Spring has been coming

I was woken up by birds. They have been singing for a while, I believe, when the day has been falling asleep. I was sleeping for too long. My afternoon nap had to turn into longer, deep sleep, making me awake in the middle of twilight; in this moment when the day is no longer here but the night hasn’t arrived yet; in this scary time when it is not dark enough to make you absorbed by blackness around you but not light enough to make you feel secure. It’s this scary time when you see the world around you in shades of grey… I have never counted if there are fifty of them…

The melody of the birds song comforts me. I can’t recognise which species is singing but their anthem to the end of the day, or the beginning of the night, is the best confirmation that spring has been coming, despite the fact that evenings still are cold. I shudder but a blanket seems to be too heavy to wrap myself up. My arms are too heavy, hands too clumsy, I have this awkward feeling that my all body is twice or three times bigger than it should be. 

Spring has been coming for much too long. It should have been here already, with its daffodils in blossom in every corner, juicy green lawns in my neighbours’ gardens and the sun shining strongly, making us blind. But days still are gloomy, flower buds are closed, grass is yellowish after winter, showing proudly my neighbours’ cats poos. Spring has been coming but hasn’t arrived here yet.

Death has been coming too. Slowly. For the last 6 weeks. For way too long. It should have been here already, with its coldness spreading through all of the body, making the colour of the skin something between yellow and blue. It should have arrived but it hasn’t done this yet.  

It has been playing with her, giving her enough time to keep forgetting where she has been for the last 6 weeks, why she has been there and what this tumour on her neck is.

How cruel death can be, making her forget over and over again that she is dying?

I have been visiting her every day from the time when she was admitted to the hospice and now I hardly believe that 6 weeks ago I didn’t know her.

Do not expect a fairy tale story now. Remember, death has been playing with us, giving us no hope. It’s not a story with a happy end. I’m not going to change facts just to keep us away from bad and upsetting stories. It is a matter of death.

When I close my eyes I see a deep colour of the turquoise wool given to her with a knitting set to keep her occupied. She was working on a waistcoat but didn’t finish it before she felt too poorly to hold the needles. She was trying the undone parts of the garments on her skinny, consumed by cancer body, saying: “Don’t you think it will make me look fat when it’s finished?”   

Death has been coming slowly. But it will come. So spring will. But now I shudder. My blanket seems to be too heavy to wrap myself up. My arms are too heavy, hands too clumsy, I have this awkward feeling that my all body is twice or three times bigger than it should be. Why I’m so tired when I was sleeping for so long? I’m absorbed by turquoise behind my closed eye lids, waiting for her death, scared that it will finally come.

Her name was Rosalind

– Please, can you visit my mum? She would really appreciate this – a young woman with big eyes asked me. I agreed. I agreed because of those eyes. They were staring at me with this desperate question mark hanging between us in the thick air. Therefore I agreed.

Rosalind was lying in a bed. Her face was so pale that the colour of the white bedding seemed to be gray. Her eyes were closed but when she heard my steps she opened them. She looked at me, with all her consciousness and curiosity. Her pupils were huge, probably because of the medicines she had been given. The intense shade of blue, or rather navy, of her iris's embarrassed me. It didn’t match to her nearly translucent skin and petite body. Her eyes were too determined to belong to  such weak flesh. She looked at the chair next to her bed so I sat down.

– I was waiting for you; my daughter told me that you would come – an old woman with the biggest eyes I had ever seen said. I nodded, looking straight in those eyes. I tried to say something but for a moment I was speechless, enchanted, hypnotized, so she carried on.

– She had a wedding last Sunday. It was a lovely celebration and she looked so beautiful. I wanted her to be happy but I believe that because of me she couldn't.

– No, Rosalind, it’s not true – I disagreed but the words didn't come to me easily – I talked to your daughter earlier and she was so pleased that you could be with her during this special moment. She showed me the pictures – you both looked absolutely amazing. You need to be proud of her.

– I am, but I'm not proud of myself. I cause so many problems to people around. – Her eyes became darker – It’s challenging to stay with me now. It’s challenging for people who love me, don’t you think so?

– Life is a challenge, Rosalind. Everything we need to face is a challenge. But that’s the sense of us being here. – I said, despite the fact that I didn’t know what to say.

Rosalind smiled. She touched my hand, squeezed it very gently then she looked at me even more intensely than before – Do you know what Franz Kafka said? Let me quote him to you: The meaning of life is that it stops – she said as if she fully agreed with this statement. She opened her eyes widely – 

– What do you think?

I agreed because of these eyes. They were staring at me with this desperate exclamation mark hanging between us in the thick air. Therefore I agreed.

She closed her eyes.

She died a few days later.

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…   

Don't be so poetic!

During our Sunday breakfast my husband asked me: “What are you looking at?”

I was looking through the window. It was a bright sunny morning, not so common in the UK. The sun was shining after two days of the dreary rain. There was no haze, no dust, no patches of fog. The weather was perfect, apart from one detail – strong gusts of winter wind.

“I’m looking at the wind” – I answered. Trees bowed down before this wind like before the king. The wind jerked them, as they had done something unforgivable, and so they lost their last yellow leaves. It was a scary battle outside between the element and Saturday night’s remains. The air was bombed by plastic bags, glass bottles, tins, paper cups and take away boxes. This view made me sad and disgusted. 

“You are unable to see the wind” – my husband said and after a couple of seconds he added ironically: “You are just looking at the trees outside. Don't be so poetic!” 

So I stopped being so poetic. We finished our breakfast in silence, sipping our coffees and smiling at each other. When he set off to fulfill his duties in his air club I washed dishes, put on my shoes and went out for a walk. In my head I kept hearing his amused voice: “You are unable to see the wind”. I couldn’t believe that it was said by the person who deals with the wind every time he flies as a pilot or every time he sails as a steersman. I reminded myself the time when he taught me how to recognize the wind’s directions. It was ten or maybe twelve years ago when we sailed together the first time for me. He showed me the waves on the lake, he asked me to close my eyes and feel the wind on my face, he taught me how to use the wind to lead a boat and achieve a target. That time I realized that the wind is not only touchable and visible but also colourful. 

From that time I observe that the wind has different colours every day. It depends on the weather, time of the day and other circumstances. Sometimes it is grey or green, sometimes white close to colourless but still visible. A couple of days ago it was red as blood in the morning and dark crimson in the afternoon. This morning it was yellow, not bright yellow despite the fact that the sun was shining so beautifully, but rather sand yellow, a little bit dirty and not uniform.

“Have you ever seen the blue wind?” – I asked aloud.

“No, never” – the voice answered.

“Neither have I” - I said with sureness that this will happen one day.