This is what dreams are made of. This is where dreams are made.

SYL 1

There is this playmate i remember from childhood. She had this little sister. I meet her and ask ‘so how old is your little sister now?’ “28” she answers. I take a moment to figure if someone aged 28 can be referred to as anyone’s little sister at all. And then we have lunch outside their house together with their parents. Her dad prepares snacks made of sliced cactus. The snacks have eyes. You have to devour them quickly, otherwise they will bite you with their sharp cactus beaks. And then I find myself sitting in the back of a gallery watching the radio city christmas spectacular or the nutcracker arm to arm with my once beloved. I am wearing my pretty black dress and my eyes are smiling. I take a moment to think if there in fact is any difference between ‘once beloved’ and ‘beloved’. Perhaps the distance between two human beings once miraculously shortened to zero, can never be undone. I take another moment to think about how wonderful we are. Made of adventurous, star-gazing spirits, glorious and righteous hearts and beautiful, chemistry-propelled, spark-inducing flesh. And how much more beauty shines upon us only by having a ‘you’ and a ‘me’ inscribed in each other’s blueprints. And then there is a lot of water. Some steam perhaps. And human voices wake us and we drown.

Fast forward to:

I’m onstage, wearing a traditional Polish folk costume, surrounded by a dozen women. After a while I notice that they are all in their late 60’s and look down on me with contempt. The lights go up, the curtain opens and I suddenly realize that I have no clue what the choreography is for this gig.

Fast forward to;

I’m walking in the mountains in winter, wearing a ball gown. I hail a horse-drawn carriage and ask the driver the way to my university, as I am just about to go back to school. On my way; with the snow reaching up to my knees I am hesitating between German Studies and Social Sciences.

Fast forward to:

All the people in New York are commuting to work by water-scooters and water-skateboards. I can fly and my father is a world champion in dancing merengue.

Fast forward to:

S is throwing his birthday party. S is French . At the party his girlfriend, who is Japanese, is serving pork loin a la Varsovie and Polish dry sausage. Having served those she starts playing the piano. She’s playing a Mazurka. T shows up and starts dancing with me, but I mess up Mazurka with Polka, so T says “Sylwia, chill. It’s a Mazurka! It’s not jumping, it’s like walking.” The girl switches to playing a famous Michael Jackson song called “In my little garden” and everybody knows the lyrics, but me. The Bolivian guests know the lyrics, the Greek ones know them too, the Koreans, the Germans and the French are all singing along. The girl’s brother steps forward and starts to sing a famous Bonnie Raitt song, called “Without food and obligations”, and then KM steps forward and screams on top of her lungs “Hey everybody! AH just married a flight attendant!” In the meantime I am painting a birthday picture for S. I’m painting three heads, one of which is mine. The painting is round and is meant to be installed inside a bathroom wall. When you turn on the tap; the heads are moving.

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