Sunday, July 30, 2017

postmoderntalking, 9 maja 2004

marta eloy cichocka
w praktyce

szkoda że skończył się browar i nikt nie pożyczy fajek
ostatni nocny uciekł: pierwszy poranny będzie za godzinę
szkoda że rower się zepsuł kiedy ostatnio jechaliście na nim we dwoje
i szkoda że cała reszta mieszka na drugim końcu miasta

w praktyce możesz jeszcze zadzwonić: bo może jeszcze nie śpi
może otworzy drzwi pożyczy ręcznik posunie się pod kołdrą
może rano będzie kawa papieros jajecznica na śniadanie
i może nawet kiedyś się zakochasz choć tamten raz miał być ostatni

w sumie może wynajmiecie razem jakieś mieszkanie
może starczy wam kasy na sztywne łącze i wspólne wakacje
rodzice znowu pomogą gdy uwierzą że tym razem to na serio
zresztą już czas was ściga po lodowisku lustra

może kiedyś urodzi się wam dziecko zdążycie już trochę przytyć
i zmarszczki osaczą was na tyle by uniemożliwić ucieczkę
a może jeszcze wystarczy pensji na tenisa i fitness: a rozsądku
w sam raz na reklamowe rozkosze regularnych romansów

możesz jeszcze jak arthur rzucić wszystko wyjechać do afryki handlować hebanem
lub jak nasz uciekający pan młody obmacywać coraz młodsze barmanki

możesz jak dziewięcioletnia karnamoni poślubić psa by chronił cię od złego
zgodnie z praktykami plemienia santhal w bengalu zachodnim

możesz też jak rainer po katastrofie tankowca prestige u wybrzeży hiszpanii
z innymi wolontariuszami zbierać z plaży ropę łyżeczką do zupy

w praktyce możesz ostatecznie skołować jeszcze jedną fajkę
i przeczekać godzinę na dworcu: tylko czy to coś zmieni

w szachu w końcu nic wielkiego się nie stało. tylko pewne zdjęcia trzeba będzie wyrzucić wymazać niektóre maile i usunąć esemesy. bo w końcu od początku było wiadomo że nic z tego nie będzie. i może dlatego tak bardzo boli teraz ta pustka: po niczym. ale w końcu czas zrobi swoje. i za jakiś czas się okaże że potrafisz obojętnie mijać wszystkie miejsca w których teraz stanął czas. w końcu nauczysz się że można brać nie dając patrząc w oczy głęboko rozmijać się z prawdą być z kimś i móc w każdej chwili odejść. tylko czemu nazywać to dojrzałością? skoro nawet dzieci wiedzą że miłość jest tylko jedna a prawdziwa przyjaźń trwa przez całe życie


Monday, November 7, 2016

"Nature always wears the colors of the spirit."

Wilderness brings me peace. Being alone in front of those majestic, bare, quiet mountains that have been here for millions of years and do not even notice my existence keeps me in check and makes the constant storm inside calm down a little. You can walk for miles in this silence, feeling smaller and smaller and therefore stronger, because you will remain meaningless here no matter what you do. What a relief. 

Soup and tea. Lots of ginger. Seashells collection growing on a hallway shelf. No make up. No perfume. Barely any music. Sometimes a little dance. Westfjords Film Festival, smiles, love and laughter inside, wind, the sound of waves and rain outside. Sometimes the sun comes out, bringing along the cold, crisp air and frost. We soak it up, knowing that nothing lasts here, only the sea and the mountains will stay.

“We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.” 
― Henry David ThoreauWalden: Or, Life in the Woods

























Tuesday, October 25, 2016

you.


You're safe. You're brave. You can walk through the empty dark streets lined with houses where nobody lives now. You can live in this house alone. Yes, you. Turn on some lights. It's just wind and rain. If you open the window you will hear the sea, just as you can hear it when you walk up that hill.  After all you have a friend in this tiny house. "There's a mouse in the house, but it's stuck between the walls, so it cannot get out and enter the house, don't worry", said Laura before leaving. Well, how can it just continue to live between the walls, I don't think this is possible unless there are food and water supplies, you want to ask, but Laura has to pack and drive to the airport, so you just keep that to yourself, the little wonder of mouse living, maybe that should be a new Icelandic magazine - Mouse Living. First issue articles: How to live between the walls when there are probably only single-layered walls in this old wooden house. How to live between the walls when your human housemate is tempting you with open polenta bag and whole wheat pasta and spelt musli just laying there. How to be a happy Icelandic mouse and one day have a documentary made of you and to be dubbed by Björk and afterwards, when your story moves millions of people and mice and other animals in the world, to finally have many walls with wide spaces in between, spaces full of air, trees, lava, mountains and sea. How to live in a house where your human housemate is waking you up every day, instead of just moving to any other empty house where nobody will bother you. Single mouse on a budget. Airbnb - is it the right choice for me? Mouse house - new musical trends from Berghain.

All it takes is listening. You can be alone in this empty, stormy black-sanded beach, covered with rocks and shells, collecting them for your friends, watching your Salka-Pansa "hunting" for seagulls, bending her right front leg and freezing, only to be unable to resist looking back whether you're there and whether you are OK with her "hunt" that will end as soon as water begins to cool her paws. You can take it slow, visiting the same places every day, becoming familiar with empty, abandoned spaces, watching the village from afar.  Walking out of that village, in hopes of hiking up the mountain and being able to just walk two miles into the wild before the fear creeps back. It's OK. You'll come back. You made it far.

Nobody is ever on the streets. When you see them, maybe once a day, they're far, far away and Salka is running up, scaring or upsetting them so you have no courage to approach, you just wait there calling her name until she comes back. And she always does. When you walk back home you wonder how people spend their evenings, peeping through their beautiful plants in the windows, never seeing anybody.

You look at the map every day. This is where you are. Is this far enough? Close enough? Who are you? What are you running from? What are you running to? Will you hike up that mountain again tomorrow? Will you let Salka run far away because when you see her brave and happy your heart grows? Will you let your mind wander? Are you free? What is your life? When will you die? Why do you imagine that a bone Salka finds is a human bone? Why is your brain feeling better if you are upstairs if you are still unable to escape? When will you write a story or a script? When will you learn to embroider? When will you be who you want to be? Who do you want to be? Who are you now?

Wake up. Brush your teeth. Eat a hard-boiled egg or almonds and an apple, forcing it all in. Don't drink coffee because it will make you anxious. Try to ignore the fact that not drinking coffee makes you even more anxious because you like coffee. Make organic green jasmine tea. Ignore the fact that its smell reminds you of a nude-colored stocking that you filled with chinese jasmine tea to brew tea when you were a waitress in a Japanese restaurant in a small American town, and you had deer coming to your backyard, and this memory makes you soft and teary, because you were completely the same and completely different then. Get dressed. Or just put on a jacket and rubber boots on your pyjamas like you used to when you lived in that tiny town and you wrote a blog that suddenly disappeared one day. Nobody will see you. Walk out. Decide if you can walk one more mile out into the wild. You desire it. You desire solitude. Now just walk a mile in your boots.














Friday, October 21, 2016

unpacking


At first there was excitement. The desire to escape everything was so strong that I didn't think for a second when I found out I could go. If your home is where your heart is and if you think of places not people, then you could say I was basically going back home. I was ready as I was standing. All I wanted to bring was maybe some books from the library and rubber boots, so that I could wander around the black beaches and mud and grass for hours. And I got them. The day before departure I packed my suitcase, running like crazy around Warsaw, buying a hat only to lose it one hour later, picking up Vietnamese groceries to bring along and a macbook to finally write. Because my whole body was telling me to go. This body that was waking up so tense and shrunken for the last two years that I must have looked like a walnut in a shell that was too small every morning, I imagined sometimes.  Beans and peas, cinnamon sticks, sesame oil,  miso, soba noodles, masalas, tons of ginger, books, embroidery thread and needle, dried coconut milk and rum. Rum got confiscated at the airport. On top of that went some wool socks and sweaters. Once you get here you realize you can live without all these beautiful things you admire when you live your everyday life. I think it's because they just don't compare. But you don't know that. And that's OK. You will know once you don't need them. I don't need them now.

A small plane takes me from Reykjavik to the Westfjords at sunrise. I am barely awake, trying to hold myself together after all the painful transitions of the past days, weeks, months and years. I sit at the airport that feels like an Aki Kaurismäki film set with its "you can have a ham and cheese croissant or croissant with nothing" and lonely men staring at a black TV screen that only plays the sound of Icelandic news, drinking their neverending coffee that you can just pour yourself from a thermos standing on a table. Your quiet body explodes or your gate opens, whatever comes first.

So we fly. No security check. No x-rays. No 100 ml of shampoo and no throw away your thyme honey. The captain is not telling you what weather you can expect. He's not telling you anything. He's just flying your plane, as you always wanted him to. You can get coffee, tea or water from a flight attendant who looks like John Malkovich and when he's telling you to get ready for takeoff using a  little plane phone, he's looking away toward the cockpit door because he is shy. And that's OK. You're shy too. Your napkin makes you feel a little better. And you see that there's sun above the clouds.

I lost my breath when I landed. It happens to me here. It still feels unreal. I am all alone. I float like a giant pink human starfish for two hours in an empty swimming pool when the wind gets crazy and I can see the black cloudy sky through the glass roof above me, but I cannot hear anything and I only know it when I leave the building and I cannot walk. Two old men sit in a hot pot and talk constantly, so I can only hold my head in the water and stare in the sky with my arms and legs trying to relax, fighting to relax so badly that it hurts and I have to tell them "you are here. you've made it. you don't have to stress out to relax. you've got all the time you need".

But first Laura picks me up from the cafe where I write my first postcards. She's so pretty, smiley and frisky, wearing her new Icelandic sweater, similar to the one I found in Reykjavik seven years ago. We run errands. Or rather she runs them and I follow, trying to come up with questions. I have no errands. I am more like a flower waiting to be pressed between pages. A wind blows a four-wheeled bicycle around the sidewalk, like an invisible child was riding it.

I put my suitcases in Laura's car trunk. We drive to the village for an hour, passing through a five mile long tunnel in a mountain, pulling over to take pictures of the fiords. She's in a hurry to leave, I'm in a hurry to stay. I meet Max and Salka, my only companions for now. I slowly unpack my food in the empty cupboards, put fresh covers on my bed, take pictures of my new windows, touch the cold glass to remove the fog. Laura leaves for the airport. I am here. I made it.

The sidewalks and paths are always empty. There's a mouse between the walls of the house. You can always hear the wind and the sea. You can always see the rain somewhere between the mountains. Salka runs on the beach. When she's far she always looks back, checking whether I'm still there.