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.