LIMOUSINE FOR FREEADING 10

MONET CHRISTO

What a complete buffoon, cabot, moron and usurper one must be to call his book: “God: Life and Creativity.”

Napoleon X Dzienis

The word is important. The letter. Book. Important inventions of man. Who knows if not the most important altogether. Who knows. I learned to read at a very early age, at about 2-3 years old. That’s what my mother told me. I grew up in the countryside, so the first letters, books were from my grandparents, from my father’s library, from Young Technicians magazines and old books from my father’s studies. From electrical engineering with a specialization in energy. In these books I also found cut negatives of my father’s photos. So when I was a few years old, sitting in a dark attic I would look at the negatives under the light in the crevices between the boards and snoop between the letters. My father was born on the same day as Napoleon Bonaparte, and one day late in my life he told me that the last book he read by oil lamp was “The Count of Monte Christo.” But this information at the time couldn’t help me much. By the way all, unfortunately, had to happen. Or maybe it was precisely the …pen.

In the bookcase, books of various kinds, as in the communist shortage. A lot of small Catholic books: prayer books, song books, stories about saints, about Father Bosco, illustrated in a larger format “Heart” by Edmundo de Amicis. Also a great deal of small war books from the so-called “Tiger” series, some “Sensations of the 20th century” processes. Also a lot of post-war propaganda of the late 1940s, for example, “The Seventh Cross.” One of the publisher’s series of dozens of works, in a beautiful navy blue hardback with an embossed image of Lenin in the center. “About a man who did not bow to bullets” and such twisted oddities. Some books for his father and his brothers for their academic performance. I don’t think anyone read it. But in the Polish People’s Republic, no matter was disposed of, unless it broke down, then for parts. Poverty, simply put.  In time, if I focus well, I’ll remember the rest 😉 There was also a four-volume ‘History of Art’ by Mikhail Alpatov, but there were few illustrations in it, you know, because what for.

Typical communist concrete housing estate, ten-story buildings with first floor and drying rooms on the last 11. 12 in total. 3 on Lenina Street, including mine, 2 on Warszawska Street. Nothing special. By the sewage called the White River. We had to organize our own fun. Ah millions of ideas. For books one went to libraries. For magazines one had to hunt, as for almost everything. My dad, going to the store every morning to buy bread, always bought me ‘The World of Youth’ with a comic strip at the end. Mom, by virtue of the fact that she could set up a folder at the Ruch kiosk in her job at the Provincial Office, bought me books by Charles May in notebooks. Later a computer magazine ‘Bajtek’ and ‘Komputer’. For the magazine ‘Together’ with a photo of a football player and the ‘People’s Daily’ with a poster of singers at the end, one had to queue up at the Ruch kiosk on Saturday morning. Circulations were small so not everyone got what they wanted. Photos and posters were barter currency in the yard. Many hunted for them. We used to go to scrap paper stores, if you talked to them well, they would let you in and you could bushwhack. These were completely awesome moments in these heaps of newspapers. It used to be all bustling, hundreds of kids outside playing.

At Maria Konopnicka Elementary School No. 22, books could be borrowed only from the 3rd grade. I remember that I won some kind of competition, because I borrowed a lot. About 80 books. Funny. We had such a mathematician, which sipped from a thermos to himself. Cool guy in general, he was in Solidarity. Well, somehow he took a liking to me and used to send me during lessons to get the ‘Evening Express’, a daily paper like that. But thanks to that, I could go to the bookstore near the school on Mickiewicza Street and sniff out books. After martial law, after 1984, when the post-communist thaw slowly began, so-called subscriptions were introduced in bookstores. Such vouchers authorizing the purchase of books. Prepayments, you could say. I remember hunting for them, too. I bought myself then the Little Encyclopedia of Antique Culture, for example. I once did a trick on this mathematician and bought this Express beforehand, and as he was sending me off, I took it out from behind my claw and gave it to him. He couldn’t get out of the impression. And it was so simple after all. What did he have in that thermos? 😉 I read a lot of fantasy. Also Polish. A favorite was Adam Synowiec’s volume of short stories “Return with Change”. Howard’s Conans were collectible. Relaxes, collection books of various comics in episodes. Captain Wildcats, Titus, etc. What was available. It was said on the yard that The Lord of the Rings could only be read once. For copies to borrow one stood in an ordered queue.

Adam Mickiewicz High School I was said to be the best in Bialystok, part of my family studied there and praised the pedagogues. I chose it because it was relatively far away and I could go back and look in all the bookstores and antique shops along the way. Such a daily ritual. I knew all the vendors, they would leave me books. Super relations, for a kid. Along the way I also met various people with whom I could chat. High-five, etc. Many of these bookstores are no longer there. In the scientific and technical one on Swietojanska Street is the Tax Office. Medical is empty, only the neon sign remains. Thanks to this habit of puzzling antiquarians, I often learn interesting tips. For example, in my favorite antique shops in Warsaw I learned who among the famous people is a spy. After all, this is priceless knowledge. For example. In college, one reads mainly plays, dramas, comedies, new texts in theater magazines, reviews 😉 There is no time especially for books, unfortunately. Unlike at DRT or the Department of Rejected Talent. There one only reads and watches, and then what some go on to direct study. For that there is plenty of time for reading after graduation. You sit and wait for the phone to ring and say you are needed. Yes, a job of waiting, mostly. When I landed back in Bialystok exhausted by the events of the Warsaw solstice, I did guest acting in the theater and for several years just read, a couple of books a day. I bought mostly at int auctions. I complemented myself, so to speak. Mainly anthropology, psychology, philosophy. Fiction worthy of the stage I knew from my studies.

It was interesting in public television in concrete Warsaw. Because working mainly in the culture editorial department in the now defunct D block, one was culturally privileged. Publishers sent so-called brushes, that is, copies before printing, or already finished books. New translations of so-called masterpieces were probably the most interesting. Also, one could choose from. But the ubiquitous anti-Polonism and post-modernism, worn out to the extreme, reigned supreme, so most went on sale after time. A guy in a drawn-out black sweater with a thinning beard from scratching came and took these masterpieces. From the Black Publishing House, for example, and it was immediately lighter. We chatted for a while about his carefree and no-cost experience of human drama in bed. I didn’t have many books left for myself after that work. I took a look at the shelves now, found a new translation of the Divine Comedy, from poetry ‘Map of the New World’ by Derek Walcott, a reporter’s ‘McMafia’ by Misha Glenny. Nothing from history. Weak for a couple of years in this editorial. What to say. I met many contemporary Polish and foreign writers. I conducted and recorded quite a few interviews with them. Some of their books I’ve read, but somehow, to be fair, I haven’t left myself to read them again. I don’t know. That’s the criterion I use. I leave those that I will want to maybe read again someday. Or to compare.

At some point you realize that wherever you are in this concrete glass trap, in whatever non-rented apartment, there is a problem everywhere. Everywhere there are bars, something is locked, something not allowed, some madman is screaming, or the walls some moron has whitewashed with lime and you can’t touch. There’s a prison everywhere, someone is forcing you to treat them as such. From everywhere you want to escape and you can’t, because either the weather or there is no work, always something. And agencies cheat as much as they can on signing the initial contract, it used to be a complete standard and a complete lottery. And often an apartment had to be found quickly. Well, and you ended up with various eccentricities, and it’s a heroinist in the bathtub, a dwarf mean on his mute wife, an apartment above the theater of the flagship Polish hysteric, whom you never want to meet, the most polluted street and every day in the spring or summer a whole scoop of former worn tires. Once I lived in the same tenement, in the so-called two wells in the most “sensitive” point of night work of indiscriminate street oldy women. Sometimes I’m friendly too much talkative but we couldn’t exchange thoughts for too long, because immediately a teddy bear in patched leather ran from the hotdog stand. Recidivism in suspicious neighborhoods seems safest in such cases, because loyal. Apartments dozens, changes for various reasons, in college you know, often regardless of you. Once, in order to support myself, I even rented a room to a girl/band group for rehearsals, TAboo or whatever, because I don’t think it worked out very well for them. Henna, henna, gehenna. I have fond memories of, for example, a stint with the family of a disco/polo government ambulance driver. Super stories, completely unbelievable and undermining the so-called good taste. 😉 Books then save the situation. You enter a different world. Simply put. Sometimes you even choose something exactly or vice versa, but in some relation to these so-called adventures. Sometimes that’s what saves.

So after all these stories, once you get into the so-called Polish government TV and start earning quite a bit of money. You make a so-called career. And when you’ve already made like a dog those formats, programs, documentaries, trailers of silly, American propaganda films, shows of some absurd, shoot by televiewer written on the knee, well you’ve made that money. It’s everyone around you who gets some kind of frenzy and starts talking about housing loans. And then at some point you feel such pressure from all sides that for the sake of holy peace of mind you’ll also buy an apartment like your pals and take part of the loan. Disgusting, arrogant, deceitful and henpecked usury. And still everyone assures you that there will be a job, despite the crisis, etc. etc. etc. And it turns out after a year that everything, of course, is the other way around, and you, as usual from your obviously driven to the limit of your choice, are completely fed up with everything and…. you are left SAM. With your pain/ting. And when you are already determined to sell this apartment it turns out that, of course, there is no taker for it. And in real estate agency circuit slang, your building is called a LIBRARY. Certainly sir. And the books after all this experience sort of…. hm, well… cheesy/shmeezy… Borges stays. And then you watches everything that the awful television has produced around the world. This pseudo-organic, nobody-needs-it, criminal psycho enter/tain/exis. Wire in Blood, in other words. Well, not much is left of that time, after that selection, so to speak. Diluted to the point of pain, in order to squeeze cash for each episode and season and put viewers to sleep. Well, because what. But the savings are running out, and you won’t enlist for the same job even by elephants. But as they say, the mountain will not go to Mohammed, Mohammed will come to the mountain. Well, and aGain almost the same, but from prison you work. So-called directing editing, they bring on the knee made often without a diresector and you have to put something together. There is nothing to talk about. Just about one remarkable coincidence of A.D. 2012. That is, 6 x 12ths. or perhaps even more.

It was in truth a massacre. No help from the wife. On every TV plastic so stinky that depression full mouth. But in truth. NOTHING. Just NOTHING. Nothing independent, no podcasts, no independent media. NOTHING. Shit everywhere. I’ve packaged it myself, I know what I’m saying. At the end of 2011 I went to LAND Slużew (mall), a private cable company to ask how much a private TV broadcast would cost. They said 10K for the equipment and for every 10K the audience-10K for another segment. All in all, not so bad. And I get a call after that from Paula, whom I met when I made a film about Bob Marley in Jamaica in 2008. Probably the only film about him/reggae from there to date in Poland. I did a report on the Poles making a record at Tuff Gong there at the same time, and a segment for my show “Łossskot” (Rummmble) on TVP. A total of 100 minutes of broadcasting. Not so bad for six days of work. From there I was well known in that reggae/raga community in Poland. And sometimes when I couldn’t stand the TVN Leming’s Robot Estate or Wilanów Township, in Krauze’s swamp that hadn’t been completely dried up, I would go to some soundsystem sessions. These were the only independent parties at the time. With some love message plus vibes, of course. Paula says that Ronan, with whom she was doing a foreign magazine called Irie Up, came and they rented a place from her friends, who ran a bicycle service on Good Street. Ronan was a historian and journalist from Ireland and traveled the world with his own exhibition on soundsystems. He had his own ss, now he is head of intel agency. Well, and that I would drop by because they are plotting something together, etc. Sure, I stop by, fast ball, from the time piff puff paff, you know. They set up Reggae Gallery, Ronan exhibition, eco gadgets, muse/vinyles, eco fabrics, org food, org simple, cool, independent of everything. Awesome. Well, and it’s been going on for a while, the crowds aren’t there, but people are tentatively dropping in and getting screwed. I thought to myself, this is the only thing worth being interested in at this point, I took a photographer buddy/DOP Kempa and started talking to people there and recording these conversations. I was interested in the so-called noble approach. No outlandish pseudo-doc manipulations. Collected these people 12. I lived at 12 Sarmacka Street / for a true Pole who respects history, an eminently significant name / and at number 12. It was 2012.

I then thought to myself there is such a Rastafarian organization in Jamaica that calls itself “12 Tribes of Israel” and honors salvation through Jesus. Unusually enough for Israel. Isn’t it. And they have 12 colors assigned to 12 functions, those 12 tribes. I had accumulated some of these 12ths before in my life, and why not now somehow combine them. After independent attempts at radio and theater and perhaps a few more media, this was actually my first fully self-produced film combined with my own editing and work on so-called split screens. I had graphics from prominent Jamaican artists Michael Thompson and Mau Mau. Muse mainly Aldub from Germany and by enigma Jah Seal 😉 Since I was treating this as a first, fully independent, I wanted the movement of the characters in the first/second screen to be frame after frame. Like in a movie. On celluloid tape. Also everything based on single shots. A painstaking job. It came out to me initially 35 min. Later, in order to throw in some artishe festivals I shortened to the requirement of 15 min. Now for the 12th anniversary I will dig out this version and maybe do English subtitles. But the point of it was that Zion people to whom I privately organized screenings on my prison Sarmacka this film irritated. That like if Israel you have to make them blowjobs, WTF. One bald rightwing jewish ram even used the phrase that it was my “ego trip”. Deliciously, I would even say. Well, why not. People prominently associated with the Rasta movement in Poland, I ignored in the so-called casting. I cared about ordinary people who do not strain themselves, ordinary people normally lost in a stupid system. The rest do business, just as in Jamaica it’s the business. Message is a completely different thing. And here, similarly, when talking, I felt a great desire to break out of this Polish concrete prison and find myself/themselves in the sun, with cool vibrating encouraging music. Deeper reflections also revolved around breaking out of the slavish, economic or opinionated system. Corpo labels. All toward freedom. Another prison, another freedom. That’s just karma, isn’t it. And then there’s Rajkovska’s full/affair artificial palm tree, at the intersection of New World Street and Jerozolimskie Avenues. And all this made in the so-called Library 😉 HUH, weak?

Since in the meantime, in order to pay off the loan and play producer I made some shitty 12 stories for one shitty N’TV, so I premiered the film “Rasta” at a well-known club of friends “Regeneration” in Warsaw. Finding someone to screen / buy licence/ borrow etc. my anti-system, after all, “Rasta” turned out to be completely impossible. In this field miracles don’t happen in Poland. What to do, to the network, for freeee. And the shitty stories continue, in a series of 12, certainly sir, to keep a prison cell no one wants to buy. In 2014, I rescued some crappy format for Polszmat, and on this occasion, a friend of the production manager offered me to format a series about Poles in Ireland. Unfortunately, the producer wanted an acquaintance who produced “Ida,” which, by the way, I pretty much outdid. EUGH. I did not like it very much. I don’t wear hidden zion propaganda. Anyway. When I finally decided to make a documentation/pilot about Poles what emigrated to Ireland from that Polish prison, I found a buyer for my studio cell right away. Poles, of course, I found 12, how else. They escaped from Poland and made a satisfying life for themselves in Ireland. They missed them, but…. what to say. People were fleeing from the ‘green island’ of Chief ReRed Tusk to a real green island. Incredible. As I edited it and gave such a documentary episode “0” to fly there around collations/editors rooms meeting eyc, I sold the prison cell and happy as a foal in a green meadow I left with Vera, whom I had met earlier on the occasion of “Rasta”, into the world. To do, among other things, another independent film. When I found out that they didn’t want “Green Island” in my proposal, that they wanted to make it more folksy, that is to say, to make it more unleavened, as POLRAG does, I told this prodont from tapping the tree with his beak to rock and to give me the money for those weeks of work, well, because of course he didn’t give money for it, and it turned out in total that I invested a good few times more in this super project. That started suggestivating something there, stretching the rubber 😉 projecting that to whom it will work out more, succeed, etc. An oscar embarroscar. What a wacky thing to do. Polachkostwo. From polastik laczki/flip-flops on the beach.

We traveled quite a bit. In 12 countries I did Human Energy, about people what want to break free from the dependence of corporate energy. I won’t describe the problems, because there were as many as stories along the way, including the conspiracy, it’s described on the blog as Saint Green Hypocrisy, and also at www.humanenergy.in To edit, we moved to a cooperative apartment, well, because it’s a film about cooperatives. And only after I finished it, I renovated a former Polish People’s Republic prosecutor’s office that had never been done before, well, because how to escape destiny in the end. I put in a new door, because no one wanted to undertake it. I unpacked my books from the basement cardboard boxes, breathed a full minded space like a decent, civilized person, and was able to start orienting myself to what would be interesting to read again under the new circumstances of former and new investigations and court cases. I fell in friendship with an antiquarian one and another, but what soon is the Internet moon.

Let’s say from 2018 I began to browse the auctions on the popular and probably the largest Polish portal. And what I found out that a great deal of whole libraries are sold out, but completely different: school libraries, city neighborhood libraries, rural libraries, polytechnic libraries, music libraries. Something nice for everyone. And this is at minimal prices, for the proverbial 1 zloty. For 8, say, these are already complete hits, masterpieces, rarities. And vice versa for 30, 40 zlotys some complete shit inflated by the German media. It was appalling by all means, as if the whole nation had switched to publications attached to color newspapers. Or it had already completely drowned its mind in TV/cable/satellite chaff. All in all, I seemingly shouldn’t have complained, I was finding rare editions of Polish poetry. Brilliantly cared for and illustrated fairy tales, Polish and foreign legends. Sets of studies of games of various types or good publications of uncompromising historians, rarely published in mainstream circulation. Pitavalls and famous investigations. Not to mention fiction. One hell of a puzzler and very sad.

Until the spring of last year, I used to visit Warsaw once a month to run some errands and, in my spare time, make the rounds of familiar antique stores. While in the vicinity of a certain Art Gallery close to me, I was casually looking at the public rack where people leave their books. And one time I just saw five items from, in my opinion, one of the best Polish publishing series in general, the “Under the Clock” series by Pax. A series of memoirs, letters, memoirs, in my opinion the only such selection of dozens of items concerning the beautiful history of Poland. I stayed until the next day and at a similar evening time found another set of diaries and letters from yet another series. For five days I chatted in the evenings and found interesting works of Polish culture, until on the sixth day I met a mysterious lady with a statuesque beauty, an open face, big eyes and with a thick blond braid to her waist.

A beautiful, elderly lady already looks at me with a gentle smile when I tell her that I have been hunting her for five days 😉 and if I may ask, why exactly such books as memoirs, here she leaves. And she says: – And why exactly such memoir books interest you, sir? Wonderful, at last a conversation. I – that in my opinion there is a good chance to learn history with circumstantial and moral details in one go. That perhaps it is true. She smiled radiantly at me. And I, that if she has more such books to leave behind, then perhaps, so that she doesn’t get tired, I will take in one go, so to speak. The lady with the braid countered that perhaps…. only she needs to talk to her husband, who has had an artistically noble hobby/job for years. To might not reveal everything. She wrote down the phone number.

I called after a short while and heard that I could come, it was not far away. As the familiar woman opened I saw a pile of bags and cardboard boxes in the hallway and heard only: – But please, sir, my husband is…-And a guy in a robe that was as disheveled as a nobleman’s robe rushed into the hallway, introducing himself with a multi-pronged name and cordially shaking hands. Well, what to say. It’s wonderfully Polish. I love it. The combination of nonchalance, historically justified pride, unabashed fantasy and some playfulness, to put it briefly. It was like stepping back a few centuries to a Poland that I think some Poles still dream of. He invited me into the room and began to tell a story. An unusual one. Well, it was a couple of diplomats who inherited a book collection from a relative, a prominent diplomat and poet it seems, and so on. I don’t particularly want to throw names around, whoever guesses will guess. Well, just the story I played earlier little bit. A relative, before his death, wanted to rewrite the book collection of his favorite university library, and that library…. to my seeming luck, refused to accept. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe it.

With the tip of my nose I felt that I seemed to be meeting some unusual climax from all sides of the historical-spy, because it turned out that it wasn’t just that pile in the room, but…. three huge basements downstairs, which we descended into after a while. I saw full cardboard boxes and bookcases already dusty with standing books. My heart was pounding as if I had found the Abbe Faria’s treasure somewhere at the bottom of some cave, on an island known only to me. My interlocutor, of course, kept winding up about Polish history, independent culture, and some patsy in politics, while I looked at the spines of dusty books, many bound in already rubbed leather, and just caught names. The full-frontal nobleman only asked me for a moment some time, so he could put down something there. And the next day I started to carry them together with my Jacopo and drove them to that nearby friendly gallery so I could review them carefully. Accidentally, something happened there, someone didn’t come, and we were given a large room to use for a while. And in general, to weight ourselves brief, because I was afraid that they were about to change their minds and I could no longer pack them 😉 But all the luck we managed. It took us two afternoons to transport a ton of books to this artistic, fantastic, closest asylum.

Cleaning dust and dirt and browsing was really exciting, and for a very simple reason, namely, the diplomat ambassador marked with small thin strips favorite places in his books so you could say that you were entering combined dimensions. As if to different personas at the same time. Because there were both historical and diplomatic books, with a special emphasis on that. A lot of spy selection, military, religious, a lot of antiquity, a little philosophy, a lot of essays on Polish literature, a lot about the interwar period, from different sides. A lot of books just on social economy. A lot of tissue paper, photocopy editions, and, of course, the most interesting books from before the Second and First World Wars. Good Polish editions, rarely seen at ordinary auctions anymore. Of course, also a large part outdated, but interesting precisely because of his way of seeing. And managed to pack all this into a Husbil, which by no means yielded to the pressure of knowledge and did not burn practically much more during the ride. Means some extra force pushed him 😉 Such are the monet count’s shoes without coins.

MEM(ENT)O MORI

The where I appear alone usually want to be accompanied by animals. In the city they are usually birds, ravens, rooks, starlings, black 😉 but also others. Dogs, cats are everywhere. In the countryside, in the woods they are wild animals. Various. Three years ago I saw a black stork. The last few years, for example, I seem to have tamed a fox 😉 It appeared three years ago on the road as I was riding my bicycle. Exactly as I passed the wildlife warning sign, which extends exactly where I frequent. He jumped out of the grain on the right, stood in the road and started looking at me. I stopped. We looked into each other’s eyes for a while and after a while he jumped back to where he came from. In the meantime, various animals pass by and approach, wild boar, elk, deer. All sorts. Eagles have appeared recently. They circle all the time over the homestead. A year later I noticed a fox again, coming closer and closer. I don’t have chickens so he was probably after something else. You have to watch out for foxes your way, because they can spread rabies. A year ago he appeared on the basement, three meters from me. He looked at me, then in front of me, then at me again and ran in his direction. I didn’t manage to take a picture of him, because I prefer to watch and keep the images in my head. But there they are closer and safer 😉 The moths love me.

4.05.2024 TBC