środa, 14 stycznia 2026
poniedziałek, 12 stycznia 2026
MU
Flowered tapestry stretched from the house by the dunes to the horizon, lashed by the moonlit glow pouring from his woman’s eyes. Who was she? Who was he? These questions are unnecessary and misguided, these questions are as boring as the evening news and as puffed‑up as daisies in pudding. No one knows who they are, who they will be, who they were. We have only the names of control. When we step outside our own, seemingly our own, yet in truth system‑imposed identity, we’ll understand that inside there is nothing. There is the wind that speaks with the dead and the spirit that speaks with the living, there is one transmission of night and one transmission of day, fair and square – while politicians and priests knead their lies on other, less obvious frequencies, and then those who believed their name was Adam or Eve nod their heads, pray to their little altars, and go to sleep soothed by television babble.
Nothing is as obvious as he is, when all you need is another shot of space, and the flowered tapestry stretches from the house by the dunes to the horizon, repeating its patterns into infinity, toward the rising or setting sun, because by the sea everything is the same – light, vibration, wave, sound. No one counts time, no one looks at a calendar, no one wears watches. His woman sighs. Who was she? Who was he? Who are we even talking about? Are we talking about that sixteen‑year‑old lost in the sand, or the eighteen‑year‑old lost in him? Are we talking about ego or soul, salvation or doubt, finding or losing? How many waves and vibrations are there in a single second of her sigh, and who records the tapes of dawn? How many questions of identity, what is identity, what is the “it” you call “yourself”? Who are you? Why are you reading this? Why do you watch TV and listen to the radio? Why do you buy tapes of your favorite performers? Who are they? The pseudonym “Elvis” carved into a ribcage with a butcher’s knife, the pseudonym “love,” the heart symbol, another teenage song sprayed as graffiti on her fence?
There was a Doors logo there and postcards of Morrison eating a watermelon, I remember it well. There was some Adam and some Eve, there was something in the yard of the town’s only elementary school. There were tastes, glasses, gears. There were bicycles. There was something or someone, or somehow it spoke to the source. And now what is there? The pseudonym of the flowered tapestry stretching to the horizon, the concert on the pier, the lost pair of trousers, or the cracked lens of blue hippie sunglasses. We’re talking about a crime against identity. About the cruelty of names. Wait, who’s “we”?
Yesterday I dreamed that Brian Jones and I were riding the New York subway, sharing songs we never managed to write in everyday life. In dreams everything happens faster, like in London. And London is another dream. Dreams within dreams, repeats the hallway alarm clock, clattering out the first bars of Pink Floyd’s “Time.” But time is not a curse, it is an illusion. You and here everything is an illusion. You and here everything is wind. You and here everything is silence and the storm of morning in lilies. I once wrote songs about lilies, by the sea, in that very house by the dunes, on an old classical guitar with a “Nalepa” sticker. When two 64‑page notebooks filled up, I decided to throw them away. They weighed too much, like identity, the snake skin you must shed.
And so I splashed my way to the source. There were no snakes, no hippies, no lilies, no dunes, no songs – there were crystals of night and Brian Jones whispering in my ear, “let’s add flutes there, a whole mass of flutes.” Maybe we both had a flute phase, maybe we were meant to meet in that dream – and it wasn’t my dream – it was a transmission of day, straight from New York, specifically from the subway. In the subway you will meet yourself, if you discard the Adams and Eves, the ID cards, the numbers, and the random encounters to which you assign meaning.
Wait, who is writing this? Who is reading this? Who is who and what is what, when nothing remains but the wind. If it blows too hard, the dunes will wash into the sea, and the old ancient Mayan concrete will exhale from beneath the sand. Concrete that doesn’t appear in history textbooks, and a history you won’t hear at a seaside bonfire. Who lit the bonfire, why are naked women dancing? My secret name was revealed to me, and his woman is already asleep. Who was she? Who was he? Maybe me, the sixteen‑year‑old from the beach, or maybe some other kid on vacation. Or maybe the punk bassist from the concert across the way. They really played there! Concrete washed into the ocean by a single Black drum, Mu rises from the bottom. Mu is full of songs. Mu is always you and here. Mu is always where the source is – the mirror of wind, Mu, mirror of wind. Mu’s mirror, wind, Mu’s mirror.
"The Desert Shore of Darłowo"
Flying saucers flew into the town from the direction of the port. I didn’t really see them; I only heard a sound like in an old cartoon—piercing, high, and sudden. In my hippie days I often imagined flying saucers while smoking weed and watching Scooby Doo, and the cartoon sometimes showed aliens too. My naïve mind didn’t know any other entertainment back then. In fact, even then I already knew—or rather felt—that there was some kind of holiness in the weed, something beyond entertainment, church, and humanity, but most of my buddies smoked it as an addition to Scooby Doo, which was probably healthier and more human than sacralizing the plant.
The plant, anyway, isn’t the most important thing in my story. There are flying saucers, after all. Them, and the girl.
The girl swears she saw them, and although she had taken LSD once, on the day the saucers appeared she was completely and undeniably clean. She wasn’t prone to fantasizing, though it was precisely her incredible imagination that magnetized my heart to her refrigerator. We called her Moog “the fridge.” She was the only owner of a Moog in the entire seaside area. I urged her many times to record an album, but she claimed that any medium kills the eternal reverb of electronics.
She also smoked enormous amounts of weed, and I met her at a Moskwa concert, when—completely drunk—she collapsed onto my lap and slurred, “What’s your name?” Adam, I replied. Ewa, the stranger introduced herself, though of course her real name was something else entirely—Agata.
I don’t remember the concert very well, but years later I recall with some amusement the rumor that I jammed with the legendary Moskwa that day. Possibly, though Agata doesn’t remember it either. I’d have to ask Malejonek, but he probably doesn’t talk to anarchists anymore. He played a great concert in Darłowo with some acoustic project, and I think he even left me an autograph.
But I moved so many times that even my Wah Wah has vanished without a trace, let alone autographs on scraps of paper or equally fleeting, often‑borrowed records. Maybe Agata is right about her Moog and the reverb of electronics. Maybe some elusive things are better left in the realm of elusiveness, like the white butterflies released in Hyde Park in memory of the elusive Brian Jones.
Some things are, or become, legend, and time works like the sea, polishing boulders into sand. With a bit of luck, a small pebble will remain after us, taken by a child from the beach to a big city, or sand where the desert meets the ocean.
As Nico sang, we’ll meet on the desert shore. She’s already there, waiting with a million stories to tell, accompanied by her harmonium—just as Agata has her Moog.
Agata is still alive, and she has just seen the saucers. She says they weren’t particularly spectacular, and she’s not sure, but it seems to her they landed on the eastern part of the beach, and that maybe it would be worth checking.
So I dressed as fast as I could—meaning I threw a coat over my pajamas—and ran past the dunes. It wasn’t far at all. I noticed a greenish‑gold light behind the farthest dune and the last pine. Something serious was definitely happening here; the light trembled in the sea breeze, and the weather itself felt slightly unreal for the middle of winter on the Baltic coast.
And finally, indeed, I see those damn ships. Or rather—judging by their size—exploration capsules. They emanate light, as if from some extraterrestrial radiation source. I walk closer, and I wake up.
I see the soothing greenish lights of the Moog, and Agata is playing and singing, “Hare, Gandzia, Hare.” My first song. I thought it was ephemeral and had already dispersed into the Universe somewhere between the realm of dreams, nightmares, and hopes. It didn’t have much text, but it had a lot of space for an intergalactic synthesizer solo.
I open the local newspaper; I don’t see any strange news. But I remember the saucers, so I ask Agata about them, and she replies with stoic calm that a beautiful Nordic blonde brought her that melody.
Right, I mutter—too much LSD. I, on the other hand, must have eaten too much canned meat, my only meal during long winter days by the beach. What kind of anarchist am I if I eat meat? Meat is substance, and dreams, hopes, and nightmares wait just behind the illusory screen of reality until we decide to reach for them.
I wish I remembered the lyrics—I’d join Agata, and she would once again become the nameless Ewa I met at the Moskwa concert. Time would stand still, or rewind to my “year zero,” and Scooby Doo would solve the mystery of the flying saucers in Darłówko.
But utopias don’t exist, because their natural consequence is dystopia, so the cartoon character will never investigate what lies hidden in that beach. And there are billions of stories of billions of years there, from which I choose one pebble and keep polishing it. One day it will become Neptune’s ring.
But that’s a distant planet, and the Nordic visitor didn’t leave instructions for the ship. Still, I believe that with her web of sound, Ewa and Agata will find the right connections and activate the Moog as the ship’s control panel.
The ship is buried a bit further east, the capsules still wait on their trembling note of light, and we have all the time in the Universe.
So let’s sing cheerfully by the hippie bonfire: “Hare Gandzia, mmm, Hare Gandzia Hare.”