Thursday, December 22, 2011

Mad and excited

I'm both mad and excited.

Mad with what's been going on here and what we're going to be facing in the near future. It doesn't seem as bright as one would hope for. The global situation is as it is, worse in some parts and better in some parts. Naturally, we consider the areas which are closest to ours and we try to follow the events as much as possible.

But when the only thing being spoken about is the crisis, the lack of finances and opportunities, the dim future, prices going up and pay checks going down, working era prolonged to seventy-five and so on, what is one supposed to think? What should one hope for and aspire to?

I look at my parents, both retired and struggling and I know they're hating it all. I look at my brother, head of sales in a big firm here, with a decent pay check and his own house, a wife who's also working and three kids, and he's still struggling. So, what am I supposed to do? Almost living, living in a place owned by my parents, with no work or any potential openings in the near future...

Am I supposed to work in a store for the rest of my life? Did I struggle to get my Master's degrees for this? For staying at home, sending twenty job applications per day and hoping for the best?

Fuck that!

I'm going to swim across the sea if I have to, but I'm not staying here. I'm not giving another coin to these bastards here. Robbing their own people off their money, losing the elections and still robbing people. Until there's a situation like the one in Greece around here as well, we can only bend over and wait for another bump down the stairwell.

Taxes up to 25%, pay check going down, more and more retired people. Now that there's a lack of work force, even the employers who can afford to hire someone are going to expect a lot more money in the envelope that you bring to the interview. I mean, is this the world we're supposed to live in? Seriously?!

I'm not as brave as I'd like to be, but I'd stand up for a cause. If it's going to take these fuckers down, I'm up for it. But the thing is there's no guarantee that the ones after them won't be the same. It seems that this society is living by the get-what-you-can-while-you-can rule, filling their pockets while the power is on their side. It somehow reminds me of a scene in a movie.

And finally, I'm excited. Excited to new opportunities, as few as there are. I hope I'll be able to change my life, to get out of this misery, to budge and to make a difference. If nothing, at least for myself, in my head, for my family. After all, isn't that what we're all aiming for?

So, keep your fingers crossed...

Saturday, December 17, 2011

No job, yes cry.

So, even after a couple of successful interviews (it's not only me who thought that, but the people I had the interviews with) I didn't get the job. Even after it was boiled down to one other guy and myself, I didn't get it. It must be the fact that I didn't go there all suited up and with my hair greased up like Mr Briefcase there.

The moron that I am, I was looking forward to it too much, hoping that it would finally click. Something that's a challenge, a job that I'd possibly like to work and in a company and an environment which seems OK, considering the circumstances.

But no, another slap in the face. Thanks.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

101 Words: Life on needles

Waiting for a phone call.
Waiting for an e-mail.
Waiting at the bus stop.
Waiting for the third round of interviews.
Waiting for another one on the side.
Waiting for a confirmation.
Waiting for the big yes!
Waiting in a queue.
Waiting at the doctor's.
Waiting at the employment office.
Waiting at the tram stop.
Waiting for them to give me a break.
Waiting for the water to start boiling.
Waiting for something to finally happen.
Waiting for the phone call.
Waiting for myself to start living my life at last.
Waiting at another bus stop.
Waiting for yet more waiting.

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Nothing is constant except change.

I've always liked that part of The Lord of the Rings where the Lady of the Woods (whose real name I can't recall at the moment - oh, it's Galadriel, as Google says) speaks:

The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

Both scary and epic, it's made me hit the pause button and ponder upon it so many times. It's fiction (or maybe not), but it has so much in common with 'the real world'. How much of it is true, how much of it can be related to our own lives, history, civilization, future?

Will we remember yesterday the day after tomorrow? Will anyone? Is there a point to it? Many say it's important to remember where we came from and what we're part of. Sometimes I wonder why...

Do I really want to get stuck (both physically and mentally) in this environment I don't really like? Where I have to look for bright spots in order to get up every day. Where one has to cross the street to avoid potential conflict and choose the path one takes in order to save oneself some nerves. Is that life?

I'm not sure it's much better elsewhere, but I surely am up for a bit of change. Some get lulled into the feeling of coziness, safety and togetherness - those are the ones who will get  run over by the changing world. Or not touched by it at all. There are others who get run over by the feelings the others cherish. Sometimes even choked by them. By the society, by norms, rules and regulations, by the daily dullness, public transportation and queuing wherever you turn.

Who am I to say what or who is wrong? But who are the others to say I'm wrong?

Here the little, naïve me, ages ago...

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Moving out, moving on...

So, I've been kicked out of my flat. By my father. Yes.

It's (obviously) been too long since we first started irritating the hell out of each other. It's only been this little game we play, about who would flip out the first and ruin all the fun for the other one.

Had the situation permitted sooner, I would've been out of this place ten years ago. The plan to live in separate flats in the same house obviously didn't have any positive future aspirations.

Not it's funny and I'm not sure whether to be laughing or bumming out.

It's been ages since I've been a bad son, but it's been way longer since he's been a lousy father. I won't start with the stories of my life and the words I've heard come out of his mouth during it either. But for the observer, we're a nice little cozy happy family. Picket fences and all. Everyone knows it's not like that, but everyone believes it.

Being a good boy since I was a kid didn't bring much happiness to me, it seems. Always grounded, always having to apologize, always missing out on all the fun. Never happy.

And now, instead of being awarded, I'm doomed to suffer the rest of my life, choking on this invisible leash I've been remote-controlled by my whole life.

Almost thirty, no flat, no proper job. And now I manage to break my father's heart. Well, he broke mine, but that doesn't count, it seems.

What I know is I'm glad it's finally started rolling - it was obviously bound to happen and if it needed to be done in a not-so-nice way, so be it.

My side of the story will be looking for a flat and a shit job to pay for the rent, struggling at these hard times and trying to make it work without bank loans and all the crap that's making or lives even more miserable. The other side of the story will show me as a horrible, ungrateful son who left his parents when it was the hardest.

Well, yeah, people. Not bitching about stuff doesn't mean it's all peachy and bushy tails.

And we'll see how it goes. I've always wondered how it was not talking to dad. Like that's new.

Friday, October 14, 2011

One hundred and eleven words: Affection with madness

I've found myself wondering what it feels like to lose one's mind.

Heaven knows I've been on the verge, but I might just not have been ready. Or brave. Or fed up. Or whatever it takes.

But I am wondering.

Is it a feeling of freedom? Relief? Letting go of fear, worries and responsibility, of consequences and boundaries, regimes, regulations and norms?

Does one finally give in to insomnia, restlessness, control freaks, the fucking system and all the unfairness that drives us mad?

As I lay in my bed, listening to the constant wreckage, banging, yelling, barking and the world and I wonder how far from the edge I actually am.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Skype unveiled

My mum skyped today! I can't describe how proud I am. Well, proud might be an overstatement, but I'm surely thrilled about it.

She's got a brother in Switzerland and whenever there's something to talk about, it always involves later hours, shorter phone calls and whatever it is that makes the information flow as economical as possible.

I was telling her about Skype and the possibility (and the advantage) of talking to her brother for free, but I'm not really sure if she got the grip at all. For her it's all internet

My uncle, on the other hand, is a fifty-something guy who recently started learning English, spends his vacation in New York, Madrid or Paris and is always open to new things. One's gotta appreciate as well as admire a person like that, who's always motivating, outgoing and totally up to anything.

That's why I was eager to get them to skype together, so he called me and I just planted my iPod in front of my mother.

My uncle has skyped lately, in order to catch up with all the family around the world, but mum was still a bit confused with her brother's image on this little device. I think she didn't really know what to do (I was expecting her to grab the iPod and use it as a phone), especially when she saw herself in the corner of the screen, waving to him and her at the same time.

So, my uncle's talking to mum and dad is peeking over her shoulder to see what's going on. He has been spotted by my uncle, who's saying hi to him, so he says it back, but they start talking again at the same time, so my mum hushes him but he's still talking, so they're all talking at the same time and I'm standing on the side, wishing I had an iPhone or something to take a photo.

Future, feel free to drop by anytime...

Monday, September 26, 2011

Job search

I seriously think that online job applications are basically only the first tests in the line of so many more.

There must me a tiny little camera hidden somewhere, peeking into our living room, recording what we're doing, how we're acting when we're applying and, finally, what sort of swear words we're coming up with.

Seriously, one would think that multi-million-whichever-currency companies would have a proper web site where nothing will fail to load, collapse or cause your whole computer to freeze. How hard is it?

These must be the retardedest sites there are and those who make it through the application get a plus in a little notebook. Check - we're keeping this one, says a committee, dressed in white and hidden behind the glass wall.

Why doesn't my network never fail when I'm paying bills or when I'm getting bothered by someone on the chat?! It only drops dead all of a sudden when I'm writing a paper, uploading some files or - like now - in the middle of a job application.

I lost my nerves three times, completely and utterly pissed off by the whole situation that's going on. No job pisses me off, but looking for one definitely doesn't make me feel any better.

Fuck you and your fricken web site!

And if I don't get a job because of this post, so be it!

Fuck you!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Kung fu

If I were to be reborn as someone else, in another time, in another world and in another reality, I would definitely be a kung fu master. I'd be a horrible student at first, I'd be lazy and I'd avoid all conflict, but in the end, I'd be doing some serious ass whooping. I wouldn't have a choice, since I'd have to defend my life, my family and, ultimately, my honour.

I just love dreaming kung fu stuff. I gotta say that I love dreaming isn't a sentence you'd often hear from me, probably because I've been having nightmares for years now and every time I lay my head I can only hope this one won't cause me a mild stroke in my sleep.

But dreaming kung fu style [which I obviously can't find another name for] is seriously enthralling. I have a feeling that I have a smile on my face, even if I'm in a deadly dangerous situation in my sleep.

It's interesting that I'm very keen in my dreams. Very poignant, agile and sly - none of which I am in my boring, real life. This time I'm a family guys and from as much as I can figure out (since there's usually more than one dream entwined in my head), I'm sort of a family guy, dealing with heritage stuff - armours on the wall and all. Or maybe it's just the time.

I'm in my house and there's a couple of people around me. Members of my family, but also some staff which obviously makes the house look the way it does. Cozy, but kind of dark, with green popping out of every corner, making my study look like a fostered little jungle.

There's someone at the door and I find myself in the hallway. I don't know why (since I have staff to do it), but I'm that nice and I just keep talking to the weird-looking guy standing in front of me. He's asking for something and I'm all super nice about it (just the way that I am...), but the others have this terrified look on their faces.

I seem not to be bothered by it and go for my study to pick up whatever this guy was looking for. As I'm turning my back towards the whole bunch in the hallway and leaving, there's a whole swap mission going on in there. As if it were a theatre and the whole stage had to be changed for the short period that the curtain is down. Or by the time I return.

The gut feeling that I posses in my real life is obviously left out in my dream because I'm quite nonchalant about the whole story and I'm not even bothered a bit that someone came to my home to assassin me and most probably everything I care for. Even the armours on the wall.

To my own surprise, I end up with some giant chop sticks (and a bunch of them) and squat behind a pretty bush palm tree. It's in the corner of my study, so I couldn't be seen from the outside, even though there's a whole glass wall opening up towards to (again, very green) garden.

Maybe it's the drama or maybe it's just me, but the uninvited guest didn't prefer the common way to enter my study (meaning the doors), but came in with a crash, breaking the whole glass construction which used to separate the inner from the outer jungle.

So there we are, two (obviously) übercool kung fu guys, starting a fight with giant chopsticks about something that no one really knows about. Probably something that we heard about from our grandparents' neighbours' herbalist or whatever, but it seems to be very important, because there's a bunch of chopsticks in my hands and I'm all up for a fight.

Having as much bad luck in my life as I do (I'm just an Oh, bollocks! kind of a guy), this is where I wake up. No Kill-Bill fights, no heads flying around, no revenge on a bad-ass yellow bike - nothing.

The last thing I remember is evicting the members of my household that were, surprisingly, still standing on the door and [more than obviously] enjoying the fight. Maybe it's the era, maybe it's the honour, maybe it's Japan. I don't know.

But it sure as hell would be cool to be a bad-ass kung fu master!

Here's a photo that has nothing to do with the story, but has chopsticks in it.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

A dream house

What a dream house, huh? Almost like the dream house. It's very close, if you ask me.

A place you can call home. Finally. After decades of torture by the family, room mates, noisy neighbours, loud traffic, crazy quarter and, last but not the least, a bad vibe.

I passed by this house on my way to the-little-guy-I'm-tutoring's house and not for the first time. Maybe it's the seasons and maybe it's me, but I've never noticed this house before.

Quite weird actually, since I'm usually the one to scan the surroundings. Maybe it's my affection towards the world (not) and maybe it's my obsession of having to know where I am and where the nearest exit is.

So, I was passing there the other day - again - but this time noticing the house almost devoured by ivy, standing there, in the middle of the street. It's located quite awkwardly, at the top of a dead-end street, but turned completely towards the street, the open space and a tiny green patch across the street.

It's a fancy neighbourhood, but I haven't even gone there much in the last ten or so years. Maybe it's because I went to school there and it kind of reminded me of the bad stuff more than it made me go visit it and recall the few non-painful memories I have of that place.

This was another memory in creation and I'm still not sure whether it's a good one or a bad one.

As I lifted my head as I was about to climb the last couple of stairs that take me upwards through the part, I saw this lovely house and found myself standing in the street, staring at the house. To any passer-by it would seem as if I were planning to rob the house and therefore scanning the windows, the gates and the surroundings.

I was simply bedazzled by it. There was a weird moment of silence and, although I could see a woman passing behind me, walking her dog, there wasn't a sound to be heard. I felt like I was floating in space, together with the house, the opened window that was uncovering the insides of the house and the ivy that would eventually pretty much eat up the whole house if it were unattended.

I somehow felt like a character in one of those movies, where a girl and a guy start a family, search for a new home and then park inside of a house with a for-sale sigh, imagining their life, their kids and their future in it.

There was no for-sale sign, but I still saw a film roll in front of my eyes. I saw myself on the terrace on the eastern side of the house, chilling in a wicker chair, enjoying the cool shade and waiting for a couple of my friends to drop by for a cozy hang out.

The grin on my face suddenly gets clouded over by a horrible thought - will I ever have this? Is it possible that I could get my hands on a place like this? And for what cost - a thirty-year loan from the bank - or worse?

Will I spend the rest of my life trying to overloud my neighbours and outspeak my family? The idea of an eternal housing agony pops the bubble and I'm back in the middle of the street, cars driving by, people walking past, the world still going round, faster than ever.

I tilt my head, take out my iPod and hope to save the image as it was in my head and not as it is to anyone standing in front of it.

I was there and I was happy, even if it was only in my head and it only lasted a short minute.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Sushi time

So, I'm going to a Japanese restaurant tomorrow.

People living in big cities and, well, not here might find this sentence not so much far from the ordinary, but living in a crap city like this, you don't get the chance to go to a foreign restaurant and often as you'd like.

First of all, the choice is miserable. Italian boils down to pizza places, Mexican gets you down to two overprices mess-hall-looking cafeterias and Chinese is, well, Chinese.

The most exotic you can get is Indian and Japanese, first of them being way overprices for a bowl of rice and overcooked vegetables and the other one turned into an überfancy penthouse lounge bar in a skyscraper at the central square.

The choice is, as you can notice, crap.

Nevertheless, there's a new restaurant called 花札 or Hanafuda, meaning something like flower cards or floral playing cards. I don't see the point, but I guess it's just me.

We've booked a table (which sounds really ridiculous, because I rarely eat out) and we'll see what the food's like. Luckily, they're having some special freshly-opened-place menus, so I'm hoping I won't have to get a loan from the bank to pay for the food.

It's been ages since I've had some umi - too long, if I might add. I think it was in Stockholm back in 2004. Geez, I really gotta move. Anyway, some midori and shoyu and I'll be happy.

Believe it or not, this is the peak of my day. Go figure.

Edit: Japanese delight postponed. Meh.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

I need a job to be able to party.

It must be one of those retarded paradoxes like Once one reaches nirvana, one is ready to cross over or One must look into oneself to fully see others or One must have nothing to gain everything.

Without a job I'm broke. Without a job I've got time to party. Without a job I don't have money to party. With a job I don't have the time to party.

With a job I don't have the will to do anything except shut down the blinds and turn up the music, so that I don't hear or see anything from the outside world.

Which brings me to the conclusion that I need a job to get money to make it work somehow and, finally, party. So, I need a job that doesn't involve people, that doesn't involve me sitting in an office all day long and which pays decent enough to be able to life off.

I don't need much really. I'm not into stuff and clothes and so. I like to get myself a little something from time to time, but when people ask me what I'd like (like my siblings or someone), I usually have no idea. Now that I think of it, I'm not sure whether it's good or bad.

In any case, the job search is on. I'm going global and I'm hoping I won't have to get out of my flat.

No people, no public transportation, no hassle. And I'll do anything.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

101 Words

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by the centrifugal force, space travel and the way microwaves work. Now I'm enthralled by an afternoon off, a bus that arrives on time and a green light right when I'm about to cross.

In the past I was only looking into the future; towards what I was going to do, what I was going to achieve and the paths I was going to take. Now I'm only looking backwards; craving the past moments and the memories that put a grin on my face.

Does it have to be like this, Murphy?

Thursday, September 8, 2011

My bed (as weird as it sounds)

There is rarely a more soothing feeling than laying down in one own's bed. Even as I wanted to type this up, I had trouble getting out of it, but it's a good thing I did, since I probably wouldn't remember it tomorrow morning.

I don't know why it's like that, but there was a time when my bed was the most comfort I'd get. Maybe I'm just not that much into affection, or I haven't lived with someone long enough. But the cozy feeling I get once my head touches the sheets is simply beyond anything that has happened that day.

Sometimes, when I'm having a bad day, the only comfort I'm aiming for is my bed. I find myself jumping up my street, knowing that I'll be in the warm, fuzzy and soothing lap of my world.

Usually when I'm very drunk. Or frozen. Or both.

The bed's nothing special. IKEA style, make-it-yourself and all that crap. Like that's possible. I can't say it was easy putting it together, but I'm glad I got it. The mattress is not one of those you see advertized by blond moms with gigantic grins. The wooden skeleton had probably been recycled five times already and carries more of a packaging smell than the actual wood.

The good thing is it's wide. 160 centimeters, although I was aiming for 180. That would've been fun, since it would probably take at least a third of the usable space in my squalor. 160 will simply have to do.

The mattress is already starting to wear off, keeping in mind that I sit on its upper part most of the time - including now, as I'm typing this. The quilt is thin but warm, causing both fuzzy and goose-bumpy feelings once pulled over my body. Especially since I tend to go mummy style, especially during the winter.

Mmm, I'm almost looking forward to it. But I'm not.

I should probably work on getting a fresh set of linen, pillow cases and whatever comes along, but since I've spent most of my life sleeping pillowless, I kind of put it aside every time I think of it.

The last pillow I owned was tossed into the trash a long time ago. I got it from my sister and I remember it had the Melmac-born Alf on it. Ultra thin as it was, it didn't take long for it to wear down, so it was only a matter of time when it would go beyond the reach of recognition.

As it has. I digress.

Now that I've written this, I have no idea why I even got up from the coziness that I had already dived into. I might as well just dive back in.

Edit: I woke up with a stiff neck. Go figure.

Coastline Comeback

I was so eager to write a new post now that I'm back from the coast. There was a story to be told as I was sitting in the car, trying to stay awake on my way home.

And what I come to is a new interface. I'm never sure whether I dislike it or not. But I surely can't write now...

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Welcome To Paradise

What do you do when you get back from paradise?

Where you finally and always feel at home.
Where lots of unfamiliar people, strange places and awkward situations simply don't matter.
Where you meet people on an hourly basis and start sharing your innermost thoughts immediately.

So how do you get back to the all-day life?
And, ultimately, why?

I often wonder whether it's possible to live our lives the way we'd like to...
Especially when I see other people do it.
At least for a bit.
The bit that keeps them going.

I'm not sure if I'm doing the same thing.
Nor if I'm capable to.

Maybe I'm just drowning in my own wishes.
Not really sure how to inflate my life vest.

Friday, July 15, 2011

One Hundred Words: The Ljubljana House

The house is right at the bus station. Taxi style. You have to circle almost all the way around it to get to the entrance. It’s the type of a house one would pick to film a psycho thriller. An old creaking wooden staircase, sets of doors right next to each other and three cats, each of them roaming a part of the kingdom. It feels like there’s at least eight floors, but I didn’t dare past the second one. The attic is an uncharted territory. I’m not exactly sure whether I should get lost in it or get lost.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

My first* HDR








Backyard. Dog not included.

* Actually it's the second, since I uploaded a second-try photo.

Monday, June 6, 2011

The Job Market

So, I went to the employment office today. There are these group and individual meetings one has to attend, and today was the first group one I went to. Or better put, I had to go to. Don't you just love mandatory pointless stuff?

Living in a country with no real prospect can be a bit demotivating. Knowing there won't possibly be a job the agency will find for you, it kind of makes it all pointless. Maybe that's exactly why they made it mandatory. They have to pay the advisors somehow, don't they?

So I enter the room with around thirty chairs all laid around, fifteen of them around a big office desk and the rest just scattered around to fill in the space. There's some noise coming in through the window, most likely from someone who's actually got a job, as low paid as it could be.

We're sitting in there, from what it seems like, a sad bunch. A dozen of around-thirty women, all dressed up and hoping it will improve their chances; some younglings, fresh off from school or wherever, a head-shaped-incredibly-correctly black guy with the city accent; some wannabe-cool guys who probably hate being there so much; a couple of really scared-looking girls, freshly sacked from work just last Friday; and I.

The consultant treats us with a PowerPoint presentation, familiarizing us with our rights. There are no benefits whatsoever, or at least none that apply to me. I really don't see a reason for me to be sitting here, except the obvious one ― I have to.

I must seem like an ass to these people, sitting there, tucking in my notebook instead of taking notes heartedly. With my major and the jobs I could get in here, my chances are right around zero. When we consider jobs that are actually worth mentioning, the odds droop into the negative.

My face must be saying everyone that I simply hate being here. I don't know if it makes my cynical or double-faced, but I know there's nothing for me there. And this was only the first meeting. But I guess we'll see how long I keep up reporting there every month.

The PowerPoint has come to an end, so the consultant uses another opportunity to welcome us "to the World of Work". I shudder.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

One hundred words: Gimino

I heard a story about this place in the heart of Istria.

It's a small town, but a big crossroad for all the country paths. A small windy road takes you into the tiny center and from there onwards you're on your own. There are so many ways one can go that there's no letter that could be used to describe its nature.

Life there is simple and relaxed. Keeping that in mind, one of the most popular locals' pastimes is sitting in a café, sipping a drink and observing numerous cars take getting lost and proudly concluding:

'Wrong turn'.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

One Hundred Words: Happy birthday, son!

Not this year.
My dad didn't wish me a happy birthday.
It's been a long, unsuccessful and tiring day and I simply couldn't wait to get home. The coziness of my four walls, the sweetness of plum jam pancakes, the warmth of rooibos vanilla tea.
And then they hit me. My dad's only words...
Have you eaten?
A missed call and a bloody boogery football match!
Is he too old? Am I too old?
Why is it getting to me? I'm the asshole in this story.
Maybe I'm just like my father. Ain't that unfortunate...
But it isn't midnight yet....

Friday, March 25, 2011

The Thesis

I'm totally into it.

I'm too into it even. I haven't even properly started yet and I'm already over the average page count.

In between the rows of text I wonder why it's always so that we have to commit to one thing at a time. And committing to only one, it wraps around me so tight that I see it when I close my eyes, I dream about it when I'm so tired I pass out and it's the first thing that pops into my mind as I open my eyes.

The enthusiasm sometimes scares the hell out of me, but then I get up, open the window and get reminded that it's just another crappy day.

I make a cup of coffee, pick it up, then sneeze and spill it all over the place. Another crappy day, yah...

Another day of peeking out towards the Sun through the curtains, of reading people's statuses about how they're finally able to sit out in the Sun and sip their coffees and of people passing by, wrapped in their own tiny biospheres and not minding my own.

The more I read, the more I want to write. But it doesn't work that way. There have to be some limits. There has to be an asshole who'll say: Let's just fuck with them and make them suffer a bit more!

So I'm writing and writing and writing something that I know will be cut out in such little pieces it will be unrecognizable to my eyes. My own eyes, who come with the body that the hands that wrote it are connected to.

A collage of someone's words typed by someone else's hands to be read by people who do stuff for other people...

Sisyphus seems like a first-grade newbie now, doesn't he? Or he doesn't. I'm not sure.

I'm way too into my own crap here.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

One Hundred Words: Retarded

I mean, how hard can it be?

Focusing on something that's important ― for a certain amount of time ― in order to get so many new doors open. To embrace countless opportunities, even at times like these, simply because it's one more crutch to be tossed to the side and jump free.

So why the hell am I cocooning and hibernating as if I fail to see all that's stated above?! Why is it so hard to get into it and forget the bullshit that's going around?

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

And it's not repeated just to make the count.

Thursday, March 10, 2011


It seems to be a day like any other.

We're gathered in the living room, as so many times before. The whole house ― even though it's a house ― is cramped up and we usually have to waltz our way around it.

Dad is, as usual, sitting in one of the dining room chairs, turned towards the TV, with the remote in his hand. It's probably an image I'll always have in my head, but at least it's better than seeing the remote on top of the TV.

Who keeps the remote on the TV?!

All the furniture scattered around gives out a hint of a busy home. Chairs all around the room because the kids move them as they're playing in their blanketless blanket fort. The couch is usually packed with cushions, but they're all around the floor now, serving as a temporary safeguard for another just-about-to-start-walking kid.

It's a warm day, or at least it's so busy that I'm wearing short sleeves. I'm arched over a kind of a bowl of unknown origin and especially purpose. Next to it is a plastic bowl with soapy water and a little kitchen sponge which is supposed to help me clean the thing. I think of a couple of sarcastic remarks in my head and keep on wettening the little sponge and sliding it against the surface.

It looks like an overgrown cake cover, but it's made out of glass and it's way too heavy to serve its purpose. It's also got a slight bend down by the bottom, but on the inside ― as if something's supposed to get hooked up on it. Now that I think of it, it might as well been a chandelier or something. I'm clueless.

So I'm rubbing it spotless while there's kids worming around my legs, mum walking hastily around and dad still clutching his precious remote. A perfect family, I know.

So many things to worry about ― real or not ― one doesn't have to time to look around and care.

"Add me that thing...", dad says and points his remote in no direction in particular, as if not being sure (or not giving a crap) where the receiver (or anyone) even is.

I'm still cleaning the space dish with a lot of effort, most probably looking like one of the Housewives when they're washing three of their coffee mugs, wiping sweat of their faces. I look at him ― or rather the back of his head that's turned towards me ― and can't believe he's doing it again.

"Just a second, I'm right in the middle of this and my hands are wet and I th..."

He snaps, not even turning around and starts giving me a speech. I don't know what the words are, but I know the content. So I snap too.

"How am I able to do three things at the same time?! Did you ever turn around to see what I'm doing? Yeah, let me just get that for you while I have one kid super glued to each of my legs and I'm elbow deep in this thing."

Mum silently slides in from the kitchen, knowing it's going to be hell. I'm a nice guy all in all and even if I make sarcastic remarks from time to time and don't give people the answers they'd like to hear, I'm still a nice guy.

"I always have to tell you to do things", he yells, not even trying to turn around in his chair.

"Well, that's because you're bossy, not because I don't do them."

"I'm bossy?!", he inhales the words with such a shockingly hurtful expression on, well, the back of his head.

I cut him short and there's a downpour of the things I've been keeping inside all these years, not willing to bother really or simply helplessly aware of not being good enough. There's no point either, since there's no real communication after all. It's usually one talking and the other one trying to travel as far as possible in their thoughts.

I start my monologue and the sound on the TV is gone, the kids are instantly quiet, as if muted by a yet-to-be-invented remote control and mum is wiping her hands off her apron with a terrified look on her face. At least she knows what's coming up.

I yell. Not in a maniac way, not really meaning to hurt anyone, but with a rather determined look on my face. Somehow I always figured I'd break down and unleash the tsunami of emotions and memories drowned in tears, nasal secretion and saliva flying out of my mouth, but this was different.

It felt like giving a speech in front of a big assembly, finally being allowed to speak out and let everyone know how I feel without being interrupted, cut off or kicked out. As if reading aloud my list of demands, I start from as early as I can remember. How dad did this and that and how, when I was in primary school, he didn't bla bla... It seems like there's a gigantic PowerPoint presentation going on in front of everyone's eyes, but they're so caught up, thunderstruck and affected by it that no one says anything.

That tends to happen when one does not listen and when the dam gets blown off with a ton of dynamite. After what felt like hours, I started wrapping my monologue up, seeing that dad is slightly tilted away from the TV already, as if he turned around to face me but drooped back to his primary position.

Mum is still standing next to me, seemingly leaning on to a chair, but in fact leaving her hands hovering in mid air. Amazed, saddened and ― even with her eyes glued to the table cloth ― with that motherly look in her eyes.

"You never see what I do. You never care. You don't even care to look around to see what I'm doing."

I go on a bit more, blaming everyone and everything for the things that pass unnoticed. I don't need recognition or a task chart, but living like a shade of a maid can be so hopeless.

I'm almost out of examples to name and I've started the mandatory sibling comparison, although I hate it and it's super unproductive. I just try to make some sense of mentioning everything from milk bottles to blankets in the meadow and birthday cakes.

It's a mess in my head as well and I'm walking two steps left, then two steps right, frantically avoiding catching anyone's eyes.

Dad it totally bummed. Maybe it's the slideshow in his head, maybe it's all the memories swarming up or maybe he just doesn't give a crap, but he's staring at a single spot on the dining room table, only to tilt his head a bit further down when I inhale again after a full stop.

I start feeling bad. For him and for myself. For not being able to shut up already and stop hurting everyone. For doing this to him and to mum and to myself and to the silent kids and for any poor sod who might be walking down the street outside.

But I feel the urge to say it out loud. I hate psychology, but it somehow does help. It won't make things better and it won't fix them, but at least it's out there. For everyone to ponder upon and not just me.

Not being able to keep it all together anymore, I look towards anywhere.

"You were never satisfied. Never."

"Never", I hear slipping off my mum's lips.

And I wake up.

Monday, January 31, 2011

White screen

One would think people get blue, but no ― I get a white one.

I can only see the tabs at the top, so I know it actually is my blog. I'd be pretty much clueless otherwise.

I've been meaning to write for a while now, but every time that thought comes back, I shake it off with something else.

Okay, a sip of tea.

I say it out loud, yes. I turn the mug around and try to figure out what kind of berries is printed on it. I never learned the proper names in English, which has pretty much ruined my vocabulary on the subject in others as well.

Raspberry? Mulberry? What's mulberry look like?

I stand up to pick up a dictionary and drop down even faster than I stood up. I think to myself how stupid I am. Google right in front of me and I'm getting a book. Silly me.

Is that why I don't remember the different names? Is that the reason I only pick up a book when I know that I wouldn't find whatever out otherwise? Is the white Google page strapped with a single entry line what's keeping me away from the small pleasures of life?

Do you remember getting letters?

And it's still there ― a white page ― only a different one this time. I don't know what's going on with it, but it's not loading. And all I can see are glimpses of a page I remember.

It feels almost as horrible as a blank Word document, reminding me of the lack of inspiration, eagerness or, simply, will to write anything.

A blue screen might be a bit more appropriate at the moment, with the whole mess going on in my head.

Feeling blue.

Where did that come from? From feeling uncomfortably chilly maybe? Or from the vastness of blue, both horizontal and vertical, which surrounds us?

Why not black? Isn't it the darkest? Well, maybe it's just not that bad.

Dark green or navy blue? Even purple. Or hell-dark red. Mulberry!

And all I get is white.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The New, Happy 2011

I still can't gripe the fact that another one has creeped up on us. Twenty-eleven, with all its surprises and expectancies. Since I'm lazing off in Austria, I still haven’t been forced into paperwork that much, so I'm not used to writing the number yet.

I don't see it that often either. Only when I went through some blogs now did I notice the horrid number above the posts. Should I be terrified it by it or just enjoy the bliss of knowing that 2010 is finally over? Nine was horrible, ten wasn't that much better and I simply don't know what to expect from it.

Aside the fact that it's basically just a number on a piece of paper, people (sometimes including me) tend to make a big deal out of it. In a way it reminds me of what I read when I was preparing an exam on Americas' Indians and how they knowingly divided the years in periods, in order to finish a certain circle and be able to start a new one ― fresh and optimistic.

Why can’t we have our own personal calendars, where we write our own personal tasks, plans and hopes? Why does it all have to be predetermined? Why do we have to align to someone else’s calendar?

New Year’s resolutions are so unproductive anyway. People just make a big fuss out of them, struggle for a couple of weeks and decide they’re going to try anew at the next year beginning anyway. And even if they do manage to work it out, they’ll just swap it for another resolution in a bit more than three hundred days.

There should be decade’s resolutions. Try to work that out!

Most of the people who know me won't even bother. You just have to perk up is what most of them are likely to say. When you're pessimistic (or at the very least realistic), people you're surrounded by usually won't give you much credit when talking about some stuff that leans more to the serious side. It's just your pessimism talking...

I really need a good year. Nothing selfish indeed and not much to do with me really. I can't think anything good will happen by nature. Maybe less bad. It's just that I hope all the bad things have come too an end. We've had so many lately and I reckon people need a perk up ― something to make it all bearable. A bit more bearable. At least something.

Fuck, I don't even know what I'd want. I know what I wouldn't want. But if some thing or being came up to me and said a wish of mine could be granted, I wouldn't have a clue in this world. Some would call it indecisive, some spoilt, some lazy... I just don't want to make plans for something that I have no control of. I’d probably go all miss-World and rant about world peace and health and no hunger and stuff.

Especially lately, when the world is changing so rapidly, can one notice how helpless we all are. And how we think we're running our own lives. Steady jobs, mortgages and bank loans. In our own vicious circles, forced to a life we don't really want and inhibited from those we'd prefer.

An invisible and untangible leash.

Pessimism sucks. It's so contra productive and it brings you down. Whatever you accomplish, a novelty just pops up. Something new to occupy your mind and make you lose sight of some (possibly) nice things that are happening around. It's so tiring. I despise it.

But it cannot be helped. Not unless you run away. And not even then, I think. It's hard for me to leave stuff behind. Not so much things, but thoughts. And people. And thoughts about people. Sometimes I wish there was a button that I could click which would just make me stop analyzing. My thoughts, my words, my deeds, my efforts, my opposites.

To be free of thoughts and worries; of tabs and lists; dates, cards and expiration dates. Of schedules, discomfort, annoyance, hopelessness and helplessness...

I’ve been there once. And I managed to forget about it all. But it all still came back.

That moment is way too precious to forget it though. So you cling to it and hope it will come back. Hope you’ll be able to get there once more. Maybe it’s not that close and maybe it’s not a place at all, but you cuddle the feeling and nourish it and water it and hope it will grow so big and cozy and powerful it will simply devour you.

I better go and finish my coffee now. I think the milk has gone bad. I'll really have to get used to the date.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

One Hundred Words: Austria

The terrace door is open and I can hear water dripping from all the snow melting up on the roofs.

A car drives by from time to time, but not as often as one would think.

There's a weird expectation in the air, since I had a feeling I could feel the building shake last night as the train passed. At that time I wasn't sure whether it was a dream, an earthquake or the train itself.

In a foreign country, surrounded with foreign people, one would think I'd feel lost.

Or at least alienated.

Yet it feels strangely comfortable.

Friday, January 7, 2011

The often-called Spelling Nazi at his worst

As I lay in my bed (well, on the couch in the living room), I had a clear picture about what I wanted to write about. More a visual image of Word being opened and both my palms hovering over the keyboard than an actual image of the situations and people at hand, but I still managed to lose it.

I've written (more like ranted) about it before, especially while I was in India. I still leaf through the dodgy notebooks from time to time, trying to make some sense out of the mind storm that was going on in my head at that time. Losing, as Germans would say, den roten Faden after a blink of an eye. I see myself as one of those freaks one day, or autopsy people, talking in a digital recorder, trying to store thoughts, ideas and shapes. I wonder if it would be the same. I think not.

Trying to remember certain phrases or sentences has always been kind of hard for me. That's probably why I've always had isuues with theoretical exams in my life. It just doesn't seem natural to me to learn things by heart. Oh, when I remember the stupid poems I had to learn in school ― so pointless.

I think forcing an idea might somehow level out with losing it, if that makes any sense. Trying to remember thoughts seems like trying to copy a museum masterpiece. It's something one simply can't copy and, what's even worse, it's being stuck in an institution, in an unnatural environment, for people to stare at it and judge it.

But isn't that what we're all doing? Launching our thoughts out in the open, for everyone to see them and feel free to decide whether they like it or not. Is there a point to it after all? Aren't those our thoughts and ours only? Do we lose ownership over them by clicking the Publish button? Does is work that way at all?

Maybe it's comparable to literature, poetry and any form of art really. Canvassing an idea that people might appreciate. Simply the sharing. Some might dislike it, but who cares, right? I think there's surely someone out there who'll ditch your idea. I will be the first to dislike most famous artists' products. And that often turns me into an asshole. When I say his or hers new album or some new blockbuster with a mega famous Hollywood braud sucks. Mainstream people think I'm an ass. But I think they're the ones who're doing it wrong.

I like words, since I believe that the final cause changes the idea itself. Some people might be better off with a brush or an instrument, but making art just to make it somehow loses its purpose in my head. Art’s being made for its own sake.

Not that I'm an artist ― far from that ― but I somewhat like to use my own brain. My own inner compass. I sure as hell won't let other people tell me what I like and what I dislike. I've been taught to express my opinion and that's what I tent to do. I'm aware of the fact that it can be annoying though, but believe me, I'm the first one to be annoyed by it.

I hate the fact that I see an error calami when I open up a page. I hate stressing over grammatical errors in an article I like. I hate the fact that my friends hate it when I see those errors and hiss over them. I'd love to be more tolerant. I really would.

But I still believe there’s a difference between constructive criticism and a yapping mouth. I’m not the type who’ll go comment on errors, although I feel that I might as well turn into one of those. I’m not sure if I’m the only one who reacts to spelling and grammatical errors in the daily newspapers, but it sure annoys the hell out of me. (The reason is so many self-declared journalists and news people, who in fact just have connections or a nice cleavage, but that’s another story.)

After all, we do have spell checks in this century...

And whenever I read a cover story, I open the page and see three errors. Right away. It’s not only a professional deformation, but a curse. I’m horrified by the fact that there will be a typo in my texts. Especially when I’m writing in a language that isn’t native to me. By the mere fact that it’s in English, thecoefficient of the members of the jury who might find an error storms right up. I don't think there's a point to it, but it sure does make me even more uncomfortable.

Maybe I'm just not cut out to write. After I write a text, I just can't see the errors. I'll have to give my final thesis to various people, so that they find the errors I'm surely going to oversee. Sometimes I wonder if the same systems works with other things than writing.

But I'll do something ― I'll try not to care. I really enjoy reading a good piece of a text and I won't let it affect me. And now, after not writing about what I wanted to write about, I'll just go and read some texts that I wanted to catch up on. There's very nice blogs out there and they give me hope. Hope of quality ideas and no typos. Texts that make me think about stuff an hour after reading them. Texts that make me wish I were more fluent in foreign languages. Oceans of words that make me shut my computer down with a subtle grin on my face.

You are my psychiatrists and my tour guides. You're my imagination and my windows into other worlds. You're my newspapers and my TV. My photo albums and tickling ideas about all that is out there. So cheers out to you guys from snowy but sunny Österreich!


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