fejafeja

Once I decided to have a break.

I thought to have some time for creation. To have some spare time, not to struggle, not to aim for things- it was not worth, if you want the truth. I would have never reached them. I would have never made it to the top in this university. i would have never made it to the top in industrial Denmark, so far ahead from me. Such a horizon I was aiming for. Studies, assignments, competitions. I was only good in those which I was sure to win. I only applied for the ones I was approximately sure to win. I decided to have a break. It was not right. Never have a break. You would just go backwards in bigger steps than forwards. Life from the age of 15 is trying not to go back. And not trying is regress. Such I had.

But the strange thing is- how hard it is to wake up. That weakness when you go out to work in a yard for the first time in spring is nothing compared to the hard work you have to do, courage, will power you need, this power squeezing effort you need to stand up again, to fight for your hometown glory. And homecoming might be the key for it. For some reason- no matter how I miss Denmark, I feel at home here. Back home. Nobody quite likes me here, I have no social network, no friends, even the relatives don’t like spending time with be because of what I became. But this city. I feel like I have something to love when around here. Some place I love and at the same time am supposed to love. Some place I can never be sure where to go. Some big place- like a shelter from the cruel world. Some place where I know it will be sunny in 3 months. Place so unlike where I am coming back now. So unlike Aalborg, which I came to love too after some time, which I know so well. But cold and not accepting, not tolerant. So empty that you become afraid of the crowded places. A place about which I can not say “The city of punks and raincoats”. A city where you could probably go naked and nobody would consider you a freak. They would call you an artist. Expressing the idea of a rotten material world. They would give you your fame, though you are not asking for it. Yet I have to admit that it is an encouraging factor to live and create. No matter what you say, art is not just for the artist, It is for those who see it. And they are for the artist. On the silver plate (metaphor, I don’t eat people) . Brought to bed on Sunday morning. Or not, but at least there is a chance to believe it.

when you leave home and parents are calling you every day to make sure you are all right you think ‘oh, what could happen to me, of course i’m all right, no need to worry…’, but when you start calling your parents to make sure they are all right and freak out if they dont answer for several hours…

The devil makes you someone else than you thought to be, love makes you someone you don’t know at all, clear mind makes you cry and regret the chosen wise decisions after three months.

Life is a dance and I don’t know how to…

I wish for some smart and understanding mind which would catch the winding roads of my writing… anyway, people barely read this, ever, so it does not quite matter. I think I am writing for myself. Not even my mother reads it. Not my old teachers. Not my cousins. Not my friends (oh if I had any real…)

Yes, I think this might be a problem. Art is to be seen. Understood. Comprehended. And what I write is so far from art and so close to the diary that is no matter how public, never read by anyone but me. Anyway. Enough moaning. This is boring to read. Even for myself. The paradox is that the best place to hide something is to post it online. Then it is protected more than something, that lies under your bed with a lock and the clear mark “no enter”…

But what I wanted to say was not that. What I wanted to say is that looking for love is like being a refugee with no passport. There are many countries in the world that you know, there are many to which you have never been before. Same as there are many people. You are asking each country for a passport (to love you back), yet nationality is not that easy to get. You have to learn the language, customs, to pass tests, to visit institutions. And then again, will you really get it…? You can have only one passport and be a citizen of only one country (in most cases). And not just any. You want retirement grants and good environment for your far future children and everything… and would not want a passport of Bangladesh and would like a passport of Denmark or Norway. But some would not give you that. Or if you refer to your home country- do you really want to come back there?

Pagadu megwigto melrent buksan tirma siuurdokindo gijomde fasisdus.

Lorem Ipsum ir kiti jo draugai.

Nusibodot.

Ir zinot ka, nusibodo buti nerasancia, nekurybinga, nieko neveikiancia… varzteliu.

I get bored of it. It is annoying to live as a non-writing, non- acting, non-doing, non-thinking screw. Just to hold your life together, be someone else’s toy, let the life play your part for you, let it say your monologue and let it get your fame. At first you feel free and independent. Everything is done for you and you are free to improvise as long as you complete your main function of existing. Yet, there is a world of spotlight, a world of stage, tremendous effort, struggle, suffering, work, sleepless nights, performance, audience, applause, admission, fame. And i belong to it. for 3 years I was living like a self-walking appendix of my mothers company, for another 4 years I was living a life of partly a princess, partly a prehistoric warrior, for another 4 years I was living a life of an observer. For a year I was living a life of the maniac reader who doesn’t have a life. For another 4 years I was living a life of an invisible fighter, experiencing fame through the inner happenings, imaginary world and in some cases realizing that this world I live in- it was built for me. And I am the ruler of it. Then the real life occurred. For 3 years I was going through it with a shadow of acceptance, I had goals, I was trying to reach them, I tried, struggled, suffered, sacrificed what seemed life to me at a time, I aimed ad finally done something, I did many things and completed all of them in a glorious sunshine, in a spotlight, having someone telling me how awesome I am. I was living in a world of fame.

then.. for another 2 years- I thought to have some time for creation. To have some spare time, not to struggle, not to aim for things- it was not worth, if you want the truth. I would have never reached them. I would have never made it to the top in this university. i would have never made it to the top in industrial Denmark, so far ahead from me. Such a horizon I was aiming for. Studies, assignments, competitions. I was only good in those which I was sure to win. I only applied for the ones I was approximately sure to win. Just went to the organizers and asked- do you have a better choice than me? really? who? Let me observe and overtake this person. I decided to have a break. It was not right. never have a break. You would just go backwards in bigger steps than forwards. Life from the age of 15 is trying not to go back. And not trying is regress. Such I had.

But the strange thing is- how hard it is to wake up. That weakness when you go out to work in a yard for the first time in spring is nothing compared to the hard work you have to do, courage, will power you need, this power squeezing effort you need to stand up again, to fight for your hometown glory. And homecoming might be the key for it. For some reason- no matter how I miss Denmark, I feel at home here. Back home. Nobody quite likes me here, I have no social network, no friends, even the relatives don’t like spending time with be because of what I became. But this city. I feel like I have something to love when around here. Some place I love and at the same time am supposed to love. Some place I can never be sure where to go. Some big place- like a shelter from the cruel world. Some place where I know it will be sunny in 3 months. Place so unlike where I am coming back now. So unlike Aalborg, which I came to love too after some time, which I know so well. But cold and not accepting, not tolerant. So empty that you become afraid of the crowded places.  A place about which I can not say “The city of punks and raincoats”. A city where you could probably go naked and nobody would consider you a freak. They would call you an artist. Expressing the idea of a rotten material world. They would give you your fame, though you are not asking for it. Yet I have to admit that it is an encouraging factor to live and create. No matter what you say, art is not just for the artist, It is for those who see it. And they are for the artist. On the silver plate (metaphor, I don’t eat people) . Brought to bed on Sunday morning. Or not, but at least there is a chance to believe it.

Po lempa švelniai krinta aukso dulkės. Jos nuauksina viską- mėlyną taburetę, raudoną kavos stalelį, medines grindis, kalną senų žurnalų, apkrautą pieštukinėmis (tikslaiu tariant puslitriniais stiklainiais su flomasteriais). Užsimerkiu. Įsivaizduoju- rūkas- o gal dūmai- slenka mišku. Pakvimpa degėsiais. Kažkur tarp medžių suspingso šviesa. Išsigąstu- jug ne gaisras, prašau, prašau, tik ne gaisras. Ne gaisras. Kažkas kūrena laužą. Kas taip pasistengė prisilaužyti mažyčių šakelių iš po nusvirusių eglių šakų? Ne, ne šakų, prisiminimų. Apie seniai prabėgusias vaikystės dienas, kai užversdavai galvą dangų ir žiūrėdavai, kaip svaiginamai sukasi snaigės, krisdamos iš balto dangaus, kaip jos leisdavosi tau ant veido ir greitai tirpdavo, apnešdamos skruostus greit vėl užšąlančia šarma. Kaip iš burnos virsdavo garas, kai užlipdavai į kalną, kaip niekaip negalėdavai nustoti giliai kvėpuoti. Vis užsičiaupdavai ir vėl- paaaach- balto kvapo kamuolys išsiveržia pro sukąstus dantis ir net ėda gerklę savo karščiu. Atominis grybas iš tavo burnos. Ir koks žvilgantis jis atrodo, kai iškvepi prieš saulę. Tyvuriuoja ore trumputę akimirką pasakodamas apie kosmoso dūmus. Kurį laiką alsuoji atsisukęs į regis begalinę erdvę po kojų, tada žvilgteli žemyn ir vėl leki nuo kalno. Šaltas vėjas išspaudžia ašaras ir jauti kaip jos sutraukia odą užšaldamos ant smilkinių arba nurieda tolyn ir susigeria į plaukus, kaip šie pastyra nuo šalčio ir drėgmės.
Kas visa tai degina? Prie laužo- o gal, geriau įsižiūrėjus- žibinto sėdi apvalainas pilkai pūkuotas siluetas. Iš po kailio kyšo tvirti batai, mažos raukšlėtos letenėlės ištiestos laužo link. Kas tai? Man artėjant sužvilga mažos tamsios akytės. Jos stebi mane laukiniu tiriančiu žvilgsniu: ar man bėgti nes tu mane suėsi, ar man likti čia ir apsimesti kad esu negyvoji gamta, ar man geriau pačiam tave suėsti? Galiausiai turbūt nutaria palaukti mano reakcijos. Iš lėto ištraukia iš bato tripirštę letenėlę, prisitraukia prie savęs, paskui vėl įkiša į batą. O gal tai buvo ženklas? Gal tuoj iš už artimiausio medžio išlys didesnysis pusbrolis, toks pats gauruotas, tik aukštesnis, laibas ir susikūprinęs. Basas. Ilgom patyrusiom virėjo rankom. O gal dėdė- pečiuitas, kresnas, nuo per sotaus gyvenimo susiraukšlėjusiu veidu ir jau seniai per maža liemene. Arba niekuo su niekuo nesusijęs pasišiaušęs padarėlis su fleita vienoje rankutėje ir akmeniu kitoje- ir nesuprasi, kas iš jų mirtinesnis ginklas.
Bet pilkasis brolis vis dar stebi mane primerktom akim. Palenkia galvą į šoną. Tyli. Atsisėda. Nusisuka nuo manęs ir toliau stebi ugnelę. Pastebiu kad iš tamsos mane išties stebi dar bent kelios poros žvitrių akių. Vienos apvalios, kitos primerktos, trečios šnairuoja… Kas tai?
Tai krintančios aukso dulkės po staline lempa.

Nueit i gatve ir issidukt, o griztant juoktis ir susirinkt pomidoru ir agurku ir surio. Isgert kakavos vakare siltai ir ramiai, o ryte pabusti svieciant saulei ir puciant siltam vejui, pasidaryt salotu, pavalgyt ziurint i apsviestas grindis, kurios atrodo auksines nuo saules ir medzio lako, isgerti stiprios saldzios juodutelaites kavos, tada iseit pesciom iki fjordo, eit i vaiku zaidimu aikstele ir vaikscioti tvoros virsum kaip buomu irsvarstyti ka veiksiu siandien, tada arba varyt pafotkint, arba i biblioteka, pasiimt filma, gulet ant grindu ir ji ziureti, ir sypsotis pries sviesa, tada kai jau pasisuks saule, eiti ilgam i dusa, o kai grysiu rasti kambari nutvieksta vakaro zaros, isdziuti savu dziuvimu isijungus radiatoriu, issirazyti, pagalvoti ka veiksiu, tada kur nors varyt pavakary, tada grizti, kanors parasyti, pasidairyti geru dizaino pavyzdziu ikvepimui, pagaminti ka nors rankomis, skaniai pavalgyti makaronu su pesto, tada eiti pasivaikscioti, bet pasiimt dvirati ir nuvaryt pasivazinet i naktini parka, tada susirinkti gerybiu is aldi ir faktos, garsiai klausantis muzikos grizus ir galvoti- na, rytoj gal nuvaziuociau i norresundby, pafotkint, gal siaip ko, bet man nieko nereikia, geriau eisiu i platformos meetinga, tada grisiu, pavalgysiu, nusiprausiu, iskepsiu pyraga ir varysiu i teatra…

I was dreaming- again and quite luckily. And in my dream there was a musical piece called Quatro Patroname, performed by accordionist. It was originally meant to be performed by four musicians, but was played by only accordion and an old photo camera, which originally was meant to be on a tripod, but it was on a leg of a studio lamp. And musicians were starting the peace over and over again, repeating its name as if it was an old style country music concert (even though I haven’t been to any)- Quatro Patroname- and the sound of music, reverberating in the room with a low ceiling. That ceiling for some reason was glued with the daily music articles cut out from the papers. And some curvy parts of the walls too. I was trying to arrange music sheets on the floor tidily, but they kept on spreading around, and the small kid with pale bare feet was running and running around, making the danger of ruining the music sheets with fresh paint from the printing machine. I was still trying to protest them by clicking the computer mouse, yet it was just making a bit transparent blue squares in the room. “come to the stage and play”- said the accordionist in a strong manly voice. I went to the photo camera to play even though I did not know the notes (why the hell I needed to know the notes to play the photo camera- no idea. Same as no idea how to make music with photo camera). I turned to the audience- a square of empty chairs with several fake heads in grey wigs and corneous glasses glued on the back of the chairs- and asked: “how can I play if it’s a quartet and it’s just you and me playing?”- then turned to see the accordionist and I saw another person standing prepared to play. The question is- if that person was playing the accordion, what instrument did the accordionist have?

I now tend to recognize how we always try to take places wherever we go. With things we carry with ourselves. When you leave (for example to Denmark), you pack up plates, cups, forks, socks, sweaters, hairbrushes. Everyday items. It seems logical. You would need those things. Eventually, probably, no matter that in most cases you do not need them in the future. You plan to need them, yet more accurately you want to take them from your own place, to feel your old home a bit, to have nostalgic memories to make you feel melancholic and in the wrong place. You try to take a bit of your old life with you.

But those things eventually get either thrown out or replaced by others. And when you move again (for example to a prior place of living) you take as much as you can again. You carry foreign things to be replaced by local ones, which are to become foreign soon. Or to be left in a dark corner of your parents house as some kind of record of where you have lived. Shoes in which you have been climbing the mountains in Ukraine, scarf- worn of to no chance of wearing- but it carries the memory of the Sahara sun. Some cheap souvenir from Turkey or Croatia. Memories from all around. You take things with you as if you were taking experience.

But I think my father does it the better way. He leaves tings. Wherever he feels appropriate to leave them. A clock on the hill in Morocco, a jacket in Denmark and whoever knows what and in which places- leaving a part of yourself in a form of material objects. The way it is supposed to be and releasing yourself from carrying things around the world.

Now, sitting in Lithuania, but on my danish chair, with a danish lamp overhead I say- if I must carry something, might that be easy. A memory. A feeling- even if it’s a feeling of loss. A connection to some place- knowing that I left something there. Even if that something is a connection itself.

And even though my life weights more than 20 kilos on the first sight- those 20 kilos are so disposable that value of them is only in an expression of information.

I go by bike to the college and see nice red apples on the way. Every morning I say to myself ‘I will pick them up on my way back’, but the point is that I never go back the same way and I forget about them. When the winter came, I said “I would at least know where to pick apples next autumn’, but the point is that I will not be here next autumn. I still keep on catching myself thinking how the same things would look in several years, decades. I sometimes wish to stay. Or to go back where I come from. Life is not an adventure any more. I need some place. Today I was picking nice stones and thinking that some day, when I have a house, I will put them into the gaps between bricks. Same as the notes in the other house, so far away in the past already and so present now. And I realize that what I want is a place on the ground. Some place to live. Not a flat- that is something that is on the ground which belongs to someone else. I want my piece of land. My place under the sun. My place where I could put up the fire in the iron pot and turn up the heat. The place on earth to come back to. And which would belong to me, which I have earned with my own sour effort. Not sitting on someones shoulders, not getting anything from those, whom I want to give things to. Then, only then I would be able to think of something else. Maybe I would feel too grounded then. But there always is a chance to abandon what’s yours, to lock it for good and know, that no one would ever charge you for that.

you know what inspires me? Damn too much tiredness, pain in the muscles, and the feeling when I come home and fall on my mattress tired- so tired that I can not move, but happy about what I have been doing all day, knowing that I would sleep well tonight. And the best part is that I wake up fresh, rested and satisfied with my life. Wanting to wake up and move.