This year I learned how my breath smells. Under the protection mask, I was surprised by the strange odour. It took me time to realize it was my personal scent. A mixture of fear, delusion, and self-indulgence. The unpleasant trace of my inner world smacked me right in the face, making it hard to ignore.
Wiola Ujazdowska vacuums the floor in the library. She goes around chairs and tables; she reaches right under our feet, making us a little uncomfortable. Stretched to its limits, the vacuum cleaner cord hits the ground as she moves around. The linoleum floor squeaks under her shoes. Wiola vacuums letters: the S, the C, the A, the N, and the D. For a moment we read a ‘scandal’ but no—it’s a ‘Scandinavian dream’.
Walking faster or looking back for the third time would be an invitation for attack. His steps crumb the frozen ground. I wrap my hopes around the keys, their silver blades between my fingers. Should I speed up or slow down? Can I look back?
In 1982, in the middle of martial law, when tanks drove up and down our streets, and people died in our prisons, the poet Agnieszka Osiecka came up with a new slogan. Coca-Cola to jest to! She wrote and she won. Communism collapsed…
A stream is leaking. Urine is leaking. Time is leaking. Saliva is leaking. I have low back pain. Did I hurt myself while bending down or carrying chairs? I do carry chairs here. Up and down. The stairs. The stage. The floor in the old theater is wooden…
Your mom wouldn’t like you to play here. Watch your head. The ceiling is peeling off. Concrete expelling salt. Time has stained the walls. Each streak is an art piece in itself. Tarkovsky would be jealous. There is no smell. No sound. Just echo. Echo and the dust. Dust of fish and dust of men…