When You Need a Friend, but say 'Don't worry, I'm fine'- the Loneliness of our Time

 'I am lonely, will anyone speak to me'- this is how, in 2004, a thread dubbed later 'the saddest one on the Internet' begun. Posted on a technical forum moviecodec.com, has since created a massive movement built on the unity of people who, in loneliness, turn to the Internet for help. But sadly reading the comments posted since that, coming from various users from all around the world, the question whether the development of the media cure loneliness seems doubtful. 

 There are several definitions trying to state what loneliness really is, but the most adequate seems to be the feeling of constant isolation. While it can be cause by lack of company or a sudden loss of a close person, the feeling of loneliness usually disentangles us from the surrounding environment. A person who develops a feeling of a constant loneliness experiences difficulty communicating, enjoying people's company or asking others for help when needed. The main problem is, loneliness is a spiral: the longer you cultivate it inside you, the more you immerse into it, until it is starting to be almost impossible to break through and simply emerge out of it. 

 The affliction of disentangling

 While the chronic loneliness is perfectly curable, it is still a serious affection to a human mind. It can be a symptom, or a beginning, of a serious mental illness and leave a long-term damage to one's emotional life. To better understand chronic loneliness it is important to understand what does it actually do to one's life. 

 The main emotion developing while in loneliness is best described as inadequacy. A lonely person will often experience the feeling of being incompatible with their environment and people surrounding them, even if they remain close friends or family. They will often feel misunderstood and will unlikely share with others. Therefore, the lonely person will, surprisingly, stray from company rather than search for it, which can be perceived by others as a need of staying alone. The feeling of non-belonging is a serious issue able to affect a person's life in long-term. Feeling constantly inadequate, they will develop the belief that they bother people surrounding them, and might even lead to events that could confirm it. A person suffering from chronic loneliness might appear unreliable or careless, while in reality keeping promises or acting accordingly to the rules of human interaction becomes overwhelming for them. In effect, a chronically lonely person becomes socially disordered, what leads to their separation from the surrounding community, By the community, on the other hand, such behaviour might appear as a deliberate neglecting of the social bond, and even lead to the exclusion of a lonely person. Such an event, of course, will confirm the belief in their inadequacy and will push the person even deeper into a spiral of affliction and distress.

   Chronic loneliness can lead to a severe depression as well as be a symptom of it already. 

 When your friend suffers from loneliness 

 What to do, or how to act, while dealing with a chronically lonely person is important for human relationships as well as for their mental health. But, many people simply cannot read the symptoms of a chronic loneliness. The answer is not ignorance though, but a belief shaped by society, according to which a person surrounded by good friends, and in general liked, we are usually reluctant to believe that indeed, deep inside, they feel utterly lonely. Here there are some signs that one of your friends has been affected by chronic loneliness:

 They never ask

 And if they do, these are usually stupid questions. They won't ask you to lend them five pounds because they forgot a wallet, a start immediately apologizing if you offer it. While asking you out, they will outline that they do not want to bother and they will completely adjust to your schedule, even if you know each others for years. Sometimes they will make up a stupid excuse about a reason for the meeting or calling, even if you used to go out for a pint every Tuesday. They will never openly ask for help, and even they used to be confined to you, now they will answer your worrying questions with simple: I am fine, don't worry. 

 All these might be symptoms that your friend started feeling inadequate. They won't ask you out because they feel their problems might be a burden to you, and because they have an unrealistic image of being irrelevant for others. 

Saudade imensa

 Once in a while there is a reason to recall the phrase 'Saudade imensa'. There isn't, sadly, any other adequate term to describe what it brings. Whoever first used this phrase, surely knew what I know: this breathe steamed on the window before it blows away, the emptiness of a cup after coffee, hopelessly awaiting another filling. This reason to look away, with your eyes trying to catch the point which is fading away, like a view from a running train. The tusk of a heart after a glimpse on a random picture. Saudade imensa, the only way to say what I feel. 

 Sometimes it is just a minute, a little dizziness which makes you separate from the crowd, and hold onto an empty page while trying to write down the unwritten, undescribable. It makes your hand shake, your pen to fall out of your hand. All you can do is watch, watch it all sneaking out in between your fingers, to melt and pour itself down your feet, uncatchable. Irreversible. 

 There is no such medicine in this world able to cure Saudade imensa. For it can surpass the bottom of the river in its' deepness. It is stronger than days of summer, larger than hunger for life, more penetrating than soft rains of September. Saudade imensa is unfigthable, unbreakable, untameable. Once it comes, it holds your heart forever, swinging it in their open hands, swinging it to sleep. 

There Will Come Soft Rains

Sara Teasdale, 1884 - 1933

(War Time)

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, 
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone. 

The Transformation

 As some of you remember, Monkey Seduction has been created in 2012 as a personal diary with a string attached of a jump into another reality. But every reality has a limited time and sphere of existence, and cannot endure within the understanding of our lasting desires. Therefore, I feel obliged to inform you that there will be changes. But once again, let's turn back in time to help me explain. 

 In winter 2012 I had a misfortune to work for a magazine, which was targeting everybody and nobody, and, for money, was creating a reality which was aiming to appear as the only right one, full of glossy colours which were not available to achieve even with a camera of the best smartphone. Monkey Seduction was supposed to be a cure for a painful gap between the lies and grey soil of reality we lived with our bills to pay. And, it exceeded my expectations. 

 Speaking, actually my life itself exceeded my expectations. As some of you remember, it was often hard and sometimes getting stuck at the rock bottom, but never boring. For three years I was blogging from my house in East London, often enriching my stories with pieces of adventures of my flatmates, neighbours and friends. Whether it was good or bad, as life will probably reveal soon, in 2015 my life has gone through transformation. I have seen clearly what is real, and what is not worth it, what is to be followed, and what is just a glossiness of a morning cover, hanging there to fall on your head one day (sometimes, unfortunately, literally).  

 Since it's 8 am, I guess I should shut up now and stop talking but start acting. I prefer a small progress rather than a revolution, but yes, it's a time for transformation. Don't worry, I'm not saying that I'm quitting prozac. This post is just to ensure, that no matter what happens here over the next months, it will always be real. Real in an alternative, Monkey Seduction understanding, which is the only one I cherish and accept, the only one I will always live, give and share. 

Break your lace, Tonya!

 On one day in 1994 I was watching figure ice skating championship, as I always used to do. It was a real feast to me, the day when it was coming, and I was looking forward to it long time before. I am certain about it, even though I cannot remember it very well. But that day, in 1994, I remember it clearly. There was a girl with a braid in a red dress, who suddenly stopped in the middle of the ice and started to cry. Her lace was broken. This is what I remember: her lamenting face, and the lesson- that no matter how far on top are you, your dreams can always fall into pieces.

 That image came back to me after more than twenty years. Only to discover, that I didn't know the real story behind it. The story of Tonya Harding.

 Let me tell you a story about two girls. One of them used to call another one a princess, but it was not a fairy tale they lived in. Despite that, a princess she said, with a cheeky grin on her face, but that's the way she was, another one used to answer with laughter. The way she was, spiky, distant, reserved you would say, but benevolent, as the other one always said, reliable and always standing out for her friends. The way she was, the other one liked it, even though she knew there was some 'old rivalry' between them, as she laughed, such a long time ago. But what she didn't know was that rivalry may pass away. While jealousy always remains. Because jealousy, you see, is way more dangerous than rivarly. Jealousy means you have something she never will.

 My mom always said we should be cheering for girls from former Soviet Union. A life of a girl from behind the Berlin Wall was nothing like of those on the west. It was not meant to be, that's the matter of history. But I was just a girl in front of TV, born on the wrong side of the world to be a princess. I admired American girls, girls like from the movies, girls born in Disneyland, with good names to conquer the world. The girl with the broken lace was called Tonya Harding. And she was the real American dream story, that story which was never meant to be mine.
 For years all I remembered from that moment was her braid, and a dress which I believed to be red. And her face, her face in tears when she realized that her lace was broken. Her American dream was broken.

 I cannot recall the circumstances when the crying face of Tonya Harding showed up in my mind once again. It was twenty years later, while I was charging my batteries at home during a break from realizing my own American dream, or rather a mere European-crisis version of it, with all the exhausting upside downs to be a part of it. Maybe it was her laughter when we've last seen each other, something like three months ago, and that look of her blue eyes when she said 'princess' once again.

Spookhall

 I have been seeing Spookhall for most of my life. Sometimes, if I get lost in my dream, I suddenly find myself in front of the entrance, and despite the immediate resentment I always end up in there. The Spookhall is not a place like any other. It is actually, a storage for an excess, an exceeding of utility, a gathering of objects imprisoning the sad fatality of material being. It is a storage, in fact, for medical and chemical goods, wastebags, washing liquids and first aid kits, cleaning towels and syntetic powders, hygiene products, sanitary pads, mops, brushes, buckets, shits, suffocating stocks of granola. It makes me feel sick. I want to grab the very first paper roll and stuff myself through my throat. Like I would do everything not to soak through mould of walls of the Spookhall, and what they are bearing for me in my nightmares. 

 There are always the same frosted windows with a blurry vision on disgusting plastic boxes filled with chemistry, and a clock which always stops at five. There is a sound coming from the inside, a monotone, overwhelming tune of a wind lost in a dark. In the town I grew up I heard once a sound like that, coming out of the old meat factory, bringing a choking smell of a slaughtered pig. This is how Spookhall is like.

The Soul in the Rain

Or maybe we should forget it all. Is it worth it? That is the question which is going to be left on us, with all of the heaviness which it bears. It will hold on to our necks in a manner of trying to bring us down, but we will be smiling, however, smiling, like it could never happen, like we were more than just rugs, meaningless frames for the hanging questions.

 I am not depressed. I just forgot to pick up a part of my soul from the doctor’s waiting room. No one noticed. It keeps hanging there as a coat, or a used umbrella, too old, too scarved for anyone to be tempted to take it with them. It stays still, an anonymous passenger of an eternal carriage, a silent witness of your tears, your dreams, your bruises. I am not getting it back anymore. Let me leave it there, without a trace, with its’ mouth shut in a silent protest. Let me leave it next to you. To listen to your breathe.

 Just like I didn’t notice the piece of the moon, on my way back home. If there is any home, for a soul such fragmented. Sometimes I can see the pieces of souls of others. They pass me on the street, trying to hold my shoulder, desperately glaring for more than just an elusive attention. I walk away. I need to follow the steps of the crowd. Such treading does not allow you to stop, neither to move forward. You can only keep treading, path by path, step by step. Behind the crowd. I always recognized these lost bits of human souls, with the rest of a rope on their necks. Seemingly invisible, they stuck their nails in your chest, hungry for life. I often think about my forgotten piece of soul. What is one day it gets bored of sitting there, in a waiting room, and just like all of these pathetic beings desires to walk out on the street. Maybe it will miss something, and decide to give it a chase. Without a head, my poor piece of soul, will be chasing the forgotten, the forgiven, the buried. Miserable creature of mine, will never find what it is looking for, since it has no eyes to see, no heart to lead it. It will pursue the echoes of my past desires, the tears which has already fallen, the dreams which never dared to be dreamed. Maybe one day it will come to you. But you will never know if it is here, a piece of invisible fabric left in the waiting room to never be reclaimed.

 Sometimes I think about this poor piece of soul of mine. But I shall not engage in a search. I need to keep treading the path, path to path, step to step. I need to move forward with the crowd and carry the unanswered question on my neck. There is nothing left on me, but keep treading. 

My Dear Marjeanne- a letter to my imaginary friend

 A little introduction: when I was around six years old I had an imaginary friend called Marjeanne. She was not only imaginary, but also lived far away, in France. Therefore, I only wrote letters to her. Later at school I tried to believe in her again in order to practice my French, but for me age fifteen it was somehow impossible to write a letter to someone who, simply, doesn't exist. Recently Frank (being imaginary person himself) made me realized that whether she exists or not only depends on myself. So I started to write to Marjeanne again. I just had so many things to tell her. 

Dear Marjeanne,

 After Alonso left I realized how difficult it is to cook for one person only. Some other day I wanted to buy some parts of chicken but I couldn't find any small portion and I don't have enough space in my freezer to buy any larger packs. In fact, I rarely cook these days and even noticed I don't need to eat so frequently anymore. My dad came over with a short visit and I finally cooked this pasta with cheese sauce and seafood. I have to admit, it was delicious. 

 It's been only several months as I back to study and I already feel like it's been my life. I am completely devoted to my dissertation. To make a confession, I even stopped writing. It is a pity indeed, but some of that stuff was too personal to be published anyway. As you might have guessed,  never finished that novel I used to write some years ago. Looks like every year I write another part, then I put it back. Maybe one day it will evolve and surprise me but it is not about to happen just yet. 

Recently I have been thinking a lot. You may say I have changed some of my life priorities, but as you know me, you know I am shit scared of changes. I just have a impression that some formulas in my life are simply expired. In particular, I am overwhelmed with a driving force of my reality, which is the myth of success. It's noting else but the way people perceive reality and talk about it. Apparently a main path of all of your actions should be a path towards success. Or better a highway. Don't even dare hitchhiking. 

 According to that invisible power you're meant to crave money, as much as you can choke on it so it will give you a position of someone being almost a noble one, almost I would say, a mystic. 

 That power also has a second side: it assumes you belong to some certain group of people. Every group of such kind has its' own attributes which are, as it's concluded, your own. If you do not have these attributes yourself, the social eye of appropriateness will search for ones within you. Then, once they get a hint, they'll treat you according to the rules of treatment of a certain group. Assuming, you are never yourself.

 Either what you really want doesn't matter. Neither who you are. People always have their ow bunch of cliche ready for you. 

 It doesn't hurt, Marjeanne. You get immuned. Until one day a person you care appear to see you as someone else. Then, my dear Marjeanne, you start to fear.

And you're never never never gonna get married- the social eye of appropriateness

I was twelve when I heard this magic phrase for the first time. It was sung, or rather screamed out by an imaginary little angel (sleeky, gross and horrific angel) to one of my early youth's heroine Ally McBeal. It was of course a nightmare as it's always, for God's sake, meant to be a nightmare for a woman, at that age in that kind of movie. But you see, I was twelve. And shame on me, I could't get it- what's the big deal? Unfortunately for the creators of the great hit of nineties, I still don't get it. 

  Because now it's the time, my dear readers, to talk about something that some do not want to hear about: woman's age. I just turned twenty eight. 

 As some of you might remember a year ago I spammed your Facebook walls with number of posts titled: '27'. This year I was naturally on my way to do the same, but luckily, for the sake of community, for the sake of unquestioned and commonly shared values, for the virtue of populistic, higher purpose, I was stopped. I was stopped by the biggest power of contemporary world: the social eye of appropriateness. Always on time, to make me realize what an awful thing I wanted to do against humanity: I wanted to convince you that woman's age doesn't matter. How foolish of me.

 So, what is women's age? It's a superior category in the eye of social appropriateness, which creates and saves the natural order of the world. Women's age is a category marking woman's achievements. And moreover, the place of each one of us in the space, in the genderized circle or things moving around. Don't feel sad if you don't understand it, I would probably never uderstand it either.

William Faulkner once said that there is one particular difference between men and women: men are looking for love, women want to get married. And he's never been to my hometown. Unlike him, I visited this place very recently.

 To be hundred percent sincere to my readers, I must do a little stop here. This part was indeed supposed to be a rally of women over 25, trying to get a guy in front of the altar. And it was about me liberated from it by my lovely reality built by myself over the past years. Sadly, since I started to write this post some of my friends, acquaintances, neighbours and a crowd of random clackers made me realize that I am not liberated at all. In fact, none of us is. There is this magical border for all of us behind which what we believe in, what we are craving, what we are searching, simply stops to matter. What matters is what we should, how we should and how miserable we appear if we don't want.
 And what I should is something I would never guess. But luckily all of my lovely supporters were here to tell me that, right on time, supported by numbers of articles and psychological cliches alongside with a painful bunch of bullshit.

A 28-years-old woman should never, ever use the word 'bullshit'. Especially not in public. Innit!

 Shall I say instead: oh thank you so much for your prompt and such a friendly advice, it warmed my heart up so much (mamma's style, of course- the woman my age is meant to have loads of maternity instinct); unfortunately, for now I am not in a position to make a use of it but I want you to know that your advice is always more than welcome.

 Instead I will say exactly how I want it to sound. And what is actually is: the guidebook to be a 28-years-old woman.
 The advice start with some innocent suggestions. For example, I should be having posters on my wall anymore. (Hands off of my Chat Noir bought in Camden!)
 I shouldn't be wearing booty length shorts anymore. (I never had any, but as the summer will be approaching soon I am just hunting some online.)
 No more ironic t-shirts. (I just got a new one.)

 Starting rather anxiously, it jumps to conclusions. I detest conclusions out of their definition, but this time it is serious: these conclusions are about me. Apparently women my age are bound to watch reality shows and enjoy endless portions of booze drunk all alone. They also don't seem to enjoy partying hard or junk food (as a diabetic, I wonder how much that has to do with age... unless someone suggests that after a certain age don't you dare to be fat). The other parts, I believe, I don't need to explain.

What worries me the most is still not all of this. This- is just a beginning,

These are probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate

 My friends are used to the fact that each year on my Birthday I throw a party. Not trying to be humble, it is kind of a celebration day for them, and for some a fixed date in their calendars. As this year I teamed up with Baby Lion, the agreed date hit a hectic time for me and I was unsure about the size of my party. And it was surprisingly her, merely celebrating her sweet 23, who all of a sudden said this phrase. That is probably the last Birthday you want to celebrate.
 That was something I certainly did not take on the account. As she tried to explain, later you are busy with career (what career?) or you care more about the Birthdays of your kids (excuse me, whose kids?!). And of course, I won't be celebrate my thirties. Oh no! I will tie myself up in the bathtub and cry my eyes out! For God's sake!

The days between- the sweet, lovely world of Procrastination

-Do you post something on your blog every month?- asked the very first person interested in my blog since ages.

 Yep every month. Very well said.

 I wonder if they are somewhere there, in space, other people who believe they don't get things done, or done rightly, or done with the righteous frequency. And if I wonder so, as you can guess, I must be on holidays. 

-Coffee please- you would like to say if it was not about to be your third coffee today, or if you could cheat that your body- being indulged during the relaxing holidays- still needs any stimulation.  Getting a tea instead (which is something around seventh) you open the fridge thinking about what would you like to eat now, only to discover you've already eaten everything. In fact, you were not doing anything all day long. And if so, that must be Christmas. 

  There is probably no other subject with so many theories and articles written on like procrastination. Even the ancient Chinese Oracle I Ching mentions: 'Procrastination brings regrets'. Although, there seems not to be a simple resolution for this- the old same phrase 'I procrastinate' sounds out on and on even with pride, this straightforward pride of being human, and what is in it more human than procrastination.

 What is so attractive about it that we all fall for its' undeniable charm? Surely the long tradition, which grows above cultures and civilizations and makes us all equal in the habit and belief that 'things are getting done'. There is one objective in that sentence: they are getting done on their own. Therefore it is not human nature, not a philosophical and fatalistic shape of the world's running but the cult of things getting done effortlessly.

The curse of effort

 Some while ago I had an interesting conversation with one of my friends about the purpose of life which is, beyond any ideological meanings, what do we want to do and where do we want to be. Somewhere in between the lines I dropped several thoughts on my blog: it was more or less two months since the last post. But my thoughts were on writing in general- the process of that, the possible aim of that and mostly, on the idea of writing just for writing. Nevertheless, what I actually said was a miserable try of explanation (to a non-writing person) that the process of writing is not easy. For what I basically meant, the whole process, not a socially acceptable imagination of a writer, boiling in the pot of their passion with a piece of paper as an innocent victim of such matters. The process of reincarnation into a story, becoming a story with your full heart and soul, not a person who jumps out to the local Sainsbury's in between the lines. Because my dear readers, wouldn't that be a fraud?

 So I was on my way to explain how does this process work even I was not really in the mood for explanations. But instead of an open mind (so desirable these days, especially if you're on Couchsurfing) I met with a wall which stopped just in front of my nose carrying a deeply sophisticated sentence:

-If that's how you perceive it, maybe you shouldn't write at all?

 For those who are not familiar with limited minds' vision of the world: it was a 'maybe that is not for you' kind of advice. That kind my mother could have given me if she was not a crazy tribal jewellery artist (and a fortune teller). Luckily for us, as human beings we tend not to listen to advice.