In December of 2002 a needy friend of mine ‘made’ me go snowboarding, my head hit ice (leaving a bowl-shaped dent in the slope) and days later, after some partying, a fiery girl with naturally vivid orange hair (her mother used to tell her she was a witch) called and called on a Sunday morning. I had promised to go to brunch with her, and she knew I was sleeping.
Back in the day my father and his brothers were famous. We came from Czechoslovakia, and in 1981 my sisters, parents and I left our furniture behind. Somewhere in Hungary my dad stopped the car: in the woods he buried the papers we’d needed to get past the first border. At the Hungary / Austria border the Hungarians let us through. The Austrians held us up, passing around our papers. We abandoned the green Mirafiori in a random parking lot and we waited all day, for people my father called from a payphone. I remember nothing of this. I do have early memories, but of this all that is left is a feeling, a welling up from way inside.
My body had shut down. In the background of my dream I heard a ringing. The second call elbowed its way to the front of the stage. By the time the phone rang a third time I knew who was calling. I remember being deep inside my mattress — to wake up I had to reach up and pull myself out of the hole. Afoot beside my bed I looked at the digital clock by the phone. It was 11:08. My head shut down.
These days, I live in Berlin. ‘Tbh’ my life is a bit shit but my connection to art is well and alive.
Not too long ago I was talking to a writer. She had just finished reading at an event. Lose enough, I responded, no hesitation. That which matters for a person writing, had been the subject in question. The losing part isn’t necessarily true, I told myself later. I was wrong. You have to find a way to leave. Sadness isn’t a must.
My headaches lasted for five years (each and every sober hour). Then I walked away from money I didn’t need and the pain began lifting. It was one of the most amazing things I’ve experienced.
There’s a lot more to say, but then we’d be getting close.
And that was the bio story I sent to the guy who referred me to this site. He’d said that maybe we could pass my story along to some connection of his. He’s American. I like him. Art and the market for him are inseparable. There are a lot of creatives like him (some very famous — like the Québécois playwright, Robert Lepage, of whom I don’t know all that much, though recently I’d noticed he’d had problems with a politically incorrect piece, something he’d clearly written with marketability in mind).
Anyway, he kindly turned down my bio story. Said there’d be too much editing and re-editing to do on it (one of two gatekeeper poetry publications in French Canada — where I grew up — have clear rules in their submission guidelines, mentioning corrections and re-corrections to the text — a very Jesuit approach to art).
My friend’s response made me smile. Though, like I said, he did refer me to Medium (this very online site).
