2009/12/28
the begger
it would be much easier if you offended me. lied to me. if you raised your voice, made fun of me. if you slapped me across the face.
but it seems you remembered the writer's words well: not acting is also an action in itself. so you just don't do anything at all.
one step forward: i'm gonna say it to you for i can't stand it.
one step back: i ain't gonna say nothing for it would be begging.
i'm humiliated to the marrow, i despise myself.
i say nothing, i can only hear it growing inside of me. and i take another silent answer of yours. i read the dregs to find out its meaning.
my tights are torn, my face is dirty. i don't wail any more, and i don't swing back and forth. i just watch the beautiful lady with her man leaving the church, i fix my eyes on my raised hand and watch carefully while noting falls into my palm.
wondering whether i'll survive the winter.
but it seems you remembered the writer's words well: not acting is also an action in itself. so you just don't do anything at all.
one step forward: i'm gonna say it to you for i can't stand it.
one step back: i ain't gonna say nothing for it would be begging.
i'm humiliated to the marrow, i despise myself.
i say nothing, i can only hear it growing inside of me. and i take another silent answer of yours. i read the dregs to find out its meaning.
my tights are torn, my face is dirty. i don't wail any more, and i don't swing back and forth. i just watch the beautiful lady with her man leaving the church, i fix my eyes on my raised hand and watch carefully while noting falls into my palm.
wondering whether i'll survive the winter.
2009/12/27
let the ladies speak for myself
I wish I had a river so long,
Teach my feet to fly high
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on.
Teach my feet to fly high
Oh, I wish I had a river,
I could skate away on.
2009/12/26
24, full stop.
A weakling struggles in his gigantic little garments, execrates, makes threats, sobs. The world laughs hysterically. In the tenth row there's another one, just as small and weak; he watches the scene with a ball in his throat and a tear in his eye. He remains silent. For a short while he wants to scream his way through the cackle but he sinks before anyone has noticed anything. (The earth will spit him out with abomination later on, together with the scum.) Again and again, every day, in every village and in every town. ''Only the gentle are ever really strong'', said James Dean and died.
2009/12/25
Hughes, Szymborska
Ted Hughes - Drawing
Drawing calmed you. Your poker infernal pen
Was like a branding iron. Objects
Suffered into their new presence, tortured
Into final position. As you drew
I felt released, calm. Time opened
When you drew the market at Benidorm.
I sat near you, scribbling something.
Hours burned away. The stall-keepers
Kept coming to see you had them properly.
We sat on those steps, in our rope-soles,
And were happy. Our tourist novelty
Had worn off, we knew our own ways
Through the town’s runs. We were familiar
Foreign objects. When he’d sold his bananas
The banana seller gave us a solo
Violin performance on his banana stalk.
Everybody crowded to praise your drawing.
You drew doggedly on, arresting details,
Till you had the whole scene imprisoned.
Here it is. You rescued for ever
Our otherwise lost morning. Your patience,
Your lip-gnawing scowl, got the portrait
Of a market-place that still slept
In the Middle Ages. Just before
It woke and disappeared
Under the screams of a million summer migrants
And the cliff of dazzling hotels. As your hand
Went under Heptonstall to be held
By endless darkness. While my pen travels on
Only two hundred miles from your hand,
Holding this memory of your red, white-spotted bandanna,
Your short-sleeved jumper -
One of the thirty I lugged around Europe –
And your long brown legs, propping your pad,
And the contemplative calm
I drank from your concentrated quiet,
In this contemplative calm
Now I drink from your stillness that neither
Of us can disturb or escape.
Wisława Szymborska - The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word "woods."
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
[Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh]
Drawing calmed you. Your poker infernal pen
Was like a branding iron. Objects
Suffered into their new presence, tortured
Into final position. As you drew
I felt released, calm. Time opened
When you drew the market at Benidorm.
I sat near you, scribbling something.
Hours burned away. The stall-keepers
Kept coming to see you had them properly.
We sat on those steps, in our rope-soles,
And were happy. Our tourist novelty
Had worn off, we knew our own ways
Through the town’s runs. We were familiar
Foreign objects. When he’d sold his bananas
The banana seller gave us a solo
Violin performance on his banana stalk.
Everybody crowded to praise your drawing.
You drew doggedly on, arresting details,
Till you had the whole scene imprisoned.
Here it is. You rescued for ever
Our otherwise lost morning. Your patience,
Your lip-gnawing scowl, got the portrait
Of a market-place that still slept
In the Middle Ages. Just before
It woke and disappeared
Under the screams of a million summer migrants
And the cliff of dazzling hotels. As your hand
Went under Heptonstall to be held
By endless darkness. While my pen travels on
Only two hundred miles from your hand,
Holding this memory of your red, white-spotted bandanna,
Your short-sleeved jumper -
One of the thirty I lugged around Europe –
And your long brown legs, propping your pad,
And the contemplative calm
I drank from your concentrated quiet,
In this contemplative calm
Now I drink from your stillness that neither
Of us can disturb or escape.
Wisława Szymborska - The Joy of Writing
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word "woods."
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they'll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what's here isn't life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof's full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
[Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh]
2009/12/22
patiently
Like a satiated female cat that brings the game she hunted to put it on the doorstep. you give me your tears and tragedies. I already have a whole collection of dead bodies, my wardrobe won't close. I'm still waiting for you to come alone, without the ghosts of yours. so that I can put the boots on your feet, take you for a walk and buy some ice-cream. maybe we would even go dancing. it would be a warm summer night. like it was when I Met you for the first time. but for now, it's all right for my dream.
2009/12/20
this land is a wasteland.
it's a testimony to what never came to existence.
no matter how carefully you watch, you won't notice any silhouette, not a trace of any human activity.
in ten years time it might be Las Vegas or Saint Petersburg here.
or a forgotten hole at the back of beyond just as well.
it's probably no use waiting for the rain to fall, for wacky settlers or a goddamn miracle.
one should get down to work with their own hands.
it is daunting to see no-one by your side.
not knowing if it pays off at all.
it might well be that you're alone in this forever.
but then
how does it differ to what you're having now.
2009/12/18
hibernation mode
put me to sleep. inject me with amok. daze me. or make my love a reciprocated one and my home - a place that is mine. coldness kills very, very slowly.
2009/12/17
milky
winter nights are like milk obscured sky. I would give You snow from above if I could. the song plays in my head over & over again. I've got so much love in my tummy.
Your gaze
Your colour
I just die when I see
Your gaze
Your colour
I just die when I see
2009/12/15
childhood postcards
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
you're ill –
it's your fault.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
you've got an ache –
it's your fault.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
you're feeling said –
you brought yourself down.
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
there's something missing –
you didn't get it on time.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
you're alive.
blame yourself.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky!
your fault.
you're ill –
it's your fault.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
you've got an ache –
it's your fault.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
you're feeling said –
you brought yourself down.
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
there's something missing –
you didn't get it on time.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
you're alive.
blame yourself.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky!
your fault.
2009/12/13
Re: "the cold part"
come, my little yum-yum
do come in your night dream
it's were I'm always, always with You
and the wolves howl so far away that you can't tell it from the wind.
come.
do come in your night dream
it's were I'm always, always with You
and the wolves howl so far away that you can't tell it from the wind.
come.
Ted Hughes (IV)
"(...) There we were.
You were slim and lithe and smooth as a fish.
You were a new world. My new world.
So this is America, I marvelled.
Beautiful, beautiful America!"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
You were slim and lithe and smooth as a fish.
You were a new world. My new world.
So this is America, I marvelled.
Beautiful, beautiful America!"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
Ted Hughes (III)
"(...)
And I became aware of the misery
Of your lips, like nothing before in my life.
Their aboriginal thickness. And of your nose,
Broad and Apache, nearly as a boxer's nose,
Scorpio's obverse to the Semitic eagle
That made every camera your enemy,
The jailor of your vanity, the traitor
In your Sexual Dreams Incorporated,
Nose from Attila's horde: a prototype face
That could have looked up at me through the smoke
Of a Navajo campfire. And your small temples
Into which your hair-roots crowded, upstaged
By that glamorous, fashionable bang.
And your little chin, your Pisces chin.
It was never a face in itself. Never the same.
It was like the sea's face - a stage
For weathers and currents, the sun's play and the moon's.
Never a face until that final morning
When it became the face of a child - its scar
Like a Maker's flaw. But now you declaimed
A long poem about a black panther
While I held you and kissed you and tried to keep you
From flying about the room. For all that,
You would not stay.
(...)"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
And I became aware of the misery
Of your lips, like nothing before in my life.
Their aboriginal thickness. And of your nose,
Broad and Apache, nearly as a boxer's nose,
Scorpio's obverse to the Semitic eagle
That made every camera your enemy,
The jailor of your vanity, the traitor
In your Sexual Dreams Incorporated,
Nose from Attila's horde: a prototype face
That could have looked up at me through the smoke
Of a Navajo campfire. And your small temples
Into which your hair-roots crowded, upstaged
By that glamorous, fashionable bang.
And your little chin, your Pisces chin.
It was never a face in itself. Never the same.
It was like the sea's face - a stage
For weathers and currents, the sun's play and the moon's.
Never a face until that final morning
When it became the face of a child - its scar
Like a Maker's flaw. But now you declaimed
A long poem about a black panther
While I held you and kissed you and tried to keep you
From flying about the room. For all that,
You would not stay.
(...)"
[from: "18 Rugby Street"]
Ted Hughes (II)
"(...)
First sight. First snapshot isolated
Unalterable, stilled in the camera's glare.
Taller
Than ever you were again. Swaying so slender
It seemed your long, perfect, American legs
Simply went on up. That flaring hand,
Those long, balletic, monkey-elegant fingers.
And the face - a tight ball of joy.
I see you there, clearer, more real
Than in any of the years in its shadow -
As if I saw you that once, then never again.
The loose fall of hair - that floppy curtain
Over your face, over your scar. And your face
A rubbery ball of joy
Round the African-lipped, laughing, thickly
Crimson-painted mouth. And your eyes
Squeezed in your face, a crush of diamonds,
Incredibly bright, bright as a crush of tears
That might have been tears of joy, a squeeze of joy.
(...)"
[from: "St Botolph's"]
First sight. First snapshot isolated
Unalterable, stilled in the camera's glare.
Taller
Than ever you were again. Swaying so slender
It seemed your long, perfect, American legs
Simply went on up. That flaring hand,
Those long, balletic, monkey-elegant fingers.
And the face - a tight ball of joy.
I see you there, clearer, more real
Than in any of the years in its shadow -
As if I saw you that once, then never again.
The loose fall of hair - that floppy curtain
Over your face, over your scar. And your face
A rubbery ball of joy
Round the African-lipped, laughing, thickly
Crimson-painted mouth. And your eyes
Squeezed in your face, a crush of diamonds,
Incredibly bright, bright as a crush of tears
That might have been tears of joy, a squeeze of joy.
(...)"
[from: "St Botolph's"]
Lucia procession
madness. when it comes – I can tell You about it very precisely. it's like a scream in a silent movie. tension that cannot be brought outside.
my body ached, it was hard to stand upright.
I went out.
dark gray, the world soaked from skies to the ground.
saint Lucy's bright windows, the raindrops smash against the glittering panes.
then a dark, dark forest.
the tension tears blindfold, only sadness afterwards.
my body ached, it was hard to stand upright.
I went out.
dark gray, the world soaked from skies to the ground.
saint Lucy's bright windows, the raindrops smash against the glittering panes.
then a dark, dark forest.
the tension tears blindfold, only sadness afterwards.
2009/12/12
Ted Hughes (I)
"(...)
The shock of your joy
When you heard of that. Then the shock
Of your prayers. And under those prayers your panic
That prayers might not create the miracle,
Then, under the panic, the nightmare
That came rolling to to crush you:
Your alternative - the unthinkable
Old despair and the new agony
Melting into one famialiar hell.
(...)"
[from: "Visit"]
The shock of your joy
When you heard of that. Then the shock
Of your prayers. And under those prayers your panic
That prayers might not create the miracle,
Then, under the panic, the nightmare
That came rolling to to crush you:
Your alternative - the unthinkable
Old despair and the new agony
Melting into one famialiar hell.
(...)"
[from: "Visit"]
2009/12/09
Her embrace.a fortress
being in love can be so exhausting. wandering about on your tired, tired legs, with your eyes against the strongest light – only for a short life-saving moment in warmth and darkness.
being in love can be devastating. all the goals, facts and resolutions get totally mixed up.
being in love is like an illness. it prevents you from leading a normal life.
the little death.
where are You. do bring Her to me.
where are You.
being in love can be devastating. all the goals, facts and resolutions get totally mixed up.
being in love is like an illness. it prevents you from leading a normal life.
the little death.
where are You. do bring Her to me.
where are You.
2009/12/07
2009/12/01
||
I like early mornings and late evenings
the margin of life
won't be included in the register
I can do what I want
the margin of life
won't be included in the register
I can do what I want
2009/11/29
this love
You invite me to Your place
I put my temple on Your collarbone
I am in Your arms
the story of Yours begins
the story of darkness, of cold
You hold me tight
You plunge the knife into my body
You won't let me shut Your mouth
it's Your never ending game
I love You against Your will
You take me into the next chapter
repeating Your mantra: go away
and You hold me tight
I have Your back before me, I follow it
won't lose You
You turn around, make sure I'm there
and go again: don't go after me
it's the worst that can happen to you
you fool, go back, You say
then I scream
so You turn round, take me again and lead me further
You're the greatest enemy of Yours
You come to me to torment Yourself
so I fight against You
and I win.
I put my temple on Your collarbone
I am in Your arms
the story of Yours begins
the story of darkness, of cold
You hold me tight
You plunge the knife into my body
You won't let me shut Your mouth
it's Your never ending game
I love You against Your will
You take me into the next chapter
repeating Your mantra: go away
and You hold me tight
I have Your back before me, I follow it
won't lose You
You turn around, make sure I'm there
and go again: don't go after me
it's the worst that can happen to you
you fool, go back, You say
then I scream
so You turn round, take me again and lead me further
You're the greatest enemy of Yours
You come to me to torment Yourself
so I fight against You
and I win.
they don't love You like I love You
I wanna cut very carefully
like the river
precisely
to the core
blood is sweet it has no limits
if the source of blood dries up
it gives in
100 per cent or nothing
make that step
go, forget it, let it all go, let it all go.
like the river
precisely
to the core
blood is sweet it has no limits
if the source of blood dries up
it gives in
100 per cent or nothing
make that step
go, forget it, let it all go, let it all go.
2009/11/26
these good ppl
everybody worries. everybody is concerned.
of course they love you.
and you know what's my medicine, she said, I simply believe one day it's gonna be colorful again.
just don't take it that personally, said her friend.
we cannot help you in this, was someone else's reaction.
go out, you'll be better soon.
don't cry, don't cry, there's nothing you can do.
you obviously won't make it.
of course you can't handle it.
yes, it's good to be with your relatives when it happens.
oh, poor you.
I appreciate it all. but you'd just better shut up, really.
of course they love you.
and you know what's my medicine, she said, I simply believe one day it's gonna be colorful again.
just don't take it that personally, said her friend.
we cannot help you in this, was someone else's reaction.
go out, you'll be better soon.
don't cry, don't cry, there's nothing you can do.
you obviously won't make it.
of course you can't handle it.
yes, it's good to be with your relatives when it happens.
oh, poor you.
I appreciate it all. but you'd just better shut up, really.
2009/11/25
little star, you must have wanted the world to know
aurora
the eyes of a husky
rescue
float ice like a knife blade
low temperature of colors
S.O.S.
how do I go to the lighthouse
the eyes of a husky
rescue
float ice like a knife blade
low temperature of colors
S.O.S.
how do I go to the lighthouse
2009/11/06
Vishuddha
I speak of atheism in the language of Christianity.
I speak of women in the language of men.
I speak of You in loneliness.
I'm opening the Throat Chakra to start speaking the truth.
I speak of women in the language of men.
I speak of You in loneliness.
I'm opening the Throat Chakra to start speaking the truth.
2009/10/30
light blue
glass marbles
You've thrown them all over the place
now You're picking them
one by one
one by
one
till I breathe again
You've thrown them all over the place
now You're picking them
one by one
one by
one
till I breathe again
2009/10/23
2009/10/09
cause I don't speak German
So now I know what it's like when you sit down at the canteen with your awful food and your mate, after a moment of consideration, chooses to pass your table and to go and sit with somebody else, and it's all right after you forgot to pay for your meal and the cashier is chasing you across the canteen, demanding her money. The same evening you're sitting with a bunch of beautiful & funny people, but you just happen not to speak their language, neither can you drink their wine cause you take your antidepressants, so you're just watching them and trying to guess what was the joke that made them laugh their heads off. So you go to your room to cry your heart out and you call someone you love, but she talks to you as if you were a stranger cause she happens to be in somebody's someone's company, so you take your pills and finally fall asleep. You're dreaming that you play in a movie with Meryl Streep and that both of you are being thrown with shit at. You're waken up by your mate's call and you hear her asking why aren't you at the Stadtamt and you realize that you mixed the hours up and so you run to the place but since you're foreign here you run the wrong way, then you finally reach the Stadtamt, you sit down but you're so fucked up that you don't understand any of the clerk's word, so you leave totally embarrassed. You go out to the chilly morning, dreaming of a cup of hot sweet cocoa in some nice café but it looks like nobody feels like going with you so you just drag along to your home and wash the dishes after the party of those who had great time yesterday while you were having some strange illusions in the next room.
Yes, now I know what it's all like.
Yes, now I know what it's all like.
2009/10/04
uspavanka
See my smile I can hear your voice
coming from another room
in another land in a house
in a corner of my heart
I don't know what to put in my head, in my hands. a whirlwind of water and wind; dark, cold. I don't want anything else, not anybody else. only Her.
the open music box plays a lullaby. it's so small, I can take it, I can accept it. may it be the size of a drop, of a snowflake, may it close in a small casket and may it not hurt, not fester.
I don't know what it's all about any more.
is it about the distance between us or is it about all that's happened to You and me.
coming from another room
in another land in a house
in a corner of my heart
I don't know what to put in my head, in my hands. a whirlwind of water and wind; dark, cold. I don't want anything else, not anybody else. only Her.
the open music box plays a lullaby. it's so small, I can take it, I can accept it. may it be the size of a drop, of a snowflake, may it close in a small casket and may it not hurt, not fester.
I don't know what it's all about any more.
is it about the distance between us or is it about all that's happened to You and me.
2009/09/27
prayer
to be lucky enough not to have to ask some people for certain things. to have the luxury of ecological solutions, of freedom from exploiting the small and poor ones; of faith in justice. to be able to allow yourself not to agree to a compromise. to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth and have a chance to remain human till the very end.
2009/09/26
nosferatu
I'm standing with my back tightly against the wall, the sun is whipping my face. "Watch the sun until it becomes square"*, wrote Yoko Ono, but to me this sun is striking, I am staggering.
* "sun piece", winter 1962
* "sun piece", winter 1962
2009/09/24
fjarskanistan, amiina.
this day, this dusk. slowly I'm getting reconciled to the cold and the lack. for the 45 days after which there is you.
when you leave a place, the world seems to be slowing down. I have scenes from today before my eyes. cold hands of an Ukrainian woman. a fur dog toy in a shop window. a man at the post office, his daughter. it is when I become an affected school girl. which doesn't make my life easier at all.
images go faster and faster, the color gets blurred. the core stands still. it feels old. it tilts its head to the side and breathes quietly. it murmurs like the Tuvans and it knows somewhere there is you.
when you leave a place, the world seems to be slowing down. I have scenes from today before my eyes. cold hands of an Ukrainian woman. a fur dog toy in a shop window. a man at the post office, his daughter. it is when I become an affected school girl. which doesn't make my life easier at all.
images go faster and faster, the color gets blurred. the core stands still. it feels old. it tilts its head to the side and breathes quietly. it murmurs like the Tuvans and it knows somewhere there is you.
2009/09/15
2009/08/25
Last night I
woke up at my friends' (wrong word) place feeling a strong imperative to piss. When I sat on the loo I heard a loud miaow. My first sleepy reaction was to jump up and check quickly if I'm sitting on the cat. I don't know why I'm the only person who thinks it was a hilarious thing for me to do :]
2009/08/21
Kar Wai Wong, "2046"
When you don't take "no" for an answer, there is still a chance you'll get what you want.
Love is all a matter of timing.
Love is all a matter of timing.
2009/08/19
***
Young women wearing uniforms are marching through the streets of a port town. The wind pulls their shoulders, the sun lights up their faces; they're laughing. Some other time this town would bring rifles or stench, but now the air is filled with oxygen, in the background there's some sweet scent of the cologne. The sky from above the masts is descending in between the thighs. The sails are fluttering to satiate their lungs. Later at night the pavement looks exactly like the water depths. The women are stepping into it, hosts of sleepwalkers. Where do you exist for real. Maybe in the slim cigarettes smoke, maybe nowhere, or maybe right here, where the water hits against your thinly skin coated collarbone. Don't look at the lights. Let it go, don't fight. It was meant to be. The legend of the port town runs smoothly, some four year olds will drop their coins after you and their fathers will strain to see whether it's coppers that sparkle under water or your hair, like on that day when you were walking in your uniform, the wind blew and the port sky was falling on people's heads.
2009/08/10
Dúška materina
the woman has sown the field
said her prayer
infused the herbs
to bring her luck
the corn won't sprout
her skirt is clean and fresh
her hair plaited
she has rubbed some flowers into it
what else
yet it won't sprout
she can raise her hands up to the sky
or fall to her knees
but the night brings only silence
madness
and nothing else
the woman leaves the field
she's silent
she hopes
the next year will change everything
for what else can she do
said her prayer
infused the herbs
to bring her luck
the corn won't sprout
her skirt is clean and fresh
her hair plaited
she has rubbed some flowers into it
what else
yet it won't sprout
she can raise her hands up to the sky
or fall to her knees
but the night brings only silence
madness
and nothing else
the woman leaves the field
she's silent
she hopes
the next year will change everything
for what else can she do
2009/07/26
management error
I'm not brave enough to wander off into time. I can't help holding on to the dining times, still of the night and three calendars. This is what we are taught: the prison mode. And then when the walls are gone, there's a feeling as if the space has set its dogs on me.
When I can't tell a chance from danger, I run away from myself.
When I can't tell a chance from danger, I run away from myself.
2009/07/23
matters of the heart, T.C.
come down to me
with your voice
support me from underneath
I can smell cinnamon and wood
come
we'll walk away
barefoot
and we won't hurt anybody
with your voice
support me from underneath
I can smell cinnamon and wood
come
we'll walk away
barefoot
and we won't hurt anybody
2009/07/12
hermit style
I'm writing from Warsaw. Although officially I'm a martyr to the cause of mental health who rides every week 200 km to see her doctor that doesn't seem to be helping much, a part of me still savors the time I have to kill down here. No internet, no CD player. Empty rooms. I read "Biała gorączka" aloud to myself in the light of just one bulb – the other one doesn't work since I remember. I slowly smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and tea from the same cup. In the middle of the metropolis I've become a hermit that keeps away from technology and to whom a woman pays a visit from time to time. She comes to talk till late in the night and to smoke thin cigarettes.
Last night I slept with V. and although I didn't even touch her hand I felt warm and safe. My sleep was long and blissful. All night long she slept with her face turned to me as if she knew I hate having someone's back in front of me. In the morning she poured some juice into the glass for me. And then we smoked.
Last night I slept with V. and although I didn't even touch her hand I felt warm and safe. My sleep was long and blissful. All night long she slept with her face turned to me as if she knew I hate having someone's back in front of me. In the morning she poured some juice into the glass for me. And then we smoked.
2009/07/11
Gemini poem
JOHN LEHMANN
"To Penetrate That Room"
To penetrate that room is my desire,
The extreme attic of the mind, that lies
Just beyond the last bend in the corridor.
Writing I do it. Phrases, poems are keys
Loving's another way (but not so sure).
A fire's in there, I think, there's truth at last
Deep in a lumber chest. Sometimes I'm near,
But draughts puff out the matches, and I'm lost.
Sometimes I'm lucky, find a key to turn,
Open an inch or two – but always then
A bell rings, someone calls, or cries of 'fire'
Arrest my hand when nothing's known or seen,
And running down the stairs again I mourn.
"To Penetrate That Room"
To penetrate that room is my desire,
The extreme attic of the mind, that lies
Just beyond the last bend in the corridor.
Writing I do it. Phrases, poems are keys
Loving's another way (but not so sure).
A fire's in there, I think, there's truth at last
Deep in a lumber chest. Sometimes I'm near,
But draughts puff out the matches, and I'm lost.
Sometimes I'm lucky, find a key to turn,
Open an inch or two – but always then
A bell rings, someone calls, or cries of 'fire'
Arrest my hand when nothing's known or seen,
And running down the stairs again I mourn.
2009/07/10
postcards from the seaside
for Marek
a neurotic mouth dryness
huge feminine legs
as if seen through Schulz's eyes
a symphony
the bows slide on the veins
deep inside
a sultry smell
of a brilliant madness
until everything is flooded by the water
and only the Slavic soul
- the phantom at the opera
for Nina
on spec
'cause why not
breast, blush, a sip of champagne
sea breeze
shout
slamming of a limo door
the earrings are there to glitter
and to be
for Daria
the tide woman
the juices of life
red and orange with the flow
along the spiral
higher and higher
to the face close to which
many wanted to get warm
a pulsating sun
from the inside a small silver Tosia flows out
the eyes of the Aquarius
the tide woman
sunflowers
in the window of a lighthouse
for Vixo
those waves over your head
amniotic fluid
green shoots up your legs
underwater orchestra
threads of cigarette smoke
warm tides
champagne bubbles from the lips
you dance on the bottom
to "I Put a Spell On You" by Nina Simone
is it the ocean
or is it an aquarium at an amusement park
a neurotic mouth dryness
huge feminine legs
as if seen through Schulz's eyes
a symphony
the bows slide on the veins
deep inside
a sultry smell
of a brilliant madness
until everything is flooded by the water
and only the Slavic soul
- the phantom at the opera
for Nina
on spec
'cause why not
breast, blush, a sip of champagne
sea breeze
shout
slamming of a limo door
the earrings are there to glitter
and to be
for Daria
the tide woman
the juices of life
red and orange with the flow
along the spiral
higher and higher
to the face close to which
many wanted to get warm
a pulsating sun
from the inside a small silver Tosia flows out
the eyes of the Aquarius
the tide woman
sunflowers
in the window of a lighthouse
for Vixo
those waves over your head
amniotic fluid
green shoots up your legs
underwater orchestra
threads of cigarette smoke
warm tides
champagne bubbles from the lips
you dance on the bottom
to "I Put a Spell On You" by Nina Simone
is it the ocean
or is it an aquarium at an amusement park
2009/07/08
spinning July
Every day falls deep into my stomach. The chakra gets satiated but it also expands. What happened a week ago now seems whole light years away. Literally, these are the years full of glow with Tracy's concert at the Forest Opera being the brightest point. The air smelled with humidity and her voice was clear and warm. I felt like going home with her, I didn't want that energy to leave me. The sweetest. The strongest. I don't want to walk away. I took deep breaths to inhale as much as I could, but it was only a moment anyway. I raised my head and the stage was dark and cold again.
I went down because the yearning got swollen. I found a hollow and I was hot and wet from my tears. My temple, as if magnetized, sought for another one to cling to. The next morning was rainy and cold, and the streets of Sopot were pale. The sand was still damp since the night, far away some sails undulated on the horizon. The wind blew warmer and warmer. Strawberry M. joined me, it began to rain and she danced in the sea with an umbrella in her hand. There was a good laugh and a hypnotizing conversation that we sank into with hunger for words and attention. I laid my head on her knees. I was safe.
Another cut, I'll see D. today, for the first time since almost four years. I'll see the face of the woman that wants a divorce and I'll try not to show how the mere thought about it makes me internally contracted.
For now I wouldn't be even able to recognize her walk on the street. I don't even know what color she is. Four years.
I went down because the yearning got swollen. I found a hollow and I was hot and wet from my tears. My temple, as if magnetized, sought for another one to cling to. The next morning was rainy and cold, and the streets of Sopot were pale. The sand was still damp since the night, far away some sails undulated on the horizon. The wind blew warmer and warmer. Strawberry M. joined me, it began to rain and she danced in the sea with an umbrella in her hand. There was a good laugh and a hypnotizing conversation that we sank into with hunger for words and attention. I laid my head on her knees. I was safe.
Another cut, I'll see D. today, for the first time since almost four years. I'll see the face of the woman that wants a divorce and I'll try not to show how the mere thought about it makes me internally contracted.
For now I wouldn't be even able to recognize her walk on the street. I don't even know what color she is. Four years.
2009/07/06
the next morning
It's all the same fucking day, Janis was right
you open your eyes but the day hasn't stopped
the demon still weighs on the breast
hours grow stronger, the body falls down
uniformly and invariably
what's empty won't fill up
legs lead to a dead end
or along a circle
you can undertake to do something
you can stand still to the very end
the stigma remains on the forehead
movements make you forget only for a while
----------------------------------------------
Raise your head, look. Nothing's going to change for you, there is no you and there is nothing that you're not a part of.
That moment was beautiful, behind it you could see happiness that will never come true. The next morning you can only cry, coldness, the way to the sea. There is no solace, but on the foggy background the sails bend, look. Between you and the sky there is enough space for your yearning, for all your heart.
you open your eyes but the day hasn't stopped
the demon still weighs on the breast
hours grow stronger, the body falls down
uniformly and invariably
what's empty won't fill up
legs lead to a dead end
or along a circle
you can undertake to do something
you can stand still to the very end
the stigma remains on the forehead
movements make you forget only for a while
----------------------------------------------
Raise your head, look. Nothing's going to change for you, there is no you and there is nothing that you're not a part of.
That moment was beautiful, behind it you could see happiness that will never come true. The next morning you can only cry, coldness, the way to the sea. There is no solace, but on the foggy background the sails bend, look. Between you and the sky there is enough space for your yearning, for all your heart.
2009/07/05
my mantra
On July 5th I was at the concert of Tracy Chapman.
I was at the concert of Tracy Chapman.
The concert of Tracy Chapman.
Tracy Chapman.
I was at the concert of Tracy Chapman.
The concert of Tracy Chapman.
Tracy Chapman.
2009/07/03
echoes in the summertime
summer makes me bend my head down
a drop on my nape
the hair fall in a fan
sultry, sweet
shadows when the sun is fading away
like a gong
echoes undulate over the yellowed grass
hot heart beats under the thin layer
of the soil
a drop on my nape
the hair fall in a fan
sultry, sweet
shadows when the sun is fading away
like a gong
echoes undulate over the yellowed grass
hot heart beats under the thin layer
of the soil
2009/07/02
let it rain
Today was totally untypical.
I met with J., with whom I hardly ever, well, make a real appointment with a clear purpose to turn out at the same place and time. Usually, we see each other in a bigger circle of people or we just accidentally run across each other. We smoked slims though we're both non-smokers, especially when there's only the two of us. J. drank bear, I drank coke while the usual scheme is that I look around for alcohol and she gives nothankyous all night long. But the most weird is that we talked about ourselves for real. For the last two years I met her once in six months and today in just three hours I told her more than I've ever told people I meet everyday. (Now that's mathematics.) And I found out about things I never knew or even suspected. And we agreed on most of the stuff. We hugged. I guess we'll see each other tomorrow again.
I came home. For a half an hour a storm raged. Now I'm looking at the torn cotton of gray-blue clouds through window pane covered with rain drops. It's a calm evening.
Sometimes I feel so mentally balanced.
Sometimes life seems simple and spacious.
I met with J., with whom I hardly ever, well, make a real appointment with a clear purpose to turn out at the same place and time. Usually, we see each other in a bigger circle of people or we just accidentally run across each other. We smoked slims though we're both non-smokers, especially when there's only the two of us. J. drank bear, I drank coke while the usual scheme is that I look around for alcohol and she gives nothankyous all night long. But the most weird is that we talked about ourselves for real. For the last two years I met her once in six months and today in just three hours I told her more than I've ever told people I meet everyday. (Now that's mathematics.) And I found out about things I never knew or even suspected. And we agreed on most of the stuff. We hugged. I guess we'll see each other tomorrow again.
I came home. For a half an hour a storm raged. Now I'm looking at the torn cotton of gray-blue clouds through window pane covered with rain drops. It's a calm evening.
Sometimes I feel so mentally balanced.
Sometimes life seems simple and spacious.
dobranoc
When Jeanette Winterson appears in my dream, speaking Polish fluently and kissing me on my forehead, I wonder what's the probability that she really... well, that she really does speak Polish.
When a few days later I dream of Tracy Chapman holding my hand, I begin to think I'll start sleeping like my cat, 18 hours a day. And just dream, and dream, and dream...
When a few days later I dream of Tracy Chapman holding my hand, I begin to think I'll start sleeping like my cat, 18 hours a day. And just dream, and dream, and dream...
2009/06/29
human nature
Ok., let me say something officially.
I always loved Michael Jackson and I always will.
Damn, he spoke as soft as a woman.
Click, watch and continue with the parts 2-9.
I always loved Michael Jackson and I always will.
Damn, he spoke as soft as a woman.
Click, watch and continue with the parts 2-9.
2009/06/22
the republic of whatever
It's a November weather outside, I turned 21 and since 9.30 a.m. I'm on vacation.
I'm watching five Ally McBeal episodes in a row and looking at the neighbors' windows. Flowers in the vase, a few dates in my calendar.
I glance at the backs of the books good people gave me: Marek Edelman, Danilo Kiš, José Frèches, Jacek Hugo Bader. And the two I picked from the second-hand book shop: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse. I look at all of them, I touch them. They're intact. I smell them before I taste.
Time is so capacious to me now. I can go wherever I want to. I'm standing at the threshold, sinking into the prospect. Afraid to broach anything of it. Don't want to waste any hour.
I'm thinking about the people I could meet with now that I'm free. MT, MS. It would be a matter of just texting them. Or A., yes, I sent her a message, she wrote back as if she'd been waiting. We almost set a meeting, but I stopped. I trusted my intuition again, perhaps I'll regret it later on (again). Something tells me to hide from her, from each of the people. I lean towards desistance, I feel like the mere thought of the meeting could replace the actual event. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's me being tired. So I'm just sitting and looking at the neighbors' windows.
I can feel it coming. It always begins with cynicism and sarcasm. Then I ride down and down, only to discover a month later, with a junkie's exhilaration, that the world is still there and it's safe and sound. Sadness, sadness, always this dark sediment, indelible, no matter how sleepy my pills make me, or how – objectively – I have all possible reasons to be satisfied.
There's only one answer. Chocolate.
I'm watching five Ally McBeal episodes in a row and looking at the neighbors' windows. Flowers in the vase, a few dates in my calendar.
I glance at the backs of the books good people gave me: Marek Edelman, Danilo Kiš, José Frèches, Jacek Hugo Bader. And the two I picked from the second-hand book shop: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse. I look at all of them, I touch them. They're intact. I smell them before I taste.
Time is so capacious to me now. I can go wherever I want to. I'm standing at the threshold, sinking into the prospect. Afraid to broach anything of it. Don't want to waste any hour.
I'm thinking about the people I could meet with now that I'm free. MT, MS. It would be a matter of just texting them. Or A., yes, I sent her a message, she wrote back as if she'd been waiting. We almost set a meeting, but I stopped. I trusted my intuition again, perhaps I'll regret it later on (again). Something tells me to hide from her, from each of the people. I lean towards desistance, I feel like the mere thought of the meeting could replace the actual event. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's me being tired. So I'm just sitting and looking at the neighbors' windows.
I can feel it coming. It always begins with cynicism and sarcasm. Then I ride down and down, only to discover a month later, with a junkie's exhilaration, that the world is still there and it's safe and sound. Sadness, sadness, always this dark sediment, indelible, no matter how sleepy my pills make me, or how – objectively – I have all possible reasons to be satisfied.
There's only one answer. Chocolate.
2009/06/16
2009/05/30
bridges burnt
Today in my mailbox, apart from a dozen of leaflets, from which each had to be X-rayed in case there was an advice note, I also found a white, long envelope without sender or addressee. Clean, bulging, sealed.
My head – already spinning since I'm on the pills – started to buzz even more. Maybe it's A. She was here, didn't want to go upstairs, maybe she was afraid. Or maybe she came only with the intention to leave the envelope. It would be her first words since... autumn? In autumn I ignored everything. Sometime in the winter I sent her clothes back. No, not A.
So maybe M. It's so like her. She's been here too, so she knows the address. Inside there will be something warm, an invitation for a cup of tea or a play at the theater. Or simply a few sheets of words.
Or maybe anybody. Some kind of "come on, just pop in". Or "it's been enough".
Or at least some secret intrigue.
Quite easy to guess: an election brochure of some yokel. To cap it all, he's from the Law and Justice party.
My head – already spinning since I'm on the pills – started to buzz even more. Maybe it's A. She was here, didn't want to go upstairs, maybe she was afraid. Or maybe she came only with the intention to leave the envelope. It would be her first words since... autumn? In autumn I ignored everything. Sometime in the winter I sent her clothes back. No, not A.
So maybe M. It's so like her. She's been here too, so she knows the address. Inside there will be something warm, an invitation for a cup of tea or a play at the theater. Or simply a few sheets of words.
Or maybe anybody. Some kind of "come on, just pop in". Or "it's been enough".
Or at least some secret intrigue.
Quite easy to guess: an election brochure of some yokel. To cap it all, he's from the Law and Justice party.
2009/05/28
2009/05/26
pills.
strawberries in town.
charming are the people – until they come closer.
who will know, what may happen to me.
charming are the people – until they come closer.
who will know, what may happen to me.
2009/05/24
lemon balm
Last Friday A. – visibly eager for a conversation - made me come to a stop on the hall at the university. Our talk ran smoothly, sentences exchanged like the ball in ping-pong, the thread out of control. About absolutely nothing, with both of us interrupted halfway, going to places to do things.
Maybe I wouldn't have been so surprised, if I hadn't had to carry the immense load of silence only the day before when I was sitting next to A. at our dance classes, and hearing a one word answer after each of my desperate attempts to engage in the conversation.
I'm wondering whether it was a matter of coincidence or A.'s remorse.
Now it's one of the Sundays after the weekend at parents' place. In the fridge I have some herbs from my mother for the days to follow. To keep me strong.
Maybe I wouldn't have been so surprised, if I hadn't had to carry the immense load of silence only the day before when I was sitting next to A. at our dance classes, and hearing a one word answer after each of my desperate attempts to engage in the conversation.
I'm wondering whether it was a matter of coincidence or A.'s remorse.
Now it's one of the Sundays after the weekend at parents' place. In the fridge I have some herbs from my mother for the days to follow. To keep me strong.
2009/05/16
for a dream
"It's alright
All that I can claim
It's alright
And it will have to do
It's alright
Better than the pain
It's alright
Better than the truth
It's alright
alright for a dream
It's alright
Better than fate and the grand scheme
It's alright"
All that I can claim
It's alright
And it will have to do
It's alright
Better than the pain
It's alright
Better than the truth
It's alright
alright for a dream
It's alright
Better than fate and the grand scheme
It's alright"
2009/04/26
every day
Today in the morning at A.'s place, T. sat on the stairs and said: I like living, I learn about something new everyday. It completely changed the atmosphere around me and still lasts.
I'm thinking of Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson in "VCB"; I want to write down what they did in my memory well; it was true beauty to me.
I'm thinking of Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson in "VCB"; I want to write down what they did in my memory well; it was true beauty to me.
2009/04/05
stupefied
Today is like shrugging my shoulders.
And then I fall asleep with my eyes wide open.
But I enjoy the spring sounds of bicycles and roller skates coming from the outside.
And then I fall asleep with my eyes wide open.
But I enjoy the spring sounds of bicycles and roller skates coming from the outside.
2009/04/02
Lili,you know there's still a place for people like us
Today I would like to live in a country of citizens whose gender/sexual preferences and my needs are complementary.
I would like to see countries where mentally handicapped people laugh looking into lights and where there's no one who wouldn't know what to do with their hands when seeing their strange faces twisted in a grimace.
It won't do when they say there's enough place for everyone. I want to know that for every person there is a piece of time and space where they are just right in their form; legitimate, indispensable for other elements.
A world where everyone knows – and is totally sure about that – that the mere fact of being alive authorizes them to happiness, love, serenity – and so on.
Where nobody's move of knife against their own skin is overlooked; where for everyone there is a warm palm of the hand of somebody else. Destined. Waiting.
Such rubbish comes to my mind when I see how young, well educated and mentally balanced people completely consciously refuse to react when an ill person slowly kills herself.
(No, I'm not the one committing the slow suicide. Nor one of those who ignore it, thank God.)
I would like to see countries where mentally handicapped people laugh looking into lights and where there's no one who wouldn't know what to do with their hands when seeing their strange faces twisted in a grimace.
It won't do when they say there's enough place for everyone. I want to know that for every person there is a piece of time and space where they are just right in their form; legitimate, indispensable for other elements.
A world where everyone knows – and is totally sure about that – that the mere fact of being alive authorizes them to happiness, love, serenity – and so on.
Where nobody's move of knife against their own skin is overlooked; where for everyone there is a warm palm of the hand of somebody else. Destined. Waiting.
Such rubbish comes to my mind when I see how young, well educated and mentally balanced people completely consciously refuse to react when an ill person slowly kills herself.
(No, I'm not the one committing the slow suicide. Nor one of those who ignore it, thank God.)
2009/03/27
03/27
This is when I think of her most often. It is when it's been ten months since I decided I didn't want to see her again, now, when she's finally accepted it as a fact. Now she is here, all her, with everything I hated about her, with the beginning about four years ago, and with the night in one of the last summers – and with the end that frayed my nerves, like a dog, like a blow dealt blindfold.
I couldn't trust my mind till the very last page of "White Oleander" – couldn't believe in the perfect similarity between her, the one that's haunting me now, and Ingrid Magnussen. It's impossible, but there it is, 1:1, each comment, description, lines she speaks – it could have been you, somehow it is you to me, with all your fucking superiority that makes everybody around fall down, with the premeditation and poison of yours – but one that is able to defend itself with the weapon of its strength and beauty. The denial of all religious systems and common senses. You. The one I wasn't able to separate myself from and it wasn't until the great cold Berlin wall of not seeing, not listening and of remaining silent was built that I actually found some tangible distance between us. The forever distance.
Or
I don't know what it is – it's March 27, two and seven, these numbers always lead me to you – the nights begin to get warmer, it's no longer the season of the nights in which to survive, to run through; now the nights start having their content. The smell, the wind, and the sky lingers over its colors everyday a bit longer. And it's today that I read the last lines by Janet Fitch, you, you, you, till the last page with no objective human flaw – did Janet know you, wasn't she able to defeat you, just like I wasn't. Our single voice against you, against Ingrid Magnussen: sometimes the superiority and strength is not enough. Or rather: it's just not IT. (If we said you are simply evil, both of you would laugh your heads off.)
And just like at the end Astrid sits in her cold flat dreaming of her mother and Los Angeles, so my thoughts deviate in the direction of your body – how does it look like now? All I can see is your back, just like when I used to have dreams about you so often, always with your back to me, always three steps before me, unattainable. At some point I found in myself the disgust for you that's still inside me, together with the yearning.
The goddamn shrew, but still – the only one, one in a million.
Or maybe my mind has just mixed things up.
I couldn't trust my mind till the very last page of "White Oleander" – couldn't believe in the perfect similarity between her, the one that's haunting me now, and Ingrid Magnussen. It's impossible, but there it is, 1:1, each comment, description, lines she speaks – it could have been you, somehow it is you to me, with all your fucking superiority that makes everybody around fall down, with the premeditation and poison of yours – but one that is able to defend itself with the weapon of its strength and beauty. The denial of all religious systems and common senses. You. The one I wasn't able to separate myself from and it wasn't until the great cold Berlin wall of not seeing, not listening and of remaining silent was built that I actually found some tangible distance between us. The forever distance.
Or
I don't know what it is – it's March 27, two and seven, these numbers always lead me to you – the nights begin to get warmer, it's no longer the season of the nights in which to survive, to run through; now the nights start having their content. The smell, the wind, and the sky lingers over its colors everyday a bit longer. And it's today that I read the last lines by Janet Fitch, you, you, you, till the last page with no objective human flaw – did Janet know you, wasn't she able to defeat you, just like I wasn't. Our single voice against you, against Ingrid Magnussen: sometimes the superiority and strength is not enough. Or rather: it's just not IT. (If we said you are simply evil, both of you would laugh your heads off.)
And just like at the end Astrid sits in her cold flat dreaming of her mother and Los Angeles, so my thoughts deviate in the direction of your body – how does it look like now? All I can see is your back, just like when I used to have dreams about you so often, always with your back to me, always three steps before me, unattainable. At some point I found in myself the disgust for you that's still inside me, together with the yearning.
The goddamn shrew, but still – the only one, one in a million.
Or maybe my mind has just mixed things up.
2009/03/24
oh, life.
Last weekend I would have written I'd never grabbed precious time for myself as greedily as I had last Saturday, a sunny one, and the last one before my mother went to hospital. One of the best days of my life, like a well-risen full loaf of bread, cut into and finished with awareness of the good I'm making use of. She made me a cup of coffee with cardamom and then we worked in the garden for long hours, leaving traces of cardamom aroma behind us, in the strawberry beds. The soil was spring soft and our muscles didn't ache afterwards.
And then there was waiting for the surgery and the three of us - she, dad and me – wouldn't fall asleep at night and during the day we made endless phone calls: what did she say, how is she, what did they say, what does it mean, does it hold any promises. And on Thursday morning they took out the first place I found myself at on this earth – the only safe one. It's less than half an hour, and the piece cut out is really tiny, they had said. And on Sunday she began to worry about us all over again.
On my cranberries pack it says any refuses should be sent back to the producer. Below which they give you their e-mail address.
Last night I cried so hard I thought I'd throw up.
I texted her saying I felt sad. She wrote back from her hospital bed that I had to eat a beet this week, necessarily.
And then there was waiting for the surgery and the three of us - she, dad and me – wouldn't fall asleep at night and during the day we made endless phone calls: what did she say, how is she, what did they say, what does it mean, does it hold any promises. And on Thursday morning they took out the first place I found myself at on this earth – the only safe one. It's less than half an hour, and the piece cut out is really tiny, they had said. And on Sunday she began to worry about us all over again.
On my cranberries pack it says any refuses should be sent back to the producer. Below which they give you their e-mail address.
Last night I cried so hard I thought I'd throw up.
I texted her saying I felt sad. She wrote back from her hospital bed that I had to eat a beet this week, necessarily.
2009/03/07
another world
Antony Hegarty seems quite perfect a personality to me. A bit British, a bit American. Androgynous. Sad, but hoping. With great orchestra in the background. It's like above the yin yang level in the human evolution. Pretty perfect, really.
2009/03/02
bullshit.
What's fascinating about the human creature is the assumption that worrying about things will help get them under control.
2009/03/01
3 times
This weekend was so lavish and full that now I feel like a walrus in a dumpling pose on the beach with its tummy up to the sun, accumulating all sorts of warmth within a radius of 20 meters.
Friday. Party at P.'s place. Free vodka and chips, and meeting a perfect hermaphrodite: a guy with a head as shapely as Sinead O'Connor's (the Nothing Compares To You hairstyle) and with a clearly feminine kind of pride – the one which even among women happens once in a million hens. The yin-yang phenomenon stroked my head a few times and stated my jacket hood was so cool there was no way I could die. Which makes me consider the night an exceptional success.
Saturday. In the morning I exchanged 70 PLN for food (food! FOOD!) and after I got back I sat with my legs on the table to watch Korean "Happiness", crunching some delicious shit made of pure salt. I don't know how it's possible but the Taiwanese, Cambodian and Korean movies invariably leave me in the Asian state of concentration and serenity – even if, as it was in the "Happiness" case, they treat my emotions just like pagan washerwomen treated their old underclothes. (Which wasn't delicate, I assume.) And in the evening, "Slumdog Millionaire" in Multikino. Even if the movie had been poor, our discussion at the self-service check-out about the devise being in fact a document (and bill) shredder, and A's great act of courage when she climbed back all the way through the box office (walking on crutches) just to get her great love named Pepsi Max – all would have been enough to make my walrus tummy warm. But the movie wasn't poor at all, and although I couldn't physically bear to watch a few scenes from it, I do absorb it, make myself remember it; appreciate it.
And today there was spring explosion and the air smelt like some fresh laundry. I had much energy and went to the yoga centre open day. When it came to the downward facing dog, I felt my back singing "make me wanna shout".
And always always when I see the colors of the sky like yesterday's and today's evening, I can't help but hear songs by Sade in my head.
Full stop.
On Saturday my mom told me she's going to hospital soon again. I cried.
Friday. Party at P.'s place. Free vodka and chips, and meeting a perfect hermaphrodite: a guy with a head as shapely as Sinead O'Connor's (the Nothing Compares To You hairstyle) and with a clearly feminine kind of pride – the one which even among women happens once in a million hens. The yin-yang phenomenon stroked my head a few times and stated my jacket hood was so cool there was no way I could die. Which makes me consider the night an exceptional success.
Saturday. In the morning I exchanged 70 PLN for food (food! FOOD!) and after I got back I sat with my legs on the table to watch Korean "Happiness", crunching some delicious shit made of pure salt. I don't know how it's possible but the Taiwanese, Cambodian and Korean movies invariably leave me in the Asian state of concentration and serenity – even if, as it was in the "Happiness" case, they treat my emotions just like pagan washerwomen treated their old underclothes. (Which wasn't delicate, I assume.) And in the evening, "Slumdog Millionaire" in Multikino. Even if the movie had been poor, our discussion at the self-service check-out about the devise being in fact a document (and bill) shredder, and A's great act of courage when she climbed back all the way through the box office (walking on crutches) just to get her great love named Pepsi Max – all would have been enough to make my walrus tummy warm. But the movie wasn't poor at all, and although I couldn't physically bear to watch a few scenes from it, I do absorb it, make myself remember it; appreciate it.
And today there was spring explosion and the air smelt like some fresh laundry. I had much energy and went to the yoga centre open day. When it came to the downward facing dog, I felt my back singing "make me wanna shout".
And always always when I see the colors of the sky like yesterday's and today's evening, I can't help but hear songs by Sade in my head.
Full stop.
On Saturday my mom told me she's going to hospital soon again. I cried.
2009/02/22
the mother and the child.
Today is the birthday of my dearest and only friend. Colorful glasses in the sun. Marbles on the warm windowsill. Today I'm happy to have been born. I drank wine to her and she's beautiful. I don't know who I should ask to keep her healthy. And always standing by my side. Colorful glasses. Lots of fun. Thankyou.
2009/02/19
made in Poland.practice your composure
What's unbelievable in this country is the consistency with which important positions are granted to people who don't give a shit about their duties enough to undertake them. Aaaaaaaaaa!
2009/02/17
much ado
And when I get back to Warsaw to the university, it's quite soon that I start wondering: what is this stacked emotional stuff that I felt at home about? There is nothing, after all. What friendship? What love? What feelings?
Remember to buy your bread and write a paper for Wednesday. Prepare your lesson with the eight year old boy and in the evening maybe call mom. Nothing beyond that.
I may be provoked into a seeming ability to imagine IT. That CONTENT. I may be haunted by the vision.
But there is nothing beyond the same streetcar routes. I don't know how it's elsewhere. But surely not here.
Remember to buy your bread and write a paper for Wednesday. Prepare your lesson with the eight year old boy and in the evening maybe call mom. Nothing beyond that.
I may be provoked into a seeming ability to imagine IT. That CONTENT. I may be haunted by the vision.
But there is nothing beyond the same streetcar routes. I don't know how it's elsewhere. But surely not here.
2009/02/14
should be happy to be
morning crying like morning coffee. opening new chapter. the day trickles down in blue and brown. something written there, streamed down into emptiness. I have a look inside, turning my face away at the same time as I already know it by heart and don't feel like having any more.
every object, word or gesture are events. I feel unlucky as they happen to me. a color, marked in time – I never want it, it's always there.
funny how heavy a lack can be.
I write my great promises down on the water surface with my finger. they go away with the ripples. they'll never dry up.
every object, word or gesture are events. I feel unlucky as they happen to me. a color, marked in time – I never want it, it's always there.
funny how heavy a lack can be.
I write my great promises down on the water surface with my finger. they go away with the ripples. they'll never dry up.
2009/02/13
iron rods
Today I translated the narration text to the Uprising in Tibet 2008 film. Writing about torture still doesn't come easily so to find myself in a blissful state of mind I turned my new cd on and prepared a glass of martini with more than five olives drifting. (Usually I remember seven elements, in accordance with the anticipations of psychology, but in case of such an abundance more than five makes me dizzy.)
Oops.
Martini made me weepy and Let It Rain turned out to be a compilation of the saddest melodies by Tracy I've ever heard. But I kept on working. Sentences about iron rods. And vomiting. About deaths and cases of disappearance. I tried to be "technical", non-emotional, just to convey only as much temperature as the original reveals. Tomorrow I'll have a look at the ten pages results; today my face is red with crying and alcohol.
And this Tracy. This Tracy.
Oops.
Martini made me weepy and Let It Rain turned out to be a compilation of the saddest melodies by Tracy I've ever heard. But I kept on working. Sentences about iron rods. And vomiting. About deaths and cases of disappearance. I tried to be "technical", non-emotional, just to convey only as much temperature as the original reveals. Tomorrow I'll have a look at the ten pages results; today my face is red with crying and alcohol.
And this Tracy. This Tracy.
2009/02/10
small world
It was most wonderful of my mother to take me for a walk and make a cup of coffee for me this afternoon. My headache disappeared without a trace and I just stood at my window looking at the white turbine small on the horizon as I was sipping the coffee – and thinking why the hell David Lodge describes sexual intercourses in such a disgusting way...
2009/02/09
"kind of unworthy to listen to it"
Today I ate a bowl of sweetest food on the planet. It was horrible. Pineapple, orange, apple and banana dipped in chocolate melted with heavy cream. It was just unbearable.
Arranging my September teacher practice at my ex-high school lead me back to my German teacher that prepared me to my final exam. In the third form I went to her tiny empty flat to examine her broken fridge, to have a small talk about fashion designers and lonely women – and to do some exercises in German in the meantime. And now on the phone she was sweet like the chocolate. She said she's saved the message I sent her after the exam results were announced. I felt like hugging her. I imagine she was sitting there alone in her dark flat. She's a strong beast, red-haired and tall, wearing fur cap in the winter. But I wanted to hug her.
And then I thought about how consistently I achieved my goals one by one to pass my exam and to get to the applied linguistics department. When I look back on that time I feel I did it with the surgeon's precision, although I was scared stiff till the very end. But this was a success made with my own hands.
I started wondering why such effective actions don't apply to other spheres of my life. Why am I unable to figure out how to satisfy my needs on the relationships level. How come I don't now the way.
I melted away in my thoughts like that goddamn chocolate.
If only I knew. If I were able to make long-term plan, to fix certain actions and goals, to see myself achieving them, growing complete and strong. If I knew how to reach the sources of peace and balance.
I've always tried to be well prepared. Well-groomed, with a fine base. And however it proved helpful in mundane petty issues, in the case of people I almost always turn out not in time, not appropriate; literally naked. One great improvisation and embarrassment. Why?
If I were a painter, I would paint my reverie if that's the only way for you to be with me. If I knew how, I'd create my everyday life with the smallest details. I'd spare no pains, I'd tinker with it day and night.
I would risk it all this time.
By the way – I guess I have to ration Tracy's music. It really starts killing me. Today after just a few bars of Baby Can I Hold You I hysterically burst into tears. The problem with self–contemplation is that it gives questions only. Who you are vs. who you think you are. What do you do for others. Is there love in your life. What is love. What do you want. What's the quality and value of your life. You want to live in truth so you start looking at yourself thoroughly. You get pretty terrified with what you find out, so you look for hints. Except that there aren't any. Questions without answers.
So I run away.
I can see a small room. Summertime. Through the angled venetian blinds bars of warm light get inside. I can hear the sounds of cars, trees and kids on the street. I'm in this picture and I feel good and safe. I wait for somebody, a real human. A woman. She arrives. The ground beneath our feet is hardened with hours of conversations behind. With our being together. I can see her hand palm. Her hair. Reciprocity. She knows me and I know her. Serenity. There's a cat wandering along the windowsill. We laugh. She's beautiful. I have a lot to offer. I'm needed.
And then I see the night. The city lights, the music. Sweat and closeness. Tangibility of my own life in a shape I accept and really like. Fulfillment.
I can see myself among people. I can see fading away that I can endure. I'm involved in something beautiful and significant. Somewhere near my navel there's the balance. I'm warm in there and others can see that.
I am able to say what others think about me and it isn't contrary to my of vision of myself.
And, for God's sake, I don't torture myself thinking about me me me me 24 hours a day.
I can support myself financially and I look after someone. I'm objectively good at something. My skin smells nice. I'm relaxed.
Now I guess I can't stop listening to Tracy Chapman. It's all her.
No way because – as Rosie O'Donnell said – she's so cute I can hardly handle it.
Arranging my September teacher practice at my ex-high school lead me back to my German teacher that prepared me to my final exam. In the third form I went to her tiny empty flat to examine her broken fridge, to have a small talk about fashion designers and lonely women – and to do some exercises in German in the meantime. And now on the phone she was sweet like the chocolate. She said she's saved the message I sent her after the exam results were announced. I felt like hugging her. I imagine she was sitting there alone in her dark flat. She's a strong beast, red-haired and tall, wearing fur cap in the winter. But I wanted to hug her.
And then I thought about how consistently I achieved my goals one by one to pass my exam and to get to the applied linguistics department. When I look back on that time I feel I did it with the surgeon's precision, although I was scared stiff till the very end. But this was a success made with my own hands.
I started wondering why such effective actions don't apply to other spheres of my life. Why am I unable to figure out how to satisfy my needs on the relationships level. How come I don't now the way.
I melted away in my thoughts like that goddamn chocolate.
If only I knew. If I were able to make long-term plan, to fix certain actions and goals, to see myself achieving them, growing complete and strong. If I knew how to reach the sources of peace and balance.
I've always tried to be well prepared. Well-groomed, with a fine base. And however it proved helpful in mundane petty issues, in the case of people I almost always turn out not in time, not appropriate; literally naked. One great improvisation and embarrassment. Why?
If I were a painter, I would paint my reverie if that's the only way for you to be with me. If I knew how, I'd create my everyday life with the smallest details. I'd spare no pains, I'd tinker with it day and night.
I would risk it all this time.
By the way – I guess I have to ration Tracy's music. It really starts killing me. Today after just a few bars of Baby Can I Hold You I hysterically burst into tears. The problem with self–contemplation is that it gives questions only. Who you are vs. who you think you are. What do you do for others. Is there love in your life. What is love. What do you want. What's the quality and value of your life. You want to live in truth so you start looking at yourself thoroughly. You get pretty terrified with what you find out, so you look for hints. Except that there aren't any. Questions without answers.
So I run away.
I can see a small room. Summertime. Through the angled venetian blinds bars of warm light get inside. I can hear the sounds of cars, trees and kids on the street. I'm in this picture and I feel good and safe. I wait for somebody, a real human. A woman. She arrives. The ground beneath our feet is hardened with hours of conversations behind. With our being together. I can see her hand palm. Her hair. Reciprocity. She knows me and I know her. Serenity. There's a cat wandering along the windowsill. We laugh. She's beautiful. I have a lot to offer. I'm needed.
And then I see the night. The city lights, the music. Sweat and closeness. Tangibility of my own life in a shape I accept and really like. Fulfillment.
I can see myself among people. I can see fading away that I can endure. I'm involved in something beautiful and significant. Somewhere near my navel there's the balance. I'm warm in there and others can see that.
I am able to say what others think about me and it isn't contrary to my of vision of myself.
And, for God's sake, I don't torture myself thinking about me me me me 24 hours a day.
I can support myself financially and I look after someone. I'm objectively good at something. My skin smells nice. I'm relaxed.
Now I guess I can't stop listening to Tracy Chapman. It's all her.
No way because – as Rosie O'Donnell said – she's so cute I can hardly handle it.
2009/02/07
April Wheeler: I wanted IN.
No words to say, no words to convey this feeling inside I have for you. Too much thoughts, too little sleep (not at all today, actually) to utter anything more than Her lyrics.
This world and this life strikes me with its intertextuality. The conversations between the elements in the constellations, heard so well now the exams are finally over and I can truly pretend I don't depend on people at the university any more. Not listen to them, not talk to them. As if I weren't subordinate to the relations that I am made to have. As if it were ok to claim my own superiority, the belief in my great power that is suppressed only due to some unfavorable coincidence. Like the Wheelers' one. But now I'm getting pissed off and it wasn't supposed to be this way.
So this world strikes me with its structure. With the fact that the identity of each constituent can be established only on the basis of its opposition to another one. A juxtaposition that hurts a lot. Or that only Chomsky's deep structure can relate to the real meaning. It's a mystery; more light.
Or that with the very moment I stop thinking about my university duties and start wandering with a carefreeness only a tramp could afford, I get to like this city; feel its rhythm, sadness and possibilities. Or I guess I feel it. Jesus, Warsaw is big. And constantly fluctuating; it's so not true that this town never gets up. Or wakes up, was it. Not true whatsoever.
And when I find myself on a Thursday evening somewhere near the city center, I know it's perfectly ok that I live and feel this way because – in spite of this structural opposition thing – sometimes the feedback doesn't define you in any way. Even if I'm opting out from following the response just to save the ideal self. I'd be ready for any drastic moves for this part of me rather than most realistic and rational evidence.
The thing is I do love life, and particularly I love to experience. The texture of things and the loss of them. And I can perceive it only when I'm alone. (Taking into consideration only the people I've known so far. <- Safety measures they call it.) I'd give up all my acquaintances if I could keep all strings attached to words by Winterson or Tracy Chapman's music in this way. Cause the real proof is to be submitted to no one but to the judge deep in myself.
It is only the lack of strength to defend myself from everyday shit – and the constant yearning since I had a crush on The Famous Her. I might be wrong. Maybe it's my never-to-be-realized Paris. (The Wheelers again.) Maybe I won't be able to go without it any more. (April Wheeler.) But I'll stick to these desires no matter how they make me unable to fit in. Bullied. And lonely.
And so on.
Funny that from the two movies I've seen lately, Kirschblüten – Hanami and Revolutionary Road it was the first that I liked more, but I keep on thinking about the latter. Maybe it's the case of remembering the item presented as the last one.
Plus I haven't slept for twenty four hours and not a word from what I've written is what was meant to be here.
This world and this life strikes me with its intertextuality. The conversations between the elements in the constellations, heard so well now the exams are finally over and I can truly pretend I don't depend on people at the university any more. Not listen to them, not talk to them. As if I weren't subordinate to the relations that I am made to have. As if it were ok to claim my own superiority, the belief in my great power that is suppressed only due to some unfavorable coincidence. Like the Wheelers' one. But now I'm getting pissed off and it wasn't supposed to be this way.
So this world strikes me with its structure. With the fact that the identity of each constituent can be established only on the basis of its opposition to another one. A juxtaposition that hurts a lot. Or that only Chomsky's deep structure can relate to the real meaning. It's a mystery; more light.
Or that with the very moment I stop thinking about my university duties and start wandering with a carefreeness only a tramp could afford, I get to like this city; feel its rhythm, sadness and possibilities. Or I guess I feel it. Jesus, Warsaw is big. And constantly fluctuating; it's so not true that this town never gets up. Or wakes up, was it. Not true whatsoever.
And when I find myself on a Thursday evening somewhere near the city center, I know it's perfectly ok that I live and feel this way because – in spite of this structural opposition thing – sometimes the feedback doesn't define you in any way. Even if I'm opting out from following the response just to save the ideal self. I'd be ready for any drastic moves for this part of me rather than most realistic and rational evidence.
The thing is I do love life, and particularly I love to experience. The texture of things and the loss of them. And I can perceive it only when I'm alone. (Taking into consideration only the people I've known so far. <- Safety measures they call it.) I'd give up all my acquaintances if I could keep all strings attached to words by Winterson or Tracy Chapman's music in this way. Cause the real proof is to be submitted to no one but to the judge deep in myself.
It is only the lack of strength to defend myself from everyday shit – and the constant yearning since I had a crush on The Famous Her. I might be wrong. Maybe it's my never-to-be-realized Paris. (The Wheelers again.) Maybe I won't be able to go without it any more. (April Wheeler.) But I'll stick to these desires no matter how they make me unable to fit in. Bullied. And lonely.
And so on.
Funny that from the two movies I've seen lately, Kirschblüten – Hanami and Revolutionary Road it was the first that I liked more, but I keep on thinking about the latter. Maybe it's the case of remembering the item presented as the last one.
Plus I haven't slept for twenty four hours and not a word from what I've written is what was meant to be here.
 |
2009/01/23
the 'why sth' routine
I'm not sure. Maybe it's the weather, the color of the sky exactly reflecting the winter grey of concrete. And the coolest kind of light. Or maybe it's love happening somewhere near, so strange and unavailable to be. Or maybe my soar throat or four exams still before me.
Sounds fall on my desk heavily, my skin is dry and cold. I don't seem to be capable of keeping a cup of tea warm in my hands. It is the time of sleeping, time of not being. Time to be passive among books and piano music.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
And I'm dreaming of colorful tulips in the springtime and fresh wind with the smell of sea and soil being born again. My pale face describes it best, all the things I lack indicate the most beautiful moments with endless vivid structures under the skin.
How one can possibly be so weary. So out of life, tied to it only by some bizarre bonds of habit.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
I replied that reading it and all my emotional reactions to it didn't change much.
Nor did sending it in, she wrote back.
Sounds fall on my desk heavily, my skin is dry and cold. I don't seem to be capable of keeping a cup of tea warm in my hands. It is the time of sleeping, time of not being. Time to be passive among books and piano music.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
And I'm dreaming of colorful tulips in the springtime and fresh wind with the smell of sea and soil being born again. My pale face describes it best, all the things I lack indicate the most beautiful moments with endless vivid structures under the skin.
How one can possibly be so weary. So out of life, tied to it only by some bizarre bonds of habit.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
I replied that reading it and all my emotional reactions to it didn't change much.
Nor did sending it in, she wrote back.
2009/01/12
chain chain chain
Unjustified beauty. Undeserved, illegitimate. January, eight ante meridiem, an hour pink on the snow in the early sunlight.
Sometimes I'm sarcastic towards my own dreams and yearnings - colossi on clay legs. I think of You before I fall asleep and I deride myself, yes, it's so obvious – everyone sticks to their thoughts of somebody else, just like to a water spring. Which poisons them with yet another yearning.
Sometimes I'm sarcastic towards my own dreams and yearnings - colossi on clay legs. I think of You before I fall asleep and I deride myself, yes, it's so obvious – everyone sticks to their thoughts of somebody else, just like to a water spring. Which poisons them with yet another yearning.
2009/01/06
nights in Warsaw
I feel kind of sorry for the cars standing in front of the apartment house and freezing at night.
I do find their tiny muzzles cute.
I do find their tiny muzzles cute.
2009/01/03
yearning. burning
The beauty of this day. Loose snow. Frost. Sun. High above - bright, tight clouds, lower – dark stripes passing fast. When a dark bird was flying in between two of them, for a moment I thought it would burn. Mother made a cup of coffee for me. For me only. How I needed it.
The Lazy Hours album purrs in my loudspeakers.
Beauty, beauty, beauty... And the beauty is gone. (Osiecka)
The Lazy Hours album purrs in my loudspeakers.
Beauty, beauty, beauty... And the beauty is gone. (Osiecka)
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