April has been teary. There have been tears, small drops of salty moist, and there have been tears, slight rips in the structure of my emotional fabric. But also, there have been many rainy days. Lazy showers, thunderstorms, drizzles, hammering hail, and all other precipitation the sky can afford. Being stuck indoors with an electric Toddler displaying great appetite for turbo movement is not easy. Especially when it’s for days upon days and you’re too low to constantly come up with entertainment methods and time-killing techniques.
My beautiful child does not harbor much inclination for the fine arts. I gave him pencils and coloring books, he threw every single one of them down the stairs. I gave him play-dough, he rubbed it into the carpet so fervently I don’t think I will ever be able to get it out of its fibers. I gave him crayons, he ate them, I gave him chalks and a small blackboard, he crushed them into fine dust then rubbed it all over his mug. But then, by absolute accident, we discovered theater. Continue reading
Previously on my Tale Of Three Guitars: I actually start with no guitar but singing in a church choir and not wanting to play the piano. Then, I become a rebel and buy the ugliest bass you’ll ever see, start a band only to watch it come undone after the first gig. I have more luck with my second band, thanks to which I have my first lick of rockstardom, until high school ends and I have to leave the country. Next, I sell my first guitar for a ferry ride (to Finland) which, somehow, brings us to a story of
30 Birthdays And The Second Guitar
Slide your eyelids shut, inhale through your nostrils, and let me time-travel you to the morning of Friday April 11th, 2008. Imagine the heavy, dusty boots of a delivery guy climbing up the concrete-grey staircase of an Eastern European post-soviet film studio, cursing under his breath, smelling of yesterday’s vodka, hug-dragging an uncomfortable, unconventional, shapely package. He moves down a somber corridor, scanning the numbers on the doors, looking for the one marked on his order. He finds it, it’s wide open, it’s a production office for one of the many movies being shot somewhere around the studios. Three people sit behind desks in the room, the delivery guy doesn’t knock, he pants his way in and plants the thing in the middle of the coffee-stained carpet, staring, waiting for the bitch who had the brilliant idea to have such a thing delivered by mail to jump up from her chair in utter delight.
That bitch is me, and the funky thing that looks like a Blues Brothers’ guitar case fucked a postal package and gave birth to this, is what I got myself for my thirtieth birthday. Continue reading
Although I like to think of myself as an ever-flowing, dynamic creature who is not scared of transformation, there are a few things about me – and especially about my body – that have been always true and true they will (possibly) always be. One of these pillars of my earthly being is that nothing in me (not my mind, not my body, not my mood or style or interest) likes being forced.
I will never forget this one event from my childhood. I had a milk tooth that was taking forever to come out. It was hanging in my mouth for days, dangling, wobbling, hurting, making me miserable and whining and because I would not allow anyone of my family members to get between my gums and put an end to my misery, my mother sent my dad and me to the dentist’s to finally get it over with. Next thing I know, I’m reclining on the dentist’s chair, the pleasant lady doctor asks me softly to close my eyes while my father smiles and nods sheepishly. At first, I do close my eyes and open my mouth, but at the very last moment something clicks in me and I lift one of my eyelids to see the most terrifying-looking pair of forceps looming over my face. In one split second, my safety system went in complete lock-down. Continue reading