"My mother called me Silver."

I will decapitate anybody who says that bright and rounded days, days filled with satisfaction crowned with cappuccino froth, do not happen. From now on. I really will. Because today has been a tangible evidence of the brightness.

The most important is to hit upon a good idea. An idea based on uselessness or some activity that may be useful, but which on your list of priority tasks to complete in the best case comes somewhere in the middle. It's all about acting against your daily routine. That's why I couldn't ever live in chaos. In a mess you can never notice the weird shapes of distinctive, unusual things. There are some, however, who'd say that it's the chaos of actions that the unique things tend to happen most often.

Today it fell on the "Lighthousekeeping" by Jeanette Winterson.
Initially it was supposed to be an exercise for my English phonetics classes. I wanted to listen to recording of Jeanette reading from her book, then try to repeat after her, and finally – to record my own voice.

But Jeanette seldom works on me without any blissful side effects.

First of all, one more time I became captivated by these first few pages of the novel. This piece seems a perfect trinket, a glass button or casket, made of almost unnoticeable, also perfect elements. Jeanette Winterson is right: we should learn our favorite pieces of books or poetry by heart. Only in this way we can really notice the artistry and clarity of the form, but also capture the meaning for longer that just a little while. It is only then that you begin to understand that an introduction to a story about a girl that "was born part precious metal, part pirate", a piece of text so frugal and hard-hewn, can turn out to be one of the most beautiful phenomena you have experienced in your life.

I listened to Jeanette's voice, I repeated. I tried to imitate her deep stressing, swashbuckling curling up of phrases, painting with the voice. After that, with my muscles tensed like strings and my thumbs pressed against the inner side of hands, I recorded myself. And then I compared. "Up she went, (...) pulling me behind her like an afterthought". It was amazing.

Jeanette – dense and balanced. She sounded clear and articulate, the outlines of her English were sharp and dark so that I could almost see their graphic equivalents. Someone who reads like that is a person at the rostrum, one who makes the air around them a natural destination for their strong and confident words, the cadence of which indicates precisely their meaning.

And then me. Compared to her, very quiet, as if stooping. What while speaking seemed stressed on the verge of exaggerating, on the recording was only a shy peeping out from behind the corner, invariably followed by quick returns into more neutral, safer tones.

A woman who has thousands of jumps behind her and whose acrobatic moves are supple and smooth.

And me, irresolute, funnily young me, whose every move is only an attempt.

Hell, it's an honor to mince after Jeanette Winterson.