special someone. a book

'was there anything as real as words?' - oscar wilde, the portrait of dorian gray


there's a book. a mark twain book, from 1917, 450something pages, a connecticut yankee in king arthur's court. there's quite a bit of connecticut yankee in the story, not so much of king arthur.
it's a jewell. it's old, it's the perfect size. not one of those that require extra pair of hands as a support system or a magnifying glass so you can read the words. i guess some forget that books are supposed to be read. it's a hard cover, blue (faded, nothing too fancy), with antique-looking papers (probably because they are close to being antique) with red edges. even the very smell of the book promises a world far away, full of enchantments. forget morgan le fay and merlin. within books everything is magic.

this particular book i can't take home with me. i can borrow it from the library but it is not allowed to leave the library. when you think about it, that is not such a bad idea. i might love that book more than anybody and that is exactly the reason why it should stay where it is. chances are i'd never bring it back.

normally, it should take me about three days to finish. instead of cuddling with the book, i need to chase the moments to get myself to the library, run to the top floor, politely smile at the librarian (either one of the two that sees me coming from afar gets the book ready before i come close), i whisper a 'hello' to the book, continue fast-paced walk towards the spot, sit down, sigh, open it and relax.

i make that last awhile. then it's time to say goodbye.


'some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some to be chewed and digested.' - francis bacon

instead of devouring the book, i made it a ritual.

reading to me is a form of breathing. this special book turned it into worship.

dober začetek

create a life so large and bright it is irresistible. - lisa bevere, lioness arising

(ustvari življenje tako mogočno in bleščeče, da se mu ni mogoče upreti.)

ne da bi bila blazno samovšečna, niti ne naredim neskončno število slik sebe v ogledalu vsakič, ko grem mimo. 

obstajajo pa fotografije mene, ki jih gledam z veseljem. zrem v obraz, za trenutek ali pa to razvlečem, v vsakem primeru sama sebe spravim v boljšo voljo. to so tiste fotografije, kjer sem še mala, komajda (ali pa celo ne) sposobna narediti prve korake. mogoče samo takšne slike opazim, ampak na veliki večini me ujeti pogled začara. hočem biti ta oseba, ki jo gledam. 

mona lisa nasmešek. oči, ki pravijo, da se nekaj plete v ozadju, kar mi bo všeč, drugim pa seveda malo manj. navihana. polna energije. polna pričakovanj. neustrašna. svet se vrti okoli mene, in kar je morda še boljše - svet vrtim okoli sebe. medved med zobmi (verjetno v fazi, kjer sem bila še nesposobna hoditi, ampak sem vedela, koga bom vedno vzela s seboj na pot. in, oh, kako rada sem se svobodno podajala na pot ;)). 

slike plus moja domišljija plus zgodbice malo tu in malo tam ... dober začetek. in predvsem dobra oseba, ki jo hočem narediti ponosno. 

Ljubezni tri in ena smrt

Razmišljam o tem, je nadaljeval, da bi opustil razglabljanja o pomembnih stvareh in postal cinik v stilu svoje generacije, zoprn in vzvišen in preračunljiv na tak način, da bi bil moj spiel hkrati videti iskren in spontan. To znajo skoraj vsi moji vrstniki. Potem, se mi zdi, bi poznal odgovore, preden bi si zastavil vprašanja. Utrujen sem tega, da si kar naprej zastavljam vprašanja, ne da bi našel odgovore. Predvsem pa danes to ni več v modi; danes je v modi imeti odgovore, čimbolj enostavne: klik z miško in ergo. Po eni strani se počutim dislociranega tukaj na vasi, po drugi strani pa mi je všeč, da živim med ljudmi, ki verjamejo, da je svet to, kar gledajo na televiziji, preproščina drugih spodbuja v meni željo, da bi se popreprostil še sam, in ta želja mi že nekaj časa predstavlja edino luč na koncu predora.
Sploh razumeš, o čem govorim?

- Evald Flisar, Ljubezni tri in ena smrt