I was told over and over and over, that too much is too much.

- too loud, too outspoken, too brash, too over-the-top, too big -

and so I gave up - put myself down down down down

but it was never enough.

And now I'm preparing

to feel for a living


and that I feel like it

is reason enough.

It feels like I'm in over my head.

Am I, though?

Less anxiety, less rules.

Less bad/annoying stuff.

 Gotta count for something good, right?


I can't figure it out, what's me, and what's the expectation talking, or self-imposed (?) barrier.

Do I? don't I? don't seemed "damned, if" just yet. But - wtf?


Seriously?!

Rita record music happy tears ensue.

note to self

note to self:

Dating a younger man is never actually worth it.

A man my age is actually younger.

Cool guys start at thirty.



***



I want to drink my own voice, feed on music. I'm just so terribly scared it will dry up. It alwas did, before.

how

how do i master my mind, running unchecked between options in blind panic?


how do i master my soul, perhaps, to take my mind in a firm though gentle hold?


how do i master my body? how do i let it master me?


i am alone. those who could help, won't - those who can't, want to, badly - and so they give me their own fear, instead.

She comprises a CV. A lengthy list of past events that are supposed to describe and comprise her self, her personality, mind and soul; utterly pointless and yet compelling retelling of factors, given as proof that after a long time, she finally is good enough, deserves it, she's served her years, paid her debts, given her due. She's done the boring part of life, she would like the fun, cool and interesting now, please - she's fucking earned it, proved her worth, made it this far, should be rewarded.

She comprises a CV, only to realize that it says everything and anything; that the interpretation is still unclear; that the jury is still out. She comprises is only to think that if she needs to comprise it in order to prove things, she is the one lacking faith, before others that might - and that's the only lack that truly counts, beyond the empty spots on the list, invisible too all and any, but her own unseeing eyes.

i wonder at myself. after subconcious hints, thoughts and hope-against-hopes

i still have the capacity to be shell-shocked.


i have nothing profound to say.



oh wait, i do:

you think love is all you need.

but love is only all you want.

and it is not enough.

So what, who, were we, are we to each other?

Doors open to other realms (but how long can you stay within open doors)? We felt each other right away, like animals smelling their own kind. But what of it? is it enough?

Old issues are just covers - both in musical and metaphorical sense. They're covers of old happenings which will or won't happen again, no one can tell; they cover up the fact that until we move on with our individual lives, we don't have much to say to each other. We each have a desperation, but those desperate needs don't quite match now. They may match later, when we work ourselves out.

It's time for me to pick myself up by the scruff of my neck. I will look. I will search. I will consider. I will find. I will find my way out, and I hope he will, too.

Something has broken, and I can't tell if it's for better or worse, an ending, a beginning, both. I am here, right here and now, and I need to live in it. Again, after September, comes the "shelving" time; after we're both done, we can, perhaps - reconverge...

I'm not saying it's easy on me. Not at all. But it's simple. No sacrifice, we had said, and early on, too. Not even subconscious version of sacrifice. Because if there was sacrifice, not only we wouldn't forgive each other: we wouldn't have forgiven ourselves.

fast or slow?

Do we go fast or slow?

I still remember missing each other so badly for an evening or two - the impossible separation, the dragging of hours, the weary and excited wait for him to show up at my door.

I dislike remembering the desperation tinged efforts of my thesis-writing. That was a special time, during which missing each other was relegated to backburner, out of necessity. No that it was any less desperate.

Now we are just weary and desensitized. Nevertheless. It's like a steady drain on the system. And even if the excitement of seeing him will wear off with time, I'm very ready to just, be around each other. This is too impossible. Seems just impossible to take it.

And I prohibit wanting. It takes energy to want and not receive.

He always disconnected at the most inopportune time. Just enough to foster - something, and leave it. To fester.


He might be having dinner. Or working. Maybe he's on the phone. How about shopping? having a drink with friends? who knew.

She only knew she didn't know what he was thinking. And there was stuff for him to think about.

She only knew she did the best she knew.

And fuck the drama anyway :p

of time wasted

It's interesting. The more time I waste, the less time I waste.

Let me rephrase.

Once again - like a student, needing Remedial Rita lessons - I closed myself in my house to work. Instead, I found myself watching House M.D. rather a lot.

Today I went to the park and sunned myself on a bench. I've just finished breakfast (scrambled eggs, fresh basil, onions, cheese, buns) and have coffee waiting. And I find myself reflecting, that 'wasting time' in the park is muchly preferred to 'not wasting' it - or wasting away - inside.

Living without [fresh] air - apparently unacceptable.

You don't want to lose me, and I'm losing myself.

Don't know what to trust, what to do. You change every which way - I never know if what you're saying is true or 'you're fine' cause you wish to protect me from something. I resent needing protection - can't handle anything - can't tangle this out. The only thing I know clearly is needing a break to do the important stuff. Everything'll get easier after that.

I'm losing myself. Am I strong? addicted? wanting truth? demanding? being childish and immature? asking too much, asking too little? Don't know, and rather can't afford to care.

I'm busy.

poetry recs

I'm reposting stuff to poetssociety on livejournal (http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/) and there are two v. cool poems there. check these out, people!

http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/7086019.html

http://poetssociety.livejournal.com/7083938.html

[here endeth the metanote]

PS incredible, how many bad depressed poetry is out there. i can't read beyond spelling mistakes, and i'm reading anyway because i feel a bit guilty because I do what 90% of posters there - that is, pop in, post my stuff, and don't read anybody else's :P

doors

Awfully wishful, but then -- all the same
I shall find joy in opening of doors.
I cannot walk through all of them, of course --
don't know my choice yet, my path has no name.

But first, there are matters that come to a close
twighlit, long-shadowed, licked by touch of flame
with some head-shaking, critical acclaim
I shall of those things gracefully dispose.

Oh! she exclaimed, as dreamy as rose
in-between pages of long-loved book; stain
having kept fragrance, caressing the nose

She shall be happy with it, I suppose,
with rare-ocurring bouts of teary rain
-- worn metaphors -- comfort that she chose.

tickly (tacky, wacky) thoughts

I like to rub my nipples.
(Warning: this won’t be deep)
I rub them when I just wake up, and when I fall asleep.
I rub them when I think, I rub them when I read -
(especially scientific stuff, it helps me focus just enough)
The only time I stop,
is always when I write
It takes two hands – ay, there’s the rub –
For this to work, I have to stop –
A different pleasure doesn’t rob
Me of fun when I’m done.

Just differently – it still tickles.

I started working (thesis - adorations :p )

I started working. Couldn't tell you why
just as I couldn't tell you why I wasn't.
I feel another shifting of the scales.
They're deep within me. Blotting out of fear
(what was I fearing?) balanced out by pleasure
mindless and soothing. So I ate some sweets,
watched House M.D., bought chocolate yoghurt
went to see friends. Here I am, at work,
striving near frantically, making up the stretch
of "wasted time". But the tipping point
was not, for which thanks, breaking point of me.

Who set up the scales?
Don't know this. But still
I am, will remain
yours and devoted, intrepid and bright,
("brilliant but lazy" - was the diagnosis
of unenlightened) academic rockstar.
Who - right about now - works with all her might.

I started working. And, well, who cares - why?
(I care - fortunately
My dance card is busy :)

We've finally had a storm today. It smelled of dust and car fumes, with a note of yesterday's mowed grass and a faint shadow of sweet fragrance, possibly from the flowers behind the fence of the security-guarded block of flats. I was walking in it when I went shopping: I don't own an umbrella, and I wouldn't have used one anyway. Each drop was like an individual shock to the core.


I made turkey in tomato sauce, with generous dose of garlic and some herbs. It smells divine, but the portion is way too large. I have trouble re-learning how to cook for one.

I bought chocolatey goodness - yoghurt. It's meant to soothe bad moods and maybe a bit, heal the longing. I miss Dutch cheese and shopping at Blaak. I miss having a bike.

I miss places and people. I miss going to swim in the lake. Finally a proper summer, and here I am, stuck with books. My mother kayaks all over the place. Good for her.

I think I should have explored southern Rotterdam a little more.

I will, now, refrigerate the leftover sauce. Eat some sweets. Brush my teeth. Trappings and wrappings of regular life.

I don't want this writing to end. I miss English. Just as I missed Polish.

Did I set myself up to be torn, forever? or, in some cases, for lengthy periods of time?

If I survive this, I will be so strong. Maybe I am already.

I miss
the way my body is with your
body. Even though there's
not a lot I can do
in both situations (A being with, and B
being without) I still miss
tracing your thoughts by your eyes rather than your
voice on the grainy connection
of dearly paid mobiles --
pictures on skype, although nice, do
not give me your
eyelashes, or those eminently
bitable lines of your
jaws, your neck, your.
I miss curling into your collarbone
sliding my hands in places undiscovered by

naked eye, hugging the world
I can feel
within you.

to the next level

I get so smart, when in the shower. It carries me through the day. Through thoughts, ideas, what have you. Through changes.


It will be time to change. No kidding. Yes, I'm scared. I cry, I talk, I hide.


But yes, it's time.


I'll do it. I always do. Not many other things certain, but this.

And the other certain thing I will leave with - yes, that. That, and hope.


Spoken cautiously, though often. Dearly, gently, held.


Next level. Wait for me, on the other side.

na wieczne, nieskończone, silne postanowienie poprawy?

Mam drugą skórę.

Od dawna mam drugą skórę, tylko nie bardzo wiem. Co z nią, i jak ją, i. Wiem skąd. To wiem.

Jeśli jest druga, musi być pierwsza. A pierwsza skóra jest cienka. Cieńsza niż oddech motyla na letnim wietrze, cieńsza niż nitka bawełny, cieńsza niż szpilki ironii, które - w obliczu rozpoetyzowanych obrazeczków - cisną mi się na usta.

Cienka. Za cienka, by żyć.

Nagość, nie do ogarnięcia. Otwarcie, nie do przejścia. Pierwotne otwarcie, pierwsze, nieświadome, nieudane, nie - dane, otwarcie z urodzenia, bez świadomości, pragnień, celów. Otwarcie, cienkie jak papier, jak cień ostrza papieru, jak cięcie na skórze. Wielkie otwarcie. Keine grenzen, without borders, bez granic.

No aż się prosi, żeby przydeptać, i poskakać! :D

Pierwsze otwarcie. Wszystko wejdzie i wyjdzie. Nie do życia, nie do życia z kimś. Za głośno! za dużo! za mocno!

Pierwsza lekcja niesprawiedliwości, czyli przetrwania: nie można oddać tak mocno, jak się otrzymuje.

Pierwsze prawo obcości: nie czuję jak inni ludzie.

Pierwszy siniak: nie pamiętam. Chyba od początku byłam sina. Niebieska, żółta, zielonkawa, wszystko pomiędzy. Obita ruchem powietrza między drzewami, obita głosem i wzrokiem zewnętrza. Nie wolno mi było oddać, nie czuję jak inni ludzie, i oni nie muszą, wcale nie muszą czuć jak ja.

Tak powstała skóra druga.

Na początku zakładałam ją tylko czasem. Jak było ciężko.

Na początku była tarczą, półpancerzem, zatyczką do uszu.

Ale zaczęła przyrastać, i zaczął się problem. Bo druga skóra nie ma drzwi.


Najpierw wysechł mi głos. Potem przestrzeń między biodrami - nim zaczęta, skończona. Brzuch i kanaliki łzowe trzymały się dzielnie, wykonując pracę za wszystko, co zamknięte. Druga skóra nie miała drzwi.

Zacisnęła się wokół mnie ciaśniej niż kaftan bezpieczeństwa, dokładniej, bliżej. Została mną - doskonale funkcjonalny suplement. Druga skóra jest androidem, imitacją normalności. Umożliwiła przetrwanie. A drogie toto było, jak cholera! Wciąż płacę, jak kredyt wzięty na mieszkanie. I mieszkam w niej jak squatter. Silniejszy wstrząs może mnie wyrzucić, nie czuję się jak w domu.

Nie czuję się.

Nie czuję.

Imitacja doznań zmysłowych funkcjonuje bez zarzutu. Opowiesz mi dowcip, i będę się śmiać! Pobijesz mnie, będę płakać! Dotkniesz mnie, odwrócę się i spytam: co jest? No co?!

Gdy zdarzy się coś naprawdę silnego, wstrząs wyrzuca mnie ze skóry. To nie wolność. Natychmiast przyrasta z powrotem, jak bumerang, jak coś na gumce. Nie brak jej sprężystości. Pod drugą skórą, znieczulenie rozprzestrzenia się jak zastrzyk. Pod narkozą, obserwuję jak druga skóra naciąga się z powrotem, wygładza na mojej twarzy.

Druga skóra nie ma drzwi.



Nie chcę wychodzić ze skóry. Świat na zewnątrz jest silny, bez świadomości własnej siły. Wszystko uderza z coraz większą prędkością, mimowolnie, bez złych intencji. Nie chcę być kukłą do bicia, rzucaną przez kolejne uderzenia, z prawa na lewo. Nie chcę wchodzić na ring.

Skóra nie jest zła. Jest konieczna. Nie umiem poza nią żyć.

Ale wciąż walczę. Dzień w dzień, wycinam w niej otwór na usta. Oczy mam na wierzchu, zawsze, zawsze bezbronne. Przed intensywnością mojego wzroku nie musiałam chronić otoczenia. To tylko mój głos, który teraz gotuje się pod skórą, był przedmiotem lęku zewnętrza. Ten głos jest za potężny, żeby z nim żyć w skórze, zbyt mocny, by go tu zatrzymać.

Mam drugą skórę. Ona ma mnie. Otwieram sobie drzwi - czasem naturalnie, czasem aktem woli. Czasem drzwi kołyszą się, jakbym mrugała powieką. Czasem ktoś się dziwi, że tam jest coś pod spodem, czerwone.

Mam drugą skórę. Mam się bać?