Apologies

She never meant you no harm. They were rushing through the tunnels, never contemplating their surroundings. She didn't feel the fracture of her words. He was effortlessly bound towards destruction. Sometimes they come, apologies from the stars, sometimes they are not even born. Do you consider your actions, and the endless consequences? Do you shatter at all as the overwhelming cascade rushes over you? Maybe blink and miss something that passed all too fast. We make our beds and should stand by our work, it is all art, however tragic it might be. We crumble together, shadows alone, we find our way back to the way out of the maze. Should we amend our circus of errors? For we are the greatest performers, are we not? We are unfathomably wrong and it possibly, just somehow, might never seem so right. Never again.

A Woman with Blonde Hair

The blonde hair was coming out the sides of her woolly hat. She had a real pretty face. She was soft, breakable, tall and thin, inviting me. Home. Possibly. She looked like she might be a good egg. One worth cracking, finding the beauty within, ready to spill out, if gently tipped a little.

Some of the Men Here Are Beautiful

We all know how much I like to write about women. What could be better than observing the female of the species and commenting on what I see (what I really see)? But, having heard that Polish men weren't a patch on their counterparts I would like to question a somewhat sweeping statement. Some of the men here are among the most beautiful men I have ever seen. Granted, as with any place they are not everywhere, but there are definitely men with great style, fascinating features and profound beauty. Possibly it seems minimal because there are just so many incredibly pretty women here, but as with anything one should acknowledge the presence of something so real. The eyes of the men are not quite as piercing as those of the women, but nevertheless I have seen clear and powerful ones adorning men's faces too. Quite simply it is a compelling race of people. Not just physically, but also in the sense of the behaviour and emotions and love on display. I am curious, intoxicated and I have fallen into the well of this country, willing to uncover whatever I can until I may decide to escape. Or not.

There Is No New Blog Today

As you have already read there is no new blog today. I am far too tired and even the idea of opening up the 'create new post' section has me taking cover from it all. I feel sure I will be motivated to write again soon, however, and with a much fresher head of inspiration. In the meantime, I wish you all well and the sweetest of dreams. Fare thee well, my friends.

The Children Who Sound Like a Herd of Elephants

The stampede, the attack on the weekend peace, fragile mind that becomes me of late. It's more than two kids, four little arms, four little legs, surely. Kids need to roam. Naturally. Above me. Over me. Through my head. Like a drill in my temple as a wake up call. Like Rubik last week in his tiny bowl the kids are caged. They are trapped in small walls, when they should be in the space and beauty of the outdoors. Instead the herd continues to move. Back and forth. All day long. Over the floorboards above my weekend life (the week days are as quiet as the smog bombs are unexpected). Poor head, that's right, tip the words out. At least roll around in some delight. The elephants are coming. Pretty soon it will all be over.

The Smog Bomb

This haziness. I'm not sure about her. She comes out of the not too distant muffled light. This place is fairly intriguing at the best of times, but it's like someone has pulled down some mysterious curtain and shrouded many of these days in curiosity. Like the optician dropped one of those filters into the giant metal frames and everything took on a totally different look. The music still forces its way through the haze, fills the ears all the same, as it ever did. It sounds so glorious at times, like it has been sent to deliver me to some superior place. To lift me from the gloom, from the smog bomb that clouds the heart at times. The end of the week and I can smile and I can turn to Rubik, and finally I gave him his dues. What a beautiful creature. Just like her, and her, and her. Swimming all of us, ever we go. We find our way through everything, together, even when we are apart.

All of the Things of Which We Mustn't Speak

My darling, yes, the lights cry. They weep in sorrow, deep into the darkest night. We must ask to somehow rid ourselves of this battle. The inner peace, the sanctuary they try to break into. We must forget the eyes over the shoulder. We can only harm the memories. So many things, of which we mustn't speak. A woman just glowing, like a ball of salvation. Her eyes for me, contemplation, and messages hurtling through the mind. I wash her, wash with her, wash ourselves away. Down the drain of everything, holding hands we go. All of the things of which we mustn't speak, jostling upstairs, harrying those cells. My darling, the abattoir, where so many go, where so many are heading, we must seize everything and bring it all to life.

Her Name Begins With The Letter 'M'

Woman of the night, ticking for dreams, slipping into those streams, throughout the night.

Your name, begins with a letter, holds hands with a sense of hope, retains me for a moment, and then I am gone.

Slippery fish, only ever a dish of the day, nobody will remember, me, when the sun sets.

Cancel the strokes, falling on the canvas, let the heart scream aloud, fragments of old wounds.

The Neckline

She tosses the hair over to one side of her head. She pulls it down, strokes it, runs her fingers through it. She knows it gets my attention. She probably practices all the time. In the mirror. One of her stunts. Nevertheless, it's divine. She looks really good. I bet she's delicious, on the end of the tongue. The hair, crawling down one side of her head, the neckline on the other. The neck. Absolutely perfect, as I trace it over and over, as I fall into dreaming.

It's so smooth, like peaceful water, like swimming in heaven. Snippets of our conversation flickering through the mind. On the eyes she is. Her face. Your face. A face for I. The line of your neck, beautiful lagoon of skin.

She had no time to meet again for a little while. She would be out there, nearby, living her life, I would be doing the same, hoping for some meaning to fill up the days like water fills a glass. She was only a ten minute walk from mine. I had taken her home last night. We had collided, clashed, and communicated well. She was the challenge. She was words on a page that needed deciphering. The glasses. The eyes. The hair. The neckline. The riddle.

When she removed her glasses as I had asked her to she was beautiful. Yes. Exactly as she was when she had them adorning her face. Glasses are for seeing through, past, into the person wearing them, into the world outside.

So, there was a woman. A young woman with strong character and eyes to match. She liked other things to me. She had a way that was fascinating, to say the least. She had a neck that went on forever and long fair hair that like a rope gave me the chance to climb up, to try to find the bottom of that endless neckline, just so I could get on board. I could but try.

The Bus to Auschwitz

You are on the bus now, rickety old thing that it was, rattling along the roads and lanes leading to Auschwitz. Getting nearer and nearer to that astonishing location from history that will live forever. You are leaving Wonderland behind, for something else. Something else. I hope you feel the force and take something similar to what I did from it. The day is grey and miserable. It is a dark day for such a place. It was so good to see you again, to share a small part of the days together, just some days for you and I. I wish you well. Our paths, our journeys, are far from easy, but we are blessed.

You will have emerged from the bus and stepped into the horror-show. The brutal and essential museum of the Holocaust. My thoughts are with you, as they often are with those who were lost, who fought, who suffered for love, for hope, for us.

The bus must have made the journey thousands of times. It showed the wear and tear of time. The numerous years. It looked like it could fall apart at any moment. It was the bus to Auschwitz. Some bus had to do it, some driver had to get it there, and some people had to take it in. As much as they could. The history of the happenings and the constant evolution of it all. The art of Monday, a grey day, a day like any other.

Rubik

I thought about you yesterday, Rubik. It occurred to me you might not be alive when I returned home. Maybe there wasn't enough water for you to swim through. Your home wasn't good enough for you, perhaps. I am responsible for you now, not just for giving you a name and abandoning you. Not just for what I want from you, but for the whole experience. I must care for you in the necessary way, somehow hope you could be happy too. I want to train you to attack pigeons and to call me if you need anything but for a fish it could be a step too far.

The world in a bowl. Something for me to explore. We can get a friend for you soon. Someone to share the days with, to bring them more meaning. Okay, so you are a fish, and I have absolutely no idea how that feels, so I am not going to say anything is possible or not. I just want to think of what I can do for you. The world doesn't care enough about its surroundings, we should try harder, we should use the heart for every single movement. Wishing you happy days, for it's most of what we can ever hope for.

When Our Words Come Together

She asked questions, she ordered her words in beautiful fashion, they made great sense and showed intelligence. She had some key to philosophy much in the way I hoped I did. She was open and interesting and we could probably have talked all night. Endless hours discussing books and artists and the end of mankind.

I could be washed away in her words, just as she could be in mine. The perfect flood. Given how truly mechanical and ugly modern communication could be (and I do not doubt the pros for a second) it was refreshing to fall into such an elegant dialogue. When our words dance, when they unite like lovers, when the sparks fly, when one of us dies over and over and the other one catches the body and never lets go. Flowers emerging, unexpected and tragic, flowers emerging at the tongue of a dream. I always trust myself to magic, I let it take me where it will. Drifting like leaves on the water's surface, to be taken almost anywhere. Hold hands with the possibility, with every last drop of hope.

The Red Rose

The one for you
The red rose
Flowers from the ground
From the earth who knows

The slow fade
The petals as they curl
Red and then crimson
Watching the love unfurl

The time freezes
Stands still before us
Like a snapshot, a memory
My darling, all because

The one for you
In a vase in your room
Alive as it is forever
The love inside the womb

Freedom for Krakow (31st October, 2012)

Finally there is something meaningful about 31^st October. You know what I mean. Today is the 94^th anniversary of Krakow’s liberation from foreign rule. It marks the day it was released from its battle against Great Britain and many other European countries in the First World War.

There were celebrations for the anniversary, and a brass band and some men dressed in the soldier’s uniforms from the war. It was one of those moments when a little piece of Poland and the values attached to its history slipped into my consciousness. When I got to see the nation’s pride, and in the giant square of the centre of Krakow with the sun beating down and throwing shadows everywhere, and with a long Poland flag making its way down one of the chief buildings of the square, the magic of this place hit home once again.

People all over were weaving in and out of the police and the brass band and the men dressed as old fashioned soldiers to take photos. These folk didn't bat an eye lid. The moment was more important, and while I did occasionally see one soldier turn and talk to the one next to him, or two members of the brass band have a brief dialogue it clearly meant something to the people concerned, and the children from various schools holding all different flags. People were congregating to observe the scenes much as I was, and it was clear that tourists and others had uncovered something very Polish and fascinating. The music was great, there was a surprise shot fired from some cannon (half scaring the life out of some of us), and the freedom of the city rang loud and sounded out into the sky.