poniedziałek, 3 lipca 2017

Alcanadre Puta Madre

W Alcanadre wiatr rzadko ustaje. Klimat tej pięcusetosobowej osady przycupłej kilka kilometrów od drogi pomiędzy Saragossą a Bilbao potwierdza charakterystyczną dla regionu północnego centrum Hiszpanii pogodową groteskę. Silne wiatry hulają po bezkresnych pagórkowatych równinach redukując w mgnieniu oka ponad czterdziestostopniowe skwary do kilkunastostopniowych chłodów, początkiem lipca. Dzisiaj mieszkańcy słonecznej Hiszpanii paradują przed nami w swoich jesienno-zimowych kurtkach podczas gdy my, nawet przez głowę mi nie przeszło, żeby zasięgnąć pogodowej porady smartfona, w krótkich spodenkach i przewiewnych koszulo-bluzach. Stoimy głodni pod stalowym niebem na pustej ulicy, a wiatr nas czesze jak w kominie.
Alcandre jest opustoszałe. W przeciągu ostatnich lat to siedlisko wśród pustkowi, rozdarte siłami przylegających do siebie regionów Nawarry i La Rioja, utraciło ponad siedemdziesiąt procent mieszkańców. W chłodne dni, takie jak ten, gdy siesta zaprojektowana pod ucieczkę przed nieznośnym upałem kompletnie traci rację bytu, ciasne uliczki nastrajają do refleksji. Prawie nikt się tam nie szwenda. Nawet dzieci. W Alcanadre została ich już tylko garstka. Wieczorem drą się jak radosne zwierzęta pod drzewem zdobiącym centralny placyk osady widmo. Na przywitanie, przyjezdnym, których widzą na oczy po raz pierwszy, odpowiadają rześko, bez wahania czy zdziwienia. To tam znajduje się skromna siedziba merostwa. Nad jego bramą, targana chłodnym wiatrem łopocze tęczowa flaga. Lokalna społeczność pod wodzą dwudziestosześcioletniego mężczyzny - najmłodszego mera Hiszpanii, chce na powrót zaludnić opustoszałą osadę. 
Bar Asu jest centrum życia społecznego Alcanadre. Jego uroda i funkcjonalność stoją w wyraźnym konflikcie. Asu-właścicielka hoteliku Casa de Azul uwija się parząc kawy. Układa na chlebie plastry suszonej szynki i pichci te miałkie tortille o smaku bezbarwnym jak życie Saudyjek. Jej chrypliwy głos zderza się z akompaniamentem telewizyjnej relacji z kolejnej gonitwy za piłką, a starszyzna pod oknem, spragniona światła, trzaska swój kontrapunkt grając leniwie w domino...

środa, 5 kwietnia 2017

Chinda

mimo że jej działania oparte są na logice niezrozumiałej dla Dumkraty, Chinda jest wciąż rzadkością tu, w ludzkiej mgle, gdzie reaguje się na niewiele. nawet jeżeli poszczęści mu się przydumać z taką Chindą, w służbie biurokracji, paraliżowanej strachem przed odpowiedzialnością za pieniądze i reputacje swoje lub któregoś z szefów, nic nie dzieje się szybko. decyzje podejmowane są na ostatnią chwilę, ale  gracze wzbudzający pożądanie przezroczyste jak znamię ambicji na to właśnie czekają. 
teraz ustami Chindy po raz któryś przypominają co komu przystoi. świadomi swojej pozycji i roli nie potrafią kibicować inaczej dobrobytowi własnego narodu. nigdy przecież nie zdefiniowali patriotyzmu. z resztą nie są w tym odosobnieni. w odległej Kurabii też nie podejmuje się romantycznych decyzji.
Chinda brnie więc z pokorą w życie asystentki asystenta, otwarta na pytania, rozumiejąca przeszkody, świadoma co należy zrobić, odpowiadająca gotowością zmiany taktyk w obliczu przejawów braku skuteczności poprzednich działań, przemawiająca cierpliwością tych, co zawsze się dopasowują. zawsze lojalna sile, która nikomu nie pozostawia wyboru.

niedziela, 19 lutego 2017

Nad Czyimś Strumykiem

       W restauracji przy drodze dobrze dają. Tak jak z resztą i u tych obok, chociaż ta tu wygląda na prawdziwą dajnię. Poznać to po natężeniu pustki w przerwach pomiędzy erupcjami, bo wyraźnie skacze i po zgiełku pojazdów - tylko on stale wypełnia przestrzeń pod przepastnym zadaszeniem. Przesuwają się łagodnie po ekranie niewidocznych wrót jedynego wyjścia. Za to koło wychodka jest jak w domu. Może gdyby nie te blaszane drzwi - zaczynają się na wysokości kolan a pachnie gorzkniejącą szczyną. Na tle przytłumionej ulicy brzęczy gdzieś ta gitarka, kojąco jakby jej kto pudło wydrążył w wyschniętym patyku. Błękitnodzioby ptak szamocze się w klatce na pomarańczowych lapkołydkach. 
Wiercąc własną melodią definiuje pod lasek nad czyimś strumykiem...  

niedziela, 5 lutego 2017

To Be Hayya

It is difficult to be Hayya although she wouldn't agree.
Having lived on the planet for twenty eight years the pretty woman that she is still has no husband although her mother and grandmother married at just thirteen. Born in the heart of desert, never conquered by any power throughout its entire history, Hayya is a strong believer. In this matter she resembles the rest of her people. Her believes seem unshaken by common doubts. 
Hayya's life didn't spare her misfortunes. Her brother died recklessly in a speeding accident and she grew up in in a military village. Her family led by a high rank army man and there, fifteen hundred houses sinking in the schorch of sands. Despite her age Hayya cannot leave their farm on her own. Even a forty kilometers trip to the nearby town needs to be approved by the old father. Only then can she go accompanied by a male relative. 
She is an educateed woman of a curious mind. She likes history and speaks a foreign language. 
Hayya is among the youngest of her eight brothers and sisters without step mothers. Her father never took wives although it is incouraged among his people.
Hayya is a capricious girl. She lives driven by the rhythm of her whimsical behaviour. Menstruations and heat. Religious duties and the conviction of living an exclusive life. The society of wealth and social unity. All provided by endless sea of oil and religion of the only truth. Therfore Hayya hardly ever admits her mistakes. All she does is follow the will of God. Anyone who thinks different should reconsider their own misinterpretation of truth that she claims to have always been plugged into the source of. Therefore she feels no need to explain herself to anyone. 
But Hayya gets lonely. In those moments bearability of her very existance depends on talking to a male - such a sparse commodity in her desert world. That is why she choses to talk with strangers, online. Chatting became an important part of Hayya's everyday life. What else does she have left to do but hiding in the airconditioned rooms of her heat-proof bunker called house or the temple and the nearby workplace's chilly quarters? 
And Hayya keeps dreaming of a foreign husband. The idea of having a boyfriend doesn't even cross her mind. The very thought of it is so alien to Desert People as democracy in China. But the tribal traditions oppose marrying strangers even if they are beleievers. Dreams that musn't come true are all Hayya can enjoy silently. Her avatar shows Hayya kiss the lips of her own reflection in the mirror. She is all that exists out there for the woman she wants to be. Inspite of her age Hayya still remains innocent like children can be. Internet once palyed on her a robotic trick and let her see people fuck in front of her eyes for the very first time. Shaken from the reality of the images already pictured anyway for so many times yet in a completely different way, that night Hayya didn't sleep a wink. 
Hayya is trapped between the desires of "what life might be if" and the reality that makes her obey the lifestyle observed there for thousands of years. Modern technology brought its gadgets to that place but the change they herald are also the very poison her people protect themselves from. So does Hayya. She craves to taste the fruit of change yet she remains loyal to all the traditions - always halting people on their paths they might taken. Consumed by this conflict, she gets to suffer from fits of anger she doesnt's fully realise the source of. But Hayya likes to play with fire although all the talking to strangers, unbefitting a true believer, must forever be kept a secret... The shady marigins of her clendestine life are for her to roam alone. 
In this Hayya opposes the very rules she believs to be right.
It is difficult to be Hayya...

wtorek, 10 stycznia 2017

The Tranlucent Cloud of Eric's Dilemma

    Mary is always worried when Eric gets away on one of his uncountable trips for bread and pleasures. Mary is his Mother after all and he gets away frequently. Now Eric thinks he can be Mary's therapist. Lured by the charms of his mid-life changing discoveries Eric is becaming a preacher of change and Mary loves to be his devout follower. She likes pretending to be in need of advice. She enjoys playing a woman at peace with a man. She reviews her special part for all those times' sake when she couldn't deliver as the wife she once was. Now Mary believes her fault in it to be the reason of all the sufferings she will yet have to face. She has no money either. At least not much. Edward left her with a modest pension after the divorce that felt like a long labour concluding thirty five years of pregnancy for the gloom of disilussions. Once mostly dependant on her husband's income now she is being condamned to her sons' whims of generosity. All due to Mary's memory for wrongdoings that brought her pain. She remembers them all and she cherishes them just the same. But she was broken apart many times... Never did her father fall short on generosity lecturing his family with the authotity of a horse whip. So she learned to obey. She cooked for nine. She worked the field since being six. She was even a servant at sixteen. The mouths were too many too feed. How she cared for the baron's son bedded with small pox!
      Mary met Eric's father at the shipyard. She was down here. He was up there. Drawn by innocence still smouldering thickly or by recklesness fortold she would fell for Edward's charms. His toungue of silver soon started to rattle for a daughter! It was during her pregnancy that she realized Edward's having already long been away with other women. The cheapest tobbaco and poisonous thoughts of the unforgiving and revange never left Mary during her debut pregnancy. Eric's brother's coming to this world removed Mary's hopes for happy life with Edward for good. Unable to divorce her husband for the pious that she was and for how much she cared for what they say, Mary felt forced into the cold of being a wife trapped in marriage and a mother of children rejected by a father longing for offspring of opposite sex. Whatever the waves brought she would face in only way familiar to her - fighting her husband's lies while beating the kids into integrity of which no capital failiures at school and regular church attendance were the elements of key. But this was how Mary loved her family. What Mary struggles with is the solitude occassionally peaced by companionship of her yet another boyfriend's. Eric is ten years younger then Mary. Yes, her boyfriend's name is Eric too but this one she calls Ricky. She already let Ricky go a number of times but he keeps coming back at her resolve's ritual softening. For the first time Mary enjoys cock. Besides Ricky knows his ways around the house as well. When the season gets right he likes to show the kind of a handy man he is always with his pint of bourbon well at hand. But Mary has no illusions. What she tries to share with Ricky is far removed from his capacity to comprehend the woman of such sensitivity. It is the perspective of a lonely life that made her practical. 
       Now Mary is blaminmg Eric for the ungreatful firstborn that he is, for his disrespect that she finds blatant and ourageous. This is where we get to Eric's true dilemma. Eric's father, Edward, grew up without his own old man whom he lost to tuberculosis at being himself just two. Naturally Edward had no clue what being a role model should really be about. Brought up without Edward's manly guidience through the honorable and tough, Eric has always been hovering in acrid fumes of doubt.  
-Is it really man's job to contain woman's nature regardless of the blood hierarchy? 
He lectures his own mother after all.
     Mary knows well about her son's therapies that's why she gets to enjoy being around him out of curiousity. Can the tiny steps he takes toward self-improvement bring herself closer to managing her own problems? But she really likes making people guilty of her own disappointments. Today, with Eric gone far for long and Ricky away for a few days Mary is finally reaching. Her melodramatic expression fed back with the usual biterness stands for the spirit in which Mary hisses to Eric her "all the best" at new year's wishing time.    
-Give up your fucking hope, son. You'll never change!