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.
2010/09/30
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.
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