The river

Since I became familiar with the river allegory in Buddhism it strikes me it is one of the best explanation of life ever. According to the teachings of the Buddha, life can be compared to a river. The flow of the river, sometimes steady and calm, sometimes wild and roaring, representing a successive series of different moments of our lives, resembles the eternal flow of life. Each drop in the river represents every substance of life, ever changing and moving in the process of development or decay. It is just as we are, ever moving and changing. At one point we are here, and at the other we’re somewhere else. Each second we grow older and each second that passed is a history. A history that can’t be turned back into, the only way is forward. The river of yesterday is not the same as the river of today. The river of this moment is not the same as the river of the next moment. So does life.

I started to think about this allegory very deeply after reading Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse. In Hesse’s book Siddhartha, who later becomes the Buddha, comes to seek for answers sitting on the riverbank, contemplating and listening to the current. In the end Siddhartha is able to hear what the river has to say and gives him all answers. The river reveals all the secrets of life and illuminates his mind to a point where he feels complete and accomplished.

Water is the essential element to the nature of the Scorpio Zodiac sign (and to Cancer and Pisces as well), and I am a proud Scorpio. I’ve always been very fond of water, in any form there is. Pure water is my favourite drink; nothing’s better after a long day than a bath or a shower; swimming, as one of my favourite sports, fills me with happiness; sitting beside the river and just looking at the flowing water gives me such peaceful feeling; ice-skating on the frozen lake is such a great fun; I enjoy whisky the best with couple of ice cubes in it; the food is healthy and tastes great when steamed; rain is so powerful and energizing; sea so lonesome and still thriving with such a great variety of life… So it seems everything in the world needs and is tightly connected to this “colorless, transparent, odorless, tasteless liquid that forms the seas, lakes, rivers, and rain and is the basis of the fluids of living organisms” (Oxford dictionary definition). This colorless, transparent liquid makes the world blossom with all the beautiful and rich colours there are on the nature’s palette. This odorless and tasteless fluid makes the world smell with such delightful fragrances and scents of life and taste with all the unique flavours and spices. And seas, lakes, rivers, and rain composed of this liquid have so much life, scents, tastes, and energy in them that when you learn how to absorb their power, it fills you up with so much strength as only power of nature can strengthen you. It is after all the substance we are made of so the unity is essential. 

The river

A new life begins between the two hands.

A key to all things between the two banks.

A son or a daughter - where they’re bound?

Deep down in the water the path is drowned.

Bathe your hands in, clean them in rejoice

In depth of your skin you will hear its voice.

Set your eyes nearer, the surface will show,

Your life is a mirror to this steady flow.

Never withdrawn, yet it takes you away.

The river at dawn is other than yesterday.

Inexhaustible like art - hated or admired -

The river, like heart, never gets tired. 

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. 

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. 

Autumn melancholia

Life is never easy for those who dream, those ones with strong emotions, those with a big heart.

Life seems so easy for fools. Beautiful fools. 

I'm lying in bed now, unable to get up. I'm trying to find a reason to get off the bed and stand up on my feet but what awaits me outside my room? The world has gone too far, seen too much, been too harsh.. for me.. and for you too. On the days like these no matter how hard I try I see no motivation to go out there and be a member of a society. All I need is a cup of sweet milky chai, warmth under the covers, my notebook and a pen. I'm satisfied. 

Black Worms

Days when my hair isn’t black enough

Desires developed into open sores

Glass of wine I longed for tastes so rough

Crowded and rowdy are streets and shores.

As for my breakfast, lunch, and dinner

I served myself with the black worms

With no intention of being slimmer

I go through this sick metamorphose.

Piercing my inside they found their way

Blood vessels turned into channels

Worms crawling slowly to my brain

Ever asphyxiating micro devils.

This medicine work as no placebo

Constantly eradicating my appetite

I designed this miserable alter ego

To orbit me like perpetual satellite.

Worms are inside my head like plague

Spreading melancholy I can’t ignore.

Turning everything bright into black

I can not become who I was before.

If dark clouds rise there comes the rain

So begins the war between ego and self

There is no question who’s Abel, who’s Cain

A man always stands vis a vis himself. 

Found what I've been looking for

I hate it when I’m looking for something and I can’t find it.
More especially when that ‘something’ is myself...

Good old Nietzsche said that person’s mental development ends with his or her death. There is no stage where you can say: this is it, I’m complete, I can’t learn any more. And I can’t agree more. There are way too many different stimuli all around for our mind to ignore them, and even the most ignorant person is affected by them. Whether in a good or bad way. If you could record a human mind in a time-lapse it would probably go only two ways: either it would bloom or fade like a flower. There certainly is a flower inside you. Not even a biology textbook could name all the kinds of flora we are made of, nor any binomial nomenclature could label what sort of plant there is in your core. Either a beautiful white lily, pure orchid, passionate rose, a dry succulent, thorny bush, an evergreen, or a wild weed, all these plants have a thing in common: they need to be nourished to grow. When they lack the necessities to survive they decay gradually, until they fade. There is no guide, no tips, no tricks how to take care of your flower. Only you know what it needs. And if you don't happen to know, you need to find out. As soon as possible, because you never know when it might be too late. 

I was restless, defiant, sometimes agressive. Didn’t quite know where it springs, why do I feel this uncomfortable in my own self? Everyone was wrong, everyone opposed me and I didnt’t get why. I thought the problem is with the others, it definitely can’t be me. My thoughts didn’t change, until I had started to clean my own closet, started from the zero point, I got back to the very basics and began my psycho-hygiene. I went through stages - denial, bargaining... to acceptance. I finally reconciled and signed an imaginary peace treaty with myself and my optics have changed. It suddenly set all things in motion, like a domino effect. The relationships started to make sense. The friendships worth it were strengthened and the ones that did not bring any pleasure were eliminated. My loving family became more loving, not that they had started to love me more, only I started to be able to receive their love and give it back in full measure. I ceased to care about the less loving part of my family and concluded that pretense is a waste of time. I came to understand my lovely boy, who has such a good heart that only an evenly good heart can appreciate. I found out that animals, like my friends, are dearest to me when alive and I found my balance. Balance inside and outside. I stopped tilting at windmills. And I discovered that if you’re missing something, you have to find it in yourself. Start with yourself. Maybe then you will find what you were failing to grasp and can pass it forward...

My flower is still just a bud, but since the sun is shining and I keep watering it regularly, I can already see colourful petals making their way through, determined to blossom.

It has been a long search and it took the better part of my life to find out how to keep my flora thriving. I finally found the essential. I found love. And that day I found it even the reflection in the mirror looked more beautiful. 

(Tracy and his Tiger)

The Search

A man or a girl in the name of Tracy,

Chased by a sandstorm all dark and hazy,

In this ominous dance must be a fighter

To find the one willing to shelter a tiger.

Seemingly endless such is this storm,

The time always drags just before dawn.

Awaiting a car that greets a hitch-hiker,

Who begets next morning to look brighter.

Someone who shows life could not be better.

The one who composes a song from a letter.

One who brings water when the thirst is great.

Who blurs the line between real and faith.

When all the words betray their meanings,

One will revive from the ashes of Phoenix.

A pair of headlights emerge from the mist

Beseeching two animals to coexist.

I wish in this voyage you were the driver,

Who in the end saves me and my tiger. 

Everything on Earth with you

Today on the coach to London I was sitting next to an asian couple, they could have been around 24 years old, and I couldn’t help myself looking at them all the time – they were so adorable. She was knitting a dark green woolen scarf (seriously who KNITS these days? Isn't it amazing? Even my grandma gave it up for the price of the wool is nowadays higher than three new jumpers from you-know-where-store) probably for him, and in the meantime looking at her boyfriend, smiling at him because he was constantly taking pictures of her with the classic DSLR with a-bit-too-large-and-awfully-expensive lens. Even when she wasn’t looking and was absorbed in her knitting, he kept snapping her from different angles and then examining his shots for ages. When they both got tired of their activities (it was very early in the morning) they fell fast asleep, shoulder to shoulder, head to head.

When I got off the bus at Victoria heading towards exit, there was a beautiful girl sitting on a bench in a waiting room reading a magazine whilst her boyfriend, a very stylish long haired hippie looking guy, was reading a book lying down, his head in her lap. A simple picture really. And yet there was something magical about the scene. They weren’t talking to each other, they didn’t need to, either one of them engaged absolutely in their reading... but they needed to be close, to have their piece of intimacy in that crowded place.

You don’t physically need anyone for doing particular activities. You can’t knit the same scarf at the same time with another person (two hands are just enough). It wouldn’t be of any use if four hands held the camera at the same time, pressing a shutter button together. And just as well, even if it is possible for two people reading the same book at the same time, it is not the best thing to try.

There are lots of things you normally do on your own. And you enjoy doing it on your own.
But having your loved one next to you, sharing a moment with you, casually touching each other every once in a while makes the time spent doing your own thing divine. 

My Dear,

I write you today with a humble plea, will you come on a good trip with me?

Build me a time machine, oh I please, I no more tolerate being slave to the screens.

Let us be woken up in 1950s, you would make a great James Dean and I could perhaps be a dark Marilyn...

These dreams come to me concealed in a mist, and mighty melancholia enshrouded my list.

But today I say no, no to this folly, our existence is short, it’s got to be jolly!

Living fast dying young you should leave to James, because I know secretly you have box full of plans. Don’t you?

Maybe you’ve written the list same as mine, no need to be ashamed, to dream is no crime. 

You are too beautiful and angelic to die, I’m sure one day you will find your goldmine.

Like me, I kept on digging and I found my gold, such as no salesman had ever sold.

I’m writing all this to you ’cos you’re not a mere photograph to me any longer...I’m chained to your soul now ever so stronger.

You’ve always been my 13th chamber and you’ve always been my May in December.

You’re the living proof that wishes come true, you just have to wait, minute or two...

Last year I tossed a coin into the fountain, and ended up on the top of the mountain...

...And from the top I shouted in delight: I’m yours, you have me all and it serves you right.

So I’ve written my list and every point is a fantasy, to make them real is my kind of ecstasy.

I want to discover the whole spectrum of your shades, to fight you in the kitchen smashing plates.

To play hide and seek in the white sheets, be the best of the best that the eye meets.

I want to get furious and then reconcile, to negotiate peace in bed with each style.

I want to chase the rainbow’s end, and together build castles in the sand.

I want to knit you an awkward sweater, and to write you a perfumed letter.

I want to kiss every freckle on your neck, to spend the time counting hair on your back.

I want you to comb my long hair, to die in your arms, safely in your care.

I want you to read to me aloud, to celebrate how sweet your voice sound.

I want to take loads of pictures of you... I wish I could do everything on Earth with you.