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…