| You think you’re going to experience something, and you may even actually experience it, but then suddenly you realize that you didn’t experience anything, and it doesn’t bother you at all. It doesn’t bother you that you can’t remember anything about what you didn’t experience and what you experienced. It doesn’t (...)
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| | Down Garwolińska to the end, then hang a right onto Makowska along the railroad tracks toward Olszynka. Sometimes all the way to the roundhouse. The street looked like a village road; on hot days it would be lined with guys sitting and drinking. Branches of fruit trees reached over the fences. (...)
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Maciej WojtyszkoBromba and friends (even years later... )
About the book
FUMPS
For some years now, Fumps’ lives have changed. Although, as everyone knows, Fumps prefer resting to working, they have always belonged to animals who are above all passionate consumers. Gathering information on how and where to find pleasure has, until recently, required great efforts.
Yet with the appearance of advertisement, Fumps’ lifestyle has been revolutionized (which does not at all mean that it became any easier).
As soon as a Fumpess, in one of her favorite illustrated magazines, entitled Be ornate, spots an ad offering some such novelty as an ‘Anti-moth cream’ or a ‘Gel just in case,’ she rushes to the store to buy it.
Without hesitation you must yield to temptation.
Do not scrimp but splurge and let new life emerge!
- booms Fumps’ radio turned on without cease, while a Fump turns up the volume and listens:
Pamper yourself and please,
Sweetness gather and seize!
Be better and have more -
Visit our department store!
And out marches the Fump to the department store.
Everything’s so cheap,
Why don’t you buy the heap!
And we’ll add to your cart
For we’ve got a good heart!
- shouts another ad spurring the Fump and the Fumpess to the store next door.
At the counter, it turns out that one has to pay. And since, alas, not every Fump has sufficient funds, Fump couples argue more than ever. They can be seen at supermarkets, fighting with all their nine hands for a can of green peas or for a box of powder, throwing it into the shopping basket in order to set it back on the shelf. And then, when the basket is brimming, they stand in the longest queue and wrack their brains about what to put back.
Once in a while, I had the impression that Fumps have come to inhabit supermarkets for good and put an end to their travels; but I was mistaken in my observation.
Fumps travel more than ever, and usually abroad. Naturally, abroad, nothing is to their taste and nothing suits their fancy.
I must admit my utter amazement at the sight of a certain Fump whom I encountered in the desert and who conversed with a camel. You know what he said?
“Dear sir Camel, please do not tell me any tales of your hard labors! Have you any idea who works the hardest in the world? Fumps and Beavers!”
And what’s new with Beavers?
Not too well, either. As it happens, they have built too many dams and their pantries are no longer overflowing. There are certain elements bent on banning their activities altogether, especially that, it appears, their work is not of much use. Beavers don’t buy anything. Has anyone ever seen a beaver in the supermarket?
PESHTUMCLES AND NULLIONS
Ordinary Peshtumcle families suffer endless troubles. Once it’s the lack of spare parts, another time it’s the broken drill pod, and then again it’s the malfunctioning gears. The Peshtumcles lived through very hard times indeed, since they moved into a new automobile with an on-board computer.
“Quiet!,” yelled Papa Peshtumcle. “There is no air in the right tire!”
Mrs Peshtumcle stepped outside to take a look, came back and said:
“That’s curious, because it doesn’t look at all flat.”
“Quiet!,” yelled Papa Peshtumcle. “There is no air in any of the tires!”
Mrs Peshtumcle checked the car out once more and declared:
“They must have pumped something else in, then, because I would swear there is air.”
“What do you mean pumped something else? Pumped what? They stole our car!,” yelled Peshtumcle.
“But how?,” Mrs Peshtumcle was puzzled. “It’s right here.”
“Can’t you see the screen?,” Peshtumcle howled. “It plainly says: NO CAR. That means ‘The car is not here’! And when the computer says it’s not there, it’s not there!”
“But we’re in it,” softly observed Mrs Peshtumcle.
“You want to be wiser than the computer?,” Peshtumcle cut her off abruptly. “The computer checks ALL THE PARAMETERS. And you, what? You take a look and right away conclude, it’s here! If the computer says NO CAR, then it’s not here. So, what are we going to do without a car?”
Eventually, the matter was cleared and it turned out that Mrs Peshtumcle was right. The computer was apparently TOO SENSITIVE. Therefore, in order to know what’s what, sometimes one has to be less sensitive. That message sounds odd at first, since it usually was the other way around; but, evidently, usually does not mean always.
* * *
Nullion reads a lot. He is friends with Gluffy, Fikander, Bromba, and Puck the librarian. He is also an amateur sculptor. Among other things, he is the author of a sculpture project called “Golden Galus” – the first prize awarded for outstanding cultural achievements. The stylized sculpture represents a rooster-triumphant, and among its recipients are the most prominent artists in Our Vicinity.
Nullion, too, was awarded the prize.
Nullion has another valuable trait of character. He knows how to ask questions that present a problem in a whole new light.
For instance, he once asked Fikander whether his poems had to rhyme. Fikander was at first quite astonished, but Nullion explained to him that an excess of rhyme and rhythm had always reminded him of the engine’s ramble to which he is slightly allergic.
The poet gave it some thought, and his art underwent a breakthrough.
It is to Nullion that we owe, so to speak, a volume of poems written in so-called blank verse, which means poems that don’t rhyme. The collections bears the title, You will be amazed, and Fikander dedicated it to Nullion. We are unable to cite here the entire work, but it is impossible to resist quoting at least a tiny fragment:
MORNING ON A RAFT
That’s how it is.
Crows watch the river,
Nullion grasps the oars,
We shall sail in a moment.
They must wonder, no doubt:
Why is a poet sailing in raft?
But why, is he not allowed?
Perhaps he’ll be inspired
to write another fragment…
Translated by Ela Kotkowska
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