Song of Love
1
The waves are calling –
blue sky caressing white foam
of the sea, embracing the shape
of clouds taking bath in it.
Like you – your hips, your hand
in mine, your touch on my chest,
my fingers in your hair learning
the shape of the lobe of your ear.
The air is moist, fragrant,
the air is still around us.
And whispers, words quivering
with anticipation, expecting.
Longing anchored in our sight,
begging, trembling impatiently.
Eyes searching, touching, embracing.
The air dancing, pirouetting, flirting.
2
Memory. Your years of boyish youth.
Fear of rejection, of not finding
the answer you dreamt of. The torture of
that fear. The air is suffocating, dense.
Imperious impatience asking urgently:
is it? our love? Hey, boy! You promised
to find it – our love. You promised
that I will be in love. Our pact for life.
I! I! I must know how it feels! The air!
Must feel it myself: impatience, hungering.
Not tomorrow, not in some future. Now!
My youth not wanting innocence anymore.
I want to be guilty of stolen nights,
of jumping through the window
to magical streets leading to forbidden
dark pathways in dense parks.
Finding other eyes, other fingers
searching for me in the pantomime
parade of shadowy silent silhouettes.
In the dense air breathing heavy.
3
Finding you waiting for me.
You finding me. We will know,
when our eyes will meet. We.
Not me, not you. We – lovers.
I had a pleasure meeting Jason Gorber, a prominent Toroto-based movie critic, at the Green Border screening on Tuesday. Today, I have read his comment:
“A masterpiece from an underappreciated master of both big and small screen, Agnieszka Holland’s searing look at the refugee crisis on the border between Belarus and her native Poland is as profound as it is provocative.
The performances are astounding, the narrative horrifying, resulting in a story that’s deeply unsettling and emotionally raw.”
(below a Polish language version)
We wtorek, na projekcji Zielonej Granicy, miałem przyjemność poznać znanego krytyka filmowego z Toronto, Jasona Gorbera. Dziś przeczytałem jego komentarz:
“Arcydzieło niedocenianej mistrzyni dużego i małego ekranu Agnieszki Holland, jej wnikliwe spojrzenie na kryzys uchodźczy na granicy Białorusi z jej rodzinną Polską, jest tyleż głębokie, co prowokacyjne.
Gra aktorska wprawia w oslupienie, a narracja poraża, co skutkuje historią głęboko niepokojącą i emocjonalnie surową.
It was a lazy Sunday. Felt tired from previous trips and walks. Summer was slowly dying and so was the day. The bridge in question was Angus Macdonald Bridge connecting Halifax and Dartmouth. Almost 1.5 km in length. And this summer the bridge was closed to traffic during weekends. Hurray. It could be very noisy with the traffic. They left the bike/pedestrian walkway open. Walking stick in one hand, phone in the other (the phone, of course, was the camera), and voila. Caught the sun and its changing, orgiastic and shameless display in the lense.
Of lovers and friends. Of the most unfortunate ones, who were friends and became lovers. Oscar Wilde once described that dilemma clearly. And trust me – he knew a thing or two about it. Yes, of course, I’m taking off that famous line from the Ballad of Reading Gaol. Yes, yes – that line: ‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves’, which is followed, by the end of that stanza, with: ‘The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!’[i]. The year was 1898, he was just recently released from prison in England. Went soul, heart, and financially broken to France, to try to re-established himself. Of course, too late. Just the Ballad remained, a shadow of a once proud, elegant poet, a member of society. With the misfortune of falling in love with some rich boy. Who, with tears or glee (who knows) sold him to the gallows trying to save his own skin (and father’s money, naturally).
Thus, boys and girls alike, for heaven’s sake – do not fall in love with your friends. Rather, become friends with your lovers.
Narcissus and Echo by John. W. Waterhouse
In the Prologue to the “Alchemist”[ii], Paulo Coelho writes beautifully the story of Narcissus’s death. Of course, Coelho would not have been such an amazing writer, if he had merely repeated the thousands years old story told already hundreds of times by others. No, he added a sweet surprise at the end. So humanely grotesque (as all Greek gods stories were): when the goddesses of the forest came to the Lake, where gorgeous Narcissus drowned, they asked the Lake: Why do you weep? and expectedly the Lake replied I weep for Narcissus. The goddesses were understanding, they themselves chased the boy through the forest, trying to see his famous beauty, the beloved of Apollo himself. And they admitted to the Lake, with a hint of jealousy, that although they pursued the boy, the Lake alone could see his beauty the best. At that moment the old story takes a different, shocking turn when the Lake replies: But… was Narcissus beautiful? A conversation ensues, as expected. The goddesses explained that obviously since Narcissus so often admired his own reflection in the Lake waters, the Lake must have noticed his beauty. The Lake paused, thought, and after a while replied: I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected[ii]. What an amazing twist to the old tale! I love writers and poets, who tell us: oh, come on! don’t be timid – allow yourself to dream, to tell the secret and true thoughts, and desires. Mirror, mirror – tell me if I am … . LOL
Thus, be a friend of your lover. Avoid the terrible pitfalls of friends, who become lovers. There are really very few brave souls, who survived the utter honesty of true friendship in forming eroto-romantic union. Poor Andre Gide felt forced to explain his “Immoralist”[iii] by the timid (and so obviously false, LOL) words in the Preface to his little, yet so sweet book. Thank God at the very end he was able to utter the most powerful explanation in the history of art: To say the truth, in art, there are no subjects, which only sufficient explanation is the art itself[iii]. O! Little critics with overblown moralistic egos – be quiet already. You are not a philosopher but a scribe jealous of a writer.
The dilemma of choosing if a friend could be a lover was a paralyzing complexity for Jean Genet in his amazingly honest story of “Prisoner of Love”[iv]. More so even, because it is intertwined with the love and passion for the Palestinian cause. Did he consummate his love for the Palestinian boy or was it just a Platonic passion? The powerful novel/memoirs, written in France (his last work, shortly before his death), were treated as not very important literary achievements. Au contraire, mes amis – it is one of his best. Powerful, very deep psychologically, insightful. This book and a little (in size comparison) booklet “Out of Place”[v] by great intellectual Edward Said taught me much more than any historian about Palestine and its tragic People ever could. But it is a different subject.
How can you write about friends and lovers without mentioning three amazing people: Polish writer/intellectual and modus vivendi of Parisian art circles – Konstanty Jeleński; his wife, famous Spanish-Italian surrealist painter Leonor Fini[vi] and Italian aristocrat, painter and diplomat Stanislao Lepri. All of them lived happily and joyfully in sexual and friendship union until their deaths. How did they survive all the pitfalls of such a union? I personally believed that that Jelenski and Lepri were the primary lovers most of all, and Fini was their artistic, crazy, and much senior femme fatale.
In 1995 Jelenski invited me to visit him in Paris. But, when I finally arrived – his sprawling and beautiful apartment on rue de la Vrilliere was a circus in full swing. Leonor was just preparing her special exposition in the Senate of the French Republic. Paintings were everywhere: on sofas, on beds, on chairs. And people were constantly coming and going. Friends from all over Europe. Poor Kot felt so bad, I had a chuckle. He quickly rented me a room in a small hotel nearby, on rue Croix des Pettits Champs. I was happy, telling you the truth. My gosh, I was young then, and Paris and her evenings and nights were so … appealing? Appealing, for sure, LOL. This way he had more time to concentrate on the crisis at hand (Leonor’s Exhibition) and I could concentrate on things (shall we say?) not only intellectual. Hmmm. After all – late evening walks along the Seine could be very … exciting? Enough said.
But back to friends and lovers – Leonor, Konstanty (Kot or Kocik in Polish – sort of French un minou, which definitely would be a much more proper name for Jelenski, who was truly a very sweet guy), and Stanislao. How did they survive for so long? Especially that at the beginning there was one more constant female shadow – a true femme fatale of their ménage à trois: Konstanty’s formidable mother. Madame Rena Jelenska de domo Skarzynska, from very old Polish nobility. Rena couldn’t stand Leonor. She didn’t mind at all (was actually fond of him) Stanislao Lepri. But that old crazy Spanish whore?! Poor Kot. Even more tragic because he actually truly loved both women: his mother and Leonor. But on the subject of staying together till death – I think that Kot, Leonor, and Stanislao could because actually, they all slept with each other (separately at the beginning, I assume) before they became friends. They were the happy part of the equation: lovers, who become friends.
Last but not least here is a more modern case of brilliant Irish novelist Colm Toibin in his multi-layered novel “The Story of the Night”[vii].
The novel is truly a masterpiece of combining so many complicated subjects and themes without losing for a moment the personal story of its protagonist – Richard Garay. Richard leads many lives: English, Argentinian, artist, businessman, even (for a brief moment) politician. But most of all – gay in a very macho dominant male world of South America. Another constant is the presence of his dear friends: Susan and Donald.
The writer (himself an openly gay writer) does not shy from describing many of Richard’s lovers and one-night encounters. But it is the brief encounter of sexual attraction revealed by Richard toward his straight friend Donald that warrants mentioning. Encounter – which is important to note – planned by Donald. He ‘just’ wanted to check if, as he suspected, Richard was homosexual … . No sexual encounter ever happened. But, yes – it couldn’t be denied that Richard was aroused and willing. Even the fact that the act itself was never consummated – it changed their friendship dramatically. In some way, it wounded it mortally.
Therefore, my dear boys and girls, please take it as the wisdom of almost god (meaning me, naturally). If you must experience the forbidden truth and fornicate, please choose a stranger rather than a friend. With a stranger, you have nothing to lose (other than your presumed virginity). If you are lucky the experience will bring you a lot of joy and satisfaction, at worst – it will be a disappointment (first times often are, nothing to be ashamed of). With a friend, the stakes are much higher and sometimes lasting lifelong bitterness or guilt.
And do read a good book before. Not really educational. A good literary book. Like one of these mentioned above.
[i] Selected Poems of Oscar Wilde including the Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde; CreateSpace Publishing Platform, 2017; p. 56
[ii] „The Alchemist”, Paulo Coelho; pub. Harper One, 1993; p. 197
[iii] “Immoralista”, Andre Gide, by Wyd. Zielona Sowa, Cracow, 2006 (Polish translation by I. Rogozinska)
[iv] „Zakochany Jeniec”, Jean Genet; wyd. W.A.B, Warszawa, 2012; p. 486 (Polish translation by J. Giszczak)
[v] „Out of Place”, Edward Said; Random House, 1999
At the very beginning, we understood the immense power of our feelings. We felt it even if we couldn’t comprehend the substance of it.
Yes, we were dating, as many young couples always did. But the dates were like an ocean, like a massive waterfall from the peak of a high mountain. The power of it was immeasurable. I think that, at times, we were overwhelmed with it. Oh, we knew that we liked each other, that we were very attracted to each other. Dear god! we were so young, especially John, hardly a man yet or just on the cusp of beginning to be one.
Life and dating for young gay men in the 80ties and 90ties was the same as for any other young people and yet, so fundamentally different from the majority. Apart from very few and very cosmopolitan cities, they couldn’t just stroll through parks and streets in a warm embrace, stilling happy kisses from each other. Even there it was acceptable only in very few parts of the cities and still with a degree of personal risk. By the time we met, it was already much easier. That was that time of history (happily) that John belonged to. Mine started earlier, in darker times and places. The age difference wasn’t as big, but the difference in experience – huge.
Young gay man life in Warsaw in the late 70ties and early 80ties was like a minefield for a blind person. Very dangerous physically, perhaps even more emotionally.
By the time we met, I had already a long string of one-night stands that seemed and felt like it was a norm, a standard expected. My young, boyish innocence was gone or hidden somewhere deep and secretive.
Not that I was his first sexual partner. But comparing our experiences he was the Virgin of Orleans, and I was the courtesan of Babylon. LOL. But we were both innocent in the taste of huge, big love. A feeling we longed for: the torments, the powerful currents. And when they came for both of us – they swept and carried us to lands unknown. Lands of Dreams, Desires stronger than any notion of relationship, of dating.
Thus the dating was short. It was pointless. We had to become one: completely, permanently, fully.
Music was part of that beginning. John had strong, established musical tastes and I did, too. They were very different. We shared them, learned from each other. My love of opera and classical music, his of powerful traditional country music of North America, music full of longing, hardship, and dreams often unfulfilled. Thus our two songs and two melodies began. One that we often came back to through our long union in Calgary, Vancouver, and Halifax. The ‘Flower Duet’ of mezzo and soprano from the French Romantic opera “Lacme” and North America’s amazing country singer Patsy Cline and her famous hit ‘Crazy’ composed by Willie Nelson.
The ‘Flower Duet’ and ‘Crazy’ become our songs.
I was born on the fifth of Match, and Patsy died on the fifth of March very few short years later. Although I truly was a child, a little boy on the day Patsy died in a plane accident – John often devilishly suggested that I was behind her death. That this particular song was his idea and dream of true love – and once I came into his life, that song stopped being a dream and become reality. Thus the song had to die too if a dream becomes reality. Therefore I must have orchestrated the demise of Patsy Cline! Machiavellian, indeed. LOL.
But love is a strange thing. It blends reality and dreams. Blends life and death. That blend become my new land now, my homeland. Found it today on some isolated and desolate long stretch of sand and rocks stretching for miles, somewhere in the equally desolate and removed community of East Chezzetcook.
Talked to Patsy Cline, to Lacme and her student, to the ocean, to John. There was no one else in an eyesight. Just them and me. And love. No one was angry, no one was sad. Everything was a dream and the dream was reality.
A story in pictures composed during my walks with a camera. Unique city park with unparalleled views and rich history. Part of it offers also a story of history, as the trail meander into a very old cemetery of first families of settlers – people, who founded the city.
The park has a very strong personal meaning and a connection to me. Both I and John loved taking strolls in there. One of the very first ones in Dartmouth, in 2018, and one of the last ones in 2022. On one of the first walks, we were truly astonished, when we entered the old cemetery part. The first gravestone is the one bearing John’s last name. Omen? There is no known family connections, that we know of, but obviously from the same Highlanders clan. We also had there our ‘own’ bench where we often sat. And I have a sad tree that consoled me after he was gone. The Weeping Willow.
The only way you can really appreciate the view of the entire downtown of Halifax – is to drive across the bridge. You can go on My Rocks to North Dartmouth. The view is very nice but you can see it only at an angle. If you want to snap a few pictures en face – the only and truly wonderful is to take the Trans Canada Trail from the Cove. The walk is splendid. There are benches to take a rest and … enjoy! Go ahead, take a few snaps. I stopped there this morning, on the way back from the hospital.
View of the Cove on Dartmouth side – where the Trail starts.
The shores of the Atlantic in Nova Scotia offer unparalleled vistas. Both: natural, not needing any augmentation or adjustments, and some that just beg to be transform into another realm of possibilities. What we see and what we imagine. Which is true?
In my walks, I never forget to take my camera. Not that we really need one these days – after all, we all have smartphones.
Many of these ‘travels’ are just under my nose, on My Rocks next to home. But even there – I always find something that is or seems to be different. Light? The hour of the day or night? The season? The variants are plentiful.
Visitors coming from afar to Halifax are familiar with typical marching routes: the Waterfront, of course, next to it is the core of old historic Halifax stretching from the Citadel, all the way down to Morris Street (which is more or less the length of the pedestrian waterfront). Uphill, it goes not much further than South Park Street or Public Gardens. There is typically few short excursion if you use a taxi or other private transportation: likely the Fort Needham Memorial Park commemoration of the great Halifax Explosion, next to the cemetery with gravesites of Titanic passengers and possibly (in the same neighborhood) the Africville Park. Frankly, there is not that much more to see (from the tourist point of view).
One that should be seen much more and should be mentioned in all tourist info is the wonderful Point Pleasant Park. It offers beautiful trails and few very historical (like Prince of Wales Tower) stops and a visit to the shoreline with important monuments to those, who perished at sea. To get there would likely require also some sort of public or private transport, although it is not an impossible feat to walk to it using comfortable South Park Street, starting right from under the gate to Public Gardens.
But one most often forgotten is a pearl of architectural designs, a maze of walkways, and very historical on a continental, or even international scale. Many visitors see small tidbits of it throughout Downtown Halifax. But it truly should be viewed as a whole, separate excursion.
I am talking about the main campus of Dalhousie University. The west side starts alongside Coburg Road, the east on South Road, the south ends on Oxford Street, and the north side ends on Robbie Street. And between them are many smaller streets and pathways. All of it is well designed, well visible, and offers a unique perspective.
There are not many universities in any city in the world that are grouped altogether, in one large spot, tight in the center of a city. Usually, you would have the main campus (often behind some sort of wall or fence) near downtown, and the rest scattered all over the city in separate buildings.
In Halifax, it seems that the entire university, being almost a town of its own, is all in one spot. I often think of Oxford as a similar (bigger and older) comparison. But, of course, Oxford in… Oxford. Not in London. A much closer example and more alike is Boston with Cambridge and Harvard Universities. Much larger and more internationally renowned but being concentrated in a condensed part of a city. In some ways, it actually is a separate city next to Boston.
As far as Halifax is concerned – I would strongly recommend it to anyone to explore. It could be a lovely and leisurely stroll. You could easily start it from either end: either from a little park opposite the Public Gardens, right where there is a nice statue of the famous Scottish poet Robert Burns. Don’t forget to enjoy the wonderful architecture of Anglican Cathedral in front of it and pay attention to its enormous stained glass neo-gothic windows. From there take College Street and just continue. You are now in the middle of Dalhousie. My preferable starting point is from the other end. Starting at the corner of Coburg and Oxford streets. It also marks the historical beginning of Dalhousie University – Kings College (or more accurately – Kings University, the first university in what now is USA and Canada).
That walk and exploration could be done in less than two hours or it could be easily your entire afternoon. Depending on how much time you have.
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