Come rain

Here is a little poem about a thing that comes with autumn and whose charm is as unclear to you as that of an autumn morning, with its coldness, and with its sunshine, and with its haziness, and with its tendency to make you wish it doesn’t go away so quickly.

Well, here I am describing and even (damn…) naming things I haven’t a clue about.

Or maybe I have. It’s the haziest clue possible, though.



she is like rain

when you hear her talk,
you could be lying on grass,
and letting her words soak you,
ground you in your field of autumns’
infatuations

almost forgotten
with autumn comes rain


Have a good day,
Mulan

“And I keep walking, I keep walking…”

October has come, which means I’m going to join the crowd of strangers that walks the streets of Kraków every day.

To my mind, Kraków is a city of strangers.

They tread its streets, looking at each other the way strangers will: with uninterested interest.

They hold their breaths when a bus they’re on is full and they have to stand close by other people.

Unwanted closeness gets on their nerves, and they get out and hurriedly go home or to pursue whatever it is they’re here for.

They’re students, tourists, corporats, pensioners, schoolchildren, fugitives and idle onlookers of all sorts. Some of them have definitive aims, while others still look for something to look for.

And this city of strangers takes them in and lets them pursue whatever it is they want.

The strangeness of this city isn’t a bad thing. Strangeness means variety: variety of people, lifestyles, worldviews, and so on.

It’s just a thing I can’t get used to.

So I go on walking these streets, BOKKA’s “Town of Strangers” playing in my mind, and never stop wondering at it.

Not that it’s bad.

The middle

I’ve narrowed my world so that it looks like a

neurone: a number of dendrites around

my home, connecting me, and the

axon, leading down to hell,

and in the middle an

inconspicuous

minute

dot –

me

.


This poem comes from inside a bout of depression, where there was only me and everything revolved around this me, this me being depressed and all this shit — you probably know what I’m talking about.

‘Cause when you’re depressed, it really feels like you’re in the middle of a dark, dark world. And it’s hard to see anything or anyone in this dark. I mean, it can be really dark.

And you stay in the middle. In a sense, you’re always in the middle, and always everything revolves around you.

But they there may come a time when a silhouette or two becomes visible in the dark. And slowly you begin to notice more of them. People like you. And things start to emerge from the dark, too. Each of them gets a shape, and some of them you even start to want.

They revolve around you, like they always do. And having them around you, you light up.

And the incredible thing is how the dark, dark world can then brighten and widen.

Rage, rage

When I was very young I often heard people telling me that if I get angry, I’ll get wrinkles. And even though I didn’t care all that much about wrinkles (I guess children in general don’t; why would they?), it worked like a rubber bullet shot straight in my face.

For what could pacify an emotion better than laughing it off, and in that way suggesting no one gives a shit?

Anger, the very bad cause of wrinkles, and the very bad habit which you should not yet develop when you’re a little girl is only legitimate when you have a solid basis for it and know how to show it.

You learn it as you grow: there are things people are angry about continually, and there are times and places at which they’ll express it in a peaceful manner, helplessly agreeing to the fact that it will only cause wrinkles. But at a certain age one must admit wrinkles are part of life, right? Right, right.

But hey, so is anger.

And not just in the confines of the all-enraging topics which an average adult will take up sooner or later in a conversation. Anger is a natural force that can really bring about more important changes that those on the surface of one’s face. And it’s limitless. There are no proper causes of anger: it’s proper to feel angry whatever the causes are. Whatever age you are. And no matter who you are.

So forget about the wrinkles. Wrinkles are beautiful, and so is genuine anger.

I would so much like to see anger on the face of anyone who actually feels it. Rage, my dear. There is so much to rage against.

Ben Howard–induced blabber

If you’ve got 6 and a half minutes to spare and haven’t so far listened to the word love repeated over and over by a crowd of people for half of that time – this weird experience is waiting for you here.

I’d like to be there with those people, but watching them on youtube is fun, too. I love this song, and I love Ben Howard’s voice, and the jacket or whatever it is he’s wearing here is also kind of cool.

But I meant to write about something else, something which is also weird, and which is also love.

I love words. Not all words, and not always. I simply fall for certain words that people let out in certain particular orders, and on the sole basis of their beauty I obsess.

I may be listening to someone speaking to me, or speaking to someone else, or delivering a lecture, or fucking yelling at a fellow driver on a crossroads and suddenly get intrigued by a word this someone’s just used —

and start thinking, wondering, considering, getting impressed (like I do when someone uses the pluperfect form in Polish) or itchy (like I do when I don’t know the meaning), and putting it down in my memory as if something happened.

Or I may be reading a book — it happens with books mostly — and come upon an order of words that I can’t resist. And I read it for the second and third, and fifteenth time, and soon I have it stolen and secreted in a notebook, or a Word file. As if I found something worthy of theft.

I write as if, but I really have no doubt that words are worthy of that, and that something actually happens when someone uses a word that I can’t let by.

So what happens, exactly? Nothing much, I probably just get more weird.


With love to all of those who also love words,

Mulan

Stray Bitch

I met a guy once who told me he saw a ghost. And not just once in a dream, but on a regular basis: he’d come home and see it like you see your dog or someone you live with when they come up to say hello. And he said he grew used to seeing it after a while, and would say hello first, and start a conversation with it like he would with a human.

I looked at him wondering what the fuck he was talking about.

I still don’t know whether he meant it, or whether he wanted to say something else but chose to cloak it with a ghost-in-my-house tale, or whether he was just making fun of me. But as I have the choice (and nothing but the choice ’cause I’m probably not going to meet him again so as to be able to ask for explanation), I choose the second option.

‘Cause I also have a ghost in my room. And when I go to the bathroom, she goes after me. When I go to my homeplace, she gets on the train with me (bitch doesn’t pay for her ticket) and travels along with me and the other travellers, but no one except me can see her.

She’s my fear.

She doesn’t live in any particular place, so I don’t expect to see her when I come home, and I’m not in the habit of greeting her at any particular time of the day. She’s more like a dirty stray bitch that comes at irregular intervals, looks into my eyes and asks for food.

Sometimes she wakes me in the middle of the night. I put the light on and look into those old hungry eyes. We sit for a while, but I don’t feed her, just stroke her gently and tell her to go. And she goes.

It’s hard to talk, really, to a creature like this: not just unreal, but canine, so I can’t have conversations with my ghost like the guy I talked to did with his. But if he ever meant to actually tell me that ghosts are tamable — that’s what I just understood.

Ghost are perfectly tamable. Mine is just now learning not to leave her dirt on my sheets.

My First Post

If there is one thing about writing that I don’t like, that’s the one: I don’t like giving titles.

Explain yourself.

May I do that later? Actually, that’s another thing which I… perhaps do not dislike, but which makes me nervous. The requirement of explaining myself.

What are you here for?

What are your aims in life?

Why exactly don’t you like giving titles?

They make me nervous, the questions, cos I never know what to say. But recently I found I need just that: to explain myself. In terms as clear as I’m capable of now, which is probably not very clear. And that’s why I write (and rewrite).

And I just decided to let some of the things I write out of my hard disc. And I got a blog. Go take a walk, things.