Green Dragon

This verdigris-coated creature stands proudly along with three others of his kind, each occupying one side of the bridge called, how appropriately, The Dragon Bridge.

Dragon is a symbol of Ljubljana. There are a few legends as to why this is the case.

According to some, the legend of the dragon is connected to St. George, the patron of the Castle Chapel, usually depicted as slaying a dragon.

A more intriguing myth involves Jason and the Argonauts. After taking the Golden Fleece, or so the story has it, Jason and the Argonauts, running away from the pursuers, wandered into the estuary of the Danube. Having had no other option, they continued up the Danube and the Sava and eventually the Ljubljanica all the way to its source. There they disassembled the Argo and carried it on foot to the shores of the Adriatic Sea where they reassembled the ship and proceeded with their journey. Along the way they came across a huge lake and a swamp where a ferocious monster lived. Jason killed the monster and founded a settlement near-by, which got to be known as Aemona and subsequently Ljubljana (Laibach/Luwigana). The swamp monster later took the role of a dragon.

There is evidence of human presence in this area since the Bronze Age. There is no evidence whatsoever of the presence of a swamp monster or any suchlike creature. If they could speak, I wonder what these bronze-cast dragons guarding the bridge would have to say on that matter? Hmmm…

Me Neither

'I DON'T KNOW WHY' is written on that building.

I suppose the person who wrote this was young, possibly an adolescent. i wonder what prompted him to write such a thing in such a manner. Somehow i imagine the person to be 'him' although it could have been 'her' just as well.

Pretentiousness? Or cry for help?

Unrequited love? Familial problems? School problems? Or a bit of everything?

Problems that seem trivial to the adults? And yet they can be very real to a suffering youth.

Different kind of problems for different kind of people.

Sometimes I, too, would want to scribble on a wall, cry out loud, carve onto the surface of the moon: "I DON'T KNOW WHY!"

Roll Of The Dice

Eleven a.m. and the temperature in the city has already risen to 31C. Dora glances at the display on top of a corporate building showing time and temperature. She sighs at the sight of the flashing figures and treads on an escalator leading down into an underpass. She is immediately taken aback by the pungent smell of vomit and urine. She regrets taking that route but continues regardless through the dim underground corridors. She is relieved when she emerges on the other side of the road.

It wasn’t always like that. She remembers the place as it was a few years ago, vibrant with life. Kiosks and cafes were scattered among various shops selling clothes, footwear and all kind of glittery stuff. People would walk in and out of shops with or without shopping bags, stopping for refreshments or buying lottery tickets in hope of grasping their share of luck.

But luck has abandoned this place. The sprouting shopping malls on the outskirts of the city claimed their toll. Shops closed one by one, moving to more favourable locations or quitting business altogether.

She remembers first seeing the homeless taking over the place. One late autumn evening she noticed a lump of rugs in a remote corner next to a vacant shop window. She wouldn’t have paid attention had the lump not moved and she was hit by the smell of piss and alcohol fumes. The realisation appalled her and she left the place as fast as she could. Once outside, she examined her feelings. Disgust. Fear. Anger. Pity. Guilt. She didn’t know what to make of these feelings but they were there alright, stuck in her mind. She didn’t want to explore any further, not at that point. And she has kept well away from the place. Until today.

She looks at her wrist watch. A gift from her ex husband, one of the few she has kept. But there's no time for memories. She doesn't want to be late. She has put too much effort into this project to allow anything to go wrong. That job must be hers or else... The images from the underpass flash in front of her eyes.

I Hate Celebrations...

Why people enjoy all the fuss about birthdays and anniversaries in general is beyond me. Ok, I accept it, it's nice to receive gifts and be patted on the back and wished all kinds of nice things and be the centre of everybody's attention.

No, stop! It's nice to receive gifts, period. Come to think of it, I could live without these, too. Most of them are useless anyway. But all this seems to mean a lot to everybody else.

So I go and buy presents and have them wrapped up and then I attend the celebration and wish the person guilty for said celebration all kinds of nice things and pat them on the back and act towards them in all kinds of nice manners no matter whether I mean it or not. And I hate myself for doing so.

Come another celebration and I do it all over again. And I hate myself for doing so yet again.

Come my birthday or anniversary or whatever people are wont to celebrate, I hate having to have a celebration. I hate people coming to me and giving me useless gifts and wishing me all kinds of nice things I’d heard gazillion times before and patting me on the back and I hate being the centre of everybody’s attention in general. And yet I’m expected to do it time and again.

This afternoon I attended a celebration. It was nice in a nice kind of way. We all contributed to the nice present the birthday girl really wanted. There was a lot of patting on the back and saying nice words, which were truly meant for a change, and acting nicely towards… and so on. There was also a lot of food and beverages and the weather contributed to the nice feel. All was fine and dandy until the conversation became political and started to heat up and everybody wanted to cry out their opinion and wouldn’t let others express theirs until the conversation became a tangled mess of half-articulated voices vying to outcry everybody else. At that point I had to excuse myself from the table.

Yep, I hate celebrations.

Nebotičnik

What with nothing better to blog about I thought I would post a pic of a building which has been one of the landmarks of Ljubljana for many years. Nebotičnik, The Skyscraper, as it is simply called, was built in 1933 and was with just over 70 metres the highest residential building in Europe at the time of construction.

The Skyscraper used to be a popular venue but is at present in a less than enviable state which is a pity. The building needs restoration but neither municipality nor the owners want to invest in it. The bar and restaurant with a terrace at the top have bene closed for years, partly because of high maintenance cost but also because many a wretched soul opted to end their misery by jumping off the terrace. What a shame!

Attaboy

He was good looking. Not big by any means but everything about his figure seemed in place. A proud head with pitch black curly hair perched nicely on a well proportioned body with long slim limbs.

His life was all about sex, food and company. He would go to any length for a female of his choice but was all too often left disappointed. Not that females didn’t like him. On the contrary, he was very popular among them but attaining sexual intercourse proved a nearly impossible task. And yet, he had lost virginity as an adolescent and had several children with different mothers since. Having been an orphan himself he never cared a jot about his offspring.

His chosen family meant everything to him. He loved them unconditionally and never failed to show his devotion. He hated being alone and was happiest when they were all gathered together, which was never often enough, or so he thought. But he was apprehensive of strangers and never felt at ease in crowded places.

He reveled in long walks with a companion of his choice. He loved running and playing ball. And when he would come home exhausted from all the activity there was food and a fresh bowl of water already waiting for him. Oh yes, he enjoyed life with his human pack. After all, what more could a dog wish for?

A Trip

“It’s already hot. What if we left town for a cooler place?”

“Sure. Where do you suggest we go?”

“Oh, don’t start this again. It’s always I who has to think of everything. Why don’t you suggest something for a change?”

“But you never agree with what I say.”

“Because you never think before saying things. And what you come up with is useless in most cases. I can’t rely on you.”

“Why the hell do you want me to suggest things then? Just don’t say I never do.”

“Well, you don’t. And even if you do, they make no sense.”

“Right. Where are we going then?”

“Frankly, I don’t feel like going anywhere any more. I think I’ll just sit down in a dark room, thinking my thoughts. What difference does it make anyway?”

“Oh come on! How about I call and ask if that inn in Dolenjska is open and then we go there.”

“Dolenjska? Hahahahaha! See what I mean? It’s way over 30C here and you want to go to a place even hotter than that. Some sense! I knew I’d have to decide in the end. How about the mountains, eh? Never occurred to you, right? Oh well… And we could have been half way there already instead of wasting time here arguing over petty things.”

“Ok then. I’ll wait for you outside. And hurry up please.”

“Hurry up? Are you nuts? Gotta check the blogs first.”

The Man And The Fountain

Friday was a hot day. A few misty clouds speckled the pale blue sky. The asphalt and concrete of the town centre had already started to emanate the sun-absorbed heat. Sunrays reflecting off the windows of an adjacent building drew chequered patterns onto the main street. The traffic was light, passers by few. There, on the platform, stood a fountain, spurts of water ebbing and flowing in seemingly random fashion. An occasional child would tear away from their parent, enchanted with the play of water and sunlight, trying to touch the elusive substance. Parents would approach too, seemingly chiding their offspring but in fact happy to find momentary relief from the heat in the vicinity of the cool water.

A man with a sports bag approached the fountain. He must have been in his mid to late 50s, his longish ashen hair thinning at the crown. He wore long khaki trousers and tennis shoes without socks. His bare upper body was slightly tanned, slim but muscular. His appearance was tidy rather than not. He put the bag down next to the edge of the fountain, leaned over and started washing himself. After a few minutes of said activity the man paused, then unbuttoned his trousers and took them off along with tennis shoes. A pair of skinny white legs sporting gaudy boxers appeared and their owner gave them their fair share of splashing.

The few passers by ignored his activity and proceeded as if nothing had been going on. A child approached the fountain from the other end but seemed oblivious to the man’s activities. He was only interested in the glittering spurts of water. His momma, looking slightly embarrassed, rushed after him, grabbed his little hand and dragged him away. The child followed her without much resistance.

After a short rest the man put his trousers back on but the dampness of his skin made the job slightly tricky. He staggered sideways towards an aluminium bench facing the fountain and finished off the dressing there. Then he retrieved his tennis shoes and slipped them on. He rummaged about his bag and took out a pair of jeans and a white shirt. He folded the jeans and put it down on the bench. He stood up, stretched his arms and donned the shirt, again not without twisting and squeezing. He waited another moment, then picked up his bag and set off in an unknown direction, leaving behind, quite deliberately it seemed, the jeans deposited on the bench.

A few hours after the man was gone the jeans still lay on the bench but otherwise life went on as usual. The heat only made it a little bit slower and pigeons replaced the man at the fountain.

About Scabiosa Trenta

"And thus you, the long sought and passionately desired miraculous flower of my heart, will rise some time from the dreams of my yearning, from the strength of my trust, from the mysterious gloom of your origin, of your blossoming and vanishing, and you will come and join me in the late evening of my life. Silent and modest, soft and smooth is your sunny figure, your tiny calix has a silvery gleam, the shining white garment of petals is embroidered with golden anthers, you are immersed in a transparent mist of far-off longing, encircled with an aureole of poetry, myth and romance. It will be in this form that you, the little princess from fairy land, will be looking at me from your new castle high above the foaming young Soca. In your heavenly reality. Scabiosa Trenta! Never did my belief in you die, though you seemed to be beyond my reach. And though you were far away, I have never been unfaithful to you. I have been on the lookout for you all my life, anxiously listening to any news about you. I have been repaid for my love by the great, beautiful, good, eternal mountain."

Dr. Julius Kugy

Scabiosa Trenta, the mysterious flower, didn't exist after all. It turned out to be a variety of the already known species Cephalaria leucantha.