gaga blues.diary of imperfect life. now in prague.
A high-spirited blonde in her mid-twenties kneads a chubby blond boy’s arms in a heavy shade of reed and straw. She turns him over to his stomach and she squeezes his buttocks, leaving red traces of her fingers. It seems to be amusing to her. Her top bikini part is decorated with a handful of fringes, Apache-style, which dangle and move left-right, the way her breasts move.
The panel of experts at my table concludes that she is still breast-feeding.
At one moment she takes the baby-boy under the arm-pits and puts him to a standing position, pressing his baby thighs. The white mother-of-pearl shadow on her eyes clashes with the beach outfit, but who cares. It looks good on her.
On the table there is a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and an ice-coffee in a sweaty glass. Next to it is a book – “Adultery” by Paulo Coelho. With a bookmarker at the very beginning. A mobile. I immediately see her returning the book to her sister-in-law with lifted eye-brows. “I didn’t even have time to open it”. And the sister-in-law shakes her head with understanding. As a matter of fact, neither did she.
I know that what is in fashion today is “the utter splendour” and “the misty sincerity of pink colour” when the texts of parenthood and family are concerned, especially in summer and at the seaside.
We share lovable looks and subtly shake our heads when watching our children and how ingenious they are while making stars in the shallows. Not to mention the first swim?! And it is with your dad! Don’t push her any more, it’s enough for her! Then the dawn comes and the toddling of a baby girl in a dress and a diaper, so cute, along with a horde of other members of land homo sapiens. Older children are licking ice-creams and we are all laughing at how a lady at the beach sat today on a wasp with her right buttock. Somehow we all look happy. That is because we all are happy. Today we may send postcards. Children will draw on them instead of writing. And on the last day, for the memory, we’ll collect especially beautiful and unusual stones in order to remember this, almost perfect holiday for the whole forthcoming year.
I have no inspiration for this type of exchange.
This was my third attempt undertaken in the golden city to turn the SonOfTheSun into a man.
Here we are, the mother and the son, after long three years, living together again.
And during these three years – well, many things have happened. From new children to new cities, new books and new views of the world. Both of us have studded our lives with years, but it still seems to me that his 15 years of age have bristled at me like 15 quills I get pricked on regularly.
In the eve of an exceptionally hot day, a blossoming park in front of my block of flats attracts, like a magnet, boys and girls (and a few ladies like me in the final phase of blooming) into its greeny lap. Long into the night, the park rocks us in the rhythm of Brazilian jazz. It is as exotic as it gets, for me, at this very moment.
Czech language has covered all segments of our lives like a thick fishnet. Only here do we understand how the language is, in fact, a miracle. Like breathing, it is present in our lives and we are unaware of its almost omnipotent nature. Liberating, enslaving, almost unperceivable….
In the space between the window panes in my bedroom there is a Prague ladybird lying on its back. All its tiny legs are pointing up in the air. It has passed away. It is lit by the icy January sun, lying there motionless. Indeed, it is a nice ladybird – even though being dead, it radiates some kind of modest serenity, it looks as if its bug apology is reaching (contacting?) me, saying how sorry it is to have yielded its minute ghost right between my window-panes. Its miniature legs are standing motionless in the air attracting my attention. It’s a frame taken from a slow film.