group portrait with cornflowers

May, June. two most beautiful seconds of year.
the evening is golden and strong but cold, so I borrow a cardigan from my mother. the scent of her perfume makes me feel melancholy.
today, we saw a sea of cornflowers.

właśnie tak się dzisiaj czuję

I get blurred like watercolor
I think in sentences uncompleted
my head droops before daytime has elapsed.

I waste huge sheets of fabric which events could be potentially made of
I leave without a word
I don't wait for my change.

and all of it
half asleep.

something was probably meant to be in between
but at the very last moment the chemical reaction did not take place – the drop did not fall
the current did not flow
a coincidence un-happened

spontaneous labor
was
cancelled.

I wanted to save the mouse, but they stopped me.

in a perfect world cats are vegetarians.

little things of great importance

they say tomorrow morning there will be heavy rain.
there is a musician or a band called Gotye and everybody but me knows some huge hit they released some time ago. I've made a conscious decision not to find out whether it's any good. I also intentionally disregard Euro 2012 and anything that might cause an offence against religious feelings.
I wish summer finally got warm. I don't know what for or what it should change, but I just want to get myself warm at last.

May #6 || secret stories

I think Odessa is very mistrustful. Unwittingly, I kept on comparing it with our Caucasian trip for connoisseurs and despite of the breeze, despite of the broad streets, of the port, lilacs and suntan, I still couldn't get enough of the stories. Armenia gave us a lawyer who poured us more and more wine and told his tales. Georgia – a driver, who never ate and never drank, only drove and talked. And a professor of medicine, who sat on a chair next to the radiator, smoked her cigarettes and lead her long Russian narration. In a museum, on a bus stop and then when you get in – stories everywhere, strangers with pockets filled with them, poor and a little sad people, but open and warm. We only had to stop for a while, eye contact or a smile weren't even necessary, no encouragement. Just tell them that you understand Russian.
The Ukrainians don't feel like telling stories. And I know they do have dozens of them. Stories have to be born on those ships, in old tenements and the golden Ukrainian light. But they only asked for our money, they wanted us to take what they offered and get out, always watching us, afraid we might steal or break something, or just disturb a bit too much. So maybe this was not the most fortunate encounter, because I myself don't have money, but I love listening to stories. And I do understand Russian.