Dream big – die young

Yesterday I told a girl with whom I grew up with and whom I considered a friend that everything is cool, nice weather, nice people, nice everything but that I also miss her, and she replied: don’t worry, we are all out there following our dreams … I ignored this dry and diplomatic answer (I mean even boss tries a bit harder not to come out so arrogant and humiliating) and I told her a story about dreams.

So, I am working with a girl from Madagascar, very nice, beautiful, and adorned with a horrible past. What I find magical in her is what I find magical in every soul that went through hell: she is happy, she appreciates every single moment and she is thankful to anyone who just gives a good word. Needless to say, I love her.

And she is not the sole example. France is filled with Africans – their personnel. Now, these people are very happy to be here, they have the safety, they can survive and what I find very disturbing, they see France as their savior.

A curious person as I am, intentionally or unintentionally, I came across French school books and I regularly visit the library’s children department. I was and I still am horrified by the dose of brainwashing and by the arrogance of the French government and those ruling the country. I am shocked by their conviction that they are the reason for the good on this planet and that they are the country everyone should look upon to. I was also surprised by their aggression if you disagree with their facts. And what I am trying to say is that they start to learn children from an early age on, (3 years old) that they are rescuing the world, in their books Africans are present all the time as a poor victims they need to understand and whom they have to help … they call it fight against racism, spreading awareness and getting to know other cultures.

I am Slovenian and I about a month ago I found children book about Slovenia and it’s history. There it is written that we lived all of our lives under Austro-Hungarians and that is not until Napoleon invaded our region, (even though for a very short time), that our national pride was born. According to them, our history and our language start in the early 19th century inspired by French. They just ignored thousands of revolutionists, fighters for freedom and writers, so when the child opens a book and reads about Slovenia he is proud because it was they who actually implemented the idea of independence. I find it very perverted and very intruding, actually, I mean, can you just…fuck off? But no, they can not. They just need to be part of every important event even if it is about such a small and unimportant country like Slovenia.

If we go back to Africa. Africa, as it is, is in chaos, and I know for sure that french like it like that. First, they get a cheap personnel that is already learned to speak French (let us not lie to ourselves that those countries are still not their colonies), they get a lot, a lot of goods for very small amount of a money and the last, and I think the most important thing: they have a part of the world where they can play as a saviors, as teachers, and as role models. They open schools where they teach them about their history as they, French has written it, they teach them french language and open the doors and possibility to run away from the hell which the French (with cooperation with other developed countries) have actually created.

But that is not the point. The point is that they manage to create in hearts of Africans feeling of eternal gratitude. I mean, the first generation that migrated is extremely grateful, sacrificing their time and freedom in order to please their employers, and in the end sacrificing their children. So, who is the violent one, who is raping all those women’s and who is robbing and killing people on the streets of Marseille, for example? Well, mostly, their children, so-called the second generation. Those children were raised by the school system which is cruel and unjust, and by the street. Those children know nothing about their parent’s life in Africa, they only know that they should be equal to white but they feel they are not. And honestly, they are right. They are witnesses of the exploitation of their parents, they live without their parents and they chronically lack the love and warmth.

But in France they don’t see that problem like that – for them, the problem is their incapability to be socialized, their lack of wish to behave according to French rules and their origin. They will never admit that most of the migrants work longer hours and weekends thus not having enough time to spend it with their children. They will not admit that in school there is a high level of discrimination, not only from the side of teachers but what’s even more painful for a child, from the side of his schoolmates. And never will they allow you to say that they actually, concisely or subconsciously, the minute they see a color of pupil’s skin or find out about his or her social status, determine whether that pupil will be successful or not. And as many of those children’s parents are too afraid to stand up for the wellbeing of their child – those children are just destined to depend on the mercy of teachers.

Beside denying all that, French may not find a following two situations humiliating but rather as an act of kindness and care, but let’s try out the rest of the world.

In a hotel where I work, every pause we get something to eat. Once I thanked a girl that’s preparing that, so-called breakfast, and she replied, well yes, it’s better if I give it to you than to throw it away. Well, thank you very much.

The second situation happened at the doctors. I went there so they can tell me I am healthy enough to do the job – I mean nobody is healthy enough to work as a room maid I assure you – but it is one of the French protocols that convince them that they are very just and friendly country. I don’t blame people that they don’t know where Slovenia is, it is really very small country, so I usually explain it as a part of former Yugoslavia. After I told that to a doctor, my health was immediately put aside and madame doctor was questioning me about my life in Slovenia: do you, in Slovenia, as a woman, have the same rights as here, in France? When I answered yes, of course, she asked You mean, as a woman you can have a life as you have in France? Again I said yes, and she wouldn’t stop Do women in Slovenia work, do your men own you, etc … can you freely express your opinion, can you protest … I wasn’t insulted by the questions – I guess those things are very important for women’s self-confidence and mental health (which can also be tested in many other ways I believe), but it was her skepticism and as previously said, arrogantly raising above the other nations and establishing themselves as an example of how the world should function (and I just can say – God forbid!). So, long story short, I sat there feeling like some exotic creature that was noticed for the first time in history. I was examined, now I need to be domesticated I guess. For a moment there, I felt like an elephant man.

Note that I am only exposing two examples out of a thousand.

Little by little I understand that you start to feel like an idiot, like a primate that doesn’t know how to behave while they are messing with your mind, and little by little you get civilized to a point where you only serve and as said by one of my previous bosses “in France you don’t say no to a boss”.

So, we come to the West to follow our dreams – but what dreams? Being far away from people you love, being humiliated every single day … what is that dream we are after?

So, I am working with a girl from a Madagascar, very nice, beautiful, and adorned with a horrible past. What I find magical in her is what I find magical in every soul that went through hell: she is happy, she appreciates every single moment and for what it takes she is thankful to anyone who just gives a good word. Needless to say, I love her.

This girl too has a dream … the most surprising dream I have ever heard. She desires to die young. You want to know why? Because she believes that younger you die bigger are the chances you will end up in heaven, as you didn’t have much time to sin.

The most horrible thing is that she was learned to think and believe that from the French priest in Madagascar.

Doesn’t her dream just blow your mind and gives you some answers?

But my friend replied: who are we to judge?

So I was like, who the hell was I talking about? And I just replied: it was an amazing metaphor that is now completely wasted.

Although, this girl I used to call a friend and me, we were practically living together, have created some amazing memories together I realized that I can not love such a person anymore and that I have nothing to share with her. I actually realize that I was adjusting myself to her level, and every time I wanted to talk about things that matter I would hit an icy rock and freezing arrogance and would be expelled from hanging outs for about 2 weeks. But yesterday, I made a decision to expel her from my hanging outs for the rest of my life.

For all those reading this the point of this post was
a) that you don’t allow yourself get killed while following your dream

b) liberate yourself from anyone that is being ignorant and arrogant towards you and your care,

and

c) sometimes it’s better if you keep your mind to yourself – there’s nothing worse than brilliant idea hitting a judging ear convinced in its own kindness and justice.

 

Love you all,

Mazzora

 

featured image: Photo by Randy Tarampi

 

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In flames

Rain pours down my throat

And it washes the voice of my thought

The fire inside me fueled by injustice

Is carried by raindrops into the darkness of the abyss

But I was burning once

As Notre-Dame Cathedral lost I was in flames

Into the smoke, the beauty of my soul has gone

Only white bones remained to carry me on

Into the future to be restored by your hands

Into the tomorrow to be taught by your words

To restore me you can gather all of your finest men

But happy as I was … I will never be again

Days of Depression: Day 1

Depression is building a nest and laying eggs inside my head … and I hear little pigeons scream … they are hungry and they eat my brains … they are hungry … and they scream … and I need to feed them … so I eat … I eat … as my head lies on dirty white sheets … white sheets adorned by my 2 weeks old sweat and breath … knocked down by black hammer of hopelessness … of anticipation … of waiting the time to pas … breathing my old breath … eating to feed screaming pigeons inside my head born by depression … and my body is turning into giant dough full of yeast … and I am swelling as you fill me with yeast … losing my hands inside the dough … melting my back inside the dough … my face is disappearing … my bones are eaten … by the yeast you are feeding me with … but pigeons scream … they are hungry … and my head is black … and spring is bringing little screaming pigeons … and I feed them … covered by stinky white sheets as hours are streaming my mistakes … as minutes are blurring my laughter with passing time … as seconds little by little eat a dream I am chasing … I am diving into the softness of my dirty sheets stopped by the walls and by the screams and by violence … the violence of pigeons screams … and spring is long gone … love is long gone … screaming screens are everywhere … screaming screens forcing us to live and to smile … beaten we are by laughter… but laughter is long gone … everything that is left is just violent screams … violent screams of hungry pigeons being born inside of our heads … and they feed us with yeast … and we are losing our hands … melting our backs … our faces disappear as we are forced to be happy while the whip of torture is pushing us toward a gap filled with poison snakes waiting to be fed … and our memories are being stolen by screaming screens … our memories have become lie … and we are a lie … so pigeons inside our head scream … as we smile … and we feed them with yeast … as we smile … losing our hands … inside screams … smile … feeding pigeons … forced … whipped … to smile … shiny screens … spring never came … we are a lie … memories stolen… as we smile … as we disappear inside the old breaths of our white sheets …

What to do with “commonplace” people in your novel

“There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good family, pleasing presence, average education, to be ‘not stupid,’ kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a single idea of one’s own—to be, in fact, ‘just like everyone else.’” Dostoevsky

Every time I read a novel of Dostoevsky I fall in a great depression. You probably ask why should anyone go and throw himself into depression … Well, me. I know, we live in a positive world, where being sad is not allowed, while on the other side is encouraged to cry among others in group sessions … sometimes I feel that everything is allowed except normal behavior.

Most of the times I feel depressed because I was there, as a reader he managed to make me a part of the book … and I couldn’t do anything about it. It is very much like life. You are living it, you are feeling it … you know how everything could work out just great … just a word to that or that person and all the pain and misunderstandings would vanish … but you can’t. You participate in the pain of the ones you love, you are part of some greater happening … and you are not able to do anything about it. So, it is that helplessness that makes me feel depressed.

Nonetheless, there are some things that as writers we should take into account. I have no advice, I have no idea what makes a person a great writer, I only have feelings that could be awakened… but to know the magic hidden in the pen of a writer who could make me laugh or cry, throw me into deep depression or neverending joy … I can only share some tricks Dostoevsky has, I guess deliberately written in some of his works. Like for example this from his novel The Idiot.

Dostoevsky, The Idiot, Part III

“There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything which will at once throw them into relief—in other words, describe them graphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who are generally known as ‘commonplace people,’ and this class comprises, of course, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt to select and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but these types are nevertheless more real than real life itself…

…Therefore, without entering into any more serious examination of the question, I will content myself with remarking that in real life typical characters are ‘watered down,’ so
to speak; and all these Dandins and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day, but in a diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin might have existed
exactly as Moliere presented him, and probably does exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this scientific examination, which is beginning to look like a newspaper
criticism. But for all this, the question remains,— what are the novelists to do with commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in such a form as to be in the least degree interesting? They cannot be left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn of life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and probability of the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only, or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In my opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of interest and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people.
For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in spite of all his endeavours to do
something out of the common, this person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine—. I think such an individual really does become a type of his own— a type of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this class of commonplace people belong several characters in this novel;— characters which—I admit—I have not drawn very vividly up to now for my reader’s benefit.

For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in spite of all his endeavours to do
something out of the common, this person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine—. I think such an individual really does become a type of his own— a type of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this class of commonplace people belong several characters in this novel;— characters which—I admit—I have not drawn very vividly up to now for my reader’s benefit.
Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and her brother, Gania.
There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good family, pleasing presence, average education, to be ‘not stupid,’ kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a single idea of one’s own—to be, in fact, ‘just like everyone else.’
Of such people there are countless numbers in this world—far more even than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can—that is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The former of these classes is the happier.
To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in that belief without the slightest
misgiving.
Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they have been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that they have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt some little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact has been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van of enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as they. Others have
but to read an idea of somebody else’s, and they can immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own brain. The ‘impudence of ignorance,’ if I may use the expression, is developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;— unlikely as it appears, it is met with at every turn.
This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has not the slightest doubt of his
own genius,—nay, of his SUPERIORITY of genius,—so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How many Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers—scholars—propagandists? I say ‘have been,’ but indeed there are plenty of them at this very day.
Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class—to the ‘much cleverer’ persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far less happy. For the ‘clever commonplace’ person, though he may possibly imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this doubt sometimes brings a clever man to despair. (As a rule, however, nothing tragic happens;—his
liver becomes a little damaged in the course of time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,—and there have
been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and even benefactors to humanity, have sunk to the level of base criminals for the sake of originality.
Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined with a vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was original, had rankled in his heart, even from childhood.
He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of petty meanness—he was always ready for THEM.) He looked with hate and loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his mother with haughty contempt, although he knew that his whole future depended on her character and reputation.

 

Protest song. Day 1

Every day out of protest, even though I haven’t got a significant audience, but nonetheless. … I will post a song of a human being I for sure know is innocent. I don’t need no other proof than his work. It is like saying that Dostoevsky was a pedophile because of his love for children. It is like calling me a pedophile, while you put your children voluntarily into churches. So, until the church is banned and forbidden I am sharing a work of a propaganda victim who even dead can not rest in peace.

It is not only Michael Jackson, but it can also be your neighbor, schoolmate, friend, son, daughter, … we just stand and watch how human beings are ripped off their pride while we let to be ruled by the most perverted creatures.

While I can not find a town where there is no church standing, while priests still can walk around and preach about the meaning of life, advising us how to live, sharing peace and love, I have to listen about MJ being a pedophile. I mean, … that is just going beyond absurdity.

I have met these kinds of people. They are simply destroyers of anything good and beautiful just because they are not able to create anything of that quality. It is not just Michael Jackson. I am talking about Syria, Lybia, … Yugoslavia, Venezuela … Until they, violently and aggressively, do not destroy something that is better than they are, they do not quit.

So, for some reason, they have chosen to destroy Michael Jackson and his family. I am sure the reason is childish as it can be: someone wants to be as strong and good as he was, but he is not – not because of the existence of Michael Jackson, but simply because he doesn’t have that thing inside of him or her. I have seen it so many times before.

Today they don’t have such problem – MJ and many others were mistakes because they were even let to become great. Today, they shut great artists in the very beginning of their life – using ignorance as the most effective tool. As some of us wonder why music and art were better in previous times, believing that social media, television, and internet are killing true art, we don’t even see how we out of pure envy ignore a good musician or a great painter. We put them down just because they are not dressed as they should be, they do not talk milk and honey, they do not seek for attention but are just seeking the way to get their message to be heard, pain to be understood. And as we are living in an era of likes and shares we are afraid to like the thing nobody likes – for that can harm our reputation. And as our school system has taught us, and as the working space has trained us we use ignorance to fight against true art, we judge and we convince ourselves that the majority is right. We are fueled by the fear that tomorrow we can be on the other side – side of a minority that we have come to hate because they are to blame for all the evil being spread all around (like Muslims will rape you, black people will kill you, poor people are lazy and living out of your taxes, etc.) – so we arm ourselves with more and more judging, more and more prejudices, more and more violence just to be able to keep ourselves on the side of the majority. We are licking asses of our bosses, of teachers of our children, just because we feel endangered by anyone new who could take our place, thus throwing us into a desperate state of being ignored. For we are all aware that once we fall, we will be ignored. For, in reality, we are very much aware, that despite all those asses we have licked and all those hours that we have given, they don’t really care about us. 

Don’t ignore and don’t be afraid of being ignored.