sobota, 19 kwietnia 2014

(Ab)so(l)u(te)l(y) Love (Syn Teza)

O -- n -- O

(Copyright © Marek Stefanowicz 2013 :o)

niedziela, 23 marca 2014

My fair well shot story


Justin Time woke up in the middle of his dream. Just in time to miss the point, before he managed to get to it. Blinked, as if trying to start the conscious thinking engine. Another blink. And another. Nothing. Only this strange feeling: a sense of helplessness and disappointment. The mystery of life won’t be solved. Again…

Justin didn’t think he was any smart. Not since American scientists (always the best in the world) had discovered that people convinced of their high mental powers usually didn’t have much reason for such claiming, while true ‘walking brains’ always underestimated their intelligence.

It was eleven o’clock. The 11th Hour. A bad bell’s ringing in his head… A clear signal in the dream was all blurred up now. But he knew he had to do something. And the deadline was today.

Failing to grasp his thoughts, he picked up the phone instead. To call his best friend. Her name was Mary Air. An absolute beauty. Large sky-blue eyes and long golden hair. And she was… very ill…

‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘I’m meeting Chris at this new restaurant in Arnold Lane.’
‘Chris who?’
‘Chris Mass. You know him. Care to join us?’


Justin was wading his way through the snow, which had easily paralyzed all London traffic. As usual.

‘Bloody global warming,' he muttered to himself sarcastically.

Of(f) course, Justin Time wasn’t stupid. Otherwise, White Young Green Plc. wouldn’t have employed him in the first place. And he wouldn’t have become, soon afterwards, their best consultant to the built and natural environment, delivering highest value for their clients on many different projects. He did realize ‘warming’ might actually mean “freezing” in certain parts of the globe.
‘Besides, cold is just another form of heat,' he thought. ‘Its opposite, to be exact.’

Mary and Chris waved from the table in the corner to greet him. Justin shook Chris’s hand and gave Mary a long, warm hug. Her face was pale and she looked even thinner and weaker than usual. His heart sank grief-stricken.

‘You alright?’ He asked concerned.
‘Not so bad,’ She lied.
‘Still dealing with those American bastards?’ Justin hated Mary’s employers: The Exxon Mobil Corporation. He called them ‘the 3F’s’: ‘fucking fossil fuels’.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You could quit,’ suggested Chris, reaching for another pint of lager. It wasn’t easy, as his huge belly kept getting in the way, making the short arm’s reach even shorter. He took a few gulps and sleeve-wiped his lips, well-hidden somewhere deep inside the long, thick, snow-white beard. ‘You always have a choice.’ He smiled vaguely, catching for breath, and winked one of his green eyes at Mary.
‘Free will?’ mocked Justin, hoping Mary will never quit. ‘Human blessing or curse?’ he didn’t ask. ‘And you seem forgetting about something.’


They talked for a while. Mary gave Justin a few reassuring smiles. He ‘inhaled’ them gladly, with his eyes closed, picturing green forests and meadows in his mind…

‘And this is all so simple,’ Justin pondered over a piece of steak on the tip of his fork. ‘We could all wake up one morning as vegetarians, using technologies in the environment-friendly ways, understanding what the sustainable development is all about, recycling every single waste….’
‘What prevents us from going for that?’ wondered Mary.
'Stupidity?’ Chris mumbled, grinning foolishly…
‘True!’ Justin patted the old fat drunkard on the shoulder. ‘If we were any clever, we would elect better leaders, strong enough to bring the global corporations to their knees… But yes, we are stupid. And we should all take responsibility for killing this planet!’
‘Relax!’ Mary laughed bitterly at Justin’s naivety. ‘Nature is stronger than human mindlessness. Nature will survive. Actually, the climatic change may not be the issue at all. Ask our grandfathers. They remember frosty and snowy winters in England. As children they used to sledge and skate here every year. Pollution, contamination and, above all, industrial civilization as such, with its materialism and consumerism, do more damage to people themselves than to nature. I mean, look at us. We are all bloody slaves.’
‘You are right,’ Justin nodded sadly. ‘We are not that powerful to destroy the planet but “smart” enough to kill ourselves…’
‘But you are all angels, aren’t you? Though some fallen… It’s about being aware… About living consciously…’ Chris raised his forefinger, with a conceited look on his drunken fat face. Himself being on the verge of losing consciousness. ‘I have a present for you…’


Justin arrived home late at night. He didn’t have to check the time to know that it was already past eleven. The faces on the  telly were trying to guess if the terror threat alert level would soon be raised from ‘severe’ to ‘critical’.
‘And what did we expect?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘How long can you exploit other nations before they start fighting you back? It was nice to build our civilization at the cost of the colonies’ economic deterioration for centuries, forgetting all about historical justice… Big mistake! Am I talking to myself?’

Justin couldn’t make up his mind who he hated more. Muslims, with their Jihad, or Americans, with their overwhelming economy, raised on graveyards of the exterminated nations – the rightful, native inhabitants of the continent – and their beautiful, ancient culture.
Now the evil-rooted US/global corporations had been successfully blocking the Kyoto Protocol for twelve years, minding nothing but their own businesses, totally careless about the biosphere, other people, future generations…
They had taken over everything, including even UK major publishing houses. Minor ones, like his favourite: ‘Dedalus’, had to collapse, facing the anti-competition, called ‘free-market globalization’.
‘What can we do?’, he thought. ‘Do we just have to let them rule the world their way? On and on? Until they kill us all? No, of course, they will not. They need us. To charge their batteries. And are we going to just wait for the hammer to fall?’

It was everybody to be blamed for making corporations so powerful. Everybody was buying their products. Everybody was following the sick and raging consumption patterns, supporting mass culture, pop pseudo-art...
‘Corporations are clever enough to make us believe to be gangsters in a ghetto full of (c)rap,' he wasn’t giving up. ‘Or some techno-party maniacs, who choose to walk down the path of white. Dancing to death in ecstasy.’

Justin disregarded dancing. His name was Time. Justin Time. James Bond never danced. Neither did John Wayne. Unless for a good reason. He thought music was meant to evoke in people something more than just a mere urge to make their bodies move ridiculously. To him, rhythm was not all that mattered.

Shortly after Syd Barrett’s death on 7th July 2006, he wanted to arrange  a festival in Cambridge in tribute to the legendary composer and musician. It was to be called ‘Syd Barrett FPM Festival’. With ‘FPM’ standing for 'Fuck Pop Music'.

It was one of his few projects that had fallen through, actually. Although Justin always did a marvellous job at White Young Green Plc., when it came to something beyond the system he simply couldn’t handle it.
‘How have I lost my spirituality?’ he wondered and produced a piece of paper which Chris Mass had wadded in his coat’s left-hand pocket. He tried to recall what the old drunkard had told him before passing out…


‘You know,' that must have been one of Chris’s final ‘mission statements’ that night. ‘It’s about being aware… About living consciously… But how can you make the lawmakers and leaders perform? And how can you make the majority comprehend? Well, it’s easy. Just use the corporations’ own methods. Dissemination. Promotion. Marketing. Propaganda…’ A dreadful cough exploded somewhere deep in his old lungs. It took him a while to get a grip on himself and continue: ‘I’ve got something for you. This is where you can find the Absolute Truth. The Big Picture. And let me tell you something. If this Truth has not become universal within months, you can forget all about 2013.’
‘Do you mean Nibiru? And its impact on our planet?’ asked Mary uncertainly.
‘I mean bloody ruin, you plonka!’ Chris burst out laughing unexpectedly. He must have been totally pissed by now. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s irrelevant if the climate change, real or imaginary, is caused by the nicking corporations, pollution, contamination, or the trajectory of Planet X or the Black Planet, or… whatever… It’s all up to us! You know? It all depends on our subconscious thinking patterns! You know! The collective sub-consciousness! We are a part of the biosphere and we all contribute to the course of the fate of this planet. We have the highest level of consciousness of all the creatures living here… Perhaps, excluding dolphins… And therefore, our thoughts are most creative and fraught with consequences. Not only for each of us but also for the whole humanity, the whole planet, the whole solar system, the whole galaxy, the whole universe…
‘So, what have you got for us?’ Justin interrupted. Somewhat anxiously.
Chris crumpled two pieces of paper. Looked at their coats lying on the spare chair at the table. Leaned forward with difficulty. Pushed one wad into Mary’s coat pocket and the other into Justin’s. Finally, rested his face gracefully on the table top. Next to the empty jug number twenty one.


Justin Time smoothed out the scrap of paper from ‘Santa’, as he nicknamed Chris occasionally, and read:
'Symphonic Bridges on'

Justin remembered Chris saying this ‘thingy’ had to be published. Otherwise the world would never be saved.
‘Can you believe it?’, he couldn’t believe it. ‘A book to the rescue!’


Five to midnight Justin Time finished reading ‘Symphonic Bridges’. It wasn’t too late yet. He jumped to his laptop and wrote a beautiful poem…


Symphonic Bridges for paper sniffers

poniedziałek, 3 marca 2014

The Changing of the Guard

'On my comma nd... Write turn!'
'Forword march!'
Won to... Won to... Won to...
'Fool stop!'
'At ease!'
No more standing to attention.
'Cease fire!'
Last bro ken words have finally abandoned me.
I AM speechless.
While the sun is rising... for...

sobota, 1 marca 2014



And the night ink writings link up lots of daily plots which ramble darkly around the spinning threads of the daylight ray-weaves every time the sun moons about the wave pulses of a bun dance to clean sing sound vibrations.


sobota, 14 września 2013

Hea ring

Everything comes in waves
Everything is a wave
A vibration

The only difference 
Between a poem and a stone
Is the frequency rate

Time is a form of space
Its opposite
To be exact

I raise my yesterday's eyes
To see tomorrow

I take a look
And don't I look as good
As I can listen to

my mu sic