Dreams into Action

London, 7 September 2008

 

Hello, Dear Sara,

 

Ooh, it is Sunday already... I am writing and not waiting for Your letter – You have dissapeared somewhere... But I know very well what does autumn in Zhiogaichiai mean. I guess You cannot fend off little earthy works, as it is forever and ever J. Although, to tell You the truth, we also feel a change of seasons here. Alexandra has not returned from Poland yet, but she is going to in the instant. The new season in Opera has not started yet, but will start now. I am marching to college since tomorrow. (The school year here starts not on 1th but on 8th of September). And Latin course is not beyond the seas also – from 18th. In a word nothing interesting happened last week and I would have nothing to write about except Ole J.

 

So, on Thursday I started out to National Galery much earlier before my Creative writing seminar, because inspired by Anna I planned to buy something in the Galery shop also. I thought sometimes small gifts and souvenirs were so badly needed...

 

Because of negligence I forgot my umbrella at home, and here as ill luck would have it the sky frowned, got black and drops fell down. Luckily I was near already. I saw everybody running because the staircase of the Gallery was under something like a roof or like in a some kind of a veranda. Well, I started to run too. I jumped on the staircase and nearly treaded Ole underfoot. It happened that she was sitting there with the biggest backpack she has put by herself. I thought she was leaving and came to say goodbye. But it was not the case as it became clear later, she fastened a quarrel upon those she lived with or lived in their house and, in short, moved out. She moved out very originally – to the street. I told her sometimes I wanted to move out like this as well because I lived with people from South America, with Brazilians and Colombians who, to tell you the truth, drove me crazy. Ole replied to this she adored South America. Even more – she had married an Argentinian. About this time last year she, you know, took part in Fiesta Provincial Inmigrante and was chosen a beauty queen representing province of Buenos Aires. Besides that she is proud to have  the ID card with the inscription of  her full name – Aniela Milena Ole Remorini Gasiunas.

 

So what are you going to do now, I asked. I don’t know, she answered simply. I told her she could stay with me for a week or so if she would clear up our English garden behind the house and go shopping for food. She answered no, because after Your kitchen-garden her nails just started to sprout and her stiff and gammy hands’ skin has regenerated a little. And also she cannot carry packages from the shop because she just cannot carry heavy things. That damages spine and  leg veins can become varicose.

 

I did not know what to answer. I said I need to go, because I had to come twenty minutes earlier in order that the employees would put chairs in right places for me. I stood up because I was sitting on the staircase next to her backpack and made clear that she would come also after several minutes. Instead of answering yes or no Ole asked for money because, you see, she wanted to buy a chewing gum. Aha, I thought, it started. But it was the first time, how could I not give her? I gave her five pounds.

 

I thought she was not coming back, but she came. Really, she was pretty well late… My students have been read their homeworks already.

 

As you know last week we have started to write about the Headless Horseman, so they had to write a little at home. Our order is like this: everybody reads in line. At the end everybody tells the author something pleasant and cordial. Efficient praise is part of my teaching program. I teach them to praise and also accept the praise heartily. I do not let them criticize each other, rebuke, sneer or swallow, which also means critics. They must love each other unconditionally and unconditionally respect me. As if I was their mommy and they were my children (in spite of age).

 

But I am not about that. I wanted to say that when Ole came I stopped the actions she had begun and asked if she had done her homework. She said no, but she had invented everything. One day she would concentrate and write the thriller called “Handless Girl and Headless Horseman”.

 

Everyone of us were silent. On the one hand we were full of  vows and plans, because there were moments in everybody’s life when we were making boast we were going to write something wonderful, but now we did not want to remember about that. But on the other hand you never know… Ole is so strange… Who knows, maybe she would start and write… Who knows…

 

Ole embraced the chance of the silence and said that the hands of the girl were cut off therefore her name was Handless. Nobody told anything. It became somehow uncomfortable as if the rain was near. Even somehow uneasy… Everybody became silent and it seemed they were even deprived of speech. So what? In all this deadly silence Ole made a clean breast very loudly: because father cut off her hands… She made clean breast and looked at me. This is why she cannot work anything, she explained more. Suddenly for not apparent reason she bent down, unfastened her backpack which she had put next to her chair, drawed out yellow tenuous unnatural skin gloves and pulled them on now. Going to the galery I saw those gloves in a window-case. I don’t know why but I paid attention to them. They were cheap, I think. Most probably they did not cost more than ten pounds.

 

And what was next? She did not write anything during all class time. She just sat more comfortably and drowsed all the seminar with those gloves on her hands and red knitted cap on her head. What I could do? It’s hard to say something or reprove… She doesn’t pay for the seminar, she is in London for the short time, she came to me with Your recommendation, to make a long story short she was behaving like in a station. I did not say her anything anymore. Go bananas, I thought, do whatever you want. Just at the very end I tried (without necessity maybe) to say a joke. So how does this Handless of yours eat, how does she dress, I say. What are men for then? She asked so loudly that it was hard either to laugh, either to cry. She added that Handless always could find men who fed her, put food directly into her mouth, gave her drink through a straw and everything else. Even more, they undress her, dress up and give her a bath if she sets her mind on that. Of course, she does not take poor because a man should be able to pay for everything. Otherwise what kind of man is he? Neither she takes lazy men.  Handless is not an arrogant feminist in any way. Men not only buy her everything with joy but also do everything for her – do her loundry perfectly and even wash  her underwear, also, if she just mentiones that they tidy up her room at once, wash her dishes and floor, they even wash her windows just to make her feel good.

 

And what does she do when she needs to keep her house herself? She does not clean. She travels. No problem – she added also. Somebody always gives her money. And everybody gives her to eat, that is for sure. You just need to ask. I could not decide if I had to agree with her or contradict in something, but while I was thinking she grabbed the pocket of her Indian leather jacket from the outside, put her hand in and pulled out a lollipop. She stripped it.  She threw the scrap on the dressed out parquet, reclined, opened her mouth and threw the lollipop in. I did not say anything anymore. Get on as best as you can, I thought. Neither she said anything also, she took her backpack proudly and went out the first of everybody. Maybe she would have banged the door if such a thing was next to her ))

 

When I put everything to order and gave back the room, I went to the Galerie’s shop on my way and choose something for myself. Ole, you know, still was sitting on the Galerie’s staircase. She was bestriding her backpack, to be exact, she had put it between her legs one step below. A guy sitting next to her. Indian, most probably. Or Pakistani… These stick most easily… When I passed by them, I turned out of curiosity and waved Ole. Ole just waved me back and put her eyes on the guy again. You could think the world has died for her. Such an attention, such an attention, - oh my, oh my

 

Don’t ask me because I do not know where is she now or what is she doing. But it seems to me she is not of the kind who would perish in the world )

 

So much for today, my little sister. I am going to the bed. Tomorrow is the 8^th of September, the studies start at the college… I’m waiting for your letter. Write me how is mom, the work and everything else. And the most important how is Your book, how are you, have you been carried away with it already? Kiss you

 

                                                                                                Mari

So, as I had mentioned before, I took a sheet of paper and wrote down all my wishes.

By that time I very clearly knew what I wanted.

Because I wrote dawn all the desires in black and white.

I edited them, so that they would have a shade of succes and viktory.

Than I thaught I was afraide to show them to anybody. Even more. I feared somebody would accidantelly see them.

So I rewrote the list into the notebook, which I kept in the hiding place, and tore the piece of paper.

Then I put the pieces of paper on the plate, took the plate into the balkony and burnt them.

I took the ashes to the toilet.

Brushed them off the plate into the toilet with a duster and flushed them.

But that was not all.

Tomorrow I would rewrite everything on a clean sheet of paper, because during the night I might have some new thaughts.

Then I would tear the list out again and burn it.

I decided I would not leave a single copy for myself.

And then I would count days and wait for 130 of them.

Later I decided the equal number is boring and changed it into 132 days.

When those days pass (132), all my dreams will be fulfilled.

He had all equipment to be a writer - a point of view, a inquiring mind, a love of literature, and an appetite for glory; the question which bedevilled him and which he never, ever really answered for himself was, did he have the will to apply the seat of his pants to the seat of his chair?

                                                                                                                   The Gardian / Sarurday 15 August 2009

A Synopsis

The true girl is old, but at the same time she is a teenager, too. She has died, but now she is living her second life. She often dwells on the words ”Work as a man, live as a woman”, written on the card, which is stuck on the mirror in her bathroom. She lives alone, but she has some sane people around her, who do their best to make her normal. She is trying hard to be normal  herself, but at the same time detests being normal, either. She pretends everything is OK, but she is not so calm and self-confident as she seems to be.

She has dedicated her life to falsification. Every day she transforms herself from a housewife into a writer.

Oh, I have forgotten to mention she likes Nietzsche’s saying “Become what you are”, which a funny woman Anabelle has engraved on the ordinary wine glasses, though secretly she is fully confident that a basic  truth lies in a simple sentence:” To be and to look is one and the same thing”.

She has a teacher Lora, who is really very old and at the same time very odd. The true girl believes Lora is the devil but she still wants to be as Lora is.

What a shame!

Mari Poisson

007 HOW WE MADE WAX FIGURES IN THE DARK

 

           In autumn and in winter I like to stay inside and not go anywhere. I belong to that human species, who do not need summer.

           I usually use summer for preparation. I prepare for the gloomy and the wet season. I dream about what I shall do, when I’ll be staying home long hours. I visualize my jobs in the rooms and at the writing desk. I plan my winter and take care to have enough activities.

           Sometimes, after having planned too many things, I even go to some place at the beginning of summer. Somewhere, where it is colder.

           But sometimes even in winter one has to go outside.

           Last week, for instance, Martha and me decided to make wax figures in the dark. Namely in the dark.  But not quite in the dark, as it appeared later.

           We at first lit seven candles and later two more candles, the red ones, the thin ones. They did not want to burn, though.

           So we turned the light on. And started dropping the wax into the water. Later we made some things out of the warm wax. Martha made herself a string of beads. I wanted to make some figurines. Oh, I forgot to tell that we were at Martha’s place, had quite a bit of wax and that the whole sight was unbelievably mythic.

           The wax was hardly visible in the dark and it seemed as if we were taking it from nowhere. Huge shadows of our hands could be seen on the walls and with no effort from us they made motion figures as in the theatre of shadows.

           Then I thought that I would be afraid to sit in the light of the candles all alone. I could not do that. I would be afraid. But of what? I don’t know. Sometimes I am afraid to stay alone, though I taught myself not to be afraid of loneliness or darkness. But still... I am scared. What am I saying here? Afraid? I get horror-struck. I feel the most real horror. I become all ears and listen to every sound. It seems to me that somebody is walking around scratching or even knocking... it is good I have only one room, so there is no problem to look at every corner.

           Martha’s place is very interesting.

           She has made one big room out of her three rooms.

           She has had all the partition-walls removed.

           The only space in her house, where you can close yourself, is the toilet. So it is difficult for me to tell in which space we are sitting now. Most likely it is the kitchen, because Martha warms up the wax and makes some tea on an electrical stove.

           But Martha’s bed, covered with a light flowery cover, stands close by, either. The fringe of the cover is lace. It looks very much like an ancient skirt, which always has an underskirt, the fringe of which must necessarily be seen.

           Martha has hands of gold. She has taught me a lot of things. Sometimes I just steal Martha’s ideas. I confess, I do.

           Martha’s main idea is this: if you want a thing, first of all you must make some space for it in your house. It is a fascinating idea, isn’t it?

           I stayed at Martha’s for the night as we had agreed before.

           She decided to sleep on the floor and let me sleep in her bed.

           Sure enough she could have slept on the sofa. But the sofa was at the other end of the room and belonged to the reading zone. So the sofa stood too far from me to talk before falling asleep. And we were planning to do that.

           I felt a little bit uncomfortable, because I occupied Martha’s bed.

 

           But I was the guest and Martha did not like to sleep with somebody in the same bed. So everything was done according to her rules.

           But still I told myself that in the future I would not make such silly agreements.

           Sure enough, I still could call a taxi, instead of going to Martha’s shiny bathroom. But... I washed myself, put on Martha’s embroidered nightgown with long sleeves and went to her chic bed, in which I immediately felt as if I were in Paradise.

           In the morning I looked at what we had done through the night.

           Nothing impressive, really. Just some primitive wax figurines, which could only be made by people, who had never dealt with wax in their lives. And even more... by people, who had no real inborn talent for that.

           We could have done something which we know better. I started considering what we could do better by the candlelight in the dark.

           There are some ways of casting lots. But I did not want to mention them, because a crowd of people, who are hungry for something interesting, might gather around us. Then I should solve other people’s problems, as if I did not have enough of my own.

           I must admit that the string of beads, which Martha made, looked beautiful. She hung the string on the window. Meanwhile the figurines, which I had made, lost all their fascination in the daylight. They looked regrettable.

           Some things can only be created at night. Namely, at night. And you should look at them only at night. There is such a thing as night art. Night aesthetics. A night spectator and a night estimator. There is a night audience, night music and night conversations. Night is much more complicated than day. It is deeper.

           Last night I forgot that we were planning to make wax figurines. It was past eight already and we were still standing on the stairs of the editorial office.

           The front door was not yet closed but it was dark as hell on the stairs.

           At times I forgot myself but then the smell of cat and vagabond urine would bring me back. I also felt the smell of the mould or something. I wanted to get outside as soon as possible. But at the same time I wanted to stay inside. For Richard.

           So we were stamping at the top of the staircase, smoking, laughing and shouting. We had a really good time. I even forgot I was hungry.

           Then unexpectedly it grew dark.

           What’s the time, Richard? - asked Zu.

           Past eight already.

           It’s nonsense, - said Zu. Where does the time disappear?

           We were ready to go out and started descending the stairs.

           Halfway down, Richard put his arm over my shoulders.

 

           As far as I can remember, I was waiting for that mysterious motion.

           A thought came to my head about not going to Martha’s that night and another thought, that Richard probably mixed me up with Zu.

           But I decided not to pay any attention to my doubts and for the second time thought about not going to Martha’s. I pressed closer to Richard and hugged him around the waist.

           We silently walked downstairs hugging each other. I could hear Zu’s steps far ahead. I pressed to him still closer. Richard hugged my shoulder and asked: Are you hungry?

           Would you like to eat out? - he whispered .

           Yes, - I answered and again we pressed to each other. I thought Zu would be waiting for us downstairs, but said nothing. Instead I only pressed closer to him.

           Earlier whenever a guy would put his arm around my shoulders, I always tried to get liked by him, to flatter him.

           I always thought the guys did not like me and I probably would never be liked by them. My friend Maria told me once that I was not sexually attractive. I said nothing to her but I knew that I just did not want to put any efforts in that. There was no such guy, whom I would like as much as to make efforts.

           Do I like Richard?

           I do not know.

           But I know one thing: I really liked the fact that he hugged me, not Zu. That he whispered words to me, not to her.

           I felt dizzy with victory, with joy of total victory. I triumphed. As some adolescent. As a teenager. I managed to turn the triangle upside down. It used to be: Zu, Richard and me. Now it is: me, Richard and Zu.

           Zu was shouting something from downstairs. Most likely she was standing on the threshold, because some dim light could be seen coming from outside.

           When we almost reached downstairs, Richard took his arm off my shoulders. He did not want Zu to understand what was happening. I felt a painful stab into my heart. It only lasted a second. Then Richard took me by the hand and I felt happy again.

           Freedom has always been the most important thing in my life.

           But it seemed that others did not really value freedom.

           Freedom - it seems to me it is better not to talk about it aloud, because people could think that the only thing I want, is to work for myself, to take care of myself, to live for myself. Otherwise, to become a spinster. And that would mean I am an incurable egoist. And more to that, my friend Maria had mentioned once that spinsters had no charm. I did not want to have no charm. Though... it is hard to tell...

           Everyone wanted to find a good job, all girls wanted to marry. So I thought I had to desire the same things. To work for somebody, to serve somebody, to do laundry for someone, to cook for that special someone, to iron his shirts, to darn his socks.

           I started scratching Richard’s hand with my thumb nail. I expected some reaction from him. But he only firmly held my hand or rather squeezed it firmly. I noticed him touch Zu’s fingers on the door knob.

           We went outside hand in hand. All three of us. Me, Richard and Zu. Or rather Zu, Richard and me. Then we walked silently through the night town.

           Girls, do you want to eat something? - asked Richard.

           I said no, Zu said yes. How terrible. I did not know what to do.

           We walked further. All three of us. There had to be a way out of the situation.

           And there was a way. I caught a taxi and went to Martha’s. Later we made figurines from wax and still later it was another morning. And then Saturday came and I did not have to go to work.

           We had agreed to do that about a week ago. We had decided to spend the evening together, to make figurines from wax and to chat while lying in beds. Friendship with Martha gave me inspiration.

           Sure enough, I could easily change all those female pleasures into sitting with Richard in some cheap cafè (or more exactly in a beer bar) or just in his untidy room. I thought about his untidy bed, either. (Richard calls it “a bachelor bed”. It sounds better.)

           All of a sudden I remembered how Zu boasted last week that she washed Richard’s bed linen and bought him two new pillowcases. She said she could not stand pillows with no pillow cases.

           I just gasped and said nothing. I did not want to look naive because it had never occurred to me to buy pillowcases for Richard’s pillows.

 

           I returned home.

           I entered my flat and looked it over with a glance of a person, who was finding a place for a new thing.

           Yes...

           Clearly there was no space for a man.

           That’s why I don’t have one, I thought.

           I tried to imagine where I could put a man, if I had one. I had to create a place for a man in my flat.

           Sure enough, he would sit in front of TV.

           So it was necessary to create a zone for a TV set and a man.

           And that meant I had to buy a TV, to place some armchairs in front of it and also a little table for an ashtray, a beer, newspapers and food.

           Because I would not drive my man to smoke on the stairs, read newspapers in the toilet, eat and drink in the kitchen. No. He would have his own zone.

           I was baffled by the thought that a man would sleep in my bed. I tried not to think about it. Maybe the problem would be solved spontaneously. I did not need to dramatize the situation. I would stand it somehow.

           But the man will not only sleep in my bed, he will also sit at my computer whenever he wishes. He will ask for food whenever he desires... will bring his friends into the flat... will never wash the bathtub after himself. And he will take our joint money whenever he pleases...

           Still more... I will have to serve my man’s zone. I will have to buy food and beer for him, wash his clothes, make dinner for him every day and give him my flat and car keys...

 

           I decided to overcome all the difficulties and inconveniences and to create a zone for a man in my flat. I wanted to have a man. Strange but such was the truth.

           I decided to buy a TV and a black terrier, so that my man would be occupied with something. That he would feel needed in the house.

           And still more... my man will be free and happy, because I will guarantee independence for him. I will be different from other women. I will not regulate my husband. The moment he talks about freedom to me, I will let him go. Grant independence for him.

           I took my phone, placed a chair where two armchairs would stand in the future and called Martha. I explained everything to her. I consulted her.

           Martha laughed but finally admitted that my thoughts were really original.

           She liked the combination of a man’s zone with making figurines from wax in the dark.

           Probably your ideas are good, she said. We have to protect men.

           Not long ago she found some information in the internet about the mutation of male chromosomes and the possible disappearance of men. She informed me that, as science declares, in some thousand years men will disappear.

           I raised my chin up and shook the hair. I felt as if I were the saviour of the world. That was even more exciting than making figurines from wax. There was only one more thing to decide-what breed of a dog I should buy for my husband to take for walks.

           First make a place for a dog, - suggested Martha.

           She is right, - I thought.

Jurgelevičienė Marija (psd. Mari Poisson), prose writer, poetess, essayist and photographer.
Was born in Dirgėlai, Šilalė district, on September 22, 1948.
In 1972 she graduated from the Faculty of Klaipėda of Šiauliai Pedagogical Institute. After that, she worked as a librarian and teacher.
Since 1999 – the member of LWU.

Personally:
http://maripoisson.blogas.lt/

Bibliography:
Dvišalis eismas: poems, FB. - Vilnius: Vaga, 1987.
Plėviasparnis: poems. - Šiauliai: Saulės delta, 1998.
Tikra mergaitė: 100 marginalian short stories (by pseudonym of Mari Poisson). - Vilnius: Ciklonas, 2004.

Awards:
The Award of Zigmas Gėlė for the Best Poetic Debut of the 1988.

texts:
http://www.tekstai.lt/tekstai/poisson/index.htm

Jurgelevičienė Marija (slp. Mari Poisson), prozininkė, poetė, eseistė ir fotografė.
Gimė 1948.09.22 Dirgėluose, Šilalės rajone.
1966 m. baigė Kaltinėnų vidurinę mokyklą. 1972 m. baigė lituanistikos studijas Šiaulių pedagoginio instituto Klaipėdos muzikos fakultete.
Nuo 1973 m. Šiaulių IX vidurinės mokyklos, po to Suaugusiųjų aklųjų vidurinės mokyklos Šiaulių skyriaus, III vakarinės vidurinės mokyklos, Šilėnų aštuonmetės mokyklos, vėl Suaugusiųjų aklųjų vidurinės mokyklos mokytoja. 1980 m. Šiaulių Povilo Višinskio Viešosios bibliotekos vyr. bibliotekininkė. 1989-1991 m. Suaugusiųjų aklųjų vidurinės mokyklos mokytoja. 1991-1992 m. dviračių ir variklių gamyklos „Vairas“ savaitraščio redaktorė. 1991-1999 m. Šiaulių pedagoginio instituto, nuo 1996 m. Šiaulių universiteto Lietuvių literatūros katedros asistentė.
1999 m. įkūrė humanitarinę kūrybinio rašymo studiją „Plėviasparniai“, kuri padėjo atsiskleisti ne vienam talentui. 2001 m. surengta pirmoji fotografijų paroda „Skiriu draugams“ Maironio muziejuje Kaune. 2002 m. Šiaulių P. Višinskio bibliotekoje eksponuojama antroji paroda „Šoku ir rašau“.
Šiuo metu laisva meninkė. Nuo 2006 m. gyvena ir kuria Londone.
Nuo 1999 m. – LRS narė.

Asmeniškai:
http://maripoisson.blogas.lt/

Bibliografija:
Dvišalis eismas: poezija, PK. - Vilnius: Vaga, 1987.
Plėviasparnis: poezija. - Šiauliai: Saulės delta, 1998.
Tikra mergaitė: 100 marginalinių novelių (slapyvardžiu Mari Poisson). - Vilnius: Ciklonas, 2004.

Apdovanojimai:
1988 m. Zigmo Gėlės premija už pirmąją knygą.

tekstai:
http://www.tekstai.lt/tekstai/poisson/index.htm

Humans learnt how to write only 5500 years ago. I read somewhere ,that writing occured in Mesopotamia and Egypt at one and the same moment 5500 years back in time. So the oldest writings are Mesopotamian, Chinese, Egyptian, Phoenician, Greek and Latin.
The limitless possibilities of placing the lines in space built a connection between the writing and the fine arts. Some thought, that writing was the gift of gods,others, that it was stolen from gods by the immortals.
I remember, when I was reading about that, I liked that sentence immensely. Just read it again- “some thought that writing was the gift of gods, others, that it was stolen from gods by the immortals“. It is not just a simple sentence, it is a real pearl of wisdom.Mysticism,thought I.I really appreciated the idea that writing was in no way associated with simple life of ordinary people. Writing was the property of gods or immortals. They can give writing to you,but they can very well take it from you,either. Mysticim, I thought again.
That very sentence taught me how to lie.
Yes, I must admit I have complexes. I am unable to tell anybody I am a writer. I feel timid about it. As if I were a pretender. Whenever I am being introduced to new people, I tell them I am a teacher or a lecturer. Sometimes I even say I am a cleaner or an unemployed person. I never tell anybody I am just a housewife,though that would be closest to the truth.
Only one thing betrays I am a writer, and the thing is my ability to lie. I am unsurpassable in that field. But there are truths, which won‘t let me lie. Those unnecessary truths, like some rocks, sometimes emerge all of a sudden in the middle of a well kept lawn. In the most unappropriate place, at the most unappropriate time. I have a suspicion,that those hapless stones experience physical satisfaction in the opportunity to hurt me. They like to tease me. They mock at me and sometimes, I have to admint, are unbelievably witty. They relish in all that with awesome pleasure. Their sharp sides send flashes and they are...brutal, if you permit me to say so.
Let‘s take my neighbour Laura...
My neighbour Laura,who , by the way, also is a housewife once asked me in a menacingly mocking voice,if I really was a writer and since when I became one. That rude and straight question might have stemmed from some rumours, which somehow reached Laura, because a reader she was not. What she was, she was a permanent discloser of my lies, if I can say so.
She was exhilarated every time she caught me lying. Very probable it was her biggest and only pleasure in life.( God save me from such pleasures,but there‘s no necessity to identify myself with Laura. Let her have her own pleasures...and I will have my own).
Since I am a woman, I find no difficulty in noticing menace in other women‘s voices, so I heard it clearly. But I couldn‘t repay Laura in the same manner, because I had to mask myself.
See, Laura is a very intrusive and sharp- eyed neighbour and my life is not sinless, I have to admit. She knows a lot more about me, than I wish she knew. Let‘s say ,she can tell how much my husband earns and what I made for dinner when his married daughter from the first matrimony came to visit us. The other Sunday she saw me sitting with Gi in one of the cafes, in the old town. She took trouble to call Gi‘s wife. So the wife came and took him home without ceremony.I remained in the cafe and sat there, as the biggest fool ,till all the public changed. I Couldn‘t find any courage in myself to move before that.
Pretending to be indifferent, I asked her somewhat lazily:
- Are you really interested in that, Laura?
Laura all but shrugged her shoulders. She was one of those women,who had always wanted to live my life and to do what I was doing. If I was embroidering, she immediately came to borrow threads, if I was knitting, she came over with the knitting needles and asked me to teach her some new pattern. She made me understand, that it would be even better, if I knitted a sweater for her husband myself, because she was too busy...If I was cooking, she would ask for the recipe, though I knew she would never make any use of it. If I was washing a car, she made her husband go out into the yard and do the same. If I was making pictures, she made inquiries about cameras and asked for advice which one to buy. And what was better- to take pictures or to film. When she saw me working with computer, she at once bought one though she never learnt to press the mouse button twice. Because it was so boring...to learn such stupid things. If I was translating something , she all of a sudden started attending foreign language classes. Are you asking, which foreign language? Most definitely the one I was busy with... She watched attentively what flowers I liked, what sort of perfume I bought for myself, which colour I considered to be fashionable, where I was planning to go for my holidays, what sort of presents I bought, whenever I went to a birthday party, which magazines I read, what style of music I prefer and what my opinion about dogs was.
Writing, to Laura’s mind, was sheer nonsense. And because of that reason, she sincerely believed I was telling lies. As usual. She believed that writing was another of my shameless lies. She had absolutely no strength to talk seriously about writing and literature.
As most women, Laura was not interested in things, which were difficult to accomplish. Because they required certain efforts. All talks about exhausting work, sleepless nights, obstacles and rivalry sounded so boring to her, that she could not stand them longer than for thirty seconds. If she had to work nights, she would not be able to survive ,and her facial skin would lose freshness... Even one sleepless night was harmful. If she could not sleep at night, the next day she would look like a corpse.
Laura inquired me about that hapless writing only for one reason- she expected to catch me lying and to make me feel ashamed. She was used to doing that. She could not let such a thing happen! She is the one, who comes to my place couple of times a day, watches everything and all of a sudden finds out that there are things ,which she does not know. It’s nonsense. Nothing else.
While I was finding reasons for my own justification , looking for excuses and making decisions, whether to go on lying or not, and to admit, that...the doorbell rang...and behind the door my mother was standing.
Mother knew about my true life even more than Laura did. There was only one difference- my mother was more familiar with the first half of my life, while Laura with the second. The thought ,that they will meet now, made my legs shake under me.
I even tried not to let my mother in. I told her that Laura and I were about ready to go to the sports centre, where she had been attending the swimming pool for quite a while. It had to be my first time though and Laura was taking me there in her car.
Mother was not even listening to all that crap. She was overwhelmed with euphoria. She came to me in a taxi, because she wanted to tell me everything as soon as possible. Just imagine, though it is difficult to believe, that half an hour ago, she met our last but one maid in the market. The maid kissed my mother’s hand and told her everything about her late husband’s sickness and death. So mother gave her ten litas and kissed her on both cheeks.
I was astounded and amazed. My mother got so deeply into her story, that finally she told me about how she had met our last maid,too. The maid remembered me very well as teenager...
Again now, I thought, I was caught hiding the truth. Laura stared straight into my eyes. I had never felt worse.
Laura got insulted, angry and red in the face. Looking like a boiled crayfish, she ran through the door. But very soon she changed her mind and came back. I don’t know why she changed her mind and came back, but I suspect she just had no other choice. I was her neighbour. She had to know all my life story. She had to know all the truth, though to know it and unmask me was a lot less pleasant than to listen to my lies and fantasies. Because the truth cannot be denied or criticized. The truth is the truth.
Finally I went to the kitchen to make coffee for them, while my mother stayed with the best listener ever.
I was making coffee for a very ,very long time. Then decided to boil each of them an egg, to cut some dill and make a light crab salad .

Not Death But Love

 

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:

And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me. Straightway I was ‘ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,–

“Guess now who holds thee!”–”Death,” I said, But, there,

The silver answer rang, “Not Death, but Love.”

 

Poisson Mari

Mari Poisson (tikr. Marija Jurgelevičienė, g. 1948) – prozininkė, poetė, eseistė ir fotografė. 1972 m. baigė lituanistikos studijas Šiaulių pedagoginiame institute. Dirbo bibliotekinnke, mokytoja, redaktore. Nuo 1996 m. – Šiaulių universiteto lietuvių literatūros katedros asistentė. 1981 m. žurnale „Nemunas” pasirodo pirmasis M. Jurgelevičienės eilėraštis „Paslaptis“. 1987 m. leidykla „Vaga” išleido pirmąją M. Jurgelevičienės poezijos knygą „Dvišalis eismas“, kuri buvo įvertinta kaip geriausias metų debiutas. 1988 m. autorei įteikta Zigmo Gėlės premija. 1998 m. išleido antrąją eilėraščių knygą „Plėviasparnis“. Netrukus, 1999-aisiais, įkūrė humanitarinę kūrybinio rašymo studiją „Plėviasparniai“, kuri padėjo atsiskleisti ne vienam jaunam literatūriniam talentui. 2001 m. Maironio muziejuje Kaune surengė pirmąją fotografijų parodą „Skiriu draugams“. 2004 m. slapyvardžiu Mari Poisson išleido savo trečiąją knygą – novelių romaną „Tikra mergaitė. 100 marginalinių novelių“. Šiuo metu laisva meninkė. Nuo 2006 m. gyvena ir kuria Londone. „Dvišaliame eisme“ vyrauja pratrūkstančio sąmonės srauto eilėraščiai, fragmentiški ir laisvos sandaros, atspindintys nepagražintą šiuolaikinės moters pasaulėjautą. „Plėviasparnyje“ atskleidžiami vitališkieji moters pasaulio jutimai. Novelių romanui būdingas elegantiškas rafinuotas stilius, laisvas ir sąmojingas kalbėjimas, buitinių bei egzotiškų detalių intarpai. Toks romantiškosios Mari Poisson braižas.

Sara Poisson (tikr. Rasa Čergelienė, g. 1964) – poetė, prozininkė, eseistė, žurnalistė. 1983–1990 m. studijavo Vilniaus universiteto istorijos fakulte ir įgijo žurnalistės kvalifikaciją. Dirbo „Panevėžio balso“ redakcijoje (1988–1992), vėliau, iki 2007-ųjų – dienraščio „Lietuvos rytas“ korespondente. Nuo 2007 m. dirba bendrovėje „Mažeikių nafta“ komunikacijos specialiste. Nuo 2001 m. – Mažeikių literatų klubo narė, nuo 2002 m. – viceprezidentė. Išleido tris eilėraščių rinkinius: „Nelygybė“ (1999), „Kūno išganymas“ (2002), „Pasienis“ (2006). 2005 m. išleido novelių rinkinį „Šmogus“, kuris Metų knygos akcijos metu buvo išrinktas į metų geriausių prozos knygų penketuką. 2007 m. išleido pirmąją esė knygą „Čiupinėjimo malonumas“. Novelių rinkinys „Šmogus“ tapo nemenku literatūros įvykiu, buvo palankiai įvertintas specialistų ir skaitytojų. Jame žaidžiama itin subtiliais žmonių santykių niuansais, nuotaikomis, fizinio pasaulio detalėmis ir jų įspaudais sąmonėje. Registras plečiasi nuo psichologizmo iki magiškojo realizmo ir siurrealizmo. „Čiupinėjimo malonume“ – novelės žanrui artimų esė rinkinyje – vyrauja subtilus psichologizmas, grakščiais paradoksais žavinti ironija ir intelektuali provokacija: pasakotoja gina tai, kas šiaip jau laikoma silpnybėmis, – tinginystę, neracionalumą, teisę išdidžiai ir išraiškingai klysti. „Apie Saros Poisson poeziją jau iš pat pradžių norisi kalbėti palyginimais: perskaitęs tekstą iki galo, iš tiesų jautiesi kaip išlaukęs ilgą pasų kontrolės eilę pasienyje į (post)idėjinę valstybę – driekiasi žodžių virtinės, sudarydamos klampius, tirštus vaizdų, aštrių kampų, daugiaprasmius sakinius, tačiau tai nereiškia, kad, pagaliau kirtęs užkardą, ką nors suprasi. Ši valstybė sukonstruota sąmonės srauto principu, ir – svetimos sąmonės, taigi gana hermetiška. Jai perskaityti reikia tam tikro kodo“ (Neringa Mikalauskienė).

A daughter was born at 8 p.m. on February 21, 1903. When baptized on June 21, she was officially named Angela Anais Juana Antolina Rose Edelmira Nin y Culmell, but she was always known simply as Anais Nin.