Being a Sprite and The Art (or better The Zen) of Doing Nothing. Kinda Zen rulez. Mindful slow motions. Letting go.
Image by artist in doing nothing
Mindfully observing and noting hyperactivity of people doing things they actually don’t want and don’t wish to do but they think other people expect of them. The result is in majority of cases a whole lotta nothing.
The necessity for a career forces everyone to take sides.
We live in the age of the over-worked, and the under-educated;
the age in which people are so industrious that they become absolutely stupid."
Oscar Wilde (around 1888)
Letting go – a skinny definition …
Realizing that a situation or another person’s behavior is out of control, giving up the fight to gain control.
You are relaxing and smiling without effort, feeling the nice feeling, and allowing the nice feeling to take you deeper into your heart.
is a one-person process, in which the memories of past injuries real or imagined are separated from bitterness and hate and blame, and one’s actions are no longer organized around the hurt. Unlike resentment and regret, letting go includes acceptance of what has happened. …
Stolen quote from excellent blog / travelog (through the life and world): www.tripbase.com/blog/15-things-ive-learned-from-10-years…
Writer and life-long expat James Baldwin once wrote, “I met a lot of people in Europe. I even encountered myself.”
I gonna paraphrase it:
“I met a lot of people in India. I even encountered myself.”
See where this picture was taken. [?]
Vipassana Meditation. The Path to Enlightenment.
For the sake of pluralism let’s suppose also this possibility of how some people gonna reason:
Publication Date: October 12, 2006
ATSEEL award for best translation into English, 2008
… Even though Ivan Goncharov wrote several books that were widely read and discussed during his lifetime, today he is remembered for one novel, Oblomov, published in 1859. An indisputable classic of Russian literature, the artistic stature and cultural significance of which may be compared only to other such masterpieces as Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls, Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov. Stephen Pearl’s new translation — the first major English-language publication of Oblomov in more than fifty years — succeeds exquisitely to introduce this astonishing and endearing novel to a new generation of readers.
… Oblomov was written just a couple of years before the abolition of serfdom in Russia, a time when the landowners were still clinging to feudal ways of making money but had been exposed to (and for the most part fascinated by) more modern ways of living their upper-class lives. The title character, like many other landowners, has for some time lived in Petersburg, away from his family estate, but unlike many others he finds himself very bored with society life. Instead, he prefers to remain in his bed, entertaining a handful of guests, mulling over but never putting to paper a plan to improve his estate, and, for him most pleasantly of all, daydreaming about his simple and idyllic childhood in the country. To any outside observer, he is pathetic in this state, where he can’t even finish writing a letter …
If you become tired of all that people’s you-don’t-know-what’s-normal-life bullshit try this:
… Dostoevsky’s most revolutionary novel, Notes from Underground marks the dividing line between nineteenth- and twentieth-century fiction, and between the visions of self each century embodied. One of the most remarkable characters in literature, the unnamed narrator is a former official who has defiantly withdrawn into an underground existence. In full retreat from society, he scrawls a passionate, obsessive, self-contradictory narrative that serves as a devastating attack on social utopianism and an assertion of man’s essentially irrational nature.Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, whose Dostoevsky translations have become the standard, give us a brilliantly faithful edition of this classic novel, conveying all the tragedy and tormented comedy of the original.
From the Hardcover edition.
If you are interested in go to www.amazon.com.
And yes, be happy!
Ceterum censeo my preferred poem:
Stihove Tina Ujevića govori R. Šerbedžija.
Kako je teško biti slab,
kako je teško biti sam,
i biti star, a biti mlad.
I biti slab, i nemoćan,
i sam bez igdje ikoga,
i nemiran, i očajan.
I gaziti po cestama,
i biti gažen u blatu,
bez sjaja zvijezde na nebu.
Bez sjaja zvijezde udesa
što sijaše nad kolijevkom
sa dugama i varkama.
O Bože, Bože, sjeti se
svih obećanja blistavih
što si ih meni zadao.
O Bože, Bože sjeti se
i ljubavi, i pobjede
i lovora, i darova.
I znaj da Sin tvoj putuje
dolinom svijeta turobnom
po trnju i po kamenju,
od nemila do nedraga
i noge su mu krvave,
i srce mu je ranjeno.
I kosti su mu umorne
i duša mu je žalosna,
i on je sam i zapušten.
I nema sestre ni brata,
i nema oca ni majke,
i nema drage ni druga.
I nema nigdje nikoga
do igle drača u srcu
i plamena na rukama.
I sam samcat putuje
pod zatvorenom plaveti,
pred zamračenom pučinom,
i komu da se potuži?
Ta njega niko ne sluša,
ni braća koja lutaju.
***O Bože, žeže tvoja riječ
***i tijesno joj je u grlu,
***i željna je da zavapi.
***Ta besjeda je lomača
***i dužan sam je viknuti, *** … pa ova tri stiha su, o bože, da poludiš !
***ili ću glavnjom planuti.
***Pa nek sam krijes na brdima,
***pa nek sam dah u plamenu,
***kad nisam krik sa krovova!
O Bože, tek da dovrši
pečalno ovo lutanje
pod svodom koji ne čuje.
Jer meni treba moćna riječ,
jer meni treba odgovor,
i ljubav, ili sveta smrt.
Gorak je vijenac pelina,
mračan je kalež otrova,
ja vapim žarki ilinštak.
Jer mi je mučno biti slab,
jer mi je mučno biti sam
( kad bih mogao biti jak,
kad bih mogo biti drag),
no mučno je, najmučnije
biti već star, a tako mlad!
Tingl Tangl, postoji li još?
Tin Ujević + Rade Šerbedžija = intellectual orgasm
Kombinacija njih dvojice je kao kombinacija Jamnićke kiselice sa Graševinom da dobijemo onaj pravi gemišt po mogućnosti u Tingl Tanglu.
I found this English translation on Flickr:
from user Shana: Snježana Novak
An other source for English translation:
How hard it is not to be strong,
How hard it is to be alone,
And to be old, yet to be young!
And to be weak, and powerless,
Alone, with no one anywhere,
Dissatisfied, and desperate.
And trudge bleak highways endlessly,
And to be trampled in the mud,
With no star shining in the sky.
Without your star of destiny
To play its twinklings on your crib
With rainbows and false prophecies.
– Oh God, oh God, remember all
The glittering fair promises
With which you have afflicted me.
Oh God, oh God, remember all
The great loves, the great victories,
The wreaths of laurel and the gifts.
And know you have a son who walks
The weary valleys of the world
Among sharp thorns, and rocks and stones,
Through unkindness and unconcern,
With his feet bloodied under him,
And with his heart an open wound.
His bones are full of weariness,
His soul is ill at ease and sad,
And he’s neglected and alone,
And sisterless, and brotherless,
and fatherless, and motherless,
With no one dear, and no close friend,
And he has no-one anywhere
Except thorn twigs to pierce his heart
And fire blazing from his palms.
Lonely and utterly alone
Under the hemmed in vault of blue,
On dark horizons of high seas.
Whom can he tell his troubles to
When no-one’s there to hear hues call,
not even brother wanderers.
Oh God, you sear your burning word
Too hugely through this narrow throat
And throttle it inside my cry.
And utterance is a burning stake,
Though I must yell it out, I must,
Or, like a kindled log, burn out.
Just let me be a bonfire on
A hill, just one breath in the fire,
If not a scream hurled from the roofs.
Oh God, let it be over with,
This miserable wandering
Under a vault as deaf as stone.
Because I crave a powerful word,
Because I crave an answering voice,
Someone to love, or holy death.
For bitter is the wormwood wreath
And deadly dark the poison cup,
So burn me, blazing summer noon.
For I am sick of being weak,
And sick of being all alone
(seeing I could be hale and strong)
And seeing that I could be loved),
But I am sick, sickest of all
To be so old, yet still be young.
Tin Ujević (July 5, 1891 – November 12, 1955)
is considered to be one of the greatest Croatian poets of all times.