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…