Thoughts of wise people... and me

Accidentally found a notebook where just a year ago I was collecting some ideas, phrases and thoughts that I heard or read somewhere as well as my own thoughts. A lot of them still sound vital for me.

“For the whole 15 years since he realized that life was not an easy thing it didn’t seem to be as hard as it was now”.

“Having a character is not that bad for an angel”

John Galsworthy, The Forsyte Saga

“You can be happy even without money, but when everything around tells you that you can be happy only while spending money you become frustrated. It seems like you don’t exist if you don’t consume. I think, people should learn how to spend not more, but better. You have to know and to feel what you really need. You shouldn’t live in a permanent search of something special – something that doesn’t even have a shape…”

 From the interview with some Russian actor

You can rush about, be exhausted, have grave problems, be sick, but remain absolutely happy.

“Stuff your eyes with wonder, live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.”

“If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down.”

Ray Bradbury

“Everyone knows that Russian women are the craziest women in the world. Their eyes are full of passion; they often cheat on their husbands and sleep with other guys. However, they rarely have more than two kids. That’s how Allah punishes them!”

“I think there are people of two types: those who come from forest and those who come from steppe. You can get drunk without wine in the East, in the steppe. People are intoxicated by heated wind and hot sand. The steppe world is simple and clear. The forest world is full of questions; it doesn’t promise you anything. But the passion of a soul comes from the forest. A steppe person is able to have only one feeling and to know only one truth. While a forest person has many faces. The steppe creates fanatics, the forest makes creative people. That is the main difference between the East and the West.”

Kurban Said, Ali and Nino

Just cancel tomorrow in your life and you will always have time for everything

“It requires a lot of courage to ask this fundamental question – what things that I demand from the other person I have to do myself for myself.”

James Hollis

I hate the phrase “What’s new?” You can’t respond “I’m ok” and shrug your shoulders with indifference.

“There is time for work and there is time for love. There is no other time”

Coco Chanel

What do I love? Books, history, stories, people, music, piano, leaves, movies, languages, smiles, fluffy hair, dances, surprises, presents, to wake up with sun, snow, letters, kids, to say hello, to love, to write in a pretty handwriting, my students, Saturday, campus at 9 am…

“There is no way back in love. You can’t start from the beginning – everything that happens stays in your blood”

Erich Maria Remarque, Borrowed Life

           - What do you see in this guy?

-        -   Happiness.

“You become incredibly arrogant in our sorrow. We try to show that we don’t need anyone while inside we wish to feel somebody’s arm on our shoulder.”

Elchin Sadarli, I’ll come back

Clocks not only guard the time, they also remind you how quickly the time passes.

“When you don’t know what to do wait for a while. Hide. Live as it goes. The sign will appear sooner or later. The most important is to know that you are waiting and to be ready to meet what you are waiting for.”

Luis Rivera

Come on, accept finally yourself as you are. Imagine that you are a real you.

“Those who are to meet are connected by red, invisible thread in spite of time, place and circumstances. This thread may stretch out, may tangle, but it will never break off”

Old Chinese proverb

Death doesn’t leave you a chance to play a role – it reconciles everything and everyone.

“Life is too short to waste it on diets, greedy men and bad mood.”

Faina Ranevskaya

I’m so happy today. I have a little secret – there are much more good people than bad ones. Much more.

One of the signs that you live abroad – you use Google more often than Yandex.

Your charm is your happiness that shines in you.

-       You know what? The best photos are made by your memory.

The deepest feeling of freedom – to walk barefeet…

Sexism in Russia: to be or not to be?

Yesterday my friend asked me what target audience my stories address. I wasn’t really ready to answer that question so I asked him what his opinion is. And he told me that my stories can have some political influence because they talk about women, their perception of the world, their creativity, about their way of self-expressing etc. He also told me that my stories can inspire women to talk, to write, to develop their personalities. But the thing is that I never thought of it. I was just writing about feelings and emotions that were close to me, that I knew by my own experience. And I didn’t think about addressing someone particular, for me these stories were about everyone. This conversation made me thinking about the problem of feminism and sexism in my own model of the world and in my country.

Today we also had a discussion about sexism in Russian culture in my department, where we talked about Pussy Riots, Femen and even sexism in Russian literature. This discussion made me shape couple of ideas of how I see that problem in Russia. First of all, sometimes I don’t see a problem in that sphere at all. Even the opposite thing: a lot of women in Russia who talk about “gender discrimination” and “women rights” actually want men to remain “gentlemen” and “knights” which means carrying heavy bags, paying for jewelry and cocktails in the bar, taking care of all the problems, etc. Those women like the phrase “Can’t you just be a man?!” But they start shouting about “women rights” as soon as their men limit their “freedom” to make career instead of taking care of the family, to hang out in clubs with friends instead of making dinner for their husbands, etc. Those women want to see “knight” around but they don’t want to live in the Middle Ages. I mean, ok, if to be a man means to be a gentleman and to feed and to defend his family, then what means to be a woman? To be a beautiful precious thing for a man to take care of, a carefree creature with a freedom to do whatever she wants? Then how about a sexism of judging a woman only by her appearance? Having certain rights always mean having certain responsibilities on the other side.

Another story is about homosexuality in Russia. I feel like I have to say that yes, it’s not familiar for Russian culture. It has never been. And those who say that it’s a Western influence are right. Russia as a country was created on a pretty poor land with infertile soils, with severe climate, between Asia and Europe, both of whom always tried to conquer Russia. You will never find any homosexuality mentioned in Russian folklore, in Russian historical documents, in Russian culture. People just didn’t have time for that, they had sex to make children (because half of them was dying in their early childhood) and they fell asleep right after a long, full of hard work day. They didn’t have time and forces to ponder over their “sexual identity”.

Time passes and the world changes. Russia also doesn’t remain at the same place; it’s a modern country now. So it’s great that young people become more open-minded, that they ask their identities, they explore their personalities and their sexuality, they experiment with their bodies. The thing is that we can’t discuss sexism and homosexuality in Russia the same way as we do it in European countries or United States. That’s why, unfortunately, these notions are used pretty often as a commercial trick or government’s ruse to distract people’s attention from urgent economic and political problems of the country. In short words, it’s sometimes hard to say whether this is your real identity or it was imposed by the mass media.

I grew up in a family where a husband isn’t ashamed of cooking, cleaning and sitting with kids even every day if his wife has a lot of work to do. It doesn’t mean that his wife doesn’t do the same things when he works a lot or when she just has a free time. There was never a question who earns money and who takes care of the house and kids in my family, there was never a question who has more rights or who has more freedom. There was only a question who loves more. And everyone (including us, kids) wanted to win in this competition. And there were always fragrant coffee on Sunday made by my father and delicious breakfasts made by my mother. There are always fresh flowers in our house because my father is a real gentleman, and my mother is a real lady who makes my father want to be a gentleman. 

Once more

Damn it! Why does it always happen at a most unsuitable moment?! No, please, no, not now… Her computer has just crashed, and the whole text that she was typing online for a translating contest vanished forever. It was unfair and depressing. And it happened at 11 pm while deadline for work submissions was midnight. “Typically, - she thought. – But for God’s sake, why are you so obsessed with this contest? Nobody forces you to participate in it. You have your job, your duties, your house to live, everything is fine and settled”. First, the size of the story she chose for translating was too big (the rules of the contest say the translation should be less than 10 000 symbols). She found another story even though she already translated 3 pages from the first one. Then, she couldn’t convert the scan version of the English text to a word-document. She       typed the whole story in the word-document. And now this… Somewhere deep inside, there was a momentary temptation to quit, to give up.

She suddenly remembered how their dance coach once showed them a complicated dance element that required physical strength and flexibility. He said that those who would be able to show this element during the next practicing in two days will present it in a performance they were preparing for a dance competition. She practiced it for the whole Sunday: did her homework for the university and practiced the dance element for half an hour, read the book for two hours and practiced the element for another half an hour, etc. Again and again. Every time she ended up falling on her back, every time she couldn’t hold her legs at the right angle. Her right shoulder and her right hip became blue of bruises. She clenched her teeth and lifted her legs back into the air. Again and again. Next day, during the dance practicing there was only two people in her team except their coach who could do a “freeze” (breakdance element when you keep your body with your arms and lift your legs perpendicularly to the floor). She was one of them.

Just once more. Because she is too stubborn to give up. So she just took a deep breath and started typing her story from the very beginning. Even when you feel that the whole your strength and power is gone, and you literally CAN’T do it anymore, when you are about to give up, there is always this ONCE MORE that leads you to your success. The difference between winners and losers is simple: losers tried for 100 times, winners did the 101^st one.  

There is something

There is something in my work; it’s not vain at all. That makes me incredibly happy, absolutely satisfied and simply excited about doing more for a future. There are moments when I see that my work gives huge results, when I’m infinitely proud of my students. It’s probably the biggest satisfaction of the teacher. To see that people you teach become the best, to feel that now they like your subject as much as you do, to be able to make people believe in what you believe in. To know that you can bring people a joy, a pleasure and a self-satisfaction as well.

It’s so simple. You give your energy, time and emotions, but you get so much energy and joy back when your students smile because they feel that they make a progress. For half a night you try to create the most enjoyable and the most effective ways of learning super complicated Russian verbs of motion. You look for a good song to show in a class for another half a night. And all together in the class you and your students struggle with exercises and explanations, dialogs and texts.

Suddenly, they get the point and give right answers and you both feel as if you have finally climbed the highest peak in the world. And there comes a day when they sing you a complicated and beautiful Russian song (after having learnt Russian for only 4 months), the song they chose, they like, and they enjoy performing. At that moment you know that you did something great. You feel that if you die tomorrow you wouldn’t regret about your life. 

Winter

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that there is no bad weather, there are bad clothes. And that our perception of the weather conditions is very subjective and depends on our mood. But I still can’t help hating winter. I mean, sure, these big, beautifully falling flakes are romantic and pretty. Definitely, this fresh, frosty air wakes you up and gives you energy. I should assure you that one of my favorite holidays in the year is this magic New Year with tiny, bright decorating lights, the smell of mandarins, a fragrant, bushy fir tree and happy smiles everywhere around. And yes, I love skating and skiing as well as making a snowman and playing snowballs.

The point is that I can like it for about a week or two. That’s it. After that period of time I become sick of winter. Of dry skin and weak nails all the time however much you care of them and however many fruit you eat. Of permanent tiredness and laziness when you wake up in the morning with the same amount of energy as you had in the previous evening.  Of this omnipresent white color without any diversity and originality (honestly, white color is the most unemotional and lifeless for me). Of this Kingdom of Sleep when you wish to be a bear to go to bed in the fall (well, I can enjoy like two weeks of winter and then go into hibernation) and wake up in the spring. Of this “just-to-survive-till-New Year” December when everyone is super busy and super tired and when an exciting process of looking for New Year presents turns into a hasty search of useless trifles. Of this infinite waiting for a miracle, for warmth, and for… summer.

Today I came to my class before the scheduled time in the firm belief that my class starts at 2 pm (while it actually starts at 3 pm). And it's gonna be -30C tomorrow. I think it's time for me to go into hibernation...

A lie

It’s bad not to tell truth. I guess most of us learnt that from our parents when we were little kids. But did they explain to us why it’s bad? Did they define what the truth is? I mean the main point that I remember from my early childhood is that lying is immoral. Pretty strong word, isn’t it? Not really helpful though, when the real life happens. How about “let’s not tell mom, she’ll be worrying” or “I’ll say that I was sick so that professor wouldn’t be upset that I’m not interested in his class”? A white lie? And I learnt rather quickly that there are 3 types of lie:

1)                   The worst one: when you are scared of saying the truth because you did something wrong and you are afraid of taking the responsibility (should be corrected if you want to feel better)

2)                    The ambiguous one: when you lie because it makes the other person happier or it safes him from unnecessary stress (yeah, you just say what the other person wants to hear)

3)                   The “ok” one: when you just don’t say something (well, the question is whether it’s lie or not at all?)

I also learnt that you obviously feel really bad when you use the first type, but you sometimes succeed in persuading yourself that you used two other types for good or at least that you didn’t do any harm to anyone by using them. Sometimes. But it doesn’t mean that you feel ok when for some reasons the truth is suddenly discovered and it stresses the other person even stronger. On the other hand, who knows, a lie can have save somebody’s life. There are dozens of example in the history; just think about the movie Life is beautiful. I meant, kids shouldn’t be brought up in the glass palace without knowing the real life, but seriously, who tells their children the whole truth about the world right away?

There is another question regarding truth and lie that actually bothers me even more the ones mentioned above. What is truth? I’m fine with facts: German army either crossed the Soviet border or didn’t, your boyfriend either slept with another girl or didn’t, your kid either got D- in his geography class at school or didn’t. There are no doubts what is truth and what is lie, there are facts. But how about all other areas, everything around facts, our impressions from facts: how about words, ideas, emotions, feelings, beliefs, opinions? Ok, we can agree that tastes differ and there is no absolute truth in opinions, everyone can have his own opinion and that would be his own truth. I must say that I met so many people in my life who doesn’t agree with that and who insist that there is one absolute truth in the world (and for sure it’s their truth).

The most obscure area is emotions and feelings. It’s so easy for me sometimes to persuade myself that I actually feel this or that emotions, that I actually want this or that, that I am actually happy with having this or that. The power of human imagination is enormous. I actually can persuade myself that I love black olives (while I really hate them) and I’ll be sure that it’s true! I can persuade myself that I like the book, the movie, the class, the story, the person…

My mom used to say that everything exists in our head; the world around us is how we see it. And I still don’t know how to understand then what the truth is, whether I really feel certain emotions or I just imagined them for myself, whether I really want to live that life or that role just became my essence? Because it was what I wanted at that time, because it was just easier in the situation, because I just wanted to make someone happy… 

I have to.

I have to get my degree, I have to find a good job (preferably with a good salary), I have to live in this city and this house, I have to get married, I have to go to bed not very late, I have to visit my friend tonight, I have to… Don’t you feel sometimes that your life is just made of these “I have to”? And I wonder who actually created all these “I have to”. Why do I have to do this and that? Ok, you’re right; there are always dozens of reasons and explanations. You have to get your degree because everyone knows that without degree it’s hard to find a good job. And a good job leads you to a good life – meaning enough money, recognition, stability, self-fulfillment…

 Stop. Not necessarily. It happens so often that you make enough money, you have enough recognition (oh, yes, your grandmother loves telling her neighbors about all these conferences with country-famous corporation leaders you participate in every month) and your wonderful stable life (you are even ready to buy an apartment in the nice neighborhood soon). But you hate your job because it’s not your job; it’s something you have to get, as well as all those courses you took in the college because they were useful for the profession you have to choose. Well, you know, it’s a lot of opportunities, enough money to create your life outside of the work however you want, and so many people would kill to have your life. What are you complaining about?

Yeah, your life outside of your office. You can stand these several hours of something that doesn’t inspire you (just do your job, right?) knowing that at 5 pm you’ll be free to go dancing or taking picture, or writing your novels, or painting, or playing basketball with your friends that you love, etc. But what happens usually after work? Well, often you are just tired (somewhere in your mind there is a question Does it worth…?). Sometimes you are not tired and you are full of inspiration and energy, you are running home to start… Ups, no, you are going to meet with your friend because you two already decided two days ago that you spend this evening in the bar talking about work, family, summer vacations, work, football, work, etc. You don’t really see the point in these topics (well, sometimes it’s just the way to relax after work but not today), but… your friend would be offended if you cancel the meeting, right? So you go to the meeting. And coming home at about midnight, after a couple of beers you are already way too tired to write, to paint, to take pictures etc. So going to bed without even having your teeth brushed you promise yourself that tomorrow you’ll do what you want to …

And then tomorrow… is a cold, gloomy day (like more than a half of days in the year in this damn region). Getting up in the morning you can’t stop asking yourself why, for God’s sake, you live in this winter-forever-like place. As always you find a lot of reasonable explanations. You are close to your family, your girlfriend likes this place, and you have a decent job here, etc. There are always, always reasons why you do what you don’t like instead of doing what you love doing. Why do you go to the party when you want to stay home (friends will be offended); why do buy this long coat when you want a short one (let’s be adults – you’d be freezing in the short one), why do you chat with this guy you don’t care much about (well, it’s impolite to avoid him, he was always so nice to you), why do you have to find a person to marry before you are 25 (you know, you are not a kid anymore, you should start thinking about family), (also don’t forget about woman’s health) etc.

There are always great, sound reasons. The only problem is that part of them is just made up by you (your friend probably would have a good party even without you) and another part is made up by people you shouldn’t really care about (your grandma’s neighbors? Really?). The true reason is that it’s damn scaring to change your life so essentially, to move to another city, region, country, to quit you decent job, to break up with your girlfriend/boyfriend, to follow your emotions and desires, to become different from the person that a lot of people expect you to be. 

Love.

Let’s come back to love then. So to love or not to love? No, seriously, what does it give you? What do you want to get? We just discovered that friendship helps you to escape from loneliness, so, lonely guys, you are supposed to be satisfied. What are you crying about, you there, near the big bed? Ah, sexual needs. Let’s be honest, that’s not exactly love, that is sex. So if you want sex, don’t hesitate to offer it to a person you feel physically attracted to. Or… porn is still pretty accessible in the Internet. You are saying you need to trust the person to get that pleasure? Well, well, I guess, that’s the question to people over there, with flowers in hands.

All right, now your turn, my sweet romantic friends. Oh, there is a whole crowd over here. So how are you describing love? Yeah, I want to be around her all the time, to see her smile, to hear her laughing (ups, I already heard that somewhere else), to kiss her bright eyes shining from being happy. I want to share my joy and my little discoveries with her and to feel her support when my life sucks. I want her to be the first person to know about my successes and to know that she is proud of me. I want to start my mornings with her and to give her the most beautiful flowers. I want to show her to my friends and to be proud of my charming and pretty girlfriend. I want to fall asleep smelling her hair and feeling her warmth. I want to feel that she loves me, that we are the closest people in the world. I want to take care of her and to impress her every day. I want to get…

Ok, ok, just stop here. I got your message. Honestly, according to this description I’m not in love.  

Friendship.

I know it sounds pretty banal but I had to write this triple set (Family, Friendship, Love) because right now I’m pondering over these three questions a lot. Yes, questions not notions. Although, the most popular question of recent 50 000 years was “What is love?” two other words are not determined either. Everyone can give his own definition of family or friendship. And who can guarantee that any of these three substances exist at all. Life is what we think about it, n’est pas?

The biggest question for me is what is actually the difference between love and close friendship (if not consider sexual issues)? My mom has some friends she met back at the university but they have never been very close, they have never been what are called “best friends”. Her “best friend” was always my dad, the closest person to her in the world, the one she shared every emotion and every thought with. She meets with her friends a couple of times a year but that’s about it. I can’t really call that friendship.

As for me, I’ve gone through the same experience when my boyfriend was everything for me – boyfriend, lover and best friend. And I really felt as I didn’t need anyone else, he was enough for me. We were what love stories like to describe as “two became the one”. Well, it didn’t end up well. One shouldn’t be the whole world for another.

So my best and closest friend was always my sister, who I can entrust everything, who loves me as I am and who understands me perfectly. But you know, it’s about sisters, it’s about family. So I was still curious if it’s possible for me to find the person who is not relative and to feel what means to have a best friend, what friendship can give you in addition to love relations. For me, friendship is still one of the forms of love. I love my best friend, I feel so happy being around her, seeing her smile, dancing with her, looking into her eyes and chatting with her for hours. Every time I see her, I want to hug her, to take her hand, and to kiss her. It’s not about sexual attraction, it’s about love. It’s about feeling secure, not alone. It’s what I need: to see that I’m not alone in my ideas, in my feelings, in my emotions; to hear that she likes the same things, that she has the same feelings and emotions; to know that she understands me as nobody else. And every time when she tells me exactly the words that I need at that time, when she brings me to the places that I love right away, when she even guesses precisely the color of the scarf that I like, I know we are more than just friends. So… does actually friendship exist for me? Not really sure…

Family.

Once I met a guy who had an interesting tattoo at his wrist. It was just a simple square. I preferred such small pieces of art to big, picture-like tattoos so I was curious what this square meant for him. He told me it was about his family, there were four of them: his parents, his brother and him. And all of them were very close to each other; they were connected very tight, just like those four corners of the little square on his wrist.  I remember thinking at that moment that I can say the same about my family. However far from each other we can be, we are always in a distance of just one word from each other, we always feel each other. Our square is indestructible.

 They are always around, they look at me from every drop of the fall rain on the window glass, I hear their voices and their laugh, and I know exactly what they would approve and what they would doubt about. I read my mom’s letters and I hear my own voice and my own intonations. Deep inside in emotions and feelings, in perceptions and fears we are so alike that sometimes it surprises me. I hear that young, sensitive and romantic girl in her words, in her opinions. I see myself in her eyes. And she is still my mom, the wisest and the kindest person in the world for me. But sitting in front of the computer screen next to my father and telling me with enthusiasm about a big, luminous deer they bought for Christmas, she is a little, cute girl. A girl that my dad takes care about.

My dad is inseparable from my mom, every time they have to separate even for a few days, they both suffer. They showed to me what love is (or whatever you would call that strong connection between two people). Though, I am still not sure if this phenomenon exits somewhere else. I just can’t imagine them being not together. They are a Family, two who became one for me. I remember most of my friends saying that they are close either to their moms or to theirs dads. I was never able to say who I am closer to. My dad is always like mom to me as well, listening to my love stories and sharing emotions with me, being touched by dimples in my cheeks and calling me with sweet Ukrainian word “donja” (which means “daughter”). He was singing to me and my sister the song of Vertinski “My daughters” about the happiest father who got two daughters and adored them for the whole his life.

My sister. She was the first child, she was quiet and very responsible. In my family we used to think that she is more alike my dad – smart, erudite and skeptical person with a lot of social skills. Every time I listen to her, I can’t stop myself from admiring how deep and acute her every thought is. I need about an hour to phrase my ideas and opinions about the movie we both saw while she would tell me a lot of neat remarks right away. But she is the same young, emotional girl, who cries over the same stories as I do, who understands my every look, who doesn’t need any additional explanations when I tell her my secrets. She understands everything I want to say right away. Because she is me as well, there is certain part of my and her personalities where we are the one. She is not just my sister and my best friend. She is someone more, someone who has invisible but vast connection to me, she inspires me every day. I know what she feels, I know what she thinks, we talk with the same intonations and pauses, we say the same words, and when we smile you can’t tell us from each other. Nobody can break us when we are together.

My little square, my happiness and my life. My “Italian” family, how my dad used to call crazy and boisterous us. Something that makes me win, something that makes me believe in the world, something that saves my life every day. I know for sure that even if the whole world will play against me, they will fight on my side, however dark it would be. 

One little wet lonely crab

One + little + wet + lonely + crab… Small pieces of metal with random meaning. Katie laid them out again and again on the white, dusty radiator. Mom gave her this Word Magnet Set for her eight birthday two years ago. She was born like in a fairy-tale – just on the Christmas Eve.  And every year she waited eagerly for this holiday full of wonders and presents. She wanted to grow up as tall and beautiful as their Christmas tree decorated with sparkling silver balls and little candy canes. When it got dark and white flakes were slowly covering every building in Denver, her mom lighted the tree and their room turned into the wonderland. Katie closed her eyes very tight. When mom let her look, she always had something marvelous in her hands, something that Katie dreamed about. To be honest, Katie was sure that her mom knew some magic. Otherwise, how did she guess what Katie wanted to have?

 But the real magic always arrived when Katie having her teeth briefly brushed hurried up to her bed. That was time for a Christmas fairy-tale she waited for during the whole year. It was a special story not like the others that mom read her in the evenings. The Christmas tale was about fat and fickle kings and poor princes, about lonely ducklings and speaking bottlenecks, about smart and brave tin soldiers and silly princess. Everything was possible in this enchanting world…

The headache was unbearable. There was nothing to do but look at the frozen hospital yard through the small window warmed up by her hot forehead. And wait. Katie knew how to wait. Nevertheless, today was the third day in a row that Marie hasn’t showed up. Snow at the hospital yard remained fresh-fallen, without any tracks. Meant that she wouldn’t come today, she wouldn’t smile Hello, Miss Katie! with little wrinkles in the corners of her tender eyes. Nobody ever called Katie Miss and it was so pleasant that this adult woman (well, Katie would even say old woman) addressed her so respectfully.

She met Marie, a kind Mexican woman with soft, swarthy hands, accidentally. At that time she didn’t have headaches every day and spent her evenings leafing through a big, beautiful book that mom gave her for her last birthday. It had amazing paintings of emerald sea and gold, sunny beaches, of fearless captains and morning, transparent haze, of beautiful women and bustling seaside cities. Of course, Katie’s favorite painting was the one with the sea. But it looked different from other paintings. This sea wasn’t scary dark as it becomes during the storm or sparkling and green as it becomes during the calm. There was the morning sea. It was carefree and playful; it was kissing a fresh wind and mirrored the waking up sun. The same carefree tenderness colored the delicate dress of a girl standing near the water and greeting the sun. The same silly tenderness was in the eyes of a big, white dog that was looking at the girl…

 She is so pretty, huh? – Katie heard a hoarse woman’s voice from behind, - Interesting, what she thinks about? You know, I also like pictures. Sometimes I go to museums and watch some pictures and statues for hours. Everything is so beautiful there, in museums. When I was kid, I liked watch my brother painted… He was really good!

They got into a conversation. Marie turned out to be a wonderful story-teller. She made up exciting stories about people on the paintings. She told Katie about poor, beautiful girls who were in love with poor but well-mannered boys and their greedy fathers who wanted to marry their daughters to old, ugly merchants. She told Katie about white sailing boats fighting the storm on the horizon; and brave captains who always came back home after violent tempests.

That evening Marie left the hospital very late when Katie had to go to bed. But for a long time after she left Katie’s imagination painted on the silent hospital walls battles and kisses, sea wind and scorching sand.

Next day Marie came to Katie’s room again and they spent the whole day talking about people who speak different languages, about different countries all over the world and certainly, about ocean. Marie grew up in Mexico, in a city next to Hermosillo with a beautiful name “The City of Sun” (La Ciudad del Sol). Most of all she liked reading. She read all the books that she found in the library of a priest in their local church who was very kind to her and often invited her to his home. She had a big family. All her relatives wanted her to marry an old man and to live as all other women in her family which meant having a lot of children, cooking and looking after the house the whole day long. But Marie was born very stubborn so after graduating from the middle school she ran away from home and went to America, right to the ocean, to Florida.

She told Katie how wonderful was to meet a rising sun every morning and to wander on the wet sand every evening. Unfortunately, life in Florida was way too expensive for her tiny salary which was usually all spent up on apartment rent fee and some food. She stayed in Florida for about ten years so it was very sad for her to leave it. Nevertheless, one day she packed her little suitcase and took the bus to Denver. Her apartment owner had a friend there who can help Marie to find a job in a hospital.

Her apartment owner in Florida was a very kind woman and they became great friends with Marie. In the evenings she made a soup and put a big pot on the darkened of time, wooden table in the kitchen.  They talked about their work, life and men while fishing out big pieces of potatoes and cabbage from the pot. They decorated together a bushy Christmas tree in December and planted flowers in the old, lopsided flowerbeds in March. When Marie was leaving her apartment owner gave her a very beautiful (and most probably, very expensive) jewelry with a silver chain. She said it would help Marie if everything falls apart. Since then every time when she had problems, Marie took it out of her suitcase, stroked it and asked it to help a bit. It always worked!

Katie was catching each word of Marie’s story with enthusiasm. It sounded so much like her Christmas tale…

But Marie had no idea about Christmas story! So Katie told her everything about a tall tree glittering with hundreds of lights, about lovely presents from mom, about her birthday and how one day she would become beautiful and slender like their Christmas tree. She also told her about magical Christmas story. Finally, she got a great idea.

-          You should come to my birthday! I’m inviting you. I’ll ask mom and she’ll let you listen to a Christmas story too.

Marie smiled and said that she would be glad to come and to meet Katie’s mom.

But then everything went bad. The closer Christmas was, the worse Katie felt. She had headache every day and doctors were saying such ugly words as meningitis and puncture. These words were unfamiliar to Katie but according to doctors’ faces they didn’t promise anything good. Talking to mom was allowed only by phone. Sometimes she came to hospital yard and Katie waved to her while hiding tears. The whole day long Katie lied on the bed looking at the snowflakes sparkling in the sun and dreamed about warm summer and sea waves. She cheered up a little only when Marie passed by.

One evening the headache was especially unbearable despite of Katie’s efforts to obey all doctors’ prescriptions. She wished she could just take the head off and put it somewhere on the top shelf. When Marie looked into the room and said her usual Good evening, Miss Katie, Katie broke down and cried. She told Marie that there wouldn’t be wonders anymore, that there were only three days left till Christmas, that there wouldn’t be any candies and there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree. Her mom wouldn’t kiss her saying Happy Birthday and wouldn’t tell her Christmas story.

-          Will I die like the girl with matches from this sad tale my mom once told me? She froze to death just on New Year’s Eve. 

Marie stroked her head without saying anything. Then she turned off the lights, told Katie to muffle up properly and to listen to Marie’s Christmas tale.

One nice, warm evening my mom told me that story, - started she. – There live not only beautiful girls and brave captains at the sea. There also live tiny creatures that we rarely notice because they hide in the sand or swim in the water. I want to tell you about red Little Crab who lived at the ocean, right on the water edge. He was a very brave and kind crab. But he was very lonely: in the mornings he met the rising sun, cleaned up in his hole, smoothed out the sand near the water, drew flowers on the sand, and decorated it with little seashells and starfishes. But he didn’t have anyone to enjoy the sunset sitting at the flat, wet pebbles; he didn’t have anyone to show his treasures that he found in the ocean; he didn’t have anyone to tell jokes and to splash each other in the breaking wave.

Once, after the storm Little Crab was strolling home along the shore pulling out his tired legs from the algae. Suddenly, he noticed a big grey seashell in a damp pit that breathed with effort opening and closing her valves. Little Crab had met seashells before but he had never seen them with opened valves. At that moment he realized that the seashell was just dying without water. So he asked her politely if she needed some help. The seashell suddenly opened her doors and a pretty, tiny Pearl looked out of it. She whispered confusedly: “If you don’t mind… I’d be very thankful…” The heart of Little Crab began to beat of happiness.

The seashell was very big and heavy for the Little Crab and he was dragging it to the water through sand and algae. It took him the whole three days. Though, these three days were the happiest in his life. At first, the Pearl was very timid and worried about Little Crab spending so much energy. She gingerly looked out of the seashell, said hello and hid inside again. But hour-by-hour she got used to Little Crab and they started discussing everything in the world when Little Crab had a respite. They laughed and joked around; Little Crab brought her little flowers from the shore and even sang her pirates’ songs that he heard from his father-traveler.

One day Little Crab completed his mission and the time to say goodbye had come. That evening the setting sun seeing off they talked for a long time and kept silent even for a longer time. Finally, the Pearl confusedly looking aside kissed Little Crab and slid into the water.

First time in his life he didn’t want to go home. He spent the whole night on the wet pebbles without even shaking off the splashes from his legs. When the morning came he decided to find his Pearl at all costs and to tell her words that he didn’t dare to say the night before. And he gamely rushed into the deep water…

“Marie, where are you? I’m locking the entrance” – heard they the voice from the hall.

“I’m sorry, Miss Katie, I gotta go. I finish story next time, ok?” – Marie bent and kissed Katie on the forehead.

One + little + wet + lonely + crab. Silly magnets don’t have any sense. After that evening Marie didn’t come any more. And today was Christmas Eve. Katie turned to the wall and pulled knees to her chin. A blizzard was raging outside, and the wind was throwing snowballs onto the windows. Sea was rocking Little Crab from side to side; and he wearily paddled with all his legs…

Katie woke up from the rustle in the room. It became completely dark outside so it was dark in the room as well. But in the opposite from her bed corner shone hundreds of little lights. “Miss Katie” – heard she. There was a little tree with colorful candies, tiny toys and bright garlands on its branches. And near the tree there was Maris in her big, baggy hospital gown. She approached Katie, took her in warm and smelling the snow arms, and whispered: “Happy birthday, Little Crab! And happy Christmas!”

The hospital room suddenly turned into the fairyland with wonders, enchanting shadows and kind kings, brave captains and amorous princess. Even the artificial tree seemed to smell like the dark forest and Katie heard toys on the table whispering to each other about a kind fairy that came to Katie tonight.

-          I came to finish my story.

-          Did he find her? – This question disturbed Katie for last days.

-          Close your eyes…

Katie closed her eyes as tight as possible and suddenly felt a small, cool ball being placed at her palm. She opened her eyes and saw a tiny pearl in her hand.

-          He found her and told her everything he had to say. Every little crab if he is not afraid of storms finds his pearl. This one is yours…

Long time after that night Katie believed that Marie was her Christmas fairy from the Christmas tale. She never met Marie again. Next morning she woke up from the telephone ringing. It was her mom asking Katie to look out of the window. She ran to the window and saw a dear figure on the white, snow canvas. Her mom waved her and screamed in the phone “I love you, sweetie! Happy birthday, my little girl! Happy Christmas!” Holding her breath, Katie took a list of paper and quickly scribbled a couple of words. She made a paper plane and sent it to the middle of the hospital yard. The woman downstairs dragged off her fluffy gloves and hastily unfolded the plane. There were big, clumsy letters inside “Mom, don’t worry, I’ll get better soon! I love you. Your Little Crab”.

On her way to the bus stop, the woman in the grey, winter coat stopped by the little café to buy coffee and fresh New York Times. She unfolded the newspaper only in the warm bus. She tried to read but her thoughts were far away from there, somewhere next to a small paper plane diving from the hospital window. She absently followed newspaper’s lines. The article talked about the results of 2011. Fiscal 2011 saw 396, 906 deportations, the largest number in the history of the USA. Most of the illegal immigrants in the States are from Latin American countries, including 6,7 million from Mexico, 530 thousand from El Salvador, 480 thousand from Guatemala and 320 thousand from Honduras.

Sometimes when Katie feels snowed under with work or just has a bad day, she takes out a little pearl. She strokes her and remembers tender brown eyes. And it’s amazing how all the problems just fade away…

To focus

Probably one of the hardest things in my life. To focus on what I am doing, to focus on work. “Procrastination”, “laziness”, “distraction”, even “tiredness” – all these notions lay on the other side of the line. On this side there is only inexorable focusing. Unfortunately for us, the line between these two worlds is so fuzzy and relative that it takes only one second to find dozens of excuses why we’ve just found ourselves at the “distraction” part. I worked out at gym so much yesterday so by body is sore today (means I’m staying in my bed till noon); There is only half an hour left before I have to go to the meeting. Half an hour is not enough to complete this serious task (means I’m not going even to start working on it); I’ve made awesome pictures at our last party, let’s have a short look at them! (means I’m giving up with my writing and till the end of the day I’m checking about 100 new pictures from the party plus other 1000 old pictures on my computer that I found accidentally); My best friend has just told about her problems with mom, I feel so bad for her (means Even though I talked to her three hours ago, I’m still upset and I’m still watching stupid TV-shows (hey, she is my best friend!). And the best one (endless procrastination) – I’m so hungry, I can’t work anymore! - (after having some food) – Oh, I’m so sleepy now after this delicious lunch! – (after having a nap) – Oh, it’s already dark outside and I’m tired! I’ll do everything tomorrow morning, cause I’ll be refreshed after so much sleep… - (in the morning) – It’s so cold, I don’t want to leave my bed. It’s so cloudy, and I’m not in a good mood. And… damn it, I’m so hungry!

To be continued.

It seems that I just need a little bit more time (may be, just one hour), a little more forces, a little more sleep, etc. It seems so. Well, sometimes it’s really inconvenient to be so honest with myself. I just need a little more will. To close all these pictures and TV-show pages opened on my computer, to make myself come to the bathroom in the morning and wash my face with cold water, and to use every ten minutes for doing things that are important for me (even if there are only 10 minutes left). To be efficient whatever the weather is outside. Yesterday while procrastinating I found this phrase: Opportunities fructify only if they are pollinated by faculties and defended my desires. So I would add and if they are cultivated by concentrated, hard work.

We like pitying our minds and our bodies and tend to forgive them way too much (life is about pleasures, right?). But there is always a risk to end up with being depressed and unsatisfied with your life because while enjoying your “pleasant distractions” you didn’t have a chance to make your dreams true. Well, unless you are a pure hedonist…

P.S. I didn’t say a word about the Internet!

Liebestod.

In German there is a word Liebestod that can be translated into English both as Love Death and Death in Love. A scene Liebestod concludes Wagner’s opera Tristan and Isolde. It’s the climax and the final at the same time.

As always after concerts her wrists hurt.  She wearily rubbed her hands while looking absently at the mirror in the theater dressing-room. She often stayed alone here, in a tiny room cluttered with costumes and old shabby fiddlesticks, and waited for a careful knock at the door. Her husband always came to pick her up after the concert. Then she usually stood up; her husband helped her on with her coat that she pulled on in silence; and they slowly strolled home through streets and parks of their city full of lights and skyscrapers, cafés and bars. He never asked her any questions at such moments and she really appreciated him for understanding.

 She always wore shoes with very high spike heels at the concerts so that even the remotest trombones could see her. He always wondered how such a fragile girl managed to rule over the whole symphony orchestra. Sometimes enormous, storming ocean of instruments, strings, strokes, and tunes seemed to devour her, to cover her head with a wave of sounds. He was on the point of jumping out of his chair in the auditorium, running to her to save her, to drag her out of this dangerous music sea, to defend her…  His legs and arms muscles were extremely tensed. But she threw up her slender arms and all sounds started fading, murmuring at her feet.

On Fridays she had conductors meetings where they discussed musical pieces, scheduled concerts, and brought up any problems with musicians. She often came home after these meetings utterly beside herself and angry. She was crying and repeating that it was exhausting to prove every day that a woman-conductor is not even a bit weaker than a man-conductor. He was making her coffee and shoulder massage. And they watched together evening TV-news.

This evening her orchestra played The Fifth Symphony by Shostakovich. “Ready in 15 minutes!” – a shout from the hall awakened her. She put a yellowed with age book aside with sigh of regret. Her husband worked in Historical Archives and just yesterday he brought her letters that Shostakovich wrote to a woman he loved, to a woman The Fifth Symphony was singing about. More than 40 letters in a few weeks. Sometimes he wrote about three letters a day. Pain, happiness, love, inability to be together – everything was mixed in this allegro of feelings and emotions.

She examined herself in the mirror from head to foot. A black pantsuit made her even slimmer and lighter. She followed with her little hand the warmth of the soft, brown cover of her book. Finally, she went out to the hall balancing on her high heels. A chubby and balding conductor who was rather popular in their city was approaching her from the other side of the hall. He smiled to her and showing some superiority feeling wished her Good luck, baby! She used to people here calling her baby – it was some kind of a joke. But now it didn’t make any sense for her. At that very moment she already felt like being there, on the stage, in a quiet shade of the concert hall, among catching their breath instruments.

When she was 10 she used to reluctantly go to music school. Once her music teacher confided her the secret of a successful performance. You should collect all your listeners at the top of your little finger and make them inhale and exhale whenever you want. Tonight she did collect them; she collected all looks, sighs and rustles, all expectations and fears into her tiny woman’s fist. And after that she strewed them all over the auditorium with millions of sounds and rings, melodies and strokes, laugh and tears. She strewed them in Spanish dances, military marches and country songs. She was rushing into a fight together with trombones; she was spinning a thin, snowy thread together with harps; and she was stirringly singing with violins and cellos. She was an omnipotent magician.

It seemed to her that she was Carmen. She was that Carmen who went to prison because of the false denunciation. She was that Carmen who never forgave Shostakovich, the only person she sincerely loved, for betraying her. She preferred going directly to the civil war in Spain than listening to his Now you see, it was actually for good that you didn’t marry me. She was that Carmen who loved him after all, that Carmen who he loved after all… She was bursting to go home and tore his letters; she stared at the gray wall with guarded window and realized that even a death was not something unusual any more…

The last echo of drums was fading away in the air. The storm of applause fell upon her back. Musicians were smiling wearily as usual. She asked to stand up the first violin, the flute, the harp… She turned her flaming face to the huge auditorium. She found her husband in the darkness of the first row with familiar encouragement in his eyes. Next to him her mother-in-law was knitting a mat for her favorite badger-dog. She felt her wrists hurting. She was only 29 – nothing of age for a conductor. But she thought she already knew what love and death were about. 

Two times two (the whole story)

“And now… it’s an honor for me to announce the winner of the 10^th Annual Short Film Festival — conducted in memory of one of the most tragic pages of our history. And the winner is…”

The man, in an impeccable black suit shining under the stage lights, was professionally dragging out an intriguing pause. He carefully tore, sticking his little finger out, a white envelope and extracted the name from within it. “And… the winner is… Alison Chance!”

The man beamed a radiant smile and inspected the auditorium in front of him packed with neatly-dressed people. He was enjoying the effect made by his words, “…and her ten-minute-long film Two Dollars which touched thousands and thousands of American hearts by its poignant story”.

Suddenly, she could not breathe as if someone just cut off the oxygen in the auditorium. It was improbable, unbelievable; she felt like being in a movie where dreams come true. Wearing this gorgeous dark cherry dress, she was sitting in the auditorium that before she saw only on TV. She was surrounded by the most famous people of American filmmaking industry, and the person on the stage was calling her name. All of this was too wonderful to be true.  

“… a film about love that never dies… a film about the warmth of human heart that saves the life…” The anchorman readjusted his tie and turned over a paper with his speech.

It is for her all of these people are cheering now; it is her they are smiling at so nicely; it is her they are looking at with such an admiration. She stood up from her velvet armchair, “… film about eternal…”

“What is he talking about?” flashed through her mind.

“… and now I invite you to enjoy this striking movie.”

Two high school students appear on the huge screen. They are riding a merry-go-round, holding hands and kissing every two minutes.  She is laughing contagiously; he is looking at her with eyes full of insane love.

Next shot. She is playing in a school theater and receiving a great ovation. He notices dozens of admiring looks at her and hears students’ parents discussing her acting talent. At the end of the show, she is officially named Prom Queen. They are escaping from the prom together to glide in a small boat across the lotus-covered surface of the night lake. He is reading her his poems about everything in the world being doubled: a boat has two oars, a day always has a night, a moon always has a sun, and he will always have her in his heart… She is smiling charmingly and saying that he is funny.

Next shot. They both are 19. They are sitting on the shore of the same lake, his arm round her waist, and discussing what to name their future son and daughter. She is telling him that she has just received an acceptance letter from Yale School of Drama. She is saying that her family is incredibly proud of her and that her mom is already packing warm clothes for her daughter. He inhales deeply and resolutely offers to get married and to go to Connecticut together. Lyrical music; camera is slowly zooming out.

Next shot. New Haven, winter night, a heavy snowfall. A tiny room packed with things. He is in the bed reading a book.  The phone rings. It’s her saying that she’ll be late because they have a dinner party with directors and actors after the show. She asks him not to wait for her and to go to bed. He turns off the lights, laying in the darkness with opened eyes for a long time.

They are 25. He comes home after work, takes off his suit and puts his bank employee ID on the table. She is dressing up for a theater play, looking for matching shoes and putting on her make-up. She says they have to discuss something. He is looking at her inquiringly. She tells him that she is going to Los Angeles for the whole summer to study in Hollywood Film School and that they probably should get divorced. She delivers an emotional speech about the very important places that theater and her career hold in her life. She is crying that it’s not his fault, that she just needs freedom, freedom to create, that anyway his rational accountant’s mind would never understand her soul.

Slow sorrowful music. A plastic cup appears on the screen with a blue toothbrush in it. Immediately, the next shot is an identical green toothbrush. At first sight, it seems to be the same cup with two toothbrushes in it but a viewer soon understands that they are already far away from each other.

Two bearded, famous directors in the first row approvingly exchanged glances.

Once, when Alison was six, she accidentally found an old toothbrush of the same blue color in a small cardboard box in her mother’s closet. She always asked herself why her mom would keep such trash at home.

Next shot. Eight years later. She is a decent actress living in Washington DC and performing in different theater productions. Right now, she is on tour in New York. After one of the shows, she suddenly meets him – he noticed her name on one of the posters and came to see her show. They are having dinner together in a restaurant and recalling their childhood and their hometown; they are telling each other with enthusiasm how they have spent these eight years. She retells how she gave up her youthful passion for cinema and decided to become a serious dramatic artist and how she never regretted this decision because it enabled her unique acting style; allowing her to choose to perform in any production she desires. He became the director of a big investment company, works on his own project and plans to set up his own firm in next few years. It’s clear in their eyes that they are still attracted to each other and there are some lingering feelings.

A flurry of short shots. The whole month of her tour they spend together. He shows her “his” New York, his favorite museums and historic places; she takes him to the best New York theater productions. They talk and go out a lot.

Every time Alison closed her eyes, she could easily imagine these madly happy, shining eyes, hair fluffed up by warm spring wind, a serene smile and two hands – of a man and of a woman – with fingers intertwined. She used to peruse this photo album hundreds of times trying to catch a glimpse of what had changed in these brown pensive eyes, why they didn’t glow as they did in these sunny pictures.

Next shot. Last night before her return to Washington DC, he secretly takes her to one of the World Trade Center office buildings where he works. They are going up to the 110^th floor to admire distant lights of the city. He is asking her to become his wife again. She is incredibly happy and can’t find the words to respond, so she is just burying her glistening face on his breast. He is giving her a two-dollar bill. He places an identical bill in his pocket reminding her of his poems about a “doubled” world and saying that these two-dollar bills will bring a double portion of happiness in their second marriage. Beautiful lyrical music; camera pans away.

Approving whisper from the first row.

Next shot. She is in Washington DC settling her affairs before moving to New York. She is packing her suitcase and humming some melody. The TV is on in the background, broadcasting some musical. Suddenly, it is interrupted by a picture of a huge skyscraper collapsing like a house of cards in smoke, fire, and flying debris.

A tragic, heart-rending music and anxious voices of news reporters on the background.

Her phone is ringing; she rushes to pick it up. Among loud cries and noises she recognizes his voice, he is telling her that a plane has run into the North Tower, not the South one, so they are evacuating now. He is persuading her to not worry. He is telling her that everything will be all right…

Alison hated September. Every September, her mom took her to New York to visit these two huge granite squares in the center of the city. Alison usually ran around them following their glittering slabs with her fingers. She wished to grow up as soon as possible to look inside these squares to see what was hidden in their depth, where the swift streams were running. Deep inside, Alison knew her dad was within those black holes, but her mom could never follow which is why she was always upset when she came here. Once, Alison heard her mom saying to Alison’s grandmother in the kitchen: “Mom, you know what? I have never been late for anything, never – not for school, not for rehearsals! You know it, right? And now I’m late forever… I can’t catch up, I can’t return, I can’t change anything…” Alison had decided that one day her dad went to an enchanted kingdom somewhere underground where all these water streams in granite squares were running, but her mom was late and the gates were already closed.

There was a close-up shot of the woman’s face on the screen. She was still holding the receiver in her right hand listening to a sudden silence in it. In the interest of safety, all phone lines were blocked in New York. This shot was silent as if the world has become deaf; as if there were not any sounds left.

For Alison, even the bustling city that never sleeps outside the dusty windows of her yellow cab kept silent. She still remembered this silence in the room where little Alison woke up in the middle of every night and saw her mom’s silhouette against the sombre background of the window pressing her forehead to the glass.

A taxi driver was anxiously casting glances at the finely dressed-up girl at the back seat. Finally, he asked her with caution if she was all right. She nodded in silence…

At the dinner after the award ceremony, the two bearded directors, warmed up with wine, were having a heated discussion about the last shot of the winning film. “And this amazing story with his wallet and ID card found among the debris and her discovering this two-dollar note in his wallet! Such a fine reference to the title of the film! And such a sad irony, my friend…” This director kept telling his colleague about “irony of our life” while slapping him on the shoulder. His colleague was trying to escape these slaps and kept repeating with dwindling patience: “Oh no, that’s nothing! How about the shot where she is holding this two-dollar bill with one hand and blowing the dust off it while keeping her other hand on her rounded belly? It’s such an optim… optimistic point of view! It’s a promise for a better future, you know.”

Alison didn’t turn on the lights in her apartment. She came up to the bureau and carefully lifted the two small photos with thin black ribbons encircling one corner. A man and a woman. She smoothed a crumpled “lucky” two-dollar bill with her shaking hands.

“I’m so sorry, mom. I just wanted you to be proud of me.”