Midday Irish Dream

The castle did look beautiful indeed but I had no intention of spending over an hour locked inside, being told by the guide enthralling stories about every  single  brick  used to build the royal chambers. (Yes, I do realise it is somewhat of an exaggeration). Feeling like a rebel without  a cause  ( wearing  a leather jacket to add authencity to the whole picture)I quietly slipped out.
Ireland was  gorgeous indeed-without tourists in sight I could feel almost intoxicating sense of freedom.
I walked down a tiny cobble- stoned pathway, only to find myself staring at an old rusty gate.
The gate squeaked under my weight. One hop and I was on the other side.
I could not believe my eyes. Lush green lawn was stretching in front of me. Behind me the white towers of the castle stood in stark contrast to the grey sky. The lawn was framed by a dark, mysterious forest with old oaks which seemed to be showing off as if laughing at humans.
'Look at us. One can age gracefully. Every scar on our trunks tells a story of a beautiful day we have witnessed, every broken branch is a reminder of a past experience  from which we have learnt. And you, bizzare humab beings, constantly  striving to become clonea of each other. To wipe aways all traces of wrinkles  that add character to your, otherwise expressionless, faces. You should be more like us. Why don't  you want to listen?' - they seemed to be saying by angrily rustling  their leaves in the wind.
The silence was suddenly pierced  by children's  laughter, which echoed in the hollow and I decided to venture into thw woods.
Shade provided by the forest was very welcome indeed.  Unlike most  of my friends, I do not enjoy too much sunshine. It seems almost vulgar, stripping the world off its mysterious undertones only visible in cloudy weather.
I looked up at a vast oak. If there was a king of the trees to be appointed, it would definitely  have won  the prize. With huge branches it seemed to invite humans  to climb it and explore. So I did.
When I reached the perfect observation  point, low enough not to break my spine if I were to fall, yet high enough to provide me with gorgeous  views of the castle, I took off my jacket and created a nest in which I could relax and daydream about the ghost that suploaedly haunts the castle and the fairies  that, according to Irish folklore stories, hide underneath the stones and in the poisonous ivy conjuring mischievious tricks they can play on naive humans.
I closed my eyes for a brief moment and when I opened them I saw  a human running across the lawn. No, she wasn't  running, she seemed to be almost gliding or even flying. Her unkempt hair was flowing  behind her and she seemed to be enjoying the freedom provided by this beautiful place. The only thing  that surprised me was her  long summer dress. The day,after all, was quite chilly. The speed and grace with which she moved  was also astounding. Suddenly she laughed. But her laughter, instead of sounding joyful,   resonated with bitterness and blended in with howling of the wind. I have to admit  it did scare me and also made me curious. I needed to see her face. I started to climb down the tree . The wind was howling now, the last rays of sun seemed to have disappeared. I shivered from cold and fear and noticed that I ripped my jeans and there was a   trace of blood on my calf.
I hopped down and ran into the hollow
But she was gone. For a moment I thought i could hear the malicious laughter from somewhere in the woods.
'Was it the expression of self-content of the fairies?'- i thought to myself and the laughed at this silly question.
Then the gate squeaked  again and suddenly the hollow filled with tourists carrying their cameras and snacking on tuna-filled baguettes. 'Oh wow, it's amazing!', 'hey, come here, look at that!' They brought in the usual noise and suddenly  the whole hollow  became more joyful yet I could no hear the mysterious laughter or the whispering of the  oaks.

Coffee Shop

I always liked quaint coffee shops. People tend to spend more time there, which is ideal for me. I can observe and choose. I need to make sure that the victim I choose is a suitable one. Besides, coffee shops are usually associated with positivity: friends, family, jokes, laughter, couples in love…you know all this nonsense.

I don’t want to be overly stereotypical either. Everyone expects something ‘bad’, sinister to be lurking around the corner of a dark street. Does anyone expect anything other than smile and at worst burnt coffee in a small coffee shop with books scattered around it? No.

Anyway, I recently encountered this perfect tiny coffee shop in East London.

( Yes, I do want to be a little ‘hipster’, East London holds certain attraction for me). Interesting people come here. Aspiring actors, actresses, aspiring novel writers…

Everyone aspires to achieve something…

That’s perfect. I feed on their aspirations and ideas. Have you heard of energy vampires? We do not like to be associated with them (besides the whole bloody business is just a little bit too much for my liking, I prefer ‘clean jobs’), however, even I have to admit there are some similarities in the way we operate.

My strategy is to hide underneath the tea pot, leaving the rest of my body in the dark corner, where no one would expect to find anything other than occasional cockroach (Downside of my existence: having to put up with these filthy creatures. I prefer rats. They can at least understand me and communicate with me. Sometimes a little bit of socialising helps to kill time when I’m waiting)

Anyway, I hide and wait. (Yes, I know, you did get this part).

Recently I saw this young woman. Lovely creature. Full of ideas, aspirations.

 I could almost see them glitter in the dimly lit room. They were dancing above the table, forming colourful intertwined strands. This is what attracted me to her.

 I spent over a month listening to her thoughts, observing her scribble some words in her pink notebook (poor choice of colour but what can I say). Then, when I knew her, truly understood her and when she least expected it I made my move.

Now her thoughts belong to me, albeit she is unaware of my existence…

Abandoned Double-Decker On Road Number Three in Alaska

Alaska, Road Number Three to Talkeetna, 2015

Forests with moose and some grizzly bears surround road number three from Anchorage to Talkeetna. This beautiful landscape is sometimes disturbed by the presence of odd houses or rusty pickup trucks, yet nothing is as bizzare as a red bus that suddenly appears on the right to the surprise of drivers. There would be, perhaps, nothing astonishing about a bus being left on the side of a highway (even if it left on a very strange parking lot with a few old half-burnt cars), if it had not been for the fact that it is a double-decker. A double-decker that could  have well been seen on the streets of London fifty years ago.

London, 1950.

‘ Why are you doing this Jack?’ –she asked with tears in her hazelnut eyes.
‘ I told you, it is my dream. I just need to do this. I will be back in six months, honey. Just in time for our beautiful, even if slightly pompous, wedding.’
‘I still don’t understand you. A week ago we were walking down our favourite alley in Regent’s Park, deciding what kind of music we should have for our special day, when suddenly you announced that you were going to Alaska. And if that was not crazy enough on its own, you are also shipping a double decker, which I don’t know, how you got your hands on, and why, if I may add. It escapes me. Tell me, how did you do it? Why am I even asking. That’s not the answer I need. Why are you doing this? Is something wrong? Don’t you want to marry me? It must be this. You just don’t want it.’
‘No, darling,I just need some time on my own, before I commit myself to you. Forever’- he said, giving her one of his most charming smiles.
‘But why a double-decker? That’s insane! I always wanted to have a normal husband.’- she replied, slightly subdued.
‘We both know that there is no such thing as normal people. And even if there was, normal is boring. And I just happen to have this crazy dream of driving through Alaska in a double-decker’.
‘With grizzlies around you?’ –she laughed incredulously.
‘Of course, grizzlies add a tinge of excitement to the whole escapade.’
‘And why a double-decker?’
‘That’s my sweet secret. ‘- he answered, kissing her lightly on a peach cheek.
The truth was, he had no idea why he had decided to go to Alaska, or why should he do so in a double-decker. For the past few months he thought he had been living in  an almost fugue-like state, so it didn’t surprise him, when everything but infrequent sight of double-decker on the street, resulted in him deciding to ship one to Alaska.
Having said goodbye to his fiancée, he set off. He should be feeling something- some guilt for having abandoned his fiancée without providing any reasonable explanation, some doubts about quitting his well-paid job and some concern for his old and frail parents. Yet, he felt nothing. And this nothingness was quite refreshing.

First days in Alaska were incredible. For the first time in his life he was completely alone, not having to care about other people’s opinion, which surprisingly, was very favourable. Locals loved the idea of a crazy Brtish man arriving in the wilderness in a double-decker. Some of them had even offered to pay him for a wedding rental. He declined all the offers politely. For now, he didn’t need money and he felt good in his funny bus. Strangely, the mere thought of a wedding made him feel he had made a right decision to come here. He loved his fiancée and did want to get marry. Eventually. But Alaskan dream seemed more important now. They say that women are complicated creatures but who can understand the mind of a young man? All humans are unpredictable.

It was a beautiful drive. Jack was enjoying the sunshine, finding the rocking of the bus soothing. He even got used to the fumes and oddly found the smell appeasing.  Planning the rest of the trip in his head, he was quite glad he was soon going to be reunited with his fiancée. He even sent her a letter saying how sorry he was for leaving her with so few explanations, yet made sure she understood he needed this time before he could have a family on his own.  A sudden wave of happiness overcame him, the kind of happiness that is most valuable as it springs from small, seemingly ordinary activites that make one feel alive. He even started whistling and became ravenously hungry.
Luckily, a parking spot was nearby.

He was about to bite into a delicious sandwich, when he saw a man approaching.
The man was wearing a chequered shirt. He had an enormous reddish-blond beard and piercing blue eyes. The ice-cold stare made Jack think of psychopaths in thriller movies he adored.
‘ Morning, mate. Have you heard of recent bear attacks? Two days ago a man was mauled to death by a grizzly. Firstly lost the arm, then the leg. Lots of blood. He must have been suffering. You know, there even was…’
‘ Yes, I get it, thanks for the warning’ – Jack cut him off, starting to feel uncomfortable.
‘Although you know some say it might have been a serial killer. After all, living here, in seclusion…who would blame a guy for going bonkers?’ – the man’s beard  was shaking violently with every laugh.
‘ Well yes, who knows’- said Jack, thinking about getting back into his bus as soon as possible.
‘You have a lovely bus. Mate, you are a weirdo yourself. Who drives a bus liken this in Alaska? Is it from London?’
‘Yes. Sorry, I really need to get going. Have to be in Talkeetna by noon. It was nice to meet you, though. Take care.’
An arm put suddenly on his shoulder stopped him from going anywhere.
‘Not so fast, mate. Just show me around your bus. Then you can go to Talkeetna’.

Year 2015
Jack never came back to London, nor did he even arrive in Talkeetna. Only the  strange parking lot and sad, abandoned double-decker could tell the story of what happened to him. Was it a grizzly bear attack?Was it the stranger he encountered? Or maybe he decided to live in the wilderness? After all, humans are everything but predictable.

Hamadryads

Hamadryads... no one would believe in our existence, even though we are so vividly described in Greek mythology. Dryads that are one with trees... Beautiful, evasive creatures, whose energy and soul fuse with the roots of old oaks or birches.  Our existence sounds too far-fetched to be even considered as a  remote possibility by the mortals.

Yet, how can one explain this ecstatic feeling humans get when they are at dusk in a forest that's waking up? Forest that seems to yawn by rustling leaves in the wind? Forest that says 'good morning ' with invigorating sound of bird squeaking?

Sometimes we call out to those humans who are are not able to sleep during hot July  nights. We have various subtle methods but our favourite one is to employ cheerfully buzzing mosquitos. They are good at  dragging humans out of bed. Those that hear our primordial calling find themselves wandering to the woods at an ungodly hour in almost a trance-like state.

Our sweet music makes them realise with greatest astonishment that even their favourite songs can't  rival the sounds they are surrounded by. Their ridiculous belief that everything they create is superior vanishes into thin air as soon as they hear the sounds of true Nature. Humbly, they have to agree that adding an artificial sound to this, already perfect, music would be a dissonance. Almost like listening to an old Dire Strait vinyl with a scratch on it.

And when they truly open their eyes, sometimes for the first time in their lives,  they see us- smiling seductively or sweetly ( depending on our mood) at them, hugging an oak birch. And only then do they believe.

You are still unconvinced? Try to resist our calling at five am on a hot July morning.

Reflections Of A Squirrel On A Hot July Afternoon

Another branch of the old oak bent with slightest crack under my weight. Yes, that was definitely a nice jump.

 It’s so hot today. The whole park is bathed in the sun and there is almost tangible laziness in the heavy air. Some like it. I don’t. Well, I do enjoy an occasional sunny day- makes my fur glitter so nicely. As if it was made of silver. Or diamonds. Wait…I’m not a magpie!

So what if I’m vain? Another nut. Mmm….this one is delicious indeed. Ripened, nicely rounded. Why don’t squirrels get the right to have feelings? People are so ignorant. They think that only they can experience the ‘deepest feelings’ of love and hatred. They come here with their impressive books and think that by reading ‘A la recherche du temps perdu’ they can find the time time they’ve lost. Or that by immersing themselves in Shakespearean novels they can learn something about love and passion. Well, fair enough maybe they can. Those are not the ones that really bother me.

I don’t like the ones that come here and instead of enjoying the immensity of the trees and the gracefulness with which we jump, keep staring at the screens of their phones.

Lovey-dovey couples that come here and sit it on the bench but instead of talking to each other, snapchat (I think I got this right but can’t be sure- we don’t need this kind of modality in our kingdom) their pictures and think that by capturing them on Instagram with hasghtags: #beautifulsunnyday# anothergorgeousdayinLondon# omgasquirrel they will convince other people hat they are having amazing time.

But are they? How can they really be here and enjoy the moment, enjoy the NOW when they are instagramming their moments away?  Maybe they are the ones that should read ‘A la recherche du temps perdu’. But then again, how can they FIND something they never experienced because they were too busy living in another dimension?

‘Who gives you the right to judge others?’- you could ask. Well fair enough, I’m only a squirrel. But then, again, isn’t a squirrel entitled to its own opinion? After all, living in a world without mobile phones and ipads, I get a chance to observe. And observing people is so interesting. No wonder they call it people-watching.

This couple, there, on my right, is engaging in some serious PDA right now (see, how good I am with this slang. People-watching is definitely worth my time. I learn so much). But is it really public if no one but me can see them at the moment? Now, that’s a philosophical question. They are in a public place. True. But there is no one around them except for me. Well, I’ll ask some of my friends for their opinion.

I prefer this to ignorance, however. At least they are embracing the moment and truly LIVING it, instead of pretending to exist in virtual world whilst making this one slip away.

Oh, here’s another nut. This one is going to taste just delicious.

Wychwood Fields

Fields near Wychwood, August 1614

The usual beauty of the landscape was further enhanced by the contrast between the golden fields of rye and dark graphite sky. One could hear the angry rumbling of the fast-approaching thunderstorm and see the serpent-like lightnings tearing the horizon. The whole view was so captivating that only a really observant onlooker would have spotted three feminine figures running across the fields. And only upon approaching them would he be able to notice the identical otherworldly faces framed by flame-red hair tumbling in ringlets upon their shoulders. If the said onlooker was a stranger, he would probably just gasp in admiration, overwhelmed by the women’s striking beauty. If he were empathetic enough, he would also feel a thrill of fear running down his spine. But that was all. Yet if the onlooker were a habitant of Wychwood village, he would flee in panic upon glimpsing the figures, as he would have realised who they were: the infamous witches of Wychwood.

What have they done to deserve such reputation no one would be able to tell. Perhaps it was the fact that even the gods are jealous, let alone simple villagers? So much beauty, intelligence and pride is always a dangerous combination.

  Especially if it is multiplied by three. And especially if the behaviour is difficult to understand. How could one explain the fact that the children dying of infections were suddenly cured by an aromatic mixture of herbs picked up by the Witches in the forest? Or, even more bizarrely, that the process of drinking the medication had to be accompanied by a soft chanting in the words the villagers could not understand? How could one comprehend that no one could resist the inviting smile and twinkle in the Witches’ eyes? Or that the Witches’ garden was always filled with flowers- proud roses, shy lilies of the valley, cheerful poppies and flirty violets, even when the harsh winter made it impossible for the flowers to bloom anywhere else?

Witches were strange. There was something too different and magical about them for the villagers to like them, yet they were too useful for them not to accept the fact that they had to coexist with them peacefully in Wychwood. No one, however, would calmly stay with them in the fields, especially if the Witching Hour was approaching. Some even believed that the Witches could control the thunders (Who else would have burnt down the oak which used to be a jewel of the village, standing in the centre and inviting the couples in love to exchange their vows underneath the umbrella of its leaves?), yet the more reasonable ones realised that that story might have been a little far-fetched.

All in all, no one in their right mind would want to be there in the fields near Wychwood in the company of the three Witches.

The said Witches were in fact ecstatic. They were running freely, enjoying the wind in their hair and listening to the sound of the approaching storm and the rustling of the leaves. They were laughing at the mere thought that someone might perceive them as danger. What they were about to do was far from being harmful.

One of them, having recently fallen in love with a handsome and fearless villager with greyish- brown eyes, decided that this cheerful moment should be commemorated. She convinced her two sisters to cast a spell upon the fields and the forest surrounding Wychwood.

The thunder, accompanied swiftly by a lightning made it impossible to hear the words the Witches whispered while casting the spell. Only the nearby birches heard them and giggled cheerfully already anticipating witnessing many beautiful moments.

Present Day

People do indeed find happiness near Wychwood. Once they arrive there they understand what Laurie Lee must have felt when he wrote ‘Cider With Rosie’. They simply get intoxicated by the beauty of Cotswolds.

And only the wooden nymphs inhabiting the enchanted woods laugh softly when they see them sitting on a tree that has been knocked over by a violent windstorm, engaged in serious conversations. For, although they do realise how powerful the spell cast by the Witches was, they know that the real magic lies in transcending conventions and believing that moments like this are what is worth living for.

A Bar at the Folies-Bergère

Hundreds of people stare at me every single day. I see admiration in their eyes, curiosity. The first thing men notice is the flower at my cleavage. Or rather the cleavage itself. The flower was placed there to provide their eyes with a convenient and elegant excuse.  Flowers are so innocent, so poetic. One could even say romantic. Women look at my face, then glance at the necklace. I can hear some of them saying: ‘I wish I had a necklace like this’.

Yes, jewellery has always been known to attract women’s attention. They wonder why my eyes are so sad. Why would they not be? Look at the people in the restaurant. They are having so much fun, living their life to the fullest. They barely notice me.

 I am the ‘girl behind the bar’. ‘A glass of red wine? Of course, straight away.’ ‘Sorry, sir, I don’t know why it took me so long.’ ‘What can I get for you, madam?’

 Folie- Bergeres…it is a ‘folie’ indeed. ‘Why are my eyes so sad?’- you ask.  Wouldn’t yours be if you saw such decadence, degradation unfolding in front of you? I wish I could just turn my head and state with contempt that this crowd is ridiculing itself.  But wouldn’t your eyes be sad if you could not participate in this frenzy, which although almost inhumane, brings about ecstatic pleasure of being utterly free? Free from all the rules, free from the roles we are normally given to play in the society?

They stare at me, admiring the painting. Wondering. Trying to come up with some witty remarks to impress their loved ones. ‘Look at the colours he used’, ‘Manet was a genius: It’s amazing how a century -and –half old painting can convey to a modern audience, isn’t it honey?’

Wonder why there is no smile in my eyes? Would there be in yours if you had to listen to this every day?

‘ Look at the dangling feet!’- This particular couple caught my attention. They look so happy. There is something interesting about them. I can almost feel that they are transcending all the convenances, like the crowd in the restaurant, yet so unlike it. There is definitely folie in what they have. But this folie makes me almost want to smile.’ C’est de la folie pure!’ -them being together. Perhaps. But maybe this kind of folie makes one actually live one’s life. Wonder why my eyes are so sad? I would give anything to be able to experience what they have.