UNDER THE WEATHER

If I were to point at one force ruling the world, it’d be the weather. Recent days have once again proved that she’s alive and kicking. I myself have been kicked hard several times already. Some would probably say: "poked", but to my mind, that’s not enough said.

In winter no driver can feel safe, especially one like me: a false beginner in her first year and first wheels. That's no discovery. I do have winter tyres, a few defrosters and some experience. But what I also have is no sense of space around the car, a moody gearbox and no idea what to do in times of crisis. And this, you must admit, counts as a worthy discovery. Yet, since I refuse to feel guilty of my misfortune or admit the limitations, I see no other way but blame it all on the weather. This unruly fool seems to take pleasure in doing mischief. And she doesn’t just go for random, occasional victims, but aims at doom and disaster of all mankind. 

This will teach you, she seems to be saying, but have ever asked yourselves the question: “teach us what”? Well, it's a reminder that we should take her seriously rather than ignore the powers she obviously has or even try to dethrone her by dispersing clouds with planes and the like. No amount of sand or salt can  magic away her majesty the ice queen. No wood or coal can give out enough warmth to melt the heart beating under her snow-white coat. No spell or prayer will do. None of the weather's doings can even be predicted with a comforting degree of accuracy. Well done, wouldn’t you say? I’m impressed. And respectful. Regardless of some of the foregoing, which might easily serve as evidence to the contrary.

Winter seasons are no power plays, they're corrective periods. The weather demands respect and disciplines both the reckless and the rebellious. All that without a fair trial and the benefit of the doubt? Yeah well. With a little bit of twisted reason, one might even say it’s a kind of natural selection. A right only mother nature has a monopoly on. And she sure is exercising this right.

What can be done, then, apart from just being obedient? Well, it seems to me that certain creatures have found one good way after all. It seems worth trying to go to sleep and wait until raging mother nature quenches her hunger with a satisfactory number of brats. The moment she finally does... has a name. Spring it is. There will be much rejoicing on my part when it arrives this time. More than usual. Well, if I'm lucky enough to actually see it coming.

ARTERIES

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.

HOW TO HAVE FUN AT HOME?

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.

REAL TIME

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?

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.

"SHE'S A MAN-EATER.."

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

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

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

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

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!"

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..?

CHILD BENEFIT

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

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.

PRAISED BE THE WORD!

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!

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.

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

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?

THE REAL, THE IMAGINARY, THE COMPLEX..

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

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..

AFTER THE RAIN

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.

SO I CAN SEE

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.