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.
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