5th wheel

These last few days were socially entertaining. I went drinking and swimming with friends. That would be great if I didn’t feel like the 5th wheel. There were two couples. And me. A bit hard especially during the sleeping time when they were cuddling and I was wondering if screaming is an answer to at least some of my problems. At times like these I’d like to know if I’ll always be alone and these stolen few months with E will make me handicapped forever. Many questions, no answers and lack of communication. Hope he gets sunburned.

I also came back to making up stories. And watching male cartoon characters making out with other equally male cartoon characters. And knitting. And I do smoke sometimes. I drink nearly every day.

I don’t really like watching homosexuals making out. (I do not like watching anyone  making out in particular); But I can tame cartoon characters so it’s all good. I even gave birth in one of my made-up stories. It was twins.

I think I might be wanting to kill myself.

Or watch another you-tube video.

New Beginning

I had a peculiar dream in which my boyfriend changed his relationship status to It’s complicated with Magdalena Szymaniec. Which, I must admit, would be just fair enough. It’s complicated and far away. Requires a contemplative monastery. Though I’m trained in being a nun. It’s an inter-subjective problem. And I have problems with facebook-saturated reality.

I dropped the blog for a while, but hey, here I am again. There was little or too much to write about before. Now, that I can exhibit some of the memories, I feel more at ease. I thought about writing. I think many people have these thoughts they wish they could write down. So, I wrote a mental book for a while. Actually, this entry started because I felt like writing down this boyfriend thought.

Things changed since I last wrote. I finished the school, I have no more assignments for a while, I drank a river of alcohol and I was generally more cheerful. Today, I’m going to vote for the first time. Exciting? No.

Anyways, I want to have a new beginning. I was reading a book about Nietzsche in which the author was quoting Nietzsche’s journal entries from when he was 14. Fuck, I never managed to write anything down when I was 14. Or I did. And it was crap. Well, poor biographers will have to say that I had a relaxed childhood. It wasn’t so. I would like to say that it was Nietzsche-like. But I had a father. Bummer.

Monochrome, woodcut

And home feels strange.

Amen

The Brackets

I’ve kind of missed the deadline for the New Year’s resolutions again. I’ve never had any. That, I assume, is a wise thing to have missed.

By the way, it really is just pure bullshit below. That happens when I try to write a “And today this happened” blog entry. Then I have a Molog.

But today I fell twice.

I have fancy bruises on both sides.

Of my body. I really did this amazing semi-flight and landed comically. As if I were pushed by invisible creatures from Mars (men) or cut by  an equally invisible scythe (on the ankle-level).

Once outside my house. (the right side)

Whoooosh!

Then on the zebra crossing. Dramatically. In front of a car. (the left side)

Whooooooosh!

I went out to buy a shampoo (Nivea, it was) and wool (I knit) and tights (gray ones) and a teacup (I’m a sixty-year-old, what do you expect?). And I baby-sitted my brother (such-a-similar-to-me-little-obsessed-despot). He’s cool. I can hear him snoring right now (always-allergic-nose-clogged)

I’m coming back to Norway. I read my old blog entries and I realize that I prefer to write when I’m happy. Right. I have this funny feeling that I’m true when I’m euphoric.

And we have those micro-universes of individuality all around. Therefore -

The Molog (is here)

(Because it’s like a Dialog or a Monologue but it’s the other way round)

“How should I break the law?”, asked a Pole.

“Maybe you should abide it, Pole.”, said the other me.

“Nope.”, said the Pole with a dramatic smile of a social conformist.

“Why are you Poles such motherfucking synonyms of fatalism, negativism, skepticism and yeah-you-suck-ism?”, the other me inquired politely.

“It’s called a constant unaware  irony.”, said the Pole still smiling like an illustration to the other me’s previous pompously pretentious sentence. The Pole was just saying clever things without meaning them.

“You tend to produce statements and I’m left with commenting, Pole.”, commented the other me.

“Tym się właśnie zajmujemy, ptaszku.”, unawarely derided the Pole.

“Do you know that our language is divinely pretentiously complicated and it can’t lead to a human interaction of an honest level?” the other me asked rhetorically or not.

“We have those paths. You know, like incurable cancer-like mentality disorders.”, the Pole sighed a sigh of a dishonest generalized excuse.

“What am I doing here?”, the other me failed to be surprised or confused.

“You’re going away and you’ll come back.”, the Pole produced a mighty statement of a biblical character, “…and you’re a nice person but nobody gets your fancy polish code.”

“It’s not a necessity. Besides, we’re getting melodramatic here. Did we establish anything?”, the other me wasn’t impatient but creating sentences hurts.

“We established your image of an overly introspective romantic loser.”, giggled the Pole semi-happily. Nothing seemed serious again.

“Could be worse.”, concluded the other me optimistically.

Pretty Reversed, ink, ballpen

Amen

Knot

Every year I think that I have become a better person and wonder how could people stand me before.

I dropped smoking. Funnily enough, I haven’t noticed that I’ve started. I didn’t use to care about my health. Until I had one of the famous hypochondriac attacks. It was titled “I have cancer”. The other one was directly connected to my semi-depression and a full-scale paranoia. I’m quite dramatic, yes. There are other reasons.

Being in Poland makes me uninspired. Some parts of my family are as toxic as Chernobyl. That’s a nice simile. Poland is just too self-abusing at times…

I hinted that if anyone comes to visit me, I have nowhere to take them. I have an urge to complain since I arrived. Mum suggested taking visitors to Auschwitz. We had a good laugh. My mum is not the toxic part. She likes to believe that I’m her clone. (And it was the neo-Nazi Swedes who stole Arbacht macht frei!)

My dad is less frustrated. He gave me his green anti-stress pills. I’m successfully apathetic as a result. We are all drug-addicts in here. Plus, I got an important life-lesson. If you want your pipe to work well, you should put a piece of cotton dipped in brandy in it for a day. The next day you should smoke the pipe slowly with a good tobacco. The pipe remembers it’s first tobacco.

Iggy Pop is singing that it’s a party time. Well. It’s not. I’ll be with my parents realizing that they have more mental and social problems than me. I love them.

Good news, collage, pencil

I won’t spoil anything or at least I’ll be wishfully thinking.

The Knot is in me. It’s a big anxious Knot. I’ll be happily ignoring it.

Amen

Miss Carriage

Oh, my mind is fucking me over and over and over again.

Very awfully.

It’s not that I have too much time to think. It’s just that I belong to only one place (not quite but quite anyway). And this place in not located in Pooland.

Flekke, Iceland House, 203, the bed on the left, next to the window

Everything is achievable.

Like universities. A Universe. The Universe. No Universe for me.

It’s just me being unable to consider changing anything in my life at the moment. Vanitas vanitatum et omnia SHIT. I’m terrified by the passing time and no carpe diem or noctem works. I should die right now before I start feeling older and more miserable.

Lingua franca x2

I miss.

Happy Valentine’s Day, ballpen

In case I miss it.

Amen

Tool

I’m very calm. I don’t want to leave.

Controversially enough.

I’m painfully aware of the reason for taking so many god-damned photos. It’s about time.

We are here long enough to store a gallery of memories. To push them in and out. Do we actually make memories or do we just take pictures?

I wrote Kalashnikov to sum up my life at the RCN but the spelling check changed to Tchaikovsky.

Curiously enough.

The Catfish from the series Seven Thousand Catfish and an Intruder, lino-cut print on paper.

Sometimes the perspective of living under a bridge seems less promising.

Amen

Putridity

Fecundity?

I was contemplating devils (see my entry Direct Sunlight) and I reached the conclusion that they are alluring (I had a strong urge to write fucking cool but some inner forces of self-preservation stopped the uncombed desire). The good ones are weak, naive, simple-hearted, gullible, unless they have something bad, mischievous about themselves. (insert your personal doubt to this argumentum ad hominem here). The good ones make you wonder. Where do they hide their anger?

Did I have too much unreality or are we really attracted to the evil/to the Evil? Do we want to be bad. Or good. Or Good.

(We?! Bwaha-ha.)

My scientific mind will check the inner side of your scalp or wherever you keep your intellect.

You have three options (actually two but no matter):

Yes. You can probably feel good at the end of the day whilst giving a moral fuck.

No. You can probably feel good at the end of the day whilst not giving a moral fuck.

Yes or No. You can interpret the question yourself keeping some air of universal morality around your brains.

It’s been bothering me for quite a while.

And don’t tell me that you don’t know what good is. Don’t even mention subjectivism. Take all the religious crap aside. I’m not keeping a ToK journal.

Be simple about it. Not biting people might be good for me. It might be a good universal law – the 11th commandment – Do not bite your neighbour!

Nie gryź bliźniego swego!

Amen

Third Conditional

♣

If I hadn’t started smoking, I wouldn’t have had a great insight into the me of myself.

Cart nr 0 The Fool of the Personal Major Arcana, watercolour on paper

I was planning to put another of my pictures here. But I didn’t scan it because it seemed too simple, too revolting or too honest. It was called I had a very peculiar dream and involved smoking and my feet. Now, imagine.

Summer said that she has no means of explaining me when to use articles. We laughed but I don’t give a shit. That’s my personal improvement of the day.

Amen

Willkür

Cunt.

A priori sounds good in Polish. A priori with a soft accent on “pr” and the sharpness of “r” creating a perfect balance of structure. It’s like singing. On the other hand one can rarely hear an expression a priori morality. I dare to say it’s because it doesn’t exist. Not in Poland.

Instance: we are a way more individual in our perception of ownership. Sounds good? It’s not. My woman, my car, my daughter, my house, my bitch, my flowerbed. The use of all these females are deliberate. Women are still objects. There’s no need to contemplate it. Boring. Like a menstruation. Everyone knows about it, yet you don’t talk about the blood on your thighs. You talk about your soft legs. Not about shaving them. Consequentialism gracefully ignores the trigging factor. But I went off-topic.

Now, the a priori morality shall gently encourage us to be just. It’s also very reasonable: Don’t steal.

Don’t steal otherwise you’ll be punished.

Goody, I’ll be morally incorrect and build the stereotype. Hail, Polsko! I like your car, it shall be mine. I like your woman, I’ll have it. It doesn’t have to be caused by one’s lust, one’s desire. It’s just a principle of the lack of principle. That’s what communism did to the Polish. I’ll stand out of the definition of Polish with all my mighty pomposity. Like a Puerto Rican denying to be dark-skinned.

And yes, we (who is we?) have this funny “I” fixation. Just listen to me sometimes. Willkür is there for our cheap excuses.

Kant.

I got sent home, self-portrait, ballpen, stamps

About the revolting background. When you’re back you suddenly realize: Everything is so pathetically shitty. Except of tomatoes. They have a real taste.

And I have never felt quite as subjected to racism as I do in this place.

Amen

Direct Sunlight

I’m a plant. A total waste of space. A grumpy and offensive environmental sceptic. An over-dramatic hypocrisy.

Do you want a carrot? Where is your toaster? Do you want a herbal tea or a mint one? Shall I bring you some water?

Mhm, photosynthesis. And put me in the direct sunlight so I can respire.

Being sick is tremendous. In every sense.

I will probably be falling behind in the massive ego competition. I feel too much like a socially useless and aesthetically repulsive piece of crap. I also suffer from anime deprivation. If only the Internet was working, I could feed my eyes with images of androgenic men and yucky animation. I’m left with my imagination which in nowhere close to its original state. I need a provision of some unreality to be inspired. I want to build a perfect dramatic story in the precious time between closing my eyes and falling asleep, after every day of futile work.

I remember the night when I realized that I was going to die. That I’m going to find out what’s on the other side if anything at all. This was such a shock. I suppose I was around 5 years old. For the following 11 years of my life I used to believe that I was sentenced to hell. People are afraid of spiders, some are uneasy when it’s dark. Some of them fear mice. I had  hell’o'phobia.

I also had an unreasonable fear that there is a devil looking over me at all times. Talking to me. I was afraid that if I move too fast, I’m going to notice him. That when I open the door to my room, he’s going to be there. This was probably when I started creating stories for myself before falling asleep. Some of them were long – on-going like a latino telenovela. Nearly always about love. Started with Lion King and Ponies protecting the love of their lives. Then I got my inspirations from the movies. Anime-based stories are a novelty. The love I needed came from these stories. No need for human interference, absolute control. Although it’s annoying when the characters are doing things I didn’t expect them to. Or when there is nothing to add to the story.

I remember being upset when my idea for the night’s story was exploited during the day.

Soon after, I started drawing. This seemed so natural. I used to prepare the characters for the story, draw their sensibilities, give them an amazing emotional saturation. “Used to”? No, I still do that. I live so many splendour yet dramatic lives. Posses so many alter-egos.

I was never a loved child. Freud would laugh.

Drawing conclusions, ballpen

And I never know if people understand me. That’s why I’m over-dramatic.

Obssessed much?

Amen