Friday, April 25, 2014

The Holy Grail of Murals

"If only I had been the Madame of a harem. What a pity this didn't happen to me!"




Spent a weird evening in that cold little room with a scratchy piece of cloth for a blanket. There was no light bulb in the socket, so I just... shivered in the dark. There was a room-mate there, and she was nice, but she had some dude over, and they probably didn't have a bulb anyway. Why would they have a bulb?

Couldn't read, no light. Couldn't plan for tomorrow, no internet. So, I looked at some stories about wolf hunters on the Kindle and passed out from boredom.

I decided it was similar to what it must feel like to sleep in the street or outside or something. I kiiind of slept, but also woke up every nine minutes or so when a toe would poke out from under the "blanket." Adventure! Romance! Kinship!

Woke up at the first rosy tickle of dynamite. The moment Geppetto lit the fuse to set the sun to popping, the hissing noise alerted me, and I was dressed and in the little bathroom. Something that might have been a silverfish or might have been a louse was doing something inscrutable behind a cracked tile. I let him live.


Bid farewell to that fascinating, depressing place. The elevator barely opened. I had to walk in sideways. It was like it couldn't be bothered. Up and down all day and never a thank you. This is far as I'm opening. You coming in or not? - Commie-era Elevator

Would really have made a great scene in a movie. Like, I try to be able to observe at the same time as I'm.experiencing.

I was going to try and zero in on some murals I'd read about. Apparently, Lodz invited twenty of Europe's greatest street artists and gave them each a building to do whatever they wanted on. So... I wanted to see as many as I could. I had my pack on and stuff, so I wouldn't be running, but since I've been dumping the books when I finish them, the load has been getting lighter.

Left Just Kids in Torun for some lucky traveler to discover. Left Of Human Bondage in the nice place in Krakow.

So, as quick as you can say, "snik snak, get into my sack," I was moving down Piotrkowska street on the way to see some old paint on some ruined walls. Along the way, I rubbed the lucky nose of a lucky statue. I wasn't the first.


Busy town scrapping to life. Lots of red and yellow trams with lots of sleepy factory workers on their way to the time clock. I pictured them absently tightening the lids of their Thermoses. Stay hot, little soups. Navigated the gravel and started finding the murals. Some of them were decently hidden. It was genuinely thrilling to move down the boulevard and see one manifest around a corner. Or behind me.

A great hunting game. And almost universally rewarding. They were beautiful. I didn't feel the weight of my pack, and I didn't mind switching lenses. I've done a lot of walking on this crazy trip. Constant go go go and get to the train. Meet the new landlord, get the new key, find the new map. Get out into the street.

A really nice combination of writing and seeing and reading. Why am I able to write every day when I'm on vacation? Why can't I write every day anyway? I sure struggle with trying to do well at work and trying to be a good steward to my talents.

A large part of me is like, "Fuck it. Go live in your mother's basement and write for a year. You don't have any bills or a family or a car or anything. You have enough paintings. Just go create."

And another part of me is like, "You're doing so well at your job. They just made you manager, and people like you. Stick it out, and maybe you can afford more paintings!"



Poor me, I'm good at two kinds of things!

Right now, my feeling is, If I can survive at the Coupon Factory for another two years, I'll have enough money to live for exactly one year without working. Do that. Keep cobbling things together for another two years, and then you'll be able to create on your own terms.

Because when you're beholden or you don't have money, you are not at your best.

But, some people who are influential to me are fond of saying, "You could get hit by a red and yellow tram tomorrow. Start writing now and stop wasting time."

So, that's the dilemma. Am I wasting time or am I smoothing the way? I am on the dilemma's horns!

Is "smoothing the way" bullshit? Am I just saving up money to prepare to write because I don't think I can? That makes sense.

If nothing else, these trips show me I'm capable of writing every day if I'm taken away from responsibility or Wi-Fi or vegetables.

Pack got heavy around the time I found the mural I most wanted to see. Got some great shots of it. It sure delivered! And then, though the train didn't leave for two more hours, I got a cab to the train station.



The driver thought I wanted the bus station, so I actually had to make the "choo choo" sound, and he cracked up and took me to the right place.

Got my ticket and finished An Appointment in Samarra. It struck me that I read O' Hara and Salter on the last trip as well. But I wasn't consciously thinking about that when I packed. I guess they're guys I've meant to read, and when I pack for these trips, I take them along.

Train was packed with gangsters and grandmas. A woman next to me kept her feet unapologetically in her boyfriend's lap and first defined his penis and then moved it around. It was surprising to see. No one seemed to care. The dude himself had a stoic face. He looked out the window, and she just texted on her phone while her toes wriggled around like a louse behind a cracked tile.

It was distracting, but I was able to start and finish Concrete by Thomas Bernhard. What a weirdo book.

Some Slavic girls laughed and ran from car to car. They were being chased by the ticket man. They had tickets, but they just couldn't find their seats. That was me once.


As we got closer to Krakow, folks poured into the corridor. The last half hour was singing and shouting. Party train! It was a fun way to enter the city.

These goddamn trains are amazing. It's like $25 a ride, too.

It was nice to get out into the city and feel like I knew it. Like, it was familiar. Dear old thing.

This will be the last day. In the morning, I get back on that big old cardigan-wearing crow and carve my way back to the land of the dollar bill. Almost out of stuff to read!


1 comment:

  1. Thomas Bernhard! Finally you are reading something of substance. As for your creative 'dilemma,' my unsolicited two groszy: There's never a perfect time to do anything. Quack!!

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