Fascination with Mountains

It has been a long time since I wrote a new post. The delays are due to lower spirit caused by not the best stretch in the health department of mine. It is time for allergies to flair up and that added to my general health maintenance issues.

I wonder why I started my post in the way I did. Do I think my readers need an excuse from me? Has my old friend - guilt (I am working on getting rid of it) kicked in again? Is it that I have not come up with an interesting subject to write about and am asking for understanding? All the above? Looks like it.

Some time ago I concluded that my blog will be a series of essays or as my very European soul prefers to call it - feuilletons. “Feuilleton” seems to me more like literary type of writing while an “essay”  indicates something like a school assignment.

So, the subject of my feuilleton today will be – Fascination with Mountains. 

There are two things that brought the subject of mountains to my attention. One of them is the a series of posts by one of my favourite bloggers Hans the Hiker. He impresses me with his determination to put dreams into plans and then into action. From what I can observe he succeeds big way. His most recent writing relates to his Mont Blanc walk. New posts are still being added but the first ones were enough for me to get into the mood of the hike and want for more. I recommend his  site.

I do not think I am particularly pessimistic thinking that such trips and views are beyond me now. Actually, many years ago when I spent time in Polish Tatra I had some altitude problems and was advised to avoid high mountains in the future. But mountain views are stunning; on Hans’ blog and in my recollection from student days. As I lived in the middle of rather circularly shaped Poland, summer trips were usually planed with change of scenery in mind. That meant either the mountains on the south of Poland or north at the Baltic shore. The two of my closest student friends and I went few times to Polish Tatra staying near Zakopane, the most fashionable place in the Polish mountain region. This was a great time for bonding and building trust one thought will last for life. And this is one of my most  profound disillusions and the saddest experiences of the recent. I know it is time to let it go, so I salute to the old friendship. 

                                 

Back to Zakopane and our holidays. We walked a lot in beautiful valleys with refuges feeding us local specialties. Reading Hans’ blog I came to a conclusion that Polish Tatras are a small brother of Alps but they beat even Italy as far as feeding tourists is concerned. Now and in communistic times, I can remember.

This looks like enough calories to prepare for a long hike

The cheese is very special and you can buy it only in Polish Tatras. 

Being young girls, we laughed a lot (maybe all the time?), we talked a lot and we read a lot as well. Magic times…

This is Giewont. Can you identify a laying man? His head and torso?

The memory of my holidays in the mountains was triggered by watching rather silly old Polish series – In Stilettos on Giewont. Giewont is one of the most recognizable Polish mountain sites; it is often named a Sleeping Soldier. The TV series is really silly and I gave up watching it after a short while but it brought the memories that are very important for me. There is a very special climate around the place, very distinctive culture, even language is different and very melodious, architecture    and way of dressing.  Maybe a lot of that is the show for the tourists those days, but even if it is only a show it is a very good one. Back to Hans’ posts, I can not stop myself to put a little add for Polish Tatra and its resorts. They are wonderful walks there. Not of the magnitude or beauty of Alps, but there is enough beauty to be found on less strenuous walks that for many will be demanding anyhow.

How about that for a view? Valley of Five Lakes.

Or this one? This valley was our favourite walk.

With some luck I will get myself such a scarf to feel warm in Australia and dream of Polish Tatra.

Love patterns

While I tidy up things in my home or cook, I like to listen to the radio. In my case this is often not listening to a radio but to podcasts. For a long time, there were Polish political podcasts, but they became less and less interesting as the time went by. What is happening in Poland now is so tragic that in self-defense I do not listen to it much. The country is being more and more destroyed with each new “good change” introduced by the government. The people are not interested in their future but happy with little perks they get from time to time. Just like lemmings or the proverbial frog that is getting cooked not noticing gradual increase of the water temperature.  The journalists who I liked to listen to in the past irritate me more and more. They must be feeling powerless as they just complain, interrupt the people they interview and repeat themselves. They really don’t have much power to change the situation, but in my opinion, they make it worse. OK, I feel a little better getting my complains out of the system.

So, yesterday as I was washing up, I was listening to a podcast from the Sydney Writers Festival instead. Aciman, one of my favourite writers, was talking about his book Enigma Variation. This time I am not going to write about any book, but about love patterns, books and writing. Seems there is no escape from books for me. And now I know why.

Aciman said that our first crush determines how we will be in love for the rest of our lives. We will desire the same way as it was the first time and there is no escape from it. He says such a life sentence is beautiful but I wonder?

When I heard it, I started to think if this was true for me and I had serious doubts about it. I could not remember anything interesting about boys at school. Then my thoughts went into my preadolescent times and to my surprise, I found my first fascination with another person. Was it a crush? Maybe, but I was too innocent for realizing that at the time. I still would not call it a crush. I was maybe seven or maybe younger when it all started? She was older. And again, I do not remember how old she was but she was old enough to read serious books and she was good at telling the stories to me. I was in owe with her and I wanted very much to be her friend and to be taught by her about life and perhaps about love most of all. We met at a summer holidays I spent at my grandparents. She was a girl from Warsaw and that was very impressive. Tenia, this was her name, stayed during school holidays with the neighbours of my grandparents. She was much older than me but I do not think she was older than fifteen when we first met. She was a keen reader and her choice of books was rather advanced. I particularly remember her telling me the whole story of An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser. I never read the book myself but I still remember the plot as she told me. It was about a couple of young people. The man was weak and manipulative and the girl naïve and trusting. She got pregnant but the young man did not have any plans to marry her. During seemingly romantic rowing escapade the boat turned over, the girl could not swim, the man did not help her so she drowned and the court case followed. What I find amazing is that I still remember the story, the title and the author. Maybe we were older than I recall? I know that I did not understand much of what it meant being pregnant, so I was putting the story together over time as my knowledge gradually increased. I remember that she told me other stories that were love stories with actions I did not understand. We met during a number of summer holidays and I was always wondering if she is going to come the following year. Of course, I was hoping we will meet again and she will be telling me more stories during our long walks among the wheat fields or in the pine woods that were not that far from our respective homes. The wheat fields started just behind the fence of my grandparents' garden. Those were idyllic times and idyllic walks. I never thought about myself as having a crush on Tenia, but perhaps it was just that. When I recollect the times now the sweet feeling of nostalgia overwhelms me.

                              

So, if I use this relationship as the pattern for my future loves they would need to follow the pattern of me looking up to the men I loved and I needing to learn from them. And that is how it always was for me except for my first boyfriend. This is a subject which I would like to explore later. Maybe I will post it or maybe it will become too close and personal.

My conclusion is that in my case Aciman’s claim that our first crush determines how we will be in love for the rest of our lives and how we will desire the first time will determine all our future desires has been  very true.

Celebrating Name Days

                                                        

Most countries celebrate birthdays but there are some that celebrate name days. Looking up at the Wikipedia one could say that there are many that celebrate name days. But my experience does not confirm that. So, for those who have not heard about name days here it goes:

A name day is a tradition in some countries in Europe, Latin America, and Catholic and Eastern Orthodox countries in general. It consists of celebrating a day of the year that is associated with one's given name. The celebration is similar to a birthday.

The custom originated with the Christian calendar of saints: believers named after a saint would celebrate that saint's feast day, or in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, the day of a saint's death. Name days have greater resonance in the Catholic and Orthodox parts of Europe; Protestant churches practice less veneration of saints. In many countries, however, name-day celebrations no longer have connection to explicitly Christian traditions.

My name is Anna and my name day falls in 26^th of July. At least that is how it is in Poland where my roots are. It has been only some days ago that it was my name day. Of course, nobody here in Sydney made any fuss of me on the account of this day, except for some Polish friends. Thank you all of you who still remember the Polish ways and me. However, I received unexpected greetings coming from the Polish friends and one very special Skype call from Poland. The call was from my best girlfriend, I have written in my previous post about, and her grandchildren. The cute four-and-a-half-year-old dressed in a party dress sang the birthday song with the help of the whole family. Her one-year old brother seemed also very happy looking with admiration at his older sister making funny noises. This was indeed special to me. Thank you, little ones and the grownups!

The next day I received a parcel from the same friends with my name day present. It should not surprise anyone that it was a book. This time the book in Polish and by Polish authors Jacek Dehnel and Piotr Tarczynski who publish their crime stories under the name of Maryla Szymiczkowa. I know, this is a very Polish unpronounceable name. The finesse and humor of the story is difficult to explain in English, so I will not try, at least not this time. It is a great present, and the parcel fillers were also gratefully received, especially some soup ingredients to improve my cooking.

The authors of my new book

                                                              

The authors of my present are a couple and I believe that their crime stories, which are very funny, give the authors as much joy and laughs as those of us who read the books. I have known writing of Jacek Dehnel since the beginningof his career as a writer. He published his first book Lala when he was only 26. It was at the time when I went to live in Poland. I visited book shops frequently and Lala caught my attention by its cover, picture of the author and the write up about Jacek Dehnel. Stories about him and interviews were very much up in your face. He is gay and he seemed to be provocatively teasing the Catholic Poland treating his preferences as natural. Naturally they are natural, but he was rather outspoken about it. I love his dress sense and this was also provocative as well as most likely pleasing his aesthetic tastes. I could not find his photos of the time but he went for walks in a black cape with red satin lining, walking stick with silver head and a top hat.  His taste has mellowed with years but he is still an elegant dresser not following any current trends but his own pleasure. Actually, I concentrated on things that are not important but fun nevertheless. It was easy to lose my way as there is so much about this Renaissance man. He is a writer, poet, photographer and there is more to him than that. But he was not to be the subject of my story.

       

It was supposed to be about name days so I finish with a nice image of such days in a Swedish style and maybe write some more about Jacek Dehnel works some other time.

                                    

Girlfriends

My last two posts were the least popular of all my posts. I wonder if the reasons are the subjects or my dilettante Shakespearean reviews. In fact, this is not that important even if, as most of the bloggers, I write with hope for a feedback. I also write for myself especially in those days. I have a number of things to sort out and as my life situation has changed. I am reviewing my values so they are relevant to the current times. I always wanted to live well and I always wanted my life to be meaningful. Even more so now. Hence heavier subjects of my posts and at times confusion in writing that comes with the search for meaning and the lost time.

I also need some escape from obsessive thinking of things that I have to face. The books that re-tell Shakespeare are a good source of material helping me with it. Recently I came across a new great escape tool so I will give Shakespeare a short rest. The new tool is even more fun, less demanding intellectually and gives me food for thought. Perfect!  It does not have to be Shakespeare to make me think of life and its values. The old Polish serial Girlfriends can be also very valuable! It is not that old really, but old enough for the system to let me view it even if I am in a geographical zone that does not have privileges to watch all that one can watch in Poland. The story is set in this century and the girls are 35 when the serial starts. They are older than I was when I left Poland and my Polish girlfriends. Still a lot of the serial story reminds me of the old times, old problems and old friendships.

                                          

There is a saying that I come across.

Friends can cross our path

v  For a reason

v  For a season or

v  Stay for life.

The girlfriends from the serial are friends for life. Such friends are most difficult to find. And keep.

I was lucky and unlucky with respect to my friends for life. At school there were four of us. We walked together home from school, leaving the company one by one to go home as we went along. My home was the second last and it gave me an opportunity to be the part of all sharing between us. The friendships lasted beyond the school times. We all went to big towns to study. I went to Warsaw and two others as well but we did not see each other much except for school holidays when we went back home. But we kept in touch for some time. The girl who I felt the closest to, Ala, became a dentist, married and had two girls, twins. She died suddenly when she was 27. The other one disappeared from the scene in a strange way. I tried to contact her several times but never managed. There were gossips that she had some mental problems. Maybe some kind of an asylum was the place she landed up at and the family did not want anyone to know? The fourth one of us, I hope, is well and happy, but we did not have much in common to start with so the friendship fizzled out naturally. So, I do not have any friends from the school times.

Then there was my Uni and Warsaw time. I met Basia the first day at Uni.  I did not know anyone there and was rather shy those days. I had no idea how to behave and what to do with myself. Then I saw a girl in a neat gray suit. She was pretty and looked friendly. We looked at each other, smiled at each other and became fast friends from the first sight. Then the next girl, Wanda, game along and we were three. It really was the kernel of my friendship group and it looked that it will be one of this friendships for life. In a way it has been, even if perhaps it could not have last in the form my idealistic, perhaps silly soul needed. The matter of memories is something I still struggle with but I like to think that sometimes memories may represent the current reality as well as the past. Isosteric concept, I know, but I like it. Maybe I need it? So many people have left my life one way or another and I miss them. Memories are the best I can have. Wow, this is getting much too heavy, but the matter of friendship, its demands and needs has been a lot on my mind lately. The serial has something do with it. But not only.

The three of us, even if we all got our masters of mathematics diplomas, organized our lives very differently. I was searching for love and meaning and that meant frequent changes, disappointments, exciting career and many moments of happiness followed by the opposite.   I am now settled to life of an independent, single woman after three happy (at least for some time) marriages. My girlfriends are still happy, or not, with the husbands they chose in the young years. In a way I envy them or rather I am happy that they have supporting companions of many years in their lives. We made different choices. But this is a subject for another reminiscing writing.

I am very grateful for experiencing those long friendships that were based on trust, mutual affection and loads of good memories. One of those old friends is still my life line and I feel very privileged and lucky that she is in my life. Watching the serial, I have realized that at times old girlfriends play a role of mothers in their unselfish way to assists in challenges that come across. I still have one such friend and that makes me feel lucky.

It is all about questions

                                    

Reading the books from the Hogarth Project of re-telling Shakespeare I was wondering what makes the books successful as the new versions of Shakespearian plays and stories that they tell us. I had some ideas, maybe not that bad but suddenly it hit me what it actually is that is most important to me. In many forms of art and in-depth conversations with likeminded people I consider the biggest value for myself to discover questions to which I feel compelled to find new answers, my answers. Writing seems to be the most obvious and natural form of art to ask questions in the process of telling a story. Not necessarily give readers answers but pose questions that readers consider relevant to their own lives. Maybe they can get some ideas while reading what the answer for their own lives could be, maybe not. Maybe in pondering on our personal answers we do searching that is important to us as individuals. Maybe we experience epiphanies, maybe not but this type of thinking usually makes us understand ourselves or others a little better. Sometimes I joke that thinking hurts and at times it is not that funny. Discovering some truths may be painful.

Looking from the perspective of questions the recently read books made me think about, I came to a conclusion that Macbeth did not ignite in me any interesting questions I needed to find answers to. This may not be the fault of the book, it may be just that I have not found anything particularly interesting or applicable to myself at this point of time.

Shylock Is My Name prompted me to think about intolerance leading to unjustifiable hatred. The two major questions, I still do not have answers to, are: Why do I respond so emotionally to injustice done to Jews over the ages? Why Jews cause hatred the way other nations/people do not? Is it their “fault” so to speak? They are the questions I will be coming back to for a while.

                                              

I just finished the fourth Shakespearean book – The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterson and the question of the book (at least for me) is about the past. Faulkner said: The past isn’t dead. It's not even past. My question is how is it about past? Why do I dwell at times on things that are past and I am concern with people who are not in my life for quite some time or are not even with us? Maybe just because of that they are not past to me?

New Boy - Otello

I have been reading the Shakespeare re-telling books one after one, without any other books in between. They are all interesting and written in a different style and set in  different times. As I start a new book I am curious how this particular author will treat his famous master and follow with the own story. This is like musical variations, the stories come up from time to time to a point to remind the reader of the original and then follow its own rhythm changing the melodies depending on imagination of the new person that now tells the story.

                                                         

I realized that if I am to write about what I have read I should do it before the next book takes over my thinking. When I was writing about Macbeth I was already reading New Boy, retelling of Otello, and I was too involved in the new book so Macbeth was already a pale past to me. Now, I am in a similar situation. New Boy impressions have faded a bit as I am half way through The Gap of Time – The Winter’s Tale. So, I will need to make an effort to recall my earlier impressions.

I liked New Boy and think that the subjects related to being different and because of that ostracized are very much of interests today. The new Otello story is set, again in the 70ties, similarly to Macbeth. It takes place in a school in one of the affluent Washington D.C. suburbs where a black boy, a son of a diplomate from Ghana joins the school. He is the first black student in the school causing consternation among children and even more so amongst teachers. He is different and this is why he needs to be suspected of unexpected and treated as worth less and knowing less than other children. He is our 11-year-old Otello. A clever boy who already has experience in being a new boy as his father’s post change quite often. He is coping quite well especially that Dee, our young Desdemona, likes him for being different and by that interesting to her. She represents another possible reaction to those who are different. And then the school bully, Ian-Iago, comes into action and his intrigue that takes over the mind of Oise.

The story of the original Otello takes only few days and the story in New Boy follows the pattern taking a very short span of time, one school day only. When the mind of Oise is poisoned with jealousy and unreasonable ideas and pictures come to his mind one starts to wonder how it is possible that he in spite of earlier evidence of Dee being a “nice girl” can turn against her in such a crude and rude manner. Is this realistic? Exaggerated? Untrue psychologically? It seems so and yet I was able to observe another unreasonable Otello who maintained that a child was not his in spite of all evidence and looks to the contrary. There was no killing in this story but there was violence, a lot of pain and the relationship was ruined for the rest of its formal duration. Since I saw such a story happening in a “normal” life, I accept the New Boy story as totally plausible and by that its re-telling of value in helping to understand human nature, imperfect and bizarre as it sometimes is.

The drama of the new Otello is gripping even if the reader most likely knows it and there are no surprises even if I caught myself on hoping for a sort of a happy end.

This is my second book by Tracey Chevalier. I have read Girl with a Pearl Earring and it made an impression on me when I read it. Vermeer is one of my favourite painters, it has been since the first time I saw The Milkmaid in the Rijksmuseum.  Seeing another of my favourite paintings on a cover of a book, I bought the book and liked it a lot. I still remember the scene of piercing the Vermeer’s model’s ear and the pain she took without flinching. The scenes in the fish market of Delft also made a lasting impression on me. I almost could smell the fishy smells and feel dampness of the fish market air on my face. Gee, I am getting poetic here, but they were my authentic and lasting impressions for which I salute the author.  

I would rate New Boy highly, 8 out of 10, for its relevance to the current times, well told story, interesting setting and possibly opening the subject of prejudice and its consequences to young generations.