

(One after the other they hit and old tube TV and after some time continue discussion on another subject)

Fish – This tube TV, it could’ve never drowned in our quag.

Fisherman – Is your tube okay? It’s „Tauras“.

Fish – And for how long are we going to hit this „Tauras“?

Fisherman – Until it burns.

Fish – So the whole life probably? I don’t have that long. I still need to find the one who’s fault my blinking and not blinking is, so I don’t have much time to be hitting „Tauras’“ tube.

Fisherman –Listen… Understand, it’s not Aurimas’, neither Artūras’ nor Arvydas’ fault.

Fish – So who’s fault? No one’s?

Fisherman – Some’s is…

Fish – It is someone’s fault?

Fisherman – Yes, it is… It’s your tube’s fault, because it doesn’t blink for ass knows how long.

Fish – So why isn’t it blinking, let me ask you?

Fisherman – Because it has been hit too many times.

Fish – Oh fuck, and how didn’t I come up with such bullshit? So maybe you’ll also say that because of this hitting I’ve become not blinking?

Fisherman – Well of course because of that, why else. You’ve been hit by your tube and it’s become not blinking and not blinking tube is sending a signal to not to blink.

Fish – Oh fuck, what bullshit you’ve just said. So this tube in this our quag is like a “lighthouse of wisdom”?

Fisherman –“Lighthouse of wisdom”... I see where you got to know the first word so well but who told you the last one?

Fish – The tube lighted on and showed me…

Fisherman – Oh that tube…

Fish – Well, okay… And those who are blinking, does it mean that it is blinking in their tubes also?

Fisherman – Yes.

Fish – Oh fuck, so you want to say that a blinking person in a way is more blinking than a not blinking person? Genius… So it means that some time ago I was blinking and automatically could call myself more human than it’s usual? Because my tube was blinking then. And only later it fell from fuck knows what height and hit this fucking TV which made me not blinking. And that means that since then I am less of a human? Genius…

Fisherman – You’re human because you don’t blink…

Fish – Oh, so those who blink are not human?

Fisherman – Human…

Fish – Listen, are you knotting the marine knots in those ships floating in our quag?

Fisherman – Why?

Fish – Because I can’t untie what you are trying to say…

Fisherman – Listen… I’ll make it clear… You are who?

Fish – Who who?

Fisherman – So who?

Fish – What do you mean who?

Fisherman – So tell me who?

Fish – Well fuck knows who!

Fisherman – Well I think so, too, because you ain’t blinking nor not blinking. Because you’ve let your tube fall from a very high hights and with all its strength it hit that tube TV lying in the quag. And since then your tube has hit that TV for so many times, that you’ve become neither blinking nor not blinking.

Fish – Oh motherfucking fuck, you’ve said so well, I’ve got shivers.

Fisherman – Neither blinking, nor not blinking…

Fish – So what? (hits the TV)

Fisherman – Well, what do you mean so what?

Fish – So what?! (hits the TV)

Fisherman – Well what do you mean so what?

Fish – So maybe so fucking what? (hits the TV)

Fisherman – You’ve become a fish which neither blinks nor not blinks. You’ve become a fish which doesn’t know if it’s smoked or baked. You’ve become nothing.

Fish – Oh motherfucker…

(she hits TV so strong that after the hit it turns on and lights all quag. Fisherman and Fish freezes like statues)

Scene 6 – Hammer

Now I’d like to introduce to you my friend. You don’t know who she is? Her name is Valda. She’s not fat, she’s heavy. She is lying by the feet of one of you. Take a look. Did you find her? Great. Come here with Valda, come to me. (actor takes the hammer and starts chatting with the member of audience who found the hammer by her/his feet)

What’s your name? Uh-huh. I’m Russo. How are you? Uh-huh. May I be informal? Can I ask you to sit here with me? Do you smoke? If you want you can have one. I like that smell. I don’t smoke, by the way. But now it would be that time when I’d smoke, if I was smoking. (Actor improvises or uses the written text).

Can I ask you a personal question? Do you have a dog? Uh-huh. And how is it? Oh, sorry for asking but you can refuse to answer if you don’t want to but I’m still going to ask. (this is followed by the questions the actor wants to ask) Have you ever smoked pot? Uh-huh. I see. Do you have a scar? Look, I have this (shows his finger). Once my best friend hit my finger with the hammer like this one. He thought I’d move my finger and I thought he wouldn’t hit. Did you come here alone? Uh-huh. I see. Can you imagine, they allow me to curse in front of everyone. Sometimes they don’t. You also can curse if you want to.

You know, I’ve been preparing for this for a long time. I bought a suit. I was thinking what should I say. But I could’ve just started with a chat with you. Just to sit down like this with you and that would be it. Me, you and Valda. What did you say your name was? Uh-huh. Well, actually it’s not that important what the name is. You can just sit there, have a smoke and chat. Or just be silent. How do you like it better? Uh-huh.

You also can ask me anything but what could I say to you? Look at me. Can I answer you anything? What kind of answer can I give? Of course, don’t get angry at me for being so straightforward but really, what can I tell you? Are you blinking or not blinking? Blinking, I see you blink.

I have no answer to your question. But I can sit here with you, have a smoke and be silent. I can listen to you. You know if you don’t want to talk loud you don’t have to, you can speak quietly. Just for yourself. Just close your eyes and quietly ask yourself something and then quietly answer it to yourself. But do it silently because all those are listening to you. Did you ask? Uh-huh. Did you answer? Uh-huh. Ah… There’s no need to overthink.

You know what, (name), take the hammer. I thought of something. (Actor stands up and gives the hammer to the member of the audience he was talking to). Look, now take Valda and hit this tape recorder with all your strength. Wait wait. Don’t hurry. I need to take the out the plug. Look, I’ll put there the very same finger and I’ll move it the last second. Okay? You just hit the recorder with all your strength. Okay? Don’t worry, I trust you. And they all trust you. Actually, they trust you to do it. Well, hold that hammer. Hold it tight and without thinking hit it with all your strength. Okay? Well, let’s go. Wait wait. Let’s count to three. Let’s try. Okay. Let’s go: 1 – 2 – 3.

(The audience member either hits the recorder or doesn’t)

Scene 7 – Dusty mirror

Our nights are dark, only every second lantern is on. All the others have expired. The quag is empty. Actually, both. First, the one where I used to fish. It’s empty, only a couple of fishes which I’ve already had caught and threw back in are left in it. And the second was that twice as deep, with „Tauras“ TV in the bottom of it. But it was already empty because my beloved fishes had left for the warmer waters, however hard it would be to imagine that. Hard, because in most cases only one leaves and here both left. So, I can only say that there is nothing to do around those two quags. Quag without fish is like tea without tea leaves — just water.

My interest in fishes has fallen. Fishing season was closed, roll in the rods. Roll in the rods because the quag has gone bankrupt. No one to fish and no one to show off what you’ve caught. Even those who see nothing and hear nothing aren’t here. Those who’ve eaten each other. Those who’ve flapped their flippers and traveled to the end of the world. Actually, to two ends. My stupid beloved fishes never checked my homework and never learned that world is round and has no ends. This means that you can’t run from yourself. The furthest end of the world is where you are at now. But there is nothing to say about fishes because you can’t even smell them. Because we’re locked in our fishermen shack.

In that house there were me, Point and Mickevičius, and a few unfamiliar fishers. We had our fishermen shack which opened when fishes went to the warmer waters. It was a shack, heated by wood, with big rooms where we sat with our shoes on. We would sit and be silent because there was nothing to say. We had to warm up so that we can take off our shoes and jackets which our older brother had outgrown. To warm up and sit undressed in front of each other. So that we could see each other as we are and talk beautiful things. It still was cold because wood hasn’t yet turned into ember. And that meant that we weren’t warm enough to talk. We were cold, because there were no fishes which could replace burning wood. Fishing season was over. Usually only fishermen gather to the end of the season party. Fishes are not invited because they simply are not there. There is no one to warm and to admire. Everyone is a handsome big catch to himself.

Suddenly one fisher takes off the wall a mirror and puts it on his lap. The mirror is covered in dusts. Dusts, lined in order. If you want to see your reflection you have to blow the dust. I sit there frozen and watch experienced fishermen to do it. They are blowing that dust, line after line, and, after admiring their reflection in the mirror, send it round. Eventually mirror comes to Point’s hands. Without a glimpse of a doubt he grabs the mirror, blows a couple of lines off of it and widen pupils of brown eyes watches his reflection in the dusty mirror. Then it’s Mickevičius’ turn, and he does it precisely and thoroughly, quick like a pro, like an artist. Mickevičius only does that ever since one bitch started dictating the trends of his sketchbook. Ever since then he wasn’t interested in paintings and got into mirrors. To tell the truth, he got into his reflection he saw after blowing the dust. But about that later because right now the mirror is in my lap.

I watched that mirror and the last line left on it and doubted. I doubted if it was worth to blow that line of dust? Maybe it’d be better to pull the rod and wait for someone to catch the bait. Then I remembered my beloved Fisherman who, as long as I could remember him, was hitting a blinking TV. I think what would he do right now. What would he do? What would he do? Well, he would swim to his fucking warmer waters where he’d be able to catch not local pikes but Atlantic salmons. So there’s no need to overthink. I grabbed that mirror, raised it to my face, looked at my crooked reflection in it and… and took a deep breath and blew that last on the mirror, but first in my life, line of dust. And then I saw my whole reflection in the mirror which became more and more handsome with time and not only I saw that. Everyone in that circle, in that finally warming big house enjoyed not only mine but also each others’ reflections, becoming more and more handsome in the mirror until there was no dust left. Point, who was weirdly scratching his head on the pillow suddenly looked at me and said “Fuck, Russo, you’re very handsome. Really. But not by looks, but by… Eeerrr… Such… Aaaah… You’re handsome in a way but I want to say that not by looks. But by… How to say… Well by such… How, pfff, well… Well fuck know what. You’re fucking beautiful and that’s it.”

Meanwhile I was sitting there and thinking how fun it was to just blow dust and stare in the mirror. It was fun to not only see how handsome you are but also to hear it. It is fun to be able to say that to others. Then you’re taken over by an incredible feeling that we all are transferred to a desert island which has a sign on it — oasis of Olev (can’t pronounce love) and respect. Everything we needed was hidden here, on this deserted island of Vloe and respect oasis. Everything we need is here. Without suspect, our cold and uncomfortable fishermen shack turned into oasis of lveo and respect. We scratched our heads with pleasure on pillows and never opened the curtains, because we didn’t want to see falling leaves drown in the mud. To us that was the place where we could feel each other’s support.

We needed that a lot. We liked it a lot. We liked it so much, that we started doing that almost everyday. We used to meet at the sunset and at that time of the year it was quite early. And we left that oasis of olve and respect only when sun had risen again, and invited us to gather at another never burning house where we were taught to be wise. In that fishermen’s house we were different. You could call us not just Russo, Point and Mickevičius. There you could call us just beauties.

Then our interest in lessons began to grow. Blood was pulsing in the temples like rhythmic techno music in earphones. Everything seemed the same. Only a few things were changed. First, we didn’t run to the eatery on the break, and second, everything became much much more interesting.

Mickevičius started to draw a lot. It seemed that he doesn’t hear anything around. Only the music of colour pencils which was accompanied by rhythmic pulse in the head. He was drawing and drawing and a woman named Aquarelina (about her later) would stand and watch those music making pencils and could’t take away her envious look. She also wanted to make such music with pencils, but her fingers were too fat. Too fat to make such music. So all she was left with was envy she felt while standing and looking. But Mickevičius didn’t notice anything. Because he didn’t give a fuck about anything. He just listened to that pencil music and that rhythmic pulse in his head.

Meanwhile, Point took a habit of always and everywhere talking without stopping to breathe. He just couldn’t shut up. His speeches mostly were sharp and sarcastic. It was his way of having fun. This way he was having fun in that unburning house. Once he had a quarrel with one of the habitants of that house. Not just an argument, a quarrel (to have an argument means to have a discussion on some subject. And a quarrel is caused by clashing opinions). A quiet, tiny, small woman in a calm tone tried to explain to Point that his constant talking not to the point makes it hard for others. But he wasn’t affected by the woman’s calm tone and he continued to sarcastically mock her. Then the tiny small woman asked the Point to leave. “Please, leave,” she said. Blood pulsed in his temples. Without saying a word he kicked the table upside down and turned to the door. After stepping over the door sill, he turned around and in a calm tone said: “Go fuck yourself”. And left. Left and never came back there again.

And I, meanwhile, was thinking a lot. I was thinking about that deserted island — Oasis of Love and respect. An island I never wanted to leave and didn’t want to allow anyone else to come close to it. I dreamed to stay there forever. I dreamed that the love and respect which was born in this oasis wouldn’t disappear after six hours. I dreamed to find a formula which then wouldn’t turn everything into cold home with dusty mirrors, removed from the walls and lying on the ground. What was the formula of finding that oasis of Love and respect I learned about after blowing the dust off the mirror. Dust, that brings to that oasis of Love and respect, has already been invented. True, this visit only lasts six hours. But there must be a formula which would make it last forever. What was it? What’s the secret of it all? There must be some another way to go there. There must be…

While I was discussing with myself and didn’t get any answer, I met Point and attacked him with a question I was pregnant with for 45 minutes:

– Dude, what do you think, does there exist such a (tries to say oasis of love and respect but fails) in which it would be possible to live well fuck… For a long time.

Point was standing, looking at me and didn’t breathe. Then he shook as if greeting a soul after a walk coming back to the body.

He left the air out and said: “What the fuck?”

I ask: “Is there such an oasis?”

“Dude, fuck, have you been hit on the head with a brick?”

“No, I seriously ask you. Well, what do you think is there such an love (this words sounds like a mooing of a moose) and respect oasis?”

“Dude, fuck. Has your brain bit the dust?”

“No, you don’t get it.”

“Russo, fuck, have you lost your mind? Is your kettle boiling? Dude, take a walk in the snow, maybe you’ll build a snowman, huh? Hello? Hello? Russo, what happened?”

After an unsuccessful aim to find the formula I wanted, I didn’t answer, turned around and went for the door. And in my ears and my head questions coming from the inside were mixing with Point’s shouts about failing functionality of my brain.

Scene 8 – Mickevičius and Malevich

The actor takes out a basket full of red apples and puts it on the table. Later he takes out a pile of pictures, takes it one after the other and shows them to the audience asking questions.

The first picture is Claude Monet’s “Still life with apple and grapes”.

– Well? Is it nice?

The second picture is a photograph of Kasimir Malevich.

– And what about this man? Is he handsome? Okay, let’s go.

The third picture is K. Malevich’s “Black square”.

– And what about this one?

The fourth picture is an orange square in white background.

– And what about this? What’s beautiful about it? Of course, you’re very shy and you won’t ask me “Hey, Russo, what does those apples on the table have to do with it?” Even without your question I’ll answer simply “It’s just looks very beautiful to me”.

Claude Monet’s “Still life with apple and grapes” is shown again.

– You said it was beautiful. So that’s the same, only naturalism.

He takes out a young man’s picture and puts it next to the portrait of K. Malevich.

When I started going to that unburning house I met one such Mickevičius. He was a very handsome boy. Mickevičius was very similar to such Malevich but not by looks, because Mickevičius was way more handsome than Malevich. They had similar biographies. They both had large families, Malevich had 13 siblings and Mickevičius had 9. Both had stay at home moms. Both of them had to do a lot of farming jobs in the fields. And the most important similarity was that they loved to draw.

So, the favorite thing to do for Mickevičius was to gently brush the paper with pencils. He would be very concentrated and careful when he drew. He would do it silent, without saying a word because he would be chewing his dry lips then. He would be drawing very accurately, without taking the pencil off of the page for hours.

I also drew. Well, I didn’t really like it, but I drew because I had to do this. Because just, it had to be this way. We were doing many things which we didn’t want to and didn’t see any meaning in it but we did it, because someone saw it as very important and meaningful. These were the rules of unburning house.

Once I brought my drawing to the woman we all called Aquarelina. Truth to be told, I still don’t know if it was her name or surname or just a nickname we gave her which fit her face. So, I bring her my drawing and ask her the fundamental question:

– Well, is it nice?

– Very nice.

Soon, Mickevičius gets off his sticky, sweaty chair and stretches her a white page with red apples drawn on it, and asks Aquarelina:

– Well, is it nice?

Aquarelina gives an envious look to Mickevičius’ apples and says:

– Not bad, not bad. Of course, you’ve done better. Let me fix it.

Meanwhile, we all noticed how Mickevičius’ cheeks heated and turned more red than the apples he had drawn. Without lifting his eyes he watched Aquarelina’s fat fingers intrude to steal and destroy apples that didn’t belong to them. He watched, and his breathing was going faster, and he tried to resist by brushing his wet palms against his dusty jeans. The strangest thing was that he watched this act of vandalism in silence, with a smile. Although his smile, when I think about it, was telling. Under that smile there was hiding something similar to “Oh you bitch”. But then I didn’t hear that scream and didn’t understand the secret of that smile. Then I just watched in silence because I didn’t understand a thing. But now I understand and I also want to scream the same “Oh, you bitch”. But then I just watched Mickevičius’ heating face and didn’t understand that look, watching alien fat fingers to brush and round personal red apples, in a personal white sheet of paper. I just watched it in silence, like everyone else. But I could go to the school yard after the lesson, to the apple tree, and pick a basket of apples and go back to her. To that woman named Aquarelina, with fat fingers, envious look and unfulfilled dreams. I could go to her, hit the doorknob with all my strength, open the door and tell her:

Well, you schnapps and fat (throws an apple to the wall). What’s nicer in life? Tell me, I’m very interested. You want an apple? (Throws one more apple to the wall) What’s nicer I ask you. Why so silent? You don’t like apples? Okay, let’s talk about art. Malevich. How do you like him? Nice? I’m fucking asking you. How do you know what is nice and what is not? (Throws an apple to the wall).

Are you sleeping with Pablo Picasso and you’re discussing what is nice and what is not? Or maybe Mona Lisa is your girlfriend and whispers you the newest trends of nice and not nice? Why so silent? Tell me, how do you know that I’ve drawn nice and Mickevičius has drawn better? How do you know, I ask you? Tell me. Why so silent? Have you been digging potatoes with Rembrandt and when you sat down to rest, he gave you a lecture about beauty? No? Well, then maybe you go to Varėna with Van Gog to pick mushrooms in the fall, and while you’re picking it, you discuss the concept of beauty? Also no? Then how do you know what’s nice and what’s not? How could you know then that Mickevičius’ apples could’ve been nicer? How? (he aims to throw an apple but bites it instead).

You know hwat, Aquarelina, it’s your fault that Mickevičius didn’t become what Malevich was. It’s your fault that Mickevičius couldn’t draw better. It’s all your fault. Mickevičius also could’ve drawn that shitty black square. It’s your fault that he stopped drawing and started blowing dusts off the mirrors. It’s your fault that one night after blowing the dust Mickevičius jumped into a big black car and went to stranger’s garage and stole seven electric drills. It’s your fault that he hid them and himself in the woods. It’s your fault that at the dawn he was finally found, all wet, and they beat him so bad, that his face was as red as the apples which, according to you, he could’ve drawn nicer. It’s your fault, bitch, that he had to sit in that black square where he couldn’t draw because he didn’t have any materials to do so.

Do you hear, girlfriend of Mona Lisa, this is your fault that he is just Mickevičius and not Malevich? Do you hear, you Picasso’s slut? It is your fault that one night in that black square he didn’t cover with his sheet, but turned it into a scarf… Do you hear that, the favourite mushroom picker of Van Gog? It is your fault that now his face is not red like these apples which he could’ve drawn better. It is your fault that his face now is as black as that Malevich’s square. It’s your fault that he will never again come to class meetings because there… Because he’s there now, with Pablo Picasso discusses was it your fault or wasn’t.

And it’s my fault, too… And all of theirs who watched, saw it all, but still sat silent.

Scene 9 – Snotty granny

Well, that’s drawing for a hobby. Like an extreme and deadly sport. That year we didn’t have to plan class meeting. It was organized by Mickevičius’ mother. Me and Point got the seats in the first row, next to a snotty grandma. We sat there and silently took in the smell of lilacs and fern spikes. It was like by sitting in those seats we had to feel something special, because we were never going to see again Mickevičius’ apples, his lips, chewed to blood, and wet palms, brushing against his dusty jean. In those dusty jeans he is lying in a black square and his palms are blue and frozen. We had to feel, but we didn’t because to us it was a feeling, experienced long ago and multiple times evoked by the loved ones’ flying back to the warmer waters. You may say, that we were very familiar with that feeling and had immunity for it. We both, me and Point. Because Point’s dearests also did that for very long time. We knew what feeling we were supposed to feel here but we didn’t. We had a very different feeling. We were just amused. We watched Mickevičius’ parents, sister and seven brothers standing around a black square like a church choir and laughed. We were amused by their dirty tan. We were laughing at their ripped and dusty jeans. We also laughed because we were not allowed to do that. We tried to keep silent and pretend that this laughter was a burst of cry. With us pretending, the granny sitting next to us, would turn up for her outburst of cry, what would make us to burst into laughter again.

We laughed and tears of laughter were falling down our cheeks. We laughed because we didn’t give a fuck about those seven electric drills, those sheets, chewed to the blood lips and that Mickevičius didn’t become Malevich. We knew that he was finally going to take off his dirty jeans and will be able to talk to Pablo Picasso about, let’s say, Aquarelina’s boobs. It didn’t hurt me and Point. It didn’t, because Mickevičius was suffocating from all those dust in the fields. He was suffocating until he finally was done. And thank God.

Scene 10 – Point

The very same night we went to the other shore. Where there were more fishes. We didn’t listen to snotty grannies who told us, that it is forbidden to have fun on such day. We didn’t listen and we had fun, and music was so loud that we couldn’t even hear our own thoughts pulsing in our temples. As usual, before the trip we looked at the dusty mirror. Than we jumped into a large car with other fishermen we didn’t know and went for the other shore. Well, another quagmire to tell the truth. A quag which was famous for good and easy catch. Because fishers of that quag were shitty. So shitty that they got wasted by the quag before they even threw the rods into the water. But they were keeping their fishes from other fishermen. And they were better at keeping than in fishing.

We came with a big car, and it was visible and shining from afar. It was driving slowly and confidently. All the fishes of this quag swam to the surface to see who is going to thrown their bobs into the water. The car with fishermen inside had stopped. Heavy doors had opened and five wide shouldered fishermen, with brown eyes and lighters in their hands, had moored. Local fishermen didn’t say anything, because they were luring over our big car. Then they turned their looks on us. Head to toe, toe to head. It was rare for the quag to receive visitors. They scanned us and smiled like waiters waiting for the tip. Only these waiters were asking not for tips. Their crooked snots were asking for fists.

We entered the large quag which reminded of an aquarium. Large, sweaty windowed aquarium, full of fishes and loud music. We entered and sat in five connected wooden seats prepared for us. We sat at the first row and swayed to the rhythm.

I was watching the blinking lights which were close to my nature. They were blinking into my brown eyes and music was so loud, that I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts pulsing in my temples. I sat there and watched all he fishes moving weirdly. I saw them like pictures changing every few seconds. I watched all this and remembered that fucking “Oasis of Love and respect” (expresses that oasis in a movement) and felt that it isn’t there. I watched these fishes, listened to their music and felt that this wasn’t the place I was dreaming of. I saw everything blinking around, and felt music beating in my chest. I saw Point, who ironically smiled and flashed other fishermen with the flashlight in his lighter. He flashes it and laughs, and I am watching this square aquarium, which will turn into fish soup from all the fishes and sweat. I watch this blinking and wait for my chance to dive into this soup, trying to catch my fish.

Point turned out to be faster than me. He stands up and dives into the quag. He dives and swims among these fishes. Swims in that fish soup which blinks colourfully and beats with music. It beats so strong, that I can’t even hear my own thoughts pulsing in my temples. Music is beating and Point is splashing, and he does it very well. He is splashing so well that I haven’t seen a better splashing human being in my life. He is splashing so good that all the fishes gathered around him and watched him with opened mouths. Point knew he was handsome. He knew it, because before coming here he looked in the mirror. He was splashing so well that his name could’ve been Splashy, but he was just a Point and that’s the point. He caressed flippers and tails of fishes with the outer side of his palm. He smiled and splashed with eyes closed, because he already were in his “Oasis of love and respect” (words are changed into movements) only he didn’t realize that. He was splashing and lights made his face blink. Everything around was blinking but me.

I became not blinking. I was sitting on these five connected wooden chairs and didn’t blink. I didn’t blink because what I saw was better than Point’s dancing. It was more interesting than pulsing music, blinking lights and fishes spawning around. It was something what made my brown eyes freeze. It made my temples pulse a different beat. I got that feeling which gives you electroshock down to your hurdling boots. A feeling, which made me tear off of the ground. To tear off and feel something what happens to you only once in a lifetime. That one time which is the best out of all times. Such time of the times which relaxed my fingers and made my lighter fall down to the ground. It was because of one fish who was standing by the window and looked through it. In the square aquarium everything was blinking, but she just stood there and watched calm sky without a blink.

Meanwhile Point was giving Macarena lessons. All the fishes were dancing to his rhythm as if they all were in the same net. He swam among those fishes and for a moment turned to me and said:

– Hey, Russo, I see you’re having fun, maybe go to the toilet to take a look at the mirror.

But I didn’t hear anything. Only rustle. And even that rustle was softened. Softened so I could hear that little fish’s breathing. I watched her and I was afraid to move so I don’t scare her off. I watched her without blinking and waited. Waited for I don’t know what. Meanwhile, Point was leading the dance floor. Everyone had gripped into a train, led by Point and going outside aquarium door. It was going to the smoking room, because fishes wanted to be smoked. Point put a smoldering stick to each fish’s gills and with his lighter lighted one after another. Point was laughing because at that moment he was the best fisherman. All the fishes had gathered around his bob. He was feeding them straight out of his hands. He was feeding them and drowning in laughter, thundering in the aquarium. It seemed that Point is bringing home a medal and best fisherman’s diploma. Tonight, here Point was the winning aquarium amusement.

Suddenly and accidentally laughing Point flashed one big headed fisherman, local in this shore where we were only visiting. That big headed one came to smoking Point and asked:

–What’s blinking?

– What what? – replied Point.

– What? Big head repeated his question.

– How come, what what?

– I’m asking you, what’s blinking here?

After this question Point tightly squeezed a lighter in his palm and remembered our quag’s rules number 1 and number 2 which are: “If you see you’re going to be hit, hit first. If the big head doesn’t fall, run.” Point took a deep breathe and and shouted “What what, fucking Arvydas Sabonis”, waved his fist and hit. But the big head didn’t even blink. One look at his face revealed that his father was chopping wood on his head since he was a child. So there was nothing left for Point to do, only to remember the second rule and run. He ran from the waving aquarium to the shore where you could hear neither splashing music nor laughter of swimming fishes anymore. He ran away from that all.

Behind his back thunder of stomping boots and breathing of wild and hungry unleashed hounds was becoming louder. That sound kept coming closer and closer until it surrounded him. Wandering in the night Point stumbled on a stone and fell with all his weight. He fell and around himself he heard such noise as if a swarm of hornets just fell from a tree. Soon that noise turned into sixteen very inhospitable sneakers, which kicked all uncovered places of Point’s body. They kicked and swing again and again and again. They kicked so merrily that Point was splashing to all four ways. Point was rolling on the dusty ground in his light blue jeans. And he was being splashed so that his dusty jeans got ripped at the knees. He was being splashed so that his face spattered on the ground and turned into a red, cut watermelon.

And meanwhile, in the aquarium I kept standing and watching the little fish I still was too shy to approach. I held her with my look, in fear that she would run away. And that watching made me feel well and calm. I watched her swinging by the window, calm and rhythmical. By the window, which didn’t show me Point being splashed at that moment. That window only showed me calm, not blinking sky which, to tell truth, I didn’t see because I was holding her with my eyes. I watched her and shivered with fear. I shivered and for a second I forgot everything – my name, the fact that Point had been gone for a long time, and that we were in a guest shore. I stood there without blinking because I held her with my look so that she didn’t runaway and I felt as if I was floating above the ground. I even forgot that I had a brain which had to be responsible for logic decisions. I forgot that and made an unlogic one. A move, which meant to get every slithering fish and big headed fisherman out of my way. Moving to the window, which was showing not blinking sky. Moving toward her. I moved through all those spawning and smoked fishes towards my little fish which was standing by the window and staring at the not blinking sky. She stood there, watching, until she finally felt that someone’s closed in behind her back. She felt it and slowly turned around.

Meanwhile, Point realized that that the second wisdom of mother quag didn’t pay off, but he still didn’t give up and tried to run away. He crawled on four and big heads continued to kick him. They kicked his belly so strong that Point couldn’t open his eyes anymore. But he was a patient and stubborn fisherman, so he still didn’t give up and with his last strength tried to run away. He tried to survive and it was harder and harder to do it since those big headed fishermen were beating him like a bull beats matador in corrida. Though in small steps, but he still tried to get away and his face, covered in red, was swelling and swelling. Big heads continued to fiercely kick Point’s head, probably wishing that it would become as big as theirs. Their legs kept rising until they slowed down without strength, and stopped. And exactly at that moment Point gathered his last bit of strength, coughed and very slowly ran away. His body was shining in red.

Point was running from the aquarium as far as he could. He ran to the opposite side than I was. He crawled on the ground like a wounded warrior, leaving a red carpet after him. He crawled until he finally came to a window with a light in it. With his last bit of power he knocked on it. (Actor slowly starts to knock on the hard material next to him. He knocks for a long time. He finishes his speech while knocking.)

Soon a man came to the window. He squinted at blinding darkness behind it and asked:

– Who are you?

Meanwhile, the big heads had come back to the aquarium and stamped with their bloody shoes and roared with satisfaction as if they’ve just caught the biggest catch in their lives.

And I stood there by my little fish and held my breathe and watched her slowly and elegantly to turn to me. She turned to me, looked me in the eyes and asked:

– Who are you?

– Russo. And you?

But she just smiled and didn’t reply.

Point is mouthing as a fish out of a quag and can’t say a word. And the guard can’t see a thing in the night and repeats:

– Who are you? Is there anybody out there? Who are you?

And Point just mouths and can’t say a word. He isn’t even able to knock anymore. He is inside out full of dark red. Dark red isn’t visible in the darkness. Guard can’t see anything in the darkness, and goes away from the window until he finally turns off the only light in the dark night. And so Point is left to lie all alone in the dark red night. He falls to the ground and shivers. Shivers with fear, pain and loneliness.

At that moment everything in the aquarium changed. Music beats and blinking lights were changed into calm pulsing music and frozen, not blinking lights. In that light I was with my little fish who was drowning in my arms, and we were swinging from leg to leg, from leg to leg. Our bodies were connected by some invisible power which made me to forget dusty mirrors, all the other fishes, my dearests, who went to warmer places, and even my own name. We were swinging and not blinking.

Point also wasn’t blinking. He was lying in the dark, shivering and not blinking. His face was totally ripped and very sad. He was sad that he didn’t learn the formula of Oasis of Love and Respect. He was sad that he didn’t learn what it means to take off the ground and float. He was sad that he didn’t experience that feeling. He never learned to feel that feeling. And that was exactly why he kicked that table upside down in that unburning house, and left after wishing everyone to go to fuck themselves. He left and never came back there again. And he never will. He didn’t know how to feel that feeling and probably because of that he paid his price. Now he was lying and crying. He cried and no one was there to comfort him. No one cared about his small pieces of onion fallen to the ground. He was crying, because he was sad and because he would never learn to feel that feeling.

Scene 11 – Amnesia

Now Mickevičius is there, talking with Picasso about Aquarelina’s ass. Point is giving macarena lessons. And I’m swimming here with my little fish.

I finally learned the formula. I learned how to find my “Oasis of Love and Respect” (expresses it via movement) which would last for more than just six hours. I found my island which I am protecting 24/7 so that no assholes would swim by it. I found out the formula which makes this unusual world quite simple. I found that out but I didn’t know how to name it.

I can describe what happens when you find that out but it’s impossible for me to name it. You probably know what I’m talking about but I really cannot name it because I’m having an amnesia. It’s such a strange disease which I experience as forgetting of one word. I imagine that feeling but don’t know how to call it as if it would be the longest word in the world. (tries to say it but looks like a fish out of water). I understand what it means and when you have to say it , but I can’t say it. Once I open my mouth all those letters get all mixed up. I can kick an apple, placed on your head, but I can’t say that word. I can count sinus, cosine and tangent, but I won’t be able to say that word, because I don’t remember it. Or maybe I never knew it, because no one ever told me it. Until I met you. Only I’ve got amnesia and I can’t remember that word. I can’t remember it, but I can stand your morning breath. I can’t remember it, but I can go mushroom picking with your father, even though I know I will have to look for him all around the forest. I’ve been hit by this disease, amnesia. I remember everything but I can’t find this one word in my poor vocabulary. I can’t say it, but I can inflate 300 liters pool with my mouth so that you could have a swim on a hot summer day. Everybody probably know that word in seven languages but I can’t remember it in any.

I am stunned by my stupidity. What ass you have to be to not remember such a simple word. Well, what can you do, that’s a fool I am. I can’t say it but I can break my arm only to get insurance money to buy a bracelet for you. I realize it sounds strange and maybe not very convincing because everyone knows that word and easily says it many times a day. I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you all my passwords and PIN codes. That’s the fool I am. And only I am that stupid, there are no more such fools. Because, well, how is it possible to feel something but not to know how to name it. Everyone knows and are able to say that simple word, just not me. I have amnesia. A terrible disease. I’ve read in Wikipedia that you get amnesia after stroke, electroshock or anesthesia. Well, I haven’t experienced any of that, but I still have it.

I remember mom’s hysteria because of that blinking disco in the sky. I remember that constantly hitted “Tauras” TV which was way more important than my onions. I remember that table Point kicked upside down and red apples of Mickevičius, but it’s impossible for me to remember that word. I remember the snotty granny, ripped jeans, dusty mirrors, but I just can’t remember… I apologize you all.

I can do anything. Paint the house. Vacuum the car. Remember how much sugar you put in your tea. Eat yesterday’s dinner so that you can eat today’s. If other fishes would swim around me and I would get an instinct to fish, I can run back to you as fast as I can. I can make you scrambled eggs separately because you don’t like it liquid. I can refuse to say that men are better drivers than women. I can put the toilet seat down. I can gather your hair from the bath hole. I can stand your snoring and even shouting. But I can’t say that word.

I can do anything, but I can’t (tries to say it), because I forgot. Or maybe I never knew it. Because no one ever told me it. Until I met you.

Epilogue or Outro

Last night I didn’t sleep well. Point and Mickevičius visited me. They came on a bike and said:

M – Hey, Russo, are you fucking out of your mind? What seven drills did I steal? I tried to deceive God that there were five and you ratted me out.

P – You’ve found what to lie to…

M – Hey, listen, Russo. Yesterday I was going with Jesus on my bike. He had a helmet on, so Point thought I’m riding with a girl.

P – Are you fucking out of your mind… Is your kettle boiling?

M – What’s boiling is your ass. You said yourself “Hey Mickevičius, who was on your bike? Wasn’t it Maria?”

P – Did a brick hit you on that fucking helmet, huh?

M – Go, wrap your head, so you don’t get hit with a brick. When we’re back I’ll ask Rembrandt to wrap you in bandages, you’ll get to play a mummy.

P – You can ask Rembrandt to paint your face in white, because your fucking shit coloured tan doesn’t wash off. Everyone thinks I’m with gypsy. They’re afraid you’d steal from them.

M – Oh and fuck it who thinks what. You’re red, I’m black, Russo is fucking white since he shitted his pants.

P – Well, artist, our star, I thought you were really going to shit your pants in the last scene.

M –Yeah yeah, what did you say? You found something in Wikipedia? You wikipedik.

P –  Hey… Russo, teach me how to feel that feeling.

M – Yea, teach us to feel, you fag.

P – Nominative, Genitive, Feelinative.

M – Clousta twatt.

P – Okay, Russo, we’re going. When we have time we’ll come over. Now we have things to do.

M – Just wash your shitted pants.

P – Well, bye Trusso. We’ll knock by.

Then they started the motorcycle and drove off. And I was standing, staring at the sky, and that was it. The sky was getting darker and darker. And I just stood there, staring, and that was it.