Part I of a SUBBA member's story by Weronika Zalewska
Subbacultcha people are creatives, and we thought it was about time we started sharing some of their work. Every month we ask one of our members to create; a text, a photo shoot, a video, a poem, a story. We give them the freedom to make something of their liking, and we provide a canvas for sharing it, right here. First up is Weronika Zalewska, who, just two months ago, took over a room and SUBBA membership when she moved to Belgium.
Her poetic story Three tails of womanhood recounts that which we drag inside of ourselves; a story on gender and its status within the culture we were born into. It’s autobiographical, abstract, and connects us to the women of the Universe, the streets, the jungles, the rivers and their own moments of weight(lessness). Read on for a contemplation on the symbolic time of female confessions, allowing us to unfold in front of each other and providing us with a mirror to reflect upon experiences of femininity.
Fake flowers stand embedded into the green foam
once tucked in with a rapid hand-move
perhaps with a hand of a robot
yet lifeless, whatsoever.
At the end of the world, in a cheap room for two,
I live alone
immersed in the garden without fresh odours
without damp, rapidly growing grass
without your sticky skin
or ants navigating the maze of hair on belly, legs and crotch.
that bear a strange red glow
I remember as reflection in the eye
during children’s church litanies
bowed with the heavy load of synthetism
begging to cut the strains of their tedious stagnation
like the women kneeling down on the heavy floors
of after-hour churches filled with the bait over shameful thoughts.
Strange, this place
unrestrained by the memory
of unhappened belly-strechmarks,
only because it doesn’t know my story.
I dream of letting go
going back to the lightness
of spaces bathing in unfaded red
the first-handed blood of youth
from hemen not foetus
that would rest on my skin in vulgar gentleness
pulled out from the world of David and his dwarfs
swinging in strange lack of gravity.
Known to us too well
as the uncle who pulls a grown woman by her braids of childhood
thinking that despite the changes in the body she still trots it in the same empty spot
in the lack of fantasy known only by women
whose obvious beauty sure prevails curiosity
whose fertility decisions depend on the size of apartments
and the wish to keep the narrow hips, tight tunnels,
that disrespectfully spit out tradition
through the legs of public property.
Instead giving another new-born baby
with the same faithful burden
you gifted us with.
And when I smell the dust on these
disgustingly fake roses
that remind me of cemetery visits the feast of the dead in eastern Poland
where graves are packed so tightly that
to pass through you need to step on the sleepy limbs
and where grey cries are the dresscode.
I want to escape
on the sweaty street, on a wet lawn, on an empty road
where can I find the presence, which will be more than
Those that never ask questions
but just in the
of shouting it aloud
uncovering my two-months of layers
I hear a knock, and through glazed door I see two men
gazing at me with the desire to smell the fresh sweat of youth
that I no more carry
the fertility of which I know too well.
Attempted to be grabbed
by the impulses of typical materialists
excused by patriarchats
that can still call women
wishing to be taken by the night.
While it wants everything that paints itself free
that managed or even had the chance to be so
without the men that now put the hands sticking to the glass on their temples
just like those who, seeing the lights out, want to see if the store still runs open
perhaps hoping they can still come in
or simply curious of life after hours, which goes on without them.
And I dry up from all the juices, unable even to touch a scream
juices, to take me away from these heavy skimpy weights
as it´s not the first time a man wants to
for the fantasies traveling in the world in lightness
for many, exposing strayness
which does not want to give the advantage
of stray dogs becoming puppets
abandoned after a play of a few hours.
And while I’m doomed to a body
which supposedly should not go out into the night air by itself
I’m still spreading anger
because lonely dance, lonely night in the forest, lonely mountain walk
should not be lonely.
And appears as the modern temptation of Adam
that attracts with a seeming independence
The terrifying lightness
one can try to shake off with a heavy hand
perhaps God’s punishment.
For once unborn child
because another child needed freedom
to truly become a human
the world can take anything from.
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