Thursday, June 9, 2016

Dear George. Open letters to friends.

 There is nothing more both tragic and ironic than a writer, being a writer of their own story. Or rather looking at their life as at a story, or mutiple stories one after another, often without an end nor beginning. Tragic, I used to think, as these stories often have no purpose, they are an elusive creation, shaped to last only for a minute, for example, during a one-off ride on the escalators. Writing a novel of your life without inspiration. And without any chances for premature appreciation.
 My friend George Noskov knew it. He more than anyone else understood this sickness of being one experiences while walking around the streets with no purpose, writng their own story, seeking and reaching forward to hold it, the way it smells, the way it sounds. I was thinking about it while sitting at George's desk in one winter afternoon, and reviewing pages of his diary-style short story. Of course, if I can even call him my friend, as he died long time before I reached the age of consent.
Here I was. Sitting at the desk a deadman once sat, reading his story so close to mine, his story so tragic and ironic. I used to think bad things about George when I first heard of him. And I owe him some apology. He would, probably, like no one else, understand the higher purpose, for I keep searching for a friend to walk with me around Covent Garden, with no success. No one likes walking without a reason. People don't like walking in general, but you George, were not just like other people.

 How would it be, George, if you were still here. If we came to share this desk, would we be colleagues? Would we become lovers? Or maybe just good friends, sharing long discussions about Russian poetry, and why we both don't like Pasternak. 'Doctor Zhivago' is a poorly written novel, as you claimed, reading my mind once again. Or maybe we would argue even more than once, if it came to Sonya Marmeladova, and you would repeat again while taking a sip of coffee: 'a whore is just a whore'. And nevertheless, I would admire your hunger for life, always nevertheless, and your reluctance to ever compromise. We could both curse the era of technology, and complain about those around us who understand nothing. 

 But ironically, the only thing I have left from you is your diary, carelessly left on your desk for all these years. I was asking for your picture, but no one has been storing any. I have to tell you though, you haven't been forgotten. Just yesterday I was reading your scripts, shame on you, George, that this is all you left us. With these few words, how to we keep talking? One day your story will be over, written, finished and stored in archives, until one day another person comes to take over your desk, and opens your diary, to release the magic of your world again. 

 Beacuse you see, dear George, I am writing to you today in need for a friend. The one you can sometimes argue with, and it changes nothing. The one you can admire and contradict at the same time. I am looking for a friend who would walk with me, right now, around Covent Garden with a can of Red Bull, with no purpose. Dear George, shall we?

 *I have gone a bit quiet for a while due to overthinking the whole shape of the blog. However, next chapter of The Journey to Yesterday will be released this weekend.

Saturday, May 14, 2016

On the run- Looking for Yesterday

 A Journey to Yesterday- story in chapters. Chapter 1

Back in Yesterday I had a dreamy flashback of a perfect morning: it was in some coffee shop, with a full cup of course, starting to write and feeling just so fresh and full of energy. Somehow, it was purely a flashback to the wonderland as it's 2016 and it still basically never happened. But since I still see it, like I once saw it Yesterday, I am packing my bag and run out on a mission: I'm looking for Yesterday! Anybody out there wants to help me?

 Recently I have undergone a lot of changes which not necessarily served me well in a matter of 'future'. To be frank, I stopped writing even my personal diary. There is this space in between whatever's in your head and a piece of paper. What's in this space, sometimes turns to be hard to chew. In regards to whatever had been happening in my head, I regularly practise mindwriting. And on some level, it works just as fine as if one had swallowed three bottles of whisky and finished it off with a pack of Gauloises. Oh, and RebBull of course, always RedBull. 

 But mostly mindwriting has one quality none other activity really has: it brings up images which had been previously deeply buried and forgotten. I had this flashback while walking through Drury Lane some other day: suddenly I saw faces of two of good friends of mine next to me, laughing and crossing the street towards Holborn Station. The point is, I have never been there with these particular friends, surely not at that time of the year either that time of the day. Then I realised that mindwriting can be dangerous: it may actually bring over the memories of somebody else. 

 Thrilled by my recent discovery, I decided to jump onboard of a time machine and find my real Yesterday. I was hoping it was going to simply lay down behind some corner of my mind, resting and waiting for resurrection. But the truth, my dear readers, turned to be more complicated. As usual. 
 After crossing several avenues of my mind, I finally reached the door of Mr Frank. I kept repeating myself that if he still keeps compulsively holding his nail file I would just leave. But Frank, my once regular imaginary therapist, opened the door wearing a fluffy dressing gown and slippers that he got from Mr Charming for Christmas five years ago. He seemed much more calm and collected, and a steady smile on his face made me thinking that he might have overdosed his incense sticks fumes. But he seemed to be also happy to see me and at the same time, not surprised at all. Maybe he had been also thinking of Yesterday, of old times when he has become created in my mind, before I offered him an independence from my imagination. Although, he did not seem to get carried away by being an autonomous unit- his apartment was just as tidy as it used to be and his favourite armchair was still in the same place where I put it. He offered me a cup of tea, and almost everything seemed like an old Frank, the Frank of Yesterday. 

Monday, February 15, 2016

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. 

Sunday, October 4, 2015

When You Need a Friend, but say 'Don't worry, I'm fine'- the Loneliness of our Time

 'I am lonely, will anyone speak to me'- this is how, in 2004, a thread dubbed later 'the saddest one on the Internet' begun. Posted on a technical forum, has since created a massive movement built on the unity of people who, in loneliness, turn to the Internet for help. But sadly reading the comments posted since that, coming from various users from all around the world, the question whether the development of the media cure loneliness seems doubtful. 

 There are several definitions trying to state what loneliness really is, but the most adequate seems to be the feeling of constant isolation. While it can be cause by lack of company or a sudden loss of a close person, the feeling of loneliness usually disentangles us from the surrounding environment. A person who develops a feeling of a constant loneliness experiences difficulty communicating, enjoying people's company or asking others for help when needed. The main problem is, loneliness is a spiral: the longer you cultivate it inside you, the more you immerse into it, until it is starting to be almost impossible to break through and simply emerge out of it. 

 The affliction of disentangling

 While the chronic loneliness is perfectly curable, it is still a serious affection to a human mind. It can be a symptom, or a beginning, of a serious mental illness and leave a long-term damage to one's emotional life. To better understand chronic loneliness it is important to understand what does it actually do to one's life. 
 The main emotion developing while in loneliness is best described as inadequacy. A lonely person will often experience the feeling of being incompatible with their environment and people surrounding them, even if they remain close friends or family. They will often feel misunderstood and will unlikely share with others. Therefore, the lonely person will, surprisingly, stray from company rather than search for it, which can be perceived by others as a need of staying alone. The feeling of non-belonging is a serious issue able to affect a person's life in long-term. Feeling constantly inadequate, they will develop the belief that they bother people surrounding them, and might even lead to events that could confirm it. A person suffering from chronic loneliness might appear unreliable or careless, while in reality keeping promises or acting accordingly to the rules of human interaction becomes overwhelming for them. In effect, a chronically lonely person becomes socially disordered, what leads to their separation from the surrounding community, By the community, on the other hand, such behaviour might appear as a deliberate neglecting of the social bond, and even lead to the exclusion of a lonely person. Such an event, of course, will confirm the belief in their inadequacy and will push the person even deeper into a spiral of affliction and distress.

   Chronic loneliness can lead to a severe depression as well as be a symptom of it already. 

 When your friend suffers from loneliness 

 What to do, or how to act, while dealing with a chronically lonely person is important for human relationships as well as for their mental health. But, many people simply cannot read the symptoms of a chronic loneliness. The answer is not ignorance though, but a belief shaped by society, according to which a person surrounded by good friends, and in general liked, we are usually reluctant to believe that indeed, deep inside, they feel utterly lonely. Here there are some signs that one of your friends has been affected by chronic loneliness:

 They never ask
 And if they do, these are usually stupid questions. They won't ask you to lend them five pounds because they forgot a wallet, a start immediately apologizing if you offer it. While asking you out, they will outline that they do not want to bother and they will completely adjust to your schedule, even if you know each others for years. Sometimes they will make up a stupid excuse about a reason for the meeting or calling, even if you used to go out for a pint every Tuesday. They will never openly ask for help, and even they used to be confined to you, now they will answer your worrying questions with simple: I am fine, don't worry. 
 All these might be symptoms that your friend started feeling inadequate. They won't ask you out because they feel their problems might be a burden to you, and because they have an unrealistic image of being irrelevant for others. 

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

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. 

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Gone Dad

 That day can, finally, happen to any child at whatever age, When it happens you're always a child, doesn't matter where you are, whatever you are going through. It is for everybody to whom can it happen: gone dad. Dad gone from family Christmas, dog keeps silent without him, pointlessly watching the door. The Christmas tree has lost it's charms. You were going there so happy, thinking he might watch this movie again.

Dad is gone from family pictures, he's scratching out his face unthoughtfully pasted in the album. Dad is gone in an ugly green car, even though he thought you to better go with your bike. Dad is gone from in front of the piano, his seat is empty with the last halo hanging in the air, abandoned in the middle. Dad is gone from your last happy memory, one year, two years, dad doesn't want to see this movie anymore.

 Dad is gone out of your trust, with an illusion of life he gave you and which he never wanted. He's gone with his world's change, which can be so surprising, but no dad, this is your world, not mine. Dad is gone from your joyous moments, see your conditions and your lifestyle don't much the hairspray brand of his new lover. Dad is gone from your dreams, as in the last one you were five years old ago and you tried to chase the car. Dad is gone from the hashtag, the best family in the world, how lucky you are. Look how lucky you are, your dad is just so cool, so funny. Dad is gone from the joke as the joke is now on you.

Dad is gone in his workshop, his canvases wiped out with internal rain. Dad is gone from his guitar, she is still waiting, poor thing. Dad is gone from the table, our family dinners to be too unhealthy. Dad is shaving off his beard.

 Dad is gone from the staircase even though you are still waving hoping he would come to meet you. Dad is gone from your poems as you don't know if he wishes so. Dad is gone from Marilyn Monroe's song.

 And he was, without doubts, the best dad in the world. You didn't know the best ones in the world can one day be gone. Dad is not gone from your heart and not gone from your wall.

 So don't cry. It's time to be a big girl. Dad is gone.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

The Transformation

 As some of you remember, Monkey Seduction has been created in 2012 as a personal diary with a string attached of a jump into another reality. But every reality has a limited time and sphere of existence, and cannot endure within the understanding of our lasting desires. Therefore, I feel obliged to inform you that there will be changes. But once again, let's turn back in time to help me explain. 
 In winter 2012 I had a misfortune to work for a magazine, which was targeting everybody and nobody, and, for money, was creating a reality which was aiming to appear as the only right one, full of glossy colours which were not available to achieve even with a camera of the best smartphone. Monkey Seduction was supposed to be a cure for a painful gap between the lies and grey soil of reality we lived with our bills to pay. And, it exceeded my expectations. 
 Speaking, actually my life itself exceeded my expectations. As some of you remember, it was often hard and sometimes getting stuck at the rock bottom, but never boring. For three years I was blogging from my house in East London, often enriching my stories with pieces of adventures of my flatmates, neighbours and friends. Whether it was good or bad, as life will probably reveal soon, in 2015 my life has gone through transformation. I have seen clearly what is real, and what is not worth it, what is to be followed, and what is just a glossiness of a morning cover, hanging there to fall on your head one day (sometimes, unfortunately, literally).  

 Since it's 8 am, I guess I should shut up now and stop talking but start acting. I prefer a small progress rather than a revolution, but yes, it's a time for transformation. Don't worry, I'm not saying that I'm quitting prozac. This post is just to ensure, that no matter what happens here over the next months, it will always be real. Real in an alternative, Monkey Seduction understanding, which is the only one I cherish and accept, the only one I will always live, give and share.