Tag: reflections on life

oil painting: portrait of a young person with green-blue hair

To be surprised

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I met a girl the other day
at my favourite second-hand film shop, or a boy,
or none of the above. I simply couldn’t tell.
I was baffled, confused, and fascinated.
They look like they’re twenty-ish,
but facial and body features, voice pitch,
unisex clothing style, and hair colour—half blue,
half green—wouldn’t point at any of the two genders
I grew up knowing, although I lean more towards the feminine side.

I know it’s none of my business
and that the world is no longer binary
(it never was; we just swept what we didn’t want
to acknowledge under the rug),
but I can’t stop thinking about them.
It’s like meeting an exotic beauty for the first time
when you can’t take your eyes off her,
even knowing that you look at least idiotic
and maybe even creepy.

If I were half my age, it would probably be a good reason
to ask them out on a date, but in my situation,
I can only marvel at how incredibly beautiful and diverse the world is
and that I am still capable of being surprised by this fact.

watercolour with a red admiral butterfly sitting on a tree branch

An unexpected visitor

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I saw a red admiral today. It sat on a tree branch outside my window.
Butterflies are not frequent guests here. In fact, I can’t recall ever seeing one around,
but I guess that’s the gist of living in a city. I remember that in my childhood
they were everywhere, but it was a different time and place, and we had a garden
that attracted them, the large white in particular because of the cabbage beds.
Perhaps if I went outside the city, to the countryside, to the meadows,
I would have better luck, but it’s so much hassle, I just couldn’t bother.
And it’s probably better that way, to leave nature to itself, intact by my shoe soles,
and every once in a while be surprised by an unexpected visitor.
You learn to appreciate those rare encounters better.

an oil painting of a naked man wearing a hat getting ready to take a shower

It starts with a shower

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

No longer one, but not yet another either, I’m stuck in a limbo
where, one by one, the little things of everyday life lose their relevance.
How come, you may ask? It’s quite simple, really. One day, one stays
too late into the night to take a shower, and being a creature of habit,
the next thing one knows, one’s not taking it at all for a week or two.
The same goes for everything else.
And the remoteness of the modern world makes it awfully simple,
because once you take yourself out of the social equation,
such things become basically inconsequential, so why even bother?
But the real problem begins when negligence in trivia spills over
into more fundamental matters. And once a feedback loop fires up,
you are doomed. So better remember about your shower,
or dirty dishes in the sink, or whatever it is you decided to skip
before it all spirals out of control. Mould in a cup with leftover
coffee grounds is one thing, but a debt collector on the doorstep
is a different story entirely.

oil painting with a young woman in a hat sitting on a chair in the sun

I shall never let a penman in my life

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

And if I meet you on the plain, during the rain,
in blasted Spain—before I spread my wings—uptight
about the fact you danced all night while I was waiting
for the bright morning’s clarity on what’s right,
then you should know that all your charm is gone already,
like the barm in every demijohn of ale, and you will never lift
my veil—at least that’s how I end this tale.

an oil painting in the style of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec showing Japanese writers while writing

Addiction knows no glory

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

Whether I read The Waste Land or Metamorphoses,
Much Ado About Nothing or Waiting for Godot,
The Karamazov Brothers or One Hundred Years of Solitude,
I am constantly reminded that there is more to writing
than writing. And I know the so-called ten thousand-hour rule,
but I’m also painfully aware that even if I double or triple that,
I still won’t be even remotely close to Whitman or Keats,
regardless of whether it is a matter of a gift from some gods
I don’t believe in or genetics and the fact that my brain
may lack the unusual setup of Einstein’s. But despite everything,
I keep writing because what doesn’t go away with adolescent acne
becomes a lifelong addiction.

an oil painting in the style of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec with a man in a quiet cafeteria

The banal aches of a socialite

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski3 Comments

I don’t like pubs, and I guess the feeling is mutual,
as I’m the kind of client that orders a glass of tap water
and just occupies the seat the whole night, which isn’t good
for business. But I don’t really feel bad about it because usually
the rest of the pack drinks without any restraint, so I’m covered.
And I can always pretend to be the designated driver,
even though I don’t actually have a driving licence.

I don’t like pubs because most of the time they are too noisy
for my liking, and even if the clientele behaves, the music is too loud,
which doesn’t help you have a meaningful conversation.
And if that wasn’t enough, seeing all those people drinking
brings back memories I’ve been avoiding. So in moments like these,
I imagine myself sitting alone in the Nouvelle Athènes in Montmartre
at the height of the Belle Époque, waiting for a muse I’ve never met.

I’m sure I’d find something annoying there too.

portrait of a young woman in a restaurant in the style of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

It’s a matter of taste

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

I guess it would be nice to hear that I’m funny for a change. The last time I heard anything
about myself was that I’m boring—that date ended rather quickly. But what can I say? I am
who I am. I doubt pubs, restaurants, or parties will ever interest me. I’m a born homebody
who would watch Wings of Desire rather than travel to Berlin, wander around Dublin
in Ulysses, or see Paris in Toulouse-Lautrec reproductions on the walls of my apartment.
You see, the crude reality of place and time is like raw food—it gives me indigestion.

watercolour of American Bully XL on the playground

A dog is not a guppy

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

On the way to the lighthouse, there is a playground that I pass during my evening walks.
It’s usually empty at this time of day, but sometimes I see teenagers vaping or old people
chatting while walking their dogs. That particular evening, there was a family with three
huskies there—a little boy spinning on a carousel, his father throwing sticks for the dogs
to fetch, and his mother sitting on a bench with a baby. A beautiful genre scene, one might say,
except that at one point one of the dogs, running past the carousel, unexpectedly bit the boy.
You can imagine the terrified boy screaming, and it took his father a while to calm him down.
And here is the thing—it was their family dog. What would happen if it were a stranger’s
and something like American Bully XL? More importantly, if the police found me carrying
a pocket knife only slightly longer than three inches, that would be a criminal offence,
but walking around with over a hundred pounds of muscle and fangs on the loose is just fine.
I like the logic behind that.

oil painting with a boy sitting in an armchair

When I was a boy

Published on by Maciej Modzelewski1 Comment

“When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child:
but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
1 Corinthians 13:11, The King James Bible

When I was a boy, I stuttered. It took a while,
but with each new wrinkle and extra mile away
from home, my voice finally began to smooth out.
And though I’m fine now, every now and then
it comes back, often when I’m nervous.

When I was a boy, chairs always made me uneasy
because they had the power to fly across the leaving room.
That’s probably why I’ve always had a fondness
for those big old armchairs with a headrest
and leather upholstery, like the one in grandpa’s study.

When I was a boy, twice a week after school,
my parents would send me to religious classes
in the new catechetical house, the pride of the town.
Only there did I dream of being the Antichrist,
so I had the power to turn wine into water.