Loneliness sucks

So, few days ago, I was reading an interesting article on Popsci portal about how science has proven the obvious in 2008.


One of the obviouses confirmed was that "Loneliness sucks". Information especially pointed out was the fact that there are "25 percent of Americans unable to name a trusted confidante, according to the American Sociological Review".

Wow!

25 % ?!

One in every 4 people could not bare his guts to anyone if he had the need to do so?!

Shocking perspective!

Blogday 2008

Brazen careerist

I love reading her work. I love basking ih her eloquence. The advice there might be golden or might be crap, but the way she delivers it is utterly enchanting.


Oddee

"Quality entertainment. Be amazed."

Bibliophile Stalker

Try as I might I just cannot fathom where this guy gets the time needed for all the reading and staying up to date with the....stalking and books and podcasts and interviews and whatnots.

Bock's Car

"A webshit blog to end all webshit blogs" as he puts it. Brilliantly intelligent, stunningly cool guy.

Overcoming Bias

Interdisciplinary approach to reality. Quality reading, scientific approach, mind-boggling force of inspirational effect.

Midnight inspiration in a looooong workday

Thank you Randall Munroe of xkcd :o)

Anais Nin - Henry and June

Recently, I've been reading a book Henry and June by Anais Nin. I was quite reluctant to read it until now, since all of the people who read her work said that it is feministic and/or erotic prose written by promiscuous and easygoing/frivolous/fickle woman.

Now I feel they could not have been farther from the truth.

As I see it, we may not have the ability or even the inclination to question or understand somebody else's motivation, but we can all acknowledge the difficulty of somebody else's position. We may not understand the why, but we can all see the how.

Reading this book has really proven to be quite a task - I can only muster up the will to read about ten to twenty pages at any one time, it is so filled with meaning, with heartache, with courage, with existential angst. Line between joie de vivre and escapism becomes so blurry and dissipates into nothingness.

Surely, it really must BE nothingness. As it, ultimately, should be. That line. That chasm.

And further I read, more I become conscious that this experience will ultimately end. That the book will be read, returned to the shelf. So I read it slowly, I take notes, read paragraphs out loud, talk about it, think about it - growing myself a copious rain forest of engrams to preserve the memory.

Ingrained irony.

Vacation

Dear Visitor,

I'm going to spend the next ten days basking in the sun in Mrljane on wonderful Pašman island. Hopefully I won't forget my camera at home, so you'll be in for a treat when I come back.

D.F.

Indifference

Elie Wiesel said:

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."

This started me thinking... It sounds meaningful, but can it be true?

I have no doubts that, as much as I am concerned, it is true. I'm not afraid that I could ever in any circumstances fail the Voight-Kampff test, but I know people that could fail. Quite a lot of people like that, as a matter of fact. Does that make their life just an apparition of life, them being like that? I don't know. Other person's life, to anyone looking from the "outside", is just an apparition of life.

Firefly

Rotating spark in the flame of discord.

Everything that is left from you:
Bundle of unasked questions
And pages of fat books too empty to ever be written.


Touch me, Universe...


Like a drop of blood from the eye of space,
Perfect point of perfect geometric object,
and what else could you be than monument to the fallen in some ancient, too ancient war
waged for some sorrowful doomed desire.


Soulbeats rather than heartbeats.
Momentum of extravagant footnote.
Unrecognized manifestation of essentiality.


Space ligature is too weak, and time ligature is inexorable. Not even the shape of dream matter could withstand the leavening of the only word I could divulge to you right now.

To Drown In Torpor

Up until few days ago I had a friend whom I liked very much. We have known each other for well over a year. He seemed to understand where I'm coming from. He seemed to care. It seemed that we get along really well, that we support and understand each other, that the world is much friendlier place when people exist who will let you lean on them for support and let you support them when and if they will need that.

I thought we get along so well because we're being entirely honest to each other.

It turned out that this was not the case.

I feel as stupid as a cabbage.

It was going so well because I was lied to the entire time.

What kind of person reckons: I will just let this whole situation tide over and than she will be so relieved and thankful that I stayed with her that she will reward my effort with being with me (regardless of our personal differences that we talked about and agreed that this would never ever work)?

Or is it just me? …. Me being too dense to acknowledge that being good to somebody actually implies that you have a hidden agenda.

I’m really not ready to believe such a thing.

Letter

I’m writing...

It may have been two days, it may have been twenty.

When I opened my eyes it was dark and I was lying and waiting to see whether it will darken or dawn. Nook stank. I stank. Water in the bottom of the bucket was warm and green with algae. My eyes were stinging from dust and ashes of the fire that went out who knows when. I strained to patch up at least a few pieces of feverous memories into picture of past few days.

There was a stick seized from the sea standing by the entrance and it took me to the water.

On my way back I heavy-heartedly noticed that the sand had eaten the eggs fallen from the nest that should have been mine.

Letter

I'm writing...

Tonight I dreamt of us in front of our house in Kansas.

In color.

You were sitting in the rocking chair in the patio knitting a blanket, and I was refreshing wooden fence with white paint. Cerulean sky extended over vast neighborless expanse, all the way to the black line of the horizon. We were being silent as the wind trailed around the trees and chimed chain links of the swing hanging from the tree branch in our yard.

In the next moment I found myself kneeling in font of you, holding your face in the palms of my hands and kissing you warmly and contented like we have our whole lives in front of us. When I, with smile wider than the Pacific Ocean, moved away, you asked:

“Does it hurt?”

And before I could even ask: “What?” I lowered my gaze to my shirt drenched with blood.

* * *

In the morning I could not get up.