Cliché, nostalgic sadness of leaving behind a gold mine. In this case, classic-car-filled warehouse. Just to face concrete desert with gray sun indicating 12pm. Bob Ross Deus Ex Machina saved it with miraculous reminiscence of vermouth hiding somewhere in my backpack. White sucker’s a bit too sweet for such weather and hits like an ungrateful brat. But it’s making my run for the train somewhat positive. I’m sending mixed messages. Cause I don’t wanna go. Life looked grand. Jaguar E-Type Lightweight aluminium chassis standing side to side with people of the same age wearing tailored suits with matching blueprints on glasses, ties, belts and socks. Old-school rock music playing with respect to our hearing. Regular beer, poured in unlimited amount for normal price. Pints held by wide, working hands of people who deserve them, and know how to drink. They also know very well that their grandchildren gonna drive ’em home. Beards brown, black and gray with risen, happy mustaches, sharing stories of their lives. How they started out with beaters considered now to be precious and pricey classics. How it was hard to import, drive and keep that Capri from rusting away when communists had their eyes opened too wide. You stopped at a random red light in the middle of the night – chasing imaginary targets and got paranoid a bit looking at sad, molten, autumn shadows of people rushing for another 6am shift. Servicing 2.8 V6’es with parts illegally imported from abroad. Now his granddaughter drives it. They’re both wearing matching Ford t-shirts. She’s sipping black coffee leaning on the door, putting mug delicately on the roof like the car wants some too. Huge temporary community gathering of ones that couldn’t care less about pollution, emissions, mileage, even power. Tear in time and space, reserved in advance to stop the noise of an outside world constantly running blindly ahead. Every soul, even if still withholding trust, is kind. I’m going to miss it.
One-platform quasi-railway-station of some half-dismantled city. Broken concrete tiles made last century with grass taking back its turf, fighting with tire tread marks burned in deep. Complete emptiness, no people. Even wasps avoid this place. Tracks look dangerously metal deficient. Timetable’s optimistic, maybe so should I, what the hell? After temperature turns me into slightly liquefied pile of gutless bones with fly hives living inside, polluting the space around. What a magical place, Silesia. Always makes me think of at least million different ways I could die. Feeling so weak in here. Incredibly modern north-to-south train arrived like Doc’s DeLorean. LCD screens all around with new, shiny Japanese-inspired livery. Crew, tired of cross-country run gives away packages, does a quick safety check and shuts the million tonne doors confusing me to the point of actual movie-cut in my memory. Next stop: regional capitol. Lots to think about at this point. Mind split in three directions, one only getting further away. I see people sleeping, crammed to the breaking point of carriage capacity. Legs bent in every conceivable circus-like way. Fallen luggage without any willingness around to pick it up. Just look out the window, try not to fall for trauma.
I could never understand why tourists come to this place. Lived near for twenty years and never seen anything worthy of yearning. Or maybe it’s just a simple kind of fear, after learning about John B. Calhoun’s mice. All these huge human plantations made out of concrete slabs, never meant to last too long, were just too similar to “Behavioral Sink”. National Institute of Mental Health supported Calhoun. He placed four males and four females into an environment of his design called “Universe 25”. They had unlimited supply of nesting material, water and food, living in peace, without predators of any kind. Even appropriate healthcare was provided, in case any disease breaks out. Sounds relatable. Only catch to all this was limited space, capable of accommodating, according to calculation, 3840 individuals. Square cage with walls 2.7 meters long was divided into portions, with towers as living quarters. First two phases of the experiment were quite predictable as new social order had to be established, second one being rapid growth when population doubled every 55 days. Everybody got along with each other up until third, stagnation phase. Population risen to 620. Level of aggression doubled, to the breaking point of behavioral anomalies. Males stopped defending territory and females started to lose maternal instincts both turning pansexual. Offspring was often left without care too soon for it to learn basic social interaction. Extinction period started. The last birth was given on 600th day. But somehow, there was finally peace, calmness. Copulation vanished. Mice, walking together into the abyss, cared mostly about their grooming and basic physiological needs. Day 1588, last specimen, one good-looking, white albino, dies in peace. Supposedly, given average lifespan of a single mouse, it gives us 2 human generations for a very similar place to die, or in this case, depopulate. Most of these cities suffer from Detroit syndrome. Powerful people in charge of mining and manufacturing giants sometimes even ordered cities to be built from scratch just to place in very similar laboratory manner fixed amount of humans. Hell, they even staged few competitions for the best design. Now, sitting in intercity train, all this, neglected, crossed by a silver bullet from another time. Shirtless, chiseled men, standing on roofs. Tanned skin, bald heads, bottles full, empty, broken all around. Hiding spots for the homeless, close to tracks, covered with trees and huge bushes. Silence traded in for some loneliness, without anybody bothering them. Region-capital-ish city always been a place for a break on your way someplace else. Nothing of interest, 8pm hits and it’s all deserted. Walking back from my physics lectures I couldn’t believe that the same place, so full of well-dressed and taken care of people regardless of their financial situation replaced everybody putting in the same amount of hostile animals. Chariot awaits. Red Citroen 1.4 van. All this space, no thump to get away with hauling weight. A car for florists. Which is strange right? Even though landscape turns rural, sun doesn’t shine. It’s just ON, out there, hanging like a giant light bulb. Roads are poor, houses meant for huge families being widower’s sarcophagi. Recent memory impeached, looking ahead now.
86 Stars Show
Metalhead at a Bronie convention. Late too, 40 minutes and they’re closing up. Quick rush to the ticket booth and on the stadium we are. Pastel people running after the lifestyle impossible to maintain. If anything, chase still winning with the catch would be the biggest neutral ground to build any relationship on. But it’s lacking relatable details. Empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s laying near the fake BBS’es makes me question how are they going to get home. And one plastic-looking RX7 few steps away. Polished to the limit. Road-worth-less. Acquired taste, I know it, won’t stop me hating though. Here’s the deal – cars later on turned into lowriders, when out of the factory, were never meant for the racetrack and required thorough rebuild to make them turn harder than 15 degrees.
In stock form, boat-looking, pulling low-end torque from underpowered V8’s with displacement larger than most of the European seas were majestic enough, spreading American exceptionalism everywhere they went. When it’s six-four rollin’ down the street, sharing around very essential kind of message that you shouldn’t be a menace to south central while drinking your juice in the hood because instead shooting Freudian arguments to make you feel bad they got twin Mac elevens with the features. The reality of your situation rapidly changes. But the same six-four can be stock, unrestored, driven by Lightnin’ Hopkins’s ghost, kindly advising your ass to be careful, because the devil is watching you. What’s missing here then, is strength. Because if it was Johnny Bravo standing next to a car pompous enough to fit his ego, I’d call it a well-tailored cosplay.
Her,e we have a cover up for what’s missing inside. Sad boys are so eager to give it all up that what you’re left with are day 1588, albino sweatshirt wearing men ready to die and it’s NOT a reference to Biggie. I wish I could make it but can’t. Floating, waxed bodies giving Yung Lean way too much artistic credit, or is that so? Maybe I just don’t belong in here. Took idealized destruction of Tyler Durden way too damn seriously. What I want right now is that AE86 and a challenge. Some difficult road to make memories, give it and myself some scars in the process. They may be mental, mechanical or right on my flesh, don’t care. Speed is irrelevant too, has to be, 4A-GE only had about 110 horsepower.
Flamethrower it is. Damn. Stoked to the top. Turns out my people are here. Nearly moistened myself hearing that SC300, and then one after another shredding maniac. Waves of sound splash all over my face with tire smoke and little pieces of rubber raining. Played safe, had to, so little place for slides. What I witnessed, turned out to be some humble ten minutes of action but when the time is right, and you can’t occupy fitting room for too long, all that’s left is making the most of it. And humble, it seems now, when it’s just a memory. Leaving dead space of the stadium showroom I became a necromancer. Slayer started playing in my head and fence in front of me lacked wide-armed bouncer to lift me up and slam dunk on my neck Hulk Hogan style just so I can get back and pogo my way to the frontline again. While it all happens, of course we can observe a nice spectacle but on the flat surface, that’s really a huge rectangle, you’re not to find much as an observer. Ring the bell, last round is over folks, go home now. Shitness, it IS over, my trip. Took a lot on this day, time to calm down.
Because what actually, objectively happened, was way different from the experience of it. Shiny cars from the land far away, standing on concrete arms of people willing to put in the work, money, time, just for limited amount of glory as if it’s rationed by the military. Walking in there, wearing a soundproof bubble, not paying attention to any form of society, you could just sit down and take the visuals in like it’s Gran Turismo or Need For Speed coming alive to greet burning nostalgia for what some of us still can’t afford. It was a no-brainer to start out Underground 2 with 240SX, seeing that “top speed” bar getting fuller with an ECU tune. Now, to keep a 240 in mint condition, in our world of still too eastern Europe, it’s kinda E90 335i money. Doesn’t make any sense on paper, doesn’t make any sense for your spouse, doesn’t have to make sense, all it has to offer is the incredible feeling of a child finally rewarded with driving an NSX instead just looking at poor rendering of it.
Back in the bus, melting away on the seat. Fate always catches up no matter how far I run. My mind feels sore, swollen. Been mentally deadlifting all day taking in surroundings so emotionally I’d be damned not to twitch from the sudden lack of stimuli. But oh boy do I need it, silence. 3 hours to spend and all I’m playing on repeat inside is – how the hell am I gonna get back to the office? Yup, that’s right, after a great adventure my brain decided to get me depressed. It is at these times that I refuse to accept the balance of life handling a very good reason for why we don’t get to live like this every day. Should be glad, at least it goes away in the morning. Evening sun exposes wrinkles both on the sky and people’s faces. Dimmed movements, cars overtaking us, even S Class blasting through left lane seems to be hitting another kind of 250kph – the ” just tryna’ get there” kind.
Till next time. In Breslau.