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DORMI(S)TORY
A Warsawian night between a dream and a beer
| montandon (WARSZAWA). I just woke up from another of those funny lucid dreams where you are in control of most of your conscience and able to actually comment on it as it is unfolding in front of your third eye.
A Polish beer helps me to get a hold on reality and to recognise that I don’t have time to sleep no more.
The four fellows that were extreme downhill skiing with me a few minutes ago are now jamming the guitar in the room next door — despite that all dreamy illusion has faded by now I am happy for them still hanging out close to me. From the hallway just outside my friend’s door I hear, thinly pouring in, the usual whispering ghost voices of the students that prefer doing their dishes at midnight. You hear their trotting steps echoing from the hallway with its many doors — reminding me of a heavenly gate passage every time I’d finish a smoke at the window of inspiration.
I came here as a traveler to visit a friend I’ve known for a year. The Polish students all seem to be highly motivated, something you rarely accuse Western students of. Poland is on the edge of a desaster: especially the young know that there is no future without a well educated mind. Obviously they try to do their best and leave their country. That is no support to the State, but like everybody else in Europe they got caught by the greedy money bug — the most wicked disease of all. I am two thirds into my beer! The rooms here are relatively small, I am shocked to see that up to three people live cramped together in here. Sometimes you hear someone cooking in the kitchen or showering, however, usually the thing here is dead quiet.
As the Polish beer is quite strong I think I am closing this piece soon. In between the old ladies at the surveillance office and the scrubwomen, the smoking manual workers and the beautiful polish girls, I find myself trapped in a small white room with one window and one door. The informal football game outside has come to a stop, the washing up is done and the ski trippers are asleep. One last slamming door, a piercing yell through the night — and the story is over.