Soccer Blues Funeral

All periods of time have ends to them, and these fatal endings we anticipate. A period of time – a day, an hour… and this will end, we say; all this will end, the season will turn, and all will be over. We look in vain for some eternal moment, for happiness, felicity, that state of bliss that will go on for ever and ever. Is not happiness defined only when no term to its extent is imagined? So Rimbaud thought, it seems to me. His seasons are those stretches of time that open unawares and close painfully on our lives.

Wow. What a fine specimen of Many-Worlds Propaganda... and yet it hit a nerve in me.

Those words of Paul Schmidt's, from his Translator's Introduction (1973) to the complete works of Arthur Rimbaud, sum up my feelings at the moment like an epitaph on my tombstone on the grave that is today.

In the evening, I played a game of soccer with some forgotten filmmakers, plus a riffraff of hangaround members like myself. After the game I felt depressed. This is very rare, without a precedent, almost. I felt something lacking. I felt empty.

During the wannabe directors' game, one of the laziest players ever, a mostly harmless guy whose appearance was half Jacques Tati, half Woody Allen, suddenly started bossing me around. He told me to take a turn as the goalkeeper. After recovering from my astonishment, I said, "In a minute." And after the minute, I did as I was told.

During the game, I shrugged it off. Afterwards, it started gnawing at me. Who the hell Woody thought he was? The captain, or something? Lionel fucking Messi the Second?

Had it been nearly anyone else who gave me orders, it would have been fine. But being bullied by Woody was more than an insult. It was humiliating. What Woody lacked in technique, which was a lot, was emphasized by the absence, by the inhuman void of spirit which had consumed his performance on the field – before, after and during the games.

And yet. Yet it would have been okay, if he had just said please.

I needed another game. A real game, this time, where no neurotic would tell me what to do. I wouldn't let 'em. I would tell them to go fuck themselves, something they should practice.

I needed more.

I came home, gave Miina (Mine) something to eat, grabbed my bag and set off again. I headed to the green pastures by the river, the Rotten River, hoping that there would be at least one game going on, like a house party that I could crash.

Here's what I encountered.

There was nobody.

I learned an important lesson today. Or thought I learned. Whatever.

Don't let the idiots get an upper hand.

You may regret it later.

You might not get a second chance.

Get back, get back, get.

The moron might be Vladimir Fucking Putin II for all you know.

And soon the season will be over.