Stockholm, (pictures coming later, perhaps)

The idea of a fashionable Stockholm can be easily grasped from the whole of media; even if it is only the idea itself that liking Stockholm is fashionable. However, even the lousy and old fashioned Skavsta airport, called Stockholm Skavsta despite being a nap away from the real Stockholm, offers us a bunch of colourful youngsters, without any words declaring the weirder, the cooler—the idea that comes to mind while remembering the girl, about seventeen (according to her face), half black, half green hair and wearing clothes that make her look like a pious old lady, which is a bit weird since in Stockholm itself you may notice an inverted view: tons of people in their forties looking like youngsters; not in a bad way, though. The whole place leaves an impression of a young city: the faces that seem to be no older than in their fifties (and in an outfit that in eastern Europe probably would not be preferable for such age). The absence of old people makes us think about their wealthy and happy lives at least in the outskirts of Stockholm or somewhere in small towns and villages away from the busy Stockholm. The place is left for young Swedes, immigrants and tourists.

It is not hard to distinguish the first ones from the second ones, not to tell about the last group. Immigrants are everywhere: they are selling you a ticket for a subway in a kiosk, driving the bus you are in, exchanging your money in a tiny neighborhood bank outside of the city center; if you do not have a possibility to establish a conversation with them—as we did by mistake by taking the wrong way in the bus and talking to the Persian driver—you can only try to extract information about their origins from their skin, the shape of their eyes and noses, etc. It should be weird to live in a country with tons of immigrants who, mostly due to economical reasons, are now surrounding you. Do swedes ask themselves the questions of how well do they know the history, language, and culture of the country? Do those things matter for them? Do they feel something like insecurity or injustice? Or are those questions just our imagination dictated by the sum of stereotypes conveyed through media, as the one about fashionable Stockholm?

the most complicated imagination.

picture: Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison from the series Gray Dawn



people are gifted because of ability to imagine things. I really think that these images of different things, circumstances and even feelings sometimes may be even more important than the real things themselves, not to mention the realm of creativity: a. huxley's and many many others case.

I catch myself trying to imagine my feelings in the situations I am going to experience. For instance, I imagine the moment of being informed about entering university: my very first emotions, questions coming to mind, etc. Even though I still do not know if I am going to be accepted or not; or another image, me having tried some kind of drugs. what images could come to mind? what emotions could overwhelm me? one more - me being with a person I think is very very special. there is a huge amount of these images in my mind.

that is weird, but very useful construct of imagination because I think it might help me in writing poetry, creating stories and photographing. however, at the same time I wonder if there is no risk in reducing the amount of feelings of that moment when everything is happening. because there is always a bigger or smaller gap between emotions of real and virtual moments and this gap may lead to dissapointment when virtual emotions happen to be more pleasant.

it is even more complicated with relationship. we actually communicate not with people but with our images of these people. so that is why I am so strange so often because I create too precise images of people I have a crush on. and these images are not the people I know. so it becomes complicated.

the most complicated things are those you cannot live without. the most complicated relationship, the most complicated imagination.

the motion makes me last.

today I've decided to write some texts in my so much imperfect english. I will try to express myself in other language not knowing how much, how long and how seriously, just to put myself to some restrictions therefore to expand my inner opportunities eventually. I hope. nobody is reading this blog anyway. so I am creating a continuation of my inner space of thinking here.

recently I've been thinking about texts simultaneously floating around and affecting us. surely there are millions of them but if a scope would be reduced to the texts that we are consciously consuming, the result would be not less interesting. I tried to list the books I am currently reading:

regina rudaitytė the metamorphosis of character in postmodern fiction
aldous huxley suvokimo durys. dangus ir pragaras / the doors of perception. heaven and hell
aleš šteger poezija. neapsimoka / poetry. doesn't paying off (as it is so characteristic to the poetry - the name is untranslatable)
michel foucault diskurso tvarka / the order of discourse
agnė narušytė nuobodulio estetika lietuvos fotografijoje / the aesthetics of boredom: a case of lithuanian photography
ian jeffrey bill brandt's secrets. in bill brant (photoalbum)

currently read:
george bataille akies istorija / story of the eye

the one i am going to read soon:
roland barthes teksto malonumas / the pleasure of the text

those books arranges in specific (dis)order not only in my mind, but also on my bedside table. to tell the truth, they are constantly changing their position: occupying the top one after the other. By writing this I imagine a motion picture, reflecting their constant moving, that could hardly reflect the movement in my head but anyway.

and the only conclusion that comes to my mind at the moment is the name of the song by eluvium: the motion makes me last. it is so imperfert and not precise, because it can fit to dozens of things but imperfection makes me move. doesn't it?