Point B

You will put the wind in winsome, lose some.
You will put the star in starting over, and over.

out-box #9

spotkałam cię dzisiaj z widzenia z daleka
w każdym razie jakąś twoją postać, nie wiem, minęły trzy lata, a i przedtem nie miałam pewności
jak zawsze w takich momentach, podniosłam wzrok właśnie dokładnie na twoje wejście
potem humus, białe wino
(shell segal)
zadałam pytanie, na które znajomy oraz znajoma nie potrafili odpowiedzieć
więc jeszcze jeden kieliszek
śmiech
bieg na 'Iluzje' Wyrypajewa
przez cały spektakl przewija wije mi się w tyle głowy retrospekcja z twoją twarzą
iluzje
w którymś momencie po drodze trzeźwieję z wina

ja mam taką sytuację, że muszę dokonać pewnego wyboru
i jak rzadko
bardzo wyraźnie czuję różnicę między tym, co intuicyjne a tym co rozsądne
i naprawdę nie wiem

przestałam pytać, ponieważ nikt nie wie.

więc czekam, aż samo się
aż gilotyna.

widziałam cię z daleka oraz bez wzajemności
mimo to cała reszta to tylko przypis do tego momentu
(siedemdziesiąt procent czytelników nawet nie zagląda na koniec książki.)

135 jedzie na Olszynkę Grochowską (stacja PKP), a 176 na Choszczówkę, kiedy wypalam różowe sobranie
pamiątka z października w Kijowie
jesień była złota a pusta.

a natural high

after my fitness classes I get temporarily enthusiastic about life, in which I am similar to a tiny silly kitten with downy fur. I leave the fitness studio and think to myself that it’s so nice it’s raining, that the streetcar goes so smoothly, that it’s quite perfect that I got this blender as a gift, because there’s nothing in the world that I'd like right now more than a glass of banana and kefir shake. then I get hungry and I start to – quite naturally – eat: lunch, raspberries, peanut butter. until I feel heavy, almost sick. which is when my enthusiasm is gone.

but before I start eating, while I’m still naturally high, these are the moments of the positive balance. it’s when I look at people less critically, when I see clearly how the majority of my everyday thoughts concentrate on myself; my self-analysis is so deep and continuous that it exceeds the need to act outwards, to express, to establish contacts.

I am a classical type of an introvert – a fan; I pick people whom I admire – usually there is a social distance between us that makes it impossible to build any relation between us. I watch them from this distance, not like a stalker does, rather like a supporter. I read them and I listen to them, I let the stimuli inside me, I internalize them, I let them sink slowly where they fit. usually, no articulated feedback comes out afterwards.

at the same time, my usual everyday relations with people, the fully reciprocal ones, make me feel out of place and mismatched. almost all relations that I have feel like they were imposed. they are based on habit, not on emotional and mental depth.

hence, my real relations are unimportant; superficial; replaceable -- while the ‘relations’ that actually are just my mental construct, an observation of someone’s existence that provokes dialogue with myself – so, de facto, not proper relations, but perceptions – bear depth, importance, emotional force. they have a formative effect on me, while the real relations seem to pass me by, don’t even touch me.

I remember in high school I dated a girl who was surprised to see that I treat music very seriously. today I see that the energy with which I internalize music that impresses me, dramatically exceeds the depth and permanence of my relationships with people – including that very girl. letting people go comes surprisingly easy to me – except two girls for whom I developed love that was stronger than my fascinations, my passions, even my grand-scale self-analysis.

so it looks like I have to attend aerobics class more frequently – or eat more chocolate / have regular orgasms / take opioids – anything that will keep my endorphins level high.

otherwise I’ll spend the rest of my life as a lonesome fan of Zemfira.

finding the human element

I like the kitten at my parents’ place.

she just rests her furry head in the palm of my hand, cuddles trustfully and falls asleep.

her own sneeze wakes her up to her surprise and to me it is something deeply, truly beautiful and endlessly sad to watch. 

out-box #8

days bring plenty of

strawberries bikes skirts

I hear

long night echo

it’s been so long

it’s already so late

I bother you because

nightmares wake me up and

I don’t know what’s next so

I search in the past

I feel you there, deep down,

the center of gravity circled by gentle ripples

faint traces

attempts to repeat

the unattainable perfection

it’s hard to compare with you

the one whom I

dreamt of

idealized

longed for

the ripples soften, the surface calms down

I throw the rock

again

right there.

organic kind of truth

and when I go out straight into the fresh hair of grass, the evening is darkening and the clear air is hazing over, when fifteen storks are flying over my head and the day is fading away to the meter of distant trains, I am wondering why this all cannot be the essence of functioning, striving, beginning and aiming.

knowing the hierarchy of phenomena and events – feeling the tension of meaning in the countryside when the summer is slowly swelling – reading texts written in a language as dry as good old wine – listening to music so humbly and thoughtfully replacing the respected silence – knowing and recognizing

and yet

getting on mental and literal subway every day, letting it exhaust you like an animal – depersonalized, numb and helpless.

knowing it all so well, feeling it like some organic kind of truth – still not being able to find its way to the daily reality, to every breath, to every gesture.

I miss it

I remain

in debt.

the idyll of March

lying in my bed. sick leave: 4 days of freedom from my corporation – a gift from the surgeon. white walls, bed linen, strong spring sunlight, gulls from the riverside and distant echoes of the train calling. it all makes me think of a text by Renata Litvinova: Finally, I laid down in a clean ward with flowers in a jar on the window sill, they brought me some porridge and put me on an IV - I found peace and went to sleep.(...) Probably that is why I like hospitals so much – they create an illusion that you've been let go for a while.¹  

after the worst pain is gone, I forget about my job and begin to hear my real thoughts. I write to Z., we buy the tickets to Romania, we make plans. I order a guide – almost 700 pages. feels like I’ve bought a Bible. I cannot imagine how Romania might look like. I read “Bucharest. Dust and blood” and I know it’s only someone’s experience that can tell me a lot or can tell me nothing about how it will actually be like to me.

in the evening, before I go to sleep, I watch “Вечное возвращение” by Kira Muratova. I have goosebumps when I hear Zemfira singing the Duke’s song from “Rigoletto”. the scenes with Natalia Buzko – so ripe and heavy, like a late summer fruit. noble gestures of Litvinova, about whom I’ll have a dream later that night. I wish I had managed to see the movie in the theater back in October when I was in Kiev.

every few days I meet A. in the flat. I cannot make myself communicate with her in any way. my body and mouth are closed for her – it’s beyond my control. meanwhile, the red carnation she gave me has come into full bloom on the kitchen window sill. I remain silent. inside me, all the words, pictures and sounds explode and transform. I love life with its bitter overwhelming weight – but I just cannot let it show.

the weather breaks, the temperature starts falling, the wind pushes against my windows, I close my eyes and I feel as if I were in a lighthouse in a middle of a storm. I clean the flat. the order brings me mental peace.

I put my blue rubbers with yellow shoestrings on, people on the street always look at them when I pass by, and I go to the theater to see “Only Lovers Left Alive”. when I enter the building and the door closes behind me, it starts raining and the sun shows up at the same moment. there’s still a quarter before the movie starts, so I go upstairs and sit to read a few pages of “Bucharest”, but I can’t; behind the window there are old tenements with bullet holes, the bricks dark with dampness, the March sunlight in the windows, in the puddles, in the mirrors. the world demands attention.

and then the movie – like a beautiful, perfect dream. Jarmusch, who always introduces order of things that I accept so gladly and to which I always surrender. Tilda Swinton – oh, everything about her performance – I could almost worship her. the music of nighttime. what a perfect dream.

although the movie theater is near my home, it’s so cold I can’t walk and I tremble; on my way I need to buy some warm coffee. I get back and I write to Ol. that she definitely should go and see the movie. she says, there is no way to see it here, in Berlin, without the German dubbing. I imagine German feminine voice instead of Tilda Swinton’s accent and although I’ve never experienced the popular instant dislike for German, I feel so sorry for Ol.

before I go to bed, I swallow the painkiller and wash it down with carrot juice from a wine glass. A. is not at home. I buy “Only Lovers...” soundtrack and I watch my thoughts like a photo album.

Sadness came when they delivered my test results and I was discharged – with my skin white, looking healthy. Deep down I felt like clinging to the headboard of my iron bed, as I was leaving the old hospital wing. ¹  

Tomorrow I get back to office.

^{1 Рената Литвинова “Она влюбилась во вторник... Как я похудела”} (translation attempt mine)