Tag: father

The Flammarion engraving is a wood engraving by an unknown artist that first appeared in Camille Flammarion's L'Atmosphère: Météorologie populaire (1888). The image depicts a man crawling under the edge of the sky, depicted as if it were a solid hemisphere, to look at the mysterious Empyrean beyond.

Random thoughts swirling through the poet’s mind after waking up

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

For millennia, people thought
that the sun revolved around the earth,
and it took a great deal of ingenuity,
pursued by burning at the stake,
to mentally set foot on the former,
or rather beyond both celestial bodies.
And yet we still have ardent flat-earthers among us.

After only a few miles on the bike,
a well-oxygenated brain may absorb a fair dose
of Wittgenstein or decide to leave the typical nine-to-five
for something more exotic, like a snake milker,
a ravenmaster, or a professional mourner.
If you are particularly lucky, you might even land your dream job
as an eternal employee, although that would require moving
to Gothenburg in Sweden.

My father used to say, ‘Ordnung muss sein,’
so that I would know that bending over a stool
and counting aloud the blows with his army belt
was for my future good;
otherwise, I could mistake it for an act of cruelty.
I wonder what his views would be
if he lived to see today, when even a light smack
is a criminal offence.

watercolour with a young man drinking vodka from a bottle while sitting on the windowsill

The vaginaless monologues (9)

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski3 Comments

I don’t know how to be a father. I lost that lesson to a bottle of vodka my father preferred over family life. I wasn’t a good husband either, for that same reason, I guess, although I can’t really blame him for my short temper and lack of patience; that’s all on me. Being the child of an alcoholic scars you for life. Drunken screams, chairs flying across the living room, a military belt marking your buttocks for the slightest offence, no money—the list could go on and on. There were no birthday parties, and what’s more, my friends, and there were only a few of them, couldn’t even visit me. No wonder I grew up locked in my room like a hermit, escaping from reality into the world of books. It certainly didn’t help me develop my social skills. But after all of that, I should have known better, but, what a surprise, I started drinking myself. I remember one evening in my dorm room, when I was sitting on the windowsill with a bottle of vodka, drinking straight from the bottle. My friend came, and when he saw me, he didn’t say a word; he just went to the wall, took down the mirror hanging on it, put it on my lap, and left. It was only a few years later, when, after emptying a bottle of vodka in the cinema during the opening credits, I blacked out and the next thing I remembered was walking on all fours like a dog down the main street of the city on the way back home, that I realised it was time to end it. Vodka eventually killed my father—he died of cancer. I survived sober for almost twenty-five years. But I will never be normal, whatever that means.

a magpie on a window sill watches a man writing at a table

A magpie’s squawk is worth a slice of honeydew

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

If dirt can kill you, so can a life that is sterile. But, to be honest, I have never really been afraid
of death, and I can only repeat after a sage: why should I? What terrifies me is the act of dying,
where the pain—which only eases a little with a dose of morphine—takes away the last vestiges
of dignity. It happened to my father, so it makes me think about what my end will be. Perhaps
eating a slice of honeydew melon while writing these lines is not exactly the height of decorum
and profundity, but the magpie squawking on my windowsill does not mind either. We are both
creatures of casual transience.