Ариведерчи

to protect Her from herself against Her will, to the detriment of myself. this is what I want to do, but I don't know how.
I curse the world's energy, somebody's got to help Her. please.

life without poetry

what I can learn from Peter Handke as a poet, being a writing person, which I consider myself to be, after all, is using everyday life as a material for work; a fabric for artistic processing. he's not the kind of guy who will go to the fields at night-time with a butterfly net, he won't wait for the rising tide or the southern wind. he just looks at things, observes them carefully, considering the structure of simple events, common constellations, and then highlights their nature with the help of cautiously selected words.
I was always interested rather in the Schulzean parallel narration, the elusive beyond any measurement. the elements of natural world as events, subtle emotions as determinants of human fate. but when I was reading Handke's poems, it occurred to me that if energy focused so efficiently around the core of a given phenomenon that it actually came to being in the real, literal world, it might deserve my attention juat as well. things I call mine; groups I identify myself with; how my identity is expressed in my language code – in the end this is the subject of my studies, of my B.A. thesis in particular. and Handke makes poetry out of it.
Leben ohne Poesie, that's the name of the collection. and at times I get frightened by the austerity, rigid analytical character of the poems. conveying a childhood memory with the use of a mathematical formula makes me want to cuddle in The Street of Crocodiles like in an old blanket, that is, to run away to my homeland.
but at the same time I get a sense of the poet's moral courage to accept life's rough surface and to face it. I'm not sayng that Schulzean gardens are easy. there is a quality to them, for which you have to turn aside from the main road, turn time and space upside down; this is the new, the other one. reality super plus. and Handke is like moving deeply, but always on one level only, the cognition level zero. I bet it takes a lot of effort to see the worn out everyday life anew and to describe it with such an awful attention and accuracy.
at the same time I have an overwhelming feeling that what I'm reading was written by a very, very sad man.

and I think to myself

when I drink my first coffee around 2 p.m., I open my eyes and I see August in its bloom. I see how it settles low, already slightly tired, swollen, more and more quiet. what is disappointment and grief inside of me, hides in deep shadow, only single sad reflections remain on the surface of consciousness. and I'm puzzled by the quality of this world, or maybe life: austerity combined with abundance. yin yang. mystery.
I think about the beautiful face of my mother. and I think about how I've easily fallen in love with women recently. how I suddenly felt the need to have lasting relationships, how I've grown out of my deep eternal family home and am quite desperately looking for a new micro-world. how naïve I can get when I let myself fall for women only because there's a shade of hope for the settlement. even if the lack of chances gives me in my face.
for a while, I manage to think about it all without bitterness or blown up sentiments. I stick to it because serenity is fine and it is advisable.
on the soundproof screens along the highway there is a gigantic sun painted with a blue word WIR underneath. a most desired word, everybody wants to be a part of it. at least I do.

change your evil ways

Italy. Warm August sun. Overblown trees send pollen fly. People with their tendency to turn each other's emotions into some fuckery seem totally inappropriate in the esthetics.

"I clasp your hand and everything fades away"

It's all because I always wanted things to happen on a grand scale. I don't like moderation, I feel with it like She did when she woke up in the middle of the night, unable to lie or sit still, with a distinct need to walk, jump or run. To act. The average doesn't satisfy me. It's boring and it only highlights what distinguishes what the extreme is about.
That's why I wanted Her so much.* She knows no limits, it's not even that She lives on the very border, She simply jumps over it and rushes ahead. Aren't you afraid of anything? Her immediate response was a no. Then She added some sensible exception in fine print, but in principle, no, She's not afraid. After all, there's nothing larger than life that could happen to Her. Her body already has so many scars that there's probably nothing that could be of a surprise to Her.
The way I live is following the path given. I'm set up, living off my daddy. And She excites me, tantalizes me. She was born free and that's how She's gonna be ever after. Even behind bars.
In fact, She might be the first really free human being I've ever met.

Meanwhile, it's raining down here and we don't go hiking. I'm kind of happy with it as I still feel somewhat damaged and I don't really aspire to fight with my urban ass up there in the mountains. Instead, we went for a walk in the town of Oetz today. I felt a relief when I saw that behind the first ring of bulky Tirol landhauses there are some jaunty modern houses inspired by the Italian style taken from right behind the border. Noncommittal, that's how the buildings are, light, momentary. Why fuck about the values when it hurts and you don't know what's gonna come next, because people I wanted and people who caused pain to me are the very same persons. I don't see the point of making a stand against that shit. Sex and wine seem a much brighter philosophy to me.

I listen to Zemfira, whose music is finally mine, I mean, it's objectively zemifra-esque, not: magda-esque. And it's gorgeous.

O. has the revelations of her own, she writes to me a lot. It seems like she's feeding herself with some bad energy, but that's probably the dark side of intelligence – how should I know. Whenever I, quite honestly, assure her I'm always ready to help, I forget I'm not really able to help her. Her standards are just too high for me. Not that she has a whole lot of troubles, because she probably doesn't. She just seems so complete that it's hard to believe I could ever get inside her in an expert's uniform even to change a stupid bulb. She's cute and I can't resist her magic, but I know there's nothing sensible I could do for her.
It's Tuesday today and if She wants it, I'll be in Warsaw exactly in a week. I'll see Her in a week. Thinking of it is like looking into pitch darkness.

*I still do.

can you read me

If it was the Alps, not the Himalaya, what they call the roof of the world, I would go on the top of it and scream to her that she's HURTING ME, till she'd realize it, till something would change.
because I won't be in Poland until next Sunday and I have no idea what to do with the pain and insecurity all this time.
it's O.'s birthday today, but since O. is O., she spends it on the phone, boosting my self-esteem. yet I need evidence to believe in things. and facts contradict O.'s words.

I had a feeling She might do it all. I knew She's done it before to other women. funny how you always believe a miracle to happen exactly when you need it. it didn't happen. I feel like I'm dragging some broken part of me along. I still don't understand how She could do it to me.

zamykam oczy

to escape to some other space-time I watch my photos. seaside from two years ago. Germany from autumn and winter. I'm finishing off with today's shots: glaciers and waterfalls. the author of the photos always remembers not only what's in the frame, but also the aura of the particular day. and today hurts. so it was good to see this day right next to the past. it's like taking a three meter distance from it. taking a breath.

that women should deceive me and hurt me in their immature uncertainty has almost become tradition in my life. I'm fighting for it, but it might be that it's against her. maybe I'll get back only to discover that I've become past to her. O. is on alert, like she's always been. on the phone night and day. yet there's nothing that can be done. my ass is being kicked masterfully once again. it's a fact.
sleep deprivation, obsession, a lot of tears. I met her exactly three months ago for the first time.
why does it all keep on happening when I close my eyes?