Exhausted

Just exhausted. Does it count as a note?

Ally McBeal

Every time I see 'Ally McBeal' I feel Christmas coming, even if it's in the middle of June. Oh, I know very well that this series is completely unrealistic and that the main character is an naive, incurable romantic who believes in eternal love and wonders, what makes her an exact opposite of me and at the same time a person I secretly wish to be. Perhaps in a small world of Cage&Fish among all these imperfect and slightly mad but absolutely lovable people that would even be possible, unfortunately in the world I live such a woman sipmly won't survive...

Again...

Again, I've completely forgotten about this blog. It's because there is so much to be done and remembered... I cannot imagine how people find time for writing 'real' blogs... Well, actually it's not true what I've written - I've seen lately some blogs while looking for inspiration; and I found nothing, because most of them contain notes like "Breakfast. Asleep. Broken heart. Why are people so cruel? Great party."

So may I try?

Going to sleep. Cat's purring. Melancholy. Carrot cake and milk. Steve Barton's singing.

Suffering and truth

Today I read an essay by Anthony de Mello about awarness and truth. It really stroke me. In brief, he says that it is not important to know what 'myself' is as it is impossible to learn. We should throw away our views and stop searching for truth because truth is not something to be found, it simply is. He also claims, that we suffer because we are asleep. Suffering is given to us to open our eyes for truth, to let us understand that somewhere there is some falsehood. Suffering occurs when our illusions collide with reallity, when falsehood collides with truth. Appart from that there is no suffering.

It is so true, yet resigning form our illusions in aid of truth is... something that seems tough and cruel, but is it such really?

Cat

I know I was to write every day, but I've got a cat (Maine Coon) since Wednesday, so I'm absolutely absorbed with... well, that's the point. I haven't chosen his name yet. I thought of Maurice, Marlowe, Octavio, Marlon, Walter, Richard, Friedrich, Shelly, even Simba (I know, I know, but that's so cute...). In the breed they called him Ares, but the name of the god of war does not really suit him... he's absolutely adorable, blue-grey with white strips, paws, eye rims and muzzle. And honey eyes. And he has tuffs on his ears, like a lynx, and an extremely long and thick tail. Right now he's lying on my arm and wondering what the hell I'm doing at this hour outside our bed. As you can see, I'm not able to talk or write about anything else, so I'd better finish...

Nostalgia

November is a month when I feel nostalgia much often and deeper than usually. Today I accidentally found one of my short stories written in my schooldays...

When in Rome, do as Romans do
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!’ Kate cried out.
‘My family must meet you at one time’, Preston tried to explain.
‘But you mother treats me like a woman in scarlet!’
‘I know, but it’s only one weekend… Remember: when in Rome, do as the Romans do and everything will be ok’, Preston didn’t loose his calmness.
His mother, Mrs Downey, had asked him and Kate for a weekend in her residence, where Kate would be introduced to Preston’s family. The problem was his family was very conservative and Kate… well, she was not conservative at all.
‘What do you mean?’ Kate asked suspiciously.
‘Wear a blouse with a high collar, a long skirt, smile shyly and don’t speak much.’
‘A Victorian!’ Kate wheezed with the highest disapproval.
But on Friday they finally arrived at Mrs Downey’s and Kate behaved in a perfect Victorian way during the whole greeting dinner. Preston was really relieved and proud of his almost-roman Kate and Mrs Downey –
- nicely surprised. ‘She’s quite a proper girl after all’, she thought with appreciation. We’ll pass over Kate’s thoughts, because they were rather unprintable. The moment the dinner ended Kate hurried to her bedroom without speaking to Preston. Hardly had she started falling asleep, when she heard someone knocking the door.
‘That’s me. Let me in’, Preston whispered.
‘What for?’ Kate asked innocently.
‘Oh, come on, Kate. Everybody’s asleep’
‘So what?’
‘So what?! Kate, stop joking and let me in’, Preston was becoming irritated.
‘But we’re in Rome, my dear, have you forgotten?’ said Kate in a sweet voice.


To be honest, I've been almost sure that I was much more naive those days...

Being brilliant

Back to Warsaw. Dear god (I mean, any god, I'm not going to be fussy), I really do hate living in the city. Cities represent the worst and the dullest side of humanity. In Warsaw people try to be brilliant at breakfast which is, according to great Oscar Wilde, the most terrible vice possible. In my vicinity it is undecent to be brilliant until dinner. But anyway, Warsaw is better than Krakow at least... A place where people are brilliant even before the dawn, after hectolitres of absinthe? Brrr...

Finding Neverland

Today TVP 2 decided to remind me about existence of a lovely film by Marc Forster, 'Finding Neverland'. Though I knew very well that watching this film would end up with emotional cofusion, I did it. With premeditation. And I made my mother watch it as well.

Many times I have wondered why such stories touch me so deeply. I mean, stories about children, their dreams and fantasies, their expectations and relations with adults. And the way they perceive the world of adults and vice versa.

I had a very long and exciting childhood, but I'd never experienced the agonies of adolescence. I just became an adult without being a teenager. Maybe that's why the world of children is so close to me. And I feel so sorry for people, who cannot sometimes be children any more. And for children who have to deal with such adults. And for those (including many 'contemporary' children, unfortunately) who've never believed in fairies, who've never searched for the head of Nile River or chosen themselves an Indian name. For those, who've never felt the excitement of exploring new wardrobes, hoping they'd find another word behind the door. The essence of childhood should be curiousity, adventure and mystery. And enthusiasm.

I think this could be the prescription for happiness - to keep our inner child alive without being infantile. To always have something we are enthusiastic about. Something that will remain a mystery to us so that we could never stop being curious and longing for adventures.

I hope my philosophizing doesn't sound like Paulo Coelho... :P