Earth's sweet embrace

Looking up towards the sky, I see a wary ray of sunshine. It seems to be a universe away. My eyes might be deceiving me after centuries spent in darkness, skin against damp walls. To be alive yet feel like death has scrawled into the deepest parts of your being.

I plant my fingers deep into the mud and wonder if burying myself alive would make me reconsider the indifference to which I’ve been treating my miserably hopeful companion. Leaning against the other side of the wall, a rope looks at me serenely. Mortality is something we share and immortality’s the thing neither of us will ever attain. Yet, we couldn’t be more different to one another. The darkness she chose to accompany me to is just one end. The other’s up there, basking in sunlight. Duality’s nothing but another thing I hated about the World above. Hence, I’ve never felt the slightest temptation of climbing back.

One handful of dirt after another, the hole grows deeper. So does my desire to comfortably lay in a tomb. I don’t know what happiness might be, but laying here, half foot into the ground, I almost feel life’s pain gone. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warm stillness. With each breath, truth seems to be closer. Yet, this perfect numbness is disturbed by a presence. My companion. There’s a vibration of hope given perhaps by the promise of her reuniting with its other half. Why hasn’t she given up on it? It’s been centuries since they last met. Why doesn’t she just pull the other into darkness? Is the mere possibility of being back together under the sun worth what could be an eternity of damnation? I must either accept her limitations or help her out. There are no other ways of stopping these thoughts. If after all the time spent in this damp silence, she’s still not ready to renounce on worldly things... I could perhaps do one last thing for her. Slowly taking upon the task, handfuls of dirt start piling up next to me once again. I’m not doing it for myself. It’s not an excuse to feel the sun caress my skin. Out of earth’s sweet embrace, I start shivering. Is it the cold or the anticipation?

I am ready for this mission. One last effort and then, I’ll be able to plunge into an undisturbed solitude. Taking the rope into my hands, I unhurriedly start climbing. She feels tight against my touch, trembling at times. With each step, my eyes’ struggle to stay open increases. I remember another thing I hated about this World- its dazzling lights. Nevertheless, the determination to complete the mission pushes me to steadily work my way up- eyes closed. The effort, or the sun, what is it that makes my skin burn? Does it matter? Soon it will be over. Getting to the edge of the well, I jump to the ground. Not daring to open my eyes, I take a full breath of air. Then- one more. This smell- the smell of life makes my lungs hurt. I hurriedly pull out the rope of the well. It no longer feels tight against my skin. The burdens of darkness, silence and loneliness must be gone. Opening my eyes, an image starts shaping in front of me. Two identical and yet so different sides of the rope laying next to each other.

Looking one last time to my companion, I sigh and plunge back into darkness. The balance is restored.

The Ice Cream Booth

“When everything has gone to hell, there’s nothing to do but to play idiotic games.”

This quote is from Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Mandarins”, which I have recently taken on reading. It unravels an interesting world, one which I sometimes fantasize about when imagining myself living a more bohemian life. More bohemian than the one of a chess player? Dinners and late-night parties with artists, writers and thinkers of all ages and nationalities heated by music, dancing and debates on philosophical, social, political and ideological matters- that’s something I can neither access nor allow as a sports person these days. Chess has changed.

Back in my teens, this side of the profession appealed to me a lot. I knew stories from my coach when grandmasters would gather and spend their evenings during tournaments in similar fashion. That was still a thing in those days when I started traveling to tournaments, though one I could only peer at from aside due to my young age and, if not reason enough, the watchful eye of my mother. I remember thinking that if I would train hard enough and become one of the strongest players of the country, I would be attending prestigious events, meeting brilliant people who would invite me to their exclusive circles. A silly fantasy of a young girl one might think.

I caught a taste of that fantasy, even if briefly. During the last twenty years or so, since my career has been developing, chess has changed a lot given the impact of technology. If before one could easily find a lot of similarities between chess and arts, nowadays- chess is above all a sport, where endurance, discipline and stamina play a decisive role. Due to the quantity of information and easiness with which anyone can access it, the amount of work a professional must put in doesn’t easily forgive those breaking the rules. The exclusive circles have suffered a blow too. Time doesn’t dilate, one can’t lose nights for parties or days for reading non chess related stuff in a world where 14-year-old grandmasters have become a normality rather than a phenomenon. These days, I hear parents saying that if their children are not to become GMs by 15 y.o., they will not encourage them to go pro. They have a point. Chess becoming younger has both pluses and minuses. On one hand, a shorter span of career means more time to freely develop and discover other things after retiring, assuming one has reached heights enough for enjoying the privileges of being a world-famous sports person. On the other hand, one’s personality doesn’t benefit from the early touches of those different spheres of life- you look at them through the already formed habits, in a rather rigid manner.

Thinking about my last classical tournament, the famous Tata Steel Chess of Wijk aan Zee, I can’t help mentioning that I was the second oldest participant of the Challengers group at the age of 31. There are quite some funny stories to it too. Let’s start with one and see how that goes.

On one of the days before the start of the tournament, I went out for lunch with a friend who also took upon the task of showing me around Wijk. While walking along the dunes, we passed by the main hotel, where most of the participants of the Masters group were accommodated, to reach our destination- a pub with a lot of seating by wide windows available. We were guided to a table and handed over menus. While carefully analysing our options, my friend told me that it was surprising not to see the piano where a chess board was majestically overlooking the place. However, we noticed a wide screen where a football match was streamed. Later, I was to discover that once the tournament started, the chess broadcast was to overtake, so that all the guests could follow and discuss the ongoing games. A cheerful waiter approached asking if we made our choices. While we ordered kimchi burgers, the young man explained to us that the piano was gone as the owner of the place changed and they decided to make more seating available instead- a practical decision, fitting the times we live. While enjoying the food, my friend continued by saying that the pub was a favourite among players as one could always find place, despite the huge flux of hungry chess professionals and amateurs.

I was later to find out that all the cafes, bars and restaurants in Wijk had chess sets and boards available to borrow. One evening, while preparing to leave the favourite pub after a tasty but what felt to be an undeservedly enjoyable dinner, preceded by yet another loss, I noticed a group of people sitting at the table next to mine. They were looking at me empathetically. While trying to understand if I knew them and should say ‘hi’, I noticed that the position on the board in front of them looked painfully familiar. They were analysing the game I played earlier that day. We smiled at each other, and I rushed out.

Back to the first day lunch. After finishing our meals, we went on walking to the main town square. Passing by cafes and restaurants, my friend stopped in front of an ice cream place. ‘It used to be the best bar in town! Players were gathering here for drinks, and we had so many fun nights… They kept open until the last customer. I have so many nice memories linked to this place! It had this obscure lighting and bunker vibe. It closed some years ago, such a pity. It is so bright and colourful now- an ice cream place it has become.’, said my friend melancholically. ‘Well, look at the players’ age this year- an ice cream place was perhaps a wise choice indeed.’, I replied jokingly.

I can easily picture most of my opponents there going in for a few scoops of vanilla and chocolate while discussing how they played that day against someone who participated in the tournament for the first time when they were still not born.

The little girl should have fantasized about an ice cream booth.

It is late now. Yet another night when I won’t get my eight hours of sleep, but that’s not because of those heated debates, or music, or dancing. Tonight, my breaking the rules is due to Simone de Beauvoir and, as she said, “Sacrifices are no longer painful when they’re behind you.”

Forget and forgive

The 1^st of January, 2025

Warsaw.

Europe, I’ve missed you! What a relief to be back to the Old Continent!

Anxiety gone, the annoying cold- almost gone too. No more blinding lights, dizzying heights and rushing dreams around. Heart rate back to fifties- finding a good companion in my mental age. A forgotten feeling of control slowly reinstating. No more intense living all around. A laidback indifference embracing me. Once I got off the plane, I immediately felt I could breathe! Is it my brain which has finally relaxed when getting back to known lands or my maniacal use of sea salt nose spray has gotten through? I wonder, why do I feel so good touching European ground? Perhaps I’m growing old and proximity to roots has become a necessity. I can’t be that old though, can I? Of course, not- just remember how the other day I was asked to show my ID when buying a bottle of wine. Some could say it’s just standard procedure in the US, but there’s no immediate necessity to ruin my vanity’s self-love moment.

Witnessing the most scenic sunset while looking through the window, I regret not being a poet. If only I could write a love letter to this piece of land! There are other ways of honouring it though. I can hold still and let my roots silently grow deeper.

My trip to NYC has been enlightening. Apart from playing chess, I found definite proof of some things I’ve lately suspected to have changed inside me. Do you know how they say that one should travel to the other part of the world to find themselves? Sometimes cliches have a point.

February the 5th, somewhere between Amsterdam and Bucharest

 

I find it interesting how with years, you’re still mostly clueless about what you really want. However, a rather long list of things you don’t want compels. No to useless gatherings, yes to good friends, no matter of time and place. No to sleepless nights and morning flights, unless very strong reasons provided. No food is better than fast food, under any circumstances. No to saying ‘no’ to yourself, yes to saying ‘no’ to anyone else. No to carrying about what others would think, yes to thinking with your own brain. Do we become inflexible? Perhaps. Though those few things we say ‘yes’ to- we’ve mastered them like gods, haven’t we?

Half of this post was written on my way back home from the US and the other half, some weeks later. I was curious if when my feelings settled down, these thoughts would still make sense, and it appears to be the case. I’ve had some tough few weeks, but them being on the Old Continent, have coloured those dark moments when I would say ‘no’ even to myself.

Europe will forgive me. We’ll settle things down over a bottle of good dry wine. I will promise to cease the ‘no’ to myself for indefinite time and my sins will be forgotten. Top it with an invite to a seafood dinner over which we’ll discuss the next Mediterranean island to discover, and the sins would not only be forgotten, but also forgiven. Afterall, we- the old ones, are too good at these things- forgetting and forgiving, aren’t we? Europe is laughing herself out after my last remark and it is contagious. To feel old at 31, one must… What? ‘Play chess’ wouldn’t be too bad of an answer I suppose.

On this positive note, time has come to end this post and make the promise that a new one will come in near future. Though if it doesn’t, please don't judge too harshly- forget and forgive.