Life in Bytom
Final version of the English script
November 6, 2014.
Arrival. An Artist. Vacation. Motor City. House. Excess. Leisure. Industry. Capsizing
It is a tunnel that I enter after the train arrives. I am afraid. It is night. I am afraid of the Ultras. They are not my kind.
It is an old train station. No one arrives, no one leaves. Trains are slow, slower than the busses. The bus station is busy. You can take a train, bus, tram and you can go to Katowice. You can take a car, and you can take a road 79. You can go to the city of Fun, the city of Katowice.
I am driving my car from Krakow to Bytom. I get lost in Katowice. I can’t find my way out. Finally, I arrive to Bytom. I park my car. I walk across the Rynek. I find Kronika.
Then to return, I take a bus from Bytom to Katowice. It is an old bus. When I was a child I took a bus on holiday with my parents in Sochi by the Black Sea. It was holidays in the sun of Soviet Union. The bus smelled gasoline and the fumes made me sick. I got headache from the fumes. I vomited in the bus. This bus from Bytom made me think of this.
My brother flew to Cuba. He wanted to see real things: real Cuba with real Castro, real life of Cuba, and real bus. I wanted to see real life too, so I went to Bytom. I wanted to see real struggle, real problems and have a real headache. Where I come from, Finland, there we have no real problems. We do not have anything real in our lives. We go to places where we can find ourselves, because we can’t find ourselves there, where nothing is real, at home. I couldn’t find myself in Finland, so I went over there – to Bytom. I took a bus to find myself.
When I travelled to Soviet Union with my parents in the seventies, we drove across the land from the border of Finland through Leningrad and Moscow to Black Sea and back. We had a real car, Lada – Tsiguli. It was a real road and we had to follow a real plan. We had to go certain roads and stop in certain places and not the other ones. Our map was paper, and it had a real smell.
Now, I have a map in my phone. It is a virtual map and I can find myself exactly where I am: in Bytom, Sochi or in my hometown Hyvinkää. In Finland we know where to go, we know places before we go there and try to find ourselves.
Some years ago they were constructing a massive building in Bytom. They wanted to build it right in the centre of the old town and now it is ready. When you leave train station or bus station and take the road Ul. Dworcowa or Bahnhofstrasse, you end up this place: The Agora. Agora is an open place, a meeting place. It is a place to meet, to discuss, to argue, to disagree, to agree, or to be indifferent. Agora is a shopping centre.
Behind the Agora is a cathedral and on Sundays after the mass, people leave the Cathedral and go to the Agora. They go to shop in the Agora, or they go through the Agora to Dworcowa Street and to the bus or the train or to shopping somewhere else. The Agora is in a centre.
I go to The Agora and buy some food from downstairs, from Społem. Społem is a old state owned shop. It has changed also, Społem is for the 21st century. The Agora is a place for a fixed price and no haggling. It is a place for being different and place for difference, a gathering place, for the life of the city. It is a place, where a stranger and a barbarian like me, would go and share my opinion, too.
They put one in my hometown Hyvinkää, in Finland. First they found an empty spot in the city, and excavated it and build a massive shopping centre, which they did not name The Agora, but after a defunct wool factory, that the city was built around some hundred years ago and they called it ‘Villa’, The Wool. The Agora works from nine in the morning to ten in the evening. That’s when people meet in my hometown and in Bytom.
I am an artist. Artists are suspicious people. You should be careful with the artists. I can come and ask you to tell me your life-story. Then I steal your story, make something out of it, I will not give you credit. Then I will fly away and become famous.
Artist like me have new smart-phones, fancy shoes, designer clothes and new Macbook Pros.
I have a skill to go places like Bobrek in Bytom and immerse into the stories, misery and troubles and convert them into a product, which will make me famous. At the same time I make you believe, that I care about you.
I need you. I need you to have you sitting there. I need you to have sitting there, because I need to have someone to talk to.
I want to believe there is a girl under the table. I want to believe there is girl under the table touching my knees.
I want to believe, there is no girl under the table. I want to believe there is no girl under the table touching my knees
In Bytom I get to know few photographers, too. There are two kinds of photographers: those who photograph of faces and those who take pictures of buildings. They have something in common. A building trembles shakes and collapses to the ground. A face trembles, shakes and collapses to to the ground.
But photography remains. He is running against the time. He says that a fraction of a second tells more than about that particular instant. Photographer wants to tell that this fraction of a second tells more about everything.
Photographers are nostalgic and suspicious, also. They can walk around the city almost invisible, but people feel suspicious. “What do these photographers want?” People know that photography is not telling a truth, but that it lies and it is telling a story. Camera is not truthful.
An artist was in a taxi. When the car stopped in the red lights, chauffeur took a mandolin from his side and started singing and playing. She wanted to take a video of this strange incident. But the driver got furious. He said:
“STOP. You can’t make a video out of me. Because tomorrow this video will be on YouTube and next day my boss will see that video and then he will kick my ass and sacks me! I know this is the truth.”
People know that pictures are lies that will harm you.
An artist makes object: a lion, for instance. A Silesian artist wants to make a lion. Lion is ready, but it will be moved away from his home to Warsaw. Many years later, when the artist has been already dead and forgotten the lion comes back. It is still sleeping. It is easier to move a sleeping lion.
The lion of empire, the lion of spirit, the lion of emergence, the male lion, the homophobic lion, the Israelite, the Iron Lion of Zion, Jesus, the Prophet is here. The prophet is sleeping.
"And one of the elders saith unto me, Weep not: behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals thereof."
The iron lion of the Zion is still sleeping. The artist made the lion. The artist is a sleeping lion.
Artists are suspicious. They are intellectuals. But intellectuals take train, intellectuals take a bus, intellectuals go to Cuba, intellectuals shop at Społem, intellectuals shop at Lidl, intellectuals shop at Stockmann, intellectuals drive a car to Katowice, intellectuals go to Africa, intellectuals have problems, intellectuals arrive to Bytom, intellectuals stay in Bytom, intellectuals leave Bytom, intellectuals do something else, intellectuals make lions, intellectuals do nothing, intellectuals don’t have money, intellectuals are filthy rich, intellectuals can’t afford to be artists anymore, but they can still be intellectuals. Intellectuals are waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting …
An artist who travels to Bytom has to convince someone to give him the money. For that he writes an application.
He has to put some numbers on the paper, he has to make a list, he has to make a plan, he has to sign it, and then he has to send this application by mail. An artist does not know who is this person who will give him the money or maybe not, which means that an artist will not travel to Bytom.
This person who received this application will think about it for a month. An artist waits.
Then artist receives a letter. He does not want to open the letter, but he wants to open the letter.
This time, the person who thought about a month if he – or she – should give the money, decided to give money. It is enough. An artist is happy and he will travel to Bytom. He will fly with an aeroplane, he will take a bus, he will take a train, he will take a tram and he will walk. Then an artist stays in Bytom; an artist does something in Bytom; an artist thinks about something in Bytom. Maybe he makes a lion. Maybe things don’t work out as he planned, at all. Maybe he just intellectualizes and read books. Then he flies home.
He has no money and then writes another paper: a report. To go again somewhere, he has to start the whole thing over again. That’s what artist does.
He hopes, that at some point, after many years of filling up papers, forms and applications, someone recognizes that he is not only an artist, but that he is a special artist. Then, he hopes, he will receive more money and more regularly.
At this point an artist can move out from his studio to live in a house with his partner and many children.
Then artist takes his first vacation.
I will go to vacation. I will travel. I will go to the “Golden Travel”. They play music outside their office. They play Arabic music, maybe RAI music. They play music from Tunisian vegetable sellers, Egyptian rioters, maybe Moroccan and definitely Syrian hip-hop and Palestinian pop-music. I will go to vacation. I will go to North-Africa and Asia. In Asia the food is good and people are polite. They do anything cheaply. I will fulfil all my cravings and desires, from eating, sleeping, swimming, climbing trees, and fucking. Accommodation is cheap, trains are cheap, busses are cheap, and taxis are cheap. It is sunny and not so many Europeans, and when they come, I will go a little bit further into the bush. I am an explorer. I will go to North-Africa, West-Africa, Eastern Africa and South Africa. But here, only life is cheap. There are just people who do not want to serve me. Let’s leave Africa alone. I will go to Hurghada where I can swim in the Red Sea and enjoy the sun and politeness. Anywhere I will travel, I meet people who have problems. But since they are the real problems I can therefore find myself. I will reflect myself on the problems of the world. In Africa, Murzynka[Negress] is the problem. Murzynka is a problem here, also. She is young, she is pretty and her perky breasts are visible. She looks me in the eye obediently. She is a slave to someone. She is not paid, but she works for someone else. She works, but she does not get paid, but only given food and a place to stay guarded. Kind of bed and breakfast, I think.
‘Prostitution is only a particular expression of the universal prostitution of the worker’, writes Marx in his Economic and philosophical manuscripts
So says Murzynka, and looks at me with her obedient eyes, and in this way she claims, that me and her are the same. Her slavery on sex is only a particular expression of the universal prostitution. Murzynka is pretty and nice when she is serving me. Murzynka does not put her fist up like the Russian cats do.
Murzynka does not go to jail for putting up her fist up in the ass of a president. Murzynka does not get angry, Murzynka has problems, but she does not throw Molotov cocktails. I will travel and I meet people with problems. They put their fists up and they wear t-shirts. People with problems wear t-shirts. T-shirts are the politics of today. People watch football and they wear t-shirts, so that the other people can recognize that they are not like them. T-shirt is colour-coding of the political and the violence. People with t-shirts are dangerous, and in Poland I hear that these people with t-shirts are so dangerous, that those who are playing on the field are afraid of them. They are playing for them. Murzynka is not playing.
“Prostitution is only a particular expression of the universal prostitution of the worker”,
Says Marx on his Economic and philosophical manuscripts. Those who play are workers. They are ideological workers. Their ideology is printed on the t-shirt, like those who support them. T-shirts are patriotic, misogynist, violent, homophobic, racist, xenophobic and anti-Semitic. There is no safety in t-shirts. There is no safety in a souvenir t-shirt from my golden travel in Agora. T-shirt has a fist on it. Fists of uprising. Fists for Germans, fists for Polish, fists for Silesian, fists for Syrians, fists for Libyans, fists for Pussy Riot, fists for Putin. Which side are you on boys? Where are your fists? Which side of the line your fists are on, those two fists, are they on the same side? Are your fists on the same side as my fists? What t-shirt are you wearing today? Does your t-shirt agree with your fists? T-shirt says “No Pasaran!”, t-shirt says “Hurghada”, t-shirt says “I love New York”, t-shirt says “Polonia Bytom”, t-shirt says “Replay”. T-shirts have silent politics in the Agora, t-shirts are doing the talk. T-shirts silently agree, disagree, argue, demonstrate, care, fondle, hate, love, question and act. In a Polish film, which starts from a wedding scene, the protagonist shows his fist. He yanks it to his chin. He gives to his colleagues and us a sign: Uprising! Fight! Resist! Rebel! Fists are against the occupiers in Silesia, Poland, Russia, France, Spain, Cuba, Tunisia, Libya, Algeria, Egypt, Syria, Yemen, and Gaza, Greece and so on. There are people who are patriotic, misogynist, violent, homophobic, racist, xenophobic and anti-Semitic – they have fists. They do not wear pink balaclavas, but t-shirts and they walk proud on the full daylight with their t-shirts and fists. They are proud that they are patriotic, misogynist, violent, homophobic, racist, xenophobic and anti-Semitic. T-shirt tells me what they are not. It is a demarcation line. When a place becomes a city it draws a border, where is the city and where it is not. It draws a line on the people as well: are you Bytomian or from someplace else. This is where I live; this is what I believe in. A city is like a t-shirt. When someone draws a border, there is always someone who is on the other side of the border. Problems start to appear when you draw that border. Murzynka appears. She does not belong. What does not belong? Do I not belong? What does not belong always request a change, transformation and acceptation as it is different.
On the border of the city Murzynka, queers, lesbians, gays, Jewish, Romani, Swedish, artists, theoreticians, and prostitutes do not only wait, but constantly cross the line.
They constantly ask, what is this city? They do not make only pizza or sushi.
They constantly ask questions and they make the problems appear: What is this city?
Trouble wants to live here. Is this my city? Is this Bytom? Is this Silesia? Is this Poland? Is this Finland? What are these people doing here: Murzynka, queers, lesbians, gays, Jewish, Romani, Swedish, artists, theoreticians, and prostitutes? What happens to natives? Is this a city anymore, photographer asks and take a picture of a city in a fog, of an eroding balustrade, of a face of Silesian. In the movie, there is a fist, which requests: let’s fight!
“Prostitution is only a particular expression of the universal prostitution of the worker.”
Pięść Rękawica Czarne Pięść Rękawica Czarne Pięść Czarna Rękawica Czarny Pięść Czarny Skórzana Rękawica Oświadczenie Oświadczenie Nie Czarny Oświadczenie
Miasto Motor City Czarny Muzyka Samochody Przemysł
Biały Pantera Piosenka Patriotyczne Motown Tysiąc dziewięćset trzynasty rok (1913)
Highland park Henry Ford Linia montażowa Cadillac Lata osiemdziesiąte (80s)
Związek Radziecki Upadek Zmiana Pracownicy Powstanie Walka Związek Radziecki
Tysiąc dziewięćset trzynasty rok (1913) Lata osiemdziesiąte (80s) Samochody
Oświadczenie Linia montażowa Motor City Rękawica Motown
Biała Pantera Czarne Pracownicy Muzyka Przemysł Patriotyczny
Rękawica Pięść Henry Ford Henry Ford Pięść Cadillac Rękawica Highland Park Rękawica Nie
Czarna Tysiąc dziewięćset trzynasty rok Motor City Oświadczenie
Pięść Pięść Czarny Oświadczenie Oświadczenie Czarny Rękawica Pięść Pięść Linia montażowa Oświadczenie Czarny Nie Biały Pantera Walka Muzyka Rękawica Czarny Czarny T-shirt
Skórzany Piosenka Zmiana Highland park Skórzane Powstanie Pracownicy
Lata osiemdziesiąte Rękawica Rękawica Motor City Czarny T-shirt Rękawica Motown
Miasto Oświadczenie Pięść Czarny Związek Radziecki Samochody Pięść Patriotyczny Cadillac Walka Czarny Czarny Czarny Miasto Cadillac Czarny
Skórzany T-shirt Pięść Pięść Lesbijki Rękawica Rękawica Przemysł
Queer Henry Ford Pracownicy Rękawica Zmiana Artysta Teoretyka
Lata osiemdziesiąte Czarny Queers Szwedzki Czarne Czarny Prostytutka Oświadczenie Nie
Pięść Upadek Linia montażowa Oświadczenie Geje Henry Ford Czarny Rękawica T-shirt
Pięść Silnik Walka Związek Radziecki Rękawica Czarny Homofobią Highland park
Pięść Oświadczenie Walka Czarna Muzyka Patriotyczny Romowie Czarny Piosenka
Pięść Samochody Biały Pantera Czarny Motown Skórzany Pięść Motor City Żydowski Czarny Motor City
Pięść Czarna Rękawica Przemysł Oświadczenie Cadillac Nie Motor City
Lata osiemdziesiąte Oświadczenie Linia montażowa Biała Pantera
Powstanie Rasista Pracownicy Patriotyczny Tysiąc dziewięćset trzynasty rok
Związek Radziecki Samochody ksenofobiczne Miasto Piosenka Czarny Muzyka Rękawica
Antysemicki Highland park Pięść Motown Rękawica Zmiana Pięść Oświadczenie
Tysiąc dziewięćset trzynasty rok
Czarny znika, czarne mieszanki czarnej ziemi znikaja, czarne złoto znika,
ziemia będzie szwajcarskim serem, ziemia staje się żółtym serem, ziemia staje się dziurawa-swięta. nie czerń nie ciemność szara mgła, szara mgła Szara mgła, szara mgła mgła mgły. wojny szarej wojny znajdującej mgłę znajdującej czekanie, Czekanie Czekanie Czekanie. Nie znajdują się wzajemnie szara mgła nie czarna nie biała.
700 meter below underground.
52 millimeterthick steel wire
300 men underground
Black fists in black leather gloves
It collapsed like my house in Karb in Bytom.
What does it mean not to have a home?
If it happens in the night and I am sleeping.
Or if I am at work I have no place to come back..
My walls collapsed in a way, that I cannot hang a picture on the wall.
Who should I blame? The city or the company?
Who do I call for? Do I call police, ambulance or church? I called my mother.
My house is made from a plan. It is a model house.
I built it after the war. My house is like any house in Finland. It is a standard house. I used to work in a farm with my family.
Now I work in a factory.
I work in the factory that produces cranes, elevators, fabrics, clothes, shoes, cars, car-seats, turbines, electricity, engineering, buildings, push-pins, nails, hammers, sickles, stars, mountains and machineries.
My house was a standard house that came out from the assembly line.
This draft gave me options to put windows, doors, staircases, cupboards, living rooms, kitchen, attic, cellar and toilets into a prepared schema.
I came to Szombierki in Bytom. There they are those houses.
Houses made from the same model, a standard house.
Gift from Stalin.
A standard house has a yard, where there are apple trees or pair trees, potato field, flowers, bushes, outhouse and sauna,
if you like sauna.
Some buildings don’t collapse like they collapsed in Karb.
They are repaired, renovated, fixed and remodelled.
Some start to look like are they are renovated cement blocks.
I live in an old brick house, in a barracks, which was built by the german empire some hundred years ago.
I have no work. I have no cinema. I have no swimming pool. I have no school.
I have no community centre. I have no gallery. I have no decent shop. I have no voice.
I have problems. I have alcohol. I have battering. I have domestic violence. I have incest.
I have drugs. I have hepatitis. I have HIV.
I have ammonium in the backyard – someone dumped the mining waste there one night.
I have mothers.
It is a mother who keeps up this community. When mother gets upset, no-one listens.
It is a father who puts up his fist and screams: uprising. When a fist speaks, people listen, but nothing follows.
Administration has a procedure.
Procedure is a car door you can slam and drive away.
When a building collapses, there is always a mother.
Here, behind the barracks I have grass, elms, birches, alders, oaks, maples, cherries, hazels, elms, basswood, beech, spruce, pine and aspen.
I have cats, dogs, shadow, darkness, mist and fog.
My mother worked in a factory that went into bankrupt in 1992.
She worked in a factory that produced thread and fabrics.
She worked in a factory where she was the main workplace stewardess. She worked in the factory when the Soviet Union existed and she had her vacations in the Soviet Union, until there was no more Soviet Union and there were no more factories, no more work and no more vacations in the Soviet Union.
She was not a mother Mary, but she took care of the house, garden, car inspection, clothing and food.
Community does not need a mother Mary but it needs real brains, legs, heart, hands, back, breasts, hips, eyes, ears, mouths, tongues, vaginas, toes, hair and face.
Some of you are excess. Some people are excess, some not, but some of you are excess.
Some of you are too much, you shop in Lidl and Aldi, and that is excess.
Every system has excess, every system has you and every system has an economy, which has methods and strategies to manage excess.
Some of you know what to do, and to do it in the right place at the right time.
Some of you are successful and maybe even part of the one percent.
Some you take risks and know how to calculate a risk, but some of you take stupid and excessive risks.
Now, you can’t work in the constructions, because you don’t have a friend whose father owns the construction company, who would take you right away to work.
You are excess, so you work without a contract. You work in the black market.
You are excess and you work without contract, insurance and guarantee that you will be paid in the end of the job.
You are excess in the fog what is called black market. It is a black fog.
Some of you are excess and estranged from the society.
Some of you are self-centred, because you work in the black market, which eats out the social fabric of common good.
This excess is your fault. You go through the stuff, which other people consider trash.
You have a good nose, and you find a stuff to sell on EBay.
You find stuff, other people consider trash. This is what could be the beginning of a story from the Motor City, from “rags to riches”.
Some of you make handcraft and sell it on the flea markets or on the streets.
Some of you collect lilies, blueberries, raspberries, lingonberries, and sell it on the streets.
Some of you sell your vegetables from your garden on the streets.
Some of you sing and play accordion, guitar, organ, drums, flute, block-flute, triangle, violin, cello, keyboard, or just clap hands on the street with a hat on the ground.
None of you pay taxes of this stuff. You don’t support the big society.
The big society says to you: don’t support the street vendors, support The Agora, in order to support the society - common good. Don’t support the mothers.
Fifty percent of the economy in Greece is done by you, the excess people, the DIY people, and the street vendor people.
Half of the working population is you, the excess, the DIY and the street vendors.
Trillions of dollars in commerce is you, the excess, the DIY and the street vendors.
You make the world’s second largest economy, after United States.
Some of you, the excess know better than anyone, what the community around you needs.
So you find it and sell it. Some of you rob the coal wagons and sell it to your neighbours.
Some of you make maxi bullets and sell them for the replica enthusiasts.
Some of you have a garden to have better vegetables than the Tesco has.
Some of you don’t need iCal or some cool application to find out what to do and where to go tonight to have fun.
Some of you know that it is not only Helsinki or Katowice, which is the city of Fun.
In the dark continent of Africa, in a small country between Togo and Nigeria, there is Benin.
They have no oil, but Nigeria has excessive amount of it.
They smuggle gasoline in the extra gasoline tanks in cars from Nigeria to Benin.
Then these excess people drive through the Benin and sell the gasoline to street vendors in all around: Cotonou, Ouidah, Come, Grand-Popo, and Sé.
Then another excess people would sell the gasoline in huge glass jugs, jars, and wine bottles for the local people from the community.
Gasoline is beautiful. It has amazing colour.
All these glass jars and jugs are glimmering in the afternoon light by the roadsides.
The smell of gasoline is intoxicating and addictive. I am sitting in the bus, which is driving from the Sochi airport to the hotel. I feel sick. I remember this smell always.
The smell of petrol, gasoline, kerosene, naphtha and diesel is the smell of Bytom, Warszawa, Helsinki, Moscow, Tel-Aviv, Jakarta, New York, Sao Paulo, Tokyo and Shanghai.
It is the intoxicating smell of excess.
Some you like the intoxicating and excessive smell of alcohol.
Some you are proud of the problem of alcohol, like they are so proud of the problem in Poland, Sweden, Russia, Estonia, Denmark, UK, Ireland, France, Spain, Italy, Greece, Germany, The Netherlands, Belgium and here in Finland.
We are so proud of this problem. It is an act of small resistance.
It is the excess of the alcohol that is connecting people - not Nokia.
It connects us into a common sleep. After a moment of invigorating and aggressive spring, comes the sleep of the fall.
Some of you fight in the football match or in the bar after the game, with your t-shirt on.
Your fists are flying, and the violence is excessive.
Then it stops, and you sleep. In the life of excess, you must get rid of excessive stuff, and you bring it to a flea market, even your helicopter.
In the flea market you see what life is - it is excessive.
In the Agora you see what life is supposed to look like - nice.
Like a photographer, who captures a moment from life, not only what that building was or what was the life story of that face, also in the flea market you do see not only the past lives, but life in transformation.
You see the excess of life after she went to bankrupt, after he divorced, after he moved from home, after she died, after she got ill, after he renovated the bedroom, after her house collapsed because of an unfinished mining tunnel filling, after he went to jail, after she met him.
What was left is excess and it ends up in the flea market.
Some of it ends up in the eBay if these objects are lucky.
And the rest are excess like the people, but some of them are valuable and part of the one percent.
At 15:04 the internet goes down, and I have a break for a cigarette.
Nothing works for few minutes. Nothing happens for few minutes.
I do not work for few minutes.
All of the troubles and miseries, which attracted me to Bytom are only part of the picture.
Life in Bytom is not only that.
I see life from my point of view, but this is not life, but only part of life.
Life is not something to look at or to have. It takes over.
My life started from the middle and will end up in the middle.
Everything will be left undone and unfinished.
In Bytom, people go to cafes and bars and have a drink at home or on the streets.
There are expensive cafes, normal cafes and poor cafes, and when you go to a cafe or bar or sit with your friends or with your cat or by yourself and complain about the buses, trucks, trams and cars, which shake your house all night long, so you cannot sleep, you are still living.
You drink glass of water, glass of beer, glass of milk, cup of tea, cup of coffee, cup of mate, glass of wine, glass of champagne, class of soda, shot of vodka, shot of whisky, and you may drink nothing. You do nothing to live.
It takes over.
In the other room a TV is on, a football game, soap opera, news or music, and the volume is loud. Or you hear someone mentions your name somewhere in the large room, but you can’t make it clear, something is happening here, but you don't know what it is and then your telephone rings, or someone knocks on your door, or your cat wants to go out, or your child wakes up and wants to eat, or your friend suddenly gets ill, or the music is too loud and you can’t actually hear what people are saying, and you think about of you getting old, and you drift away.
You don’t focus on your life.
It is not yours, it is not mine.
Go to cinema.
Go to Kino Gloria. Go to Kino Bałtyk. Better go Kino Gloria.
They are showing a film. It is the first film they are showing. Go there!
It is English film. “The Treasure Island”. You know the book. Have you read the book?
It is an adventure.
There is a young boy in the film. He is great. He meets a buccaneer, a pirate.
That was something. He is a hero, but a thief. A romantic fellow. A real pirate with a noble heart. Go there!
It is the first film they show in the Kino Gloria!
Go there, now again.
They are closing the cinema, only one show is left.
They are showing “Da Vinci Code” and “Poseidon”. Two films in the price of one. Go fast.
You can see two films. It is great! “Poseidon” is a classic. It will be.
They will be no Kino Gloria. There will no more Kino Bałtyk.
There will be no more factories. No more mining. There will be no more Soviet Union. There will be no more Jesus. There will be no more Karb. No more Bobrek. No more Arki Boszka. No more parks. There will be no more Agora. There will be no more Bytom. There will be no more Katowice. There will be no more Szombierki. No more Oswiecim. No more Wadowice. No more Krakow. No more Gdansk. There will be no more Europe.
There will be no more Helsinki; there will be no more cats. There will be no more mothers. There will be no more three year olds. There will be no more door bells. There will be no more milk. There will be no more basket balls. There will be no more Detroit. There will be no more music.
Make a story. Make him come back. Make her come back. Make it come back. Make them come back. Make a picture. You see the picture of that house, of that face, of that book, of that building, of that factory, of that park, of that cinema, of that Jesus, of that city - there it is. There it still is. There is the park. There is the bear. There is the crocodile. There is the teddy bear. There is a comedy. There is the Globetrotter. There is an actor pretending to be a black guy. There is a face of awe. There is a museum.
There is a costume made from hay, to look like a bear, to be worn, to be looked at and to be invited to a house warming party. There is a man in a bear suit, which will bring the happiness to a woman and a man living in that house. There is a photograph of them and that house and that child and that costume and that party. There it is. There is the party. There are the good wishes. There is the end of the party. There goes the astronaut, there goes the moon, there goes the magazine, there goes the bomb, there goes the factory and there goes a life.
There will be no more Fortum, there will be no more Szombierki, there will be no more mining dumb, there will be no more “Seksmisja”, there will be no more Lamila, there will be no more Gierek, there will be no more Kekkonen, there will be no more house, there will be no more factory, there will be no more parties in the factory, there will be no more raves, there will be no more man climbing up the chimney and hoisting a black flag, there will be no more promises, there will be no more work.
There will be no more people stealing coal, there will be no more people eating potatoes, there will be no more people buying coal, there will be no more people writing ‘kurwa’ on the wall, there will be no more people falling in love, there will be no more people selling smuggled gasoline, there will be no more people living in trailers, there will be no more people who will become rich, there will be no more people dying from old age.
There is your stolen passport, your lost umbrella, your missing phone, your lost photograph of her, his broken heart, stolen suitcase, and the apartment that got broken into. This is the market place where you will find it all, when they ceased to exist. We will lose the Soviet Union, the United States, Finland, Bulgaria, Romania, Poland, DDR, Liechtenstein, Sweden, Ireland, Galapagos and the Greenland. Everything is gone. The black gold is gone. Black is gone. Find it here. In the market place. Fog is here.
The biggest cruise ship in the world is sailing on the South Atlantic Ocean. It is New Years Eve. Everyone in this boat is having a ball. The year changes. Captain of the ship notices a massive wave coming at them. He tries to change the course of the boat but fails. The wave capsizes the ship. There is havoc and bewliderment. Those who survived are in the ball room, which is upside down. They believe that the rescue team will get the GPS signal of the boat and arrive in a matter of hours; they believe that the ship is built to keep passengers safe in a pocket of air for that period of time. Then there are those who do not trust the ship, the renegades who want to go and find a way out. They squeeze through tight holes, passages, channels, tunnels full of water, pathways, transitions and sections and finally they find a way out. People in the ballroom drown. They are excess. Survivors go through the ship like underground mining passages.
Bytom is a big ship, Silesia is a big ship, Poland is a big ship, Europe is a big ship – and the earth is full of holes. Under our feet the black soil is nothing more than Swiss cheese, full of holes. The Earth is now a hol(e)y cheese ball. Earth is full of holes, and it collapses. A massive landslide – a tsunami of soil capsizes Bytom, Silesia, Poland, and Europe. Buildings turn upside down, creating an airlock to live in, but we don’t know for how long. Will there be a rescue team? There, would be mothers and we would create a temporary a society; we would feel unity. There would be fists, also. Work is gone. Misery is gone. We are underground.
There goes the astronaut, there goes the moon, there goes the magazine, there goes the bomb, there goes the factory, and there goes a life. There will be no more Factory, there will be no more Zombierki, there will be no more mining dump, there will be no more Seksmisja, there will be no more Gierek, there will be no more Kekkonen, there will be no more house, there will be no more parties in the factory, there will be no more raves, there will be no more men climbing up the chimney and hoisting a black flag, there will be no more promises, there will be no more work. There will be no more people stealing coal, there will be no more people eating potatoes, there will be no more people buying coal, there will be no more people writing ‘kurwa’ on the wall, there will be no more people falling in love, there will be no more people selling smuggled gasoline, there will be no more people living in trailers, there will be no more people who will become rich, there will be no more people dying from old age.
But, there is your stolen passport, your lost umbrella, your missing phone, your lost photograph of her, his broken heart, stolen suitcase, and the apartment that got broken into. This is the place where you will find it all, when those loved ones and foes ceased to exist. We lost Soviet Union, the United States, Finland, Bulgaria, Romania, Poland, East Germany, Liechtenstein, Sweden, Ireland, Galapagos and the Greenland. Everything is gone. The black gold is gone. Black is gone. Find it here. In the market place. Fog is here. Go there! We are under the ground!
Landslide has capsized the whole city. Are we waiting for a rescue or look for a way out? We might not find a right path. There might be a raft or ladder? Then we would start crawling in the mess of a land, among the rubble, roots, and foundations of destroyed buildings. There is no more firmament! Whole Silesia, whole Poland, whole Europe is capsized. We would be living on top of the roots of the world, coming down from the underground. Everything distorted. Us, the traumatized become monsters and we eat people, with big cartilage shell and tiny legs, still too shy to leave our shelters we crawl from our caves. This is what people are waiting for. The real turn around of the earth, the real revolution of the earth, of the hollow ground. The earth is turned inside out like an old hat. A real carnival !
The time is out of joint—O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let's go together.
Walczą na parkiecie
Popatrz, jacy jaskiniowcy
Co za cyrk osobliwości!
Patrz na pana władzę
Bije nie tego, co trzeba
Czy wy chociaż wicie, Że
występuje w hicie
Czy na Marsie jest życie?
Fighting in the dance hall.
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy.
Wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show.
Is there life on Mars?