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.

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.

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.