coffee no. 116

At secondary school I was a member of a group that comprised people who had win some literary competition. We met once a week with known writer, in order to talk about our poetry and short stories, and prepare them for publication, etc. I was not very entusiastic about that meetings but I liked them, especially when some funny things happened. One day I brought a poem, written really fast, almost automathically, just for fun. It seemed nice to me, but I knew that "jury" would say that it was too simple and short. When I read it aloud, they started discussing it, founding a lot of metaphors, thoughts, ideas. I did not even thought of half of those senses, writing that poem, but they found it very interesting and good.
When I think about that situation, I always smile, and wonder how many great (and, what is more) logical meanings, of which authors had not thought while writing, has been found by literature critics. How many percent of masterpiece in "Ulisses" is connected with Joyce, and how many with its critics...

coffee no. 115

Today when I was running to the cafe, I noticed that the new bookstore has been opened near the city centre. I am that kind of person who could not come out from such a shop with empty hands, so, bearing in mind that a couple of days ago I spent a lot of money for a wonderful album about Symbolists, I decided to pass the shop by and visit it next week. But suddenly I stopped in front of the small window because my eyes saw something really important inside. There was a shelf with Moleskine notebooks! All of them -- large and small, plain and ruled, reporter and diary. All of them! I was gazing like a child in front of the shop with candies or toys, and I was sure to be back there tomorrow.
When I think about it now, I am still very happy that at last there would not be a problem for me to buy a new Moleskine. On the other hand, something changed, even ended -- I can simply go to the shop and buy what I want. Just like any other thing. Without waiting...
I remember the time when I dreamt of having the Moleskine notebook. And I remember the day when I was given it by surprise.
Maybe it is sad, maybe only melancholic, but probably I will always associate Moleskine notebooks with a present. When you buy it on your own, it is only half a magic.
Tomorrow I am going to buy the Moleskine diary 2007.

coffee no. 114

Strange looking guy gets on the tram. He is short and obese, his face is unnaturally pale and there is some kind of maddness in his eyes. I think that Renfield from B. Stoker's "Dracula" could look exactly like him. The man holds a book in his hands, and having noticed the very characteristic cover, I know that this is one of Harlequin romances. After a while Renfield takes a seat next to the place I stand, opens his book and starts reading. I can see that he has already read about one third of the novel. His chubby fingers with very long fingernails move restlessly. Some minutes later, after observing wet with rain streets, my eyes come back to the reader. What can I see? Renfield reads the last page of the book, smiling from ear to ear and sighing of relief. It seems that his romance ends happily. Thank goodness.

coffee no. 113

“Everything looks a little different when you leave.”

Charles Atlas in the interview for The Times.

coffee no. 112

Years ago, at the age of 14 or 15, my two friends and I were at a very peculiar concert. The event took place in the park, near the city centre, on a spring sunny day. In addition it was Saturday early afternoon, so you can imagine crowds of happy people, from mothers with their kids, to saunting pensioners. But, surprisingly, there was nobody. Only three of us and a well known in the city bum who always looked like a parrot, wearing tons of ribbons and odd shoes. So we were staying a couple of metres from the stage, waiting for the concert to begin, and after some minutes it really did. The band consisted of a bit tough guys with long hair and leather trousers. They came to the stage very embarassed and astonished with all that absurd situation, and performed for about half an hour. We were clapping, trying not to burst in laughter, and the bum was dancing like a mad, his ribbons were floating, oh it was so crazy! I wonder what the musicians must have felt in that moment, how they were, what were they thinking of while playing their serious songs only for three cynical girls and twirling Mr. Parrot...
The answer to that question is obvious, of course.