Rzeka/ The River

Pruje się, rozplącza, cienkie ścieżki skóry nawijają się na gałęzie, drą o kolce, miękko przyjmując drzazgi, ckliwe miejsca rozdrapują się do rekinich zębów, a potem już tylko wyrywanie włosów, a potem już tylko wyjmowanie kości. śpiewaj mi kryształami, śpiewaj mi rzewną rzeką, bo potem już tylko wyciąganie kości, przebijają baloniki powietrza, małe nieba plują z nich, spływają i rzęzą, pulsator charczy i  wypełza z ciała meandrującą czerwienią. jak wąż. rzeka kipi i wytryskuje, już jej nie zatrzymasz, wykasłuję ją na chusteczki, z których robię papierowe listy bez butelki, wibrują w niej kryształowe struny, jej fale rozpruwają dzioby ptaków, wysupłują z wodorostow jak z jelit długie i mętne ryby,  za moment się w tobie rozpuszczę, za moment się w tobie rozwinę, śpiewaj mi czysta rzeko, śpiewaj mi czysta chwilo.

It unweaves, it disentangles, the thin paths of skin wind on branches, tear against spikes, softly absorbing the splinters, maudlin spots scratch selves into shark teeth, and next will be tearing out hair and next will be taking out bones. sing to me crystals, sing to me a tender river, because after, there will be taking out bones, piercing tiny air balloons, small skies are spitting from them, flowing down and rattling, the pulsator is wheezing and crawling out of the body with meandering redness. like a snake. the river is spilling over and ejaculating, you won't stop it now, I cough it out on paper handkerchiefs and sent them as letters without a bottle, crystal strings are vibrating in them, its waves are torn apart by beaks of birds, they're untying out long and cloudy fish from seaweed like from the intestines, in a moment I will fuse into you,  I'm going to unfurl in a moment, sing me you clean river, sing me you clean minute.

Putrefaction

 Coś we mnie idzie. Czułam to, gdy schodziłam do studni i przewidywałam potrzebny czas. Że robię się słaba, i że na te chwilę słabości muszę się schować, żeby nikt nie mógł mnie uszkodzić. Wylewa się ze mnie smolista maź, jakby z tej ogromnej czarnej dziury co ssie i ssie we mnie, chyba się oczyszczam. Ale to trudny proces, wymaga ogromnej energii. Straciłam ochotę na seks, kumuluję myślokalorie. Przypomina mi to zmianę wylinki, obserwowałam ostatnio pająka, był taki nieporadny i bezbronny, bez szansy na ucieczkę, dlatego zanim zawisł i zdjął z siebie starą skórę, z pol godziny szukal dobrego miejsca, z dala.od wlasnej sieci, w ktorej zwykle przesiaduje calymi dniami. Miał szczęście, że to byłam ja. No więc czuję się tak samo jak ten pająk w połowie ściągania wylinki. Tyle, że ze mnie się cos wylewa. Cos niemojego, oslizglego, lepkiego, gestego i bezbrzeznie czarnego. I czuje, że dopóki tego nie wyrzygam, muszę przeczekać w swoim bezpiecznym miejscu. Oczyszczam się. 

Something's going out of me.  I felt it when I went down to the well and predict the necessity of some time.  That I am getting weak and that for this moment of weakness I must hide so well, that no one can harm me. Tarry slime is pouring out of me, as if from this huge black hole that sucks and sucks inside of my belly, I think I'm putrifying myself.  But it is a difficult process, it requires a lot of energy.  I have lost my desire for sex, I am accumulating my thoughts and calories.  It reminds me of a change of moult, I watched a spider once, he was so clumsy and defenseless, with no chance of escaping, so before he hung up and took off his old skin, he had looked for a good place for half an hour, away from his own web, where he usually hangs out whole days. This spider was lucky it was me.  So, I feel the same as that spider in a halfway through its moult.  With a small difference, it's something what is pouring out of me.  Something not mine, slimy, sticky, dense, and infinite black.  And I feel like I have to wait in my safe place until I throw it up.  Mayhap this is a purification, I dunno.

The Well

 i am lying curled up on the floor, a nervous wreck from own rests, pieces of legs, parts of the hands, glued bits of my hair, and all is just a fading, a continuation of disintegration, that is goood, when no one is seeing, it doesn't hurt anymore, this is the safest state of self. I have this monstrous headaches since last month and looking straightly into the Moon is helpful, so I am sitting here relentlessly, screaming at my father. He wanted to watch cartoons yesterday, I wanted to see Dances with wolves, the Death will come again today probably. 

Animals have been arriving at the bottom of this dry well for years, heaven knows what strange ways they chose to get here. Their weakening bodies are listening fleshy oracles only and now, they are dwelling on the kindness of dreaming in this dark womb. Their rotten bones are grinding and you may feel the dampness of their decaying skin with celestial clouds of flies above their waiting corpses. All unsuitable, all a bit clumsy, too many unnecessary limbs, siamese sisters germinated from "what about once again?", doubled, tripled, sixty-finger, with twin heads and fused hearts, protruding like a dead tree outside the wrongly glued chest. Write! - It was said. - It will bring you a relief, wrap self into art, they will open all doors to you, stick out your degenerated body on the sun, they will welcome you with opened arms. So you are, stub following stub, paw following paw, bone following bone, your mind is beautiful! Hand following hand, nails are scratching out the path, the world will be open, show your snout, smile your teeth, their souls will be opened, so you are crawling from home to home, from window to window, from face to face, you will see, they will look into your eyes and they will open their chests, so you're crawling from home to home, from face to face, from eyes to eyes, yes, it is so goood! Look at them, loook! From eyes to eyes, leering deeply in, every time deeper, and deeper, going down to the same bottom. And there is no end of the eye, nor the beginning of the soul, there's only the well with celestial clouds of flies, divine messengers.

Dyb(b)uk

To będzie część większego projektu, tak więc kontekst pracy będzie ewoluował, i z czasem nabierze dodatkowego znaczenia. Więcej napiszę w miarę wzrostu.

This will be a part of wider project, so the context of the work may evolve and new, additional meaning may be given to it. More will be revealed with time.

*Dybuk, rysunek tuszem na papierze / Dybbuk, ink drawing on a paper

Whelve or bury deeply or hide something

Przepraszam, że tym razem nie po polsku, ale tak czasami jest łatwiej.

 Język może być jak duże ciemne okulary, możesz napisać 

wszystko, a potem się pięknie za nim schować.

Since my abuse and since I had swallowed all these pills, since that hard teenagehood I 

believed, that death had kissed me. That that kiss had come with vomiting and touched 

me from the inside, when I was choked by it. I believed also, that all my inner animals

 were killed then, that they were butchered for a bloody pulp and I was living with these 

infernal, decomposing corpses, stinking carcass, which poisoning my gut. 

But I died after that once again, and my animals were resurrected. 

"Dark prophetess, the sphinx" - Ovidius spins the thread - "now, lay dead, her puyzzles 

forgotten" - after Oedipus had solved the riddle, Sphinx jumped off the cliff. Internal

 languages untangled themselves, my external parts cut off from deeper me like from 

unwanted relative, the infernal situation was growing larger, spreading like a strange and 

beautiful virus in a shape of an english garden (Bacon's "the purest of human pleasures"), 

but hortus conclusus has stick out of the darkness with own heads and limbs, I wasn't able to 

hold it closed for longer,  this is my body which is for you, do this in remembrance of me,
 drink from me, I said, this is my blood, and there was no brave ones, no one dreams about 

rite or communion, men didn't expect anything more than getting into physically me, if I 

mentioned about slaughtering all my holy and unholy beings ( only then they may reborn 

stronger inside of me), when I mentioned about my boundless hortus deliciarum, when I 

was finally brave enough to say about them, these all men were too small. No one was 

able to surpass at least the same threshold. They were standing sometimes too long, 

against my Western Wall, putting their plastic desires in a tiny cracks, I was waiting in 

silence until they will go away, reading all these confessed wishes of small male 

paradises,  so I read about latex, corsets, heels like horseshoes, pink spanking, stylish 

eyebands, fancy ribbons to bound wrists like in these soft-porn novels, 

these braver ones 

happened to mutter with this trembling from fear voice "I want to fuck you, bitch", those 

more braver expressed their desire to get to my ass, the desire to see me on my knees 

licking their feet,  they wanted to whisper to me when, where and how I should touch self 

and why "exactly now, whore", no one was able to get in, no one was able to reach me, 

no one was able to make his desires possible, I felt like a sphinx, breaking neck by neck, 

 no one of them has opened me, no one has taken me, no one has understood this well 

inside, although they tried hard to satisfy my need of death, but how to know the death if you 

haven't experienced the one?, they had no chances at all.  It was a long journey to your feet, 

I would write one day. The one who would grasp me, i've felt this one, this feral bloodlust, 

 the one who comprehends, that it's not about the shallow sexual play. I've felt him with my medula

 nostrals or these nostrals which are deeper under my bones, the one, who is aware, that 

this surpassing is a wild and raw thing at all, that this is around our blood. It's not a fancy 

variety. This one, who knows, that I may wash his feet, but that I may bit and sting too,

 and it lies in my nature, not to change or to alter. The one who knows that I am only 

in a little part tamable, and who will not try to wipe out this wilderness with a physical or 

mental whip ( the whip is to surpassing only). Who is ready to let me also in, to cross his

 borders, if there will be the will, because we both own these half-dead, half-alived 

feral beings, we both know them well. The one who's aware, that he's already fuck my 

mind, that he's already in. And now, when I sense his presence, I cannot stop, 
I've never wanted to stop, it's the very rare moment in time, the only one moment in time, when

 the 

passage is opened. I want to give away my blood and my flesh, there is, somewhere under 

them both, my buried soul, or however you call it, there my soul lies, which was buried a long

 ago. And as is for that I have happened here, maybe I am not the mistake of the universe 

anymore, to give you blood and bone.  Infernal animals are overfilling me, they are the 

swelling, bulbous river. 

Something lost and something found

Przez jakieś 5 lat to był autoportret niekończący się, nawarstwiający się, igrający z czasem, zmiennokształtny. Pod macie cztery inne obrazy, cztery inne pary oczu, część przeszłości łypie spod farby, część dołączyła do warstwy ostatniej, spajającej. 

Cisza jest teraz moim towarzyszem.

Pytam: z czego umarła moja dusza?

a cisza odpowiada

jeśli twoja dusza umarła, czyim życiem

żyjesz i

kiedy stałeś się tą osobą

- Louise Gluck

It had been an endless self-portrait for few years. Portrait consisted from many stratums, which played with time, a shape-shifting thing. There are four different paintings under, four different pairs of eyes. The part of the past is luring from under the paint, the other past has joined to the last, consolidating layer.

Silence is now my new companion.

I ask: from what my soul had died?

and the silence answers

if your soul has died, whose life

do you live and

when you`ve become that person

- Louise Gluck

oil painting on a board, 64cm x 94 cm