Tuesday, April 24, 2012

a large coffee and some fascinating company, please

Most beautiful thing seen today: calla lilies, deep purple ones and sunny yellow ones. Or the man sitting at the café table opposite me, laughing.

The café we frequent has never been my favourite. It is too bright, too open, too bland. But it does have nice pastries, ordinary but interesting people to analyze in giggling whispers, and, most importantly, the coffee is not too expensive. It's not the kind of coffee shop I used to go to alone, back when I had money - flavoured lattes, boho chic students, ambiance, lifestyle magazines to peruse.

But this one is OK. It has him in it.

Monday, April 23, 2012

incredibly close and decades away

It's 4 o'clock in the morning. Everyone is in their pajamas and looking bleary-eyed. Nobody can remember whose stupid idea it was to throw a surprise party for Jonas on his birthday, the surprise element being the part where we dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night, stuck him under a cold shower and then presented him with cake and presents in the common room.
A good time was, however, had by all. Including Jonas (at least after the shower was over). Nobody worried about the fact that we had to be up early in the morning for bible study class. After all, we were young, history-makers in the making, and loved each other to bits.

This is one of the weirdest things in my life. To have people in your life that you have had no contact with for almost 20 years (most of them) but who were so close then that you still remember the sound of their voice. That particular look on their face when they were upset or excited. Their dreams, shared in an almost frightened but hopeful whisper, and sometimes their most shameful secrets. The comfort of their presence when you were puking your guts out in a stinking third-world toilet, and they were puking right next to you. The weak laughter you shared in your lowest moments. The fierce hugs they gave you when you asked their forgiveness for letting them down when times were rough. Their unconditional love and help when you were at the end of your rope.

This common room, in the middle of the night - and in that stinking third-world toilet - is where I learned about friendship.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

at least I'm not in handcuffs

Bought a washing machine of my very own for the first time ever. So now I feel old and settled in my ways and tied down my mundane possessions (washing machines are not easy to pack up and move when inspiration hits).

The machine's drain hose was too short so I bought an extension but could not figure out how to attach it. So now I have to cry a little and feel useless.

Had to have a tetanus shot since it's apparently been ten years since my last one (after that unfortunate incident with the feral cat). So now my arm is paralyzed by pain (am I actually having a localized case of tetanus? Interesting. I never heard of anyone who's ever had tetanus) and I am hardly capable of even dressing myself.

So, being old, weepy and crippled, it's time to settle down with a box of chocolates and watch White Collar. Finally, an excuse.

Monday, April 16, 2012

foolproof insomnia remedy

Sometimes, when I can't sleep... I set the alarm that I normally use for my wake-up call in the morning to sound right away. It never fails to trigger one thought, and one thought only, in my head: Lovely, lovely sleep. And off I go into dreamland.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

friends who like pasta

One friend gives instructions on what to do with the onions. The other measures pasta and sings a song we once made up, many years ago. Suddenly it's like we are back in that student flat and nothing has changed.

And nobody whines about vegetarian diet or LCHF. Thank God for true friends.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

defrost moment

Sometime in April, my body and mind wake up. It's a surprise every year.

The human being isn't meant to live in temperatures below 10 degrees Celsius (50 F). Any colder than that, you can't relate to nature. Smells disappear, sounds are oddly muted, and the air itself becomes an enemy to be fought off with many layers of clothing.

The first time of the year that I feel the air against bare skin and it doesn't make me shiver, something inside me lets go and I feel like crying from relief. The world is friendly again.

Friday, April 13, 2012

the slow-down balcony

I stand on the balcony, a glass of water in my hand, listening idly to my neighbour chattering about her grandchildren... thinking vaguely about all the other things I could be doing with my precious day... The winter seemed endlessly grey and sunless, but when the spring sun finally arrives it blinds everything with its merciless brightness... I seem to spend half of the year longing for light and the remaining half squinting and fumbling for my sunglasses...


I feel, to my surprise, a languid contentment that shouldn't logically be there, as I look out over an empty back street, an eerily deserted prison yard, a quiet seafront promenade and the vast expanse of the bay...

Two ladies, out for a stroll along the street below, look up as the sound of my neighbour's voice carries down from the fourth floor balcony. The woman with the four chihuahuas walks by, expertly juggling her dog leashes. Someone drives his expensive Mercedes very slowly to avoid being rattled by the cobblestones. A pair of crows are constructing a nest in the still winter-bare linden tree. A couple take their bicycles out for the first time on newly ice-free streets. A thrush is searching the wet grass for last year's berries. Far away, there is the clanging noise from bridge construction work.

I should be in a hurry to make an excuse to my neighbour and go back inside to do something useful or at least fun. But, for someone who dreams of the electrifying chaos of New York avenues, I'm oddly bewitched by the quiet peace in deserted, small-town back streets. My heartrate slows down and I can't move...

Sunday, April 08, 2012

sarcasm saved my life

I would like to write something witty and/or poignant.

Oh well. When all else fails, there is always sarcasm.

Saturday, April 07, 2012

war, eggs and lack of guitar players

Winter and spring are waging a furious war on each other. Every night, snow falls and the wind is icy. During the day, a relentless sun burns away the snow, not even leaving wet patches on the sidewalks. I pull the blinds against the brightness but still get headaches.

It's Easter. Time off work, a busy time in church (and I waver between wanting to take part and not), evenings watching TV or reading fanfic, egg hunting with young nephews. The guitarist of interest is off playing gigs in crowded clubs too far away.

I think about: why I only feel like myself when I'm alone.

Thursday, April 05, 2012

my past in many Aprils

Russian letters and horror movies (2006)
Blackened snow and Terminator puppy (2007)
Redefined character and involuntary holiday (2008)
Sea dreams and good intentions (2009)
Diamond core and CSI:NY (2010)
Auto-destruct and ancient castles (2011)
Turkish perils and moving power (2012)

coracesium and the seven perils

I'm going to a place where they say the sun smiles. A place by the Mediterranean Sea where people have lived for 20,000 years, where Alexander the Great passed by and Cleopatra visited, a port of pirates.

I'm not looking forward to it. Even though it's a holiday in the sun and I, the wandering star, haven't been beyond a hundred miles from home for two years. Maybe home has killed my love of adventure. I'm afraid of Turks (for no good reason, I just don't know any). I fear that the flight will be horrible and I will arrive feeling sick and realise that the hotel is awful. I'm worried that my travel companion, my elderly mother, will fall sick or be robbed.

But most of all, I'm scared that I will get there and experience that wonderful adventure of being in a new and foreign place where I've never been before - and that I will be completely, utterly indifferent. I'm terrified of discovering that nothing has the power to move me anymore.