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reflections on belonging

a palmers chronicle right bw

Graphic Novels

Photo by Benediktas Januševičius
'Loneliness,' Gabr said. 'Excruciating loneliness, horrifying longing. Against my will, a wave rises in me: distant space invades me. I become as though alien to everybody and to myself. And then… the sound penetrates me, weakly. I am entirely focused on the other, I cannot do anything.'

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Most of us went back home. No coaches. They were pedalin’ their VW Golfs. We had our cigs, what was left of ‘em, which we sold to truck drivers at petrol stations. So we came home happy, and bad ass, way more bad ass than before. I mean, neon lights shined for us, whores took us by the hand. And we were all wearing t-shirts that said HANOVER RUGBY.

Photo by Milda Juknevičiūtė
I’ve ascended into my third decade, and people say to me, “These are your golden years.” Tonight, I’m stuck in Aéroport Paris Beauvais Tillé. The airport closes for the night. My next flight is in twenty hours. It’s a hundred kilometers to Paris. I have no money and no place to stay. It’s winter. I spend the night wandering through the closest town. “Your golden years,” I repeat to myself as I curl up in a McDonald’s tunnel slide for children so as not to freeze. “Your golden years.” I whisper these words into my own ears as I pull a half-eaten sandwich out of the trash bin.

Photo by Joana Buivydaitė. First published in "Lamų slėnis" magazine.
This is the future in action. Something you don’t yet recognise, which begins to live through you. When I think about these things, I’m overcome by such a longing, such grief almost.

Antanas Garšva wrote. A calm inevitability flowed back into his unconscious. The nightingale fell silent. Above the fence it brightened. In the nightingale’s song, in himself, Garšva was searching for a lost world. Just as this modest bird had sung a thousand years ago. Its song a cipher, the first communicated code.

Photo by Vladas Braziūnas
The Greek princesses have arrived! The Greek princesses have arrived!’ the crowd shouted.
Loringhoven’s knights pulled back. The Free Imperial Knights of Westphalia stopped.
The town’s burghers ran in whatever direction they could.

Photo by Dovid Fligel
No matter how hard Grandma Rokha tried to get me to think about Him, no matter how she tried to explain about the Jews who wandered in a foreign land, all my thoughts were focused on the butterfly, which had disappeared somewhere.

The woman was not afraid. This land had never been hers, it had never belonged to her. Just like her life.

Alis Balbierius - Ričardas Gavelis - Vilnius, 1992-I
You have to read these letters. That’s your duty. Who else will do it if not you? Who else, if not you, who deliberately or by accident taught me something, but who never taught me anything completely?

Photo by Remigijus Treigys
The greatest punishment for a dictator appearing on a balcony would be the silence of the crowd gathered below. Silence as punishment and silence as self-worth.

Photo by Vladas Braziūnas
How do you get out of yourself, the way you leave home, drive out of the city, fly from one country to another? How to understand yourself, if you can’t look at yourself from the outside?



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