Ocean Is Magical

Praia do Guincho

Ocean is magical. I am drawn to it. I recall the days when work and pressure used to suck me dry. Ocean would restore me better than a day spent in meditation, a Monty Python skits or a box of pills to increase serotonin.

When I look at it – it seems cosmic; I feel like hypnotised plankton. My problems shrink and appear irrelevant. Its powerful winds blow out all the negative residues. I feel so small. It performs its scary dance in front of me like a Chimbu Skeleton dancer.

I believe that four million years ago it was our natural habitat. We still carry a bit of ocean inside us: our blood, sweat, tears are salty; our mothers carry us in salty water; our taste buds need salt to recognize food flavour.

You need to see it once to miss it the whole life. Ocean is mystical.

The Science Of Choice

Do you remember this scene from the “House of Cards”: Donald Blythe, a well-grounded republican, refuses to make a pact with Frank (the biggest manipulator of all), shooting bulletproof arguments why his decision makes sense? In fact, it does. What does Frank do to get what he wants? – Uses the most powerful weapon in decision-making process – emotions! He shows “sincerest “ concerns about his wife’s health, gives a couple of sympathetic pats on the shoulder – the deal is sealed.

My husband is a Frank in the way he uses my emotions to reach what he wants. He always smashes my logic, like a rotten tomato; kills my gnostic mind and pulls out my Christian heart. A couple of years ago I decided to extend our family by purchasing a cat. He, on the other hand, wanted to adopt. Anyhow, a logical me wanted to have a Chartreux pedigree kittens. I brainwashed him with endless “101 Pets” videos in YouTube, reasoning that one day we might build a Chartreux Empire, raising fluffy cute cheetahs.

When he finally gave in, we started our search: sent loads of emails to proud owners of blue-blooded animals, zombied the brains with “aw, so sweet” pictures. Somehow we managed to trap into an animal traffic scheme. A guy with an authentic Portuguese name Miguel and incredibly bad writing skills sent us heart-melting pictures (he obviously mastered the science of mind control games). He said that the animal would be transferred from Switzerland as soon as we pay the fee for its move…through Western Union… his office was in Cameroon! I felt so disappointed and the whole purpose seemed meaningless.

That’s when my emotional stimulator stepped in: shoved the sites of shelters, dared my moral values. “Don’t you want to give home to a poor abandoned child?!” – he said. “ They also need our care and love, poor souls!” – he repeated. I lost my shields, and the emotional me made a decision: “We will adopt!” The next week we had Gaspar.

Gaspar - the product of our emotional choice
Gaspar – the product of our emotional choice

He was wrapped in yellow dirty covers and he was full of snot. Three years later we are happy to be the parents of a smart, loving and grateful street cat. We give him love, care, food and house. He gives us way more: gentle morning head bumps, endless loyalty and the essence of home.

Most of my best shots in life involved an emotional platform. My husband, places we lived in, my jobs – all those were the signals from the subconscious that told me a lot about what I really choose.

Sometimes we create a perfectly tailored argument. We are proud with its shape and possible outcome. And how many times those ideal solutions crumble before a begging homeless, a crying Mom or a toothless smile of a child?! Does it make us more vulnerable and open to manipulations? – Maybe so, but we enjoy an emotional choice way more than logical, even if we sour it with regrets. There is always a moment of a triumph, which we would never experience using a logical path. We feel like burglars breaking the rules.

Fear of dating outside the norms, refusal to hire tattooed manpower, standardisation of lives, choosing society approved professions or excluding a mongrel from pretentious competitions – those are the limits we create by false logical norms, which lead to wrong choices. The term “logical” is quite vast and antithetical. The meaning of the term has been manipulated ever since its creation. I guess the most lucid thing of all is to follow you gut and embrace emotional choices.

The whole world stops for a second. You open your logical clenched fist; suddenly everything becomes clear: there are no spectrums of good and bad, no “either… or” constructions, no judgments, no superstitions. The puzzle is solved.

Airports – Transit Or Destination

   They mix, separate, unite and connect – so many feelings mingle behind those concrete walls. Every airport is similar to the Tower of Babel: hundreds of people talk gibberish and dig their way to the gates-tunnels, while carrying jumbo bags with duty-free trophies.

Those massive buildings reflect a country’s wealth, popularity, capacity and strategy. Like on a palm of a hand you can see the doomed and the glorious scrambled together: a Prada cougar rushes along with a barefoot Namibian, who tidily wrapped up the whole life into a single-use plastic bag. Both would take a glimpse of each other and retrace their whole lives.

Big iron birds take off and land, spitting out kerosene fumes and proudly boasting off their national characteristics.

Minutes before boarding are spent in meditation. Each is praying for what bothers the most. A father with rubber senseless hands is squeezing a couple of toys – those are birthday presents to his offspring – he is finally returning back after 6-months hard work in the land, where even trees are foreign; a boy thrown around the world by a corporate machine, striving to skyrocket his career. Is it what matters? – He would figure it our later. Meanwhile, he is rambling through important papers; tie sits perfectly on his neck; a branded suit, a Moleskine. A bunch of “golden girls” is on the way back from shopping in Milan. Ripped off by marketing sharks, but proud: “they’ve got a deal”. A couple of lovebirds craving to dig their feet into white sands of Barbados and watch cotton clouds pass by. A family occupied a corner of the waiting compartment. Clutched together like birds nestling under roof tiles, they are ready to run away from pain, doubts and frustration. They would shove civil engineering diplomas between dusty books and set a table, arguing what detergent is better to scrub off the stains at the restaurant they now work for.

Some are scared, some are happy. Some – confused and tired.

Airports are city gates. They squeeze together countries’ gastronomic delights, ridiculously expensive souvenirs, scents, shapes and tastes of what is hidden behind the revolving doors.

One would look through a nicely polished window, take a poetic look at the local panorama – it would not show the whole city. You would have to imagine what’s further, like stealing a glimpse of a Persian ankle. After that comes a thought: “Would it be just a transit or my next destination?”