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…