Think you are escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
James Joyce
My town has eyes as deep as the Atlantic. When the sun sometimes blinks, the eyes of the town turn into chestnut doggies, running and enjoying the streets without rain.
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Even if something undesirable happens in our life, it always has many hues. The pandemic of Covid-19 and lockdown have been hard and surspised news for everybody, also for the team of Galway 2020. However Wave Makers not the first time look after the light between clouds. They built the bridges to stay with touch with the local community.
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Many people like to eat porridge for breakfast, and I do it too. Oatmeal was reportedly popular as early as the Bronze Age. But do you have your own story with porridge? Mine is very simple and lives in my heart.
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Outside the window is a November grey, cars move along the wet street, but their noise reminds me of the sound of the sea. The flame of a cinnamon candle lights up my kitchen, where I write letters to residents of nursing homes.
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The second wave of the epidemic came in autumn. Atlantic in Galway has been pouring from the sky for several days and the roar of the wind wakes up me at night. But the cry of revolution from Poland is louder than the stormy sea and it echoes in my heart.
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I cannot imagine my life without a bike. Ever since I can remember, the bicycle has always motivated me to the adventure. Even if I was riding to the store on the same street.
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Who knows where it is:
the constant dogs, auroras, and wild gardens?
It is very, very, very close from here
It is there, where losing, no one wins
There is the lake and the peak in parallel
and I dance, I swim over, to the void - for nothing.
-sings Mela Koteluk.
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The catalyst for this article was an virtual meeting with Izabela Duchnowska, the initiator of a community fridge which she put in front of her artistic hostel in Wrocław’s Nadodrze over two years ago.
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In Galway, outside the window graphite clouds and wet asphalt. But in my kitchen, Spain is sitting at the table, because for several mornings I enjoy Pan con tomate.
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One afternoon, Destined / Namienionô – a bilingual poetry book by Małgorzata Wątor fell through the letter slot in the blue door of my apartment in Galway, Ireland. A first poem called to me in the corridor yet.
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