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.

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.

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.

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?

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...

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.

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.

My first* HDR

Please

click

the

photo

for

better

quality.





Backyard. Dog not included.

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

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.

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'.

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....

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.

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.

Never

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Less Than One Hundred Words

Is this what it's boiled down to?

The shortest possible day when I need it the most? A clogged up nose when I need my air the most? Ten things to do when I need to focus on one?

Not being able to focus when I need to be top notch?

A Red Apple to nibble on

I go to bed early, since I made a strong resolution to finally get some sleep. Midnight isn't even close yet and it puts a grin on my face. I might go to bed before midnight one day. Yay.

Even though the shutters are down, I can see light being turned off and on in the back yard. It's all white outside, so it shines even brighter when the goofiest dog in the world walks by the sensor and turns the light bulb on.

I can turn the blinds all the way down, but then there's a risk of sleeping in and waking up at four in the afternoon the next day ― or should I say evening, since that's when it's already dark. That would make a full circle indeed.

So, I write some emails, say hi to some friends, watch another lame Hollywood blockbuster (I really have to make myself stop doing that) and it's two already. So much for sleeping. I can barely keep my eyes open to push the laptop away and I doze off. And not in a good way.

I keep waking up during the night, since I obviously kick the covers off and freeze my ass off. I have these insane dreams ― all the time. I'm in India, but there's someone there to take me away. Or I'm going somewhere, but someone stops me. Or I'm enjoying my friends' company, but someone immensely creepy slides in. Or I'm being chased ― that happens often.

I wake up for what seems the seventh time, still unaware of how late or early it is. I swear at myself for being such a lame person to subject my life to that of a dog. And it's not even my dog.

My eyes are still half shut and I'm too paranoid to turn the light on and check the time. Even when I pick up my phone to check it out, the light is too bright. And it wouldn't change anything anyway.

[The dog is barking like mad as I'm typing this...]

I've been waking up early lately. Well, earlier than usual. Although it's late. If that makes any sense. I wake up a couple of minutes before the buzzer goes wild. I can sleep twenty hours a day, so you can imagine why I find it so disturbing.

And it happens this morning as well. So I lie on my back and try to figure out how much light there is outside. I'm thinking how many seconds will pass until the alarm goes off. I count up to five and I'm bored already.

There's a door bell and someone walking down the stairs. A phone rings, some neighbours are chatting and I'm pissed off. Once again I'm letting my life be less important than others'. One day I'll hit the headlines under Ran berserk towards two neighbours with a lighter and a can of hair spray. Presumably on a windy day, so I'd just end up locked up with people who talk to their toes. Maybe they'd stuff me with Eszopiclone, Zaleplon and Zolpidem and then I'd finally get some sleep.

It feels surreal and suddenly I see images from Fight Club. Is this me? Or a copy? Have I seen it in the film, or maybe it was a dream. Did I dream about it? I try to make some sense out of all those images, but I can't even remember glimpses of them ― they're all mashed up and blurry.

In the end, the resolution I've made turns into the tiniest possible resolution you can imagine ― 5x7 pixels or something around that size. My whole visible spectre has boiled down to 35 dots that are just a bit brighter than complete darkness. I can't see anything in it, especially when I don't get my sleep.

Uni business

There's seven of them, piled one upon the other and clutched in between my torso and both my interwoven hands as I struggle through the corridors. It's funny how people treat you differently when you've got a bunch of books on you and when you seem to be doing some serious work. Only seem.

They see people walk around zipped up like Inuits, with mittens and backpacks filled with notes , eyes tearing from the dreadful cold. The automatic glass doors seem like a Siberian oasis of warm air-conditioned utopia, even if they're opening half way. [Utopia and university are kind of an oxymoron, but what the hell.]

Still, as soon as you take your coat off and grab a couple of books, Head of Department all of a sudden slows down to throw in a Hi! I find that funny. When you're a regular student, no one cares and you're only a number, but as soon as you clear your last exams, those same people start asking you if you might be interested in some scientific work.

Yes, I passed the two final exams I had left. Generative grammar and the written part of the Final exam in Comparative Indo-European Philology. It's been a while since I've tried to clear them and now that part is over at last. I've only got the oral part next Wednesday, but I hope there won't be much problem with that.

I'm reading The ancient languages of the Balkans, which I'm supposed to elaborate, comment and discuss in order to prove that I can handle scientific literature in a foreign language. Fingers crossed that it goes well and that I have a bit of a more peaceful Christmas break.

I'm at the uni at the moment, sitting at my mentor's computer, scanning the already-mentioned books and cropping up some photos I might use in my final thesis. Oh yeah, I have to write that too. I've got a decent amount of literature piled up already, which is now finally ― due to the passing of the last exams ― being de-dusted and leafed through.

I think I might as well grab the books again and make a couple of rounds around the uni ― maybe someone offers me a job or a scientific project or at least a cup of coffee. People are so funny.

I'll try to use this winter break wisely ― read up a bit more, look for some more sources, come up with a skeleton for my thesis and, hopefully, get it over with quite soon. I can't bare these gloomy hallways and the same (also gloomy), almost furniture-like people around here.

People literally get lost here, even after studying for years and eventually continuing to work. Someone says B-312 and you find all five of your interlocutors pointing in a different direction. I like to do that out of fun ― flash people with room numbers.

I can barely hear some Iranian music youtubeing over the buzzing sound of the scanner, mixed with some voices from next door and cars being started outside, in order to get defrosted before being taken out into the street. Still, my stomach is making clear and painfully loud noise, easily recognizable even through the plethora of sounds...

Waiting...

Jeez, I'm boring myself with the struggle whether to write or not. The idea wobbles through my head like a total Indian [please read with cerebrals, accompanied by a, well, head wobble] and it's annoying as a vine fly. On ecstasy. And Red Bull.

I hate not having time. The time to check some blogs that I like to check out or to write some of my own crap; to simply stare at the blank space where the post is supposed to appear. But I hate something even more ― not actually doing anything that makes me not have time. It's just small things which, by the mighty-hated Murphy law, take at least five hours. Going to the bank or trying to catch a certain professor at the uni; looking for new winter shoes ('cause it's been ages and my sneakers are water prone) or taking a power nap during the afternoon.

Are the days too short? Well, for fuck's sake, yes! It's complete dark by four. And it's -9. Minus. Nine. Mediterranean my ass! Five layers don't seem to cover it. I might as well move to Gdansk, if you know what I mean.

And what have I been doing? The same old shit. Staring at the same papers, translating the same words and trying to figure out the same old shit. I should try translating shit. Krap.

I wrote the final yesterday, again. I blanked out ― again ― and noobed up on the easiest question. One would think that someone already dealing with Indo-Europeistics for months would know which is the most widely-spread and famous theory about Indo-Europeans. Not me. My mind was a green meadow. Wide and sunny, with butterflies and daisies and all.

I was supposed to translate the verb to milk into Sanskrit. Think that's weird? No. What's weird is that I knew what it was in Greek, Latin, Old Slavic and Lithuanian. But no, I get Sanskrit. Dhanyavād! Feels like talking to myself really. I'm not sure anyone understands me...

Anyway, waiting for results. Eleven hours and counting. Not to mention that I have both exam on the same day. Again. Merry... Wednesday!

One Hundred Words: Winter

For the first time in my life I hear thunder while it's snowing.

The façade is wet from the diagonally-falling flakes and from what it looks like, it’s going to turn into a rather thick layer this time. That reminds me once more that I should go and buy some decent winter water-proof shoes or I’ll still be stuck having to carry extra socks in my backpack. Considering the fact that winter hasn’t officially even begun yet, that really does sound like a good idea.

I’ll just stay on the warmer side of the window for now. It’s much cozier.

Inspired by Bag Lady's and Mr London Street's 100 Words.

Nerded up alright

Just a little peek into what my nerdy winter-darkened study breaks look like these days. This is the view from my window into my backyard. I've been studying so much lately that it's all molten into my so-called memory. I'm trying to gather as much important information as possible and absorb it, which is hopefully also going to be extractable from the cauldron when needed. Both of my last exams are taking place this Wednesday - yes, on the same day. Lucky me, I know.

My education seems to be ruining my life.


Backyard, November 2010

El topo

Uttaranchal, India, 2008

'We have to go to the emergency room,' says Ivy* with determination and a bit of panic recognizable in her voice.

She's had a sore big toe for an hour or so, but she's been persistent in telling us it's all okay. Nevertheless, we see the pain in her face. Now that she's a bit worried it might be more than a possible fungi case, she's starting to panic a bit as well and obviously feels an I'm-a-bit-scared-but-maybe-it'll-pass-if-I-try-to-look-cute look is in order.

Mars, Will* and me aren't panicking much, since she hasn't mentioned anything up until half an hour ago. We've just met up, but we'll jump back into the car and go to the nearest emergency room. We circle around the block in a hurry and I get an uncomfortable feeling since I become aware of the fact that it must hurt quite a bit and it's not to be ignored anymore.

Zagreb is packed with one-way streets, so we ― not wanting to waste any valuable time ― drive down to the hospital in the wrong direction. It's two in the morning anyway and not a soul seems to roam the obviously abandoned street.

We get out of the car half-laughing in order to try not to panic much. We're wearing our usual clothes, which still might seem a bit weird to regular observers. Baggy shirts, wide Afghani-style pants, scarves and who knows what. So we pretty much orientalize across the street and get to the main entrance.

There's at least five people wearing white, obviously chain-smoking the night shift away and talking about anything other than medicine. We start walking up to them and I get the feeling I'm being scanned by an extraterrestrial vessel. All of a sudden everything goes slow motion and I can feel their horizontal green-laser gaze move vertically over the bunch of us.

It's somewhere in between a Hackney Wick rave and a Star Trek episode, but the scan is obviously finished and the slow-motion bubble bursts ― from what it seems ― all to abruptly.

'Is the ER open?' someone of us asks the white-clad assembly.

They giggle between them like they're communicating telepathically and already know what the answer is going to be. Our obviously stupid question opens up an Olympic-swimming-pool-sized space for an even stupider question-response from their side.

'Are you... those... what do you call them... Hare Krishnas?'

I'm sure they can read the expression from our faces, bordering somewhere between how the fuck does that help you? and are you going to help us or not?

They're all reluctant and now pretty much seem like a couple of school kids being questioned by their oh-so-strict teacher about who wrecked the classroom window. One of them extinguishes his cigarette and invites Ivy to follow him. The three of us seem to be stalling our departure from the funny lot for no obvious reason, but eventually start moving towards the door.

'You know, we shouldn't even take your friend in.'
'Umm, why not?'
'Well, you came in the wrong direction.'
'Yes, we know. Because it's an emergency.'

(In fact, we're the assholes here, because we didn't want to take the one-way street around the whole quarter, but just cross the 50 meters towards the hospital. Naturally, with extreme caution, not wanting to endanger any possible oncoming traffic.)

The guys are persistent.

'There are cameras, you know.'

We take the game on.

'Then we'll take the fine and that's it. People do far worse things for no apparent reason. We just wanted to bring our friend here as soon as possible. I'm sure our prompt officers are mailing us the fine as we speak.'

They obviously took us for kids, judging us purely on our looks, but being medical staff and all, they seem to appreciate the fact that we're just worried for our friend. They also realize we're not a bunch of morons (well, except driving in the wrong direction) and they seem to appreciate our sarcastic remark, finally easing up and joining on the conversation about our police, the country, the smoking ban and all that follows.

'We'll just go inside and check whether our friend is okay and we'll be back,' we say and start making our way towards the entrance. It doesn't pop into their head to say something reassuring like oh, don't worry; she's getting all the help she needs, so we pick up our pace a bit.

The hospital is, for the lack of a better word, spooky. It's being renovated or reallocated or whatever, but having just seen an extremely weird film, both our perception and imagination were wildly propped up.

The small entrance contains a wooden bench and an old cupboard with drawers turned towards the wall ― or what was left of it. There was a poster on the door, but we couldn't recognize what it showed through the milky glass, so we passed through the next door. The hallway was most definitely bound to be turned into a horror-film set.

Plywood walls all around the hallway with every second neon light turned on, every second of those blinking in an unnatural rhythm. There's a row of half closed doors on both sides of the hallway, but we're a bit too paranoid to peek inside. There was a tiny waiting room on the left with a light on and a single bench ― right in the middle of the room. You can't see outside from it, since it's hammered out by some more plywood, so it basically looks like a walk-in solitary confinement. We joke around because it's just too surreal.

Still no sight of Ivy.

The three of us really feel like we're on a shooting set and just glance at each other, eagerly waiting for anyone to suggest having a cigarette outside. Bingo!

We're out before you can say cashew, creating a mirrored image of the smoking medical bunch on the opposite side of the entrance ― only a bit more, as they thought, Hare Krishna. I'm already half way down my cigarette and the entrance door it still screeching. I've never heard a longer and, considering the circumstances, a spookier door screech.

We're talking about the staff not reacting to the screeching operetta since they're probably set designers and this is in fact the door they use all the time anyway. One of them goes inside right before the door was finally about to close, prolonging the screech to, from what it seems, another two-and-a-half centuries.

We're too nosy to find out what the poster on the inside says, so we go back in. The door is still closing, so we simply slide in during one of the screech aeons.

When was the last time you laughed?

That's what it says. In the emergency room. Honestly.
Simply. Too. Surreal.

Mars takes out a pen and draws a couple of smokes on both granny and grandpa's face and we laugh about it. At the peak of our paranoia that we'll be caught, Ivy is coming down the hall, her face expression insanely similar to what one would imagine on someone who's been abducted, probed and left in the middle of a corn field.

'They don't know what it is,' she says, obviously irritated by the whole thing. 'They told me to go to another emergency room.'

We look at her in amazement, at the same time looking for signs of a candid camera. This is too surreal, if that's even possible.

She tells us they checked it out and that the x-ray shots didn't show anything. She should check with a dermatologist, so in the end it looks like we'll have to wait for the morning shift.

Ivy is a really open type of person, so she doesn't mind expressing her dissatisfaction out loud, in front of the whole staff. The three of us are waiting for the Exorcist theme to start playing out of an imaginary music cloud above out heads and for the guys to draw some scalpels and retractors from their pockets. Our facial expression must border somewhere between being scared shitless and waiting for someone to trip over something we've planted.

We thank them and start walking towards the car. They toss some jokes at us from over the street, so ― in order to make Ivy feel a bit better ― we start telling her the whole story about what has happened while she was away, the supposed cameras in the street and mirror smoking. She laughs and at the same time can't believe what happened.

She's telling us how she walked down a similar-looking hallway with this dodgy-looking guy and all the neon lights flashing in between all the plywood and the tool boxes on the floor. For a moment there she turned back, probably to memorize the way out ― just in case. She's been taken to a couple of different rooms for the examinations, the x-rays and alike.

As we occasionally tend to say (usually after getting insanely wasted), she uses the expression for a moment there, I thought that was it and starts telling us about her whole underground experience. The upcoming story definitely seems like it's gonna take a while, so we decide to take the long drive around the neighbourhood after all.

*Names slightly changed.