Ivan Šamija

It was the gardening of a superficial layer. A strict forbiddance of every chthonic alchemy. The growing of a separation as the only allowed displacing of lust. I would mount the sharp vibration of a smile into the scene of a postponed encounter. And in that way I would only thicken that sharpness. Into the sharpest encounter. Sharp and short like a burst with which German soldiers shot Polish postmen.

Polish ploughlands are like a grave. Yet the fog that enfolds them like a protective foil does with an unripened preserve simply won’t dissipate and mark the burial place for me. In the coldest winter nights I huddle into a wain full of tubers. Potatoes or beetroots, it depends on how much past I can survive that night.

For this experiment I had to falsify evolution. The weightless drops of the first spring rain slowly roll down the fern leaves and call on philodendrons, the lowest class of vegetation of the Brazilian rain forest, a scene of the accident from which I escaped to Poland. That is why in Poland I suppressed the evolution of fern and monocots, deleted uneven flower formulas. The only allowed place of solitude in Poland is tamed by the soft wallpapers of a guest room. Solitude melts inside warm porcelain cups and evaporates into literature. All that I don't possess here, the spring flood of growth within the window frame, I paired in order to prevent the horror of an encounter with the alien solitude of nature, that eerie pain of bone marrow corroded by acid that flows through our body when into our gaze, which is lazily welling out over the green bottom of a rain forest, plunges a bloody torch of bloomed bromelias. Poland is an ethereal dome, widely overhanging life like the thin cell wall of a tropical greenhouse at the botanic garden. But an evolutional censorship conducted in the beginning of Poland makes her structure porous. Every inch of every non-invented forest is thicker and filled with more content than the entire Poland. In the atrophic evolutionary tree of Poland the branch of saprophytic bacteria never grew, thus the dry fallen leaves never rot here, they pile up from autumn to autumn and slowly bury this experiment.