Always the same

Always the same... the same story...
the same script...the same emotional feast
after which I feel like a core...a rotten core...
I was sure that it's different this time... but
I needed to hear "it doesn't matter to me"
to understand what my role is in this story...
the same story...the same emotional feast...
it's always the same.

I painted my nails red... because my vagina asked me to do so!!!

WHAT: V-Talk! - The Vagina Monologues workshop 
during the Everybody's Reading Festival.
WHEN: 5th October 2013; 11-17
WHERE: Duffy's Bar, 8 Pocklingtons Walk, LE1 6BU, Leicester,
HOW TO BOOK: contact Magda on malena.korytkowska@gmail.com
THIS EVENT IS FREE!!! WOMEN ONLY!!!

I painted my nails red today and I thought: “It’s time to act!” It was the second time I’d painted them in the last year.

I looked around carefully, and my room’s tidiness made me happy. My last year hasn’t been the easiest one. The last two years haven’t been the easiest… to be honest, none of the years have been easy, but what happened just in this last year is more than enough to talk about now.  Back when it began I was in a mess… in a big mess. It had started when I quit my job. I wasn’t happy there… I wasn’t unhappy either, but the days had begun to be too hopeless to face. So I quit. And then I noticed that I wasn’t the same person I had been before. The woman full of energy and confidence had walked away, leaving me alone, thinking only that “I should be better”, that “I’m not good enough”. I had let someone make me sure “I couldn’t”, to make me think to myself that “I can’t”. That someone was, first of all, me…

The first time I painted my nails red was after a couple of months stuck sitting alone in my rented flat, on my second hand sofa, worrying about the future, longing for being useful and being absolutely unable to do anything about it. It was on Tuesday, 27th of September 2012. I woke up, slapped my face, dressed up in my favourite clothes… and painted my nails red… and then I went out. In the Central Lending Library Magnus Gestsson and Jo Twist were running a workshop as part of the Everybody’s Reading Festival 2012. When I reached the library I could only think about running away.  (Jo said to me a couple of months later than he had thought that I seemed to be very confident… how wrong can first impressions be?). I didn’t run away… I not only stayed at this workshop but I also took part in other Everybody’s Reading events. It was the turning point in my life - I can say so proudly.

The next months weren’t any easier – but they were better. I engaged with my life again. I joined groups and went to events and I enjoyed them. I met wonderful people and I started to work with them on different projects. Finally I found a job – a good job – a meaningful and useful job. And in the meantime someone lent me “The Vagina Monologues” by Eve Ensler… and it was another turning point.

When I sat down to read the play for the first time I was sure that it was nothing more than feminist propaganda. In my opinion, feminists often fight for their cause … their good cause … with the wrong weapons. But this book, as well as the V-Day movement which it inspired, helped me to discover exactly what being a woman means. For the first time in my life I’m not only proud that I’m a woman but what is more I enjoy being one. There is massive work still to be done – but I’m on the way to understanding myself better and respecting all of my needs.

I would like you, Ladies, to join me in this work on Saturday 5th of October, at Duffy’s Bar. I will be presenting a workshop based on “The Vagina Monologues” so we can bring the V-Day spirit to Leicester. It’s part of this year’s Everybody’s Reading Festival. We will talk about the play – although you don’t need to read it before – I’ll bring my copy! There will be a couple of activities which will show us how our image – the image of women  – is shown and seen publicly. We will discuss how happy we are with these images of us. We will start to build a new network together. This network, which will be part of the V-Day movement, WILL make a difference … to us, and to all who see us.

I painted my nails red today… because my vagina asked me to do so… and I’m proud that I do not ignore this voice any longer! Are you with me? Can’t wait to see you there!

Eeyore by any other name

I was a 3 year old when we moved for the first time... and that was the last time…until I reached nineteen and I moved out from my parents’ place, to start my adult life…which was probably too early…probably too seriously… but never mind…I don’t want to talk about all of this now… I would like to talk about that day, when I was three years old, when we moved.

I hardly remember our first flat. It wasn’t even a one bedroom flat. It was a studio with a small kitchen annex and a bathroom the size of a wardrobe. My parents’ bed was next to the window, with a view of a busy street in the city centre. My crib was on the opposite side, in a quite dark but calm and cosy corner. I do not remember this, I know it from pictures… But I recollect without any problems the corridors in our building, wide, even spacious, with shiny floors and massive windows. It was a fifteen -floor block of apartments. Most of the flats were tiny so we lived almost like a commune, surrounded by our neighbours’ voices, their lives. We were a commune – quite appropriate for the time of communism… but never mind…I don’t want to talk about all of this now… I would like to talk about that day, when I was three years old, when we moved.

We moved to a one bedroom flat, with a kitchen big enough for a table and three stools. My parents slept on a sofa bed in the living room. I had my own room, which was at the same time my bedroom, my study and the room where I practised the piano. For a while the piano lid was my desk as well. I also used to climb on the piano and play with my doll. I fell off once, on to the radiator and I cut my head open and I bled badly… but never mind…

So… I was three years old, when we moved. My parents must have asked someone to look after me, but I still remember carrying a couple of light things, like a lampshade and my huge elephant-mascot which my god-father had given me. But I don’t remember any truck or any problems with the furniture which must have been too big to fit into the old, creaking lift. Or maybe the lift was too small for the furniture… but never mind…

I would like to talk about that day, when I was three and we moved. I was kneeling in the middle of a freshly painted room, purely white, with a lot of boxes and bags around me. My parents had organised our removal well so all our belongings had been put in the right rooms, but obviously higgledy-piggledy… so I knelt in the middle of my new room and looked at my toys through their plastic bags. One wasn’t inside a bag. It was my tired rocking-horse, nick-named The Horse, covered in worn and faded fabric. He was too big to fit into a bag. Or the bag was too small for The Horse.  I was cuddling him as he had lost his long, black tail that day, and so I was trying to cheer him up…that’s all.

The taste of home

Have you ever thought about the taste of your home? No? My home tastes like a cuppa - strong black tea with raspberry syrup. Have you ever drunk black tea with raspberry syrup? No? You need to try this! But make sure that the water is boiled on a gas hob in a traditional kettle. Do not cheat! I tried to cheat and it didn’t work. It has to be a traditional kettle put on a gas hob, or even better over a fire.

My Mum drank this special tea with raspberry syrup even if there was completely nothing on the shelves in the shops during the time of communism. Do not ask how she did it, but her tea and syrup was always there – at home – together with feeling happy, feeling safe and feeling a conviction that I belonged to something, to somewhere… whatever happened outside.

So why was I stupid enough to move out without a traditional kettle, a couple of tea bags and a bottle of my Mum’s special raspberry syrup? Do not ask. I just stupidly did it and I stupidly believed that other tastes would help me to build a new home. But it didn’t happen.

Guinness with black

I went for my first walk around the village we have just moved to, alone. I found a church, a village hall, a library, a tea room, a pub and a couple of shops - one with the post office inside. I posted my letters there and a lady weighed them on a traditional scale, not trusting any electronic devices, using weights. I also bought a newspaper and then I went to the church. But the church in my village was closed, and so was the library, so I had no choice and I had to pop in to the pub and then I finally sat down in the beer garden, with the view of a pond. 

I was drinking Guinness with blackcurrant syrup, as usual. But this time I tried to really savour my usual drink, my Guinness with black. There was no reason to celebrate. Opening the newspaper made me sure that I should cry rather than enjoy myself, so I closed it. I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of the rich liquid, waking up all my taste buds. The frothy beer head stayed on my lips, so I gently licked them like a child drinking warm milk before bedtime. 

I wished I could be a child again, drink milk and sleep calmly without nightmares.

I opened my bag, took out my notebook and pen and I started to write. The wind played with the pages and my hair, disturbing the process of finding the right words, the appropriate words. It started raining. The large, heavy drops soaked into the ink and coloured the paper black. There was no reason to stay there any longer. But I took another sip and I felt the thickness and succulence of my tears flush with mascara, which hacked their way down my face in order to join the spots on the paper. The dark furrows stayed on my cheeks like footsteps in the sand. 

I wished I could find my way, leaving behind the footsteps and the village.

What happens to cheap compliments…

I walked fast, lightly, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know. I breathed deeply, but not too deeply, just deeply enough to smell the asphalt. The hot rays of the summer sun had melted the asphalt but they didn’t burn my skin as the wind brought a coolness, a reminder that we lived on an island. If I had breathed deeper I would probably have smelt the ocean. If I had closed my eyes and ignored the noise of a thousand streets and a million cars I would probably have heard the shrill, penetrating squawk of seagulls. 

But I didn’t. I did not breathe deeper than I had been because a single deep breath would cause a strong, disgusting cough. I also didn’t close my eyes and I didn’t listen to other sounds because I already had too many voices in my head, and I didn’t want to multiply the fears I was trying to overcome. I just kept walking, smoking my cigarette, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know.

- (Whistle!) Hey, lass! You look so French… so chic! (Whistle!).

That day I felt beautiful, I felt confident, I felt glamorous but I was surprised that these feelings were so visible to the outside. I smiled, embarrassed. I’m always embarrassed when someone catches me when I’m simply feeling good. So I smiled, embarrassed, and I grabbed this compliment greedily, I fed my vanity, and then I put the remains in my paper bag. In there already were a couple of disposable boxes I was about to dispose of as I had already consumed the contents.

I threw all this rubbish into the nearest bin. I was thinking about the chic beggar man who was going to find them that evening, going through the bin, looking for food … and I was glad that that compliment was cheap enough not to make him sick. And then I just kept walking, looking around, along a busy street in a city I didn’t know. I breathed deeply, but not too deeply, just deeply enough…

The truth has a smell of strawberries

When I tell people that I work as a cleaner in a big hotel in the city centre I always see a shade of disgust on their faces. Probably they are right that it’s not the nicest job. Sometimes I’m terrified by the mess I need to tidy up after the clients. Sometimes I’m terrified by the clients, facing the mess they leave. But most of the times I’m curious… I’m morbidly curious about who they are and what brought them to the hotel for the night, these nights. Maybe I’m too nosy but before I smell their used towels and examine the creases on their sheets, I observe them in the corridors and in the lifts, hiding behind my trolley, big enough to block the corridors and fill the lift, piled up with fresh bedding. For most of them I remain invisible despite the fact that they definitely see my trolley. And it’s good… it’s exactly as it should be. My invisibility is an advantage in my work as I can not only be curious, but I can also feed this curiosity, as I investigate the truth.

I met her in the corridor this morning. Her beauty emanated when she walked, carrying a bunch of roses, caring for them. She wasn’t pretty, but the way she moved, her walk, light but confident, her smile and the expression on her face was so unusual that I held my breath. She looked at me, she looked deep into my eyes and she said directly but with a note of embarrassment in her voice: 

- Good morning. I’m so sorry for the mess but I had a small accident with fresh strawberries.

I was so surprised that I couldn’t squeeze out any words. I tried to hide, I hoped that she had just walked away but she was still there, making my secret so naked that I felt the cold. She knew that I was going to discover her truth soon, and so she disclosed mine, making me her ally in her rented life.

- Fresh strawberries? Don’t worry, I won’t even open my mouth … won’t utter a word – I whispered to her so quietly that even I couldn’t hear. 

But she took my soundless words and wrapped them tightly with her roses in a plastic, rustling sheath.

When I tell people that I work as a cleaner in a big hotel in the city centre I always see a shade of disgust on their faces. Probably they are right that it’s not the nicest job. But they don’t know that this job lets me investigate the truth … which has a sweet smell of strawberries. And they won’t know this as I won’t utter a word… I promised…

Asshole!

My neighbours gave me their old sofa, just because I gave them two pieces of my apple pie. I’m deeply touched when I look at it, my old sofa. This weekend I'm going to move this sofa to a new place... with its dirt...its pain...all its memories... and I'm going to bake another apple pie... just because I'm still naive enough to believe in people and believe that life, real life, is made from short moments of happiness... and I'm glad that I'm still that naïve …

How many times have I relaxed on you with a book in my hand? You are a book worm but I have never asked you which is your favourite title.

How many times have I sat on you with a laptop in my lap?  You also are a recipient of all the emails which have been sent to me. Sometimes, when I am wordless, you answer on my behalf.

How many times have I curled on you with a pillow pressed into my abdomen and I’ve been crying, crying so much, as if it was the end of the world. You are a victim of all my negative emotions. I kick you, I scratch you, I swear at you and then I hug you, leaving the stain of my mascara on you.

How many times have I spilled popcorn on you while I watched a film? I cover your eyes with small pieces of food so you can't even enjoy yourself. But you have never complained. You just laugh with the audience despite the fact that nothing funny happened.

How many times have I also squeezed you, pressed you leaving my desire on you, my warmth, my sweat, my juice and the shape of my body… his body, his sperm, his sweat, his warmth, his desire. You pervert! You let me shag you. You let me fuck you hard. You let me use you, you bitch! You also show me what real love looks like…

Probably you know me better than even I know myself… I have definitely never examined my bottom so thoroughly as you have had to … and you have never called me an asshole.  Thank you.

A home, whatever it means…

A couple of weeks ago I attended the workshops “Migratory Homes”. It’s a project run by Basia Śliwińska and Marion Arnold, based on discussions between Western and Eastern/Central European women about homes and migrations, art and craft. Before the first workshop we had been asked to bring personal objects to facilitate a discussion on memories, migrations and shared experiences. Then, during the meeting, we told the stories of our objects and then we answered the questions: Where is our home? Have we found a new home? What opportunities and limitations has migration offered us? 

It was a very intense discussion, very personal and very deep, so sometimes it was heartbreaking. But it was needed. For me personally it was needed to drown in the word: “homeless”. 

The piece below is not my happiest one… but it’s not a real story. It bases on the mixed experiences of women like me, who I was lucky enough to meet. Thanks once again to Basia, Marion and all participants of the “Migratory Homes” workshops.

- Honey, I’m home!!!

- Yes, I can hear you! – I thought irritated. I heard his car on the street, then the engine stopped, he opened and closed the door… click…click… not in a rush, not hurrying, so I could predict that he had had a good day at work. Then I heard the heels of his smart shoes tapping on the pavement… click….click… not in a rush, keeping his own rhythm, his standard pace, so predictable, without going off beats. Five steps before he reached a door, he had taken the keys out from his trousers pocket, from his right pocket. He never has to look for them. They are always there: in the right pocket of his trousers. Finally he opened and closed the door… click…click… not in rush, not hurrying:

- Honey, I’m home!!!

- Hey, great! Dinner is already on the table. Are you hungry? – I heard my sweet voice… so sweet that I felt nausea. I looked at my reflection in a perfectly clean pot lid and I noticed that I was smiling. Stainless steel distorted my grin. My own pot sneered, looking at me. I closed my eyes and tried very hard to focus on something different from my thoughts. I heard the water drops falling from the tap to the hard depths of the kitchen sink and splashing up. I was one of the water drops. I fell, splashed up and drained down the dry pipe to be sunk with others. The sunken water drops. What an irony.

- Honey, are you ok?

- I’m not! – I screamed in my mind. I felt his strong hand on my shoulder and warm breath on my neck. He hugged me tight and whispered something to my ear but I didn’t hear him. Under my eyelids I saw the pictures which I decided I wouldn’t pass through, so I opened my eyes quickly.

- Honey, are you ok?

- Yes, I am. I’m just a little bit weak today but all is fine. It’s just the weather. It’s going to rain, isn’t it? How was your day? – I heard my voice but I ignored the sweetness. I didn’t look at the lid while I moved it to the sink. I opened the tap to drown out the noise of the individual drops. The sound of the running water was louder than my inner scream. It also was louder than my husband’s talk about his work, his life, his expectations, his ambitions, him.... I listened to him but I didn’t hear anything he said. I just heard the sound of the running water repeating:

- I want to go home… I want to go home… go home… home…

- Honey, have you noticed that I’m back home? – he asked irritated – You don’t seem to be listening to me.

- Yes… home… what do you mean by home? – I asked loudly, surprised by the bitterness in my voice. And I knew I wasn’t smiling. 

- Oh, Honey! Not again! I’m tired and I have a right to relax after my work, don’t I?! We have already agreed that it has to be this way, we have no choice, it is better for both of us… haven’t we?! So please, not again! Pull yourself together. I know that it’s a difficult time but I’m here to help you, to support you. But now, please, let me relax. I’m sure that dinner is delicious as always. - he said so confidently that I forgot again that he also had his doubts…

- Yes, you are right, it is better for both of us… - I said submissively - Every step is dance, every word is song, every feeling is love in your world – I sang while I was watering my plants: Lilly the Pink and Mark the Tree. Then I made my choice, even if in my messy bag I couldn’t find my keys to nowhere…

Inside the bag:
An IPod with uploaded music to drown out the silence
A reusable bag to rescue nature
A random book to read in passing
A mascara and eye shadow to hide the tears
A lip balm for bleeding lips
A sanitary pad and umbrella just in case
Mints to kill the taste of my sins
A hairbrush and clip to tame myself
A notepad and pencil to keep thoughts in mind
My business cards to find myself
A wallet including my identity and pennies for a rainy day
A mobile to switch off to detach from the world

I deeply believed that it was all I needed to run away from you.
I dreamt of carrying it and running ahead, possessed.
You have stopped me by spilling it on the floor,
Trampling my hope, treading my courage down,
Asking if I had the keys to nowhere.

Neighbouring sounds

This piece is inspired by “Neighbouring sounds [O soma o redor]” a film directed by Kleber Mendonça Filho  Steve Rose (The Guardian) said: “You could call this a Brazilian ‘Short Cuts’ in that it juggles a multitude of connected characters (…) There are ominous soundtrack noises, depictions of the tenants’ nightmares, imitations of the not-too-distant colonial past.” I would call this a Life Short Cuts… my life… your life… but remember: all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

The slamming door. The noise made in the corridor and time tells me who is coming back home or leaving. I don’t have to meet my neighbours to know their habits. I don’t have to even know them to know who they are. 

In the middle of the night I hear the heavy steps and deep bass voice. I feel the walls shake. He works here and there, making shady deals. He is a single guy who likes sex and having fun. He longs for a long-term relationship with a nice girl with whom he could discuss his interest in history and who would love his cat – the hurting memory of his ex…

 A couple of minutes later the door is opened quietly and not so widely as before. The fidgety sound of the keychain tells me that she has again had to park her car in the darkest corner of our communal car park which gave her goose bumps. Probably it wasn’t also the easiest night in the hospital. The night shifts there are the real nightmares just because everyone is scared while they are waiting for a dawn. 

A dawn brings the noiseless steps… the heartbeat seems to be as loud as drums. He tries to be invisible, untouchable and voiceless, to not destroy his wife and children’s calmness.  He walks like a thief, hiding himself, stealing his own feelings, desires and emotions.

An hour later I can hear shuffling and scratching. The cats from the top floor are waiting for their owner. He is coming down slowly, carrying his briefcase and sport bag with his gear. He goes to the gym twice a week, every week. He is well organized, so is his wife. They go out and come back at the same time always, with twenty minutes difference between his and her routine. He always sets off earlier and is always back earlier. He also cums earlier than she does.

A lovely child’s voice is heard, twenty to nine. He is three year old and cries rarely. Sometimes he calls the cats. He knows all the names of my neighbours’ cats. Probably he knows all the cats from our neighbourhood near and far. They always run away but it doesn’t get him down. 

Probably I know most of the people from my neighbourhood near and far. They always run away and it gets me down. The slamming door is the sound of the loneliness… despite the sounds crowded around me…   

Drip…drip…drip… about a gentle drizzle

A couple of weeks ago I received a letter from one of my friends and I’m still deeply confused by the words she used there. Her answer to my questions about poverty and social injustice was: “In my opinion I have the moral right to ignore that people die due to starvation”. I still can’t believe that I read these words and, what is more, I can’t stop thinking about them. They made me sick as I deeply disagree with this. Obviously many times I think that I can’t change the World as I’m powerless and nothing depends on me. Obviously many times I blindly follow a simple excuse: “what can we do” and I focus on my life, my reality, me. Fortunately, when I start to be selfish someone reminds me how lucky I am having everything I have, someone shows me that even if we have nothing to give we still have something to share with others: our compassion, our time and ourselves. When I start to believe that I’m unable to do anything someone says the words of “Grace”.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now I see.

How many of you know how this hymn was created? John Newton wrote the words during a storm on Atlantic, when he was engaged in the Atlantic Slave Trade.  This practice was finally abolished in Britain in 1807. It couldn’t be done if one man - William Wilberforce – had thought one day: “I have a moral right to ignore…” but fortunately “his morality” didn’t give him this right…

William Wilberforce’s battle for the Slave Trade Act is shown beautifully in the “Amazing Grace” film. It tells the story about the passion and compassion, believing not only in God but, the first of all, in goodness and humanity. You will finish watching this film in tears… but also with a deep belief that you can see…

John Newton: "I once was blind but now I see". Didn't I write that?

William Wilberforce:  Yes, you did.

John Newton: Now at last it's true.

Do you really think that you have any "moral right" to ignore…? If you see you can’t stay indifferent… you have to make a difference “with gentle drizzle, not storms. Drip. Drip. Drip”. 

Look around. Think. Act.

Arty Bunny

"They forget that Jesus was politically incorrect from beginning to end"

I hope that you will find my unique Easter cards interesting... even if they are not politically correct...

Perfectly perfect

A friend of mine has posted today on his blog: “No more hiding from the truth: externally, I am repulsive, sickening, and that's a shame because really, I am quite a nice bloke.” His sentence has helped me to turn my anger and frustration into words rather than tears… So please find my story.

Externally I am shy, insecure and wordless, and that’s a shame because really I am quite an experienced, confident and smart person. I had an interview today. This meeting was divided into 3 parts. The first was a group task with other candidates. We were invited to a board room. This scene recalled me “The Apprentice” but rather than Lord Sugar we met there four quite nice interviewers. The task was a very basic and standard group exercise. Anyone who took part in a couple of serious interviews or was a student of any psychology related faculty knows this kind of exercise when a group of people has to imagine that they survive after the plane/ship/bus/whatever accident on the planet/moon/land/forest/whenever. They can take from the board only 5/10/15/however many items and then they need to prioritize the usability of these items individually then with the rest of the group. In the interviewers’ opinion I had good ideas but I was too shy to force them. Probably they were right. I was surrounded by 9 other desperate candidates who were ready to fight for the position. And they fought in English (btw, all of them were White British). I had to struggle not only with them but also with my language skills. Of course, it is not any excuse, but on the other hand I was brave enough to say loudly my point of view and I was smart enough to find another person who thought the same in order to have an ally. Does it really mean that I am too shy? Looking back, two of the items were finally chosen by the rest of the group in the order that I had suggested to them which was not bad, I believe. I wasn’t a fighter, it’s true. But in my opinion, communication is not a fight but it is a skill of listening to each other and understanding. Never mind, in the interviewers’ opinion I was too shy. Fair enough.

The next task was an individual exercise in Word and Excel. My Excel skills were rated quite high which was nice, especially because it was a very thorough task. What made me terribly frustrated was the interviewers’ opinion that an email written by me in Word wasn’t perfect. Obviously it wasn’t! FFS! They had invited for the interview a person who has been for 3 years in the UK, and so what had they expected?! But the most ridiculous thing was that they asked us to write an email to a person who didn’t reply to the previous messages. Neither this person responded to the emails from another member of staff. Of course I wrote the email as requested but I also emphasized that if this kind of situation happened I would rather call the person to check what’s going on. The interviewers said that it was the most appropriate answer for this task, and that I had been the only one person who had thought out of the box… but my email wasn’t perfect enough. My question now is: what’s the point of sending another bloody email, even perfectly perfect written and pray for an answer rather than simply call the person and ask to sort the problem out?

Externally I am shy, insecure and wordless, and that’s a shame because really I am quite an experienced, confident and smart person. Even if the third task remains mystery for me as they thanked me already at this stage, I need to remember that the word FEAR this time, as a thousand of times before, means to me Face Everything And Rise rather than Fuck Everything And Run… even if I really was close to run away…

Try to be a White Other… what is more, try to be an ambitious White Other… be so determined to use a foreign language even at home where is no need to do so... be so strong to cross your own limits a thousand of times destroying completely your comfort zone…  then send me your perfectly perfect email…

Private show

On Sunday morning I was sitting breathless and in tears in my kitchen. In my kitchen I curled up myself on an uncomfortable chair like a kitten. Like a kitten I hugged a warm radiator next to the chair and, as I started to ignore it, I burned myself. I burned myself in the poems recited by Jo Twist - "a queer, mentalist, ex-self-harming, ex-bulimic, ex-druggie, suicide-attempt-surviving, anarchist, punk, atheist, green, green-haired, make-up-wearing, cross-dressing, alcoholic, vegan artist living on benefits and having a laugh" as he is introduced in an anthology "Poems To Read [Before U Die]". I burned myself in the words said by Jo - my dearest Jo, who has chosen me to be his secret-ally. 

On Sunday morning, in my kitchen, sharing the same shade of African green on our hair and surrounded by the smell of a vegan meal which I had prepared for lunch we did his rehearsal for his performance. My wooden spoon, which my Dad gave me after one of his trips to Zakopane (the place in my country where Jo has never been and, I believe, he has never heard about) was his mic that morning. We went through his poems and short speeches between them, the beginning and the end of his planned performance. As a PR specialist I would have liked to be on help... but he closed my mouth by his words dripping from his lips; he wetted my eyes with his blood, his scabs, his flesh; he let me believe that I was 41...

I am 41
In hospital
On the Brandon Unit.
Staring out the window
At an unseeing skyline,
With Jezza in the background, cursing bad parents,
With a book in my lap
I can’t understand.

I am 41
In hospital
On the Brandon Unit.
Locked away with 30 other mentalists.
Threatened with being sectioned
If I try and leave.
With an EDL member in my face.

I am 41
In hospital
On the Brandon Unit.
With 15 stitches
Itching in my left wrist.
With a piece of metal
Implanted in my left wrist.

I am 41
In hospital
On the Brandon Unit.
With prescription drugs leaving my body.
With no sleep for 6 days and nights.
With visions of skulls and swastikas in my head.

I am 41
In hospital
On The Brandon Unit.
With one can of cheap, weak lager
For a Christmas present.

I am 41
In hospital
On the Brandon Unit.
I am being born.
[Jo Twist, Poems To Read Before U Die, 2012 Showcase  Smoothie]

On Tuesday evening, on Ping...K!, as the featured performing poet's secret-ally I tried to be more professional but I was shaking as Jo's performance was very intense and touching. Despite the fact that the lights were on and he used the proper mic I saw him in my kitchen... and I was proud... proud to be chosen to be an one person audience...

Thank you Jo, NOW, and HERE, and AGAIN now...

My love children

With my last breath

I breathe into your mouth.

As we lie together now

So we will lie together forever

Tho our fresh flesh rot away

And our bones be stones.

Each others' arms will be each others' tomb.

As we stare the last time

Into each others' eyes

And the see the light fade

So will the white light grow

And we will go down the tunnel,

Without heaven or hell,

Into the absolute of one another.

With my last breath

I breathe into your mouth.

[Jo Twist, With my last breath]

I don't know you but I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me and always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice

You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing it loud

I paid the cost too late
Now you're gone
[Glen Hansard, Falling Slowly, from Once Soundtrack]

Do not tell me to keep calm

Last Friday the Polish Parliament rejected three proposed draft bills giving civil partnership rights to heterosexual and homosexual couples. All three proposals, presented by three different parties did not grant couples in civil partnerships the same rights as married couples, even though there was no majority in the Parliament to pass any of these projects. Therefore Polish modern couples, who live together without being married, have to face problems in their lives, from tax returns through to receiving health information or inheritance rights. The most ridiculous thing is that they can move to another European country such as the UK and sign their civil partnership documents without any problems, as Poland is a member of the European Union. This shows that Polish law is unable to keep up with changes in society.

Unfortunately it wasn’t the worst thing which happened on Friday in Poland. In the House of Parliament one of the deputies, Krystyna Pawłowicz, said: "Society cannot finance structures and institutions, which do not allow society to last." She used the words: “useless” and “idle” regarding homosexuals, which sounded like a joke while it was said by a 60 years old single woman without any children. However this was no joke.

It is hard to believe that a member of the government is allowed to say something so offensive without taking any formal responsibility for this. The Polish government works in this way, I’m afraid. Once a minister offended a prostitute by saying that she, as being a prostitute, was unable to be raped… These kind of outrageous phrases are still said publicly.

The situation devastated me as for me it is no less than breaking Human Rights, which shouldn’t take place in a civilized country. It made me deeply sad as I know that for a lot of Polish young, smart, well educated professionals it’s an additional reason to leave their country and choose another place where they can live more comfortably, even as strangers. It alarmed me as this problem is not a battle between modernity and tradition or a young and old generation but it is a fight for basic human rights – the right to live worthily. A society is sick if their members are unable to tolerate each other with regards to the basic differences like another life style or sexual preferences… it makes me sick to observe that the Polish government simply do nothing to reduce the differences and make us, as a Polish society, more united.

As Pawłowicz said: "Society cannot finance structures and institutions, which do not allow society to last." My dear gay friends… do not worry… I’m more idle and useless than you are. I’m childless AND an emigrant so I am destroying Polish society in two ways.  What is more, I’m ashamed and embarrassed because of the words which were spoken in our House of Parliament and I’m standing against them… I won’t keep calm and drink tea…

increase of cases

infection is very

unpleasant but it is short-lived and most

people recover in a couple of days

everyone has a right

to respect for family life 

(article 8 of European convention of human rights)

How to change the pattern

It takes more than average confidence to break this

pattern. You have to tackle it as a habit: in small ways

in safe situations. Build up a strong attitude, work out

a strategy and get your friends and family to reinforce

you. It's not you that's bad, it's your response to the

situation. Being passive may have worked for you as a

child, but it doesn't work now, and it's time to change.

Pay for your

everyday life

till death do us part

The weightiness of the Oscar Award

The special moments always come surprisingly. 

It was an ordinary evening, after dinner I had a choice between staying at home and reading a book or going to cinema. It was dark, freezing and snowing outside so I was very close to choose my sofa but finally I overcame my inner “His Lazyness”  and decided to go out. There was a special screening of an independent film “Zaytoun” which I found attractive due to the plot and an announced meeting with the producer. 

When we reached the cinema, the hall was packed with people holding their mobiles. “Oh, God Almighty” – I thought – “The Orange Wednesday offer! I’m not happy waiting in this huge queue for the film which is likely not the best, even if the story is interesting and important!” But finally we decided to stay, as we had already left the flat, leaving its cosiness and warmth. We bought the tickets and climbed to the highest level of the cinema complex. In the screening room we met other 12, maybe 15 people.

“Zaytoun” is a story with the historical and political backgrounds from the Middle East. It shows a group of children, Palestinian refugee, who live in a Beirut camp, Lebanon in 1982. In their school class more and more chairs are empty as their school mates die due to warfare. One of the boys, Fahed, loses his Dad, what makes him angry and bloodthirsty. Therefore he practices hard to be a Palestinian soldier as he believes that his duty is to fight back his Dad’s land, which that time is occupied by Israel. One day his steps cross with an Israeli fighter pilot, possibly one who took part in the attack when Fahed’s dad was killed… it’s the beginning of a meaningful trip and a symbolical relationship.

This film touches me deeply as it shows that our personal losses and fears can lead to blind cruelty. It makes me sick and sad as it shows that people fight against each other forgetting that we all are humans who have rights not only to live but also to live worthily. It also makes me laugh when it shows the friendship with all of it ups and downs… and the ups are very often quite funny. :)

The topics discussed in the film are terribly difficult but we need to face them. We – as mankind – can’t be blind to the cruelty and horrors which are the reality in the other parts of the World. As long as we are humans, ALL human’s issues should deeply bother us.  

After the screening we were lucky to talk to Gareth Unwin – the producer of this particular film as well as “The King’s Speech”, which brought him the Oscar award. He made us more familiar with his productions by answering our questions and talk to us in very informal and friendly way. We discussed the challenges of the independent cinema. He even mentioned that he had to finance himself significant part of the “Zaytoun’s” budget… let’s bear in mind that the whole amount was 8mln dollars!  He let us hold his Oscar Statue. I took it gently and I was surprised how heavy it was… as a burden to bear, when you have to choose between producing commercial, mainstream propaganda or opening eyes to the truth. 

Dear Mr. Unwin, please, keep opening my eyes, don’t let me stay blind, insensitive and idle… even if this burden is much heavier than your Oscar Statue… Because of this award you are obliged to do so. I believe that you know and understand the weightiness of the Oscar. I’m ready to promise not to stay on my cosy sofa, even if it is dark, freezing and snowing outside… 

We no longer need theory...

Aletta

I know Aletta for exactly 6 weeks, so it’s a good time to introduce her to you. 

She came to me on Tuesday 11th of December and she stayed with me. I very often look into her light blue, misty eyes and I see “The castle La Roche Guyon” by George Braque. Have you ever seen this oil painting from 1909, which is exhibited in Pushkin Museum in Moscow, Russia? I’ve never seen the original painting which is in greys, whites, yellows and greens. The copy which I have is more white and blue as it is only a postcard which is at least 11 years. These two colours, cloudy white and blue, are reflected in the mysterious eyes of my Aletta. 

Aletta is inscrutable and uncanny, it’s difficult to predict how old she is as well as who she is and what she is doing for a living. She definitely likes well written books: novels with historical, political and social backgrounds… exactly as I do…

I really would like to believe that we are similar but in my eyes you can find the “Frenzy of Exultations” painted by the Polish painter Podkowiński in 1894. The power of instincts colours me, and so in my eyes black, brown, ginger and white, shown in the painting, are dancing together to finally give a honey light. 

I am ordinary and predictable, I’m 29 and I’m still no one special who is doing nothing amazing. But I definitely like well written books: novels with historical, political and social backgrounds… exactly as Aletta does…

Aletta came to me in a weird way. She was left in a charity shop, in a second-hand book, which I received from my Jo. He gave me this book on Tuesday 11th of December, exactly 11 years after Aletta’s Dad sent her a card with his greetings. I have found this card in the book and this is how I met Aletta first time. I looked at “The castle La Roche Guyon”, from the card sent by Aletta’s Dad, and I felt that I looked deeply into her eyes. She smiled and agreed to stay with me for a while. Whoever she is and whatever she is doing, she is my girlfriend… my Aletta. 

Do

something

unforgettable

today

Keep warm and make a date!

I hate Fridays, when a lot of things accumulate. While I was working, every single Friday afternoon was hectic because people tried to close their tasks before weekend… FGS!!! Why did they wait all week to finally do this in rush on Friday afternoon??? It didn’t make any sense for me. Currently, when I’m looking for a job, the same things are happening. On Friday afternoon my email box is filled with thousands of this kind of emails, which definitely do NOT make me happier and more optimistic regarding my future:

Thank you for taking the time to apply for the position….

We have now filled this position but wish you every success in the future.

Kind Regards

Kelly

OR

Dear Magdalena

Thank you for attending your recent interview with … last week for the position ...

Unfortunately, after very careful consideration you have not been successful, therefore, I am sorry that we are not able to pursue your application further on this occasion.

We would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your interest shown in this position and for taking the time and trouble to apply.

We wish you every success in your continuing search for suitable employment.

Yours sincerely

Richard  

DAMN IT! That WAS a suitable position!!! I WAS a suitable person!!! So what is wrong with me??? What is wrong with other 200 people who applied for the position but have been unsuccessful as I was?

Looking for a job is not so easy. The first of all you have to be very careful with your search as a lot of job advertisements are tricky and show a future job as an amazing opportunity rather than a door to door selling which it finally is. Secondly you have to be patient with sending your CVs and doing your follow-ups as only a low percentage of these will lead you to the interview stage. The most important thing is to continue sending your applications and do not give up even if your phone is silent.

The silent phone, when you are looking for a job, is the most horrible thing. When you find that people are not impressed with your resume as well as skills and experience shown there, you simply start to feel like a looser. Despite the fact how good you are, the level of your confidence falls down rapidly and you have no base to build it on again.

You also have to deal with numerous job agencies with incompetent job advisors, who are nice but unfortunately most of them haven’t got even a half of your experience. Therefore you are evaluated by people who are unable to understand your CV.  You have to face their advises like: “ Honey, delete your high education and a couple of points in your experience to make things easier and to be sure that you are able to find a nice and easy job, obviously below your expectations.” This kind of advice doesn’t help me to be ambitious and optimistic.

Supposedly “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; stand a little taller”… but with regards to this topic, in my opinion, you just need to find another way. When doors are closed you need to find an open window… But do not ask me about this now as I’m a little bit down after another Friday...

9th November 2012

Vacancy: Little Angel with Enormous Wings

Dear Man,

Thank you for your recent application for the above vacancy.

The darker nights close in.

Unfortunately we are unable to invite every applicant for an interview and as there are other applicants who appear to match our requirements a little more closely, we will not be progressing with your application on this occasion.

There’s nobody who does in better than 007.

I would however like to retain your details on file and will contact you should a suitable vacancy arise. Keep in touch.

In the meantime we wish you every success in the bright future.

Keep warm and make a date.

Yours sincerely,

a child

It DOES matter!

On Saturday I was lucky enough to see an exhibition „Music and Liberation” in one of the independent galleries – Space Station Sixty-Five in London. It was the last day of this exposition so I was more than happy that I had a chance to go there and learn more about women’s liberation music-making in the UK in the 70s and 80s.

The exhibition showed how feminists used music as an activist tool to fight with the social and political system regarding stereotypes of women’s social roles, which were mostly based on being a housewife. For me, a person behind the Iron Curtain, this piece of the British history was very interesting. In Poland during this time people, regardless of their gender, fought with communism, therefore this particular kind of movement wasn’t very popular there.

Different kinds of exhibits from the private collections were showcased in the Space Station Sixty-Five, these included the posters, songbooks, t-shirts, instruments, books, notes, diaries, pictures, fliers, button badges and of course the music which was played. It was an unique event, which gave me an opportunity to touch the piece of history which let us – women – be at the stage we are now.

Many times we completely forget that we can live, work and enjoy our lives only because somebody fought for these before. Without this kind of movement, women could still only sing “The lament of housewives”. It is the same with regards to every single part of our lives, including the human, worker or children’s rights.

In all decades and centuries a lot of activists struggled against the reality to create better lives for them, their children, their loved ones, and for humans generally. The system or even other members of the public, who didn’t see and understand the sense of these fights tried to stop or ban them, but the fighters were undeterred. They heard thousands of times: “just give it up; it doesn’t matter as you are unable to change anything!” And maybe they suffered too much but it was worthy enough as they built better conditions for us.

Therefore, even if we feel sometimes that we are powerless, we shouldn’t give our beliefs up as it does matter if we struggle for them or not. Even if our actions aren’t spectacular and don’t make any difference now, they create the future.

I read a story once. It was about a man who walked on the seaside during a low tide and threw jellyfish, which were lying on the sea shore, into the water. He met another man who doubtfully looked at him and said: “Man, what are you doing? There are thousands of jellyfish here! You are unable to rescue them all so give this stupid idea up as it doesn’t matter!” The first man patiently picked up the next jellyfish and said whilst throwing it into the sea: “It DOES matter for this one”.  

Do we have great minds to discuss this idea?

Great minds discuss ideas
Average minds discuss events
Small minds discuss people 
[Eleanor Roosevelt]

Is it true? I do not agree! What about discussing ideas by showing people? That has happened during the last 3 months at the New Walk Museum and Art Gallery in Leicester. Two of the temporary exhibitions, pictures made by August Sander as well as graphics by George Grosz, have showed the idea of discussing people by introducing them as they really looked, without polishing the reality. 

  

Sander’s work focused on the portraits of “People of the 20th Century” so he photographed representatives of every class, profession and sex. We can look into the eyes of farmers, cooks, industrialists, proletarian intellectuals, politicians, socialists, philosophers, nuns, priests, nurses, doctors, secretaries, students, soldiers, policemen, prisoners, artists and actresses. The photos show every single wrinkle on their faces as well as the texture of the material in their clothes, which makes the pictures expressive and real. I have the same feeling whilst looking at his studies of hands. I was very close to touching them, trying to shake them or just handle them gently.

Grosz drew and painted at a similar time as Sander photographed, but he not only showed reality but also emphasized the weakness of the German society from the beginning of the 20th century. Most of his ironic graphics were destroyed by the government as they cynically pointed out the cruelty caused by the politicians of the day. The ones which have remained judge the political system and gaps in the law. They also show society without being prudish.  

Both artists keep the portrayed people as real as they were. For the art should be meaningful which means it should show the truth. “By sight and observation and thought, with the help of the camera, and the addition of the date of the year, we can hold fast the history of the world” said Sander. 

Sander’s and Grosz’s work holds the story which the world tries to tell us. Do we have great minds to discuss this idea?