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.
An avant-pop blog for fans of arts, literature and storytelling, the rain and crowded cafés.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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.
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