https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=0W3MpOU3OUU

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DW9Y0aIKXeY

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/photography/proof/2017/07/hong-kong-living-trapped-lam-photos/?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Social&utm_content=link_fbp20170827photo-hongkongcoffincubicles&utm_campaign=Content&sf101522179=1

when I was little, before peeling a cucumber, my mum used to cut the edges of it and stick them to my forehead

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_for_Happiness
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/You_Love_Only_Once

I feel really sad

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Torrents_of_Spring

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=K_bn0uqxaC4
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Letter_to_Momo

ove tri knjige nisam citala ali zvuce dobro
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Botchan
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kokoro
https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/186587/the-confession-of-a-child-of-the-century/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Woman_in_the_Dunes
The woman brought in the meal: clam soup with boiled fish. Very much a shore meal, it seemed. That was all right but as he began to eat she opened a large paper umbrella and put it over him.

“What’s that thing for?” He wondered if it were some kind of custom of the region.

“Well, if I don’t put this up, the sand will get in your food.”

“How is that?” he said, looking up in surprise at the ceiling, where, however, there were no holes at all.

She followed his eyes to the ceiling.”The sand sits in everywhere. Almost an inch piles up if I don’t sweep it up every day.”

“Is the roof faulty?”

“Yes, pretty much so. But even if the thatching was brand-new, the sand would sift in anyway. It’s really terrible. It’s worse than a wood borer.”

“A wood borer?”

“An insect that eats holes in wood.”

“That’s probably a termite, isn’t it?”

“No, no. It’s about this big… with a hard skin.”

“Ah. Well, it’s a long-horned saw beetle then.”

“A saw beetle?”

“Long whiskers and reddish, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s sort of bronze-colored and shaped like a grain of rice.”

“I see. Then it’s an iridescent beetle.”

“If you let it go on beams like these rot away to nothing, you know.”

“You mean the iridescent beetle?”

“No, the sand.”

“Why?”

“It gets in from from everywhere. On days when the wind direction is bad, it gets up under the roof, and if I didn’t sweep it away it would soon pile up so heavy that the ceiling boards wouldn’t hold it.”

“Hmm. yes, I can see it wouldn’t do to let the sand accumulate in the ceiling. But isn’t it funny to say that it rots the beams?”

“No, they do rot.”

“But sand is essentially dry, you know.”

“Anyway, it rots them. If you leave sand on brand-new wooden clogs they fall apart in half a month. they’re just dissolved, they say, so it must be true.”

“I don’t understand the reason.”

“Wood rots, and the sand rots with it. I even heard that soil rich enough to grow cucumbers came out of the roof boards of a house that had been buried under the sand.”

“Impossible, he exclaimed rudely, making a wry face. He felt that his own personal concept of sand has been defiled by her ignorance.”I know a little about sand myself. Let me tell you. Sand moves around like this all year long. Its flow is its life. It absolutely never stops-anywhere. Whether in water or air, it moves about free and unrestricted. So, usually, ordinary living things are unable to endure life in it, and this goes for bacteria too. How shall I put it… sand represents purity, cleanliness. Maybe it serves a preservative function, but there is certainly no question of its rotting anything. And, what’s more, dear lady, to begin with, sand is a respectable mineral. It couldn’t possibly rot away.”

She stiffened and fell silent. Under the protection of the umbrella which she was holding, the man, as if hurried, finished eating without a word. On the surface of the umbrella so much sand has collected he could have written in it with his finger.

The sky was heavy with stars.

( The Woman in the Dunes, Kobo Abe)

http://www.standard.co.uk/news/london/kensington-resident-tells-shocked-radio-host-if-grenfell-families-moved-in-id-leave-a3572066.html

This tree always reminds me of him. With all the things happening around me, I feel guilty about having any funny thought or happy moment.

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/10/21/telling-is-listening-ursula-k-le-guin-communication/

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/23/8e/6d/238e6db6872e9fb04384f1c620fbe755.jpg

"Every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other"

my camera is on the way to meet me

R. Tagore, Come As You Are


Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
 If your braided hair has loosened if
the parting of your hair be not straight,
if the ribbons of your bodice be not
fastened, do not mind.
 Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
 Come, with quick steps over the
grass.
 If the raddle come from your feet
because of the dew, of the rings of bells
upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop
out of your chain, do not mind.
 Come, with quick steps over the
grass.
 Do you see the clouds wrapping the
sky?
 Flocks of cranes fly up from the
further river-bank and fitful gusts of
wind rush over the heath.
 The anxious cattle run to their stalls
in the village.
 Do you see the clouds wrapping the
sky?
 In vain you light your toilet lamp
--it flickers and goes out in the
wind.
 Who can know that your eyelids
have not been touched with lamp-
black? For your eyes are darker
than rain-clouds.
 In vain you light your toilet lamp--
it goes out.
 Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.
 If the wreath is not woven, who
cares; if the wrist-chain had not been
linked, let it be.
 The sky is overcast with clouds--it
is late.
 Come as you are; do not loiter over
your toilet.

Ivan Ivanych came out of the cabin, dived in with a loud splash and swam in the rain, making broad sweeps with his arms and sending out waves with white lilies bobbing about on them. He swam right out to the middle of the reach and dived. A moment later he popped up somewhere else and swam on, continually trying to dive right to the bottom.
'Oh, good God,' he kept saying with great relish. 'Good God...'
He reached the mill, said a few words to the peasants, then he turned and floated on his back in the middle with his face under the rain. Burkin and Alyokhin were already dressed and ready to leave, but he kept on swimming and diving.
'Oh, dear God,' he said. 'Oh, God!'
'Now that's enough,' Burkin shouted.


(Gooseberries, A. Chekhov)

sa interneta

Museum of Childhood

https://www.flickr.com/groups/k1000/
https://www.flickr.com/photos/-m-p-g-/sets/72157613255139160/

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=cmlpOuf5AQg

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=gAYCbnEZ4p8

     …and when we came to the first intersection I said,”Well, good-bye, I’ve got to be going,” but she said she was going in the same direction, and when we got to the end of Ludmila Street I said,”Well, good-bye, I’ve got to be going home,”and she said she was going in the same direction, so on we went, and I purposely walked all the way to Sacrifice and held out my hand to her and said,”I’ve got to be going home now,” but she said she was going in the same direction, and on we went until we came to the Dam of Eternity, and I said I was home now and we’d have to say good-bye, and when I stopped at the gas lamp in front of my door and said,”Well, good-bye now, this is where I live,”she said she lived there too, so I unlocked the door and motioned for her to go in ahead of me, but she refused and told me to go in first, and since the hall was dark, I did, and then I went down the stairs and into the yard and up to the door of my room, and when I’d unlocked it, I turned and said,”Well, good-bye, this is my room,”and she said it was her room too, and she came in and shared my bed with me, and when I woke up in a bed still warm with her, she was gone. But the next day, and every day thereafter, the moment I set foot in the yard I saw her sitting on the steps in front of my door and some white boards and sawed-off beams lying under the window, and when I unlocked the door, she would leap up like a cat and scamper into my room, neither of us saying a word. Then I went for beer with my big, five-liter pitcher, and the Gypsy girl would light the old cast-iron stove, which boomed even with the door open, because the room had once been a blacksmith’s shop and had a high ceiling and a huge fireplace, and she would make supper, which was always  the same potato goulash with horse salami, then sit by the stove, feeding it with wood, and it was so hot that her lap glowed gold and gold sweat covered her hands, neck and constantly changing profile, while I lay on the bed, getting up only to quench my thirst from the pitcher, after which I handed it to her, and she would hold the giant pitcher in both hands and drink in such a way that I heard her throat move, heard it moaning quietly like a pump in the distance. At first, I thought she put so much wood on the fire just to win me over, but then I realized it was in her, the fire was in her, she couldn’t live without fire.

     So we went on living together even though I never really knew  her name and she never knew or wanted or needed to know mine; we went on meeting every night, even though I never gave her the keys and sometimes stayed out late, until midnight, but the moment I unlocked the main door I would see a shadow slip past, and there she was, striking a match, setting fire to some paper, and a flame would sputter and flare in the stove, which she kept going with the month’s supply of wood she’d laid in under the window. And later in the evening, while we ate our silent supper, I would turn on the light bulb and watch her break her bread as if she were taking Communion and gather up all the crumbs from her dress and toss them reverently into the fire. Then we switched off the bulb and lay on our backs, looking up at the ceiling and the shimmer of shadow and light, and the trip to the pitcher on the table was like wading through an aquarium filled with algae and other marine flora or stalking through a thick wood on a moonlit night, and as I drank I always turned and looked at my naked Gypsy girl lying there looking back  at me, the whites of her eyes glowing in the dark-we looked at each other more in the dark than by the light of day. I always loved twilight: it was the only time I had the feeling that something important could happen. All things were more beautiful bathed in twilight, all streets, all squares, and all the people walking through them; I even had the feeling that I was a handsome young man, and I liked looking at myself in the mirror, watching myself in the shop windows as I strode along, and even when I touched my face, I felt no wrinkles at my mouth or forehead. Yes, with twilight comes beauty. By the flames in the stove’s open door the Gypsy girl stood up, naked, and as she moved, I saw her body outlined in a yellow halo like the halo emanating from the Ignatius of Loyola cemented to the to the façade of the church in Charles Square, and when she added some wood to the fire and came back and lay down on top of me, she turned her head to have a look at my profile and ran her finger around my nose and mouth. She hardly ever kissed me, nor I her, we said everything with our hands and then lay there looking at the sparks and flickers in the battered old cast-iron stove, curls of light from the death of wood. All we wanted was to go on living like that forever. It was as if we had said everything there was to say to each other, as if we had been born together and never parted.

     During the last autumn of the war I bought some blue wrapping paper, a ball of twine, and glue, and while the Gypsy girl kept my glass filled with beer, I spent a whole Sunday on the floor making a kite, balancing it carefully so it would rise, and I tacked on a long tail of tiny paper doves strung together by the Gypsy girl under my tutelage, and then we went up to Round Bluff, and after flinging the kite to the heavens and letting the cord run free for a while, I held it back and gave it a few tugs to make it straighten up and stand motionless in the sky  so that only the tail rippled, S-like, and the Gypsy girl covered her face to her eyes, eyes wide with amazement. Then we sat down and I handed it to her, but she cried out that it would carry her up to heaven-she could feel herself ascending like the Virgin Mary-so I put my hands on her shoulders and said if that was the case we’d go together, but she gave me back the ball of twine and we just sat there, her head on my shoulder, and suddenly i got the idea to send a message, and handed the kite to the Gypsy girl again, but again she froze and said it would fly away with her and she’d never see me again, so I pushed the stick with the twine into the ground, tore a page out of my memo pad, and attached it to the tail, and as soon as the twine was back in my hands, she started screaming and reaching after the message as it jerked its way up to the sky, each burst of wind traveling through my fingers to my whole body, I even felt the message making contact with the tip of the kite, and suddenly I shuddered all over, because suddenly the kite was God and I was the Son of God, and the cord was the Holy Spirit which puts man in contact, in dialogue with God. And once we’d flown the kite a few more times, the Gypsy girl screwed up her courage and took over the twine-trembling as I had trembled, trembling to see the kite tremble in the gusty wind-and, winding the twine around her finger, she cried out in rapture.

     One evening I came home and find her gone. I switched on my light and went back and forthto the street until morning, but she didn’t come, not that day or the next or ever again, though I looked everywhere for her. My childlike little Gypsy, simple as unworked wood, as the breath of the Holy Spirit-all she ever wanted was to feed the stove with the big, heavy boards and beams she brought on her back, crosslike, from the rubble, all she ever wanted was to make potato goulash with horse salami, feed her fire with wood, and fly autumn kites. Later I learned that she had been picked up by Gestapo and sent with a group of Gypsies to a concentration camp, and whether she was burned to death at Majdanek or asphyxiated in an Auschwitz gas chamber, she never returned... When she failed to return at the end of the war, I burned the kite and twine and the long tail she had decorated, a tiny Gypsy girl whose name I’d never quite known.

     …the more I thought of my Gypsy girl, who had never cheered, who had wanted nothing more than to feed the fire, make her potato goulash, and fill my large pitcher with beer, nothing more than to break her bread like the wafer at Communion and look into the stove door, transfixed by the flames and heat and noise of the fire, the song of the fire, which she had known since childhood and which held sacred ties to her people. it left all pain behind and coaxed a melancholy smile to her face, a reflection of perfect happiness.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Too_Loud_a_Solitude

Southend-on-Sea

lens error

my first painting

solar light

https://qz.com/990163/psychology-shows-its-a-big-mistake-to-base-our-self-worth-on-our-professional-achievements/?utm_source=atlfb

I always liked shadows on the room walls and ceiling of things and people outside

https://www.edustaff.co.uk/about/meet-the-team

you know in the awing language of west africa you don't say good morning...you say something that is translated : are we awake!

https://www.format.com/magazine/resources/photography/best-photography-contest-prizes-2016

https://www.vox.com/science-and-health/2017/5/17/15646450/antikythera-mechanism-greek-computer-astronomy-google-doodle

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=JKAv9ErQV30

https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rooms/1234474?location=Fujieda%2C%20Shizuoka%20Prefecture%2C%20Japan

http://www.boredpanda.com/autistic-son-father-photography-elijah-echolilia-timothy-archibald/

https://www.facebook.com/viralthread/videos/734026440103375/

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40745/40745-h/40745-h.htm#BOBOK

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40745/40745-h/40745-h.htm#THE_DREAM_OF_A_RIDICULOUS_MAN

This time I'm submitting 'The Notes of a Certain Person'. It is not I; it is by an altogether different person. I think nothing more in the way of an introduction is necessary.
(Bobok)

http://www.angelicadass.com/
https://www.ted.com/talks/angelica_dass_the_beauty_of_human_skin_in_every_color/transcript?language=en

https://www.facebook.com/garytvcom/videos/1282291951826050/

Train derailment at Limehouse

mirtle

"Dok putujem na posao i vracam se kuci ja podsecam sebe na linije tvog lica" 20 July
I liked his nose

http://karasupeley.tumblr.com/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tie_Me_Up!_Tie_Me_Down!

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2017/mar/29/the-difference-44-years-make-how-the-uk-press-said-goodbye-to-europe

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2015/jun/25/phone-sex-workers-secret-lives-phil-toledano-photography

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=I_x1rnaisuw

She had a dream, she was kissing his knees and legs, he had ends of her hair in his hands. There was only ocean to be heard through the open window. "When we met, I noticed, you are a smart and funny lady, dear, my darling," he said. "We are so strange," she answered. There were raspberries all around them.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kECQ_7QoMPs

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=sr6lr_VRsEo


https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-B0VZQ1FpCw

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/One,_No_One_and_One_Hundred_Thousand

https://www.brainpickings.org/2017/03/24/this-is-a-poem-that-heals-fish/

https://www.theguardian.com/science/2017/mar/01/rock-of-ages-impact-of-manmade-crystals-defining-new-geological-epoch-study

http://www.designboom.com/art/julien-nonnon-french-kissing-couples-paris-street-art-le-baiser-10-19-2016/

http://bonobostudio.hr/en/film/in_production/hedgehog_s_home

As one of my friends says, raspberry is beautiful.

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/photos/weird-and-unusual-animals-around-the-world/ss-BBl01XI

https://www.msn.com/en-gb/money/news/14-iconic-products-that-have-come-back-from-the-dead/ss-AAn92Hb?li=BBoPWjQ

http://www.boredpanda.com/polaroid-photo-every-day-jamie-livingston/

http://www.tasteofcinema.com/2016/30-visually-stunning-films-depicting-the-beauty-of-women/

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ic3suBJDsVw

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leap_second

https://www.facebook.com/Dreamworld.live/videos/626926640803764/

https://www.facebook.com/francetvzoom/videos/712991598859629/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQ65wkeJ7-8
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4ludaphvAU

http://akuzativ.com/teme/556-nema-objektivnih-kriterija-za-pravljenje-nacije
http://www.akuzativ.com/teme/896-erich-fromm-nacionalizam

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/12186901/Ugly-animals-are-being-shunned-by-scientists-study.html

http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2016/12/weird-dinosaur-underwent-radical-transformation-it-aged

postoji jedan vrt u kome lisice zive nocu

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GsWZyvtX5tU

http://time.com/4393576/iphone-photo-awards-2016/

'Sensei, here,' I said, holding out the package, which was now wrinkled from being carried around for a while.
'What is it?' Sensei took the parcel, placing his briefcase on the ground and carefully unwrapping it. The small grater emerged. It glimmered in the pale light that shone through the shop curtain. It gleamed even more brightly than it had in the shop in Kappabashi.
'It's a grater, isn't it?'
'That's right.'
'Is it for me?'
'Of course.'
It was a brusque exchange. Which was just like our usual conversation. I looked up at the sky and scratched the top of my head. Sensei carefully rewrapped the grater and put it in his briefcase, then straightened up and started walking.
I counted stars as I walked. I counted them, looking up at the sky and trailing behind Sensei.


H.Kawakami

https://m.facebook.com/?_rdr#!/story.php?story_fbid=1766684240247597&id=1614330298816326

I once met a woman who wasn't there.
She was long and tall and slim and fair.

I love this woman with all my heart.
And when she vanished, it tore me apart.

I once met a woman who wasn't there.
I followed her down to the pit of despair.

She was not evil, she was kind.
It was not her, but me...
Who was blind.

The Man Without a Head from "So Much Movies" on Vimeo.

http://www.boredpanda.com/capybara-unusual-animal-friendship/

https://i-d.vice.com/en_us/article/spirited-away-is-returning-to-theaters?utm_source=idfbus&utm_campaign=global

https://www.brainpickings.org/2013/04/11/t-s-eliot-old-possum-book-of-practical-cats-gorey/

In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful. Sei Shonagon

http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2015/12/the-lost-adults-with-autism/419511/?utm_source=atlfb

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/nov/15/post-truth-named-word-of-the-year-by-oxford-dictionaries

photo by A.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kintsugi

Five swivel chairs were ranged along the other side of the observation car of the Kyoto express. Oki Toshio noticed that the one on the end was quietly revolving with the movement of the train. He could not take his eyes from it. The low armchairs on his side of the car did not swivel.
Oki was alone in the observation car. Slouched deep in his armchair, he watched the end chair turn. Not that it kept turning in the same direction, at the same speed; sometimes it went a little faster, or a little slower, or even stopped and began turning in the opposite direction. To look at that one revolving chair, wheeling before him in the empty car, made him feel lonely. Thoughts of the past began flickering through his mind.
...
The loud chattering in a foreign language made Oki feel all the more lonely. That revolving chair in the observation car, turning by itself, came before him. It was as he saw his own loneliness silently turning round and round within his heart.
Beauty and Sadness, Yasunari Kawabata

Ljubav poezije
Branko Miljkovic

Ja volim srecu koja nije srecna
Pesmu koja miri zavadjene reci
Slobodu koja ima svoje robove
I usnu koja se kupuje za poljubac

Ja volim rec o koju se otimaju dve slike
I sliku nacrtanu na ocnom kapku iznutra
Cvetove koji se prepiru sa vremenom
U ime buducih plodova i prolecne casti

Ja volim sve sto se krece jer sve sto se krece
Krece se po zakonima mirovanja i smrti
Volim sve istine koje nisu obavezne
Jer prava istina je stidljiva kao miris

Ja volim jucerasnje neznosti
Da kazem svom telu "dosta" i da sanjam bilje
Prste oci sluh drugacije rasporedjene
U sumi negoli u telu

keeping a paper plane in the coat pocket

my hands will miss you