Niezakończone rozmowy z Tobą – Our Talks non-ending

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

the text is both:in English and Polish. But it is not a translation – both texts are different and independent of each other part of one story. It is often that I write my ‘talks with John’ in either of languages: Enlish or Polish. Sometime in one story, as it is this case. And I don’t want to translate either parts. It just has to be as it is.

Pojechałem dziś do ciebie. Nie wiem nawet, nie pamiętam czy pierwszy raz w tym roku? Kartki z kalendarza pogubiłem już dawno. Nie wiem nawet gdzie, czy na plaży jakiejś, do których uciekałem cały rok szukając cię? Może w tym forcie w Lower East Chezzetcook, forcie który z uporem budowałem odgradzając go kamieniami od fal i odgrodzonym małą zatoką z silnymi prądami wody od głównej plaży. Nikt tam prawie nie docierał nigdy, bo przypływ nagły mógł powrót uczynić bardzo karkołomnym. Więc była to jakby moja pustelnia, moje królestwo, gdzie spędzałem godziny. Czasem mogłem wrócić idąc, czasem musiałem wracać płynąc, jedną ręką trzymając w górze plecak z kamerą i zeszytem w którym spisywałem nasze rozmowy.

Straciłem dom, straciłem przystań, zgubiłem kotwicę. Moja łódź błąka się rzucana w różne strony świata falami dwóch oceanów: Wielkiego, zwanego ironicznie ‘Spokojnym’ i zimnego Północnego Atlantyku. Szukam wyspy, którą mógłbym nazwać ‘Nasza’. Nasza Wyspa nie jest wielka, raczej mała. Jak ta z przygód Robinsona Cruzoe i Piętaszka ma tylko dwóch mieszkańców. Wieczorami spotykam cię siedzącego na skałach ze wzrokiem zanurzonym w głębinach oceanu. Podchodzę i kładę rękę na twoim ramieniu. Odwracasz powoli swoją twarz ku mojej. Masz w oczach i na ustach spokojny, słodki uśmiech zadowolenia. Podaje ci rękę i pomagam zejść z kamieni. Kładziemy się na ciepłym piasku dzikiej plaży i patrzymy w niebo. Leżymy tak długo, aż nadejdzie noc i niebo zapala nad nami lampy gwiazd. Wskazujesz palcem najjaśniejszą i pytasz: Widzisz? To nasz gwiazda. Nazywa się Miłość. I zawsze będzie nam świecić, do końca wszystkich dni, do czasu gdy wyparujemy atomami kosmicznego pyłu i popędzimy obracać się po jej orbicie. Czy to nie piękne?

Biorę w swoją dłoń twoją i całuję ją długo. Odpowiadam: tak, to jest piękne. I odpływam w sen czekając na ten moment. Moment odlotu z Naszej Wyspy do Naszej Gwiazdy. Do domu.

Comes the day next. It is almost as if it was yesterday, yesteryear, forever. Our stars, our Cosmos came home to the dancing light of the sun in the waters of our ocean, right at the doorway of our home. And I walk to My Rocks on the shores and see them: the light of the dark sky of night, and the stars diving to the bottom of the sea with the dawn of day.

Seating on Our Rocks, on the edge of the water, I can see them sending shots of light from the dark bottom to the surface. They are there, singing our song with the sirens. They are tending to the Gardens of Coral, of swarms of dancing little fish, of translucent figurines of ancient sea creatures: the squids, the funny shrimps, and seahorses. All following the long pathway of Eurydice and Orpheus.

Our star, our island is there, too. The sky and the ocean are the same: the stardust of nebulas.

And suddenly I know it all. I’m certain that if I get up from My Rocks now and go home – you will be there as always: sitting on the sofa. You will look at me opening the door and you will say: finally you are back from your silly stars and ocean’s bottom. Sit here, next to me, and I will make us a cup of good coffee. We will watch that movie you wanted us to see.

I’m sure that’s what will happen when I go back home. I’m certain of it but also frozen in fear that I might be wrong. That you might not be there. But I will. I will go, open the door, sit on the sofa, and wait for the cup of good coffee. No one makes such a perfect cup of coffee, as you do.

Ze spaceru w przedwiośniu

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Dni temu kilka wstecz na Moje Kamienie poszedłem w porze przedwieczornej. Już się niosło ku wiośnie, już w powietrzu, mimo chłodu, dał się jej smak wyczuć. Krzewiny jeszcze nagie, jeszcze bezlistne a już się na święto Primavery szykowały. Deszczyk drobny mżył, a gałązki chwytały je warkoczami i obwiązywały się tymi tymi kropelkami niczym sznurami brylancików, perłami srebrnymi. I tak, w tych perlistych gałęziach, wiersz się był napisał. O młodości i chęciach. Taka primaverka niechcąca … a chcąca pomimo.

Walk with my Eurydice

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Every day starts with waking, and getting up from bed. Doesn’t matter if it is noon or 5 in the morning. Time is a very subjective thing. On days I don’t have to go to work (most of the time, since I officially stopped working for any company more than six years ago) and don’t have any appointments – I don’t look at watches or clocks. I do things when it is time to do these things, without assigning any number to that time.

Besides, time has stopped for me in November 2022. On the first night (was it night?) I fell asleep after You were gone. I wish I had not woken up. Waking up after that very first sleep is a daily routine of terror. The few seconds before you are certain that it is reality, that you are awake. When I am forced again to know that You are gone. Not to the kitchen to make us a fresh morning coffee, which you did every morning religiously for more than three decades. No – You are GONE. I have to go through that terror every single day while getting up. For 467 days, as of today.

Sometimes, just before I finally drift off to sleep, I wish, I pray, that it is the last time. That I don’t have to wake up again.

When I sleep I often meet You and talk to You. I think, sometimes I make love to You. That we are watching TV or go for a drive in the countryside.

You are my Eurydice, for whom I went to Hades to plead, to argue with the God of the Underworld, that he made a mistake. I beg him, I threaten him. I offer him love and hatred, devotion and disdain. To no avail – he is unmoved. In my dream, I write a poem to You in Italian. When I get up from my sleep I remember that poem and copy it, surprised that I retained more of my old Italian than I thought.

Dove sei, Euridice?

Dove sei, Amore mio?

Mostrati e parlami d’amore.

Ricordare! Non fermata

e non guardare indietro.

Ricorda, mio caro …

ricorda, ricor… , ri…

e piango, perché so

che ti volterai.

Ogni volta.

Today I stopped in a little park De Volf in Bedford. We used to go there many times and both liked it. It is a small park but there is something sweet and romantic about it. It offers a nice view of Halifax, our bridges, and Dartmouth. Next to it is a big building of the company that you worked for – The Berkeley. You didn’t even have that much time to work for them, yet You did leave a special mark on the senior residents of that building and all the staff. Your innate goodness emanated from you as everywhere you worked before. I will never forget and still am moved to tears how they organized a special memory meeting for the residents and staff in their main hall. It was full of people. Wonderful people, who came to share their memories, and their sorrow and offer their support to me and Your siblings, who came for Your final journey.

It was a cold but amazingly sunny day. I really enjoyed the walk and reminiscing about our strolls there. For a short while You – my Eurydice – walked with me. You didn’t turn back, didn’t look back. You walked with me. Maybe I even felt Your hand in my hand.

I know that the terror of getting up will come back tomorrow. Then again, and again for the rest of my days. But the walk today was good. Thank You, Babcycake. Gracie, mia Euridice.

Fisherman’s Cove, the Sea and Sky

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

What do you do, when you can’t sleep? You go outside for a walk, in the snow and wind. At ten, then at midnight, then get a short snooze and go again at 4. It is not dark anyway, for the snow makes it all one milky, eerie light. Take another snooze and — it is morning the next day, LOL. Somehow you have a strong pain in your right temples and pain in your right ear. Stroke? You speak loudly and the words appear to be coherent and proper, go to the mirror and your eyelid and mouth don’t seem to be drooping, LOL. Then it must be just an ear infection. Dosn’t matter. What is the best for a cold? A cold excursion to the countryside! Camera in hand, a quick coffee, and off we go. Was able to catch even the Moon in full sunshine!

Zimowy Syriusz i Wielka Niedźwiedzica

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

Czemu wołasz mnie Syriuszu, lampo nocnego nieboskłonu? Czemu żądasz: pisz o mnie Pieśń Pochwalną?

Ja już pisać nie potrafię, a ty nie masz prawa wymagać ode mnie peanów na cześć twej świetności i świetlności pozaziemskiej. Lubię cię oglądać na zimowym nieboskłonie, gdy mija cię Księżyc popędzany batem rydwanu Wielkiej Niedźwiedzicy. Ale nie, nie jestem twoim oblubieńcem ani ty moim. Lubić spoglądać a kochać – to nie to samo miły, choć nieco zadufany w sobie Syriuszu. Ale, aby przyjemność ci zrobić, pomyślałem, że jeśli nie pean, to chociaż fotograficzny portret ci wymaluję nocą.

Ubrałem się koło północy w ciepłą kurtkę, buty z cholewami na głęboki śnieg i zszedłem nad wodę. Woda, sama zazdrosna, zgotowała pokaz bardziej kolorowy, świetlisty niż nieba ponad nią. Odbijała światła portów, mostów, latarń. Tak, jakby jakiś francuski impresjonista sam ją malował. Powiedzmy Bal w Le Moulin de la Galette pana Renoir’a. Lub coś w tym rodzaju. Ale to wodne odbicia, naturalne i lokalno-ziemskie. Jasno było, bo te światła i od wody i śnieg wokół bialutki. Już trójnóg kamery ustawiałem i spojrzałem w niebo. A tu ic. Zaciągnęło grubą kotarę nisko nad horyzontem. Śladu nieba i gwiazd jakiegokolwiek.

Więc zadrwiłeś sobie ze mnie drogi Syriuszu. Niech ci będzie. Nie będę się dąsał. Ale pieśni ci nie napiszę i tak, ani peanu z wersetami, ustrojonymi niczym falbanki halek moich babek i prababek. Nie dąsaj się i ty, nie do twarzy ci z grymasami. A twarz masz piękną, świetlistą. I będziesz wiecznie, nie jak ja. Ponoć masz jeszcze ponad 190 tysięcy lat. Nie, nawet nie ziemskich ale kosmicznych, a kosmiczne lata są tysiące dłuższe niż nasze. Nie będzie już Wenus, którą o świcie czasem podglądam. Pewnie i Ziemi też. Po mnie już śladu najmniejszego, nawet mikroskopijnej cząstki promieniowania węgla lub wodoru, które są moim budulcem zasadniczym.

Rozpływam się zresztą już teraz w czasie ziemskim, praktycznym. Jest mnie mniej każdego dnia. Więc kurczy się też moje pisanie. Wszak nie wypada stale pisać o przeszłości. A przyszłość przede mną nikła zaiste. Nawet ziemskim czasem odmierzana. Uśmiecham się jeszcze do gwiazd i gwiazdeczek ale już skromnie i bez głodu. Nie będę pił w kryształowym pucharze ambrozji gwiazd zmieszanych z winem leżakowanym latami doświadczenia. Nic nie mam do zaoferowania: ani sonetu, ani sonaty. Epos? Jeśli, to nie epiczny i bardzo prozaiczny.

ODBICIE
Patrzę w lustro
dotykam dłonią
zimnej płaszczyzny
która odbija moją twarz
jej rysy rozpływają się
w falującej wodzie szkła
z każdym dniem
jest mnie mniej
staje się niewyraźny
nie podobny do siebie

Nadejdzie moment
gdy nie poznam tej twarzy
patrzącej na mnie z lustra
nie będę wiedział
która z nich będzie mną
ta odbita w lustrze
czy ta patrzące w nie

(16 luty, 2024, B. P-G)

The Woods – how You led me out of them

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

There are bad days. They come. I didn’t know that my emotional construction was still so fragile. Someone said something or wrote something to me, possibly in good intention – and everything fell down as a house of old rocks tumbling down in a cloud of dust. Cloud of dust and insecurities, despair. Everything I tried so hard to put together on my ocean beaches last summer – was taken away by a wave that came and washed it to the bottom of that ocean.

One of the very first lines I wrote after You were gone, after I tried to find traces of You, of us, on some trail we used to walk together – and I couldn’t find You anymore – felt like that exactly: insecurity, lost. Maybe even angry – why am I here if you are not?

I have simply called these short lines: ‘Woods’. The woods I ventured in and got lost. Couldn’t find my way back. Last night and today it felt like that – to be back in these woods.

The Woods

I’m in the woods, surrounded by trees. The sun filters through the leaves, creating a dance of light and shadow. The breeze caresses the branches, making them sway gently. The air is fresh and warm, but not too hot. It’s a perfect day for a walk.

But I’m not here to enjoy the scenery. I’m here to find you. You ran away from me, and I don’t know why. You didn’t say a word, just took off into the forest. I followed you as fast as I could, but you were always ahead of me. I called your name, but you didn’t answer. You didn’t even look back.

The terrain is rough and uneven. The ground is covered with dead wood, roots, and rocks. I’m not as agile as I used to be. I’m not a young buck anymore, confident in my strength and speed. I stumble and fall, scraping my hands and knees. I get up and keep going, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

But you are nowhere to be seen. You are hiding from me, or you have already gone too far. You are out of my sight and out of my reach. I don’t know where you are, or if you are safe. I don’t know what you are thinking, or what you are feeling. I don’t know if you still love me, or if you ever did.

Maybe it wasn’t even an actual walk in the woods? Can’t remember anymore. Maybe it was a written record of one of my many nightmares, being half awake and half-asleep? Don’t know – there are days from these early times that are gone from my memory altogether, weeks like that. I know that they were, that I was there, too. Remember every detail, every second of You collapsing in my arms, the ambulances rushing to our home, every day and night in the hospital – and not much more after that. Just pieces of existence like a broken string of pearls rolling on the floor.

That’s that dark place I crumbled to last night and this morning. And You were not lost and gone, not hiding from me. You were right here and You guided me to a memory. The memory of a trip we took in 2016 to Alberta, our last trip to Alberta (apart from the huge trip across the continent to the shores of the Atlantic). We took a different route, a longer one, the one leading up North toward Valemount and through Highway 16 toward Jasper. But first, before reaching Jasper, one has to drive with the view of the massive, majestic Mount Robson. The highest mountain in the Canadian Rockies. Many, many years earlier I did a little climbing on this giant. Never reached the top, nor did I attempt to. Just wanted to do a bit of climbing on it and remember reaching some shelf-ledge on its steep wall, sitting on that ledge, and be amazed by the panoramic view in front. In 2016 we reversed the roles, we were the ones at the bottom in some valley, and the huge giant was looking at us from high above. It was amazing, the day was sunny, and practically there was no traffic. Remember embracing John and we both just admired the view. It felt good. We both liked going back on many visits to Alberta, especially John. After all, it was his home, where he grew up, where he went to school, his adolescence … and us at the end. We met there, and fell in love. That memory of that trip lifted me from that awful pit I fell into again.

After Sturm und Drung – Sunny Days will follow

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

In the late XVIII century, following the French Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s turn to feelings and emotions – the Germans introduced us to Sturm und Drang. Of course, only the Germans and German language can come up with such a militaristic-sounding term for literature and paintings reflecting deep emotions, love, romance, and tragedy, LOL. That is exactly how I felt on the North Atlantic shore for the past few days – a non-ending storm with heavy snow and a constantly overcast sky. Not even a wink from the Sun. Nada, zilch.

Skutkiem francuskiej – naturalnie – perwersji uczuciowości Rousseau, Niemcy obdarzyły nas czasami Burzy i Naporu (Sturm und Drang) Romantyzmu. Tylko język niemiecki i niemiecka mentalność tak potrafi nazwać okres rodzenia się sztuki poświęconej miłości, romansowi, legendzie i tragedii, LOL. Napór i sztorm brzmi bardziej jak rozkaz niż, jak wyznanie. Jakże biedny Werter nie mógł nie cierpieć, jeśli takimi rozkazami wyznawał swą miłość dla Lotty?!

Tak się właśnie czułem ostatnie kilka dni na brzegach Północnego Atlantyku w czasie niekończących się wichur i śnieżnych nawałnic. Ni źbła choćby słoneczka na moment. Zero.

Więc gdy dzień pięknym, różowym wschodem dziś się ukazał, a karminem zachodził z wieczora – z kamerą poleciałem go gonić po Moich Kamieniach. Naturalnie, że przesadzam. Nie goniłem a potykałem się w zaspach powyżej kolan, wspomagając się swoim kosturkiem. A ten śnieg bieluśki, ta woda i stalowa, i srebrna, i różowa do zdjęć, jakby pozowały.

Winter in Mount Pleasant Park in Halifax

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

A day after the big winter storm that brought Nova Scotia the biggest snowfall in twenty years, I went with my camera to the edge of Halifax – Mount Pleasant Park. A lovely wooded enclave, in a way reminiscent of Stanley Park in Vancouver, but slightly smaller in size.

Old Halifax has very narrow streets that look today like a tunnel dug out of high snow embankments. Finding a parking spot is next to impossible and people are forced at places to walk on the street, as the sidewalks are just covered with mountains of snow. Planned to visit also the lovely Public Gardens downtown – but all gates were closed. Why? Because no one showed the walkways? It is a park for Heaen’s sake! Not a highway. If people want to walk knee-high in snow – why can’t they? Homeless people live in tents right in parks and on the streets and you worry about ‘the elegance’ of Patrician’s Park?! Sometimes (most of the time, LOL) I can’t understand the politicians …

In Mount Pleasant Park the main trails were plowed. Most of the people that I met there were walking their dogs. It looked like the wonderful furry friends were in paradise! Jumping into the woods and snow that sometimes cover them totally, wagging their tails, running back and forth – a pure joy. I had the pleasure to play with some of them. What a bunch of happy creatures, if you let them be happy. No aggression, just joy that someone wants to play with them.

Did you say winter? In Nova Scotia?!

B. Pacak-Gamalski

Yesterday was a lovely day. Snow abounds, beautiful, soft, and dry. Everything looked like Christmas. I dug out my carriage, drove to a few stores, and decided that the next day I would take my camera and go for some nice wintery shots on the coast or perhaps in Halifax. My carriage is a very strong vehicle and not afraid of winters.

It continued to snow the entire day, then the full night, and again the rest of the day. But the temperature went up a bit, the wind became very strong and the snow changed to very nasty tiny little granules like sand. Still drove to do short shopping but the camera would not be very good in such conditions. It would get wet in a second, walking would not be nice either. Visibility was very bad, too.

Shouldn’t complain too much, though. The Eastern and North shores were hit really badly. I think they had to proclaim a state of Emergency in Cape Breton, many roads were closed and the Government was advising everybody not to travel. But I still wanted to take some pictures, just with my I-phone and around my my home, parking lot (LOL), and of course, My Rocks.

Had to dig out my truck again, just in case I would need it, and simply didn’t want to have it covered by the white craziness totally. So here it is – the mundane, silly photo chronicle from the parking lot and the vicinities. By the way – it still snows now and should not stop tomorrow, either. If you won’t hear from me in the next few days it means that my igloo lost internet connection. So yes, to no one surprise in Nova Scotia – it does snow in Nova Scotia. As it rains in BC.

Of course – you need to have proper Sunday Church elegant shoes. As you noticed on one of my pictures I do have proper church shoes. One for Nova Scotia and one for British Columbia.