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. 

Just another fall

I miss you and I want to see you. I often dream about you. I love. Love, migraine, painkillers. There's something wrong again with my blood vessels. We are at a 10-minute distance from each other. But 10 minutes of what? It's been a month already since I intended to meet you and to give you something I'd brought for you from Rome. My angel. We can't put it up without suffering. It's as necessary as the air to breath. For us. For me. For you. Our own. Mutual. Somebody else's. Till tomorrow. Till the day after tomorrow. Till some day. We'll be loving each other. We'll be living in each other. I'll be living. With and without you. Why, I ask myself, but always fail to find the answer. There's no answer whatsoever. I'm just in love. All the vulgarity and absurdity of this world step back. Life comes across as a miracle. For an instant. People have ceased to believe in miracles. Words and concepts lose their meaning. I resist it as hard as I can. So do you. Sometimes roughly and ridiculously. We manage to avoid the hateful bombast. At times it seems to me I know you inside out. But every day I get to know something new. People's souls are fathomless. Or, maybe, just huge. For everything has an edge, even the Ocean. That's why it can be so furious time and again. That's why we are so furious time and again. We are all tortured by the physical limits. But that only means we are alive. You and me. Here and now. 

Being half

I lay on the grass, looking at the sky, squinting at the sun which randomly appeared and disappeared. I asked father:

“Why there is less sunshine in England than in France?”

He lay next to me:

“Because England is further north than France.”

“Is there anything further north than England?”

“Scotland.”

“There is even less sunshine in Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“And something further north than Scotland?”

“Iceland”

“Sounds cold! There is no sunshine at all there?”

“There is very little of it.”

“Then I would never want to go there! I love sunshine! That's why I love France so much! You know, it's really hard being half something.”

“Being what?”

“When I was little Aurélie told me I was half French and half English. I couldn't quite get then what it was like, I was trying to find those halves in my body. Now I’m better at understanding what it's all about, but it means I have to love two totally different countries. If I weren't half something, my heart would forever belong to only one of them.”

My Blueberry Nights

I've just seen it. I know it's been on for quite a while, but I didn't have time or.. probably I was waiting for the right moment to come along. I can't say for sure now what I loved most about it: was it the storyline or maybe the dialogues, or the soundtrack (which I'd listened to before I saw the movie itself). "New York, New York". Yeah, the soundtrack is really fabulous. Or maybe what I loved most about it was that upside down kiss? No, I'll tell you what... before I came back home late at night, I'd spent a day with someone truly special and when I was watching the movie, all alone in my bed, my wrists still smelled of her perfume. And I'll always remember that. I'll always remember THAT restless blueberry night.