Watering home flowers, greeting neighbours, cleaning out the cat’s toilet – these are all magnificent phenomenons of the human condition. Automatic and invisible, like how Vanda is shielding from sunlight breaking through her curtain stronghold. We rarely strive, but always want to touch everything that is outside of us: living nature, dying creature, loving animal, devastating person. All the same, but their texture changes everything. Peanuts have nothing in common with peanut butter in terms of taste. I don’t propose to lick stones and people's skin, but you've already done it, haven't you?
Floating gibberish, I agree. We are all trying to fill empty spaces, while something interesting will happen in Vanda’s room. Oh, here it is! No, we missed it. Nonetheless, she’s fixing the angle of wall paintings: her dog, her family back in the 90s, her favorite Sartr’s book, which does not even exist. She drew its cover, when she was spending hours in her father’s library. He was reading silly books, trying to understand silly things: from quantum laws (isn’t it an oxymoron in itself?) to esoteric knowledge of women around him. Yet Vanda always liked that he kept only one cooking book, retrieved from a cheap garage shop. It never developed his chief skills, but he was beautiful in his existential dread of trying to impress her. Maybe another day.
Maybe it was her dad behind the door, who was simultaneously singing in the bathroom tube? Even in her deviated state, she knew that was impossible – only because it would drive her mad, which is enough valid point for claiming impossibility rather than a living father. She knew she wouldn’t open a door and that was for a reason.
Incredible fight of blue and white dolls