holy thursday!

Oh, it is so nice to get up at 6.40 am and go to the doctor's.
It didn't begin all too bad. I managed to get the second ticket. I was supposed to be seen at 7.45.
So I go upstairs.
At the office I see a girl, totally terrified by me, by the world and by herself. She has the 7.30 ticket. Here comes the doctor. We give her a warm welcome with singing and flags to make sure she has noticed her patients waiting. Dr. Marlena, smiling as if she were high, hides in her burrow. Not to be seen anymore. Five, ten, fifteen minutes pass. Nothing. A new patient has arrived. We talk to each other in a VERY LOUD MANNER, to make the first patient hear us, that perhaps it wouldn't do any harm to knock and ask whether she could come in. But the lady seems to be not only terrified, but also slightly unperceptive, so, at 7.50, I say to her: Couldn't you ask Her Majesty? The Terrified One gets up and approaches the door, which takes her an awful lot of time. She practices the gesture of knocking to make sure it will go smoothly and finally knocks on the door, so quietly I'm kinda sure even the door wouldn't notice. She opens the door slightly (about 5 millimeters), says she's sorry to be alive and asks if she may enter. Yes. She may. She probably could at 7.30 just as well, but the poor doctor "didn't know there was someone waiting". Lordy.
The Terrified One gets out, I get it. Your name? So I tell her. Oh, well, I can't see your file. Would you please go downstairs and get it?
Finding no words to describe this ever so curious absurdity I take my bag and run from the third floor to the ground floor to get my file. Here I catch the nurse who's just about to leave for her gossip & coffee break: GIMMIE MY FILE. She: DON'T HAVE IT.
Huh?
Here it comes. The whole department starts to look for my documents. Telephones, catalogues, whatever you wish. The nurse calls my doctor to say the file is not here, only to find it the very next second. She tapes the envelope up with due diligence (which means another five minutes of waiting). I go back upstairs, but guess what, the next patient is already in the doctor's room. Some idiot says it's my fault so I'll get punished and will wait another fifteen minutes for my turn. I explain to myself his underestimation of my deadly powers is a sign of his mental illness and decide not to kill him.
Then I finally get to the doctor's office.
I sit down.
My doctor loves the whole world and makes sure every part of it feels well looked after. After one sentence uttered to me, there comes a sentence to a nurse, one to a doctor, one to miss technician – as all those people keep walking in and out to discuss some matters of life and death: nail polish, croissants and stuff. GODDAMNIT. The circle closes, back to me. The doctor turns out not to be able to tell one medicine from the other and apparently uses "zinc”", "calcium' and "magnesium" as synonyms.
I feel I really want to go home.
And forget to ask her one important question. In fact, when I realize this, I still have the time to go back and ask it. But I feel it would take too much of time and suffering.
At 9.30 I feel like a zombie and try to mentally prepare myself for the day.
In the afternoon I go where people spend their time talking books, language and translation, that is: workshops with Professor M. He's smoking and I'm asking him hundreds of questions. Each time he laughs and says: you may ask, but I may not answer at all.
But he always does.

And in the evening I meet Ol. in a café owned by a famous writer to choose a book for my mother. When I'm choosing between a story of a portraitist from a concentration camp and a book by a German woman of Turkish descent, I hear a deep male voice. It's him – the author of the most beautiful stories about Czech Republic. I copied fragments of his books and took them with me to Prague to have a walk around the city according to his hints. He goes crazy – he recommends dozens of books, tells me about them and their authors, and he says it all like a friendly host who shows to his guests everything that's best at his larder. Finally, I choose "Life. A practical guide". I write to my mom: something wonderful has just happened to me, but I won't tell you about it before your birthday. She writes back, but you'll forget it by then!
I won't.

So after all I'm quite happy to have gotten up this Thursday morning. Even at the dark 6.40.

reality can take so much more than fiction.

my mom has become matchmaker between me and some country boy.

spinster sunday

I've just washed pieces of chocolate out of my pillowcases.
washing out the smell of sex was more fun.

I didn't know I was dreaming big.

I get down to writing as if it would hurt. I needn't try to capture whole weeks in these few sentences; all the facts, their meanings and my conclusions, too. it makes me not write at all. I just tear off my thoughts one after another like calendar pages, OK, keep going, don't look, it might hurt, move forwards, just forwards.

today's evening was absolutely special. Dee's lips are very sweet. her warmth is humane and soothing. I don't have to change into someone else. there was a moment when I was starting a sentence about something that's difficult for me to talk about and seeing her face lighting up I already knew she would understand. it was probably the most comforting experience of last few weeks.

I can't figure out why the accidental and unthinkable relationships I began when I was fifteen, are a hundred times more valuable, real and deep than the ones I developed as an adult – a woman aware of her sexual and personal identity, better up on the society, more confident of herself and her arguments. it's as if those early intuitive attempts, so trustful and full of childlike curiosity, were to pay off to a much larger extent than those adult games we play now in this general feeling of being lost between the need of creating our own families and social networks - and stepping back into ourselves, that primeval home. have I changed that much or has the world changed?

last night the snow fell at last. about 2 am I was coming home in a night bus; it was slippery and white, alcohol went to my head and I stuck to the moment and the fluidity of motions and the peaceful views I observed through the window, one after another. I could feel, like I frequently do these days, that this is what I am left with: this momentary anesthetization, short compensation in this state of empty hands. I have failed to build in this big and buzzing city anything I could fall back on. when the emptiness comes and I fall down, I keep on getting back to the center of the system: to my mother and father, to my Dee of a long standing who's still the same and still beautiful; to R. and his sentiments, even to A. with whom I'm still unable to communicate. everything that came later, all those people I met here, stay only on the surface, no ties, nothing promised and nothing matters if I should disappear. funny, back then I thought those few miraculous encounters, meeting people like Dee, were just the beginning, some kind of introduction to some fabulous things awaiting me in the future. but the promised city turned out to be nothing but space where I can walk away my pain, solitude and fear. and the offices of psychologists who spread their arms helplessly. and colorful people who are so difficult to reach because they feel safer if you keep the distance. more and more bills left in places I can't really afford, but then I deserve some pleasure, don't I.

it all makes me get back to my old dreams and read them like some original and only truth that can tell me more about my humanity than here and now, the real time, this day, this bread, this January snow, cause now it's all mistaken, distorted and twisted in a sad expression.

Dee and the memory of her warm hand will let me fall asleep without hydroxyzine tonight.

stay

got back to the W city, to my tiny room with bars in the window. until the end of January I have eleven days at work to go and it feels like a whole lot of time.
I'm not sure whether the music I'm listening to is actually helping me or bringing me low.

I sit and wait patiently for the thoughts of this particular person to become irrelevant and just stop coming to my mind. this is the only way. let them die out. there is no substance that could veil them. nothing bigger than this in me. nor out in tonight's world.

loving from a distance

lacuna

"eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" is definitely one of the most overrated movies I've ever seen, but tonight there ain't nothing I'd love more than to become one of the characters & undergo surgery like the one they had in the story.