Blue Blue Blue Canary- Slava's Snow Show

I have something to admit- I am a terrible reviewer. But I have something amazing over here to review and since all of the good reviewers I know are on holidays, I do not have any other option like take over this role. I am not doing it for Slava Polunin (even his ethnic origin makes me squeeking with pride) neither for Southbank Centre who offered Londoners an opportunity to join this miracle on stage. I am doing it for everybody who would love to become a part of magic but doesn't have money for that. Exactly, as I said, I am a terrible reviewer. 

 In his Snow Show Slava Polunin takes us to the Winter Wonderland. The real one, not the one in Hyde Park.
 The whole idea bought me completely in the first minute: it started with 'La petite fille de la mere' of Vangelis- enough to amaze me. Because indeed, Slava's Snowshow is nothing like a feast of great music, picturesque sceneries and experience of a touchable magic. It moves all the senses delivering a sudden step to another side of the mirror. It is a show for everybody- but mostly for those who like to immerse, those who like to read a book feeling how does it sound and smell, for those who while being kids used to dream about entering into the earth. At once, it gives you all that.

Christmas Tree DIY

 Christmas Tree is probably the most widely recognized symbol in the world (maybe alongside with the Eiffel Tower, which is quite funny since they are of similar shape; I always wanted to place an Eiffel Tower in my house instead of a Christmas Tree). 

 Whether we want it or not, without a Christmas Tree in a house the Christmas atmosphere can slip out through our fingers. From my childhood I remember the smell of a tree all around the house, and peeping through the branches at the garden hidden under the coat of snow. The Christmas Tree that we used once was coming from our own garden. Of course, it's unlikely going to happen in London, so this year we decided to listen to the ecologists and use a replacement. Here is an inspiration:

Speaking clearly- a thing about urban poetry

 I always tend to rather dislike questions about music. Maybe it's the inner concern,there's not really for me something like bad music. Music, apart from it's kind, always seemed to me to have a power, not only to create some certain types of emotions but sometimes to literally make things happen. I know that it all sounds like a bunch of cliches as far, but don't worry, this is not what I'm going to write about. Let me explain.

This question came into my mind all of a sudden at a party while I was dancing with A Great Guy. The club had a southamerican flavour and so did A Great Guy's origin. Suddenly, in the middle of a party this delightful balance got interrupted by a bizarre rhythm, blowing up the floor. I saw a consternation on A Great Guy's face (and when I say 'A Great Guy' I mean it!). It was then when this question came up. And yes, speaking regarding to the just-heard rhythm we both said we didn't like rap. But later on, I thought it was clearly too much to say, even though I never really was a fan of rap. But also it's not necessarily true I don't like it. And I thought about The Guy I Was (Not That Recently Anymore) Dating. He did like rap.

 My love affair with rap music was short and had pretty much a lot out of a one night stand. It started when I was still very young and fed up with christian-associated rock music, mostly because rap music in it's definition was always, if I can say it, rebelious. But the only CD which stayed with me for long was the one of a young, charismatic poet, not very popular in a 'rap' world and gathering rather a small, but faithful group of fans. He recited his own poetry with his calm, low voice with a slow and melancholic music in a background. I lived in a small eastern european city where the devil seemed to have said goodnight long time before, on a fifth floor of a hundred-years-old apartment. There was no elevator and wooden stairs were squeaking with my every single step, leading me to a dark courtyard to later enter a busy street in a centre. This CD was my only company in this walk through the forgotten world I didn't know yet I was supposed to leave one day, filled with crowded trams and sad, post-soviet architecture. I forgot about these moments afterwards, the moments with a rhythm. Only to remind it years later, at the party in London.

Birthweek- Day 2: Drinks at The Shard and Miracle Monday

 It's been a long time as I knew that today was going to be a Miracle Monday. It had to be as it's the last day when I'm 26. I'm really sorry I couldn't spend it with more of my friends as my phone died (as usual). But Miracle Monday today didn't let me down. 

 We went down to Tate Modern from St. Paul's, through my favorite bridge leading you to the museum with a posture of the cdathedral in the background. Today it was cool and misty, creating a magical postcard from a place I've never been yet, right around me. We went to see Paul Klee exhibition at Tate, and while we were queing to buy tickets the first miracle showed up. It was a lady with sincere brown eyes, asking us for a minute and apologizing for interrupting our conversation. Her name was Christine and she was French, as after living in London for over ten years her accent was still ringing at the end of the lines. She told me she had a membership pass and she can invite one person for an exhibition as a guest. 'It's amazing- said I. Tomorrow is my Birthday'. 

My Birthday Week- Woman Lifecycle

 I woke up today much later than I was supposed to just to realize that my Birthday Week has started. No, it's not a mistake and it has nothing to do with a wishful thinking. I always wanted to treat my Birthday Week as something special, even magical, celebrating not only one day, but several days of holiday. Not holiday in general meaning, but holiday as a time just for you, when you can do everything you want, everything you usually lack the time for. It was several years ago, when I invented how my Birthday Week should be. And I am planning to realize it now.

 Day 1

 There is nothing like getting new shoes. I know I said it already thousand of times but I'm going to say it once again. New shoes can easily clear away of the cobwebs around your mind. That is why after treating myself with a delicious black coffee and a strawberry muffin, I went out for shopping with my lovely Miss Muffin and Miss Indonesia 2014. I have to say that i hate shopping. Unless I run straight to the shelf full of shoes, pick the ones and they are just perfect. And that was it. I purchased lovely red platforms and high heel booties. Let's get my Birthday Week started. It's not like I had to immediately spoil with a take away meal but at least I fixed it with a glass of rose Echo Falls. Ca ira!

Mindwriting - an offer of a new hobby for every Absolutely Genius Writer

Recently I actively practice mindwriting. I was thinking a lot about starting to do some sport but as I hate gym, it's too cold to go for running and I don't have a swimsuit they don't produce my size in this country) I had to think twice. The idea of mindwriting came to me naturally on my coffee break and amazed me with it's functionality. It's completely effortless!- all you need is a brain in quite a good condition (no drugs, baby) and an ability to think equally about two things at the same time. It's easy, isn't it? Follow me- I'll explain you why is mindwriting a perfect hobby for a dreamer.

It's better than typing. You don't have absolutely any risk you will accidentally press the caps lock.

It's better than handwriting- your words always follow your thoughts. Moreover, the words are actually your thoughts. I am looking forward to the future when thoughts readers will be our typists so we can finally create effortlessly, with a smile of our faces. I could let myself get hibernated for that.

After discovering this such an amazing way of expression, I was happily marching through th grey scenario of lonely London. I was thinking about how many amazing posts had been already mindwritten, how many stories I'd just told to the random crowd of whispers. of course, you can't read it. There is an old fairy tale about a naked king who believed he wore indeed the most excellent outfit in the world, but only exceptionally wise people were able to see it. It used to be my favourite good night story.

If you see you got there down that mean you've gone too far- London you may know.

Sometimes I do like taking a journey. Not in that literal meaning you usually associate with the word 'journey', but the mental ones, the ones happening at night when you leave home taking only a camera and a pack of cigarettes. Then, in the dark, you don't really get to know the place. You get to know yourself, what to you notice when no one else can see, and what do you expect to see. 

 On Wednesday night I was heading down to Shoreditch to listen to a (free) concert of a band formed by staff of Financial Times. I made a plan to reach the place when I was supposed to meet my friends by nine. Plan was an important part of this process as I usually get lost even in my own pocket. I spoke to Google maps regarding that issue and it helped me draw a small sketch of the simpliest way I had found. At the end of its' advice Google said: 'If you reach down the Curtain Road, that means you've gone too far'. That means you've gone too far.