Love Letters

It's probably one of the most forgotten fine arts in the world. Not because people almost don't write letters anymore at all, but rather becuase people don't express their feelings the way they used to anymore. That makes IT even sadder reminding the fact that love letters used to have their own, special place in the history. Despite it, nobody reads love letters anymore even if they are written by Guillaume Apolinaire. Somehow, love letters writing became an inconvenient substitute of an in-depth intimacy we're all ashamed about and don't want to let into our awareness. To be truth, I'm including a love letter written by me, as a part of 'Esperanza'. Although I've written some of my own too. 

All you need is Reality!, or at least that's what you think.

This is Monkey Seduction Conspiracy. Listen to me carefully because I am not going to repeat. The telegraph has bene taken over. But we won't give up. Monkey Seduction will survive! 

 Yes. The message said so, the nightmare has come true- I became a blogger without a computer. If my story was written by Voltaire it would probably never happen. And tank to that, today I am going to the direction I wanted to' go to for a long time: storytelling perception. Basically it's something most of the readers calls 'story'. But it's way much than story. Once The Guy I Lived With after one of our arguments about a sense of watching TV finished his thought by saying: 'you Are completely disconnected from reality'. He experienced a disappointment when I actually got it positive. And it was not about the difference between other points of view, it was about expectations.It was more or less Henrik Ibsen: do we want a true even if we can live better without it? Is the reality for we really need? The best example is always a movie. Woody Allen tried to get storytelling perception into a practice. His 'Melinda and Melinda' is a perfect illustration for that: the story not showed from a different poni of view, but the story already invented with an all-inclusive perception. Dramma or comedy? Reality or a dream? With milk or without? Nowadays we have not only different technologies but also different illustrations for storytelling perception. Instead of well known Woody Allen movies let's use blogs. Take a breath and answer the question: why do you read me? What do you need at the moment, what do you want from me? My storytelling has a ready, written in perception, just like everything you get from any sort of media. The point is that some of them are drammas: they show you what you consider as true. Some are 'comedies'- they show you a product of an immagination. Monkey Seduction is going to sleep, and you think: do you need a reality? Would you like to turn a TV on? I don't think so.

Disappearance and the Submarine

 This is post is not going to be funny. To bore an to depress their small amount of readers- that's a suicide most of the bloggers commit sooner or later. Today I wish to tell about something I am paranoid about. This is more than anxiety. This is something paralizing and taking the breathe away, for a moment usually quick to pass but leaving you with an unpleasant feeling, that it can happen once again. This thing is called d i s a p p e a r a n c e. A friend of a friend of a friend of mine once said that people can disappear easily and it one of those things you have to calculate no matter how impossible it seems to be. Afterall, I think he was at least partly right.

Esperanza- middle piece.

 The main character of 'Esperanza' is a man who's fiancee disappeared several years ago. One day, convinced that he saw her walking on the street, he decides to take a desperate journey through his past to find the truth. 

 Since that time I knew, that never again, I just can't lose anything anymore. So I spent my life surrounded by material things, things which couldn't leave or fade away and which always remain a one captured moment. I was collecting articles from newspapers about daily events and flyers advertising temporary discounts. I was taking pictures of decorated shops' windows and I was writing down overheard in the tram sounds of strangers' talks. It was all to believe, that it's possible to capture the moment. And even to keep it forever.

War paint!

 It's going to be a war. Because if not, then there is an inevitable end of the world. The reason of this post is not a letter from the council (however it could still remain on the list) but first of all is a mood sneaking around from chimneys. In 80's people called in a famous London's fog, we all now that it's only a melancholic spring waking us every morning with the same cruelty.

All Of My Smoky Mornings

 I commited an artistic suicide. I quit smoking. Not because of my housemates', friends' and family's crusade against me, but just becase one day I looked around and I understood I can't do this any longer. The awareness came totally unexpected, somewhere in between Stansted and a lovely village starting with a 'B' and wa dressed as a nice charming girl named Cornelia. She was the one who gave a cigarette. As a former chain smoker better known as a 'chimney' I smiled and, not interrupting a friendly chat, welcomed my afternoon with a nice path of smog in the air. Then the fate happened: something holt on my heart and didn't want to let it go. I felt dizzy all around my world and head and I couldn't take any breathe in. Finally, I woke up from this fever daydream still fighting with caughing, with one thing understood: my limit of smoking had been finished.

The Guy I Live With

 Let's set up one thing at the beginning- The Guy I Live With doesn't live with me anymore. He moved out after I tried to lock him in a grave underground of St Paul's Cathedral during our delightful seightseeing trip. But as he didn't move far (it was a terrible time for a flat search, as usual in London) he keeps making my life more entertaining.

 There is one thing you have to know about him- he hates a mess. Though I'm not a very messy person, he always says that I don't like cleaning because it's sacrifizing. Anyway, he's irreplacable in cleaning duties. In minute when I write it he's just accused me of treating him as a housekeeper. He has enough of this kind of approach and he is not here for cleaning! Thank God he can't move out anymore- he already did. So all he can do is acting like a mr Grumpy for several days, and sooner or later, he will forgive me- how do you think?

 Basically I wanted to say that it was amazing last week to come back home and see this cozy, shiny clean kitchen with a big bowl of candies of a table, and drink a tea in a garden (I never supposed before that it could be a real garden), looking at clean paths and flowers all around. I guess I wanted to say thank you and how much I appreciate it that you can keep a house 'home'. But I forgot. Would you forgive me?