Uhm

I hate mornings. Especially in Poland. In winter it is dark until 9 a.m and it is cold. Never romantic cold, always my-legs-will-probably-be-amputated-after-this cold. And people are cold too. Again: not romantic cold (“who is this mysterious and distant stranger?”) but I-am-gonna-just-amputate-your-legs-myself-kurwa kind of cold. Sometimes I get angry both at Germany and Soviet Union: all those efforts and Poles are still around? Also, I bless my pale mother and her pale genes, which are probably the reason my legs still stay attached to my body. On the second thought: hey, maybe I don’t hate mornings? I just hate people.

Couple of days ago I was talking to a manager of a transit company. His co-workers LOVE him, they are ready to eat any shit up he offers. A trustful, wise leader he is. The same trustful and wise leader, who told me that sometimes he fantasizes about walking out of his cabinet and shooting all of his co-workers and clients one by one. Watching my puzzled expression, he laughed: “Don’t worry, I am not going to go full American and cause a public shooting. Us, Georgians, have a great sense of humor, as long as we can laugh about our miseries, we are going to survive, as long as I can laugh about me hating people, I am not going to shoot anyone”. Can not say he convinced me much… On more lighter note, I, myself, have not considered shooting anyone yet. I like to think this is because of my humane and loving nature, but maybe mostly because of the fact that about a year ago I injured my right hand so much, I can not aim guns with it anymore (believe me, I TRIED) and my left hand is useless. So, no, rest assured, no killing spree from me. (Also, as a side note, if this blog was published in USA, I would have had police knocking down on my doors by evening, but welcome to Eastern Europe, where you can publically describe your murder fantasies and nobody will mind you. Maybe the bald eagle can learn a lesson or two about freedom of speech, eh?)

After writing those two absolutely xenophobic paragraphs, I kind of feel bad. I have this awful habit of bashing every country and place on Earth. Except of Georgia, of course, because, let’s be honest, our whole nation has nationalistic tendencies and ego the size of a country that keeps invading us, and while I am on the subject, I AM FROM GEORGIA AND 20% OF MY COUNTRY IS OCCUPIED BY RUSSIA. I can rest assured now, my patriotic duty has been completed.How any of our talks go to the Russian invasion, is beyond my knowledge. We have this overwhelming impulse of underlining the fact that they are the occupiers and bad guys, which, come on, is crystal clear to the whole world, without us chanting it constantly on the background. Maybe, we hope that if we say it enough times the words will lose their power and the lingering pain and fear which is about 200 years old will become just an echo? Or maybe we just really love being the victims? We will never know.

I can not speak for any of Georgians or non-Georgians, but I love being the victim. No, scratch that. I am always the victim. How did I fail Economics exam? Because the professor was an asshole and could not explain the material properly, not because I did not open economics book even for once. How did my last relationship fail? Because he had an audacity to not ask me out the fourth time, after I overslept on our three dates (All men are truly the same, gosh). The whole world is participating in a conspiracy against me and all — I, the innocent bystander, can do, is watch them plotting against me. Some might call it delusions, but ostriches spend an impressive amount of time with their heads in the sad, shielding themselves from the whole world. Who said the same can not work out for me?

I paused here to show what I have written so far to my friend. Because all those ramblings about mornings, Poland, USA, Georgia and me being the victim, do not really make sense, so maybe she could make something out of it. She studies the law, the profession which directly requires the word manipulation and political correctness. So, therefore, she very politically correctly told me that, uhm, this piece of writing, uhm, was not exactly like, uhm, the older ones I have written. See the key word here is “uhm” . Uhm means, where is the light optimism that always followed your other writings, uhm is the lack of a direct theme in a blog, uhm is you are all over the place, uhm is what is wrong with you? Uhm is snap out of it.

You got to give her a credit where one is due. There are so many stories around me waiting to be told: how the homeless man with a ridiculous mix of Polish, Russian and Ukrainian, told me that his wife left him after he lost an eye surgeon job years ago and how since than he drank all of his fortune away. How I see Black sea every night, how it’s waves fill up my mouth and ears and eyes and put me to a dreamless sleep. How my weird neighbor washes his car every day, even in rain and every time I think to myself that he could used as a metaphor of desperation — fulfilling your duty, when it is not even needed. There are just so many stories lingering around me waiting to be told. But I choose not to. There are just days when you don’t want to tell any stories, there just days when it is easier to make fun of Poland and mornings and Georgia and economics professor and mass shootings. The paradox is you never escape this locked circle. Non-stories, once told, become the same stories you were avoiding to tell. And exactly, on the same days you remind to yourself, that even though you claim that you don’t know anymore who you are or where you are going, what you want or who you want, despite everything all you have ever been and all you will ever be is a storyteller. And maybe next time, you will tell your story better. Until then, this rambling will do.

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