Paula's diary 02 - Zoo

I woke up early today.  

I fell asleep at my mother's bed. She was still sleeping when I came to the kitchen to get some milk from the fridge. Then I went to my room and there was someone sleeping in my bed. I was angry because it was my bed! And he slept there with all his dirty clothes on, and all around him was my Zoo. There was my tiger, my monkey, my sheep, my turtle, my giraffe, my elephant and my big dog lying around him on the bed. 

'Get your dirty clothes off my bed!' I started shouting at the stranger and tried to wake him up. But he didn't say anything, turned his back on me and continued sleeping. His trousers were covered in dust and mud. He smelled, had uncombed hair and was unshaven. I started to remember how he could have come here and take a long nap in my bed. 

Last night when I was still sleeping I heard someone coming into the house. It must have been really late. Mommy allowed me to sleep in her bed and I remember that she laid down with me and cuddled me. Then someone started knocking at the door and I guess that man came in. They must have been talking in the kitchen for a long time, because I fell asleep tired of waiting for my mom to come to bed.

And now I find this stinky, dirty duffer in my bed. Probably he is drunk as well. I returned to my mom and tried to wake her up.

'Mommy, there is someone in my bed!'

'Yes, I know', she answered my half-asleep.

'Get him out of there. Now!'

'Go to sleep. It's too early.'

'I want him out of my bed!'

'And I want you to go to sleep.'

'Mommy!'

'I am counting to three. One...two...'

There was no point in arguing with her. I jumped into the warm bed and pretended I was sleeping. But I was thinking who the man was. He was the first man since my father's death that mommy allowed him to sleep in our house. I wondered who he was. He didn't look like my father, he was very different. Didn't he have a house to sleep in? Maybe he needs help? Maybe he doesn't have a place to live or maybe he wants to live with us? No, I won't allow for this. I don't want anyone to live with us. The house is enough for me and mommy. And I have my Zoo. So, we don't need any beggars here. No one, except my mother, me, and my tiger, my lion, my monkey, my elephant, my snake, my turtle, my monkey, and my lion, and my another monkey, and my giraffe, and my tiger, yes, my tiger, and my sheep, my cute sheep, and my mother, she must stay, my dog, my big doggy, and my cat as well.

Kozlowsky's notes 08 - banya

I hate bathhouses.
And I had a meeting with professor Vsevolod in one of the traditional banyas in the city. Everytime I come to a bathhouse I feel I will stop breathing and my heart will explode in a second. After a minute I pray to let me out from that vapours. I cannot breathe and feel myself trapped in a steam cage. I just hope that professor Vsevolod will be finishing his banya habit and we can sit somewhere for a glass of stolichnaya.
The professor was already sitting and sweating in the banya when I came in.
'You have to leave your towel on the peg in the predbannik,' professor Vsevolod greeted me having instructed  quickly to bathhouse customs. 'But don't worry, we will still have some time. I have just come here.' Professor smiled.
I hung my towel in the entrance room and returned to the steam compartment. Standing naked I shook hands with the professor. Banya was a spacious wooden bathhouse with few people sitting on the benches. You could hardly see visitors who drowned in thick steam of eucalyptus scent.
The professor stood up, took bunch of twigs and started hitting me on my back.
'This will improve your blood circulation.'
I had to bite the bullet and endure this banya visit. First they send me to Altay then I get this beating from this miserable professor. I knew Altay country is different but sitting here and getting beaten by the professor like as if he were scolding me in a school was too much for me.
'Professor Vsevolod, let just sit...'
'Don't move, young man. I am doing it for sake of your pores. They need to open up properly.' Professor interrupted me, evidently imposing a patronizing tone on me. I felt like in school once again. 'I remember old Pietrov, a kamarad of mine who once withheld such a twig beating for 20 minutes! His was all bleeding like a slaughtered pig and then managed to stay in banya for the next hour. Of course we had to carry him out of the steam room but anyway he demonstrated his resolution. Old Pietrov, he was the one from staraja shkola.' Finally professor Vsevolod stopped the beating, sat down and started to talk.
'This must be someone well-educated.'
'How can you be sure about it?'
'From the small messages that he leaves with his victims. I didn't have this opportunity to study them closely, of course, but from what I have read in the newspapers I gather that the murderer wants inevitably to leave traces behind him. I cannot tell whether he wants to tell us something or he masochistically enjoys being chased after. One is certain, the signs he has been leaving underline definitely the death of the victims. And here is how I would explain it.'
Here we go professor. We are sitting and sweating in the banya, I am almost dying here and professor Vsevolod starts to lecture me with his academic theories.
'There is a connection between the concept of trace and the concept of death based on the whole murder case. The relationship with murdering, that is leading someone to die, manifests itself in killing a man in the present but, on the other hand, leading him or her from that present state into a future or undefined space which is death. Now, the murderer wants only to achieve the effect of the past. But how can he do it? This is where the dead dog lies! He introduces the system of traces. He leaves them with each victim.'
'Why?'
'Don't you understand?! He is not satisfied enough solely with the killing, with taking life. He wants the disappearance of the person, but done totally! And here is how he can achieve it. The total disappearance must be experienced by removing the presence, because only the present state and time keeps us from thinking of a person as living. He wants to get rid of that thinking. He wants us to stop considering a dead body even as dead but in now. in thinking of victims from our perspective, that is in this second, this minute, this time that we are constantly experiencing. He wants to erase the structure of the present from our lives, from our false thinking. He tries to cut the present and bring the victims to the forgotten past where nothing happens and everything is silently dead! Isn't it great? The murderer must be a genius to have come up with that idea!'
'But how he can do this?'
'Removing the sign from the dead body means a total death for the corpse. For us, the dead body is really a dead body. But in the metaphysical sense, by removing the left messages that act as murderer's signatures and signs for victims signify the death of the person in its totality.'
'Professor, please... what does it mean for us, for the investigation, for the public?'
'Well, I have several interpretations of it. One of these can be represented in the graphical form. Let me show it to you.'
Professor stood up, took from somewhere a pen and started to draw a diagram on the wooden wall. I was on the verge of fainting, dizziness was the only feeling now and I couldn't concentrate at all on what professor had said to me. I lowered my head and watched sweat pouring from my forehead. Then suddenly I saw naked body of professor on banya's floor. When I lifted my head I saw a tattooed, naked man coming from the corner of the banya and punching me straight into the face.

'His name is Ivanov Illicz Morotny, aslo known as Zelazny Ivan,' said officer Briacheslav who served as my guide in Altay. I was sitting in the entrance room of banya with police officers around the place.
'Zelazny Ivan killed the professor. You were lucky you got a simple punch and came out of it with a broken nose. He could have easily killed you as well.' Briacheslav knew how to cheer me up. 'You got orders to immediately come back to Stavrospol. Apparently they want to terminate the investigation.'

Kozlowsky's notes 07 - Altai

I don't know why they are sending me over there. 
And why the hell Altai Mountains? Kronberg told me they suspect the killings has something to do with one, just one man who lives there. What a bullshit. They are sending me to Altaysky Kray only to divert the attention of the public from Stavrospol's crimes. The furthest than that forsaken mountains they couldn't have sent me. If I am to meet that professor with whom I have a meeting, I will be lucky. 
Something is not going in good direction. Kronberg seemed strange to me. Usually he is arrogant and pissed off on everyone. This time, on my briefing, he was showing me respect and patting me on shoulder all the time, saying how good I was helping with the investigation, and how I will solve every riddle. Fucking bastard. His behaviour didn't match him, like taking two socks from two different pairs. He was too pleasant, too sweet. Anyway, it's good I left the city. I will take a breath from it, from the people, from the crime, and from her. Not seeing her helps a lot but won't make her disappear. I still remember the last dream, I still feel her... I have to keep my mind busy with the task. There is always more than meets the eye.

Paula's diary 01 - big Santa

I have this one place where I like to go to, but alone.
This is the only place where I go on my own. In the late evening, when the city is quiet, being tired of a relentless flow of people, I fancy going to the old church. It is hidden in the nearby forest where mould and fungus prevail. The church has been closed for a long time but I know a small passage where I can sneak in. There, inside I can feel alone with my thoughts, not being disturbed by people and machines around me. In the church the time stays still and no one asks stupid questions. Sometimes I light a candle, just to feel warmth coming from it. But looking at it I imagine how many candles where already lit over there. How many people were buried, how many funerals where given and how many tears were spilt here. 
The benches are rotten, they crack when I try to sit on them. So I don't sit on them. I choose cold floor or I put a plank under my bottom and stare at the candle.
There is the light also coming from the stained glass window when I come before the evening. The image shows a figure of a man with white beard... but I don't think that it is Santa Claus. Whenever I see him it reminds me that I am really small, but once I grow up I will try to do my best to be as big as that man. I like to tell him what has happened around me, whom I like and why, but also I tell him about my mother. She is bigger then me and has bigger problems. So I try to explain him what my mother feels because I know her very well and the big Santa doesn't know everything. So I explain him that my mother is doing even better than before, after my father died, and that she continues working in the newspaper, writing some stuff that she doesn't want to share with me. But it is all right because I know where she keeps her notes. Though I don't read so fast I manage to get some of her writing. She writes really awful. She makes a lot of mistakes. Every time I read her notes I want to correct them, but then she could notice it and would of course rebuke me, as she says. And will hide her notes in some other place. But of course I will find them but it will take me some more time.  
Big Santa also tells me when I should go. If his face becomes darker and darker, and he frowns I know that it is getting late and he doesn't want me to stay longer inside the church. Then it is time to go home. So my mother won't be worried about me. And I go.

Kozlowsky's notes 05 - Nausea

You will never get her...
I had to find a cooler place.
It was too much this time. My dreams provoked me to wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and to shake the unwanted sentiment, to try to fall asleep anew but this time with a nicer thought. A smooth, gentle and tranquil dream that my mind and the whole organism needed. Still the pain was unbearable. I woke up long before the sunrise.
You're leaving me now...
The night was behind me.
Spasms of stomach woke me up. Again I was catching a breath like a fish taken from water. I couldn't sleep no longer. I was still thinking about the dream that woke me up. The thought that she might be with someone else drove me into a restless state, leaving me with only that thought. I couldn't make any move, I couldn't ask anyone for help, I couldn't meet with anyone. Check and mate.
Let me cry...
I was left in my room alone, fighting with my mind, fighting with my organism that contorted itself in the spasms of nausea, fighting not to puke. the organism reacted with nervousness. and nervousness brought nausea. Anxiety and worry dominated being driven by a recurrent thought.
I tried to harness my mind.
I looked outside the window. There was -25 degrees. Outside, it snowed. Snowflakes danced around the street-lamps, and only looking at the light I could see that it was snowing. The whirlwind of flakes had a calming effect. But then again...
Sometimes I wish I could cry...
And again the spasms of pain came with heavier attack this time. I was sweating and curled up in the corner of the room, beside the wall. My eyes covered tears, my stomach wanted to vomit but found nothing inside. I shivered and waited the killer-thought to pass by. I wanted to stop it but found it too strong, too overpowering for me to handle it. I was too weak, too weak to stand upon it and to dominate it.
I felt jealousy in its purest form.

Kozlowsky's notes 04 - citizens

Stavrostopol was the carrier of unnamed illness.
Citizens were fungus that grew up on the streets. You could tell from their faces who was addicted to suspicious substances produced by medical corporations. The addicts were easily noticed. They were morbidly pale, suffering from exhaustion that the drug influenced their organism. At night their faces shone lit by the moon. And it was at night that they especially looked for another doze of the substance. They were eager to buy it from anyone who offered the lowest price. The substance was sold at the chemistries but those who had taken the drug for longer time searched for even stronger pills. Their faces were covered in paroxysm of pain, it was hard to understand their talking, and even if you understood their words you could tell that they carried no meaning at all. 
The worst of all was that they had once dreams of getting somewhere, reaching their point of destination, having a goal in life. However, once grasped in the routine of thoughtlessness they could not get out of it. They moved pointless, caught in a loop from which they couldn't exit. Thousands of ghostly faces wandered around the city, looking for their regular chemical feed, driven by a singular desire to satisfy their now basic need. 

Parallax view

Never mind the bullets takes us into a western comic strip enriched by the effects of parallax. You can merge into the story by moving the mouse, so that the animation will unfold and you will be able to see the images from different perspectives. Take a try!

http://www.nevermindthebullets.com/strip.html#1-1

Kozlowsky's notes 03

It's closing to 5 in the morning. 
I feel that my eyes are heavy as a truck loaded with lead but my mind ran beserk tonight. I cannot sleep, I am still thinking about it. I fucking cannot sleep. I cannot sleep, fucking sleep ...
"The suspect ran away! You fucked it up! You are guilty of tonight's murders! You moron, who told you you can work with men, here? Go back to your office work, you white-collar idiot!" I could still hear the voice of Kronberg shouting at me when he learnt that that night I recognized the murderer but lost him on the street.
I turned on the radio. I tried to tune it to some music but instead a metallic voice of a radio speaker was annoucing that recently had been riots on the street in the Jewish quarter. They of course didn't provide what the source of the outbreak was. They knew it but maybe didn't want to escalate the problem. And the problem was between Jews and Poles or between those who know how to earn money and those who cannot stand that someone is better than them. Poles envied Jews that they are able to earn better money than the settled Polish community. What a pity. Poor, fucking Poles didn't prosper as good as the expats who were determined to work their way on the new land. People who appreciated every customer, knew how to handle them and even if they didn't want to purchase things they knew how to turn them on. Poles just complained about it between themselves and didn't do anything to change their attitude towards the customer. They were more stupid than a mule. Their foolish pride couldn't let them free from thinking other way.
But of course there were Jews who begged for money on the street. Only the elite ruled the Lovozero oblast. The Russian Jews knew how to handle authority among them. They grew stronger and more powerful but lacked humility. Their own greed lost them. They disregarded the fact that the sheer hostility of Poles can lead them to give up everything thy had earned. The most powerful argument for it was that they came here, they were expats on the foreign land. Not their land. It was enough for people to start talking behind their backs. Jews didn't react to it, so people went further and disrespected the newcomers. And with disrespect appeared hostility towards the Jews. In each case people need enemy, so they can unite in face of real danger, in face of one target. Beacuse alone they feel weak and unimportant but together they can show their teeth and feel powerful, feel they have the authority to oppress someone, to put shoes in someone's house, to barge in and take possessions, to feel better, more powerful, more important.
Take an example, backer Jozef Walidroga. He is a good backer, his pastries are famous among the people in the oblast. However, Jozef wanted more. He craved for something which his ego dictated him to do. He didn't want to bake bread all his life. His wife assured him he is a good husband, his children look up to him. He just wanted more. A small Józef, Józio, inside him woke him up suddenly and demaneded more. Józio demanded to be treated with even more dignity, with even more nobility. If Józef Walidroga went to the bank to make a money tranfer he didn't want the customer assistant to take care of him. Józio demanded Józef to be put through to the bank manager and to deal with the matters directly through "more important person". If Józef Walidroga had a fever Józio demanded to send for the hospital consultant in order to prescribe some medicine. From that moment Józio ruled Józef.
But what was I thinking of ? Ah yes, I've been searching for a good music on the radio. I turned the knob and was skipping the hum of the radio waves. Still searching, still looking for the right mood.  Finally I came across a tune that I remember from my childhood. It was Satie's Gnossienne 1.

Kozlowsky's notes 02

After the crime she decided not to talk to anyone. 

Talking to people made her tired to that extend that she decided to stop it. She remained silent and since that time she had never talked to anyone. This was the reason I confessed my most deepest thoughts to her, my secret missions, classified information that its knowledge bothered me to that extend that I couldn't think and act reasonably. Talking to her soothed my mind, undressed me before her. Once I poured out what lied on my liver I could rest assured that she would keep that knowledge to herself. She didn't speak nor she could write. Getting information from her was as difficult as to convince oneself to put a fresh underwear on unclean body. 

The phone rang. Once. Twice. There was no third time. And it wasn't meant to be. It was a sign to move. I put the bottle of vodka down and stood up. Took the gun from the kitchen table, grab my jacket and rushed down the stairs.

Kozlowsky's notes 01 - Averbode

I made myself comfortable,
sat down on the old grandma's couch, took a bottle of wyborowa and injected a quick shot in my veins. I felt hungry so I took rye bread and ate it soaking it in vodka. This was a fast method to get drunk, eating rye bread soaked in alcohol. In the same time you felt you were eating something. The bread was already putrid, went bad couple of days ago but it didn't repel me. Anyway, eating rotten food is a matter of taste, like cannibalism. People may feel disgusted on the thought that someone may eat a man. However, once served on a plate they would devour human meat not even asking for its origin. I haven't eaten it but I guess it tastes like chicken. 
Again I had a night shift. Working undercover had some advantages though. I could stay at my place and wait for orders instead of sitting all the time in the office and drinking with Aleksiej, the stupid janitor. All I had to do was to stay vigil and wait for the phone to ring. I was privileged and had one at my place. They led a phone landline directly to my place which was not a bad idea but on the other hand I had plenty of neighbours suddenly dropping by to make a phone call. But till the moment I told one of them I worked in Sovnarkom. From that time I hadn't had pestering neighbours on my head. Rumours spread faster than scarlet fever. 
The elevator jammed again and made low, humming noises. The elevator's cogwheel was endlessly propelled by electric current that came from the basement's battery. I was thinking how to help the poor cogwheel from its suffering. My solution was to cut the wires, the Gordian knot but I wasn't electrician. Anyway, the elevator produced a sound that made me feel relaxed. Monotonous and repeating. Just the ideal music for my ears at this moment. 
The hum of the elevator was only a background to my deeper thoughts. I pondered about meeting her again. I lacked her presence and the stillness of things around me drove me mad. Whenever I met her she put things into motion. She wasn't a hurricane but rather a fresh breeze with a heartbreaker spiel. Approached by her a person could not stand but to feel natural in front of her, chat about daily life or turn the conversation into deeper matters, like describing human emotions, looking for their source in person's action, comparing people's reactions-all this psychological matters than recently become so popular in the world. Above this, however, there was a ubiquitous sense of feeling distance to her own self, not being very self-attached but taking criticism or arguments as a way of self-development rather than a word of une mauvais chose. 
Her sympathetic attitude was often interpreted as a carefree. People couldn't stand it because they didn't find this attitude to be normal. Everyone's got their own problems. People around her had their own but seeing her they didn't understand and didn't accept her frivolous behaviour, they desired her to be more martyr-like then jokerish. She was full of unspoken problems, fighting with her doubts and holding to her resolutions. And whenever she faced with sharp-tongued men she could easily retort them. Even more... she could push her now defenceless interlocutors who dared to start arguing with her to a dead end and squeeze them out of arguments, out of every possible straw that a drowning man could catch, until they are left helpless and give up all hope to win the argument. But even above all this her smile, yes it was her smile that was pervading the space of each room, of every street, of anything that she reached for or touched to.
She was one of the victims that we leave on their own once we take a new case for investigation. For us the investigation is crucial. Not the victim but the perpetrator. Of course we ask victims standard questions but let's not be deluded by its profundity. Only C. Auguste Dupine could deduce who the murder was by asking astute questions to the victim. 
What was her name? What is her name? These are questions that are hard to answer. Why? Once she was a different person. Or maybe the same person but her behaviour changed. As I said she was a victim. Something happened in her life that made her wordless. She absorbed a strong shock that led to her being reticent. 

The Killer

Gathering all universe forces to bring the project Old Man Willow into reality. A huge influence is The Killer. It is probably the first interactive motion comic ever made. Take a look.

http://killer.submarinechannel.com/

Old Man Willow

After some time I decided to take an old script from the drawer and ressurect it, to transform it into an interactive tale. This will combine a comic book with the interactivity of the internet. Thus, once finished the tale will be available on the net, floating in the digital form.
Old Man Willow tells the story of a murderer who, being chased after, hides in a cave. The story takes shape when the murderer encounters creatures living in the cave. We cannot tell what had happened to the protagonist until it is told by the characters whom the murderer meets in the cave. 
The story loosely alludes to an English fairy tale The Children in the Wood. In it the murderer has two children killed because of the inheritance he is likely to get after their death. In the story we observe how the creatures from the cave describe the children before their death (like Sheepdog) or relate to them (like Amanita), making the killer aware of different perspectives of the deed he has done. 
I will put more updates regarding the project once we have a nice storyboard.

Amused to death

... all that hassle, all everyday duties can close ourselves and lead to a dead end. We are amusing ourselves to death. If we don't stop and start asking questions we will lose a part of us, we will lose ability to think and from that moment we will stop deciding about ourselves, we will become only objects ... everyday objects ...

One among the schiavi ognor frementi

'Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!'

from Frankenstein

... till the strength doesn't leave me, till I catch my breath I will walk, I will run to you...  

mine to protect, love and cherish

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=StBkqxeC1Hk

On wit

"a kind of discordia concours, a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently common."

"the unexpected copulation of ideas"

"Those who desire to partake of the pleasure of wit must contribute to its production, since the mind stagnates without external ventilation."

Samuel Johnson

Shine on

While grief is fresh, every attempt to divert it only irritates. You must wait till grief be digested, and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it.

Samuel  Johnson

I wish I could assist you in all the pain you endure 

I wish I could embrace you with my arm

and squeeze out of tears

because there is no greater pain

than to see you

suffering

and leaving you alone with it

I want you to be still sweet 

and not turning into a bitter chocolate

because you're on this way

I'd like you to let it go

don't hold to it

I admire your strength

and perseverance 

but there is a limit to everything

and if it is not your life than

at one time you should 

say to yourself enough is enough

and close the door

and dance on the wooden plank

of the coffin from the past

Because once I hope to see you

in the fun fair

amusing yourself like a bimbo

with a wooden stick of candyfloss

joking around 

and grasping the moment as it is

smiling till the early hours.

An open letter to everyone who lost their way

Hey,

you just have to stick to the things you like to do and keep on doing them
to concentrate on carrying them out,
don't give up!
on no condition you should give yourself up,
keep on moving forward, do the thing you always wanted to do
and get rid of any doubts that you won't succeed it
if you really want to do it, to achieve it, you will finally.
And remember work with dates, give yourself a deadline to do it
and do everything to achieve it in time.
Push yourself to the boundaries and win this game with yourself
only then you can leave satisfied.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuWIhaW_BfI

Too much artistry

On the rear occasions when our dreams succeed and achieve perfection-most dreams are bungled-they are symbolic chains of scenes and images in place of a narrative poetic language; they circumscribe our experiences or expectations or situations with such poetic boldness and decisiveness that in the morning we are always amazed at ourselves when we remember our dreams. We use up too much artistry in our dreams-and therefore often are impoverished during the day.

from The wanderer and his shadow, Nietzsche.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfJ9Q_k66Ek

Pendo dalle tue labbra

[...]bo dusze się w tej klatce

bo samotna jest dusza moja aż do śmierci

bo kończy się w porę mój ostatni papier

i już tylko krok i niech żyje Życie

bo stanąłem na początku, bo pociągnął 

mnie Ojciec i stanę na końcu 

i nie skosztuje śmierci

List do pozostałych, Stachura

Three successive nights I dreamt of you,

In three dreams you appeared to me, through

The veil of sommnabulic desire

Where I could not judge

But followed my inner fire

and held you tight 

We didn't speak much

but declared alliance

 a simple kiss

You crushed
my false conviction
when on first night
I felt under your jurisdiction
with your hands around me
and your lips
I felt all that play was a joke
Didn't believe myself, wanted to poke
And I woke up

The second night
I almost survived
walking with you
on the dead streets

And the third night was
the most tender
us whispering in bed
promising once said
that we will be together
or never

Ally

No more going to the dark side
With your flying saucer eyes
No more falling down a wormhole
That I have to pull you out

The wriggling twiggling worm inside
Devours from the inside out
No more talk about the old days
It's time for something great

Want you to get up and make it work
So many allies
So many allies
So many allies
So many allies
So feel the love come off of them
And take me in your arms

Peel all of your layers off
I want to eat your artichoke heart
No more leaky holes in your brain
And no false starts

I want to get up and make it work
So many allies
So many allies
So many allies
So many allies
So feel the love come off of them
And take me in your arms

I want to get up and make it work
Want you to get up and make it work

Hey it’ll be okay

Atoms for peace by Thom York

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoOlrf3x2gI&feature=related

N’importe où hors du monde

This life is a hospital where every patient is possessed with the desire to change beds; one man would like to suffer in front of the stove, and another believes that he would recover his health beside the window.

It always seems to me that I should feel well in the place where I am not, and this question of removal is one which I discuss incessantly with my soul.

'Tell me, my soul, poor chilled soul, what do you think of going to live in Lisbon? It must be warm there, and there you would invigorate yourself like a lizard. This city is on the sea-shore; they say that it is built of marble and that the people there have such a hatred of vegetation that they uproot all the trees. There you have a landscape that corresponds to your taste! a landscape made of light and mineral, and liquid to reflect them!'

My soul does not reply.

'Since you are so fond of stillness, coupled with the show of movement, would you like to settle in Holland, that beatifying country? Perhaps you would find some diversion in that land whose image you have so often admired in the art galleries. What do you think of Rotterdam, you who love forests of masts, and ships moored at the foot of houses?'

My soul remains silent.

'Perhaps Batavia attracts you more? There we should find, amongst other things, the spirit of Europe 
married to tropical beauty.'

Not a word. Could my soul be dead?

'Is it then that you have reached such a degree of lethargy that you acquiesce in your sickness? If so, let us flee to lands that are analogues of death. I see how it is, poor soul! We shall pack our trunks for Tornio. Let us go farther still to the extreme end of the Baltic; or farther still from life, if that is possible; let us settle at the Pole. There the sun only grazes the earth obliquely, and the slow alternation of light and darkness suppresses variety and increases monotony, that half-nothingness. There we shall be able to take long baths of darkness, while for our amusement the aurora borealis shall send us its rose-coloured rays that are like the reflection of Hell's own fireworks!'


At last my soul explodes, and wisely cries out to me: 'No matter where! No matter where! As long as it's out of the world!'


from Le Spleen de Paris, by Charles Baudelaire. 

Silencer

And I pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again


from Ash Wednesday, T.S. Eliot

Ash Wednesday

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice


T.S. Eliot

(in parenthesis)

Have you ever woken up with 3 tons of weight on your body?
yo u couldn't ge t up from b ed, lyin g th ere for 2 h ours and try ing to ga ther you r thought s, to ar range wha t to do to day, puuush things for ward, mooove a bit in you r t asks...
instead you're lying still in bed, squeezed by weight that is pinning your body to the floor, with a load of thoughts, burden of a recent meeting, flashbacks from yesterday, and fighting with your imagination that creates monsters.
and finally you get up and hope to order your day, to put it in brackets and feel good with every task fulfilled. but burden holds you even after getting up, it doesn't release you but grasps you in the hand and clenches the fist. you cannot eat, cannot make a right move, everything is in parenthesis...
you feel the heart pounding like mad, you cannot breath, feel like vomiting and nervous... and it doesn't release you but keeps on grinding your mind, terrorizing your mind, burning you from inside.
everything is in parenthesis... your life is in parenthesis, you hang somewhere between the worlds, between the emotion and reason, between being alive and dead.

Believe you can

Believe you can and you are half-way through

Some say they will never make it,
Some give up at the very start.
From what I've learnt in life
I hold with those who favor action.
And even if I had to come through all this twice
Hardship, sacrifice
Misery and woe
I am certain that I will go for it once more
And went out of it a happy man
Not because I achieved it or failed
But that I've tried.

Just drive

Some thoughts are like stones that holds you down and cannot release you.
By pondering on their origins, why they are with you, or why there are so many of them - you just make it tougher for yourself to get rid of them. Because you want to get rid of them, 'cause it is harder to live with stones, and we are survival creatures who want to make life easier.
You don't want to have weight on you, you don't want to drag your carriage along you all the time, you need some time to relax, to catch a breath and to soothe yourself.
Stones may carry you to down to the sea or suffocate you once they don't allow you to speak them out.
There is one way to get rid of the stones.

Just find a nice place for them, near the river or in the woods. Gather your thoughts around you and intensify them so you can feel the stones in your hands, grab them and throw them yelling in the air, in the river as far away from you as it is possible. Scream after them, until you lose sight of them, until they are gone. There will be no more weight, no more stone-thoughts, there will be just a new path from the woods, from the bank of the river... Then all you need is just drive... drive on...

Howling

No one gave me chances but I kept on moving on.
Everyone said the mission was a failure at the very start but for me it was the only goal.
No one believed in success, to tell the truth even me, but I had to try achieving it.
Now from midnight to the dawn I howl to the moon. Auuuuu!

If I were to cut my way through to you, through 100 acres of forest, I would ask for an axe in this moment.
If I were to descend into the Maelstrom to seek you out from the depth of sea, I wouldn't hesitate to do it.
If I were to trespass the 7 circles of Dante's hell only to see your smile, I would start the journey right away.

But now from midnight to the dawn I howl to the moon.

Mansion on the Hill

The street is full of things that escape our attention, the things that are simply beautiful.
If you stop for a while and stare at the leaves falling from the trees and find yourself in the middle of them, passing through them, like under the waterfalls, you can actually deceive yourself and imagine being one of them. And it won't be far from the truth. Us, like leaves from a tree, mature and when the time comes are ready to be thrown on our own paths. First, falling to the bottom, some stay there for longer, but some rise immediately and are pushed by the wind to another corner of the world. And they can feel free and feel their ageing, and their being fragile. And then we can sit and listen to the Mansion on the Hill... 
But don't get too overwhelmed by the beauty and by the feeling of the sublime. Just watch out for the heart, it is also fragile and too many beautiful things and people can make it way way too sensitive and in the end you could end dispersed by the different forms of beauty and become one of them forever...and not return to your human, fallible form in order to express the beauty to others who miss to see it.

Xurros

Eating xurros con xocolate on Passeig de Sant Joan strengthen my senses to observe what was still to be seen in Barcelona. As I have had almost nothing that day I decided to visit one of the confectioneries on my way back from Sagrada Familia and one more time taste xurros from the local confiteria.
Packed in a grey paper, equipped in a cup of warm and thick chocolate I sat near the shop on the bank and indulged in eating finger-like xurros...
Actually I wanted to have them covered in chocolate. I tried to explain it to the man selling dulces but in fact he didn't have them already covered with chocolate. He served me xurros and a cup of chocolate to satisfy my palate. I was so hungry that I handed him couple of dimes and said 'Muchas gracias' to this he said 'Gracias, senor' and all xurros were mine! Bueno!
Hungry as a perro I devoured xurros quickly but before that I managed to make a photo of them, there on Passeig de Sant Joan, eating them, cherishing every bite and satisfying my stomach...

Monday smile

I like to see you smiling
It's all I need on Monday night
I know you're gonna drive me
At the exact right speed into the light.

The Yello's song was a good start to express what I felt on Monday.
Seeing her smiling gave me more radiation than two-week holidays on the Sun. 1, 2, 3, maybe 4 seconds of that smile will stay in my memory more than for a while, in fact I am sure it will stay for ever as a beautiful association with the person. And no one can erase it, no one can buy it - it's just happened and it floats in the air, the air of unexpected surprises.
It was a perfect timing - the skin of my face hung on the cheek bones, supported only by the glasses that pinned my sad look to the nose. Even the voice gave my away and sealed my tristesse. But having approached her, all the colours of light sprang forth and hit me with their warmness and natural beauty. Mesmerized I yielded to the charm of the unexpected smile. It was stronger than a cannon ball, more powerful than an atom bomb.

Show me the way to drive
I'm on the highway of love to dive
Into the world above
We're gonna hit the star of love

Il nome della pancia

Sunday brought new thoughts about the masculine and feminine topics. I'll try to cover them in short. But first...
There are three rules of granting flowers to a girl:
1. Always, I say, ALWAYS give flowers to girls and never expect something in return.
2. When selecting flowers be careful to choose only those that match the colour of your shirt.
3. Always choose a girl that is beautiful or at least pretty. DON'T give flowers to an ugly girl. It simply doesn't go together. Plus a beautiful girl makes a challenge and if you give flowers to an ugly one it will be interpreted as a joke or a sheer mockery.

Sunday started slow as usual. Slow to eat, slow to dress, too slow to move outside the city. The velocity of my actions stopped at 7km/h. I needed some adrenaline to pump into my veins. The best option would be to meet a girl who can turn you on so your mind rolls over and over like dirty clothes in the washing machine.
I needed the spin. I needed my "intellectual massage" like a drug addict needs his portion of opiates.
I had to act fast. First, to go out somewhere, anywhere but not staying alone. I chose the library which is the meeting point in the middle of Sunday when nothing really happens in the city.
Over there I was browsing the internet lamely when I saw someone sending me a short chat message. Who the hell was it? It appeared to be the last person I suspected to talk to me through an online messenger. It was the girl with a nice belly. Let's call her the Belly Girl from now on.
That "messenger surprise" provided me the first doze of adrenaline into my veins. My mind felt stimulated and I needed more. So I answer her back, and she wrote more, so I answered once again, and again she wrote to me, so again I replied. This could only end in meeting together, as there is limit to every word and personal contact is still much appreciated than e-contact.
The second pump of adrenaline was to see two girls coming to our rendez-vous point instead of one. Both have the same first name, and it starts with A. Let's call them 2As from now on.
I sat with 2As on the grass in the park beside the river and let the conversation rolling. We started with the question where to have dinner, slightly passed through "at work" subjects only to stop the conversation at pros and cons of shaving legs by women and chest by men. The doze of adrenaline in my mind floated like a shipwreck in the ocean. I reached for the wooden beam in water but needed a ship to carry me on the waves.
We rushed to have dinner, but let's skip that part. Cuisine is best described by tasting it and not writing about it. Even if it is Dutch cuisine. Suffice to say that we left pleased with food and headed for desert!
The third and final "intellectual message" happened in the cafe. 2As criss-crossed me with a question of what a woman should have to call herself a woman. But before that I have learnt what il maschio should have to be called a man. The summary is as follows (it was easy to remember as I made a memo game having myself as the ideal :):
1. A passion for things, like something he really excels in doing sth.
2. It's good if he plays an instrument, it manifests his sensitive side.
3. Good-looking but without a "tight ass"-meaning strangely walking. 
4. It's a great plus if you can see his bones and shape of body where usually his belt is.
5. It's more than welcome if he speaks to you while having one to one bed experience.
All of these I could gather from 2As, but still I feel I missed something really important. However, intellectual adrenaline was pumped into my brain. It still flows and keeps me awake... For how long?
By the way, there was a rose in my living-room. And an evening guest, a female. I used the three rules I described above and called it a day.

Frappe Saturday

Last Saturday can be considered as a great example what a day-off can look like. For breakfast we had a nice frappe in the company of two ladies who brought also croissants and ice-cream. It was a perfect beginning of the day. The sun accompanied our steps, there was nothing that could have spoiled the day.
At around 12 o'clock we had an appointment regarding the new flat, this time we met a radiant lady in the office who led our ball-pens to sign the adequate papers. I can still remember the smell of her perfume and her black dress.
A rendez-vous followed with an Italian collegue with whom we spent a river-side hour at the cafe. Even the day couldn't be spoiled by a rude waiter in one of the cafes in the centre of the town. He just asked me to leave the place if I am not going to order anything, thou my friends wanted to have a coffee. We left and chose another cafe from around 200 in the town.
In the evening we prepared a dinner and invited two friends to eat with us. The Greek dish excelled everyone's expectations. It was just mellow, to use an American expression. After this we had a touchy desert, but in the middle of it I rush to my work. Nevertheless, I continued to have a taste of the morning frappe in my mouth. Nothing more and nothing less. The perfect day was over.

Air-conditioned chickens

Yesterday during the night a bunch of chickens in a sprinter van were kept hostage on customs control. It wasn't because they didn't have necessary documents, the reason was a more trivial one. The driver of the car locked it and couldn't open the door once he was back. How could it happen? He left one key in the ignition, just to run the engine and provide air conditioning to chickens while with the other spare key he closed the door and went to fix an issue with the customs. When he was back he learnt that the door system jammed and prevented him to open the door.
The chickens were inside, they didn't know what was going on and if not helped quickly they were going to die. The driver couldn't open the door with a small passkey, and the only solution was to break the window of the car. What actually happened to the chickens? Did they survive or they shared the deadly chicken fate? I will try to learn it tonight...

Rain

Saturday:
Not having mowed the grass in the graden I felt sleepy. The clouds gathered and the weather turned from sunny into rainy. And the rain started. Drops hit the roof of the house. I started to read a newspaper and felt extremely sleepy.
Getting sleepy was like turning dead. Being half awake and half asleep was a state in which I felt like in a coma. I imagined it was like being dead. Noone cared about you, you realized that you're alone but aware of the state, and that bliss, overpowering bliss, eternally. I heard the rain drops hiting the roof, very gently almost touching it.
And noone cared, I was alone and drifitng, falling into a slumber...Bye, bye, bye. 

A good class of people on ropes

Today I made a short film about the climbing guys who earn for a living by cleaning windows at a height. They were really funny acting while doing their job. One of them said it is a more sedentary kind of job, like the one people do behind the desk because all the time they have to sit on small chairs and clean the windows. Anyway, they also take a break while up in the air. You know like an old saying goes: it tastes better on fresh air, up in the sky :)

You can watch the film here: http://kielce.gazeta.pl/kielce/10,88276,9680820,Alpinisci_na_hotelu_Dal_w_Kielcach_.html

Transmetropolitan

Again, you can read a short review of a comic book "Transmetropolitan" that I wrote for my friend's blog.
He translated the whole thing from English into Spanish which is cool. I suggested the comic content to be somewhat a bit violent, so it shouldn't be for all normal kids but only for those who are already sick and can't be cured. Anyway, I really like the subject of a crazy journalist who takes everything to get his piece of news!

You can read the review here: http://quegrandeeselcomic.blogspot.com/

La chitarra

Saturday I bought a new guitar.
The last one I used was from a friend of mine. Nice wood, light and easy on attack it was a perfect piece of wood for a beginner and intermediate player. The one I bought is fantastic as well: light, fast in fingering, pretty good sound though some tones don't sound as they should. But for now should suffice.
But the nicest thing is that I felt like before my pause in playing: easy on it and without much hassle as difficulty in playing is concerned. It gives me a nice touch of harmonious feeling with it. The ideas for a new piece are pouring from me, so I better be composing something new ;) Can't wait to record it and show it!

The Long Journey

It is a radio play produced by Cornucopia Radio from Sheffield. Based upon a short story called "Sisyphus" Peter Beeston made a audio play with nice narration and music to it. I am really satisfied with the outcome and am happy that once on paper it can be aired as well on the radio.
Once as a kid I used to listen to radio plays on Polish radio channel no. 3. They presented a series of science-fiction tales that moved my imagination. From that on I dreamt of writing a story that would be as moving as that one I heard years ago. More than just piece of paper with ink on it, I fancied making sound to the story which gives an incredible dimension, an audio landscape that a person can concentrate on it as well.
I am sure "The Long Journey" is only the beginning of our collaboration. In the shelf I got some nice stories to be revealed...

Here is the link to "The Long Journey": http://www.mindlabs.co.uk/the-long-journey/

Rabbit meeting rabbit

The best thing a rabbit can do is to meet other rabbits, to look them into the eyes, exchange thoughts and ideas, to concentrate on their emotions and try to understand their origins, that make their views. Meeting other people is exciting and never-ending. The future holds an uncertainty of meeting someone you have not yet met. You don't know whom you'll meet the next day. And when a spark of thought enflames between both of you, it even gets better with comprehension.
Shared ideals, or going into argument is what rekindles our routine existence. 

Into the woods

Cutting trees, but first planting 100 seedlings was an awesome time to spend on Saturday.
The most unnatural and hostile world hides in the office in fornt of the computer screen. The overwhelming magnitude of information, useless chatting and lack of movement not to mention wasting your eyesight gazing on the pointer is simply a must nowadays and a sad corruption of a human being.
So I went to the woods to try how an old axe cuts. Brilliantly, just perfect! It cuts like hell! I managed to cut some old and already taken ill trees that stand in the way of the healthy ones. This physically excercise outdoors was a perfect cure to the office workout.
I forgot what a great time I had once, being a kid and jumping on the trees, grasping branches as if they provided me with great sense of security and shelter. And what a fun! Ascending a tree, and seeing the world around from a bird's eye perspective!
This Saturday was one of the bests!

La strada alla polizia

On Saturday's morning I took a walk to the centre of the town. It was a sunny day. Ideal for a picknick. Walking down the street on the opposite side I noticed a staggering man, evidently under the influence of the alcohol. He kept on walking, swaying as if on board of a ship. It wasn't even 11 before the noon, the guy was as drunk as a lord. However, the funny side of it was that he was going directly towards the police headquarters. If the police saw him he would immediately be caught red handed, I thought and continued my walk in the opposite direction. After 20 meters curiously I turned my head around. To my surprise I saw the drunk turning his footsteps to the police headquarters! What a sense of noble conduct! I almost exclaimed. The guy probably knew he was drunk and decided to hand himself over to the police! I felt that the right attitude of the guy wasn't disturb by the large amount of the alcohol...
On my return, half an hour later I noticed him on the other street. He was still drunk but not in custody. The police headquarters must be closed on Saturdays...