December nostalgy or meeting by the well

 There was a popular song around ten years ago going like: 'One day we'll meet by the well, maybe in the better world, our wives will be pretty and vodka won't harm us anymore'. The more the time goes by, the more beautiful the well, gathering your memories and dreams that never came true. And the more the time goes by, the more blurry is the image of the well: the more puzzling is the question what to say. 

 Some other day I was walking around the streets I used to pass every day, the same streets and the same noise of random talks, the same smell of Russian gasoline. I passed an old shop on the main street (if you can call it any) which used to be our shop in the distant jokes, mine and Silvia's. Couple of days ago it was Silvia's Birthday. And under a thrill or a hint, I dropped her a message. She's happy she said, wishing she could, just like me, come over for Christmas. All of the memories have come alive, like when we walked to a party outside the town, and we found a cigarette lying on the snow, or like... The streets became a bit depressive, were they always like this? so I decided to come back home, and refused to leave again to meet my (somehow long-time-no-seen) cousin. He reached my home around an hour later. A bottle of wine, long time no drunk- red one, I don't really drink the red one anymore, hang on I practically don't drink wine at all. This one bring memories, like then when... You remember or when... 

 After a while he asked me if I had any news from a friend. Used to be our friend, but no, sadly. I was about to, write/call/step by/ whatever else but then there is this threat following it, the threat of unbreakable silence. After a while, you don't want to share things which went wrong. You stick it at the back of your head with a label 'personal', not destined to a friend marked as 'long-time-no-seen'. Ideally, such meeting should be joyful, and you should dig and dig until you find again all those qualities you used to appreciate in the person and, which is worse, inside yourself. Otherwise you can sentence the two of you to silence, not only a silence for one evening, but the eternal silence of your memories and past events, a silence which will be causing a hick-up everytime you ever recall the face of the person. It's that kind of silence no one could bear.

 My cousing is a counsellor. There is probably many things being a counsellor can teach you, but there is surely one of special significance: avoiding problematic relationships. And these are random relationships formed between two people meeting once again after a time of dispersal: as they are never what they ought to be. The bond of friendship is a magnificent creation of experience. Experience which, without continuity, breaks through and dies forever. Maybe if some people were counsellors, just like my cousin, they would know it. Unfortunately, they are not and they fall over and over into a spiral of sympathy and politeness which is right there to destroy their memories forever. 

 Coming back to my cousin, recently he received an offer from a friend to join a meeting with their mutual old friend. Surprisingly for the other side, he refused. 

-Are you crazy, what am I going to tell him?

-Exactly, what are you going to tell him at first place?

 By the chance of this dialogue, the eyes of my cousin and Frank are meeting. I can see them both, two counsellors communicating by the code we will never understand, nodding in agreement.

-The answer is always the same- explained Frank with his right hand raised in the act of clarification. -We met and it was brilliant. Because they always meet for a beer- both sides count on a possibility of getting drunk and let it 'somehow' go!

 I couldn't really join this discussion since I, for one of my rules, try to avoid people from the past. But in that matter my life surely divides into two periods: before, and after I met Kati.

The Escape

 These days I start to give to my pieces very short titles. Not like I wanted to make them more catchy, it is just we live in the world where everything gets shorter, story, relationships, sleep, the time between the first date and going together to bed. Nothing wrong about it, as life, as you can see, is short. 

 This shortness continues silently suffering inside me, dying a little bit with me each day which is over. I am missing these lost days, missed forever and left behind with no regrets and no place to look back, leaving only few hopes for what is there to look forward to. I feel guilty for them. I am abandoning them one day by another. Three days ago I abandoned three years of my life. And it was worth it. 

 One year ago I gifted my readers with a detailed report from my birthweek- not asking you for permission, for which I apologize. Cause there was no transition, no flowers falling from the sky, no fireworks of my way and no easy answers. For all that, I apologize. To myself. 

 This year my Birthday went quiet. Just passing, like a passenger outside the window, giving you a random look only to walk away within seconds. Because this year I know that life is not to provide us with easy answers and what we want is not necessarily what is to make us happy. There are not any great things to wait for, not a happy ending from a book, not a spectacular movie final neither an enthusiastic audience rooting for our success. Life is too low budget- doesn't provide even the curtain. 

 And if you understand what am I saying, it means that once you were, just like me, looking at your life as a race of achievements. Moving from task to task- throwing an amazing Birthday party, getting a job you want, increasing your income, realizing an exciting project, gaining good friends, meeting the one, having children. Achievement to achievement, task to task, a swirling buffonade constructing an eternal wall between the winners and the losers. What turned to be against the original plan, is mostly that the second ones tend to be happier. 

 Today I wanted to write. But instead, I escaped again. I spent a lovely day though, thank you! I spent it in the world of my imagination. In this world there is no future, there is no time. There is nothing I am waiting for. It's just a street and me, walking without any purpose, looking at the windows, observing how other lives go on behind them, in the light of the yellow bulbs. Thousands of bulbs, thousands of lives, breathing simultaneously in the rhythm of the city, which is not the city anymore, but something else. After dark the whole world is only a magical kingdom of the night, with its own secret treasures hidden behind the walls. It will never show you these stories- you have to write them yourself. 

 So these days, I did not achieve to enjoy my birthweek. Instead, I celebrate every moment, and if I have to I take on my magic carpet and fly away. Because there is nothing more to look forward, no magical solutions, no more breathtaking miracles about to happen, nothing beyond that moment. Because all of them, magic, solutions and miracles come in silently, as a stranger. There is nothing beyond this life which is now. Nothing else is today on the menu.

Home

 This week I suddenly got a little busy and didn't have much time to think about where to push my life to achieve the next step. Then afterwards there was a surprising thought just about to cross my mind: will my holidays, planned for a long time ahead and approaching day by day, actually happen. The reason for such doubts is nothing but beaurocracy and a simple fact that sometimes it is better to stay in place. But now, exactly, better for what? Because what on Earth can be more important than going home? 

 It was supposed to be a nice Friday night with Paloma Faith the great at the Proms but the sudden sadness about not going, turning off my long-planned holidays, has taken away all of the joy of the great night. I wished to come back home. And before you ask, what home?- there is a large amount of factors making us define our home. Some like to say that home is wherever your heart is- that's one of the biggest deceive one can do to themselves.

The definition of feeling home is strictly bound to the natural instincts- it's one of the most dangerous, illusional and desperate need in the history of human being- it's a need for safety.


 On Friday night I found myself needing a home- surprisingly- my home in East London. Just like many years ago before Thinkersoup and Tigerlily decided to head to Edinburgh, before A. have left to Belgrade, before Mr Charming has found his destiny as a sex guru, before The Guy I Lived With abandoned the big city flash, before Vincenzo's favourite team lost one time too much. Before that happened, once there was a home. But the one I was desperately running to on Friday night was a different one. It was a home which has built itself, somewhere aside, on a margin of my biography. It was a home within myself, holding tightly in between my own walls which only took some words to understand. I was running home.

Mindwritten part 2- the advanced methodology to writing without a real effort

 In two hundred years people will be able to get a filter into their brain which is going to select the right information and therefore, form articles in bulk and add them to the queue in order to be published. Till that, with a deep sadness, I need to anounce that me, my empty piece of paper and my total lack of inspiration, are sucked.

 Recently I have been mindwriting a lot. I created a chronicle of my past, of a long forgotten travel, I wrote two large episodes of my fantasy saga (with illustrations only my mind itself is able to create) and I almost finished two short stories. So my dear readers, could you kindly read my mind?

 There was for all of us a promised land of creative perfection, the land of our own we were supposed to furnish with dreams and hopes. The shops stuffed on empty books with pretty covers and hundreds of good quality pages engouraging us to write our own novels inside. They got filled with tones of canvas and paint of every possible colour inviting us to create a masterpiece. But the outcome of it stays in our minds, untouched and perfect, an ideal deal with both angel and the devil. In exchange our lives fill with experiences which are there for a moment, enjoyable essence which is about to pass and fade away, the elusive mark of our presence which is going to be surpassed in the race by it's own dress. That is what keeps passing me by.

 The evolution, for-God's-sake the mother of gravity and movement, has been not less cruel with me. The skill which remains not used for a while, vanishes. I call it a communism of the mother nature, whatever cannot be utilise needs to go. A good keyboard and an outstanding power of will won't be enough to beat it.

 But you see, there are these benefits of being a cat. And a cat person I am, I will be holding to the surface with my nails and I keep writing and posting even if I have absolutely nothing to say. Because even through the heaviest snow of an inspirational desert, there is no such a thing which is as easy as writing about nothing. 

IDEAS FOR EASY WRITING PROCESS

 Writing only for the sake of writing has been practised by thousands of the best authors over the centuries. When I was still at the university one of the most widely cherished author published a new book. It was quite a large piece, published by a prestigious company and quickly nominated to several literary prizes. All of my friends headed to the bookshops to get their own copy as soon as possible. But instead of a vital discussion in a student community, the reception leaned on a persistent silence. Maybe they couldn't get a complex philosophy presented by an award-winning author and a proclaimed genius, maybe his point of view shattered their perception of life so much they decided to keep quiet, maybe the masterclass of his skills was simply overwhelming. But the truth was much more touching and cruel: this book treated about nothing. The genius, the authority for millions, had absolutely nothing to say. The product he submitted to the prosperous publishing house was well-written, full of pleasant descriptions but had absolutely nothing to communicate. And just as he anticipated, it got sold out.

The Corner -short story.

  Recently one clever guy I randomly met somehow managed to convince me that publishing my stories on my blog, especially noting I would have shown them to anybody anyway, wouldn't most probably do any harm. So here you go. This story has been written at work on my lunch break a year ago and made me feeling genuinely proud. I spent months reading it and telling myself what a genius I am and what an amazing talent I keep hiding from public. At the meantime, a year goes by, I don't like it anymore. I would write it now. I can't see why would anybody ever write such a thing. 

 I decided not to bother to put a title on it. Anybody curious, enjoy. 

There is this place in Victoria Park, where the historic borough of Tower Hamlets ends and Hackney begins. This place lies in my heart, gently filling the empty spaces with a green carpet of grass, calming down the turning corridors of memories. On that day I got up in a bit of a different manner than I used to and I found a golden ring hidden in my fist. It used to be a belonging of my grandmother, the only thing I got from her and my mother always said it didn’t matter. I had lost it years ago and I liked to believe it had a deeper meaning as we usually try to give value to the unexplainable. I was watching it for a while as it was lying there in my open hand, reflecting the light brought by a strong summer sun through the open doorway. Summer in London always comes as a surprise, but not a miracle kind, rather a magician’s trick when all of the sudden they take a harmony out of their hat instead of a rabbit. It can seem though, more golden than in the rest of the world, shimmering the air with bits of lightening treasure. You can ask this sun for your answers. It’s there for you, responding with thousands of gardens. 

 On that day I walked through the streets like a thought slightly floating on a verge between the wind and the pavement. I boarded the train from the same platform as usual, still holding a golden ring in my fist. There were just three more passengers in the carriage. On my left hand, with a corner of my eye I could see an elderly lady with a face alike to an exotic bird, with a red throat contrasting an ivory smoothness of her nose. Apart from her there were also two men carrying late autumns of their lives inside their tired gazes. One of them, of a tiny posture and short neck turning his head slightly towards his left shoulder, looked up in my eyes and smiled with kindness one can only be offered by a stranger. I was sitting next to the window watching the brown and sad track, the final landscape after everything has turned to dust. Then all of a sudden I heard the an automatic sound and a monotone voice announcing: ‘This train does not terminate at the next station. This train does not stop. It will continue till the final station. This train is for the end.’ I took a look around at other passengers’ faces. They looked calm and untouched, like sketches in the old animation, looking more beautiful to me than ever random strangers could if I only paid my attention to shadows. My destination had obviously changed and I felt embarrassed for travelling with such a big discount. 

 Slowly, I stood up and walked towards the beginning of the carriage, looking at the landscape outside of the window as it was getting closer and closer to my eyes. The train suddenly turned like a carousel keeping on turning around and making the world around all trembling in sights. Then I saw this place once again, the corner of Victoria Park near the station of Hackney Central. My mind entered the tunnel of gobelins filling  me all with smells and flavours I remembered from my dreams. Victoria Park looks the best in the afternoon, these afternoons which were running through the path of my own board game. When I was a child my dad and I used to play 'Wild Geese' which was nothing but a journey on a large cardboard. It was a journey through the hell, at least that was the way I perceived it at that time, because the pond was always deep and the well was always right there, and I had an anxiety of both: highness and darkening. And it always made my dad laugh, because he was never afraid of neither traps nor tricks, neither weeping harmonies nor talking trumpets. Could this train be stopping here? Is it here- the end of the world, the end of the ends, the end of the imagination. Could it be here?

Walking in my shoes

 Alonso liked when I was changing my shoes. There were two full drawers in my room, encouraging to pick one pair, according to the standard of the moment. There were several sets of high heels, inviting to pair them with the right dress, with a matching brooch or a necklace. Some ballerinas able to tell the beginning and the end of spring, and an endless crowd of boots and booties. They were my favourite, playing with the spots of the weather, they were a dress themselves, and a coat, and a warm pillow for the cold, windy mornings, calmly sufficient in their highness. But Alonso never asked me which ones were my favourite. He himself had only one pair of shoes of his own. 

 I was choosing them every morning with care. Polished and smart, but are they matching this fancy cheese you got me today for breakfast? Is it appropriate, is it right, does it suit the story you wrote for me today? Am I a lover or a mother, or a sister full of compassion and understanding, always understanding, cause that was a part of the deal to always understand.

 These days my distinguished high heels remained mostly locked up in a drawer, too uncomfortable, so in contrary to comfort. It is awful to live out of comfort, as you said, not having a stable job, an own flat, and how on Earth can people decide to live without a car. I have a bike, said I. My cycling shoes, sleeping in the upper drawer. You wanted to give me a helmet.

 My ankle booties, dark suede, not very suitable for the vegan pizza you ordered, no cheese, full of lettuce. I'm trying to hide my feet under the chair.

 It was problematic having picked a wrong pair of shoes. It was making me feel for my poor Alonso as it was pushing us both out of ordeal. That's the way it was meant to be- challenging! Just as challenging it can be to anticipate the theme of tonight's show. You see, it was the most difficult to choose the right shoes for the night. One needed to carefully listen to the previously provided instructions, spread into parts of suggestions and marmours, several glances outside of the window. It had to do with accuracy and most valued discretion, simply to never, ever, reveal the rules of the game. It could have become really problematic to Alonso if I suddenly came out of my role. Because it could lead, at the very end, to him, to have to take his shoes off as well. It was something I couldn't allow to happen. 

- Let's go to Amsterdam! Let's go to Victoria and then we can catch the next coach. It takes only couple of hours, we can sleep on the way. 

 In these moments he always said he didn't understand. It was the result of wearing the wrong shoes, that's why it was so important, his eyes were letting me know, it mattered just so much to pick them carefully. According to these shoes we could plan our life, expected at the train station at the right time with the estimated amount of luggage, with the hair perfectly cut and stylised. This future couldn't stand a whisper. 

 In the lower drawer was the place of rest for the shoes never meant to wear anymore. Amongst them, a set of sassy ballerinas, two coloured and embellished by a small detail, nicely lying next to each other on the bottom of the dust. These shoes were forbidden. They were the shoes of a girlfriend of another man. 

 There was another pair hidden deep in the corner. I was watching them sometimes from a distance. But it was me who was reluctant to take them out. These shoes were saying 'Adieu' and I didn't like goodbyes. The goodbye was not a part of the deal. It was not meant to be the part of the story. 

- Why don't we just find some nice place? Somewhere rather east or south, listen to the music or take some drugs or what so ever, start a day every morning with a tea by the window. 

- What do you mean? I didn't get it. 

 Today I was walking in my shoes. I passed a narrow, almost empty street and jumped over the uneven parts of the pavement. I didn't take them off when I came back home, to get a tea and stay indefinitely at my table. I didn't know if they suited the weather, or where they too warm for this temperature, too high to bring a comfort. No one would tell me to take these shoes off. They are for real. 

Three years and one day

Exactly three years and one day ago I arrived at Stratford Station in East London with one backpack, couple of hundreds pounds in my pocket and thousands of fears in my head. The London I used to know from postcards seemed as far as my mum left on the staircase of our small town house by the highway between Warsaw and Berlin or my friend left behind the gate of the Tocumen airport. This time, it was supposed to be my home. With a Turkish supermarket in Leytonstone with freshly baked pita every morning and cheesy mosaics of Alfred Hitchcock's movies at the tube station. 

 Later I can see A. in the middle of Covent Garden as I saw him for the first time. That day changed my life. 

 I see Thinkersoup by the table eating a turkey leg while reading a book, and Agnes in her cabin crew uniform. She asked me to get her a Red Bull on my way back home and that's still what I'm doing when I want to feel more home than usual. Mr Charming's laughter on the staircase, Vincenzo with his fancy pasta and packs of lavazza, The Guy I Lived With in his pyjamas. It was just the beginning of the amazing characters I was about to meet, places I was about to see, adventures happened on the way still yet to believe it was true. 

 And then, it was Monkey Seduction. My first steps in writing in English, erasing my past away from my mind, first readers, first times for the first time. First love and then the second, then the third one, all more or less relevant leaving with tons of poems written for them under the impression of the moment. First short stories written till the end, meeting Terry Pratchett on the red light. University. 

 A restaurant in Stratford with cheap but fine Chinese food, hidden from the eyes of pedestrians and the top floor of Westfield where Ms Adorable used to work. 

 One long street in Hackney leading to Victoria Park and Palm Tree pub in Mile End. Cheap fries after midnight and pagoda in Battersea Park. The graffiti portraying a scared little girl by Brick Lane, long time gone. 

 London Eye by night. Walks along the Thames until Shakespeare's Globe. Baker Street with lost spirit of Sherlock Holmes pointing you the way.

 And love. Lots of love to all of you, those whom I didn't mention but about whom I would never forget, Love to you, Love to London, Love to those who read it and those who won't find the time, to those who enchanted this time even for a little while. 

 I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. Love to you. 

The world inside my iPad- what's in your technology brain.

 I never thought it could have happened. I need to admit that for most of the time of my life I was a total ignorant to modernisation of devices and rather reluctant to technology in general. I cherished my old Nokia with a sentiment you can offer only to a long time friend and felt a bit of sadness when I had to swap it for a Blackberry. I never understood how people can spend thousands of pounds on phones and tablets and more fancy, completely useless electronics. 

 And then one day it happened: I got an iPad. At the very beginning, I doubted if it could be useful. A portable browser, what else can people invent. But then I charged it and it said hello, offering to be a pocket edition of my brain, to tidy up my head and clear away the cobwebs of overwhelming day-to-day reality. With smile, I could not refuse and I welcomed the iPad on board of my busy life. Then it asked me to feed it. With all the cool things I would like to have in my head. Now it's a time to talk about it a bit, what's in my head, what's in my iPad.  

 First of all I had to decide in what situation can it be of use. I always considered portable devices practical so I got a... netbook. Now I had more activities within reach with no need to come back home. It was a good idea as home can be overwhelming. To be sure my iPad is well prepared to go out, I got it a fuchsia case. I search for a matching cover.

INSIDE

 So I have to admit that alongside with technology itself I got also fascinated by social media. Quite bizarre as I used to say I would never, never (and never, never, ever!) become one of these geeky modern trendy creatures bouncing around with iPhones and letting Instagram be the portfolios of their lives. Today, oh well, Twitter, Facebook and Padgram (an iPad version for Instagram) were the first apps I fed my precious with. It's not like I know perfectly how to use them- don't get misled.

 With the second group of my favourite digital creatures most of my friends will be very pleased. Oh, I can see all of you clapping your hands. I have a navigation! I have maps, bus connections and tube updates and it would be a great idea if I actually ever took my lovely out of home... But, you see, just like getting lost in my own pocket, I also tend to lose everything I have with me.. and I mean everything.

 Then my iPad offered me a newsstand. It seemed quite bizarre for me, but soon I liked the idea of staying connected with news. As I normally don't read random news, the only item I used as far is a digital issue of 'Stylist'.. I just can't get over of the guilty pleasure of reading the great Lucy Mangan in my bed early morning.

 After appreciating the role of media I also downloaded Panamanian news app 'Estrella'. It's not like I claim it's entertaining.

 On the wave of creating my digital brain I also got Spotify (still learning how to use it), BBC iPlayer (only to watch 'The Honourable woman' before sleep) and Antena 3 player with hope to find all the missing episodes of 'Internado'.

But there are three the most imporant things I found absolutely delighted. If anybody has a brain similar to mine, you would surely wish to have them inside.

Chase the moment- tracking David Wynne's works around London

 I have made a magical discovery one late night-early morning while sitting on a bus, I believe, from Luton airport. Within the dark space of a reality outside the  window, I spotted a mysterious creature seemingly blue, captured in a move like a totem of a timeless run, not meant to be completed by no one. It was a blue presence of The Boy with The Dolphin, glittering at dawn in the deepness of the-same-ness. This experience, rapid and elusive, has transformed my feel about the city. Not only this city, but any city, anywhere in the world where unexplainable, unreasonable can be discovered and embraced, and become your company in the silence or your partner in crime. I desperately tried to remember any remarkable sign having allowed me to find this spot afterwards. But it took me some time to find him, my Boy with a Dolphin, and it was meant to be this way. 

 David Wynne is being called 'the sculptor of the movement' and it is indeed the most accurate name. Streets of London remain the best possible tribute to his work, by enchanting the passengers with his monuments of the captured stories. That's why everything I wanted for my Name Day was a trip discovering these masterpieces around the city. And there are such people in our lives who are always here to make our dreams come true. 

  To disappoint my evanescent memory at dawn, Boy with a Dolphin was not really blue. To reach him, one needs to cross a magical and nostalgic Albert Bridge, which is worth visiting too. Only passing this place, one of those where always seems to be early Autumn, one is allowed to visit Boy with a Dolphin himself. It is hard to find the words to describe this feeling while looking into his eyes. The monument is perfect in his majesty. It is complete.

 The statue has been dedicated to the artist's son, who also modeled for it at the age of ten. Nowadays the sculpture seems to be forgotten, deserted in the middle of Chelsea and distracted by the huge Mercedes Benz sign. Almost like for the model, who died tragically at young age, the famous boy's final is tragic and heartbreaking. 

The Magical Reality Under Construction. World according to Ilya Utkin and Alexander Brodsky.

 Someone once said there are only two kinds of people: those who want different reality and those who create it. In that theory I am in between Jacques Derrida and his great deconstruction and Cognitive Behaviour Therapy which says that everything we see depends on what's in our  heads.

 This issue can be easily explained: Derrida has been my master since my second grade at the University (so it's been a while) and gave me enough theory to understand what I want to do and how my reality should look like, while CBT crossed my path in the perfect moment giving me the answer to the second important question: how to do that. 

 Yes, you're correct- the only way to create your own magical reality is to deconstruct the one you have. And the only instrument to achieve it is your own head. That's why making yourself a CBT session right now is an amazing thing to do even if you're brain is completely healthy. Because the way you perceive your reality is in your head. 

 Now you are about to tell me it's a cliche. And in many ways, you'd be right. So for not being accused of being a full time cliche gambler I am going to explain the issue deeper by using examples of created realities based on what you have. So if you want your reality to be different, let me give you some examples of magical realities to start with or even copy some of them into your head. Some of them are completely imaginary and are there to help us create our own in our heads. This sort of creation will not cause your detachment with the world, quite the opposite, it should connect you with it. But your perception of it will be much better and will attract more positive things into your life. At least that's what Frank told me. 

 To create your own magical reality, start with space. The space around you, the place you live in and the surroundings. Then add to it all the things you get from it: images, sounds and smells. What do you want them to remind you of? How do you want it to make you feel like?

 After that introduction I want to talk about the first example of a magical reality to explain why and how does it focus on space. An absolutely genius project I came across accidentally at Tate Modern, by Ilya Utkin and Alexander Brodsky, two amazing architects placing buildings in our imagination.

CBT DIY- Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, handmade by me.

 Recently I had a strange feeling of falling into depression. It started with an eye infection (following the logic of getting a heart attack starting with a pain in toes) and attacked all of my surroundings from shoppings bags to two watermelon printed glasses on my coffee table. 

- I am seriously getting tired of your imaginary mental health problems- said Mr Frank browsing a Guardian page on his iPad (he has an iPad, i don't).

 But this time,  believed, it was serious. Fearfully I looked through all of the available all over the net descriptions of depression symptoms. It was clear.

-Sleeping disorders. Yes, definitely. I am having these strange dreams about getting to Panama and when I land there it is not the same country. Then I wake up late, overwhelmed by the daydream. 

-Tiredness. Oh yes, an awful one. When I try to get up of a chair first I move my legs, while my back stays in the same place.

-Pain. Hundred percent yes, you see, that eye infection. And those shoes some other day were so uncomfortable. 

-Helplessness. Oh I am so, so wasting my time. 

-Suicidal thoughts. Oh for God's sake, is that necessary? Can I skip that symptom please.

 As I indeed can skip all of the other symptoms in my head, I successfully diagnosed myself with depression.

 Of course, I can't afford leaning on that and complaining, so I decided to focus on solutions. There it was- a perfect thing for me. According to uncle Google, it focuses on the way you perceive things: your thoughts, images, attitude and beliefs. It tries to break through a negative pattern in your behaviour. Patients are supposed to benefit from the therapy not only after coming out of depression, but also in much longer term in their lifetime. In my life I tend to call it wishful thinking. Here it gets a much better PR: it's called Cognitive Behaviour Therapy, or rather CBT.

The Love of Your Life

 This happened on a usual day, when I wanted to write something good and whatever it was seemed to decrease its' value with every line I drew with my pen. That day was completely usual if you can call it the one when you want to quit your job, quit your dreams, quit anything which distracts you, only to kick the invisible door to something you call meaningful, inside, where no one can watch. I was looking for something in my bag and then, surprisingly I found two London postcards. No, they were not meant for anybody from my family or friends. There were for me. Just like spotting a nice inexpensive dress in a window, I saw them and I just had to have them. For myself. One of them askew, wrongly cut apparently, no one else would ever buy it. But for me, it was my London. Askew and washed out. Because you see, I love London. 

 For long time I have been thinking whether a city can be the love of your life. Having a soul of a cat, I see places and people equally: with their experiences, kindness, sometimes bitterness. You get to know them slowly, exploring the hidden corners of their dusty souls. The places are more patient, they let you come closer, have a look and bare their chests in front of you so you get to know them until it hurts. 

 I am being cruel while writing about cities. I am being demanding and exaggerating every awkward move of them, I am being angry and paranoically scared of rejection. When I love a city I can be an asshole. 

 I can't remember living in London as my biggest dream, but it used to be my sister's one and I always tried to get out of my mind all of the dreams which seemed to be more hers than mine. It all started with a notebook my mum bought me for my English classes when I was maybe 9, maybe 10, with a photo of London on the cover. I can't remember how I knew it was London, whether was it a red bus or a telephone box, or Big Ben or London Eye in the background. But I knew it was London with streets in the rain. And there was a couple standing in the rain. I don't remember the guy. But I do remember the girl. I have her in front of my eyes for my whole life.

 She is standing there, smiling, looking completely happy like this street and this rain was everything she ever wanted. Her hair is tied up in a lose braid and she's wearing a motorcycle style leather jacket and a colourful skirt made of patchwork. The perfect moment, captured in this one photograph talking to a child in another corner of the world through the cover of a school notebook. I asked my mum to make a skirt like this for me. I haven't seen this notebook anymore after graduating from school, no matter how hard I searched for it. But it was irrelevant. My life was already running, since that towards this perfect moment, inevitable to happen, and I was running through this life to become this girl from the photograph. 

What dreams are made of- why I always wanted to live in a surreal world

 At the beginning of 'The Science of Sleep' by Michel Gondry the main character Stephane shows what the dreams are made of. You can see how he puts the ingredients to a pot and mixes them all up- the pieces of memories, childish fears and things we always wanted to happen but they never did. The facts our awareness simply can't handle to deal with it- as we can see Stephane still not agreed with his father's sudden death. The final result of his cooking is a short dream, featuring a nice memory of his father, soon turning out to be fake and cruel at the end- disturbed by reality. The nature of dream is always surprising and often worrying. The emotions can be real or almost real, but they mix all together in a way they could never do it in a normal life. It's all because of the REM phase essential, Stephane says: you move your eyes while sleeping, so you follow the events your mind is taking part in. We actually DO have a second life while sleeping. At least those of use who are lucky, or cursed enough to be mad enough to live it. 

 It was Dorothea Tanning, not Salvador Dali, who introduced me to surrealism as a form of perceiving life through a category of the dream. It was years before I falled in love with mr Blanchot and his daylight madness and before Jaques Derrida taught me that nothing is the way it seems. Dorothea Tanning caught my young and not shaped yet out brain, shook it and made me believe that what I dream of actually IS the reality. With all its' bright and dark shades, all ups and downs and first if all, entirely equal to the one we're surrounded by. 

 The fascinating thing about her creation is showing the world we seem to know, but taken over and violently conquered by the thoughts escaping from our minds. The thoughts get shapes and become creatures, built of our fears and nightmares, eating alive everything which can remain a stable and fixed part of a so-called true. 

There is one quality I love about Tanning's creatures- it's the evanescence of their being, making you keep closing and opening back your eyes as you try to believe whether they are really here or are they a projection of your own mind. 

Notes on an utterly complicated relationship between a doctor and a patient

 Recently I have been thinking a lot. But it was not an easy kind of thinking, it was a thinking of a writer, a heavy, dusty piece of reality sticking to your chest. I would say it's a brilliant kind of thinking, almost a one of a genius way, as I bet not many people ever are able to think this way, but right before such a say can raise a smile on my face I realized that I don't feel that much of a chosen amongst a people and even less of a genius. But then there is, all of a sudden, a thought that crashed my mind all of a sudden one morning on the tube, just like it happens to any other person in the world. These thought are usually linked closely to relationships, and so was mine. It was my relationship with Frank, which attacked me with memories.

 These memories now, after so many years, as just as precious as my real ones. And since many people at some point kept asking me about my imaginary therapist, I guessed it would be a nice thing to do to give this history some space in here. So, there it is. The story of an eternal friendship.

 I created Frank one usual evening as a result to my long thinking process about excuses. There is not another such a good excuse than an opinion of a doctor. We say it much more often than our awareness can accept: my doctor doesn't let me eat it, my doctor said I should be careful with my back etc. So why wouldn't I get a psychotherapist, the one and only counsellor for me, who'll be working just for me, just as an excuse to my constantly distracted mind. There can be nothing as good in the entire life, nothing like a doctor for my own personal use, visible only to me, existing only to me. A doctor to owe.
 All of a sudden the thought became so powerful I couldn't resist my determination anymore: I wanted to create him. The process of creation was fast and and chaotic, like my own creation had surprised me and surpassed all of my expectations and abilities. The creature started to form themselves, right there, in front of my eyes. I should have analized a potential danger in there, but the transformation has already started and I was sinking in it, having lost all of my common senses. Different pieces of a person were showing up in front of my mind in madness, noses, pair of eyes, ears and fingers traveling in a defilade of possibilties. And the, with the eyes of imagination, I saw him for the first time. He corrected his glasses with one finger and smiled. I knew he was the one. Frank. My one and only imaginary counsellor.

 The beginning of our coexistance was quite far from harmony: Frank started a real revolution in my head in order to build for himself a nice piece of home. Soon my head was full of colourful couches made of patchwork and tiny night lamps as Frank liked to read before sleep. Although I was ready for a limited kind of conflict: I knew from my experience that anytime you create an imaginary friend you need to be prepared for this person's own tastes and hobbies as very often they might be n contrary to yours. But I still believed in an eternal dream of a total symbiosis with my own psychotherapist, so I didn't mind any sort of sacrifice. With a smile on my face I was watching catalogues and ultimate home style trends, always being there to help him whether it was a colour of stores or a position of a kitchen table. I kept calm even when my new companion turned to be a bit grumpy- never happy with cheap solutions such as Ikea or Argos and looking forward to furnish my mind with heavy vintage equipment. Even though it was too much for my head, I smiled and promised to do what he wished for. All in the name of our promising, everlasting friendship.

Nuria Marques @ Esbaluard

 For those who love to explore an artsy site of new place, Esbaluard Museum of Contemporary Art in Palma de Mallorca can be, gently speaking, a slight disappointment. It doesn't really represent a spirit of the magnificent place it's based on, but rather reminds of a mere temporary exhibiton at Tate Modern. At the beginning of that article I need to mention I can definitely not act like any sort of authority in terms of Esbaluard as the entrace fee made me angry before I entered. It costs 4.50 euro to get in and me, spoiled by London where the access to most of the musuems (of much greater excellence) is free, I felt repelled by such a low accessibility of the Spanish museum. And this feeling didn't leave me for most of the time while watching the exhibition. 

 So what's cool about Esbaluard? Several Picassos and a roof terrace. And few magical spotlights which saved my impression about this place and made me leaving the building content. And, there is Nuria Marques. 

 Before I found her I took a long walk around the roof terrace, in a burning sun through the long paths with an open view to the city. Palma from that side is quiet and almost countryside style, far from tourists jam around the cathedral and the noisy Rambla. The best way to look down is to enter one of the tiny towers on the corner, which can give you a caustrophobical feeling of a cult place but is definitely worth breaking it through. You can find yourself in a magical place of a well-shape with tiny windows reaching out to the see.

 The thing which was supposed to be the most remarkable after those days hasn't been easy to find and that's exactly what attracted me to it. I have a weakness to things which seem to be hidden, swept away from within the reach of your eyes like they needed to be found and that was the only reason for them being there at first place, like being searched and found was an another purpose for their existence. They are there, to surprise and enchant.

 The work of Nuria Marques, about whom I desperately seek any information online (and saddly and surprisingly, unsuccessfully) was hidden from the general view and at the same time somehow, located just perfectly. To spot it the one needs to cross the whole room and the only reason you have to do that is a large window at the end of it. You have to feel the need to look out for the sun. There is a price for those who feel this urgent, underlying need to search for the sun. Behind a corner there is a small screen with a pair of headphones. They are waiting to take you on a journey.

Endless hours

 Long time ago when I was younger, and I was somewhere else, I liked to sit near by the window. I liked it especially when it was rainy, watching people passing by in a hurry. It was a place like a coffee shop, but not the one you can imagine. It was a tramway of our time, holding you up to stop your time for a while. And if you ever ask me what is the perfect place and the perfect time for me I will draw you this place: a table by the window, next to the front door, with a high seat and a view to the street. Sometimes I think I could just leave my life, only to come back there, with no looking back.

 It was a part of a discussion during a creative writing course I attended, positively surprised afterall, describing the perfect place to write and create. For some reasons, most of the people claimed they needed silence. The absolute one, like early morning in their bed. ''Worst place- one guy wrote- probably a busy coffee shop during peak hours''. And then, my mind took me there. It took my heart back in time. 

 There is this specific kind of people in this world who like to stay near by the window. You can meet us in restaurants and bars as the ones who never go up neither downstairs, no matter how nice is there. We never seek silence. We enjoy the counter with a whole business of it's work and a company of random passengers. We breathe the noise of the street in and feed on it. Until we need it to live. 

 I used to come there often. That is why I see this place so clearly when I close my eyes. It was located in an old city centre about which you can read in the guides that is nowadays almost forgotten. It remains passed by and unnoticed, just like a cat on a courtyard. The entrance to the coffee shop was just a large glass wall and there were two tables located just next to the doorway, with high chairs. There were places for smokers, a bit away from the rest of those inside. Just around the corner there was a bakery run by two older ladies who were making fresh rolls with chocolate or mushrooms inside and a queue outside was long enough to mix up with the people on a bus stop by the next street. Apart from that, nothing. An old library, a second hand bookshop and a silly round building which used to be a symbol of the city- at that time empty, a home for the pigeons. 

The levels of isolation

 The Guy I Lived With had another life. It was there, inside his computer, when he thought I did not see. He believed that I indeed did not see despite watching as he was not aware that it was not really his computer. It was his head. And he believed that I would not see what was in his head. Isolation always starts with a belief. 

 I got caught by the idea while sitting at my table. The house was quiet and these things in the air, like tiny pieces of a sand spread all around, started bringing images of places I have never been too and lives I have never lived yet. Monkey Seduction had attacked. As usually, all of a sudden.

 I write letters. To the people who meant, those in the life you come back to watch on an old picture printed out of a polaroid you don't have anymore. I write to them in my mind, cause that's the best way to say everything without a careful count of steps.

 Coming to the point, (as recently I hear a lot of moaning voices complaining about how much I roam around the subject without having actually any core of it) I went to Tate Modern. And following a creative writing guide this is probably the first fact I wrote here since the beginning of this blog.

 I need to add here that I usually go to Tate Modern once in a while. I like coming back there because of the memories left there for me. Everytime I come I can pick up some of them and take them back, or abandon them forever which never works for real. And- there is a mirror.

MIRROR

 No, not just any mirror. This mirror is meant to be an art- it's sticked to the canvas and pretends to be a painting, to be a real art mirroring the reality. Oh, what a curse for the artist- this mirror doesn't show reality. It's the only mirror in the world which shows you everything you've ever tried to hide. 

 I am always intrigued by things which are placed in such positions that you would rather see them leaving than coming inside. It's an easy trick to make the experience totally unexpected- people once decided to leave the place are usually unarmed, vulnerable like children attacked by a sudden memory of a last night's nightmare. This is how The Mirror attacks. Unexpected is it's weapon. To grab you, tear you apart and place you on the final level of isolation- integrity. Then you become the ultimate piece on a picture, just you. Painfully sole.

Don't forget to visit Wallis

 If you stop by any chance at National Portrait Gallery you don't want to miss Wallis. [[ The first time I went to National Portrait Gallery I saw only a random crowd of faces. Tousands of pairs of eyes looking straight at me. Some of them, I must admit, made me feel a little bit uncomfortable. Their eyes without hidden words, having absolutely nothing to tell me but how much do I interrupt their private post scriptum, when they cannot defendbut only agree in silence with an unknown mind's judgement. I used to have mixed feeling about such an exposure of their private lives to public, lives which used to be neither more nor less true than ours. Now I think otherwise. I actually found a magic about it. In this grand and majestic tabernacle of stories captured in a wink, this imaginarium of muted footsteps. The library of forgotten stories.

 I have my personal favourites I like to visit there. Sir Beckford caught on a canvas to work forever on his unfortunate gothic novel not read anymore even by English literature students. Princess Charlotte Mecklenbourg, her gentle smile and wide open eyes, hungry for a conversation after years spent in linguistic isolation. Everytime I see her I promise that I will learn her language and then come on my day off so we can talk for hours. The women of other times, young female artists from good families daring to art or brave women leaving their mad husbands despite the curse of scandal. Nell Gwyn, a compelling story of a woman saving herself from poverty by becoming a lover of potential protectors to finally make her own history as a last word of the king. And then, there is Wallis. It's signifcant that her portrait is slightly hidden from the main view, so you would rather notice it while leaving than coming into the room. To make sure you spot her, you need to slowly turn to the right hand side while moving towards the exit and take three steps away from the main track. Wallis doesn't insist on anybody's company.

 Once you see her you cannot remain indifferent. There is something which makes her memorable amongst all of the portraits around. She's authentic.

What's in Your Bag? Monkey Seduction on a mission.

Recently I got crazy about hashtags. Never was a social media animal, but this is an amazing, truly connecting people idea. Okay, the real reason is that finally, around a week ago, I worked out what hashtags actually are. To confess the true, it took me loads of manic days-nights to figure out who invented it and, for God's sake, what for.

 So, after 100happydays I found that one. What's in Your Bag appealed to me straight away. Since I was a child I loved to take a look inside through people's windows. I was imagining who they are, how do their lives look like. In a big city like ours, bags are exactly this: largely open windows with a tiny light inside, wanting your immediate attention.

 There is another saying but I always found it pretty cheesy and it basically says that the woman's bag is a room of treasure. Well, my surely is but not more than A.'s backpack (not mentioning his already eternal shopping bag), the bag of my friend Anees (which value he understood after accidentally leaving it in a restaurant and realizing he had no spare keys). That is why I do not believe that what women carry is at any point more extraordinary than what you can find in a male tote. My mom never liked bags and she was always carrying things she actually NEEDED on that single day. Joining this action I didn't mean to shock anybody. What's inside my bag can maybe disgust somebody but surely not surprise. 

A DIARY

 Recently I never leave my diary at home. Previously I actually hated it. I am the most terrible planner in the world and I actually enjoy experiences much more when they're not planned. Now, I have to admit it, without it I'm lost. It also serves as my handy book of thoughts, since I realized that keeping a diary can be a good training for an aspiring writer. From the other hand, I try to write down everything which could be important. After years, yes after all these years, it will be nice to read and live once again these crazy times- the time of my life. 

The Worst Marketer in the World. Confessions of a Decent Consumer.

 Mr Frank, I got annoyed. 

 -Mmm..- answered Frank rushing out from the bathroom, still with a toothbrush in his mouth. 

 No, not because of that- explained I, despite the fact that Frank still hasn't suggested anything as far.- It's because of soething which happened in January. Anyway, let me tell you the story. 

I was sitting on a tube holding my treasure like I was expecting in any minute someone to come for it. Someone to unmask me, betray me and leave me with a theatrical stiletto inside my heart. I holt my purse tightly, trying to hide any presence of my little precious things wrapped in a Boot's bag. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend that it didn't happen. I hadn't just bought Aussie. The adverts on a tube were not for me and I was totally immuned to all this marvellous, high quality pictures and encouraging quotes surrounding me in public spaces. But no matter how I tried it was a fact: both shampoo and conditioner from Aussie line Volume were just there, in my hands. Trying to erase the feeling of guilt from inside my chest I got home and decided to try the treasure. All of the marketing love hate issues have gone: it was one of the best conditioner I ever had. 

-Mmm- Frank made a significant movement with his head towards me- what's the conclusion?

He was still holding a handtowell with both hands in a tight embrace.

-Oh Frank, sometimes you stop being an imaginary counsellor and you start to be just a man!

Then I had to explain him the actual story. The most current story ever, nothing else but First Kiss. First Kiss was a video which in the past several days went viral on the Internet. As one of the first people who shared it amongst my friends, I had some information from beforehand. I knew it was sponsored by some clothing brand, anyway no one, neither the director neither Soko, an artist who played the role of one of the strangers and whose song was used in a background, ever tried to hide it. Probably unlike hundreds of haters across the Internet they simply didn't see anything bad about it. Neither did I.

http://vimeo.com/88671403

 And maybe that is why soon I found myself left alone in the arms of Monkey Seduction and wondering: what's the difference between me and the rest of the world?

Draw!

 Unlike my recent activity, this post won't be much about writing. Anyway I was always envious about all these people whose job has been completed before actually composing an article. Without rewriting, editing or correcting today I would like to present some of my ready works, created more or less between 2008-2010 and sent to me today by my beloved parents. 

 Some are good, some are not that much but I found such a collection interesting, especially being at the beginning of a great come back to my forgotten passion. 

 It's all handrawing, no tablet yet included. 

 Today it will be all about people since I always loved to draw them. There is something surprisingly amazing about how reality can be created just by an image of a person, their appearance, the way they act, the expression on their faces or clothes they are wearing. I do it sometimes as an exercise- I choose one person on a tube and I watch them for a while. Then I try to feel their reality, how does the world look for them like, how do they feel about their surroundings, what makes them happy. Then I follow all of these sensations it gave me and I see to which reality it would transform me. The results are awesome and sometimes, I believe that, can even change your life. I guess that is the way I always try to look at people. And that is how I draw them.  

Lost in Soho- Chasing An Old Dream

By the occasion of such an amazing weather and the sun emerging from the shadow of forget today afternoon I decided to spend time recalling my old hobby: getting lost. Most probably right now there will be a choir of raised voices: why Soho? Who would ever like to get lost there, in a random crowd of tourists! This always amazes me what a little role Soho plays in an everyday Londoners' lives. We practically pass it unnoticed and if we ever refer to it then it's as a fake or at least unnatural place, something created for tourism and a bad taken idea of a global leisure. And we are, my dear friends, so wrong. There is not many such living places like Soho. 

 I remember Soho in my grandfather's stories, full of night clubs and obscure underground life. But my private history with this place started three years ago. It was a time when me and my friend, let's call him Andre, were mostly roaming around through busy streets of London. We liked especially Soho- because you see, there unlike everywhere else, a way once passed changes forever. It transforms behing your back, before you turn to take a final look only to realize that you'd already lost. You will never find the same road again. You will never go back. 

What you create Outside or Inside- when Monkey Seduction continues

I would like to file to create a Musicovideocot. No, don't search in google if you don't know what it is. It is something which should exist, but as far didn't pay off to anybody to make it real. Today I write to commence an agitation in favour of creating it and give it to people forever. I realized that I desperately need it. And when I explain you why, you may feel that too. 

 This whole story developed on one day when something completely unexpected stroke me down from my feet. Illness. That was it's name, nasty and horrible like an especially ugly troll hidden in a garden and giggling out of laughter. It walked into my life on one sunny morning after two nice days of Monkey Seduction and after getting a cup of tea all of a sudden refused to leave. I had no other option but serrender and soon the ground under my feet has split apart, making me falling deep and deep into a place we unlikely visit: Inside.

INSIDE

 When I say 'unlikely visit' I precisely mean that we rather don't do this with awareness. Passed by randomly day by day, Inside is for us just what we can see in the first place: our own home or maybe that part of it where we feel the most comfortable. Could be bed. But could be also our favourite couch (patchwork...), our desk or shelves with books helping us tripping away. Inside is a place where we are this part of ourselves we become when no one else is watching. Which is why we need a Musicovideocot: we need a tool which is not going to watch us.
 The biggest danger for Inside is an eye of the Outside. It's usually included in the little spies from there- your devices. Your laptop- with a constant Internet access, your mobile phone (get rid of it! it attacks you in the most cunning way!) and everything which can tempt you to take a look at the Outside. Even a lovely old home phone, doesn't it look like a monster?

MUSICOVIDEOCOT

 Musicovideocot- is a half advanced technology which lets you fully enjoy the Inside. It has no Internet connection- no temptation to check your work emails or take a look at a social hub. It plays only the music which helps you relax or reminds you about something pleasant, and displays positively stimulating videos insiring you to a creative work in your assylum. Absolutely perfect, innovative technology of our century. 

Caught by Monkey Seduction

Even it might be hard to believe it, it has been a while since Monkey Seduction had last sat on my chest. I discovered this fact with a sadness increased by an awareness that it's all because I am simply too absorb. Feeling dedicated to a paper work, sinking in small busy tasks which are not going to matter in any longer running. In this reality of a sheer sided trap, Monkey Seduction has visited me all of a sudden in a middle of a busy day when there was already much more on my head than I could ever take. 

 For those who had already forgotten what Monkey Seduction was all about I add that it evoluted from my constant feeling from the time when I was younger, though in a much less sophisticated manner: the feeling to quit everything and go to the Goddamnit. 

 Now I am much older and know it well there is no place to go away from here. Because wherever you move, it will always be here for you. Maybe that is why Monkey Seduction has lived inside my life as a  long forgotten legend, always irrelevant and not applicable. It was until today, when it entered my kitchen to remind me about my old favourite hobby: dreaming.
 When I created Monkey Seduction two years ago it was clear what it was all about- a moment when the time stops to matter. So here I am, with my coffee and a pencil, to share this wonderful experience.
 There is four of us over here: me, Frank, Susan and my bloody computer without whom nothing would be able to place even a shadow of happening. I am dedicating this day to dream and therefore it is an important day of my life. Maybe even the most important.

One of the main characteristics of Monkey Seduction state of mind is a string of thought. Usually without any association with your current life concerns. For example today I was thinking about patchwork.

Wear an art- the power of DYI

 Many people would disagree but I dare to say that the first pieces of art people wore were tattoos. Everyone who knows at least a tiny bit knows that I am not a fan of them and I would never get one for myself. But I do understand people who do. I used to live with a girl who was a tattoo artist. Her whole body reminded me of Sisine Chapel. Usually I see two types of tattoos: ones with a deeper meaning (which I fully understand and which always makes my tears pour before finding out what's the actual reason for them) and ones quite random, just because their owners perceived the certain symbol as a pretty decoration. But hers were something beyond it: they were like a step to the higher, cosmic kind of magic. Personally I can recall only one tattoo pattern I liked in my whole life: it was an ornamental key on the upper backbone of one of my friend. I never had a dareness to apply for a Sistine Chapel role. 

 Probably that is why I am so excited by a new trend called DYI. I am excited in advance since I am too lazy to try creating anything like that, but I absolutely adore beautiful crafts sneaking into fashion. The special thing about this trend is that it also turns back an abbreviation trend: I had to google it twice to get what does it mean. 

 Unlike me, Frank is not able to see any sense in decorations. He's unrespectfully glued to the usefullness. Maybe that's why he's such a boring company until the second glass of wine.

 My mother has definitely nothing to do with Frank. To be honest I always had a feeling she was rather reluctant to him, still she never said she disagreed about me needing a psychotherapy. Surprisingly she didn't react when she learned that my chosen cousellor is imaginary like it was common amongst the sociey of modern elite. My mother like drinking tea and she likes DYI. What started as a passion, soon became a job as the trend turned massively global, as if something can be spread more largely than global, then massive global could be the right expression. Precisely, she's into felting. Felting is nothing more but an alternative manner for knitting which is, I'm sorry, Stephanie, now highly old fashioned. (But Stephanie, while felting you don't need to keep your arms in a continental way.)

27 resolution- Why do I write

 As you can probably see, writing is something which is happening for me beside. Beyond my biography, on the side of my own history called life. It is somehow true, that writing as far doesn't get in my life the place it deserves. And some of you may want to ask me: why do I write? What do I need it for? Let me explain it to you by recalling a story of a great man. His name was Eric Blair. But most of you might most probably know him as George Orwell.

 Eric could afford doing something I never could. Reject all the opportunities he had in his life. Just because since he was six he knew that all he wanted was to write. Therefore, his idea was to dedicate himself to two things: to read and to experience.

WHY READ

 Because every writer his own flow. Eric was aware of something unfortunately most of contemporary authors seem to be missing: without a good literary preparation you remain a child in a fog. Only reading can give you the right tool to use the language entirely, to express and to reflect these expression on your readers. You cannot create a real dialogue with your reader without being once a reader yourself.

WHY EXPERIENCE

 Due to a simple true that it's always easier to write about something you know. One old quotation I learned during my literary studies said: If you really don't have what to write about, write about yourself. Sadly in reality there are only few authors who can write about a world they only imagine (as a brilliant example we can mention, of course, sir Terry Pratchett himself). Most of work nowadays crated in a total dettachment from a real experience is somehow naive. (I am trying not to be judgemental.) That was indeed the idea of Blair, born in a well-situated family and spending his youth on a respected playground of Eton, not really having a clue of how the life can be. Fueled by his desire to discover the truth (mind my sarcasm) he moved to Paris where he was meant to experience a real working class poverty in order to finally publish a book about this experience. I do not recommend anyone to do that, but if you feel pushed to the extreme, actually why not. For example Paolo O. Martin, known also as Paul Portier, is now roaming around the streets of Thailand before he tries a modest life in a monastry- that's speaking about extremes.

10 ways to tell a person you like them (and most probably lose them forever)

As the Valentine's day is approaching (wait a minute, it's actually already here...) I have been spending some little time to figure out the best ways to tell the other person how much you like them. Yes, there was a person whom I like to tell so, but (as The Guy I Was- Not That Recently Anymore- Dating used to point out) communication is not my strongest side. Frank is still sleeping hung overed after a Happy Monday so I had to take this challenge myslef- what is the best way to tell the other person you like them and not to fool yourself, be understood and open a fair and respectful conversation. The answer is: there is no such a way.

 Although my contemplation was interrupted by Miss Evie Babylion who told me an absolutely compelling story. There used to be a guy who liked her so much, but she didn't share this attraction. One day he left her a message seeming to be a voicemail one, starting with (...) and followed by a suggestion that they both should spend more time with each other. She told me there was something about this message which made her reciprocate the interest and she actually wrote- yes, let's meet... Unfortunately the reality has come across and the story didn't get its' deserved happy ending. 

- We never had a time to meet- sought Miss Evie Babylion- he's actually married by now. And he's an alcoholic. 

 I actually had a talk recently with my dear friend Anees when I insisted I have no problems with self expression. And I owe him an apology because there is one big problem I have found: I do everything my way.

 So here are my ways figured out and written down over this night:

1. Hey, man, I actually like you. I mean, you know how this shit works, right?

Needs definitely no further comment.

How Mr Frank came to like Mondays and how I found out why I don't have a boyfriend

Despite the fact that most of my friends would never ever believe it, today it was hard as never to keep loving Monday. No, it's not because of the rain. You see, the rain and I are actually quite a good combination or at least that is what I want to believe after all these years in London. I do accept the rain as an inevitable part of my life and somewhat a fatal destiny, which is meant to come sooner or later during a day. Unlike Frank, who curses the rain everytime he's about to cross the staircase and sneezes with his whole lungs while opening his umbrella to let the weather know that it is indeed responsible for his bronchitis. Frank always tends to blame the weather for all the world's disasters and it amazes me how can an imaginary person present such a bizarre flaw. But for me what weather cannot do, beaurocracy gets in a minute. That is why today morning, overwhelmed by calculations and forms I was really reluctant to like Monday or even any other day and to be honest actually the whole week.

 Speaking about overwhelming maybe it's the whole day spent in the office which is the opposition of productivity and my strange mind which always classifies everything non-creative as a waste of time. To top up all this random flow of disaster, an 'F' letter on my keyboard eventually stopped working apparently to remind me of something I try not to think about. So instead of following this thought, I decided to talk to my imaginary counsellor about something else: why I actually don't have a boyfriend. This discussion developed all of a sudden on my friend's Facebook wall and I was amazed by how many women ask themselves this question on a daily basis. Since I don't really have a lifestyle for a relationship, I don't really share such dilemmas. But I found it quite funny to prepare such an analysis for myself and as I have my own private counsellor (as private as possible since he lives in my head), why not to use an opportunity!
 Frank absolutely loved the idea at the beginning but soon turned rather reluctant to it, suggesting that we rather go out. 'I am a counsellor, not your bff''- muttered he and put his coat on and I wondered is it normal that people you invent yourself sabotage your own ideas. Still I didn't say it loud and we left, using a chance of a short time without the rain. While walking, I tried to figure out an answer for my question alone, soon finding it quite boring and feeling like everything I would like to write is surreal, insane and doesn't have any actual point. Monkey Seduction lent me a hand then, reminding me that I never said I am normal and I never tried to be. So here is my first conclusion:

I love my vacuum too much. 
I often say how bound I am to Susan and all my friends know it and respect it. Though I heard that people who for example keep dogs find it hard to get closer to a person. Also, I had never though before that any guy might feel envious about my relation with Susan. It was surely a brilliant guess. 

 Usually my friends and I are quite picky in terms of a perfect place for Monday but this time Frank just opened the very first door that appear on our way. It was partly my fault as I kept complaining that I want to go to any place that sells chips. I am a good cook but chips for me require some magical and mysterious recipe I can never understand neither use correctly. And this is how we got to the Cornershop in Shoredtich, or maybe it was Cornerbar or Corneraddiction or a Cornerfiction, doesn't really matter as in London most of the bars located on a corner are called Cornersomething. What was unfortunate about this choice was that this one actually offered an open mic night. Yay.

Dear Bobby

 First of all, Happy Birthday! I hope you are having a good one there, in heaven. I imagine you smoking a joint and laughing at human race from above. I imagine God sitting next to you, cutting a pineapple and going 'Play something for us, Bobby'. 
 You and I never had a chance to meet. And you don't even know that you are one of my longest lasting friendship, my most faithful companion.

 My dear Bobby, you don't even know in what kind of world I am celebrating your Birthday! It's a cold London, paralized by a tube strike and several othe things you would laugh about if you were here. We had a bautiful new moon just some nights ago, the one you can sing for and live for at the time when you feel low. But better let me start from the beginning.

What is Sexy?

Although this title might be confusing, no, I don't mean to talk about any new trends or what do guys (or girls) like nowadays. I actually want to ask all of you a question: What does it mean?

 I remember few years back when I accidentally watched an interview with somewhat famous model. While talking about cosmetics from time to time she was using a line 'very sexy'. I was watching her face trying to understand what does 'sexy' mean regarding cosmetics and what does she like so much about them. Are they just hot or trendy? But the model herself seemed confused and I found her feeling quite uncomfortable saying loud such a phrase. Then I realized that 'very sexy' was a name of a brand she was supposed to promote... And then both of us, me and the model, felt apparently awkward. 

 Back then I had no clue that one day 'sexy' would become one of the most present words in my reality. I hear this word approximately three times per day (and I don't watch TV), constantly failing to understand a phenomenon of it.

 My personal challenge with a word 'sexy' is its' such a close relation with visual aspects. Recently I was passing Sainsbury's in Kilburn, going to a brunch at my friends' place when some guy smiled at me and all of a sudden screamed: 'Hey girl, smile, it's a beautiful day and you're sexy'. I perceived it as quite nice just as nice can be receiving a compliment from a stranger. But then a strange shadow of thought has passed through my mind: 'What did he actually mean?' He probably found me attractive. But he didn't shout 'you're attractive' (and I rarely hear that word at all). He didn't say 'you're pretty' wich could be actually more appropriate to be said to a stranger. Since that the word 'sexy' has been buzzing in my head- and I felt the same awkwardness that I had felt back then, watching the interview with a model. Something wasn't quite right about it.

 For over the past three years I can barely remind any other compliment I received than 'sexy'. And that is from people including my boss and even my mather.

Rockin London through a keyhole- @ MTV Brand New

 That was my first time to attend MTV Brand New, moreover, it was my first time to attend anything of its' kind. I have never seen it even on a TV. And I have to admit, I was expecting something like Eurovision style cheesy poshness and everything which can be too much than it can. Enough to say, it was good. It was simply a good concert with all the qualities of  a good British event. It was casual, friendly and relaxed. As a main conclusion I can say that MTV Brand New filled me with positive vibes and good spirit for long.

 I was thinking about this post for long. This time it's not only that I am a terrible reviewer, it's also something which was buzzing for the whole day on top of my head. I repeat it on and on that I am not a journalist, and this is exactly the moment to say it again. I cannot just simply move from one story to another. Life is not a story no matter how much would we like it, and I refuse, no matter how unrealistic is that, to live for a story. While I was writing a review from a concert, today Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito were waiting for their verdict and in Ukraine people were fighting for what I myself used to believe. Can I still write it now? Yes I can. But being greatful, to be there yesterday, to be here today. Because our stories go all together and this is beautiful. That so many things can happen in the same minute, all just as important, because they are always personal. Always meaningful.
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