On the factory hill, overlooking Slate House I seem to have an abode... door like the double glazed balcony one I have now. A car is being parked by what seems a push on the slippery ice ground (not driven). It slips down the hill and into the cars parked at Slate House, though the drive is the one from Deeds Grove. A new curvaceous lady car, sporty and pink, is hit among others (it's Hazel's). Hazel, Rachel and I are at the top of the hill, outside my door, and I put my arms around them, one over each of their shoulders, as we crouch and take it in. At least I'm getting R.E.M. sleep.
I did a five hour walk today, up into the snowy mountains, along mostly National Park tracks or those imprinted in the snow by those before me. In a valley between two bluffs the wind picked up and the dry snow was whipped up like sand in a desert storm and I turned my back to its force. Then when the gusts died down I trudged a path up in some parts up to my knees and I laughed at the joy of feeling like a mountaineer in the austere conditions. I turned around because visibility was poor higher up and I wasn't sure of changing conditions at, I'm guessing, 1300 metres plus. Made the walk back down to Zakapane at 800 metres plus.
In town I bought a pork steak in toasted bread, with salad, and Polish beer, sitting near the crackling open fire... pop pip fzzz... I read some of Kerouac's Big Sur and listened to Gypsy sounding music from the speakers. I was trying to not look overcome with tiredness, haggard face and eyes. Bleary drunken stair. Tiresome. Lonesome. Satisfied. It was a good walk.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
2nd Dec '08 - Zakapane Stars
The bearers of the "pojke" signs at Zakapane train station didn't get too much of my attention. I'm used to walking away from those reception areas when in Asia. I regretted this, because the hostel I walked to was shut. Around the streets again, in the fine fecund rain, and my weighty old clothes making my pack sore. The old vagabond me. A thin brown haired woman in tight jeans responded to my query of where I might find a hostel, with pointing me in the direction of the Panorama Hotel. "Up by the blue lights on the slope a little." She phoned them and I trudged on. The receptionist barely spoke with me. She took my passport and gave me a key, wrote down the price and the time for breakfast, and rushed off. I went to follow but then realized no... I was to find my own way... or was she about to come back... After some pausing I climbed the stairs, passed some friendly young Polish guys who after my "Hi" asked me what I was looking for. "My room", I replied with a sarcastic smile.
Out in the rain I found a small supermarket and bought crisps, chocolate wafer and water. Sickened by the food I went in for some more grease at MacDonald's on the main paved street. A guy came in asking for money or food, in Polish. After he'd sat with me a while I offered the remains of my fries. He turned them down. My impression was that he wanted fresh, untouched food, or just wanted money for drink. A guy on a table a little way off ordered some food and gave it to him. The beggar said something to me but I kept my eyes on the TV screen hung from the roof. I thought it was a rebuke from him.
I'm quite hardened. How can I draw a line of where I should start or stop charity? If I'm going to give shouldn't I give everything away that's superfluous? Don't travel. Work, eat, sleep and give the rest away. Because I'm not doing that guess I'm quite the conservative. This is old hat talk anyway. I hope my giving will start one day. Wealth creates wealth. Clearly better to give from such a standing, rather than to create one's own poverty too, I justified.
I had a pint in two different bars. There weren't many people about. Lonesome. In the second one a drunk woman spoke to me in English. She'd been in London eight years ago. Did I want to buy her a shot so that she could continue speaking English with me? I sputtered some some words of "I'm only finishing this pint and then going" and in my embarrassment was strengthened to further say no when I looked up to see the friendly faced female bar tender shaking her head slowly. When the woman who called herself a clown left, after telling me to try different Polish drinks, including honeyed tea and that she'd be back at 7pm tomorrow, the others laughed together and the woman behind the bar said, "Now you know everything about Poland". I laughed with her and the other three people in this tiny kitchen sized bar, including the woman who moved to sit away from where I'd taken my place. I guess she didn't want to be seen sitting next to a single man or was just being utterly honest about not wanting male attention. I respected that. I listened to the music wired from an MP3 player to the speakers and drank my medicine in silence, looking at the glimmering glasses and alcohol bottles that became art for me in their little alcoves and me in mine, trying to break out.
Six in the morning and I haven't slept apart from the two hours between 12 and 2am. Bearing up under the onslaught of negative thoughts. One thing I know... my passion and love for China and Thailand and the other oriental countries I plan to visit is strong. Beautiful people, fiery food, vehement vistas. It's where my hearts at when I work in England and even now during this pain inflicting holiday, which will add to me.
I looked at the stars over the last hours and saw familiar Orion and recognizable patterns. They comforted me...
Out in the rain I found a small supermarket and bought crisps, chocolate wafer and water. Sickened by the food I went in for some more grease at MacDonald's on the main paved street. A guy came in asking for money or food, in Polish. After he'd sat with me a while I offered the remains of my fries. He turned them down. My impression was that he wanted fresh, untouched food, or just wanted money for drink. A guy on a table a little way off ordered some food and gave it to him. The beggar said something to me but I kept my eyes on the TV screen hung from the roof. I thought it was a rebuke from him.
I'm quite hardened. How can I draw a line of where I should start or stop charity? If I'm going to give shouldn't I give everything away that's superfluous? Don't travel. Work, eat, sleep and give the rest away. Because I'm not doing that guess I'm quite the conservative. This is old hat talk anyway. I hope my giving will start one day. Wealth creates wealth. Clearly better to give from such a standing, rather than to create one's own poverty too, I justified.
I had a pint in two different bars. There weren't many people about. Lonesome. In the second one a drunk woman spoke to me in English. She'd been in London eight years ago. Did I want to buy her a shot so that she could continue speaking English with me? I sputtered some some words of "I'm only finishing this pint and then going" and in my embarrassment was strengthened to further say no when I looked up to see the friendly faced female bar tender shaking her head slowly. When the woman who called herself a clown left, after telling me to try different Polish drinks, including honeyed tea and that she'd be back at 7pm tomorrow, the others laughed together and the woman behind the bar said, "Now you know everything about Poland". I laughed with her and the other three people in this tiny kitchen sized bar, including the woman who moved to sit away from where I'd taken my place. I guess she didn't want to be seen sitting next to a single man or was just being utterly honest about not wanting male attention. I respected that. I listened to the music wired from an MP3 player to the speakers and drank my medicine in silence, looking at the glimmering glasses and alcohol bottles that became art for me in their little alcoves and me in mine, trying to break out.
Six in the morning and I haven't slept apart from the two hours between 12 and 2am. Bearing up under the onslaught of negative thoughts. One thing I know... my passion and love for China and Thailand and the other oriental countries I plan to visit is strong. Beautiful people, fiery food, vehement vistas. It's where my hearts at when I work in England and even now during this pain inflicting holiday, which will add to me.
I looked at the stars over the last hours and saw familiar Orion and recognizable patterns. They comforted me...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Poland - 1st Dec '08
Yesterday I stepped out into the blackness and walked the thrilling walk, backpack looking for its rightful resting place after nearly a year under the bed, to the train station. I thought I was better than the few I passed that morning. A few teenagers walking home. A cleaner on his drive around the paved undercover streets.
The flight touched down at Balice airport, eleven kilometres outside of Krakow centre, to applause. It had been a rocky descent. The English speaker on the microphone said, "No need for applause, I do this everyday". A nice joke from the steward who had earlier jovially danced with a female passenger, as he helped her to stow away her hand luggage.
I walked with my heavy backpack for over an hour, looking for a hostel. It had been easy finding the market square but I intended to find one a little cheaper further out. I gave up and found a lovely one, with an equally lovely receptionist, on the corner of the old town square. Tired I decided to push myself and walked the streets, beer in hand. On my second can a car pulled up and some young guys spoke to me in Polish. When I said I only spoke English they told me to come over and one jumped out. They were policemen.
"You are not allowed to drink oouside of the restaurant"
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't know"
"Fine... you give fine... one hundred... you have?"
"No, I don't have", I looked subservient and chastened.
"I'll put it in the bin", I said, and unsure if he'd let me get away with it walked towards my redemptive vessell ten metres away. I wandered without looking back.
I drank in the Carpe Diem Klub, where Harleys hung from the ceiling and were parked on tables. The youngsters danced jive and rock'n'roll, like it was a long standing trend in these parts. They were great. I thought it hard for me to carpe diem on my first night and wandered to another basement club.
I sat at the bar and watched the two young female tenders chat with the young couple sitting at the bar. The girl looked into my eyes, demonstrating to the tender the point at which an erotic photo on the wall had been taken in relation to the body, putting her hand up to her breast and turning her body. Drunkenly looking into her eyes at that moment, she took my gaze, looking back and pausing a little as she spoke.
The flight touched down at Balice airport, eleven kilometres outside of Krakow centre, to applause. It had been a rocky descent. The English speaker on the microphone said, "No need for applause, I do this everyday". A nice joke from the steward who had earlier jovially danced with a female passenger, as he helped her to stow away her hand luggage.
I walked with my heavy backpack for over an hour, looking for a hostel. It had been easy finding the market square but I intended to find one a little cheaper further out. I gave up and found a lovely one, with an equally lovely receptionist, on the corner of the old town square. Tired I decided to push myself and walked the streets, beer in hand. On my second can a car pulled up and some young guys spoke to me in Polish. When I said I only spoke English they told me to come over and one jumped out. They were policemen.
"You are not allowed to drink oouside of the restaurant"
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't know"
"Fine... you give fine... one hundred... you have?"
"No, I don't have", I looked subservient and chastened.
"I'll put it in the bin", I said, and unsure if he'd let me get away with it walked towards my redemptive vessell ten metres away. I wandered without looking back.
I drank in the Carpe Diem Klub, where Harleys hung from the ceiling and were parked on tables. The youngsters danced jive and rock'n'roll, like it was a long standing trend in these parts. They were great. I thought it hard for me to carpe diem on my first night and wandered to another basement club.
I sat at the bar and watched the two young female tenders chat with the young couple sitting at the bar. The girl looked into my eyes, demonstrating to the tender the point at which an erotic photo on the wall had been taken in relation to the body, putting her hand up to her breast and turning her body. Drunkenly looking into her eyes at that moment, she took my gaze, looking back and pausing a little as she spoke.
Touch - 24th Nov '08
Sometimes I just want to be. Why push myself out of that slumber... that cozy slumber. Always, my biggest longing... a hug! Will this loss last forever? I want the love of my mother and brothers and sisters... and for intimacy a lover.
Oh messed up racing mind
It seems I chose to be alone
Heaven is a sound mind
I can't untangle it all
Pointless words... where is touch?
Oh messed up racing mind
It seems I chose to be alone
Heaven is a sound mind
I can't untangle it all
Pointless words... where is touch?
Woman - 22nd Nov '08
The reward of home and early morning stillness, after a night on the road. My thoughts are on the pert breasts of a woman. Her open legs for me. It's been a while - her wetness my sucker. These are the ecstacies of heaven. The working or battling man's comfort... when she chooses to give her femininity. Cuts my toe-nails on the floor in a room in Chiang Mai. Washes my hair and scrubs my back. I do the same for her, turning and smoothing her fruit. We kiss as the water cascades. "Do my hair one more time", she confidently says, handing me the shampoo. I love her close skin and the water. We go outside, then, on the veranda, share a nicotine fix. We're both happy at that moment. I feel like I've found enlightenment. A smiling Zen monk, caught by the glint in your eye... and your tenderness... woman... I love that word... WOMAN.
Russian Relatives - 16th Nov '08
While playing Absolute Balderdash this afternoon, Mum told me the following;
During the Russian revolution the father of her Gran's husband fled and bought a house on Jersey, called Lashasse House (?). At a later date this place took in unmarried mothers (some kind of workhouse?). The son - Mums grans husband - frightened of the Russians, changed his name from Sweitoslovsky (?) to Ward. The former name related to the Russian ancestry (though there was once a photo of the family in Poland). He was a taylor and had nine children with Mum's gran.
Mr Ward was afraid to leave his house and would get his children to deliver his tayloring. One day none were available and so he left his refuge and at some point, through nerves and a weak constitution perhaps, collapsed and ended up in hospital. On coming to consciousness he feared he'd been captured by the Russians and had a heart attack, and died.
Mad Uncle Ted (?), who got himself discharged from the army by feigning insanity (he faked hanging attempts on repeated occasions until they decided he was a liability) spent a few years, in his later life, researching this history and the fortune supposedly attached to it. Somewhere there may be some unclaimed wealth. Mum isn't sure where his research ended up after he died.
There was a fear and hence a desire to cover things up in the past, because Russian powers could reach beyond boarders and apparently some felt that the Sweitoslovsky history would make them a target.
During the Russian revolution the father of her Gran's husband fled and bought a house on Jersey, called Lashasse House (?). At a later date this place took in unmarried mothers (some kind of workhouse?). The son - Mums grans husband - frightened of the Russians, changed his name from Sweitoslovsky (?) to Ward. The former name related to the Russian ancestry (though there was once a photo of the family in Poland). He was a taylor and had nine children with Mum's gran.
Mr Ward was afraid to leave his house and would get his children to deliver his tayloring. One day none were available and so he left his refuge and at some point, through nerves and a weak constitution perhaps, collapsed and ended up in hospital. On coming to consciousness he feared he'd been captured by the Russians and had a heart attack, and died.
Mad Uncle Ted (?), who got himself discharged from the army by feigning insanity (he faked hanging attempts on repeated occasions until they decided he was a liability) spent a few years, in his later life, researching this history and the fortune supposedly attached to it. Somewhere there may be some unclaimed wealth. Mum isn't sure where his research ended up after he died.
There was a fear and hence a desire to cover things up in the past, because Russian powers could reach beyond boarders and apparently some felt that the Sweitoslovsky history would make them a target.
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