Author: Maciej Modzelewski

Sometimes hope is just not enough.

The day I woke up

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I woke up this morning feeling like it was Sunday, only to realise that it was just Tuesday. At least it wasn’t Monday, one might say—or was it? But here’s the rub—the seven-day week is complete nonsense. It turns out the Babylonians are to blame, specifically King Sargon I of Akkad. The story in Genesis of God resting on the seventh day reinforced this even more, although, for example, the Egyptians had a ten-day week and the Romans originally settled for eight days (nundinal). But when you think about it, the only truly universal measurements of time are the time of day, that is, day and night, and the years because the seasons repeat. Even the seasons themselves are more of a regional fair. While areas in the mid-latitudes experience spring, summer, autumn, and winter, other regions have different seasonal patterns, like a wet (monsoon) season and a dry season near the equator. So I decided to completely abandon the idea of a week and the names of days associated with it and use only two—Myday and Theirday. Unfortunately, the latter prevails.

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The thrills of youth

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Of all the creatures big and small, there are two that I actually quite like—magpies and slipper animalcules. The former for the good neighbourly relations we have, the latter because of a poem—but I suspect you may not know Andrzej Bursa—that once gave me the unique opportunity to say ‘motherfucker’ out loud in class without any undesirable consequences. The thrills of youth—where have you gone?

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Artificially induced

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Being alive by proxy—
subject to semantic bleaching—
is the one particular burden that is mine
and mine alone, yet
since I mostly read old men
with long beards and moustaches,
I don’t feel particularly overwhelmed.
That is, until I’m singed by the flare
of tone contagion, which leaves no choice
but to close the book and get out
in the real world.

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Human connection

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If I so desperately yearn for human connection, where does that constant trepidation come from every time I have to meet an actual living human being? Why do people seem to be so much more captivating in their refined, textual form? Is it because books don’t exhibit annoying habits or have foul breath, or is it all down to my own shortcomings that I try to hide?

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A bookless library

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Have you ever heard of a library without books? I haven’t—at least until now—but apparently such a thing actually exists. And while I could understand the appeal to some extent, it seems to me that it is something akin to a vegan steak—edible, perhaps somewhat filling, yet still lacking a few essentials. Maybe it’s a hint of nostalgia, but I still remember when, as a youngster, I would go to the local library, stand between the shelves and, with my eyes closed, randomly pull out a book. You can’t imagine how many treasures I discovered that way. Besides, my objection most likely comes from the fact that it seems like another step towards eliminating the traditional book, because although their electronic replacements have their advantages, they are still far from surpassing the paper ones. Take the 1969 Faber and Faber edition of The Complete Poems and Plays of T.S. Eliot in your hand (which I happen to have on my desk right now), and you will understand.

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A real writer

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Tell me, are you a real writer? I mean, does anybody buy what you write or publish it or anything?
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (Blake Edwards, 1961)

I guess I’m not a real writer
since no one buys my tortuous words
and I haven’t published anything—
at least not in English—
unless you count the bottomless pit
of the world wide web. But let’s start small
and get yourself that box first.

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The only thing missing

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My late Sunday breakfast-turned-lunch
consisted of a piece of flatbread with peanut butter
and that overlong commercial for a jeweller from Fifth Avenue
showing what happens when you get your cat wet.
The only thing missing was a coupe of milk

and my decorator.

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Sunday

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I like the sun in full bloom
to have a cloud cover
with only occasional breaks,
as it is less intimidating that way—
at least on Sundays.

I probably should have gone
to the beach
like I used to,
but I spent the late morning in an armchair
by the window,
reading
and snacking on almonds instead,
and now I’m playing
with a word processor.

Why is it that I’d rather write a verse
than live it?

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