i tend to visit poland once a year,
although i used to spend
every summer over there in my teens,
that's how i left school aged
16, a chubby doughnut,
and reentered it to study for my
a-levels a beefed up slim -
the only way to loße weight,
apparently is not in the gym
(too much excess skin) -
cycling!
or? swimming!
anyway...
but as i've aged, whenever i go
into hiatus seeing my grandparents,
who do not have internet access,
and stay off whiskey for up to
a month, and absorb all the scents
of winter of -0°C - last year it went down
to -30°C in the night,
and -18°C in the day: magical -
felt like smoking a cigarette with
every breath, and that eerie crispness
in the air, biting, stabbing needles -
and an even eerier scent of burning
wood - leaves - cinnamon...
by the way: bad idea wearing jeans
in sub-zero temperature -
the cold pinches the fabric:
you're better off with softer materials.
anyway...
as time went by, i realised something,
westerners look at their countries
as if about to chop off a gangrened limb,
they see no mirror, themselves:
faces savaged by an abyss, drained,
non-existent, hardly even in the buffer
of the grime of the everyday commuter
grey, merging into a collective
amnesia of: hardly a stand-out
punk with leather, studs, and a fluorescently
pink mohawk.
these days i find the country, sure,
it's there, it's more advanced than it was,
people are getting richer,
but you still have stray dogs running
in the streets, and wild cats in the cemeteries,
don't ask me how these cats managed
to un-domesticate themselves and
turn into these feral bonsai tiger,
they live in tombs,
waiting for the next funeral i expect;
point being:
every time i go back and visit the old-timers,
my grandfather always buys me cigarettes,
and usually picks out a book from his
private library in order to give me a challenge -
he has all these books and has barely read
a tenth of them... last year he gave me
god's wrath by kraszewski -
a wide majority found him bland -
but i managed to digest it, not bad,
given that the backdrop of god's wrath
translates into the with fire and with sword
by sienkiewicz - i.e. the cossack uprising,
seen the film, didn't read the book,
but i read the "antithesis" of the whole
affair... so that's that.
again, beside the point,
the point i want to make is that,
whenever i go back for my healthy hiatus:
i'm not looking for a country...
i'm looking for both child,
and teenager.
i can't either of them!
every single time i'm looking for
the child, the teenager and the man i am now,
but the man i am now is a detached
body, with what seems like missing
organs, mainly the brain, and the heart.
i can't find either heart, or brain in this land...
merely having the tongue that
can belong in this land is not enough...
it doesn't matter if the tongue is
still there, with no heart, with no brain,
i might as well be a foreigner who merely
acquired the native language and perfected it...
which is odd...
to say the least,
esp. upon hearing stories about what is
the day-to-day in the pat three days,
the 60,000+ strong marches through warsaw,
the resurgence of nationalism...
i feel some allegiance, in absentia,
although to the tongue, rather than the land,
simply because: i'm not there!
my heart and mind have
become detached to the point that they
remain in england, with the internet connection
access;
and mainly my work:
i want to introduce orthography into
the english language, as already stated:
loße (lose) differs from loose - primarily
because there is a stiffening of the S in losing
that becomes gaining a Z -
the germans use it, originally,
to cut back on the english preference of
little, better, mummified,
bladder,
pepper,
daddy, i.e.? the double consonant,
the rudolf heß - rather than hess -
well, the english could actually make
sense of the german grapheme (es und zed)
by playing the latin interchange game...
you don't loose, you loo'zzz...
i wonder if i can puncture
english and introduce orthography into it...
diacritical markings...
after all, orthography is already in place
in english: text spreschen:
e.g. c u l8er the crudest example i could think
of...
only the best of men
are the products of their time,
and none are even revolutionary -
most, are merely reactionary.
the whole joke in this affair that
these were written from: essex.
imagine the irony when
that's revealed to an englishman -
given that essex is the ****-joke in every
stereotype...
a bit like that similarity
to: whatever good ever came out of nazareth?
applies to essex, essex is nazareth
of the north.
