Moraines and Meniscus @Attack! 07Jul2012

Intrigued with the notion of a post-rock band having female band members yesterday evening I went to see Meniscus gig at Attack! It may seem trivial to care about gender in questions of good music but I assure you - there's no triviality in organizational behavior and any female being part of post-rock band is no small feat. Also, post-rock being truest of my true loves I had an urge to be there and experience it firsthand.

And it was an evening of sex and surprises.

First surprise were Moraines, opening act from Zagreb. As I did my homework listening to some of their materials to familiarize myself with their work before the concert I was a bit perplexed when their drummer went on stage and said something like: "We shall play all new songs for you now... New chapter in our creative process... Last album was eaten by the Internet and now, let's play!" and played they did and it was... It was absolutely great! Firm and persuasive post-core instrumental sound with vibrant, violent guitars and rhythm that spares no lives. I was so shocked and so moved my first impression was stirring of a memory of when I first heard Sepultura's Refuse/Resist, with wild unforgiving drums and bestial sexual desire it provoked. The act yesterday was nothing like somber and sepulchral "The Perfect Pantheon Of Absence" they made before. It was instrumental only. It was lively, salubrious, pounding and heartfelt. Sound was excellent and I stared and listened hypnotized, overjoyed.

When I was still in Medika yard, soaking in the atmosphere while waiting for concert to start, one elderly couple came in in search of venue where their loving relative from Australia would perform. People were endeared with their presence and eagerly helped them find their way and settle in and that was so lovely to watch and to witness. We hear every day that times are violent and that it is a dog-eat-dog world everywhere you turn but that may not be the case as much as it would be expected from those words. There are nice people everywhere and we should all nurture personal responsibility to be good people.

And in a short instant, there was our Australian relative and his two friends on stage.

Alison, Cameron and Daniel served us with luxorious audio feast accompanied with VJ Marty Wong's video selection. Shoegazerly and emotive, sonorous and relaxing. As much as Moraines gig had that feverish penetrating urgence of new lovers, Meniscus show had that comforting, reassuring feel of lovemaking only couples that know each other well can create. There's nothing wrong with predictability as it weaves fine net of security and belonging. Meniscus act was void of vapidness that characterizes so many post-rock bands. It was familial, societal and friendly. It was slow and encouraging. It was intimate.

I felt enriched being there. Almost loved. I highly recommend that experience. Here you can stream their new album and see if it talks like that to you too.

Pistolrays and Eke Buba @Attack! 05Jul2012

I last saw Pistolrays at Tvornica 17Sep2011 opening for Threesome and at that occasion the only complaint I had on their act is that they weren't comfortable enough playing before an audience. That has changed now.

Pistolrays I saw on Thursday were different band alltogether preformance-wise. They were confident, relaxed, persuasive, passionate. They played through their set-list with vigor and tangible pleasure of performing, conversed with crowd and gave themselves fully to their craft. It was wonderful to listen to them play, and on a different notice - to see them play as they have the cutest and most feverishly energetic drummer I've seen in a loooong while. It seems I always end up typing about drummers but it was purely rapturous to watch him do his work as there seems to be unquenchable curiosity and overzealous abundance of life inside the vessel of his body

After the show, which flied by in an saddening instant as I could have watched and listened to them much, much more - and that sentiment was shared with many more form the audience - they sold physical copies of their EP "Moon Riot" and I treated myself with a copy. Same EP can be downloaded from their bandcamp pages for free but please consider donating because making music takes time and money and this is indeed one fine piece of music.

Some 15 minutes later, Eke Buba were on stage.

This was my first encounter with energetic Zagreb trio playing old-school rock n' roll.

They are very young and this is the first thing that catches attention because their on-stage behavior epithomises RNR youth. With confidence unparallel with performance they either raise symphaties or antagonize in an instant. Bold and overbearing, it is good they surfed on Pistolrays wave and I am curious to see how this would fare in less favorable circumstances.

Evening was continued socializing and I must say this was one of most relaxed and sociable crowds I ever saw in Attack! and it seems we should also thank Pistolrays boys for this as they mingled, smiled and interconnected vast group into big cuddly mush of friends. I loved this. Can't wait to see them again.

"Hi-yo, Silver! Away!"

I bought myself a bike.

I bought one for my offspringess too, but mine had to be taken out of a box and put together - so I had to wait to use mine.

Yesterday evening my brother came, carrying toolbox, and we assembled my new bike. He screwed it together while I was asking 100 questions and we pumped the tires and went into the parking lot.

Butterflies in my stomach already got dizzy from excitement.

I climbed up and tried to ride. It went well.

I tried the brakes. I tried to come off of it and to leave it by the fence. I already tried to lock it and it works.

Then my brother took it for a spin and he was pleased. He said: "We're done here. I'm going!"

So he went off.

And I stayed in my parking lot and rode it for a few laps between the cars. The neighbour, the talkative one, asked from his balcony:

"Is it a new bike?"

And I said "Well it is!", teary-eyed and happy. "I has been 20 years since I last had one. And now I can even ride it anytime I like, I can ride it to the store and I can ride it to cool off."

Neighbour laughed jovially at my happiness and then he and his wife watched me spin through the parking lot.

I rode it through our parking lot, and then one parking lot more, then down the street. Gravel was singing under my tires, my hair was flying, air was buzzing by my ears.

I rode it up and down the street once, twice, countless times. I smiled and rode it until the night came and then I was a bit sad I don't have lights on my new bike so I could ride it in the dark.

I am pleased. I will procure some lights.

Enjoying nature is home

I went for a walk to the forrest yesterday.

It was warm and very bright and grass was still covered in dew. Forrest was singing, fragrant and inviting.

I met this guy on the road and he showed me the way...

... to sunbathed spring...

... where I washed my face and shivered and smiled, and drank cold water 'till my teeth froze.

Place was buzzing with life and some of it came to greet me and to taste me a little to see what I am made of.

Bug said I'm ok to go so further into the wood I went to explore feeding grounds for boar and dear.

Lilac linseed plants were so welcoming, I had to take a peek...

... while polkadot bugs were playing on nearby flowers.

And then I grew tired and sat on a moss-covered log...

... adamant to wait for a frog to come and say hello and surely he came.

There were hikers hiking, there were runners running, there were dog-people carrying on after their pets and there was me - interacting with nature. Looking under logs and being landed upon. Frog almost went out of the water to come closer to me and I could have sworn he winked at me when I got up to leave.

It is a serenity immersion. It is a cleansing of thouhgt and of spirit.

It is home.



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This is seventh post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one, two,  three, four, five and six below.

Caring is home

This is our hamster, Nibbles.

He's less of a nibbler, really, and more of Tasmanian devil but the name suits him nevertheless. He sleeps through the day and when night falls comes out of his burrow and wreaks havoc: climbing, running, hopping about, carrying stuff, rearranging bedding, coming out to ask for a treat, jumping from balconies.

He does not like to be petted but he enjoys eating and taking treats from extended hand.

He appreciates frequent changes of fresh drinking water and not having his house cleaned too often as all his scent cues are lost when cleaned.

He also likes toys and having someone watch him do stunts and award him with linseed or sunflower seeds afterward.

It takes a lot of watching and trial and error to learn how to please solitary crepuscular animal but learning that is immensely rewarding. My daughter also seems to share my pleasure of learning that and her caring for Nibbles is exemplary. In many things Nibbles is, beside being wonderous creature and a family member, an educational prop. With his help I mold raising my daughter and through caring for him I share my thoughts and notions of ethics, of  common ground, of interconnections of worlds and of caring for people.

Caring is important. Society is important. Hand washes a hand and nothing gets left out of the loop.

You do not do unto others what you would not want to be done unto yourself.

Only individually tailored care is good enough to be called care.

And caring is home.


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This is sixth post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one, two,  three, four and five below.

Kivango @ Attack! 29Jun2012

I had terrific time last night on Kivango gig at Attack!

As this was my first night out since we moved I was a bit apprehensive about everything but I decided to go out and have a cold drink and mingle a bit.

And it went great.

Gig started a bit late for my taste (23:00 h!) but Zagreb was so hot and so void of air currents it seemed understandable. Also, it was nice to wait a bit because it gave me opportunity to check out "summer crowd" at Medika squat. There were no usual suspects and there was unusual proportion of shirts vs. tees. Ladies there always sport very creative attire and yesterday was no different. I especially loved the one in Madonna Desperatly-seeking-Susan stylings.

The gig itself was scrumptious slice of comedy audio pie.

Three guys wearing ski masks, playing beliavable metalcore, with lead singing into a ram scull.

I'm quite sad all photos turned pretty bad but I blame it on stupid-no-good-for-anything red lighting. You can almost see guy with no head on the left crouching over ram scull.(UPDATE: See some much, much better photos from this gig here on Facebook)

In between songs they introduced themselves and announced few songs: Rakija (Schnapps), Ide mama s kolačima (There goes mum with the cake) and Neno Belan's Stojin na kantunu (I'm standing on corner) for end-performance-cover and it was lovely, humorous mush of feelgood. After a few moments of getting used to distorted metalcore vocals I could discern words and they were exquisitely funny.

There is one great moment in Željko Vukmirica's one-actor play Povijest moje gluposti (History of my foolishness) in which he, after falling in love with blues music, searches for someone to translate the lyrics to him and is consequentially stunned with their triviality (lirics spell something like: "Potočić žubori i krave paseju" = "Creek gurgles and cows are grazing"). I had the feeling that Kivango boys spotted good market space for selling metalcore vocals and wonderful use of efffect switches to the flock (or should I say herd) and that exhilarated me immensly as I had distinct feeling this was purposeful and deliberate, showing signs of unquestionable intellect.

As it was midnight when they finished and I was so happy with their performance I did not want to spoil the impression so I decided not to wait main attraction (Mother Fucking Christians) and went home.

I'm very pleased with my first night out.

Concert nights are home.

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This is fifth post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one, two,  three and four below.

Crafting is home

I am knitting socks for my lovely beechwood 4-legged stool.

What?

I don't like the noise it makes when I move it around oak flooring and I think the neighbours will appreciate it being quieter, too.

DIY rocks.

I love tinkering with ideas, designing, searching for appropriate materials and ways to do stuff I'd like done, mistakes, failures, successes, new knowledge and stuff made. To this purpose I sew, knit, crochet, tape, glue, cut, attach, bead, take apart and screw together.

I love having time and space to do more of it.


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This is fourth post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one, two  and three below.

Update (27Feb2014): I have posted this chair sock pattern here, and also on ravelry.

Moving

School ended on Friday and in the aftenoon we packed our clothes and essentials and drove them to our flat in two runs. Everything was waiting for us: cupboards, table, warderobes, beds, stove, shelves and fridge. Stuff poured from the car into right places.

I Left My Heart In ...

This is third post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one and two below.

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So, house is not a home. But what is?



Few years before I met my ex-husband I gave notice at my job where I worked as psychiatric nurse and had great salary and working conditions and moved out from the house I lived in with my parents and brother to another city where I enrolled in college.

Psychology studies.

Zagreb, where I lived until then, also has psychology studies as a programme on University but I told everyone I did not want to study experimental (Zagreb) but general psychology (Rijeka)...


... But I moved to Rijeka to leave my life behind.


I moved to Rijeka in an effort to change who - no!, not really who but HOW I am. I assumed that mixture of changed environment and acquired psychology knowledge should make for at least adequate combination of healing properties to make me from who I was supposed to be into who I wanted to be.

In Rijeka I rented a room and I lived there from the first day all through 4 years of studies.

It was a room in a big apartment built for a family with servants. Long hallway had two entrances to "service rooms" on the right and toilet and bathroom on the left and at the long end it lead to "real apartment" - kitchen, dining room, living room and two bedrooms. "Real apartment" was locked for us students.

I lived in second service room on right and had intermittent flatmates residing in the first room.

Room had two beds, two small tables, rickety wardrobe, two bedstands and two small bookshelves.

I could live there undisturbed and even have guests spend the night. I could see the sea through my window and hear rustle of bay leaves as I fall asleep. At night I sometimes strolled up my street to see Kvarner gulf, like a bowl of melted silver, reflecting the Moon.

From the first day I arrived there it was home.

It took one non-stick pan and two pots, two cups and two glasses, two spoons, two forks, three knives, cutting board and small electric stove to make it fully functional and to make me totally independent. I cooked, I read, I played PC games and researched, I crafted, I studied and entertained there. I took the train to Zagreb one or two weekends a month (so I wouldn't raise suspicion) but I could hardly wait when I returned home. I even stayed through the summer, when there were no classes and no examinations.

I carried my books and trinkets, little by little (not to rise suspicion), from Zagreb to my Rijeka home.

And it went great for three years.

Last year in college, my fourth year in Rijeka, I cried through because end was closing in so fast. I spent countless nights rumaging through my mind in search of a way to stay in Rijeka. But there wasn't one.

I could only stay if I was willing to tell the truth: "I do not want to return." and hurt my folks with that notion. I could only stay if I found a job so I could support myself but that job itself would mean me telling that I don't want to return. They're not sharpest tools in the shed, they're bigots and hypocrites but they do the best they can given the possibilities. It is my duty to return. It is my duty to keep my mouth shut. I owe them life. Their life is theirs to lead and to govern as they please. There must be a way to coexist.



Despair.



I felt fucked over with psychology because it taught me how to live but did not lessen the load of responsibility.


So I left my home and went back to my house.

Into exile.

A House Is Not A Home

This is second post in the series "What is home?". Read posts one and three here. 

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What is home?

When I was furnishing my last apartment I was pregnant with my daughter and I was making a home for the man I loved and for me and for our child who will soon join us.

My brother's in-laws were selling their flat and we decided to buy it. As I was finishing college and didn't have permanent employment I was not eligible for credit so we decided it would be easiest for us that he takes care of contracts and credits for the place we'll all going to pay for and live in thereafter. I had many medical problems during pregnancy and had to stay in hospital for some time but I was so happy and so invested in making that flat a home no task was too big for me. I mobilized relatives and friends to check the place and make necessary reconstructions. Flat was stripped down to bare walls - everything was checked and changed; water installations, ceramic tiles, flooring, woodwork, heating elements, walls were torn down or moved. My parents lent us money and everyone pitched in with free work - as my family are all builders and contractors. I chose and bought tiles and parquets, sands and colors, nails and radiators.

After the apartment was completely renovated I met up with our carpenter and sketched for him the ideas for furniture; joint workstations, kitchen cabinets, bookcases, raised dining room table and lighting console for dining area with shelves - our space was to be epitome of functionality. I searched furniture shops for best deals on furniture I liked. I plotted car routes so it would be most cost efficient to visit them. I walked and worked and walked more until I had to be hospitalized once more for 14 days and when I left hospital I finished our nest and enjoyed it for two months before the baby arrived.

My home of cherry tree and light blue was lovely and immensely functional. It was beautiful to sit in it, to clean it, to cook in it, to entertain in it.

For two months until the baby came.

Growing responsibilities that I excepted with open heart were far from welcome to my then-husband.

For short time he tried to evade, evasion grew to resentment, resentment to malice and malice was drowned in alcohol and spite.

There was me, at first denying, standing up for him in front of others, defending him while trying to be understanding - "It really is a big change, he's just overwhelmed. Everything is OK."

But it wasn't.

Than I was angry. "Snap out of it! Everyone can do it, why can't you?!"

And he could, but he did not want to. It was too much work. I know that because I tried to bargain function out of him. I offered things beyond his power to turn them down - and it would work for a few days and subsequently tumble down to newer lows.


... and I grew tired of lying, of being alone, of working odd jobs to pay for our food and electricity and water and his bar bills, tired of calling his cell in the middle of night to check if he is coming home, tired of laying in bed listening to elevator rising to our floor - holding breath hoping that it's not the Police coming to tell me he killed someone after sitting behind the wheel drunk.

I cried a river.

In daytime I worked like a maniac, tended to my child, cooked, told stories, inflate baby-pools and smiled and hugged and hugged and hugged her...

...and when I would put her to bed I would stand on the terrace, in darkness, and smoke and cry. Until the tears dried out.


My home of cherry tree and light blue. Lovely and immensely functional.

Just a house.



One night after spending few days on a binge he came home and started to yell. My daughter and I were already in bed and he screamed hoping I would retaliate. He got the phone and called the police and asked them to come and kick us out.

I refused to get up and hugged my girl. I told him we'll leave in the morning.

Police never came.

With first light I called my dad and my brother and asked them to come get us. I grabbed some personal things and clothes and put them in two trash bags under constant barrage of insults. His mother came and begged him to calm down, begged me to reconsider, so small in her powerlessness.

My daughter, then 3,5 years old, would later reflect on that time with: "You remember that time when we still lived in the apartment, when dad was yelling and you were crying and I hid in the closet?"


Yeah, baby, I remember that time acutely.



Later on he admitted he never called the Police, he only acted as if he did to freak me out. But it was too late for freaking out, too late for pleads and too late for tears.

He kept my things, my books, my clothes and my shoes and he refused to give them to me until divorce procedure was over and decree absolute reached - three years later. I had to hire a lawyer just to get my stuff because he was not letting go. I had to list all of the things I consider mine and lawyer told me: "Write only the things you want the most and think carefully before you close the list because you will not get anything you forgot to list."


When I came to apartment to get my stuff (from pre-approved list only) he was already living with another person, yet the apartment was the same as when I left it three years ago. My desk was undisturbed just like I just got up and went to fetch some coffee. All my books were where I left them and my shoes stood in the hallway just like I'm about to put them on. My wardrobe held my clothes and my drawer my stuff. Kitchen cabinets housed my knickknacks in the exact same places and I could get my things with my eyes closed if I wanted.

Nothing changed.

It was still beautiful (if unkempt) cherry tree and light blue house, lovely and immensely functional. It was so well planned and comfortable it didn't need changing, even though it was somebody else's house now.

But it wasn't home.

It wasn't my home for a long, long time. But it wasn't anybody else's home either - if it was they would live in it and leave personal marks on it.

It was still my house. It wouldn't be more MY HOUSE if I pissed on corners to mark my territory.

But it WAS NOT MY HOME.