Meeting room
Who am I when you come into the room with your eyes from the tops of mountains inaccessible to me? I am a little girl ready to jump on your backpack, laugh, argue and believe in your invincibility, making me invincible. And when we galloped around a non-tourist island and a million secret streets, I was a teenage boy sincerely hiding everything that could hint at the fact that when you walk into the room, what I really want. I had to wave my hand to you once.
Who am I when you walk into the room with your reader’s eyes? I’m a model from the pages of pre-war Vogue, I’m better than Kate Moss, we just had tea with Yohji Yamamoto, I know the fabrics of every next collection, I’ll get to every private party, I see every outfit and want to buy it for you. When we walk across the winter bridge, I am the most beautiful on the empty street, my hair is backlit, I know all the successful poses, comfortable poses, forbidden poses. One day you will be so covered in flashes that I will never find you again.
Who am I when you walk into a room with your hair as sharp, caustic as brushes for soldiers’ boots and glasses as fellow travelers? I am the muse of all musicians, Marvin Gaye wrote his lines about me, in “high fidelity” all the playlists about love were inspired by me, I am a heavy smoker and you roll me cherry tobacco one after another. I sing with the voices of birds when you stand on this balcony, one day you went to get a treasure chest, I’m sure you got it.
Who am I when you walk into a room, cutting through the air with the features of your face and the light of your eyes, in which every ray directed towards planet earth plays in the open, it seems to me that you are always crying inside? I am the strongest woman, I know how to solve any problem, I am a rude artist, I am a caustic pessimist, I will hit the villain, I will build factories, I am incredibly professional in matters of seduction and scheduling seduction, I can re-educate anyone and dance for days when I see you crying inside. I’m unbearable. One day you will decide to commit the most terrible attack - an attack on freedom of thought.
Who am I when I left the room?
23/24
I don't have a single theory about what's happening to the world right now. I have no idea how to react, how to deal, what to feel... Is there anything that could possibly be right? (War is not War is not War is not War is not over). The only thing I know for sure is that nobody has the right to steal our dreams. The inability to make a global impact is a reminder of how much and how little one person is. We should not be comfortable, war is not over. But the shame instilled by criminal methods is important to exchange for hope, that would be Foot forward. The brazen attack, the dirty aggression of russia has no right to take away our hopes and dreams. The dreams of building bridges and opening doors. Every day Foot forward. Making cinema, trying to make cinema is an opportunity not about the cinema as a fact, but simply about what happens in a space when a group of people start climbing Mount Analogue. A group of people with their thoughts build a world, a language and create opportunities for things to happen that were not suspected to be possible. Making a little film of your own is about a new door. Door number three. I want to share the love that my soul has been filled with because of the happiness of this opportunity, the happiness of moving in a bundle for the first time "climbing my first mountain". In the process of this trek we collected in our pockets many stories that were not comprehensible before, those experiences of lives that opened the heart in a new way through pain, love, gratitude. It was so important to walk when each individual choice seemed like a whim so important to walk each other's path. I want to say thank you to those with whom I dreamed of elephants and met green sofas, to those with whom we created rain from water bottles, to those with whom I went to Heathrow to pick up secret weapons, to those with whom we spent hours reading on the phone, to those with whom we read tarot cards and maintained the effect of walks in Rusanivka, to those who reminded us to Foot forward and more Foot forward without looking back. To know that you know nothing, you are never the best, but you exist is already the luxury of having the choice of choice. The war is not over, on the day I am writing this text it is already day 668, and if you count how many days have passed since it was possible to enter Donetsk without any stops... And that means that we have to continue, to fight for our dreams, to be proud of our dreams. Take responsibility, love responsibility and Foot forward.
I still have my morning coffee bitter/sweet/sweet/weak/from the cafe/from the car/sumptuously blended and gently served in bed. Still I am surrounded by smiles - beaming, bitter, salty sometimes from tears and sometimes from marmite, sweet, dry from fatigue. Here I just want to say thank you that where there is no sense there is Foot forward and faith that even the smallest action directed and concentrated on a light feeling can for a moment light up the dark forest. Who knows who needed that light so badly at that moment and which turn will turn out to be the most important one for a passerby, someone from the bunch of climbers of Mount Analogue or yourself. The pain is strong, but the eyes of friends are stronger.
(much love to'Foot forward' by James Blake and 'Cloud Atlas' by the Wachowskis and Tom Tykwer)
orange juice
it was summer, I protected myself from the brutal August sun with a bright purple shirt covered with many eggplant designs. Mariinsky Park itched like the surface of hot asphalt. Light department, actors, make-up artists hunted for fruit ice in unreasonable pauses. Earlier today, ice cream shelves were depleted within a two-kilometer radius. Strawberry and orange were in particular demand, rare perverts chose lemon, but even its trail has long since cooled. Hiding in the shadows of an unnecessary cherry picker, on which a flag was placed, so he compensated the rental price with a proud mission, I waited for a hissing signal from the walkie-talkie, my phone hissed. The fact that the phone spoke was a gift, because earlier it refused to work due to the unfit for its existence heat and the effects of sunstroke. He informed me about the upcoming meeting. The most anticipated meeting. These meetings were quite a regular event. We saw each other more regularly than with the concierge on Lvivska Street. But in a strange way, each notification meant that more hours of life would remain in the memory - clearly, vividly, outlined. The program was unique - go straight, go right, go left, go to the light. It was acceptable to speak. Or not. Argue. Or not. Only doubt wasn't allowed. Dreaming was an unshakable law. And every step is significant. I was awakened from my thoughts by the gentlest insolence. Gaffer threw premium orange ice at me. It was a chance to survive until the evening. I reached Pit stop cafe. At the table, while I was waiting for the narrator, I watched the reflection of my purple shirt in the window. Thank you for coming. The shirt hid behind the back of the person sitting opposite. It could be noticed only in moments of discussion, when it was necessary to dodge in arguments and gestures. They brought orange juice. They brought orange juice. They brought orange juice.
Now when I am falling asleep I see you drinking orange juice.
Yesterday I got lost between Rodo and Gamazo. Jumping into an orange boutique, I went to smell orange perfume, drink orange wine and try orange marmalade. One smell was different from the others.
"You know the smell of orange blossom", "and when can you catch it in reality?", "at the end of April, all of Seville is filled with this aroma everywhere you turn."
There is a place and a time in this world when the whole city becomes the sweetest personal vision. Each turn is a sip from the glass that the narrator ordered during the next most unique evening in ours life.
When I fall asleep I see you drinking orange juice.
learn to
The drive to learn to climb was shaped by the desire to find my bundle of fellow carabiners and chains, as well as by the need for delightful collective solitude. Every snapped muscle, injured ligament, look down or up signalled the message of today. I have never experienced a more attentive observation of my own body and rhythm and, at the same moment, my partner's body and rhythm. Looking up each time revealed itself as a new horizon, looking down each time was a reflection of a new depth. On my shoulders I felt the weight of a bird that whispered incomprehensible texts. Each time I put on my equipment, the bird would sit again at my right ear, sometimes on my forehead and whisper. One day, at the entrance to the training base, a stone fell from somewhere above. The stone crashed into the big toe of my left foot. The sensation of this discomfort opened the gates of knowledge from the past, something lifted from the depths of the earth, fell as if from the sky. I need to look down and see the heights, I need to descend into the depths and go to the rivers on which cities and lands stand. No longer did the bird press on my cecum, I heard the sound of its wings everywhere, but I never felt the same pressure of its claws in my body. And for the first time I heard the voices of the animals that accompanied my sportsmen and seekers.