POSTCARD

I am writing a postcard to L.;
I have to catch the train in an hour, and the postcard is red.

While I write, in my mind: a Sunday morning,
September. A room with a red wall.
At the balcony: someone has forgotten a glass of white wine,
half-empty. The rain is falling in it, stirring tiny waves at its crystal edges.
It is the first rain to break the spell of a heavy-footed summer; and there have been
friends and laughter and music the night before. I have turned 20 years old.

L. and I sit next to the window, entranced with that glass. The table behind us is still
full of cake and cutlery, and more glasses.  The city is quiet; we will clean later.
We talk, but I cannot hear the words; time has molded them mute.

It is a foreign country, indeed, the past.
I put her address on the envelope. She’s in Sofia, but the post code is new.

On my way to the station, I will ponder once again
how the double names of streets and neighborhoods in Brussels
allow one to feel as if present at two places at the same time.

L. once drew a painting of a poppy field. Maybe that’s why I am
sending her a red postcard.

(14th December 2018)

"You're doing this again", says G., smiling. "What, what exactly?" "Getting all excited about coincidences". 

It's Thursday, I'm in the middle of packing, Adrian and Gilles are in the garden, and while I storm back and forth on the stairs, stressed over I don't even know what, they stop me and we chat, and they calm me down by, well, being A. and G. (gosh, gonna miss them). 

And while we go through everyday minutiae, jokes, Roland Barthes (I still have to return "Camera Lucida" to G., but then it's more about "A Lover's Discourse"), the possibility to send messages to yourself on facebook (like, yeah), everything, really, at some point I indeed excitedly start to explain how I commenced reading Nabokov's "Mary" this week, on one of the train trips to Brussels. And in it Ganin is counting down the days to a Saturday when he is supposed to move out from his room, and I'm doing exactly the same, counting down the days to a Saturday when I am supposed to move out, noticing everything, following the last traces of what this town has to offer.

So yeah, "You're doing this again", they know me by now, getting all entranced by stories, the possibility of stories, little threads connecting whatever it is happening with whatever has to be (my God, I cannot even explain it properly). 

"Mary" (or "Mashenka", as is the original title in Russian; I like it way better) is not actually about  moving out, of course. It's about nostalgia, most of all, I guess, but I will reflect on this more once I've finished it. The style of Nabokov is a delicious embroidery. Stumbled upon the book last Sunday, when I went to the shop together with Alex; it was raining a bit, he stopped at one of those book exchange boots that randomly pop out on some streets (and that are always, always full of shitty titles actually), picked this one up and was like, "you could find this interesting", although he hasn't read it himself. 

And I love reading it on all these train rides that I have to embark on this particular week; savouring the change that is on its way. 

"Before you slip into unconsciousness

I'd like to have another kiss

Another flashing chance at bliss"

Woke up with this going on around my head (doesn't happen that often to wake up with a song, but it is a wonderful thing nevertheless). 

"The Crystal Ship" starts with one of the most beautiful opening phrases ever. Not even sure why I love it so much; it's probably the simplicity, the way it draws a complete picture of a feeling with only two strokes. That's how I wish to be able to write.  

Sitting on the floor at my parents' living room right now. It will start raining soon; they've left the city for the weekend, I have work to do. My high school books are just nearby and I can imagine bringing back to Belgium Morrison's biography. It was the thing that got me into the Doors all those years ago; and I remember sitting in this very apartment, on this very floor, having to study for a test on Ancient Greece's culture, reading instead about Jim's own enthrallment with Greek mythology.

Whenever I'm home, I always bring back to Belgium with something very random, anyway. In February it was a favourite pillowcase - a blue one, with the sea and a ship. I stole a book with Joseph Brodsky's essays from a friend, as well; not sure when I will return it to him, actually. I remember my flight to Brussels that day was a very early one; I remember the moment we landed at Charleroi I received a text from my flatmate (his nephew had just been born - and because the parents didn't want to know the sex of the baby beforehand, it was revealed it's a boy only upon birth; so I was greated back on Belgian soil with an ecstatic "we got a penis!" message. Kind of loved the hilariousness of it all, and the fact I was to know about a new life being born). I remember  going for a walk later in the afternoon, just before a meeting with a friend, and sitting by myself at the Metfaoor with Brodsky's book; and Doors and the War on the Drugs were again on the speakers there, and it was very cold on the streets, and the coffee was okay, and the new semester was just around the corner. 

A fast little note I've taken at 7:38 pm, 29th July.

"I am sitting on a bench, which is positioned in front of a small piece of brick wall, randomly standing in the middle of a garden. Next to that wall there is a dry tree that has spread its only two branches in a way that evokes to mind deserts and Texas, and 90's action movies. I am reading Zizek's "Event", and I'm waiting for my laundry to be done. What will follow afterwards is preparing my luggage and seeing my mother and brother for dinner, and going for a drink with a friend. Then it will be tomorrow, and Brussels, and the flight to Sofia."

This year I've enjoyed keeping a track of the way nights before a flight home and mornings before a flight back to Belgium look like. The sheer randomness of events, the sudden realization how odd the details of everyday routine could seem if they are to be dissolved in observation; the fullness of time condensed, the always present feeling that everything is slightly off and surreal because I will be crossing borders and because I have slowly started to belong to two worlds that rarely converge, but also -- and this is more important -- I don't think I will ever be able to fully, absolutely belong (to a place) again. 

Льовен: лято

To the three persons with whom I've spent a tad too many hours philosophizing about life this summer. Life will be alright, however ending up in four different countries come September is not very cool. 

То е да надничаме из чуждите прозорци - онези по високите етажи,
отворени към стаи, от които виждаме
само цвета на библиотеките. То е да си представяме какво е
градът да диша тежко някъде далече под нозете ни,
смълчан в присъствието на юли; докато ние се унасяме във сънища,
отвити, голи, защитени от тъгите
на улиците долу. Онези подлички тъги

на ежедневието, преоблечени като големите въпроси,
които така се наслаждаваме да стискаме във шепи.

Ние сме останалите тук през времето, когато
всеки заминава, през времето, когато
слънцето почти ни се присмива, a оси разместват крачките ни
с нагъл полет.

Лятото на нашето отлагане, последен опит
да вземем властта над часовниците. Внезапна
близост, родена с обещание:

някой ден,
облечени красиво, спокойни
в своите кожи на малко уморени
мъже и жени, ще се срещнем отново. Разбира се, най-сетне
безстрашни господари на самите себе си. Нали?

Recent frustration: 

It feels as if I've lost my words both in Bulgarian and in English. No eloquence possible; not a proper way to actually express what I'm doing, what I'm observing or thinking about.

On a recent night walk around town I discovered that near the canal you can smell the fermentation of beer in the Stella Artois factory. We were together with A. and he told me that when he was still a child, the beer clouds would come as far as his primary school; you could smell them all over the city. It's a sour smell, more like the one of a strange food, and it lingers in the air without being exactly unpleasant, but still somehow manages to leave a sense of discomfort. 

Experienced the city during a heatwave. Felt enormously as if I'm in Balchik. I guess because the heat was sticky and was making my hair all too curly, the way it happens when I'm on the seaside. Spent a whole weekend lying on the grass in front of the house, reading, daydreaming and playing badminton. Have a guilty conscious now, because of all the work I am procrastinating on, but oh well. 

It's lovely to observe how the place I live in is revealing itself layer upon layer as the seasons pass. First, a strange and gloomy winter that never really felt like a winter. Then in January some men from the staff came over and cut the branches of the trees in preparation for an upcoming spring; it looked all naked and sharp. Then late March and the two magnolias blossoming, one of them turned out to be really close to my house. And now is the lilacs time, purple and white, I never had an idea we'd have them around. Sometimes I suddenly remember how these cobblestone streets looked like to my eyes the very first days after I moved here; the sudden rains in the afternoons and the September sun, and that coffee I drank on my very first morning, sitting on the little platform outside my door (same morning when I managed to lock myself out, which in itself was the reason to meet S., who turned into one of my closest persons around). 

I'm happy that A. is back in town. What an unlikely, lucky friendship is ours: we met four years ago in this very city and somehow created a bond over a distance of 3000 km and many Skype calls. It's the first time since we've known each other that we can meet up almost every day; go for walks, go for beer, discuss all the minutiae of being not-so-young-now-but-still-confused, aspirations, melancholies, etc.

A couple of nights ago we were sitting in that little secret park near Groot Begijnhof, and there was a group of people on the other side of the tiny lake, faces and bodies obscured by the dark; one of them played LA Woman by the Doors with such gusto as if almost channeling Jim Morrison; and then something in Russian which sounded a lot like a song by Lyube (I was kind of amazed to hear Lyube over here). Felt kind of important to listen to the songs at that very moment, I guess because of my old obsession for linking different times and places through music. You know, that momentary sense of wonder upon the realization that a 16 y.o. me (discovering the Doors during a weird, foggy winter in Sofia, and listening to them late at night in the room I had at my parents' apartment) and a 19 y.o. me (who had just moved out to live on her own and was falling in love properly for the first time with somebody who would send Doors lyrics as goodnight messages: a childish love that was so right for the next couple of years), and a 25 y.o. me (half way through her first year abroad and feeling simultaneously so lost and so grateful) are all and the same; and that the choices of the 16 y.o. and the 19 y.o. have lead to this very moment, this very bench, park, conversation, etc.; and a thread of the same music is going overwhelmingly strong through it all.

62.

Заминаването и връщането се събират на върха на времето.
А времето, поне понякога, бива игла. И границите се оказват
зашити - хастар от всичките години, в които си обичал,
от гарите, където си подслушвал страхове; география, в която
дишат едновременно
безсолното небе над Фландрия и онзи вятър в София през март,
избистрящ зимата до сол.

Чел си някога за дяволи, танцуващи по върховете на игли;
и помниш смътно, че всичко е по-хубаво в мига преди
да бъде сбъднато.

Опитваш се да бъдеш милостив към себе си, което сякаш
значи да разшиеш сам - и нежно - това, което някога си смятал свое

и да наречеш разшиването свобода.

61.

Стъпките ми – секунда и половина ту назад, ту избързали.
Наум все старите припеви: една любима песен е път, а пътят
е лице и лицето е време, и времето – място.

Часовата разлика е тънка колкото линията на хоризонта. Един
октомври се пилее над покривите, търсач на внимание. Тук
камбаните крачат в къси мелодии, а вятърът твърде бързо събаря
цветовете от клоните.

Понякога вкъщи е глас в телефона, но също
шумът на реката,
щом забравя отворен прозореца.

57.

Този град сам реши да се разкаже като дъжд.
Но излъга -
измислица е тропането по капчуците.

Наместо това – едно обикновено хищно чудо,
оголени са бърните, очите слепи.
Челото изпоядено в топенето на снеговете
(надничат зад решетките на черепа
разсечените възли на кварталите).

Заклещена в небето, Пролетта
виси на бял конец от обещания.
Ръцете й са хладни само,
ръцете й минават да погалят,
притварят клепките на снощните ни страхове,
оплитат случването на малките ни влюбвания – ще траят
чак до юли, в пет следобед.

Градът въздъхва,
размърдва си опашката и скача пак във себе си.

(черновата е от 26.01.2016г., снощи си я открих;

а днес е вече 26.03.2017г. и времето се е огънало достатъчно, за да пренапиша)

56.

То е толкова просто - като неделя през май,
като сняг над сковано море, като
полет на чайка по тъмно, като песен на Ленън,
когато целуваш:

високите ни сенки ще попиват праха от площадите,
ръцете ни ще се надвикват със „спуканите вени на дъжда”, очите ни ще
изостават във посоките на триста тишини
и само едно безстрашно обичам те. Ще бъдем акробати, ходещи на пръсти
по покривите на разтрогнати следобеди,
ще спим, обърнали си гръб по котешки,
обувките си ще забравяме във пясъка,
ще плуваме с луните на годините,
в които имената ни са се прескачали.

Точно толкова просто е,
точно толкова тържествено бавно; преброяване
на музи с мръсни пръсти и влакове с заключени в прозорците им
отражения.

Едно пропускане да вдигнеме главите си -
избързваме във утрото, в което сме се нямали.

55.

ДЕЛФТ (Старата църква)

По-студено е, отколкото сред зимата навън, а тъжен майстор
е рисувал отново и отново във съня си
белите колони и слънцето, прекрачващо витражите.

Дъхът се спъва в орнаментите по пода, правя крачка встрани
и още една,
почти танцувам, почти
откривам нова пътека към олтара –
оказва се, че под тук няма,
всички знатни съседи на Вермеер и техните бащи
почиват под обувките ни на далечни гости.
Смъртта е изчегъртан надпис, сив гранит,
сладък мирис на восък, полепващ по устните.

Преглъщам зимата навън и позволявам
да се събудя бяла
в собствените стъпки.

53.

РОТЕРДАМ
(седемдесет и шест години след бомбардировките)

Точнo в пет и половина следобед
небето се захлупва над тези така модерни
сгради – стъкло, бетон, желязо
и ъгли.
И тонът му е лѝлав,
оранжев, тъмносин,
невъзможен за заснемане,
съвсем привично старомоден,
съвсем по ван Ройсдал,
по ван Гойен и може би ван Делен.
Сякаш тук нищо никога
не е било рушено
и никога не са строили пак.

49.

"Никой няма да заспи под това небе. Никой. Никой.

Никой няма да заспи."

(из "Град в безсъница", Федерико Гарсия Лорка)

Между комините една луна,
бяла и лоша, замесена от страховете ни,
мята мрежа върху града. Залюлява прозорците,
сглобява лятото напук на нас,
обира чак от дъното му уличните лампи,
първите трамваи, небето в пет, което просветлява
като за сбогуване.

Под ритъма на други градове,
под ритъма на езиците, които не научихме,
невъзможни в тънките си дрехи, забравили си дишането
между днес и вчера,
тръгваме да търсим изход.

Отваряме очи в средата на лунната пътека
(наместо по море, вървели сме по жълтото
на светофарите). Мрежата е вече натежала,
поглеждаме към себе си отгоре.
Не успяваме да разберем дали ни има,
и луната не успяваме да дръпнем долу.

Посядаме между комините.
Издишаме.