My travel to Kraka

Since yesterday I read in the bus. That is, I am no longer always on the hat. Like a wounded animal. Since today steige I over. Unbekümmert. Of the bus into the streetcar. Or take at the stop „Sielanka” [(village) the idyll] to the empty 134 (it brought the first cart-load of children into the zoo-logical garden and gets now new passengers from the city). Courageously. Instead of waiting on the overcrowded 192 from the airport to. Yesterday the gardner with its was noisy to the heavy backpack installed hose erbärmlich. The dear long day. Pustete it approximately around the mansion all flower patches, rose discounts, sidewalks, drives, parking lots and lawns freely of the ballast, which the tired beeches had thrown off over the weekend. And there the last nights, was not he drizzled any longer so simply from the hand. Humidity. Rot. Wetness. Heavy one. It dragged actually that terribly roar-ends engine on the back around. From morning till night. I wanted to make sure. And crept it after. He did not notice me. He did not hear anything. Neither honking cars nor TAP-send bears. On its ears Schoner lay. Thickness. Gold-yellow, like enormous sunflowers. To both sides of the head. Today is it dead quiet. I sit with Nazar, the poet by molder from Lemberg, in the kitchen. He drinks coffee. I herb dte. „The gardner has today probably freely”, legend I. In order to say something. „No”, Nazar contradicts. Decided. „He works. I observe it from my room. It blew all putrid sheets on a large heap. Now it draws it up on a kilometer-long nylon cord. It stretches those by all trees in the park. Hangs sheets up like we dripping laundry. To the sun. To drying. “ Yesterday afternoon in the cinema of acre „Lawa”. With approximately five other lost souls. The film exerted me very much. Also the full moon. And my days. That succeeded to me again once marvelously. First headache in Krakau. Lawa is the last film, which Konwicki made. Direction led. Film script written. Gustaw Holoubek plays the old Visionär and poet (the same, which is momentarily on the Krakauer market place so lonely), which return to Lithuania. As young the actor in this role looks. Today I think all day long about it, why the last film of Konwicki (Lawa) so completely differently actual completely different kind of artistic summary as it were - than the last book of Konwicki (Pamflet well siebie - lampoon over me). And why do I think about it? There is nothing to absolutely compare here. What has to mean?

Mr. Krakowski called, when I stood in the EMPiK*, in the ground floor, in the department foreign Presserzeugnisse, beside the cash. „You ride along after Niedzica?” he asked. Typically Mr. Krakowski! Friday, half five in the afternoon, more closely drizzles over the city, and I is arranged with humans, whom I did not see ever in the life. I know only its name: Ernst. Mr. Ernst is obviously late. But that is normal in this country. Even under foreigners. We akklimatisieren ourselves fast. I am arranged with Mr. Ernst. Out of consideration for the weather in the ground floor of EMPiK and not before the Marienkirche. In the department of foreign Presserzeugnisse. Where always a terrible crowding prevails. Beside the cash. Where the people line up closely one behind the other. I feel here not well. I do not like vintages. Neither the mirror, nor the star. There is a so-called golden rule (my own experiences they have set up): if you wait at the station for a well-known or unknown person, then never sets you on a bank! In the quantity one will find nor will recognize you neither. Control rooms is no passive activity. Separates an active. Sitting humans do not look like it, as if he would expect something or someone. Sitting humans mostly do not know, what with itself and the time won in addition begin. At the station. While it waits for the course, which arrives one and a half hours late. For example. We transfer the sample of waiting of the station for the department of foreign products of press in the Krakauer EMPiK: do not sink in a text! Behind the Zeitungsseiten you become invisible. Unbemerkbar. Hear to exist immediately on. At the station waiting succeeds decided better. Because it belongs there. In the EMPiK however, in the Friday afternoon, while it drizzles outside, works waiting - and in addition still for Mr. Ernst - in various regard suspiciously. Not only that I push continuously someone anremple, affect, continuously to someone the grasp to the newspaper or to the purse block. Separate the security agency. Observes me with sharp views. Registered exactly each of my movements. Everyone of my uncertain steps. And it sees that I read nor buy neither. Only look. Observe. Approximately around. That is finally its task, not my! My mobile telephone announces itself. The man of the service monitors, without effort. Each word.

It begins in the afternoon to rain. Easy drizzling. Covered then the whole night. In the evening in the cinema of acre, in the Reduta hall. This is the only cinema hall in Poland (or in the whole world?), in which neither may be eaten nor drunk. „Look you the film in peace on” - in such a way the cinema with this recruits a hall. That means: without Popcornkauen, without Bierrülpser, without bottle rattling/clinking. In such peace the meeting under the title ran „my Konwicki: Inspiration and interpretation.” First-class interlocutors. Cast in themselves mutually clear water from a Karaffe. They may. Because they must talk. In the microphone. Wajda. Lubelski. Trzaskalski. And the director. The cinema? Rather the institute for book, the this, as well as other meeting organize. Not there Konwicki is. „For health reasons”, explained the man, whom the Chairman with „Mr. director” addresses. Perhaps that is correct even. Yesterday I spoke with my master. It seemed completely healthy, for its age. But everyone knows that it is superstitious. And on three tenth never in the life into a course rises. „My Konwicki” - that is my invention. That is the title of my book. As „Zwierzoczłekoupiór” (the inventor dog) the invention Konwickis is. And the title of its novel is simultaneous. And so on. Everyone of us possesses something. And it contributes. To the popular-scientific mental property. The discussion runs expressed friendly, as far as mean it masters concerns. Wajda gets straight equal to beginning that Konwicki can be replaced by nothing. Through no deputy. With no anecdote. Not one joke. No still so long enumerating all its earnings/services. Not there it is, and that is unfortunate! Because it is missing to us here. Then it, later, confesses spontaneously, in the course of the discussion, that all would have always been afraid of it. And still are afraid. It adds after short silence. And I feel sudden under my-same. During the the break succeed in it I, Mr. Wajdas hand press. And it to thank for the sensitive words. And me to present as an authoress of the book, which I the whole time in the hand hold. „My Konwicki”. „My Konwicki?” it is surprised. „I do not know this book at all.” Perhaps that is correct even. I know that the edition is out of print. And this is my personal copy, which I cannot even give you. Unfortunately. Then the interlocutors in the darkness disappear. And over the canvas „the last summer day runs “, black-and-white, asketisch, 1958 at the Baltic Sea turned. The Hauptdarstellerin, I met Irena Laskowska, coincidentally in May in Warsaw. Owing to the invitation of Krystyna H. to a exzellenten Brunch in the hotel Polonia. She was ashamed much, when I told it that I know her from the “last summer day “. With both hands it covered its face. The city is completely wet. My last bus drives off at working-days around 22:40 clock of the Matejko place.