The Escape

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IDEAS FOR EASY WRITING PROCESS

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

The Corner -short story.

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

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

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

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

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

Walking in my shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- What do you mean? I didn't get it. 

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

Three years and one day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INSIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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