The ever-swept pavement paths randomly spread across the whole neighborhood. Simply darting off in sporadic directions, only to come suddenly to an abrupt end by a street, flower stand, tree or some monument. With no sign, gate or dedicated crossing. It just looked like each path led to one particular thing. Like it was not meant to guide you on a walk, like it was not meant to help you get from point A to point B. Like getting you to that particular monument was its main and only goal.

If you had ever been led astray by such a path, you either had to turn back, try and find another way or, like all the locals did, just go around the monument, making your own path.

One could say it strengthened the will and spirit – after all you had to be brave enough to go your own way. But for me, it was just ugly. After some time, all the new, different paths tended to blend into one messy trail of mud and footprints on the ever-wet lawn that could swallow your leg up to your ankle. A disgusting sign of repetition in 21st-century human life. After all, each of us goes and goes, in the same directions several times a day. Heading for the same bus stops, the same shops and the same parking lot.

But do not even let me get started with the parking lot. Finding a place to park a car in the near proximity of the blok was nearly impossible. It felt like some kind of rerun of an unfunny reality show that no one asked for. But even if you managed to notice a decent spot, you had to maneuver through narrow passages between poorly parked cars, as their owners did not care at all about the others that could use the common space of the blok’s parking lot. I was always glad I did not have to participate in the regular commute that could put your whole life on hold for several hours.

Instead, I just stayed home and ordered everything to be delivered to my doorstep. I valued my time too much to bother going grocery shopping. It also helped me enjoy my breaks at work, which I had used for running errands and clocking my working day in the past.

Now the breaks were counted by the bells of the nearby church instead. They noted every hour of my day, disturbing my work every sixty minutes. But I did not mind it at all. It reminded me to stand up and go stretch on the balcony. I had heard it is good for your back. So I liked it. But it was not that good for my sanity. Whenever I wanted to hang out on the balcony, I had to brace myself first, to somehow restrain the anger welling up every time I saw the Stain. The deaf and mute evidence of the upstairs neighbor’s impunity. The ugliest thing in the entire blok or maybe even in the entire city. Long, wind-stricken lashes of ashcan water covering a small but ever-visible part of a wall. From any place you chose on the balcony, you had to acknowledge the Stain. I wondered if that upstairs barbarian would ever face the consequences for what he did to this poor wall.

On Sundays, the main purpose of the church bells changed drastically. Instead of measuring my back-stretching breaks, they gathered the faithful prayers. Sometimes, if the wind blew the right way, I could hear the gospels over my favorite series I had been binging on recently.

Poland had always been a very religious country. Zealous, as some could say, with its’ benighted mentality and a total lack of diversity. But this religious zeal, on the other hand, could help the people believe in miracles. In those every once-in-a-while moments you believed your decisions mattered, like voting for a politician that will change something for the better. This time for sure.

But Sundays, by the way, were a completely different thing – in the park next to the blok, old and wrinkled babcias wearing their fanciest clothes reserved specially for Sundays hatched out of their cocoon flats. They feasted on all kinds of rumors and covered all the benches in the tree shadows, from which they could see everything that happened around the blok. They avoided the benches bathed in the scorching, mid-summer sun, though. They were afraid of them, as if the slightest sunray could give them a heat stroke.

Generally speaking, the warm and sunny days were manageable. Especially throughout the spring, when the whole landscape looked just a little more friendly with all kinds of flowers springing from trees and bushes. Now, with summer coming, the heat was gradually getting out of hand. It was unbearable. Omnipresent concrete, metal sheets and cheap, melting asphalt retained heat horribly well, driving temperatures up to unimaginable levels. Although summers lasted long, they always ended suddenly, almost abruptly. Tree leaves, arrogant in their green grace, tended to fall to the ground almost overnight. It was easy to miss, especially while focusing on work and not leaving home. The last part was crucial for surviving the coming winter with its awful, toxic air.

(…to be continued…)

Transadaptation Volume 5 – Of Flowing Vicissitudes

January: The Night the Stars Stopped Shining – Sarah-Leah Pimentel (South Africa)

February: Three Sides to Every Story – Krisztina Janosi (Hungary)

March: Rain Trap – Adriana Uribe (Columbia)

April: Priorities – Narantsogt Baatarkhuu (Mongolia)

May: The Night in Heaven – Armine Asryan (Armenia)

June: Witches Don’t Burn – Alejandra Baccino (Uruguay)

July: A Regular Flat – Mateusz Tymoszewski (Poland)

August: Many Happy Returns – Svetlana Molchanova (Russia)

September: And Now, It Will All Go Downhill – Jonay Quintero Hernandez (Spain)

October: Planet Qirim – Anastasiia Leonova (Ukraine)

November: You Are Her, Aren’t You? – Seyit Ali Dastan (Turkey)

December: Culture Shock – Veronika Groke (Austria)

Background – Context

Transadaptation Volume 4: Material Dissent – Adulthood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2023)

Transadaptation Volume 3: Evanescent – Young Adulthood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2022)

Transadaptation Volume 2: Conceived – Childhood Transadapted, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2021)

Transadaptation Volume 1: In the Middle – Prelude to a Contemporary Transadaptation, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2020)

Peripatetic Alterity: A Philosophical Treatise on the Spectrum of Being – Romantics and Pragmatists by Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2019)

La Syncrétion of Polarization and Extremes Transposée, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2019)

The Codex of Uncertainty Transposed, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2018)

L’anthologie of Global Instability Transpuesta, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2017)

From Wahnsinnig to the Loony Bin: German and Russian Stories Transposed to Modern-day America, (eds.) Angelika Friedrich, Yuri Smirnov and Henry Whittlesey (2013)

Emblems and stories on the international community

Perception by country – Transposing emblems, articles, short stories and reports from around the world

Credits

Background image: Poland – Residential building of communist era – uslatar (Shutterstock)

Top row (from left to right): 1. Tomaszow Mazowiecki, Poland – Commuting – WrS.tm.pl (Unsplash); 2. Warsaw, Poland – On the street – Grand Warszawski (Shutterstock); 3. Tomaszow Mazowiecki, Poland – Residential bloks 2 – WrS.tm.pl (Unsplash)
Center image: Warsaw, Poland – The intersection – Grand Warszawski (Shutterstock)

Bottom row (from left to right): 1. Warsaw, Poland – Residential bloks – Tomek Baginski (Unsplash); 2. Ustronie Morskie, Poland – Residential buildings – Marekusz (Shutterstock); 3. Warsaw, Poland – On the street – Grand Warszawski (Shutterstock)

Source: The Codex of Uncertainty Transposed