Supermarket Showdown #3752745

child running in supermarket alley

It’s been months since I had the guts to take my son to the supermarket. I’m not sure if every parent necessarily develops this form of shoppingwithtoddlerophobia, as I do sometimes see these relaxed women followed by faithful toddler girls doing a neat impersonation of a bonsai shopping housewife – but MY life does not look like that.

When my son started going to preschool, last November, I swore an oath to myself that I would always use those precious hours to practice the craft I love and WORK on my writing. But the craft I love is a foxy beast who knows many magic tricks to make time disappear, so slowly, over the months, I came to embrace the notion that slicing a tiny 25 minutes out of the two-hour Tuesday to dash get bread and a few other groceries for dinner was not such a bad idea after all.

For it spared me having to go with my Toddler.

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How To Survive A Film Festival, Unharmed

Many film festival badges from my past

If you have ever seen a big film festival with your own eyes, it’s impossible you didn’t notice how insistently it shines. Everything around a film festival is sparkly and bright (filmmakers know their lights), everywhere you look there’s silver high heels and paparazzi flashes, golden doorknobs, watery eyeballs.

Truth is, behind the silver screen things are indeed quite fancy, but also pretty hollow, and wasted. What from the outside looks like a dazzling celebration of CINEMA (the most expensive form of entertainment out there) is essentially a glorified fair for the Film Industry. Every big film festival is in fact a beehive clusterfuck of film-business people looking to hook-up with more film-business people so to hopefully find a distribution on Asian territories, find a new script to develop, find someone willing to arrange half of a million coins to finish the postproduction of the movie they’re stuck with, and get laid. Continue reading

28 Hot Posts On Facebook in 2016

It’s the last day of this tremendous year, if you are reading this post it means you’ve probably managed to survive the 12 months’ worth of curve-balls we’re leaving behind tonight. CONGRATULATIONS. I thought this is a good occasion to have one last look back and pick out the best of what happened, to keep it in my thoughts as I hammer this door shut and move on toward – hopefully – bluer skies.

If you don’t follow me on Facebook yet, you probably should. Not only because this way you’ll always be up to date with what’s going on in my head, but also that’t the best place to have a closer interaction with your favorite blogger, if you’d feel so inclined.

On Facebook and Instagram I share little stories about my days, the small challenges they bring, the laughs, the sweet moments, the stuff that pisses me off too. I share plenty of photos, and I always respond to comments. Here are my favorite FB posts from last year, in order of appearance:

(1) That Time I Got Some Christmas Money And Wasn’t Sure What To Spend It On So I Asked You –

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have a dilemma. I must have been very un-naughty last year, because Santa brought me a nice…

Posted by Baby Blues & Rock'N'Roll on Thursday, January 14, 2016

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Dreaming By Numbers

Please God Let Me Die Naked In A Fast Car

Fast, intense, naked, troubled, terrific, exhilarating, terrible, this November has been about dreams and long awaited (feared?) turns finally coming around. Multiple incredible events took place this past month, but I will tell you about two (2) main ones.

First.

Ever since I was 12, I dreamed about becoming a novelist, AND

On the first day of November I started writing (the first draft of) my very first novel!

If you follow me on social media you must have already heard that I took part in this year’s NaNoWriMo, which means that in the past 30 days I filled up a word document with 50,000 words.

50,202 – to be precise.

This sounds incredible and much more compelling than what it actually looks like, as these 50,202 words are more like one huge regurgitated blob of disconnected thoughts and episodes and anecdotes and bits of dialogues, all written with great speed and no filters (because word count) rather than anything even vaguely resembling a novel. I’m not even half way through a first version, not to mention revisions, editing, and all the actual work I still have to do for it to start making sense. So please don’t hold your breath.

Then again, what really matters is that I found in me the fire and persistence it took to accomplish this, which is the single greatest act of support toward my Inner Writer I’ve ever had the courage to undertake. Continue reading

Thank You For The Music

self portrait with iPod

I can get quite sentimental about objects. Maybe that’s because I’ve spent many years on my own, living alone, working for myself, travelling so much, which made me learn to appreciate the company and comfort certain things can provide. Not ALL things, of course, I’m not a hoarder and actually I have quite a minimalist approach to the owning of material goods, but there are a few objects I cherish, which have been through a lot together with me, which have stood by me and kept going even when everything else seemed to fall apart (like the water cooker that’s been with me 15 years now and has tirelessly boiled water for my cups of tea across 5 countries).

If I can consider these few objects my friends, then there is one among them which has been my absolute best friend ever since we laid eyes on each other. And, as it also goes with human friendships, for reasons hard to understand and as sudden as a chameleon snapping a fly mid-flight with its tongue, I lost it. Continue reading

The Wash Bar

Little V playing the piano

The image you see was taken at the beginning of May in a very special laundromat in Antwerp, Belgium. If you look closely, in the top right corner you can see two of the many laundry machines lining the walls of this really hip joint, which also offered a wide choice of drinks and cakes and, obviously, had a piano too. We stopped there after spending the whole morning at the beautiful Antwerp zoo and then wandering for a good two hours across the city’s center.

This photo is very dear to me for multiple reasons, but let me just tell you about the two main ones. Continue reading

30 Birthdays And The Second Guitar

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

pink and black vintage woman playing 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

Back To Bass

the bass guitar is back

This past month has been rich in memorable events. The beginning of spring, crocuses and snowdrops under our feet, new haircuts and very wet out of town trips, head-colds, outdoor playdates, Easter with its many boiled eggs and slaughtered lambs, my parents’ (still ongoing) visit, days at the zoo. Also, numerous blasts of toddler emotions, an intensifying need for closeness, greater manifestations of naughty, the mind-blowing development of language which, in the past weeks at least, is nothing short of a true explosion. Colorful doodles on the toy kitchen blackboard, feeding ducks on chilly afternoons, reading books together wrapped in a blanket, on the balcony, in the gentle sun.

But the event that most made my month, this March, is something altogether else. It’s the story of me finally making my way to that corner Continue reading

After Dark

blue doc martens shoes

Deep deep down, at the very heart of my gut, I am a lone wolf. Before I had the blind luck to meet the man who dazed me with his love, made me a mother, and gave me a home, I spent seven years of my life (in a row) on my very own. But mind you, I was not a sad spinster and I have seldom been scared to face the world all alone. When I was on my own, I enjoyed each day by doing exactly as I pleased and I’ve never let the fact I was missing an entourage stop me from going wherever I wanted to go, even in the middle of the night. Continue reading

Burn Mommy Burn

an orange and pink flame in my hand

I’m really sorry you guys, I’m afraid I owe you an apology. I’ve made a big fat mistake and I need to tell you about it. Please let me explain.

You see, I’m a writer. I know I’m a writer for a number of reasons, but let’s just say it’s because when I write I feel right, I feel strong and sane, while when I don’t I become sick. Physically, mentally, in every single way. If I don’t write for too long I will break down and fold up on myself like a mad dinosaur pulverized by an alien beamer.

Round about the time my son was born, I completely stopped writing. Overnight, I went from multiple pages a day to absolutely not a single word for weeks and weeks and those weeks became several months very fast, almost a whole year. Obviously, I couldn’t afford to break down and fold up on myself as I had a baby on my arms, and so I dropped into a subtle creative panic that made me hallucinate a little. Continue reading

At Fault

selfie at the film festival

One of the best teachers I ever encountered on my way to who I am now once told me that FAULT is the most important element of a language. FAULT comes from personality, cannot be measured, is the form in which unsolved human thinking presents itself to our understanding – as a crack in a structure. Through that crack, all what is the essence of humanity (emotions, inspiration, sensation, content) seeps into our conscious to captivate, unsettle, fascinate us. We need a structure not because we need a solid form, a mechanism that won’t let us down. No, we need structure so we can have FAULT. Continue reading

Back To Bra

IMG_20151109_161204

I leave the bedroom quietly, shut the door like I’m not even there. It took me so long to get him to fall asleep, nursing, he must have sucked for almost half an hour. I step into the bathroom, lift my shirt, and estimate the damage. I take the needle from the complimentary hotel sewing kit I keep handy on the shelf, clean it with rubbing alcohol then get down to it. The first time I had to do this I sweated profusely, the needle slipping out of my fingertips and my heart pumping like a traumatized squirrel’s. Continue reading