witness box

HIDING WHERE YOU'LL FIND ME

2012-01-15T17:04:00.024+01:00

You can do one thing only. Ready or not. Like it or not. You just can’t do anything else. And you’re going crazy cos it’s never finished. You are. In a state, ununited. Put the thing away, drop it, smash it. It’ll be back soon.

The highlights of their days are trivial. Every talk is small. You can't be bothered. And when you are, you’re with them in the flesh; spirit fixating on the one and only something. In circles. Over and over again. Again, again, again and again. It’s never gone. You are.

It's like love, this strive for perfection. So you can only be alone. It's like love, a scary thing. So you crave company. Someone like you, only simpler. An embrace in which you could hide and never get out. The let’s-call-it understanding, the warmth of seeming to be-long. But you won't be-long. Soon it will be back.

I never asked for it. Crap. Artist. Artisan. You name it. Congratulations, yeah right. Like it's something to CongRatulAte uPon.

ARTERIES

2012-01-07T14:02:00.118+01:00

I didn't dare cycle in the forest yesterday. I was too scared. I trusted that fear in the way you only trust the irrational – totally.

It was the heart that made me so afraid of going the usual way, the way down. Irrational. So I listened. ”Don’t make waves, don’t make yourself(,) a clot," I heard. ”You trusting me is you trusting you.” Irrational. I listened again. And so I stuck to the main arteries that time.. No going against the flow, no risk of anything jumping out from behind the arch of the aorta.

I let the heart pump me out and about in the same direction as the rest of the school. Upstream, but not against the stream. A rush of blood to the head? No, a levelled, balanced flow.. That's how I reached the brain cells. But they are so hopelessly useless in explaining fears and trusts. All they can make you do is stand up to something by playing it down or follow it by rationalizing.

I trusted the heart, not the brain. I don't believe what people say.. that trust needs to be well-earned, and fear – well-grounded. That there must be experience involved. Real trust is, by nature, sudden and instinctive. And it's given lightly. Otherwise, I make it acquirement, fossilization, lie. Real fear is just as immediate, inexplicable. Otherwise, it's only a phobia.

I can only trust a world in which trusts and fears are irrational. I also feel it's not the only way they are connected. Cos I fear that trust.

"IT'S ALL THE STREETS YOU CROSSED, NOT SO LONG AGO.."

2011-12-27T21:36:00.037+01:00

One of the most absorbing dreams I’ve ever dreamt took place in the early 70s. Took time is more like it. What a misfit I was in my twenty-first century out-fit.. But I felt right in (the) place. I took a good look and an even better breath of the forty-years-younger air and headed to visit my eighteen-year-old parents. That’s what I'd travelled in night-time for. And I knew exactly where to find them.. After all, in thirty years' time the very same red-brick high school would become my own.

I had that dream a few good years ago, but only now do I feel that I was born too late. Not because of the dream alone. Not because I enviously wish I had been there to appreciate the then music, the fashion. Not because things were rarely made in China, of plastic. Not even because there was lots of post, not post-. Why(,) then? Visuals – somewhat monochromatic, tastes – macrobiotic. It was okay to be a virgin. Of any kind. Things were rated, harder to get.. It required effort to have. A hobby, a girlfriend, a whatever.

Shouldn’t the “now” go all red to hear that..? Knows no shame, so.. no. But flamboyant as it is.. just look.. it pales. In contrast. In comparison.

HOW TO HAVE FUN AT HOME?

2011-12-19T18:55:00.017+01:00

The question mark takes it into consideration. Makes it a serious quest(ion).

Back from work. There’s light, there’s air, there’s company. Artificial, artificial, artificial.

There’s stuff to do. But I won’t do it. It’s either neither or both, which makes the (s)hook of the head turn (out) in the right direction. Not sinister, not this time. There’s intelligence going artificial. Still.

There’s more(s). An awful lot. Can one be less free than within the more and more of free-dom? And shouldn’t there be in(tro)verted commas on that one? Okay, crooked.. enough, I follow. There should be some more.

There’s a 'happy' meal to try to eat, my head chop-chopper reminds me. Not merry, not this time. At l(e)ast.

...

There's thoughts parking. Indicating.. right..? I keep me company. Caution indicated.

NG

2011-12-17T13:59:00.044+01:00

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But is this the matter of choice, really? The not-solid Angie cannot be the rolling stone you see.. It only is what it is: a liquid, and a trans-parent one. And so it flows, both assuming and sculpting the shape of the surroundings. If you don’t mishandle, it will never go off. Needs to be hit, dropped or shaken.. forced to send the carefully manufactured, neighbouring molecules into the neverwhere. And Angie prefers to apply itself elsewhere, assist those with hearts under attack, really. Slowly disperse in their mouths, sweet and acrid in taste (they say). Bring them some moss to rest upon. Or to chew and spit out, but nevermind.

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But it's active. And this is the matter of choice.

REAL TIME

2011-12-12T22:51:00.006+01:00

I want nothing. No thing can prevail and no(t) one shall. Arm’s length and shortness of sight. Nowhere.. now here.. such a fine, fine line. The now is what matters. And it(s) matters.

Don’t visualize what should only be felt, what can get imagined at the very merry least. The know-how, the can-do. Don’t you all have it? Don't you have it all? So fuck the show. And tell.

WYSIWYG?

2011-10-18T18:30:00.012+02:00

What you see is what you get? No. Not always. Not this time. Maybe not ever. I wanted to be made. Please turn a blind eye to this homophonic layer suggesting certain connotations. So I have been made.. into a little (bit of a) scribe, a little (bit of a) project coordinator, interpreter, translator, secretary, junior advisor.. a little (bit of) whatnot. I am an assistant, so I assist in this a-little-bit-of-this(,)a-little-bit-of-that kind of way. And I’ve just concluded that it cannot be more obvious why I’m not a manager.. What a bout of self-awareness, huh? Triple huh. This awareness is no reflection on me though.. Aaah, so I have managed some little thing after all..

I’m also a language learner, you know, you knooow.. But this myself has made myself into. What you see is what you get? Again, hell no. With this language, you can forget the sense of sight. So I can see, store, recall. So what? It won’t stop the sound in its tracks. And it’s the sound that I'm chasing, at breakneck speed and yet.. Too always too slow I am.. Androids might dream of electric sheep, but dragons won't stop for hitchhikers.

PANTA RHEI

2011-10-10T18:29:00.006+02:00

Look. No use crying in the shower. It’s a waste of many good tears someone could otherwise have noticed. Transparent liquid? Must be water. All look, but who tastes what looks like the obvious? Why taste it for salt? No use. It all goes down the same drain anyway.. salt or no salt.. shit or no shit.

Look. Something has been spilt. Passive. I have spilt the something. Active. I'm crying over the something. Active. Present. Continuous.

Look what I've done. I’ve wasted time. I've wasted "water". All down the drain.

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME

2011-09-12T19:09:00.010+02:00

O. Type. Negative.

Disappointment: the “you are here” sign with this bulb flashing over the head. To step up or out of the uneven (odd..) light it gives out? No, this you can’t manage.

Numbness: everything old is new again. Despite the pink & out & fit, sunny shades and the music (I thought) I could finally face..

Jealousy: I didn’t even know the earth that’s scorched can become the grass that’s greener. Oxford Syndrome..?

Stress: I’m a chest nut. And an oxy moron..

"SHE'S A MAN-EATER.."

2011-08-04T16:28:00.050+02:00

The other evening. We are lying on the bed, me mourning over the father getting rid of all the charcoal remnants. No barbecue party then. No two’s company. The sister turns on her usual uplifting mode. "- Hey, let’s make a fire instead," says she. And then, "- I’ll cut your fingers off and we'll roast them, what say you?" An uplifter? Yes. And no.. I hear the familiar click as the head projector starts a frantic slide show.. Not again! It's all in front of me. I get desensitizied, have my fingers cut off, sprinkled with spices, grilled and served together with French fries, French salads and a cruelly inviting smile of a French waitress. Now, would that dish look or smell any different from those featuring other kinds of red meat? Not at all. And so I wouldn’t be able to tell that it was actually myself I was having for dinner! Well, unless it was my left hand that lacked fingers and I had nothing to hold the food in.

It goes without saying how uncomfortable the whole idea made me feel. Still, it's not a revelation that what is known as me is just as edible as those creatures portioned and served on my plate every Sunday. How funny.. You might even know you’re made of this.. luscious meat and that it’s consumed in some cultures, but the moment of realization results in a wave of nausea anyway. Well, self-disgust it was in my case.. At that very point, I wanted to call it all off, spare the sausages and become a vegetarian. It suddenly punched me right between the eyes that one should only eat raw, unprocessed food. This leaves.. leaves, fruit and vegetables (for most) and maybe fish and dairy such as milk or eggs (for some).

If you can’t bring yourself to eat your food raw, you shouldn’t have the right to process it, you shouldn’t have the right to eat it. I think that whatever you have to kill and process first is NOT suitable for human consumption. And quite probably, this is the only healthy way of thinking. Fair enough, at least for those not wanting to be treated like somebody (something) else’s prospective meal. Eating meat is eating what you too consist of. It is a yes to cannibalism.

Having said this, I didn’t practice what I've just preached, not that very night. I’m still a man-eater and therefore.. a hypocrite. But I had to drink a lot of wine to be able to swallow the meat we finally roasted. And I didn’t pick the dessert hanging down from the nearby apple tree.. Instead, I knelt down (read: bowed) and looked for some unattached fruit in the evening dew. This deed isn't much, I know, but I have nothing else to say for myself for now.

MAYBE, BABY

2011-07-31T17:24:00.016+02:00

Only a few days ago I celebrated my being exactly three months gone. What a happy occasion, a real shower of memories, (to) the best of my recollection. But.. nobody has noticed yet. And so there is this one question knocking about my brain.. Shouldn’t it be beginning to show? Shouldn’t it.. by now? Well, it does, but not the way it should.

Foreign as he is to me, this little monster I am carrying around, we hit it off and have been friends ever since. Or so I thought. Would a friendly creature keep you up at night and round off your stomach? Would he grow on and in you with such velocity and bent? Not being for this world yet, would he cry for your full time and attention? Would he kick so soon, so.. hard?

Looks like this self-indulgence he’s performing on me is far from symbiotic. No fruit will be born, sorry. I have a parasite. An unborn teenager on speed.

Terminate.. then? Hasta la vista, baby? “I’ll be back”, clatters the kicker in Morse code. Well, I’ll wait for the labour then and see if I can bear it. I might even want to keep the thing, should I find resemblance. I probably will. Six months to go and he’s already like the mom-me. A troublemaker.

RASSSK

2011-07-29T22:50:00.015+02:00

A shopping spree! Yesss. I’ve been shopping with abandon for over a week now. Have spent some quality time on quality assurance of some more quality time. Aaaa, so that’s what savings are for.. Have I just bought some good time or taken the “rainy day” expression a little too literally? One of the two, but anyhow, let’s blame it on the weather. Or under it.

I got myself a bike! New, shiny and black, but out of.. tune. So tun(n)ing shall transpire to accessorize the bliss of being on the move again. Ta-dam! Fireworks? No, but there will be beams and rays. Or "traffic lights".. that's how I (will) call them at least.

And I got myself a ball! Since I’ve already got one, I'm officially “a girl with balls” now.

There’s also a tennis table under consideration.. My idea of a werewolf piece of furniture to place in the living room. Will only come out at night to live half its double life to the full.. In daylight, under cover, a loyal servant of his mistress and commanderess. Yesss. Being an ordinary table may be a dead end job, I know, but the nights with the mistress (and other.. playboys and girls) will certainly make up for it.

JIVE

2011-07-29T22:44:00.020+02:00

Thirsty? Have a drink. Still thirsty? Have another round.

Hungry? Do twenty push-ups. Or something similar, activating your endorphinuous (erogenous?) zone. Still hungry? Have another round. Unbelievable as it may sound, it’s a universal tip, and it works (sooner or later) or.. you die trying. Either way, it keeps the mind off gorging and the owner away from any gorge material. For good.

All those wise guys preaching you must cut down on this and that (read: carbohydrates and fats) and invite some physical activity to your life.. How educated and idealistic of them! But how many succeed? It’s possible to count even if you lack a few fingers.. That’s how many. I'd gladly use one of my middle fingers to show and tell the white coats what I make of all this.

I say: don’t change your eating habits and add exercise. Don’t change and add at all. Replace. Preferably your evening meal with a workout.

And I don't just say it, but mean it. I too ride a bike at dinnertime. With all my heart troubled by breakneck pedaling it needs to pump up to. Benefits are plenty more. All the good (read: fattening) things served for dinner get out of sight. And after an hour or two I eat.. not or I eat.. well. Onwards to the reasons. I sometimes don’t feel hungry (exercise really keeps one’s mind off everything else) and if I do (because sometimes it doesn’t), I choose something macrobiotic to eat. Why? Because otherwise all the effort will go to waste! Psychologically speaking, burning 500 calories (or more) is too rewarding to be ignored and spoilt just like that. So good proteins and vitamins it is. A proper meal!

And at times I come back so exhausted that I can’t even lift a fork.. I say fork, because it’s only wise to stay away from knives under these circumstances. Too easy to mishandle..

And sometimes.. I can’t even open the fridge to make my dinner. So beautifully effective, yet paradoxical. My hands not exactly tied, and yet.. no choice, no choice..

I, ROBOT

2011-07-24T21:44:00.018+02:00

Every body is on holiday. Mine is no exception here, much to my despair. I'm not fooling anyone.. I can't even express despair just now. My mind, still quite far from red hot and alert, is now being followed by the body-trudger. I got used to this half-witness I've been experiencing for some time now, but I thought it would be only intellectual tasks that would get out of the magnetic, mesmerizing reach of the brain. But no, it’s all tasks, at all times. Suddenly, I’m an iron maiden, an obsolete iron without a soul. The metal trap won’t move, all it wants is to be fed and to hibernate soon after. Preferences? Yes, the heavier and greasier the fodder, the better and more satisfying for the unwieldy piece of junk. Machines don't fancy organic good. Watering the thing is not welcome either (not even with electrolytes) - it wants rest, not rust.

Science fiction literature is full of stories featuring machines developing human-like intelligence and taking over the universe. But this current state of mine makes me think this one time literature is quite wrong. If something like this ever happens, it will be the other way round. Picture this: real intelligence becomes artificial, brain creases ironed out by the wit and sophistication of the media. Modern work- and lifestyle, artificial limbs, plastic and cosmetic surgeries, fashion and “beautification” in general turns the flesh heavy-duty, but hefty and unreal.. Just imagine.. or take a look around.

"I'M NOT A WITCH, I'M NOT A WITCH!"

2011-07-22T19:46:00.011+02:00

Not again! Another black cat failed to dare cross my path the other day and.. yet another one the day after.. Well, it had happened many, many times before but seemed to stop when (<--) this little fellow appeared in the household and stayed. Phew, I thought then. It's tamed. So I’m not a witch after all. Yes, that’s what I would think before. Who wouldn’t? Black cats, traditionally associated with witchery, suddenly changing their alpha-wave minds and ways because of me were not the only reason. Add a bunch of friends calling me a witch, witcha, small town witch and .. they have been good friends, which makes it all maliciously close to a (home) truth. It’s all back now, the cat thing, much to my amazement.

But let’s not freak out. Let’s ascribe some sensible meaning to it. Why would a cat (invariably black) come near the edge of a road, look my way and rally to reverse like the road is not a road but a chasm of immediate peril? Well.. isn't that what all pussies do..?

13.07.

2011-07-22T19:43:00.007+02:00

A perfect day. Me and the sister indulging in laughter in the middle of many streets, causing dirty and puzzled looks in many strangers. Me and the sister hearing from this one guy in this one street that IF WE ONLY WERE 18, HE WOULD ASK US OUT (Yeah, I knoooow..). Me and the sister successfully finishing this six-month project of ours, beautifully printed, acknowledged and hard-wired (in me at least). Me and the sister celebrating completing the very project with beverages of national colours.

And yet, a flaw. This power play.. good at criss-cross as I am, this time I twiddled with the felt tip. What a match to find.

And yet, a.. what? Spontaneous combustion. What a match to lose.

GIRL UNINTERRUPTED:

2011-07-20T21:22:00.011+02:00

.. 120 minutes of an activity rated as “restricted”, performed upon..

.. 30 kilometers of unknown woodland paths in the ambient temperature of..

.. well, say, teenage temperature, which has limited the number of crises on the way to the whole..

.. 1,5 downs (rounded).

In numbers dwells happiness. Count your blessings.

ARE YOU JUNKING ME??

2011-07-18T00:18:00.009+02:00

I think I’m on the verge of yet another obsession. Junk. Oh dear.. so compulsive analyzing, imploding, scribbling and washing hands aren’t enough..? Seriously? Sigh.

Looks like it was triggered yesterday. I was deceived into helping to carry out.. an incident of removing junk just to make it junk around someplace else. Hated the idea of this very someplace else. So once I smelt the rat lurking inside those black bags, I stopped lending a hand. Instead, I chose the company of wild boars, deep in hope that some kind Mr. Boar might be interested in biting off the treacherous limb of mine. But no. Chaining my outraged little self to a tree would be far from eco and even further from logical.. So I ended up lowering the head and swearing an acid blue streak.

And so it happened. Now I’m trying to clean up all the fly-inviting junk that surrounds me. For good. Step one? No more junk food. I’m already lighter and feel like a real smart ass having those three meals a day (only!) according to the no-white-flour-and-refined-sugar-after-lunch strategy. This first step will make those other steps to take less heavy, because there is (literally) less of the step taker.. Although it needs to be said that losing weight is actually optional. It’s burning fat that isn’t. But that’s another story.

CHILD BENEFIT

2011-07-17T22:58:00.011+02:00

Whatever you play, it is best when there are some kids to play with. They think it’s all so important because there are grown-ups involved, but at the same time they don’t care about so many things other grown-ups would.. Like that you’re a girl, you've just kicked off your shoes and you can actually play this allegedly virile game. Whatever you are, to them you’re a blank page. Or maybe they think you know and can apply all the rules just because you’re.. older? Oh, I forgot to clarify this one little something: today I have been the grown-up, the oldest player in the field. Go ahead, laugh if you please. I don’t mind as long as there is a full size football to kick around.. Anyhow, this feeling of absolute acceptance was as refreshing as the evening breeze and closeness of the wilderness. And the fact that I played barefoot. And the fact that I.. played .

WET FISH

2011-07-15T00:02:00.013+02:00

Another bike ride.. only longer. Even despite Mother Nature’s playful mood presenting obstacles from all directions.. Her orchestrating wind blows to hit and slow down my accelerating body (not exactly streamlined in shape..). Her putting those rain drops in every time I gave the heavens above a critical, predictive look. Not that I would mind a downpour.. it’s far from enough to make me melt anyway.. This requires more evasive actions, doesn’t it?

I got a curious, limited edition fever back at home.. so this partly-cloudy-,-chance-of-rain weather was just enough to get me hot and make the humidity levels skyrocket.. All wet for two hours. See? A gentle type like this can sense that showering certain girls with hails of stuff (be it bullets, rain, tears or flowers) has.. cooling powers only.

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

2011-07-13T22:00:00.022+02:00

Bikes are girl's best friends. I prefer them to dogs and (most) people. They have a way with me, no doubt. They know how to get me on the move and keep my mouth shut (a true rarity): I want no fluttering, buzzing creatures to land in my mouth.. As simple as that. But more importantly, bikes make me a daredevil. Today I’ve gone from being really soft on my weak constitution to giving it a real hard time.. Just like that. But don’t look at me, blame the endorphins. They did that! After first 10 minutes of absolute torture any physical activity gives me, this recurring rebel of the circulatory and respiratory system, there comes that familiar rush of oxygen to the head, there comes the dizziness of hyperventilation. Oxygen is rare and therefore.. pretty addictive. Along come the endorphins, and I live on endorphins. Junkie see junkie do. To make my little oxygen overdosing even more daring (and endorphinuous), I added an extra element of risk (apart from the usual ones: possible consequences of me engaging in any physical activity and.. road pots). I bravely rode with my headphones on! You can’t predict what you cannot hear.. impending cars, rapists at large, wolves in the woods, chupacabras.. Yeah, well. The random mode on the mp3 player happened to select songs in perfect accordance with my pursuit and its ups and downs.. How could anyone meddle with destiny and turn it off? How?

The plan was modest: 5 kilometers only, pacing, conservative style. I ended up with almost 20 of those on my counter, plus 2 aching wrists and 1 sore.. butt (the bike I rode was a little bit too borrowed for comfort). I now have difficulty sitting down, so tomorrow will probably be a day of joyful “it’s not what you think” to the world..

I guess it’s true what one proverb of hell says: you don’t know what is enough until you know what is more than enough. Interestingly, I’m still clueless. But finally happy.

PRAISED BE THE WORD!

2011-07-11T01:20:00.007+02:00

You’re nothing till you write a book. My love for literature and the written word in general and the charm of a yet empty piece of paper and the insufficiency of any page of print and the intoxication caused by choosing fonts and layouts.. Well, all this makes me a believer, a born (again, again and again) worshipper of the power of word. I can preach the word from any book of word. Preferably, a self-written one. Yep, write a book or die trying.. But.. how? I officially refuse to compose yet another dissertation, currently very much in doubt I want a university career. I officiously oppose freelance journalism and travel writing (although I consider the latter a dream profession).

Well, I’ve found a way, it seems. Not that I was looking for one. I’ve done it all.. involuntarily (no real intention) in connection with a little voluntary project which.. became quite huge.. Polish for Foreigners it is called. A real, palpable book of word with the printed acknowledgement of my name on it.

And so, the pigeonholing is over. She’s done it, the witch has done it. No noble prize.. But she feels she can die happy now.

PINT OF BITTER, PLEASE!

2011-07-10T15:16:00.012+02:00

Summer. All in spite. Can’t stand her highness the temperature and people’s usual, summer pursuits.. For me, they only work elsewhen.

Take relishing ice cream, for example. I used to loooove ice-cream as much as anything else that’s both cold and sweet. However, that last year’s incident changed everything. I overestimated my capabilities and the huge portion I had bought began to melt in my hands once I lay them on it. No wonder, it was high season! I managed to devour it all in some 30 seconds or so. But of course, I suffered from a migraine right afterwards. Ever since, I’ve only had ice-cream in winter (doesn't melt.. ever), walking down local paths, wearing my red sneakers and a matching hat and sunglasses. In the winter wonderland, I would make this kind of spectacle of my elfish little self repeatedly. Well, a spectacle this was in the eyes of the majority shaking their heads at the view.. But there were a few entertained, smiling faces too. So maybe show is a better word?

Take this beach culture and beach goers. The only justifiable crowd on the beach are sea-gulls and that’s that. People add acid colours, excessive movement and excessive litter (any litter is excessive). Also, beaches are miles looooooong and for some reason those sun enthusiasts in the state of undress seem to enjoy flocking in just one spot.. That's because they don’t come for the beach, but for those other people. Something I can never compromise.. The sun is everywhere and in those other places there's also privacy. I do go to the beach though, don’t get me wrong. However, if I go, I go in bad weathers and uninviting seasons, preferably.. winter. Never arranged or anything, it just.. happens to happen. Plus, winter beaches are cold but.. sweet. Yes, the perfect match again.

The only common, outdoor summer pursuit I would (and will) go for is probably beer consumption. For some reason the beverage tastes better in the summertime. And a beer jug is more than handy. It literally sticks to the palm and won’t let go. And the liquid itself.. fizzy.. foamy.. refreshingly bitter.. and cold.. A true relief when the sun sears the head. It makes me a devoted fan. Despite the bitterness? No way, on the strength (well.. weakness..) of it.

PASSIVE VOICE

2011-07-09T18:14:00.016+02:00

So the insomnia is gone. Finally? No need to get besotted with beverages of effect open to question just to get some sleep. I get sleep again, or to be more exact, the sleep gets me and will get me yet no doubt. There’s plenty to sleep on, after all..

And the side-effects of my back turned on sleep for so long? Well, I’ve lost the active voice. What do I do now? Pass the time between dusks on keeping..

1) ..my eyelids open.
2) ..the change.

To anything else, the body says NO and stiffs in my general direction. I don’t blame it, would you? Its vital rights have been neglected for weeks. It looks like I don’t coordinate this life-long project anymore, have been limited to a mere subcontractor, supplier. Demands are high. Three deliveries of a proper meal daily, quality hydration after sporty dehydration, balanced food for thought. Only then will the situation return to normal.

This.. half-witness issue will have to wait until then.

A MENTAL NOTE

2011-07-09T17:55:00.017+02:00

A new diagnosis, highly predictable since the patient had known all the way but hidden that before all doctors, be it pro or self-taught. My virtue is far from easy and should be easier, a self-taught doctor told me. Should get more physical, he added. And was right since mental is not exactly the word one wants to have stuck on their back on a yellow sticky paper.. So far, a mental case.. due my nerdy pursuits which are as follows:

Music: grants rhythm where and when there isn’t any. Unfailingly. Plus, your music deadens other people’s (they can't face it). Priceless.

Live music: connected with getting away and “enjoying” public transport. Must get back to all that. Old flame dies hard and makes me soft even now.

Cooking: a purely procedural thing for me, brings pleasure sexual in nature thanks to activating the cerebrum and nothing else. Well, procedurally speaking. The effect happens to be far from orgasmic, taste paling in comparison with smells and textures.

Net-bag: a science fiction sport, a sport of the future. Elements of the beloved genre (football) transposed into a promising alternative world (volleyball). Unfortunately, the ball was miniaturized and hardened by some looney scientist! A non-contact sport.. this injurious? A bit too transgenic, sorry. (Now remind me, since when have I been a moaner..? Ah, yes. Since I stopped training football with a medicine ball.)

Swedish: fulfills the need for the brand-new and since I’ve torn asunder the original package, it doesn’t qualify for sending back and getting compensation.. Although the contents are not exactly what I ordered.. there’s still hope, as there might be a master key in this manual I didn’t care to read. No yet here. I'm not going to.

Photography: not much of a hobby, but fools me into believing I have a vision.

Writing: very much of a hobby and lets me pretend I have a voice.

All pretty much akin to work or overintellectually approached? Yeah, well. Think what you may. I still don’t have a pair of nerdy glasses that would complete the picture..

Yes, I should get on the move and sweat the issues I have out into my clothes and then wring them out once and for all, salty smell and taste included. I agree with this new doctor’s orders. I truly and fooly do.

PASSION FRUIT

2011-07-05T23:58:00.017+02:00

Passions should be shared. Otherwise, there’s this unwelcome shift in meaning and you don’t really capitalize. As far as my passion is concerned, sharing is okay as long as you keep away from the stock market, loans, borrowings.. and the like. I’m fine with the unlike, the button most choose to press.

There are people for whom this passion of mine is important after all.. Look, some still learning, some have already learnt something.. Yet, their revelations and solidarity are a fat substitute for the soul mating I crave right now. And the notes I want to take. Or rather.. make.

FACT SHEET

2011-07-05T13:49:00.016+02:00

Mixing business with pleasure is just as dubious as it is exciting. Just as bitter as it is sweet. And sooner or later, it turns sour, goes off just like anything that’s not stored cool. Silly me, I still hope yesterday was the best-before, not the expiration date.. If only this.. mixture had been more consistently labelled, quite probably I would have known better. I only remember there was something in between the lines, something my short-sightedness didn't make out in time..

But since the thing has an organic smell now, then maybe it is alive and evolving.. and maybe it will start kicking soon and burst the package open in quest of air. Overcome the confines of its simple, hermetic world.. Wishful thinking of an oxygenic creature.. Oxygen sure fucks with the brain. Who, in their right mind, would volunteer for the dizziness it brings?

"WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? BLEED ON ME?"

2011-07-04T16:25:00.010+02:00

If I could pass my own law, only one little law to be ruthlessly executed, I would ban littering. Both with and without intent. One little law and one little.. execution for breaking it. I intended the pun you might be deciphering just now, I meant a real, bloody execution. A substantiated incident of littering would be punished with cutting off one of the culprit’s fingers. A spectator bloodsport with noble intentions, a warning. Let them choose which of the ten little perpetrators they want to sacrifice for their mindlessness. Aren’t I being merciful? It will heal in no time. A huge, mean pun intended this time.

Joking aside, think of the benefits. One careless homo not-exactly sapiens wouldn’t possibly commit the crime in question more than ten times.. Simple mathematics. Pure practicality.. bordering with obsession, all right then, but shouldn’t the greater good be the priority on this? Or the lesser evil at least?

WISHES ARE HORSES

2011-07-02T11:21:00.008+02:00

According to the calendar and the twenty-odd springs I’ve good-byed, this time of the year is supposed to be summery. Look outside. A downpour. Look inside. Same there. Too distant, too hollow a place to even risk the here word. I’m complying with my own request of being on my own own. Alone was not exactly planned, chance accident. Other sorry sights: eating and sleeping disorder, losing weight, compulsive listening to music hinting at either love or depression or both. Surprisingly enough, it can get worse. I must be on my guard, beware of false moves, any-kind-of-weather-friends.. Much as I want to join in their fun.. Keep playing this self-employed devil's advocate to stay knee-deep in shit rather than.. rather than.. what? Feeble as I am, not exactly weak in the head. Yet.

I’m pondering over a word kind of corresponding with this.. alternating current. Loss. Dangerously far away from for words, dangerously close to of life.

ASQUINT?

2011-06-27T08:10:00.013+02:00

One fails to notice charm in their own surroundings. Most surprising perceptions come from the outside. An aspiring Peeping Tom or a random but observant passer-by can do the job. Now I will give it a try.

There is this outside culture. It successfully replaced Mr. Saint Nicholas with a little.. girl called Lucia and no one really objected. Speaking of girls, on Easter the culture lets them play witches with impunity. This seems like a wide range of priviledges (that boys don't have). I think I know how this is further reflected. There are certain (vital!) adult statistics proving me right on this.

Oh, at Christmas, presents (used to?) have attached malicious notes for the receivers. I've read the giver would knock at the receiver's door, leave the gift and flee into the shadows. This can potentially teach this.. curious directness-indirectness and playfulness. Potentially? No way! I somehow know for a fact it does..

And in the language.. the words our and spring happen to be.. the very same word (at times). Comments? No, just a smile this time. Weekend and computer have local equivalents. And Warszawa has never been Germanized. Again, a smile. Only broader.

It surprises me sometimes that on these easy terms there are only 9 million representatives of the culture. How do I account for that? Ah, yes. The exterminatory principles of smelly fish and kaffegöken.. And birth control.. maybe:-)

FIELD-DEPENDENCE

2011-06-26T22:26:00.015+02:00

My father got this idea of organizing a volleyball game between singles and married people from the village. I went to cheer and (maybe) engage in sports photography. Well, not in so many words or ways, but still..

My dad.. I'd seen him play before, but never so well. The married team won of course, since they get a better chance of keeping up the team spirit in their everyday lives. That's one interpretation. There's another one, though. Technically speaking, my dad kind of earned a cross of merit for all this and more. It's his doing that people who rarely say hello in the street played a sport together, laughing and frolicing in this pseudo-Polish dialect teeming with (yes, they're alive) strong, but charming expressions and inventive departures. The locals don't grope for words. No villagers do, I suppose. And their sense of humour, their energy.. Can't think of a possible source. All I know is that it's renewable.

I guess that's exactly how the summer solstice could and should be celebrated. That's it. Togetherness, nature (forest: 20m, river: 50m), a bonfire and traditional beverages. The local youth competing against old boys. Girls on the field, too. Children running around instead of being chased away to play in the mysterious somewhere else place. A big, family picnic. So the spirit of folklore is alive, yay!

Honestly, I think sport did that through my dad. Sport. Breaking sweat on your own request. Experiencing a curious deterioration of your usually sophisticated locution (beyond repair until the game is over). And then.. cooling down on the evening grass. I want it so bad..

Today would have been perfect but for one thing, one flaw. I didn't play. Again, it made me feel like a Christmas decoration, one useless effigy hanging idiotically from another. It's like this wheelchair they put me in years ago has turned out to be one big mistake. But I'm blocked in my (sore) spot. Too much to lose. Or is there?

THE REAL, THE IMAGINARY, THE COMPLEX..

2011-06-26T14:35:00.014+02:00

I love numbers, those soothing rows of digits.. When the fancy takes me, I count. And I get lulled by numbers, cause they never lie.. After today’s counting spree, however, I wish I could replace the never with hardly ever. And sue those asses for cooking my books.

I’ve recalled the family IQ levels. Well, I kind of got used to the fact that I’m actually the least intelligent person in this tribe. Not exactly the extreme one would want.. but maybe it’s good as it is. Has its uses sometimes. But then, I’ve recounted the BMI and found out that not only am I the dumbest bearer of the family name, but also the fattest! Can’t fix that, can you? All in black and white, irrefutable. Shit.

I don’t usually mind residing on extremes of different spectra, I do this a lot, but these two.. well.. I kind of want to jump to the other end of both. Or at least find myself in the middle there on the latter.. Funny weird. Driven to extremes, one craves for mediocrity, or even hyper-mediocrity. Call it herd instinct. I make it a character flaw.

BLOODSPORT

2011-06-26T00:38:00.032+02:00

He certainly knows which way the wind blows.. Fathers just know that, you say. But my wind-swept parent really does. He hunts for things, remember? I went to assist today. He span his usual hunting yarns and I took my usual hunting photos. We carried out the ritual beer tasting, which (quite unfortunately) led to my scaring off one of the prospective victims. I refused to throw this empty can away, so I crushed it to fit in my camera bag. All that on principle, I can't stand littering. The noise alarmed the beast and it buzzed off.

I was kind of disappointed, I must say. No action, no fun. Not so long ago I would have been more than glad about that. I would have let out a huge sigh of relief that no murder had taken place in front of me. And maybe I would have even crushed that can on purpose, who knows.. On most occasions like that I used to invoke all the gods I could possibly name, including those I didn't believe in, to please please please make my dad miss his shot. I felt sorry for his prey-to-be. And soooo embarrassed that I wished to be someplace else.

Funny how things change. Only a week ago I voluntarily held a dead animal in my bare hands while flaying. It was still warm. Pretty intense.. But I didn't feel a thing for the creature. It was being violently deprived of its.. belongings, one by one. And I held it still and felt damn useful.

I don't think this makes me less human. Or romantic. Maybe even more? Shouldn't surprise anyone, considering what is really behind humanity and romanticism..

MIDSOMMARS NÖJE

2011-06-25T01:47:00.020+02:00

I saw perfect harmony today, it was in the hallmarks of Polish nature. Storks seeking dinner. Crops in their puberty, moving to the Birds&Wind Ensemble. The sun setting coolishly in the background. And all around.. rows of clouds: ripe, almost September-like. I felt part of something, a rare feeling nowadays. I felt I could stay and loyally serve the organizer of all this. So fine it was, so thoughtfully arranged..

This reminds me of how artificial religious holidays are. Religious means imposed, invented. Why don't we celebrate the natural year circle, like villagers used to do? At this time of the year they would engage in worshipping fertility and virginity. There would be singing, dancing and teaching chaplets to swim. There would be fortune-telling. There would be bonfire nights and expeditions to seek the fabled flower of fern.

These days.. what we get are mere remnants of the past folk lore.. all brazen, commercial. Pop concerts and fests in cities made of concrete. No spirit. No tribute to Mother Nature. To make it even worse this year, by pure coincidence, The Feast of Corpus Christi celebrations almost clashed with the summer solstice. The utmost of this typically Polish holier-than-thou way of life. Show-offs with their one-day altars, wasting flower petals for some priests to walk upon.

I need to hide. Give me an invisibility cap. Or a time machine.

AND IN ICELANDIC..

2011-06-24T14:56:00.007+02:00

This little sister of mine is a real sucker for languages. If they’re off-beat enough, they immediately qualify for oral exercise. After Old English, her sharp index finger has pointed at.. Icelandic. She claims there’s resemblance. I saw this one eyebrow of hers raised the other day.. We all know what this means, don't we? The poor Scandinavian bastard, thrown out of the continental nest right into the sea, doesn’t know what’s in store for him. Correction, she says it was him who jumped out and swam away from his boring kinship. This qualifies him, she adds. So he gets dissected soon enough. I’ll be a silent listener to their first flirty chats and whatever comes next. And I’ll soon get back to you on what my absent presence has witnessed.

"I THINK THAT NOTHING'S GETTING THROUGH, SO GET TO ME.."

2011-06-24T14:09:00.010+02:00

Someone's reminded me of my p-p-p-otential today. Ja, det har jag.. Learning such irrelevant things is the only visible residue of what it can make me do. But I always stumble at this word; no wonder, since I refuse to use it. I call it the p-word. Forget it though.. I don’t like being reminded about tenants I once evicted. It was hard work.. But I did forget, and how! I even invented this new type of forgetfulness – first-aid, acquired one. It can be a very effective self-preservation strategy, you know..

And so I managed to remove the p-word stain. I can even say I was glad when it finally came out. Allegedly. But I seemed as thrilled as those housewives in washing powder commercials. For this, I invented a special kind of makeshift, first-aid merriment. A lousy band for the hole it had to cover, but, all in all, semipermeable as it was, it helped me move on. Instead of whining about all those chances of development I never got due to such and such a background, such and such citizenship or a lack of such and such social policies, I ground my teeth and found a productive something to engage in. But just in case, I invented this functional, selective auditory impediment. And so I went deaf.. to any mention of the p-word and my name in the same breath. I was fine. Well, relatively fine, but who pays attention to those irrelevant little words placed in the middle of a sentence? That’s not where the logical stress is anyhow. They're just fillers.

But the p-word has been brought up again. Not in the standard you-are-so-wise-in-so-many-ways-blah-blah-blah manner I usually turn my trained, deaf ear to. This time it was followed by let’s-talk-facts. And so this time I heard it. And.. ended up rocked to my feeble foundations. I’m fifteen again. I let myself listen to this kind of things again. It’s almost as if I finally got this late Christmas present I stopped waiting for many years ago. Who knows, maybe that was the plan all the way: I wasn’t to get it then, but I am now. By means of compensation, it’s real huge. And there are two Santas, not just one. But this I’ll keep to myself. Those other kids wouldn’t believe anyway.

DUSK TO DAWN

2011-06-22T10:29:00.026+02:00

A few sleepless nights ago I witnessed a perfect crime. The last nocturnal insects were mincing soundly up the walls to take their fallback positions, the first morning birds practising games to the detriment of being on their guard. Then silence. Poor feathered things! The creepy-crawlies certainly know what makes good early breakfast.. You need to abstain from sleep for more than one night to understand that it's just a game they play, a sort of amusement for the nighthawks. The acting crew come back every night to stage their little show.. The thing is that I don't really abstain. It's just that my brain doesn't seem to be able to recall how to switch between modes. It won't ahem at the eyelids to shut the hell up. Three to five hours of sleep a night? At best? Are you kidding me? Only a month ago I was the official record holder in the unofficial Olympic discipline of sleeping one's ass off! And lately even the beer strategy, quite helpful on those very few occasions when I needed assistance in being put to sleep, has failed to take effect.. My last resort. What's left? The DIY tool box with a huge hammer inside. Hmmm.. This will surely knock me out, but I suck at DIY. Need assistance. Volunteers?

Just like any other irregularity, this must be a result of historical changes. A formal shift in the quality of certain components of this complex biological system I constitute. But can a thing which has passed unnoticed really cause insomnia this harsh in nature? Impossible to establish, really. What can be demonstrated at this point are the particulars of this 24/7 stand-by mode I can't switch to any other. Burning any after-midnight oil awakes ravenous hunger, one that won't go away just to let me draw nearer to the off mode. Also, no sleep = constant thinking. This inevitably leads to identifying connections and drawing conclusions which go vague unless put down. Anything can make them go away unattended: untimely arrival of the slumber I long for, break of dawn, or more tidbits of my alleged wit and sophistication elbowing their way ahead of the bashful pioneers. This aggravating necessity to record impressions is just enough to make me turn on the light. A beginning of any good story is an end of something you need to give up for its sake. In this case, my dream of getting at least some sleep at a relatively civilized hour. Biologically speaking, light averts the possibility of dropping off. Mathematically speaking, add the upright position needed to get down to writing and you get an equation whose result can be calculated without pen and paper. I save these for more noble purposess, like the one I left those messy sheets for in the first place - immortalizing and romanticizing reality. Am I hopeless, romantic or both, preceded by an indefinite article? Indefinite, how funny. This last option would probably make me look least pathetic in the eyes of others. But I refuse to consider now. I have a looooong sleepless night for that.

"DU ÄR SÅ FIN, JA.. FÖRÄNDRA DIG ALDRIG"

2011-06-20T02:09:00.061+02:00

I’m scared of this book. Haven’t touched it yet, wouldn’t dare. It’s old, noble and smells of a mystery waiting to be solved. Of an addictive chain of such mysteries. Of daring. It's the worst type. If I open it, I might (and will) learn something, then a lot, and then.. There's no turning back. I’m courting disaster again. Remind me: what do I even need Swedish for? Nothing, it’s just a whim (or a waste of time, if you prefer).

I’ve been there before with English, but not like that. We even got married once (well, divorced now but managed to stay friends and business partners). An ugly, green-eyed type he is, snotty and indifferent by design. So keen to appear well-groomed, but really crude once seen for what he is. I’m glad we’re over. In comparison, Swedish too happens to be cool and smooth, but.. forthright. So it is possible and, well.. hypnotizing. Like a deep, calm ocean. And guess his eye colour! Here's a tip: it's a perfect match for my stockings. He invariably evokes the longed-for ecstasy of delight in me. How? By doing nothing in particular, just being at hand and looking effortlessly dignified. Well all right.. and by gracefully ignoring the post-Anglo-Saxon convenances I loath. And being far beyond my phonetic capacity. And..

I think I'll take the plunge. I'll nose-dive into the scary book’s waters of forgetfulness.. I can always maintain the thing I have is fleeting, right? An infatuation at best. What say you?

AFTER THE RAIN

2011-06-19T23:00:00.037+02:00

It stopped raining, but I haven’t managed to convince my old folks to organize this little barbecue party we had planned before it started. They had a voluminous list of not-to reasons, including the unwelcome but perfectly understandable presence of dew and mosquitos. This sounded putrid enough to make me stop and wonder. We all know how advanced age comes to an end but how (and when) does it begin? Where's the scratch which announces the most curious of all races: one whose rule is to slow down on your way rather than the opposite; one in which finishing before others makes you lose? Is conception the very off? Or is there a virus lurking, waiting for an unguarded moment just to filter in and install this oh-forget-it button now to be pressed with a frequency directly proportional to the passing of time?

Naturally, no one ever admits they’re growing old (read: giving up). It’s always their own well-being and freedom of choice, their adult right to pick and choose, or the sake of warmth and comfort. But it’s also a trap. It’s entering the place where the candystripe-legged spider waits to weave your personal, eternal cocoon. Each of us has their age of consent to this. Fortunately, it's ontogenetic.

And how does it apply to me? Well, there have been concerts I went to but finally missed due to the length of queues, there have been those countless mornings slept through and wasted. Still, at the very same time I would work my ass off four days a week just to afford a ten-hour couch journey to the capital on the fifth day of every other week. What for? Well, there was something missing in terms of my university education, or so I thought. Picture a year of frequent 5:30 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. violations of basic human rights, acts of incarceration of the bladder (only released twice on the way). The return ticket entitled me to a series of horrifying experiences, nocturnal rides back home with drivers notoriously speeding and jumping the lights. And now? I’m sitting in the company of those after-rain mosquitos, let alone other insects too close for comfort, on a day too cold for comfort. I’m wearing the wrong kind of clothes and my feet (one still healing) are recklessly diving in the evening dew. Does this mean I haven’t been infected with the old age virus yet? Hopefully. To be on the safe side, my look-out is womanned and armed. Anti-ageing cosmetics? No, just obstinacy.

BEHOLD! THE NIGHTMARE

2011-06-18T20:45:00.053+02:00

I stand corrected. There must have been something not-quite-humble about my thoughts or words about Mother Nature since there’s a thunderstorm going on outside. So as not to see the lightning-thunder chain reaction, I’ve had to seek shelter in the bathroom – the sole windowless room in the house. I can’t possibly watch a storm, just can't. It makes me count the time in between the flash and sound and calculate the distance.. And that captures my imagination a little bit too much.

I think I know the whys and wherefores of the storm. A humble creature would by no means believe her actions could influence the weather conditions.. This will teach me. But if I say pretty sorry, will anyone send the visual aids away? Anyone? That’s all I ask for. I can put up with the auditory side. I can put up with anything that’s unexpected. But when dreadful sounds are ceremoniously announced by a firework display or the like, bathroom confinement it is.

Despite all the distress, I should get down on my knees to show some well-earned gratitude for not having to be on my way to the far-off factory I occasionally visit, in a taxi equipped with maliciously clean, transparent panes forcing me to witness the spectacle outdoors. That really happened. But wait, there's more. The most intense set of lightnings, almost simultaneous with the accompanying sound effects caught me unprotected, rallying from the porter’s lodge to the office building. The umbrella I was too scared to put up banged against this body of mine, so prone to bruises.. Luckily, at the time it was far too focused on accelerating to acknowledge the newly-arrived injuries. Can you believe that this seemingly useful rain protection equipment actually hurt me and slowed me down? Appalling!

The weather-induced distress of mine didn’t go unnoticed. Yet, I wasn’t quite sure about the quality of this noticing work contained in the smile of my astute welcomer. It could have been any kind of smile really. I was unable to interpret it in the dark corridor I had chosen instead of the target room with a huge window overlooking the imposed show. The only thing I know for a fact is that I was smiled upon. But was it a display of good-natured amusement caused by my irrational fear or just a candid, welcoming gesture preceding a handshake? This I was (and still am) unable to identify. I desperately needed reassurance and I couldn't (and still can't) really tell if I was offered any. Ah, irony. Even when the welcomer revealed his own feelings for this kind of weather (a liking quite similar to mine), it didn’t help much. Now, why not? Because shortly after he did the most natural thing one does on entering a room: he turned on the light. My heart sank. Shiiiit! Now we’re the next target for all the stray lightnings!

"There’s no way we aren’t getting struck now”, I thought. And said, as it turned out when I heard my own stuttering voice struggling through this ill-assorted set of words. "We’re too busy for that”, I heard in reply and.. grinned! A balm on my paranoia and a pulse retardant in one.. I must say I still can’t think of a more comforting thing to say on an occasion like that. Unintentional, accidental reassurance? I don’t really care.

I’ve engaged in writing just to endure this storm. It works. Who knows.. Maybe one stormy day I’ll yawn and chase away the nagging enchanter with his noisy toys, saying: "You go show off elsewhere, I’m occupied.” And the time after that, I'll make the brat choke on his greens and bury the corpse in my backyard.

Until that day, however, I’ll try to apply myself to whatever I lay my hands on in order to fight the daily nightmares. May at least some of them get erased by means of hard work, so that I can say a thunderstorm is one of those very few things that intimidate me. For the time being, it’s one of a great many.

GRAY MATTER

2011-06-18T13:06:00.016+02:00

The weather is what it has to be like. Don’t blame your moodiness on it. Lack of sun and surfeit of it are equally desirable and productive. Plants need both and they are just as alive and entitled to vitality as you are.

And.. gray too is a colour. It has a wide spectrum of shades to marvel at for any eye that's keen. Or to be made clear if one only fancies. The photo featured was taken on the grayest, rainiest and windiest day of May. All I did was meddle with the contrast preset. Just a fraction. Just look.. Would you really want it any other way?

Oh, it’s clearing up. As if Mother Nature is smiling upon the words of her humble servant..

SO I CAN SEE

2011-06-17T15:33:00.024+02:00

I've begun my one-doctor-a-day tour today. There are five to visit, so the considerable estimate is five days full of luscious events. I've decided to start safe, that is, with a doctor who doesn't have the right to stick anything into me on the pretext of what they call a routine procedure. And so I went to the ophthalmologist. Actually, optician is more like it since I couldn't shake the impression the person was not really examining my troubled eyesight properly. I wonder if she even sensed that five-minute stay of mine..

Picture this, I walk in and see a spectacled lady in her late fifties, swathed in a pinching white coat, looking rather absent-minded and far from talkative. I immediately conjured up an image of drool emerging in the corner of her mouth and oozing on the sterile floor. Drop by drop, in a leisurely, vegetable manner.. Sound included: a leaking tap! Naturally, all this in technicolor and dolby surround..

I don't think one can possibly say fewer words to anyone than the lady did to me, a mere set of instructions. Still, I didn't go there for a chat, so I turned a blind eye. Besides, the almost-muteness in question was kind of in accordance with the first impression I had about the doctor. Now, onwards to the surprise-surprise. Whenever she cared to open her mouth in my general direction, what she uttered contained.. a diminutive! She was like: "Now put your little chin upon this thingy.." Can you imagine what effect it produced in the lightness of her unapproachable appearance? What a clash! As much as I detest diminutives, this experience was electrifying!

Can you examine someone's sight in five minutes then? Well, opinions differ. And all these are my opinions, which makes the whole thing rather puzzling. First, I was shown a picture out of focus, then it appeared in focus, just to get out of focus again. Afterwards, there was that curious light in my eyes for a few seconds. Taking into account the lady's questionable body language (not much other language to consider..) and how jaded and (therefore) unconvincing she looked, I thought all this was a game of make-believe conducted by means of random tools. And all this just to fool me into believing I was actually being taken care of. But then, all of a sudden, she put those trial lenses on my nose ridge and.. Wow! I could seeeee! Magic? Tremendous guessing work on the doctor's part? Or simply years of experience I took for.. something else? Well, this little event should probably make me stop judging by appearances.. But you know? No. I revel in it.

PAPA, DON'T PREACH?

2011-06-16T14:43:00.020+02:00

Can you really teach people anything? I believe you can (and should) merely lecture on things and wait for the learning to take place. It takes care of itself, just give it time.. Whatever happened to the good, old-fashioned input --> output principle? Ah, yes. It was replaced with the thing many won fat scholarships and whatnot for: the fabled student-centred approach. It ruined the old world order, producing generations of disgruntled, jaded eternal false beginners demanding rights but refusing to take responsibilities. Teacher actions must now be sensitive to wishes and whims of those specimen spoilt for choice. No clear division of roles. No trust. And to think that the major assumption of this genius approach was to place teachers and learners on the same side of the desk, working to meet corporate goals. An extended, overidealistic metaphor. In truth? More harm than good to me, an inevitable consequence of any excessive theorizing. The wise spectacled guys should have got familiar with the chaos theory first. Yes, it's the one claiming that you can't predict long-term effects of things. Clear as daylight, something they never see in their poky rooms most obviously lacking skylights even.

No, I'm not frustrated, just reasoning. There are things students must do themselves. By claiming otherwise, one belittles the role of a learner. A teacher ought to be a practical selector of input and (preferably) a motivational factor. Charisma helps. And a good sense of humour. But that's about it. No one can teach you more than you can learn yourself.

Okay, so I'm frustrated. As a teacher and learner in one, I don't know what to think. I use the same methods, techniques and strategies for both learning and teaching. Me-the-learner makes progress. Is there really something wrong with me-the-teacher's doings just because others don't?

IN THIS LIGHT AND ON THIS EVENING

2011-06-16T14:32:00.008+02:00

So I'm made of stone, they say. They don't, they can't know that I don't eat or sleep and that I might after all be turning into one. They have their "hard" evidence. Far from it, hard evidence is not handwritten. It must be engraved in stone. How Freudian of them. How offensively American. A rolling stone is all I can commit to have features of. But then again, they can't know that. Didn't care to ask what I did just yesterday. Didn't care. What they saw was me spacing out. It was me not curbing my facial muscles. Naturally, all I do must be aimed at them. That's how I live, remember? I'm a walking manifestation of malice aforethought.

Spacing out? Basic knowledge of psychology suggests I'm simply at ease, at home. Expressive face? Even more basic knowledge of biology suggests the same.

Looks like someone forgot stones have stone countenances.

ICE, ICE BABY

2011-06-16T14:17:00.030+02:00

Three days ago I found myself trying to comfort to the rules of what they call net-bag (or at least that's what I call it..). To cut long story short, it's like volleyball, but the little hard ball they use is kicked back, forth and around with whatever a human being happens to be equipped with under their knee. My first (and only) training session has resulted in a bruised and swollen ankle and a bout of post-exercise muscle soreness only curable with cold beer. I must say it was more than worth it. Think of the immediate rush of blood to the head, evening breeze and the incapacitating scent of freshly mowed grass.. How I had missed all that! Nothing had given me a similar adrenaline kick since the white coats wagged their manicured fingers at me and my sports aspirations.

A real injury! I hold my head up high again. Quite something to boast about! I'm beginning to think sport is for masochists. I do think I'm entitled to say that loud and clear while ice-compressing this troubled lower limb. It hurts like hell. I want more.

MACHINARIUM

2011-06-12T23:10:00.037+02:00

I think I’m done with macrophotography for now. I’d love to go for something grander, preferably.. industrial. A tripod/interior/machinery thing. For the colours mostly.. Well, not only that.

A factory location with its cables, wires and rust opens a multitude of opportunities. You can move and shift things around and your instant creativity doesn’t kill anything. As long as you can lift the objects, they're at your service. Just remember to put them back. Or don't. It's quite different in plant kingdom. It might sound maudlin, but I still have scruples about picking a flower and moving it in front of the cameraeye for the sake of background colour..

Yeah, and don't forget factory machines smell of machine grease. Is it really weird that this turns me on? I suggest you capture and peddle the scent. I might not be the only one..

To the right, one of today's captions.. still irritating my nostrils.

HR

2011-06-12T20:38:00.031+02:00

Stuffing my face with strawberries and champagne: the highlight of this murky weekend. It’s my grandmother’s birthday today. My age + sixty = impressive. Speaking of grandparents, again I’ve been reasoning about how language and culture are intertwined. Swedish has two words for grandmother, they immediately identify what most people would ask about anyhow, namely whose mother the person is: the father’s or the mother’s. What Swedes do is glue up the words father + mother (= farmor) and mother + mother (= mormor) and via this little passing maneuver they save time and increase the effectiveness of communication. Do I have to tell you there's something like that for grandfather too?

All simple, brief and to the point. Another piece of evidence that Swedes do have a flair for dealing with.. human resources:-)

NATURALLY

2011-06-12T20:05:00.012+02:00

I went to the river and it was there. You can count on nature. Always. It has this curious quality of influencing moods, so I went to see if it would do any good today. And yes, it has soothed me a little. And to think that this Canadian friend of mine cannot get his head around the fact Poles love forests so much.. Maybe it’s because his people grubbed out whatever they found in their way so as to make the other continent fit for human habitation.. No mercy = No sentiment = No wonder. Yep, that must be it.

UNDER CONSTRUCTION

2011-06-12T16:09:00.011+02:00

Stress. A huge iron fist has squeezed my stomach. It lets go occasionally to let me know I’ll soon gain all the weight I’ve lost. A stress diet cannot be trusted. But it’s the only advantage of the hectic situation I’m facing right now.

It’s been over a week now since the climax of my sister’s health turbulences. And I still feel like I’ve been punched on the face. I’m still hiding it in hands. But I’m (a) lighter. And I finally know which bridges to burn. I haven’t taken good care of myself, that's what “freedom” is all about. I preferred not to think about the expenses. Until my sister became one. It could have been me.

Trouble, panic, the overwhelming feeling of helplessness when distress stares you in the face. An eye-opener like this was long overdue. I need to straighten and mend the ways with my own bare hands now. Stone by stone, all used to build a safe place to stand. There’s a driving license to get, a job to find, five doctors to visit. Don’t wish me luck, it has nothing to do with it.

IN THERAPY

2011-06-12T14:50:00.006+02:00

How long does it take a bashful scribbler to admit that they are a fully-fledged writer? It has taken me years to understand that I might after all be one. I might have been one all the way. The friend who’s always claimed so is probably blue in the face by now.

Well, the circumstances have been conductive, that’s all. Silence, exclusive rights to use the computer equipment, a pair of understanding parents somewhat sensing I shouldn’t be disturbed just now. I’m idling my time away, some might say. Scribble? At the weekend? You could travel, party or chat with the near and dear! Well, the solitary in me likes to think that what she's doing now matters. It does, doesn’t it? For me, it’s either this or a shrink sometimes. Which one would you go for?

ALPHABETIZATION

2011-06-12T13:42:00.033+02:00

Just a quick report on the first time I listened to the Swedish alphabet. Hear this out:

a… (sounds more like /o/, easily predictable by the way they pronounce English)
b… (a quasi-diphthong, seemingly long (!) after an easily predictable consonant sound)

And then a shocker:

c… (what the hell? that’s not /c/, but /s/, with the same diphthongish chaser which turns out to be the /e/ sound in two letters' time..)

Suddenly I realized that their fifty years of experience in pronouncing c as /s/ (and I won’t say mispronouncing, because Polish is no reference language on this) combined and backed up with the knowledge of English (where c = /s/ or /k/) would either court disaster in learning Polish or make me a worthy transformational leader if they ever manage to kick the habit. So far, neither one nor the other.

I’ll spare you a descriptive analysis of h, k and z (this one also explains a lot in terms of certain realizations of Polish sounds). But I can’t possibly spare you the vowels. The people don’t speak, they sing. It’s the vowels and tonal differences between syllables within words (sic!) that create the melody which my volatile procedural memory doesn’t want to store and recall upon request. The twisted vowel sounds in the number of (approximately) twenty let them hear differences and incongruities I must learn to become aware of. After (and above) all, it was one of those vowels (å) that made me look at Swedish in the first place.. (Tack så mycket, Luleå!). Naturally, a language in which a plethora of those (including diacritics: ä, ö and that personal favourite of mine: å) is effortlessly realized in an even greater number of sounds must be of high appeal to me. I don’t think the fan of vowels I am can help feeling this way. I've even decided that my children’s names would begin with them..

I must say I giggle in kind-hearted disbelief when I listen to Swedish pronunciation in general. Amazing. How do they even do that? And maybe (but just maybe) I'm getting a little bit carried away about the whole Swedish thing.. How Scandinavian and.. non-Scandinavian of me.

TUSEN TACK

2011-06-12T12:37:00.016+02:00

I like looking for connections between language and its people’s habits of thought and manners. For instance, Swedes never jump to conclusions or interrupt when you speak, which makes them appear well-behaved by nature. I've recently identified a possible reason for this. Call it politeness, but I think the very cultural phenomenon stems directly from the Swedish language. A typical negative sentence contains the word inte (= not). Interestingly, the word in question is used after the main verb (in most languages it occurs before). Therefore, you often can’t predict the meaning until you listen till the very end of the very sentence. I drew one Swede’s attention to this observation and he kind of admitted I had a point. Here’s the example I used:

Jag älskar dig inte. (= I love you not.)

It’s best to abstain from reactions until the full stop, huh? There are bunches of other similar cases. What's left? To wait. It's the least you can do. In Swedes it appears inborn, natural. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: many thanks to the language. A good mother (tongue) it is that gives you a head start with what others call politeness.

EXTRACTED

2011-06-11T23:05:00.018+02:00

Brick walls refuse to respond. On false pretences they assume their glazed looks. All deaf-mute. Just deflect.. bang.. bang.. bang.. It’s dauntingly, mischievously convenient to play one. Never bend or collapse. Just stand still. If only the corollaries were reversible.. If only the genies in walls could simply jump out when a whim takes them.. I’m not Spanish so I cannot draw a window just anywhere and flee. Nor can I use an extracted, portable one like this. There’s a brick wall on the other side, which will handle me likewise. Eye for an eye. Grim laws of dynamics.

DUMBSDAY

2011-06-11T14:49:00.012+02:00

Back where I began. Where I belong. It’s not even a place. A point in space and a waste of a point. A crib with a straightjacket mode. It’s not any roomier, just stuffier since I’ve grown a little. Shorter way up to those bystanders never looking down. Still, not short enough even when they bow. What's on offer is handshakes, not hugs. But I wait for more(s). I look up a lot. I stand to attention. I want to play. Yes, it’s a serious condition.

A TRUTH

2011-05-31T14:51:00.017+02:00

The other day. A sharp look-out crowned with a worthy image. The image. I find myself back to front in the spot. And I witness a scanning. Eight minutes late, perfect timing. All curves and creases revealed by the excruciating rays of the machine. It makes me see for what things are. Seeing is painful, so it's better not to look. But I can, I'm short-sighted.

An image too casual to be true? Lines coming to light? Not for long. Distance catalyses myopia, impression to apparition in a few click-tracks of the metronome. The eyes can't focus, the brain has stored every detail but it won't recall. Unless it gets unleashed, which it doesn't. I can have my cake and eat it. The busy old fool gets outwitted, he only waits to disillusion, strip down the adjacent and the almost near. Distance, his accomplice - always ready to disfigure the nominees. But at close range there's the airbrushing, reversely compensating power of the brain. At a distance, short-sightedness will take care of the unwelcome, leaving the rest intact. I have it both ways, all ways. The sweetest, dumbest perfection. Who wants the truth? I want this stuck-up smile of mine to stay on.

THIS APPOINTMENT

2011-05-22T19:47:00.004+02:00

He took my breath away. It’s just that I hate being breathless. Maybe I’m out of blood even; lifeless. And even if it’s there, it must be solid by now. One big clot: stranded, useless, dumb. Vampires do exist, but they don’t just come and suck out your blood. They remote-control your vitals: lower the body temperature, make the level of oxygen plummet. Don’t blame your vampires though. They’re scared of light. They have to kill it.

BRAINSHOT

2011-05-10T22:53:00.009+02:00

Don't quench your thirsts with sweet things. There are two possible ways it can end up for you, neither of which is the lesser evil. The first course of action is that you'll bring it all up soon enough. You've had too much, too soon, it's only wise to make it go away for good. Well, until your memory fades, another sudden thirst troubles you and the only way to relieve it is another acid-coloured, fizzy beverage, strikingly familiar, but "all different", so what the hell. A match made someplace unearthly, as nothing else will do and you of all people know it perfectly well.

The other result of your neglecting your reason and self-preservation instinct is losing both. Forevermore - to play on words a little. Sweet but bearable and so you get hooked. It somehow becomes a necessity and you - a parasite. It's your fuel and your poison. Until further notice, that is. Until it turns sour. Or you do. The only greater good to hope for.

ANEW

2011-05-03T16:56:00.008+02:00

No other choice but to keep it down. Or up. And up? A new prism in the head, blurred by the white-cell remnants of sanity.. Yet-undecidedly-blurred. Insane. Been there before, but not exactly there, it seems. At this point what seems is all there is. Occasional foot interference, hot-potato-in-the-mouth and wrist bands. Wish-wash.. mean-meant. A fishy paradigm.

THE WORDS FOR ME TO HEAR

2010-12-14T22:14:00.010+01:00

Nothing worth flagging has crystallized and yet I feel the urge to type: a lining especially hard to shed. It cast me into the neverwhere long enough ago to stop struggling against its timelessness and this irrational (ridiculous, to use my word) tickling it offers. Tickling pinkish in aura, begs to be said. Funny weird. I used the –ish deliberately, but not purposely. Let’s not be too flashy about all this, I say. Just a hint or two. No alliteration, no rhyme, no emphasis or driving at anybody’s sense of orientation. The itchy pinkishness seems to be the sole reason for writing that won’t bleach. Perhaps it’s better this way. Bleaching sterilizes the fabric, after all.

TURKISH DELIGHT

2010-12-05T17:40:00.015+01:00

Always winter and never Christmas! It echoes in my wind-swept ears after a walk in the woods. Yes, I have been to Narnia: deprived of its summery dryads and naiads, but teeming with tale-telling trees and other creatures at Her service. It has all been so real I wouldn’t take a look around in fear of spotting the lamppost and having to get back. I guess Gaiman (whom I am not particularly fond of usually) was kind of right in his preface to M is for Magic: one reads to store it all dormant in the back of the brain. And the moment it kicks in is always one of ultimate, almost perverse pleasure.

I took my camera with to capture the invaluable impression of actually being in a book. How inconsiderate, huh? How can a piece of (useful and exciting, but still) junk serve such a noble purpose? The only kind of feeling it can evoke is the objective correlative based on appearances. It objectifies in a Maloryan (feel free to spell check me on this one) kind of way, by imitating what’s natural and unromanticizing what should be left hopelessly romantic. In the case of photography, the exact opposite is the dragon chased by many a challenger. It's about making prose into poetry, snapshooting. Not the other, cruder way around.

PAPER FEEDER

2010-11-07T16:31:00.015+01:00

For some reason, many aren’t pervious to the worthy argument that future can (and will) bring changes for the better. To me, looking forward to what future has in store has its charm: one comparable to the irrefutable appeal of a piece of paper yet intact. I know those past scribbled pages have been beyond number and of paramount (depressing) prominence to your brainbaby maker and hands worked to the flesh. Yet, the prospect of soiling and spoiling should by no means kill the fun of orchestrating, I say. After all, isn’t turning over an unreadable or tedious page of print a breath of fresh air to you? Or at least a sigh of relief that you can start all over? If you feel your actions only court doom and disaster to the paper matter, the world and his wife, it’s a blot. In any meaning you choose.

NEEDLECRAFT

2010-09-10T23:55:00.010+02:00

The world is a people’s republic. Probably the first time in history it’s the youth’s own republic, I daresay. I have my reasons after a piercing session with a bunch of seventeen-year-olds.

I've learnt a vital lesson today. Saving a life against a rainy day prolongs it, but the life is rained out anyhow, somehow, eventually. As long as the life is a lonely one, the rain check is bearable to the liver. But it ceases to be when on the way one meets a few inexperienced, careless creatures embodying what one has avoided (as a cause) in hope of becoming (as an effect). Troubled and hurt, but not exactly frail. STD prone and iberal, but not naive. Curious and artful. Pure form without a tear. Life dwells someplace in between excitement and fear, they have taught me. It dwells in arrhythmia, in a pulse uneven and troubled, but obliviously stubborn. Like the very pulse, it goes on. So one must learn the art of not thinking from their highness frontal lobelessness. Nothing else will do.

FACE VALIDITY

2010-07-17T15:54:00.002+02:00

It’s so good to see it tanned, if artivirtually. All year round. In the picture, in the green eyes of occasional envy, in the boiling summery water. Reflected and reflexive. In and out of shape. Complexion and complexity.

Good to be back to front. Good to be back.

WISH IT AWAY

2010-02-10T13:16:00.010+01:00

You’re one of those who stamp others.. by doing nothing in particular. Just like that. Taking this into consideration, you are quite possibly someone everybody wants to be. Reality begs to differ, you must be thinking at this point. Or else, you aren’t thinking anything, you simply stop reading on. Good. I can finally speak my mind and not worry what you will or will not think. Let me tell you that if books could kill, yours would have killed me a thousand times by now. Those books are friends, ones offering yarns and emotions in exchange for a little time and attention. They have killed me indeed; I am not afraid to admit. You have. I remember each and every little death you courted via books. And every one you inspired by teaching me how to handle the instrument. I died happy. Every time. I might have been a piece of parched ground worth showering with the written word.. And merely that. Still, I can’t think of a better stamp to get. For whatever reason.

I ADMIT IT

2010-02-05T13:07:00.016+01:00

I doubt the magical contagion; I disbelieve the poetic charm and power of affection. I would deaf-mutely rely on all that, but last night opened my eyes (not only literally). It seems now (when wholeheartedness is no more) that when people don't meet up and talk, it feels inevitably awkward when they finally do. Appearances? I'm not willing to keep them up anymore. Well, unless I get the forbidden-fruit crush back with its taste of an over-the-rainbow promise. Promise of understanding.. so sweetly on tap not so long ago.

I'VE SEEN THE LIFE I WISH(ED) TO LIVE

2010-01-20T14:23:00.007+01:00

Memories.. their intensity, sweet-and-sour taste and the inevitable hangovers of the past: it all flooded back. Feelings included: anger, shame and bitterness. But didn’t I feel aroused by the envoy of the past? Didn't I enjoy the verge of recklessness and lifelessness he had once blessed (and encumbered) me with? Didn't I.. again? Aren’t I a bloody moth? I might be. However, a moth with a brain is more like it. A brain which recalls, thinks ahead and spoils all the fun, all the excitement. A brain that doesn’t find it in itself to go through the envoy all over again. A brain that retreats. I’m amazed at what evolution has done to me the moth. Practically, I am no longer that seemingly self-aware flying specimen volunteering for a scorch or two. Paralized by the overdeveloped brain, the moth didn't move towards this artificial light. She moved on instead.

WWI

2009-12-10T22:51:00.011+01:00

Certain things defining me are unparalelled, whilst others are not. When it comes to one of those that are, I can be deceiving myself via diets, cracking my own weep and whatnot, but the truth about one's nature will find its way. Always. And it’s a bitter truth. Unfortunately? Yes. Regrettably? Not really. I don’t think nature can ever be bad by nature. It can be, by definition. But try to define nature.

SENSE OF SMELL

2009-11-18T11:21:00.009+01:00

Your smell gives me butterflies. I can’t help feeling aroused, and when I can, I can’t help feeling guilty and ashamed. You are the hardest of evidence that pheromones, be it natural or acquired, matter as hell. In this accusative case there is the smell, the chasm of eternal peril, and I. You are not the reason, as reason has nothing to do with it. Scents and odours know no floodgates. Luckily enough there are the three square metres of no-man's land between us. Many, many thanks to them.

IF YOU HAD COMPLETED ME..

2009-11-17T23:00:00.006+01:00

I remember being so thoughtful it would make one girlish face smile and one pale womanly complexion go inwardly red enough to match her curtains. Thoughtfulness gave me hope my first love would last or be last, in this or other dimensions. It made me doubt all the general directions and feel clean-handedly hurt by nothing in particular. Thoughtful might not mean full of thought, it might not mean original and out of space, but it somewhat defined me. And sad to say, nothing has defined me since. Not the the way it did, at least.

17.11.2009 14:55

HOW'S IT GONNA END

2008-08-10T00:06:00.010+02:00

I don't read. It's better this way, I suppose. It's better not to do something than do it for wrong reasons. And I have a lot of those. I read because I want to get finished with a story. Focus on it? I don't think so, no. I get impatient; too impatient to even recall when I began to be like this. Too impatient to go on writing; yet, too stubborn to stop. Too stubborn to put the book away; too proud to admit it. You know it; I know you do. And it knows you. And if I know all this and myself.. What makes me so

At that point, the ink-like content of my pen refused to ooze out. How perversely ironic.

AND LISTEN TO THE WIND BLOW..

2008-08-05T12:50:00.007+02:00

Booooooo-hooooooo, it keeps moaning outside and inside. I should probably run or something. I should probably live or something. Everything seems to be so much in motion again and so out of reach. As if four shabby walls could stop me from.. whatever there is to stop me from. Instead of refreshing breeze on my cheek I get slapped by those little innermost hands of justice. I just wish I could be both straight and forward.

LOOKS LIKE YOU'VE FINALLY FOUND YOUR MATCH..

2008-07-12T22:25:00.012+02:00

I used to love competition. Not anymore. I might have thought I stood a chance. Not anymore. Reality is the cruellest of powers. Yeah, well. Don't remember being told it was easy. But still, I crave for my 'at last'. If there was one for me, I'd sell my everything to the owner. But hey, why didn't I say 'finally'? I should have, shouldn't I? Wait a minute, why am I helpless? After all, I've got so much to give, I know so much, I helped so much. But I eat so much, I doubt so much. I care so much.

MAGIC REALISM

2008-06-26T17:32:00.005+02:00

Lately I was asked whether I could think of topics to write about. Well, the poor content of this blog may speak for itself, but still I am shallowly convinced I would find it in myself to constitute a wellspring of ideas. The question was due to my alleged flair for writing, which is able to bring me some additional Jagiełłos in near future. Yet, apart from motivatisation and talent, one must be creative to dabble in journalism. And I gullibly thought it was fact, not fiction that scribing was all about. But maybe once I am part of the machine, I'll get to the bottom of things. For the time being, however, I like to think it's all pure and simple. And that I'll fit right in with purely groundless self-complacency simply making up for the lack of creativity in me.

THE I-OFFENDING PARAGRAPH

2008-05-21T10:47:00.013+02:00

I was accused of copying this from the net, so I may as well put it here. Ah, irony.

"Marilyn Manson and Marilyn Monroe seem to have little in common. However, only a closer look reveals an astonishing number of similarities. To begin with, the celebrities in question share the first name. Since Manson, enchanted with Monroe's gracefulness, christened himself Marilyn, the very name is a common feature between the two. What also makes Manson and Monroe alike, are their controversial biographies. Monroe, infamous for her affair with John F. Kennedy as well as for photos and movies considered risque at the time, was a rebellious figure. Similarly, Manson's gigs with dead animals and oral sex on stage, adorned with obscene song lyrics and an image leaving a lot to be desired in terms of morality and aesthetics, make him just as controversial nowadays as his name sake was for her contemporaries. Another characteristic the celebrities share is their questionable talent for singing. Both of them continued producing sounds in public in spite of having no real ability to make ones pleasant to the ear. All things considered, Marilyn Manson and Marilyn Monroe have, in fact, a lot in common. Their skin-deep differences are easily smothered by their in-deep resemblance put forward in this paper."

LATE ABILITY

2008-05-16T11:46:00.010+02:00

I've never liked being late, but recently I came to terms with the fact that, on certain occassions, lateness is nothing to be scorned. Fight your dirty thoughts, folks. What I mean here is coming late to work, which happens to bring a lot of advantages. Of course, you are deemed hopelessly sluggish and inert, unpractical, or even useless. On the other hand, the powers that be stop taking you seriously and sending you on challenging errands. And this, my dear friends, is a blessing, as challenging very often means tedious and badly-paid. She who wants to be the doer of the donkey work is an ass; that's my conclusion.

I'm typing this, hidden on the second floor, listening to my junior high students playing some gormless computer game. I should be lecturing on the arcana of the English grammar. I am not, though. I am having fun instead, scared of being found out, for what I am doing is illicit here. At the same time, however, I feel content; content and powerful. Your time has come, punctuality. Die.

I SIMPLY HATE, DETEST, LOATHE, DESPISE AND ABHOR REDUNDANCY

2008-05-01T00:07:00.003+02:00

Wilde is my hero and so is my psychology teacher. Wilde's pearl of wisdom quoted above as well as my teacher's recent eye-opener have brought merriment to my life as I finally managed to grasp something I had desired to know for a very long time back in the dark ages. It all boils down to redundancy which, just like my male hero, I absolutely adore, love and worship. And my precious relatively new teacher said what I had been wanting to comprehend so desperately. Well, some time ago I asked myself a question based on years of exercising my right to exploit the braincells of mine. The more time one spends with linguistics and words in general, the sooner they realise there are far more negative expressions concerning feelings and states of mind than the positive ones. The question 'why is that?', asked by many, gives ground to the stereotype that there are more negative than positive moments in life. Nothing can be further from the truth. Psychology, speaking via the crooked mouth of my teacher, claims that this is all because negative feelings we wanna fight or improve, and that's exactly why we differentiate them so subtly. When you feel all right, you do not have the urge to define the feeling. And that’s about it. So many years of being hunted by negative emotions of all sorts due to my lack of knowledge. Yeah, well. Knowledge sure brings joy, happiness, merriment and contentment to life. To mine, at least.

YOUR BASKET IS MY BIN

2008-04-05T13:10:00.009+02:00

I don't like basketball and I've been forced to have too much to do with it recently. It's always like this with things I don't really like. No matter how many times I try to scorn and forget them, they always come back flexing their newly built muscles in my face.

I feel stuck in something I was fascinated with at the age of ten and never after. I don't remember marrying you, actually. A short affair resulting in a life-long relationship.. How pathetic. How unwanted. I don't have feelings for you anymore, basketball. I want a divorce.

STRANGE IS YOUR LANGUAGE AND I HAVE NO DECODER

2007-12-28T21:49:00.001+01:00

Dear Anonymous Contributors,

If you think I will engage in bashing and scorning your cowardice, you are just as wrong as you'd be thinking I'll be unconditionally grateful for your comments. Funny, the truth's whereabouts on this are just as mysterious as your particulars.. Still, I will certainly not point my finger at the frolicsome contents of your chests and tear the white hoods off your heads. I'm two buttons away from forbidding you from commenting and, for a reason just as obscure as yours, I'm not drawing nearer. I can't draw, you know it perfectly well.

Love,

Jane Doe

SO WHY DON'T YOU STAY WITH ME FOR A LITTLE LONGER..

2007-12-27T11:20:00.000+01:00

It's been a year since I started this thing you call a blog. I call it as I write; crookedly. It seems like I ought to look back and shed some tears and greet everybody from the stage and thank the people who have supported me with friendly patting during this exhilarating undertaking.. Including those supporting me when no one in the world knew what was going on. Forget it, thanks to the author of the picture. That's about it.

Funny occasions, anniversaries. Just as amusing as anything else emphasizing one's advancing experience in certain fields; not quite.

O.D.D.

2007-12-22T15:19:00.000+01:00

She's not even distracted. She would be, she would think. Or maybe she's so distracted that this here state of distraction surreptitiously became the norm. Or maybe she isn't. Hesitant, that's what she is. At a bus stop, in the shadow, with her hood on, not even being there in spirit; she is about to say goodbye. Correction, she is about to be said goodbye to. Not even this is. Odd; not even this.

And the knot is far from the noose; as heaven is wide and greenish.

I'VE GOT THE POWER

2007-12-14T15:10:00.000+01:00

There is no such thing as eager beaverness in me anymore. Has there been any? Well, ever since I started my long-lasting education; Sunday best, combed down hair and shrewd eyes; I have considered the state of knowing things to be a weapon rather than anything else. Knowledge is power, isn't it? But as each and every kind of power in this and other worlds, knowledge can be abused and misapplied. All you need is to find a person like me and make her believe there's no grade of punishment for mistakes and no one who sins by making one deserves to live. This is what I was shown and told in the first grade. You know, I don't want to be powerful anymore. I don't wanna know. I'm aware it's no good to stop exploring. As my Dad always says: she who ceases to learn descends into her own grave.. voluntarily. Still, it's hard-wired and neurotic on my part. And it echoes in my head every time I get down to studying; that strive for perfection induced by the sovereign voice of my primary school teacher. "What a blunder. Shame on you."

I must study. Imagine hurt, imagine tears. Go on, laugh at me. I've been violated.

I THREW THE LOOKING GLASS

2007-12-11T15:12:00.000+01:00

I look in the mirror and I see, because I look to see now. And I find something new and fresh and scented every double time. And I don't know what to do with it apart from just looking, twiddling and stashing gently away. And I'm time unconscious and present minded. There's nothing I cast or court; I'm olive green.

bOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM

2007-12-07T11:47:00.000+01:00

hOW NOT CLICHE: THERE ARE WORDS THAT DON'T COME OUT AS IF CAUGHT AND BOUND AND GAGGED. aND IF THEY DO, THEY BREAK TO TOUCH; SCRATCH WITHOUT TICKLING. tHEY MUST BE SEEN BUT NOT HEARD LIKE EVERYTHING THAT'S MEANT.

TAKE ME, DON'T BREAK ME

2007-11-12T21:48:00.000+01:00

It's not the fault of the plate that it's chipped; it's the careless creator or a clumsy user or a bull in a china shop that is to blame. In other words, it's your fault. Why do you keep omitting the poor victims of your own miscarriage of fingers and thumbs? What makes you prefer to eat from the ones that are new and shiny and dull? Why do you let them brag about their popularity in the depths of a cupboard, sending the old, experienced ones to the bottom of the queue to die of suffocation? All style before content, as always. If you happen to be offended (being a sensible and tolerant one), you may feel obliged to choose one who's constructively challenged next time you need a support for your preppy sandwich. Don't. Nothing hurts more than that.

DON'T BREAK MY AMATEUR RECORD

2007-11-04T12:46:00.000+01:00

Writing is no way to unwind after a hardly intellectual and intellectually hard day's work. The time off ought to be spent just as actively as possible and devoid of sedimentation and language, apart from the strong one. I should aim at ending up soaked in sweat and worn out. I should run until I drop and acquire the only common denominator with time: the quality of being spent and wasted. I am no writer; regardless of the possible oddities of spelling. And be it activities or passivities, I make no points.

RIDING AND WREATING

2007-10-27T08:44:00.000+02:00

My students make a lot of mistakes most of which come out unaffected due to the multifarious clumsiness of their authors and go unpunished because of my clemency and aversion to acting as a human computer (both congenital). However, certain errors are worth dwelling upon. By way of illustration, spotting and emphasizing the difference in pronunciation between the words reading and writing seems to be so unwinable a game that some make the only winning move and refuse to play. Naturally, casual though such a handicap may appear during the lesson; on reflection, I can't bring myself to call it a confluence and abandon the idea of picking holes. Illiterate people not being able to tell reading from writing, let alone reading reading from writing and writing reading from writing.. That's more of a philosophy than I could ever ask for. The thrills and spills of jumping to conclusions I leave to you, dear readers.

On the other hand, they who never get it right may be contributing much of value to this philosophical approach of mine. If, although purely by chance, reading and writing seem indistinguishable for some, the two may be intertwined, mutually dependable and symbiotic, in a sense. There's no reading without writing; without saying it goes. But there's no writing without reading either. Accordingly, what I should do now is grab a book and nose-dive.

SENSELESS

2007-10-22T22:48:00.000+02:00

Onwards, earthbound, come you. Skywards: to the plan-it-concealment. At large and castless: never to be looked at and for. Towards the brightness reflected; a shooting star, harmless and blank. Remote, yet button-free; spinning but still judging sound; in orbit, but eyeless and blind. A way. A maze. No gravity and no time. Black holes with mirrors inside.

iMID

2007-10-21T21:38:00.000+02:00

I'm just like you; I tend to forget whatever there is in between the beginning and the end of whatever there is. Just like you, I focus on the first and last words in a book, sounds in a song, images in a movie. And just like everybody else, I'm very much convinced that the position does matter, whether you pick or you get picked and regardless of the kind of position taken into consideration. People plan, order and sequence; they make lists of their mosts and favs. Why would they if it didn't matter who won the race and who trudged or straggled? No one remembers those who come in second, third and last but one. No wonder. It's so natural, after all. But isn't Nature the cruellest Mother of all? Unlike you and Her, I'm struggling to appreciate the filling and feeling of being stranded in the invariably sore spot; in the middle there.

FISHBONE OF CONTENTION

2007-10-11T21:19:00.000+02:00

Zodiac has been mocked for ages, as well as for its awkward consistency, its unwelcome magical quality and its irrefutable charm. Or maybe for its prepostrousness and lack of scientific evidence supporting the revelations it brought to the world and its wife. One of the two. Anyhow, much as I loath stereotypes (bollocks, but it's not the point and it fits right in), Zodiac's contribution to character judgement and everyday hate crimes is immense. Can you envision a world deprived of star sign bullshit and compartmentalization based on its transcendental, fairytale irresistibility? I can't. Bunches of adolescents not wasting valuable time and paper matter on prophecies never to be fulfilled and studying their asses off instead.. Bunches of housewives reading literature rather than horoscopes composed after hours by bunches of toasted editors gorging on doughnuts while laughing their asses off.. How eschatological.

But off we go, to the point. Zodiac rocks and it's the awkward consistency and validity of it that will be discussed now. I may not believe in horoscopes and zodiac-based matchmaking, but there's that one site which accounts for the appearance and character traits according to one's star sign and links it all adorably to the holy bible, holy mythology and holy shit. So as not to postpone the inevitable, I'll focus on myself. Being a Piscean, I am said to constitute a soul of selflessness, as compared to herrings and sardines who travel in large groups, losing their identity for the sake of the school (pardon me). Also, we lack the ability to set frontiers in life, as likened to our habitation's blurry, turbid quality. On the strength (or weakness) of the same comparison, the intuitive capacity to see more than the rest of you people is hampered, as not much can be seen on the other side apart from mere shapes. As for our health, feet are deemed to be particularly prone to pain and injuries. Achilles tendons sprained (both), one day paralysis in my childhood.. Could go on like this forever. Anything else? Ah yes. The exceptional inclination to fall for whatever is addictive in this world. Too true.

What I'm driving at is appearance though, which may be surprising after so many words preceding the confession. Not gonna quote, but it could be briefly put as.. a fishy look and stare. I had been doing my utmost to confute it, but then I met one of the plenty fish in the sea who is a Piscean and looks like one. And apparently, I do, too. Oh my god, I've said it. When something looks like fish and behaves like one, it is fish. Or seafood, at least. Thank god that the taste for seafood fluctuates from one individual to another.

COME, PLACE'n'SEE

2007-10-03T14:01:00.000+02:00

When somebody you hold in sky-high esteem sings you praise after praise, having a down upon themselves at the very same time and you cannot spare yourself a benevolent thought, who's right and who's wrong? Well, objectively speaking, you're both wrong: you and your significant other should reverse and start thinking highly of yourselves and looking down on the other one, bright and worthy though they are. Forsooth, may thou thinketh highly of thyself, for only then shall thou be thought highly of.

INOPPORTUNITY

2007-10-02T16:26:00.000+02:00

So the grandma got eaten. And then, the red hood got eaten. Ever wondered what could have happened during that short time they spent together inside the wolf? Missing my chance is.. A pun intended.

RED HOOD

2007-09-28T14:30:00.001+02:00

He's a hopeless redhead. I see him every day and how thrilled I am as he endows me with that dignified, indifferent expression of his. Clothes loose, eyelids ajar, hair uncouth.. One big shrug he is: my hero.

His is not a face, but a countenance: pale and cold-eyed. His is not a skin, but pure ivory. Everything about him is my type. He is my type. My conveniently disturbed mind seems to be screaming that there must be some mistake.. On that boy's curious strength, for the first time in my life I've desired to be younger; first of many forthcoming ones, I am told.

Also, for the first and only time the so-called reality has outplayed my capacity to create.

MIND MADE UP

2007-09-27T22:15:00.000+02:00

There is that sketch on one of my favourite TV shows, featuring a Russian baby-sitter looking after an infant. The parents get back home and ask him questions about what was happening; one of the inquiries is: Did you change him? And the huge Russian guy with a curious accent is like: No, it's the same baby.

Well, this short intro was to draw your attention to an allegory between this here misunderstanding and the forthcoming one, related to the phrase change one's mind. Changing one's mind should be prohibited for the sake of the word pun introduced, if not for other salient reasons you may be coming up with at the very moment. Mind change? No, thanks. Mind swap? Give me a break. Or don't. I'd like my bones to remain intact. And the mind should stay the same.

As I have downplayed and mocked a phrase, I ought to propose a worthy replacement to maintain my alleged objectivity. Well, make up one's mind can successfully take place of its offending predecessor. It's always better to imagine and create than to give up and exchange your precious brainbaby maker for one of unknown or dubious quality.

And besides, if you make it up, it's not the same mind anymore. I don't.. mind now. How funny.

HELP YOURSELF

2007-09-24T18:43:00.000+02:00

Helplessness equals two different phenomena: either you can't provide yourself with help or you're not getting any. Well, what's also worth mentioning is that only one option is possible at a time. If you could help yourself, why would you ask somebody else to lend a hand or a wallet? Or, if somebody offered you a helping hand, why would you try to solve your problem yourself? Paradoxical though it is, it is not, as a matter of fact and that's what I call a paradox. Last not least and naturally, there will be some claiming it is possible to be unable to solve your own problems and to be left alone with not even a little help from your friends. But I make it hopeless, not helpless.

HO-HO-HUM, MERRY EX-MESS

2007-08-17T21:01:00.000+02:00

Time sure doesn't fly; it stands still untimely. It's time we celebrated its sedate pace, its flowlessness and the bad-faith protective action. Let's drink to it; let's sip the claret beverage so slowly that we beguile the born thief itself. Let's pick up where we left off. I love you more in my own retardedly genuine way; stare after stare, stair after stair. A bit steep but it's worth it, the warmth that sears. Hell it is.

DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES?

2007-08-09T18:10:00.000+02:00

In men and women different parts of the brain are responsible for experiencing (sexual) pleasure. Whilst the whole male grey matter is engaged on the way to climaxing, most of the female encephalon must switch off before she can feel any arousal at all. It doesn't mean, of course, men get more out of sexual activity; it only means most women must learn to get as much as men do. To meet this tempting objective, they need to make their brains slow down with the exception of what is called the cerebellum which must remain good and ready for what's in store for its possessor. How unfair: what men owe to Nature and get effortlessly, women owe to themselves and a lot of strenuous exercise. However, before you start deploring this flagrant injustice, there's a pleasant surprise for you, ladies: what is so hard for you to get in bed is presented to you with interest in everyday life.

The cerebellum controls all the tediously repeatable activities people engage in. That is why we are so conveniently able to pursue certain activities absent-mindedly. Everyone must have experienced locking the door or turning the faucet off so automatically they weren't sure if they had done it. Double checking showed they had, of course. They were simply thinking about something more absorbing; the cerebellum was there for them to do the donkey work. Women perform hundreds of such little obligations on a daily basis. Cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, sweeping, washing-up: all this engages the painstaking cerebellum alone in the very same way sex does. Have you ever regarded chores as something pleasurable? Many women claim to feel relaxed or even contented while doing housework. No wonder, it seems to be a peculiar surrogate for sexual pleasure. Men, needing the whole brain active to get their satisfaction, get nothing measurable out of helping their partners in the house and maybe that's the reason they hardly ever do lend a hand. But maybe they would if they only knew something so ordinary and unsophisticated as chores was always there for their women, offering effortless satisfaction at no expense. I can't help it, I'm jealous.

LEFT OUT

2007-08-08T14:01:00.000+02:00

Left-handedness is not about being left-handed. It's about being prone to jeopardy.

Many studies agreed that this variation (deviation?) in perception and orchestrating things is not a human phenomenon; not only, that is. Fish, chickens, monkeys: they all show symptoms of lateralization that helps them survive. And if a specimen is directively-challenged, it has difficulty getting by in a group. The funny thing is that the poor creature is unaware of this handicap and won't get to the bottom of things and find out why it is always a bit of an outcast.

Chickens, by way of illustration, have an inclination to attack whatever approaches them from their left side. Therefore, they approach one another from the right if they have peaceful intentions, such as mating rituals of shaking rumps or friendly clucky conversations. In contrast, those, say, reverse ones do it the other way around and end up pecked and left-out. They tend to fall upon those who want to say "hi", whereas those who want to fight get a warm welcome. They can't tell who's the good guy and don't know why their best of intentions lead to one disaster after another and this cluelessness often results in a peculiar cognitive dissonance. Psychologically put, to minimize the accompanying tension, one has to aquire or invent new beliefs and attitudes, which leads to trial and error practices (breeding frustration) or reconcilation with the hermitic fate (breeding frustration).

An analogy for humanity? Shudder to think.

HETEROGENEITY

2007-08-06T11:26:00.000+02:00

Language-related divagations lead to a dead end. It's pragmatics upon semantics upon pseudo-intellectual overinterpretations upon total mayhem. Or maybe the other way around. Anyhow, add the possible number of possible points of view and die trying to get your flawed head around. Take the word homophobia, the basic meaning of which is groundless fear and hatred towards gays in general, combined with active expressing of it in speech and deed. Phobia is a neurotic fear, that's what it is commonly known as, at least. Homo is derived from the Greek word meaning alike. Accordingly and logically, homophobist means neurotically afraid of the same, whereas homophobia in its traditional meaning is aimed against the different not the same. Shouldn't homophobia be called heterophobia, really? That would make sense, a bias against the different. If so, it'd include gays hating straights and the name heterophobia would fit right, both in the literal and the proposed understanding. Apply the traditional name, however, and it makes gays homophobes, in a way. Wheels within wheels. But why not, on the other hand? Homophobia, according to my earlier nomenclature would be all about straights fearing straights and gays fearing gays (again, gays happen to be homophobist, if so). It transpires, you see. It hasn't been properly labeled though. The gauntlet was thrown down, now pick it up.

THE 5TH WHEEL

2007-07-31T10:26:00.000+02:00

Everybody knows who a third wheel is: it is somebody nobody wants to be. What I would like to pick on here, however, regards the number used in this expression, not its meaning. How many vehicles do you know of that have only two wheels apart from a relatively small number of carts, motorbikes and bikes? To the best of my knowledge there are four on most cars and so the third wheel is actually crucial for them to pull out rather than redundant, which reminds me English doesn't actually make sense. On the contrary, the Polish language adds two more wheels to this phrase, increasing its reasonableness. The fifth wheel, because this is what people say where I am to emphasize and visualize the unwelcome element, makes more sense, as four is the target number of wheels on the majority of vehicles and the fifth one is useless indeed. However, both the third and the fifth wheel could actually make the journey safer by chaperonage, paradoxically enough. And, to conclude, the fifth wheel is sometimes called a spare. What a gas.

Correction, that's a gas: above, the real-life six-wheeled fifth wheel.

ADVERTING TO..

2007-07-28T16:37:00.000+02:00

If I could make one kind of advertising campaigns cease to be, it wouldn't be the door-to-door (you can smash the door in the interloper's face in self-defence), it wouldn't be the aggravating twenty-minute breaks during movies (you can go pee or make a sandwich, so they have their uses), it'd be, my dear friends, leaflets. Anyone who stops me on my way, offering a credit, an anti-cellulite cosmetic or a pizza bargain is likely to be shot at dawn the following day, if only I get my hands on them. I lost count of how many homicides I perpetrated in my head. And all I have to say for myself is that any leaflet campaign is nothing but harassment, it's an abuse of my spare time, my refreshing walk, my sense of personal alienation. And show me someone who doesn't throw those worthless scraps in the nearest trash bin. The paper could be used for something more rarefied, such as a book or a notebook for someone to learn how to read or write. Why waste it on the most irritating type of advert ever invented, one that forces both givers and takers to partake? I feel sorry for flyer-deliverers, because they risk their lives and are paid next to nothing. I'd rather go on the game than become one. And so I suggest the hapless windswept good-news prophets unite and stuff their bosses with this paper waste from behind. It might do some good, contrary to setting leaflets on strangers.