February 11, 1989 (Saturday)
The philosophy I discovered a few days ago, like a mist, obscures a seemingly already formed image. Things look different than before. Yesterday and the day before, they were alien; today, they are almost identical to me. Navigating life's labyrinth of objects, phenomena, and events, I feel almost as if I were reviewing my own attributes.
The morning was very pleasant. My mother didn't bring up yesterday's conversation about my father. Fortunately, because I hate crying over being dumped by the man she sacrificed everything for. Right after breakfast, as is her custom, she went for a walk. She didn't even ask if I wanted to go out with her. She probably didn't want me to feel pressured into going out just because we hadn't had a fight yet.
However, after half an hour, I left too. I decided to call Bogdan from a telephone booth. The nearest one is by the school; it's about five hundred meters away. Right next to the booth, children were making a slide on the packed snow. Despite my caution, I did quite a somersault there. Lifting my aching butt, I saw the smiling figure of a snowman standing right in the middle of the booth, looking as if he were hiding from the frost. His snowiness completely filled the space. To complete the effect, the joker had attached a real phone to his white paw. For a moment, I debated whether to snatch the phone from the snowman or head to the post office. The pain in my butt and back told me to take the phone away, that I wasn't in the mood for jokes, but my love for such slightly surreal ideas was stronger than it.
There were already more people at the post office willing to use the phone. Besides me, there were three others. A woman in her sixties, behind whom I was standing in line, turned around and grumbled that the fat man had been talking for over ten minutes. I didn't say anything, but hearing these words made me regret my respect for human humor and the use of snowmen for such purposes.
When the sixty-year-old finished her call, I silently prayed that my time learning patience in the queue would be rewarded by finding a friend. I inserted tokens, checked my dialing, and waited... The connection came through! But instead of the traditional, "I'm listening, Bogdan Żur is on the phone," I heard a conversation between two strangers. What should I do? Two men were being unceremonious with each other on the phone. Should I intervene? Shame on them for their conversation?
In a flurry of insults, I suddenly heard one saying to the other, "...you idiot..." I thought: aha, that idiot...—I mean, I was right to come to the post office—if he's still talking. I hung up and tried again.
This time, it worked. Bogdan answered the phone. I asked what was up. He said my voice was almost unrecognizable—then he seriously explained that he constantly explains to his friends that time, space, and matter don't exist. His gift for persuasion even made one of his friends want to jump out a window upon hearing this. Bogdan had to remind him that, according to this philosophy, not only is there no window—but also, there's no one to jump out of it! Recalling this incident, he added in a disappointed voice that he hadn't expected it would be so difficult to explain the "Impression" to others.
Furthermore, a moment later, I was forced to listen to his utter astonishment at the fact that the average person, lacking modern knowledge, nor the ability to imagine a universe as infinite or finite, would ultimately, following their common sense, MUST negate space, matter, and time! "He says it's incredible, and he's still amazed that an ordinary person has to reach such conclusions today! But then he adds bitterly, something like this: So what! So what, when my colleague's example shows that even when we offer such a person a line of reasoning that he could have carried out himself, he, even understanding the individual aspects, is by no means able to connect them in a single flash of thought, and all together they again become to him like this finite or infinite cosmos!" Finally, quite exasperated, he concludes: "Damn it, the average person is probably even more average than we thought!
I'm not such a pessimist. Besides, I can't be! But more on that another time."
The second topic of conversation was the moment when we changed in an instant and were like bogeymen to each other. He said he still has those worms crawling out of my head in his mind.
The third motive was...—to be honest, I don't remember. As I shuffled my feet in the cold, I only thought about when he would stop talking.
February 12, 1989.
I walk the streets of Stargard Szczeciński, and I think that this world is mine! These times are mine! They, the passersby—they all belong to me! I can finally look at them as much as I want—savor the experience!
February 13, 1989.
Since I left technical school last year, and then my job in the mine, which was a three-month stint—I now have a lot of time—which, of course, doesn't exist anyway. The comfort is illusory, because the eternal present moment creates the impression that from a space that doesn't exist, something like a mother's voice is emerging...—a voice urging me to look for a job that, damn it, isn't there—some kind of job—in the city of Stargard, which also doesn't exist!
But, but...! - But considering the imaginary consequences of ignoring the supposed voice of my supposed mother, i.e., the successive impressions, I have no choice but to feel that I am walking around this city and asking for a job. However, wherever my impressions take me, I encounter followers of my very philosophy. And it's hard to blame them for answering my question about work—they answer that there are no jobs!
*
I won't comment on philosophy itself, but I know that no one will convince me that my philosophy is useless in everyday life. The philosophy of "impression" means that when I hit my head and feel pain, I automatically convince myself that it's merely a momentary impression, which in turn produces an effect I'll tentatively call reclassification. At that very moment, pain ceases to be understood in the old, almost material and tangible sense as the result of a certain phenomenon—and becomes an abstract and elusive component of the moment in which it occurred. – A component, I won't say that it doesn't cause any physical suffering at all, but it certainly becomes easier to bear.
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