KEEP THE STREETS EMPTY FOR ME

Driving after dusk and seeing merely five cars in forty minutes (!) must activate the brain-baby maker.

Only a few on their way someplace they have to be or someplace they want to be. Did that mean that everybody else was already there? I am about to make quite an unfortunate division into those happy and unhappy ones on that basis. He who is where they have to be is unhappy; he who is where they want to be is happy. 

But those empty streets beg for explanation. Happiness keeps some people home as they need not to look for it anymore. And the other lot, stricken by lack of happiness, are stranded in the lesser evil of having a place to stay rather than a home. They may have stopped looking. Empty streets, as a result.

Having said this, shouldn’t the happy go out and brag about what they have found? Shouldn’t the unhappy go out and seek their happiness? Perhaps… they are all stranded in some way? And maybe those on their way are running away, in fact? Maybe, those heading someplace they don't want to be should go elsewhere?

I don’t know about them all. I was one of those on the move but I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t in the least bit unhappy though I had not reached my destination by then.

In my case having to go and wanting to go meant exactly the same. I was getting closer to where I was heading. At that time it defined happiness for me. Just drawing nearer.

A MATTER OF TIME

Driving unleashes thoughts. I was driving the other day, driving and thinking. Thoughts would jump at the opportunity to flow freely, as usual when unguarded.

Best moments get disturbed by time. Time that is up makes you down. It never stops but stops you. Remember grown-ups coming in when you were having the best time ever? When you were engaged in something spectacular with or without those other kids? You needed to stop and get back to the boredom you had been successfully relieving by your doings.

The other day, I was engaged in what I can only call a perfect conversation, an ultimate adult game. Sedative voice, leisurely pace. And the dearest eyes close enough to sink in them beyond rescue. Suddenly, it was the time to go. Go back. But was it “back”? Only if where I was is “forth”. And it sure is.

Time was up… getting me down again. I remember my childhood thoughts when I was disturbed and made to stop playing. These have remained the same, as core things do: “One day it will all change. One day I won’t have to go.”

It will. I won’t. You’ll see.

GROUND ZERO

Odd.

I’m not there even. Not even there. Am I not? Oh I am. Zero tolerance.

I’ll come, always. Always in (a) second.

What floats on water? The current cipher. The love.

That’s how you lose your voice. That’s how you lose.

2 x 1006

Do 2 much, go 2 far. Dare 2 try. You won’t get far. Consequences in 2 faces spit, but not 2 long. Cos it’s the very last of years. 2 times thousand and six.

Run 2 your life, it's never 2 late (Can’t have your cake and eat it, 2). It won’t last long.. 2 short now 2 regret. Cos it’s the very last of years. 2 times thousand and six.

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

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.

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.

ARE YOU JUNKING ME??

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

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.

FIELD-DEPENDENCE

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?

WISH IT AWAY

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.

bOYS ARE STUPID, THROW ROCKS AT THEM

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.

INOPPORTUNITY

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.

KEEP UPRIGHT

I know how much you adore the romantic side of life, but I must object or else I'll die of asphyxia. Idioms related to the l word are plain stupid and none is the exception here. The phrase fall for somebody is the most eye-offending of all. It conjures up the image of a puppet stumbling upon nothing at all for no purpose in particular. Sorry, but the idea of voluntary banging against the ground, if metaphorical, appears outright absurd. I don't want anybody to fall for me simply on the strength of this phrase's slavish conotation. If you wish to bruise yourself, go ahead. I take no responsibility.

Why the hell do most l***y-dovey phrases suggest leaning out of perpendicular? Whatever happened to human dignity, I ask you? What's wrong about the upright position? Remember I'm not gonna stoop to any level below my own, I prefer standing. Don't go down to your knees, don't find yourself swept off your feet, don't fall for me. Ever.

And one more thing, to carry a torch for me you must bite my arms off.