Coming back

We hardly spoke on our way back to London. I was looking out of the window at the seemingly endless road, sometimes casting stealthy glances at dad's profile – his eyes were fixed on the road, he looked as serious as never before and it was for the first time that I felt some a sort of estrangement from him, as if suddenly an invisible wall appeared between us. I moved to the back seat. I wanted to sit at the right side of the car. ‘D’you feel like taking a nap?’ dad asked ‘Go ahead! It's a long way to go!’ I didn't say anything in reply, secretly counting the oncoming cars – it's a strange habit, I know, but that's just me. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered a weird dream I had when I was either five or six. It was one of those nearly plotless dreams that leave the unpleasant aftertaste of anxiety rather than visual images. I was in a park, I believe, which looked similar to Berkeley, but as it always is with this kind of nightmares, it wasn't Berkeley. There was snow all around. In reality I've never seen so much snow in London. I’m wearing my cream-colored Bonpoint coat and a striped scarf, the paths around me remind of a labyrinth and I’m scared to get lost for I’m sure I don't know the place. I see dad and mom somewhere at a distance and I think or at least I want to think they see me too. Then I notice a stranger, he is just passing by, not even looking in my direction, but I’m scared to death he will take me with him. My parents don't seem to notice me and I feel the approaching fear of despair seize me and I can't do anything about it. That's all. No outcome. Nothing. Everything just remained suspended and the air around me got as thick as jelly. In the morning I woke up with the rotten felling of being lost and unwanted. It evaporated after some time. Sure it did. But a drop of venom was still in, somewhere deep inside and now it let know of itself again.

October as a diagnosis

French songs are playing again on my iTunes. Still can't help listening to the soundtracks from the films that have struck me recently. October... everything is strange this autumn. My mood changes more often than ever before. What is October to me? October is the second working month after a long summer doingnothingness. October is heaps of fallen leaves all around the city. October is the smell of burnt leaves. I hate it, but on the other hand, nothing can be more precise in describing what this creepy month of October is. It's unusually warm this year, at least so far. Warm and dry, which is such a surprise! At times I'm even anxious about it. What's in store for us after this soothing warmth? I feel like commenting on every single song that's playing now: "Lili, take another walk out of your fake world". "Je vais bien, ne t'en fais pas". Do French films strike you as hard as they strike me? Should I move to France? It seems like my "corner of the Earth" for the time being. Do you know the feeling? When everything just falls into place. I'm too tired of shallow people around me at the moment. I don't mean to say they are so bad, they are just too different from me. So different I can't stand it sometimes. The balance is wrong. I need more soulmates around. I want more complicated people in my life. I hate those "conventional idiots" that time and again poison my life. But, on the contrary, there exists something in my life no one of them has ever dreamed of. No one of them has ever been able to make it up in their traditional minds. Nabokov once said: "A genius is an African who dreams up snow"! That's what it's all about. Being able of dreaming up things you've never ever seen/felt/touched. October is hard. I always feel like going far-far away in October. Do you? I bet I'm not the only one. You know what my idea of paradise is? It's waking up at midday in a house by the seaside. It's dedicating the bigger part of the day to writing. It's dinner out at some nice place with a nice person, with a soulmate. It's a pleasant conversation. It's listening to people's life stories. It's going to bed at the small hours, lulled by reading a book. I'm so scared I might not have time to do this and many other important things I'm planning on doing. Nope, I'm not scared of getting older, but I'm just freaked out I might miss on something beautiful. Gosh, it's October, right? I'm too weird tonight. But it's a good night anyway, 'cause there's a slight hint that you might be the best paint life ever made for me..  

Psychologically, the choice 'to think or not' is the choice 'to focus or not.' Existentially, the choice 'to focus or not' is the choice 'to be conscious or not.' Metaphysically, the choice 'to be conscious or not' is the choice of life or death.

Just a thought. How come when you don't make any arrangements you can run into whoever and wherever just by pure accident. Vice versa, when you're thinking non stop on how badly you need to see someone, you invariably end up in different parts of the globe. Sod's law.

Venice

Venice is an ideal set for any story. Frightening and mysterious, fussy and existential - that's what she's loved for. She's like Atlantis. The latter has already drowned; Venice  is on the way to it. Probably, her inexorable drowning is just another make-believe of shrewd advertisers, but probably, one of the world's wonders is really disappearing. Whatever it may be, it's worth rushing to Venice while she's still above the surface and her wooden foundation hasn't completely rotted. You must come to Venice: unexpectedly, by chance or on business, while passing through, en route to some other place – anyway. The best way to get there is by water. Then, all of a sudden, Venice  will show up in all her glory: she will open the estuary of the Canalazzo, Piazza San Marco will impressively float by, the white and chocolate curls of Palazzo Ducale will reflect in the dark water. Actually, Venice  reminds of a ship or the ever drifting piece of land vulnerably open to winds and storms like an old fishing-boat, for she's very small, this ancient cradle of courtesans. Behind the "scene" Venice is a poor Italian town, where laundry is hanging just above the shallow water of the canals; where formerly bright colors of stuck to each other houses look so dull in the sun; where dark-haired, skinny natives walk along the narrow, snake-like streets.

And if you happen to come to Venice  for a special occasion, she will turn into a perfect theatrical stage for any kind of performance – at carnival she will be all baroque masks and costumes, she will put on a strict gown of the tenth muse at film-festival, and she will shine with intelligence at art biennale. She will play any role it's offered and will be stellar in each, because real Venice does not exist, what we see is just a fabulous scenery. If it disappears one day, we can always make it up.

Tuscany

Short hot summer night. That very moment when I so often end up sleepless. I realize that the darkness will soon give way to the light - shy and unsure. It's very hard to catch that moment when the dawn breaks through. I wait, patiently. She's asleep. I know for sure when she's asleep. Sometimes she's in bed next to me, quiet and motionless, eyes closed, but I feel she's not asleep. Now she is. No doubt about that. I can nearly distinguish her face in the darkness. If you look at one particular thing for a long time in the darkness, eventually you'll be able to distinguish it. That's what I’m doing. The sky is at one with me on this: slowly but steadily the sun's rising behind the horizon. It hasn't appeared yet, it's far-far away, somewhere in the east, but I unmistakably realize it's on the way to show up. I’m still looking at her sleeping face. Quiet, motionless, almost serene. Now, minute after minute I see it clearer and clearer. She frowns and winces occasionally. She sniffled a couple of times. And now she's sighed deeply. She's completely unprotected. What's she dreaming about? She's not smiling today. Does she somehow know I’m looking at her? Has anyone looked at me while I was asleep? Possibly. No one's ever told me, though. I often look at people sleep. I looked at my sister when we were kids and traveled and they put us to bed in the same room. I watched my husband sleep when we'd just gotten married and I adored watching my baby daughter sleeping in her crib. I sometimes used to watch my lovers when they stayed for the night.  But more than anyone else I love watching her sleep. Waves of tenderness mingled with inexplicable bitterness overwhelm me. She's so unprotected now. So little, so fragile. Now I can distinguish freckles on her nose. And if I look closer I can see tiny dark hairs above her upper lip. I feel like cuddling next to her, but she'll wake up then. And I still want to see her asleep.  She's closer this way. She's more mine than ever. When she wakes up she'll invariably become the girl who is so hard to get, to guess, to catch, to comprehend. And now it's all so simple. I wish it always was as simple as this. But it's just another pre-dawn illusion of mine.