New job, new life, new principles

I even don’t know how I should start… because if I just feel that everything has changed, everything stills exactly the same… I won’t tell you too much about all my bad moments, all those humiliations that I constantly feel I have been victim last times… I mean, I won’t describe that weird sensation of sadness mixed with relief that I felt when I was finally fired for my ex-lord, I mean my ex-boss. I won’t tell you how bad were all those interviews that I’ve been attending. I won’t tell you how stupid you can feel when someone hung up the phone in your face because you can’t understand his stupid cockney accent… I won’t say anything about what is show to the people an ignorant picture of yourself just because you don’t have words to explain your truly self (if it does any sense).
In spite of, I will speak about the beginning of my new life here in London.
I am not a slave anymore… I was promoted to a serve of glebe. I guess it doesn’t make any sense written in English. I even don’t know too much about the History of England but when I remember Braveheart (don’t laugh about this example, please) I am pretty sure that this kind of dissimulated slavery also did exist here. I mean… when a Land Lord doesn’t own you as a property but he still having rights over you, when you already have rights but because you need to survive you have to be faithful to your Lord. Feudalism should be the proper word but I guess that nowadays we just use to call it of Capitalism or if you prefer the Jungle.
You have to survive!! That’s the quote! I have to survive and because I have to survive I have changed and I am now a different person. My manager (that’s one of the main points of my promotion: I don’t have boss anymore but a manager) loves me, or at least he is happy about my work. It is in a coffee shop in Convent Garden, Central London. He likes me because now I think in their benefits instead of my benefits. I understood that to be a worker is not a right anymore. You are a worker because you fit or don’t fit the employer’s interests. So… if you really want your job you must care about the company where you work… or at least you should pretend it. So… now I am the person always worried about the profit of my company. That’s why I am using all my creativity for decorate the coffee’s window with beautiful fruit and vegetable’s decorations, that’s why I am always caring about what products we are selling or not selling and giving suggestions with the main goal of increase the company profit. In a few time my life’s dream will be became the manager!!!
When I remember the Vera who was reading Brecht, Marx, Piscator and all those artists from the 60ths who dreamt about changing the world, when I remember myself dreaming about a theatre and art able to change the world I just laugh… I laugh and I feel sorry… I don’t know if I feel sorry for what I am becoming, if I feel sorry for the time I lost dreaming about this utopia.

Judit cuts my hair for her school project

Sun Through Clouds

The faces of people are so different. Everybody is special, everyone could make a great character in a film. They're just humans with wives, children maybe a dog. Running to get to work or getting home. With a purpose. Maybe their faces and bodies are all covered in veils or they're tall, transsexual and have purple hair.
A woman will ask you (on your way to murder mile) "Do you have a cigarette?" and you'll certainly answer "It's my last one" but it's not! In the city a cigarette costs 25p. She will turn her back on you, roll one of her own as you recall that queer piece of metal up her nose.
And the best way to forget it is always getting yourself in the wrong bus on the way to the City. I'm sure there will be light, for the buildings are made of solid gold and you can get infected with happiness if you accidentally touch them.
An interview with Ginger in Emerald City is just a half hour journey. It's beyond the end of the Mile, pass the grass made bridge where they held Victorian funeral marches. When you arrive there, a police man inspects the bus to make sure no one is carrying a bomb. Probably because they suspect someone is trying to explode it since it's so shiny and tall.
The winds are strong and the Emerald City, that was built on a floating island, drifts away in the river. Words embrace buildings, flowing around them like silk ribbons. They're news. It's a quarter to one, not enough time to eat your blackberry muffin and wash it down with a thick oversweet mango juice.
Ginger is nice. He and his friend take me where they turn fabric in to emeralds. They ask a lot of questions but tell nothing about themselves. "We will call you next week!" And I feel like I'm nineteen and have aged ten years in a month.