The ride

Like I always say, there is more to dreams than their mystery and intangibility. And I don’t have in mind only dreaming that happens whilst sleeping, or dreaming in a sense of wishing for something to happen. I mean more substantial kind of dreaming that comes to you only rarely which is of course likely to reflect your desire, but at the same time it is so elaborate that it brings new ideas, new desires, new feelings, ones you have never ever known before. Something like a daydream or an epiphany, just like that – out of the blue. The kind of dream, that in the end ceases to be a dream and becomes a vision or a fantasy. And in this fantasy you are able to smell all the scents so vividly it is hard to believe it didn’t happen, you are able to hear people and their voices just as though they were standing right in front of you, you can even predict your own thoughts and actions as well as the others’, and you are actually able to feel all the sensations and affections, almost as if you lived them. Last but not least, you can enter into fantasies with your consciousness, you can decide what happens next and that is what makes them real. 

I can hear the rumbling of the engine melting with the music from the radio and I am holding my hands up high, stroking the air, touching it with my fingerprints. With my eyes closed I feel like I’m absorbing everything deep into myself. When I look to my left there is the man I ran off with and he looks beautiful in the sunshine. Before us only the dusty road, fields, and hills, and woods, and rivers, and lakes. We feel to have nothing, but in fact we have absolutely everything.
At the nightfall, we watch the stars and he talks about the universe. He asks me to imagine infinity, to picture it as a concept, to try to think in terms of infinity. I answer I cannot do it, because it’s simply ungraspable. He smiles and says: “You can’t understand infinity for it is just a word. A word created by men labelling an abstract phenomenon. And all the words of language denoting abstract things, such as love, fear, shiver, excitement, frienship... can never be understood unless experienced. Humans in their very nature always needed limits, borderlines, so they started to think in this mindset. But you have to start thinking out of these borders, so that you set your mind and soul free to experience infinity. That’s why I took you on a ride. To search for infinity.“ 

The Ride

At dawn we’ll be gone, drifted by tide

Forsaken our throne, ran away for a ride.

A car beneath humming its tranquil song

All the gods, above and under, singing along. 

Pure nihility around, away from the crowds, 

With my hands up high I long for the clouds.

You said aim your eyes up, you break the mould,

And as far you can see all is blue, white and gold.

The sun is our God, every new day our teacher,

Horizon means hope and your voice is my preacher.

Nothing more nothing less than our bodies bare,

Yet we possess the scents, the life, the music, the air.

Our soundtrack of life sings the melody of freedom

That takes us far and far away, east of eden.

Oh how gracefully your skin shines in the sunshine,

You’re my guide through the galaxy, a man divine.

You show me infinity is no design of men

Like two of the zillion stars we live by no plan, 

As vain as to describe colors to a blind one

Such is to live by limits, when there are none.

Only rumbling of wheels, as promising as a wish,

The road, the dust and a mind young and foolish,

Are tools to turn us to what we’re supposed to be.

And if we weren’t fools then who’d we be? 

If equal affection cannot be

I was maybe twelve, thirteen years old when I first came across W. H. Auden's poem "The more loving one" and I fell in love with it instantly. Since then it is one of my favourite poems and if I was considering having a tattoo one day (which I'm not) it would probably be a verse from it. Which one I don't know. Being so young when first reading it I obviously could not understand it that well. Neither I experienced love up to that point, nor a broken heart, longing, desire... 

As I was getting older, and returned to this little poem years after, it was a different poem in front of me. In particular times I lived it and got the feeling Auden had written it for me. With only one objection: I don't want to be the more loving one anymore. 

“Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell, 

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast. 

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return? 

If equal affection cannot be, 

Let the more loving one be me. 

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.“

(W. H. Auden - The More Loving One)

(Edvard Munch - The lonely ones)

Equal Affection

I tried to solve countless equations

Yet my want for you is uncountable.

I failed with science and calculations

To make my heart sustainable.

Answer I longed for I never found

Neither on tongue, nor in your eyes,

Found myself falling from the cloud,

On the day you sang your goodbyes.

I traded the pleasure and joyfulness

For the final movement of the ninth.

In tentative reply to loneliness

I chose to be my largest crowd.

Walls are higher, stairs are steeper,

Wild is path I have to go through.

With every breath I dive deeper,

Insatiable is my desire for you.

If equal affection cannot be true,

I wish the more loving one was you. 

Birthday girl

Birthdays together with New Years Eves are probably the only two days out of 365 when most of us ponder over the past year’s achievements, failures, strokes of luck, misfortunes... Those more lucky ones, who had been born on December 31, or January 1, can be really thankful for such an advantage to be spared of one dreadful day in addition. Both days stike me as very contradictory and confusing. On one hand you HAVE TO have fun “because it’s your birthday“, or “because it’s NYE“ but on the other hand they are days that cetrainly carry a sort of depressing message. On your birthday you start to feel a year older and especially when turning 20, 30, 40, and all those round numbers, you feel like a decade passed you by and all plans you had for those past 10 years which were never done or fulfilled are proofs of your failure. You are fully aware you will never be younger than you are now and all of a sudden all the wasted days, meaningless hours, unproductive minutes pop out in your mind transforming into a big creepy mouth laughing at you how pathetic you are. It is the same with the New Year’s resolutions that you forget about on the third of January but come nastily back to you when the year is over to remind you how weak your power of will is. Pure misery. And you are supposed to have fun? (Moreover when almost all of my birthday parties and New Years Eve parties ended up a catastrophe). I don’t see how that’s supposed to be fun. But that’s just me. Don’t take me too seriously, in fact I love those days. Like I love irony.

Birthday girl

Astounded by the image in the mirror

Up and down her spine crawls the shiver.

A year that passed by in an eye-blink

Shaped in a tear as dark as black ink,

Now forever evanesces down the sink.

Thoughts frozen to reminiscences

Playing hide and seek with her senses

And she contemplates all when and whys,

Good-byes and bad buys,

Break ups and break downs,

Solid airs, moving grounds,

Single choices, double mistakes,

Triple Johnnies, Jims and Jacks,

With whom she cried rivers and lakes.

She collected all memories, put them in a vase

And locked them up safe just in case.

For tonight she wears a princess’ crown

Red lipstick turned her to be the clown

Who painted a smile to conceal the frown. 

Home is where you lay your head

I will never forget those eyes. The guy was standing at the rear of the tram and all of the people knew right away that a homeless person just entered the tram judging from a distinctive smell. It was Saturday two in the morning and most of the people there were traveling home from a party. Quite close to this man, there was a bunch of drunk guys starting to have a go at him, calling him names, shouting at him and all sorts of stuff. All the people in the tram were covering their noses and commenting on him which encouraged these guys who started to attack him. This homeless guy was what you would call a poor thing. It was exceptionally cold January night and he was shivering, silently standing there with his shoulders down, folded arms in front of him as if in a desperate defence. All of a sudden all the tram was supporting the bunch of guys who demanded him to get out of the tram, scolding him and poking him out. Four girls, myself being one of them, defended him, trying to compel the guys to leave him alone and just bear with the smell somehow. No use of course. At the next stop the driver came out of his cabin, came to the guy and pushed him vioently out of the tram, swearing and humiliating him in front of all those people. I was looking at the man all the time, right into his face. He wasn’t old at all, must have been in his late thirties, long black hair, dirty face, but his eyes were sparkling. Sparkling with sadness and humiliation. Like a dog’s eyes. A stray dog wandering through streets silently asking for any help, and if that weren’t possible, at least for a nice word. A hand that would not beat, a word that would not scold, a gaze that would not despise. The man didn’t utter a word during all this. He surrendered to the dominance of us all, of us who know nothing about him, about his ordeal, about his misfortune.  

A month ago I was walking down a crowded shopping street. There was a man sitting in front of a closed down shop with his dog. First I passed by him but after 20 metres something’s drawn me back. I searched my pockets for some pennies and approached him, leaning down towards him with my arm reaching out. When he noticed this he looked at my hand, startled and frightened and then his eyes met with mine, still scared for a fraction of second for he didn’t know what I was up to. But then when he had seen me, petite little girl, he relaxed. He knew I was no danger. I handed him the change and stroked his dog for a little while, he thanked me and off I went. But I will never forget those eyes. Those were the eyes of a vulnerable creature, who for a second or two thought I was about to hurt him.

Living on a street must be a tough job. People are pointing their fingers, scolding, scorning. Those who know nothing about how hard it is to be alone, pennyless, not having a bare necessities to live a decent life, judge them, act like they know better, say they are just a bunch of lazy good-for-nothings who rather than stand up and going to work drink cheap wine all day and beg for money from those who honestly and deservedly earn money in a normal job. 

But is it us who have the right to judge them? Have we ever walked in their shoes?
I don’t think it is so easy to stand up strong and self-conscious, determined to start over after all they lived through. People bring them down, humiliate them to the very bottom of human dignity, until they cease to be able not only to look into other people’s eyes, but nor into their own. Have you ever noticed this? They almost never keep an eye contact with anybody passing by. They protect themselves from all those judgmental and detesting eyes which look at them as though they were an insect, a plague, something that needs to be got rid of. No surprise then they like dogs as their companions. They never judge, they never hate. 

Rotten apples

Gretchen: You're weird.

Donnie: Sorry...

Getchen: No, that was a compliment.      (Donnie Darko)

Every family has its black sheep. A weirdo, misfit, outcast. Usually it is somebody who finds it very difficult to interact with people, who does not comply with standards generally approved by society and does not even want to, somebody who lives in his own world, somebody who... is one of a kind. 

But who is weird and who is normal? I think everybody is weird, in their own way. But some people's normality outruns their weirdness. And it strikes me that some weirdness is more creative, more inspiring, more artistic. Some weirdos see things normal people will never see, colours the others could never even imagine, write words that aren't to be found in any dictionary. No poet, writer, painter, inventor, revolutionary, philosopher has ever been normal. If they were, they could have never become what they had become.

They are all different. There is one common feature though: they have always been misunderstood. Depressed of not belonging anywhere. Depressed of being lonely. Of being alone. In a crowd, but still alone. Rotten apples among beautiful, perfect, polished, red apples. 

But the process of decaying is inevitable in this world. It is a development, an evolution. What else can you do, but to rot? Hide behind a beautiful disguise? 

Rotten apple

Like a glass of water can never be a Moet

A tedious one will never be a poet.

Chewing gum cigar brings no satisfaction

With no initiative there comes no reaction.

Dust is no dirt but a cosmic compost

Poem’s a reflection of spirit composed.

Philosophy is art for us to imitate

And silence is the noise to appreciate.

Confined inside this human comedia

Speechlessly overwhelmed with invidia

For those blessed with ecstatic ignorance

Whilst you wallow in the age of innocence.

At a party that’s never met the host

People are company you hate the most

You’re nothing but a lone steppenwolf

And life’s a riddle never to be solved.

If only they could see through your eyes

If only they could read between the lines.

They not ever will and tears you wipe

To pity an apple that’s never been ripe.

As every soaked pillow finally dries

A rotten apple eventually liquefies.

Like a twig put together by each sliver

Turns into a drop that shapes the river.