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.
2008/03/29
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?
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