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.

There used to be a funhouse- a memoir

 I always had a feeling that the new year somehow starts in February. You see, I ought to hate Januaries. Simply detest them with no reason, treating them as something unnatural and lacking a specific shape. Maybe that is why celebrating Chinese New Years always came to me as rather handy. Especially this year, which is, indeed, the year of a monkey. Making it my year and the same time, the fourth year of existence of Monkey Seduction.

 So where is the meaning? Let's go back, my dear readers, to where it started. To Shoreditch, next to an old-school butchery shop, to the place which no longer exists. I have done this trip myself a week ago. I was staring at empty windows and a door which is no longer that door, trying to recall endless cigarettes smoked in this passage, between one article and another. The office of my first internship, and my first position as a writer. This is where the idea of Monkey Seduction has begun, as  tool to help me familiarize myself with wirtten English, to become what it is now: my last exit to paradise, my ultimate place of a miracle which did not happen. My Monkey Seduction, a medicine for my soul. There used to be a funhouse, this place in my memory, long evenings-nights with bottles of Desperados, and London, so modern and so so of nowadays, as some of us even has smartphones already, and Youtube was just so cool. There used to be a place to belong, and an illusion of creation, elusive, buried, done, thrown out. 

 But this is not meant to be a sentimental goodbye, but a stubborn 'go ahead', without a care for grammar, wthout any clear explanation. Chased by a black force through the streets of London which used to be my love (oh London, the one I wrote so many peoms to!), I escaped the magma of their evil fingers to what I thought I knew. The memories, the start, the hope. The hope which was still there where I left it, can you believe it, on a shelf at vintage clothing shop. I used to visit this shop on my way back from work. Now, four years after, the shop is still there. And the place, which used to be so much of a place, is no longer there. Has turned to the eternal feeling of detachment serving to me every morning. 

 Then I left the shop, once again torn and detached, with a cigarette in my hand. In my pocket, there was my lost hope reclaimed from the second hand outlet, and on the back of my coat- a shadow of black force, restless. I looked at it through my left shoulder. I smiled. I am, indeed, not yet given up. 

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. 

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.

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. 

December nostalgy or meeting by the well

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

The levels of isolation

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

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

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

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

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

MIRROR

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

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

Don't forget to visit Wallis

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

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

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

What you create Outside or Inside- when Monkey Seduction continues

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

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

INSIDE

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

MUSICOVIDEOCOT

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

Wear an art- the power of DYI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needs definitely no further comment.

The Ride -Rollercoaster of our time

Over that weekend you had a chance to meet a couple of homeless people hanging out in East London. Maybe you passed them on the street, not paying attention, maybe you didn't even notice them. So actually they were not exactly homeless. It was me and A., having a real time of our lives.

This idea of a total freedom, without being put under any limitation neither stuck between boundaries, to the extend of not accepting even the limits put by ourselves out of our own choice, has been alive in my mind as an unreachable perfection since I was grown enough to understand it. Moreover, I never liked school. I didn't like structures in general, remaining rather reluctant to any sort of organizations, institutions from church and government to student clubs and youth association. I always considered myself somehow antisocial, never feeling a need of belonging. When I grew up, graduated, got a job and learnt how to follow up all kinds of society's trends, from time to time all of a sudden I got an idea of quitting everything and just leaving. Still (I hope my bosses don't read it) I carry the picture of my mind- to go out of my office without a notice, leaving my desk, my purse, computer and mobile, to just leave. No matter where. When I was younger though, some of these thoughts could easily made me depressed, ensuring me that I am not really suitable for any place neither job and don't really belong to nowhere.

Almost two years ago, when we had an exceptionally severe winter and I created Monkey Seduction, A. and I liked to spend late evenings drinking cider and talking about, as A. always defined, 'people and their lives', which meant for us something we dettached from entirely. Once, taken by an impulse, he took his guitar and played a song. It was about being a cat, wandering and everywhere where you can be yourself. I referred to this as to his exclamation how imprisoned had he felt in London for all this time, but then he looked back at me with confusion.

- I wrote this song before- said he avoiding my gaze. I understood that belonging to everywhere means belonging to nowhere. I realized that my total freedom is not really an issue of belonging. My total freedom was indifferent: it didn't have a definition. And definition is a limitation, too.

Discreet Friendship

 I met Bill some while ago. To be honest, I didn't really meet Bill- we were never oficially introduced, we didn't have any common friends and we never actually spoke. But somehow, I met Bill. Trough the social network. One day, I got a message from Bill politely asking me to get to know him better. Cautious, I replied, looking for I guess another curious story in my life. But soon I realized that 'getting to know better' meant for Bill something completely different than I supposed.

 Bill's offer was totally honest, to appreciate this honesty, and his manner appeared to me as 'straight to the point': 'because who would refuse to the offer of 'caring and filled with deep emotions sex', including romantic sessions of massage, sharing 'sensuality of the moment' and then (my favourite part)- spiritual talk till twilight brings us back to reality. So who would refuse to such a great offer? Well, I did. As being a business person rather than 'candles and sunset' person I politely asked what I am going to have out of it. What's actually in it for me? So, Bill, you wanted everything: spirituality, intimacy, feelings, emotions, twilight, candles, maybe also a candy and a kiss on a forehead. And you offered for that nothing! Absolutely nothing, not even a flower! Oh, Bill, that is highly inappropriate!

If life could taste like Pina Colada

 This post will be a bit different then usual Monkey Seduction's approach to audience. In exchange I can ensure it has one advantage: it is real.

 This is my reality captured in a moment, an incredible moment, making me want to share it. No matter if we have a lifestyle or no, we have something what not everybody can have- benevolence. When I was a little kid my dad was singing me a song, going more or less like this: 'Seven little dwarves were going through green forest, had ain't no money but they had a lot of time'. Life in London can be pretty much the same. 

 On Saturday morning our friend was leaving UK forever- to the cold, distant country surrounded by mountains and the sea, to get married and settle down on a farm. We have been living all together for, as it seems now, eternity. On the last evening of this time, before we went to walk him to the bus stop, we visited a place he had been working. Because of this place he used to learn Chinese and bring home excellent high-class food. 

 This is how me, Chris, Gene and Mr Charming (Vincenzo was ill and stayed in bed) spend a great night out in Peony club near bank station. With wasabi prawns involved. Life was good. 

 

Moving in or Moving on, the Sex and the City of London

  - This is absolutely unbelievable- said my friend sitting comfortably in a bar in Shoreditch after working hours.

 - It's completely normal- said The Guy I Lived With finishing the dishes after dinner.- It's London, the middle of the winter, everybody expects something, spirituality doesn't exist here.

 His part would be completely understandable. If it was not a reaction on a text I got while sitting on a tube, coming from my rather distant friend and literally offering me sex on the Morrison's parking.

 Ladies and Gentleman, this is the City of London. An absolutely unique place with one special quality: you can find here sex everywhere, every time, on every corner. On every street during busy hours you can meet at least three people who are up for booming basically now. And that's only my personal observation and I don't consider myself as an adveturous person.

MR FRANK

 - Don't look at me like that, I'm not a sexuologist. I'm not going to put a puzzle to your new 'outraged' post.

- But don't we have anything such as 'moral rights' in our law?

- That's the point- said Frank more cheerfully and rised his gaze towards me- This is all the question of interpretation. Or, if you prefer, the illumination.

- Oh my God- said I realizing that this time Frank was not going to be helpful.- You are infected.

SHOREDITCH, AFTER THE WORKING HOURS

 - Unbelievable- said my friend taking a sip from one of six bottles of Sagres, bought by us in a bulk due to happy hours restrictions- I was having a dinner with my friends talking about some 'usual-not-even-true-macho-male-stuff' and they were all saying that real relationships are not actually real, that men don't really need anything lasting etc. So when I developed an critique of an online dating thing I was supposed to be supported. But then I got surrounded by silence. All of them had online profiles. And a spooky explanation in the end of their tongues:

Susan, dwarves and snowy, lazy Sunday

 I cannot imagine a life without snow. In winter two years ago I was leaving Panama looking forward to many things, but now I have to admit, snow was an image on my mind. Snowy wonderland. Susan seems to be dreaming sleeping under the ironing board. We do love summer, but no when it comes to this:

Elle panique!

 Here is a usual Sunday. And honestly, there is nothing I can do. I neglect my blog and spend manic hours watching my facebook wall and eating strawberries. I'm giving my friends ridiculous presents for their birthdays and Christmas because I'm terrible in estimating somebody's needs. I don't even know how to be truly sad ending up being, as The Guy I Lived With used to say (at the time when he still spoke to me) sarcastic by nature. 'Don't look at me like that, it's all your fault. It's this lifestyle of yours!' When he had a better day he said that it's normal, just completely normal 'not to be in a mood' sometimes, being overwhelmed and hesitating to take part in any activity. But the thing is this is not about 'not being in a mood'. I don't even get depressed. I have panic attacks.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWvdqzUQUhI