ero ero

koncept erogrotesek zastrzeżony. Wymyślony 21.4.10. i cały, cały mój.... (koncept. tak). erogroteska = miniatura erotyzująca z elementami groteski, które wkradają się wbrew moim najlepszym intencjom....

the idea of an erogrotesque is copyrighted (or might as well be). Thought it up today (21.4.10.), googled, and it's mine, my precioussss (idea. right). an erogrotesque = a more or less erotic drabble, with some 'grotesque' thrown in for a good measure - it keeps interfering, against my best efforts....

Gdyby ktoś nie zauważył, tłumaczenie jest dość swobodne.
If you didn't notice, the translations are... loose at best.

wtorek, 28 września 2010

idiom: to go out on a limb

So say I'd tell him. So what?

What is he supposed to do? say? Maybe: "Thank you for sharing your dated emotional response towards myself"? Or: "Now our past misunderstandings become clear! I often wondered why you reacted this way when we drank wine in September five years ago". Or how about: "Are you crazy? I don't care!".

Therapy culture rotted out my brain, apparently.

Maybe I should tell him. Or him. Them. There's two of them. Guys I treated badly because I didn't know 1) what was it all about 2) how to deal. Remnants of my late adolescence. Late as in belated, late as in dead. Over with. Never to come back. Everyone has moved on, why can't I? Maybe I don't want to. It's easier to think that never, never, nothing can happen. Adolescence may be dead, but I'm far from declaring myself "fully grown" or even "mature". Both of those sound like adjectives about plants, anyway.

Better late than...?

How about you shut the fuck up and get on with it?

poniedziałek, 27 września 2010


I can't help it. I'm feeling underqualified.

It's stupid, but as stated - can't help it. What if you call yourself something and someone comes along and calls it in question? I used to call myself a rhymemaker, just to escape the label of poet - stifling maybe, but coveted, undeserved. Unjust. When I published online, other poets gave me the what-for, that's for sure.

So, to be anything, you need everyone's seal of approval or at the very least - a certificate. So what can I do, who am I allowed to - be? After finishing my Master's degree I shall be allowed to write. In Polish. As in being a writer. Of course my degree will be more in culture studies than anything else, as long as we're splitting hairs.

I actually thought about being a philosopher, but it's hard too, what with my desire to 'do things right' in the eyes of the world. I don't have a Master's in philosophy. But maybe the words will give me an out? A writer writes. A philosopher - wisdom-loving one. To paraphrase, a philosopher loves thinking.

Do I love thinking? It's more of a love-hate relationship... thing. Not just sex either, although there is chemistry. And friction. And tension... . Actually it's more of a threesome, me with thinking and acting. For the time being, acting seems to be surprisingly - passive, contrary to popular assumptions and nomen omen. Thruth be told, sometimes thinking and acting play bondage games, leaving me to fend for myself - when there's no action and thoughts lead nowhere.

There's a lot of thinking going on. I think about being this and that, like this and like that. Then I write it down sometimes, like now - although now it's too late, it all sounded a whole lot better inside my head. Thinking insinuates itself between me and anything else, its movement sinful, a thin film, a surprisingly final barrier.

niedziela, 12 września 2010

once upon a time, a boy met a Rita and wanted to show off his moves....

I hate it. I absolutely hate it when a guy decides to Make A Move.

I can feel it, the wheels turning in his head. It was nice, the conversation we had flowing back and forth; I felt comfortable, exuberant in my affection for the world. And then he goes (warning bells ringing in my head) - from a casual sip of carefully held liquid courage, to a casual shift into my personal space in that crowded room. Oh, the very casualness of The Move, rehearsed on countless editions of American Pie! I have no words, I only have casualties, namely the comfortable mood. Because as soon as he does his thing - a man on a mission of claiming territory - I just freeze. However nice or cheerful I've been - all forgotten. Cheerful? like hell! as soon as it freezes over!

I'm getting better in this game. I can still picture myself on that windowsill, still smiling, only a slight lean [away] of my figure and one tense hand [too close] betraying my unease. Keeping the pose uses too much of the resources, so I can't really talk, but maybe I could find someone on the other side me? anyone? help!

The thing with The Move is, that when he does that 'casual-pretend' farce, he's not acknowledging it, so I feel I can't either. Also, I have to be NICE! [cursing the foundations of girlhood]. So I can't reject him openly without making myself and possibly him look really stupid. Consequently, I'm supposed to sit still while I'm being invaded. The options: either he feels rejected by non-reaction (the most subtle and least effective rejection possible), which makes me feel kind of guilty, or he still feels he's got a chance [a snowball's chance in hell!] and hangs around.

What's sad about it is that I truly liked him, thought him nice and kind of handsome until he started doing this. It's like a switch - he stops talking, starts scheming and I immediately feel like just a body to get closer to, probable possession, territory - any-thing but the human being he spoke to a minute before. Also, it's kind of a stupid situation for both of us. If he looked me in the eye, he'd know that it's no way Jose - also, if I wanted to, I could make my own overture, after all. But he chose not to look, not to know, not to ask my participation. And I chose to run. Cowardly of both of us.

I've been in that place - I still visit it from time to time - so I know that shy feeling, walking around someone impressive, hanging around enough to border on stalking. But there are differences. First of all, these situations are usually results of a brooding, melancholic mood - I'm usually shy during the 'depressed' part of my bipolar routine. But when the person does not look comfortable - or indeed, look at me at all - I just slink away to lick my wounds in peace or try to concetrate or myself. Secondly, I am, by nature, a direct person. If pressed, even in 'shy' mode, I would have answered to a direct query (i.e."Why do you hang around so much? - Well, your looks and sparkling personality pretty much guarantee my presence". I found it's best to confuse people with the truth. It can be kind of original). Thirdly, although presence of someone I like usually puts me on edge (unless I'm just so comfortable... but that's for another time :), what I want most is contact. It may be awkward (hey, it's me, so...), but I need the energy of it, some sort of connection, confirming it's about me, and not about that warm body nearby, with a small print of: nice tits!

In conclusion, I need to assert myself in space, and stop paying attention to people, who take a friendly "Hey! What's your name?" as: "You should start touching me, as of: immediately". It kind of makes me feel better to have the pattern of my (and his) behaviour figured out; overanalysing it might be, but as long as it helps, fuck the over- part of anything. I just wonder: are people afraid of contact (and, lest you think me judgemental, with a few stipulations I include myself in that happy group) more afraid of others, or of themselves?

wtorek, 7 września 2010

I take the time to be
amazed, I ask to be
I wade my way throughout a maze,
I made my way through fire.
I bid the truth farewell - do tell
wherever it may roam
through kitsch poetry, weakling's words
I paint the lights of home.