Long awaited here they come.. another list of queer things about the UK. Before you accustom to this country, before the Britishness blinds you, try to notice how weird it all is...
- everyone around you is skinny, yet they warn you about obesity and you feel pressured to buy low fat products, especially if the 45 year old lady before you put 7 0%fat yoghurts on the conveyor belt as her lunch for the week
- everyone is anonymous discouraged from developing any relation with the environment. And you keep thinking how nice it was when the guys in Aroma mispronounced your name when calling you for your hafuh katan.
Sometimes it is annoying when they force this personal contact on you, how there are no mirrors in the changing room so that you need to parade in the shop to find a mirror and listen to other people’s opinions on how you look and be vulnerable to the salesperson getting you in their claws to convince you if how this piece of clothing suits you (better that rather than them telling you that you look fat, I think they would be ready for that too). If your social skills are good enough you may involve half of the staff and some customers into a discussion about the fashion or the preferable colour of the skirt.
Mind how there are often no priced on the items displayed in the shop and how each brand of cosmetics has their own sales person. They attack you the moment you slow down your walking pace to the “oh they have an offer for creams here” mode, for them “ she thinks about stopping.. she is mine”, forcing on you some contact, you are never left alone -to think, you need to discuss! That is the best way to reach a good decision, right? In some places it may be also called haggling.
Here, starting a conversation with someone would be not in place. Raising voice with shop staff, bus drivers – verbal abuse, touching someone in the bus – sexual abuse. Asking about religion/origin/salary anything – not politically correct. That is why small (and quiet) talk developed. They are just so cautious not to hurt anyone...everyone is made of straw...
-pub is a social place, whole families come there! It is not a mecca for dark magic and shady people smirking on you from above their pint of Guinness.
-the fact that you plugged something in does not mean it will work – TURN ON the socket
-no one will stop for you at the pedestrian crossing – there are LIGHTS - wait for the green or.. learn to maneuver and …run quickly
-people don’t honk because they saw you (if ever) – just to be seen themselves
- suddenly I see how valuable the pound is! A truly royal currency … the 99p stores are not as cheap as they would seem
- in the tube today – walked in total around 20 minutes to get to the platforms - on the way heard guitar pop, reggae on drums and some light blues – I think they all have lost their way to the British Idol in the underground labyrinths
- I smile to people – they smile back? – they are foreigners
- everyone is very sorry for the ‘possible inconveniences’ i.e. making your life unbearable by smelly and loud road works or miserable by cancelling tube lines during the weekends
- directions are everywhere and very soon you find yourself afraid when you don’t follow the arrow in the underground… what if…u got lost?
- there are animals here- foxes instead of cats take care of your trash bins, squeaking seagulls wake you up in the morning and squirrels hide their nuts behind the electricity box
- you can by everything in it’s baby version, as if to make people believe they eat less, after All these are just baby potatoes, baby spinach, baby carrots and cherry tomatoes
- last orders at 11.30!? But I have just arrived!
14.8.09
10.8.09
Treasure hunt
Imagine living in two rooms for one and a half year. Imagine how with time the density of this space is growing and each little chunk of space is being occupied by things that everyone naturally (and hamster-like) accumulates . When it reaches the point of saturation… it all blows up. No. things crawl out of your space and start to spread around…to the bathroom to the kitchen. That way everything that one would normally just shove to the attic is close to you all the time. Hard to access, that’s true, but still the past is mixed with the present. And today I started digging through this treasure land, just out of curiosity and in the light of the coming apartment change (just to estimate how much we have to drag behind, really I sometimes wish I was a snail, or better a turtle, not a big fan of slime). Never did I expect such an amassment of various belongings, this moving saved us for truly we had been standing on the verge of collapse due to a gravity pull – we - two stars ending like two sister supernovas on a little street of Acton. Anyway, what have I not found today! Memories and chunks of past life, leftovers of myself from before one, three, five years…featuring: prom’s shoes (don’t ask about the design, just… don’t… but, did my feet grew? I thought they stop at this age…), a poncho I forgot I ever had, a box from my last university year (postcards from walls, cartooned tutors… ;), kilograms of Polish chocolate, that we apparently got as presents and a bottle of vodka clothed in a little down jacket. I don’t even mention a tone of books. You never think what you are putting away, because of course you are going to deal with it very soon, decide what to throw away and what you need, or you simply think you will soon need it and you know where it is. That is why it is always so surprising what you discover – because it’s true, not selected and thought over, simply you from the past in the box. Sometimes there are also thoughts in these boxes and drawers. Makes me think about Pandora…
9.8.09
Green Witch!
If ever I was disappointed with this city, today it had earned enough credit for the whole week! Thanks to my marvellous internet skills we got 2 return tickets to Greenwich for the price of one and after dealing with underground works that always happen on the weekend to facilitate tourists’ life we got to Embankment from where we were about to sail. The captain who underlined 3 times that he was not a qualified tour guide turned out to be a sailing comedian and led us through the Thames with his pinching humour – joking form Prince Charles, the French and at the very end of the passengers themselves, saying that he does not expect much of an appreciation, especially as half of the people aboard did not understand a word. His explanations were ended with ‘God be with you and God save the queen’ welcomed with a round of applause which he… wanted us not to stop. A skinny retired old salesman passed among the rows with an old champagne bucket asking for ‘voluntary signs of appreciation’ for the guide, I treated it as a memory of my old Sundays in the church where they also asked for voluntary contributions. Yet they looked you straight in the eye when you did not volunteer any of your notes…
On this surprisingly sunny and warm day we set off to visit Greenwich, in my mind almost a capital of world’s astronomy – of the two hemispheres, of time, of sky, of everything. Very pretty indeed, and as a welcome I heard some Hebrew in the tourist centre, little room well equipped in leaflets that I collect…to give more to recycle, no, no for example to cut nice pictures from them. Walking without a plan we run into a local market with many hand-made products, oriental clothing and gadgets as well as food. Pants that I got in Israel for mere 5 shekels (not even one pound) were worth there as much as 10! Robbery I wanted to scream out. But, no one would pay attention anyway. I noticed an interesting shop full of little bottles with a two coloured liquid and the salesperson was a fairy! She said that by the law of attraction each person will choose a set of colours that suits them, that they need, and than they need to apply these oils (it turned out to be some sort of aromatherapy) on their body to help them achieve higher states of awareness, internal balance, true happiness or whatever. I picked one and she told me it was ‘a wisdom rescue’ for people who lack belief in their knowledge and skills, who underestimate themselves. Don’t worry I will not start believing in Tarot…
"Which one attracts YOU, missy?"
Walking with eyes wide open fro too long I got tired, yet the main point of my focus was still on the way – the Royal Observatory, all for free at this time of the year, how lucky in this horrible stingy country, sucking on its poor citizens. The observatory was just great, with all sorts of interactive games, probably for children…but not without a reason have I waited over 15 years to be bigger than them and be able to chase them away easily. So again an hour or so in total awe, plus more Israeli people, plus 0 meridian with a giant queue to take a picture on it, no way I would wait. Later we saw some other boring things just because they were for free so what to do. It would be almost like waste of money not to go.
In the village of a green witch I met a colour fairy. I should have expected something like that, shouldn’t I?
On this surprisingly sunny and warm day we set off to visit Greenwich, in my mind almost a capital of world’s astronomy – of the two hemispheres, of time, of sky, of everything. Very pretty indeed, and as a welcome I heard some Hebrew in the tourist centre, little room well equipped in leaflets that I collect…to give more to recycle, no, no for example to cut nice pictures from them. Walking without a plan we run into a local market with many hand-made products, oriental clothing and gadgets as well as food. Pants that I got in Israel for mere 5 shekels (not even one pound) were worth there as much as 10! Robbery I wanted to scream out. But, no one would pay attention anyway. I noticed an interesting shop full of little bottles with a two coloured liquid and the salesperson was a fairy! She said that by the law of attraction each person will choose a set of colours that suits them, that they need, and than they need to apply these oils (it turned out to be some sort of aromatherapy) on their body to help them achieve higher states of awareness, internal balance, true happiness or whatever. I picked one and she told me it was ‘a wisdom rescue’ for people who lack belief in their knowledge and skills, who underestimate themselves. Don’t worry I will not start believing in Tarot…
"Which one attracts YOU, missy?"
Walking with eyes wide open fro too long I got tired, yet the main point of my focus was still on the way – the Royal Observatory, all for free at this time of the year, how lucky in this horrible stingy country, sucking on its poor citizens. The observatory was just great, with all sorts of interactive games, probably for children…but not without a reason have I waited over 15 years to be bigger than them and be able to chase them away easily. So again an hour or so in total awe, plus more Israeli people, plus 0 meridian with a giant queue to take a picture on it, no way I would wait. Later we saw some other boring things just because they were for free so what to do. It would be almost like waste of money not to go.
In the village of a green witch I met a colour fairy. I should have expected something like that, shouldn’t I?
7.8.09
Flashes no.2
Oh no the magic hour of today has passed and I forgot to celebrate it :/
(you didn't know? 12:34:56 07.08.09! :D )
- everyone around you is skinny, yet they warn you about obesity and you feel pressured to buy low fat products, especially if the 45 year old lady before you put 7 0%fat yoghurts on the conveyor belt as her lunch for the week
- everyone is anonymous discouraged from developing any relation with the environment. And you keep thinking how nice it was when the guys in Aroma mispronounced your name when calling you for your hafuh katan.
Sometimes it is annoying when they force this personal contact on you, how there are no mirrors in the changing room so that you need to parade in the shop to find a mirror and listen to other people’s opinions on how you look and be vulnerable to the salesperson getting you in their claws to convince you if how this piece of clothing suits you (better that rather than them telling you that you look fat, I think they would be ready for that too). If your social skills are good enough you may involve half of the staff and some customers into a discussion about the fashion or the preferable colour of the skirt.
Mind how there are often no priced on the items displayed in the shop and how each brand of cosmetics has their own sales person. They attack you the moment you slow down your walking pace to the “oh they have an offer for creams here” mode, for them “ she thinks about stopping.. she is mine”, forcing on you some contact, you are never left alone -to think, you need to discuss! That is the best way to reach a good decision, right? In some places it may be also called haggling.
Here, starting a conversation with someone would be not in place. Raising voice with shop staff, bus drivers – verbal abuse, touching someone in the bus – sexual abuse. Asking about religion/origin/salary anything – not politically correct. That is why small (and quiet) talk developed. They are just so cautious not to hurt anyone...everyone is made of straw...
-pub is a social place, whole families come there! It is not a mecca for dark magic and shady people smirking on you from above their pint of Guinness.
-the fact that you plugged something in does not mean it will work – TURN ON the soccet
I already know there is more to come...just be patient.
(you didn't know? 12:34:56 07.08.09! :D )
- everyone around you is skinny, yet they warn you about obesity and you feel pressured to buy low fat products, especially if the 45 year old lady before you put 7 0%fat yoghurts on the conveyor belt as her lunch for the week
- everyone is anonymous discouraged from developing any relation with the environment. And you keep thinking how nice it was when the guys in Aroma mispronounced your name when calling you for your hafuh katan.
Sometimes it is annoying when they force this personal contact on you, how there are no mirrors in the changing room so that you need to parade in the shop to find a mirror and listen to other people’s opinions on how you look and be vulnerable to the salesperson getting you in their claws to convince you if how this piece of clothing suits you (better that rather than them telling you that you look fat, I think they would be ready for that too). If your social skills are good enough you may involve half of the staff and some customers into a discussion about the fashion or the preferable colour of the skirt.
Mind how there are often no priced on the items displayed in the shop and how each brand of cosmetics has their own sales person. They attack you the moment you slow down your walking pace to the “oh they have an offer for creams here” mode, for them “ she thinks about stopping.. she is mine”, forcing on you some contact, you are never left alone -to think, you need to discuss! That is the best way to reach a good decision, right? In some places it may be also called haggling.
Here, starting a conversation with someone would be not in place. Raising voice with shop staff, bus drivers – verbal abuse, touching someone in the bus – sexual abuse. Asking about religion/origin/salary anything – not politically correct. That is why small (and quiet) talk developed. They are just so cautious not to hurt anyone...everyone is made of straw...
-pub is a social place, whole families come there! It is not a mecca for dark magic and shady people smirking on you from above their pint of Guinness.
-the fact that you plugged something in does not mean it will work – TURN ON the soccet
I already know there is more to come...just be patient.
After I came back I have aded a note on facebook to which I have written a continuation and I feel I need to copy the previous piece so that the contination would make sense.
---------------------------------------
I think everyone needs to write it. Memories/experiences from Israel or a come-back-shock piece.
To all those who were in England, are about to come, or were in Israel and came back to their countries. There are some things you didn't remember, right?
Or just to those who are bored and night and search through peoples profiles.
- one simple truth – the weather IS changeable – if the day starts with sun, don’t be to optimistic. Taking off and putting on your jacket is a norm.
- 1st day – I was wearing a scarf, yet this part of me readjusted the fastest – now I am in a t-shirt and people around me wear jackets. Perhaps I am just too elated when the sun comes out.
- why are you all so sorry and thankful all the time!?
- it is so green around! Trees EVERYWHERE! That’s why it is called the commonwealth right? Natural commonwealth you don’t even know what you have!
- I passed 2 suspiciously looking and violent boys standing in the middle of the street, wearing tracksuits and with short hair (with lots of brilliantine) and making some dark businesses, peeking left or right from time to time. They had bikes. They were 10.
- On Saturday I woke up to the screams of our Greek neighbours. Hasavalis babalis coolabula. Lasted till I finished my jogging.
- The Indian guy fro the local Polish store waves at me when I pass. I was there twice half a year ago.
- Sakkae showed us some apartment’s to rent – where are the British people
- The tube talks to me, the bus talks to me – except for the fact that I can not concentrate because of that… is it the most British ‘conversation’ you can get in the country of immigrants?
- Recycling make you realize how much plastic waste you produce every day. Why oh why do they put those five tomatoes on a plastic tray and wrapped it in plastic into a plastic bag?
- My mum sees and talks to her neighbour best friend every day. They still talk on the phone.
- Pubs with weird double barrelled names are on every corner, the lamb and flag, the leek and a horse (maybe a leak in the horse?) , the tomato and a horn, you name it.
-You do small talk about parking and weather – you are bored but you smile, no one can hep you, no one knows anything – you will never get to know then and you smile, banks and shops are opened till 5
- you can’t do anything and you smile, than you meet any foreigner and you bitch about the Brits.
- cheers? Again I thought the cashier was making a toast.
- I am sick of coffee with a lot of milk. Yuk.
- You can buy EVERYTHING ready in the supermarket. In powder, in liquid, ¼ ready, half ready or just ready. Well, but that would be laziness.
Ah and ugly people. not like all of us :D
---------------------------------------
I think everyone needs to write it. Memories/experiences from Israel or a come-back-shock piece.
To all those who were in England, are about to come, or were in Israel and came back to their countries. There are some things you didn't remember, right?
Or just to those who are bored and night and search through peoples profiles.
- one simple truth – the weather IS changeable – if the day starts with sun, don’t be to optimistic. Taking off and putting on your jacket is a norm.
- 1st day – I was wearing a scarf, yet this part of me readjusted the fastest – now I am in a t-shirt and people around me wear jackets. Perhaps I am just too elated when the sun comes out.
- why are you all so sorry and thankful all the time!?
- it is so green around! Trees EVERYWHERE! That’s why it is called the commonwealth right? Natural commonwealth you don’t even know what you have!
- I passed 2 suspiciously looking and violent boys standing in the middle of the street, wearing tracksuits and with short hair (with lots of brilliantine) and making some dark businesses, peeking left or right from time to time. They had bikes. They were 10.
- On Saturday I woke up to the screams of our Greek neighbours. Hasavalis babalis coolabula. Lasted till I finished my jogging.
- The Indian guy fro the local Polish store waves at me when I pass. I was there twice half a year ago.
- Sakkae showed us some apartment’s to rent – where are the British people
- The tube talks to me, the bus talks to me – except for the fact that I can not concentrate because of that… is it the most British ‘conversation’ you can get in the country of immigrants?
- Recycling make you realize how much plastic waste you produce every day. Why oh why do they put those five tomatoes on a plastic tray and wrapped it in plastic into a plastic bag?
- My mum sees and talks to her neighbour best friend every day. They still talk on the phone.
- Pubs with weird double barrelled names are on every corner, the lamb and flag, the leek and a horse (maybe a leak in the horse?) , the tomato and a horn, you name it.
-You do small talk about parking and weather – you are bored but you smile, no one can hep you, no one knows anything – you will never get to know then and you smile, banks and shops are opened till 5
- you can’t do anything and you smile, than you meet any foreigner and you bitch about the Brits.
- cheers? Again I thought the cashier was making a toast.
- I am sick of coffee with a lot of milk. Yuk.
- You can buy EVERYTHING ready in the supermarket. In powder, in liquid, ¼ ready, half ready or just ready. Well, but that would be laziness.
Ah and ugly people. not like all of us :D
5.8.09
Re-adjusting
I haven't written for a long time. As if anyone read that. Anyway, I didn't have time inspiration, etc. And now I am back in the beloved Commonwealth which surprisingly became a source for various thoughts and impressions. They are a bit chaotic, but I will upload a couple of pieces about various things that surprise/amaze/annoy me backe here. Wish me luck in re-adjusting.
I am so thirsty here, in the humidity of the Island in its wetness and dampness I constantly drink. And not highly “percentented” drinks to kill the taste of fog in my mouth, but water. Even more than in the middle east I strive for it. Maybe water here is just less wet? Less watery? Perhaps in order to fight the outer moisture my body activated a preventive system and tries to dry itself from the inside. So far, I gather all of these liquids and cry them out in the evenings, eyes red and stinging from sprite.
The sun stopped being huffy and revealed it’s presence. I worshipped it by recharging my endorphin batteries in the patch of grass in the back of the house called garden. Sun here is like a celebrity, you never know when it will appear and for how long, if you don’t appreciate it enough it will not come back. And it doses its presence - comes rather seldom so that you will cheer for it when it finally arrives.
Directions. You are told what to do on every possible occasions. It’s big brother on a mini scale. Everything is regulated and explained how to be done properly. Take the bus (no you don’t need to I am not trying to direct you) – and you will see a whole poster explaining the ‘proper’ way of acting on this medium of transport. Don’t smoke, don’t talk loud, listen to music, eat, bring animals, disturb other passengers, talk to the driver, stand in the way, transport bikes. By talking loud to the driver you may ‘verbally abuse him’ and a ‘touch action will be taken against you’ so be careful. Soon they will tell you how to wave on the bus how to get in and out which leg goes first and which hand should you use to hold to the slider. At the same time, the ‘system’ is really sorry it make your life unbearable. I am just waiting for them to say it is for common good. The best way to drive all the Polish people away. I wonder why they haven’t figured it out yet.
I am so thirsty here, in the humidity of the Island in its wetness and dampness I constantly drink. And not highly “percentented” drinks to kill the taste of fog in my mouth, but water. Even more than in the middle east I strive for it. Maybe water here is just less wet? Less watery? Perhaps in order to fight the outer moisture my body activated a preventive system and tries to dry itself from the inside. So far, I gather all of these liquids and cry them out in the evenings, eyes red and stinging from sprite.
The sun stopped being huffy and revealed it’s presence. I worshipped it by recharging my endorphin batteries in the patch of grass in the back of the house called garden. Sun here is like a celebrity, you never know when it will appear and for how long, if you don’t appreciate it enough it will not come back. And it doses its presence - comes rather seldom so that you will cheer for it when it finally arrives.
Directions. You are told what to do on every possible occasions. It’s big brother on a mini scale. Everything is regulated and explained how to be done properly. Take the bus (no you don’t need to I am not trying to direct you) – and you will see a whole poster explaining the ‘proper’ way of acting on this medium of transport. Don’t smoke, don’t talk loud, listen to music, eat, bring animals, disturb other passengers, talk to the driver, stand in the way, transport bikes. By talking loud to the driver you may ‘verbally abuse him’ and a ‘touch action will be taken against you’ so be careful. Soon they will tell you how to wave on the bus how to get in and out which leg goes first and which hand should you use to hold to the slider. At the same time, the ‘system’ is really sorry it make your life unbearable. I am just waiting for them to say it is for common good. The best way to drive all the Polish people away. I wonder why they haven’t figured it out yet.
3.5.09
Phone party
I would say that this fear of not hearing the phone is a bit exaggerated, for even a semi deaf person is able to hear the sound of the most popular pop-rock sound on maximum volume along with the vibrating hum. There is a wide-spread tendency to set songs as ringtones, the more drilling to your years the better. So when suddenly your heart stops when riding by bus from downtown at 12 at night upon hearing a bass and monotonous beat of the some techno hit (to avoid which you just left the club), don’t worry, you are not about to be attacked by an arse, it s only this 14-year old girls with 10 piercings in her face that is being called by her mum. And you were concerned to quiet down your Mozart ringtone not to shock fellow passengers.
Phone, as we all already accepted, is not only a communication tool. It is a source of music. But, contrary to the regular way of wiring oneself in headphones, here people just play local love hits aloud, for the delight of the bus passengers. For if anyone objected, they would just shout to the ‘dj’s’ to shut it down. In addition, there is usually a camera in this marvellous portable phone invention, called here a pelefon, i.e. a wonder phone. And, combines with the fact it can be taken anywhere ... the amount of blurry pictures uploaded to the internet from this area of the world is indigestible even for the vast resources of the world wide net. For of course it is the best idea to perpetuate one’s red, half-drunk face while smoking a 3rd cigarette in a lousy bar. Just so that your future children would know why they are disabled.
Phone, as we all already accepted, is not only a communication tool. It is a source of music. But, contrary to the regular way of wiring oneself in headphones, here people just play local love hits aloud, for the delight of the bus passengers. For if anyone objected, they would just shout to the ‘dj’s’ to shut it down. In addition, there is usually a camera in this marvellous portable phone invention, called here a pelefon, i.e. a wonder phone. And, combines with the fact it can be taken anywhere ... the amount of blurry pictures uploaded to the internet from this area of the world is indigestible even for the vast resources of the world wide net. For of course it is the best idea to perpetuate one’s red, half-drunk face while smoking a 3rd cigarette in a lousy bar. Just so that your future children would know why they are disabled.
29.4.09
Pele tlele
You know all those lists “you are in Poland/Oxford/psychiatric hospital if” plus list of weird features, small characteristics of the places that only people who actually have been there know? Well, time to make the same kind of thing about my present country of living, Israel. To much to say about it, I think I will be adding new aspects from time to time. It will depend on my power of observation... diminishing with the time of staying here, 5-year olds with peyot no longer amuse me, and civil dressed 20 year olds with grocery shopping, casually holding an M16 (or however this deathly tool is called) is an everyday view.
First thing to deal with, and a major topic in this society, are the phones. It seems that being in touch is a priority for Israelis, perhaps connected to the idea of Jewish unity developed in Diaspora times, and even before. Maybe they think that, since the country is so small, there is a high chance that they might know half of its population. Strength lies in your friends and family and, of course in the connections you have. As nothing works here according to the rules, it is vital to be friends with as many officials/shopkeepers/music producers/garbage men/... (Fill in with whoever you need to be your friend) as possible. Hence, a phone is people’s 2nd brain. The new right hand, centre of control and life navigation. Imagine walking back from the university, on of the first days of spring, sunrays warm your face, happy after leaving a boring class, with empty mind you relax while taking a slow walk back to the dorms. Almost... for you are surrounded by the sound of moving stock-exchange, Israeli Wall Street composed of students rushing with phones held by the arm next to their ears while taking out a bus ticket from the bag and in the third hand holding a cup of coffee. Others, probably the leaders of the new generation, already spared some money from their student budget and invested in a handless set, so that they may express their temper by waving them while talking. Well, talking is too little of a word to describe the sound actually. A mixture of scream, howling laughter, and screeching expressions of disbelief and/or contempt, for the emotional Israeli people take a strong stand even when it comes to commenting the type of coffee you bought. ‘Mooocha?! But it’s awful, only spoiled American high-school girls drink it, besides with your body I don’t think you should take it anyway’ last line said just before taking a gulp from your cup. So, like your grandmother who cannot belief that the sound she makes to the receiver is passed to the other person, they yell to their phones. Not only to be sure the other person hears, but for the simple reason, that this is the way they speak. The scope of sounds in this country is quite different – when bellowing is the regular volume, and a male conversation crosses the advisable, safe level of decibels, what is considered to be loud?
Anyway, on the way from school, and in the breaks, an improvised call centre emerges, to be continued at home to the late night hours. Consulting homework, cooking recipes, listening about what the dog did to the neighbour’s lemon tree today, contacting old friends from primary school, a boyfriend in the army who is currently purging some villages. Regular topics.
I think it all come from the need to be constantly up to date. A phenomenon that becomes prevalent in the whole of modern world, in which information is power, here is even more salient. So while listening about distant family members, Israelis read headlines from the Haaretz webpage comparing them to those from Jerusalem Post or ynet. In case they had different sources. And in a cafe the first thing to do, is put the phone on the table, has vehalila, that you would not hear someone calling you! Apart from the fact that that would mean you have to call back, i.e. then it would be your money.
First thing to deal with, and a major topic in this society, are the phones. It seems that being in touch is a priority for Israelis, perhaps connected to the idea of Jewish unity developed in Diaspora times, and even before. Maybe they think that, since the country is so small, there is a high chance that they might know half of its population. Strength lies in your friends and family and, of course in the connections you have. As nothing works here according to the rules, it is vital to be friends with as many officials/shopkeepers/music producers/garbage men/... (Fill in with whoever you need to be your friend) as possible. Hence, a phone is people’s 2nd brain. The new right hand, centre of control and life navigation. Imagine walking back from the university, on of the first days of spring, sunrays warm your face, happy after leaving a boring class, with empty mind you relax while taking a slow walk back to the dorms. Almost... for you are surrounded by the sound of moving stock-exchange, Israeli Wall Street composed of students rushing with phones held by the arm next to their ears while taking out a bus ticket from the bag and in the third hand holding a cup of coffee. Others, probably the leaders of the new generation, already spared some money from their student budget and invested in a handless set, so that they may express their temper by waving them while talking. Well, talking is too little of a word to describe the sound actually. A mixture of scream, howling laughter, and screeching expressions of disbelief and/or contempt, for the emotional Israeli people take a strong stand even when it comes to commenting the type of coffee you bought. ‘Mooocha?! But it’s awful, only spoiled American high-school girls drink it, besides with your body I don’t think you should take it anyway’ last line said just before taking a gulp from your cup. So, like your grandmother who cannot belief that the sound she makes to the receiver is passed to the other person, they yell to their phones. Not only to be sure the other person hears, but for the simple reason, that this is the way they speak. The scope of sounds in this country is quite different – when bellowing is the regular volume, and a male conversation crosses the advisable, safe level of decibels, what is considered to be loud?
Anyway, on the way from school, and in the breaks, an improvised call centre emerges, to be continued at home to the late night hours. Consulting homework, cooking recipes, listening about what the dog did to the neighbour’s lemon tree today, contacting old friends from primary school, a boyfriend in the army who is currently purging some villages. Regular topics.
I think it all come from the need to be constantly up to date. A phenomenon that becomes prevalent in the whole of modern world, in which information is power, here is even more salient. So while listening about distant family members, Israelis read headlines from the Haaretz webpage comparing them to those from Jerusalem Post or ynet. In case they had different sources. And in a cafe the first thing to do, is put the phone on the table, has vehalila, that you would not hear someone calling you! Apart from the fact that that would mean you have to call back, i.e. then it would be your money.
17.4.09
A Long Day of a Student - part 2
On the left- a post party destruction. A regular picture. For some, even an everyday condition of the partment.
On the right- a regular evening passtime.
And then, following your hidden hopes, someone chats to you/calls you. Ah how nice, a perfect excuse, after all social connections are the most important thing in life, what would one do without friends, sow e have to keep in touch, update them on our marvellous adventures. Continuing the homework, you become bored and so tired with doing the same thing for the past 3HOURS (of course the time of facebooking/ talking on the phone is included as the proper study time), well it is almost done, so you go out to catch some fresh air, maybe a beer too... surprisingly (also as a fulfilment of some subconscious hope) you meet one of your friends, and they, what a coincidence, are going out today. You accept their kind invitation to join them, leaving all the tiredness in the homework sheet - for later. You have another coffee to cheat your organism about the time of the day and start getting mentally prepared to the upcoming alcohol consumption. Reminding yourself about your last night out, you device a strategy, and border yourself with limits, specifying the level of drunkenness you want/plan to achieve this night.
The moment you start drinking the plan fades away when you combine it with smoking, you see the life so clearly that you stop caring about anything except for fun. All he other options you planned for yourself as an evening entertainment and kept In the back of your mind: starting a project which is due in 2 weeks, reading The Book maybe, writing a long email to your granny have already faded away, sunk in the vodka-orange juice mix or, better (?) arak eshkoli’ot killer drink. Instead of the planned early leaving you get into the taxi at 11pm feeling the city is yours. Shame to discover there is nothing going on, or that your favourite place is closed/kosher for Pesah/there is shira tziburit or a party only for bald men with moustache. You still enjoy your careless night, observing as if through the mist all the ‘normal people’ who are about to go home, tourist with a lost look in their eyes and the same ridiculous yellow baseball caps, religious people on their way back from the synagogue, couples eating ice cream. You yourself belong to the other world, the jungle and absurd of the night life: arsim jumping on the benches with a pig-like laughter, random gypsies asking for tzedaka, rabbi nachman hip-hop dancers... all with the background of the harp-music. Later on, towards the night the city will be taken over by the second world. But in this unique moment they coexist, as if two layers, one (the regular one) unaware of the other (the jungle one). Small shops providing tourist and walkers with water and small snacks or the local inhabitants with the basic food products turn into alcohol watering holes, supplying you with all the necessary ingredients of party mood, including fancy plastic cups. Night people have their own ways... the last stop being some ha-shamen or some other food provider with fat saturated air, and people gleaming with sweat of the frying.
You still feel it on your stomach the next morning when ‘your alarm clock’s sound drills into your brain...’
A perfect cycle.
A Long Day of a Student - part 1
That's why I divided it in two parts.
You get up at.... (fill in an hour it usually happens in your case), or rather, your alarm clock’s sound drills into your brain at the hour you are supposed to get up. It seems the middle of the night, regardless the hour, because your shuttles are down and the whole room is pitch black, so as your mind which tries to recall what the hell you did the day before that you are so tired now. Even if you were not drunk the whole evening seems to be blurred and surreal, some silhouettes of people, nargilla smoke, facebook chat with people who you last seen half a year ago, big plans for the upcoming day. The latter image gets especially distorted.
After the first 2 seconds of confusion you make a though, manly decision to stay in bed and skip the first class. Of course it does not go without justification! A. It is boring b. You can do everything that is being done there faster and better by yourself at home, c. You don’t need to see all these faces again, do you?, d. Sleep is essential if you want to get down to some REAL work today, e. What to wear anyway if all your clothes need laundry.
Later you finally roll out of your bed actually feeling bad about missing this class, for ‘what had happened to me where is all my reason?’ I will tell you, the truth is it has been confiscated at the airport, with it you would not be able to make it here for longer than a week. On the way to the next class, you meet other people who did the same thing, and you all convince one another that is was not worth it coz this class will not help you in your future life, besides you are all here to have fun. So before you get to school your mood is much better and you feel perfectly right when after a class instead of heading straight to the library as you once had planned, you go to the cafe to chat with some people about, as we say in my country, Maryna’s ass, i.e. nothing with a hint of unimportance. Second class actually interests you and you sit there mesmerized, realizing how little you know, and how much you would like to study, you compose lists of books to be read as soon as possible and dream about your revolutionary papers in which you are going to surprise and astonish the world with your original views an unique opinions... You feel so excited take a book or two from the library and feeling refreshed by the early evening wind head back to the dorms with a shiny face grabbing a hot chocolate on the way, for of course, you deserve it after this whole studying day. You sit outside for a while, maybe go to a swing smiling to yourself as an idiot. Than it strikes you that apart from planning to astound the world you have homework to do for tomorrow, and it is just so big and ridiculous that you feel a knot in your stomach and an overpowering feeling of disgust to the whole idea of sitting in front of your computer/at your desk with a dictionary or a grammar book or a set of equations ... but you have to. After throwing out the contents of your bag on to your messy bed and putting The Book on the shelf to become a nightmare of your unfulfilled revolutionary dream, a symbol of an ingenious idea you once had in the moment of brightness, you get down to it. Surprisingly after 4o min you have 1/3 of the thing of quite a decent quality, so of course you deserve a break. Yummy sodium glutaminate with a taste of peas from a cup for future cancer and facebook for future blindness and brain cell reduction.
You get up at.... (fill in an hour it usually happens in your case), or rather, your alarm clock’s sound drills into your brain at the hour you are supposed to get up. It seems the middle of the night, regardless the hour, because your shuttles are down and the whole room is pitch black, so as your mind which tries to recall what the hell you did the day before that you are so tired now. Even if you were not drunk the whole evening seems to be blurred and surreal, some silhouettes of people, nargilla smoke, facebook chat with people who you last seen half a year ago, big plans for the upcoming day. The latter image gets especially distorted.
After the first 2 seconds of confusion you make a though, manly decision to stay in bed and skip the first class. Of course it does not go without justification! A. It is boring b. You can do everything that is being done there faster and better by yourself at home, c. You don’t need to see all these faces again, do you?, d. Sleep is essential if you want to get down to some REAL work today, e. What to wear anyway if all your clothes need laundry.
Later you finally roll out of your bed actually feeling bad about missing this class, for ‘what had happened to me where is all my reason?’ I will tell you, the truth is it has been confiscated at the airport, with it you would not be able to make it here for longer than a week. On the way to the next class, you meet other people who did the same thing, and you all convince one another that is was not worth it coz this class will not help you in your future life, besides you are all here to have fun. So before you get to school your mood is much better and you feel perfectly right when after a class instead of heading straight to the library as you once had planned, you go to the cafe to chat with some people about, as we say in my country, Maryna’s ass, i.e. nothing with a hint of unimportance. Second class actually interests you and you sit there mesmerized, realizing how little you know, and how much you would like to study, you compose lists of books to be read as soon as possible and dream about your revolutionary papers in which you are going to surprise and astonish the world with your original views an unique opinions... You feel so excited take a book or two from the library and feeling refreshed by the early evening wind head back to the dorms with a shiny face grabbing a hot chocolate on the way, for of course, you deserve it after this whole studying day. You sit outside for a while, maybe go to a swing smiling to yourself as an idiot. Than it strikes you that apart from planning to astound the world you have homework to do for tomorrow, and it is just so big and ridiculous that you feel a knot in your stomach and an overpowering feeling of disgust to the whole idea of sitting in front of your computer/at your desk with a dictionary or a grammar book or a set of equations ... but you have to. After throwing out the contents of your bag on to your messy bed and putting The Book on the shelf to become a nightmare of your unfulfilled revolutionary dream, a symbol of an ingenious idea you once had in the moment of brightness, you get down to it. Surprisingly after 4o min you have 1/3 of the thing of quite a decent quality, so of course you deserve a break. Yummy sodium glutaminate with a taste of peas from a cup for future cancer and facebook for future blindness and brain cell reduction.
15.4.09
Philosophy of the place
Let’s start some philosophy with a one clear sentence.
When I say I like this place I don’t mean I like the place itself. The geographically specified piece of land bordered with some longitude and latitude coordinates. I mean the fact of being here. For who really relates to a place when they say they like it? One rather says they like the view, the smell, the flora and fauna – otherwise liking the place is totally unrelated to the place itself. What makes us attached is the atmosphere, the people we meet, the way this combination influences us. If you feel good/optimistic/positive, had a number of great experiences, you connect them to the place the happened in, even though they do not depend on the location. That way, you start liking the place. As if become addicted to it, hoping that this feeling will last and you will always, continuously receive as much from it. That is maybe why some people don’t want to re-visit the cities they spend their best yeas in – why to devastate the memories and the picture we preserve. We just have to remember this one specific thing - that it is not the place itself that generates our good mood. It is a combination – of people we meet, our attitude at the moment, decisions we take, time of the year, our age… all small details that creates the amalgam of good feeling. And it is a unique recipe. Not to be recreated.
13 April
13 April - a date to be remembered. I was, for the first time in my life treated as a business client, as a esteemed customer, co-operator, entrepreneur partner, so officially, with such a respect. But, why by my mother?
Thank you for your e-mail.
I am currently out of the office and return on Tuesday, 14 April 2009. If you need any urgent assistance please call my office on 0208 568 5121.
I need urgent money assistance. To whom shall I submit an application?
Thank you for your e-mail.
I am currently out of the office and return on Tuesday, 14 April 2009. If you need any urgent assistance please call my office on 0208 568 5121.
I need urgent money assistance. To whom shall I submit an application?
8.4.09
See the light
Both movies I watched today were about blindness, not seeing the truth about people about something, living in an illusion only creating the picture of the world around us, the silhouettes of people, inventing them the way we want to see them rather than trying to recognize and appreciate (or not...) who they really are. We see things, not only in the visual sense... we live among them, with them - take them for granted. We need a major change, twist of circumstances to REALLY become conscious of certain facts, feelings, emotions. ‘Blindness’ presented it all in a really straightforward way – loosing sight gives another perspective find new way of perception, add a new meaning to something that we treated as common, forces us to respect things anew. But so we need such an extreme, invasive blow? A cancer in the family, a quarrel with calling names? How to prevent it and just be able to treasure what we have all the time? I am not even sure if it is possible to keep the same level of appreciation for something that accompanies us everyday. Some people call it faith. Looking for a hand of God all around, some are just happy. I think we need breaks from the ordinary – just to notice how unordinary it is.
31.3.09
Spring
All this applies rather to the times from before a week or two or something in between, say 10 days. Outdated feelings.
Everyone seems to be lost. I don’t know if it is the weather, change of season, the age, atmosphere of student life or just the air spring solstice that spreads around along with this annoying illness that every second person seems to have now.
Everyone wants to go somewhere, move, not be closed and imprisoned here in the students’ village, the more time one spends here the more one sedentary one becomes, and the harder it becomes to break this . Or even just to want to. It is so safe, settled, everything is familiar and predictable. Student grannies. But this wind makes me restless. I know what I should do, but the concentration has been blown out of my mind. I want to do other things, but I can’t define what, I can even wash the dishes. I feel my mind is filled with winter dust and muddy stagnancy that just gets stuck into it the more limit myself to studying, in an attempt to convince myself that that is the most important part of my life.
And yet, I sit with facebook on, hoping that someone would chat to me, distract me, that something will miraculously happen, someone would visit me, bring me a gift of an idea what to do, how to be a murder once more and kill time in a more effective way.
And to be honest that is what usually happens and what has just happened. I will g to a theatre to see a play in French, a language of which I have no command. Zero. But why not, at least I will leave the murky cave of my room, be exposed to the environment. Another entry to the world of my friend... last time I took this passage, in one flying step from the table to the floor, I got physically wounded, though I can not deny there was an additional factor in it, called an influence of external alcohol materials. The visible rainbowish sign on my arm has faded but perhaps it was not a one-time instance. I am in his world, of lost imprecise undefined people, who look for extreme experiences to wake themselves up to the normal life.
I made it small so that you won't have to suffer too much looking at it. Indeed that is my, personal, arm. Or rather was. They amputated it. Ok, no it is back to normal now.
Everyone seems to be lost. I don’t know if it is the weather, change of season, the age, atmosphere of student life or just the air spring solstice that spreads around along with this annoying illness that every second person seems to have now.
Everyone wants to go somewhere, move, not be closed and imprisoned here in the students’ village, the more time one spends here the more one sedentary one becomes, and the harder it becomes to break this . Or even just to want to. It is so safe, settled, everything is familiar and predictable. Student grannies. But this wind makes me restless. I know what I should do, but the concentration has been blown out of my mind. I want to do other things, but I can’t define what, I can even wash the dishes. I feel my mind is filled with winter dust and muddy stagnancy that just gets stuck into it the more limit myself to studying, in an attempt to convince myself that that is the most important part of my life.
And yet, I sit with facebook on, hoping that someone would chat to me, distract me, that something will miraculously happen, someone would visit me, bring me a gift of an idea what to do, how to be a murder once more and kill time in a more effective way.
And to be honest that is what usually happens and what has just happened. I will g to a theatre to see a play in French, a language of which I have no command. Zero. But why not, at least I will leave the murky cave of my room, be exposed to the environment. Another entry to the world of my friend... last time I took this passage, in one flying step from the table to the floor, I got physically wounded, though I can not deny there was an additional factor in it, called an influence of external alcohol materials. The visible rainbowish sign on my arm has faded but perhaps it was not a one-time instance. I am in his world, of lost imprecise undefined people, who look for extreme experiences to wake themselves up to the normal life.
I made it small so that you won't have to suffer too much looking at it. Indeed that is my, personal, arm. Or rather was. They amputated it. Ok, no it is back to normal now.
6.3.09
ŚȘŚ ŚŚŚŚ ŚŚ Ś ŚŚŚŚąŚ
Today a meeting with some old friends again. Miro, Klimt, Kandinsky, Picasso - all bothered to come. As well as others, whose names I ignorantly never remember. A museum of modern art. It is really fortunate that all the works of ‘the famous’ are so dispersed around the world. That way when we encounter them it really feels like seeing an old friend. What’s up Jackson? Spill out some news, mate.
When you discern a familiar style form among the tens hanging in the gallery’s hall you are more likely to discover you are fond of a certain painter. Variety makes you more aware perhaps? I don’t know, I just like to create all-explaining statements, in an attempt to order feelings and emotions.
Also, if one is a fan of one of the artists, this lack of concentration of their works gives an excuse to travel. But most importantly, and maybe I will express my lack of admiration by saying that, it would be simply boring of all the drawings paintings and sketches of the same authorship were closed in the same space. It would menace with oversaturation. Try to imagine death by Lager’s oversaturation. You wouldn’t like to experience that.
It is most likely to take place in a modern art gallery filled with installations or projects of the same type. As if someone thought you were ready to see 15 movies with a.no sound, b.no picture, c.sound hurting your ears, d. picture hurting your eyes and various combinations of the four. Some of these tortures, apparently conveying some message, lasting even half an hour. Maybe we just want a simple message? Leave the trouble to think and analyze, we just want to catch a glimpse of a picture and feel or not. In one moment decide whether we like it or not. And a plot-less movie...or a set of pointless views... I usually don’t even bother to watch the whole thing out of pure courtesy, just to have arguments to explain why I didn’t like it. One movie in a gallery is enough. Like in Tate Modern, my favourite, Meshes of the Afternoon. In Tel-Aviv’s museum I enjoyed (really, don’t take it as an expression of patriotism, if it is one, than only subconscious) the Polish installation and the one from Island. I sat in this dark room alone and almost burst out crying – was it so beautiful? I don’t know. It is like with addictions, there were certain receptors in my brain which received the message hidden in it. I.e. in a certain moment of time, being in a certain mood, I was able to relate to this piece of art. That is also why I advocate all the galleries to be free of charge. For one visit is not enough to be able to experience even half of the art gathered in there that way.
When you discern a familiar style form among the tens hanging in the gallery’s hall you are more likely to discover you are fond of a certain painter. Variety makes you more aware perhaps? I don’t know, I just like to create all-explaining statements, in an attempt to order feelings and emotions.
Also, if one is a fan of one of the artists, this lack of concentration of their works gives an excuse to travel. But most importantly, and maybe I will express my lack of admiration by saying that, it would be simply boring of all the drawings paintings and sketches of the same authorship were closed in the same space. It would menace with oversaturation. Try to imagine death by Lager’s oversaturation. You wouldn’t like to experience that.
It is most likely to take place in a modern art gallery filled with installations or projects of the same type. As if someone thought you were ready to see 15 movies with a.no sound, b.no picture, c.sound hurting your ears, d. picture hurting your eyes and various combinations of the four. Some of these tortures, apparently conveying some message, lasting even half an hour. Maybe we just want a simple message? Leave the trouble to think and analyze, we just want to catch a glimpse of a picture and feel or not. In one moment decide whether we like it or not. And a plot-less movie...or a set of pointless views... I usually don’t even bother to watch the whole thing out of pure courtesy, just to have arguments to explain why I didn’t like it. One movie in a gallery is enough. Like in Tate Modern, my favourite, Meshes of the Afternoon. In Tel-Aviv’s museum I enjoyed (really, don’t take it as an expression of patriotism, if it is one, than only subconscious) the Polish installation and the one from Island. I sat in this dark room alone and almost burst out crying – was it so beautiful? I don’t know. It is like with addictions, there were certain receptors in my brain which received the message hidden in it. I.e. in a certain moment of time, being in a certain mood, I was able to relate to this piece of art. That is also why I advocate all the galleries to be free of charge. For one visit is not enough to be able to experience even half of the art gathered in there that way.
21.2.09
Ś©ŚŚ€ŚŚŠŚŚ ŚŚ©ŚŚŚŚ
Waiting till it's going to be like that again.Today a mirror broke in the sky over the city and its pieces hurt my window disguised as hail.
Or they were undergoing some major redecoration up there, with bulldozers and knocking down old buildings. Ś©ŚŚ€ŚŚŠŚŚ ŚŚ©ŚŚŚŚ
19.2.09
University of the Tube
Excuse the length.
And after all this talk about the weirdness of the Polish transportation system I entered the London tube to be lectured for a quarter of an hour by a former, hmmm... hippie. Topic of the lecture: the falseness of the Valentines Day. Luckily for the long-haired around 40-year old guy in a thick, orange cotton jacket there was a problem with the train and so it spent around 10 minutes pointlessly standing on a station and than stopping between each of the upcoming two ones. If I believed in him, I would see a touch of god in all this, maybe it was his emissary trying to bring people back to reality, perhaps the only person without falsehood and kind of beyond all the middle-class stiffness and form. (Like the mental brother in Revolutionary Road.)
I was silently sitting on the District line, happy that I ma taking a shorter way and still excited after seeing Shahrukh Khan on a festival that day. A woman next to me was knitting a purple glove and a big-eyed, semi-emo teen opposite to her was reading Tom Stoppard (Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, for those interested) occasionally shaking back his perfectly scruffy hair and looking >out of the window with melancholy. And than the talk started, interrupted with an occasional chord on a guitar. We were kindly welcomed on the day of falsehood, on which the sight of couples holding hands and boys presenting girls with flowers make him and his girlfriend sick. Today and on the New Year’s eve, he said, me and my girlfriend have a day when she can tell me I hate you, you bastard,
and I can cal her a stupid old cow. An interesting practise I shall say. But I see his point. After that an entertainment part followed, i.e. a really stunning version of Kiss from A Rose (which he termed a song about cocaine addition). Not only did he have a marvellous voice but he could accompany himself on a guitar, and the tara ra ra rara ra ra ra part did not sound cheesy, kol ha kvod lo. Seriously. I could listen more.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WV5sc8xorU&feature=related
And to the right something strange. Equally to this whole event. 'Jake the bus' CCTV in operation beware. And apparently someone is living there. Only in Acton.
If he did not achieve his aim, which I would define as drawing the attention of the public to the idiocy of the festival of simulation, when people do what they think they are expected to (by whom?) just to suit the rest. So, if he didn’t manage to wake up some members of the despised middle-class, at least he initiated some interaction between the passengers, something that NEVER happens on British public transport, believe me. Who cares if people were making fun or commenting on him, at least they talked, were more alive than they are for their whole boring office-tied day. The glove-knitter found a line of understanding with a lady sitting behind her, for both of whom this meeting with a hippie was not a first one. I think I should take this line more often. A surreal train. From a perspective of not even a week this whole thing seems to be like a queer dream. Stranger it seems, yeah.
And after all this talk about the weirdness of the Polish transportation system I entered the London tube to be lectured for a quarter of an hour by a former, hmmm... hippie. Topic of the lecture: the falseness of the Valentines Day. Luckily for the long-haired around 40-year old guy in a thick, orange cotton jacket there was a problem with the train and so it spent around 10 minutes pointlessly standing on a station and than stopping between each of the upcoming two ones. If I believed in him, I would see a touch of god in all this, maybe it was his emissary trying to bring people back to reality, perhaps the only person without falsehood and kind of beyond all the middle-class stiffness and form. (Like the mental brother in Revolutionary Road.)
I was silently sitting on the District line, happy that I ma taking a shorter way and still excited after seeing Shahrukh Khan on a festival that day. A woman next to me was knitting a purple glove and a big-eyed, semi-emo teen opposite to her was reading Tom Stoppard (Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, for those interested) occasionally shaking back his perfectly scruffy hair and looking >out of the window with melancholy. And than the talk started, interrupted with an occasional chord on a guitar. We were kindly welcomed on the day of falsehood, on which the sight of couples holding hands and boys presenting girls with flowers make him and his girlfriend sick. Today and on the New Year’s eve, he said, me and my girlfriend have a day when she can tell me I hate you, you bastard,
and I can cal her a stupid old cow. An interesting practise I shall say. But I see his point. After that an entertainment part followed, i.e. a really stunning version of Kiss from A Rose (which he termed a song about cocaine addition). Not only did he have a marvellous voice but he could accompany himself on a guitar, and the tara ra ra rara ra ra ra part did not sound cheesy, kol ha kvod lo. Seriously. I could listen more. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3WV5sc8xorU&feature=related
And to the right something strange. Equally to this whole event. 'Jake the bus' CCTV in operation beware. And apparently someone is living there. Only in Acton.
If he did not achieve his aim, which I would define as drawing the attention of the public to the idiocy of the festival of simulation, when people do what they think they are expected to (by whom?) just to suit the rest. So, if he didn’t manage to wake up some members of the despised middle-class, at least he initiated some interaction between the passengers, something that NEVER happens on British public transport, believe me. Who cares if people were making fun or commenting on him, at least they talked, were more alive than they are for their whole boring office-tied day. The glove-knitter found a line of understanding with a lady sitting behind her, for both of whom this meeting with a hippie was not a first one. I think I should take this line more often. A surreal train. From a perspective of not even a week this whole thing seems to be like a queer dream. Stranger it seems, yeah.
17.2.09
Flashes of London
Besides, London is like a set of islands , Dalmatian coast type. Euston, Camden town, Covent Garden, Ealing Broadway. Each of them is like a small world, with its own inhabitants and laws, all together creating a multi-cultured multiverse of London. Everything multicoloured and joined by multicoloured (tube) lines to form a constellation.
I wanted to go Petticoat Lane market, and according to the map I was to get off at the Liverpool street station, where upon ascending from the darkness of the underground I encountered the Bullet just in front of me accompanied by its natural satellites, i.e. the planetoide belt of suit-wearers. Take a small street in the opposite direction and after mere 100 metres you are on an Indian planet, where street names are written in hindi and the smell of deep fired,
syrup soaked sweets fills your nostrils (sticks to your clothes), and the whole lane is stuffed with stands with all you do and all you don't need, but ulay be khol zot. And just by the way, it is all built on the former Jewish district. This is how the multiverse of London evolves. Like filo pastry. Or lasagne. Or Schwartzwald cake.
16.2.09
Paralyzed sardines on Nothing Hill Gate.
People in the underground are like ants. Following the same routes one by one, in well organised processions, carrying their indispensable briefcases to built, what, new world? New order? Though from the newspapers they leave on the tube everyday one could build a replique of the whole of London made of paper mache. Or shelters for the homeless standing on every, ok, not every second, but perhaps every 5th corner, selling the Big Issue. No homeless dogs here, no animals other than pets, probably having their own rooms and wearing personally designed jewellery (you no longer call it a collar). I recalled the words I have already heard too many times, it’s must be so great to live in London, try to recall it, believe me you will with no difficulty packed like sardines in a tube at 6.37 on the central line zone 1,
stuck in between an Indian sleeping on the middle pole (yeah neither north nor the south :P ) and a blonde on high heels chewing gum on volume level 9/10, ten being the decibel limit to hurt your ears. Better than a Polish bus perhaps, where old ladies (well, calling them ladies is a big misinterpretation of their status and class of behaviour) coated in fur armour and always carrying a set of re-used plastic bags full of mysterious contents. I think they all conspire to build a nuclear reactor and blow up the city - centre of moral depravity and easy virtue.
And in all that you are pressed against the doors, forming a nice modern, bloby-like pattern of your nose and mouth outstretched right on the glass. That’s what the notices in the tube describe as obstructing the doors I’d say. Stand clear of the doors and when they open, you are just pushed out by the crowd of the tube-ants suddenly making a ‘towards the doors’ move. Obviously, British politeness and sensibility ends confronted with the necessity of sticking to the place in the carriage, so no one, even those standing right in the middle, will not move. Suddenly the plan of the line, which they know by heart after travelling with it back and forth everyday for the past 5 boring years, gained in interest, or they are taking part in a live sculpture artistic project, or playing one of this child-games: who moves first is a dumbbell. No, no, the TRUTH is they are educating themselves about the last-night’s of Robbie Williams and the visit of the weather presenter of BBC1 in Sainsbury local instead of Marks&Spencer Food. It goes without saying they can not be disturbed in this utterly brain-consuming, and though enhancing activity. It would influence the deepness if their family dinner discussion, we can’t allow that.
stuck in between an Indian sleeping on the middle pole (yeah neither north nor the south :P ) and a blonde on high heels chewing gum on volume level 9/10, ten being the decibel limit to hurt your ears. Better than a Polish bus perhaps, where old ladies (well, calling them ladies is a big misinterpretation of their status and class of behaviour) coated in fur armour and always carrying a set of re-used plastic bags full of mysterious contents. I think they all conspire to build a nuclear reactor and blow up the city - centre of moral depravity and easy virtue. 
And in all that you are pressed against the doors, forming a nice modern, bloby-like pattern of your nose and mouth outstretched right on the glass. That’s what the notices in the tube describe as obstructing the doors I’d say. Stand clear of the doors and when they open, you are just pushed out by the crowd of the tube-ants suddenly making a ‘towards the doors’ move. Obviously, British politeness and sensibility ends confronted with the necessity of sticking to the place in the carriage, so no one, even those standing right in the middle, will not move. Suddenly the plan of the line, which they know by heart after travelling with it back and forth everyday for the past 5 boring years, gained in interest, or they are taking part in a live sculpture artistic project, or playing one of this child-games: who moves first is a dumbbell. No, no, the TRUTH is they are educating themselves about the last-night’s of Robbie Williams and the visit of the weather presenter of BBC1 in Sainsbury local instead of Marks&Spencer Food. It goes without saying they can not be disturbed in this utterly brain-consuming, and though enhancing activity. It would influence the deepness if their family dinner discussion, we can’t allow that.
12.2.09
Al hanahag sheratza lihiot elohim
What a place. Today I took one of those buses usually occupied by old ladies in fur armour (i mentioned it before) and fur helmets, a Polish version of a hijab perhaps, because sometimes one can only see their eyes, blinking with suspicion at all travellers aged lower than a dinosaur. Feeling slightly intimidated by their company I tried not to be there – quite hard with a pierced nose and vividly green skirt. I couldn’t even try to sneak into their mercy by participating in the common 
discussion (bus driver involved too, of course, a hidden supporter of the Old Ladies Team) about the EXACT coordinates of a certain veterinary clinic – a second most important shrine of the Berets (a common nickname for the old ladies) and the like. After considering some options the instigator of the topic got off and we may only hope that she didn’t make it to the clinic and her neighbour will not have to hear the ‘sweet voice’ of her beloved hyena, in other words a dog which regardless of its size barks in a high pitch tone and at everything - including his masters. I think it’s a special breed. For the protection of the endangered species – Polish Old Ladies (further referred to s POLs).
So I am in those beautiful circumstances, on one of the longest bus lines - the cursed 171 (POLs find it of particular interest, the longer the better, a second life type of a thing, that is why at the afternoon hours you have no ticket control, the inspectors made room for the POL gang,
I wonder how they fought for supremacy – by making pierogi?)... and pit’om I hear one of them, standing by the middle doors and screaming ‘but WHYYYY didn’t yaaaa stop at the buUUS stOP?’(notice the intonation) and the poor driver stopped immediately and in panic opened the doors for the two infuriated, puffed up passengers. (Obviously those on the missed bus stop didn’t have chance to get in, but what kind of a deal would that be exchanging the two for more than that). And as an expression of sorry he shouted in a (surprisingly!) truly concerned voice: kuuurna zapomniaaaaaĆem! (fuuuck I forgoooot!). It is the only occasion when a bond forms between non-Beret passengers, eye-contact and muffled half-smiles. After all the bus driver is not a god (did anyone read Keret?).
discussion (bus driver involved too, of course, a hidden supporter of the Old Ladies Team) about the EXACT coordinates of a certain veterinary clinic – a second most important shrine of the Berets (a common nickname for the old ladies) and the like. After considering some options the instigator of the topic got off and we may only hope that she didn’t make it to the clinic and her neighbour will not have to hear the ‘sweet voice’ of her beloved hyena, in other words a dog which regardless of its size barks in a high pitch tone and at everything - including his masters. I think it’s a special breed. For the protection of the endangered species – Polish Old Ladies (further referred to s POLs). So I am in those beautiful circumstances, on one of the longest bus lines - the cursed 171 (POLs find it of particular interest, the longer the better, a second life type of a thing, that is why at the afternoon hours you have no ticket control, the inspectors made room for the POL gang,
I wonder how they fought for supremacy – by making pierogi?)... and pit’om I hear one of them, standing by the middle doors and screaming ‘but WHYYYY didn’t yaaaa stop at the buUUS stOP?’(notice the intonation) and the poor driver stopped immediately and in panic opened the doors for the two infuriated, puffed up passengers. (Obviously those on the missed bus stop didn’t have chance to get in, but what kind of a deal would that be exchanging the two for more than that). And as an expression of sorry he shouted in a (surprisingly!) truly concerned voice: kuuurna zapomniaaaaaĆem! (fuuuck I forgoooot!). It is the only occasion when a bond forms between non-Beret passengers, eye-contact and muffled half-smiles. After all the bus driver is not a god (did anyone read Keret?).
8.2.09
Flashbacks from the flight
No matter how often I fly it always amazes me how a metal box can simply ascend and in a virtual few moments bring the passengers to a totally different reality. It’s almost like a fantasy tale, enter the doors in your wardrobe and you are in a world of fairies and flying lions. In my case rather grumpy grey old ladies, rude bus drivers and one line of the underground, all sprinkled with rain and wet snow. I like the moment of the take off, never believing it will actually happen that the machine will, well how to say it, take its wheels off the lane, a feeling perhaps equalized to what the nurses experience every time a new baby is born.
A miracle of varied origin – biology and human invention. And shortly after the flight’s start there is this moment of suspension, when a plane seemingly stops in the air, still not being entirely parallel to the ground, and people hold your breath thinking, that is the end, now straight down, but I in my hear see the whole sequence in a rewind mode, the plane going backwards exactly the same route it took, it is the moment of reconsideration if you really want to abandon, temporarily or forever, the land you are departing from. Well, but not much to do at that point, just pray for a plane catastrophe, of course only a small one, lets revoke our minimalist inclinations, just a mild turbulence, falling down nicely,
with the crew still smiling, perhaps 2 or 3 passengers injured, after all it is an accident. If your prayer is to weak, or if there is no one to answer (lets not enter THIS discussion now) you can still marvel at the view. I saw a spilled mercury, solid and silver curiously partially reflecting the sun rays and partially absorbing them... the widest highway in the world!, ah that’s the S-shaped ThameS. And the countryside, or suburbian, sets, lines of houses, like cookies (maybe I was just hungry) “babciowe ciasteczka z maszynki” topped with a cloudy whipped creamulonibus, pronounced with a wild Polish accent, Krim-on-the-Top, encountered only in Starbuck’s.
A miracle of varied origin – biology and human invention. And shortly after the flight’s start there is this moment of suspension, when a plane seemingly stops in the air, still not being entirely parallel to the ground, and people hold your breath thinking, that is the end, now straight down, but I in my hear see the whole sequence in a rewind mode, the plane going backwards exactly the same route it took, it is the moment of reconsideration if you really want to abandon, temporarily or forever, the land you are departing from. Well, but not much to do at that point, just pray for a plane catastrophe, of course only a small one, lets revoke our minimalist inclinations, just a mild turbulence, falling down nicely,
with the crew still smiling, perhaps 2 or 3 passengers injured, after all it is an accident. If your prayer is to weak, or if there is no one to answer (lets not enter THIS discussion now) you can still marvel at the view. I saw a spilled mercury, solid and silver curiously partially reflecting the sun rays and partially absorbing them... the widest highway in the world!, ah that’s the S-shaped ThameS. And the countryside, or suburbian, sets, lines of houses, like cookies (maybe I was just hungry) “babciowe ciasteczka z maszynki” topped with a cloudy whipped creamulonibus, pronounced with a wild Polish accent, Krim-on-the-Top, encountered only in Starbuck’s.
26.1.09
Hide your squirrel in the Park
What a ridiculous country, I almost feel the Monty Python’s breath on my neck. Herds of crazy joggers passing you at all possible times of the day, for some reason carrying backpacks, which always makes me suspicious that they are secret agents just a minute ago dropped somewhere with the parachute which now became a part of a clever disguise. What if they are really some Russians on a mission, rushing to a meeting point with their Iranian contact, just next to this ‘very characteristic’ tree in Hyde Park.
If they try to stick to their cover and pretend to be just regular crazy British joggers, getting fitter and fitter, running in the lovely London air, air conditioned by the double deckers and recently popular pink cabs. Brilliant! Mind (except for the gap) the possibility of getting wall-eye (discordant squint?) while trying to follow the ground signs...
The squirrels, eating massive produces Tesco brand, the cheapest pea- or hazel- nuts, went nuts or, as people don’t realize animals prefer the regular rather than roasted salty or chicken vinegar taste variety, are obese and lost their squirrely nature. Maybe it is the cruel vengeance of the Londoners from the suburbs, using 30 minutes to get to Hyde Park on furry, big-eyed rodents who don’t even need to pay rent for living in the very city centre. Let them suffer for their luck. Hell with the fact they are mere animals. The interest in this weird, apparently all resistant (how can one live in the centre of London?) animal is reflected in the recent new taste of Walker chips (chrisps? :P). Taste of squirrel. More than just squirrel, now, that would be only too simple, it’s Cajun Squirrel. Maybe to dispel the suspicion they used the London squirrels they tried to direct the attention of the customers to more Asian regions. Or perhaps it is the first of many squirrel varieties. More than who is inclined to eat that, I would rather wonder who made a research on the topic. And if they can say that no animal suffered during it. If so, than I don’t believe in the naturalness of the product. How to make a decent squirrel extract without the involvement of the very inspiration for this taste. It will probably give the already malignant Brits another idea for a mean joke. Mock the Greek tragedy and feed Hyde Park squirrels with these chips. Wicked.
That is how they combine here the concepts of shit and royalty. Contrasts merged.
If they try to stick to their cover and pretend to be just regular crazy British joggers, getting fitter and fitter, running in the lovely London air, air conditioned by the double deckers and recently popular pink cabs. Brilliant! Mind (except for the gap) the possibility of getting wall-eye (discordant squint?) while trying to follow the ground signs...
The squirrels, eating massive produces Tesco brand, the cheapest pea- or hazel- nuts, went nuts or, as people don’t realize animals prefer the regular rather than roasted salty or chicken vinegar taste variety, are obese and lost their squirrely nature. Maybe it is the cruel vengeance of the Londoners from the suburbs, using 30 minutes to get to Hyde Park on furry, big-eyed rodents who don’t even need to pay rent for living in the very city centre. Let them suffer for their luck. Hell with the fact they are mere animals. The interest in this weird, apparently all resistant (how can one live in the centre of London?) animal is reflected in the recent new taste of Walker chips (chrisps? :P). Taste of squirrel. More than just squirrel, now, that would be only too simple, it’s Cajun Squirrel. Maybe to dispel the suspicion they used the London squirrels they tried to direct the attention of the customers to more Asian regions. Or perhaps it is the first of many squirrel varieties. More than who is inclined to eat that, I would rather wonder who made a research on the topic. And if they can say that no animal suffered during it. If so, than I don’t believe in the naturalness of the product. How to make a decent squirrel extract without the involvement of the very inspiration for this taste. It will probably give the already malignant Brits another idea for a mean joke. Mock the Greek tragedy and feed Hyde Park squirrels with these chips. Wicked.
That is how they combine here the concepts of shit and royalty. Contrasts merged.
20.1.09
Picture it
Ah, a dream came true, now I will be catching the moments in pictures along with words. A slightly more effective method, though still no efficient enough for me. Like the postcards that one buys after visiting a gallery. An exhibition temporary in a sense that one can experience it only being there, afterwards there is no way to go back to the emotions, and the powerful and un-investigated computer-mind fails to recall the paintings in detail. Postcards may only serve as a trigger of memories, or just a mere reminder that once you have demonstrated so much determination to make the way to some art gallery and see some creations that self appointed experts term art. And that you cruised around these people seemingly engaged in high-class conversations about the texture/perspective/colour (of their new wallpaper in the hall). Once I used to feel I was the only one who does not understand. Now I see, lo and behold my blindness is gone, they all don’t know. And that is why any gallery is the best comedy. Why to buy a 30 quid ticket to a show on the West End? Isn’t it enough to see the concentrated faces and hands clasped behind the backs in front of an orange plastic pyramid hanging from a ceiling (perhaps just a lamp but just in case it’s supposed to be artistic, maybe I just missed the caption?), heated discussion next to a sculpture of a paper spider, eyebrows frowned upon a picture showing black square in black background? (sounds like Rothko? That’s what I am talking about, and to be fair, I myself liked it, though not to an extent of a heated discussion - rather a murky contemplation…) And so why to buy the postcards? Technically, because you liked a picture so much that you want to look at it from time to time before going to sleep… (I like Goya and can only wish myself sweet dreams), but on the other hand a postcard is simply ill-equipped to evoke the very same feeling that the original picture did, and especially the one you liked the most, for the definition of ‘liking’ art is based on… you wish I could answer so that you could steal it and quote it to your art professors… well, it is usually a combination of factors, when finally this mixture of colours, a total waste of oil-paint, so much they use it sometimes, layers of shiny mud, make you SSS - stop sit stare in a mysterious enchantment. Happens rarely, and when it does others have a perfect reason to treat you as a great pretender. For 90-5% of the time you are, but it is only in order to find this one painting that will make all the gallery trips worth going out into the London fog.
14.1.09
Electifying Thoughts
My thoughts got lost. I wrote them down a.to grasp them,b.to get rid of their excess from my head, c.to use them in the future. And the thoughtful file got lost. Disappeared in the void of electrical impulses, one could say, the thoughts got back to their original form – neuron signals. Electricity. But now I don’t have them, for I emptied my head and can’t find the contents. Are thoughts disposable? Maybe they float around in the network and will be passed to some ‘lucky one’ who would be so disturbed that will decide to write them down, and will lose them again. Apparently that is not the planned fate of these thoughts. Written down they cease to be themselves, loose their floaty, vague nature and turn into a mere sentence, a short note, clusters of letters to which our ingenious human minds added artificial meanings.
13.1.09
A spark
I feel the Israeli experience is evaporating from me now, when I am back. Although, baruch ha shem!, only for 5 weeks, the process of digestion has started, headache and dreams, everything tries to get ordered, happens inside, whereas on the outside I put on a mask, the only way I can avoid complete severance from the external world. At least a kind of semi consciousness of the environment is retained without falling into an abyss of nothing. I need to occupy my time with something, each minute, make myself go even if I don’t want to for the sole fact I don’t want to gives me a clue that it is the moment to force myself to DO ACT. And I had so many plans for this break, I knew from the start it was gonna end like that. Or maybe once I ‘achieve’ something, realize one of the points, I will feel I still can. That there is after all some spark of will in this indecisive body.
12.1.09
Return
Hm. I haven't been here for quite a while. Now the boredom and melancholy of this emotion-abandoned place prompted me to spend the most of time with my beloved - computer. Just till I find something more cultured to do, or someone to get drunk with. After 5 months abroad, even when I am back in here I look at everything from a perspective. I shall upload some random comments about this place. Saturted with bitterness and irony, better to spill it out than become bitter yourself, right?
No wonder that if one is able to cook something tasty here they are considered a Cook. Maybe it actually requires some skill to make this food edible. To add some taste to the tasteless paper mache carrot and water coloured tomatoes. That is why it is so grey here, colourless and tasteless, the day doesn’t differ from the night, the sun abandoned the place faced with the mission impossible to warm it up and melt the stiff upper lip frozen on the over-polite faces. Maybe the taste and emotion got diluted in the ever present rain - lost in the fog.
No wonder that if one is able to cook something tasty here they are considered a Cook. Maybe it actually requires some skill to make this food edible. To add some taste to the tasteless paper mache carrot and water coloured tomatoes. That is why it is so grey here, colourless and tasteless, the day doesn’t differ from the night, the sun abandoned the place faced with the mission impossible to warm it up and melt the stiff upper lip frozen on the over-polite faces. Maybe the taste and emotion got diluted in the ever present rain - lost in the fog.
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