I have measured out my life in coffee spoons

This brilliant line is, of course, from T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock . And this musing, lame though it may be, has been prompted by a friend who introduced me to that exquisite poem.

So, what are my coffee spoons? Is there anything I can measure my life against?

A few years ago I would have thought I knew the answer. A few years ago I would most likely have said – had I been inclined to give the question a thought at all – it was the games I had played, the wins and the losses in all the sports I had been part of. But, is that good enough an answer?

At a certain time in my life it surely was. At a certain time in my life sports played a prominent role. But now? Sport is in many ways like life. There are friendships and alliances and rivalries and hostilities and victories and defeats, all accompanied by a variety of emotions, intense emotions. And yet... there comes a time when competition is no longer fun, when all the striving for better results seems trivial, when priorities change. Thus what used to be a perfectly satisfactory answer becomes no longer acceptable.

What then? The moments that have taken my breath away? The moments that have made me smile? That I have made others smile?

All that and nothing of that. Time will tell which it is. Or not. But the fact is, whatever I do or say there is no way to beat Eliot's line.

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons

Yep. That'll do for me.

What do you do...

...when a rainy day becomes two
and then three
and more (but not quite four)
with only brief intermissions
now and again
well, on the fourth day
(you have to work the previous two
or three)
you go out anyway
take the old camera
and try to snap away
with limited success (of course)
as the lighting conditions
are less than perfect
and the objects
less than cooperative
the swans
grazing and preening
and hissing at a passing mutt
(anything but keep still really)
the leaves
swaying in the breeze
(again, not standing
or hanging
still)
but there it was
a cluster
of yellow blossoms
with raindrops on petals
waiting
for someone
to record
their beauty

Hey!

What?

Will you remind me tomorrow...

I won't.

What do you mean, you won't?

I'll surely forget, so I don't want to promise anything.

But... I reminded you the other day...

That was different. It concerned us both. This is strictly your business and I won't remember to remind you, so I won't. Because if I said I would and then wouldn't you would complain why I hadn't reminded you and I'd say i had forgotten and you'd be all over it and I don't want that to happen. So I can't promise I'll remind you, period.

Why are you so selfish?

Selfish – me? It's your business and you demand I remind you? I never ask you to remind me of my stuff.

Well, you could have.

Yeah? Why should I? Even when I tell you I have things to do, you act surprised when I go about them, and pretend you know nothing about it.

That's different.

How's that different? You don't care what I do, or pretend not to care, so why should I care what you're supposed to do, especially if it's none of my business?

I only asked...

You always ask when you see I'm busy. Why can't you for once leave me alone? I've got to finish that stuff by tomorrow.

Why didn't you tell me you were so busy in the first place?

Here we go again...Because you didn't ask, that's why. You never do. And I did tell you I had a deadline but you wouldn't listen, eh? You never listen to me. You never do. It's always just you and your needs and your requests and your demands. I don't give a damn about your needs and requests and demands, do you hear? I've got this work to do so get the fuck out of here!

The lake that isn't

Lake Cerknica is not an ordinary lake, it's a natural phenomenon, no doubt about it. Its surface reaches up to 38 km2 and is thus the largest lake in Slovenia. Some sources quote 26 km2 and they are also right at some point. But at times, in the dry season, the lake disappears completely, leaving only a meandering stream at the lake bed, at the bottom of the valley.



How is that possible? Well, the valley is a Karst depression with several springs and sinkholes and no surface outlet. The equation is quite simple: when the inflow of water exceeds the outflow, the valley floods, and vice versa. So, in spring and sometimes in autumn the lake can reach its maximum capacity, and in the summer (and sometimes in winter) it dries up, thus allowing the farmers to harvest the hay on exposed fields.



The whole area is rich in wildlife and is an important nesting resort for several bird species. With its ever changing face it is also an interesting place to visit at any time of year.

Slight Depression

I'm in a melancholy mood today. Can't say why, I just am. Perhaps it's the glowering sky, threatening to unleash another load of rain over the already soaked land. Perhaps it's my snotty nose that unnerves me. The full moon? I don't know. All I know is another vacation is over for me, autumn is setting in and I'll be back in a rut in no time, plugging away, waiting for weekends, waiting for... for what? The life to pass me by?

Oh no, I'm not going to let it slip away just like that. There's too much to glean from it yet, too much to see, too much to do. And there will be more vacations, more opportunities to relax and enjoy, more things to look forward to. I'm not letting the blues get to me, oh no! I only wish I could curl up in a warm den and hibernate the winter away.

by the way, I'm not the author of the sketch picced above; I came across this smiling face (and the bug trying to crawl out of the footprint) when walking along a lake the other day

Down the memory lane

I went on a trip yesterday. Just like that, without a particular goal or destination other than the general direction – the peninsula of Istria.

My first stop was at Motovun, a medieval town set on a hill, like many Istrian towns are, adopted recently by artists and film makers. The valley it overlooks is truffles country. Men with their trained dogs or pigs search the land for those precious fungi. A pause for coffee (good one!), an unplanned walk through the town's narrow cobbled streets, all up- and downhill, then back in the car and on towards the coast.

The next stop: Vrsar, a town somewhere in the middle of the west Istrian coast, a place I have remembered by its relaxed atmosphere despite its touristy orientation. But I haven't been there for many years and the mood of the place has changed. A large marina on one side of the bay, hotels and restaurants on the other and hardly any sign of those fishermen with their small boats and rough hands and faces but welcoming smiles who gave the place its friendly feel.

A nostalgic notion drove me towards the air field... memories of the times my significant other and I had spent there many years ago, he helping the air traffic control staff put up a VHF antenna, and I, in return, getting as many panoramic flights as I cared to take in an AN-2, an ancient-looking but efficient biplane. The place looked every way the same as all those years ago when we still lived in the same country but the faces were all new, all alien. I felt like a stranger in a strange world. I didn't stay long but didn't feel too bad pausing there either. Times have changed, that's all.

A tasty meal at a haphazardly chosen restaurant rounded up the day and back it was, through the red Istrian soil, sparse but fertile; through the truffle country; through the white limestone of Karst and the flooded fields, towards the capital, towards home.

Can U?

Water

Isn't it interesting how the water, no matter how murky, appears clear and bright when dropping to form a waterfall or cascade.

1) 1/8 s


2) 1/20 s


3) 0.5 s


(playing with exposure times; all the photos taken free-handed)

No Man Is An Island?

Our lives are not a single straight line. They weave and connect and intertwine in delicate patterns; they run parallel with one another, or cross at different angles: sometimes on top, sometimes on bottom; sometimes they run smoothly and sometimes they get entangled in a messy knot. All the while we look at reflections, more or less distorted, and see them as the real thing. But we must learn to exist alongside each other and unravel the lines with care and consideration. Some do it better than others, it appears.

What do you do...

...when words elude you, when nothing you want to write about feels right?

How about post a pic or three?

Fisherman

Tony is a fisherman. His dad was a fisherman and his dad's dad was a fisherman and so on as far as the line could be traced. He lives on an island in a house on a slope above the town with a nice view of the bay. He built the house with his own hands.

Tony was born on the island but didn't always live there. He was still a baby when the war reached the island, and his family – along with many others – was evacuated from the island to Italy and later on to Egypt where they spent many months in refugee camps.

When the war was over and they were allowed to return, there was no time for education. Tony learned to read and write but never finished any school. He worked hard on the family vineyards and learned the fishermen's trade from the elders. But he wasn't happy with that kind of life. He married young and soon took his wife and baby daughter to Australia where he intended to make enough money to return home, build a house and buy a boat. In Australia he took on any job he could get, including fishing and masonry. After ten years he managed to earn enough to return home with his family, larger by a boy, and he built the house and bought the boat and raised his children on his native island. He was happy setting out to sea, working with nets, long lines, lobster pots... the catch earning him enough for a comfortable living.

Tony is long retired but he still dreams about fishing. He sold his boat a few years ago, soon after his wife's death, and has regretted his decision ever since. Sometimes he goes out to sea on board other fishermen's boats to help them and share his experience – and make some money along the way. But his strength and stamina are not what they used to be and he finds the job increasingly difficult.

Tony now fishes in a different world. His prey does not live in the sea. Summer brings unlimited supply of tourists and there's always a female around looking for a fleeting romance. Tony seems to know which bite to use to catch his prey. And he can seldom be seen alone.

A Bench

I came across this bench on one of my hikes through the town.

An ordinary bench, nothing special about it except... this one had a plate attached. I have learned recently that sponsoring benches is common in the UK but it is a concept unknown here. So I approached with some curiosity and read this:

Indeed, the island of Vis became an allied military base soon after Italy's surrender in September 1943 and in Komiža was the British marines headquarters. A number (decreasing in time of course) of WW2 veterans used to visit the island every year up until 2005 to pay tribute to their mates who hadn't returned from the battles.

I think wars are madness and why humans should go about killing each other has always been beyond me. But what do I know...

Still, that bench standing in a sunny corner overlooking the bay, obviously sponsored by a man with little time left but remembering the times he must have spent on this island, somehow seems a nice and appropriate gesture in this world of insanity.

Return

Driving on empty (or almost empty) roads in fair weather is a rare privilege and pleasure. And it was one of the rare pleasures I had from this vacation.

After an almost two and a half hours' ride by ferryboat we set off through the city of Split – the drive was surprisingly smooth – and continued towards the inside of the country. Most passengers choose the motorway and few the coastal road but the route we take is about 50 kms (or 30 miles) shorter than any other, and there's hardly any traffic on those roads so the drive was smooth and enjoyable.

We made a few 'pit stops' (or should I say pee stops) and a longer break for dinner at a restaurant about two thirds of the way.

But the closer to Slovenia, the more populated the area and the denser the traffic. Hardly a surprise on a Sunday afternoon. Not too much waiting on the border, though, despite the recently applied regulations at the borders between the members and non-members of the EU.

Basically, the whole journey home went as smoothly as one could desire until about 20 kms, maybe less, from home. There was an accident on the part of the motorway where there are no alternative roads and said accident caused a traffic jam a few kilometers long which set us back at least an hour.

Global warming or...?

The departure day was nearly perfect: warm, sunny, and nary a breeze. Where the fuck was that kind of weather when we could make use of it?

Out of the first seven days spent on the island five were either rainy or windy – and I don't mean a breeze; the gusts of the cold northerly cut to the bone - or both.

It is true, I hate cold, particularly when there's neither the time nor the place for it. And cold is definitely unbecoming of beginning of September in Dalmatia.

That makes one wonder whatever has happened to the global warming. Oh, there are climate changes, they are more than apparent. Dramatic and sudden weather changes, periods of extremely hot interchangeing with periods of extremely cold... there's no such thing as average weather anymore except perhaps in statistics.

Oh well... I fell prey to such an extreme weather change at the most inappropriate of times. When the sea temperature drops as low as it has this beginning of September there's no way it will warm up again to acceptable levels before the next season... the days are simply too short and the sun has lost too much of its power.

*

I wrote this Sunday night hoping to post it then but then I lost internet connection for almost two days so it's coming up now. And this Tuesday has been another proof of the changes mentioned above: an extremely violent front crossing these areas causing massive precipitation that resulted in flooding streams and mudslides in large areas of the country, making some parts completely inaccessible. Reportedly, one person was killed thus far due to these harsh weather conditions.

Hello!

What do you do...

...when the only thing worth visiting a place does not exist?

This island has always been known for its favourable climate and warm sea. This beginning of September both the air and the sea temperatures have been on end-of-October levels; the cold northerly increasing the feeling of cold and the sea suitable only for penguins. Since there are no penguins in the northern hemisphere and I'm not a mazochist...

Swimming pools are fiction for these folks and you can't stay in the bath for ever. You can't walk the same few paths over again now, can you, and getting drunk is no alternative. Besides, I can't get drunk here no matter how much I drink.

So it seems the only answer is to bugger off. And that's what we're going to do.

Better luck next time, eh? Perhaps not anymore... but who knows?

Vacation Diary V

It's cold here. Sunny, but cold. Damn that wind! I HATE cold!!!

That's all I have to say right now.

Vacation Diary IV

The thing one notices very quickly in this town is a huge number of cats. Cats of all sizes and colours parade the streets, perch on the stone walls, scavange the garbage.

I'm not averse to cats but even I find them annoying at times. Oh, the little ones are cute as all the cubs are. But they are quite aggressive when food is concerned, not to mention the noise they make.

It's quite remarkable, though, that dogs (which also abound) and cats seem to get along quite well. At least I haven't seen a single strife occur between the species. They must have learned to let each other the space they need. Or perhaps they have learned each other's language. Who knows! But I sometimes wish people were more like the cats and dogs on this island.

That song...

...has been rolling around in my head all day long. Oh well... at least it's a beautiful song.
This the one:

The falling leaves drift by my window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips, the summer kisses
The sunburned hands I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall

Vacation Diary III

That's better. It's getting warmer already. The sea is still cold, though. Too cold. But I can walk around in T-shirt. But damn, who called in those clouds again?

Vacation Diary II

The sun has shown up, the rascal. But it keeps playing hide-and-seek. It's not so cold anymore. But there's still the wind. The chilly northerly, cutting to the bone. Reminds me all too well of the adventure from 25 odd years ago, of those endless hours spent in snowdrifts, of the wind, of the cold...

The sea I've been looking forward to swimming in is cold. How can I enjoy swimming in sub 20C? No way, that's how.

So I go, I take a walk uphill (everything is uphill from the sea level). The wind beats against the shrubbery, against the rocks, against my body. The climb is worth the effort, though. Distant islands appear right there, within reach, among the shadows of passing clouds.

The hike relaxes me a bit. I might still enjoy my stay here.

Vacation Diary I

It's cold. The air is cold. The rain is cold. The sea is cold. The town is cold. I HATE cold.

I hate this town. I hate its false air of friendliness. I hate its familiarity, the fact that i know almost every nook and cranny.

Why do I come here, then? I don't know. I don't even know why the place unnerves me. It has the sea which I love. It has the gulls and the swifts and the swallows. It has beautiful views. It has interesting fauna and flora. It has beautiful sea. And, most of all, my significant other loves the place. Compromises, compromises... choice.

But then again, I'll be fine. I'll be fine as soon as the air warms up, the sea warms up, the sun shines through...

almost there

rain
patters incessantly
on the city streets
distant mountain-tops
covered with snow
are shrouded in mist
and yet
on this cold september day
my thoughts meander
along surf-washed
pebbled beaches
on the wings of a seagull they pass
purple depths beneath
precipitous cliffs
they follow the moonlight
towards distant shores
count the seconds between
flashes from the lighthouse
get caught in the sails
of a passing boat
before they get stranded
on the rocks of reality

Graffiti

I have mixed feelings about graffiti. Some are no more than expressions of vented spleen or a way of marking the territory. Obscenities, threats or signs meaningful only for the members of the gang...

But there are others, clearly created by talented rascals, some of them true works of art. The City of Ljubljana has even sponsored a project in which a team of 'artists' would decorate with graffiti art an otherwise desolate underpass.

The photo is not of their work, though. I just came across this combination of urban and natural and found it interesting.

Confession

I have a confession to make.

I am addicted to reading. Have been all my life.

Once I get hold of a book - or any text for that matter - that takes my fancy (and there aren't few), I can't quit reading until I'm finished. Or until I fall unconscious, whichever comes first. All my bodily needs fall second to the urge to finish the text. I cease to exist to the outer world.

Only when common sense, what little there is left, tells me there is no way I could finish it within reasonable time (until my next unavoidable obligation, that is), am I willing to grudgingly let go but return to it as soon as circumstances allow.

I should be sleeping right now, as the matter of fact. And yet I'm still awake wondering whether I should go looking for that smidgeon of common sense that is supposed to be hiding somewhere within my head or continue with the project I can't for the life of me finish in reasonable time.