Archive for the ‘Nous, les enfants du xxème siècle’ Category

Vis-à-vis,

mon ami,

be careful what you wish for,

it might be a cliché,

like yesterday,

and heartbeats…

(perhaps you only have so many)

…minutes at the beach.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Advertisements

I open my wallet and remember,

something personal.

Past,

history,

the me that was

and is

in memory

and actuality.

I liked the money with Karol Świerczewski on it.

It meant something to me.

The 50 złoty note, a historical bookmark most would prefer forgotten, a pan-Slavist idealistic remnant of the people’s republic, overcome by hopes and hopelessness, the European nightmare, democracy, capitalism, perceptions of freedom and the kind of work ethic that sends you to another country. Sigh. Yes, I prefer memory and sleep.

 

Life, I turn one way.

And then I turn another.

Sigh, I prefer sleep.

 

When you don’t like the name you were given,

or the role assigned by “fate”,

sometimes,

sometimes,

when the time is apt

(new wave, vanguard rides),

you can choose your own path,

within the radical system,

and be

a functionary,

anonymous to the masses

(now, allow yourself a self-satisfied smile),

part of the new ruling class,

a righteous cog,

essential pillar,

Apparatchik.

 

Politely declining an invitation

that I know is wrong.

Praying, listening to the voice within,

obeying my moral imperative,

doing the right thing.

Unexplainable, perhaps,

incomprehensible,

but totally justifiable

to myself.

And that

is what matters.

 

I have a soulmate.

I had a soulmate?

I remember the beautiful years and days when we were close.

Poetic and sublime, words don’t suffice.

Beautiful.

Bliss.

Sigh.

Then time and people, situations and circumstance,

messed things up,

sullied and discordant,

and an awkward, spasmodic communiqué

became our way.

Tomorrow is her Birthday

and I want to give her my all,

to tell her I love her, madly and deeply,

but there is a distance and a barrier,

so all I can do is give her a few words.

Insufficient and frustrating.

Such is life,

Katyusha.

C’est la vie,

fucked and pained.

A Pole once told me that I was lucky to be a szkop in Russia. Castrated? Yes. He said try being a Pollack or a black arse.

Stick with Nemsty.

Indeed, Nemtsy means mute and refers to the lack of communication and comprehension, the language barrier between early Hanseatic Germans and Russians. The name stuck. Yes, some twist this to mean Russians think Germans are dumb. But, really, the days of potato and sausage references are long gone irrelevant (Russians love their Kartoshka and Kolbassa!), and allegations of neat gardens amongst shit-heaps, well… And unlike the Western Allies, Russians and Soviets generally didn’t seek to degrade their German Nazi enemy with collective slurs. Perhaps excepting Damn Germans, and individual (understandable) expletives and profanities which didn’t linger. … Unlike “us”. … We lingered long, woven into the fabric, sometimes freely, sometimes forced by circumstance, surprising to outsiders, quite the extent: Germans in Russia.

… 

The Kids Of Degrassi Street? In time, play button permitting, maybe tomorrow.

Today, more likely The Littlest Hobo, or any number of TVOntario (Educational) programs.

The boy walked over to the 12 inch TV and twisted the knob. The world awaited.

 

Papka didn’t mind me staying up and watching the news. 21:00. Time, Forward!

Cue the music, emotion and memories: today, tomorrow and yesterday’s. Yes, it’s still stirring night after night, into perpetuity.

 

They say a lot of things, they don’t understand.

They react to pain, current and inherited.

They hate you, real and imagined.

They sit in the waiting room, agitated,

not knowing from second to second whether and/or if their time is coming, now.

Like evil little lambs to the slaughter…

Stomachs churn.

 

Forward? Hah! Trying to wipe out the past. Fixated on what was, losing sight of what is. Sigh. Progression feels like regression.

 

Imagine.

A boy in the West, a child of the ’70s/’80s, whatever that means.

Fatherless, his mother worked hard to provide the best for him.

From Catholic school to sundries, it generally meant education, knowledge, information, progress.

One year: a computer, Commodore Vic 20.

Another year: a set of encyclopedias.

Indeed, he loved learning, the world and its people, he loved these books.

In one volume there was a picture of some Pioneers. Children, not much older than him, from a far-off land, stern faces, serious intent. The boy had heard tell of this country and these people, referred to in terms of enemy and “other”. Dangerous and alien, beware. … The encyclopedia article concurred with these vibes.

He sighed.