transcript from a cult movie

bolec: O! zobacz bracie! spójrz jak oni sie ruszają; nie sądisz że polskim chłopakom też by sie przydało troche luzu? przykómaj te kocie ruchy! mogliśbymy sie od czarnych wiele nauczyć... koko-dzambo i doprzodu! to moje hasło, dobre nie? czasami żauje że nie urodziłem sie czarny. hej! chłopaki! a może macie ochote objerzeć film? ja ogłądam po kilka filmów dziennie: pościgi, strzelaniny, wojny gangów, to mój chleb codzienny... mam nowy zajebisty film... "smierc w Wennecji", nieźle brzmi, co?                spokojnie, zaraz sie rozkręci...

fred: ty jak ty sie nazywasz bo zapomniałem? kolec? stolec?

bolec: bolec.

fred: no, więc posłuchaj mnie teraz uważnie, bolek... byłeś w stanach?

bolec:  nie...

fred: no właśnie... a ja znam kogoś kto był... i opowiedział mi to i owo... w iesz skąd przyjechali czarni do ameryki?!?

bolec:  z afryki...

fred: no właśnie... handlarze niewolników przywieźli ich z Afryki... A myślisz, że to taka prosta sprawa wysiąść na plaży w Afryce, złapać w siatkę zwinnego, silnego murzyna i wywieźć go za ocean?!?

bolec:  chyba nie...

fred: no jasne, że nie... udało im się to zrobić ponieważ wywozili tylko takich co albo nie potrafili spierdolić przed siatką, albo byli największymi głąbami z plemienia i wódz sprzedawał ich za paczkę fajek, bo i tak nie miałby z nich pożytku. i ci wszyscy nieudacznicy pojechali do ameryki. pożenili się, porobili dzieci... świat poszedł do przodu... pojawiły się komputery, amfetamina, samoloty, ale co z tego, jeżeli ich serca pompują tę samą krew, są potomkami człowieka, który na własnym podwórku dał się złapać w siatkę, więc nie uważam, że naszym chłopakom brakuje luzu... kapujesz?!?

and it takes just another big **** to have a one night stand,
and a big enough heart to have a relationship
so the soul enmeshes the juices - that famous
W.D. 40 moment - and a cheap U.B. 40 moment too -
it's a drag like that, he can run a 100 metres in under
10 seconds, but when he swims you just hear
dolphin cackling in the background - not **** aqua
for sure, that's me, with the myth of Atlantis -
orderly, please! line up! take your badges and disperse,
we'll be back here again at the fire-evacuation point
in the the near future - in the meantime do whatever
it is you do, and do it. shame really - you ever see
the fire equipment of 1666? a large water bucket...
people either had a lot of common sense back then
or had magnanimous airs about them
(see how many lawsuits were made in the past decade),
primitive technology - i guess people thought a lot
back then... no talk of dementia - they were hardly literate
but they thought a lot, becoming literate meant
becoming aristocratic degenerates - excess wine, *******
***, scab and crawling ***** on the cranium
intended as barbers - then too many synonyms came,
you said barber and he knew the beard and moustache
was an extension of the head - sure, softer keratin, the harder
version being - i've ***** on my face! i've ***** on my face!
short and briskly - freshly mowed lawn... mm, nice -
fiddle the other part, i'll take a Sikh's beard and make a
violin's bow on the sly - see how Mozart sounds after
that. the Mongol stank and conquered the Alexandrian
Dream - before the arrows pierced, the stench overpowered.
it's just a dreaded affair - in order to give pleasure
i have to give my inner life up - the Greeks called it
barbarism the over way round - words from a *******
as if implying i get really jealous and bring out a knife -
the wonderful phenomenon of the schizoid condition,
or as prior worded, premature dementia, yet such people
continue to be fully functioning in a sense -
language debris - a meteor's tail - politicised psychiatry -
the easy route - say the noun hammer and you know
exactly what to do, unless it's Heidegger's hammer
and you realise he's implying two labourers talking
philosophy while working manually - in that
the ego (nail) should be hammered into a plank
of wood (thought) as easily as the reverse - the reverse
being the hammer (extended into the profession that
uses it frequently - i, carpenter) utilised (being, a) -
i.e. i, being a carpenter, nails, hammering in.
i didn't think this through - what's bugging my certainty
in how to explain it without conversation between
two carpenters discussing philosophy, which never happens,
is not what i'm bothered with, the real issue is i have
with the inherent negativism of subjectivity in English
interpretation of philosophy, crudely:
subjectivity is bad, wrong, self-indulgent, pseudo -
this stress in English thinking with its glorification of
objectivity is, to be honest, strange...
it comes from a book review of Wagner's Ring of
the Nibelung - equatable words: banal and subjective -
banal - trite - well given the "success of the human species"
i'm surprised it's not a universal truth that
we've come a bit trite given the numbers - i've seen
cucumbers fresher than people, we're bound by
an approximate of 70 springs, cucumbers are bound
by 1 spring, you get fresh in a supermarket,
you don't get fresh in books, what with the third butterfly
species σκoνιςμυγα (skonismyga - so not -muga?
up Saigon? i thought you cut off the bits you didn't
want and put the other letters with the cut offs together?
no wonder - upsilon [u] isn't said - just like in Latin
in English we have why - iota not y - dust-fly, i guess
Babylon did survive, in the variations disguising "dyslexia")...
but why is subjectivity so horrid? i thought
we all had our take on things and none of us wanted
to speak for the whole of humanity? Nietzsche warned
and defended individualism like that - who
would want to speak for the entirety of humanity?
in the political realm in the west subjectivity is defended
rigorously - because if you begin championing objectivity
in politics the Iraq Invasion was a bit stupid -
despotism, d'uh - yet in England the tradition is to
have a culture of literature that shuns subjectivity
and champions objectivity - why is subjectivity so
negatively perceived? oh, you're afraid someone is
so ardent on their choice of interest they they might
by accident speak-spit into your face?
subjectivity can't be so ****** negative, it's an expression
of an escape from what objectivity already
defined in the pinnacle by Descartes: res cogitans,
(a) thinking thing - we only write subjectively because
we've been caged in that little no. 2 of a waiter's james
bond tux - we staged an escape, a self-worth fanaticism
on the subjects we love rather than "have to" investigate
without passions, just hubris - which is what
critics use - hubris, disdain - the study of language could
have a similitude to the math of
1 (hubris) and x 1 = hubris, 1 and x 2 = audacity, etc.
in the synonymous table - the lubricant factor.
so, anger over, back to Heidegger's hammer -
nail (ego)            plank of wood (thought)
hammer (therefore)                   a table (existence) -
so why need proofs? why do i need to prove i necessarily
exist (when i don't) or that god unnecessarily exists
(when he does) - why prove something?
so another million schmucks can come along and
prove it either way? it's the nonsense attributed to
Descartes - he stressed an impossible objective-subjectivity
(grammatically more understandable, rigid:
noun-noun doesn't work, ah, objective-subjectiveness -
noun-adjective, pencil-sharpener, pencil-needs-sharpening)
in terms of others - hence the existential other -
well impossible for anyone else to have thought it up,
the impasse of wanting to plagiarising it - a real cul de sac -
well, that's me done on the topic - sonic -
as far as i'm concerned most people keep rigidity
a tight collar of using language not coming across a speedy
suggestion to not think about:
the speed-game of preposition juggling and contras etc.,
the acquisitive use of a language v. the inherited use of a language,
two different ballparks - what i acquired i thus express,
what the organically-historic entity inherited he
will primarily convene to call Poles vermin - a little
perplexed by a more labyrinth style of language used -
it gets personal day by day - but of course the ******* are
a protected species due to their colonial roots - at least
with skin-shallow discrimination you have the obvious bang,
and the immediate retort... this **** is swelling, slowly...
slowly... slowly... those were 8 million or so
Polish-Jews... also vermin... this **** already imploded...
it hasn't exploded... it's a dummy bomb... it imploded...
it's swelling... slowly... slowly... slowly... and when you
won't know it... BANG!

49.

Men, Niemen?
most, rzeka i autobus
zatacza się w pagórki
          Wilia?
          w upale budzą się Suwałki
          Memel zaciąga brzeg lasem
          znużoną powieką
Memelland ist abgebrannt
          mury
          pagórki
          coraz to milej do ciebie
          miłe miasto

https://yandex.ru/collections/card/5e6f063db651624b1a7fd6ad/


53.

NA ANTOKOLU


na Antokolu
barok wkoło
stiukowi święci
w plafony wzięci
królowie
            żyd jak żywy
            w peruce na głowie
            triumfuje w purpurze
nad ołtarzem w górze
zaś przy drzwiach
z krzyża zdejmowany
nie baczy na rany świeże
dłoń składa na grzbiecie
na nowym habicie
w ofierze
wpółobjęty
z jednego gwoździa zdjęty
ledwo, a już łaskawie
nad mieczykami z ogrodu
błogosławi płotu
regina pacis
dwa bębny tureckie
zdobyte pod  Chocimiem
milczą w kruchcie nad Wilią


60.

JAK WILENKA

spóźnimy się na wieczór Alicji Rybałko
jak Wilenka po Zarzeczu kluczymy; mosty
w zaułki - miasto dla nas na trzy klucze
zamknięte, jak bajka o spiżowym wilku

w Pikieliszkach za dworem księżyc studzi jezioro
para łabędzi przy brzegu - tak prosto romantycznie
i książki w bibliotece dla dzieci tu
nadal dostać można jedynie po rosyjsku

a poezja Alicji, jak gotyk św. Anny
na palach olchowych i workach piasku
w płomienistym po wielokroć łuku
przenoszę na dłoni ten kościół



Stefan Kosiewski; OBY DO WILNA. Wiersze. Wstęp: Dr Romuald Cudak: Na marginesie. Redakcja: Barbara Jędrzejczak. Opracowanie, korekta: Tadeusz Adam Knopik. Łamanie: Robert Kosek. Wydawca: Stowarzyszenie Europejskie PONS GAULI; współwydawca: Radio PLUS Katowice Sp. z o.o. Drukarnia im. K. Miarki w Mikołowie. Katowice 2000 ISBN 83-914127-0-9

the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
        of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
   i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
       how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
   1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
               so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
     it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
            what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
                   we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
                        and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
   a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
   ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
    the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
  i am shadow, i am hunch,
       i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
                     that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
   lao che's jinn...
              nie chce boga
   (i don't want god), bo szkoda
             (because it's careless)....
             how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
   how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
   odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
   meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
        the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
                    and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
  on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
     my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
  yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
          tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
                oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
   i see a history of paupers...
           we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
    i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
        big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
          it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
      are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
   reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
        i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
     it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
  or really bother a need to know basis...
   or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
     3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
   not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
        and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
   θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
               looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
    the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
               hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
    don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
                           mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
            bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
  with θ, φ, ψ....
                                 a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
         now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
      my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
  huh?
                 me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!

I

having read (past participle: re[a]d? well: to re[ae]d: but that's a reed, so no) four volumes of Knausgaard's "mein kampf" i came to the conclusion that: you can write almost anything: about anything... a terrible focus comes when one starts to write about reading: not so much about writing per se, but you can pull-off any shimmy-shimmy or banality on a whim, on the sly... just follow the clues left by journalists, esp. in the editorial sections of a weekend edition... it's just easy reading, a fitting accompaniment is a philosophy book, i still don't know how or why i didn't take up Rousseau sooner, my "sin"... never anything too seriously...

II

i guess you need to be the proud owner of old vinyl, circa the 1980s... from beneath the iron curtain... old vinyl has imprints of THE CRACKLE... it's so rare to find this hardened liquorice orbit... best example, so far? maanam: nocy patrol (album): krakowski spleen (song)... oh the crackle is so important... given the vinyl has been left not-played (definitely, not, somehow not un- prefixed) for at least 20, hell... give it 10 more years... the crackle is bound to appear & make as much sense as the music...

III

my grandfather (p.b.u.h.) once remarked: don't you have any regrets? regrets about that Siberian lass, that Russian girl who took you to St. Petersburg & to see Metallica in Moscow? fade to black, we were kissing, all the Russians had their lighters out... regrets? oh, sure... all the time... it only took me 13+ years to find a good enough **** to compete with her... the month in Russia was spent with her ex-b/f beta orbiter, who probably ****** her before i came, we drank *****, we had a mighty carousel of pseudo-wind in our heads when the drinking finished... the bed swallowed me, i think i swallowed a mirror or... my shadow stuck in a mirror: perhaps i was having a conversation with a future moi... regrets?! with all the freedoms allowed women in the west, it's not like barbarian Poland with outdated abortion laws... a woman has to wait for her foetus to die, on its own, most probably killing the woman... 30 years old, with husband & daughter in tow... they'll be having a march or two to pay her tributes... a ****** will only get 12 years for ****, forget about abortion due to impregnation through the act... a deformed foetus: a parasite... headless... can't be removed... the mother & the doctor can get up to 25 years or... a life sentence for the "unlawful" removal of the foetus... because... Poland... you see... is more backwards than Ireland... i never thought it could be possible... the separation of the church from state hasn't happened: although it was apparently segregated under the Soviet umbrella... Polish Communism worked... now... a massive diaspora of these people almost everywhere... regrets?! i think this Russian gal had a "thing" for ruining Polacks... she was engaged to me, she broke it off... she married another ******... a neurosurgeon... married him... she had some muffins on the side... she divorced... married again... some Scottish schmuck... *******... she started to collect tarantulas & serpents... i abhor spiders... regrets... hmm... she's 2 years younger than me... she's done her practice engagement & is on her second marriage... volatile *****... regrets?! i own a ******* bicycle, i don't need a car i don't need traffic... it's Loon'don!

IV

as ugly as a moonless night, one thanks i can give, is that there are visible constellations.

V

all saints' feast day in Poland is a huge affair, people shuffle in the necropolis, i joke: what democracy in Poland? when he died, my friend, my grandfather, he stole all the time i was willing to give to this little "oasis" of delusions & historical leftovers... now there's only a spatial orientation: absolutely no association with the impetus of time... candles... wreaths... two days after the feast day i had to go alone into the graveyard at night & have myself a goodbye a year that passed since all the formalities of a funeral... with a bottle of ***** & some music in my ears... poured a little of ***** onto the grave, poured some into me... like a CYGAN (gypsy, Roma)... took some photographs of trees, of shadows, or necro-statues... democracy in Poland... haha... necrocracy... i am completely divorced from this nation of my birth... plus... plenty of unsafe drivers... most of them remind me of the ninjas & Pakistanis in London... forget about curating oneself aggressively in the medium of traffic... we're talking about people being so careful about their prized objects that they end up being careless about how they curate themselves: flow! flow! you skip... you hop... you're mediating getting from A to B... it's a simple jest... unconscious arithmetic of space... get with the project...

VI

idle fingers, for two weeks i met the night with... lukewarm *****... ugly *****... *****... esp. when mixed... best drank directly... i know i know... never drink lukewarm *****... ensure it's teasing its freezing point... so it turns to something reminiscent of gomme syrope...

but...

          words thrown to the wind, almost proverb-like:

a) co ma piernik do wiatraka?
(what does a windmill have to do with a
gingerbread [softie]}?

b) pretensje do garbatego ze ma proste
dzieci...
   (grievances to a hunchback that he has
upright children)

sly little *****... who?! *****!
it's not like the marriage of ms. amber & herr whiskers...
whiskey...
sly little *****... terrible when mixed...
best drank straight... nearing her freezing point...
i don't understand how the English
manage to drink the ***** that's
***** mixed with orange juice:
it's *****!

VII

two weeks in Poland... away from my dearest England...
how dry the air is on the continent,
esp. during winter...
so little worth of mention of birch trees...
so little of pines...
crown of the botanical kingdom:
the oak...
but so little of pines so little of birches...
perhaps an accent of a birch here & there...
but entire forests of birch trees?
impossible...
it's an island, after all!
the air is wet... the weather is whimsical...
at least on the continent you can expect
to cherish a week's worth of cloudless skies...
i kind of think i adore this land
more than the natives who inhabit it...
although: these people deserve...
my uninhibited adoration...
their language esp.
why i rather write their zunge:
too many orthographic distinctions in my nativ(e)...
but i have to tease at the Deutsche...
i have to...

VIII

Roger Moore was the ultimate Bond, i tend to forget the Scotch accenting of the whole "affair"... mishter... blah blah... shecond floor... all that Duran Duran & the fatal blonde of: view to a ****...

IX

backwards people: it seems that even the German have done enough interracial breeding to somehow forget the Nazis... who are the backwards people? "my" people... those still persuasively orientating themselves around... the first non-Italian pope was a ******... hoo-ha! well done... pat on the shoulder... we'll have the end of the world, "the end" when an African will sit on the throne: some say... i'm waiting for an Irishman... but i'm pretty certain... it's not the people of these isles... it's the isles themselves that i adore so much... don't get me wrong... these... ahem... "tourists" need to be acknowledged... ****'s sake: i did a probe into Romford & hey presto! the whole world "thought" it was necessary to... congregate... someone from Moldova... someone from Pakistan... the entire world is "here"... is this an "oops" moment or is this the natural leftover of an unavoidable implosion of empire?

X

backwards people, "my" folk... i don't own them: time's right to read some Rousseau... perhaps some irritation with the concept of a diaspora... the English diaspora in Spain... seasonal drunken ****** on the Greek Islands? new English: Anglo-Slav... no, i don't think i'm in any way "old English"... then again: English is: there's always something (a)new... i just can't stomach all this proto-h'american racial *******... Saxons outstretched... it's hard to think of what if: if these Saxons were actually Swabians or Pomeranians...

XI

i very much adore the idea of being able to fall in love, i want to rekindle an old flame of the idiotic me that was able to fall in love... who could trust... i wish with such dire consequences to be able to rekindle a chance to love like a puppy.... i want to love, how i miss doubtless trust... the flimsy touch... then again... new love... ms. amber & herr whiskers... how i love to drink... my love for drinking has overshadowed all the potential for courtship offers in its least... i have become so rigid in my courtship of time, i have become so suffocating, so predictable to myself... loving someone else could... would end up becoming a suffering... but i like the idea... i like the idea of falling in love... i, only recently, fell in love with a stewardess... flying from Warsaw to London... such milky tenderness of skin... such Slavic wolfish eyes... but the skin... i couldn't want to envy the ivory of afro sclera.... such a circus... being so spoilt for choice... i know that i'm a walking... late: abortion... it's beyond my concern or care to gravitate toward these arguments...

XII

i walk into a pub, ask for half a pint of Guinness,
the girl serving me, heavily tattooed...
duck lips...
outraged roots, flimsy pink...
do i really have to listen to Lithuanian songs
about the winged hussars?
Ottoman turks?
i guess so... minutes later...
a bad advert from 888.com poker....
she likes me, i like her....
but she's donning a pair of jeans
that might at best have been
chewed by a dozen of hyenas...
bite to grip bite to grip:
haggle! haggle! grrrrrrrrr.....
rapt: the trill on the Ar....