OFF THE LIMOUSINE 20
... NJ/NYC ... KLIKE ...
DAY3
On that day, afternoon, the World Cup Final was taking place: a soccer match between Chelsea London and Paris Saint-Germain (3:0, goals: Cole Palmer ’22, ’30, Joao Pedro ’43) and not only streets were empty. The same coast from yesterday was almost completely deserted. So… you could feel the difference between a picnic day, where everyone has fun separately, celebrating and feasting but alienating each other group as much as possible, and a day where only a few individuals move along the same paths or spaces. In fact to the so-called STRANGER Individuals pay more attention to each other, as if they were guessing or surmising that perhaps, in this certain decision’s natural selection, we are connected by something more. Does this fact make a big difference to a STRANGER, or can it be emotionally stronger than the credited ‘cursed’ ethnic / national identification, i.e.
It turned out that there were a few people at the hotel to talk together: Sunlee, a 60-year-old immigrant from India, an IT specialist in the US for 30 years; Willem, a sports psychologist from Austria on a road trip across the US; Ana and Maire, Brazilian women working at the hotel arranged through the Workpack platform. All middle-aged, with a different history of hardship. We discussed various topics in the evenings. For example, Willem told about how difficult and specific is the approach of a coach/psychologist to the child’s father in training. How psychologically wise, clever, and provocative at the same time, both in relation to the child and the father. In the case of a child, if he notices paternal deficiencies that generally affect training / performance in the discipline, so as not to damage the relationship between the two, and on the other hand, to the father, to explain/force him to change his behavior, without replacing the father/figure for one or causing unnecessary toxic / narcissistic jealousy about authority or his own child for the other. Willem took his first separate vacation as a married man and did a lot of sightseeing and took photos with his phone of everything that interested him, which he showed with undisguised satisfaction in the evenings. From which we all obviously gained information.
Maire ran an online English school for Brazil students and claimed that the standard of English teaching there was terrible at the very least. She stubbornly tried to obtain some kind of guarantee/diploma/certificate from an American university after completing this online teaching course in order to get a professional internship here, but she was constantly unsuccessful. She believed in a combined theory of the 4 Heavens woven from various religions. Ana with a physique made for dancing samba didn’t treat reading books as useful thing, either AI – “brain lost.” She was divorced after a 9-month marriage to Adam, a Polish soldier serving in the Canada, whom she saw only once a month, including the first whole real one. She separated because her husband drank. Sunlee, a PSG fan, came to the game. Divorced twice, he prided himself on his online dating expertise. He tried and is still trying unsuccessfully to bring his current wife to the US. He stopped working in the States because he somehow lost his motivation. He talked about how he had watched the decline of this country for 30 years, which, in his opinion, will never recover. After the match, he gave me his scarf as a gift.
DAY4
Sunlee has a specific brain for coding. He also has a hobby of professionally designing license plates for cars. You approach him as if he were a gypsy fortune teller of sorts, telling him what you consider most important in your life or/and the life of your car, and Sunlee, using various alphabets of letters and numbers, their specific markings / ‘thinking,’ put together this puzzle / mystery / recipe or some kind of fortune telling. As if he were doing you and your car a favor for the future / or simply giving it a NEW lease / NAME on Life. What to say… completely / significantly ~ extraordinary.
SOUTH NJ
Southern New Jersey. Over the course of several days, I heard a few times that this was the neighborhood to which black people from Brooklyn had emigrated, in quotation marks, “under duress.” Well, I’ve heard also: “That’s why there’s so much work for dog walkers in Brooklyn, because gay people don’t have children.”
I tried to enter the church, but the guard/religious goods salesman said “No.” I asked how this was consistent with the normal treatment of a Christian, whether he could be denied access to a Christian temple, after all. I heard one word again: “No,” and saw an outstretched hand as a sign to “Stop.” I asked if their God was different from the one I know. And again, the word with the hand: “No.” No means no.
NYC
I have spent time in many different seasons in the desert without any problems, but this was the first time in my life that had happened to me this. As I crossed Manhattan heading north, I began to see flashes of light in my eyes. It was as if the sun was trying to tell me that either the darkness here was too hidden/strong, or that this was/is/will be a hidden desert, or both. The clouds of steam rising from the surface did nothing to dispel these interpretations. UberWord.
When walking through a crowd of people, it is relatively easy to listen to the stream of spoken sentences. The frequency of recurring words forms a pattern of intelligence. Most often, it was three sentence beginnings: “It was like…”, “I was like…”, “I have like…” If these phrases were superimposed in a multiplied single form, I suspect that mostly would be heard the repeating phrase “…klike…klike…klike…”
Another one thing, visible to the bone, distinguished this place in particular: bags. Almost everyone, had a bag in their hands. Obviously it’s not about personal bags, they were either for travelling, or with/for trash, or with/for shopping, or with/for food, or with/for dog shit. Most often more than one. Almost everyone. If someone didn’t have one, I guess they felt naked. Babylon Bagyman City.
NYC CENTRAL PARK
Walking around Central Park, I didn’t see any particularly original trees or any outstanding landscaping/architecture that I had seen elsewhere in the world, or even in Poland. Even less. The same elements, playgrounds and sports facilities. A lake in the middle. A park just like any other. A refuge from the sun in the open air. I thought I’d take a walk around the whole thing and see if I’d missed anything interesting. I liked the little plaques commemorating love, friendship, and time spent here together. I also saw a lot of people posing for originality and showing off in front of others. A few crazies, a few normal artists. Like everywhere else.
I don’t know, haven’t decided it yet, what to think about it, if it was because I was watching them, completely unobtrusively, or simply because, or any more sensitive individuals have gotten themselves entangled here but quite a few people bowed to me during my walk. Perhaps here, observing people is not customary, as it causes some kind of uncomfortable, exposing, intimate provocation. Just before dusk, after covering about 60% of the distance, it started to rain, which eventually turned into a downpour. Somehow, it didn’t stop me in my ambitious walking attempt. Well, when was the last time I felt so carefree and young… The park, of course, emptied out. After about 30 minutes, I saw two young men who, passing in the rainy silence, in almost the last moment reached out their hands barely side to give me a kinda hidden high five. Without stopping I managed to reach out too. We low-clapped, and after a moment they laughed out laud. ClapPing In the Rain.
I finally reached a building, which turned out to be a restaurant, and was warmly welcomed by a group of black rickshaw drivers outside. After returning their greeting, one of them said I should have a whiskey. I said, “No, that leads nowhere.” He said “It all depends on the proportions.” I said “Yes, but that’s usually how it starts.” He said “You have to try everything in life.” I said, “I know what you mean, but not necessarily, it depends on your parenting, and with ordinary trust, you can avoid a few mistakes.” He said, “It’s cool that I said that, because his 18-year-old son is standing near listening, who supposedly hasn’t drunk yet, and it’s good that I argued that way.” And suddenly he walked over to his rickshaw and gave me a new, white, dry T-shirt and shook my hand. I went inside and saw a white family with three boys who had also taken shelter there. As I began to wring the water out of my clothes and told them the story from outside, we started joking around.
Thomas, Charlotte, and their three sons from London came up with the idea that waiting would be a waste of time, and to take garbage bags from the kitchen and make coats out of them. The idea was enthusiastically received by the rest of the people seeking shelter. The family suggested that we finish my walking plan together and then head to Times Square. Why not. After a short walk and conversation, I smelled that specific, sickly acid-sweet stinck that has haunted me my whole life. A mixture of everything and nothing. The smell that interferes with thinking. Only one of the guys smelled it too. Interesting. On the way, we found a night pizzeria with the cheapest pizza in the world, even cheaper than in Poland. A crowd of people, seeing us walking around in our bags, accosted us, mocking the latest fashion, trying to sell them patterns. Times Square – the essence of disgusting, paid, deceitful, artificial consumption. The greatest waste of light and illumination.
DAY5
Several times I was approached in a friendly manner, asked if it was a real camera, if I was taking pictures, if I was a photographer, etc., etc. I sat down for a moment near Jersey Journal Square, at some empty blue tables and chairs, was difficult to guess what they were for, to watch the construction. And again, a young guy with white, slightly tanned skin and black hair sat down no far, rolled a joint, lit it, and started the same introductory conversation, so to speak. I patiently and calmly answered all his questions. He got up, came over to me and, standing there, asked me about my origins. He said he was from Congo, knew French and Spanish, and asked me what languages I knew. I said Polish, Russian, and others started learning. He asked what countries I could understand thanks to that, and I said Eastern Europe and part of the Balkans. He said I had to go to Queens because “no good food in Manhattan”, and that was the heart and soul of America. So I went.
NYC QUEENS
Actually, yes, from the very beginning I imagined a lively, truly multicultural, commercial, and culinary center of an immigrant city. Full of everything that comes to mind when you think about it. However, after some time, I began to notice a hidden and suppressed sadness. On their faces, in their bodies, in their movements, even in their voices and in the sentences they formed. After a while, a pattern emerged, and I began to wonder about the actual freedom / so-called liberty of this place. Could it be that it is some kind of substitute? Some kind of replacement? What supports both sides of the SAME coin.
During my nighttime commute home, in an empty subway car, in kinda front of me was a nice black girl sitting with a bag in white-red pattern. Turned out she is from Haiti with a Polish name Kasia (short from Katarzyna; eng Catherine) who had moved with family from Queens to Jersey. She tried to help me to orient with catching proper night trains. We talked a bit about Caribbean and rode the light train together in part-similar direction. She told me about some delicate documentary topic here, and that she knows the best source to launch it. Well, maybe just it was simple, selfless, sensitive, immigrant help. Who knows…
29.10.25
