This post is also available in: polski (Polish)
In our roof garden, large orange and red toadstools have grown, sprinkled with irregular balls that look like rolled-up papers. When November draws in the clouds and starts raining all day long, our toadstools are like living pieces of art, their colours shining through the darkest thoughts.
R. makes wooden spoons, forks, spatulas. Then he serves salads to his guests with this artistic cutlery he made. Also, he teaches this art to others as a volunteer. But for himself, he has a rule, that he always finds one or two hours before going to bed to do something creative. He easily has time for it despite his busy job, because he just wants to do it. Then he feels alive.
Getting up for work every day before 5 a.m. can be exhausting, especially if you also have to travel on a not-so-clean bus. So, I type out poems on my phone. I collect sounds, sleepy faces of passengers, the colours of their jackets, and sometimes surprises I see outside the window. Quite often a beautiful red fox runs through the streets of Galway. I filter it through the sparks of my emotions. Just such discreet details taken out of context: sneezing, tiredness, dreams, duties, on the way to and from work.
– Hello G. – S. greets me. – Hello D. – S. says to our friend as well. This is why I like the English language because of such shortcuts. Because I feel that under one letter there is a piece of art. I want to discover it. Create. To be alive in this wheel with moment-to-moment awareness.