This post is dedicated to Agnieszka
Yes, my life is made of little things. I like to discover them from graphite time when clouds and crows look to my window. So, sometimes I have the day marked of crispy bread, or, like last Friday, marked by notebooks. Then I feel simple happiness. Although it is fragile, I do not want to bind it, because I know that somewhere, once again it will charm me with its small motion.
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May the darkness within you recognize
there’s hope for clarity paths ahead
from the Imbolc blessing
Heavy clouds hug the beginning of February, the rain does want to stop. And the lockdown in Ireland will be until March. The crisis is perching on the windowsill along with green mold. Therefore, instead of looking out the window, I stare at Instagram, and I recognize a familiar symbol in the photo – a square cross made of rushes.
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Recently, I have been wearing corduroy trousers again. This time in Tobacco colour. I find in them lines from poems, cigarette smoke from student days, and the fragrance of Cracow. Because dust from many places settles on the corduroy, and between the stripes is my character – a pinch of nostalgia, rebellion, and the amber sun.
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Blue Monday was introduced to the calendar as the most depressing day of the year by UK psychologist from Cardiff. January is probably very gloomy and wet in the Welsh capital located on the Bristol Channel, major inlet extent to the North Atlantic. I can imagine it because we have in Ireland the same, even worst.
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Recently, I have been translating the poems of my favorite poet Michelle O’Sullivan into Polish again. The first piece from the book The blue end of stars is preceded by an interesting quote from the Czech poet and scientist Miroslav Holub. In surprise I find the answer that I have been looking for so many years.
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Feelings are roads, with different colours and surfaces. In New Year, I arrive on a skateboard. A ginger horizon stretches before me. Colours are signposts, although they keep changing, I like to follow them.
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A few days before Christmas Eve, the rain drips into the morning coffee. Graphite sky instead of the ceiling in the kitchen.
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There is a cobalt sky behind the window, and a well-known house with a red door. Colourful lights hung on a curtain rod shine with peace. Its glow is reflected in the chocolate cup saucer.
I take out a small table and blue chopping board on it. Next to it, on the sofa, there are old magazines, extraordinary papers, scraps, and a pencil case with liners, scissors, and glue.
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Oh, let me get wet and cold at last. I want to do something useful for the earth today
– I thought, after a month of lockdown.
As was raining the volunteer’s clean up at Claddagh beach in Galway have been cancelled. But around midday the rain stopped, so Aga, Mary, and I took litter keepers, gloves and bags and we went to the shore of Atlantic.
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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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