seeing the humanity and joy in our everyday
I have hand written letters to my best friend ever since I could remember.
I wrote my first daughter‘s birth story minute by minute, stage by stage.
Books in the mahogany bookcase, books in the vitrines, in place of figurines, knick-knacks and glassware. Books instead of side tables. Books supporting dressers and cabinets, books in wall crevices. Books in the wardrobe. Books in corridors, books behind doors, books on the kitchen table, books in beds, books on the upright piano, books on windowsills. Books at the entrance, books in the balcony.
It is the same day, 11am.
Let us piece the rest of the day, from various sources:
My feelings: of embarrassment, or rather pure terror. In my usual life, I smile and laugh a lot, especially in inappropriate moments. I was somehow convinced I was going to burst out with laughter, so pinching myself I sat, in a fixed uncomfortable position, throughout the ceremony. I remember nothing else.
Continue reading “Our wedding – PART II, or how to piece one memory from different sources”
It’s not gilded, it does not shine, nor sparkle, nor wow. It is not colourful; although it does have a beige tinge which I quite like.
Time to put my money where my heart is, well, more like, my writing where my heart is. So here it is. Continue reading “#ACCOUNTS THAT COUNT”
He asked me to marry him. Plain and simple. ‘I think it might be a good idea.’ No ceremony to the moment. No build up. No expectation. Continue reading “On love, weddings and the colour yellow [PART 1]”
One, an artist. The other, master of stick drawings.
She was fifty years old, she had the bluest eyes and thick short hair. We never spoke much. Back then, we each spoke different languages. She liked to sit in her chair by the window, in the tiny kitchen, with a permanent coffee in her hand and sometimes a cigarette. I often stayed in the kitchen with her. I would take pictures and listen. Sometimes I would wash up. Ania loved to cook but hated washing up. Continue reading “On Love”