Dienstag, 14. Juli 2015

Polandia - Rosija transfer


Beside the fact, that I walk all the time like a crazy perpetum mobile human being, on July 8th I was already on my way to this magical place. This is no lie, I knew from the very beginning, and if feels like I live my life only to be here and now. Right now there is a huge desire in me, an abyss, you can see if you come closer.


Poland is my favorite country. The language is not to compare with any other, just like the people - hard to understand. The air smells fresh in summer, but it is not clear anymore and the water is simply dangerous to drink. You better drink vodka: at least you get disinfected by the alcohol and you understand the people better.
This Wednesday in Nowe Kawkowo, close to Olsztyn, we drunk some polish apple wine. Cider was written on the bottle. I will call it jabol, sorry. There is some kind of strange custom in the modern Europe to unify and separate at the same time. We are bigger and bigger but have less and less identity. Nationality is forbidden. It is a scar: nobody should see it and if they do, they should be ashamed and all should feel the shame. Puting items inside hurts. We are one, but not the same. The air is one everywhere. Just like the feelings, for example missing. I heard many stories and jokes this night in Warmia. Nothing new. Anyways it was not about discover, but about cosy and familiar space to exchange views.

river flows
see calms
the air is dirty everywhere now on the earth
you will be my favorite
if you catch
the moment
you are brave enough
to dip in the abyss of my chest

Next morning I woke up after four hours sleep and run downstairs. Franc asked me in the kitchen if I want a sandwich. I said, we need to go. Right now. I was late, like the most time in my life. Latest I realised, it is better to never say sorry for this. Germans get crazy about being on time. When I say, I will be some few minutes later, they are already upset. Once I was four minutes later, but I said it will be about ten. The guy left after two minutes, insisting that he waits already half an hour! I'm not sorry for this kind of crap. Franc, the french guy, who suppose to drive me to the bus station was very cool. In the trashy, dirty old car, where all the dolls from my childhood live and fall in love with one Ken, was no space to complain. We drive fast driving to slow. I'd like to change my point of view, I feel so lonely, I'm waiting for you, but nothing ever happens and I wonder. Franc stays still. We were not sure, if it's not to late. It was just perfectly on time to hear the story of how he came to Poland from London just to settle down in the smallest village ever saw with an very talented artist, Letycja, the mother of his daughter. I even manage to say thank you and give him a bottle of german beer, bought in polish supermarket. He was glad and smile at me. The bus came and I went home.

Here we are again. All lost the faith in me, that I could have children. My father hear me sometimes, when he let me talk, talking about the reason and result. Some people don't get simple things, some don't want to think about abstracts. Simple way of life is what most people prefer. My mother stays at home the most time of life. There was a time, when she went for trips with pleasure. When I was nine, she wanted to take me with her on a trip to Lithuania. It didn't work, because the orga had no enough people to fill the bus and they called it off in terms of high expenses. This Thursday she was cleaning the windows, while I walked the stairs up and enter the house. When I was in Olsztyn she called me, to ask about the weather. It was such a strong rain in the forest, while she picked blueberries, that she needed to go home. It was not this bad in Olsztyn, but I missed the rain already. She really had some cool things to do like making juices and putting fruits into freezer. The wind was very good, we all notice, but something hang in the air. My father was in a terrible good mood. It felt like Obama talking about how much God loves America. I was on my way to Russia. My grandma was sitting on the balcony. I told her few days ago, she should go out to grab some fresh air. And then I remember about this letter, I wrote her in April sitting on the grass with Dariusz, drinking water, talking about random stuff. „Every day of your life is a gift. Talk to me, write me, if there is something you have to say, before it is too late. (...) Jestem przy Tobie, pamiętam, czuwam” (*written under the picture of polish Madonna in Częstochowa, kind of Mecca for Catholics in the country, means: „I'm on your side, I remember, I watch for you). She cried, I was just too close to cry again. This is life. My life is walking, talking, write, make art. My subconscious tell me not to have sex with everybody. I'm fixed on many ideas. The point is not to make love, but let the love come and stay. What if...

Friday morning I took my bags and went downstairs. I mostly sleep in the last flor. Again I hear the question about the sandwich. This time I only take cafe. My mother has flu. Me too, I feel sick. Deam it! Fuck the fucking fuck, I hate to be ill. No time to be angry. Time to go again. It is cold and rainy, papa talking without a break. Where is he getting the air to breath in between? What is he talking about anyways? He is so happy, so grateful about this trip and all my success, all his glory on me, all my glory on him and the earth. I should go, I know the way, he knows, that I find out, if I'm late or wrong. I find out when he is touched and it is now.
Daniil write me the exact time and address. No reply from my side. Who knows what happens in between. If the time is coming, it is on his way with me.

Big Jet Plane

And then I landed in Saint Petersburg.
Lexander Prokogh http://lexander-prokogh.de

to be continued...

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