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.

Spring's Kiss

Spring's Kiss

The warmth on my cheek

The blinding rays on my eyelids

Fluttering eyelashes

I protect

My soul.

I agree with the great writers

One can be kissed by the sun.

Your taste on my lips

I drink hungrily.

Never quenching my thirst

I get intoxicated.

Never willing to stop

I think they don’t

Comprehend the real kiss.

The Cat

Being a cat is not easy. Of course, there are many perks- no need to get up at a ridiculously early hour like He does. (Why? It never ceases to amaze me). Every morning He rushes down the stairs and grabs a chocolate croissant. If I’m lucky and he’s in a real rush, the croissant will slip from his hands and that’s where I get my breakfast. So much better than this muddy cat stuff. I wonder why people think it’s good for me. One chocolate croissant. Is it really too much to ask for?

Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, he grabs a chocolate croissant and kisses Her on the cheek. No, it’s not a kiss. It’s more of a peck. He knows he should do it, so He does. Mechanically. One quick peck on the right cheek.  And She mechanically turns the cheek and says in this falsely cheerful voice: ‘Have a lovely day!’ but I know that she doesn’t really care about his day, already too absorbed planning her own. Then it’s Her turn to get ready. Before She heads upstairs to put some weird red staff on her mouth, She gives me the muddy food. Ok, ok, I’m being slightly on the critical side here. In fact it’s not too bad and the fish variety could rival the sausage that I sometimes find on the table, if it is inadvertently left there. Or maybe they leave it there because they know I want it? Why do they get to eat in a civilised way, sitting at this lovely (oh how good it feels to dig my nails into it) wooden table and I have to eat from the floor? Yes, you get it right. From the FLOOR. 

Anyway, I have to admit that the muddy stuff does actually make my charcoal fur shine even more, when I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why she hates it when I sit in the bathroom sink. Surely, I have the right to admire myself just as she does? And I spend less time there than she does. Plus, there are so many interesting things to play with. My favourite one is the funny tube that releases this weird colourful substance when I press on it. Once, being driven crazy by my ignorance as to its purpose, I hid under the cupboard and saw Him squeezing the substance into his mouth. This was followed by a vigorous scrubbing with a strange object. Humans are really bizarre. Why would they eat something that smells so awful- a strong odour of mint- rather than enjoy the taste of cheese or ham?  Anyway, I’m rambling again. See, being cat is really not easy. So where was I?

Oh yes, when they leave the house I am bored. All the mice, which used to be so fun to chase after, (Do not for a moment think I would have eaten them, although this is apparently what He expected of me, when I first brought him a nice, freshly strangled and bitten specimen), disappeared long ago and now I need to come up with some new activities to occupy myself with.

My favourite pastime is ripping apart the huge sheets of paper with black letters all over them, which I find discarded near the bin (She’s too lazy to put them inside the bin, so they end up laying everywhere but not where they are supposed to be) and contemplating. Yes, you got it right. I spend most of my day contemplating.

Humans don’t get it. I’ve heard them laugh so many times when they catch me absorbed in this extremely intense task and say: ‘ Oh look, she’s sitting motionless again. Like a statute! Maybe she’s turned into a sphinx?’

What is a sphinx? When I demanded, they gave me a sausage. Of course, a sausage is ALWAYS appreciated but not when I want to deepen my knowledge, which is, not to be boastful, quite extensive and impressive.  Who knows better than I do where are the keys that got lost two months ago? (Ok, I did learn this fact by making them disappear and hiding underneath the sofa but please do understand, they make the loveliest noise possible when I chase them around the living room)

But how long can one contemplate for? When they finally return, (Why is he always so stressed when he comes home? And if he is, why does he keeping rushing so much wherever it is that he goes in the morning? What’s the point in rushing somewhere where you don’t want to be? It’s as if I was rushing to be bathed. Not happening. Ever. Humans really are weirdest of creatures.), I get one shot at running out of the door and going for a lovely walk. I don’t understand why they get so angry when I do get out and why do they keep chasing me.

 I would always come home. Where else would it be so warm and where else would I have so much food? I am not a bin cat. I feel repulsed by some cats that fight for a smelly piece of bone down the street. Honestly, can’t they just go home and ask for something better? That’s what I do whenever I feel hungry. I’ve also noticed that when I look at Her very intently, without blinking, she makes this cooing, funny noise: ’awwww’ and gives me something very tasty.

This was the noise she made one day when her loud blonde friend in very high heels and smile that seemed to be plastered on her face brought with her a small, wailing creature. I found the creature mildly interesting but the humans treated it as if it was a miracle. They gathered around the creature, started smiling and saying how beautiful the creature was. Well they don’t say this about me this often.  I did feel jealous! Maybe I should be wailing like the creature?

Anyway, when I go for a walk I get to observe the humans in their natural habitat. Normally, I sit in the middle of the street in the dark and watch whoever passes by. Most of them are always in a hurry. I presume they have more wailing creatures at home, as they all seem to like them.  Sometimes, they walk slower, however, enjoying the views and the calmness of the night. (See how poetic I’ve become since I’ve started contemplating life in the middle of the dark alley?). 

Look at these two male humans. They seem to be angry. They are shouting at each other and not paying even slightest attention to me, even though I am sitting here very gracefully. Strange. Not even batting my long eyelashes or seductive purring seems to be interesting to them. Well, their loss.

Oh, this is interesting! There is a couple, kissing passionately, He presses her against the wall and she says (actually that resembles my purr): ‘One more kiss. Please’. They seem to be in another reality, another dimension. Although I’m a few metres away, I can still feel the love and passion that surrounds them like magical aura. After all, I’m a cat, and being one I’m in possession of many special gifts, which most humans do not have. Now, that’s what I call a kiss.

I have to run home and tell Them how it should be done.

MS short story

The sunshine and soothing sound of music played by the band were transforming the fete into something I’ve dreamt up moths ago. This idyllic picture was completed by children’s’ laughter and the joyful barking of the dogs, not yet aware of the fact that they were to be presented in front of the audience.

 ‘Would they ever be?’- The thought came to my mind though I couldn’t quite dwell on it. It was too hot. Way too hot.

  ‘Would they want to compete in the categories such as ‘the best personality’ or, even worse, ‘the wiggliest tail’? Is it right for us, humans, to subject the animals to such degradation for our pleasure? Or maybe it’s not degradation after all? Perhaps the animals enjoy the fleeting moment of attention? Maybe the proud owners do not normally spend so much time with them?’ – I wondered but it was too difficult to focus on it. It was becoming difficult to focus on anything.

I could see a small crowd gathering around the excited animals. It was difficult to say whether the owners weren’t more excited than their pets. The dog show was clearly a good idea.  I applauded myself for coming up with it.

‘Wait, was it my idea? Why is everything so confusing? Why am I so tired?’ – the questions kept popping into my head making it even more difficult to focus on various people greeting me, congratulating me on organising this event.

‘Don’t they understand how difficult it is for me to be here? To be stuck in this wheelchair, barely being able to open my mouth?’- the angry voice in my head silenced all the cheerful thoughts I had. Suddenly the picture seemed less idyllic. It started to resemble a sad grotesque.

Here they were, strangers, coming to learn something about multiple sclerosis, the disease I’ve been suffering from for almost ten years now. They were proud of themselves.  Sacrificing their Sunday just to come and see ‘ill people’, show their mercy, spend some pennies on the coconut water or cookies. I could see pity in their eyes as they were approaching me to say: ‘ Wow, thank you for organising this. It’s amazing’.

‘But is it? What have I really accomplished?’- This question would have made me really upset had I not been so tired. It’s easy for them to laugh, run, enjoy the sunshine. Well, simply enjoy the life. My life, as I knew it, ended some years ago. No, that’s the wrong way to put it. It did not end abruptly like a candle being extinguished by a strong blow of the wind. It used to burn like a flame and then began withering and withering away until I was left like this. (‘withering and withering away’…just like my thoughts now. Why is it so hot?) Same body, still recognisable by my friends. Yet so different to what it used to look like. Still the same mind, yet so changed. Much less recognisable by me.

‘Who’s this person approaching me? I’ve seen him before’

Another handshake, another kiss on the cheek. Then they will all go back to their world, shutting the door tightly behind them. It’s not easy to be surrounded by the disabled people after all.  I used to be exactly like this. How do you approach someone with a disability? Show him pity?  He’ll recognise it. Just as I can feel it now.

The music changed. The joyful sounds of some old rock song filled the churchyard. I saw the smiles on people’s faces. I heard them talking passionately about MS.

Maybe I did accomplish something after all. Perhaps our worlds are intermingled and it’s me creating the division, shutting myself off from them. Maybe the children’s laughter and the smile of people surrounding me are worth it. Maybe my life can still resemble the flame rather than a hollow existence. Maybe that’s just how it should be. My lips twitched. I was smiling.