[ievag-blog1]

Walk, Always Walk (10/21/2017)

She walks in, the room is empty. Chairs scattered around, some newspapers. She looks around - what a scene, so much space, so much silence. The windows are high up, the sun shines on the spinning dust, on the parquet full of holes and stains, on all sorts of nails and construction leftovers lying around. She spreads her arms and starts swaying. Dance, it only liberates when no one is watching, this performance is of and to her solitude. She opens her eyes, feeling refreshed. Even a short interlude brings back the energy, brings back life. She looks around one more time, turns around and leaves. It is raining outside, a mere drizzle, the sky is grey, the usual. This is kind of claustrophobic, she thinks, it is funny how her solitude needs space. It is too lonely in a small room, only big spaces allow to be alone comfortably. This is where her introvert meets her sociable self - she does not want to hide or close off, she wants to roam all alone, on her own, in her own way; this is her, interacting.  Walk or take a bus? Walk, always walk. Through parks, soaking benches, cafes with misty windows, frowning pedestrians gathered in a bus stop. Walk until you find what you are looking for, or get tired, but never force yourself. Walk until you are able to hear what you are telling yourself, or get bored - you might have nothing to say whatsoever.  And this is it, this story has no climax, no resolution. No connection was made, no interaction - imaginary, remembered or real, nothing has changed. Just a woman in her everyday loneliness, walking somewhere (nowhere) in the rain, through the grey streets full of people who (and she does not understand how and why) manage to find joy in doing simple things: drink in a pub, dine, go home. She walks and walks, finding glimpses of pleasure or enlightenment, but nothing really happens. Yet tomorrow, she will wake up, do her little morning ritual, and go to her duties rather happy, or at least content, with a hope that something will shake. But it doesn’t. 

She is left spinning in a dusty spacious room in an abandoned building, bound to herself and herself alone.

[ievag-blog1]

madness

I wake up from a semi conscious sleep, eyes wide open, and rush to the window.  Within this mad mist of insomnia mixed with hunger mixed with fuck knows what, some things are clear: my head is made of stories, of illusions of reality. 

This is one of those texts that I will go on hating later on. But it is medicinal, in a way that only my therapist understands – for me this is torture.

Torture is ingrained in our culture through the dogmas of Christianity, torture that comes out of guilt. Oh dear lord, stop cleansing my soul, let me breathe for a bit, let me sleep.

But I can’t, and my heart starts racing, and my stomach gets twisted with sickness, goose bumps cover my skin and my body starts to shake. My body starts rejecting my mind, my mind keeps on fooling me, everything is done to such precision, I am deeply impressed. Every decision, every explanation of every decision, every reason for every explanation for every decision, all the self-reflection in the world, and none of that is real.

What was real? Were my guts spilling out through my veins in to my throat, clogging it? Each cell trembling with angst, my desire and my darkest fears entwining where my stomach once was and then disseminating into every standing hair on my now so damn perfect body. 

Was I scared of death? I wanted to die in your arms. I felt so used and I wanted to surrender, completely, ultimately. I wanted power, or at least some goddamn control over the state of my own mind, over the state of my intestines. But I remained, sometimes crawling into a crescent by your side, but mostly on my back, still, eyelids stuck to my head and my sight to the ceiling. 

I had the stupidity to seek for comfort in you. And you offered some, you held my head for a while, at your chest, you told me to breathe. “Can’t hear you inhaling”. Because I wasn’t, what for. What is the end of this panic attack, I was thinking, while you kept on stroking my hair. I knew then, that it was wrong to seek for a dry isle while sinking. I should have had the guts to get out of the bed, or else just keep on slowly dying in that agony, seismic convulsions echoing through me. 

Until the morning, my dear, until the first rays of sun, the salvation will come to you, it will come. Yet my mind was tricking me into believing that there is no morning, and that all that’s left is a never ending build up for an explosion that never comes, just rises. 

The morning did come nevertheless, and here I am, a shell of a human being, scared the shit out of myself, unable to move - I met my animal that night, the one I thought I had already tamed. Bastard was sneakier than I thought, and now it learned how to organize crime with my vitals as well, it seems. 

My therapist was right though, this did help. The beast got tired of my ranting, fell asleep somewhere on top of my lungs, I can feel it: it still is harder to breathe, but at least I think I’ll get myself to make some coffee. And stop expecting you to come around. Read some Boroughs maybe.

[ievag-blog1]

Mistress

Tarp apgriuvusių bažnyčios sienų aidi Ave Maria ir ji pravirksta.

Taip gražiai gieda. Taip gražiai pasipuošusi močiutė taip gražiai tyliai meldžias prie altorėlio mediniais rėmais, skirto Šv. Pranciškui. Vasarą taip gražiai žmonės pjauna pieveles prie namų. Vakarais taip gražiai nulyja, Ave Maria. 

Vasaros dienos slenka lėtai, ir gera vaikščioti per ištuštėjųsį miestą. Ant suoliuko miesto parke sėdi pagyvenusios moterys, šalia jų vaikinas groja gitara.

Raudonas vynas ir vanduo, rytinės mišios, vakarinės mišios bare. Vasaros vakarai ilgi, ir šiltas miestas duoda daug erdvės. Gali lėtai kvėpuoti, gali pasiklysti, dažniausiai po prisiminimus. Ir visgi, kaskart einant per tą pačią gatvę kažkas pasikeičia, miestas kartu su tavimi įkvepia, iškvepia, auga.

Kartais gali eiti pro senus pastatus su gelėtais balkonais, ir pastebėti naują pelargoniją. Kartais gali atrasti vis naujas mažas bibliotekas, ir visada gali verkti kiek tik nori.

Visame mieste vis dar aidi ta nuostabi giesmė, jos skambesys virpina vyną taurėje, ratilai pasiekia visas nenupjautas pieveles ir tą gražiai, baltai išsiuvinėtais kalnieriais pasipuošusią močiutę. Ji rymo prie atviro, vazonais nusėto lango ir žvelgia į tolį. Į ją nuo sienos žvelgia Šv. Pranciškus, ant kilimo tupi katė ir žvelgia į jį. 

Neakylus praeivis galvotų, kad taip atrodo vienatvė.

Iš tiesų, taip atrodo miesto širdis.

Taip atrodo metus iš metų nesikeičiantys ramūs sekmadienio vakarai birželį, taip atrodo metus iš metų nesikeičiantys miesto ūžesio sergėtojai. Tylus ir susikaupęs senos moters veidas atsispindi lange, tai jos žvilgsnis yra tikrasis nešališkas stebėtojas, tikrasis miesto archyvas. Tai tik nuo jos ritualų priklauso laikas, tai tik su jos pelargonijom ateina pavasaris.

Katinas pašaipiai žvelgia į šventojo paveikslą. Ko gero tai visai nėra tiesa, bet mano galvoje jo vardas Begemotas. Ko gero tai nėra tiesa, bet Margarita iš tikro visai nemirė, ji pabėgo ir nusipirko butą Kauno centre. Jai atsibodo visi Meistrai ir Azazelai, jai atsibodo nešioti sunkius geležinius šarvus Valpurgijos naktį, ji rado darbą viešojoje miesto bibliotekoje ir pradėjo reguliariai vaikščioti į bažnyčią. Galų gale, meistras net ir nebuvo jos pirmas noras. Ji įsteigė organizaciją padedančią smurtą patyrusioms moterims, o laisvais vakarais vis dar žiūri pro langą ir stebi miesto istorijas.

Ji yra meistras. Visos knygos lentynoje parašytos jos ranka. Čia jos miestas, čia jos vyno taurės, čia jos išsiuvinėti kalnieriai. Ave Maria? Ave Margarita, tyliai nusijuokia Begemotas, vasaros vakaras plaukia lėtai, ramiai, plačiai.

Kol ji sėdi prie lango, man, ir mums visoms, čia bus vietos.

*****************************************************************************************************

Ave Maria echoes between the old, ruined walls of a church and she begins to cry.

The chant is so beautiful. An old woman with such a beautiful dress is so beautifully quietly praying at the wooden altar for saint Francis. People are mowing their beautiful lawns in the summer. It beautifully rains every eve, Ave Maria.

Summer days slowly go by, and the walks through emptied city streets are so delightful. A couple of old ladies are sitting on the bench in the park; a guy next to them is playing his guitar.

Red wine and water – morning mass, evening mass in a bar. Summer evenings are long, and a warm city offers a lot of space. You can breath slowly, you can get lost, usually in your own memories. And yet, every time you pass the same street something is different, the city breathes in and breathes out with you, it keeps changing.

Sometimes, as you pass the old buildings with balconies full of flowers, you can notice a new pelargonium in the window. Sometimes you can discover yet another new little library, and you can always cry as much as you want.

The whole city is still full of echoes from that magnificent chant, its sound makes the wine vibrate in a glass, and its halo reaches every lawn that has not been mowed yet, it reaches the old woman and her beautifully embroidered white collar. She is sitting at the open window full of flowerpots, and glances at the distance. Saint Francis is glancing at her from the wall, a cat sitting on the rug glances at him.

An unobservant passerby would think that this is loneliness.

In fact, this is the beating heart of the city.

These are the peaceful Sunday evenings in June that go unchanged, year after year, these are the timeless faces that guard city’s chaos. Silent and content, the face of the old woman gets reflected in the window, and it is her gaze that is the true, unbiased observer, the real archive. It is only her rituals that define time; it is only with her pelargoniums that the spring comes.

The cat is sarcastically observing the picture of the saint. It is unlikely to be true, but in my mind his name is Behemoth. It is unlikely to be true, bet Margarita actually did not die at all, she ran away and bought an apartment in Kaunas city center. She got sick of all the Masters and Azazellos, she got tired from wearing the heavy metal armor at the Spring Ball, she got herself a job at the public library and started regularly attending the church. After all, Master was not even her first choice. She founded an organization to help women who suffer abuse, and during her free evenings she gazes through the window, documenting stories of the city.

She is the Master. She is the author of all the books on her shelf. This is her city, these are her wine glasses, these are her embroidered collars. Ave Maria? Ave Margarita, Behemoth laughs soundlessly, summer evening is flowing slowly, quietly, widely.

As long as she is sitting at the window, there will be space for me, for you, and for each an every woman here.

[ievag-blog1]

travelling

Stiuardesė uždeda dangtelį ant kavos puodelio ir maloniai nusišypso. Prieš mane kedėje motina sūpuoja kūdikį ir ramina, kad neverktų. Gretimoje eilėje žmonės vakarieniauja – ramadanas ir danguje ramadanas.

Išsitraukiu turguje pirktų figų ir datulių. Žiaurus klausimas staiga mane užklumpa saldžiam vaisiui palietus lūpas: kas aš? Ar mėgstu dėvėti daug aksesuarų? Ar bijau derėtis? Ranka nesąmoningai žaidžia su berberišku pakabuku pirktu Essaouiroje. Klajokliai naudojo jį naviguoti per dykumą naktį. Aš, kita vertus, iš visų žvaigždžių tepažįstu samtį – didžiuosius Grįžulo ratus. Prireikė kelių gėdingų nutikimų sau pripažinti, kad nė velnio nesiorientuoju aplinkoje. Kaip ir nieko baisaus, man patinka pasimesti, ypač įsivaizduojamų miestų gatvėse. Pasimetu miestuose, ar pasimetu ir savo tapatybėje? Mėgstu aksesuarus. Ir figas. Nesu tikra dėl datulių. Bet kažkur einu, kažką randu, kristalizuojasi pasakos galvoje, kristalizuojasi ir mano asmeninis mitas.

Vėl skrendu. Londonas – visai kaip Marokas. Tie patys žmonių klegesiai, purvas, prekeiviai siekia kažką kažkam parduoti, net jei ir virtinos šiek tiek prašmatnesnės. O gal aš pati Marokas. Gal vis dar akys nepriima kito miesto ženklų kalbos, gal dar hello my friend I have a very special price for you. Combien ça coûte? One pound fifty for a single journey. Tebūnie. Sėdu ir važiuoju, draugas parodo žymią beigelių krautuvėlę. “Nežinau, mėgsti silkę?””Nežinau, mėgstu pusryčius ir kavą”. Inshallah, one bagel with herring and a coffee, s'il vous plaît. Du svarai – net derėtis nereikėjo – lygiai tiek pat kiek mano pusryčiai Essaouiroj. Pravažiuojame hamamą. Oro uosto darbuotoja su skara ant galvos ir pavargusiomis akimis, please take out any liquids or laptops. Jai tikriausiai ramadanas, todėl stengiuosi greitai nusiauti batus.

Modern Tate’as – mano mečetė. Nusiimti kuprinę prieš įeinant. Naujos salė rodo tumpą dokumentiką apie Stuart Hall’ą ir vėl mano mintys grįžta prie tapatybės. Mes nusiderėjom įėjimą į miestelį prie Ouarzazatės, gal galėčiau įeiti į laikiną parodą nemokamai? Je suis un étudiant. Bet likęs menas nemokamai, ir man taip maža laiko.

Oro uoste eilės tautiečių, ir mane taip paprastai pavaišina šokoladu. No british politness, un geste très marocain. Padėkoju, pakalbame apie laiką. Dėl audros skrydis atidedamas, ir visi nori grįžti namo. Visi, tik ne aš, man visai gera ir čia, kažkur tarp Rabato – Londono – Kauno.

Kas mus skiria ir kas vienija? Viskas maišosi mano galvoje. Stuartas Hall’as kalbėjo apie darbininkų klasės jaunus šiaurės anglus, apie bendruomenes ir simbolius. Paimti, pakelti, padėti ant mano stalelio. Geras darbas visomis kalbomis geras darbas. Mazel tov, silkė beigelyje, praeina nuostabių plaukų mujer, ji kalba ispaniškai. Prie hamamo rūko stilingas tatuiruotas vaikinas vešlia barzda. Son cosas de la vida, rašo Boroughsas.

Londonas pardavinėja tapatybę geriau nei bet koks marokietis savo skaras. The culture of cool, šitoje žodžio ‘kultūra’ konotacijoje sutelpa pasauliai, kartos ir valdžios organai, geografinės lokacijos ir pieno kainos lyginiais metais.

Naked Lunch buvo mano šitos kelionės gidas. Jis ir Irano poečių darbų rinkinys Seven Valleys of Love. Pirmame – beprotystė ir žmogaus antžmogiškumas, žvėris, kurį kiekvienas atskirai ir kaip visuomenė slepiam nuo afišų, tamsiausia ir gajausia mūsų psyche dalis. Antrame – paprastas būties sudėtingumas,  absurdiškas buities gilumas, visa tai, kas žmogiška. Dar tiksliau: kas moterį daro žmogiška – lygiai taip pat pakišta po socialinės normos kilimu.

Moterys ir narkomanai. Lietuviai ir amazigai. Prekė ir tapatybė. Man vėl maišosi galva kažkelių kilometrų aukštyje, ir stiuardesė šįkart ruošia arbatą. Man vėl prieš akis mirga miestų šviesos, aš vėl kažką atrandu ir kažką pamirštu įspūdžių košėje.

 ***

Flight attendant closes a cup of coffee and gives me a kind smile. I look around, a woman in a chair in front of me is trying to get her baby to sleep. Some people are dinning – Ramadan is Ramadan, even in the sky.

I take out a bag of figues and dates, bought in some local market. A horrifying question hits me as sweet fruit reaches my lips: who am I? Do I like jewellery? Am I afraid of bargaining?

I unconsciously start playing with a berber necklace bought in Essaouira. Nomads were using this cross to navigate through the desert at night. Me, on the other hand, can only recognise the Plough – Ursa Major.

It took me a few embarassing situations to admit that I am absolutely crap at navigating. It’s not too bad, I quite enjoy getting lost in the streets of a new city, especially an imaginary one. If I get lost in cities, am I lost in my identity as well?

I do like jewellery. And I do like figues. Not so sure about the dates. But I am going somewhere, it seems, and I have my discoveries, and the stories crystallise in my mind at some point, so does my personal myth.

On a plane again. London is just like Morocco. The same chaos, the dirt, merchants trying to sell something to someone. The only difference is that the exterior is fancier.

Or maybe it is me who is just like Morocco. Maybe I cannot yet crack the code of a new city, maybe it’s still hello my friend I have a very special price for you. Combien ça coûte? One pound fifty for a single journey. Let’s go. I get in and we do go. A friend shows a famous bagel shop: “I don’t know, do you like herring?”,”I don’t know, I like breakfast and I need a coffee”. Inshallah, one bagel with herring and a coffee, s'il vous plaît. Two pounds – I didn’t even need to bargain – the same price I paid for my breakfast in Essaouira. We pass a hammam. A staff member in the airport is wearing a headscarf and has such tired eyes, please take out any liquids or laptops. I guess it’s Ramadan for her, so I tried to take off my shoes as quickly as I can.

Modern Tate is my mosque. To take the backpack off before entering. New spaces are exhibiting a short about Stuart Hall and my thoughts come back to the question of identity. We managed to talk the guides into a cheaper entrance to a town near Ouarzazate, maybe I could get into the temporary exhibition for free? Je suis un étudiant. But the rest of the art is accessible, and I am short on time.

There is a queue of fellow compatriots in the airport, and I get offered some chocolate. No british politness, un geste très marocain. Thank you, we chat about time for a bit. The flight is delayed due to a storm, and everyone is keen to home. Everyone but me, I am perfectly fine here, somewhere in between Rabat – London – Kaunas.

What unites and what separates us? My head is a mess. Stuart Hall was talking about working class youth in North England, about communities and their symbolisms. To lift it up and place it on my tray table. A good deed is a good deed, no matter the language.

Mazel tov, herring bagel, a mujer with gorgeous hair passes by, she speaks spanish. A stylish guy with tattoos and a great beard smokes next to a hammam. Son cosas de la vida, writes Boroughs.

London is selling identity better than any Moroccan does his scarves. The culture of cool. This patricular meaning of ‘culture’ contains worlds, generations and govermental bodies, geopolitical locations and prices of milk each odd year.

Naked Lunch was my travel guide this time. That, and Seven Valleys of Love, book of selected works form female Iranian poets. The former is full of madness and what is the most unhuman in the human nature; a beast which we hide, each individually and communally as a society; the darkest and most resilient part of our psyche. In the latter – the simple complexity of being; the absurd depth of everyday; everything that is human. More precisely, everything that makes woman a human – also swept away from the usual societal norms.

Women and addicts. Lithuanians and Amazighs. Commodity and identity. Once again I sit here, all confused, some kilmoteres above the ground, this time the flight attendant is preparing a tea. Once again I gaze at the lights of foreign cities through my window, once again I discover some and I forget some in the mist of sensations.

[ievag-blog1]

22/03/2017 sausis

Snaigės lėtai krito jam ant pečių. Atrodė, kad jis jaučia kiekvieną iš jų, jaučia kaip jis sunksta; dar šiek tiek ir įsmigs su visu suoliuku į grindinį, kuris po mažu keitėsi iš juodo į baltą. 

Sausis, metų pradžia. 

Sausis yra mėnuo - dykuma. Niekas niekada neįvyksta sausį, atrodo kad net traukiniai išvažiuoja ir atvažiuoja tušti, paklūstantys įsisenėjusiam įpročiui.

Ir žmonės, einantys į tikslus, į kuriuos buvo įpratę eiti, niekada nekeičia jų sausį. Pergyvenę pirmų dienų pagirias ir sutvarkę tuščius, pilkus kambarius, jie užsideda paltus ir išeina atgailauti už Kalėdinį hedonizmą. 

Kai kurie sako, kad vasaris yra baisiausias metuose, ir, ko gero, tai yra tiesa. Bet baisiausias, depresijos ir nevilties persmelktas mėnuo nėra dykuma, tai pelkė - nors ir nėra nieko klampiau už nuobodulį.

Jis pasuko galvą į šoną, žvelgdamas į keletą šarkų, kažką akivaizdžiai atradusių šalia nuorūkų prie šiukšliadežės. Jos irgi įpročio vergės, tik nepanašu, kad joms tai trukdo.

Snigo vis sunkiau ir sunkiau, miesto parkas pradėjo panašėti į atvirukus iš tarpukario, ir praeivių vis retėjo. Jeigu sedėsiu pakankamai ilgai, pagalvojo jis, gal aš išnyksiu, gal tapsiu parko ir pūgos dalimi, nematomu miesto stebėtoju; gal su visu suoliuku susmigsiu į asfaltą ir mane ras tik po daug daug metų, kada savivaldybė pagaliau nuspręs perdėti plyteles.  Ir žmonės sakys: žiūrėkit! Jis buvo toks kantrus, kad pats tapo miesto dalimi. Ir žmonės rašys laikraščiuose, ir ši pūga bus įvardinta kaip smarkiausia kada nors buvusi. Visgi ne kasdien žmonės ima ir įsminga į žemę kartu su visais suoliukais.

Bet jie nesupras, kad kantrybė čia niekuo dėta. Čia dėl visko kaltas sausis, ta prakeikta dykuma ir tas prakeiktas įprotis gyventi. Čia kaltos miesto šarkos, nes stebėti jas yra malonu ir paprasta. Čia kalti traukiniai, kurie atvažiuoja ir išvažiuoja tušti. 

O jeigu taip imti ir įsėsti į vieną iš tų traukinių? Būti vieninteliu keleiviu į pietus, kur nesninga ir kur sausis būna liepą. Kur tikros dykumos visai nenuobodžios, ir kur, ko gero, net nėra šarkų. 

Jis bandė įsivaizduoti save sėdintį and suoliuko kur nors kitur, žvelgiantį į kito miesto turgaus aikštę, pilną spalvų, kvapų ir garsų. Kur įprotis gyventi yra kitoks, kur įprantama gyventi kitaip, neužmirštant. Ten, kur uostai ir labirintai, kaip Italo Kalvino novelėse, surealūs ir susipynę, koegzistuojantys viename dideliame tinkle tarp priežasties ir pasekmės. Kur stebėtojas yra suoliukas, o suoliukas yra snaigė, o snaigė yra šarka.  Mieste, kurio akmeininis grindinys nėra matęs sniego, ir sausis ateina ir praeina. Kur kalnų viršūnės lieka baltos visus metus, ir pasiklydęs keliautojas pamiršta, kad buvo vienintelis keleivis traukinyje.

Bet snaigės krenta ir krenta, ir jis supranta, kad sausį net suoliukai neįsminga - jie tiesiog nėra įpratę.

[ievag-blog1]

The Origin

“Soooo, where do you come from?”, you ask.

Oh, just shut the fuck up.

Don’t get me wrong, I know you mean well.  I do, really. That’s why, my fellow stranger, I want to tell you a story, I want to answer your question. 

But then, pretty please, never start a conversation with this question ever again.

Soooo, where DO I come from? I come from the land of tears and poets. 

I come from the land of trees and lakes; forests that stretch for miles, denser than my imagination. I come from the land that is protected by the Goddesses of Home Fire and Gods of Lightening, goblins and household spirits: some like serpents and some like dragons, some friendly and some hostile. The land of storks and blackbirds, elks and wolves, oaks and birch trees.

There, tales are still being told: about Egle, the Queen of Serpents and about twelve brothers who turned into ravens. The folk there still knows about which herb to take if you catch a cold and they can name a tree from its fallen leaf. You cannot throw out a slice of bread there; bread dark as the earth it came from. In that land, we have twelve different meals on Christmas Eve. We leave an empty seat at the table that night; a seat for them who passed away or for them who roam through a cold winter night, lonesome travellers, so they could sit down and find peace.

This is the land of fighters, this land of tears. 

The land where heroes are twofold: there were those who conquered and were called the Great, but there were also those who smuggled written word, keeping the Book alive. The heroes who went hiding in the woods, trying to fight against the oppression - echoes of their partisans songs can still be heard in empty fields and little houses, once full of life. The land where all of its children broke the chains by holding hands and singing; singing the songs of rock’n’roll and songs of poets of the past. 

The land where horrible things were done, and mistakes were made. The land where a lot of hatred is still present. The land where art was created and scientific discoveries were achieved. The land, like others, with its reality.

This was a home for many: Poles and Jews, Karaims and Romanis, Samogitians and Yotvingians. And yet again, it is opening up, slowly and steadily. Like a frightened little beast crawling out of its cave, it is already playing in the sun of its young democracy, this land of mine.

And I do not think this is the best land, or that its history is the most interesting. And I am biased, and I do not even know enough about it, really.

But you asked me where I come from. 

So, if you really wanted to know - here, this is how I would like to answer your question. 

Yet it is likely that you don’t really want to hear that, do you. You want to validate yourself by showing your awareness of the name of the capital city, at best; or prove that you are, indeed, free of xenophobia.

And I am not angry, and I am not trying to make a political statement. 

I just always feel robbed from my right to truly tell you the story of that land when you ask me so casually, leaning on the pub counter. I feel as if I was in one of those interviews where you are cut in the middle of the sentence, before you actually get a chance to explain yourself. 

Because at the end of the day, we do not come from countries, or cities, or continents. We come from homes and families, stories and experiences, legends and songs. 

So on the day of Lithuania’s independence restoration, let us restore our independence from prejudice.

[ievag-blog1]

never grow up

I am observing the lone figures of the hikers on the top of the Craigs through the window. 

The sky is slightly cloudy, yet the day that is about to end was bright. The evening is full of nostalgia for the long, sunny days full of carefree wandering, it is an evening just like those in the childhood - when you used to play outside until the bedtime.

The figures are a part of this vision: the contours are so exact, it looks like a cut-out from a book of fairytales. Like a little shadow theatre, it’s captivating in its simplicity. 

Yet the vision has it’s limitations, since there is the window between me and the mountain. Between me and the adventurers, between me and the freedom with which they are exploring. Just like characters in a book, they are on the other side of the glass.

There are rooftops and other windows on that other side as well. There is this big beautiful world, and the vastness of the sky is temptings me so. I know that there, on the other side, there are seas and islands; there are jungles full of exotic animals and there are chiefs who lead their clans through the Munros. There are also lonely travellers who discover ancient chests full of Celtic symbols which lead them to the hidden Kingdoms and there are cities underwater. There are kings and queens and there is a farmer’s daughter who conquers the evil with her clean soul and wise mind. There are beasts and there are tyrants, but most importantly, the good side always, always wins. There do not have to be any deadlines or duties or elections, and when you come home there is dinner waiting for you, and you start telling the story of today’s adventure to the all-loving ear who tucks you in warmly and you can sail away in your bed like in a ship that takes you to new lands while you are dreaming, with a lamp on the nightstand guarding the way.

But I come back, I always forget to remember I grew up some time ago. And I think of all the other people sitting behind all the other windows. There are many more mountain tops they are dreaming of - and so am I.

But those figures in the evening sky, they have conquered a mountaintop today. They are standing there, proud, with strong Scottish winds blowing into their faces. They are so strong and so free, they have left their troubles behind, for you have to be clean to face the Mountain. And they do not think about any faces behind any windows, as for them the world is under their feet at the moment, and all becomes benign and insignificant when you are living an adventure. 

I can’t wait to go outside and play.

[ievag-blog1]

Happy Birthday Janis

What about them then?

What about the rock’n’roll queens?

He was sitting in his kitchen browsing through the collection of records acquired throughout the years of collective record shop raids, Christmas and birthday gift exchanges, discoveries of the relicts from the youthful times of parents and grandparents.

Four. That was the number of female solo artists he could find. Four. Four. Four. Four.

He browsed again. And again. Should I expand it to the female vocals maybe?

Two full shelves of records: jazz, blues, pop, funk, classical, rock, country, alternative, non-definable.

Four.

Joni, Joan, Patti and Janis.

He felt pathetic. How could that be? This disgusted him. How he was never aware of that? Suddenly all the dinner conversations became so irrelevant. Was it just them? This particular household could never be accused of not being feminist. This was not about that at all, he thought. It was not about him making a political stance. Or social. Or philosophical, ideological, anthropological, logical, logical, logical. It was about him wanting diversity in his musical selection, first of all. It was about him realizing something significant he never noticed before.

Of course there were more. He was about to put on some Blondie or Beyoncé or any other, but youtube seemed like cheating, so he resisted.

The night didn’t start with any gender related topic, and it didn’t have to end that way either. Just for a change, he wanted to listen to her. A little social experiment on your own self suddenly felt so embarrassing.

Bye, bye, bye, baby bye bye – the face on the sleeve was smiling at him.

Such freedom, he thought. No accusations, no provocations, no limitations, such freedom in this voice. And such beauty in that. Beauty and freedom to sing, to create, to stand there, in front of the crowd and bleed out the essence of a human soul. We should all be doing that.

Yet somewhere along the road to discoveries of these freedoms and beauties we ended up with around a hundred records of which only four were by female soloists. Yet somewhere along the road to identity we ended up being proud of not being too terrible.

I guess, he thought, if you are that great, you don’t really need to feel proud. But also, you really have to be truly great.

Bye, bye, bye, baby bye bye, even that was more than four.

[ievag-blog1]

24/12/2016 Kaunas

I was feeling heavy. 

I needed a remedy, an escape, a consolation. I was feeling restless this Christmas Eve, pointlessly roaming the streets of my childhood home town. I was looking for something, something that would calm me down.

I was thinking about religion the day before, and the role it plays to the society, the role it plays to me. 

Was that the answer? Was church the place to give it to me? I decided to give it a try.

So heavy. I was carrying all the worries of the world. So heavy. I was not ready to accept anything, let alone the Birth of God. So heavy. So heavy.

I needed to lift that up and feel pure and light of my own worries and lies to myself. For all those times I said I don’t need to be helped when I was craving for it; For all those times when I saw others needing help and turned away; For all the uncleaned mess in the kitchen; For all those times when anger made me blind, Or jealousy, Or low self-esteem; For all those times I lied to faces that needed my lies more than anything I have given to them, ever; For all those evenings my mother was waiting for my call; For all those times I felt better than someone else; For all those times I felt worse; For all those missed opportunities to construct; For all the avoided conversations; For all the pain that was created; For me acting against a human.

I needed to do something. 

So I listened to my favourite album of Leonard Cohen in preparation and entered a church.

I sat down and looked around, for a priest or a fellow sinner, but there was no-one. I was completely alone in that enormous space that felt so sterile. I was on my own.

So I took out my notebook and confessed. 

[ievag-blog1]

Tale of the home city

Kaunas has such a character.

I don’t know if it’s just me, is it just my history or is it actually that all these faces on the street, all these routes that lead me past the buildings with their former glory echoing through broken windows seem to have so many stories to tell.

Kaunas is real; Kaunas is alive with its very own, very painful stagnation.

There is something so heartwarming and heartbreaking about this city, something that makes it its own thing, so full of local identity and genuinity that cannot be found in many places.

Kaunas is like your real life story, the one you would never tell on the first date. Or like a box of medicine that is shoved under a nicely made bed before letting that date to come in. Tt’s the backstage, it’s hidden behind the doors with ‘no entry’ in the museum of national art.

And then so many do not enter, and so many do look away.

Yet it is still there, still national and still art, and one can sense its presence while walking down the street just like one can tell there’s baggage behind the smile of a newly made acquaintance.

While other places might be saving the world, creating the global scene for literature and theatre, Kaunas is like the Nobel Prize for Bob Dylan.

Oh, but it will wake up and do something nobody expected it was ever capable of doing. It will apply to everyone, it will tackle your deepest secrets and make them rave, it will let you fulfill your most passionate dreams to open that hidden door with no entry sign on it.

If only there will be someone to let Kaunas speak.

Then, my old friend, it will be beautiful.

Then, my old friend, we will dance to the song Kaunas’ dark corners and forgotten spaces are singing.

[ievag-blog1]

15/12/2016 Cafe Chagall, Berlin

Time flows completely differently when you’re alone. It slows down. Surrounding faces become clearer, you are more aware of the separation between the I and the You, the I and the Them.

I feel so tired yet alive. It is hard for me to keep my eyes open and everything seems like a dream, as if there was this gloomy wall of mist between my body and the surroundings.  I really have to fight hard to keep on going. I wonder if it was otherwise if I wasn’t alone. Somehow this shared presence with a fellow traveller, a fellow human being makes it easier to deal with such fatigue, or weakness, or lack of sleep, or hangover, or whatever else this is.

I wonder around the area looking for a place to sit down, take out my ‘M Train’ by Patti Smith and eat something. It’s hard to keep on walking, but I don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to spend another hour on my own, in this transition between one home and another.

Finally I find it, a place I imagine Patti would be proud for me to sit in and write. Obviously, I order a cup of black coffee and take my notebook out. 

After all, how can one not write in one of the oldest cafes in East Berlin, with wooden floors and squeaky doors, paint coming off the walls and comfy armchairs, smoking allowed room and the red flickering sign saying ‘restaurant’ on the back wall.  I look around, I am not the only one scribbling. An older gentleman at the next table is sketching something in his notebook. Clearly an artist - those longing, painful, story telling eyes. 

Unfortunately, it’s time for me to leave. And as I put my change on the table, I catch myself thinking: a cup of coffee, Berlin, Patti Smith and my unbearable tiredness - we make quiet a company.

[ievag-blog1]

14/12/2016 Flat B, Berlin

How interesting are these places we decide to socialise in.

How peculiar it is for an observer, like myself tonight, to sit back and look at the faces that chat and laugh and enjoy their drinks like they have no outside world.  It’s like all troubles are left behind the closed doors of a bar, and the space finally becomes just your own self and the other face just in front of you.

And then we all expect to be entertained, whether it’s by our friends or lovers, bartenders or musicians.

Do we build everything on the ‘fun’ factor?

I clearly build tonight on jazz, and Berlin, and my glass of Tempranillo. Oh how great it feels when you manage to entertain yourself, take yourself on a date and be sufficient.

How could it not be: the music is beautiful and the wine tastes great, and the city breathes deeply and rapidly, multiple climaxes are reached in all the ways and in all the places, and you can never be alone if you are open and there is jazz.

If this isn’t a happy solitude, than I don’t know what is. If this is not cinematic, if this is not the aesthetic life that I wanted, then I don’t know what is. 

And then it hit me. Then I finally, deeply, fundamentally got it. 

I cannot have these experiences in such a deep, intimate emotional level with anybody else but myself. And that this is what we all are looking for: someplace or someone to enhance our sensitivity. Our personal relationship with ourselves.

Now I will be ready to go even further. Now this is really what I needed.  And now John Martyn, or Leonard Cohen, or many others are fully mine.

They never were yours to give to me anyway. I was never yours to return to me.

[ievag-blog1]

12/11/2016 On the bus to Portobello

Sometimes you share these moments with strangers.  With more or less strangers, or eventual strangers.

I guess we all are eventual strangers to each other.

Yet there are these moments, not all the time, not with everyone, but they exist; and they have that exceptional intimacy. Something stronger - and much shorter - than any real relationship. Maybe that’s why they are so precious, they are concentrated, and there is nothing else like that: without the fear of loss or disappointment. 

Life was turning itself upside down, all love was being killed around the globe, there was no hope.

Yet we were sitting in your bed, eventual strangers as we were, and you were me and I was you, and nothing was impossible. Except the future.  You were my momental lover, and we were oh so strong, we could have done anything at that moment. 

Of course there was no future, there was no past, there was even no distinction between the end of my skin and the beginning of yours.

There was only music and the smoke from our cigarettes. 

My occasional love, how happy I am that we didn’t get a chance to get to know each other better. How glad I am that we stopped time for a bit. You didn’t get a chance to destroy any part of me, you were there to embrace me and remind me what life is like when I mostly needed it. 

My eventual stranger, in the time of cry, in the time when hate was blackening all the horizons, you were there and you didn’t ask any questions. 

You didn’t want to be asked either.

And so we parted - with no secrets, with no facts, with no nothing. 

Yet we proved to all those loud evil voices how intense can a feeling be, even just for a night. Yet that moment we shared to the sounds of music, that perfectly content state of mind, that was our manifesto against the fear, and hate, and destruction.

My temporary hideaway, thank you for the moment of something as real as it could have been imaginary. 

Thank you for reminding me of nothing, it will echo for a while.

[ievag-blog1]

12/08/2016 to Calvin

Don’t tell me that literature is dying. Don’t tell me that the streets are empty because of you not being able to observe anymore. There is still a place and a time, people and words, we share all of those.

So don’t tell me things you don’t live by. Don’t you dare assuming life’s not like you live it. If I am here, looking at you, celebrating this moment, don’t discourage me.

And there is a street, as empty as you would’ve guessed, lamps barely lit and homeless dogs roaming through the abyss of this bleak space. 

But suddenly, your eye catches a flickering light - it always will.

[ievag-blog1]

27/07/2016 Mike’s flat, listening to Cohen

Once more, the music and other stimulations join us. 

There is no other story than this one, it’s always been this story, and you would be lying to yourself if you said you did not participate.

You are here, with all of us, with neither of us, you are us.

I feel close to this, don’t tell me you don’t.

You can’t be distant if you want to know me, if you want to be a part of my life, of this life, of the life.

Here we are, living. Without introductions, without instructions.

Learn it yourself, help yourself!

It’s all here for you, this circus has been gathered for you to enjoy and explore.

Be our guest! Drink our wine!

But there is no way out, be aware.  No exit, no seat belts, no emergency signs.

I don’t know if we choose this, or whether it was chosen or whether there is nothing at all.

But since you are here, and I am here, let us dance!

Let us celebrate our existence, our presence, our physicality. 

And don’t you run, don’t you hide, there are no better options, believe you me, just to be yourself.

And let me celebrate you!

Let me in, don’t hush.

I will be respectful, and I will listen to your inner whispers.

We all will - what was whispered in the ears will be shouted from the rooftops; no religious beliefs intended. 

[ievag-blog1]

23/07/2016 Forest

The dancing shadows of your last visit, they would never haunt me. I would like them to, but it’s all lost. They only thing that’s left is this neurological pattern I have formed, the memory of my memory, the habit.

Whenever I fill a glass of wine, alone, I am forcing myself to think of you, because otherwise there is not much left. 

My own identity, however, my own shadows, have never haunted you. Maybe they had somebody else, but what difference does it make really, at the end of the day.

At the end of the day, you take your clothes off, you wash your face, you don’t define yourself anymore. At the end of the day, it’s a perfect time for us to take a walk.  Roam empty streets, window shop, hide in the closes and behind the corners.  Drink wine on the steps of a church. Laugh and talk and be alone, outside time.

I could invent you, reinvent you.  Shape you, bend my own morals.  I could dream you, scream you, abandon myself.  I could, but I won’t. 

And hopeless are my thoughts, empty are these words, pointless is my path, sometimes.

oh I wish you asked me out just now. “I can’t do it anymore”, you’d say, “let’s do something?”.”Sure”, I’d say, “what do you have in mind?”.”Nothing special, wine and conversations, some music?”. “Sounds perfect”.

You won’t though.  And I’ll leave, and it will be the end of this day.

[ievag-blog1]

03/08/2016 Bristol

When you walk down the streets of an unknown city, you reject its identity.  It looks like Italy, you say.

I look at you and I despise that ability to connect things, to see patterns, your ability and disability to observe.

I want this to be unique, and you to be you, and experience it all again, like a new born baby,  outside any reference frames.

So relax and let it go, Let the world blow your mind and surprise you.

Detach yourself from your prejudices,  from your comfort and fear of the unknown.

Take a sip and give yourself up.

And let [this] sink in.