D A Y 9 // T H E • I S L A N D
I have this fantasy of cleaning hotel rooms, like I did in my first year as an immigrant.
With a successful art business, 2 Uni degrees, pretty much hives inflamation in situations of power of any bosses, I would like to nonchalantly look underneath people’s duvets.
Let them look at me with ze pity. Let me smooth out their wrinkles, on beds and otherwise.
The fantasy of being mistaken as an illiterate Polish, a girl transported in a rolled carpet on ships dirty and dangerous, appeals to me and it’s almost sexist.
Like the two times when stopped by cops I managed to craft my helpless persona by the very powerful 3 words: “I don’t understand“.
No ticket was issued. But maybe because, and you won’t beieve it, on both mornings I donated some money. Good karma.
Someone told me to not move to New England due to cold hearts of locals and the apparent lonesomeness that’s infesting this gorgeous land. Lonesomeness and independence of New Englanders, especially Mainers. To that I said “I cannot wait”; being an emigrant (or immigrant or femi-grant or onir-land or Pol-implant) what I’ve really been is a trans Atlantic island, a potluck (or a Pol-luck <3) of differences, bridges and spectacular faux pas, like that day when instead of “count” I said “cunt.” “In-between” is where I sprout. ▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴▴ #30daysofHeartNesting : to sit, to sharpen, to soften, to write, to reveal, to remove my blind spots.