monday morning grays

a slow monday morning, with just enough work to make me get up. work hasn't been great lately, or at least hasn't been tying me down the way i like it to. but i shouldn't complain - it's only not optimal, it's still much better than anyone else would expect.
but then today is monday. and its a cold, windy monday at that. my apartment windows don't close too well. it wasn't pleasant getting out of bed this morning. it's just one of those days.

i went to the supermarket. they just finished remodeling it a few days ago. great new place, all shiny. it changed owners and the new guys like to make an impression. my first one was that i was lost in something that looked exactly the same as it did before the remodeling. the greatest difference - there's no double doors, so you enter directly into the store. it was very "nice" this morning - there was a draft every time someone came in. and its a BIG supermarket. and new employees. the company launched a great "social" campaign of hiring part time employees to help boost employment. this probably just means that the poor people don't get benefits any more. ah, progress.

its just one of those mornings. i need to work more. i need more work.

breaking silence

maybe its the tone of my voice, or the color of my hair, or its some deep-rooted psychological thing. i have a fading voice - it doesn't get through. maybe i just never shift it into second gear. and then things don't get heard. maybe its the fact that i don't eat breakfast. so i sometimes opt to write. maybe i just don't know how to articulate in real time. and then i hope that someone will find my writing interesting. maybe i don't have anything interesting to say. i guess you are here, having fun? maybe i mess up the joke before i get to the punchline. no point in trying to make a point when there's no one to listen. maybe i take things to seriously. yet there's always the mental challenge, the inner one. maybe it's my choice of form is foolish. but then you can always leave a treasure chest for your kid (stolen idea). maybe i am foolish.

an undying loyalty...

there are few things in life that i have taken to be my own. these are things that required not sacrifices (i'm not known for my sacrificial character) as much as dedication. over the years i've really tried many things, always moving on to the next once my curiosity was satisfied. and then there are the special things. running is one of them.
i didn't realize how heartbroken i was when i had to quit three years ago. there was that nice period of denial where i kept telling myself that my injuries would recover in a couple of months and that i'd be back by the summer. and then the abstinence set in. running is a drug, at least the way that i consume it. the feeling of a good stride (it takes months to reach it), the long meditative run, the adrenalin and later endorphin... you just can't beat it. it's beautiful.
so i started running several months ago, again. after almost 15 years i know the drill. it's going to be difficult in the beginning. the muscles have to get back in to shape, and i have to start breathing normally. in recent years there's been new elements - tendons need longer to get in shape, my metabolism isn't as strong as it used to be and it takes longer to recover from each run. but on the other hand i have the experience. its a entirely different story when you've been your own coach from the very beginning. you don't conform to anyone, but also take all the responsibility. you set the pace, you provide the requirements, you make the plan and you're only accountable to yourself. lesson learned - lesson applied to the big life-picture.
and now i'm hooked (again or still?). i'm still far from my goal, but i'm going to get there. i know the limitations, and i'm just pacing myself, taking the time to focus on every aspect. just one of the lessons learned.
it's been a long journey, with the early achievements, followed by a big depression, and then the recovery. and i'm still not there. but in the end it's only the journey that counts. and life is the ultimate journey. this is just the dress rehearsal.
and i smile when i look at my little running altar. my symbolic collection of experiences and applications. and it reminds me every day now of the joy of just getting out there, taking the stride, harmonizing my rhythms, breathing in the surrounding, feeling the air flow over my chest and arms, hearing the tempo, the blood flowing through my head, overcoming difficulties, going places...
so when you ask my why i do it? because it is a small version of life, because i've learned the most about myself and gained the most experience that is possible introspectively. it's just you on the road. there's no one to impress and no one to distract you.
but then - maybe all this is just me.

fearing life, loving fear

i live life in constant fear. even when i stop fearing life itself, i feel intimidated the absence of that fear. fear keeps me on my toes, it keeps my metabolism high. it prevent's me from stopping, it keeps me from sprinting. i fear losing what i have, i fear getting too much and becoming a different (greedy/ambitious) person.
this is probably why i end up having (or inheriting my father's) "serious" look. the family trademark lense-breaking stern gaze. watch out world - i've got my eye on you!

of the love of the Mountain

it had been a long time since i was in the Mountain, close to six months. i'd almost forgotten what it was all about. it had been years since i had been during the winter. i'd definitely forgotten what that was about. and then i was taken by the hand and led back...
for the past two years it was always in the summer, when the Mountain is almost deserted, or at least people move around so slowly that you don't notice them. but its winter now (or at least as close to Winter as we will get this year).
the Mountain is great, commands respect. it deserves respect - it giveth and it threateneth. i am always in awe anew. but this time it was not the annual skiing excursion. i'd developed a connection with the idea of the Mountain, i've understood that it exists outside the winter playground image that perhaps most people have. it has become part of me. the Mountain might bear different names, but it is always the same connection, the connection to the same idea.
injuries had prevented me from returning for years. even now the required pain was greater than expected. but then there is the Mountain. to just inhale it, to feel it beneath my feet (board), to hear its gusty voice, to feel the threat of its wrath. and to respect it.
hm. somehow i always turn out to be the lone wolf. and this time i also lose all focus trying to return to the Mountain in my head. have i fallen in love? is this an eye opener as to what surprises might still lie ahead... i'm just looking forward to returning in the summer. lone wolves don't like the tourists.

just for the joy of it!

the other day a friend said i should lighter topics/subjects, so i started going backwards through my choice of pictures, of my choice of the views of my choice of the places that i've visited. i ended up going way back. i’m still looking. i actually found a bunch of very nice photos that i would use all kind of words to describe, but joyful just wasn’t one of them. i’m already four months into the future. here’s one that has a sweet smell. this one has the sound of ocean gusts of wind. this one has hot sun on a sweaty body. hm… smell of bike oil. cold mist slamming against my cheeks. (i’m already six months back.) my photos don’t have joy. they feel good, and i believe that this feeling is steady and powerful enough. (another friend recently said that they have a GOOD atmosphere.) i comment, i note, i preserve, i convey, i point out, i capture. but i do so with serenity. i associate joy with energy, vivacity, interaction. communication is a great part of the feeling of joy. you have to be part of it in order to feel it. and when i’m part of this then i don’t want to do anything else – not even take pictures. someone would have to give me this task. no matter how many pictures i take, no matter what the ones that i post show – they are not me. they might be about me, parts of me, what it is that i as a perceiving individual (one that presently sees the screen and his hands on the keyboard – through his body’s windshield), but i am not them, nor are they me. my being exists beyond them, no matter how many i take, regardless of how much of a paparazzi i might develop into. and they too exist without me. they might outlive me, they will be interpreted without me, they have a life of their own – now that i’ve finally released them into the world. and like people they might not amount to much, or they might win the world press photo award. hopefully they will at least help an old lady across the street. (hm, i should get back to searching for that joyful photo) all these photos have my joy within them. or at least enjoyment. that’s what the irresponsibility of amateur photography grants you. you do what you want, and as such your work expresses you and nothing else. and there’s always something more to add the next time. just like this blog. i heard long ago that every person carries a story within them, one that might reach the status of song or even book. the problem is to create the next one. both the blog (thoughts) and photos i take with patience and determination. but most of all i enjoy them! i just remembered a photo that i took of myself, on purpose, to record the face of joy. this is actually precisely what i intended it for – to remind myself (and perhaps others) of the joys that exist and will exist, the ones easily forgotten. it was taken exactly three years ago (only?), on a later january night, after i finished work. i worked the sunday night shift, finishing around 1 a.m. it had started to snow, the streets were empty and snow brought silence. it was too good to miss – i had to go embrace it, i had to run it. the park was just a quarter mile from my house. i returned when my lungs started to freeze, with a big snowy white beard. then i got my bike out. this was me when i got back, an hour and a half after first leaving the house. i was alone, my joy would have just been an enjoyment had it not been for my camera. so here you are – a canned, preserved, moment of pure joy. enjoy!

dignity

when i was young(-er, about half my present age) someone said at an appropriate moment that the americans would never survive the economic sanctions that serbia (then one of the versions of the state called yugoslavia) did – for the simple reason that they would not be able to cope with the situation. quite possibly true.
this image is something that has become common in recent years (decades) in belgrade. it’s a form of recycling, social work, face-saving, compassion – all rolled into one.
you see in the social decay that had engulfed us here, different social groups that suffered different fates – on the way down, as well as now, on the way up. i’ve grown accustom to shantytowns, beggars, little homeless children jumping in the city fountains on hot summer days; i’ve also seen poor rural mountain regions, where only the elderly remain… but the one thing that i stomach worst of all is the vision of an elderly lady or gentleman, dressed in quite nice clothes, the style that i associate with my own grandparents, dumpster-shopping.
the thought of how difficult it was for a middle-class, probably intellectual, to swallow their pride that first time, the thought of their empty stomach, the disparity of having to give up their dignity for the sake of a piece of stale bread, tossed in a dumpster.
i’ve heard the stories of retired office workers, engineers, attorneys, without children, who retired and when the crash came they were left with nothing. without anyone to take care of them there was no opportunity for them to regain their savings, no chance of returning to the lives they had planned for and invested in during their careers. once in that position there was no way back.
in time a spontaneous system of assistance emerged. there were no great campaigns for helping this elderly group, only the very seldom mention of the suicide rate among retired urban dwellers. today it’s a bit better. we’re all doing better. but they are still here; they still roam the streets today. you might spot them when darkness falls, wandering with a single bag in hand, casually glancing at the contents of bins and dumpsters. what will be for dinner tonight?
at one point we (here) were all getting close to contemplating such a fate, which is why no one will ever criticize the lack of a systemic approach to this issue. we were stripped of our dignity to some extent (others more than some). having seen perspective you have a special appreciation for dignity. these bags are proof and a reminder of it.
this is not homage to the people that leave the bags, and its not support for those that take advantage of them – neither of them would have any benefit. this is just a little reminder about the world around us, and the details that tend to fall off our radars…