2010/12/29
2010/12/27
'into the fire, I'll reunite'
mother always told me not to torture myself with thoughts about stuff that's not up to me
but I can't help getting obsessed with keeping up the fire
that burns totally on its own.
I want to feed the fire.
take me.
but I can't help getting obsessed with keeping up the fire
that burns totally on its own.
I want to feed the fire.
take me.
2010/12/25
desired constellations
what if that person didn't come to your life to see you, but just happened to be passing by. maybe in your perspective the lines and the angles constitute a frame in which things are clear. you speak one language and you look each other right in the eye. but you're not the master of the constellation. neither of you is. it's not up to you. there are those inevitable natural laws you have to adjust to. according to them, if your chain and hers aren't complementary, it just won't work.
no matter how much it makes you tremble.
no matter how well she responds to your yearning.
and they call science a perfect kingdom. ridiculous, now isn't it.
do we dare to bend the rules of time and space. to bow to each other's demands. now do we.
does the happy ever after make the game worth the candle. now does it.
no matter how much it makes you tremble.
no matter how well she responds to your yearning.
and they call science a perfect kingdom. ridiculous, now isn't it.
do we dare to bend the rules of time and space. to bow to each other's demands. now do we.
does the happy ever after make the game worth the candle. now does it.
2010/12/24
fireworks down at the waterfront
"Whatever it is that hurls you past the boundaries of your own life into a brief and total beauty, even for a moment, it is enough."
[Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries]
[Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries]
"I'm not going to die. I'm going to live forever until one day I'll wake up and I'll be a turtle."
scary, monstrous, when I say, hey mom, you remember that girl, well, she's sick, kind of, she's really not doing well, and then she goes
yes, I know
I already noticed it before.
all of it with my sister present, whose resignation and constant giving in have been long leading her in the same glum direction.
yes, we all know that. impossible not to notice. no, there's nothing we could do about it. cause what could it be.
because, really, everybody is left to themselves. and really, everyone generates their own driving force, gives it its final shape and tinge. totally by themselves.
it is not bad news. it's an obligation to act.
the marry-christmas-and-happy-new-year formula is not really something I'd put in my discourse, but. I do wish for the world to have fun this time of year. so, like Grace Stalker used to say to her lovely turtles: go, play.
yes, I know
I already noticed it before.
all of it with my sister present, whose resignation and constant giving in have been long leading her in the same glum direction.
yes, we all know that. impossible not to notice. no, there's nothing we could do about it. cause what could it be.
because, really, everybody is left to themselves. and really, everyone generates their own driving force, gives it its final shape and tinge. totally by themselves.
it is not bad news. it's an obligation to act.
the marry-christmas-and-happy-new-year formula is not really something I'd put in my discourse, but. I do wish for the world to have fun this time of year. so, like Grace Stalker used to say to her lovely turtles: go, play.
2010/12/22
2010/12/20
give priority. to yourself
make them treat you right
it's an absolute prerequisite
yet how easy to forget.
there's no
meaning something else than what it says
waiting for better days from the very beginning
or giving more time for the respect to come.
the nature of prerequisites
is that they come first.
it's an absolute prerequisite
yet how easy to forget.
there's no
meaning something else than what it says
waiting for better days from the very beginning
or giving more time for the respect to come.
the nature of prerequisites
is that they come first.
2010/12/18
"The Happiness Culture doesn't help"
"Listen, I am not into pain for its own sake. (...) And like everyone else, it is easier for one horrid thing in the day to knock me over, rather than for 3 nice things in the day to have the same kind of impact.
But maybe that is because the horrid things act like a sponge for all the pressed down upsets that we can't look at – and if we could look at them and live with them a little bit more, maybe the knocks of the day wouldn't be so hard, because they wouldn't be attracting the other stuff buried in there.
For myself, I hate feeling dreadful feelings. As a solution-based person I am always asking myself ‘What can I do about X?’ But that isn't the right question – not straight away – not for the real stuff. Sitting with feeling is just awful, but it does help the feeling to form, and then it helps us to understand it.
Later, there will have to be a solution. But a solution too early just seals in the problem at a deeper level."
Jeanette Winterson
[read the whole article here]
But maybe that is because the horrid things act like a sponge for all the pressed down upsets that we can't look at – and if we could look at them and live with them a little bit more, maybe the knocks of the day wouldn't be so hard, because they wouldn't be attracting the other stuff buried in there.
For myself, I hate feeling dreadful feelings. As a solution-based person I am always asking myself ‘What can I do about X?’ But that isn't the right question – not straight away – not for the real stuff. Sitting with feeling is just awful, but it does help the feeling to form, and then it helps us to understand it.
Later, there will have to be a solution. But a solution too early just seals in the problem at a deeper level."
Jeanette Winterson
[read the whole article here]
"Cold was master. Heat was servant."
let's go through it all yet again. Thursday falls right on you, what a stabbing surprise. in your head you recall each of the sentences you heard, waiting 'till some time round you'll finally get it and understand what makes people behave like carefully calculated pigs that you let in your place and feed with warmth. this mantra puts you to sleep and when you wake up it's already the day after, then one or two more and you drag yourself out of it and watch the winter sun spots move on the calendar squares, you drift further and further from that Thursday, which will soon become just one of countless days, a moment when something happened, but you can't remember exactly what it was. you wait for the anger to come, a healthy sign of recovery. eventually, a big fat chunk of time accumulates, separating you from the events, making you unsure of what it was all about. so sit, wait for the water to drip, for the sea to fill up again.
when I say what I think of people and interpersonal relations, I'm asked, whether it's really something I believe in. so, what, am I supposed to lower my standards? oh, no, you just wait, search for poeple of the same beliefs. how much pitifulness in their words. for each utterance of theirs, one bottle of wine and one pack of cigarettes for my part. that's my dialogue with the world. because winter and I, well, we really hate each other.
The day I was born.
It was a cold snowy winter New York. Cold was master. Heat was servant. Cold landlorded it in every tenement block, pushing the heat into smaller and smaller corners, throwing the heat out onto the streets where it disappeared in freezes of steam.
J. Winterson, Gut Symmetries
when I say what I think of people and interpersonal relations, I'm asked, whether it's really something I believe in. so, what, am I supposed to lower my standards? oh, no, you just wait, search for poeple of the same beliefs. how much pitifulness in their words. for each utterance of theirs, one bottle of wine and one pack of cigarettes for my part. that's my dialogue with the world. because winter and I, well, we really hate each other.
The day I was born.
It was a cold snowy winter New York. Cold was master. Heat was servant. Cold landlorded it in every tenement block, pushing the heat into smaller and smaller corners, throwing the heat out onto the streets where it disappeared in freezes of steam.
J. Winterson, Gut Symmetries
2010/12/04
some new project
today, early in the morning, I said that what I needed was stability.
what I was offered, was irregular, destabilized certainty.
I'm sitting and watching loads of snow my neighbor pushes off their balcony. hypnotizing.
a fine, fine piece of December I have.
what I was offered, was irregular, destabilized certainty.
I'm sitting and watching loads of snow my neighbor pushes off their balcony. hypnotizing.
a fine, fine piece of December I have.
2010/11/29
sparkle
oh the infamous yearning is in town. it's come along with the soft loads of snow. every hour there's more and more of it. it reshapes the roofs and covers the tree branches. how cold can people's faces get when I watch them through the snowy walls. I can feel all of us gliding down a snow storm whirlwind. down into the fatigue, darkness and cold. and yet I'm alone in this. the other day I experienced beauty that is slipping through my fingers. so, looks like I'm back to my primeval fears and instincts. how dark a night can be.
however! the oh so anticipated kitsch party is going to bring us back to life, isn't it.
however! the oh so anticipated kitsch party is going to bring us back to life, isn't it.
2010/11/23
2010/11/11
the oceanic self
"This pain, the pain of unrequited love, occurred at such regular intervals during my childhood and adolescence that I don't care to write about it. It was a terrible and continuous pain and there was no deflecting it, only bearing it. When my parents prepared spaghetti, I always noticed the one noodle left behind in the strainer, forsaken, forgotten, while its companions lay intertwined in each others' arms, hot and steaming, in the large bowl at the centre of the table. When love was pain, I felt like that noodle. I never ate pasta without beforehand going to the strainer in the sink. I would look upon this bereft noodle, curled upon itself in search of comfort, and I would bring it love by eating it tenderly."
Yann Martel Self
Yann Martel Self
2010/11/08
the elisabeth of phrases won't let me sleep
I'm sitting in my wooden bed, hating electronic appliances. flashes make me sick, so do tiny elements, enclosed worlds, mental shortcuts so processed and transformed that I don't recognize what they're made of any more. I'm begging for wood, for paper. I want to put black soil into my mouth, I want to chew it, I want to get rid of the pop art, so overreacting in its brightness, though I like, I used to like it so terribly, I want to get back, I want to get back, I want to get back.
words like bread, the primeval bread with the low, sallow smell. so that I can sense how the structure breathes. and then the mycelium, the great motherly organism, wet corridors in constant proliferation, swelling, layer writing.
palimpsest smelling like life, and off to the soaked field with that laptop.
hundreds of hours spent in front of the screens fill my stomach, and those flashes, flashes again, like in Sankya's story, when they were beating him up, like he was, so I am waiting for the loss of consciousness, for the current to stop irritating my veins and for it all to collapse.
blood, mercury, metallic sheen.
it gushes from my body.
and it's such a pity that there's no ablative case in Polish any more.
words like bread, the primeval bread with the low, sallow smell. so that I can sense how the structure breathes. and then the mycelium, the great motherly organism, wet corridors in constant proliferation, swelling, layer writing.
palimpsest smelling like life, and off to the soaked field with that laptop.
hundreds of hours spent in front of the screens fill my stomach, and those flashes, flashes again, like in Sankya's story, when they were beating him up, like he was, so I am waiting for the loss of consciousness, for the current to stop irritating my veins and for it all to collapse.
blood, mercury, metallic sheen.
it gushes from my body.
and it's such a pity that there's no ablative case in Polish any more.
2010/11/07
'the charm of the written word that sets you free'
the end of the light season, now the rainy time of year, the water collects in long drops over my balcony and falls rarely, but with a load of extreme; swollen pendulum; November perpetual motion machine.
I feel helpless.
against the trance character of the theater situation, with dozens of people sitting on the one side and Herta Müller with Angelika Kuźniak on the other, the women immersed in a low and quiet conversation, over two hours long. German language with a Romanian accent, black hair and black lines under Herta's eyes, all her figure as if drawn with a piece of charcoal, so distinct, so sophisticated and dark, dark, dark.
meditation, with her sitting up there, like a black polished onyx; over our heads a theatrical muddle of fastenings and lights (yet subdued), black walls and overexposed photographs projected on the wall behind the stage. I was focused, the water surface was calm, but I broke the evening subversively together with three women and a man – though it's hard to believe, we went for a pizza and beer which we drank to Herta (may the heavens forgive us). yet I don't regret making that holy state cloudy. those people are more important, even if I can see a tinge of hypocrisy underneath their occasionally friendly utterances, even if my communication with B. is apparently getting torn and twisted, even if I'm not totally comfortable with it and I can't really be who I want myself to be, still, being with them is most important.
It is beautiful to live. No matter whether this life is beautiful or not.
H.M.
I feel helpless.
against the trance character of the theater situation, with dozens of people sitting on the one side and Herta Müller with Angelika Kuźniak on the other, the women immersed in a low and quiet conversation, over two hours long. German language with a Romanian accent, black hair and black lines under Herta's eyes, all her figure as if drawn with a piece of charcoal, so distinct, so sophisticated and dark, dark, dark.
meditation, with her sitting up there, like a black polished onyx; over our heads a theatrical muddle of fastenings and lights (yet subdued), black walls and overexposed photographs projected on the wall behind the stage. I was focused, the water surface was calm, but I broke the evening subversively together with three women and a man – though it's hard to believe, we went for a pizza and beer which we drank to Herta (may the heavens forgive us). yet I don't regret making that holy state cloudy. those people are more important, even if I can see a tinge of hypocrisy underneath their occasionally friendly utterances, even if my communication with B. is apparently getting torn and twisted, even if I'm not totally comfortable with it and I can't really be who I want myself to be, still, being with them is most important.
It is beautiful to live. No matter whether this life is beautiful or not.
H.M.
2010/11/06
we didn't get an equal start, sister.
to carry a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste in your bag whenever you go out.
associations?
to me, last summer, when I had a lover and I knew that sensuality could bring me to her place and I might not want to go home.
Herta Müller:
And I received summons. They wanted to humiliate me. Often. I began to carry a small towel, toothbrush and a toothpaste in my bag. The interrogator called me a piece of shit, junk, a parasite, a bitch. This was when he was furious. When his mood was better, I was a whore or an enemy. When I only took his office time, I was a slut.
Because writing is opposite to living. When I write, I do not exist in a sense. As a person I cannot be occupied with myself. Usually, I don't work on a book too long, because I can't stand the tension. When writing, I have to find myself where I'm most hurt inside, otherwise I wouldn't have to write at all.
It's like walking a knife blade, in between disclosure and preserving the secret.
H.M.
[translations mine]
associations?
to me, last summer, when I had a lover and I knew that sensuality could bring me to her place and I might not want to go home.
Herta Müller:
And I received summons. They wanted to humiliate me. Often. I began to carry a small towel, toothbrush and a toothpaste in my bag. The interrogator called me a piece of shit, junk, a parasite, a bitch. This was when he was furious. When his mood was better, I was a whore or an enemy. When I only took his office time, I was a slut.
***
Because writing is opposite to living. When I write, I do not exist in a sense. As a person I cannot be occupied with myself. Usually, I don't work on a book too long, because I can't stand the tension. When writing, I have to find myself where I'm most hurt inside, otherwise I wouldn't have to write at all.
It's like walking a knife blade, in between disclosure and preserving the secret.
H.M.
[translations mine]
2010/11/04
pop.art
I'm tired
of the alcohol, cigarettes, dancing, sleep deprivation
I'm excited
new acquaintances tend to make an impression of absolute uniqueness and life-giving freshness
I'm confused
a question was asked for me to answer, but I don't seem to be able to do it
so, instead, I think how nice it is of the Western culture to create something more than just those piles of plastic coca-cola bags that lie forever on the dirty Balkan streets; it can sometimes do the cultural recycling, too, making use of its own icons: Marilyn on a bag, Audrey on a fridge, Elvis on a saucer. it seems so environment-friendly to me.
and for tomorrow
I'm not prepared, yet again.
It doesn't matter
What you create
If you have no fun
Pretty girl
Put down your pen
Come over here
I'll show you how its done
I can dance, I can drink
In the dark
It's all a trick
Across the room, across the street
I'm in the moment
Can't you see
I'm a party girl
Do a twirl
See my eyes, throw a glance
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl, funny girl
Make you laugh, want me bad
Now I feel so much better
In the back
Of a car
I just met them tonight and I feel like such a star
What's your name
What's your art
Nobody knows
About my broken heart
Yes I'm a party girl
Crazy girl
See my lips, how they move
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl
Sexy girl
I used to be so fragile
But now I'm so wild
What did you do last night?
Oh, I was out so late, now I'm so tired
What did you do last night?
Oh, I was out so late, now I'm so tired
I'm a party girl
Do a twirl
See my eyes, throw a glance
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl, funny girl
Make you laugh want me bad
Now I feel so much better
I used to cry
But now I don't have the time
I used to be so fragile
But now I'm so wild
I used to cry
But now I don't have the time
I used to be so fragile but now I'm so wild
So wild
of the alcohol, cigarettes, dancing, sleep deprivation
I'm excited
new acquaintances tend to make an impression of absolute uniqueness and life-giving freshness
I'm confused
a question was asked for me to answer, but I don't seem to be able to do it
so, instead, I think how nice it is of the Western culture to create something more than just those piles of plastic coca-cola bags that lie forever on the dirty Balkan streets; it can sometimes do the cultural recycling, too, making use of its own icons: Marilyn on a bag, Audrey on a fridge, Elvis on a saucer. it seems so environment-friendly to me.
and for tomorrow
I'm not prepared, yet again.
It doesn't matter
What you create
If you have no fun
Pretty girl
Put down your pen
Come over here
I'll show you how its done
I can dance, I can drink
In the dark
It's all a trick
Across the room, across the street
I'm in the moment
Can't you see
I'm a party girl
Do a twirl
See my eyes, throw a glance
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl, funny girl
Make you laugh, want me bad
Now I feel so much better
In the back
Of a car
I just met them tonight and I feel like such a star
What's your name
What's your art
Nobody knows
About my broken heart
Yes I'm a party girl
Crazy girl
See my lips, how they move
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl
Sexy girl
I used to be so fragile
But now I'm so wild
What did you do last night?
Oh, I was out so late, now I'm so tired
What did you do last night?
Oh, I was out so late, now I'm so tired
I'm a party girl
Do a twirl
See my eyes, throw a glance
Can't you see I'm a natural
Life of a party girl, funny girl
Make you laugh want me bad
Now I feel so much better
I used to cry
But now I don't have the time
I used to be so fragile
But now I'm so wild
I used to cry
But now I don't have the time
I used to be so fragile but now I'm so wild
So wild
2010/11/02
Walt Whitman
"When I heard the Learn'd Astronomer"
WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
P.s. As for Whitman, in the heat of the translation process, one of my mates translated "...saying that Walt Whitman was a racist" into "...twierdząc, że Walt Disney był rasitą". Awesome, isn't it.
WHEN I heard the learn'd astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.
P.s. As for Whitman, in the heat of the translation process, one of my mates translated "...saying that Walt Whitman was a racist" into "...twierdząc, że Walt Disney był rasitą". Awesome, isn't it.
2010/11/01
yeah, do it!
the m**** project
top secret!
i can feel it coming
hope she wouldn't be terrified if she knew
hope she wouldn't sue us for stalking
after all
we just adore her for her way
just admire her style
her gentle chocolate existence
amazing, how one can master their act of being to such an extent that it thrills me.
go, girl.
P.s. M's response to my s&s, suits this home made annoying Monday perfectly:
top secret!
i can feel it coming
hope she wouldn't be terrified if she knew
hope she wouldn't sue us for stalking
after all
we just adore her for her way
just admire her style
her gentle chocolate existence
amazing, how one can master their act of being to such an extent that it thrills me.
go, girl.
P.s. M's response to my s&s, suits this home made annoying Monday perfectly:
2010/10/31
Mårran
this little happiness of mine that seems to me in every moment.
today was again so very bright, this time I watched the light here, in the countryside. strange smoke, very extensive, maybe coming from the grave lights, maybe just from the October. vast space full of sunlight, long shades. sounds more and more muffled. the first snow is coming, they say, with their voices full of reverence and fear; they want to see the Groke and yet they're afraid of it.
and so am I.
the light so final and glaring, it's beautiful, but it's extreme, I'm afraid of the threshold and the new paragraph, I keep on searching my serenity.
I'm interested in the view, the field and the balk, the quality of wind and multi-layered structure of silence. I can feel it pulsating in my stomach and to have this eternal hideout up here is like knowing there's always a safety net underneath, when I walk the Warsaw line. it's all very lyrical and I don't want to be pretentious; sarcastic neologisms that bud in my head when I'm in the city are much easier to defend. here is the tender place and emotions are like skating on thin ice, and then it's difficult to get into communication here, these places are more about being quiet. micro world, most beautiful prison. feels like I've always wanted to meditate through it all, work on it with my senses, but there was never enough time, body, attention. my legs are so astride. and I don't seem to know what is an illusion and what is real, because the truth of this Masovian plain and the Warsaw truth are two separate things. both in black and white.
I need to calm down.
P.s. I love, endlessly.
today was again so very bright, this time I watched the light here, in the countryside. strange smoke, very extensive, maybe coming from the grave lights, maybe just from the October. vast space full of sunlight, long shades. sounds more and more muffled. the first snow is coming, they say, with their voices full of reverence and fear; they want to see the Groke and yet they're afraid of it.
and so am I.
the light so final and glaring, it's beautiful, but it's extreme, I'm afraid of the threshold and the new paragraph, I keep on searching my serenity.
I'm interested in the view, the field and the balk, the quality of wind and multi-layered structure of silence. I can feel it pulsating in my stomach and to have this eternal hideout up here is like knowing there's always a safety net underneath, when I walk the Warsaw line. it's all very lyrical and I don't want to be pretentious; sarcastic neologisms that bud in my head when I'm in the city are much easier to defend. here is the tender place and emotions are like skating on thin ice, and then it's difficult to get into communication here, these places are more about being quiet. micro world, most beautiful prison. feels like I've always wanted to meditate through it all, work on it with my senses, but there was never enough time, body, attention. my legs are so astride. and I don't seem to know what is an illusion and what is real, because the truth of this Masovian plain and the Warsaw truth are two separate things. both in black and white.
I need to calm down.
P.s. I love, endlessly.
2010/10/24
loved by the author
"The woman translator... is not simply subordinated, she is not the author's secretary. She is also the one who is loved by the author and on whose basis alone writing is possible. Translation is writing; that is, it is not translation only in the sense of transcription. It is a productive writing called forth by the original text."
Jacques Derrida
Jacques Derrida
2010/10/20
red and gold
October is getting covered by the mist, but the low light won't stop filter through. Something immense and full keeps me alive; it keeps my pace fast and feeds my self-contained, lasting love without any particular addressee. I do everything I can to remain calm. Light grey landscapes of Warsaw, the wind blows, women are taking their gloves out of their wardrobes. Warm colors are moving lower and lower, from up on the trees to right under our feet, because this city has seen so many kings and queens, and each of them thought their skyscraper was the highest.
Hold on, hold on and don't forget that most of the things that make that fuss aren't really important. Find the core and calm it. Don't let yourself be misled. Don't hurt. Yourself.
Hold on, hold on and don't forget that most of the things that make that fuss aren't really important. Find the core and calm it. Don't let yourself be misled. Don't hurt. Yourself.
2010/10/19
''I remember you so fondly'", said the Queen
In the theater foyer I met the Queen – like I do every year, when in the autumn time beautiful women marked by the dark stigma of literature gather up to watch the festival plays. men do, too.
she showed herself the same as I remembered her: petite and subdued, in her tiny court shoes, with her eyes focused – that's why I always saw resemblance between her and Szymborska: on the one hand, cynical bitterness of a badly intelligent person who might have had experienced a lot, on the other, this stubborn, irremovable element of girlishness, the sparkle, the cheerful contrariness, which work so refreshing cause they won't let her get used to the world in its bizarre form.
on the first day, only a greeting – she was just dialling her daughter's number.
on the second day, I sat on a hassock next to her. She gave me her characteristic close look; no matter what is the distance between you and her, you get a feeling that for a moment her mind is being to you, she's sitting and thinking to you, but not like the professor in Ferdydurke did, although this is precisely the context we share, no, she's becoming for someone and to someone in a most friendly and endearing way. she asked me an awful lot of questions, to which I responded with that verbal diarrhea of mine; thousands of words and none of them was what I wanted it to be. you look so good, she said, and then she ran away, pretending she had to. and I wasn't sure any more, whether I was really the only one, for whom this accidental meeting was so special, so damn special that it was almost unbearable.
or maybe I was the only one, indeed. one's opinion of themselves shall not be too high.
having left the theater, I felt like crying. that woman, that beautiful one, that distant one, about whose death I dreamt just a few nights before. see you next year in the theater. you, the belle.
she showed herself the same as I remembered her: petite and subdued, in her tiny court shoes, with her eyes focused – that's why I always saw resemblance between her and Szymborska: on the one hand, cynical bitterness of a badly intelligent person who might have had experienced a lot, on the other, this stubborn, irremovable element of girlishness, the sparkle, the cheerful contrariness, which work so refreshing cause they won't let her get used to the world in its bizarre form.
on the first day, only a greeting – she was just dialling her daughter's number.
on the second day, I sat on a hassock next to her. She gave me her characteristic close look; no matter what is the distance between you and her, you get a feeling that for a moment her mind is being to you, she's sitting and thinking to you, but not like the professor in Ferdydurke did, although this is precisely the context we share, no, she's becoming for someone and to someone in a most friendly and endearing way. she asked me an awful lot of questions, to which I responded with that verbal diarrhea of mine; thousands of words and none of them was what I wanted it to be. you look so good, she said, and then she ran away, pretending she had to. and I wasn't sure any more, whether I was really the only one, for whom this accidental meeting was so special, so damn special that it was almost unbearable.
or maybe I was the only one, indeed. one's opinion of themselves shall not be too high.
having left the theater, I felt like crying. that woman, that beautiful one, that distant one, about whose death I dreamt just a few nights before. see you next year in the theater. you, the belle.
2010/10/13
yet again tricky
if chasing after those who don't give a shit and running away from those who think I'm so amazing they kinda want to be like me was a competition, I'd be the freakin champion.
2010/10/10
"I'm your good old friend. well, maybe not good. but a friend", said She.
I'm the background girl. I'm the support girl. I'm the attention girl. but I can only hope that the few people I care about are safe tonight.
yes, I said September was amazing, as it was indeed, because although it might seem vampiric, I need human matter to be happy, not to slow down, to push myself forward. but I have to be honest with myself and admit that I'm only hiding what makes me uneasy, not solving the whole thing. cause today I realized I'm not able to search for serenity in open spaces, landscapes and silence any more. since last spring I've been jamming something inside me with loud music, alcohol, smoking; with people, again and again, thousands of gestures, words, associations; meetings, events; with concepts that absorb my attention and won't let me go down into the deep structure as there's so much going on up here, on the surface. I used to laugh at Her flat mate, who out-talked all her depression; she would never let the other person have a word, as if she'd been afraid that she would hear the voice of her own conscience. what is it. that stain on our thought, the one we fight with the white hum, with the noise, throwing bullshit out through all possible canals. what is it, what is it now.
I don't seem to know.
I wasn't happy before either, so no, I don't think I'm lying to myself here and no, I don't blame myself – at least now people are within my reach, it's important, it's good and it's healthy. but I'm not able to be with my own thoughts, with myself, openly, overtly. instantly, I start looking for someone, whose voice would destroy this intimate quiet.
I met Her, sober, though it's hard to believe. so theatrical a meeting, twenty minutes in the heart of the city, at 2.30 a.m., Her wandering look and as usually all effort not to let the conversation get real, not to let honesty in. I kissed Her on her forehead, She kissed me back on my lips. and now silence again. She's the star of the sea, She'll decide herself when to surface again. I want to know She's safe.
I worry about people, I worry how I'm gonna manage and I moan way too much.
and inside that memento photograph there will always be a part of me. I know.
yes, I said September was amazing, as it was indeed, because although it might seem vampiric, I need human matter to be happy, not to slow down, to push myself forward. but I have to be honest with myself and admit that I'm only hiding what makes me uneasy, not solving the whole thing. cause today I realized I'm not able to search for serenity in open spaces, landscapes and silence any more. since last spring I've been jamming something inside me with loud music, alcohol, smoking; with people, again and again, thousands of gestures, words, associations; meetings, events; with concepts that absorb my attention and won't let me go down into the deep structure as there's so much going on up here, on the surface. I used to laugh at Her flat mate, who out-talked all her depression; she would never let the other person have a word, as if she'd been afraid that she would hear the voice of her own conscience. what is it. that stain on our thought, the one we fight with the white hum, with the noise, throwing bullshit out through all possible canals. what is it, what is it now.
I don't seem to know.
I wasn't happy before either, so no, I don't think I'm lying to myself here and no, I don't blame myself – at least now people are within my reach, it's important, it's good and it's healthy. but I'm not able to be with my own thoughts, with myself, openly, overtly. instantly, I start looking for someone, whose voice would destroy this intimate quiet.
I met Her, sober, though it's hard to believe. so theatrical a meeting, twenty minutes in the heart of the city, at 2.30 a.m., Her wandering look and as usually all effort not to let the conversation get real, not to let honesty in. I kissed Her on her forehead, She kissed me back on my lips. and now silence again. She's the star of the sea, She'll decide herself when to surface again. I want to know She's safe.
I worry about people, I worry how I'm gonna manage and I moan way too much.
and inside that memento photograph there will always be a part of me. I know.
2010/09/30
the power of fire
Today I felt as if I were inside a memento photograph. Life has its ways and it mostly goes on a spiral; upwards.
Once you've fallen in love with someone, your love is independent on time and space. It becomes one of the eternal truths of the Universe.
"My heart is full of love, my heart won't nurse any grudge."
P.s. Another good stuff found by Blogger: click.
Once you've fallen in love with someone, your love is independent on time and space. It becomes one of the eternal truths of the Universe.
"My heart is full of love, my heart won't nurse any grudge."
P.s. Another good stuff found by Blogger: click.
2010/09/29
kiss of life
for the last couple of weeks my life has been what I've always wanted it to be. it's magic.
No revolution, no radical change has taken place, though.
Inside me, She opened a window that let the life-giving air in. It comes from people.
When I close my eyes and begin to straighten, to unravel and bend back what has gotten stuck and rumpled in a nervous cramp, under my eyelids I can see the view from her window on the fourth floor: the sea of trees, the garden on the neighboring building's roof, and far away, on the background of summer evening, the Palace of Culture and Science and the Blue Tower Plaza, also called the Blue or the Golden Skyscraper, because in the evening it reflects the sunlight as if it came from inside the building. The Palace and the Tower pulsate with tiny lamps, I loved watching it far into the night.
I can feel emotions in my stomach, deep and causative ones, attached to the view. It symbolizes inside me an era which delays its passing away. Everybody knows it's inevitable; it has already taken place. Slowly, carefully, I straighten the fingers of the emotion, one by one, until the hand is off me, then the other one. Then, gradually, the distance between us will get bigger and bigger, and the emotion itself will drift away, too. Finally, the summer trees, hot concrete, the sapphire sky and the palace with the skyscraper will all be captured in a snow globe that I'll admire without any distraction of mind. Finally, I hope I'll see with my eyes wide open a new view symbolizing the core of positive energy, so that I won't need to close them to warm my hands with my memories.
Whenever I find serenity, I feel as if the head of someone who's dear and good to me was protected with a warm palm of a hand; I don't know whether I'm the source of the protection or the one who derives the sense of security from it, but I guess I might be both.
"If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophesy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, [love] is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes in all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tounges, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing. For we know partially and we prophesy partially, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things. At present, we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known. So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."
Paul of Tarsus, 1 Corinthians Ch. 13
P.s. Vote for love.
No revolution, no radical change has taken place, though.
Inside me, She opened a window that let the life-giving air in. It comes from people.
When I close my eyes and begin to straighten, to unravel and bend back what has gotten stuck and rumpled in a nervous cramp, under my eyelids I can see the view from her window on the fourth floor: the sea of trees, the garden on the neighboring building's roof, and far away, on the background of summer evening, the Palace of Culture and Science and the Blue Tower Plaza, also called the Blue or the Golden Skyscraper, because in the evening it reflects the sunlight as if it came from inside the building. The Palace and the Tower pulsate with tiny lamps, I loved watching it far into the night.
I can feel emotions in my stomach, deep and causative ones, attached to the view. It symbolizes inside me an era which delays its passing away. Everybody knows it's inevitable; it has already taken place. Slowly, carefully, I straighten the fingers of the emotion, one by one, until the hand is off me, then the other one. Then, gradually, the distance between us will get bigger and bigger, and the emotion itself will drift away, too. Finally, the summer trees, hot concrete, the sapphire sky and the palace with the skyscraper will all be captured in a snow globe that I'll admire without any distraction of mind. Finally, I hope I'll see with my eyes wide open a new view symbolizing the core of positive energy, so that I won't need to close them to warm my hands with my memories.
Whenever I find serenity, I feel as if the head of someone who's dear and good to me was protected with a warm palm of a hand; I don't know whether I'm the source of the protection or the one who derives the sense of security from it, but I guess I might be both.
"If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal. And if I have the gift of prophesy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, [love] is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, believes in all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tounges, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing. For we know partially and we prophesy partially, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things. At present, we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known. So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."
Paul of Tarsus, 1 Corinthians Ch. 13
P.s. Vote for love.
2010/09/27
"The main thing is that I still remember"
Oh Zemfira, do marry me.
As for Her, because unfortunately, it is still about Her, I felt her near today and I was waiting, and waiting, and waiting. What is wrong with me. It turned out to be the worst shot. Way off the target. What is wrong with me, it's totally the wrong person for me.
It's still holidays and I'm already working like crazy. An intense sunny week in the city. A lot of translating, a lot of chasing around. One evening with such a quantity of alcohol that having drunk it probably makes an imbecile out of me. And then one with moderate two glasses of beer.
Met a fantastic woman who's gonna teach me Russian. She ridiculed my volunteer work: oh woman, you do the job, you take money for it. It's never for free, there's always someone to pay and in this case it's you. She's right, I think. But then I think of P. who does it almost 24/7 and it doesn't bring him a penny. And of the Foundation that has practically no money of its own. And of my benefit of having real texts to translate, with real deadlines, which is necessary for me to complete any serious task at all. Finally, I think of how much easier it is for me to do things when I'm not paid for it. She says: you all in your generation are like that. Just sitting at the table and talking, talking, talking, although there's nothing on that table you could feed yourself with. Funny. She must be talking of some other generation than mine.
M.'s quite often at my place, so elusive, as usually; devoted, yet so distant. Self-sufficient.
D. on Tuesday, for the first time since that summer evening a year ago. Why won't life spoil her, when her face is so sweet one can hardly resist her.
A. & F. finally moved to Warsaw, they took me to a nice place on Saturday. She was there too.
B. gets back tonight, it all might be fun. That pace has been successfully preventing me from thinking. Not. To. Think. Cut myself off from those who pity me. Not to think. Eat. Drink. Laugh. Not to think.
Oh, Tracy. Do marry me.
As for Her, because unfortunately, it is still about Her, I felt her near today and I was waiting, and waiting, and waiting. What is wrong with me. It turned out to be the worst shot. Way off the target. What is wrong with me, it's totally the wrong person for me.
It's still holidays and I'm already working like crazy. An intense sunny week in the city. A lot of translating, a lot of chasing around. One evening with such a quantity of alcohol that having drunk it probably makes an imbecile out of me. And then one with moderate two glasses of beer.
Met a fantastic woman who's gonna teach me Russian. She ridiculed my volunteer work: oh woman, you do the job, you take money for it. It's never for free, there's always someone to pay and in this case it's you. She's right, I think. But then I think of P. who does it almost 24/7 and it doesn't bring him a penny. And of the Foundation that has practically no money of its own. And of my benefit of having real texts to translate, with real deadlines, which is necessary for me to complete any serious task at all. Finally, I think of how much easier it is for me to do things when I'm not paid for it. She says: you all in your generation are like that. Just sitting at the table and talking, talking, talking, although there's nothing on that table you could feed yourself with. Funny. She must be talking of some other generation than mine.
M.'s quite often at my place, so elusive, as usually; devoted, yet so distant. Self-sufficient.
D. on Tuesday, for the first time since that summer evening a year ago. Why won't life spoil her, when her face is so sweet one can hardly resist her.
A. & F. finally moved to Warsaw, they took me to a nice place on Saturday. She was there too.
B. gets back tonight, it all might be fun. That pace has been successfully preventing me from thinking. Not. To. Think. Cut myself off from those who pity me. Not to think. Eat. Drink. Laugh. Not to think.
Oh, Tracy. Do marry me.
2010/09/14
about food, about hunger
The Blogs of Note series proved surprisingly nourishing today. Food for thought served by:
1) Mila's Daydreams
How useful a little baby can be! The mother's project is so incredible that it made me think it had to be a photo-montage at first. It's extremely inventive and fabulous. I think if I saw myself as a baby on pictures like these I'd feel weird, though.
2)Loopy Boopy Art Doll
Quite scary at first, but when you have a closer look it actually proves beautiful, mysterious and sophisticated. Just like human beings. Plus the author seems a gifted writer. The blog might turn my new fav.
3) Hyperbole and a Half
It caught my eye 'cause it looked like a twin project to Natalie Dee's. It's kinda brilliant.
4) Wait in the Van
I'm not sure what the blog is all about, but I'm determined to find out as there's some wacky energy to it.
All the content is more than refreshing, yet Internet has ceased to be enough to me. It's people I need. Colorful, laughing, talking, moving people. Drinking, smoking, dancing people. Story tellers. Today I haven't seen any familiar face for the first time since Tuesday, August 21st. And I definitely did not have the need to take a rest from them.
I need my family of friends. Constantly.
Tomorrow I'm going to my parents' place for a long weekend, though everything inside me wants to stay. If it wasn't for the fact that the few people I adore have left Warsaw, too, I guess I'd skip the long awaited doc appointment, make something up, I don't know, anything, just to stay. Ma and Pa are great. It's just that they don't know.
So in this whole lot of mess I'm trying hard to keep myself occupied. Two guys come to my place twice a week and I teach them English [so good nobody reads this blog, otherwise I'd run a risk some native speaker would drop dead at this point]. They're a year older than me and study political science. Both of them quite funny. Men seem just too often funny to me. I love women. I can only love women. And my father. And R., my dear old male friend, who's awesome, all the way.
But yes, I keep myself busy also translating for the Foundation. I guess it's something I can really be good at.
I've also composed a birthday gift for M.
I know it's nothing of a piece of art, but I still like it.
And then I've also made a photo album, all by myself. It felt like preparing a gift for myself. A consolation.
It contains my spring and summer photos: B.'s birthday party, Easter, two spring weekends (one with M. and one with my parents), the week at the seaside with Her and finally the Austrian shots. These were most intense, hectic and, well, happy seasons, which gave me loads of new experiences. I'm actually exhausted, but there's no way I'd want my life to slow down. Quite the opposite.
Oh dizzy is how I feel. Late nights, late mornings, days too short. Yearning yearning yearning.
I drink, smoke, eat too much. I've decided to quit smoking though. This time for real. Maybe.
Last night I finished off the short [v. short] story about Her. It made me understand a few things, like, what it really means that She's the star of the sea, the sailor, the ocean. I can talk my head off together with my friends trying to think of thousands of ways to help Her out, but the truth is we'll always stand on the shore while She's gone to the sea and only She can decide whether I'm still a part of Her story or not. It's not about acknowledging Her dominance. It's about respecting Her nature. And hoping She won't drown in the endless sea of vodka. My little drunk sunshine on drugs. My batty queen of extremes.
At times I only want to beg Her to let us forget about all the mess and just have fun together like we used to.
A new girl, the third flat mate, moves in on Saturday. I'm scared - frightened – terrified.
1) Mila's Daydreams
How useful a little baby can be! The mother's project is so incredible that it made me think it had to be a photo-montage at first. It's extremely inventive and fabulous. I think if I saw myself as a baby on pictures like these I'd feel weird, though.
2)Loopy Boopy Art Doll
Quite scary at first, but when you have a closer look it actually proves beautiful, mysterious and sophisticated. Just like human beings. Plus the author seems a gifted writer. The blog might turn my new fav.
3) Hyperbole and a Half
It caught my eye 'cause it looked like a twin project to Natalie Dee's. It's kinda brilliant.
4) Wait in the Van
I'm not sure what the blog is all about, but I'm determined to find out as there's some wacky energy to it.
All the content is more than refreshing, yet Internet has ceased to be enough to me. It's people I need. Colorful, laughing, talking, moving people. Drinking, smoking, dancing people. Story tellers. Today I haven't seen any familiar face for the first time since Tuesday, August 21st. And I definitely did not have the need to take a rest from them.
I need my family of friends. Constantly.
Tomorrow I'm going to my parents' place for a long weekend, though everything inside me wants to stay. If it wasn't for the fact that the few people I adore have left Warsaw, too, I guess I'd skip the long awaited doc appointment, make something up, I don't know, anything, just to stay. Ma and Pa are great. It's just that they don't know.
So in this whole lot of mess I'm trying hard to keep myself occupied. Two guys come to my place twice a week and I teach them English [so good nobody reads this blog, otherwise I'd run a risk some native speaker would drop dead at this point]. They're a year older than me and study political science. Both of them quite funny. Men seem just too often funny to me. I love women. I can only love women. And my father. And R., my dear old male friend, who's awesome, all the way.
But yes, I keep myself busy also translating for the Foundation. I guess it's something I can really be good at.
I've also composed a birthday gift for M.
I know it's nothing of a piece of art, but I still like it.
And then I've also made a photo album, all by myself. It felt like preparing a gift for myself. A consolation.
It contains my spring and summer photos: B.'s birthday party, Easter, two spring weekends (one with M. and one with my parents), the week at the seaside with Her and finally the Austrian shots. These were most intense, hectic and, well, happy seasons, which gave me loads of new experiences. I'm actually exhausted, but there's no way I'd want my life to slow down. Quite the opposite.
Oh dizzy is how I feel. Late nights, late mornings, days too short. Yearning yearning yearning.
I drink, smoke, eat too much. I've decided to quit smoking though. This time for real. Maybe.
Last night I finished off the short [v. short] story about Her. It made me understand a few things, like, what it really means that She's the star of the sea, the sailor, the ocean. I can talk my head off together with my friends trying to think of thousands of ways to help Her out, but the truth is we'll always stand on the shore while She's gone to the sea and only She can decide whether I'm still a part of Her story or not. It's not about acknowledging Her dominance. It's about respecting Her nature. And hoping She won't drown in the endless sea of vodka. My little drunk sunshine on drugs. My batty queen of extremes.
At times I only want to beg Her to let us forget about all the mess and just have fun together like we used to.
A new girl, the third flat mate, moves in on Saturday. I'm scared - frightened – terrified.
2010/09/09
come to see me, will you?
Thursday, September 9th, 2 a.m.
My drunk Sunshine on drugs decides to steal once again.
I leave my door open.
My drunk Sunshine on drugs decides to steal once again.
I leave my door open.
2010/09/08
fingersmith, that's what you are
the thief of the burning air that filled Warsaw. the thief of the water that overflowed the banks of Vistula. the thief of the ground I was walking on throughout all those days and weeks.
why, why don't you want to steal any more?
why, why don't you want to steal any more?
2010/09/07
?
Земфира - Рассветы (native.mix)
I feel personally deceived by this world's principle which allows for the pure, blissful moments shared with other people [women] to be harshly verified by the continuation of my stories with those people [women].
that, for example, that moment on the very peak of the Ferris wheel, those dark blue seconds with the city lights underneath, the cosmic pause in the space-time, when my whole world was enclosed in that little gondola high above the ground, that this moment was to be surpassed by the great parade of pain and disappointment later on – this is my key evidence against fate.
and I don't mean to moan or talk bullshit about how sorry I feel for myself, but that what was to become the completion of the May sensuality, of the tens of June hours that She devoted solely to me, or of the July cherries that She fed me with – was the careful slap across my face that left a burning mark on August and, it seems, on September as well – this is obviously a confirmation that the system fails and something has to be done with it, someone's got to be responsible for this.
'cause otherwise, I honestly don't know how to believe that each and every part was real.
otherwise, I'd have to share Sz.'s conclusion that what I had was always a lie, from the very beginning. who, who will prove to me that it was not a lie.
who, who will reassure me that next time this lie will last a bit longer.
Земфира - Ариведерчи (fuzz.mix)
I feel personally deceived by this world's principle which allows for the pure, blissful moments shared with other people [women] to be harshly verified by the continuation of my stories with those people [women].
that, for example, that moment on the very peak of the Ferris wheel, those dark blue seconds with the city lights underneath, the cosmic pause in the space-time, when my whole world was enclosed in that little gondola high above the ground, that this moment was to be surpassed by the great parade of pain and disappointment later on – this is my key evidence against fate.
and I don't mean to moan or talk bullshit about how sorry I feel for myself, but that what was to become the completion of the May sensuality, of the tens of June hours that She devoted solely to me, or of the July cherries that She fed me with – was the careful slap across my face that left a burning mark on August and, it seems, on September as well – this is obviously a confirmation that the system fails and something has to be done with it, someone's got to be responsible for this.
'cause otherwise, I honestly don't know how to believe that each and every part was real.
otherwise, I'd have to share Sz.'s conclusion that what I had was always a lie, from the very beginning. who, who will prove to me that it was not a lie.
who, who will reassure me that next time this lie will last a bit longer.
Земфира - Ариведерчи (fuzz.mix)
2010/09/05
like a lost coin
I miss you every single minute now I don't know if I say it just because I'm stoned or that's a fucking nonsense as if I would be talking to one of my inner voices
I feel to empty to create a regular love letter or maybe it's too late for this
Still the pain lasts and ain't getting better and now I know it's gonna just take some time to let you go off my mind
Pink butterfly lost her fingertips would you help her searching we live only three days and I am just about to lose my wings help
Still your lick your touch your breath your sight makes me trembling and suddenly I've realized that it's been too addicting and I should be going once my tears would get dry
now a slow, slow song the time and life around so I won't keep in anging in one point like a lost coin
Your eyes follow me your shade spies me I won't let you make love to me ever again 'cause it hurts too much
And looking deeply into your eyes I cruelly say that I would rather be a butterfly than one who lets your hand touch one's neck
2010/09/04
past_endurance
it's kinda unbelievable. I'm in Warsaw and it's the third day in a row today that I go out in the evening. we go out in a totally not accidental way. we go out for the idealistic reasons of gregarious spending of our time. we drink and talk, talk, talk. so that I'll even have to refrain from making some sarcastic remarks about it.
yesterday I wrote my entrance M.A. exam. half an hour for the translation of this text. I tried hard while translating and at the same time I just didn't care. I was thinking about O. who texted me right before the exam that she wouldn't come to Warsaw for several reasons, all of which I knew were not real (about which I was right, by the way).
basically I'm delighted by the effects of my efforts to spend my time with people since She conducted the action of great humiliation, worrying and slashing me. first, drinking with O. all the week, then accompanied by the cosmic stuff which proved exceptionally attractively accessible, by which I also mean the exceptional attractiveness of the male deliverer whose appearance resembled the Zac character from the "C.R.A.Z.Y." movie. Surrealistic hours, the man, who recorded O. and me saying: "to knock around without seeing the truth", the cemetery with the Orthodox church in the heart of the city and an empty café. O. observing my self-destructive behavior and her anger about the whole situation with Her; anger about her helplessness. Me feeling guilty that I must be going berserk to display my grief in front of other people. My mind completely out of contact with set lines and regular processes, the mode of waiting till it stops hurting me, some emotional huddling to the inside. Don't open your eyes till the smoke that stings your eyes disappears from the sky above Moscow. Meanwhile, She texts me asking whether I'm all right and then telling me She still drinks to the limits, no, far beyond the limits. And honestly, I don't know who I am in this.
A breath at my parents' place and then Warsaw - and lots of people here, one person, then suddenly two, five people. Coffee after coffee, beer after beer. Just let me know about the time and place. Chilly air, early twilight, waiting for the exam results, waiting for Her to text me, waiting for the evening so that I can go out to the city that I'm not afraid of any more. What should frighten me is right inside of me. And at times I get so scared that I feel like taking care of someone, just to distract my attention and feel obliged to keep sure and calm.
Days without Her here in Poland, the days since She decided to become a stranger to me, grow with a wild pace, it's already been a month, a month since She last acknowledged my presence in Her life. It's a distance that makes me uncertain about what was real and what came into being during the last few weeks. But there it was, after all. Or was it? I want to know She's safe. Before the cool wind destroys May, June and July and everything She was to me.
yesterday I wrote my entrance M.A. exam. half an hour for the translation of this text. I tried hard while translating and at the same time I just didn't care. I was thinking about O. who texted me right before the exam that she wouldn't come to Warsaw for several reasons, all of which I knew were not real (about which I was right, by the way).
basically I'm delighted by the effects of my efforts to spend my time with people since She conducted the action of great humiliation, worrying and slashing me. first, drinking with O. all the week, then accompanied by the cosmic stuff which proved exceptionally attractively accessible, by which I also mean the exceptional attractiveness of the male deliverer whose appearance resembled the Zac character from the "C.R.A.Z.Y." movie. Surrealistic hours, the man, who recorded O. and me saying: "to knock around without seeing the truth", the cemetery with the Orthodox church in the heart of the city and an empty café. O. observing my self-destructive behavior and her anger about the whole situation with Her; anger about her helplessness. Me feeling guilty that I must be going berserk to display my grief in front of other people. My mind completely out of contact with set lines and regular processes, the mode of waiting till it stops hurting me, some emotional huddling to the inside. Don't open your eyes till the smoke that stings your eyes disappears from the sky above Moscow. Meanwhile, She texts me asking whether I'm all right and then telling me She still drinks to the limits, no, far beyond the limits. And honestly, I don't know who I am in this.
A breath at my parents' place and then Warsaw - and lots of people here, one person, then suddenly two, five people. Coffee after coffee, beer after beer. Just let me know about the time and place. Chilly air, early twilight, waiting for the exam results, waiting for Her to text me, waiting for the evening so that I can go out to the city that I'm not afraid of any more. What should frighten me is right inside of me. And at times I get so scared that I feel like taking care of someone, just to distract my attention and feel obliged to keep sure and calm.
Days without Her here in Poland, the days since She decided to become a stranger to me, grow with a wild pace, it's already been a month, a month since She last acknowledged my presence in Her life. It's a distance that makes me uncertain about what was real and what came into being during the last few weeks. But there it was, after all. Or was it? I want to know She's safe. Before the cool wind destroys May, June and July and everything She was to me.
2010/08/24
Ариведерчи
to protect Her from herself against Her will, to the detriment of myself. this is what I want to do, but I don't know how.
I curse the world's energy, somebody's got to help Her. please.
I curse the world's energy, somebody's got to help Her. please.
2010/08/23
life without poetry
what I can learn from Peter Handke as a poet, being a writing person, which I consider myself to be, after all, is using everyday life as a material for work; a fabric for artistic processing. he's not the kind of guy who will go to the fields at night-time with a butterfly net, he won't wait for the rising tide or the southern wind. he just looks at things, observes them carefully, considering the structure of simple events, common constellations, and then highlights their nature with the help of cautiously selected words.
I was always interested rather in the Schulzean parallel narration, the elusive beyond any measurement. the elements of natural world as events, subtle emotions as determinants of human fate. but when I was reading Handke's poems, it occurred to me that if energy focused so efficiently around the core of a given phenomenon that it actually came to being in the real, literal world, it might deserve my attention juat as well. things I call mine; groups I identify myself with; how my identity is expressed in my language code – in the end this is the subject of my studies, of my B.A. thesis in particular. and Handke makes poetry out of it.
Leben ohne Poesie, that's the name of the collection. and at times I get frightened by the austerity, rigid analytical character of the poems. conveying a childhood memory with the use of a mathematical formula makes me want to cuddle in The Street of Crocodiles like in an old blanket, that is, to run away to my homeland.
but at the same time I get a sense of the poet's moral courage to accept life's rough surface and to face it. I'm not sayng that Schulzean gardens are easy. there is a quality to them, for which you have to turn aside from the main road, turn time and space upside down; this is the new, the other one. reality super plus. and Handke is like moving deeply, but always on one level only, the cognition level zero. I bet it takes a lot of effort to see the worn out everyday life anew and to describe it with such an awful attention and accuracy.
at the same time I have an overwhelming feeling that what I'm reading was written by a very, very sad man.
I was always interested rather in the Schulzean parallel narration, the elusive beyond any measurement. the elements of natural world as events, subtle emotions as determinants of human fate. but when I was reading Handke's poems, it occurred to me that if energy focused so efficiently around the core of a given phenomenon that it actually came to being in the real, literal world, it might deserve my attention juat as well. things I call mine; groups I identify myself with; how my identity is expressed in my language code – in the end this is the subject of my studies, of my B.A. thesis in particular. and Handke makes poetry out of it.
Leben ohne Poesie, that's the name of the collection. and at times I get frightened by the austerity, rigid analytical character of the poems. conveying a childhood memory with the use of a mathematical formula makes me want to cuddle in The Street of Crocodiles like in an old blanket, that is, to run away to my homeland.
but at the same time I get a sense of the poet's moral courage to accept life's rough surface and to face it. I'm not sayng that Schulzean gardens are easy. there is a quality to them, for which you have to turn aside from the main road, turn time and space upside down; this is the new, the other one. reality super plus. and Handke is like moving deeply, but always on one level only, the cognition level zero. I bet it takes a lot of effort to see the worn out everyday life anew and to describe it with such an awful attention and accuracy.
at the same time I have an overwhelming feeling that what I'm reading was written by a very, very sad man.
2010/08/22
and I think to myself
when I drink my first coffee around 2 p.m., I open my eyes and I see August in its bloom. I see how it settles low, already slightly tired, swollen, more and more quiet. what is disappointment and grief inside of me, hides in deep shadow, only single sad reflections remain on the surface of consciousness. and I'm puzzled by the quality of this world, or maybe life: austerity combined with abundance. yin yang. mystery.
I think about the beautiful face of my mother. and I think about how I've easily fallen in love with women recently. how I suddenly felt the need to have lasting relationships, how I've grown out of my deep eternal family home and am quite desperately looking for a new micro-world. how naïve I can get when I let myself fall for women only because there's a shade of hope for the settlement. even if the lack of chances gives me in my face.
for a while, I manage to think about it all without bitterness or blown up sentiments. I stick to it because serenity is fine and it is advisable.
on the soundproof screens along the highway there is a gigantic sun painted with a blue word WIR underneath. a most desired word, everybody wants to be a part of it. at least I do.
I think about the beautiful face of my mother. and I think about how I've easily fallen in love with women recently. how I suddenly felt the need to have lasting relationships, how I've grown out of my deep eternal family home and am quite desperately looking for a new micro-world. how naïve I can get when I let myself fall for women only because there's a shade of hope for the settlement. even if the lack of chances gives me in my face.
for a while, I manage to think about it all without bitterness or blown up sentiments. I stick to it because serenity is fine and it is advisable.
on the soundproof screens along the highway there is a gigantic sun painted with a blue word WIR underneath. a most desired word, everybody wants to be a part of it. at least I do.
2010/08/20
change your evil ways
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Italy. Warm August sun. Overblown trees send pollen fly. People with their tendency to turn each other's emotions into some fuckery seem totally inappropriate in the esthetics.
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2010/08/17
"I clasp your hand and everything fades away"
It's all because I always wanted things to happen on a grand scale. I don't like moderation, I feel with it like She did when she woke up in the middle of the night, unable to lie or sit still, with a distinct need to walk, jump or run. To act. The average doesn't satisfy me. It's boring and it only highlights what distinguishes what the extreme is about.
That's why I wanted Her so much.* She knows no limits, it's not even that She lives on the very border, She simply jumps over it and rushes ahead. Aren't you afraid of anything? Her immediate response was a no. Then She added some sensible exception in fine print, but in principle, no, She's not afraid. After all, there's nothing larger than life that could happen to Her. Her body already has so many scars that there's probably nothing that could be of a surprise to Her.
The way I live is following the path given. I'm set up, living off my daddy. And She excites me, tantalizes me. She was born free and that's how She's gonna be ever after. Even behind bars.
In fact, She might be the first really free human being I've ever met.
Meanwhile, it's raining down here and we don't go hiking. I'm kind of happy with it as I still feel somewhat damaged and I don't really aspire to fight with my urban ass up there in the mountains. Instead, we went for a walk in the town of Oetz today. I felt a relief when I saw that behind the first ring of bulky Tirol landhauses there are some jaunty modern houses inspired by the Italian style taken from right behind the border. Noncommittal, that's how the buildings are, light, momentary. Why fuck about the values when it hurts and you don't know what's gonna come next, because people I wanted and people who caused pain to me are the very same persons. I don't see the point of making a stand against that shit. Sex and wine seem a much brighter philosophy to me.
I listen to Zemfira, whose music is finally mine, I mean, it's objectively zemifra-esque, not: magda-esque. And it's gorgeous.
O. has the revelations of her own, she writes to me a lot. It seems like she's feeding herself with some bad energy, but that's probably the dark side of intelligence – how should I know. Whenever I, quite honestly, assure her I'm always ready to help, I forget I'm not really able to help her. Her standards are just too high for me. Not that she has a whole lot of troubles, because she probably doesn't. She just seems so complete that it's hard to believe I could ever get inside her in an expert's uniform even to change a stupid bulb. She's cute and I can't resist her magic, but I know there's nothing sensible I could do for her.
It's Tuesday today and if She wants it, I'll be in Warsaw exactly in a week. I'll see Her in a week. Thinking of it is like looking into pitch darkness.
*I still do.
That's why I wanted Her so much.* She knows no limits, it's not even that She lives on the very border, She simply jumps over it and rushes ahead. Aren't you afraid of anything? Her immediate response was a no. Then She added some sensible exception in fine print, but in principle, no, She's not afraid. After all, there's nothing larger than life that could happen to Her. Her body already has so many scars that there's probably nothing that could be of a surprise to Her.
The way I live is following the path given. I'm set up, living off my daddy. And She excites me, tantalizes me. She was born free and that's how She's gonna be ever after. Even behind bars.
In fact, She might be the first really free human being I've ever met.
Meanwhile, it's raining down here and we don't go hiking. I'm kind of happy with it as I still feel somewhat damaged and I don't really aspire to fight with my urban ass up there in the mountains. Instead, we went for a walk in the town of Oetz today. I felt a relief when I saw that behind the first ring of bulky Tirol landhauses there are some jaunty modern houses inspired by the Italian style taken from right behind the border. Noncommittal, that's how the buildings are, light, momentary. Why fuck about the values when it hurts and you don't know what's gonna come next, because people I wanted and people who caused pain to me are the very same persons. I don't see the point of making a stand against that shit. Sex and wine seem a much brighter philosophy to me.
I listen to Zemfira, whose music is finally mine, I mean, it's objectively zemifra-esque, not: magda-esque. And it's gorgeous.
O. has the revelations of her own, she writes to me a lot. It seems like she's feeding herself with some bad energy, but that's probably the dark side of intelligence – how should I know. Whenever I, quite honestly, assure her I'm always ready to help, I forget I'm not really able to help her. Her standards are just too high for me. Not that she has a whole lot of troubles, because she probably doesn't. She just seems so complete that it's hard to believe I could ever get inside her in an expert's uniform even to change a stupid bulb. She's cute and I can't resist her magic, but I know there's nothing sensible I could do for her.
It's Tuesday today and if She wants it, I'll be in Warsaw exactly in a week. I'll see Her in a week. Thinking of it is like looking into pitch darkness.
*I still do.
2010/08/15
can you read me
If it was the Alps, not the Himalaya, what they call the roof of the world, I would go on the top of it and scream to her that she's HURTING ME, till she'd realize it, till something would change.
because I won't be in Poland until next Sunday and I have no idea what to do with the pain and insecurity all this time.
it's O.'s birthday today, but since O. is O., she spends it on the phone, boosting my self-esteem. yet I need evidence to believe in things. and facts contradict O.'s words.
I had a feeling She might do it all. I knew She's done it before to other women. funny how you always believe a miracle to happen exactly when you need it. it didn't happen. I feel like I'm dragging some broken part of me along. I still don't understand how She could do it to me.
because I won't be in Poland until next Sunday and I have no idea what to do with the pain and insecurity all this time.
it's O.'s birthday today, but since O. is O., she spends it on the phone, boosting my self-esteem. yet I need evidence to believe in things. and facts contradict O.'s words.
I had a feeling She might do it all. I knew She's done it before to other women. funny how you always believe a miracle to happen exactly when you need it. it didn't happen. I feel like I'm dragging some broken part of me along. I still don't understand how She could do it to me.
2010/08/14
zamykam oczy
to escape to some other space-time I watch my photos. seaside from two years ago. Germany from autumn and winter. I'm finishing off with today's shots: glaciers and waterfalls. the author of the photos always remembers not only what's in the frame, but also the aura of the particular day. and today hurts. so it was good to see this day right next to the past. it's like taking a three meter distance from it. taking a breath.
that women should deceive me and hurt me in their immature uncertainty has almost become tradition in my life. I'm fighting for it, but it might be that it's against her. maybe I'll get back only to discover that I've become past to her. O. is on alert, like she's always been. on the phone night and day. yet there's nothing that can be done. my ass is being kicked masterfully once again. it's a fact.
sleep deprivation, obsession, a lot of tears. I met her exactly three months ago for the first time.
why does it all keep on happening when I close my eyes?
that women should deceive me and hurt me in their immature uncertainty has almost become tradition in my life. I'm fighting for it, but it might be that it's against her. maybe I'll get back only to discover that I've become past to her. O. is on alert, like she's always been. on the phone night and day. yet there's nothing that can be done. my ass is being kicked masterfully once again. it's a fact.
sleep deprivation, obsession, a lot of tears. I met her exactly three months ago for the first time.
why does it all keep on happening when I close my eyes?
2010/08/10
Take Me
there's a thin woman sitting on a swing, selling sad stories. she is chain smoking, her eyebrows at an acute angle. poor colors saturation, deep gloom. things have long fallen behind their own gigantic shadows. we want to fly to the outer space and break through the wall, but our city is sinking. our spectacular Venice, desperate fireworks, a great parade, a crowd of people with malformed masks on carries their tiny terrified hearts in their hands. each person hides some heartbreaking secret deep inside them and it is what renders them humans. the only thing.
slow hours measured by the rusted swing. the woman has stopped in mid-air between immense possibilities of childhood and adulthood that ends on this estate forever. you need a lot of bottles everyday to force your calendar through the next quarter. somehow.
in her one-room apartment the woman keeps a lot of tapes with music. she takes them off the spools, stretches them under the ceiling like a washing string and hangs on them photographs of dirty wall plaster and pieces of sun on the pavement. there are also cats' tales, butt-ends and chimneys that pump all the shit from beneath the roofs into the world.
the swing is a perpetual motion machine, the women puts no effort in moving it, in fact she could be dead and the squeaking wouldn't lose its rhythm. yet she's still alive, her knees are bruised after the funny fights she had with her mates. she tells her stories in a monotonous nasal voice, she doesn't care and it's women like her that you want most, because once she starts to care, it's already like eternity to you.
we've grown older, we don't dream about the outer space anymore and we protect the walls against erosion. we go to the woman who sells her stories and we go to women who sell love, and we drink even more than we used to, and it's still the crossbar we hardly manage to touch with the tips of our stretched fingers.
the woman on the swing will get old and she will stretch thyme and lavender under the ceiling, and she will know that our sense of fatal last resort is going to be repeated many times, not only in this city, not only in our lifetime.
but before this comes, I drink as if it was the last time and I make love to you as if it was the first time.
maybe it's the only way, although you'll eventually leave me, too, and I'm gonna lie in my own puke and keep ringing my mother.
a thin woman on a swing, cigarette smoke, rising tide, low tide. red, hot blood. the outer space is no longer among things we believe in. I make love to you as if it was the last time.
squeaking pendulum, deep gloom, there’s no outer space, I make love to you, you'll leave me, too.
chain smoking, there and back, bruised knees, I make love to you.
the outer space is long gone.
slow hours measured by the rusted swing. the woman has stopped in mid-air between immense possibilities of childhood and adulthood that ends on this estate forever. you need a lot of bottles everyday to force your calendar through the next quarter. somehow.
in her one-room apartment the woman keeps a lot of tapes with music. she takes them off the spools, stretches them under the ceiling like a washing string and hangs on them photographs of dirty wall plaster and pieces of sun on the pavement. there are also cats' tales, butt-ends and chimneys that pump all the shit from beneath the roofs into the world.
the swing is a perpetual motion machine, the women puts no effort in moving it, in fact she could be dead and the squeaking wouldn't lose its rhythm. yet she's still alive, her knees are bruised after the funny fights she had with her mates. she tells her stories in a monotonous nasal voice, she doesn't care and it's women like her that you want most, because once she starts to care, it's already like eternity to you.
we've grown older, we don't dream about the outer space anymore and we protect the walls against erosion. we go to the woman who sells her stories and we go to women who sell love, and we drink even more than we used to, and it's still the crossbar we hardly manage to touch with the tips of our stretched fingers.
the woman on the swing will get old and she will stretch thyme and lavender under the ceiling, and she will know that our sense of fatal last resort is going to be repeated many times, not only in this city, not only in our lifetime.
but before this comes, I drink as if it was the last time and I make love to you as if it was the first time.
maybe it's the only way, although you'll eventually leave me, too, and I'm gonna lie in my own puke and keep ringing my mother.
a thin woman on a swing, cigarette smoke, rising tide, low tide. red, hot blood. the outer space is no longer among things we believe in. I make love to you as if it was the last time.
squeaking pendulum, deep gloom, there’s no outer space, I make love to you, you'll leave me, too.
chain smoking, there and back, bruised knees, I make love to you.
the outer space is long gone.
2010/08/09
2010/08/08
"there's no heaven"
so Austria is marked with loneliness. I spend so much time thinking with fear about the time that will dispel everything I cherish between us that I guess it will eventually have to come true. I try to ward the bad predictions off, but her silence only bolts the door, I can't go back, it's all grown quiet and empty. it's been only four days without her and I'm already confused, because my senses have forgotten everything they had experienced before.
so Austria is like an open-air museum. now I know I like Germany better. it has more guts, which makes it more real. I can't think clearly in a town of dolls' houses. elaborate grooves in the facades of every building and cafés perfect in every detail bear some insincerity, this is not life. what about life? – what life? it's only a broken line on the hand. – and God? – there is no God. there are only crosses by the roads. I'm from Poland.
since poetry is like a cup of espresso which invigorates mind, I grabbed Handke, but it's, well, Leben ohne Poesie. bitter chaos. so hard to believe he's Austrian.
Austria, what kind of word is that at all? Russia is a tempting severity (not to use the austerity word...), like in the Moscow letters from B.; a country that makes you apprehensive and yet fascinates you. Slovakia, graceful Slavism. Czech Republic, bawdy, likeable. it's all in every word. even Greece is pure dust and thick-leafed olive trees. but Austria? there's totally nothing behind the word. it discloses nothing. it's transparent.
these perfect indoors, the streets like taken from a dream of a conservative urban visual artist... it's impressive with its unearthliness for the first thirty minutes you see it. but sooner or later you'll get troubled by the lack of human nature which is not perfect – and the dream, well, it's not even close to it. these sweet decorations, these blissful corners are soulless.
so I felt somewhat satisfied when I heard the restaurant chansonnier singing about some tender romance for the guests and their Wiener Schnitzel. it was like kitsch and junk sticking from beneath traditional Tirol outfit, the Austrian kind of disco dance.
poor pale Austria, I take my sudden loneliness out on this sweet little country. O. writes I should pull myself together and stop blaming those who rode all the 1,200 km to get here with me and try to make use of what I have instead. so I tried today in the morning. I managed to make it half way through my breakfast.
I wanted her so much not to lose me.
I wanted to continue with what we had so much, in spite of how absurd the idea was.
our five days together were five gigantic steps forward. and now she's not there for me.
Handke won't help tonight. maybe only a few pages from Katharina Hagena and a long night sleep.
Heaven? there's no heaven! there's a gap between the skyscrapers. what about heart? it's not heart, it's only a piece of flesh.
so Austria is like an open-air museum. now I know I like Germany better. it has more guts, which makes it more real. I can't think clearly in a town of dolls' houses. elaborate grooves in the facades of every building and cafés perfect in every detail bear some insincerity, this is not life. what about life? – what life? it's only a broken line on the hand. – and God? – there is no God. there are only crosses by the roads. I'm from Poland.
since poetry is like a cup of espresso which invigorates mind, I grabbed Handke, but it's, well, Leben ohne Poesie. bitter chaos. so hard to believe he's Austrian.
Austria, what kind of word is that at all? Russia is a tempting severity (not to use the austerity word...), like in the Moscow letters from B.; a country that makes you apprehensive and yet fascinates you. Slovakia, graceful Slavism. Czech Republic, bawdy, likeable. it's all in every word. even Greece is pure dust and thick-leafed olive trees. but Austria? there's totally nothing behind the word. it discloses nothing. it's transparent.
these perfect indoors, the streets like taken from a dream of a conservative urban visual artist... it's impressive with its unearthliness for the first thirty minutes you see it. but sooner or later you'll get troubled by the lack of human nature which is not perfect – and the dream, well, it's not even close to it. these sweet decorations, these blissful corners are soulless.
so I felt somewhat satisfied when I heard the restaurant chansonnier singing about some tender romance for the guests and their Wiener Schnitzel. it was like kitsch and junk sticking from beneath traditional Tirol outfit, the Austrian kind of disco dance.
poor pale Austria, I take my sudden loneliness out on this sweet little country. O. writes I should pull myself together and stop blaming those who rode all the 1,200 km to get here with me and try to make use of what I have instead. so I tried today in the morning. I managed to make it half way through my breakfast.
I wanted her so much not to lose me.
I wanted to continue with what we had so much, in spite of how absurd the idea was.
our five days together were five gigantic steps forward. and now she's not there for me.
Handke won't help tonight. maybe only a few pages from Katharina Hagena and a long night sleep.
Heaven? there's no heaven! there's a gap between the skyscrapers. what about heart? it's not heart, it's only a piece of flesh.
2010/08/07
"only this water..."
and I'm only begging for it not to end. and each time I'm gonna ask for one step further, I'm gonna promise this time my hunger will be satisfied, though it's so not true, not true.
the truth is that I fear there won't be enough speed and patience. that routine will eat away all the bliss. that lack and absence will once again sit back with their whale bodies, taking all our time and thought.
and you seem so distant, it makes me feel there's no point walking or talking at all. I choose the hibernation mode. perception kept at a minimum. I keep my hands down, but with my fingers crossed. for us.
the truth is that I fear there won't be enough speed and patience. that routine will eat away all the bliss. that lack and absence will once again sit back with their whale bodies, taking all our time and thought.
and you seem so distant, it makes me feel there's no point walking or talking at all. I choose the hibernation mode. perception kept at a minimum. I keep my hands down, but with my fingers crossed. for us.
2010/06/23
I do... do
she said she would love to and asked me whether I thought I could. I said: I do, don't. and so we decided on the sweet blissful tasty status quo.
2010/06/11
summertime, your daddy's a lecturer, and your mamma too
The lack of back-channelling devices in my Father's conversational style makes me feel highly uncomfortable when talking to him on the phone. I wish he was able to distinguish the difference between the lecture and the non-lecture speech mode.
2010/06/10
distraction is female and her name begins with M
1. I'm gonna drink less. 2. I'm gonna smoke less. 3. I'm gonna sleep more. 4. I'm gonna work more. 5. Tomorrow I'm gonna work out. 6. I'm gonna create conditions that will enable me to concentrate. 7. I don't believe I'll succeed.
2010/06/09
define the creature in the mirror
read the poem
read it to me
read the poem to other texts (and let them talk to each other)
read the texts of culture
read between the texts
read the contexts
get into the intertextuality
surrender
surround
yourself with the motifs
give in to the structure that determines you as a person as a woman as a mind
read the pages
read the palms of hands
read within
and get back to get the perspective right
let yourself be the transmitter of the content
let it flow, let it flourish through you and beyond
you're the servant, you're the queen
human being
homo sapiens
homo
read it to me
read the poem to other texts (and let them talk to each other)
read the texts of culture
read between the texts
read the contexts
get into the intertextuality
surrender
surround
yourself with the motifs
give in to the structure that determines you as a person as a woman as a mind
read the pages
read the palms of hands
read within
and get back to get the perspective right
let yourself be the transmitter of the content
let it flow, let it flourish through you and beyond
you're the servant, you're the queen
human being
homo sapiens
homo
2010/06/07
oh well
so I shouldn't have told her. classic attribution error: she ascribed what I did fully to my personality. she puts out of her mind the situational factors that actually were the determinants. she blames me. she harasses me. 'are you feeling any better now? do you get any satisfaction?' 'yes, I do get satisfaction.' after all, who would believe in the argument that 'it wasn't like me'. it was me. drunk, after a long fucked up day, without her, but with someone else by my side. still, it was me.
tough luck. tough luck. I ain't gonna be a drama queen. I ain't gonna moan. my flat mate gave me three ripe apricots. I am. so, tough luck.
tough luck. tough luck. I ain't gonna be a drama queen. I ain't gonna moan. my flat mate gave me three ripe apricots. I am. so, tough luck.
2010/05/31
May water
what am i doing what am i doing what am i doing what am i doing
full stop
i don't look cause i won't see what comes next anyway
this May, full of rain, pride and sensuality, has lasted for a moment, but it feels like forever
like forever
funny, her name means "star of the sea".
full stop
i don't look cause i won't see what comes next anyway
this May, full of rain, pride and sensuality, has lasted for a moment, but it feels like forever
like forever
funny, her name means "star of the sea".
2010/05/29
2 hrs of sleep, 3 glasses of beer, too many cigarettes
my hundred per cent femininity displayed in the thorough in-depth analysis of other people's (of the person's) actions, utterances and their (her) environmental details has just driven me crazy. maybe I should try applying some ignorance, instinct and/or sleep to my mental daily routine. maybe I should go and visit my parents. something tells me that seeing a cow or rather watching it for a longer period of time might work wonders for me.
p.s. I officially hate my thesis supervisor.
p.s. I officially hate my thesis supervisor.
2010/05/27
have no problems? create some for yourself
Wojewódzki writes for Polityka. Facebook has fucked up my interests and favourites sections. so did deviantArt with the gallery browser. I feel lost.
2010/05/23
isn't. life. tricky
it's funny when you go around wondering how to tell the person that it's oh so nice but it just won't work out and you ask your friends how to do it in a classy charming style and you really think of excuses you'll text the next day and then the next day comes and you hear that it all should probably slow down and you find yourself thinking shit! this might have actually been [might still be?] something so that you have to use all your self-control power not to write how much you want to see the face RIGHT NOW. funny, huh.
2010/05/21
easy peasy
one two three. nothing. it was easy. simple. after the efforts, compromises and sticking to my conscience, all of which gave me nothing but stomach aches in the morning, this time it was naturally devoid of questions and explanations. and I have nothing. no burden of excuses or grudges. totally nothing. one two three. and each time felt so good.
2010/05/15
the great split
actors play their roles. there's someone I talk to about university, but not about me – that's for somebody else. I'm scared to another person, to yet another I set the trend. I like someone a lot, but I make love to somebody else. funny to expect that just one human being alone could function as all these at the same time.
2010/05/11
I wanna explode_watch me
they sell Convert shoes in the city. I listen to Tegan & Sara. but much more Uh Huh Her. home seems light years away. university sucks in this term. but I suck it up. boys & girls give me cigarettes. and so on.
2010/05/09
2010/05/07
a story of a woman who hung around with a bullet hole
funny how some emotions, swollen and supernaturally powerful, get covered with tissue so that you can feel them under your skin as if they were a part of your body. and then when they're taken away from you, when your truth is turned inside out so that you don't recognize it any more, it is like an amputation and your nerve endings don't know what to do with that sudden emptiness, they raise the alarm; it hurts. it's easy to distinguish a non-physical element in it, cause it only heals, but never, never fills up.
2010/05/06
bitter bitter lilac
I went out in the evening; the foundations for life are ready. the soil is dark and wet from the rain. the cow is full, her low mooing – safe, like warm milk before going to bed. apple trees and lilac in bloom. phosphorescent whiteness, irremovable, even when deep into the dusk. like guilt.
they say the neighbor's husband died last month. it seems entirely improbable that he should never come back.
the fence is rough, but in the hollows it gets childlike smoothness. the skin of the sprouts – pliable and strong. that – yes. that's something I know. but her sudden loneliness – so entirely improbable.
they say the neighbor's husband died last month. it seems entirely improbable that he should never come back.
the fence is rough, but in the hollows it gets childlike smoothness. the skin of the sprouts – pliable and strong. that – yes. that's something I know. but her sudden loneliness – so entirely improbable.
2010/05/05
sisters brothers
cause society is a really fucked up construct. the more you convince yourself and everybody else that you don't give a shit about it, the harder they will kick your as and prove to you that you're doomed to its rules. cause if not, you automatically lose. happy joyful kurwa family.
2010/05/04
2010/05/02
the air's warm, the music's immense
I don't read anybody's dreams. I don't worry, don't seek anybody's favors. I live without anybody so much that the empty space doesn't even bear anybody's shape. water without any ripples. I'm happy for myself, make plans for the future of my own. nobody's got anything to do with it. nobody. the same cd three times over and there's probably going to be four, five, ten. Till I go to sleep, to nowhere. and there's nothing of a drama to it. I guess I've just known, what I risk on the other side. I guess that's it.
UPDATE
AND today was so beautiful funny amazing & full of love [which is not contrary to what I wrote above] that it made me cry in the end.
UPDATE
AND today was so beautiful funny amazing & full of love [which is not contrary to what I wrote above] that it made me cry in the end.
2010/05/01
lighthousekeeping
So May has come, the month of passion. The rain's long-drawn-out and somehow determined, as if it expressed my state of mind. A great water wall, after which I can start with a new paragraph, although there's no doubt it is still the same story; long and dark narration with bright points within, which have to be recognized, brought out and then meditated upon to make them stretch in time into a permanent state. So, in some way there will always be the Sunday walk with M., a wonderful break with time normally filled to the brim with translations and thesis writing. In some way there will always be that cup of tea drunk at the terrace in my mother's company and that evening the previous day when I kept my head on her knees and her hand was on my temple, rough from allergy and worm from love. There will always be the moment of inebriation on wheat beer in a pub in a once Jewish district, and then Turkish food on a bench in the city center. And there will always be that afternoon in the tattoo studio, where Bob Marley's concert album is always on and where they're always waiting for you to come just like that, to talk. Where they have an amazing view from the window. All these are chopped, fragmentary, knowing their end too well. Still, it's meant to be forever.
But what to do with the dark substance. With my anger when almost every day I hear evidences of homophobic stupidity. With the injustice that might be well the motto of my university. With the sever lack. With the painful memory. With the grief. With the grim surprise when an old friend tries to make a fool of me. With the fear that I'm not gonna make it and there's nowhere I can find help. What to do with the possibility that I might never get to be the person I think I really am. And with the yearning. The load's too big for me. Too big.
UPDATE
green! green! it's all GREEN!
and the sun is speaking my mind much better than the rain did.
listening to Beirut.
But what to do with the dark substance. With my anger when almost every day I hear evidences of homophobic stupidity. With the injustice that might be well the motto of my university. With the sever lack. With the painful memory. With the grief. With the grim surprise when an old friend tries to make a fool of me. With the fear that I'm not gonna make it and there's nowhere I can find help. What to do with the possibility that I might never get to be the person I think I really am. And with the yearning. The load's too big for me. Too big.
UPDATE
green! green! it's all GREEN!
and the sun is speaking my mind much better than the rain did.
listening to Beirut.
2010/04/30
talkin' 'bout a revolution
it will be a cosmic landing and everything will change. grass will turn cold and bent in the wind. on a rock, a lizard, although it will be night. sexual revolution and a deep breath into the space, that's how it will happen, greenness in the middle of the night, aurora at the time of summer solstice, above the heads of dreaming cows. dew on our hands and the smell of skin. people who hurt us will be far away.
2010/04/29
2010/04/26
2010/04/24
off you go
and what do they want from me. I'm just an animal, just an animal. and may nothing new turn out, appear nor happen.
2010/04/22
2010/04/07
2010/04/05
2010/03/26
like you have now idea, yes, that's how it is, that's the intensity of what I consist of and what I perceive, like the sparrows at Mariensztat, the face of that woman, the nightmares I have and everything I want to be but I'll never become. and I just wish I could stop smiling to make it easier for them to speak, smiling as if I were always sorry, I wish I could hear that deep hoarse voice, I wish it was mine and I wish it spoke my mind, my love, my passion, and then my fear and yearning, too, so, yes, everything that once questioned my right to pursue happiness, now I want to acknowledge it, declare independence and go, yes, feel the movement, because I don't think it can last any longer, it seems to me the time is now, and if it doesn't come, if it can't be, because it is possible that the universe won't have it for me, well, if these ways won't stop squeezing, if it has to be, then I might just give up, because I feel, like I once felt, that it is not for me, so, have the courage, step down, leave. sometimes you can't wait any longer for the universe to happen.
2010/03/23
2010/03/18
2010/03/13
2010/03/11
border
hands and feet tied with fear and then an outburst of crying and yearning again. monthly blood, too much food, broken sleep and my make-up, which I put on and wash off, and put on, and wash off. tension in my temple. my body. a cramp. and then yearning again. and starting once more with a new paragraph, take a breath and do it, don't look too far 'cause it will make you frightened, only a bit ahead, just not to panic. fever and everything I don't know. lack of help as a fact. and those people, so frightening. so frightening. a feeling that if I wake up once again in the same way, go through the gate once again and get into the tram and then sort those little activities like beans in a bottomless bowl -- I'll explode. yes. I'm off my nut. Mother, come and get me out of here.
2010/03/07
2010/03/04
loss
great bits of sun and the carpet of snow as I walk through the March city. beautiful emptiness. sadness.
2010/02/24
Marion: Longing.
no i aniele ty co pachniesz wódką i papierosami powiedz przecież wiesz dlaczego nie mogę być wolna
the lesbian Bible says...
"What I want is for you to write "f*** me" on your chest. Write it! Do it! And then I want you to walk out that door, and I want you to walk down the street, and anybody that wants to f*** you, say, "Sure, sure, no problem." And when they do, you have to say, "Thank you very, very much," and make sure that you have a smile on your face, and then, you stupid f*** coward, you're going to know what it feels like to be a woman!"
,said Ms Jenny Schecter in Episode 11. I pay quite a lot of attention to this character as if it could reveal to me, what would happen, if I pushed myself to the limit. if I followed the ghosts, the voices, the need of self-distraction. 'Cause they're talking a lot to me these days.
,said Ms Jenny Schecter in Episode 11. I pay quite a lot of attention to this character as if it could reveal to me, what would happen, if I pushed myself to the limit. if I followed the ghosts, the voices, the need of self-distraction. 'Cause they're talking a lot to me these days.
2010/02/23
2010/02/20
February clover
one.
my hometown is like an old dirty sheepskin coat with a garish flower brooch. I truly hate it at this time of year.
two.
[Some] People are like dogs. They come, stay on your couch for a while and then go away, leaving you alone with their shit.
three.
I'm like a cat with white fur. Looking at me you can always tell what I've been through.
my hometown is like an old dirty sheepskin coat with a garish flower brooch. I truly hate it at this time of year.
two.
[Some] People are like dogs. They come, stay on your couch for a while and then go away, leaving you alone with their shit.
three.
I'm like a cat with white fur. Looking at me you can always tell what I've been through.
2010/02/18
2010/02/10
spinster's patchwork
I walk and fill in the gaps. I tailor the patches large, but the emptiness still lets show.
Look, it almost fits. If you squint and look from a distance, it looks like something real, something healthy and normal. But then a moment of calmness and focus is enough to make it obvious again. It's when it's too dark to see and I have to deride myself.
I don't know what is missing, I don't know what I need to fill it with. Maybe it's my mistake to call it a lack in the first place.
Constantly alert, as if a verification were to come, the final judgment of what I've experienced.
Everybody says, look ahead, it is where your chances are.
But I'm kind of too scared to look them in their face.
I've known the feeling when the only thing about yourself that you truly perceive is yearning that brings pain.
Still, I haven't got used to that.
Look, it almost fits. If you squint and look from a distance, it looks like something real, something healthy and normal. But then a moment of calmness and focus is enough to make it obvious again. It's when it's too dark to see and I have to deride myself.
I don't know what is missing, I don't know what I need to fill it with. Maybe it's my mistake to call it a lack in the first place.
Constantly alert, as if a verification were to come, the final judgment of what I've experienced.
Everybody says, look ahead, it is where your chances are.
But I'm kind of too scared to look them in their face.
I've known the feeling when the only thing about yourself that you truly perceive is yearning that brings pain.
Still, I haven't got used to that.
2010/02/05
anger advisable
The Man sitting in front of me is saying I should be angry. It would be natural. And make things so much easier. After all, you're in pain, he says.
The Man is handing me a tissue, he's sitting silent, trying to support me, but he just doesn't know.
Good luck on your way, he's been waiting since the very beginning to say that to me.
It is possible, he says, though it takes so much time.
I have to pretend a fighter when talking to him, these are the rules here.
Can't you hear that what you're saying is just not true, he asks me.
Yes. No. 'Cause if everything was built on a lie, maybe it's revaluation that we need?
The Man, his firm handshake. I almost want to believe in his logical, good stories.
The Man is handing me a tissue, he's sitting silent, trying to support me, but he just doesn't know.
Good luck on your way, he's been waiting since the very beginning to say that to me.
It is possible, he says, though it takes so much time.
I have to pretend a fighter when talking to him, these are the rules here.
Can't you hear that what you're saying is just not true, he asks me.
Yes. No. 'Cause if everything was built on a lie, maybe it's revaluation that we need?
The Man, his firm handshake. I almost want to believe in his logical, good stories.
2010/02/04
lesson 1, exercise 1
I think I know what I wish for my future. I'd like to learn more languages. [It seems languages are like tattoos; after the first one you're a believer, after the second one you're already an addict.] I want to get to know the languages, but never become a defined speaker of them. I don't want to work as a translator, the trainer of words and meanings. And I don't want to be a teacher either, grooving the same lessons and drills year after year. I just want to learn the languages. The constellations of potential possibilities that I'll never completely recognize, and for sure never make use of.
It's amazing, foreign languages are fairy tales that you never stop believing in. Then you finally find yourself among the people behind the words and they turn out to be exactly what you've already known in your hometown. But then you discover yet another language and you let yourself be deceived again. It seems this time these are really different stories, unknown dimensions.
Linguistic nymphomania. This one's harder, that one more sibilant. Strange reactions of your own body when you here the sounds. Daydreaming. Physical self-awareness as you carefully perceive your speech organs.
Persuading yourself that a few hundred miles away things would be completely different.
That's what I'm thinking these days when I'm lying in bed with a cold.
This, and that women are amazing. Most amazing.
[actually, some women can be amazing at times. at times, they can't. some of them never even get close to being amazing. but the outcome is still better then on the masculine side. I guess.]
It's amazing, foreign languages are fairy tales that you never stop believing in. Then you finally find yourself among the people behind the words and they turn out to be exactly what you've already known in your hometown. But then you discover yet another language and you let yourself be deceived again. It seems this time these are really different stories, unknown dimensions.
Linguistic nymphomania. This one's harder, that one more sibilant. Strange reactions of your own body when you here the sounds. Daydreaming. Physical self-awareness as you carefully perceive your speech organs.
Persuading yourself that a few hundred miles away things would be completely different.
That's what I'm thinking these days when I'm lying in bed with a cold.
This, and that women are amazing. Most amazing.
[actually, some women can be amazing at times. at times, they can't. some of them never even get close to being amazing. but the outcome is still better then on the masculine side. I guess.]
happy sunny wintertime
Fear is eating me, piece by piece. I don't know what was there before the era of fear began; whether there was anything at all. Fear is my motivation and restriction, I speak the language of anxiety and perceive things in categories of potential threat and non-threat. I have fear on my face and in my blood. It is my name. Everything inside me has rotten with fear, there's only a thin layer coating me. If you prick it, I'll explode.
2010/01/30
2010/01/29
against the dark dark skies
White kites, love letters. As proud as this year's winter, strained swan's breast. Adamant.
They fly to above the coast and tremble over the water. I cry but the wind drowns my voice out. They wait for the signal from the lighthouse, I pray for it not to come. Otherwise I'll never see this face again, this whiteness, the trembling.
White kites, love letters. Surrender flags, pure hearts. They're gonna take away everything that's alive inside of me.
2010/01/28
out, out, out
I think I've attained perfection in avoiding people.
I buy some ready to eat shit at the bakery so that I don't even have to make a sandwich in our shared kitchen.
I leave all the work for late evening; when I finally emerge from my room with my zombie face, everybody's already asleep.
I take the earlier bus to the university so that I don't run across the guys from my classes.
I don't see, hear; I turn my eyes away. Hoping they won't recognize my face, won't see, won't find out.
Still the best way to avoid people is to stop being at all. Which is especially brilliant a solution as it sets me free from myself as well.
I buy some ready to eat shit at the bakery so that I don't even have to make a sandwich in our shared kitchen.
I leave all the work for late evening; when I finally emerge from my room with my zombie face, everybody's already asleep.
I take the earlier bus to the university so that I don't run across the guys from my classes.
I don't see, hear; I turn my eyes away. Hoping they won't recognize my face, won't see, won't find out.
Still the best way to avoid people is to stop being at all. Which is especially brilliant a solution as it sets me free from myself as well.
2010/01/27
and what I'd like most most most of all is
a place hidden so deep deep deep inside that even I can't see, hear or feel myself any more.
2010/01/26
:|
what I love about academic essays is that you can't write that water is wet unless someone has already written it in a serious paper. that happens to be inaccessible at the university's library of course.
2010/01/24
'happiness is nice warm breast'
this whole shit has done something strange to my head. the train of thoughts is making my brain totally useless when it comes to reasoning or at least having the noises quieted, the glare is blinding and I can't set me free from just one thought, one picture, one feeling.
and then suddenly comes a dream, all night long, the most sensual and incredible stuff ever, more than I would be able to create in a daydream.
the hunger afterwards is growing and swelling, making me feel alive in spite of the circumstances that got fucked up all the way. making me want to hunt. to break through.
I know the chances are slim, but. Dear life, please, don't screw up again.
and then suddenly comes a dream, all night long, the most sensual and incredible stuff ever, more than I would be able to create in a daydream.
the hunger afterwards is growing and swelling, making me feel alive in spite of the circumstances that got fucked up all the way. making me want to hunt. to break through.
I know the chances are slim, but. Dear life, please, don't screw up again.
2010/01/23
the wall is the wall and i've got it times four
today it feels as if i were the only person on earth.
something that i'm not particularly enthusiastic about.
something that i'm not particularly enthusiastic about.
2010/01/22
p.s.
http://www.fotopolis.pl/galeria/BiennaleMaurycy-Gomulicki-PUSSY-MANDALA-022.jpg
I do find it beautiful.
I do find it beautiful.
"Gesture of Balance" by Tarthang Tulku
"Rinpoche: The purpose of teaching is to give people disappointment. People need
disappointment! There is always disappointment if we expect something."
"Student: I expect disappointment - I don't need that!"
"Rinpoche: That is the only way you can wake up. As soon as more disappointment comes,
you can wake up."
disappointment! There is always disappointment if we expect something."
"Student: I expect disappointment - I don't need that!"
"Rinpoche: That is the only way you can wake up. As soon as more disappointment comes,
you can wake up."
2010/01/21
:
I'm just lost for words. I've been through some stuff, I've read quite a lot and heard quite a lot.
but still. this time I'm just lost for words.
but still. this time I'm just lost for words.
2010/01/20
2010/01/18
<< RE
rewind, rewind.
it wasn't me, i didn't get into this.
get back back back.
the streets the hours the touches the pride the sounds the smiles the dreams the hopes the words the trust the tastes the kisses the yawns the calls the journeys the plans
the
love
must not have been there
rewind
cancel
escape
it wasn't me, i didn't get into this.
get back back back.
the streets the hours the touches the pride the sounds the smiles the dreams the hopes the words the trust the tastes the kisses the yawns the calls the journeys the plans
the
love
must not have been there
rewind
cancel
escape
2010/01/17
i wake up i cry cry i eat i piss i work i drink drink drink i miss i don't understand i wait i can't believe i talk i run i try not to think i force myself to forget i plan i ask i beg i get pissed off i curse i write i howl i wish it were a dream i fear i try to escape i long to & yearn for i lie on my bed i worry i agree i don't let it show i guess i'm slowly going crazy
2010/01/16
2010/01/15
hints
we need hints
before we get tired
now we need hints
before we loose pace
now we need a hint
to know we're on the right track
2010/01/14
funny. i think it funny.
it was a grand plan that I thought up. but i got missed out.
without ancestors, without future; without continuum and without my place in time and space. i have to begin afresh, again. wait till there are only ashes left, till everything has died out – and then begin to call bread, water and sun their names. not listening to my intuition, which says that this time again i'll manage to go only a few steps forwards before my plan secedes from me and walks away, leaving me without connections, without context, without face.
without ancestors, without future; without continuum and without my place in time and space. i have to begin afresh, again. wait till there are only ashes left, till everything has died out – and then begin to call bread, water and sun their names. not listening to my intuition, which says that this time again i'll manage to go only a few steps forwards before my plan secedes from me and walks away, leaving me without connections, without context, without face.
what the hell are you doin'
another phenomenon I refuse to understand is when a mother is yelling at her kid when it's fallen over on the slippery icy pavement.
[proven to be an international behavior.]
[proven to be an international behavior.]
that's what flatmates are for
me: life doesn't give a shit about me.
she: well, if it didn't, you wouldn't have such hair.
she: well, if it didn't, you wouldn't have such hair.
2010/01/13
2010/01/12
silenced
Something has broken, the stabbing has subsided. I'm like a gigantic fish thrown by the waves onto a warm shallow. You can't actually live here, but for vegetation it's just fine. I don't insist to know whether the answer's YES or NO any more – it was brave to search for that, but totally exhausting. Just let me descend; the meaning has faded anyway.
2010/01/10
2010/01/09
2010/01/07
god save the chick
So today I came across a blog of a chick that has a major dilemma being in love with [and being loved by] a girl suffering from schizophrenia. The other one takes some pills that might stop working any time, writes the blogger. And so she describes how tormenting it is, having to decide between her common sense and emotions.
At first I wanted to post a comment saying: relax, you won't get infected.
After a while I kind of really got pissed off and was about to write how I felt sorry for the schizophrenic girl.
But then I thought, how objective am I? if being with a schizophrenic person in a relationship means you're acting on the edge of reason, maybe my depressive/anxious/phobic disorders qualify me for a lifelong celibacy – for the society's sake??
At first I wanted to post a comment saying: relax, you won't get infected.
After a while I kind of really got pissed off and was about to write how I felt sorry for the schizophrenic girl.
But then I thought, how objective am I? if being with a schizophrenic person in a relationship means you're acting on the edge of reason, maybe my depressive/anxious/phobic disorders qualify me for a lifelong celibacy – for the society's sake??
2010/01/05
One day, it will happen
One day, it will all come true.
One day, it will all come true.
I can already see us sitting on that bench in a sunny park, light spots all over the place.
One day, when you're ready
One day, when you're up to it.
One day, when you're up to it.
Or I'll find myself again in that movie theater next to You, watching Euphoria.
One day it will happen
One day, one day it will all make sense
One day, one day it will all make sense
Calm, calm will it be. Time measured with the breath of a sleeping one. The puff of wind playing on the soft, peaceful temple.
One day, you will blossom
One day, one day when you're ready.
One day, one day when you're ready.
Safe, low. The tears, fright and absence as a distant memory.
I bless You.
I bless You.
2010/01/04
the hourglass
in 6 weeks I'll get out of here.
9 weeks ago You came to see me.
4 weeks ago was our last day together in P.
I'll have to wait forever to see You again.
I'll toss my coins in the fountain
Look for clovers in grassy lawns
Search for shooting stars in the night
Cross my fingers and dream on
9 weeks ago You came to see me.
4 weeks ago was our last day together in P.
I'll have to wait forever to see You again.
I'll toss my coins in the fountain
Look for clovers in grassy lawns
Search for shooting stars in the night
Cross my fingers and dream on
2010/01/02
come, the tree of goods
it is always convenient to be able to find the peace of yours. "living under the rules of Buddhism wouldn't harm any of us". composure planned for the future, wishful thinking.
the best part is, when you need to gain the balance immediately. right here, right now. there's no other way out and there is no time. funny, when you curse it and beg it to come, and then you pretend it's already here.
you haven't managed to learn how to be calm.
hard luck, now go and improvise.
the best part is, when you need to gain the balance immediately. right here, right now. there's no other way out and there is no time. funny, when you curse it and beg it to come, and then you pretend it's already here.
you haven't managed to learn how to be calm.
hard luck, now go and improvise.
2010/01/01
'things got fucked up', said the Queen
the Queen glances. she approaches the gramophone and leans over a precipice. the crowd holds their breath.
the Queen has pearls on and the smoothest skin. through her country there are warm pulsating air streams flowing.
the Queen wants to leave the country. the sun starts fading.
the Queen is a Queen of spades. the finest chocolate.
the Queen is pale and has a whim. all right then. all right.
she balances over that precipice, her sweat has a low, sweetish scent. her sigh. her back bends in a triumphal arch.
i pay homage.
the Queen has pearls on and the smoothest skin. through her country there are warm pulsating air streams flowing.
the Queen wants to leave the country. the sun starts fading.
the Queen is a Queen of spades. the finest chocolate.
the Queen is pale and has a whim. all right then. all right.
she balances over that precipice, her sweat has a low, sweetish scent. her sigh. her back bends in a triumphal arch.
i pay homage.
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