(D. Fincher, 1999, usa/germany)

Fight Club е от филмите, за които не можеш да изградиш междинно отношение - или ще се влюбиш (аз съм тук), или ще ти напълни главата с безсмислени сцени и ще те накара да го спреш след първите 20 минути.

Въпреки негативната Холивудска критика, която го посреща много по-зле и от зле, определяйки го като “изнервящ”, “невероятно безсмислен”, “носещ нихилистични послания” и “объркващ мейнстрийм публиката”, Fight Club остава сред един от любителските фаворити - поглъщащ, дълбок, позитивен.

В българското уеб блог пространство са се навъдили кошер блогове, обсъждащи [и] политическия свят в България.

Че това е държава, в която когато ”специалист” дойде да ти оправи парното, той ще ти даде компетентно мнение ту за алуминиевата ти дограма, ту за кривите фуги на плочките в антрето ти  [което между другото си е казало думата и по ред хубави начини върху границите на съзнанието ни - тема, която не е обект на този пост], не е убегнало никому.

Никому не е убегнало и ”Аз - Космополитът”-отношението на Министър Етем към бедствията, която честичко си странства ту в Япония, ту по френската ривиера, докато България отново виси по страниците на чуждите медии - словосъчетана с поредното [при]родно бедствие. Помним и как веднъж ни дойде министър председател с единствената кауза да си вземе обратно земите [дали да не беше пред фалит!?] и как го освиркахме за това антихуманно дело.

И много други неща помним, и много нови ще освиркваме…
Но, на мен малко ми идва в повече цинизма на всичките политически псевдо-критици. Малко ми писна като дойдат да ми оправят парното, да ми дават съвети и за кривите фуги на плочките в антрето ми.

Че в България куп неща са далеч под нормалното ниво на търпимост на всички ни е ясно. Но от там нататък градивността на публичната критиката малко започва да ми се губи и да се размива с трибуналност. Трибуналност, която започва точно от кривите фуги на плочките в антрето ми.

the room is small..
the ceiling fan blowing makes it even smaller than it is, scattering these vibrant midnight sighs, cramming them in each small hole on the walls…
the walls enclose me.
i noticed today that they were painted in mild rose - almost white.
they’ve always been green to me.
that hispanic green that reflects my impulses, shivers with them, containing every single part of my contradictory self.

i cease here.
i begin and i end in one and the same point.

“Long ago, there was a bird to sang just once in its life.From the moment it left its nest, it searched for a thorn tree.
And it never rested until it found one.Then it began to sing more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth.And singing, it impaled its breast on the longest, sharpest thorn.
But as it was dying, it rose above its own agony
to out-sing the lark and the nightingale.

The thornbird pays its life for that one song
and the whole world stills to listen
and God, in His heaven ~ smiles.

As its best was bought only at the cost of great pain.

Driven to the thorn, with no knowledge of the dying to come.
But when we press the thorn to our breast,

We know……

We understand……

And still…… we do it.”

Colleen McCullough - Thorn Birds

this is an old draft i just found ..
left behind, unposted, unfinished.
_____________

зимното слънце се скри зад ръбовете на сивите сгради. чувах тъжните звуци на неромантичния град. самотата му посивяваше улиците и ме караше да се чувствам тъжна и сама, удома, но много далеч, принадлежаща не тук, не там, незнайно къде. непринадлежаща.

дрехите ми бяха разхвърлени из всички стаи, като че ли самотата ми добиваше нови форми, повлияни от отдавна забравеното чувство за дом, далеч по несамотни, далеч по-самосподелени.

_____________

i want to rip the clothes of this day
sinking into its harmony torn;

this silent sadness tiptoeing in my days;

each first quiver of my mornings
whirlingly flows in the neverland of my dreams;
you - my neverland

sink in skin
skin chafed;

betray facing fears
treason the answers of the questions unposed;

this harmony defaced.

for a day to begin with…
in a tiny surreal moment,
the moment of our real surreality;
for a shore to be ensouled with
where each breath of air
echoes softly in the silence;
for the silence being our language
for us to abandon words
and describe ourselves with eyes
for the softness of the place
where your fingers rest onto each other
for my secrets to hide there;
for the melody of your mind,
humming all my dreams

The shapes began getting washed away in your head. Their rough surfaces reflect on each other, touch each other in a very uneasy manner. You’ve been slowly getting lost, piece by piece, until you were totally out of control of anything, observing how your own self was slipping out of your hands. The things which were once obvious reality, have grown dubious, filling you up with ambiguity. You have lingered on to pose questions, cause you were afraid of the answers, of their making you so unrestrained in a way, yet so weak and self-distant.

The room is full of myself, my belongings are scattered all around, filling up the room up to the corners. I, divided in parts, am everywhere, things my hands or my body touched to are cluttering my writing desk, lying on the coaches, on the back of my wooden green chair, everything is within a sight’s distance and yet the room feels bare-naked. It feels so bare-naked, its nudity embarrasses me. Its cold comfort slides its hands upon my back, touching the bones of my spine one by one with its cold fingers. My mind doesn’t seem to react, my body overreacts, my feelings decay in vacant autumn colors.

Between reality as a common social possession and reality as your own possession – the reality in your mind, is always a moment of questioning; a split-second moment whose nature is a combination of your dreams, aspirations, longings and fear. You would very often go back to this moment and settle in, trying to tell real reality from your reality, to draw a distinct line between both of them and place your reality within the boundaries of the one shared by society. If you fail, you fail yourself. You restrain yourself to a world whose comfort and coziness are the comfort and coziness created by yourself, yet a world too small to contain you, to make you feel satisfied, a world which deprives you from the privilege to change and create social meaning.

round
like a circle in a spiral
like a wheel within a wheel
never ending or beginning
on an ever-spinning reel
like a snowball down a mountain
or a carnival balloon
like a carousel that’s turning
running rings around the moon
like a clock whose hands are sweeping
past the minutes of its face
and the world is like an apple
whirling silently in space
like the circles that you find
in the windmills of your mind

like a tunnel that you follow
to a tunnel of its own
down a hollow to a cavern
where the sun has never shone
like a door that keeps revolving
in a half-forgotten dream
or the ripples from a pebble
someone tosses in a stream
like a clock whose hands are sweeping
past the minutes of its face
and the world is like an apple
whirling silently in space
like the circles that you find
in the windmills of your mind

keys that jingle in your pocket
words that jangle in your head
why did summer go so quickly?
was it something that you said?
lovers walk along a shore
leave their footprints in the sand
is the sound of distant drumming
just the fingers of your hand?
pictures hanging in a hallway
and the fragment of a song
half-remembered names and faces
but to whom do they belong?

when you knew that it was over
you were suddenly aware
that the autumn leaves were turning
to the colour of his hair

like a circle in a spiral
like a wheel within a wheel
never ending or beginning
on an ever-spinning reel
as the images unwind
like the circles that you find
in the windmills of your mind