Paul Portier's Ordinary State of Mind

- I've found a contact number to an exorcist- said Paolo O. Martin aka Paul Portier crawling into the corridor like a tank wearing a long black coat in the middle of mysterious night. Mr Charming interrupted his usual deal of a chicken curry gazing with an expectation. Paolo O. Martin, also well known as Paul Portier (especially to the very best friends but sometimes the lady at the vegetable stand said so as well)released himself from the coat and slowly reached inside his pocket to show us a small piece of paper a little bit torn on the corners.
- An absolute genius in his profession, doctor exorcist will help you out to get rid of all of your demons forever- read solemnly, putting his voice onto the highest level of celebration. The wink of a light was flashing in the darkness like a candle.- His magnificent abilities will help you deal with a large field of problems such as the follwoing. Paolo O. Martin also known as Paul Portier (as I just remembered also one nurse in the hospital where he landed with a broken leg last year used to call him this name) sought gently and continued reading.
- Reemition, resurrection, possession, seduction, drug addiction, convolution, convulsion, eruption, misleading, misunderstanding, mistreatmend, demention, dimension, abbreviation, emmigration, reviving, deciding, depression, direction, self safety, car insurance, wordiness, meaningfulness, readiness, literacy, automacy, disconnection, detection, self pity, serendipity, masochism, sarcasm, trinity, duality, multiplication, personality, diversity, variation, masturbation, waste collection, self disposal, suicidal thoughts, marriage problems, violation, degradation, evanescence, willingness, performance, transition, transcription, translation, transportation, rejection, self motivation, confidence, question, unemployment, bank loan, credit cards, sim cards, eternity, toxity, bruxism, eventualism, society...

The Resurrection

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No matter how long it takes, how many other things does it take, I always miss my blog. And I almost let it die, or maybe it could have looked like that, but after all I am here, standing on my feet. 

 After my grandfather died everything seemed so bleached. Everything I was meant to say, and meant to write, and every story I worked on seemed to be irrelevant. Pointless. Many words are created never to be published. But this is a life of words, they live as long as we need them. I spent this time walking around the streets, translating in my mind the same poem on an on, again. On these days I almost forgot my English, the one I used as a creative force and I came to the point, where every next step was only a running in the circle. 

 But yesterday it was my birthday. One of not very cheerful ones but therefore quite refreshing. And I would like to thank everybody, who were still checking this page, during all this time. You can now lean back and prepare for a resurrection. Monkey Seduction is back. To start once again.

 Let me tell you a story of an incredible land. Once upon the time there was a kingdom peaceful as an infinite sea, established like an old wise tree and untouched like an image on a sand. The wind was so slow and gentle, that even a feather was staying safe in constancy. The colours were so enriched with light that the whole landscape seemed to be a painting on the porcelain. It's name was Gheborhgia, the land of old sages as chronicles said. But the land by itself was older than all of the chronicles and all of the books ever written, and all of the times when people learn how to put their memory to the paper. Gheborghia was inhabited by Tafoons, forrest creatures with featutres of old willows and three ears, so the third one allowed them to hear voices from inside of the earth. They were big and strong, but also calmed like an old river and able to answer any question, and their spirits were totally free, without any earthly attachment.

Just Another Normal Last Day

 And in one moment you understand that here comes a day. This one when you chase the stars and you want to stop this moment, want to keep this silence so the thoughts will never come. And the feeling will never come, to pass, to keep, to shout, to stand by you to say loud- it's final now.

The last words you've said to me were 'Jamais plus' and it let me know that it'd been the last time we ever spoke. Mortality is a tight deadline for those who love.

I remember back then I was thirteen and I told you I wanted to be an author. You told me that authors always live twice. Because the time is not enough. You will never read my novel and you will never see it published, because as you said, the time is never enough. 

It's finishing here. In the rainy day on another Monday, I am armed with an empty heart and a dynamite ready to explode, and I'm not tlking to anyone and I'm looking for a spirit who's telling me 'lo siento'. And I've been waiting for a final which passed me unnoticed, and being waiting for all of these months I've got to tell you: You surprised me.

One of interetsing creative writing workshops I took part some while ago advised me to never start a story with a quotation. Ironically, I do this on and on since I remember. And most of my readers don't mind even if I shoot my knee with messing with rules. And apparently sometimes they read even if Monkey Seduction suddenly disappears. And as I promised it was supposed to be an article anbout Goethe, but at the meantime something happened. I lost my grandfather.

 This was all I wrote since last Monday as there is nothing as killing for an inspiration as a bleaching distress. It's better to write down, in that moment when you can hear to shout and feel the silence. Persistently. Later on you no longer have a possibility.

  He was an exceptional man. Not necessarily recalling one of British comedies, but I know he would laugh if he heard that. His life was marked by a twist of the Great History, the way Kundera would be happy to hear about. He was born in Sankt Petersburg in 1916, which already makes his life at least remarkable. As his funeral note says: 'a nobleman, a theoretic of agriculture, a soldier, a co-founder of a club of catholic inteligence in Opole, author of cogitative stories, member of Human Rights Defence, 'Amicus Veriratis' from 'Reviews' (newspaper), jailed during the state of war, and a gentleman- in hundred percent.' For me, a man in a hat, furry coat in winter, with a rose in his buttonhole, The author of mesmerising stories about his life in Africa, with such hard language of narration that nobody aged minus 60 was able to understand. 

A strawberry cake for summer, every year I was finishing the school. The walks in the park around the palace, and swans, gone with one winter forever. And the first time I told you I wanted to be a writer. Just like you. 

Weltzschmerz and a Cup of Coffe. Or what making romanticism work.

 Today I don't feel like writing. I realized that hours ago, trying to create a new exciting post, writing a relation from hunting Victor A. story or at least hoover the memories from my last long journey. At the meantime I took a look at my stories painfully demanding nice endings and my translating work waiting to be corrected. And then this scary thought appeared in my mind: Today I don't feel like writing at all.

 Freud used to say that creating is the response for excessive sexual desire suppressed by social limitations. Following that, the process of creation gets a new meaning for an individual- meaning as something coming from instincts, original and savage. Surprisingly, this statement completely doesn't underestimate creation as a higher process we used to perceive it as- if we notice that sexual instinct was something primary for living creatures, then becoming a creator appears as a natural phase in the cycle. Therefore the need to create is innate and inevitable, a silent destiny of a contemporary human kind.

 - Go and write- once The Guy I Lived With said somewhere between clearing the table after meal and filling the washing machine.- When you don't write, your life seems to be falling apart.

Wear a Hat!- or A Flash Memory About My Mother

 I remember from some children's story a scene, when the girl went to buy a hat. This hat meant a lot for her- meant that she was a lady.

 No matter how fashion is changing, what we wear on our heads still has a deeper meaning for us. I always loved hats amongst three things I cannot resist in my life: big hats, long boots and strong cigarettes. They are not only the essence of style for me: they also remind me about my mom. 

 One of my first memories from childhood is my mom sitting on the chair in her office she used to work, with her long leather boots on (she still has them), dark-brown sunglasses (as she always prefered them over classical black ones) and slowly smoking a cigarette. And she is wearing a wide black hat.The only problem is that my mom never wore this hat for real. I found it on top of our wardrobe, the old thing being just a souvenir from my mother's youth. But despite that, everytime I think about her I see her like this. Even now, speaking with her on phone, with my mom who is over fifty and the last thing she wants in her life is being a style icon, in my mind she is thirty years old, her hair is cut up till the geometric shape just above her shoulders, and her sunglasses and boots look just the same, perfectly balancing with purposely too lose jacket and knee-lenght skirt. And I can see this hat clearly. 

 So being less sarcastic as some of my friends recently requested I would like to dedicate my blog's space to  hat my mom found for me in a vintage shop. Voila! 

To 'boobs' or not to 'boobs'

 Boobs- said my dearest friend Paolo O. Martin finishing his daily portion of cereals. 'Boobs' is one of his favourite words. 

 But this time it was an occasion- he just read some forum discussion related to topless pictures of Duchess of Cambridge in some French 'newspaper' (or rather just a 'paper'). I took a quick look with my eyes and of course, most of the posts were all about the same. 'What's wrong with showing a pretty girl in a normal situation on holidays' and- de facto- 'What is the difference between her and just all of the other girls who show their nudity on the media everyday'. So if anybody has some doubts on that I can help: the difference between a royal and non-royal is SUBSTANTIAL. 

This unbearable word starting with 'F'

 I posted a facebook status which was my translation of some punk song's chorus. 'My freedom is none of your sin'. Only two of my friends commented on it. The rest of them probably thought about sex. 

Plus Size Girl, Interrupted

 When there will be the post 'Plus Size Girl, Interrupted'?- asked one of my friend during the past weekend. 

 Well, it took me quite a long time to publish it indeed. I had to check before if I still have any really good lawyer on my contact list.

Dating in London

 A twist to the different subject: London is full of men. Specyfing, it's full of a particular kind of men. Hint? They all dress the same, they all work in the same places, they all invite for a date to the same pub, they have exactly the same faces and exactly the same to say.

Don't get me wrong- it's not like I don't like men. I actually always had more in value some of my male friends than female ones. I always liked men's company and for quite a long time, somehow I prefered to build friendship-based relationships with them rather than flirt. Now I guess I can call it an instict.

 A good male friend of mine, who from now onwards will remain anonymous on my blog*, said that 'The problem with men is that they all require a sexual exlusivity, but most of them is not worth it'. After all of London dating I've done as far, I completely agree with a second part. 

I got irritated, mr Frank.

 I'm not even sure if that's the most proper way of expression. But I bet you agree that the word 'irritate' has a power none of it's synonyms is able to posess. 

- I posted something on my blog- said my literary one of best friends Paolo O. Martin also known as Paul Portier taking a huge bite of salmon and chewing it thoroughly- afer so many weeks. Which means, I've finally overcome my depression.

 - Wasn't blogging supposed to be a medicin for your depression?- I was confused.

 - Well, yes, but after a while I got too depressed to run a blog.

 So I got into the moment, when I really didn't feel like posting anything. First, naturally, I thought I was depressed. But after all I understood I was just annoyed. No, exactly, bad word. I was irritated. 

Learning Indonesian, or How The Nerds Understand Active Way To Take The Rest

 What can I say, I am a huge fan of almost all of the forms of active way to take the rest. But, which is quite typical for me, me understanding of that is quite unusual. 

 This post is my lifestyle introduction. As you might have guessed, it has nothing to do with healthy food nor exercises. It would be not very Monkey Seduction. 

My kind regards to Berberis The Cat

 It was my dad who told me this story, one night when I was six I believe, and I couldn't sleep without a story. It's been loads of years then I've been creating this story, more chapters and characters. To celebrate finishing of the prologue, in which I explain how the story has started, I would like to start sharing the story here, on Monkey Seduction.

Desperately seeking Victor A.

 First time it crossed my mind two days ago, when I noticed this initial in one of the streets. It might have looked innocent. Just, a small mistake. But it took me only couple of minutes to realize, that behind the legend about Victor A. there is something deeper.

Somewhere on Earth- 6 months of Monkey Seduction.

 I opened a website as usual and I realized that Monkey Seduction is already 6 months old. Therefore, I would like to thank everybody who keep checking my posts, and enjoying, somehow, my modest try of writing skills. To thank you, I would like to introduce myself to you in this post, as I think, I owe to all of these people who actually read me. 

Jump in!

The Tortoise

 Giant Tortoises of Galapagos don't die just like all of the other creatures.

Ode to Fresh Salmon

 It's been proven by scientists that people who eat fish are happier.

 In England unfortunately you can't get a fresh fried fish straight from the ocean like I was used to in Latinamerica, but you can still have a salmon.

Panta rei, Mr Charming!

 One thing I have to confess: I am definitely not a seightseeing creature. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I cannot appreciate a beauty of a view- I am just too impatient to spend hours stuck in one place just admiring a landscape. 

 Amongst all of the things I couldn't exactly get in my life the first one is ability to spend holiday in one place only, not moving for a whole day or even more, and I don't mean only hotel swimming pool style of vacation. I am an itchy adventurer and when something stops being entertaining, my hands start to shake and my throat  becomes surprisingly tasty creating in my mind a situation of a desert isolation. 

 This feeling came to me suddenly recently, when me and my dearest friends went for a delightful trip around our beautiful, underestimated again and again city. Late evening we stopped on a pathway beside the river Thames, discovering an undeniable charm of Tower Bridge. 

How 'Size' has become an adjective

 If there is any girl reading me at the moment she will understand, that the thing which happened to me recently was the most terrible ever. I put on weight. 

 Being correct, I actually didn't gain that much, but my imagination gained at least three sizes. And you can say it right now: 'Monkey Seduction is not like that.' 'She has such a distance for herself that for sure she is size 18 and she loves it.' 'She will never post anything about diets and losing weight. She's just over it.' Unfortunately, you will be totally wrong. Once I realize that I cannot easily fit in size 6 anymore (European 34, US 2) my nightmare becomes a taking-over daydream. I am a woman. 

O.B.B.- Offended By a Blogger

 There is one creepy thing I realized recently when my dear friend Paolo O. Martin (known by his English friends mostly as Paul Portier), has been asked why did he stop to run a blog. 

 -Well- answered he, concentrating on a pronounciation of double 'l'- I guess I had too many thoughts insulting random people that I decided not to post anything for a while. 

 Refering to this after a while, I realized that since I became a blogger I always think twice. And amongst all of other benefits I got from it, such as a perver pleasure of a never-read-before writer, I realize such a good exercise of patience is that. All because we live in a society of O.B.B.s.

Jump in!

And once in a while, I draw an another reality to jump in. 
I might not like this one as much. Mostly because about some technical imperfections, but there is much more making me feel about it like it somehow doesn't fulfill my expectations. But how my dad always says, no matter how much your eyes like it and how good does it look, if it doesn't make you feel in any particular way, then it's not worth watching.

Beginning with a description

 -Switch the music off- said my literary one of best friends Paolo O. Martin interrupting consuming his daily portion of cereals.- It reminds of a time passing.

 After this statement he wiped his mouth with a napkin and put his spoon inside of the bowl, letting me know that he is no longer hungry.

 - The passing time is the most depressive thing in the world- continued my friend, who diagnosed himself with depression long ago.- If you think about it coming from the right point of view, it's actually the only depressive thing in the world. Because everything is all about time. Without it, we would just enjoy a moment.

Ms Adorable's lightness of being

 No matter if you wake up in the worst-itchy mood towards reality, hopelessly keeping your eyes closed for the cobwebs, you will certainly feel a piece of sun wether Ms Adorable is the one to uncover the window. In reality, she's doing this every morning. It's been two months since I've been living with Michelle Adorable.

 Living with someone like her, you're posing for a picture every morning. You cannot act otherwise, when you wake up with her blond curles and round Marilyn Monroe's hips, and her undeniable charm seeming to be saying 'Smile!'. 

 My neighbour Mr Charming is happier than ever, having finally his company in undoubtful happiness. Everyday at work I just can't wait for coming back home, to see their full of harmony smiles and faces slowly  sailing in peace, while they offer me a sweet camomile tea. Just to wonder if in their sleep, there is a floral smell coming from the sky, and a gentle mist sneaking around them to cheer up their minds.

Jump in!

And once in a while, I create an another reality on the page to jump in and forget.

My Dad

 This post will be simply about an amazing man. My dad.

 Amongst all of the things I ever owed Marilyn Monroe, I can't not to recall today the song "My heart belongs to daddy'. My dad's portrait is the ultimate thing which will never work for me. Because it's too much left to say.

 In my memories my dad is standing in his workshop, surrounded by hard smell of vernix, which never bothered me, smoking a cigarette even though he had quit already two years ago.It always has to be summer, with a sunshine lighting the workshop through the window, and softly melting in cigarette fumes in wooden walls, so home. My dad's face in mind in winter seems to be incomplete like most of his sketches. There has to be summer, with fresh tomatoes for a salad, and an empty beach with a lake to go to with your bike. The picture is staying incomplete, because there is so much to say, just like he always says, in arts like in life, some things are better incomplete.

 My dad believes that visual arts should create emotions like music. That there is a level of perception to be necessarily reached, beyond everything which could be obvious. Arts should never give you a ready image. Just like in life, when everything is clear, there is just no fun. 

 My dad is... how old? There was supposed to be a happy birthday, but maybe we should leave this post incomplete. How do you think, dad?

Jump in!

 And once in a while, I create an another reality on the page to jump in and forget.

Fast Food Love

 There is a brand new product on the market I am dying to tell you about. Usually, it's free, you just have to pick it up in the right moment on the right corner. It's called Instant Love, and it has been created in response for the deepest customers' desires. 

 It's free, fun and easy to be used. You don't have to order it online, though it's one of the way you can get it. It can be also easily found on the street if you take enough time on your way home. It's ready to be taken, you just have to heat it up a bit and you can have it straight away. Package includes wrapped emotions, frozen life changing experiences, fake intimacy and pretended orgasm. It can be consumed immediately, filling you with dreamy insights of safety. This magnificent feeling is easily within reach and can be yours just after you put it on the plate.

 This is rare that one product can respond so fast to all of your needs. Love was never as cheap and as available as now, thank to this amazing technology of nowadays. 

 At the end, it's really simple to enjoy this delightful journey. Once your Instant Love sandwich is ready, you can easily swallow it. 

 But before you finalize it, think carefully. Once your ready love is swallowed, your plate is empty forever, like an old box from the TV in the storage.

A Coffee Long

 There is a day on a map of every month. This is a day meant to contain a spare time. For me spare time is an unusual occasion to jump into another reality, draw a situation and just sneak inside unspotted, leaving behind me a world of a grey kitchen. The problem is that a day like that is usually specifically long. A coffee long. 

 Today, caught in Monkey Seduction I was watching a picture on a page feeling tied to the chair. The page was empty. I was hung over my imagination, couldn't find any input to set me free on this sad Wednesday. Of course, I had my coffee, and a lot of desires tearing my mind til it find a way away. But it was like the waves going against me recently, the ones to overcome and the ones not to let around. And I realized that once Monkey Seduction passes, there is nothing else behind. Just an empty page, and my silent mind trying to swallow the flies falling down through past two weeks of my life. The doubt, the constancy hidden in disappointment and an unexpected visit of The Guy I Lived With. The silence of a night, a sight, an old disappointment, old fear, bad fear, new fear, new hope, new dust, new smile, new day, new chance to draw. New blink of your eyes. 

 And I wanted to give you a magical island tonight. But it passes. The page is empty. Time to go to bed, to let the mind sleep so the demons can come around.

Handwriting for children.

 Modern ages terrify me. That's something all of my closest friends know about me and therefore never ask me to send something via email or scan any documents. It's not about my literacy, God sake! It's just that I don't really feel like modern technics are able to chase my mind in appropriate way and time. 

 This is why running a blog got me recently overwhelmed. But I cannot live without Monkey Seduction anymore. Writing is an addiction, worse then gambling, alcohol or any phobias or passions you can imagine. I write so I am. This is the condition of being me, outspoken. 

 Till the moment I started my life online I've been pursuing handwriting since I remember. My hand is the only thing which can think for me, work for me and be always there on time. I bet some people agree, even with a bit different passions then writing. Anyway, how to replace your pen with keyboard? Keyboard is always late, always stupid, decreasing and is a subject to many conditions you do not wish to know.

Love Letters part II

 I am puting my hand to the glass. I am watching it for a while til it stops to have any shape for me. I am trying to feel the landscape behind the window, but after a moment I stop to feel any cold under my fingers. Behing my hand, there is only darkness. 

 I do this every evening, when I start to feel the undeniable lack of you. I wait by the table in the kitchen, despite the fact that I know you are not going to come. When it gets dark I get up and I go out for a walk. Because I know you are not meant to come. Then I come back home, knowing it well that you are not meant to come and I put my hand to the glass. After that I close my eyes. And I think about the letter I will write to you today once again, the one you will never read. I do this every evening. 

'Esperanza'

Love Letters

It's probably one of the most forgotten fine arts in the world. Not because people almost don't write letters anymore at all, but rather becuase people don't express their feelings the way they used to anymore. That makes IT even sadder reminding the fact that love letters used to have their own, special place in the history. Despite it, nobody reads love letters anymore even if they are written by Guillaume Apolinaire. Somehow, love letters writing became an inconvenient substitute of an in-depth intimacy we're all ashamed about and don't want to let into our awareness. To be truth, I'm including a love letter written by me, as a part of 'Esperanza'. Although I've written some of my own too. 

All you need is Reality!, or at least that's what you think.

This is Monkey Seduction Conspiracy. Listen to me carefully because I am not going to repeat. The telegraph has bene taken over. But we won't give up. Monkey Seduction will survive! 

 Yes. The message said so, the nightmare has come true- I became a blogger without a computer. If my story was written by Voltaire it would probably never happen. And tank to that, today I am going to the direction I wanted to' go to for a long time: storytelling perception. Basically it's something most of the readers calls 'story'. But it's way much than story. Once The Guy I Lived With after one of our arguments about a sense of watching TV finished his thought by saying: 'you Are completely disconnected from reality'. He experienced a disappointment when I actually got it positive. And it was not about the difference between other points of view, it was about expectations.It was more or less Henrik Ibsen: do we want a true even if we can live better without it? Is the reality for we really need? The best example is always a movie. Woody Allen tried to get storytelling perception into a practice. His 'Melinda and Melinda' is a perfect illustration for that: the story not showed from a different poni of view, but the story already invented with an all-inclusive perception. Dramma or comedy? Reality or a dream? With milk or without? Nowadays we have not only different technologies but also different illustrations for storytelling perception. Instead of well known Woody Allen movies let's use blogs. Take a breath and answer the question: why do you read me? What do you need at the moment, what do you want from me? My storytelling has a ready, written in perception, just like everything you get from any sort of media. The point is that some of them are drammas: they show you what you consider as true. Some are 'comedies'- they show you a product of an immagination. Monkey Seduction is going to sleep, and you think: do you need a reality? Would you like to turn a TV on? I don't think so.

Disappearance and the Submarine

 This is post is not going to be funny. To bore an to depress their small amount of readers- that's a suicide most of the bloggers commit sooner or later. Today I wish to tell about something I am paranoid about. This is more than anxiety. This is something paralizing and taking the breathe away, for a moment usually quick to pass but leaving you with an unpleasant feeling, that it can happen once again. This thing is called d i s a p p e a r a n c e. A friend of a friend of a friend of mine once said that people can disappear easily and it one of those things you have to calculate no matter how impossible it seems to be. Afterall, I think he was at least partly right.

Esperanza- middle piece.

 The main character of 'Esperanza' is a man who's fiancee disappeared several years ago. One day, convinced that he saw her walking on the street, he decides to take a desperate journey through his past to find the truth. 

 Since that time I knew, that never again, I just can't lose anything anymore. So I spent my life surrounded by material things, things which couldn't leave or fade away and which always remain a one captured moment. I was collecting articles from newspapers about daily events and flyers advertising temporary discounts. I was taking pictures of decorated shops' windows and I was writing down overheard in the tram sounds of strangers' talks. It was all to believe, that it's possible to capture the moment. And even to keep it forever.

War paint!

 It's going to be a war. Because if not, then there is an inevitable end of the world. The reason of this post is not a letter from the council (however it could still remain on the list) but first of all is a mood sneaking around from chimneys. In 80's people called in a famous London's fog, we all now that it's only a melancholic spring waking us every morning with the same cruelty.

All Of My Smoky Mornings

 I commited an artistic suicide. I quit smoking. Not because of my housemates', friends' and family's crusade against me, but just becase one day I looked around and I understood I can't do this any longer. The awareness came totally unexpected, somewhere in between Stansted and a lovely village starting with a 'B' and wa dressed as a nice charming girl named Cornelia. She was the one who gave a cigarette. As a former chain smoker better known as a 'chimney' I smiled and, not interrupting a friendly chat, welcomed my afternoon with a nice path of smog in the air. Then the fate happened: something holt on my heart and didn't want to let it go. I felt dizzy all around my world and head and I couldn't take any breathe in. Finally, I woke up from this fever daydream still fighting with caughing, with one thing understood: my limit of smoking had been finished.

The Guy I Live With

 Let's set up one thing at the beginning- The Guy I Live With doesn't live with me anymore. He moved out after I tried to lock him in a grave underground of St Paul's Cathedral during our delightful seightseeing trip. But as he didn't move far (it was a terrible time for a flat search, as usual in London) he keeps making my life more entertaining.

 There is one thing you have to know about him- he hates a mess. Though I'm not a very messy person, he always says that I don't like cleaning because it's sacrifizing. Anyway, he's irreplacable in cleaning duties. In minute when I write it he's just accused me of treating him as a housekeeper. He has enough of this kind of approach and he is not here for cleaning! Thank God he can't move out anymore- he already did. So all he can do is acting like a mr Grumpy for several days, and sooner or later, he will forgive me- how do you think?

 Basically I wanted to say that it was amazing last week to come back home and see this cozy, shiny clean kitchen with a big bowl of candies of a table, and drink a tea in a garden (I never supposed before that it could be a real garden), looking at clean paths and flowers all around. I guess I wanted to say thank you and how much I appreciate it that you can keep a house 'home'. But I forgot. Would you forgive me?

God Save My Shoes

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Dk66xz8te0

 Which one of us, women, doesn't love them? High heels, ballerinas and much more types of shoes, all heroes of our dreams all the way! I have a friend who is addicted to buying shoes- once I visited her I had to make some shopping for her. Her fridge was totally empty as she spent all of her money for next three pairs of shoes!

 The  creators of 'God Save my Shoes' try to explain the phenomenon of shoes. They interview celebrities and the most powerful people in shoe business. I love the line that women have a relationship with their shoes- that's exactly the way I feel. 

 Some people blame shoes for developing of shopaholism. It definitely makes a point due to the amazing philosophy which grew around shoes over centuries. Nobody knows when did it start, but we can't blame Manolo Blahnik more than old Chinese celebration of women's feet, as well as we can't blame Hollywood movies more than old romances, where woman's foot was a symbol of sex-appeal.  

I could probably blame my grandmother who had a different pair of shoes to every clothing set and a special closet for shoes. But there's one line in this movie I really like and I think that's it: we can only blame the way it makes us FEEL. It's the way it makes us feel which makes shoe business a real art branch with a psychological flavour. 'God Save my Shoes' is not going to bring us an explanation of shoes' role in the world. It will take us into an another world. The one we like more than wonderland- the shoeland.

Esperanza- a romance adventure

 (...) Sometimes I feel like I was there. Walking on these streets. However, I know these streets are not real, this city is an illusion, these worlds in front of me are world of my immagination. In this daydream I feel very light, in kind of weird way, like I was light as a wind. So I'm haunting these dreamy streets as a fog, able to make every heart cold, make every thought blown away.

 It took me actually ages. 'Esperanza' was supposed to be my first novel, but a composition of the story required a more specific form. So there is my short story. Placed in Poznań, Poland, Esperanza is a story about searching answers of a past before living home. But the main character is a city, a magic city, to be enjoyed by those who had an honour spend a time there. This is a last sentence of Esperanza, finishing this adventure for me, and beginning it for readers- translation in progress.

Never thought I'd publish a Must Have

But here we are. Guess there's nobody to blame, just a one simple fact recently arising in my awareness: the oldest I am the more girly girl I become. And however during the past several months if it was up to me I would probably wear a Gagarin style uniform on a daily basis, my thoroughly hidden fashion weekness took over. Et voila! H&M published a picture of this dress. 

 It's not that it's gorgeous. No, it won't be about it. It's just that anytime I try to organize my life something like that comes up- something unexpected. An expectation this time has been caused by my housemates, who recently create a massive philosophy about quiting a job and releasing from a capitalistic rats chase. This picture ruined my part in this conspiracy. It reminded me about an old sentence of Marylin Monroe: money doesn't give a happiness, just shopping does. 

 Well, The Guy I Live With can stay rebelious and continue on with his philosophy of total freedom and a real life when you set yourself free from something or somebody you work for. Because he doesn't feel the need to save money to buy this dress for summer.

Woman's Portrait

 I never was a good poet. Though I dreamed about it since ever, my mind just never developed any talent towards it. Maybe that's why I became a translator, to cheer up my pride and partly make my dream come true. There's nothing better than a good poem to translate. 

 Today I'd like to share one poem, probably translated already thousand times, but I believe still touching in every version. The poem of Wisława Szymborska, recently died winner of a Nobel prize. 

Native Tongue of Mind

 There's many things which can happen during a proper morning of Monkey Seduction. But what happened to me today, was definitely too much for my imagination.

 Regarding the nice weather in London recently I was not surprised when I got waken up by a nice sunshine. I opened my eyes and thought, such a nice sunshine is smiling on me through my window, in a Jane Austen style. And then I realize one thing and I got up immediately: I thought it in English. How could it be possible for my very first thought in the morning to be in English, I had no idea. I tried to shake up and desperately remind any other word to describe a window. But I couldn't.. Somehow 'window' seemed to be the only word to describe it and the only one to cross my mind. 'Window'! My mind became an English mind. No matter if my tongue was still doing mistakes, my mind had already switched a language. This morning a window started to be 'window' for me forever. Even when later my mind finally came back to the shape and developed nice thoughts in a language it was tought from my first word, the window was still 'window'. Looking at it now I come to the conclusion that it will always be this way.

The Monkey Seduction Effect

 I spent ages thinking what actually Monkey Seduction is for me. Finally I defined it as a condition between being awake and being tired because of no sleep cause by a permanent disconnection from daydreams. In practice, it's a little bit more creepy. Monkey Seduction is this moment when you're waking up having several more minutes to still stay between waking up and balancing somewhere out in your mind. You don't want to wake up, but at the same time sleeping seems to be a waste of time.

Worldly Savages

 In the middle of a ridiculously freezy winter there are three things which are still hot in London: dreams about Mallorca in summer, Starbucks hot chocolate and Worldly Savages, a London based crazy balkan band.
 The inspiration for this post run through my head when, drawning in homework,  I got totally unable to join any party tonight. Well, the life of freelancer is not easy. But I can still sail for a while into a memory of my last weekend. Exactly a week ago this band killed a whole London with them undeniable sound in Jamboree in Limehouse. The public received not only an amazing concert of really well synchronized musicians (which is worth outlining as the bad has been playing together only for several months) but also an incredible performance from the artists, who really put their hearts into this evening. Public appreciated the vocalist's jokes (even this one about sousage) and touching performance of an exceptionally talented violinist.
 After this spectacular London debut we can only expect another events, and then for sure an international fame! The band has already toured around Serbia and is planning another shows in UK and abroad. Well guys, amazing job! Would say much more, but remembering this great party, growing speechless on the Friday night.

Monkey Seduction

 Monkey Seduction was a name of a political party we created with a good friend of mine one November evening. I can't remember how actually have we come to this but it was very funny in the end. We liked playing this game. What is essential for it, is a good combination of both: sounds and meanings, able to create in our minds a thought: 'I've heard it somewhere before, but this time is different, better.' etc. A really good construction can create an expression that you hear something funny, but at the same time it's something you've been trying to express for a long time. Did it work wih Monkey Seduction, I'm not the one to state.
 And I feel I owe you the confession, you, my lonely friend lost in the atmosphere until reading a blog nobody reads yet: yes, English is not my first language. This is why I will never be good in this game above. However, well, I have to be. I am a writer.

 Ladies and Gentlemen!
  I think I've just seen a mark of a lost human being stepping on this blog. So, if there's somebody interested, let's get it started! My first literary piece, created with a help of a best editor ever!!
You, lost creature, enjoy!

The Theatre Lord
The ships won't let me down. They won't let me down tonight, now the sea is calm and the air full of sleepy wishes. I can hear the siren's voice and I know that I will be watching these ships until they sail away to be lost behind the horizon. As of now nothing can follow them anymore, no homecomings, no spooks nor impotent curses. Everything will sink. And I will be waiting here with my cup of tea, watching through the window of the atelier as the ships sail away and their sails are supported not by wind but by human misery.
The theatre lord always had a weakness for ships. On the day that I came here for the first time, there was a little paper ship on his desk. Although the wind from the sea seemed to call to it through the open window, the little ship stayed unaffected, unsinkable, confident within its own paper construction. I asked the theatre lord to make one, just like it, for me. He smiled and said
"If one day you write a letter to me, I will make of it a ship that will be able to sail across the oceans."
He always wore a heavy, woollen sweater, in late spring as well, when in that port, even the wind is already warm. The window in his atelier was always open, because of the strong cigarettes he smoked. I would see him very often in those days, passing by his atelier on every possible occasion looking into his magical world, through the chink in his door. Just one glance at his cherry coloured sweater, the full ashtray, the papers covering his desk, no matter which piece of this picture I saw, it always changed my day. It was as if there existed an other world, beside the real one, an innerworld, independent and unconquered.
After several weeks I started to visit the theatre lord in his atelier. Others were afraid of him, but I never understood why. Getting closer to him, I started to perceive him as someone else. Someone other than merely a man seen through a chink in some door. He had a friendly smile and vibrant, black eyes, which revealed the innate shyness he was learning to deal with as he grew old. I liked to look at him when he was tired. Only then was it possible to notice the grey hair on his head, just as it though it changed colour with his mood. He would close his eyes then and the eyes became immersed in the swollen edges of his eyelids. Then, deep and wide wrinkles appeard on his face. They were of a different kind from those I'd ever seen before. They were actually thriving as they left the corners of his eyes, like fast brush strokes. Touching them was like playing a harp, or like gently touching a painting, feeling the shapes on the canvas under your fingers, careful not to distract the work of the master. Sometimes he smiled sadly. Then the wrinkles seemed to smile with him, creating a nostalgic composition where the brightness of his face contrasted with his tiredness.

The hands of the theatre lord were as though hidden behind glass and untouched by time. They were perfectly white and smooth, with long and slender fingers, which always made me think of an ancient sculpture, perfectly beautiful. I asked him once if he played the piano, but he answered me simply, as usual, with his mysterious smile.
Four years passed this way. Four years with the theatre lord. Falling down and rising again, spending manic nights talking and watching sea troughs through the window. I opened a magic box of his world and soon I understood that I wanted to stay there forever.
But I didn't notice the torn playbill or the empty cup. And I didn't see the suitcase, packed for a journey, or his face, when for the last time he watched the sea from his atelier. Or the ship which took my letter across the ocean.
So, if it ever happens to you, as it happened to me, to love the theatre lord, then do as I did, take your tea and sit in an atelier where you can let your gaze escort the ship, and wait. One day he will come back and on his desk there will be standing a little paper ship which will never sink.

Whistling

 According to Tove Jansson's Mummintrolls whistling in a theatre can bring you a bad luck. Well, whistling for sure brings a bad luck to me however I don't live in a theatre. It means that The Guy I Live With came back home and is in extremely good mood. Everytime he whistles coming back home I know that he feels super-lucky-happy and soon is goind to lead me to lose my control. Well, it's not like I hate happy people. I am just less enthusiastic about my lifestyle and can't really see the need to dance from joy.
 But there are worse thing about to happen followed his whistling: the evening with red wine and talk about poor people in the world, struggling at the time when we are so happy!
- Well, honestly, I don't feel as much happy..
- Yes you are!
- Well..ekhm.. if you say so.. but still I think I am not as happy afterall..
- Yes you ARE happy! Trust me I know you better than that I know when you're happy and when you aren't.
  Hmm.. If you say so.

The Beginning

 Someone said that there no the ends in the world, there are just beginnings. Regarding my feeling of timing it doesn't sound very logical. Well, if every end is a beginning, then every beginning has to be the end. Somehow, but it's still possible.
 Anyway, the best idea is always an idea from a different reality. I'm writing this blog during my break from reality which is, let's say a little bit, overwhelming. I've escaped this life's prose just for a while: the central heating in my house doesn't work exactly as it should and The Guy I Live With has just accused me of using too much toilet paper. So if anybody fancy a break from reality, get an Earl Grey tea and read something from time to time.