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.