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.

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.

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.

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.

PANTA RHEI

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.

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.

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?

DUSK TO DAWN

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.

IN THIS LIGHT AND ON THIS EVENING

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.

AND LISTEN TO THE WIND BLOW..

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.

TRAVEL EXPENSES

English is not my mother tongue, and therefore, it has always been my favourite communicative tool. It allows me to create novel patterns and constructions, as well as making remarks I wouldn't even suspect myself of. It is unaffectedly playful, as if specially created for jokes and puns. English is also, and it appears to be its greatest advantage, half-dead to me. The non-native-speaker-like linguistic competence of mine makes both my thoughts and feelings easier to set in order and express. It's simply more neutral and even when I actually say something terribly important in English, it seems to lose its meaning and emotional undertone. Similarly, the most outrageous swearwords trip off the tongue and are only partly offensive. What am I driving at? Well, I am about to take advantage of English once again and play a game of verbal exhibitionism to let something out; something so incredibly embarrassing that it requires the use of a foreign language to come to light.

When I woke up at four this morning, I felt in the clear, much to my surprise. However, this curious emotion, or lack of any emotions, to be more exact, can be accounted for. So can be my today's convenient helplessness. Negative catharsis, otherwise known as hangover, the devious culprit of my condition, was not much of an oppressor this morning. Actually, the break of to-day has been the happiest moment for me for a month or so. Not just because yesterday evening was finally over, but also because the hangover meant I was under no influence of ethyl alco-hole anymore. And this was good news. I've got two serious problems, you see: a face that can be read like a picture book and a propensity to get spaced-out after a certain number of bevvies. It's like unintentional putting your mind in another room; a cozy, private place with a fire burning. However, the longing for that room appears on my face the moment I get my being hyphenated and lasts much longer than until my narcoleptic mind finds its way back to its physical confinement. This kind of standoffish reverie happened to me twice yesterday evening. The timing left a lot to be desired, unfortunately. It's good to be back, I tell you. And for the first time, it's good to have a hangover.

IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

Okay, so I look sixteen. Does it mean that, by definition, I must be childish and require caretaker speech? It seems so, as on numerous occasions I was accused of being (I make it: looking) too young and inexperienced to partake or even understand an adult conversation. No, it's not the same as being denied the right to purchase a can of bitter without an ID. Consider the disparity between premature and immature; there's a bloody chasm in there with yours truly inside, jumping up and down and pleading to be let out.. (Did I mention I came of age.. some time ago..?) Apparently, no one bothers to listen to my childlike little voice. Shame, because the lexis is outstanding.

Now imagine that the very same adult-looking humans who have recklessly called my behaviours childish (while looking at my boy-like countenance, so let's say they were excused) shortly after repeated the silly actions they had scoffed, making me confuzzled, to put it mildly. What am I supposed to make of all this? Maybe they simply envy me my youth with its follies and idealism, limitlessness of possibilities and motivisation.. Something tells me it's far more intricate. Luckily, I can't observe myself in their stead. Because if I could, I might understand. And what would I do then?

"THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOUR ENGLISH"

I was sitting in the classroom, conveniently ignoring the unwelcome presence of my peers when the teacher literally kicked my brain out of the room through the keyhole by saying: there's something wrong with your English. It wasn't even meant for me, as I had always been excused from taking justifiable statements of this kind personally, but that particular one undermined everything I had believed about myself. It ironed out my brain creases. (To know how much it hurt I suggest you consider the resemblance between iron and irony. Ouch.)

Taking into consideration the doer of the action and the circumstances, I shouldn't have minded. So sharp a tongue it could scrape up your self-respect, conflated with the class displaying commendable mental clumsiness.. Later the selfsame day we were told by another teacher that we knew so little about English that we could just as well study Mongol and wouldn't be able to spot the difference. Again, it was a venial deed. But when someone says something's wrong with my English, they mean something's wrong with me (let alone the accompanying gatecrashing image of having my chest pricked repeatedly by means of a scornful index finger.) I may not have been the exact addressee of either of these statements, but being there was enough to make my flesh creep.

CONFESSIONS OF A CRAP ARTIST

I daresay it’s not possible to really succeed in putting thoughts and emotions into words. Oh, how far-fetched of me, how challenged, how easy to confute.. Maybe I lack voice and that’s about it. Maybe my feeble attempts to use language in a constructive way were doomed to failure from the very off. Maybe I should no longer waste time and space having no flair for writing, but a mere proclivity. Maybe.

But maybe the real cause of my handicap is the aggravating dearth of perfection affecting every single person, object and activity. Maybe language is way too inept to keep up with the stream of consciousness. Maybe.

And maybe it does make sense, exchanging thoughts for words. No charge. No change. No quarter.

No shit.

BOOK CASE

Most people don’t read and they don’t mind. I do. It’s because my reading inability is a harbinger of a disaster yet to be faced. At present, I have good reasons to believe that another calamity is in the offing. I can’t read. However promising the outcome of cover-judgement would be, I am simply unable to make sense of any page of print. And there is always some juicy reading matter in the eye shot.

It’s a chain reaction, I know, but I can’t figure out whether it’s the not reading that courts disaster, or the other way round. I’m way too terrified to keep my brain productive anyhow. There’s no telling what might happen soon. By way of illustration, last time I felt like this, I lost my mobile. And the time before that, I slipped and ended up with a bruised pelvis. In both cases, my ability to read was restored at once.

I may be a spastic, and quite a forgetful one, but not a liar. And the immediate need for sedative beverage close at hand lends further credence to my words.