Kraków Day 3…
Flat ground lends itself to recall
And so takes me to a place
I need to know…
Walk south away from the centre, down ul.Wielicka and after 30 metres turn right onto ul.Jerozolimska. In 100 metres you are here.
I begin to wander through the wide fields,
long grasses, echoes and upturned stones. Remnants of the camp look to me like dirty old teeth.
I take off my sandals and let the sharp needles of dry grass that are growing between the scattered gravestones, slowly and deeply prick the soles of my bare feet.
The hot wind traps, carries, extinguishes and calls.
A voice suddenly says ‘Hello, I am from Canada , have you been to Auschwitz? What lense is on your camera?’
There is no one else around us in this place.
The same person walks towards me when I return back to the old town, and some time later appears again at the next table to me in a small cafe…
A small game, but not mine. The Canadian man with the Polish accent…
Kraków Day 2
The light on the wooden floor
this morning as I open my eyes
surprises me.
Torch, slit, rod, an opening…
The ceilings here are high and the floor warm.
There is a shift of balance within my body.
It feels safe
and delicious.
I notice there is little neon light in the city.
Lighting like the sound exists at a level of elegant hush.
Today flat ground induces walking without stopping
And I am covering streets,
paths, riverside,
the old communist department store, all five floors.
They are all running into each other
and I am running
into myself.
And so I decide to take a 1.30pm flight to Kraków…
A short exploratory trip connected to connecting, genetic memory, listening, walking, and touching the ground…
Day 1
I stay still and listen to the the shifting sounds of distant trams
and the repetitive slicing of old stones
vibrating through the thick walls from the building next door.
Walking through the city streets, echoes from the darkness of the stone arches, upholstered chairs and curtains provide a false hush. These drawn intimacies seem to act as intimate buffer zones across the city and its hidden spaces…
In a small market, low tarpaulins and voices are lowered, so as not to bruise the soft fruits and hand strained curds. I buy raspberries and carry them home like a child. My footsteps become gentle and soft too, as the act of carrying dictates the movement. Or maybe I am tempted to suddenly run, and let the berries crush red on the pavement…
Twilight…thin smoke twirls upwards from a thin cigarette on the next table, and meets with dust rising from the digging of a patch of dry soil in front of me. They are seemingly having their own conversation. Smoke and dust mingle.
Here, everything is written, yet there is an almost visible whisper that coats the past…I can hear it when I touch the ground with my hair…
