Sunday, Bloody Sunday

What an eventful day.

From the moment she walked out on stage to the thundering beat of the “Earth Intruders”, dressed like a giant mushroom, with pillars of fire behind her, I knew that her concert would be an amazing experience.

And it didn’t dissapoint.

Wonderfully paced, impressively staged and full of brilliant guest performers. What really made the night, though, was her personality and charisma shining through.

Bjork paced up and down the stage thrashing her limbs in the air, at one with the music, not feeling self-conscious at all, and her amazingly impressive vocals did not falter once.

It was an experience that left me, as well as my friends, in a dreamlike, warm and fuzzy state of mind. Sadly I have returned to reality already, however I will remember it for a long time.

As we were coming back, on the underground, I noticed a young gay couple sitting next to us, holding hands. They looked as if they were around 15 years old perhaps. It was such a lovely thing to see. Growing up gay is always very difficult, especially at that age. The fact that they felt confident about their sexuality already and were able to publicly display it was very heartwarming.

On a more mundane level, I have finally joined Facebook. Everyone has been telling me how wonderful it is and even if they didn’t, unless you live in a cave, it’s a phenomenon impossible to ignore.

The first impression was very negative.

What do you mean, you want my full name? That name that most of my friends don’t even know because I don’t like it and don't use it? I am sure it will be very useful. And now I have to see it in print again and again like a bothersome cold sore.

It seems messy, confusing and not very intuitive at all. Thumbs down for the interface.

Oh well, at least it will provide me with another method of wasting time and avoiding reality by staring blankly at the screen. Ayo technology.

Equus Suucks

It probably doesn't really come as a surprise to anyone, but the first thought in my head after coming out of the performance of "Equus" was: If a normal casting was held, I am convinced that scores of people, with acting abilities far surpassing those of Daniel Radcliffe would be found.

He was "overcharging" from start to finish and covering his lack of acting skill, by being over the top.

This sad spectacle has been created for two purposes only:

a) To earn bucketloads of cash, because of the Harry Potter's celebrity appearance
b) To give Daniel Radcliffe "credibility" so that he can say "Look I did a play, I'm a real actor now."

As for the play itself, I would like to see this kind elaborately artificial, "theatrical" drama consigned to the dustbin of history. It was like watching a museum deposit.

The only reason why this particular piece of writing has been chosen, seems to be the fact that a young male is its main protagonist, and there aren't any other characters in the limelight, bar the psychiatrist who keeps interacting with Radcliffe most of the time. Nobody to upstage our precious star.

All in all, an absolute disaster.

Dreams and Unrealities

David Lynch's "Inland Empire" is not for the faint-hearted. Everyone who has seen it, mentioned people leaving. The person sitting just above me left and, more annoyingly, a couple sitting on the far side stayed but talked and was generally obnoxious.

I found the film to be a hallucinatory experience, yet at the same time, I kept drifting off. I had a feeling that this might be an interesting journey, but it is a journey to nowhere.

Yet, ever since I keep returning to it in my thoughts.

DV has really managed to liberate film-making, recently and helped Lynch to make his most surreal feature up-to-date.

Following on "Mulholland Drive," he continues to explore Hollywood's unrealities, dreams, and their dark undertones.

It's a movie about a movie being shot, continously referencing itself, with the real and unreal blending the point where you can differ between the two. What is "reality" anyway? The point "Inland Empire" seems to make is that it doesn't exist anymore, it's been replaced by our consumer driven dreams, that can be never lived up to, and usually end up a nightmare.

Unit 101

When opposing stem cell research recently, George W. Bush has said:

"In our day there is a temptation to manipulate life in ways that do not respect the humanity of the person. When that happens, the most vulnerable among us can be valued for their utility to others instead of their own inherent worth."

Funny that, because that is exactly what capitalism reduces human beings to.

It seems the religious conservatives only value biological life, and their reasoning is not able to extend beyond that.

On Brokeback Mountain

Ang Lee's "Brokeback Mountain" is my favourite film. And I find this fact quite annoying. It's very cliche for a gay man, isn't it? Plus it's huge box office success is a sore on my cultural snobbery, which usually revels in enjoying niche and/or obscure pieces only.

Lee's film is one of those rare cases where a work of art is both a masterpiece, and a commercial success.

Here is a review that I wrote a long time ago (when the film was originally released I think), but haven't published it anywere until now.

***

Brokeback Mountain by Ang Lee

Ang Lee’s “Brokeback Mountain” has been surrounded by one of the biggest media hypes in recent years, crowned by Sight&Sound, one of the most respectable film magazines in the world, naming it the best movie of 2005. As a result most of the general public already knows it as the “gay cowboy drama/love story.” The movie, however, goes far beyond such generalisations and refuses to adhere to the confinements of a particular genre. No matter how much you hear or read about it beforehand, it is bound to confound your expectations.

“Brokeback Mountain” tells a story of an affair of Jack and Ennis, two white trash cowboys, who meet while working together on a ranch, during the summer of 1963. The option of living happily everafter is, unsurprisingly, not open to them because of the society’s demands for a heterosexual, married lifestyle and their own internalised homophobia.

It would have been very easy for Lee to employ a typical drama template, keep building the tension until the culmination point, where all the emotional members of the audience start to cry, and then finish the film off with an even bigger bang at the end. Fortunately, he refuses to take any shortcuts or use any simplifications and as a result manages to deliver a rich and complex piece of work.

The premise on which the entire movie is built, is the difficulty or even impossibility of communication between the characters. The macho-masculinity doesn’t allow the men to express their emotions. Anger and violence are the only language known to them. What they feel and what they are is unspeakable. The only time in the entire movie, when the word relating to homosexuality is uttered is when, after their relationship has already been consumed, Ennis says “I’m not queer, you know.” During another conversation, he asks Jack whether he sometimes feels like people are staring at him, because they “know”. While you get the impression that everybody “knows” at one stage or another, they find it almost impossible to confront the issue.

Such subtle interplay between the characters is extremely difficult to do well but Lee succeeds on every front. Every scene seems to have been meticulously planned down to simple gestures, and the acting is impeccable. Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal manage to create entrancing chemistry between them and a special connection, in spite of using very little dialogue.

While gay writers and filmmakers are often accused of creating “unconvincing women”, straight Lee manages to create rich, multi-faceted female characters, who instead of being the suffocating matrons, seem more like the victims of their husbands misguided life choices.

With “Brokeback Mountain” Lee succeeds remarkably in creating a movie, in which it is difficult to find any faults. It both de- and re-constructs our idea of a “love story”, creating a film which is bursting with emotions, yet it restrains from employing any tired clichés or valentine cards imagery. Opening with beautiful shots of wilderness, it proceeds to offer probing psychological insight into its many characters, while it explores the limits of masculinity, the repression of (homo)sexual desire and the refusal of the society to confront, let alone accept, “the other”.

On Blogs

Perfectionism seems to stand in the way of any kind of endeavour, including writing blogs.

Nothing is never complete, as good as it could be. It's always a draft, which could be improved.

When I look at the past blog entries, I have written they often seem embarassingly bad. Should I edit them? Keep them for their historic, diary value?

Or maybe I should finally stop getting so fucking hung up about everything having to be perfect? Now there's a thought...

Hello Hooray

Oh look, once again I have announced something, using very grand words, and never got round to doing it. Now there's a surprise...

Yes, the journey to Palestine was an incredible experience, however that spirit quickly evaporated and I returned to being wrapped up in my own self-pity and misery, as usual.

Now I'm back here, I feel some need to express myself. And writing for the sake of writing, without any purpose or audience just doesn't seem to make sense.

This is a nice shelf to put various scraps on...

No, this blog is not going to become cool and popular. I am thinking of relating some thoughts on my culture life, mixed with some deeper experiences perhaps.

But knowing me, it might as well not happen....

The Spirit Of Palestine

I am back home reflecting on the past two weeks. The Birzeit University International Work Camp seems one of the most rewarding things I have ever done. There was hardly any work, it was extremely disorganised and I was bitter at finding out that I couldn't re-book my flight and had to go back straight after it finished. But the entire journey was filled with an amazing spirit of humanity, it was a heart-warming, uplifting experience, affirming my belief in the oneness, a unity of peoples.

The Palestinian people, who experienced so much suffering at the hands of foreigners, who should be throwing stones at us, were always welcoming, friendly and helpful. Everybody would say 'hello' to us when just walking down the street. Once, when we were in Betlehem, three of my friends were walking past a house where a party was taking place. The people invited them in, to what turned out to be a wedding party, and took them to dance.

I learned so much about the conflict, its effect on the people, the everyday reality as well as the Palestinian politics. Almost everything of what media says about Palestine is orientalist, neo-colonialist, racist, imperialist, eurocentric rubbish. Now I feel compelled to share everything that I know with as many people as possible. To de-construct every single zionist myth and to try aid, in whatever limited way I can, the Palestinian people in acquiring the freedom and independence, which they just like any other peoples in the world, rightly and truly deserve.

Over the coming days, I will share some my experiences here, as well as attempt to write some articles so watch that space. And if you want to learn more about Palestine, a good place to start is: www.zajel.org

The Last Day In Israel/Palestine

As if getting up at 7am would ever happen. I slowly lift my carcass after nine. A nice warm (that’s a nice surprise!) shower wakes me up. I pack my things, thank Sega and give him a parting gift. It’s time for the hated goodbyes. A lot of handshakes, some e-mails are swapped. Joseph gets a big hug, we’ll surely stay in touch. I go to the main university get and take a taxi to Qalanda. A very friendly, English speaking taxi driver has a nice chat with me and even leaves me his phone number in case I need any help when I’m in Palestine again. I pass through the checkpoint without major troubles, although they ask me about the stamp, which I didn't get coming into the country.

A ‘sherut’ takes me Jerusalem and I pop into Faisal Hostel. After leaving my stuff there, I go off to eat something and get some books from the Educational Bookshop. Upon return, Sebastian, Miyuki and Takuya are also there. I have a chat with Oliver, read a guide to my rights at Ben Gurion Airport and realise how naïve I was when flying in. I call for a sherut to the airport but it turns out that there are no more taxis available for today so I decid to take a bus from Egged Station. A girl is taking a taxi to the city centre and she takes me along. She drops me off and after a 15min walk, I got to the station. I take the bus thinking that its last stop was the airport and boy am I wrong. (Ok, I move to past simple now, editing everything so that it sticks to one tense consequently is too much work ;).

I fell asleep and woke up at the Airport City. As the bus was going further on, I was wondering whether I missed the airport already. But some fellow passengers assured me that it was still around 60mins before I got there. Eventually, when the bus stopped at a station in some town, I asked a soldier whether it’s going to Ben Gurion or whether I already passed it. She answered that it’s heading for Netanyah and that I should get off here and find a bus to go back.

I got off and proceeded to find a money changer. I was extremely nervous. Thank god I left so early, otherwise I would have surely missed my plane. I changed $10 and ran back to the station. Fortunately a bus was there. I took off and this time a helpful, English-speaking bus driver promised to tell me where to get off and explained that the bus doesn’t go inside Ben Gurion, you have to change. Of this, I had no idea.

After a lot of nail-biting tension and slowly ploughing through heavy rush-hour traffic, the bus got back to Airport City and I changed to an airport bus. Miraculously I managed to get to there around 2.5 hours before the flight. A very nice security worker, who kept on smiling took me to the side to ask me a lot of questions. Where did I stay? What did I do? When I mentioned meeting politicians as one of our activities, he asked: ‘What groups? Hamas? Islamic Jihad?’ At this point, it’s rather difficult not to either burst out with laughter or say: ‘Actually I wish we met them, I would be very interested in what they have to say.’ Neither of this would be a particularly good idea and I bite my toungue.

A barrage of questions about my return details followed. Where do I live, when do I go back to London, why do I fly to Prague, why not to London, why not to Warsaw? El-Al had a special offer from Prague, I say. How much cheaper than from London, how much cheaper than from Warsaw? How will I get from Prague to Wroclaw, does my father have nothing better to do than giving me a lift? A woman is asking me the same questions. I am shaking. In my mind I have a vision of rectal exams, nasty interrogations in a separate room and missing my flight. After every set of questions, the three security workers exchange the information in Hebrew and decided what more actions to take. His vivisection.

At some point a woman comes up to me and tells me that I look very nervous. Why is that? I am a very nervous person, I say. They are surprisingly nice and understanding – and seem to comprehend that I feel like that because of my security nightmare coming in. They explain that it’s for my safety and that they’re doing that because someone might have given me something, which might be a bomb. Or that I might be a terrorist and might have put it there myself, only they don’t vocalise that. After they say that, I relax and start smiling. It really puts the pressure off and it gets to the point when I start chuckling when someone asks me for the umpteenth time where I am flying. Just waiting for me to suddenly say Berlin… ooops Prague and the cover is blown.

My luggage is ex-rayed, opened, checked thoroughly but all security workers are very nice throughout. I keep smiling. Body check goes quickly and I don’t even have to take my trousers off. No snap of latex gloves and ordering to bend over a chair. Which is a shame, actually, because the security worker assigned to me is exceptionally hot. I get a red sticker, meaning “special treatment”. The cute Jewish soldier boy becomes my personal bodyguard and walks with me everywhere until I complete the security and check-in processes. Eventually he takes me to the passport control and wishes me a nice flight. All this to ensure that I am not given any explosives in-between checking in and getting on the plane. Sadly my eville plan of becoming a martyr has to fail.

More stamp questions at passport control. I wonder why the fascist interrogator gave me neither a stamp nor an immigration card. I don’t think he forgot. I’m pretty sure that he did it on purpose, knowing that not having a visa stamp will cause me some trouble, making me less likely to visit Israel again. The less subversive individuals like myself, the better. Fortunately there were no troubles, after explaining that I didn’t get that damn stamp, the soldiers would always let me through without causing any hassle. And so it was this time again.

I walk into the duty free zone really happy that it’s all over. Well not happy that my trip is over but that the imagined horrors of security coming out did not materialise. A tedious, motion-sickness inducing flight and similar, very long drive home await. And now I am home, writing these words, thinking about everything that took place over the last two weeks, wishing to come back again, to see and live more…

Life In A Post-Stalinist Country

The mayor of the capital bans the LGBT "Equality Parade", invoking an obscure law used only twice in recent years. The parliament, excluding three left-wing parties, overwhelmingly votes against a standard EU bill, banning discrimination on all grounds. A very productive parliamentary debate, includes statements like "Fags!" or "A woman weighs as much as her man wants". TV debates are full of people talking about abnormal behaviour and deviations. A judge decides that equating homosexuals with peadophiles and necrophiles is not as offense, since after all that's what the public thinks. Above all that sits a very satisfied catholic church, happy that its fascist interpretation of The Bible is put into practice.

No, it's not a Monthy Python episode. That's how life looks in a Post-Stalinist pseudo-democracy. Nevertheless, the more time I spend here, the more I realise how my decision to run away to UK was immature and pointless. And I feel like I want to abandon the disconnected from reality English degree and quit Queen Mary University, with its demoralising, anti-intellectual atmosphere and come back to Poland where in practice, teaching at unis is at much higher level.

After all, you can't run away from yourself. And on certain levels life in UK is even more horrific - it took me three years to make friends. Living in UK means constant stress. Everything is so expensive, my parents are investing so much money in me, I have to succeed. And I am a second class citizen, I can't get a student loan, I can't vote, I can't fully take part in public and political life.

I also discovered a lefty, activist, engaged sphere of public life here, which I wasn't aware of before. Great political and cultural magazines, culture jamming art collectives spraying "Why do you need this?" on billboards, groups of people who want to change things. And in a way living in such a conservative, intolerant country gives you a clear enemy and an impulse to fight against it. Especially that scary right wing parties, with names like "Law and Justice" look set to win the forthcoming elections.

The serotonin unblocker is kicking in. I am much better and feel like I want to do things (yesterday I've written to a Green Party MEP asking her to intervene in the Polish governement's idiotic decision to build a highway through an ancient forest - the project is EU funded and I hope that Green MEPs will stir some shit and help to sink that sick scheme). Therapy is great and already lots of things have been indentified and pointed out. I am doing a lot of thinking, trying to change the way I think and go about things. I am starting to feel happy again.

Of course there is a certain amount of doubt, even fear. What if it's all chemically induced? What if I would have to keep taking drugs till the end of my life to sustain it? But then I already see all the mistakes I have been making in the past and that it is possible to change things, even if sometimes it is very difficult.

I don't like the optimistic message, which comes through all this. It's so unlike me. Neither decadent, nor depressing, nor filled with existential pain and intense suffering. It even suggests that happiness might exist. Have I abandoned all my ideals and set off on a lie-paved road of soap advert happy-ever afterness? You decide. Send a YES or NO text message to 7832 (messages cost £1.69 plus vat; ask the bill payer for permission).

What Have You Done?

Scribble, scribble, bleh bleh bleh.
He begins.

Archives up

Something new was supposed to
come today
but I am collapsing

Another day

And I've Been Listening To

Why do they always send the poor

Barbarisms by Barbaras
With pointed heels
Victorious victories kneel
For brand new spankin' deals

Marching forward hypocritic and
Hypnotic computers
You depend on our protection
Yet you feed us lies from the tablecloth

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sunshine

Kneeling roses disappearing into
Moses' dry mouth
Breaking into Fort Knox stealing
Our intentions

Hangers sitting dripped in oil
Crying freedom
Handed to obsoletion
Still you feed us lies from the tablecloth

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sunshine

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sunshine

Blast off
It's party time
And we don't live in a fascist nation

Blast off
It's party time
And where the fuck are you?

Where the fuck are you?
Where the fuck are you?

Why don't presidents fight the war?
Why do they always send the poor?

Why don't presidents fight the war?
Why do they always send the poor?

Why do they always send the poor?
Why do they always send the poor?
Why do they always send the poor?

Kneeling roses disappearing into
Moses' dry mouth
Breaking into Fort Knox stealing
Our intentions

Hangers sitting dripped in oil
Crying freedom
Handed to obsoletion,
Still you feed us lies from the tablecloth

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sunshine

Everybody's going to the party have a real good time
Dancing in the desert blowing up the sun

Where the fuck are you?
Where the fuck are you?

Why don't presidents fight the war?
Why do they always send the poor?

Why don't presidents fight the war?
Why do they always send the poor?

Why do they always send the poor?
Why do they always send the poor?
They always send the poor
They always send the poor

Why can’t more rock bands write meaningful lyrics and get engaged with the world they live in, instead of re-hashing the anti-everything teenage angst bullshit over and over again(Trent Reznor is still doing it at 40)? On the other hand a visit to the website shows they’re just another nicely packaged product. Few timid links to “activist” websites and the rest PR machine all way and you can buy a beanie, a t-shirt and an armband with their logo.

And I just deleted my favourite album of the moment, which I really really feel like listening to right now. The malice of still life. Then there is also the case of my new phone not working properly, money being lost on a top-up of an account, which doesn’t exist anymore… The universe is conspiring against me.

The Day It Came

In her usual fashion, my mother insisted on leaving an hour before the appointment was scheduled. “The traffic will be insane”. I got to the concrete Stalinist “1st May Square” (interesting that it hasn’t been renamed yet) 45 minutes early. I decided to get something to eat, in the place I would always go to after getting the painful allergy vaccines years ago.

I was sitting outside, eating potato cakes with mushroom sauce. It was a third extremely hot day in a row. Suddenly strong wind took off. Clouds of dust, from sunburnt soil, dug up for numerous roadworks taking place, went up. Twigs and seeds from the trees above started to fall into my food. I slowly walked inside. It became dark. Grey clouds have covered the entire sky. The meal was finished and it was time to make the move towards the surgery.

The air was filled with dust. I couldn’t see where I was going, my eyes were stinging. I could barely breathe, I was covering my face with the palm of my hand and striding forward. It started to rain. I managed to reach the surgery door without getting run over. I briskly walked up to the third floor and headed immediately to the bathroom. The dust was sticking to my sweaty skin, it was everywhere. In my nose, on my eyelids, down my back. I washed my face off and with eyes still stinging, headed towards the office. It all felt very peculiar. My mind couldn’t keep up with processing what was going on around me. I sat down.

The storm broke out. The corridor was being flooded with water and a psychologist was looking for a bucket to place under the open loft window. No – it simply wasn’t watertight she said. She was there. “Hi, I’m almost finished, just give me a second.”

Same office, yet everything seemed to look very different. I was sitting there feeling completely removed from everything (I’ve been feeling a lot like that – am I going insane? I have to come back to this thought…). Not really talking about my issues, more like skimming through things. Not really getting deep into anything, not really saying what I think and feel. Worried that there won’t be enough time to cover everything.

We will be able to see each other every weak during the holidays. A very good consultant clinical psychologist who has been in psychoanalytical training for four and half years, for approximately £8.40 an hour. This wouldn’t happen in London. We know each other already – no need for traumatic and lengthy tales of one’s life from birth.

When I left, everything was calm. The clouds of dust straight from “Grapes of Wrath”, the surreal special effects to the painfully bad movie of my life were nowhere to be seen. I took a long walk to my old flat. In the park, the ground was littered with broken branches and fallen trees.

I rang my friend’s intercom. I asked if he’s home and stood there waiting for the answer, which never came. I met my brother’s lodger on the way up. Two windows got broken, no flooding though. It was only then that I realised the seriousness of what took place. My mother called. After dropping me off, she was supposed to go to her twice weekly aerobics/workout classes. When she noticed what was going on, she headed straight back home instead. I insisted to keep all the windows open.

When she was driving, a huge tree went down right in front of her car, the branches slid down the side doors. She narrowly escaped being crashed to death. All around here, trees were falling down like matches.

The next day, the sun has eased off. The weather is quite pleasant now.

On Being Home

I hate this weather! It's over 30 degrees and I can't function under these conditions. The fact that mine and my brother's rooms, in which I live, are the only ones without blinds isn't helping either.

In their usual fashion, my parents just can't get anything done. Other than the lack of blinds, some essential furniture for my room, bought more than a year ago (if not two) still isn't assembled, etc.

I am trying to keep myself occupied all the time to stay sane. I finally managed to connect my laptop to the internet so my current occupation is writing this e-mail to all my lovely friends and a very special friend ("Why is my friend "special"? - David, Six Feet Under).

Over the past days, I have been meeting all my friends and even some more bearable members of my family. I have a surprisingly good relationship with my brother. Shockingly, he called me yesterday to ask me to come out with him and his friends, who came from afar to visit him, to a really bad gay club. Well, the only gay club.

While the place itself was horrific, with bawdy decor and one room playing trance/techno trash and the other trashy pop hits from 60s-80s, my brother's friends were very nice so I guess that overall I had quite a lot of fun. Nevertheless even getting drunk couldn't make me dance to that horrific music. Eventually we decided to move to a more alternative venue called (I am so happy that one exists) but the lady on the door asked me and one girl for IDs. How could I forget that carrying one is a responsibility of a responsible citizen! The rest of the party descended to a scary, chavvy, all-MTV-hits place, while I departed home.

I need to go to an open air pool (where children relieve themselves into the water) - I am roasting...

And being hot and miserable is a great excuse not to do any work. I was supposed to read "Paradise" by Toni Morrison but I can't get past the amusing first sentence: "They shoot the white girl first." Hopefully it's gonna be me second...

Fortunately one cinema, which shows some arthouse movies still exists here, although it's days are probably nigh. Third and fourth large multiplexes are being built. All the other good venues have been closed already. Hopefully I will see Danish "Reconstruction" later today.

Also on the bright side: I love walking and cycling round huge parks and enjoy large public spaces, and seeing lawns and trees by the sidewalks, and generally not being entombed in concrete like in the disgusting, dirty, congested, polluted London. If I could earn here as much as I potentially can in UK, I would probably never leave this place.