Once last year I was rummaging something under the Husbil, I am accosted by a woman, about my age, let’s say, and asks if I am selling it. I reply to this strangely smiling lady that if I wanted to sell it, I would probably put a visible ad. Then she from the other hand, so to speak, would I not want to buy, because she also has a Pilote (body type) and for some reason does not want to put up an ad in the net. I said why doesn’t her husband take care of it, and she said, he died and that’s why. I replied that rather not, at most I can come and look at it and perhaps advise something. If it’s in good condition, then maybe some friend will buy it quickly. I persuaded Żuria and we went.

Diesel turbo, but for me the volume does not compensate for the power. Flap from the engine dangerously installed for the window glass. The bodywork is not all there either. Initial and subsequent inspection revealed a great deal of defects inside. Nothing worked, the stench from the mash hidden under the couch was causing wood rot. Zurka began to seal the holes on the outside with her favorite rubber. I say to the cobra to go inside then I’ll tell what I found, and she that in her life she will not go in there, because she has too many memories, and her husband bought it for a penny supposedly. Oh, gosh, you gorgon. Well, I told her what and how, but I felt like I was hurting her, such faces she played. Another would have thanked me, offered coffee, etc. And here nothing. Okay, we wrapped up and drove off. Later she hooked me up again at Husbil, that a guy came right away with a trailer, that is, determined and bought for 35K. Such a polishia pleased with the luck. He overpaid terribly. I wouldn’t have given 25. So much work to do, I wouldn’t want to do it anymore. Too noisy engine and so on. Too stinky.

I will miss camper rallies and car picnics in Poland a bit. Mainly because of the nice, friendly people who sometimes turn out to be the only ones and undertake to help simply, out of knowledge of the subject, out of sympathy. Like Tomek, for example. Spec electrician what dismantled completely unnecessary old parts. Last year we were, as usual, at several such rallies in Warsaw, and then I bought a large collection of quite rare pre-war books on social economy at the “Warsaw Antiquarian”. And when we managed to organize one camper rally in Zamość combined with a book sale, the “Zamość Library” came out to meet the visitors and offered to sell used books such as copies on the history of cars, which of course I purchased. Since then, I have bought only two books just before I left for my trip in Europe ’24 at the antique shop “A” at Ark. The beautiful leather-bound editions were Maria Cieślak’s “Memoirs of a Zamość High School Student 1941-50” and Bogumiła Sawa’s: “Girls in Aprons…”. And it wasn’t until I was wandering around Amsterdam that I found several books on a public shelf worth taking, including “Zicht op de toeomst” by futurologists Rudolf and Robbert Das about techno visions of the future with 250 illustrations.

Weronica Bloch Żuria was and is the greatest friend I’ve ever had, and all the photos with my participation (except for the period of Rasta, Tomasz Kempa) are by her. The funny thing is that one of Vera’s faculties is actually library science. Wera loves the earth and the earth loves her too. She also loves taking pictures of everything green and what’s on her plate and more. She can plant anything and anywhere and it always grows. For me, of course, this unusual element is completely understandable. My mother, who also loves the earth also appreciated it a lot, which I feel was quite unusual. I think Żuria found the best recipe for youth. She knows everything about nutrition, safe and unsafe products and ingredients. I myself treated her a bit like my own daughter. But children need to go into the world to start making their own way. Zhuria a.k.a. Gienia Maluchson can eat more than I can, which has always amused me immensely and I hope will always remain a mystery.

I would have to be completely crazy, or some kind of masochist or idiot, I don’t know, to go, for whatever reason to the United States. I perceive it, as the biggest prison in the world. Like some kind of concentration camp, with supervisors paid from outside and inside, with human, animal, plant labs. Everything to destroy man. MAN. This is some kind of sick illusion for those limited to comprehend only/at most 2D on many levels. I don’t see values, I don’t see prospects. I see from the beginning wars, social inequality, poverty, exploitation, genocides, bribery at all possible levels. The desires and pressures to manipulate others. Well, the SAME Evil. No matter that the concentration of so-called human capital enables new technologies, or the highly debatable / INVASIVE attitude to progress. So what if it’s to incapacitate a person. Getting rid of him of all his resources in all possible ill taxes, loans and debts. MOLOCH. I don’t even understand anymore how anyone can be proud of this country, of which period? Jazz in music? One big prison with the glorification of the idol of money at all possible stages, levels, cultures, etc. YEAH GOLDEN CALF INDEED. What is the simplest way to call it? What’s the point of partaking in it, beating the foam, standing at attention, babbling something about the founding fathers, what’s left of it, when it’s not true anyway, just like every American film. Why get involved when your every step and contribution serves to spill blood somewhere else. It doesn’t matter if in or out. Chemistry in the food, chips in the head, rats at the grassroots, the stench of decomposition in the streets. Like that trickle of blood from G.G.Marquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude” wandering the streets. ETERNAL. Human bloodshed IN ITS CORE. The END.


And you further fail to understand why it’s the BLOOD that makes you itch. IT ITCHES. And it will itch more and more, until you become completely INSANE. There is NO EscapE from this very BLOOD. BLOOD is the BIGGEST PRISON.


Poet who loved the countryside, people, nature, traditions, etc. etc. etc. This is so typical of eastern Poland. Jan Król (eng “King”): “The cottage under the maple tree and the bird entourage…. You wouldn’t count them, the birds in that maple tree (Always so in the morning, when the sun was golden). But mostly from there in the eyes of the Mother…. Calls… As a child she took to her knees, There under that maple tree.” My first memory is on my grandmother’s lap, under the birch tree, when I was two years old.

The photos are in chronological order, almost 😉 As I was finishing the detour, I left the forest for the main road and after a while in the first village I found lying beside the road an extracted newspaper double pages in perfect state, perhaps from “Przekrój”, from 50 years ago. Funny, because that’s how old I recently turned 😉 Life, reality over fiction. Always. Fiction only as fun, possibly an contr inspiration, etc. etc. etc.