Tourist Notes: Gdansk and Varsovie

My stay was punctuated by running tracks both in Gdansk and Warsaw due to the Sports Centres being supposedly unused during the summer. The accommodation is cheaply rented to those who can find out about it. These Centres are large, unpretentious, made in an architecture which is generic and approachable to apparently but not actually all. A pared-back kitchen offers short and often non-existent interactions with other visitors. A hello is sometimes not reciprocated. Likewise, brief remarks made in Polish are often ignored by me especially when these strangers seem to walk the words out the door or into another room. One morning I smashed a plate incidentally cutting the edge of my little finger as I somewhat stupidly attempted to catch a section of the cheap plate that appeared to bounce. Of course, this was more of a reaction than an actual desire of mine. It would be unimpressive to catch a section of a smashed plate inches from the ground for a stranger whom I had no previous interaction with. The finger has since become mildly infected due to failing to find a plaster and adequately clean the cut, instead, it became a small irritating flap for a few days which would soil garments and bed sheets with an inoffensive but still noticeable modicum of blood. 

The food I tried in Gdansk was good. Fried fish, sometimes vegan, actually rarely vegan, Israeliesque, piergogi, heavy, starchy. One afternoon, we ate on the top floor of an Arcade with three sets of tables and chairs it was modest. A highlight was the sour beetroot soup served in a paper cup. Other shops in the arcade were shut or unpopulated by consumers it was hard to see if this was because we had visited during a quiet period or it was regularly like this. A hum of delivery drivers would come to pick up takeaway lunches waiting with their helmet placed on the counter.

(originally written circa 16/8/2023 opened and revisited on 20/02/2024

What is that you are wanting, looking at that magazine. A small wasp flies down into the scene, its actually a large wasp, it wiggles about, perhaps it's ill or having a bad day. There are plenty of free items about, free to collect, people really want to get rid of things, objects heavy or hard to get out of the door. Get them out of the house so something else can come in. (Published on 9/22/22 1:49 PM)

Rambling

(Published on 1/8/23 3:06 PM)

I read an article on my phone, through the RSS reader app, an article published by the Paris Review, an excerpt from a book written by Italo Calvino. He spoke about how simultaneous worlds are existing, a literary world of words that exists independently from the outside world as it is. His description of this world is a flimsy due to its poetics but that doesn't matter as it is only useful in so far as to stimulate the imagination. What Italo's literary world conjured within me was the idea that there is perhaps a slight film between this physical world and others that are brought on through a certain engagement with a format of some kind...This morning, Sunday 8th of January, I perused a market we spoke to a woman selling pictures and paintings of various sorts, an original painting by Yvon Taillandier caught my eye it was bright, with figures wiggling around in their two dimensional plain it was poster advertised some sort of event or exhibition at a university. I think in the year 2000. I just typed 'Yvon Taillandier 2000' in my search engine and I found the piece, it was sold at auction: https://www.ecosia.org/images?q=Yvon%20Taillandier%202000#id=09178C757B031366BB1C79322AB53F08C890E2C6 A cartoon world is called upon to advertise this event or perhaps to decorate the advertisement I wonder if the drawn image of the bodies sitting inside the plane extending and looping down through an open mouth is actually completely separate to the rest of the information that is advertised. "langage psychotique, langage précoce" the naive and childlike is predictably called upon to illustrate infantile mental states. With relation to this Calvino I wonder if the cartoon occupies a realm of sorts, the surface of the paper, portal-like, eyes sucked into the alternate shifting, jolting universe. 

Timestamp

Argentina plays France next to a Christmas tree. A fire crackles. Coral ear pods. An FCSP sticker on a hard drive. Mbappé puts it over the crossbar. The family are buzzing around. A future cup of tea. An equalizer. The annals of Bereals discovery page. 

Lovelitter

... a beautiful act to litter? From the start its the wrong thing to do, apparently. A mess for others to clean. A luxurious act, no? Relieving oneself of the responsibility of an object. It's somebody else's problem now. Buying, purchasing. The purchaser is cleaning the object away, putting it elsewhere. Safely so. And stealing? The promiscuous act, must occupy a corner within this zone? To clean to remove the object, the thief is queen. And the idea thief, slippery? In Skyrim the act of thievery is personified by the character crouching,  knees bent low, hiding face, delicate and agile. In Assassins Creed clinking coins, metal-on-metal, jutting in the pocket, a nudge in the small of a pedestrians back and they’re at a loss. But then who steals rubbish? The unwanted thus discarded. The magpie, the scavenger, the opportunist, the idiot. To rid oneself of an undesired object, a bowel movement, get rid of the slimy packaging in your hand and slide onto the next moment of consumption. I drift, thinking about what it would look like if I were presented with all the objects that were once mine: etc, etc, etc, etc. A vulgar image. A piggy life. Littering may just be an object passing through me, for my stomach to filter and profit the best minerals. Transfer. Something endearing about a crushed carton that looks new sitting on the floor waiting to be swept up? The pavement it's stage, the audience in flux. I've noticed a particular cigarette packet design. A glaucoma veils an eye, watching out, a miniature lighthouse warning of the dangers of smoking, it is removed from its body, separated, cut. Printed on a box that is then left on the street to surveil, watch. It is the active litter, that lives, that has a body, that acts back at you. A pedestrian mirador. Branding lives on after the product has expired, advertising still, without damaging the corporate reputations, I dare mention the brand of the notorious red can, it’s said to be dorment in darkest corners of the ocean. The carcass continues to work for the machine, zombified. Out the car window, packaging flies seventy-one-miles-per-hour then rests in a zone too dangerous for humans to collect, it absorbs the vibrations loyally, the cars putter along until they too become litter. Footwells act as nets for the unwanted, convenient to use whilst driving as items can be disposed of quickly without pulling over. A dashboard, landing site for workers discarded lunch packaging, catalogues, papers, receipts, empty bottles, tools, dirt, waste. A shelf for the unwanted that presents itself to the curious pedestrians walking past. There's litter in pockets, deconstructed litter in the cleaned pockets of freshly washed clothes. Litter doesn't answer back it is ambivalent. Content with staining surfaces, spilling, oozing.

A name for an exhibition

 It seems most names for an exhibition are bad. Perhaps naming an exhibition is a bad thing to do. The language that surrounds it, dross. The word exhibition sounds like an exercise, worked. Something that must be done, arduous. But it is a pleasure to name something. To think of words that stand in front of the 'thing' A friends party is called switch rising which I think is a great name. It prevails and subverts simultaneously. I thought the group show im naming should have the word Oozing in it yet it points to an excess as if spilling over the top or from the edges of abundance. Perhaps that's fitting actually. Exhibitions are about excess. They require surplus time. The tea is hot and must be drunken! 

September begins

 It's 10 PM on a southern rail train. I've just received an email from a theorist saying his seven-month course in Lisbon will cost £5000. A cyber security course I also recently researched cost £3500. My open return train ticket cost £20.05. Are the courses going to take me somewhere? I know the train will. "Not one for heels really" - a passenger in front via video to her lover, through a mouthful of crisps. I need to wash my bag and socks. And change the battery in my laptop. And apply for an exhibition. "That's me". It's raining heavily outside and today was the first day I'd felt cold whilst walking to get a takeaway. The English summer has raced away. Still three weeks left. Officially. "You've got one". The lower back throbs a little. I need a bath. I watched Anthony Bourdains Roadrunner last night never paid any attention to him before. All seems a bit old hat to me. Still. It was enjoyable. Today's celebrities seem humble in comparison. Cheaper. Theres less luxury despite there being more(?). Maybe it seems like his stardom offered him more value. I'm glad to sleep at home tonight as a series of  Mori's Bed, studio floor, Toms bed, Chloes Sofa, Nicks Coach, Judes bed, Pikes bed has been a good run but confusing. I suppose you need some regularity, some structure.