I dream of a machine that would convey my intentions and aims to people around me, and at the same time make their situation and reasoning clear to me. A wonderful device that would translate the communicated content into the direct and open one; the causing content. In my institute there should be an additional department apart from the English, German, Russian, French and Spanish sections; the department of applied linguistics of emotions, the major of implied content translation and the specialization in empathy. Maybe I would learn there how to explain that when I'm at my parents' place and in the evening I ask my mother to make a sandwich for me, then it's not because I'm a bloody childish lazy thing who will expect her mother to serve her for the rest of her life, and not even because I'm hungry, but because she has been out all day long and I'm dying to have something prepared by her hands, invented by her mind. Perhaps if she had known it, she wouldn't have threaten me with a kick in my ass.
Or maybe she perfectly knows my intentions and that is why the next day, when I'm leaving, she gets a basket of delicacies ready for me and behaves like a fairy godmother all morning.
Love is frightening. It's not even being tied to someone with strings; it's being as close to someone as you can get, shoulder to shoulder. One move can make the other person bruised and wounded.
And there's no way for you to set yourself free because it would be against your will, your desire and all the yearning of yours.
2008/12/31
2008/12/26
the main actress
So I did it. I ate so much that I fell ill.
Like every year I've got this funny feeling that my mind is drenched with sentimental afterthoughts, but the physical languorousness successfully prevents me from any kind of contemplation.
...with the exception of thoughts about N., perhaps, who shines at home in the very foreground, completely deservedly. For the first time since she returned she tells her stories from India and shows her shots. Meanwhile she already thinks of her departure in few weeks time – new country and new people again. Lights on her, she is the one to lead the way, it's her stories that will be awaited. A little girl, a great winner. Her eyes exactly the same in the photos taken when she was four years old and now – twenty two years later.
But still, I can clearly see something has faded away in her – maybe it's an effect of the great verification that I had to undergo as well, but perhaps earlier as I left home for the university in other town. The verification of dreams, ambitions and own capacities; rapid trimming of own ideal "self". You feel kind of stripped of the possession that turned out to be nothing more than illusion. You stand on a new ground, already creating new yearnings on the basis of what you're left with. A feeling of a slight impoverishment and great anxiety. Still, both of us intend to do things and go places, although the mere thought of it makes us feel giddy.
I want and don't want to see us this time ten years later. But I do want us to spend Christmas together then.
Like every year I've got this funny feeling that my mind is drenched with sentimental afterthoughts, but the physical languorousness successfully prevents me from any kind of contemplation.
...with the exception of thoughts about N., perhaps, who shines at home in the very foreground, completely deservedly. For the first time since she returned she tells her stories from India and shows her shots. Meanwhile she already thinks of her departure in few weeks time – new country and new people again. Lights on her, she is the one to lead the way, it's her stories that will be awaited. A little girl, a great winner. Her eyes exactly the same in the photos taken when she was four years old and now – twenty two years later.
But still, I can clearly see something has faded away in her – maybe it's an effect of the great verification that I had to undergo as well, but perhaps earlier as I left home for the university in other town. The verification of dreams, ambitions and own capacities; rapid trimming of own ideal "self". You feel kind of stripped of the possession that turned out to be nothing more than illusion. You stand on a new ground, already creating new yearnings on the basis of what you're left with. A feeling of a slight impoverishment and great anxiety. Still, both of us intend to do things and go places, although the mere thought of it makes us feel giddy.
I want and don't want to see us this time ten years later. But I do want us to spend Christmas together then.
2008/12/25
the white wind turbine
I cleaned the windows and now I have a clear view on the heavy, grey sky and the snowless neighborhood. N's homecoming made all pieces fall into place. I feel peace – as much as my nature of a neurotic allows. True – I'm susceptible to national hysterias of all kind, that's why Christmas works each and every year: it softens and calms me down. It's when I feel like an old tree for which every moment, so significant for a man, is nothing but one out of a million others it carries within itself; a moment significant indeed, but not as much as to distract the peace. Perhaps JW reminds me of the long tradition of Christmas effectively enough to make me see it as the pure folk wisdom. I feel intuitively the synthesis of the ancient cult of the sun god, the Jewish Hanukkah, our native Christianity – and what not. I love all gods and Gods equally because they love people. (The excess of the gingerbread tends to evoke sentimental bullshit as You, the as vague as non-existent You, can see.)
N. presented us yesterday with loads of blouses and shawls from India, there was also jewelry and old decorations to be hung on the wall. All living room had a smell of an Indian shop. I'm proud of her like of a younger sister, and at the same time at the back of my head I always assess myself according to her measures – measures of an older sister. It keeps the balance.
The dusk is falling, and above the M. village a white wind turbine keeps on spinning. Soon it will disappear in the darkness and it will be exactly how it should be at this time of year. And it will be exactly how it should be.
The cat is sleeping.
N. presented us yesterday with loads of blouses and shawls from India, there was also jewelry and old decorations to be hung on the wall. All living room had a smell of an Indian shop. I'm proud of her like of a younger sister, and at the same time at the back of my head I always assess myself according to her measures – measures of an older sister. It keeps the balance.
The dusk is falling, and above the M. village a white wind turbine keeps on spinning. Soon it will disappear in the darkness and it will be exactly how it should be at this time of year. And it will be exactly how it should be.
The cat is sleeping.
2008/12/23
the sentimental routine? yes please.
Christmas has already begun to do its job. Having baked saffron cakes and two baking pans of apple pie I got spine ache and oddly optimistic buzz in my head. It tells me that those endless squabbles and wrangles between my father and me are some kind of proof that we both care, that we feel there's something to fight for. Then it hums that my inability to fit in has its other positive side of the coin - I never get bored when I'm alone. Or that being workaholic makes me a reliable and solid person; finally: that I feel this goddamn Christmas slowly unfolding love and affection inside me.
I guess those who to stake all Christmas things on one roll of the dice, a sarcastic and caricatured one, lose a lot out of the simplest folk joy. The part of myself I really like is that I'm so susceptible to collective euphoria or hysteria. That I easily get deceived by all those Hollywood tricks (not to mention the Bollywood ones!) and I cling to the natural, healthy sources of the warmth.
I knew people who keep on building the mysteries about themselves, higher and deeper that what most of us know; those wet blankets jeering at the routine, traditional cultural or social models... They are interesting people, true; they have to be since they spend most of the time working on self-creation, taking each and every detail of their self-portraits so seriously. And they are sad and bitter people – the living proves that even the finest opposition against the old rules of this world must turn out a poor dud, an untimely ejaculation or something of the sort.
All I'm saying is that I'm going to jump into the smell of the hay under the tablecloth, the Christmas tree and never ending dishes with premeditation and great pleasure. And I'm going to get moved, I'm going to forget all those dreadful things I was told only few weeks ago, and I'm going to take lots of photos that no one ever spends a minute to look at. It all won't change a thing, I'll just finish another annual circle, the safest circle on this earth – the best thing I can do for myself right now.
Merry Christmas and in the New Year – may Tibet be free!
I guess those who to stake all Christmas things on one roll of the dice, a sarcastic and caricatured one, lose a lot out of the simplest folk joy. The part of myself I really like is that I'm so susceptible to collective euphoria or hysteria. That I easily get deceived by all those Hollywood tricks (not to mention the Bollywood ones!) and I cling to the natural, healthy sources of the warmth.
I knew people who keep on building the mysteries about themselves, higher and deeper that what most of us know; those wet blankets jeering at the routine, traditional cultural or social models... They are interesting people, true; they have to be since they spend most of the time working on self-creation, taking each and every detail of their self-portraits so seriously. And they are sad and bitter people – the living proves that even the finest opposition against the old rules of this world must turn out a poor dud, an untimely ejaculation or something of the sort.
All I'm saying is that I'm going to jump into the smell of the hay under the tablecloth, the Christmas tree and never ending dishes with premeditation and great pleasure. And I'm going to get moved, I'm going to forget all those dreadful things I was told only few weeks ago, and I'm going to take lots of photos that no one ever spends a minute to look at. It all won't change a thing, I'll just finish another annual circle, the safest circle on this earth – the best thing I can do for myself right now.
Merry Christmas and in the New Year – may Tibet be free!
 |
2008/12/12
black&white
I'd like to tell You (yes, the as vague as non-existent You) about J.
J. is two years older than me and has very bright hair, the brightest hair I've ever seen. Her skin – perfectly smooth, as if made of marble. She's of medium height. Sometimes she puts on a soft cotton dress and then she looks just like a child. A baby girl.
J. was born two weeks before a Christmas and she's all the essence of the Advent. Special and festive. Smelling nice. One feels like being next to her not because of some social splendor or not even to kill the time by means of some small conversation – it's for the warm silence that's inside J. Or for the sense of beauty being protected, the sort of beauty that is tiny and unique, wrapped around with large, soft cloth. A little candle, a December night. J.
J. loves Sweden – a country, where the Advent is the best time of year, with the Saint Lucy's Day (December 13) as the apogee. The smell of saffron and gingerbread, early nightfalls and the beautiful woman. Red wine a year ago when we celebrated her birthday. (Like it usually happens in case of females I admire, I didn't like her boyfriend at all.)
J. Winter, wind, see. A little cottage with purple heathers on the windowsill; warm, subdued light. The spices aroma mixing with the smell of warmed body.
J. The baby girl.
There's also G. A totally different one, and less familiar to me so I don't know her smells and colors yet. Anyway, she has dark, thick hair that I always stare at. And dark eyes. Low voice that she rarely uses, and if she does, then it's only to say few words.
G. was sketched with bright, simple lines, marked carefully, stable. She's devoid of the silly part of femininity – of the not-being-able-to, of the embarrassing infantilism and the cosmetic obsession. And at the same time she picks very cautiously the colors for herself; they're always deep and intense; clear and vivid.
Actually, G. is a mystery to me – I don't know where she comes from and I don't seem to recognize her form. But it is a surely blissful state to smoke cigarettes with my head on her shoulder in some Warsaw club. Very nice indeed.
G. doesn't care much, I guess.
G. seems very strong.
G. embarrasses me, sometimes frightens a little.
G. and J. like each other a lot.
And me? Today I almost burst into tears (into the inside, not the outside of my body) during our classes whose main theme was the marriage. Me – totally alone and lonely. My father sometimes-probably-maybe feeling like leaving my mother. Sure, go on asking me about marriage. About love and warmth. And then about breathing deep and feeling free.
After all, "the most tangible description of bread is a description of hunger".
P.s. I just found out that from the Saint Lucy’s Day on the Sun sets later and later – yet it begins to rise earlier only from the December 22 and that's why it is when we talk of the days growing longer. But still, December 13 is the omen of the bright part of the year. Just look at J.'s hair!
J. is two years older than me and has very bright hair, the brightest hair I've ever seen. Her skin – perfectly smooth, as if made of marble. She's of medium height. Sometimes she puts on a soft cotton dress and then she looks just like a child. A baby girl.
J. was born two weeks before a Christmas and she's all the essence of the Advent. Special and festive. Smelling nice. One feels like being next to her not because of some social splendor or not even to kill the time by means of some small conversation – it's for the warm silence that's inside J. Or for the sense of beauty being protected, the sort of beauty that is tiny and unique, wrapped around with large, soft cloth. A little candle, a December night. J.
J. loves Sweden – a country, where the Advent is the best time of year, with the Saint Lucy's Day (December 13) as the apogee. The smell of saffron and gingerbread, early nightfalls and the beautiful woman. Red wine a year ago when we celebrated her birthday. (Like it usually happens in case of females I admire, I didn't like her boyfriend at all.)
J. Winter, wind, see. A little cottage with purple heathers on the windowsill; warm, subdued light. The spices aroma mixing with the smell of warmed body.
J. The baby girl.
There's also G. A totally different one, and less familiar to me so I don't know her smells and colors yet. Anyway, she has dark, thick hair that I always stare at. And dark eyes. Low voice that she rarely uses, and if she does, then it's only to say few words.
G. was sketched with bright, simple lines, marked carefully, stable. She's devoid of the silly part of femininity – of the not-being-able-to, of the embarrassing infantilism and the cosmetic obsession. And at the same time she picks very cautiously the colors for herself; they're always deep and intense; clear and vivid.
Actually, G. is a mystery to me – I don't know where she comes from and I don't seem to recognize her form. But it is a surely blissful state to smoke cigarettes with my head on her shoulder in some Warsaw club. Very nice indeed.
G. doesn't care much, I guess.
G. seems very strong.
G. embarrasses me, sometimes frightens a little.
G. and J. like each other a lot.
And me? Today I almost burst into tears (into the inside, not the outside of my body) during our classes whose main theme was the marriage. Me – totally alone and lonely. My father sometimes-probably-maybe feeling like leaving my mother. Sure, go on asking me about marriage. About love and warmth. And then about breathing deep and feeling free.
After all, "the most tangible description of bread is a description of hunger".
P.s. I just found out that from the Saint Lucy’s Day on the Sun sets later and later – yet it begins to rise earlier only from the December 22 and that's why it is when we talk of the days growing longer. But still, December 13 is the omen of the bright part of the year. Just look at J.'s hair!
2008/12/07
a new story from an old world
It's still grey outside, I guess everybody at home is asleep. I'll wrap myself in a blanket as well, till I still have the safe margin of the before-day, the pause that nobody takes into consideration when evaluating the day. I feel like defeating the time when sitting like this, as if on the edge of a chair, lingering over the moment that was supposed to be only a short minute between waking up and beginning the daily actions. It feels good down here.
In order to make the best of the Sunday's before-day, I checked the updates on the JW's website. It smells of conifer needles and it calms me down; there's a road leading from here column straight to Christmas. "...because that is what the Christmas story is – a new story from an old world". I love her sketches of the holidays, they're "old-fashioned" in the most positive sense, quiet, made of wood, snow and red-hot oven with her favorite mince pies. I'll have to keep this picture somewhere in the back of my head for the two weeks to go to my final coming home for Christmas. These are going to be two tough weeks, and the tiredness won't let me work as hard as I'd like to. I really hate what the studies make of the December-January season, I don't like mixing Christmas with stress, New Year – with the challenge of passing eight exams waiting just right on my doorstep. It disturbs the silence. And when I sit in the basements of our Institute during our long-winded, arduous classes, the dense air and artificial light make my thoughts ferment and spin pictures of a summer countryside, of the warmth, abundance and the bitter smell of the meadow. I seize those few colors very tightly and anxiously as if I knew it's the only way to preserve some juice, life and freshness in myself. It's hard, without a moment's respite. I guess I'm still getting used to it.
That's way I'm so glad that in the middle of the endless list of things to do this moment of the before-day has come up, this hiding place when I can read the Christmas story by JW for the second time. I must have been absent-minded last year as my thoughts bounced off the words; I didn't get into the story. This time my concentration was also a bit disturbed, but I managed to see this text and feel it as compatible with the Christmas vision by JW, full of quiet anxiety and secret; a soft night in which the light appears as a blessing, neither a Christian one nor Muslim nor Buddhist, but a humane one. A humanistic one.
JW saved another piece of my thought.
I can hear guys getting up.
In order to make the best of the Sunday's before-day, I checked the updates on the JW's website. It smells of conifer needles and it calms me down; there's a road leading from here column straight to Christmas. "...because that is what the Christmas story is – a new story from an old world". I love her sketches of the holidays, they're "old-fashioned" in the most positive sense, quiet, made of wood, snow and red-hot oven with her favorite mince pies. I'll have to keep this picture somewhere in the back of my head for the two weeks to go to my final coming home for Christmas. These are going to be two tough weeks, and the tiredness won't let me work as hard as I'd like to. I really hate what the studies make of the December-January season, I don't like mixing Christmas with stress, New Year – with the challenge of passing eight exams waiting just right on my doorstep. It disturbs the silence. And when I sit in the basements of our Institute during our long-winded, arduous classes, the dense air and artificial light make my thoughts ferment and spin pictures of a summer countryside, of the warmth, abundance and the bitter smell of the meadow. I seize those few colors very tightly and anxiously as if I knew it's the only way to preserve some juice, life and freshness in myself. It's hard, without a moment's respite. I guess I'm still getting used to it.
That's way I'm so glad that in the middle of the endless list of things to do this moment of the before-day has come up, this hiding place when I can read the Christmas story by JW for the second time. I must have been absent-minded last year as my thoughts bounced off the words; I didn't get into the story. This time my concentration was also a bit disturbed, but I managed to see this text and feel it as compatible with the Christmas vision by JW, full of quiet anxiety and secret; a soft night in which the light appears as a blessing, neither a Christian one nor Muslim nor Buddhist, but a humane one. A humanistic one.
JW saved another piece of my thought.
I can hear guys getting up.
2008/11/25
emotional spring
The snow fell again. The sun is shining. I'm in Warsaw. It's beautiful.
Today in the streets we conducted a sociolinguistic research. Together with O. we studied frequency of various Polish names for a pencil sharpener and a plastic bag. I had to abandon my form of the scared vulnerable one, who in the everyday life perceives the passers-by as potential thieves/rapists/canvassers, in order to get into ecstasies over the people, most of them being half asleep at 10.30 a.m. I almost got lockjaw from this amount of smiling, O. blew her nose all the time. Among elderly ladies, all refused to talk to us. Among young mothers wandering with her babies – none refused. Young gentlemen seemed embarrassed. The sunlight was intense, the air frosty. The cobblestones slippery. And I liked every part of it.
For the first time since I've been stationed in Warsaw I have the awareness that N. is staying at the parents' place. Strange that it feels exactly the same as when she was 5,000 km away. But on the other hand I had a feeling on Sunday that some missing piece has fallen into its place, that something made me feel like I used to feel some time earlier. I thought I was missing it. I'm not. Actually, for the first time since... long time ago I'm glad that I'm moving forward. When M.B. suggested few weeks ago I should have perhaps accompanied her in Cracow, I was surprised how obvious and clear it was, that I'm here to stay. In Warsaw, with its university, movie theaters, conference halls and joints. And I'm safe – if nothing changes dramatically, I have 3 years of studying at the university ahead of me. And I know I'm able to do it. Perhaps I'm in a good place to look for opportunities from.
Or maybe I'm so frightened by N.'s attitude that I'm trying to persuade things myself.
I find it strange that winter has become my emotional spring.
Just like last year this time I'm listening to Tracy Chapman all the time.
I want to call M., first time since her mom died. I'm scared to death.
Today in the streets we conducted a sociolinguistic research. Together with O. we studied frequency of various Polish names for a pencil sharpener and a plastic bag. I had to abandon my form of the scared vulnerable one, who in the everyday life perceives the passers-by as potential thieves/rapists/canvassers, in order to get into ecstasies over the people, most of them being half asleep at 10.30 a.m. I almost got lockjaw from this amount of smiling, O. blew her nose all the time. Among elderly ladies, all refused to talk to us. Among young mothers wandering with her babies – none refused. Young gentlemen seemed embarrassed. The sunlight was intense, the air frosty. The cobblestones slippery. And I liked every part of it.
For the first time since I've been stationed in Warsaw I have the awareness that N. is staying at the parents' place. Strange that it feels exactly the same as when she was 5,000 km away. But on the other hand I had a feeling on Sunday that some missing piece has fallen into its place, that something made me feel like I used to feel some time earlier. I thought I was missing it. I'm not. Actually, for the first time since... long time ago I'm glad that I'm moving forward. When M.B. suggested few weeks ago I should have perhaps accompanied her in Cracow, I was surprised how obvious and clear it was, that I'm here to stay. In Warsaw, with its university, movie theaters, conference halls and joints. And I'm safe – if nothing changes dramatically, I have 3 years of studying at the university ahead of me. And I know I'm able to do it. Perhaps I'm in a good place to look for opportunities from.
Or maybe I'm so frightened by N.'s attitude that I'm trying to persuade things myself.
I find it strange that winter has become my emotional spring.
Just like last year this time I'm listening to Tracy Chapman all the time.
I want to call M., first time since her mom died. I'm scared to death.
2008/11/22
eye of cyclone
So many times I wanted to write something here. Things unimportant and light in its meaning, but noticed and called their names; acknowledged. I didn't get down to it, and then heavier things came, whose names always sound like a gibberish, and then finally came the heaviest things for people around me. And now I'm sitting in my safe eye of cyclone and this is where I finally transmit from.
Death of M.'s mother, preceded by illness, long and painful, and a strange kind of tension; frequent thoughts sent to M., since words or real acts couldn't be found – and N.'s arrival, awaited as a happy return to family home with its usual attributes (emotion, positive response to the warmth, telling stories till late at night), which turned out to be an approach of a big dark cloud and nobody knows where it came from nor how to heal it, how to brighten it.
And in the background the strangest weather: spectacle of light and dark on the funeral day, and then, in the afternoon, when I saw N. for the first time, the snow, fluffy and abundant. Today all filled with sunlight, contrasting with N.'s depression. The sky big and bright.
And me in the eye of cyclone, sitting and watching.
Neither words nor real acts can be found.
Their future was supposed to be so different, now fulfilled as wrong and gloomy.
And it seems so real and tangible, just like everyday bread, irreversible; even if I woke up thousand times again and again, I'd always wake up to M.'s sadness that I'm only guessing, and to the dismal indifference of N.
Helplesness.
At the same time the eye of cyclone is brighter and brighter, the warm sunlight gets inside by the window, somewhere in the background there's soft music (new Tracy Chapman is warm and sweet). The eye of cyclone is cozy and makes the projections of the outside cheerful. I do a lot of work, I'm tired and I don't sleep well, but it's all right anyway. A teapot is makes a fine compensation.
Of course it's calm here in the eye of cyclone; what takes place is just enough, and the rest, well – it's all right for my dream. After all the snow is falling so quietly, it'll wrap all of us.
But I don't know what's inside M. and N. It's not the responsibility that distracts me, it's rather my sense of empathy – sometimes being a true curse. I want to believe that it all isn't a big deal and I shouldn't worry. But not this time. They're really very low.
Contemplation of their happiness, my wishful thinking, is really too little.
I want to wake up and that's all that I'm capable of right now.
Death of M.'s mother, preceded by illness, long and painful, and a strange kind of tension; frequent thoughts sent to M., since words or real acts couldn't be found – and N.'s arrival, awaited as a happy return to family home with its usual attributes (emotion, positive response to the warmth, telling stories till late at night), which turned out to be an approach of a big dark cloud and nobody knows where it came from nor how to heal it, how to brighten it.
And in the background the strangest weather: spectacle of light and dark on the funeral day, and then, in the afternoon, when I saw N. for the first time, the snow, fluffy and abundant. Today all filled with sunlight, contrasting with N.'s depression. The sky big and bright.
And me in the eye of cyclone, sitting and watching.
Neither words nor real acts can be found.
Their future was supposed to be so different, now fulfilled as wrong and gloomy.
And it seems so real and tangible, just like everyday bread, irreversible; even if I woke up thousand times again and again, I'd always wake up to M.'s sadness that I'm only guessing, and to the dismal indifference of N.
Helplesness.
At the same time the eye of cyclone is brighter and brighter, the warm sunlight gets inside by the window, somewhere in the background there's soft music (new Tracy Chapman is warm and sweet). The eye of cyclone is cozy and makes the projections of the outside cheerful. I do a lot of work, I'm tired and I don't sleep well, but it's all right anyway. A teapot is makes a fine compensation.
Of course it's calm here in the eye of cyclone; what takes place is just enough, and the rest, well – it's all right for my dream. After all the snow is falling so quietly, it'll wrap all of us.
But I don't know what's inside M. and N. It's not the responsibility that distracts me, it's rather my sense of empathy – sometimes being a true curse. I want to believe that it all isn't a big deal and I shouldn't worry. But not this time. They're really very low.
Contemplation of their happiness, my wishful thinking, is really too little.
I want to wake up and that's all that I'm capable of right now.
2008/11/08
a graver kind of celebration
Autumn is truly beautiful this year. It flourishes in its colors and favors the human race.
I notice.
I appreciate.
But I just can't help being stuck in sadness.
I notice.
I appreciate.
But I just can't help being stuck in sadness.
2008/10/20
so,
Autumn – golden, sunny.
The university – hard. Texts by Chomsky, in the original English version plus classes from 8 a.m. till 6 p.m.
The scholarship – being granted from the average four hundredths above mine.
Living with my new flat mate – in harmony.
In the speakers – Boards of Canada.
Every Wednesday and Friday – English lessons with eight-year-old Michał, I guess he likes me.
Once a week – classes that make me thrill and my tummy ache.
In the evenings – a bit empty.
Before I fall asleep – irrational dreams and fantasies. And nightmares afterwards.
Satisfaction – rather not.
Bread – crumbles and isn't delivered to the grocery on Sunday.
This is how I used to imagine my studies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yMcZEQ2sLE&feature=related
The university – hard. Texts by Chomsky, in the original English version plus classes from 8 a.m. till 6 p.m.
The scholarship – being granted from the average four hundredths above mine.
Living with my new flat mate – in harmony.
In the speakers – Boards of Canada.
Every Wednesday and Friday – English lessons with eight-year-old Michał, I guess he likes me.
Once a week – classes that make me thrill and my tummy ache.
In the evenings – a bit empty.
Before I fall asleep – irrational dreams and fantasies. And nightmares afterwards.
Satisfaction – rather not.
Bread – crumbles and isn't delivered to the grocery on Sunday.
This is how I used to imagine my studies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yMcZEQ2sLE&feature=related
2008/10/11
her name was Hattie and she chewed some bread
October, Warsaw, classes at the university. Introducing myself to all that once again:
At the Wednesday/Thursday nights I should't sleep on my right side cause my piercing hurts afterwards, which seems exceptionally irritating on Thursdays when I have classes from 8 a.m. till 7 p.m.
A new flat mate. She gets up at 6 a.m. only to have forty minutes in which to stare in the pale screen of her computer before we leave for the classes. After a week and a half I still find it bizarre.
A few interesting new lecturers. No-one has made me sob so far, though one lady, looking thirty, being fifty, has a truly mermaid-like smile.
Once, last Thursday, I burst out laughing during a break at the university; the rest of the group caught the laugh. I seem to get to like them a bit.
All that doesn't matter now. I'm at the parents' place. In the morning we went to buy three bottles of wine and some cheese, and there was a Woody Allen on tv, luckily from before his vagina-and-phallus era. A lot of warm light and too cute Samantha Morton who in 1999 already chewed bread exactly like eight years later in "Control".
Cried a little bit last night, but.
At the Wednesday/Thursday nights I should't sleep on my right side cause my piercing hurts afterwards, which seems exceptionally irritating on Thursdays when I have classes from 8 a.m. till 7 p.m.
A new flat mate. She gets up at 6 a.m. only to have forty minutes in which to stare in the pale screen of her computer before we leave for the classes. After a week and a half I still find it bizarre.
A few interesting new lecturers. No-one has made me sob so far, though one lady, looking thirty, being fifty, has a truly mermaid-like smile.
Once, last Thursday, I burst out laughing during a break at the university; the rest of the group caught the laugh. I seem to get to like them a bit.
All that doesn't matter now. I'm at the parents' place. In the morning we went to buy three bottles of wine and some cheese, and there was a Woody Allen on tv, luckily from before his vagina-and-phallus era. A lot of warm light and too cute Samantha Morton who in 1999 already chewed bread exactly like eight years later in "Control".
Cried a little bit last night, but.
2008/09/25
kidney queen
A fine, fine day...
is a day when at dark 6 a.m. my mother wakes me up with a touch as gentle as if she were afraid of me. Then we go to the hospital, the two of us against the cold September, the mess in the registration, the whole world. And after the examination (both nurses more than kind to me) we do the shopping in the mall and on a wooden branch we drink yoghurts, which I find extremely amusing.
It's a day when the doctor, too handsome for me to be capable of holding bag in my hand, tells me my kidney is more than all right.
And then in my room the home-made lemon balm tea.
My translation of an interview on a pro-Tibetan website; I'm of use for someone, something.
And so on.
And yesterday – more than gorgeous "Mamma Mia!". Is it possible that I ever disliked Maryl Streep? Got to change my last name.
is a day when at dark 6 a.m. my mother wakes me up with a touch as gentle as if she were afraid of me. Then we go to the hospital, the two of us against the cold September, the mess in the registration, the whole world. And after the examination (both nurses more than kind to me) we do the shopping in the mall and on a wooden branch we drink yoghurts, which I find extremely amusing.
It's a day when the doctor, too handsome for me to be capable of holding bag in my hand, tells me my kidney is more than all right.
And then in my room the home-made lemon balm tea.
My translation of an interview on a pro-Tibetan website; I'm of use for someone, something.
And so on.
And yesterday – more than gorgeous "Mamma Mia!". Is it possible that I ever disliked Maryl Streep? Got to change my last name.
2008/09/22
lost lost lost
I must confess I'm getting sick of the diversity of this world, of the forms in which it manifests itself. I don't like changes and the world spins around, neither to the right, nor to the left, and when you fish something out blindfold, it'll have totally different shape to what you've known, to what you've got used to and felt safe with – like the bouquet of the spices your mother used or the temperatures and the air humidity recorded by your body when you were a child. Now you open your eyes in the morning and – how shitty – everything's brand new, fresh, not yet completed, still aching a bit, but it is not about one new life, but a thousand of them, new formal brats to be tamed, brought under control – otherwise their mere number will crush you. The billion of dialects within just one language, a thousand of patterns and countless norms, each of which being for someone up there the only one acceptable. I'm sick – yes – because within one short day the light changes incessantly and after every change of set one has to adjust themselves, subtly change their position in relation to the lenses and hundreds of other elements of the constellation, but beware, you mustn't lose yourself, after each half-turn you've got to know how to bring out your personal profile to the light, either the daylight or the electric one. Flexible, but within your form.
And in the same time you know you don't mean much here and actually it's as if you weren't here at all.
That's why I enjoy sleeping so much. It's when the sensual truth agrees with the objective one – I don't exist both here and there, the right side equals the left, the equation's true. There's no you, there's no form. And look, even the world happens more peacefully then. Decently.
And in the same time you know you don't mean much here and actually it's as if you weren't here at all.
That's why I enjoy sleeping so much. It's when the sensual truth agrees with the objective one – I don't exist both here and there, the right side equals the left, the equation's true. There's no you, there's no form. And look, even the world happens more peacefully then. Decently.
2008/09/19
2008/09/18
cold, Lauren Graham, obsession.
My thoughts are lined with the cold season. I see foggy streets on a winter morning, the concrete slightly glistening of frost, the vapor following a mug of coffee. Every tiniest piece of warmth covered in gloves, bright rooms with closed door and windows, and within the bodies, shrunk and hurried. And the dark green of the conifers.
I'm slowly getting sick of excess of the Gilmore Girls, but I keep watching. And now I know: Lauren Graham. It's all because of her.
I'm slowly getting sick of excess of the Gilmore Girls, but I keep watching. And now I know: Lauren Graham. It's all because of her.
2008/09/17
hometown
Taking advantage of my favorite time of year, I went for a short walk through the street of Radom today. The temperature was low enough for me to hide under my jacket and shawl, but it still resembled the conditions of vegetation. The dusks are more and more grey now, but the trees still green; the black birds before the evening make circles over the town; the gloves bought in a small shop, dug out from among summer hats. The town seems apologetic, old buildings with the bales of fabrics or children's footwear now somehow smaller, so that one involuntarily bows one's head when getting inside. Some traces of former greatness: emerald door with elliptical window panes leads to empty, abandoned yard that died while still living. From behind a window so low that one could kneel down on the sill, appears a faded display of old purses and belts – here a peltmonger used to work. Tiny single stories packed in contorted houses, their side walls stuck with the neighbor's.
These pictures overlap together with my childhood memories, clear as photographs, seen from the point of view of a small girl, whom it all doesn't concern yet, nonetheless she feels some kind of fear of these streets. Tall mother in red pumps, father's grey coat – my micro world.
The frames skip and here I am, without a flat in Radom, one step before my second year in Warsaw; Miss Marta with a purse and a calendar full of worries.
And so on.
These pictures overlap together with my childhood memories, clear as photographs, seen from the point of view of a small girl, whom it all doesn't concern yet, nonetheless she feels some kind of fear of these streets. Tall mother in red pumps, father's grey coat – my micro world.
The frames skip and here I am, without a flat in Radom, one step before my second year in Warsaw; Miss Marta with a purse and a calendar full of worries.
And so on.
2008/09/14
Scream
Here's the follow-up of the Internet inspirations.
In today's update of the PostSecret I came across Munch's "Scream" with the sentence "I'm afraid there's nothing worth making art about anymore" written on it.
At first I was surprised by he mere fact that anybody should consider a conclusion like this one as their secret – that they should put their emotions on issue like that, feelings strong enough to choose it to be their representative, which would fight hundreds of other secrets on their way to Frank Warren, just like, say, the sperm cells squeezing themselves to get to the ovum. To me it proves that the PostSecret project is one of the greatest artistic ventures, which concentrates the motives from within the humanities.
But what surprised me even more was the wording of the secret; the person doesn't fear that all artistic forms are already worn-out, all words – already written down, important pieces of music – composed, the most beautiful frames – captured. Neither they anticipate the art or culture themselves are getting worn-out and soon won't find any place for them in this world, the fragmentary world feeding on icons and some few minutes films. For the first time in my life I came across such a sinister prophecy saying that this world isn't an inspiration any more. That it doesn't provide us with food for thought and doesn't stimulate the emotional realm nor does it preserve any elements decent enough to give the starting point for the artists, which was probably the main point of the secret's author.
It's a fact that for hundreds of years (always meaning the 20. century) the world has been said to be tumbling down on an inclined plain. The big mama named Civilization allegedly makes the moral values go bad and the short-lived technological crap has changed our every day into cheap duplicated creation devoid even of good entertainment. All that hes already been said millions of times before. This and the thing about the World War II, the complete decay of human, and then of the great Idea in the communism's incarnation. Plus the climate is going mad and Russia and China fill my head with fatalistic nightmares.
But I would never think that among it all there are no glimmers worth being thought over, ones that could find their continuation in art.
Which has noting to do with optimism.
Some time ago in his Different Point of View program Grzegorz Miecugow would every so often ask his guests, mainly artists, to try and compare the conditions of artistic work within the Polish People's Republic and today, in the so-called free Poland. He asked the question why the Polish culture, the high one, the mass one, was so poor when compared with what was created under fire of the ideology, censorship and intent eye of the USSR. The conclusion Miceugow with his guest came to would usually indicate the inspiring power of working Against. It was the wall in the face of which and against which one would create art, that turned out to be the impulsive power as important as the artist's natural gifts and imagination. The process of working against the conditions today seems to have been much more productive than the blissful freedom among the shits of the capitalistic Poland.
Which has nothing to do with praising the communism or the planned economy.
I suppose doing art in the world of socialist realism consisted in some certainty in using bright values (perfectly camouflaged, of course), the values that were contrary to the dark political system. I guess it had something of heroism, but also some lightness following the clear division between the good and bad characters.
Today it's undoubtedly much more difficult to point the villains, but there are surely phenomena, ideas and concepts, against which one should come out. Also, the human does have weapon - life has become poor in so many realms, that even the vague idea of any alternative already makes fine arms.
Even when a phenomenon which would be contrary to the real conditions doesn't exist at all.
One of the reasons why I like books and journalism by Jeanette Winterson is her, say, positive old-fashioned-ness; her passion for life consisting of precious, sophisticated elements; the single ones, being an effect of meticulous, arduous work – against the repeated pieces of plastic of the present time, the slapdash-ness and consumerism, all grown so great that they seem to fill the space once occupied by the single pearls.
Are the wrong proportions, on which the world is based on, supposed to be irrevocable and definitive only because they are a fact? Every Buddhist knows there is no significant difference between the existence and non-existence.
Besides. "the most tangible / description of bread /is a description of hunger / in it is / the damp porous core / the warm interior / the breasts belly thighs of Cybele / a spring-clear / transparent description / of water / is a description of thirst / ashes / desert / it produces a mirage / clouds and trees move into / the mirror" – wrote Tadeusz Różewicz in his "Draft of a Modern Love Poem". "Lack hunger / absence / of flesh / is a description of love / is a modern love poem".
In the greatest darkness there is no lack of light, no lack of precious growth medium for the art.
[The poem translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire]
In today's update of the PostSecret I came across Munch's "Scream" with the sentence "I'm afraid there's nothing worth making art about anymore" written on it.
At first I was surprised by he mere fact that anybody should consider a conclusion like this one as their secret – that they should put their emotions on issue like that, feelings strong enough to choose it to be their representative, which would fight hundreds of other secrets on their way to Frank Warren, just like, say, the sperm cells squeezing themselves to get to the ovum. To me it proves that the PostSecret project is one of the greatest artistic ventures, which concentrates the motives from within the humanities.
But what surprised me even more was the wording of the secret; the person doesn't fear that all artistic forms are already worn-out, all words – already written down, important pieces of music – composed, the most beautiful frames – captured. Neither they anticipate the art or culture themselves are getting worn-out and soon won't find any place for them in this world, the fragmentary world feeding on icons and some few minutes films. For the first time in my life I came across such a sinister prophecy saying that this world isn't an inspiration any more. That it doesn't provide us with food for thought and doesn't stimulate the emotional realm nor does it preserve any elements decent enough to give the starting point for the artists, which was probably the main point of the secret's author.
It's a fact that for hundreds of years (always meaning the 20. century) the world has been said to be tumbling down on an inclined plain. The big mama named Civilization allegedly makes the moral values go bad and the short-lived technological crap has changed our every day into cheap duplicated creation devoid even of good entertainment. All that hes already been said millions of times before. This and the thing about the World War II, the complete decay of human, and then of the great Idea in the communism's incarnation. Plus the climate is going mad and Russia and China fill my head with fatalistic nightmares.
But I would never think that among it all there are no glimmers worth being thought over, ones that could find their continuation in art.
Which has noting to do with optimism.
Some time ago in his Different Point of View program Grzegorz Miecugow would every so often ask his guests, mainly artists, to try and compare the conditions of artistic work within the Polish People's Republic and today, in the so-called free Poland. He asked the question why the Polish culture, the high one, the mass one, was so poor when compared with what was created under fire of the ideology, censorship and intent eye of the USSR. The conclusion Miceugow with his guest came to would usually indicate the inspiring power of working Against. It was the wall in the face of which and against which one would create art, that turned out to be the impulsive power as important as the artist's natural gifts and imagination. The process of working against the conditions today seems to have been much more productive than the blissful freedom among the shits of the capitalistic Poland.
Which has nothing to do with praising the communism or the planned economy.
I suppose doing art in the world of socialist realism consisted in some certainty in using bright values (perfectly camouflaged, of course), the values that were contrary to the dark political system. I guess it had something of heroism, but also some lightness following the clear division between the good and bad characters.
Today it's undoubtedly much more difficult to point the villains, but there are surely phenomena, ideas and concepts, against which one should come out. Also, the human does have weapon - life has become poor in so many realms, that even the vague idea of any alternative already makes fine arms.
Even when a phenomenon which would be contrary to the real conditions doesn't exist at all.
One of the reasons why I like books and journalism by Jeanette Winterson is her, say, positive old-fashioned-ness; her passion for life consisting of precious, sophisticated elements; the single ones, being an effect of meticulous, arduous work – against the repeated pieces of plastic of the present time, the slapdash-ness and consumerism, all grown so great that they seem to fill the space once occupied by the single pearls.
Are the wrong proportions, on which the world is based on, supposed to be irrevocable and definitive only because they are a fact? Every Buddhist knows there is no significant difference between the existence and non-existence.
Besides. "the most tangible / description of bread /is a description of hunger / in it is / the damp porous core / the warm interior / the breasts belly thighs of Cybele / a spring-clear / transparent description / of water / is a description of thirst / ashes / desert / it produces a mirage / clouds and trees move into / the mirror" – wrote Tadeusz Różewicz in his "Draft of a Modern Love Poem". "Lack hunger / absence / of flesh / is a description of love / is a modern love poem".
In the greatest darkness there is no lack of light, no lack of precious growth medium for the art.
[The poem translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire]
2008/09/13
the colors, the women
Yesterday was a cold day. At Casablanca K. sat opposite me. Between us the mulled wine with orange and the wooden table top, behind K. a window and bright daylight.
At the beginning of July she met M. in the photography society. They go together to see exhibitions and to the city park where once he took a beautiful summer photo of her – K. sent me the shot in the evening. She enjoys talking and writing about him – with a clear pleasure of dosing the precious details, exuding them slowly - more for herself than for me.
The clearer and clearer anticipation she has, though she won't admit it.
I love being some distant part of it.
Now goes the rest of it all: my skin got sun burnt while we were by the sea and the white shapes of bikini on my body are so distinct that I could easily go parading naked, using the suntan as a natural camouflage. The thing is there's no opportunities to get naked whatsoever as my sweet Masovia gave me the warm welcome of 11 °C and the two women who proposed to me this year turned out to have been kidding. Life always boils down to a mug of tea and a big blanket.
Plussss my good old fears are here to stay (probably thanks to my move to Warsaw coming soon) – and the nightmares, after which I could find new grey hair on my head with no surprise. Last night for example I spent in the middle of the World War II. And I was Polish. My ordeal was that I had to collect 16,000 somestrangecurrency in order to purchase some quite safe (un-Jewish I suppose) I.D. My head did its best: I had 6,000 and no hope to get any more. Strangely, in my dream I had friends and I loved someone who saved my life everyday (from which I make out some return of affection). Boundless is the absurdity of my imagination at night.
I make use of the rest of freedom I have in September: I watch, I read. (I even meet some old acquaintances – which might be the blind alley my mind went down making me dream of people.) The other day the Czech "Šeptej" didn't disappoint me – I was laughing my ass off throughout the park scene – and yesterday evening the pure esthetic cream of movie: "Three Colours: Red". "Blue" remains my favorite because of the ligibility of the liberté motif (the realization of the red fraternité seems rather cloudy to me) but I also suspect myself of preferring the blue color to the red – and Juliette Binoche to Irene Jacob, but who knows. Anyway, the tone – sophisticated, tranquil, gentle – remains the same through both of the colors.
But to prove that I'm not sophisticated lap-dog I'll admit I watch "Gilmore Girls" every day and it sneaks in my intestines as easily as the J. Winterson's "enclosed worlds" only can. Apart from the absolutely brilliant script, again it's about the esthetic side (in the autumn episodes on the streets of Stars Something there are big pumpkins around every lamp – I'm dying) and about a woman, though I'm not sure yet whether it's about Lauren Graham or Liza Weil with two big pizzas in front of her.
I guess I'm hungry.
[Eeee. When I said "two big pizzas" I meant PIZZAS and nothig else.]
At the beginning of July she met M. in the photography society. They go together to see exhibitions and to the city park where once he took a beautiful summer photo of her – K. sent me the shot in the evening. She enjoys talking and writing about him – with a clear pleasure of dosing the precious details, exuding them slowly - more for herself than for me.
The clearer and clearer anticipation she has, though she won't admit it.
I love being some distant part of it.
Now goes the rest of it all: my skin got sun burnt while we were by the sea and the white shapes of bikini on my body are so distinct that I could easily go parading naked, using the suntan as a natural camouflage. The thing is there's no opportunities to get naked whatsoever as my sweet Masovia gave me the warm welcome of 11 °C and the two women who proposed to me this year turned out to have been kidding. Life always boils down to a mug of tea and a big blanket.
Plussss my good old fears are here to stay (probably thanks to my move to Warsaw coming soon) – and the nightmares, after which I could find new grey hair on my head with no surprise. Last night for example I spent in the middle of the World War II. And I was Polish. My ordeal was that I had to collect 16,000 somestrangecurrency in order to purchase some quite safe (un-Jewish I suppose) I.D. My head did its best: I had 6,000 and no hope to get any more. Strangely, in my dream I had friends and I loved someone who saved my life everyday (from which I make out some return of affection). Boundless is the absurdity of my imagination at night.
I make use of the rest of freedom I have in September: I watch, I read. (I even meet some old acquaintances – which might be the blind alley my mind went down making me dream of people.) The other day the Czech "Šeptej" didn't disappoint me – I was laughing my ass off throughout the park scene – and yesterday evening the pure esthetic cream of movie: "Three Colours: Red". "Blue" remains my favorite because of the ligibility of the liberté motif (the realization of the red fraternité seems rather cloudy to me) but I also suspect myself of preferring the blue color to the red – and Juliette Binoche to Irene Jacob, but who knows. Anyway, the tone – sophisticated, tranquil, gentle – remains the same through both of the colors.
But to prove that I'm not sophisticated lap-dog I'll admit I watch "Gilmore Girls" every day and it sneaks in my intestines as easily as the J. Winterson's "enclosed worlds" only can. Apart from the absolutely brilliant script, again it's about the esthetic side (in the autumn episodes on the streets of Stars Something there are big pumpkins around every lamp – I'm dying) and about a woman, though I'm not sure yet whether it's about Lauren Graham or Liza Weil with two big pizzas in front of her.
I guess I'm hungry.
[Eeee. When I said "two big pizzas" I meant PIZZAS and nothig else.]
2008/08/22
2008/08/20
the substance
Today there was one of the short moments, flashes, when in the heavy everyday's crust, in the multiplicity of activities and affairs, suddenly a self-acting breach appears – and I feel the art happening. It is when I notice the common points between Jeanette Winterson and Haruki Murakami; the cohesion, the real density of the thoughts. It is when the sky grows full of expression to remain in a close relation with the humanistic belief in the causative power of the human; in the human creativity; imagination; love. The pure cream of thoughts. And there's a dream to hold the breach, to capture the moment. To describe it?
Also, I've come to a conclusion that my favorite reoccurring element in the V. Woolf's "Diary" is the phrase "and so on". The greatest power of a writer: a few sketches of a state, a situation, some emotions, so that the reader feels it to the bones – and then "and so on" comes, hiding things... so precise, specific; both sides know what kind of substance it is. Precision, precision. J. Winterson, V. Woolf.
Also, I've come to a conclusion that my favorite reoccurring element in the V. Woolf's "Diary" is the phrase "and so on". The greatest power of a writer: a few sketches of a state, a situation, some emotions, so that the reader feels it to the bones – and then "and so on" comes, hiding things... so precise, specific; both sides know what kind of substance it is. Precision, precision. J. Winterson, V. Woolf.
2008/08/07
August, he knows
A sweltering August day; the panic of observing moving hours, heavy like Jeanette Winterson's "slabs of sunshine". As I walked through the lawn near the house I felt I elbowed my way through these shortish golden moments, as if it could build up the happy summer hours in the country for me. I don't feel sorry that we had to get back from the mountains earlier than we'd planned. It's better here hundredfold and the mere thought of leaving for Warsaw on Monday gives me the shivers.
I usually don't bear the mythological cult of the childhood; I wouldn't like to go back and I don't consider myself to have been a happy kid. But I undoubtedly miss the child's perception of time as a great ocean – those crawling hours, so huge, completely not made to the size of a small human I was. This is where my archetype images come from; they're broad and exhaustive since they encompassed amounts of time and space greater than today's hasty, fragmentary snapshots. I feel the need to rely on those prototypes because today, although in the summertime I deliberately don't ware my wristwatch, the hours seem rationed out, so frightfully tiny – yes – it's another reason for my anxiety. I try not to despair, just like Magda Umer tried.
And I try to fight, so today I stopped to breathe in the beautiful August evening: golden, almost red light, the moon over the orchard, one black swallow on the multicolored sky – "and so on", as Virginia Woolf would say.
I listen to the songs of Justin Hayward and I miss love.
I usually don't bear the mythological cult of the childhood; I wouldn't like to go back and I don't consider myself to have been a happy kid. But I undoubtedly miss the child's perception of time as a great ocean – those crawling hours, so huge, completely not made to the size of a small human I was. This is where my archetype images come from; they're broad and exhaustive since they encompassed amounts of time and space greater than today's hasty, fragmentary snapshots. I feel the need to rely on those prototypes because today, although in the summertime I deliberately don't ware my wristwatch, the hours seem rationed out, so frightfully tiny – yes – it's another reason for my anxiety. I try not to despair, just like Magda Umer tried.
And I try to fight, so today I stopped to breathe in the beautiful August evening: golden, almost red light, the moon over the orchard, one black swallow on the multicolored sky – "and so on", as Virginia Woolf would say.
I listen to the songs of Justin Hayward and I miss love.
2008/07/23
on the sunny side of the street
Today in the morning I visited one of the Blogs of Note: a blog of a girl named DeeDee [http://deedeeabodeely.blogspot.com/ ]. And although I do it very rarely, I read everything posted since the opening of the site.
At first I was struck by the physical resemblance between DeeDee and The Famous Her. They could well be sisters, though resemblance like this one makes me think of the strange natural coincidences that bring to this world unrelated look-alikes.
And then I read, and read, and wasn't sure whether the content, coming from within the layout's colorful polka dots, warms me up with its cheerfulness and brightness, or rather saddens, as it concentrates the peaceful joy of living among people, something that currently seems unattainable to me in this world.
Her short posts are like summer days. The smell of sunburned skin, bright mind, tree tops full of leaves. Some fruit rolls over a wooden table in the garden. And friendly voices of beloved people can be heard all around, the last sound that one hears late in the evening before falling asleep.
And that photo of her on the top of the site: green water, blue sky. Redish soil and the authoress standing on it with her arms spread in triumph or joy she sends straight to the sky.
What I feel isn't jealousy for sure.
Most of all I feel the satisfaction as if I were this world's supervisor; the satisfaction that there are lives like this one, happy faces like hers, happening somewhere out there.
Maybe I have to be at the point I've reached, a place rather dark and cool, to be able to see the one, who walks on the "sunny side of the street".
At first I was struck by the physical resemblance between DeeDee and The Famous Her. They could well be sisters, though resemblance like this one makes me think of the strange natural coincidences that bring to this world unrelated look-alikes.
And then I read, and read, and wasn't sure whether the content, coming from within the layout's colorful polka dots, warms me up with its cheerfulness and brightness, or rather saddens, as it concentrates the peaceful joy of living among people, something that currently seems unattainable to me in this world.
Her short posts are like summer days. The smell of sunburned skin, bright mind, tree tops full of leaves. Some fruit rolls over a wooden table in the garden. And friendly voices of beloved people can be heard all around, the last sound that one hears late in the evening before falling asleep.
And that photo of her on the top of the site: green water, blue sky. Redish soil and the authoress standing on it with her arms spread in triumph or joy she sends straight to the sky.
What I feel isn't jealousy for sure.
Most of all I feel the satisfaction as if I were this world's supervisor; the satisfaction that there are lives like this one, happy faces like hers, happening somewhere out there.
Maybe I have to be at the point I've reached, a place rather dark and cool, to be able to see the one, who walks on the "sunny side of the street".
2008/07/20
first steps in translation
Translating written texts teaches me a lot of patience. I'm able to conquer my own aversion to returning for the second or third time to a text I wrote or translated by myself – something rather impossible not long ago; I used to leave things the way they were, even if it meant omitting some major mistakes. After all, it's most arduous and uninteresting; one has use their strong will to increase attention in order to analyze sentences afresh, is if they weren't in the temporary memory.
Also, what attracts me to translating is the so called butterfly effect. The selection of a single word, the decision made between two synonyms, can influence the undertone of the whole sentence and decide, how the reader will perceive the further sequences of the text.
And like in many other areas that interest me, I can see, how arduous the process of learning the good translation is. I feel that simple, predictable in their style and structure pieces are somehow awkward when translated by me. They remain the translation of a text and not the rightful Polish the should have become. I get tired quite quickly, but not discouraged. In every new text I could occupy myself with I see a tidbit, I find words interesting, I want to have a closer look, find them their Polish equivalents as if it could save them.
I feel it's of a great advantage to me that I translate articles whose subject matter lies within my interests. And it's not only because I don't get bored in the third hour, but the text simply seems more worth the trouble. Which is a bit selfish as it boils down to identifying the reader with myself, and everyone obviously wants the best for themselves.
I also think one has to be extremely courageous (or unaware of their actions) to translate Literature. And still be able to sleep at night.
Also, what attracts me to translating is the so called butterfly effect. The selection of a single word, the decision made between two synonyms, can influence the undertone of the whole sentence and decide, how the reader will perceive the further sequences of the text.
And like in many other areas that interest me, I can see, how arduous the process of learning the good translation is. I feel that simple, predictable in their style and structure pieces are somehow awkward when translated by me. They remain the translation of a text and not the rightful Polish the should have become. I get tired quite quickly, but not discouraged. In every new text I could occupy myself with I see a tidbit, I find words interesting, I want to have a closer look, find them their Polish equivalents as if it could save them.
I feel it's of a great advantage to me that I translate articles whose subject matter lies within my interests. And it's not only because I don't get bored in the third hour, but the text simply seems more worth the trouble. Which is a bit selfish as it boils down to identifying the reader with myself, and everyone obviously wants the best for themselves.
I also think one has to be extremely courageous (or unaware of their actions) to translate Literature. And still be able to sleep at night.
2008/07/11
this love
Today my mom came to Warsaw. As soon as she arrived we started to prattle. I made a salad for our lunch. There was too little rice and too much salt in it. She would know how much salt should be added. We decided to go and see Urszula Dudziak's concert, which was to start at 7 a.m. We managed to eat ice-cream at Hoża before the show, and in the meantime we got soaking wet as a great summer storm broke out over Warsaw. Although I wasn't cold, I had to listen 5739473 times that I should've taken a sweater with me. And that there was no point in going to the concert because it would surely be cancelled.
Ula Dudziak spoke and sang what she usually does, and everyone was delighted as they usually are. Afterwards there was a great show of the Big Band Riff, which astonished us, like only the big jazz standards of Coltrane or Miller can, but it astonished a little less an ever talking couple sitting next to me with their baby and a wet dog that kept on sitting on my feet. While the gentlemen were playing, it started to rain again, and again we were lucky because it stopped exactly when we decided to go home. On our way she talked to my as if I were a dog. I told her not to talk to me as if I were a dog. A streetcar showed up and she asked me if it stopped where we wanted to get out. I replied I'd ask the motorman. While I was doing this, she said with a strong voice that it would obviously stop there.
Funny. Especially the dog part.
Ula Dudziak spoke and sang what she usually does, and everyone was delighted as they usually are. Afterwards there was a great show of the Big Band Riff, which astonished us, like only the big jazz standards of Coltrane or Miller can, but it astonished a little less an ever talking couple sitting next to me with their baby and a wet dog that kept on sitting on my feet. While the gentlemen were playing, it started to rain again, and again we were lucky because it stopped exactly when we decided to go home. On our way she talked to my as if I were a dog. I told her not to talk to me as if I were a dog. A streetcar showed up and she asked me if it stopped where we wanted to get out. I replied I'd ask the motorman. While I was doing this, she said with a strong voice that it would obviously stop there.
Funny. Especially the dog part.
2008/07/10
Navigating the Heart
I am addicted to stories. If I reject them, it's only out of fear that the characters will come too close to me; to feel comfortable I need a few meters of space (plus the picture as a whole is better seen in this position). Like in the calm, waving "Lighthousekeeping" by Jeanette Winterson, the stories around me have no beginnings nor ends, they flow in time and space with their currents always interweaving. I can see it best when I go out from the dark rooms of the Muranów movie theater, where Juliette Binoche or Tony Gatlif have just made my thoughts slow down. I walk into the daylight, into the city, into the crowd, and watching it all in slow motion I can clearly see the story written into each and every face. These people are the embodiments of their own secrets - and that's why I admire the work of Frank Warren so much; he was the first to make the secret that keeps us human and decent the very center of an artistic project. All those pretty and ugly faces, hidden from the world, but still, showing so precisely how much strength they possess. Strange constellations of relations between the individuals, and the shivers down my spine when I accidentally step into the game, only to spend hours or days to regenerate in my flat.
And sometimes, though very rarely, among this cavalcade, some big dark eyes that wish to see a peaceful lake covered with fog.
Humankind is charming. If only you can stay on the shore, with a hot mug and a blanket, and silently watch, and only watch.
And yes, hope that from time to time someone will sail up to you in good faith.
And sometimes, though very rarely, among this cavalcade, some big dark eyes that wish to see a peaceful lake covered with fog.
Humankind is charming. If only you can stay on the shore, with a hot mug and a blanket, and silently watch, and only watch.
And yes, hope that from time to time someone will sail up to you in good faith.
2008/07/08
'Warsaw' doesn't equal 'worse'
I'm trying to activate myself, but without no results so far. It's been a good day, but a Warsaw day, involving all free supplies of my attention. This city sticks its pieces in every crack of a man's perception and I'm a neurotic with high cortex activity level and my sensations need to be dosed. Even if the stimulus is the fresh, hose-rinsed city around 9 a.m. Or a little girl in the University of Warsaw Library's garden who quite reasonably considered today's every passer-by to be her potential playmate. Me myself was chosen to co-examine some pictures of a turkey and a turkey-hen. (Not to mention a bonus – a small talk with the pretty gorgeous mommy.) Then there was the stimulus of the colorful, juicy vegetables in the vega bar. Then, news from the psychology department: they don't actually desire to see me on the Thursday's entrance exam. (Now that I've already got to like all the ladies at the secretary's office/dean's office/corridors, well, all the ladies at psychology department. Now they're saying they don't want me!) And finally, the conference about China in relation to Tibet, the Olympics and Nicolas Sarkozy; it was amazing to listen to so many intelligent, constructive arguments of romantics who are right.
A day like this one had to end up with a bowl of cherries.
And with very heavy eyelids.
A day like this one had to end up with a bowl of cherries.
And with very heavy eyelids.
2008/07/01
holidays, ready, go!
I'm deeply impressed by the ability of regeneration possessed by my organism. It was just last Friday that I passed my last exam in this term and out of such an amount of stress I would have borne if I'd only had something to bear at hand. But seeing M. on Saturday, the night of movies and endless talking in a cozy smelling A.'s house, and coming home at 7 a.m. through the vague Warsaw, plus Sunday, filled with sleep with a break for vanilla ice-cream - that was all enough. I'm ready again. I may still sleep awkwardly, in a wrong pace and breath, but the strings are loose, they actually sway as gently as a hammock – the hotbed of the debauchery, where my books, movies and sleep turns out boring at times – something not to believe in only a few days ago.
I'm still in the city, waiting for some papers at the linguistics that are already awaited at the psychology. Surprisingly, I don't mind. No doubt that the flimsy shadow in the "garden" by the University of Warsaw Library doesn't even resemble the surroundings of our house in the country ("a genuine extension of myself" – JW), but it does have some green grass, sparrows and gentle wind that distracts the water drops from the fountain straight to my skin. That's fairly enough and that compensates taking a crowded streetcar and my dense, heated flat. And when it nonetheless starts to become unbearable, there's always a cool hidden place in the Muranów movie theater, where I can reduce my being to the senses of sight and hearing, silently admiring Juliette Binoche in the "Flight of the Red Balloon".
My solitude is weird. Weird because satisfactory and at the same time lined with fear and anxiety, like an unwise lonely stroll of a wild deer chased by hounds. On the surface it's nice, it doesn't require needless words when I have nothing to say. I have a free hand. But I can easily tell it's bitter as well, there's a strong sense of insecurity and longing.
But. I decided I'm through with the mortifying analyses of all sorts of my relationships, through with searching my mistakes and oversights, and most of all, their sources that might lie within my upbringing, genes or environment. The official reason of my resolution is lack of conclusions, the emptiness that was supposed to be filled with lessons learnt. Another thing is that I'm simply tired, tired to the point where I'm ready to plead guilty for now and forever, cover myself up with a quilt and sleep as soundly as the guilty one who has nothing to lose – a sign that the self-mortifying ceremonial has gone too far. Anyway, I feel completely excused since my mother, immersed in the trance of removing the strawberry stalks, said that when one has a character like mine, it's no wonder they don't have "much acquaintances". It's ever surprising, how we resemble Silver and her mother in JW's "Lighthousekeeping": "The eccentricities she described as mine were really her own. She was the one who hated going out. She was the one who couldn't live in the world she had been given. She longed for me to be free, and did everything she could to make sure it never happened."
Still, it felt strange when on Saturday morning I said "bye" to A., my groupmate, knowing that I'd see her again in three months time. Well. I may be antisocial but I'm always sentimental.
I'm still in the city, waiting for some papers at the linguistics that are already awaited at the psychology. Surprisingly, I don't mind. No doubt that the flimsy shadow in the "garden" by the University of Warsaw Library doesn't even resemble the surroundings of our house in the country ("a genuine extension of myself" – JW), but it does have some green grass, sparrows and gentle wind that distracts the water drops from the fountain straight to my skin. That's fairly enough and that compensates taking a crowded streetcar and my dense, heated flat. And when it nonetheless starts to become unbearable, there's always a cool hidden place in the Muranów movie theater, where I can reduce my being to the senses of sight and hearing, silently admiring Juliette Binoche in the "Flight of the Red Balloon".
My solitude is weird. Weird because satisfactory and at the same time lined with fear and anxiety, like an unwise lonely stroll of a wild deer chased by hounds. On the surface it's nice, it doesn't require needless words when I have nothing to say. I have a free hand. But I can easily tell it's bitter as well, there's a strong sense of insecurity and longing.
But. I decided I'm through with the mortifying analyses of all sorts of my relationships, through with searching my mistakes and oversights, and most of all, their sources that might lie within my upbringing, genes or environment. The official reason of my resolution is lack of conclusions, the emptiness that was supposed to be filled with lessons learnt. Another thing is that I'm simply tired, tired to the point where I'm ready to plead guilty for now and forever, cover myself up with a quilt and sleep as soundly as the guilty one who has nothing to lose – a sign that the self-mortifying ceremonial has gone too far. Anyway, I feel completely excused since my mother, immersed in the trance of removing the strawberry stalks, said that when one has a character like mine, it's no wonder they don't have "much acquaintances". It's ever surprising, how we resemble Silver and her mother in JW's "Lighthousekeeping": "The eccentricities she described as mine were really her own. She was the one who hated going out. She was the one who couldn't live in the world she had been given. She longed for me to be free, and did everything she could to make sure it never happened."
Still, it felt strange when on Saturday morning I said "bye" to A., my groupmate, knowing that I'd see her again in three months time. Well. I may be antisocial but I'm always sentimental.
2008/06/22
2008/06/11
the season of hallucinations
Summer. It's already here. Heavy and golden, like honey. In the evening the air has the smell of the warm season of year, the space waves gently above the blocks. If one squints for a moment, it may seem, that it's the Greece flag stuck to this white superstructure, luminous on the background of dusk that I see from my window. But still, the last year's journey to the olive orchards and little islands with white and blue towns was only a short dream which might have never come to me anyway, which is possible as I've been having various states of consciousness lately.
Like on previous Monday, in a streetcar, when I hung holding to a yellow, sticky tube, and when I was roused, I was three stops farther and a woman was taking me out. She had dark hair and she held my shaking hand. She told me to drink some water and have a rest. And she kept holding my hand. There was a young man as well, and I told both of them how I was feeling, and about the exam I was taking in thirty minutes and couldn't be late, and about my tram stop that I'd missed, and... Rest. Drink. Breathe. I did everything they told me to. And it was one of the most beautiful moments, from all of the moments of the world that I took part in, because it was motherly, friendly and warm. On a bright, Monday morning. Just like that.
For the rest of the day I moped around with a part of me still faint, still sitting on that bench on the Koszykowa street, shaking, and happy. Happy in a way that probably makes me and my life pretty pathetic.
Like on previous Monday, in a streetcar, when I hung holding to a yellow, sticky tube, and when I was roused, I was three stops farther and a woman was taking me out. She had dark hair and she held my shaking hand. She told me to drink some water and have a rest. And she kept holding my hand. There was a young man as well, and I told both of them how I was feeling, and about the exam I was taking in thirty minutes and couldn't be late, and about my tram stop that I'd missed, and... Rest. Drink. Breathe. I did everything they told me to. And it was one of the most beautiful moments, from all of the moments of the world that I took part in, because it was motherly, friendly and warm. On a bright, Monday morning. Just like that.
For the rest of the day I moped around with a part of me still faint, still sitting on that bench on the Koszykowa street, shaking, and happy. Happy in a way that probably makes me and my life pretty pathetic.
2008/05/29
talking to Bruno
I feel the rebellion arousing inside me. The generous, dreamlike reality that Bruno Schulz wrote about. The wide echoes of scents and tastes which come into being somewhere on the other side, on a different plain, where you organize your life on a grand scale, instead of hardly tolerating it. Sometimes it comes so close, flows up to right under my skin; it's when the trees in May form a tunnel over the streetcar track and the green light falls into a nearly empty car, and I can squint and almost stop being. It lasts only for a split second, but it's long enough to let it get into my veins, leave its trace, to refresh the memories of the first childhood sensations and bring the yearnings to the surface layer. The yearnings that cause the pain when I line up to fulfil my daily duties.
There are bridges and their builders: musicians, writers. Poets. Photographers. Draftsmen.
And there is Remigiusz Grzela, whose blog proves that the Schulz's parallel reality is ingrained in what is tangible and takes place in everyday events. So it is possible for the things to be lined exquisitely.
Should I feel guilty that my path invariably leads into lower places, places that never will be mine, so far from home and warmth?
Having read the biography of Susan Sontag, R.G. writes about her son's memories:
"She lived for the future 'till the very end. In order to fight, she had to get to know the illness, understand its motives. In her diary, she wrote: >>I'm responsible for my cancer. I lived like a coward. I smothered my desires, I smothered my rage.<<"
Mom, God or All Saints. I don’t want to fuck up my ration.
Or maybe it's all about not having anything to lose. After all it is why I feel so good within the beginnings of the ends. No, I'm not asking for my death. Just wondering.
There are bridges and their builders: musicians, writers. Poets. Photographers. Draftsmen.
And there is Remigiusz Grzela, whose blog proves that the Schulz's parallel reality is ingrained in what is tangible and takes place in everyday events. So it is possible for the things to be lined exquisitely.
Should I feel guilty that my path invariably leads into lower places, places that never will be mine, so far from home and warmth?
Having read the biography of Susan Sontag, R.G. writes about her son's memories:
"She lived for the future 'till the very end. In order to fight, she had to get to know the illness, understand its motives. In her diary, she wrote: >>I'm responsible for my cancer. I lived like a coward. I smothered my desires, I smothered my rage.<<"
Mom, God or All Saints. I don’t want to fuck up my ration.
Or maybe it's all about not having anything to lose. After all it is why I feel so good within the beginnings of the ends. No, I'm not asking for my death. Just wondering.
2008/05/17
Mark Knopfler - Sailing to Philadelphia
Last night I had a dream that someone saved me and took me back home.
2008/05/16
stick a banana into your ear
Ok. So it's night, I'm at home, eating a lot of salty fish, stars and turtles. Before that, I ate even more little salty breads. And before that, a croissant and a sandwich. Also, this afternoon I ate quite a terrible lot of strawberry cake, not to mention the rhubarb one. And that's the most frightening part, because before noon there was only a yoghurt and a vegetarian crepe. Now what I'm really worried about is that the box with the biscuits can't be closed tightly enough, which means tomorrow my savory sticks and pretzels remained probably won't be crispy any more.
The compulsion to eat when I'm feeling insecure, lonely and tense will definitely prevent me from saving any money this spring.
P.s. Now the pretzels are gone. No pretzels, no cry.
The compulsion to eat when I'm feeling insecure, lonely and tense will definitely prevent me from saving any money this spring.
P.s. Now the pretzels are gone. No pretzels, no cry.
2008/04/27
"I'm confused. No, wait! Maybe I'm not..."
Ok. Time to face it online: I find people extremely difficult to get along with. And I need them like hell. Which is quite tricky in itself.
2008/04/26
"My mother called me Silver."
I will decapitate anybody who says that bright and rounded days, days filled with satisfaction crowned with cappuccino froth, do not happen. From now on. I really will. Because today has been a tangible evidence of the brightness.
The most important is to hit upon a good idea. An idea based on uselessness or some activity that may be useful, but which on your list of priority tasks to complete in the best case comes somewhere in the middle. It's all about acting against your daily routine. That's why I couldn't ever live in chaos. In a mess you can never notice the weird shapes of distinctive, unusual things. There are some, however, who'd say that it's the chaos of actions that the unique things tend to happen most often.
Today it fell on the "Lighthousekeeping" by Jeanette Winterson.
Initially it was supposed to be an exercise for my English phonetics classes. I wanted to listen to recording of Jeanette reading from her book, then try to repeat after her, and finally – to record my own voice.
But Jeanette seldom works on me without any blissful side effects.
First of all, one more time I became captivated by these first few pages of the novel. This piece seems a perfect trinket, a glass button or casket, made of almost unnoticeable, also perfect elements. Jeanette Winterson is right: we should learn our favorite pieces of books or poetry by heart. Only in this way we can really notice the artistry and clarity of the form, but also capture the meaning for longer that just a little while. It is only then that you begin to understand that an introduction to a story about a girl that "was born part precious metal, part pirate", a piece of text so frugal and hard-hewn, can turn out to be one of the most beautiful phenomena you have experienced in your life.
I listened to Jeanette's voice, I repeated. I tried to imitate her deep stressing, swashbuckling curling up of phrases, painting with the voice. After that, with my muscles tensed like strings and my thumbs pressed against the inner side of hands, I recorded myself. And then I compared. "Up she went, (...) pulling me behind her like an afterthought". It was amazing.
Jeanette – dense and balanced. She sounded clear and articulate, the outlines of her English were sharp and dark so that I could almost see their graphic equivalents. Someone who reads like that is a person at the rostrum, one who makes the air around them a natural destination for their strong and confident words, the cadence of which indicates precisely their meaning.
And then me. Compared to her, very quiet, as if stooping. What while speaking seemed stressed on the verge of exaggerating, on the recording was only a shy peeping out from behind the corner, invariably followed by quick returns into more neutral, safer tones.
A woman who has thousands of jumps behind her and whose acrobatic moves are supple and smooth.
And me, irresolute, funnily young me, whose every move is only an attempt.
Hell, it's an honor to mince after Jeanette Winterson.
The most important is to hit upon a good idea. An idea based on uselessness or some activity that may be useful, but which on your list of priority tasks to complete in the best case comes somewhere in the middle. It's all about acting against your daily routine. That's why I couldn't ever live in chaos. In a mess you can never notice the weird shapes of distinctive, unusual things. There are some, however, who'd say that it's the chaos of actions that the unique things tend to happen most often.
Today it fell on the "Lighthousekeeping" by Jeanette Winterson.
Initially it was supposed to be an exercise for my English phonetics classes. I wanted to listen to recording of Jeanette reading from her book, then try to repeat after her, and finally – to record my own voice.
But Jeanette seldom works on me without any blissful side effects.
First of all, one more time I became captivated by these first few pages of the novel. This piece seems a perfect trinket, a glass button or casket, made of almost unnoticeable, also perfect elements. Jeanette Winterson is right: we should learn our favorite pieces of books or poetry by heart. Only in this way we can really notice the artistry and clarity of the form, but also capture the meaning for longer that just a little while. It is only then that you begin to understand that an introduction to a story about a girl that "was born part precious metal, part pirate", a piece of text so frugal and hard-hewn, can turn out to be one of the most beautiful phenomena you have experienced in your life.
I listened to Jeanette's voice, I repeated. I tried to imitate her deep stressing, swashbuckling curling up of phrases, painting with the voice. After that, with my muscles tensed like strings and my thumbs pressed against the inner side of hands, I recorded myself. And then I compared. "Up she went, (...) pulling me behind her like an afterthought". It was amazing.
Jeanette – dense and balanced. She sounded clear and articulate, the outlines of her English were sharp and dark so that I could almost see their graphic equivalents. Someone who reads like that is a person at the rostrum, one who makes the air around them a natural destination for their strong and confident words, the cadence of which indicates precisely their meaning.
And then me. Compared to her, very quiet, as if stooping. What while speaking seemed stressed on the verge of exaggerating, on the recording was only a shy peeping out from behind the corner, invariably followed by quick returns into more neutral, safer tones.
A woman who has thousands of jumps behind her and whose acrobatic moves are supple and smooth.
And me, irresolute, funnily young me, whose every move is only an attempt.
Hell, it's an honor to mince after Jeanette Winterson.
2008/04/19
big thoughts pissing me off
Annoyance. I'm shivering with cold as another weekend in the countryside is wet. Last night I had one of those dreams in whose deep meaning we would love to believe. My alarm clock didn't go off this morning so I asked my father to give me a lift to the town, where I got too early and froze, waiting for M. Now I'm wrapped up with a sweater and I love the fresh air that gets through the balcony window as the devil loves holy water.
I'm thinking about a real chance to be what we want to be, one that all of us should have. And I don't mean only job, filling your day with activities of some significance, some bright and simple kind of sense, far from a list of duties that so many people are left to make do with, some peaceful joy in participating in the literal part of reality.
Also in psychological and emotional terms the ideal self should (goddamnit) be one of options. We deserve it, if we are burdened with, for example, yearnings.
"Should" is nothing, just like our wishful thinking and hoping for all the best for ourselves and others. But I stick to this "should" as nothing else comes to my mind in response to the stories I hear, full of blockades and barriers created by the lot, circumstances or, most of the times, ourselves.
From which the self-made ones seem most malignant.
I'm thinking about a real chance to be what we want to be, one that all of us should have. And I don't mean only job, filling your day with activities of some significance, some bright and simple kind of sense, far from a list of duties that so many people are left to make do with, some peaceful joy in participating in the literal part of reality.
Also in psychological and emotional terms the ideal self should (goddamnit) be one of options. We deserve it, if we are burdened with, for example, yearnings.
"Should" is nothing, just like our wishful thinking and hoping for all the best for ourselves and others. But I stick to this "should" as nothing else comes to my mind in response to the stories I hear, full of blockades and barriers created by the lot, circumstances or, most of the times, ourselves.
From which the self-made ones seem most malignant.
2008/04/16
April 3: happy Easter
I sat at my computer hiding from preparations for Friday. This time I have a boring paper I'll be giving in German and it's still waiting to be absorbed like a foreign body,painful enough as it's one of those that make even the speaker fall asleep, plus there's an irritating LOT of things of every description that must be packed into my rucksack for the weekend at the parent's place. It's still true that I like the beginnings of the ends, but Thursday evenings are just too much for me. So. Pu-erh, dark chocolate and let's pretend I'm capable of extending the night hours and can literally take my time.
And with this dark chocolate and a teaspot of pu-erh I come back to yesterday's concert of Bregovič. The genious Goran in his white suite, with a choir of probably the most powerful voices of the Balkans, the brass section (with 'brass' meaning 'frivolous' in this case) and the singers from Serbia, including the wonderful, a bit childlike voice mostly known from the "Ederlezi" song – God/Goran (same difference) knows what her name is.
It felt good, very good. I recalled getting to know a year and a half ago Bregovič's "7/8 & 11/8", "La Nuit" and the rest of "Ederlezi". Back then it was hypnotizing, an energy I hadn't known before; some kind of East-European sorrow and haughtiness, bitter-sweet mixture, so different from the Klezmer melodies, so much deeper and lower. I remember it came to me when I was reading "Żelary" by Květa Legátová and slowly falling for her austere and simple stories about the people of mountains, stories that together with Goran's music gave me so strong experiences that I began to think and write in their terms. And never before or after that did writing give me so much pleasure. Nor as good results. Never.
And then it felt good because the tuba, the drums and the tones going down and down, as if I was sliding my index finger on the map of Europe, down to the Southern-East, farther and farther, made me realize that this is the land really near my country. It's not only Andrzej Stasiuk and the Eastern ethno fashion that has been developing in big cities, it's surely something more, this magic negligence and ubiquitous peasantry that determine our kinship with the nations of the East, the West left aside with a considerable lower percentage of blood shares.
Yes, I know all those heaven and earth signs with Gombrowicz in the front indicating that we're actually in the goddamn Between. But perhaps it's the East that concentrates all our complexes, our ignorance and the ever-trouble-making, and that is why we are constantly carried in this direction, maybe it pinches us so much that it has to be always on the surface layer. And all goods we draw from the West is garbage, empty coke bottles and faded plastic bags, which we decorate our blocks of flats with, our slums of all sorts. And while doing this, we're demonstrating how much we really need all those Englands with Frances and Belgiums. This is how Stasiuk described it, when he wrote about the Balkans, but it's easy to see in Poland, in these colorful signboards looking grotesque in the peasant Warszawa, an exaggerated shrine of shit, mess and one big Anyhow. Some of us try to pose, though, with a quite convincing effect, but let's be honest: we build dirty streets on purpose and only feign some enclaves where, spruced up for the time being, we can sit for a while without getting dirty with our daily dirt that we've got used to anyway.
I might be wrong but this is how I sense it, when to Goran's "one, two, three", the whole Sala Kongresowa yells: DO ATAKUUU! Funny, by the way, to hear a Bosnian talking to us in broken English, to what we response in our Polish way, in a building that was once a great gift for Poland from Mother Russia in her Iron Outfit. Still, everyone's happy.
It's not to say that I'd love to pin to my lapel the Polish parochiality, our phobias, oh, so varied, together with the conviction of our exceptionality and wear it like a brooch till I die. On the contrary, throughout 90 percent of the day I'm a straight occidentalist and if I had a chance to follow the roads that Andrzej Stasiuk travels, I'd probably be too frightened to go farther already at the first border crossing.
I just want to confess some kind of irrational and quite perverse pleasure I derive from the Balkan rhythms, the movies by Kusturica and Legátová's or Stasiuk's language invariably weighing down to the Southern-East. Or "Gadjo Dilo" by Gatlif. I guess I'm a lap-dog that would love to spend the whole day in some nice and clean hidden place from which it could observe the Gypsy, Bosnian and Slovakian mongrels.
And late in the night it would feel too much of the sorrow and yearning to fall sleep.
And with this dark chocolate and a teaspot of pu-erh I come back to yesterday's concert of Bregovič. The genious Goran in his white suite, with a choir of probably the most powerful voices of the Balkans, the brass section (with 'brass' meaning 'frivolous' in this case) and the singers from Serbia, including the wonderful, a bit childlike voice mostly known from the "Ederlezi" song – God/Goran (same difference) knows what her name is.
It felt good, very good. I recalled getting to know a year and a half ago Bregovič's "7/8 & 11/8", "La Nuit" and the rest of "Ederlezi". Back then it was hypnotizing, an energy I hadn't known before; some kind of East-European sorrow and haughtiness, bitter-sweet mixture, so different from the Klezmer melodies, so much deeper and lower. I remember it came to me when I was reading "Żelary" by Květa Legátová and slowly falling for her austere and simple stories about the people of mountains, stories that together with Goran's music gave me so strong experiences that I began to think and write in their terms. And never before or after that did writing give me so much pleasure. Nor as good results. Never.
And then it felt good because the tuba, the drums and the tones going down and down, as if I was sliding my index finger on the map of Europe, down to the Southern-East, farther and farther, made me realize that this is the land really near my country. It's not only Andrzej Stasiuk and the Eastern ethno fashion that has been developing in big cities, it's surely something more, this magic negligence and ubiquitous peasantry that determine our kinship with the nations of the East, the West left aside with a considerable lower percentage of blood shares.
Yes, I know all those heaven and earth signs with Gombrowicz in the front indicating that we're actually in the goddamn Between. But perhaps it's the East that concentrates all our complexes, our ignorance and the ever-trouble-making, and that is why we are constantly carried in this direction, maybe it pinches us so much that it has to be always on the surface layer. And all goods we draw from the West is garbage, empty coke bottles and faded plastic bags, which we decorate our blocks of flats with, our slums of all sorts. And while doing this, we're demonstrating how much we really need all those Englands with Frances and Belgiums. This is how Stasiuk described it, when he wrote about the Balkans, but it's easy to see in Poland, in these colorful signboards looking grotesque in the peasant Warszawa, an exaggerated shrine of shit, mess and one big Anyhow. Some of us try to pose, though, with a quite convincing effect, but let's be honest: we build dirty streets on purpose and only feign some enclaves where, spruced up for the time being, we can sit for a while without getting dirty with our daily dirt that we've got used to anyway.
I might be wrong but this is how I sense it, when to Goran's "one, two, three", the whole Sala Kongresowa yells: DO ATAKUUU! Funny, by the way, to hear a Bosnian talking to us in broken English, to what we response in our Polish way, in a building that was once a great gift for Poland from Mother Russia in her Iron Outfit. Still, everyone's happy.
It's not to say that I'd love to pin to my lapel the Polish parochiality, our phobias, oh, so varied, together with the conviction of our exceptionality and wear it like a brooch till I die. On the contrary, throughout 90 percent of the day I'm a straight occidentalist and if I had a chance to follow the roads that Andrzej Stasiuk travels, I'd probably be too frightened to go farther already at the first border crossing.
I just want to confess some kind of irrational and quite perverse pleasure I derive from the Balkan rhythms, the movies by Kusturica and Legátová's or Stasiuk's language invariably weighing down to the Southern-East. Or "Gadjo Dilo" by Gatlif. I guess I'm a lap-dog that would love to spend the whole day in some nice and clean hidden place from which it could observe the Gypsy, Bosnian and Slovakian mongrels.
And late in the night it would feel too much of the sorrow and yearning to fall sleep.
2008/03/29
The Curious Habit of Running Away
Just finished reading "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time" by Mark Haddon. It was amazing, just as if someone massaged my brain. I delighted in following the paths logically marked out by the narrator, a teenager with the Asperger Syndrome, who carefully draws plans, graphs and formulas for each of his actions and ideas. He sticks to his order, keeps on explaining the world to himself and tries to catch up with the course of events. One of his rules, for instance, is a refusal to eat anything either brown or yellow and it's a principle he repeats through the whole book, like a mantra, until it becomes some general truth, obvious also for the reader. It's similar with his deep dislike of people who touch him, joke while talking to him or use metaphors too often. These rules are like firm pillars that made me feel safe throughout the book.
"The Curious Incident..." was meant to be a book either for teenagers and for adults. Haddon created an "enclosed world", as Jeanette Winterson would probably call it, which made the younger part of me cheerfully hide inside the narration, closing the door behind. Haddon's commentary on the book helped me realized the "adult" part of the novel. He says the book that kept on emerging in his thoughts while he wrote "The Curious Incident..." was "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen. Haddon notices that lives of Austen's protagonists were limited to a very narrow space with no chances for a turning point or some grate change in fate. But Austen (who, according to Hadden, if she lived nowadays, would probably write about some chartered accountants), when she told the stories of women, whose only exciting moment in life was marriage, went deep inside their world and showed it as a fascinating one. And she did it in such a form, Haddon continues, that would be interesting for the protagonists themselves: in the form of a romance.
The same trick is introduced in "The Curious Incident...", which has the traits of a detective story – the favorite genre of Christopher, the main character and narrator. And the motif of life's painful boredom is included in the stories of the supporting characters, who are tired of running away into another relationship, another city, just any other place. They discover that their escapes invariably turn out to be nothing more but jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Following Austen's train of thoughts, Haddon says that it's the space given to us where we ought to find the conditions that would be most optimal for us; that the alleged destination of our escape is an illusion that never meets its fulfillment. "It's about accepting that every life is narrow and that our only escape from this is not to run away (to another country, another relationship, a slimmer, more confident self) but to learn to love the people we are and world in which we find ourselves." This leitmotif is conveyed by Christopher himself: "People go on holidays to see new things… but I think that there are so many things just in one house that it would take years to think about all of them properly."
Fortunately, I'm so impressed by the inner structure of the book and its form, a perfect reflection of how the "Aspie's" brain works, and I took such a liking to the balanced mixture of sadness and great charm, that it's almost possible for me to swallow this bitter lesson on the affirmation of life.
In his text written for The Observer, Mark Haddon introduced a significant division between the "genre fiction" and "literary fiction", the first of which offers an escape to a pretty cowardly reader, letting them be whatever they want to, but on a completely imaginary plain. The "literary fiction", on the contrary, makes the reader admit to who they are but in the same time it provokes them into going to the deeper layers of it and discovering the resources of possibilities that are included in the pack. It seems that the "genre fiction" can be linked with the "enclosed worlds" Jeanette Winterson mentioned, and the "literary fiction" with the kind of fiction she encouraged us to introduce into our life in order to stretch its sizes, move its limits; to create within our own reality. (Funny that both of them refer to Jane Austen.)
What's incredible in Hadden's book to me is how he managed to join these two plains. There's no equality of rights between them, however; the whole work was meant to be lined with the literary fiction and the mere aftertaste of a fine writing tells me to make my way towards this plain. But there's also the dimension attractive for a cowardly or juvenile fugitive, this subtle element that lets the reader hide safe inside the neurotic inclinations of Christopher, inside his mathematical, logical formula, to which he tries to reduce his whole reality. Besides, the mere fact the book reads practically at one gulp reveals its genre kinship with the Harry Potter's clan.
Mark Haddon is right when he says that there are very few writers that manage to reach this kind of consensus. According to him, there are only two novels that "have a foot in both camps": it's "Jane Eyre" and "The Woman in White". "The Curious Incident..." is surely the third one.
And one last thing: the awareness that you have written a book like that must be incredible. I imagine it's something of a great relief that you managed to pick something intangible out of the air and in the same time, to safe your life. Or maybe I can't imagine it at all.
"The Curious Incident..." was meant to be a book either for teenagers and for adults. Haddon created an "enclosed world", as Jeanette Winterson would probably call it, which made the younger part of me cheerfully hide inside the narration, closing the door behind. Haddon's commentary on the book helped me realized the "adult" part of the novel. He says the book that kept on emerging in his thoughts while he wrote "The Curious Incident..." was "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen. Haddon notices that lives of Austen's protagonists were limited to a very narrow space with no chances for a turning point or some grate change in fate. But Austen (who, according to Hadden, if she lived nowadays, would probably write about some chartered accountants), when she told the stories of women, whose only exciting moment in life was marriage, went deep inside their world and showed it as a fascinating one. And she did it in such a form, Haddon continues, that would be interesting for the protagonists themselves: in the form of a romance.
The same trick is introduced in "The Curious Incident...", which has the traits of a detective story – the favorite genre of Christopher, the main character and narrator. And the motif of life's painful boredom is included in the stories of the supporting characters, who are tired of running away into another relationship, another city, just any other place. They discover that their escapes invariably turn out to be nothing more but jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Following Austen's train of thoughts, Haddon says that it's the space given to us where we ought to find the conditions that would be most optimal for us; that the alleged destination of our escape is an illusion that never meets its fulfillment. "It's about accepting that every life is narrow and that our only escape from this is not to run away (to another country, another relationship, a slimmer, more confident self) but to learn to love the people we are and world in which we find ourselves." This leitmotif is conveyed by Christopher himself: "People go on holidays to see new things… but I think that there are so many things just in one house that it would take years to think about all of them properly."
Fortunately, I'm so impressed by the inner structure of the book and its form, a perfect reflection of how the "Aspie's" brain works, and I took such a liking to the balanced mixture of sadness and great charm, that it's almost possible for me to swallow this bitter lesson on the affirmation of life.
In his text written for The Observer, Mark Haddon introduced a significant division between the "genre fiction" and "literary fiction", the first of which offers an escape to a pretty cowardly reader, letting them be whatever they want to, but on a completely imaginary plain. The "literary fiction", on the contrary, makes the reader admit to who they are but in the same time it provokes them into going to the deeper layers of it and discovering the resources of possibilities that are included in the pack. It seems that the "genre fiction" can be linked with the "enclosed worlds" Jeanette Winterson mentioned, and the "literary fiction" with the kind of fiction she encouraged us to introduce into our life in order to stretch its sizes, move its limits; to create within our own reality. (Funny that both of them refer to Jane Austen.)
What's incredible in Hadden's book to me is how he managed to join these two plains. There's no equality of rights between them, however; the whole work was meant to be lined with the literary fiction and the mere aftertaste of a fine writing tells me to make my way towards this plain. But there's also the dimension attractive for a cowardly or juvenile fugitive, this subtle element that lets the reader hide safe inside the neurotic inclinations of Christopher, inside his mathematical, logical formula, to which he tries to reduce his whole reality. Besides, the mere fact the book reads practically at one gulp reveals its genre kinship with the Harry Potter's clan.
Mark Haddon is right when he says that there are very few writers that manage to reach this kind of consensus. According to him, there are only two novels that "have a foot in both camps": it's "Jane Eyre" and "The Woman in White". "The Curious Incident..." is surely the third one.
And one last thing: the awareness that you have written a book like that must be incredible. I imagine it's something of a great relief that you managed to pick something intangible out of the air and in the same time, to safe your life. Or maybe I can't imagine it at all.
2008/03/28
pla cen ta
Today in the streetcar I was sitting right behind a woman with a five or six years old boy.
He asked his mom whether the next stop was the Wyszyński University.
As I heard it, I raised my head.
No, it's the AWF, said the mother.
I nodded and fully satisfied, continued to read my book.
Only after a while I realized what I'd actually done.
I adore good mothers. I'm the biggest fan of theirs.
P.s. I have a dream. FREE TIBET.
http://actionnetwork.org/campaign/tibet_IOC
http://actionnetwork.org/campaign/notorch/
http://www.avaaz.org/en/tibet_end_the_violence/
http://studentsforafreetibet.org/
http://blog.studentsforafreetibet.org/
http://www.dalailama.com/
http://www.thecolororange.net/uk
He asked his mom whether the next stop was the Wyszyński University.
As I heard it, I raised my head.
No, it's the AWF, said the mother.
I nodded and fully satisfied, continued to read my book.
Only after a while I realized what I'd actually done.
I adore good mothers. I'm the biggest fan of theirs.
P.s. I have a dream. FREE TIBET.
http://actionnetwork.org/campaign/tibet_IOC
http://actionnetwork.org/campaign/notorch/
http://www.avaaz.org/en/tibet_end_the_violence/
http://studentsforafreetibet.org/
http://blog.studentsforafreetibet.org/
http://www.dalailama.com/
http://www.thecolororange.net/uk
2008/03/21
solo piano
Since morning I've been searching darker shades. Quite hectically, but now I'm gradually slowing down. We're bringing the parents' house out from under the dust and dirt – two main enemies before Easter for all Christians. And for their families, too, so there's a fresh smell of domestos and a damp cloth wafting around me as well. But I don't mind. I even feel a stabbing sense of guilt in my stomach, when I think of my mother and her tomorrow's lonely struggle through the March wind on her way to the church, trying not to let the sausage and bread out of the Easter basket. Then she'll come home with her cheeks red and it won't be until she sits back with a cup of hot coffee that I'll stop feeling like a traitor.
I guess I've found a pretty good online radio. It's called Whisperings and it broadcasts solo piano pieces only. It's soothing and regulating. And it fits our clean living room with its dark shade of brown and mum's green oleander. I like my parent's mature taste, I like their style because quite naturally my sense of norms, of optimal intensity of the environment factors is nearest to theirs. I enjoy the silence in their house, only rarely broken by the music from the Polish Radio. Dark chocolate and the temperatures always low, almost cold. Dry or semi-dry wine. No magazines for women, no football matches. Only dark brown and deep green.
Just as ascetic is the early spring in the village. In fact I noticed it just this afternoon, when I was cleaning my window. I turned Tori Amos’s "Little Earthquakes" on and somehow realized what the colors of this neighbor are in March. For a few months each time I'm here it's hard to believe that one's physical location can make such a great difference; that some certain geographical longitude and latitude can constitute a soothing background for actions. Or perhaps the sheer presence of my parents is of greatest importance. After all, they're the only company for me keeping silent for hours, for forever, as if I wasn't there.
Around midday we had a break, sat at the kitchen table and ate bread with butter and strawberry marmalade. A moment probably worth more than last few weeks.
Just as pleasant was cleaning my window with the piano accompaniment of the red-haired lady. I thought it was a pity I had only two sashes. I even sat on my desk for a while without any purpose, staring through clean panes.
And then the March rain fell. But I still don't mind.
I guess I've found a pretty good online radio. It's called Whisperings and it broadcasts solo piano pieces only. It's soothing and regulating. And it fits our clean living room with its dark shade of brown and mum's green oleander. I like my parent's mature taste, I like their style because quite naturally my sense of norms, of optimal intensity of the environment factors is nearest to theirs. I enjoy the silence in their house, only rarely broken by the music from the Polish Radio. Dark chocolate and the temperatures always low, almost cold. Dry or semi-dry wine. No magazines for women, no football matches. Only dark brown and deep green.
Just as ascetic is the early spring in the village. In fact I noticed it just this afternoon, when I was cleaning my window. I turned Tori Amos’s "Little Earthquakes" on and somehow realized what the colors of this neighbor are in March. For a few months each time I'm here it's hard to believe that one's physical location can make such a great difference; that some certain geographical longitude and latitude can constitute a soothing background for actions. Or perhaps the sheer presence of my parents is of greatest importance. After all, they're the only company for me keeping silent for hours, for forever, as if I wasn't there.
Around midday we had a break, sat at the kitchen table and ate bread with butter and strawberry marmalade. A moment probably worth more than last few weeks.
Just as pleasant was cleaning my window with the piano accompaniment of the red-haired lady. I thought it was a pity I had only two sashes. I even sat on my desk for a while without any purpose, staring through clean panes.
And then the March rain fell. But I still don't mind.
2008/03/18
you have a streetcar, I want a ticket to anywhere
Streetcar no. 17 gradually becomes my Room of Contemplation. It's the only place I occupy myself with purely humanistic actions. Today for instance, I observed a young couple for a while. She was sitting on his knee. Looking in the other one's eyes, they hardly uttered a word, but the way they chewed a gum to each other was full of commitment indeed. He chewed his gum to her, she chewed hers to him. It wasn't synchronous, admittedly, but in the very same rhythm. Well. One of my teachers says watching egg stains on the table together is a more credible love's proof than sex, so why not chewing.
Right behind the couple there was a Russian/Belarusian woman with beautiful glows and a kid on her knee, a little dark-haired boy that was truly frightened by the enormous size of this world. Or at least one of its elements the form of the mother's bag that took too much of his personal space.
The thick snow was falling outside and the lights where dark yellow, a bit subdued. It felt like a theater stage design. It might have come to my mind due to the new post on Remigiusz Grzela's blog I read this morning ( http://remigiusz-grzela.bloog.pl/ ), an eulogy to the intimacy of the theater. It seems I'm quite a good observer. I notice gestures and subtle facial expressions. I try to find the meaning and the reason of what I see. It applies only to 'field' situations, however; in the theater I'm prepared for the observation, which paradoxically makes it rather poor and superficial. It might be a syndrome similar to the one that occurs in museum. I'm sure ninety percent of those people there, moving like sleepwalkers, actually think about either the pain in their lower back or the lively city that waits outside and no matter how long or carefully they stare at the showcases they just won't see anything. At least I won't. It's a bit different when watching a movie, maybe because of the cameraman who does the prompter's work, whispering what to pay attention to. Or maybe it's the natural setting. Almost as natural as a crowded streetcar.
Nobody's perfect, though. When it comes to acting (I mean natural circumstances), I'm probably the worst protagonist in the world.
Right behind the couple there was a Russian/Belarusian woman with beautiful glows and a kid on her knee, a little dark-haired boy that was truly frightened by the enormous size of this world. Or at least one of its elements the form of the mother's bag that took too much of his personal space.
The thick snow was falling outside and the lights where dark yellow, a bit subdued. It felt like a theater stage design. It might have come to my mind due to the new post on Remigiusz Grzela's blog I read this morning ( http://remigiusz-grzela.bloog.pl/ ), an eulogy to the intimacy of the theater. It seems I'm quite a good observer. I notice gestures and subtle facial expressions. I try to find the meaning and the reason of what I see. It applies only to 'field' situations, however; in the theater I'm prepared for the observation, which paradoxically makes it rather poor and superficial. It might be a syndrome similar to the one that occurs in museum. I'm sure ninety percent of those people there, moving like sleepwalkers, actually think about either the pain in their lower back or the lively city that waits outside and no matter how long or carefully they stare at the showcases they just won't see anything. At least I won't. It's a bit different when watching a movie, maybe because of the cameraman who does the prompter's work, whispering what to pay attention to. Or maybe it's the natural setting. Almost as natural as a crowded streetcar.
Nobody's perfect, though. When it comes to acting (I mean natural circumstances), I'm probably the worst protagonist in the world.
2008/03/16
mixer
Things got completely mixed up to me.
That woman and an irresistible picture of blue water when I think of her.
My little everyday victories I won within last few weeks. (I did go shopping, did get my blood examined, and I managed not to run amok in a crowded streetcar.)
Travelling to Jana by a Jungheinrich forklift truck in Zelenka's "Příběhy obyčejného šílenství" movie.
The songs by Tracy Chapman.
A strange daydream of a hovel-flat with greenery, wood and a play of light inside. A shelter.
And then the Friday night with M., though I'm not sure whether it really happened.
My always-almost-exploding-sinuses.
A bottle of disgusting wine bought at Biedronka.
My cold lips.
The surface is stirred up.
Two articles right text to each other in a newspaper: one about a hundred of Tibetans murdered by the Chinese – and the other one about a study which revealed that the butterflies remember their caterpillar experiences.
All mixed up. I feel sick. It's like a carousel. Faster and faster.
Once I dreamt of May and a warm afternoon on a wooden bench in some good, calm place.
But faster and faster, till I'm in my bed. Then goes the alarm clock at seven past six in the morning and it starts all over again.
I'll slug anyone who says everything's gonna be alright.
Anyone who reminds me I should make things right by myself will be slugged as well.
On Friday I watched with M. her shots from Greece. When I saw my smiling face (the White Tower in the background), I said I thought it weird that there'd been a time in my life when I was happy. Then M. reminded me: "you weren't really happy; you were just glad for a little while because we finally found this goddamn tower".
(Which was not a reproach.)
That woman and an irresistible picture of blue water when I think of her.
My little everyday victories I won within last few weeks. (I did go shopping, did get my blood examined, and I managed not to run amok in a crowded streetcar.)
Travelling to Jana by a Jungheinrich forklift truck in Zelenka's "Příběhy obyčejného šílenství" movie.
The songs by Tracy Chapman.
A strange daydream of a hovel-flat with greenery, wood and a play of light inside. A shelter.
And then the Friday night with M., though I'm not sure whether it really happened.
My always-almost-exploding-sinuses.
A bottle of disgusting wine bought at Biedronka.
My cold lips.
The surface is stirred up.
Two articles right text to each other in a newspaper: one about a hundred of Tibetans murdered by the Chinese – and the other one about a study which revealed that the butterflies remember their caterpillar experiences.
All mixed up. I feel sick. It's like a carousel. Faster and faster.
Once I dreamt of May and a warm afternoon on a wooden bench in some good, calm place.
But faster and faster, till I'm in my bed. Then goes the alarm clock at seven past six in the morning and it starts all over again.
I'll slug anyone who says everything's gonna be alright.
Anyone who reminds me I should make things right by myself will be slugged as well.
On Friday I watched with M. her shots from Greece. When I saw my smiling face (the White Tower in the background), I said I thought it weird that there'd been a time in my life when I was happy. Then M. reminded me: "you weren't really happy; you were just glad for a little while because we finally found this goddamn tower".
(Which was not a reproach.)
2008/03/12
the currents
I guess I'm going crazy - or at least my senses are. Today a gust of wind that smelt of May got through slightly open window into a streetcar. It was sweet, even a bit sickly. Also, I've already seen buds on trees (yes, I know, Warszawa is an urban heat island – but it still doesn't make the city buds artificial or less perverse than the country ones). The warm shade of sunlight makes Warszawa look different to me. On my way home I even noticed a few places where I would like to stroll aimlessly (something I never do, shame on me). The chiaroscuro works in favor of this city, it emphasizes the esthetic parts of it. (Dirty beggers are always in the shadow.) My body's response are longings. Desires. The lasting ones.
So, not surprisingly I have my delusions. Every so often I seem to notice Her on a bus stop, on a bike, on the other side of the street.
The time is kind of shrunk and I know that soon it'll be really warm. Today for a second my skin recalled this feeling it (she) gets on the hot July days, when the only thing my body craves for is a shelter from the sun.
It's like when you can't tell dream and reality apart. I'll get to know the warm currents again - for the first time.
I spent the whole Monday afternoon with the columns by Jeanette Winterson and the interview with her posted on the You Tube sites. This. Woman. Is. Life-giving. Her words, voice, her facial expressions. The gestures. It's really hard to believe she was brought up in a house without books, passion, without life. What strength does one need to possess to be capable of quoting as an anecdote their mother who once said: Why be happy when you can be normal? Where does one derive the strength from that enables them to fight "the dark side – the privilege of intelligence" with the very same intellect as their weapon? What "leitthought" prevents from dreaming all day long of coming home to hide as soon as possible? Where does the fire come from?
Love and art, JW’s answer would be. Love and art.
So, not surprisingly I have my delusions. Every so often I seem to notice Her on a bus stop, on a bike, on the other side of the street.
The time is kind of shrunk and I know that soon it'll be really warm. Today for a second my skin recalled this feeling it (she) gets on the hot July days, when the only thing my body craves for is a shelter from the sun.
It's like when you can't tell dream and reality apart. I'll get to know the warm currents again - for the first time.
I spent the whole Monday afternoon with the columns by Jeanette Winterson and the interview with her posted on the You Tube sites. This. Woman. Is. Life-giving. Her words, voice, her facial expressions. The gestures. It's really hard to believe she was brought up in a house without books, passion, without life. What strength does one need to possess to be capable of quoting as an anecdote their mother who once said: Why be happy when you can be normal? Where does one derive the strength from that enables them to fight "the dark side – the privilege of intelligence" with the very same intellect as their weapon? What "leitthought" prevents from dreaming all day long of coming home to hide as soon as possible? Where does the fire come from?
Love and art, JW’s answer would be. Love and art.
2008/03/09
All I need is sun. Sun is all I need.
It's the first spring-like Sunday. The air is already warmed up and my senses go crazy even here, in Warszawa, so at my parents' place the soil must have a moist smell and the forest is probably being aired. (I think it was this time last year that I went for a walk with Natalia and we frightened away a small herd of deer.) If I were moaning, I'd say that of course last week, when I visited my parents, the village was dump and cold like the mongrel fur, but having a cup of pu-erh and my flat filled with natural warm light makes the circumstances in which one is not allowed to moan.
Eighty percent of my body is a serene kind of the inner calm today. I recall Friday so that I won't forget that it was when six cats happened in the big and warm house of A., who is extremely knowledgeable about tea, wines and the history of politics, and apparently doesn't give a shit about our cultural picture of a woman as the object of observation (meaning the never-ending how do I look stuff). There's a lot of good content in her. Content of a great standard. And then I think back to yesterday's Robert's radio broadcast, which was filled with women's voices due to the eighth of march. He played Tracy Chapman at my request and it's always more than pleasant to me to influence what's happening on air – even if the broadcaster is an acquaintance of mine.
But. Still I can't get rid of this dark sediment deep inside me.
Today in the grocery a man dropped a bag with grapefruits; one of them rolled towards my shoes. I picked it up; it was big, orange and warm too, I guess. I handed it to the man. He smiled. It made me think of the pear thing in the "City of Angels" movie.
And then I took a streetcar and all passengers chose to sit on the right side, avoiding the rays of sunlight. I stayed on the left one alone and I felt like a black cat lying on the cobblestones in the summer afternoon, thinking that all those people inside their the houses just don't know what's good. In the same streetcar there was a gay couple and it was the prettiest, energetically the most pleasant looking couple of strangers I've seen in the last few months.
I think about it all to chase the unease off, to wash the sediment away. Cause I still make my attempts, I do it blindfold and nervously, but I do. On the other hand, the songs by Tracy Chapman irritate my senses, pointing at the most sensitive part of me; they remind me of my longings and desires. And? I've just purchased her latest album in the internet. But after all, who ever said I was consistent in my actions?
Eighty percent of my body is a serene kind of the inner calm today. I recall Friday so that I won't forget that it was when six cats happened in the big and warm house of A., who is extremely knowledgeable about tea, wines and the history of politics, and apparently doesn't give a shit about our cultural picture of a woman as the object of observation (meaning the never-ending how do I look stuff). There's a lot of good content in her. Content of a great standard. And then I think back to yesterday's Robert's radio broadcast, which was filled with women's voices due to the eighth of march. He played Tracy Chapman at my request and it's always more than pleasant to me to influence what's happening on air – even if the broadcaster is an acquaintance of mine.
But. Still I can't get rid of this dark sediment deep inside me.
Today in the grocery a man dropped a bag with grapefruits; one of them rolled towards my shoes. I picked it up; it was big, orange and warm too, I guess. I handed it to the man. He smiled. It made me think of the pear thing in the "City of Angels" movie.
And then I took a streetcar and all passengers chose to sit on the right side, avoiding the rays of sunlight. I stayed on the left one alone and I felt like a black cat lying on the cobblestones in the summer afternoon, thinking that all those people inside their the houses just don't know what's good. In the same streetcar there was a gay couple and it was the prettiest, energetically the most pleasant looking couple of strangers I've seen in the last few months.
I think about it all to chase the unease off, to wash the sediment away. Cause I still make my attempts, I do it blindfold and nervously, but I do. On the other hand, the songs by Tracy Chapman irritate my senses, pointing at the most sensitive part of me; they remind me of my longings and desires. And? I've just purchased her latest album in the internet. But after all, who ever said I was consistent in my actions?
2008/02/23
jump'em all!
One of the biggest advantages of having a flat all for myself is that I can jump. I can play songs of Mika Urbaniak, and then Björk. And then Royksopp, Tori Amos and Massive Attack. And Elizabeth Fraser, too. And I can jump, and jump, and jump. I can see myself in the mirror. I watch my face and my jumping pony. I like what I see. It might be a sort of masturbation. And I jump, and jump, and jump.
Oops, I forgot that the m word may hurt the Catholic feelings of girls from my university, the Society of Stupid Blonde Cunts that occupies itself with internet espionage. They got the blog of our lecturer only to comment on it in a mean and rather shitty way (I guess they know they'll never manage to climb up her level, her style), so they can get here as well. Whatever.
I do get angry, because the stupidity is not an excuse. Because I never dare to face the situation and react properly; it won't come until I'm here, all alone. (I jump and jump, and jump.) I never dare although I know that the blonde cunt is a dragon and what the dragon jeers at is an extremely positive phenomenon. The dragon is to be neutralized, or at least rebuked.
I get angry because of the whole week full of people I really can't abide.
But then I visit the precious blog of Remigiusz Grzela (Polish speakers – go for it: http://remigiusz-grzela.bloog.pl/ ) where I find a few poems from the new volume by Julia Hartwig. And the tranquility comes. Exactly like Jeanette Winterson says: poetry - an espresso; "an energy shot, a hit of warmth". Sobering and balance. Now it's bright and simple.
I met Krzysiek on Wednesday. He said I'd thrive in this city one day. It sounded like a citation and I'm almost sure it was one.
And yesterday I had a short talk with my dear high school Poet. He told me off for my Sisyphean "back to basic". "How much time will you waste on that?", he asked. I know he was right. But here, in this environment, completing small tasks is all I can do. This, and my soap bubbles shaped fantasies that don't even get skin close to the reality. So I try to do the basics, one by one. I painstakingly find the names for my actions, I try to remember the dates, I do the ironing and focus on consuming my whole-wheat bread. I drive myself to the thought exercise, at least five to ten minutes a day. Just not to let myself go crazy. These are the basics. I believe it's going to be smoothly later on, that I'll be able to relax. As for today I have to catch the rhythm, fluidize things, get used to my reflection in new mirrors (an awful lot of those in my new-old flat, by the way). I believe that's what to be done.
And if it's really wasting the time and hiding behind the pyramids of old blocks, built in a rather neurotic act, well, it's still the only thing I can do for now.
Talking about my jumping:
Oops, I forgot that the m word may hurt the Catholic feelings of girls from my university, the Society of Stupid Blonde Cunts that occupies itself with internet espionage. They got the blog of our lecturer only to comment on it in a mean and rather shitty way (I guess they know they'll never manage to climb up her level, her style), so they can get here as well. Whatever.
I do get angry, because the stupidity is not an excuse. Because I never dare to face the situation and react properly; it won't come until I'm here, all alone. (I jump and jump, and jump.) I never dare although I know that the blonde cunt is a dragon and what the dragon jeers at is an extremely positive phenomenon. The dragon is to be neutralized, or at least rebuked.
I get angry because of the whole week full of people I really can't abide.
But then I visit the precious blog of Remigiusz Grzela (Polish speakers – go for it: http://remigiusz-grzela.bloog.pl/ ) where I find a few poems from the new volume by Julia Hartwig. And the tranquility comes. Exactly like Jeanette Winterson says: poetry - an espresso; "an energy shot, a hit of warmth". Sobering and balance. Now it's bright and simple.
I met Krzysiek on Wednesday. He said I'd thrive in this city one day. It sounded like a citation and I'm almost sure it was one.
And yesterday I had a short talk with my dear high school Poet. He told me off for my Sisyphean "back to basic". "How much time will you waste on that?", he asked. I know he was right. But here, in this environment, completing small tasks is all I can do. This, and my soap bubbles shaped fantasies that don't even get skin close to the reality. So I try to do the basics, one by one. I painstakingly find the names for my actions, I try to remember the dates, I do the ironing and focus on consuming my whole-wheat bread. I drive myself to the thought exercise, at least five to ten minutes a day. Just not to let myself go crazy. These are the basics. I believe it's going to be smoothly later on, that I'll be able to relax. As for today I have to catch the rhythm, fluidize things, get used to my reflection in new mirrors (an awful lot of those in my new-old flat, by the way). I believe that's what to be done.
And if it's really wasting the time and hiding behind the pyramids of old blocks, built in a rather neurotic act, well, it's still the only thing I can do for now.
Talking about my jumping:
2008/02/22
moved in
Yyep. Hope to stay here a bit longer than I did at http://sukiya.blogs.friendster.com/
Time to have a look around.
Time to have a look around.
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