dragging externality. hide hide hide! I grew up in Warsaw. I refuse the idea of headphones. I have five toes in my left foot and I have five other toes in my left foot. I once scratched Ire's leg with my long toenail called Pazur. And that's why everyone calls me Pazur. I became vegetarian when I was 23. My mom is on a beach. It's good for today. I will continue tomorrow. Don't look at this message. When are we gonna paint portraits?
Dużo pierdów i czekania, aż skończysz gadać. Coś wycieka lub coś wyssysasz, nie jestem pewny które. Czuję twoją samotność i panikę. Czuję, że w słowach się nie da, że potrzebuje kurwa czegoś innego, bomby jakiejś lub
(basically all I see when I walk the streets of a city is cash) You know I've been thinking about jobs again, jobs in the city, this still new city. I've been trying to thread different needles, unsure of myself, unsure of the future. I kept on finding annoying reasons to be upset with the City, as a place where you can only either consume or produce. I feel continuously unequipped to live in a City. I get confused about how to navigate it, how to walk into place with confidence or at leats a sense of belonging. My self in flux either walks a performance down the road or puts on a hoodie, feeling grateful for the anonymity of supermarkets and hiding in the shades of trees. I think this is all tided to my childhood, growing up on the border between a city and a suburb, paired with the lack of social life of my parents: never seeing them have friends, never really playing with other kids (there are stories that I did but that was too young for me to really remember.) The mission of my family's live was to stay isolated because confronting others meant confronting my mother confronting others and you never knew how that would go. Things changed a little bit when I went to middle school and had 3 hours to kill between school and ballet. I was shy but I often had a friend by my side who went to the same school so we'd walk around or sit in a cafe and study. We ate Subway or pretzels or nothing at all. I got to know some streets but still I felt like a stranger to this town, always having to come back to the outside, to this border place of home. The first time it clicked for me that city people are a species in themselves is when I met a New-Yorker. Gosh, what an annoying type. Don't get me wrong, not all city-people are annoying but this affiliation correlates with a sense of pride that's often hard for me to bite through. It's like they're saying 'I have a right to be here' which is fairly reasonable if you haven't felt out of place your whole life. But weren't cities supposed to be the safe heaven's for outcasts and misfits? I'm starting to feel like it was a myth started by social butterflies who happened to live at a time when rent didn't restrain your mobility to this extend. Anyways, in these recent days I've been specifically focusing on places where food and drink is served in cities. So yes, they're places where one either exchanges capital for nourishment or, if you're on the other side, gains capital through the timed act of serving others. My observation is that whenever I'm on the former side, I feel a sense of discomfort. It can vary from slight to overwhelming, but no matter what I do, I think 'I don't belong here, why do I need a waiter to serve me food?' Despite this strong reaction I never felt inclined to try the other side, to work in a kitchen. I was afraid of the back pain and I was suspicious it would kill my joy for cooking and serving. There was also for sure a little bit of my parents voice in it which kept on repeating they didn't pay for my education for me to work in a kitchen. But seeing Trang last week shifted something inside of my. For the first time I tried to image what it would be like to get excited about kitchens around town with an appreciation of their craft, knowing the ins and outs of it. What would it be like to be an insider? Not a chef, an apprentice to the art of cooking which I always held in high regard yet which, like every industry in this post-capitalist junk yard, screams hierarchy and whiteness. There is this image of a young couple, with a child or a dog, queer or not, who sips on orange wine and snacks on bites of sourdough bread and cheese that keeps flashing in my head. It's in equal parts an instagram image (how much do we invest in making the image a reality for ourselves?) and a weekend City image, one encountered on streets where the price of coffee begins at 4 euros. It's weird because it's like a statistical image of myself in the next 10 years. Isn't it? I can't stop thinking about class and race and how my choices fit into what I'm granted to have choice in. What's wrong with the image? The fact that it's an image? The fact that those people are being served? They might have been serving at some point of their lives. Or one may ask: What stops me from enjoying a glass of orange wine in the company of my friends on a Saturday afternoon? And I may answer: inner angst, narrow budgets, war, living in a foreign country, the nihilism of capitalist reality, people looking.
(I want to feel accessorised.)
Ciało przesuwa się poza nią. Wchodzi do dziur, ale tylko tam gdzie nikt
nie patrzy. Każdy oddech wydaje się być podniesieniem worku ziemniaków.
Chodzą jej po głowie zgarbione lecz giętkie starsze osoby żyjące pod wodą,
które przed chwilą odwiedziła w śnie. Noc zawsze przynosi więcej kolorów
niż dzień.
(hey who's knocking? już nie pamiętam początku. nie zapomnij o ryżu!) I'm standing in the metro next to someone reading 'Technofeudalism' by Yanis. The cover's flashy green and I realise it's the first time I'm seeing the book in flesh. I know they're putting effort in making this book appeal to the masses so I should forget the sleeve but deep inside I'm wishing for a different design. I'm sure the person standing next to me would have some good ideas. I'm having a morning-friend-crush. This person is sitting by the window, in one of those 4 seat compartments characteristic to lines 2 and 6 in Brussels. We'd have crossed one stop when his company changes and I see him nod slightly towards his new travel companions. It's a gesture I've never seen anyone do in the metro. I'm starting to suspect he's a communist. Or at leats an anarchist living with communist nostalgia. Next to him sit two young kids, dressed in martial arts uniforms and they caretaker, a stunning woman with carved features and strong, wavy black hair. The hair falls on her face often which makes me notice her habit of flopping it from one side to another. They're a jolly group. It's clear they're enjoying each other's company. They're chatting and the kids make the woman laugh a lot. They're a crew. I stare at them for too long. I wonder what the anarchist feels right now. Is he curious? Or indifferent? I want to follow him. And I kind of do. But that's because walking the same direction until I need to catch a train and I see him walking down a populated, perpendicular road. Farewell metro friend. I hope you'll have a good day.
Lato wypala każdy potencjał. Pomysły wyparowują zanim zdążysz je złapać. Ludzi przybywa. Wszystko zwalnia, ale też staje się płytkie jakby żadna głębia nie dawała rady ze słońcem. Promienie muskają nasze wrażliwe ciała, a skórka wysycha. Przynoszę ci krem nawilżający po tym jak zapomniałam tego z spf-em na plaże. Byliśmy pocałowani, ale delikatnie. Staram sobie wyobrazić 10 stopni więcej i słabo mi się robi. Kark nagrzany, lawiruje między potencjałem wyjścia i wejścia. Chyba wytopiłam coś po drodze, ale jeszcze nie znam tej nowoujawnionej warstwy. Kino mnie złości ostatnio. Reżyserowane obrazy nie dają rady z rzeczywistością, która jest albo pochłaniającą fantazją, albo śmierdzącym terrorem. Nie ma niczego pomiędzy. Chociaż nie, jest. Jest nuda. Ten dziwny stan, w którym większość z nas zdaje się trwać. Z nudy przeskakujemy na tempo, z tempa w nudę. Tempo działa jak rozproszenie potrzeb. Centrum handlowe jest najlepszą tego stanu metaforą. Jak nie, to wszyscy patrzymy w dół. Pustynia betonu.
Brakuje mi babci. Brakuje mi mamy. Brakuje mi ludzi, którzy swoje
przeżyli, którzy trzymają w sobie stoickie kamienie zaczepienia, którzy
mają punkt odniesienia. Wszystko dookoła lata.
Brakuje kogoś, kto
powie mi, że wystarczy żebym była sobą. Że nie muszę się martwić.