small world

It was most wonderful of my mother to take me for a walk and make a cup of coffee for me this afternoon. My headache disappeared without a trace and I just stood at my window looking at the white turbine small on the horizon as I was sipping the coffee – and thinking why the hell David Lodge describes sexual intercourses in such a disgusting way...

"kind of unworthy to listen to it"

Today I ate a bowl of sweetest food on the planet. It was horrible. Pineapple, orange, apple and banana dipped in chocolate melted with heavy cream. It was just unbearable.
Arranging my September teacher practice at my ex-high school lead me back to my German teacher that prepared me to my final exam. In the third form I went to her tiny empty flat to examine her broken fridge, to have a small talk about fashion designers and lonely women – and to do some exercises in German in the meantime. And now on the phone she was sweet like the chocolate. She said she's saved the message I sent her after the exam results were announced. I felt like hugging her. I imagine she was sitting there alone in her dark flat. She's a strong beast, red-haired and tall, wearing fur cap in the winter. But I wanted to hug her.
And then I thought about how consistently I achieved my goals one by one to pass my exam and to get to the applied linguistics department. When I look back on that time I feel I did it with the surgeon's precision, although I was scared stiff till the very end. But this was a success made with my own hands.
I started wondering why such effective actions don't apply to other spheres of my life. Why am I unable to figure out how to satisfy my needs on the relationships level. How come I don't now the way.
I melted away in my thoughts like that goddamn chocolate.
If only I knew. If I were able to make long-term plan, to fix certain actions and goals, to see myself achieving them, growing complete and strong. If I knew how to reach the sources of peace and balance.
I've always tried to be well prepared. Well-groomed, with a fine base. And however it proved helpful in mundane petty issues, in the case of people I almost always turn out not in time, not appropriate; literally naked. One great improvisation and embarrassment. Why?
If I were a painter, I would paint my reverie if that's the only way for you to be with me. If I knew how, I'd create my everyday life with the smallest details. I'd spare no pains, I'd tinker with it day and night.
I would risk it all this time.
By the way – I guess I have to ration Tracy's music. It really starts killing me. Today after just a few bars of Baby Can I Hold You I hysterically burst into tears. The problem with self–contemplation is that it gives questions only. Who you are vs. who you think you are. What do you do for others. Is there love in your life. What is love. What do you want. What's the quality and value of your life. You want to live in truth so you start looking at yourself thoroughly. You get pretty terrified with what you find out, so you look for hints. Except that there aren't any. Questions without answers.
So I run away.
I can see a small room. Summertime. Through the angled venetian blinds bars of warm light get inside. I can hear the sounds of cars, trees and kids on the street. I'm in this picture and I feel good and safe. I wait for somebody, a real human. A woman. She arrives. The ground beneath our feet is hardened with hours of conversations behind. With our being together. I can see her hand palm. Her hair. Reciprocity. She knows me and I know her. Serenity. There's a cat wandering along the windowsill. We laugh. She's beautiful. I have a lot to offer. I'm needed.
And then I see the night. The city lights, the music. Sweat and closeness. Tangibility of my own life in a shape I accept and really like. Fulfillment.
I can see myself among people. I can see fading away that I can endure. I'm involved in something beautiful and significant. Somewhere near my navel there's the balance. I'm warm in there and others can see that.
I am able to say what others think about me and it isn't contrary to my of vision of myself.
And, for God's sake, I don't torture myself thinking about me me me me 24 hours a day.
I can support myself financially and I look after someone. I'm objectively good at something. My skin smells nice. I'm relaxed.

Now I guess I can't stop listening to Tracy Chapman. It's all her.
No way because – as Rosie O'Donnell said – she's so cute I can hardly handle it.

April Wheeler: I wanted IN.

No words to say, no words to convey this feeling inside I have for you. Too much thoughts, too little sleep (not at all today, actually) to utter anything more than Her lyrics.

This world and this life strikes me with its intertextuality. The conversations between the elements in the constellations, heard so well now the exams are finally over and I can truly pretend I don't depend on people at the university any more. Not listen to them, not talk to them. As if I weren't subordinate to the relations that I am made to have. As if it were ok to claim my own superiority, the belief in my great power that is suppressed only due to some unfavorable coincidence. Like the Wheelers' one. But now I'm getting pissed off and it wasn't supposed to be this way.
So this world strikes me with its structure. With the fact that the identity of each constituent can be established only on the basis of its opposition to another one. A juxtaposition that hurts a lot. Or that only Chomsky's deep structure can relate to the real meaning. It's a mystery; more light.
Or that with the very moment I stop thinking about my university duties and start wandering with a carefreeness only a tramp could afford, I get to like this city; feel its rhythm, sadness and possibilities. Or I guess I feel it. Jesus, Warsaw is big. And constantly fluctuating; it's so not true that this town never gets up. Or wakes up, was it. Not true whatsoever.
And when I find myself on a Thursday evening somewhere near the city center, I know it's perfectly ok that I live and feel this way because – in spite of this structural opposition thing – sometimes the feedback doesn't define you in any way. Even if I'm opting out from following the response just to save the ideal self. I'd be ready for any drastic moves for this part of me rather than most realistic and rational evidence.
The thing is I do love life, and particularly I love to experience. The texture of things and the loss of them. And I can perceive it only when I'm alone. (Taking into consideration only the people I've known so far. <- Safety measures they call it.) I'd give up all my acquaintances if I could keep all strings attached to words by Winterson or Tracy Chapman's music in this way. Cause the real proof is to be submitted to no one but to the judge deep in myself.
It is only the lack of strength to defend myself from everyday shit – and the constant yearning since I had a crush on The Famous Her. I might be wrong. Maybe it's my never-to-be-realized Paris. (The Wheelers again.) Maybe I won't be able to go without it any more. (April Wheeler.) But I'll stick to these desires no matter how they make me unable to fit in. Bullied. And lonely.
And so on.

Funny that from the two movies I've seen lately, Kirschblüten – Hanami and Revolutionary Road it was the first that I liked more, but I keep on thinking about the latter. Maybe it's the case of remembering the item presented as the last one.

Plus I haven't slept for twenty four hours and not a word from what I've written is what was meant to be here.

the 'why sth' routine

I'm not sure. Maybe it's the weather, the color of the sky exactly reflecting the winter grey of concrete. And the coolest kind of light. Or maybe it's love happening somewhere near, so strange and unavailable to be. Or maybe my soar throat or four exams still before me.
Sounds fall on my desk heavily, my skin is dry and cold. I don't seem to be capable of keeping a cup of tea warm in my hands. It is the time of sleeping, time of not being. Time to be passive among books and piano music.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
And I'm dreaming of colorful tulips in the springtime and fresh wind with the smell of sea and soil being born again. My pale face describes it best, all the things I lack indicate the most beautiful moments with endless vivid structures under the skin.
How one can possibly be so weary. So out of life, tied to it only by some bizarre bonds of habit.
She wrote: I'm so lonesome I could die.
I replied that reading it and all my emotional reactions to it didn't change much.
Nor did sending it in, she wrote back.

chain chain chain

Unjustified beauty. Undeserved, illegitimate. January, eight ante meridiem, an hour pink on the snow in the early sunlight.
Sometimes I'm sarcastic towards my own dreams and yearnings - colossi on clay legs. I think of You before I fall asleep and I deride myself, yes, it's so obvious – everyone sticks to their thoughts of somebody else, just like to a water spring. Which poisons them with yet another yearning.

nights in Warsaw

I feel kind of sorry for the cars standing in front of the apartment house and freezing at night.
I do find their tiny muzzles cute.

yearning. burning

The beauty of this day. Loose snow. Frost. Sun. High above - bright, tight clouds, lower – dark stripes passing fast. When a dark bird was flying in between two of them, for a moment I thought it would burn. Mother made a cup of coffee for me. For me only. How I needed it.
The Lazy Hours album purrs in my loudspeakers.

Beauty, beauty, beauty... And the beauty is gone. (Osiecka)