Fly hunting, compost bins and a shop filled with glass

  The heatwave arrived in London taking everyone by surprise. After rain, there must be sun, and plenty of that it turns. The scorching heat had hit my morning in full force through the open window, and brought with it a drought and desolation of the late May. I have plenty of reasons to have a rather rocky relationship with May. Even more so to list all the May-ish things that made up this Saturday, a delicate time that suddently knitted some tiny miracles. 

 Fly hunting and compost bins 

Two things that can, incidentally, fill you with joy if your mindset is right. Throught the afternoon, I listened to a long voicemail left for me by a dear friend of mine, while embarking on a futile mission of fly safari. Flies kept coming through my open windows and balcony door, and since that's a lot of directions, their routes were almost impossible to trace. I chased them across the room frantically trying to catch some, or, preferably, redirect them towards the exits. The large, noisy ones are easier. These are the ones who desperately want to get out. I have my special strategy for them- the idea is to show them the way with the use of broomsticks and by opening and closing different windows, pulling the curtains up and down, until they're safely back on track. Sometimes, I run out of ideas, and then I just frantically wave my arms as if hoping that they understand my directions. The small ones, however, are a different matter. They seem to gravitate towards the inside, making loops under the ceiling as if searching for the nest. They seem determined to move in and waiting for a safe place to drop their suitcases. These, I try to scare. Sometimes by jumping, sometimes shouting, sometimes moving in a chaotic way until they understand I am not a creature to be reasoned with. If desperate, I try to catch them in my hands. But both, them and I, know I can never squash them. 

 At the end of fly hunting I drop onto the sofa, exhausted. The battle is never fully won, even if I am proud of my achievement. With the next heat, the next humidity, the next rays of sunshine, the flies will come again, to be chased around into exhaustion. 

 Meanwhile, as I was engaged in my game the voicemail kept playing. In another country, in the afternoon sun, my friend was cleaning her compost bin. An ungrateful job, she said, but once done it is done, just as fixing the door to her shed, which she had done a few days ago. She has a place outside her house which she calls 'housefront', a green space opening onto a field with a distant view of a river. The compost bin is also placed there, on the 'housefront', a multipurpose space to take in some sun, gather resources, collect the fresh grass. The compost bin also makes the 'housefront' filled with flies, but my friend doesn't like to chase them. They stick to the outside. 

 The story of the compost bin reminded me of 'The Summer Book' by Tove Jansson, and the life the main characters had on the island. Even if often muddy, wet, or ugly, also miraculous and calm. On the bottom of scorching, sunny days, there's an ugly beauty of compost bins and flies. 

Glitterati

 

When we didn't talk about flies and cleaning compost bins, we compared our recent visits to small local shops. On one end of Columbia Road, there's a shop called 'Glitterati'. It's essentially a shop with vintage glass, books, and other antiques, as a quick Google search would tel you. At first glance, it's easy to miss and it's front looks so old as if almost abandoned. Not abandoned by feelings though. Through it's glass-stack window, there's a beating heart pulling you in. It's difficult not to stop outside, next to a display of boxes filled with books. There's more books inside, some arranged on the shelves and some stacked inside even more boxes, inviting you to rummage through. The books are accompanied by ever-present vintage glass, with glasses and flutes of different shape and purpose. It's hard to turn without finding yourself face to face with glass, in delightful company of books. Walking in feels like stepping into another world. I could spend there all day, if not the rest of my life. 

 I told my friend how today I accidentally got lost on my way home, and found myself in front of Glitterati. Each time it happens the shop seems to carry the exact book I want to read at present, like it read my mind and then pulled me in by some paranormal force. And maybe that's what this shop is doing, since every time I'm there I feel a sudden wave of camaraderie with other customers, as if we were all equally compelled. 

 

 As I was losing my battle with flies, ending the day with no conquest, the sun gently set outside my window. I turned my light switch on and found another voicemail. My friend's son had returned home and found the newly clean compost bin standing outside down on the lawn. He said it almost looked like it was put in there as an ornament. 

On Deception

 I have a confession to make: I am easy to deceive. I lower my guards under influence of solemn assurances. I forget to be suspicious in light of implausible claims. I have no prank detector. In short, I have a very high threshold of suspension of disbelief. 

 I don't find it to be a flaw at all. When I think of people who tend to go through life fostering perpetual mistrust, expecting conniving forces to hide beneath facades of pleasantries, I feel my life is much simpler. It's easier to just take people at face value. I don't fear being deceived either. If someone lies to me, how is it a problem of mine if I am not the one doing the lying? So if you're looking for your next year's April Fool's Day victim, I am your best bet. It's not accidential why I am writing it when April is being safely left behind. 

 It was only recently when I reminded my sister of the time when I fell victim to her deception skills. One of those sweet, innocent deceptions, the 'somethings beautiful' instead of a truth. She burst out laughing as she had long forgotten about it. But I remember it very well.

 Back then, my family and I used to spend holidays at my aunt's place. She lived in a different city in a other region and it took us a long train ride, usually at night, to get there. It was a block of identical, split-level flats with a neat row of balconies on one side. My aunt had lived her almost her entire life and as such she knew all the neighbours. Soon, we knew them too, catching glimpses of their name plates at the door as we passed through the staircase. The family next door had several children and a type of surname that was unheard of in our part of the country. The whole family seemed to be smoking and we saw them frequently taking turns on the balcony. Amongst them was a boy called Adrian, who was close to my sister's age. For me, that holiday was mostly about watching TV while snacking on raisins and jump at tectonic movements, very frequent in that city at the time, which made my aunt's glasses in Soviet-style cabinet tremble. But for my sister other things mattered. She was at a fall-in-love age. 

 I didn't learn of the story until much, much later. It was spring, and our latest holiday in our aunt's apartment was long over. My sister seeked me out in the living room, which should have alerted me straight away. She rarely seeked my company when we were at that age. Almost tearfully, she said she had a secret to tell. In a hushed tone, she revealed that over the duration of our last holiday, Adrian and her embarked on a romantic adventure via secret letters. They would leave each other small notes attached to the balcony railings, in their own secret spot to make sure no one else would find them. She recalled his beautiful letters, filled with love and magic, and it all appeared in front of my eyes in a dream-like sequence. I tried to remember what Adrian looked like, that next door boy I saw so many time yet knew nothing about. And now I was finding out he had a true talent, a literary gift so rare it could move hearts through a balcony railing. Then she sighed and told me of his last letter, the longest of them all. It was the day when we were due to leave, and the distressed note contained a heartfelt farewell. He wrote that days will now be longer and darker, and the soon will be hiding behind the clouds much more than before. That a mist will cover all his mornings in grey colours of mourning. 

 I was touched. In my imagination, I saw it all: the balcony after dusk, the gentle moonlight, a distant sound of chatter on TV. A hand reaching over the balcony railing. It was then when she joyfully exclaimed 'April Fool's Day!' and threw herself laughing onto the sofa. I stared at her stunned. By that time, I had fallen so hard I had trouble to understand what she meant. 

 That was all a long time ago, but I still remember the name of my aunt's neighbour and his touching, romantic letters of a lovestruck teenager even if he never actually wrote them. Meanwhile, my sister forgot all about it, until this April. She said she couldn't believe she was had gone such length just to fool me. And yet, people do go to elaborate lenghts just to fool others. To construct whole narratives and plot layered deceptions. Isn't that what writing fiction is all about? And there's such beauty to imaginary stories, that my favourite lies are always those that serve no purpose at all. Ibsen might have a few things to say about that. 

 

Book Shopping in Barcelona

  It all started over ten years ago in a tiny charity shop in East London. At the time I had no idea it was going to lead me to the streets of Barcelona, to once again find my love for reading. 

 Back then I had been on a long reading hiatus that eventually extended to almost a year. I started multiple books but never finished them. I found even the smallest of distractions to be an enormous obstacle. Until I forgot that one day I used to be an avid reader. My distracted self fully disconnected with the part of me that once enjoyed books. But then came the charity shop with a discount basket. And inside, a thin book with faded pages and ugly cover, titled 'Tattoo'. The blurb at the back promised an engaging detective story. Looking back, I still don't know what was it that made me buy it. Maybe it simply was that I was holding it for too long not to resist an enticing price: 0.50pp. Nevertheless, I took it home with me and the rest is history. 

 Inside the ugly cover there was a world of wonders. A type of world filled with smell of endulging food, atmospheric street lights, magic playing in the shadows. The central character of the story solved mysteries by talking to strangers, walking around crowded bars, and fist and foremost, cooking. If there is anything better in life than a long cooking session in a cozy home filled with books, please correct me. By the time I finished the book, my life was changed forever. It was not a life of someone who loved books.

 The author was called Manuel Vazquez Montalban and soon my free days were filled with trips to second hand bookshops in search for other titles in his detective series. I scanned the Internet for books in both English and Spanish, as soon reading in translation felt not enough. I hunted a few more installments, and then, abruptly, it all came to a halt. 

 A large bookstore told me they can order it. But it would take three months at least. 

 And then I lost my copy of 'Tattoo' during a move. 

 The idea that I could buy the books while in Barcelona was at first a pleasant idea that soon elated me so much it became the overarching theme of my visit there. I no longer wanted to make plans. I remained vague regarding museums, exhibitions, bars and concerts. Instead, I had a map with pins, each standing for a bookshop that could potentially hold a treasure. 

 I said I was going to find my own way. Not like I was going to end up at Urquinaona station five times within an hour.  I was on tight schedule. Many shops are closed on Sunday, which left me with a window of four hours on a Saturday to find my books. I thought it was going to be difficult to explain that to people, but to my surprise, everyone I spoke to understood. 

 Casa del Llibre

 The biggest book seller in the city, Casa del Llibre was my best bet, which made Passeig de Gracia the first destination to reach. I marked destinations in the city center with only a slight worry of overlooking bookshops located further out, which in this timeframe normally would have to be checked first. But I had big expectations towards Casa del Llibre, and picking it first allowed for some Gaudi-spotting on the way. Moving through a crowd of tourists outside Casa Batllo, I started craving a coffee break, which could possibly eat up twenty minutes or so out of the tight schedule, unless I downed an espresso like an Italian. But the need for caffeine was interrupted by the aparition of the bookshop's door opposite the road, pulling me in and making me forget the coffee forever. 

 The first one was a disappointed. As much as I loved the large selection of books in Catalan, I can't read Catalan and I won't pretend I can. I scanned the bookshelves and noticed many foreign books in translation, many of them hyped, recent titles. The atmosphere was heavenly as it usually is inside large, popular bookshops designed to spend hours in them. I moved through general fiction section towards the one marked 'Literatura Policiaca', standing for mysteries, which boasted a few copies of Georges Simenon in Spanish translation. But I only found one book from the series I was after and, alas, the one I already own. 

 I think my heart sunk a bit at that point. Until then, deep down I sort of assumed it was going to be easier. That was the first moment when I realized in horror that I could run through this whole city and potentially end up empty. 

 Libreria Finestres 

 I didn't expect to find what I was looking for at the Finestres but it was part of shop seightseeing I had planned and, conveniently, it was on the way. It offered a quiet, much needed breathing space in the bustling city. The silence was filled with an enquiry of a student who searched for books for a dissertation and their polite, continued in low voice conversation with staff. The bookshop was a charming space with large, stained glass windows, vintage lamps and sofas in brown leather. A type of space it would be great to live in, and never ever leave, until the end of the world and beyond. The space seemed to good for detective stories, but boasted an impressive collection of books on art and politics. In ideal world, I coud cance my ticket back and live my life behind one of these bookshelves, but on that day it wasn't meant to be. 

 Casa del Llibre, second location

 It turned out two branches of Casa del Llibre are so close to each other, that I asked my friend whether they're not in fact the same bookshops with different entrances. He reassured me that is not the case. 

 The second shop was located on Rambla de Catalunya and was the twin of the one on Passeig de Gracia. But this time, I had a slightly better luck and in fiction department of them all. It was only one copy of 'I Killed Kennedy', the first book in which detective Pepe Carvalho appears. It was also an expensive copy, hard cover, published specifically for '50 years of Pepe Carvalho'. Despite the steep price, I wasn't going to put it down. I bought 'Le Dedico Mi Silencio' by Mario Vargas Llosa as an afterthought and with a sigh, settled for less. 

 Two coffee breaks later my mind was getting hijacked by dreadful thoughts. My friend could order them and post them. He could buy online and post them. Bring them to London. My friend in Madrid could check. My family in Mallorca could too. But what if, just what if all these attempts somehow failed? I breathed in the fresh air of Catalan spring and clutched my only Pepe Carvalho a bit tighter. What if we were never going to meet again. 

 La Central del Raval 

 Now I don't know anybody who would have El Raval down as their favourite place, but it certainly has its charm. I have somewhat of a sentiment for it since my time of reading Zafon back in my early youth as an unseasoned reader, and I will probably continue to assign magical qualities to places I had encountered through that time in my life. La Central is also located near a square that I hold very dear to my heart. I have no arguments why is it a special place on Earth other than it's one of these places I always magically find my way to, and I get lost again, and often on purpose. It was there where on a shelf, tucked away at the back of the room, I saw familiar, black-lettered yellow spines awaiting me. I emptied the shelf and soon I felt them heavy in my bag as I watched the sky turning into dusk on my beloved square. The street lights went on and it was time to eat. 

 London

 Held between the station, on an London underground train I opened the book and, once again, immersed myself in the world of 'Tattoo'. The train whistles gently and moves ahead slowly as Pepe Carvalho takes his table in the corner. He will now eat and make enquiries, and then eat more. The air fills with the smell of oil. 

Before the flight

  Illuminated by the street lights, perched on his bar stool, Konstantin Konstantinos the Third looked out of an open window. He was pensive. Nearby, Night Owl wiped empty tables, looking in his direction with anticipation. He had just asked him a question and he awaited an answer.

'Name three greatest military commanders of all times', the question went, and now Konstantin Konstantinos the Third absentmindedly studied graffitis opposite the road, buried in his thoughts. 

'Napoleon will be one', volunteered Night Owl encouragingly. 

'Oh yes, said Konstantin Konstantinos the Third, 'and Alexander the Great just after that.'

Night Owl stopped in his tracks. 

'I thought you were going to name Hannibal' he raised his evebrows. 

'Hannibal was mostly about potential', said Kontantin Konstantinos the Third and took a sip of his beer. Soon, the window would need to be shut. It was getting late and we were the only people in the pub. It was also getting cold. I could feel my ears aching from the wind. 

 Luciano had only just arrived. But soon we were going to have to leave, as Night Owl said, the rules are very strict like that- his own wife had to wait for him outside. But Luciano remained enthusiastic as the next morning they were planning a trip to Lanzarote. There was going to be four of them, one of them absent but badmouthed by the other three. The fourth one, Ivan, had become a Lindsay Lohan of the four, after he had dared to book a separate train ticket to the airport. That was also one of the reasons why he wasn't joining, but it didn't surprise me. I had never met anybody called Ivan before, so it was only fitting I wasn't going to meet them that night. 

 Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was a bit disappointed about the window. He got accustomed to changing weather and cold winds. But Night Owl assured him it was indeed too cold. He was going to close the window long before we arrived. 

 But we had the last toast to drink, the one to celebrate Konstantin Konstantinos the Third receiving a research grant. 

'Hire me as your assistant', said Luciano who's, conveniently, his colleague. 

'Seventy percent of that is supposed to go towards assistant's salary', muttered Konstantin Konstantinos the Third grimly.

'I'd make a splendid salaried assistant', Luciano gulped his beer. 

'You'd have to call people'. 

'Okay, better no then.'

 After that, we were heading to a gyros place. Gyros that Konstantin Konstantinos the Third was frustrated that we couldn't pronounce. It's a very particular type of 'h'. Not everybody is familiar with this one. It's a throatal, quiet sound, that makes you want to drink tea in the sun and forget the world. A sound like no other. 

 Night Owl had started to lock up. The basement space where we celebrated a birthday not so long ago was now empty and deserted, our traces erased. The buffed tables shone with gloss. The board listed special offers for the day, beetrot, yorky and crushed swede. The new moon had already shone. Outside, the street went quiet. 

 And maybe I should tell this to Mr Frank, or a real therapist, or my dad when he calls tomorrow, that pubs on Monday evening are liminal spaces. You come from somewhere and you will walk away, to the airport, to the comfort of your bed, or into the unknown of the night. Meanwhile, Night Owl turned off the lights, and the city went to sleep. 

Mr Frank, elle panique! and the anguish of creating bucket lists

  It was a strange feeling to sit in front Mr Frank again. I had abandoned him so long ago I nearly had a problem to find my way through deceiving alleyways of my memory. And yet then he was, untouched by time, with his nailfile in his hand. Frozen in time, or rather, in this instance, frozen in my mind. 

 I could no longer recall the exact moment when my thoughts drifted away from Mr Frank. People say that the reason why it's so easy to do is that we don't appreciate those who are always available. And Mr Frank, living in my head, has been the most accessible person of them all. Still, knocking on his door after such a long time, I didn't expect his main complaint to be having been replaced by a real therapist. For years Mr Frank had provided the only therapy he believed I needed: just as all imaginary therapists, he simply always told me what I wanted to hear. Hence he liked to describe himself as an 'affirmative voice' that we all desperately need in our life. I never contemplated whether I needed Mr Frank anymore than any other parts of my psyche. The role of imaginary creatures, as I imagined, was to just be there, in the same way you furnish your flat with items that are known to be too bulky to easily remove. And yet, it was in a middle of my grief therapy when my thoughts carried me back to Mr Frank's office. Maybe the old, antipathetic figment of my imagination still held some sentimental value. Or maybe because I had finally appreciated the one-of-a-kind offering of an imaginary therapist: in the world that becomes more brutal by day, sugarcoating appears as almost a revolutionary act. 

 Whatever my reason was, soon I found myself in front of Mr Frank, and it quickly felt like coming home. He was drawn as usually, with a sharp, dark line of a soft pencil. He leant casually back in his armchair, operating his nailfile with utmost precision. Pencil drawings don't age. Not even the sharp ones. He didn't even look up when he uttered 'so what brings you back', not without a certain indignation. I explained it to him that holding onto an imaginary therapist, while undergoing real therapy for a very real grief, wouldn't be a good idea at least from mental health standpoint. He shrugged, as he usually does when he disagrees, and he disagrees only if he knows I will agree with him afterwards. 

'You are not qualified to offer grief therapy,' said I, 'you need diplomas for that, experience, online reviews.'

 The last example was bad and I knew it. Imaginary creatures live only inside a mind that created them, and naturally no one else could ever write a review for them. Still, Frank seemed unmoved. 

'What do they make you do, these real therapists in the real world?', he asked the nailfile. 

'A lot of exercies have to take life step by step and feel better.'

'What about a bucket list?, Mr Frank shot back, and I paused for a moment. 

'That's what people do while they're in crisis', he began to explain, and I felt I had missed his patient voice. 'They create a bucket list to have something to look forward to, and to treat different achievements as pit stops to fuller life.'

I wasn't sure how to explain that I had, in fact, failed profoundly on creating a bucket list, multiple times. Every time I jotted down a few things, immediately other emerged, that were just like the previous ones until I could no longer distinguish one goal from another. And then I concluded I really want to to everything, while simultaneously do nothing at all. But I guess that's everybody, at least to some extend. 

'There must be something you really want to do. Something you feel like you have to do', nudged me Mr Frank. 

'I have to go to IKEA', I muttered. It was true on two counts. I needed a lampshade and, speaking of bucket lists, that was where my only clearly articulated bucket list item lived. 

'I never had IKEA meatballs', I finally said, and Mr Frank jumped in his armchair out of joy. 

'You see, how easy it is! Bucket list item one, and now you have a true goal to keep moving forward towards.'

 What he was saying actually made a lot of sense. But what if, just what if, it remains my only bucket list item? And when you fulfill your only one goal, who will you become? How changed of a creature would I become if I finally ate IKEA meatballs?

 Just as back in the days, visiting Mr Frank left me with more questions than answers. And just as back then, I left knowing I would see him again. 

The End of the World on a Sunday afternoon- a pandemics story

  

 It was the End of the World waiting at my bedside as I slowly woke up. It didn’t even look at me, its eyes fixed on a faraway point in space. I looked out of the window and noticed that the sky was just as grey as when I last saw it, before sleep. The rooftops on the opposite side of the garden formed the same dusty image of an old postcard patterned with flickering lights as if in desperate attempt to escape oblivion. It wasn’t even that late, but yet I felt as if I had slept through the entire day and whatever miracle was supposed to happen had already been missed. It was time to go out. It was my going out day, since it was Sunday and Sunday was indeed the day when I went out. This time always made me remember the now unfamiliar names that I used to give to different days of the week. I reached inside my memory to get them out and say them out loud, repeating a few times until the sounds rounded in my ears and uncovered the layout of my old habitual existence. I didn’t know what I was doing it for. There was no more place for the words I so badly tried to remember. In the world that I woke up on that fateful Sunday, mornings no longer existed. Time was only ever measured in afternoons, each single measure blinding me with its bright grey robes.

 The going-out-day was a day of a fight. It was the risk that I had to take, fearfully reaching out to my shopping bag for comfort, but on that fateful day I was surprisingly willing to do so. There was nothing waiting for me at home, since the miracle was already gone and all that was left for me would be staring blankly at The End of the World, who wouldn’t look back at me. I knew all the dangers waiting for me outside. I knew well enough all the dangers of the day. Especially once being out I could see the day up close. I knew my way through it by heart.

 Standing outside my front porch, I thought of the End of the World, whom I so rudely left behind without as much as a word. I abandoned it to simply run some errands. But then it still wouldn’t look at me as I packed one of my reusable bags into the other and folded my shopping list, so I could safely assume it was going to do its job whether I stayed behind to watch or not. Afterall I had my own walk to make, not looking down at my boots, not paying attention to anything on my way as it could move then and who knows what would it do to me if it caught me staring. I was a point on a map, moving through the day. The route ran till the end of the street and then to the left, passing a fruit stall, a repair shop and an abandoned restaurant. Then it continued to the crossroad, where I didn’t have to look either left or right as I always knew when to cross, and when to wait. After that I strolled through an empty bus station, like I did thousands of times and into a dark little alley, that was once planted with blossoming trees to provide sweet shelter for couples in love. But these days it was only me there, with my two reusable shopping bags and a distressed shopping list. The alley opened into a square with two large buildings looming over my head, one of an old library, the other one of a heavily lit supermarket embellished with a red bricked pattern. The drugstore was squeezed in between two dark holes of permanently closed shops without names or purpose. I took a  basket and automatically packed a toothpaste, a bar of soap, a cheap book from the clearance shelf, a pack of dried toasts. As I exited in a hurry, I saw an elderly man, leaning on his stick and clutching a sizeable colouring book in his spare hand. I asked politely whether he needed any help, although he was clearly fine. He smiled with his eyes and thanked me and proceeded to walk away, as I felt a sudden longing to talk to him, to receive his thanks once again and fill my hunger with his sincere smile, his warm eyes. I stopped outside and watched him go as he moved along the cobblestones with his stick. I stayed so focused on him that I almost missed it.

 When I raised my eyes it had already started and there was nothing I could do. But deep inside I knew I wouldn’t have stopped it anyway. I was only there on errands, and there was The End of The World waiting for me back home. Meanwhile, the sky turned bloody orange. It cast its bloody light on the contours of the buildings and I felt a wave of heat rubbing against my skin, until I noticed the flames closing up on the cobblestoned street. I could no longer see the sky. Instead, emerging from the flames, I saw the shadow of the elderly man. I wanted to run to him, save him. But I stopped as if a wall stopped me. Through the glass wall, I saw the flames stand still. They were made of cupboard. Flickering on the sky, there were two large sheets of cupboard, painted bloody orange and moving back and forth, like clockwork or puppets. No one else stopped. No one else saw it. These were my own props of my own show, for my eyes only. I stared and stared at the clockwork flames, until the shadow of the older man disappeared consumed by the phantom fire.

 On my return, as I moved down the once enchanted alley, I realized it was finally getting dark. The newly arrived darkness soon soothed me and brought me calm. I turned back towards the square and saw that the cardboard fire was gone, now replaced by the familiar coolness of the night. The madness of the day was gone. I walked by a grocery store and collected a tin of sweetcorn to pack into my reusable bag. I was no longer in a hurry. Outside, the night reigned. The darkness emptied the streets and the air brought back the cold. Tiny stars shined above my head, few tiny faraway sorrows. I felt a sudden desire for white chocolate candies. I shouldn’t be having candies. But then I remembered The End of The World waiting for me at my bedside, still and abandoned with its eyes fixed on imaginary point beyond my bedroom wall. And so I ran my fingers through a bowl of candies, and I picked and picked and picked until both my bags were full. The friendly darkness screened my fears and desires as it always did without fail. My best friend darkness that never left my side, and now loyally followed me to meet my End of the World.

 It still didn’t look at me when I got back home. But this time, it was dark. And that’s how, on one Sunday, the world has ended. Not burning in cardboard flames, but with two cups of tea, the sweetness of the night and white chocolate candies.

You, yourself and yours. Why your boundaries might be crushing someone's heart.

 We have all seen it on TV- one of the characters is injured in an accident and all the ensemble, family, friends, coworkers, are rushing to the hospital through the midnight traffic. But have you ever seen it happening in real life? Don't worry- neither have I.

 I thought about it today after in the abyss of the Internet I stumbled upon a post of somebody who never visits their good friends or family members in hospital as a rule- because they don't like hospitals and they need to put their own needs first. At first I took it for sarcasm. Boy, I was wrong.

 Recently I seem to hear one thing from people way too often- 'You should take better care of yourself'. There are many reasons why it sets me off. Mostly, because me and myself are actually doing quite fine. I spend a lot of time with myself, so I can tell. I dedicate a lot of energy to myself, and sometimes I feel like I am somewhat spoiled with all this attention: long showers, testing new make up, treating myself to good food and sweet solitary evenings in the garden. I am being way too good to myself. Which is why I don't see the need to half-up twist myself and stretch myself over a mile for myself. Myself is just a one happy bunny.

 But just like all of you, I am attacked with daily self-centrism checklists coming from various advertisers. They tell me I must love myself. They tell me I must date myself. I must feed myself, cherish myself, and groom both my physical and emotional surface with care and thoroughness. I like hearing that, don't you?

 At the times of extreme popularity of online therapy offers, what startled me the most is a success of sites like 7 Cups of Tea. It offers a free service providing an anonymous person with a 'listener'- usually a regular geezer who, that's all they're allowed to do, listens to them. People who use these sites often don't require professional help- they are looking for a friend. That constitutes an entire army of people who have no one in real life who would listen to them. Perhaps people in their lives follow one of simple 'wellness rules' out there, like the one I found, to my terror, re-posted by some of my friends on social media. It advised that each time you contact your friend in the hour of need, you ask them first if they have 'mental space' to talk about it. I do not mean to be brutal, but if you are genuinely running out of mental space, then you might have a clutter in there. Tidy up. I took a note to never call these friends again, under any circumstances, Armageddon included.

Let's talk. My complicated relationship with food and nutrition.

 It's been a while as I have been pondering on writing this article. I have done a lot of thinking on the subject quite recently and some of the demons hiding in the shadow of my past have re-emerged. No longer able to scare me, instead they made me believe that I have something important to say. So let's talk about something I had tried to forget for years, and what is still extremely difficult for me to talk about: my eating disorders.

 When I look back, I think it started when I was around seven. The first thing I came to hate about my body were my knees. You see, my knees somehow always had a completely round shape, while other girls had those beautiful narrow ones with a small, pointed bone. Regardless of my weight, my knees always stayed like this. The more I contemplated it, the less of a solution I saw. Now I see how this disliking of my knees in childhood influenced my life for another decades, and maybe forever.

 After I moved apart from my parents, I spent a couple of months living only on two rolls and a green tea per day. I was an introvert, living according to the conviction that life is hard and difficult and any self-indulgence is pointless and in longer term unsatisfactory. My rigorous eating routine reflected those views and soon became a part of my life philosophy. I thought I was being pragmatic, now I wonder if I wasn't depressed.

 My surroundings seemed entirely supportive towards my lifestyle. I trained at dance school and everyday I heard praises regarding my super slim body, so 'healthy' and allegedly resulting from my active lifestyle. In reality it was a result of so-called 'Victoria Beckham diet', one of the pro-ana favourite and allowing you to eat only one meal a day. Until my mother became eventually concerned, no one had ever expressed a single thought of worry, no one had ever wondered why they had never seen me eating, no one had ever absorbed a single thought that maybe this was not right.

 And I was not alone. I had a strong support network of other girls living according to the same principles. There was Cleo who drunk only Coke Light for three weeks and Sue, an aspiring dancer who mastered the craft of vomiting after every meal. And Izzie, who knew all 'miracle diets' by heart. There was a shop across the road that sold only jeans up to size 8, down to even four times extra small. There was always an urban legend of a bullied fat girl who tried to kill herself and though no one knew her everybody felt for her and understood her decision.

 But first of all: life was all about how much you weigh. In the world we lived in it was the main factor to determine who you are and how you are going to end up. And, it was all wrong.

 I guess I could say that I grew out of pro-ana. Eventually, I started liking food like every other human being and at some point even got fat- which I later lost due to healthy eating habits and exercising. And I could just end this story with a happy ending, but if you are expecting it to conclude like that, you will be disappointed. Because my story is not over.

 Everyday, right now, there is another girl somewhere in college living on two rolls per day. There is another aspiring dancer Sue vomiting after meals, and another Cleo whose only nutrition are carbohydrate drinks. Day by day, right next to us grows another generation of women in complicated and toxic relationship with their eating habits.

Because as I am writing this I still live in a world that obsesses over food and nutrition. We have clean eating and other eating trends and thousand of definitions of the word 'healthy'. We are just as obsessed about our weight as we used to be. Body positive movements didn't change the thing. Because it is still all about weight. We celebrate weight or we despise it but yet we assign a lot of importance to it. We compliment people if they lose weight and scold them if they gain it, and the majority of population still believes that a person heavier than 50 kilos has been 'overindulging'.

 There is a brilliant moment in 'Boston Public' series, when a thirty-something teacher, a healed anorexic, gets casually asked whether she'd like to lose weight. That sets her off on a dark journey, and her mind starts falling again, all the way down the rabbit hole.

 Words are harmful. Words about weight are harmful and dangerous and can be life-threatening to survivors.

There is a more recent movement that I like, that tells us a lot of what we need. It's Jameela Jamil and her 'I weigh', which emphasizes the need to stop talking about weight altogether, and focus attention elsewhere. You weigh what you are, and you are not what you weigh. I hope that in the future we will finally stop talking about weight. That there won't be any new Cleos and Sues, and that no one will feel the need to write an article like the one I am writing right now.

But today, my story is not over. It is not over because we still live in a body-shaped wonderland. Because it's a story of all women in this world- forced inside a frame of weight, like nothing else mattered.

Listening to the radio- part 2.5

 Over the years as my life has drifted apart from the lives of my college friends, I always felt that one of the things that had set us apart was the radio. Living in a relatively large country with a notoriously terrible infrastructure, everyday they were driving miles in their Skodas and Coupes, stopping at their flagship gas stations to grab a take-away coffee. And, during these long hours on the road, they listened to the radio. Few popular radio channels were a soundtrack of their lives. They were telling them what's trending,  what's new, and what's just happened, picking the most important pieces of information to help them live entertaining but orderly lives. I had no idea what was happening in there, on air, with these voices filling people's cars every morning. The less often I heard it, the more it came across to me like a message of an alien broadcasting from planet Zogg somewhere in fifteenth galaxy in order to save their now nearly extinct culture from oblivion. 

 It took something else for me to embrace the radio as my own: the newly updated evolution of online radio. But let me tell you that from the beginning.

 Back in the days we had a dream with Alonso to have our own studio somewhere in the attic, necessarily overlooking a busy crossroads with red buses passing on a daily basis. We would have had a small side table next to the window, so we could look at the traffic outside everyday at breakfast. And now and then we would have stopped the time with a glass of wine in hand. Four seasons will all merge into a postcard of our time, and life would have been changing colours according to jazz. Before I met Alonso, I had always associated jazz with clearing out old paperwork. Probably because somewhat sophisticated nature of jazz made this job a little less dull, and being busy such a mundane activity didn't allow much of jazz-related thinking, that life is now three times faster and that vintage record shops had now become a stamp of hipster fueled gentrification. 

 It all happened years before 'La La Land', and years before regular couples' dream about an attic studio have become a cliche and stopped having any meaning. Until one time I received an unexpected reminder from my time and it, surprisingly, came through radio. It was no ordinary radio to begin with, but a livestream YouTube radio called by a sublime name of 'Rainy Jazz'. It was nothing of a typical radiostation I knew from my friends' cars. As the description said, it played jazz and gentle bossa nova, and it was giving off a vibe of a quiet cafe next to some train station, enchanted in time. Oh, and it's raining. All the time. 

 There are no words in this world for me to describe the soothing power of rain. The rain sound heals souls and mends broken hearts, patches us up until we're back in one piece and can walk. There are records of the rain sound of up to twenty four hours length, and long ago they became my own adult-life lullaby. This is how life has come full circle, and now I am having my own soundtrack- the one that brings me back into the studio in the attic that never existed.

What is it about- writing advice that no one needs

 Recently I have been given quite a few (unsolicited) chunks of advice in connection to my (limping) writing career. One of them (from a friend of mine who read maybe one of my works in the past five years) was to have an 'idea'. Because you see, a good idea is everything. You can be a great wizard of words but if there is no story, it just falls flat. Another advice though, given to me on the same day, completely trumped the previous one: anyone can have an idea, it's your style, it's the way it flows that captures the reader, otherwise, even the best story simply falls flat. Both of them came from people who didn't even write their own bachelor dissertations on their own. 

 To add to the above, none of them was actually a keen reader. I could probably go on forever listing all the bad advice I received from people who don't do what I do and who are not even a potential audience for my work. However, I am in many ways grateful to them, for an invaluable lesson: what advice not to listen to. 

 I used to be one of these people who valued everybody's opinion just because it is an opinion. And as social creatures we should value the opinion of others, as other people are recipients of our work. However, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who truly supported me over the years: those who congratulate me on my good result in a short story competition, came to see my play, read more than a few lines of my articles. That is of course, due to busy lives we are all running an nothing bad about it, if it wasn't for continuous advice I receive from people who have no idea what I'm doing. All this advice has mostly one and only result: immediate demotivation. 

 The human talent to demotivate others is nothing new, but has probably become particularly visible in social-media-driven culture of effortless success. Some people call it 'hating', I call it new, interactive ways of morning coffee-moaning. Back in time, people used to complain during breakfast over a newspaper. Nowadays, they google things- and then, all of a sudden their morning moaning can go viral, overwhelming us with crowds of DIY experts in different fields. 

 So unless you have a valid point, or you are specifically asked, or you have a genuine interest in exploring other people's capacities, if all you want to do is to fuel my lack of self-worth in forever-beginning authors world, your advice will just fall flat. And to those of you, who are losing their energy and passion over constant attacks of morning moaners, get a pair of ear plugs, and keep going. That should do the trick.

The Perfectly Bearable Effortlessness of Being

 As I was taking my clothes out of the washing machine, I noticed that a pair of my underwear got dyed a bit with a shade of dark red, and looked now surprisingly better. I took it as a sign. From now onwards I shall let destiny always take its' course and wait down here watching Netflix for a miracle to happen. Obviously there is little chance it will happen, but hey, if nothing comes then it's destiny and afterall, waiting for miracle is totally effortless. 

 Effortlessness seems to be nowadays somehow a goal as well as a value itself. There is a motivational quote swinging about the internet saying 'If you have to force it, leave it'. While it is probably quite healthy not to waste your life in order to chase something intangible, there is also a danger: a danger of letting go just because something requires hard work. 

 An obvious example is probably a simple pair of socks. My mother used to mend socks all the time. Who does that nowadays? Who mends old socks?

 These examples could probably go on, but what is particularly concerning to me is that people, while chasing effortlessness, often choose not to work on their skills. Not to pursue their dreams. Not to practise five hours a day if that what it takes. After that we start believing in 'naturals'. People who succeeded  due to their supernatural abilities and to whom everything was just coming, simply being thrown their way. That's probably the biggest myth of modern times.

 We like to believe that life truly can be fully enjoyable, stress free and not requiring any hard work. 'Nature over nurture' seems to overrule all our belief systems. Until we get to an opportunistic conviction that 'if something doesn't happen, it is not meant to be'. Such fatalism is of course nothing new: Denis Diderot explained it well enough and it seems that in our times believing in something 'written in stars' should be perceived somehow eclectic. Nevertheless, the media all seem to support the need of things coming 'effortlessly'. You are supposed to have fun at all times and see results coming out just because they naturally belong to you, and are given to you because you deserve it. And if nothing happens to you, it is because it does not belong to you by nature, ie. you don't deserve it. By proclaiming effortlessness a new trend, the culture of success once again left plenty of people behind. Those of us who need to work hard for tangible results. And after all our hard work, they will write about us, make documentaries, and once again they will prove to others that we had that come 'effortlessly'. 

Ode to Mary Quant

 Recently my mom has suffered a bit of an inconvenience. Her sixty-year-old friend wore a super short mini skirt for a meeting. 'It didn't suit her and it was not very aesthetic, to be frank'- sighed my mother, as she sadly admitted she gets more and more similar to her grandmother in many views. 

 Back at my university time I had a friend who was a great fashionista. Not only by passion, but also by her excellent sense of style. No matter what time of the day it was, she always looked like a million dollar. Once, as part of her assignment, she was supposed to write an essay about the most influential person in the world, in her opinion of course. She didn't have any second thoughts after choosing Mary Quant. Now I have a confession to make: I didn't know who that was. 

 But my friend quickly enlightened me: thanks to Mary Quant, women in the world can now comfortably wear mini skirts. I prefer a saying: women in the world can wear whatever they want. But I guess mini skirts wasn't too bad of a start.

The Nice People

  Back in my early youth, well, rather my childhood, I had a friend. Let's call her Sarah. She loved science fiction movies and always dressed in black. Some other day, fueled by a sudden nostalgia, I decided to look her up on Facebook. It's been more than a decade since I last heard from her. 

 Finding her in the cowebs of online contacts turned to be surprisingly easy. After few minutes I was looking at her smiley face on a photo. She didn't change at all- the same radiance glowing from her still youthful face, and the mieschievous charm playing in her eyes. On the photo she held a cute toddler in her arms, surrounded by her other three children. Her husband was standing on her left hand side, smiling and handsome, his hands placed on the shoulders of their eldest daughter. The sun was shining down on them as six happy faces stared into the camera. Nice people. 

  Suddenly something on her profile has drawn my attention: one of her photos had been remade with an anti-abortion hashtag. The template had been issued by a militant pro-life organization that Sarah, as I noticed, actively supports. Her deep support for 'Beatiful since Conception' is then explained simply by her being 'a Christian'. 

 Intrigued, I scroll down expecting to see more photos of her lovely children and some idyllic images of happy, family life in the country. But I am heading for a shock. 

 While browsing through her endless posts equipped with the same anti-abortion hashtags, I find a bunch of statements slut-shaming rape victims and calling up for a death penalty for 'unborn children murderers'. But a beautiful girl like her, a mother of four, with her loving smile surely doesn't mean it?

 I scroll down. Below the anti-abortion fever Sarah proudly states she is a 'gun lobby'. Like her whole family, for that matter. 

 Her family indeed plays an important part in her life, as they all join together in nationalist movement marches, holding a DIY banners prasing 'white Europe', 'defending Christianity' and expressing pride in their 'white blood'. I find these statements somehow puzzling: surely a mother of four would know that white is not the best colour as it gets easily dirty and white things are nightmare to wash. However, I must admit this discovery had some educational value for me. You see, till the date I believed that blood is always red by definition. I never heard of someone who would possibly have a blood of different tone. And I feel like I am emphasizing with Sarah on that one: apparently she and her children must suffer from some very mysterious disease that affects their blood cells. In that matter, I guess 'pride' is not the worst reaction ever. It is surely more constructive than despair. 

 Sarah's reactions to the modern world are in general quite impressive. For example, she shares an informative article regarding transgender people, to which Sarah's sole response is 'I don't even fucking know lol'. There were also some nice comments regarding the refugees, to which apparently Sarah 'fucking can't even'. In that moment I have to confess I wonder whether she spelled 'can't' correctly...

 I continue to browse through all the 'fucking whatevers' and 'don't you piss me off fuckers' and I am feeling more and more like an alien, trying to make something up of this bad grammar and swearings, and I forget the faces of Sarah's lovely children. Before I leave her profile for good, I take a final glance at her profile picture, to once again look at her unchanged happy face. In adult life we won't be friends. Her idyllic photo of happy, loving family still hangs in there untouched. Such nice people. 

Disclaimer: All persons fictitious.

The mysterious G minor- Albinoni's Adagio

  Few years back a friend of mine was asked to compose a piece for a short film. She came out with a beautiful classical guitar track, that was capturing many human emotions. There was sadness and melancholy, but also hope, like an image of a sunny, Sunday afternoon. It was a perfect presentation of what one can go through while sitting in a garden, drinking tea and romanticizing the past while also dreaming of exciting plans for distant future. I often listen to this track on an afternoon like this. Unfortunately, the producers of the short film were not as pleased. Curiously, it was the variety of emotions that worried them. They expected something people listen to when they feel, or want to feel, simply sad. Putting it straight they wanted a piece that would let their viewers despair. And when it comes to despair, it is hard to think of anything more fitting than Albinoni’s Adagio, that has been featured in so many movies that lots of people actually believes it’s Ennio Morricone’s track.

When it comes to Adagio in G minor, there is a phenomenal path to it, as this one single orchestral piece has been through so many exciting and rocky adventures that no other piece can ever compare. It is truly shameful that many ( and I don’t mean only those who assign the autorship to Morricone) recognize it only as soundtrack of nostalgic movies, but it is also a side effect of its’ phenomenal popularity in modern mainstream culture. Somehow, this neo-baroque adagio touches something in our souls. Specifically, this side of our souls that is a bit tacky.

But the real story leaves a lot of speculation, and ‘Adagio’ itself is not tacky at all. It is brilliant and sublime, gentle and uninsisting, surely not trying to be what it has become. Remo Gazotto, the actual author of the piece, did not expect this kind of success. I also disagree with those who call it ‘the biggest hoax in the history of classical music’. What about the guy who claimed he had found the original footage of Nijinsky dancing his ‘Afternoon of the faun’, while he just put together old photographs and was so good at editing that he almost fooled the whole world?

I found it- how I decided to become a minimalist

 Recently (if this term can cover a period of up to three years) I have a feeling that my life has been a constant commuting from point A to B. Indeed, I have moved numbers of times for different reason, and besides that, well, I live in London. What venture it truly is, no one knows better than a friend of mine who has been helping me to move my life's possesions, equally divided between eighty plastic bags. He had a moment of doubt after he saw a bag full of eggs going into his van, but come on, a whole bag of eggs, I couldn't just leave it behind!

 My mother used to call me a 'world famous trash collector', for my blame lies not in buying things: rather the difficulty in leaving anything that lies abandoned on a street unattended. I've found wonders on my way during my lifetime: a first-class iron, a sassy carrier bag, a laundry dryer to name a few. It might come easy to dispose of something hastily bought on discount, or an unwanted gift from last Christmas, but it will never seem right to get rid of something that had been placed on your way by destiny, to materialize itself in front of you, yours for the taking. That's how I've been explaining to myself my ownership of over two hundred old flyers from events I didn't go to and few issues of 'Metro' I didn't have time to read. I am not going to mention pens, pencils and hair elastics and few other things that I am unsure of what they are. I never bothered to understand motives of people who throw things away. I thought it was another 'scandi' fashion, and just like misunderstood hygge, all-white decor and love for IKEA, it will pass, the way any trend does. But that was before I heard of dan-sha-ri.

My cozy little wardrobe

 I remember reading one of Milan Kundera's works, where a scholar, after years of being persecuted by totalitarian authorities, finally got a chance to get back to his work and read his essay at the conference on the west. Unfortunately, he got so focused on explaining his difficult path and undying gratitude for being able to be back at what he loves to do, that he actually forgot to read it. Later on, he decided to make up for this embarrassment and in the evening went to a hotel pool in order to show off his athletic body but sadly, this did not turn out very well either as he stumbled upon a couple that was, unsuccessfully, trying to have sex. So for this reason, thinking of the misfortune of the poor professor I won't spend much time explaining what has happened to Monkey Seduction, and how happy I am to be back and running (or writing, for that matter). I won't be elaborating on that. Just in case. 

On inspiration and social anxiety

 

  Recently many people ask me where do I get my inspiration from. The question more than reasonable, as these days I mostly write fiction, and I focus on regular creative writing exercises that serve me best. Few years ago I would have given a very elaborate answer to that: I would be talking about all thoughts that come to me as I pass the streets, looking at all buildings, blue sky, how strangers on the train evoke me a story. This time the answer is way easier: inspiration comes to me, like to most people, in silence. Preferably in calm, slow paced environment of my own bed alongside the feeling that there is nothing in this world that I have to do right now.

There are few things that can enhance your inspiration. Such as a stable day job, that you do not hate, a peace of mind and the lack of internet. There is probably no need to explain the blessing influence of the first two, so I would like to focus on the latter. You see, Internet makes me socially aware. And as I am naturally socially awkward, the access to the window to the world makes me feel totally exposed. One click on Google icon and I am no longer alone.

I guess there is more people around for whom the constant connection to the Internet is a source of social anxiety. Don't get me wrong- it’s not only social media. It’s the feeling of being constantly connected, available, exposed to any information that might pass through the digital channel; it’s the feeling like someone was creeping behind your back, watching your every move.

And so to speak, social anxiety is a number one enemy of inspiration of any kind. Most writers admit that they are at their best in their own bed, not to say desk (if you live in London, you know that a decent desk is a luxury one shall not be dreaming of). Straying from the theme of writers’ inspiration: the inspiration of any kind. Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist, let’s focus on an example of thinking activity. Every person thinks. Now connect all of your devices to the Internet and try to think. The shadows of your family and friends will be creeping out from every direction, and all this information you were searching for seven years ago with no purpose at all now becomes available. Is your thought still roaming freely? Expand this image- now picture yourself, with all your connected devices in a busy coffee shop where you’re endangered to meet all your neighbours. Someone in the queue looks like your former colleague you failed to contact over the past few months. Your email inbox lies wide open before you, encouraging you to insure a car that you don’t have and sign a petition on something you have no idea about, while the radio bombards you with the recent weather podcast. Now let me ask you once again: what is your inspiration?

The need of being alone with our own thoughts is a vital part of any creative process. From the point of view of your poor, suppressed individuality any human contact, whether direct or indirect, is an unnecessary distraction. It’s creativity that prevents us from becoming a part of a herd. The feeling of social anxiety reminds us that a human is, first of all, an individual. We believe we ought to fight it in the society that pressures us to be a part of a larger body, appealing to our need of belonging. Maybe nowadays one needs to ask themselves, if feeling socially anxious is not a cry of some inner self, the call for individual development. After all, we are all imprisoned inside our minds, and only ourselves we possess truly. And maybe that’s why the real inspiration can only come from within. If we dare to listen to it.

One-off Summertime

 She would be telling this story to George Noskov, surrounded by empy coca-cola cans. To George, the one she used to call a misogynist, a lunatic, sometimes a dreamer. She will regret all that she said after his death, or rather all the other things that she didn't say. Especially that she would never tell that story to anybody else, because who would like to listen to so ordinary a story, so sad, so elusive that it seems to be untrue. But she doesn't care whether anyone believes it or not, for there is no way to tell it the way it was, with all the smells, the colours, the music it brought, the wind it brings when it comes back. Anyway, it doesn't matter if someone understands it, as there is no more such summer, and it never will be. That one was the only one, a one-off summer in the world, and it has already passed away, not leaving anything which could be picked up by someone else. It was only her who could understand, her and somebody else, another her in another part in the world. You see, once a time, one summer, two girls simultaneously had fallen in love. A blonde and a brunette, born only few weeks apart, only few miles away. For neither of them it was the first time, but all the loves are the only ones in the world for their own summertimes. Years later, only one of them will remember. 

 The feeling which will come along with it will be like a memory of a time loop. She won't be talking about it, as it is not a memory which might fit into today's reality. Only sometimes she will be wondering if it still exists, that bench outside the old bus station in Bristol, if any trace of her memory still sits there, awaiting. 

 The other girl will be getting married. She will change the spelling of her name- it used to sound Russian, now it's just a name. On a picture she will stay just as beautiful and untouched, like experiences had gone past her, not leaving a mark on her shoulder, no trace on her face. She will look happy. 

 Or maybe it is because they have lived so many miles apart for so many years, they both appear to each other just as images, faces from the past, and they cannot relate to each other anymore. Or perhaps for both of them, the summer wind has never stopped, and there will always be parts of them, paused within a loop of one-off summertime. Perhaps.

 The memory will bring them together on one evening, seven years and hundreds miles away. It would be one of them looking for the other, and the second one answering within seconds. Through all these years they have not grown indifferent or unaware of each other, like their souls were right there, waiting outside the loop. In their paused smiles on old photographs, for a moment, they will find a way to resume their one-off summertime, and to be drawn back, like it was all they've been ever waiting for.

 The story is a piece from my new short story, not yet completed, but just a sketch as I am trying to get back on track with writing. Soon I am to start an online creative writing course. Join me in this journey!

Political beings. Lost ethics of political involvement.

 Few years ago, when my dear grandfather was still alive with relief he proclaimed racism and xenophoby to be finally dead. He said, with true conviction, that such hatred had its roots in people's ignorance and simple lack of education, and will never find the place in modern world where people travel and have first-hand experiences with other cultures. Unfortunately for my late grandfather, with the whole love and respect I cultivate for him, I have to admit he could have not been more mistaken. 

 It is worth saying that the world my grandfather remembered, with all its possible cruelty and divisions, was the world which more than anything valued education. Although it was an often biased education, vastly preaching injustice and white supremacy, it also opened the door to the old science of ethics and philosophy, encouraging the whole generation to rebel and stand up against what they once learned. It is no wonder that for a person of such background it was difficult to accept the values of the new world, where science and philosophy have been successfully replaced by politics. One can argue that the renaissance of the old Greek term of polis reflects the awakening interests of individuals in public life and brings up private units to the true engagement in social change. It might have been long obvious that politics, no matter how distant they appear from the daily lives of the commoners, has direct influence on the course of our destinies, as unveiled by author Milan Kundera, who often presented his characters as heroes of their own 'small histories', sooner or later interrupted by the 'great history', which has no consideration for individual's agenda. Nevertheless, the opportunities to connect with different platforms of experiences and opinions, have led us to a live confrontation with such matter, making us not only feel swallowed up by a global machine of world's political systems, but also aware of the benefits we might draw from it as vital parts of those systems. It would be too much of a conclusion to say that the Internet bears sole responsibility for the expansion of our private matters onto a global platform, especially after decades of the modern world driven by the idea of political and systematical unity, but the accessibility of mass media is, at  least partially, certainly to blame. Never before an entity had so much connection with decisive process of political order of the world as it has nowadays. Even if such connection in reality remains only an illusion, it is still enough to give another dimension to the political side of our lives. The accessibility of opinion-sharing plaforms and switch from private to social are essential agents in shaping whole new range of definitions of qualities until now existing only within comfort zone of the individual, juxtaposing our systems of beliefs next to the global political system, which for a private entity becomes nothing else but a ladder.

 I am straying from open evaluation whether the globalization of our private lives is right or wrong for humanity (this is a job for ethics, sociologists and media experts and I am neither), but I stretch that it brings a whole new quality of political activism and exposes us to social involvement in a way we have never experienced it before. Especially that wide spread politicization of our private matters corresponds with underlying needs of millennials- our ancestors vastly had opportunity to gain first hand experience of the 'great history', by fighting the wars and engaging in revolutions, while our generation has been long forced to accept the role of the history mostly through struggle with economical crisis and instability. Modern media, being so easily within reach, brought us opportunity to have our piece of cake of the real force driving the world, even only by sharing our opinion on social media, which replaced the famous spot in Hyde Park. But even if we can envy our ancestors their vital involvement in shaping world's history, in reality they remained mere participants of the events determined by real players. For us, unjustly treated and forgotten by the great mother history, it is a matter of standing face to face with our new god- the mighty order, the Olympus of decision making, offering us a principle role in the process, and fulfilling such role is another step on the ladder. The milestones of our lives no longer stand for private achievements, as the meaning of the individual is strongly connected with their position in global political order. Hence the politicization of our beliefs and terms, which in a private space might be seen as universal. 

 Once the global politics start driving our life through a promise of social advancement, temptation of catching a finger of the 'great history' replaces the value of retriving to a personal space and political dictionary is being adopted in place of terms describing individual freedoms and beliefs. Revealing our private persona requires political statement and creates definition, which further exists to be associated with sub-terms and sub-definitions, to later contribute to a creation of new, political being which is meant to maintain their integrity while living within reality of chants, statements and slogans. (At that point I start wondering if being an anarchist does not stand in conflict with living in Islington.) Such political creature will now measure their value against other creations, to whom they apply other qualities and definitions approved by global political system. These qualities are based on certain criteria agreed by the sides of the system: personal documents of the individual, educational and ethnic background as well as material status. Based on that criteria, political beings are divided into teams, where the strongest team will defend the global system which allows them to proceed further up the ladder. The engagement in system soon will create strong sense of 'us' against 'them'- enemies of the system, which by now has already replaced the system of beliefs. This kind of division is nothing new: in past it had successfully evolved into slavery, apartheid and Holocaust to name the few and has been widely practised during colonialism and civil wars across centuries. The modern engagement in political system is different because the globalization of our lives gives us the illusion of participation in creative process and, maybe first of all, the illusion of choice. Staying connected and having the opportunity to see contemporary political agenda from different angles brings us to the point when we choose to participate in the system in exchange for the benefits it proposes, which seem to be rightly deserved by someone who remains a faightful participant of the global system and, as it seems, actively helps shaping it. A political being, once convinced they form the part of the strongest team, is no longer bothered to rewrite once accepted categories. They will continue climb the social ladder, empowered by empty terms from political dictionary, which are telling them that it is exactly what they deserve. And that is why my poor grandfather was so wrong.

A simple ode to my face

 To all those concerned about my recent disappearance, do not worry, I haven't grown narcissist. It's just that I realized that with my online disappearance, there was something else that had disappeared a long time ago, something I have been trying to erase with premeditation. My face. 

 It  came to me as sudden awakening one usual day on the train, after many dazy nights dedicated to study and busy days committed to my both equally important jobs. 

 We have abandoned our faces, let them leave us embarrassed, and we've grown apart from them, like estranged family members. We don't look at them, we don't study them, although they are more ours than anything else, aand they are the last images able to remind us who we are. Our plain selves are not something we want to cultivate, as in comparison with beautiful images surrounding us, we want them to fade, to leave us alone, and stop reminding us of our imperfection. Our faces every morning remind us how unfit we are for the modern market. How do they not comply with the internationally accepted definition of 'the desired', so wanted and so to be chased.