August 25, 2010

You try so hard to be honest. Most of the time you end up just sticking to whatever everybody else already believes about you. It’s easier to avoid suspicion than tell the whole truth. Once you start doing that, people get suspicious.

photos Johnny Forever (above) and Logan Curley

a hand. cont’d

August 25, 2010

A partisan from her village had been killed by a Nazi officer. His body was dumped by the river and morbidly sprinkled with earth. Each time I hear it I always wonder why they bothered to bury him at all. Is it a sign of some misshapen sense of human solidarity, this provisional sprinkling? The women are left to unearth and properly bury the dead.The living men cannot risk being seen with the dead. They come to the reburial in drag. Long shirts, headscarves drawn forward over their faces. Lusia, my grandmother, carefully composes the motions of dressing in her tragic pantomime. She holds an imaginary scarf tight at her chin and mimics the mournful, trembling gait of a man who has just lost his brother and fears for his own life. Heavy, wide set steps. A stumble. The carpet is the riverbank.

a hand.

August 25, 2010

The way she tells it, you feel the clarity of a moment more than seventy years into the past drilling brilliance into your scull through your eyeballs like you were staring at the sun. She’s standing over when as she tells it, too, and her eyes glow. There is doom in her voice. A shakiness and dread, like it hasn’t happened yet, as though she hasn’t seen what’s coming but can feel it there pulsing under the earth. Just below the surface. You are about to hear the story for the umpteenth time, and yet, the way she does, you pretend you know nothing. Seventy some odd years ago she was not pretending. Though she already knew. She was begging. please god let this not be.

She is trembling now as she tells it- more than a telling, it is a reenactment. Every movement carried out in a macabre mime. She bends to inspect the earth, thrown into a haphazard pile by a shovel possibly taken from her own yard. She gets down on her knees, stares at the carpet. There are no dramatic pauses. She talks wildly the whole way through. you could not imagine. my heart, my heart, at the, at the bottom, and sinking. here. kneeling still, she clutches her stomach kneading at her bowels from the outside. here, like a, like a, pain. unimaginable. She scrapes aside the thin layer of earth which the carpet has become. And there, barely buried, a hand. Her own takes on the role, fingers curled as after the passing of a painful though sudden death. Blue. Purple. Recognized immediately. And there are more piles. Ever more mounds of earth crudely mocking the idea of a resting places.

(more to come…)

Saddest ever!

August 23, 2010

It’s raining and I’m alright. Pretty happy about some things, actually. I’m in Brussels. It is 2010. But once, not so long ago, I was in Warsaw. It was 2008. And it went like this that day:

it’s raining and i’m sad and worried. every time you leave the flat i get aches. they’re all about how you won’t be coming back. no matter how many times you’ve come and gone. statistics do nothing for the pain. it’s like getting on an airplane. you know it’s so unlikely. you know that once in a blue moon. but you also know that if this is that one time, then that’s it. there’s no way you’re surviving.

also soon to come:

August 20, 2010


August 20, 2010