Heartless self-portrait. Liver-less and small-intestine-less against the background of the Andromeda Galaxy. With all the rest that can be described by the quantum mechanics equations. Niels Bohr described the Poles as the Egyptian Jews, but without the brains. Allegory of the Polish courage in Afghanistan.
Self-portrait with the self. Insight after a continuous two-day mindfulness. What does the self expect from life? Expects nothing. It is and that's enough. It manifests itself by using the body and the subconsciousness and that's enough. Humanism is like chauvinism. In fact it's a form of fascism. The self is not a Pole. When one passes by the ego the Andromeda Galaxy is clearly visible under the left hand's small finger.
Entangled self-portrait. The last man alive in the Universe – Wiktor, kills the penultimate one - Zuzanna. The final solution. The initiation of the process of dualities' disappearance. The ego is not a manifestation of the self. It is the consciousness of here and now. By generating resistance dualisms obscure the alternative – the free flow. Entanglement is a derivative of dualisms. Math appears as a wonderful, transcendental code of the conscious mind. A wonderful language, transcendental vis-á-vis the fuckin anthropocentrism. Entanglement will dissolve in the absolute emptiness. If you want to, try to do this well.
Self-portrait with mandala. A hidden aspect of ignorance is Polish, crippled. The Polish patriotism is intrusive, a fascist eruption. It cannot describe the Universe, the Earth, Asia or even Poland. In each of 350 billion galaxies there are 300 billion of stars similar to the Sun. 365 days per year. The Large Hadron Collider in CERN near Geneva confirms it – it was Nietzsche who was right – there is neither good nor evil. Only collisions do exist. My Polish brain is fully disclosed, anyone can pat it, spit on it or put out a fag.
Self-portrait with the ego – ever present at the back of the head. My ego doesn't give a shit about the Warsaw Uprising, it is sick of the soaring, patriotic, political ejaculations. It also doesn't give a shit about Smolensk or Katyn. Emotions come and go. Sometimes for longer periods. After the persistent insight all thoughts went away, like amniotic fluid. I thought I was dying. But it turned out I just wasn't feeling well.

4/7 self-portrait. As little as four beers are able to stop insights for seven days, revealing the monstrously oversized ego. An Internet user: Kuszej's pictures are boorish! My ego: I would punch this Jewish face and stop this stupid jabbering! The ego hopes that once it understands the Schrödinger's cat paradox it will develop the self-consciousness and experience enlightenment. What a ride! It doesn't know that the rudimentary components of reality are in fact alogical. Just as the deep aspects of the mind. In Auschwitz-Birkenau people murdered several million from among themselves. It does not make any difference whether one person is killed or millions of them. The ego notes that suffering does not add up. It remembers that once it read Nalkowska's Medallions. Updike's Rabbit - now it is time to remind of yourself.

3/1000 self-portrait. For three days I have been disintegrating into a thousand pieces. The last one fell into the emptiness. I realised that I did not have and had never had my own I. The sense of I is nothing but a strong, persistent illusion. I am the becoming moment by moment, in every now. Again and again, out of the available experience. Millisecond by millisecond. In the empty space. Every mind contains the same emptiness. Every Jew has the Adolf Hitler's emptiness. Every child has the paedophile's emptiness. It is all the same sphere. In the emptiness I become what I experience. Now I am the picture I am painting. In a moment I get out and the Saturday-night crowd in Piotrowska street will carve me.
Self-portrait of three hours, and fifty seven minutes. 18:30 - entanglement, 18:40 - still entanglement, 18:50 confusion somewhat lets go, 18:55 I'm becoming transparent, 19:03 energy starts to flow up and down. Wow, it's so nice. Ten minutes later, everything fades and disappears. Entanglement gets weaker and simplifies, confusion transforms into funny gestures. Tensions weaken, momentum slows down. The mind is ready to die. Dying starts at 19:17. Morality dies with it, the despotic slut. Emotions disintegrate with it, simple relationships as well as the longer ones. Thoughts perish, the past and the future dissolves. Truth and honesty dies. Respect for others slaughters itself with an empathy against the background of views and beliefs that soared not so long time and now are falling apart. My life is worth as much as a kilogram of potatoes. And my self-consciousness as much as a kilogram of beetroots. Or even less. I let it rot – it decays at 19:33. Five minutes later dying dies. Until 22:27.
Self-Portrait with a paediatrician. From the perspective of an exoplanet in the Andromeda Galaxy. The Holocaust is no more special than the agrochemical treatments of the Colorado potato beetle. The Warsaw Uprising is no more special than culling in the Tuchola Forrest. Logic is just one way of self-manifestation. In others there is no horizon beyond the horizon. Because women are right and men are fucking egocentrics. They only deserve two words in a draught, or a lollipop. The non-untangled brain gets saturated with the emptiness. There is only the self, the Great Mute, when the obtrusively chattering mind gets silenced and the mind is no longer the ego extension. All this is tied up with strings. When my mind is not mine and my calf is just two kilograms of meat on the bone. There is no objective need for life to mean anything else. Something like an anal intercourse with your paediatrician.
Self-portrait with the violin. Still in the fumes of reductionism, but already slightly holistically. Schrodinger - the complexity of the matter exceeds the capabilities of the human imagination. The ego keeps going on - who I am? I guess the Universe is experiencing its existence thanks to my body and mind,. There is nothing worrying about killing each other. My contempt for the others is good, so is my hatred. The ego doesn't give a shit about this whole ecology - apparently that's the way it should be, where lead and benzopyrenes surge through the veins. The ego remembers that its jaw dropped during the concert of Shlomo Mintz at the Lodz Philharmonic. It was a wonderful, wonderfully immortal – the way the self gets ready for death. It also remembers the frantic music of eighteen year old Bartek Niziol. It is still present close to the third synapse row number eight hundred and sixteen of three hundred thousand five hundred and sixty eight's layer of the subconsciousness. The self, the Great Mute, gets ready for the ultimate release, though it is still unaware of the structure of reality, where it got formed.
Self-portrait with the national anthem. Clouds are gliding on water. Death in the name of homeland flows in the veins. The value of live is tangible – twelve and a half per kilogram of meant on the bone or two centimetres – the width of blade in the throat. And clouds keep gliding on water like music. The national anthem. And one more. Like one hundred and ninety six national anthems. Every death is good, anticipated.
Bloodshed. Self-portrait with three active synapses. And with one affected by the Alzheimer's. Bloodshed for the homeland is required. Ben Gurion about the Poles – they are like parasites. The nation which contributed to the civilization by giving it only Katyn and Smolensk. Remember! Robert Oppenheimer of bloodshed – only in white gloves! The ego on crumbling beliefs – this is what I desire! When the other kids built castles in the sandbox, my five-year old Polish ego was built on the basis of concentration camps. They are in its blood. It's an enlightening power. Something else than a tearful patriotism soiled with blood. The ego notes that the death of the body - if expected - is a wonderful experience, the last experience it is yet to comprehend.
Anti-Polish self portrait. Given the scale of the Universe the human life lasts three nanoseconds. My ego was created two nanoseconds ago and in one nanosecond it will dissolve in the emptiness. Excitingly fast. On the human scale – the self is a part of larger whole, such as water in the Sulejów Reservoir. The ego insists that the self does not exist. Maybe because the self is uniformly dull. The self about my filth – keeps silent, about my concealed hatred – keeps silent, about my greed – keeps silent. The Great Mute. When the chattering mind is silent, the emptiness creates Rafal Wojaczek anew, or quantum entanglement, or the smell of genitalia. Life in the Universe pops up like popcorn, or even faster. Lasts shorter than the sound of a drop of blood hitting the tarmac. My self is not a Pole. Neither is my ego. This is the long awaited farewell. Not being a Pole is a warming, positive energy. Flows up and down, from the spine, through the ribs to the heart. It is freedom.
The ego and the self - inseparable. It is not possible to get rid of the ego. The insatiable self-portrait - a mental image. I'm not a Pole. I'm the sand at the bottom of the Sulejów Reservoir, or in the litter box. As always, the self is just watching. Comical anthropocentrism. Funny story of Poland and hilarious Polish symbols. Bad in the left hemisphere of the brain, good in the right kidney. And hatred bursting the heart, squeezed somewhere in the colon recess area. And all this together, inseparable. Still not enough. It is not a hunger, it is insatiability.
Self-portrait with two consciousnesses. The conventional one, identified with the babbling mind and the other - empty, from the area of the self. The Universe is abstract. Only the mind gives it the form, and then perceives it. Because the man sees causality and recognises it in the Universe. The self-consciousness is an illusion. The irresistibly suggestive mental image. The proper awareness is outside the mind. There is nothing inside. My consciousness is like an empty box. I experience sounds that reach me through holes in the right and left wall. Scents and images – through the hole in the front wall, at the back of the ego and chattering mind, through the hole at the top of the self and subconsciousness, and from the bottom of emotion and feeling of the body. And that's it. I am what reaches me, what I experience. I don't observe anything else inside, there is nothing there. No consciousness. What a surprise! The emptiness. Legs and arms stick out of it.
Structural self-portrait, in a shape of forgiveness. It is not possible for the immaterial mind to influence the matter. The immaterial mind does not exist. The consciousness does not contain quarks or gluons. Only two parallel highways. One toward the emptiness, the other against the wind. A woman's voice in my head – this way the forgiveness achieves the absolute. My self-consciousness is white. The ego is gray, dark gray. The subconsciousness is black and occupies a relatively small space. The self is golden, pulsating, vibrating, like the surface of the Sulejów Reservoir. As Murray Gell-Mann used to say, sensory deprivation is a rape, a nail clipper is simpler

Self-portrait with a parasite. Since the consciousness got raped, it has been giving rise to anxiety of varying severity. It shakes me every time when I surrender to the ego. There are only traces of its metabolites in urine. What do I identify with? I will never die as the I never existed. There was an illusion of the I. And the emptiness. The consciousness as an autonomous, isolated internal form does not exist. Slowly, my ego learns to stand by and watch. I know that my brain was injected with oxytocin combined with adrenaline.
Something like escitalopram - ten milligrams, twice, together with 1997 Cognac Croizet. I'm already dead. I've always been. The offsprings are parasites. Dermatophytes and lice, and an eight-meter tapeworm. Between a mother and a father. Between a refrigerator and a TV. The ego notes that slaves will resist. That's good as many parallel stories. Friedrich Nietzsche: "offsprings prevent you from achieving the absolute, just like the women". My ego believes that the women are OK. As in a TV commercial - escitalopram and offsprings - toxic chemicals in your brain. Leaving offsprings behind is an act of perfection. A powerful force that destroys any restrictions. The catalyst. The energy stimulating growth. This is freedom.

My hatred - self-portrait. I will not be emphatic or modest. My hatred is enormous. It is always ready. Ready to get released. Just like stunning rays of setting sun – illuminating only for a short time. I love my hatred. In comparison to it the Polish hatred is a dwarf with a complex of a small and bend penis. It is like the voice of Lisa Gerrard, that brings to the edge, right up there. Like all my neighbours when I encountered their wild humanism. Shitty anthropocentrism. When I get tired of my hatred, it's time to take a handful of hydroxyzine and six milligrams of Xanax. And a suppository to relax.


Self-portrait with strawberries - introspection on a bench. Gradually – I'm becoming transparent. So the ego calms down. The Square of Paris Commune. Algorithms engraved in the subconsciousness get weaker. Every cell of the body is screaming - I'm dying! Then my body disappears. What on the outside thickens, grows, becomes the only available consciousness. Nothing is how it seems. Nothing is what it seems. The bench in front of me is not the white, wooden object to the seat on. It is only a bench. Plainness without any characteristics. The Yorkshire Terrier that runs by is not a dog, domesticated animal, is just a Yorkshire Terrier. Strawberries on a market stall are only strawberries. I clench my buttocks. Algorithms are back at the time of distraction. Resistance is compulsive.
And bitter taste. Persistent imperative. The person sitting on the bench is the guard on the bench in Auschwitz.
Self-portrait and flows. Nothing is what it seems. The relationship with another ego. Is cannabis and diazepam. The destruction of the relationship promises the awareness of fullness, the exciting emptiness, homecoming and freedom. Oops! The ego presupposes that servants will protest. My existence is a microscopic slice of time out of mega-processes of the Universe. Understanding is limited to the available senses. It is limited to the environment where the consciousness was formed. I feel just as much as I can experience. Everything comes and goes. Uninterrupted flow. Up and down. The emotion comes and goes. And thought. My foot comes and goes. My foot is not mine, it is only a foot. Just like the liver, heart and anus. The consciousness comes and goes. And hated. Hatred is not mine, it is only hatred. The ego relises that it is easy to die when one is full of hatred. It hates everything.
"Everything changes" self-portrait. There is nothing that could support the ego for long. The ego becomes intrusive and hard to bear. It breaks down and builds anew. Breaks into a thousand pieces and builds with nine hundred ninety-nine. And the obviousness. It is just as real as its absence. And fear. The mind falls into the "everything has already happened" mode. Slice of bread with butter. Few beers to sober up. Something to put on the head. On fingers of the back hand. Everything is still only resistance, resistance, resistance.
Fighting with the ego – self-portrait. Hatred comes and goes, whether it is needed or not. So I move the ego towards the stomach or to the heel of my right foot. It resists, resists and resists. Only what is on the outside exists. The internal world, if still perceived, is nothing but a cluttered emptiness. The ego is no longer a Pole, but it is still submerged in a social and cultural stew of civilization. The Polish pride is very serious: I'm speaking Polish perfectly, are you hearing? Yeah! The family is the most important – this is the way servants make anthropocentric manipulations. Listening to sounds switches off the chattering mind. Jose Mourinho said of the Poles: "To them sport rivalry is like patriotic and fascist entertainment". Yeah!
Self-portrait without a father. Getting rid of offsprings means freedom. My ego is no longer a father. Introspection. The ego is unstable. So I move it towards the stomach or to the heel of my right foot. The structure of my mind is the exact copy of Auschwitz-Birkenau. It is alive in my mind. The ego loves cognitive systems – in particular those that lead to its extraction. Quite often it behaves like a sturgeon eaten on an empty stomach or inside a stomach full of alcohol. There it is again – a round-up in the Nazi Lodz. After publishing "Nausea" Jean-Paul Sartre said of the Poles: "Oh how they stink of religious carcases". My ego is no longer a father.
The ego and the self – self-portrait. Reality itself is devoid of meanings. I know it and quite often I get tired of well-being. The self is only watching, the Great Mute. The feeling devoid of knowledge is enlightenment. The ego experienced the concentration camps at the level of realisation. It was at the time when Robbe-Grillet shot Butor out jealousy of Sarraute. Yes, interiorization – as I wanted. I wanted this to come true. At the edge of the left hemisphere, the excited ego emanates cascades of emotions it is unable to name. But it is the self that pulls the strings. I love Auschwitz-Birkenau!
Self-portrait - elementary molecule of the System. Learning is the creation of a closed, set consciousness, delusion of integrity and of psychological ride. I deal with the same things as a pig and a cockroach. The evolution keeps accelerating. There is a relief in the death of self-consciousness, death of the self. An image of the Universe depends on perception abilities of a set of receptors. When I close my eyes, the shape of the Universe changes completely. I don't give a shit about sensory deprivation treated as a catalyst of an extensive self. Just like Schopenhauer. Outrage! The head is empty, it is devoid of the self-consciousness. The abdomen is also empty. The air flows freely through the lung area. There is nothing in the vicinity of the heart. There is nothing in the place of liver and spleen. I moved the ego to the index finger of the right hand and the identification with the Polishness to the thumb of the left hand. Identification with Homo sapiens - in the vicinity of the penis, or two meters ahead of me. I can manipulate it as I please. I'm pissing on it with bloody urine. The self-consciousness is on the outside, it exists only as an experience extracted from judgements. Hatred towards the System energizes my every cell, each of its lepton, quark and the Higgs particle. I am built out of hatred towards the System. The human System.
Witnessing the emptiness - self-portrait. The Universe experiences its existence through me. My eyes are the eyes of the Universe. At the outskirts of wild existentialism. Of an irritating humanism and infantile anthropocentrism. The emptiness has everything. My arms are the arms of Rafał Wojaczek. Happiness and satisfaction are domains of the ego. Enlightenment is emotionally bland. The inner emptiness contains everything. Tides coming in from the top and from the bottom. Tides going out downwards and upwards. My fingers are the fingers of Chopin and Karen Horney. The emptiness makes the ego feel proud. Everything that makes sense is in the emptiness. A bulb that emits an amazingly luminescent light; a building that is beautifully high; a car that is driving miraculously; rain that is unusually dropletty. A bicycle that is fabulously equipped with two wheels and a pavement that is charmingly hard. All this without a trace of metaphor. It is like crossing Schrodinger and Schopenhauer seasoned with Abe Kobo.
The ever-present resistance – self-portrait with the ego. The ego realises that the human self has been created to live alone. And the masculine mind, than cannot function without an emotional attachment, is a highly immature structure. The ego reflects on it a lot. Soon enough my cells will submit to the great energetic disintegration. But for the time being the ego is obsessively building its span on every form of resistance. I am built out of resistance. In frequent spasms of mental muscles.
Self-portrait with the self. Introspection after one hundred thousand and two hundred and forty three failed attempts to localise the self. I got it. I have been looking for it in lungs, stomach and the head. In the phalanx of the ring finger of the right hand and in the third lumbar vertebrae of the spine. I could not see it, although all this time it stood ten centimetres in front of me and looked me straight in the eye. As I was looking for it, it was looking for itself. As I waited for it to appear, it waited patiently. Now I moved it carefully somewhere close to C1 and C2 of cervical vertebrae of the spine. Bearing in mind that the concrete humanism, schizoid anthropocentrism and teary patriotism soiled with blood do exist. Anger and hatred are of particular value for the ego. Every day they create a soaring structure leading towards the absolute – inside me. The ego has already experienced what is the self. It is the One who Is. The ego accepted the fact that it is only the One Who Appears. Introspection was a great surprise for the disillusioned ego – it realised that enlightenment can be wearisome.
Self-portrait on the sand. The reality is relative. It depends on the way I want to perceive it. The ego ceases to identify with the surrounding System. It is like a woman soaked in a bath of pheromones and hormones. Introspection after riding hard at the Sulejów Reservoir – the self does not identify with a human being, it is sand flooded by waves. To exist as a human being means to resist. The self is pure activity, non-judgemental, pointless and senseless. The sense poses a problem just for the ego. The ego can already recognise its son-of-the-bitch nature. It no longer wants to be a human. I am no human. And then my dog comes over, the dog I do not have. The self defiled with bloodied mud. The mess of ego identifying with a human. I am sand. I can decide who I want to become. I choose sand. The alcohol overdose postpones it.
Self-portrait marked with revenge. Demons and monstrous forces, demonic urges. Identification with the nation, identification with the ideology, identification with the ethics. Rage and hatred. And revenge that brings a relief. Identification with a man makes me feel dizzy. My ego is cynical, cold and uncompromising. And vindictive. Revenge is an answer. Revenge and retaliation. Urges and the lack of restrains. It's not me who owns the body, my body orders the mind. Fight and control. Revenge generates positive energy. Not the Shakespearian revenge, but the common, everyday vindictiveness. I placed it in the lower left third tooth (marked in red). It is very comfortable here. Manipulation and emotional blackmail, which gives me satisfaction. The index finger of the right hand is irreplaceable (marked in red). The question of the meaning of existence finds its full and comprehensive answer in the emptiness. The emptiness in not the meaning of existence. It has the answer.
A man is not the purpose of the Universe - self-portrait. I'm glad that my self no longer identifies with a man. Or with a cow, or a cockroach. The ego realises with a relief that the man is not the purpose of the Universe. Today the Moon in the sky is as big as the Sun. It won't be smaller in one hundred million years. The answer to the question of the meaning of existence is found in the emptiness. The answer that could not be known. The answer that could be experienced.

 

Self-portrait with Josef's dog. The Milky Way is an average-size galaxy out of 300 billion galaxies. The Sun is a small star out of 300 billion stars in the Milky Way. There is no law in the Universe which would forbid the killing of dogs. There is no law in the Universe, which would forbid the killing of humans. In the emptiness my life is worthless. And that's good. It's like experiencing the ultimate comfort of dying.

The past does not exist. It is no more than a mark in a memory, an energetically active area of the brain. Just like Josef's sphere does not exist. Even in far away places, close to the pre-past and past-future. Josef Mengele never existed – it's a great surprise for the ego.
Wind in the rib cage - self portrait. After several days of insights the ego realised that the self-consciousness is just a screen on which the subconscious mind projects its communications. I'm getting back to soft physical surroundings. It was like an onslaught. My world is an interpretation – it sounds a bit stale. Like a dried-up physicalism. Wind between my ribs. My Polish mind was dirty and foul, marked with the Auschwitz-Birkenau odour. Because I was brought up like a dog. These are the threads currently opened. All choices are made in the unconscious area and a moment later their representation is formed in the consciousness. The self-consciousness is a secondary structure. It's a great illusion. An ingenious illusion – that the ego is an autonomous construct, that the self is something more than nothing. The emptiness does not bring any satisfaction, just four loud farts. And the wind over the Sulejów Reservoir.

Self-portraits