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.

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.

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