A ladies' man

You're saying the exact words they want to hear and you're doing it unwittingly. It's spontaneous and unpremeditated — and they love it. You're wooing quietly but surely; before they know they fall for you. I'd do, too, wasn't it for my long-time boyfriend and the fact that you're not attracted to me, right?

I nod hesitantly, perhaps just to be polite; yet she's only half-right. I'm not attracted to her. The rest? There's no better way to put it than Mr Cohen did:

My reputation
as a Ladies’ Man was a joke
It caused me to laugh bitterly
through the ten thousand nights
I spent alone

Business partners — part two

A bash. She's sitting next to me again. I knew she would and she knew I would, too. Spent so much time on the phone recently. Yeah, business, nothing more. Usually late at night. Talking about joy, lust and pain business. Pain business, mainly. Hers. She moved out but they haven't split officially. Yet.

He's sitting so close I can't even whisper in her ear. I can touch her though. And message her. And read what she's texting me. And wait and see.

Gathering's over by 2 a.m. He's smashed, disappearing into the night. Off by himself, so is she and so am I.

What is part three going to be about?

Point break

I won't need these, she says as she rolls down her panties and jumps to a bed next to me. Looking up at my transfixed face, she giggles. It's far from dark, full moon lights up the room, deceiving relics of her modesty. It's the last ever second before I press my lips against hers and leave my tainted misbelief behind.

Flying low

It's 5 AM. Waking up after a three-hour sleep ain't easy. It's full moon, sharp coldness draws underneath. Teens' washed-out faces greet me along the way to the airport. Some of them are trying to figure out if I'm one of them — but the weekend bag gives me away. Most of them can't be bothered.

Flying is so mechanical, so lifeless, so dull. Exhausting, without being exciting. I'm starving to get from point A to point B in a blink, as a machine, not looking left or right, just passing through crowds and checks as a knife slicing butter, then sleeping on a plane and then crowds and checks again, until I breathe a fine cold air mixed with fumes someplace else. And a bed, I always need a bed afterwards, unless it's already evening and one has to party. Or unless it's morning and one has to work.

Once there were single-serving friends, those are long gone with the dawn of cheap flights; nobody even troubles oneself to pretend they're interested in the fellow in the seat next to them anymore. Nobody talks to anybody; why would they? It looks silly on a bus and more so on a plane now. Hour here, hour there, one can read a paper or dig their nose instead. There's no point to care.

This everlasting nausea is suffocating and torturing, yet one never drowns. It's over in short enough time and there's still flowers blooming outside, Jim Beam flowing and girls making love. And that does it for me as soon as I land. Every time.

May this be love

She came over to assemble my IKEA furniture. She said she loved doing it and I had no reason to oppose. Seeing she really came over with a toolbox and an electric screwdriver, I got she was serious.

So we built the bookcase, drank wine and watched a movie. Ate olives and talked. Laughed a lot and looked at each other, studying each other's smiles — and doing nothing more. Went sleeping side by side; without a single touch, without a thought of doing so.

And woke up, had breakfast and talked and slept again until late; little bed-in, just her and me, without the world interfering. It wasn't until dusk when we took off and went skating. Came back exhausted and hungry, went eating out and then to her place to watch a TV show. Drank more wine and shared another bed, more wine again and another set of curious looks and surreal smiles.

A night club after midnight, vodka/orange, thank you and thank you again. Night tram home, meaning my home, she put my t-shirt on and laid next to me as if it was the most natural thing in the universe. I'd love to hug her and strike her hair; nevertheless nothing's gonna happen, I won't do a thing. Is it because she's eleven years my junior? Or is it 'cos she's a friend of a friend who told me not to hurt her? Or am I only being pathetic and useless? All of the above?

Another morning and another bed-in till noon. Snoozing, watching movies, listening to music. And skating through the city again. Takeaway dinner and blankets. And a late night movie.

Maybe I should go home now, she says after a forty-eight-hour marathon. I kiss her good-bye and disappear in a second only to talk to her over the messenger within an hour.

It's only been a while — yet I wonder.

Schizophrenia

I woke up next to a beautiful twenty years old witch. She's twenty; twenty! — not even twenty-something. Lovely. I'd do it; yet it takes time. There's rules.

Few hours later, I'm enjoying time with my ex. I really do. Sadness fills me once she's gone. 'Cos I know she's gone. She's gone for good, even though I see her from time to time. I know, I know, I know.

Now, a third one's coming. I'm thinking fuckfest. I'm thinking fuckspree.

In fact, it looks like I'm not thinking at all.

Touchdown

Another week, another trip. The plane was packed, overhead lockers cramped, people nervous and disturbed. A rainy night. Maybe a bit windy, too. A baby was crying non-stop through the flight. Attendants were looking at each other, slightly strained. Nothing much happened but for few roller coaster dives. Air turbulence, they call it. Free-falling for a mere second here and there.

I stared in front of me, dumbstruck, somehow knowing it's all cool and safe, yet masochistically hoping for at least a crash landing.

Can't recall such a soft touchdown in ages. People were clapping and cheering when we landed.

Got wasted as soon as I got off the plane.

These two stories are totally unrelated, of course.

In a fog

Days of hiking in the mountains and making love to my companion did not clear my head at all. What's wrong with you, I'm being asked at a dinner, repeatedly, always. Nothing's wrong, I answer, unable to come up with a more appropriate and articulate answer. I'm blank. It lingers atrociously but I won't tell.

Kissing her good-bye meant to be a sort of a relief. Meant, nevertheless was not. She's gone and I have plenty more time to spare. A blonde feels like talking to me on a train. I don't feel like talking to anybody. She gives up after few sentences. God bless her.

Sleeping till midday, then flipping through TV channels over and over and lifelessly turning pages in a newspaper. Day after day.

Trying to party only to find myself somehow hanging in a vacuum. Smoking pot does not move me a single yard forward. I want to go. Splitting.

Back on a plane, I'm glad it's over. Perhaps I need a busy schedule, strict time management and no gaps left to reflect. Or maybe I should go look for a different continent — until I find a spring one.

Business partners

A bash. I'm sitting next to her and she talks. Sings in two bands. Have lived in this city for ten years. She's from there. Loves it here. Enjoys writing lyrics. Enjoys playing piano. Would love to have more time. Her boyfriend? Boring, plain. Yeah, still a boyfriend.

He's sitting at the other side of the table, cannot hear or see anything. I'm touching her; she lets me. Undoing her bra in a blink. She's shocked, yet not upset. Caressing her back, holding her hand, stroking her. She's melting, looking at me trying to figure out what's going on. If I knew! She kisses me a bit deeper than common as we leave, nothing more, nothing less.

I'm looking forward to the next business meeting.

SFA

Gypsy music is flowing through the place while I'm lying stark naked over my bed, watching the azure skies above my head. Enjoying solitude and music. And a seemingly meaningless moment. They said the summer would soon be over. So what? Should I go out to relish disappearing rays that can be gone in few weeks?

I don't know.

Eating out with a chick who could be great, wouldn't it be for her lighting one after another. And talking non stop without listening. And getting smashed at any occasion as if there was no tomorrow. Being about my age, it obviously takes her a bit longer to recover. So there is usually no tomorrow, one may say.

Whatever. I shouldn't mind. She's gonna be gone to Nepal in few months. And by the time I come over (if ever), she's gonna be someplace else again.

I just felt like whinging today.

Anyway, the weather is great.

One nation under CCTV

Walked from the Charing Cross, down Oxford St the other day. One of those days when one has nothing better to do but observe. Wonder. Enjoy. Absorb.

Looked right to Newman St; an inconspicuous back street. There's a post office yard with Banksy's writing on the wall. The funniest part is the CCTV camera just next to the graffiti watching the yard. Clever.

Paused

Woke up late. Certainly, 10 am ain't a great time to start a productive day. Had muesli with yoghurt for breakfast. And did nothing more. Hanged out in the pad, listened to Queen, browsed the net, just drinking lemonade, eating chocolate and basically bludging.

Thought about writing an article or two on different issues and looked into some work, too. And snoozed off. And then cleared some files of a hard drive and added album or two to iTunes. Had a shower and ate a schnitzel — to simulate the lunch, I guess.

And snoozed off. And listened to more music. Looked out of window and wondered if to go out or stay in. Stayed in. Read the papers, wrote few emails.

I need days like this from time to time. To clear the head, to recharge, to breathe out. Monday will be hectic again, I know, so thanks for a day off. I'm only readying the adrenaline for the ride.

Plans

We were driving to the train station and I asked what about plans for the next weekend, forgetting to mention the airline ticket I booked to London. And I was leisurely told that Saturday would be fine. Maybe. Now, I have to employ my best educated guess to figure it out. Of course, I'll be smarter by Friday, however let me bet Saturday will be fine.

Meaning, I will happily come over to keep company to a great guy who enjoys music, cartoons, cycling and trains. And hanging out. And who's funny and tireless.

London will be rainy by then anyway and fresh air of a rural town is far healthier than the big smoke. Plus the priorities are clear.

So much for the plans.

Different associations

One can associate movies with certain feelings or they have a tune that can help them turn back time. Or there's a scent that is unique and brings back memories. It can be a place, it can an object, it can be more or less anything.

And I've just realised there's one thing that makes me think of my Sydney. It's called Jim Beam.

Please refrain from calling me pathetic, I know. No more needs to be said.

Nineteen again

Taking her for a dinner and it goes on a bit longer than expected. Having a laugh, a small laugh really, perhaps to hide a feeble uneasiness; a mix of anxiety and excitement, something one can feel when they see their ex after a long time and they get along. To a degree, 'course.

I'm seeing her off, remembering the way and remembering the details. I'm some ten years older, meaning so is she, nevertheless those years are non-existent tonight. The warmth of the moment?

Maybe I'm only re-living the experience that never happened.

Here we are. She's almost gone. And then she lingers, turning in the door, coming back and kissing me good night. Yet it takes a split second longer than proper. Does she know? I certainly do.

And then — one can feel a gentle trace of hesitance — or rather a fight between her senses and consciousness — running through her face in a flash, taking a mere heartbeat.

And I am in, the door bangs behind us, unnecessary clothing is flying through the hall. And I'm nineteen again.

Wake up, wake up, wake up! Beware! Such things are reserved for dreaming.

Adagio sostenuto

It's early evening and it's quietly raining outside, making atmosphere gracefully tranquil. I'm on the bring of falling asleep. Worn, yet not dismantled. Just a night that was a bit longer than necessary. And litres of mojito; they seemed never-ending. It felt good. It was.

Few strokes in the swimming pool again, nude and beaming, halfway through the night. Refreshing and redeeming. As were two beautiful babes around me. None of them to be charmed, though. Nevermind? I do. 'Cos I wouldn't mind.

Switching down the engines after 2 am. I could go on, of course, the only thing needed was to step aside for a second and blow. And come back with a vengeance. I decided not to. Maybe some other night and maybe not at all. I'm broken enough 24 hours later anyway.

Listening to Rachmaninov does it for me on the days like this.

A udallesque one

Sunday was asking for a chill outside. I thought about flicking through the phone for a second, deciding to stick with myself. Jumped on a train and went down to a river bank. Then walked back few stations before catching another train to return.

Met a young bloke along the way who was asking where he was and how to get to a river. Ten minutes later, he asked me how to get somewhere where he presumably lived. And then we walked together for a while.

He said he was eighteen. He said he had a girlfriend, not a proper one, just to have one. He said he didn't go to school anymore, he found it boring. He said he worked but he didn't like it 'cos he wasn't getting paid enough. He said he could work as a mechanic, yet he never went to get any training. And he asked if I knew about a good place to share as his housemates were pissing him off.

That brief encounter left me feel good about myself (almost udallesque feeling). I may be stumbling and taking wrong turns and stopping where I shouldn't or driving too fast. I sometimes wonder if to go left or right or even if to go back a little and then decide once again.

Nevertheless, I still keep going and keep holding the general direction, however winding it may be.

And considering that little chat today, it really makes me feel good about myself.

Cold turkey

Sitting in the back of a car, looking out of the window. Half brain dead, seemingly perfectly alright. Party speedball of vodka Red Bull is slowly wearing off. Another sleepless night. Sweating just slightly, few strokes in the pool half an hour earlier are helping. Shivering a lot, though. Heartbeat still through the roof.

Coming home and suddenly — the place is empty. I've had somebody around for last two weeks, non-stop. Now I'm alone. Feels great and scary at the same time.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, hiding from persistent sun and intrusive phone calls. No, I'm not gonna go anywhere today, forget it. No, don't come. Not today. Switching that bloody thing off. About time.

My eyes are wide open and I'm dreaming.

Jekyll and Hyde scenario cannot work forever. I don't want the latter one to prevail. Yet I don't want the former to take over completely either. Or do I? Or should I?

Staying alive

It will seem unimportant in a few days and I'll forget about it till the end of the month. Yet it still lingers in the air, a quad flying over my head, arrowing to a nearby bush. A shadow over my face that told me heaps more about how to live in a split of a second than years of hanging around in bars, yakking about so-called meaning of life.

I'm glad to be around.

Balance

Friday night. I should be someplace else but I didn't feel like flying away this weekend. Or did I? I was torn till the very last minute, booking a ticket and then thinking things over. I'm not gonna get smashed this weekend. I'm not gonna be half-dead on Monday morning. I want to chill. On the other hand, I'm not gonna see friends. Any friends, for that matter.

Plans, plans.

Than a phone rings and it really doesn't matter that I missed the plane. Temptation is everywhere. I just need to think things over.

Weekend

As much as I'm trying to live so-called decent life, sometimes it just doesn't work out. Friday evening, I'm reading work materials at home, making sure I'm getting paid for a reason. I'm even taking notes so I'll have a clue what to comment in the meeting next week.

Saturday's totally different. I'm out of town kicking it on some balcony, sun is chopping me to pieces. It's alright, I don't mind. Having one after another, there's seemingly unlimited supply. Puffing on, puffing my life away. There's nothing to think about when a credit card and a stylishly rolled one dollar banknote appear on a table. Out of nowhere, as usually.

Flow of words is never-ending, hours are gone in a blink. Changing places, changing cities, talking too much, remembering nothing. How easy.

It's too late at night, I'm sitting at home, browsing Internet chat rooms, yakking with other owls, mechanically chewing a gum until it's... 11 am. At twelve I'm having a squash game on.

If this is my very last post, don't worry. It was fun. No regrets.

Dreaming

She was so little. And so cute. Spoke a language I could not understand a single word of. Her deep black eyes made me wonder. What if. What if I wanted to spend three hours on a plane as often as possible. And learn a foreign language. Could I do that? Was it just a dream?

I drew her a map and she seemed to be interested. We talked and had a laugh. She told me a bit about the country, about the city and about the ocean. Plus her favourite football team. And I wondered.

We swapped business cards. Maybe I'll be buying a ticket soon.

Or not. One tends to be forgetting quickly and easily, exhausted by everyday existence, by so-called responsibilities and unavoidable commitments. Yet it's still great to dream.

Monday morning

One day I'm drifting through various places around the globe, wondering if it's the time of my life, the next moment I'm squashed under loads of emails, tasks and reminders, getting to understand a real meaning of 9 till 5 — it's 7 till 7.

Is really the grass always greener on the other side?

I do need a second for myself.

— How's your day today? — I'm asking through a messenger service.
— A bit better than yesterday... — She replies.
— Want a joke?
— Sure.

I'm quickly opening a new browser window, typing in an address and searching for a decent one — I've been doing it since forever.

Skimming through pages, looking for something lovely. They all seem a little odd but I guess it's only me. Finally, there's one that doesn't sound too clumsy. Copy, paste, enter.

She answers with a smiley.

I'm smiling, too. She has just made my day.

A gentle reminder

Mid-nineties. Have just come of age and started dating the most beautiful girl around. The most spectacular one. And have fallen in love. Deeply. As first shy kisses are exchanged, I'm leaving for a while.

Staying with a bunch of promising brains in a rural hostel, completely desolated, away from anything that would remind us of civilization. There is only snow and deep forests around.

Though I terribly suffer, being parted with her, I do enjoy it there, every minute of it, hanging out, reading Catch XXII, talking to friends I've been seeing for years but am likely to lose for good soon, enjoying sleepless nights and exhausted mornings but most of all — thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her — being completely absorbed in bottomless desire.

I bought a postcard when I was leaving the town, Escher's Balcony — to let her know that she was there with me.

It's after midnight, I'm freezing on a lifeless terrace and wondering what to put down to make sure she would understand. Nothing too serious, nothing too luscious. Must be spot on. Poetic. Maybe foolish. At the time, I didn't know I had to stay hungry, stay foolish. I simply was.

After all those years, I cannot recall what was it I wrote; I guess it could have been either something slightly romantic or slightly reserved — and there must have been far more between the lines. Though we were only about to learn about each other, I was eager to learn and happy to teach.

I remember thinking that this was it, that — while I knew so little about the girl — this was the definite love. Well, maybe it turned out it wasn't down the track but for the time-being it surely was.

So what's the moral of the story?

The balcony — it represents the moment when I was incredibly conscious about my life, I knew exactly what was going on and I knew that life was mine to handle. For that matter, a balcony, any balcony where I get time to reflect becomes an epitome of a gentle reminder: this is my life, my life to handle and I should rule the roost.

Over the clouds

Exactly as planned, I took off for a weekend. Landed in a provincial town where they still enjoy life as it comes. Far enough from everyday stress that proved to be too wearying last week. Spent a Friday night in a jazz club, had a few. Young musicians with balls, could not stop playing and jammed until late. A responsive audience, the night had its vibe.

Went to a second-hand bookstore on Saturday, a must-do anytime I'm around.

Just chilled on Sunday. Chilled. Sat in a pizza place with her, sipped a beer, then swapped it for a handful of cakes and a bench next to a fountain. The sun was shining and I felt fine.

— What you're up to? — asked she.
— I'm flying tonight.
— Bummer.
— I know.

Come what may. It's gonna be alright.

Seeking warmth

Listening to Paco de Lucía, semi-randomly chosen for me by iTunes. Haven't heard a single note of his guitar since maybe 1999. As I'm snoozing, all those once forgotten feelings are coming back with a vengeance.

I'm tired. Tired of a cold weather, a weakening loneliness in faceless crowds, tired of a useless mobile phone, empty walls and a numbing silence, but most of all, tired of a black hole in my mind that seems everlasting, bottomless and growing, a black hole that spreads fear and sorrow through my thoughts.

I am dying here.

I need to communicate. Keenly. I need to talk to people, I desperately need to laugh and have fun. And I need somebody who I can trust — after all, I am just a very ordinary human being.

I must fly away for a weekend to hold on to that little sanity that remains.

Ave Maria

An oldish guy sitting on a staircase of a burned down church, trembling with cold in a worn-out overcoat, praying quietly or maybe just trying to keep his hands warm. Snow is flying in the air, certainly unimpressed. The calmness is scary. Then Ave Maria hits the gloom from a nearby pole loudspeaker.

There is no flame in those eyes of his. No passion left. Could anybody make him scream? Would he scream, one wonders, can he scream at all? Or just ask for help? Can he? No words are needed, no gestures, just a glance, please.

Has he resigned altogether? Who is he, or rather who was he?

As I'm passing by I have a strange feeling. It cannot be me.

Sense of humour

Two billboards, both funny.

The first one was a boring butter advertisement, saying "that's the taste of butter" until somebody added "for a tasteless price".

The second one shows Karel Schwarzenberg, the Czech foreign minister snoozing in the Parliament. The energy drink ad says "you'll last longer". Could anybody point me to a hidden innuendo, please?

Atonement

I've just seen the movie. Few things resonate.

Firstly, it's a chick flick, no doubt. Great for late autumn, I suppose. Beautifully filmed, appropriate music, appreciable acting.

Secondly, I can't recall a chick flick that would prominently incorporate such a breathtakingly seditious sentence — In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt. An instant classic! Did MLK ever have a dream like that?

Thirdly, a real sentimental one. Me, Paddington, just outside one of the better bookstores around, across the street from two of my favourite cinemas. My last days in the city, hanging around, recording memories, to — sort of — never lose affection for people and things that went before. And chasing a coffee table book. A coffee table book, my dear friends.

A stand with free postcards and movie leaflets. Me, reading a short comment on the movie. I suspect something had left a trace. I remember considering going to see it. I remember whom with. I hesitated. I never went. No regrets. It meant to be that way.

That's how I'll look back on this one.

May?

May this be the best time of my life without me actually knowing it?

Strolling my life away, drifting through cities, countries, streets, parks, airports, nailed to the Internet or a book, sipping coffee in dodgy cafeterias and snack bars, enjoying compressed music and night trams. Is this really it?

I'm just wondering, 'cos there's probably no way to know until much later.

Feeling good

Haven't felt so good since... don't know when. Guess it has nothing to do with my current situation. How could it? It's all about booze. Take one beverage, then another one and mix them together. A bit more. Yeah, that feels right. And then drink. Drink more. And listen to a deep, deep music. Goose pimple music, honey. After a while, you find yourself watching the sky.

Could anybody hand me a joint, please?

Post orgasmic state

A one night stand. A quickie in a dark corridor. Bang-bang, off you go, thank you, see you again or maybe rather not. And now imagine considering a quickie and ending up having full-on sex for like two hours. Non-stop. Hot and sweaty, soaking in all kinds of bodily fluids, going through myriads mental states, ups and downs, flowing with it, enjoying, giving and taking as much as humanly possible on a roller coaster of lust.

And then, you're getting there. The waves of warmth are getting stronger, heartbeats through the roof, you're pushing harder and harder, you can feel the sensational finish just around the corner.

And then you come.

Yet there is no sex involved.

A personal record in f-words uttered then melting away in the bath, enjoying a margarita and a very Tony Montanesque mood.

Could I be talked into it again? Fuck yeah.

Sun

What a surprise. I've seen the sun today, lightening the Piccadilly. Had to take a photo as I doubt there's gonna be a chance to see a similar phenomenon anytime soon.

Tate Modern

A good one.

Cracking

Have just spent half a day in Charing Cross Road and around. Pleasing experience. Haven't bought a single book though I'm not sure it was the point. It takes a while to crack the numbness.

Should be coming here more often, thought I when passing out on the Tube.

Dreaming it all up again

Here I am, slightly bright, trying to look carefree more than I really am. As I'm looking back at 2007, I see so many positive results. I guess it was a good year, in all aspects but possibly one. So what? Almost nothing to whinge about, right?

Sigh.

Only I have to go and dream it all up again.