a(nthro)pologise me,

i enter into the south lecture room late. six weeks of bloody hard overworking late.

dear future self,
although both of us live in a foucauldian paradigm as compulsive confessors, this post is not an appology. it's to tell you i know very well that i can be bitchy, unpleasant and unreasonable and i have no intention to change it nor to use capital letters / proper prepositions nor stick to any of the above.
i do not have a constructive way of dealing with my anxieties in a place with no mountains and caves. there's only so much running and cooking one can do.
because every now and again i light a cigarette, i'm politically incorrect, grumpy, i don't think before i speak and i won't bother apologising when i know i can walk out (like i have walked out - of social anthropology, of countries, of relationships, of a school, of home, of a pub).

and straight back to my dear quiet world of archaeology. as straight or gay as i get anyway.

because
IMHO
dead people are one step ahead of tribes on the brink of extinction.
their stories are more exciting than those of the living. just because they're harder to read.
modernity is nothing special. stop making a fuss about it.
i'm weak and hipocritical, i don't live up to my own principles.
i find that 'truth' and 'coherence' are overrated because i'm no good at them
and i'm too tired to change any of the above. but not too tired of escapism. apparently.

so fuck this. i'm going to hogwarts
--------------------------------------------------------
so i went.
and today i had my first practical. indeed it felt like a harry potter potions class where annoying voices chatter in the background, everyone's making their little mess and no one understands why things work, but they still do.
2 hours of mechanically following software instructions about processing data to produce a pink map of france, sprinkled with cross-shaped leftovers from aurignacian meals. not amazingly interesting or challenging but meditative, fruitful and purposeful.

this better be right because i'm running out of options for running away except the threadmill.

listening to

like in the good old times. by the way this blog was named after their album Ritual de lo Habitual but i never got a chance to bring it up.

i'm hardly ever home or homesick

но при мисълта за всичко зад снимката на стефан ми стана мъчно за софия. гъстите, увивните, отровните и пушеци, все едно все кой знае какво се готви - буркани врят под градския смог. с всичите и и-кратки, смекчени гласни, ята и юта, шопското екане. с нейните тракащи трамваи, тройлеи, сиви скърцащи павета, гниещи златни листа, дълги разходки в борисовата, димящи думи, излизащи от напукани устни, цигари между студени пръсти и чаши чай с ром в длани.


(ok. here's me daydreaming about sofia during a library break) i'm looking foreward to listening to stories in smokey coffeeshops, being very cold, then very warm, getting hypnotised by the beat in old basement bars, even to smelling of nights in the morning. inhaling the smog until i choke on it, then going away to the snow desert nearer to the clouds and freezing twinkling stars, drinking 'alpinist' tea (rather than wake-up-and-work robotic morning tea), slowly sipping spiced rakiya and eating lyutenitsa sus sirene.
(or slacking on the couch watching ilegally downloaded films and reading poetry and books with lots of pictures..)

story about a girl by a girl.

something nice for sunday: alice baked banana bread. mmmm.
something nice for monday: a beautiful video by the monday fairy:
once upon a time there was a little girl who loved dolls, homes, strangers and monsters...
watch it.
lovely friends that i have.

third gear, no breaks.

Everything in the last fortnight, every bloody thing, has failed to happen on time or at all. The days are at their shortest and darkest, not like days at all and on the other hand my sleep is also as minimal and troubled as it gets, not like dreaming at all. Again it's surprising how phisiologically easy it is to get to tears because there's too much work - of the work I love - and I am unsifficient, out of sheer tiredness, out of nothing, out of too much tea, out of the freezing wind's crawl down my neck. Because of not being able to get back in synch with the universe's ratchet wheels, I thought lately life was going slowly. I thought I'd been growing weak and stupid. Even fucking Castle hill has become impossibly steep. Maybe I shouldn't be living on it.

then in a four-am-revelation moment I realised - my bike has been in third gear all along and the breaks don't work.
/insert obvious hamster wheel metaphor./

earlier also it was a beautiful moonlit night for roof-walking and we luckily avoided some porter, straggling around with a torch.

/но ето че слънце
мирише от мен/
/искам чай вместо лед/

earlier yet, i had a lovely night at anna's happy house where there is dahl, hugs, freegan chocolate and jokes about noam chomsky. then when the meal was over and the wine was drunk, the glasses and chopsticks became music.
/покажи ми
образцовия си дом
прочети ме/
i can't explain why i find calm as soon as i sit on the floor there. as if the house were a cup of camomile tea and i could sit at the bottom of it and watch the stamens and leaves float around in warmth. i managed an evening of almost non-cynical internal monologue, which hadn't happened for a long time in anybody else's company.

i'm not going to fix the breaks or take a break. it's too much fun cycling down the hill thinking децата нямат спирачки. might change gear.

now work and more work.
currently reading about protestant islam.
restlessly tapping to vania shtereva.

vegan experiment 1.

“Всяко яйце - бомба, всяка кокошка - летяща крепост в борбата срещу империализма”
Each egg is a bomb, each hen - a flying fortress in the struggle against imperialism.

so. social experiment 1: vegan week is over.
target: me.
result: successful and inspiring.

Low moments: dinner with people (vegan pasta bake's possible but unapetising in comparison to a cheesy one and caused a fuss). Missing meals. On the long-term would be difficult to balance protein portions, B-group vitamins and essential amino-acids.

High moments: Ginger snaps. Scrambled Tofu. Feeling light inside, but not hungry and my throat's clearer without oily junk flowing down it. It's shocking how many things that need not have dairy are packed with butter, milk whey or egg powder. Fatfree vegan recipes. Banana pancakes (bananas as egg-replacements)! It did not affect my blood iron at all, because I donated blood the other day and all was fine.

So the only difficulty I really had was social. However, I think my choices led by ideals are not excentric, but essential. The problems vegans face are society's fault.
Yet I would feel arrogant asking for an imposition of the tolerance I believe is due for this ethical lifestyle, which is the only way to guarantee one does not contribute to unsustainable indistrial animal farming.
I'll try to keep it up without being painfully picky when eating out or not cooking for myself. But my stomach's already complained from the cheese sandwich I had for lunch...

Comming up next: vegan Christmas eve. Let's see how my family take it.

идеалист?

търсех с какво да направя картичка за "чъръдъ, сис" и попаднах на тези снимки от 10ти ноември, стари точно колкото сестра ми и малко по-късно - изборния дневник на Петя.

връзката между двете неща е Идеалист.
за сега съществува само като блог, а малко след моя рожден ден, ще се роди от хартия и мастило. не знам какво да мисля.
преглед на състава обещава добра журналистика (ex-капитал, дневник и пр.)
обаче има няколко бодливи момента в манифеста. не разбирам как едновременно ще са не-политически и ще защитават класическия либерализъм?

може би имам предразсъдъци, защото се самоопределям като идеалист, а в основата на либерализма стои цинизъм. може да преработя едно есе от миналата седмица, което обяснява надълго и широко защо идеалът за устойчиво развитие е несъвместим с индустриалното общество, разчитащо на глобална либерална икономика. ... а Идеалист искат да работят за "модернизацията" на България, каквото и да значи това.

може би беше време на българския медиен пазар, претъпкан от евтини кредити, секс и мобилни телефони и либерализмът да стане екзотика, която да продава корици и претенции.

бих се разтревожила и ядосала, ако вече не се тревожех, че есето ми за Омир се върти в кръгове от тъпотия и повторения, като геометрична ваза.. край на кофеиновата почивка.

ред. окей, червена точка! драги съграждани, които не вярвахте на мен и екобулпак, повервайте на тази статия -
БОКЛУЦИТЕ ВИ СЕ РЕЦИКЛИРАТ.
крайно време беше някой да каже, че е истина, а не "суха тренировка", greenwashing, световна конспирация и какво ли още не. така че - шарените кофи не са само за украса. ползвайте ги, да му се не види.