Arhiv za ‘ Osebno’ Kategorija

Summer Memories

Petek, Februar 19th, 2010

On this gloomy winter day, barely 2 weeks after we had to say goodbye to a dear friend I was browsing videos from last summer.

I can’t remember if I was ever as happy as this last July. These videos are a tribute to all flat-coats out there, to their joie de vivre and their eternal Peter Pan spirit:

YouTube slika preogleda YouTube slika preogleda YouTube slika preogleda YouTube slika preogleda
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Sedem resnic

Petek, Januar 30th, 2009

Doletelo je tudi mene. Torej sedem resnic o meni …

  1. Ne jem sladkarij. Ne maram ničesar sladkega, že od 12. leta dalje. Dajte mi slano, kislo, pekoče, grenko… I’ll take anything else. Moje konzumiranje sladkarij je, razen izjemoma, reducirano na pol lučke letno.

  2. V srednji šoli me je ožji krog prijateljev po incidentu v radovljiškem kinu začel klicati Marjan. Kolega me je svojem znancu spontano, iz čiste pizdarije, predstavil kot Marjana, kar je slučajno povzročilo manjši ravs sredi filma. To je potem šlo tako daleč, da sem se na Marjan odzival (in se še zdaj odzivam) enako kot na Slaven. To je včasih povzročalo težave, kadar so me ljudje klicali na domači telefon in želeli govoriti z Marjanom, ali kadar sem dobival pošto na Marjan. Nekaj časa sem tako podpisoval risbe. Tisti, ki me poznajo iz tistih let me še zdaj tako kličejo. Marjan sicer izhaja iz imena lika iz Butnskale. Še dobro sem prišel skozi. Drug kolega je namreč še zdaj Fanči.

  3. V zgodnjih 20-ih zaradi agorafobije nisem 5 mesecev, od oktobra do marca, izstopil iz stanovanja. Ko sem slišal, da Vladimir Horowitz stanovanja iz istega razloga ni zapustil 10 let, sem se počutil malo bolj normalno.

  4. Obstajajo albumi, ki jih zaradi spominov na dogodke iz preteklosti preprosto ne morem poslušati. Med njimi so Purple Rain od Princea, Danzig od Danziga, Little Earthquakes od Tori Amos in Body And Soul od Billie Holiday.

  5. Do zdaj je trikrat malo manjkalo, da bi umrl. Dobesedno, fizično umrl. Kot 7-letnega otroka me je skoraj pozaugala elektrarna na slapovih Krke pri Šibeniku, kot prbiti 15-letnik sem skoraj padel na glavo z 10-metrske skakalnice v Radovljici in sem obvisel na ograji, ki sem jo zagrabil v zadnjem hipu, enkrat sem se pa zgolj z zlomljeno medenico zmazal iz nesreče, ki naj bi se po vseh pravilih in poznejših ocenah končala bistveno bolj usodno. Niti enkrat se nisem ustrašil v trenutku, ko se je dogodek odvijal. Strah je prišel pozneje in včasih ga čutim še zdaj.

  6. V petem razredu osnovne šole sem izumil elektromotor. Bil sem obseden z idejo, da je prepetuum mobile mogoč in sem na vsak način želel konstruirati kolo, ki bi ga poganjali magneti. Ko sem prišel do rešitve, za katero se mi je zdelo, da bi lahko delovala, sem načrt pokazal profesorici za fiziko, ki mi je povedala, da je stvar zelo zanimiva, ampak da to že obstaja, in da se temu reče elektromotor. Edina razlika je bila v tem, da jedro pri elektromotorju poganjajo elektromagneti, ki se sinhrono vklapljajo in izklapljajo, jaz sem pa predvidel navadne magnete, ki se sinhrono sučejo in kolo poganjajo s spreminjanjem polarnosti.

  7. Čeprav igram kitaro, sem glasbeno pot začel s klavirjem. Dve leti klavirja je praktično edina formalna glasbena izobrazba, ki sem je bil deležen. Vse ostalo sem se naučil sam. V naslednjem življenju bom igral nekaj drugega. Razmišljam o trobenti …

Mislim, da sem med blogerji, ki jih poznam zelo med zadnjimi, ki piše na to temo. Vseeno bi prebral sedem resnic o Ekscestu, Ponpetu, Urši, Selemjanu in Kobrowskem.

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Fool Munn

Nedelja, Januar 11th, 2009

Danes…

Fool Munn

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Bluebird

Sreda, September 24th, 2008

(bere Harry Dean Stanton, posnetek je iz filma Born Into This) YouTube slika preogleda

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)
The Last Night of the Earth Poems, 1992, str. 120

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Vonj po snegu

Ponedeljek, September 15th, 2008

Danes zjutraj ob 7 sem šel na sprehod z Mo in na kavo. Kar me je presunilo, je bil vonj smrad po snegu. Hudiča, saj smo sredi septembra, koledarsko poletje se še ni končalo. Kje je zdaj to jebeno globalno segrevanje? Med drhtenjem na terasi Guliverja sem se spomnil na dogodek izpred 14 let, ko mi je sneg zadišal.

Bil je december, moja prva zima v Galvestonu. V tem Galvestonu, ki ga je zdaj opustošil Ike, v mestu, kjer sem preživel eno najtežjih, obenem pa najlepših in najintenzivnejših obdobij svojega življenja.

Podnebje na vzhodni teksaški obali je subtropsko. Poletja so vroča, temperature so tam okrog 30+ stopinj, zime pa mile, v najslabšem primeru takšne kot ti dnevi zdaj. Vlaga je skoraj vso leto 99-odstotna, malce bolj suhi dnevi so le spomladi, ko pade na 85-90%. Ocean nenehno pumpa vlago, ki sega daleč v celino, do Houstona in še naprej. Vlage je toliko, da je treba po zimi pogosto voziti z vklopljenimi brisalci, tudi kadar ne dežuje. Sicer pa je Galveston konec sveta. Majhno otoško mestece, zgrajeno na sipini mulja, ki ga je naplavil Mississippi, končna točka avtoceste I-45, ki se zlije v Broadway, te pripelje do plaže in potem ni nič več. Samo še naftne ploščadi na obzorju.

Galveston Oil Rigs

Bilo je decembrsko jutro. Po takrat že ustaljenem vzorcu, sem se zbudil po nekaj snoozih, se stuširal, si naredil kavo in z brisačo na glavi pokadil prvi cigaret. Moj tedanji mentor (ne morem ustvariti povezave, ker so strežniki v Galvestonu očitno offline), Dr. Fleischmann (not related to the Northern Exposure character), je bil namreč hudo alergičen na cigaretni dim in je že zgolj zaradi vonja cigaret v laseh dobival spazmične napade kašlja.

Po jutranjem ritualu sem nase vrgel lahko vetrovko, ki je ponavadi zadostovala za teksaške zime in stopil iz hiše. Takrat je pa vame butnil dobesedno polarni mraz. Temperatura je bila blizu ničle. Čez noč se je shladilo za vsaj 15 stopinj. Zrak je bil suh, spemljal ga je pa nezgrešljiv vonj po snegu. Pozneje so mi povedali, da sem ter tja pozimi za kakšen dan ali dva pride hladna fronta s severa, z Apalačev, in s sabo prinese ta vonj. Hlad bi še prenesel, vonja pa nisem. Z njim je namreč prišlo 4 mesece latentne zanikane nostalgije. Prišli so dvomi, ali sem storil prav, da sem prišel sem, vprašanja, kaj počenem v tej vukojebini, žalost za najljubšimi, ki sem jih pustil za sabo in sam odkorakal daleč stran (takrat so bile razdalje večje, telefon je bil dražji, internet še ni bil razširjen, komunicirali smo dejansko še prek dobrih straih analognih pisem), želja, da bi bil spet v Ljubljani, poklical koga od kolegov in šel na kavo, ter ure in ure reševal svet v kakšnem zakajenem kafiču v okolici filofaksa. Treba pa je bilo iti v laboratorij, pobiti dnevni kontigent mišk, iz njihovih speštanih vranic izolirati neko beljakovino, katere značilnosti smo raziskovali, preživele miške nahraniti in jim zamenjati steljo, odpipetirati nekaj deset ploščic z raznimi virusnimi testi, presedeti nekaj ur na predavanjih, katerih vsebino sem vnaprej vedel, nisem pa jih smel špricati, ker bi se moral spet zagovarjati pred mentorjem ali nemara celo pred dekanom, ne glede na odlične ocene pri izpitih.

Tisto jutro nisem šel na faks. Šel sem v Rock’n'Java (sedaj se imenuje Java 213, moje galvestonsko zatočišče, tedaj edini stik z espressom in ljudmi, ki se jim je dalo preždeti neskončne ure ob kavi in cigaretih. Nenazadnje tudi lokal, kjer sem spoznal Genea Keltona, ki me je vpeljal v houstonsko blues sceno, kjer sem potem kar nekaj časa počel tole:

Micheal's Ice House, Texas City 1994

tole:

Michael's Ice House, Tx City 1994

in tole:

Billy Blues, Houston 1995

Vendar je to predmet neke druge zgodbe. Po tistem decemberskem jutru sem še mnogokrat, namesto da bi šel na faks, nadaljeval proti Strandu, in si privoščil dolgo, sproščujočo kavo. Kdo ve, morda je vonj po snegu razlog, da nisem nikoli doktoriral.

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Foto tedna

Ponedeljek, Februar 4th, 2008

Hotelska soba dan po koncertu v Kranjski Gori:

Material za filtre

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Učitelj

Četrtek, Januar 31st, 2008

Pred mnogimi leti, v prejšnjem stoletju, ne, v prejšnjem tisočletju, me je Bops naučil prijeti a-mol. Rekel je: lej, Marjan, stvar je preprosta – prva struna je prazna, na drugi struni primeš prvo polje, na tretji in četrti pa drugo. Znaš prijeti E-dur? E, to je podobno, samo vse skupaj spustiš za eno struno dol. Trideset let pozneje se je končalo takole:

Bops & Slaven

Hvala, prijatelji, včeraj sem se imel fino.

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Kreteni, budale, moroni in norci

Sreda, Januar 9th, 2008

Sprašujejo me, kako se mi da. Odkod jemljem energijo. Sej vem, da je verjetno zaman. Vem tudi zakaj. Najbrž verjamem, da vseeno niso tako zelo močni. I should know better. Že pred 20 leti mi je Umberto lepo povedal.

“I work for a publishing company. We deal with both lunatics and nonlunatics. After a while an editor can pick out the lunatics right away. If somebody brings up the Templars, he’s almost always a lunatic.” “Don’t I know! Their name is legion. But not ALL lunatics talk about the Templars. How do you identify the others?” “I’ll explain. By the way, what’s your name?” “Casaubon.” “Casaubon. Wasn’t he a character in MIDDLEMARCH?” “I don’t know. There was also a Renaissance philologist by that name, but we’re not related.” “The next round’s on me. Two more, Pilade. All right, then. There are four kinds of people in this world: cretins, fools, morons, and lunatics.” “And that covers everybody?” “Oh, yes, including us. Or at least me. If you take a good look, everybody fits into one of these categories. Each one of us is sometimes a cretin, a fool, a moron, or a lunatic. A normal person is just a reasonable mix of these components, these four ideal types.” “Idealtypen.” “Very good. You know German?” “Enough for bibliographies.” “When I was in school, if you knew German, you never graduated. You just spent your life knowing German. Nowadays I think that happens with Chinese.” “My German’s poor, so I’ll graduate. But let’s get back to your typology. What about geniuses? Einstein, for example?” “A genius uses one component in a dazzling way, fueling it with the others.” … “Look, don’t take me to literally. I’m not trying to put the universe in order. I’m just saying what a lunatic is from the point of view of a publishing house. Mine is an ad-hoc definition.” … Now then: cretins. Cretins don’t even talk; they sort of slobber and stumble. You know the guy who presses the ice cream cone against his forehead, or enters a revolving door the wrong way.” “That’s not possible.” “It is for a cretin. Cretins are of no interest to us; they never come to publishers’ offices. So let’s forget about them.” “Let’s.” “Being a fool is more complicated. It’s a form of social behavior. A fool is one who always talks outside his glass.” “What do you mean?” “Like this.” He pointed at the counter near his glass. “He wants to talk about what’s in the glass, but somehow or other he misses. He’s the guy who puts his foot in his mouth. For example, he says how’s your lovely wife to someone whose wife has just left him.” “Yes, I know a few of those.” “Fools are in great demand, especially on social occasions. They embarrass everyone but provide material for conversation. In their positive form, they become diplomats. Talking outside the glass when someone else blunders helps to change the subject. But fools don’t interest us, either. They are never creative, their talent is all second-hand, so they don’t submit manuscripts to publishers. Fools don’t claim that cats bark, but they talk about cats when everyone else is talking about dogs. They offend all the rules of conversation, and when they really offend, they’re magnificent. It’s a dying breed, the embodiment of all the bourgeois virtues. What they really need is a Verdurin salon or even a chez Guermantes. Do you students still read such things?” “I do.” “Well, a fool is a Joachim Murat reviewing his officers. He sees one from Martinique covered with medals. ‘Vous êtes nègres?’ Murat asks. ‘Oui, mon général!’ the man answers. And Murat says: ‘Bravo, bravo, continuez!’ And so on. You follow me? Forgive me, but tonight I’m celebrating a historic decision in my life. I’ve stopped drinking. Another round? Don’t answer, you’ll make me feel guilty. Pilade!” “What about morons?” “Ah. Morons never do the wrong thing. They get their reasoning wrong. Like the fellow who says all dogs are pets and all dogs bark, and cats are pets, too, and therefore cats bark. Or that all Athenians are mortal, and all citizens of Piraeus are mortal, so all the citizens of Piraeus are Athenians.” “Which they are.” “Yes, but only accidentally. Morons will occasionally say something that’s right, but they say it for the wrong reason.” “You mean it’s okay to say something that’s wrong as long as the reason is right.” “Of course. Why else go to the trouble of being a rational animal?” “All great apes evolved from lower life forms, man evolved from lower life forms, therefore man is a great ape.” “Not bad. In such statements you suspect that something’s wrong, but it takes work to show what and why. Morons are tricky. You can spot the fool right away (not to mention the cretin), but the moron reasons almost the way you do; the gap is infinitesimal. A moron is a master of paralogism. For an editor, it’s bad news. It can take him an eternity to identify a moron. Plenty of morons’ books are published, because they’re convincing at first glance. An editor is not required to weed out the morons. If the Academy of Sciences doesn’t do it, why should he?” “Philosophers don’t either. Saint Anslem’s ontological arguments is moronic, for example. God must exist because I can conceive Him as a being perfect in all ways, including existence. The saint confuses existence in thought with existence in reality.” “True, but Gaunilon’s refutation is moronic, too. I can think of an island in the sea even if the island doesn’t exist. He confuses thinking of the possible with thinking of necessary.” “A duel between morons.” “Exactly. And God loves every minute of it. He chose to be unthinkable only to prove that Anslem and Gaunilon were morons. What a sublime purpose for creation, or for that act by which God willed himself to be: to unmask cosmic moronism.” “We’re surrounded by morons.” “Everyone’s a moron—save me and thee. Or—I wouldn’t want to offend—save thee. “Somehow I feel that Gödel’s theorem has something to do with all this.” “I wouldn’t know, I’m a cretin. Pilade!” “My round.” “We’ll split it. Epimenides the Cretan says all Cretans are liars. It must be true, because he’s a Cretan himself and knows his countrymen well.” “That’s moronic thinking.” “Saint Paul. Epistle to Titus. On the other hand, those who call Epimenides a liar have to think all Cretans aren’t, but Cretans don’t trust Cretans, therefore no Cretan calls Epimenides a liar.” “Isn’t that moronic thinking?” “You decide. I told you, they are hard to identify. Morons can even win the Nobel Prize.” “Hold on. Of those who don’t believe God created the world in seven days, some are not fundamentalists, but of those who do believe God created the world in seven days, some are. Therefore, of those who don’t believe God created the world in seven days, some are fundamentalists. How’s that?” “My god—to use the mot juste—I wouldn’t know. A moronism or not?” “It is, definitely, even if it were true. Violates one of the laws of syllogism; universal conclusions cannot be drawn from two particulars.” “And what if you were a moron?” “I’d be in excellent, venerable company.” “You’re right. And perhaps, in a logical system different from ours, our moronism is wisdom. The whole history of logic consists of attempts to define an acceptable notion of moronism. A task too immense. Every great thinker is someone else’s moron.” “Thought as the coherent expression of moronism.” “But what is moronism to one is incoherence to another.” “Profound. It’s two o’clock, Pilade’s about to close , and we still haven’t got to the lunatics.” “I’m getting there. A lunatic is easily recognized. He is a moron who doesn’t know the ropes. The moron proves his thesis; he has a logic, however twisted it may be. The lunatic, on the other hand, doesn’t concern himself at all with logic; he works by short circuits. For him, everything proves everything else. The lunatic is all idée fixe, and whatever he comes across confirms his lunacy. You can tell him by the liberties he takes with common sense, by his flash of inspiration, and by the fact that sooner or later, he brings up the Templars.” “Invariably?” “There are lunatics who don’t bring up the Templars, but those who do are the most insidious. At first they seem normal, then all of a sudden . . .”
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5 najljubših

Ponedeljek, Maj 14th, 2007

Z moje strani namesto sofisticiranega, malo primitivnega, vulgarnega materializma:

1. Fender Stratocaster, letnik 1962

62 strat

2. Fender Stratocaster, letnik 1976

76 strat

3. Fender Stratocaster, letnik 1979

79 strat (ta kitara ni več v moji lasti; podaril sem jo dobremu prijatelju; kljub temu spada med mojih 5 najljubših predmetov)

4. Gibson Les Paul Custom, letnik 1972

72 LP Custom

5. Fender Stratocaster, Custom Shop ‘69 New Old Stock reissue

69 NOS

Za ostalo me boli kurac.

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In Memoriam

Torek, Januar 30th, 2007

Damjana smo klicali Dama. Bil je moj prvi pravi prijatelj. Najino prijateljstvo je bilo dolgo časa vseskozi prisotno in samoumevno, zares pa sem se ga zavedal le trikrat.

Dama Prvič, ko smo se nekega davnega poletja, mislim, da smo bili stari kakšnih 15-16 let, sred noči prikradli na kopališče v Radovljici. Kolega, ki je v tistih časih bil pogosto malo destruktiven, kadar je bil pijan, je začel metati lesene ležalnike v bazen in očitno zdramil čuvaja. Začeli smo bežati čez žičnato ograjo. Vsi so bili že čez, le Dama se je nekaj obotavljal. Ne spomnim se, kaj je bilo, vem le, da sva stala pri ograji, on pa je nekaj štrikal. Čuvaj je bil vedno bližje in mislil sem, da sva pečena, čez ograjo pa vseeno nisem šel. Ne vem zakaj, ampak takrat sem vedel, da če naju dobi, naju dobi skupaj, da ga zagotovo ne bom pustil na cedilu. Ušla sva za las. (več …)

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