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.

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.

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.

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.

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.