I keep thinking about my favourite conundrum – humans. Saying I don’t like them, is too easy and I try to avoid generalisation, as it makes for short arguments. Mostly, I am awfully emotional about humans and often enough those emotions are below my tolerance line – they either piss me off or make me want to fucking slap them. Once in a while I do fall passionately and madly in Like with someone. Others roll and rumble slowly somewhere in the ‘don’t give a rat’s ass’ zone. Mostly, though, I disdain the stupidity and arrogance only human race is able to elevate to the point of shaping a face of a planet.

Sometime the General gets jealous when  enjoy company of another person as much as I enjoy his. It’s a game we play. He says – don’t make me polish my axe and I say – let me have this for just a few more weeks. I guarantee you, it will disperse on its own soon enough.

The worst thing for any passion is predictability. Some people are impossibly predictable. I can calculate their life chapters down to the week. Not even always to regard of me – sometimes I can tell how the story will play out from the few sentences they utter about someone else.

Late nite FB chatting, I got to think the other night about compromise. Someone said they don’t want the relationship to bring on full onset of compromising. But really – marriage is the one place where you really don’t have to do that. Really. Nobody tolerates you as much as your spouse. Nobody gets to hear you snore or burb or suffers through a whole day of your PMS, nobody else knows exactly what guilty pleasure books you read or movies you watch… I just can’t see any compromises. What – that you can no longer fuck everything that throws a shadow? Were you doing that before? Was it really important? If it was so important, I am sure when you meet your mate, you can arrange certain liberties. Or what? That before you travelled and now you can’t? You sure it’s the spouse’s fault?

There were things I did before, that I am not allowed to do now. I hitchhiked. I stole books. I went to places that were medically dangerous. I ate things that were bad for my digestion. I used products on my hair that hurt it. I wasted money the moment I got it. I am not allowed to do that any more. But is that because someone who cares about me tries to level out everything THEY are not allowed to do? No. It’s because they care for me more than I do and because those things were fundamentally stupid.

If I really wanted to hitchhike, I’d probably ask a friend to tag along or even dare use Prevozi.org. (Rides.org.) Which I don’t. Because getting in the car with strangers freaks me out lately. I don’t need to steal them, I can buy them now. And I don’t need to buy everything that’s shiny, because if I save up, then I can buy something really cool once in a while.

That is not compromise. That’s actually really cool.

I hang around a lot of very beautiful women. I am allowed to be turned on by women, I am even allowed to use a Veto card (still have one left) to kiss a woman if the desire to do so would completely occupy me and wouldn’t let go. But the fact is… No matter how amazing the model or how radiant the dancer or how flirty the student, I got nothing. I am just not turned on by these people. Oh, I am fully aroused when I am looking at them through the camera. But the flesh? In reality, the flesh is too trivial for the purposes of my inspiration. I have always preferred the story to the sweat. The story, to someone like me, beholds a mischievous purpose. I am way too old to think sex is good enough to make a story great.

The relationship has to be about a challenge, a contest to the person that you are – if a relationship doesn’t elevate you to the best possible version of yourself, emotionally, ambition-wise and intellectually, you are doing it wrong. If you choose for your partner a child that looks pretty and has good sex, that’s not a mate, certainly it is not a spouse. That’s a pet, a plaything – a muse at best and amusement at worst. You are always better than that person and they are programmed – by you, over time – to worship you. There is no connection between two hearts there. Nothing spiritual, certainly nothing adult. A relationship is the most comfortable, nourishing establishment for you psyche there is. Like a flower pot to your sunflower. (Or rosemary, whichever gets you going.) it lets you get away with all the shit you need to pull to feel important. You always fall back into safe hands. A worthy partner is with your from the first draft to the opening night of every emotion, every thought you have. Absolutely no compromise attached.

Of course world is full of emotional retards and sexual morons who prefer spouses a dozen years their junior, just so that all the drama and all the emotional blackmail gets to belong to them. Those are people who will have to crawl (if at all) uphill of their personal growth on their own, dragging a foolish beauty on their tail. Certainly pretty to look at and impress with long words and conversations, inspired by a big fancy book you’ve just read. But truly worth all the passion and all the lust? It’s just that personally I prefer to either try and keep up with someone far smarter and braver and more practical than I am, or, when all else fails, to be kicked in the butt by them for being a fat clumsy slacker.

I know this now. Of course everyone loves a 19-year old. They’ll believe anything. And they certainly know they know it all. I know I did. Till I first got horribly married. Talk about fast forward elevation of your emotional retardation vaccine.

One of Ema's, for now...

Busy day. I threw a fit when my holiday got postponed for a week, but that was probably just because all off the fuss seems to be clogging up, hours before takeoff. So now I have a few more days to get stuff done, but also, more stuff is finding me. And dad needs help spraying the vineyard, so that's a Herculean task of half a weekend's work on it's own. Good on the eyes, though... Unless the spray chemicals will melt me. Then it's kind of O.O

 Two very, very lovely girls and one very lean bridge. I'll post more later. It felt like an afterparty cooldown - in the best way :D

Love it how her sandals look like kind of ballet shoes... :D

Test shots for Nea's Catalogue shoot....

Too tired to write, I'll just post... It was one of those awesome shoots, we were in the museum basement, among the glass and iron and Roman ruins... 

Nea Likar did the MUA, the stylings and she did the prints for the dresses, which were beyond cool,

Zoran, I think, did the hair

The magnificent girl with gray hair is Agnes Krown

The hot lady with purple hair is Ela Ramskugler

The godlike guy is Gašper Pantner, Nea's bo

and Tjaša Lea Kosmatin assisted.

Special thanks to the Celje Museum, Mesto pod Mestom, which allowed us to shoot in their amazing location...Officially: Pokrajinski muzej Celje - Regional museum Celje in razstavišče Celeia - mesto pod mestom"Celeia - a town beneath today's town.. Very cool place :D

These are not the finished work, it's basically test shots in various styles and approaches and also what I just totally needed to post, before the day is through. Another shoot coming up tomorrow. Good thing humans don't need any sleep. Oh, wait... 

One of these days, like, tomorrow or so, I am going to stuff my beautiful, indecisive husband in a car, along with all our camping/survival/books gear and the pets, dump the pets with these or those parents, and just drive until we find a cute enough camp with cushy waters and sweet red wine and nice yummy little fish and a comfy shadow to read in... And stay there, until I am bored, then move again. I should just be back in time for my birthday. 

   Got my first prezzie today, courtesy of my dear Katarina the Cellist virtuoso :D A wee camera pendant :D Too cute. During a feast of cakes and crumpets we indulged in as a farewell hug alternative.

Things to look forward to, once on the shore: reading, reading Tove Jansson, no screens, no use of any cosmetic products - no shampoos or nail polish or any jewelry... writing on paper and reading books. these just from the top of me head.

Likes of me

»Ain't nothing out there like me except me,« said the angry raccoon with a big gun and a Groot bestie, but due to some late night conversations and some even later nightly contemplation, staring at the ceiling above my bed (not a gun, but a can of bug spray in my hand, on the lookout for the fucking rapist mosquito), I got to thinking about the likes of me.

                A mate of mine is just starting a relationship with a girl he likes a lot and she likes him, but she is not like us. All this sounds super weird; I’ll explain it: I’ve forgotten along the way that certain people are not … see, I can’t even find a good word for this now. I want to say artists, but that’s not it. I wanna say sophists, but that’s not it either. Erudites? Creative people? I’m sure if there’s a word for it, the Germans have it, though what I want to say is there are people in this world who can see through a dozen layers of bullshit and straight into the inspiration of things and there are some people who really can’t. I’ve forgotten this. I am usually so good at putting labels on people (nice labels, cut out and painted with great care and small flowers on the edges), that I’ve elapsed I have carefully surrounded myself just by people who are of my cloth. Everyone I hang out with reads, talks, thinks, vast majority also creates, designs, describes, challenges, even elevates things. Poets and actors and painters and photographers and passionate muses, oh my.

                One of the people I am fond of comes from a hard working class environment and he is so determined to be surrounded only by artistic types, he is so oddly, so evidentially over-doing it. It’s endearing in him, because he is very likable, but to that he may be an exception. Many men like to be associated with artists, even go as far as to call themselves artists – or, better yet – directors or editors – there’s some good pussy to be found in these circles, it’s just that very often these people suck and can be the worst.

                However, my thoughts did not get sucked into thinking about pompous losers who give artists a bad name. No, I was thinking about something else entirely. I’ve forgotten that these people exist. The everyday people. Not even unintelligent folk, just… normal. I’ve forgotten that there are probably more of them than there is of us, because that is something I find hard to believe.

                People, who are not inspired. Not temporarily, on the low down, but truly, genetically, fundamentally uninspired. Who never read, never write, never see movies for other purpose than entertainment, never argue about whether Svetlana Makarovič is fucking annoying or not, never think Dalai Lama is a spoiled condescending old dick, never wonder if Gaza had it coming, never write any pamphlets about it, never wake up in the middle of the night and start sketching their feelings, never ever go to a cultural event and think: this was great stuff. I wanna try and do better.

                Surely these people feel great passion and probably even great joy, some probably have great jobs and make a lot of money and go on long journeys to places I can’t afford to. They read from the top of the summer bestsellers list and their children are good students. Their favorite movie is Shakespeare in Love. They can do their own taxes and change a light bulb and when they have sex, they don’t take lessons from kinky porn but Kama Sutra – if at all. When they need photographers, they ask their nephews. When they have to vote, they are really fervent about it. Their family reunions are about politics, weather, sports and kids. Maybe an occasional catalogue vacation.

                Be it one having a terrible fear of such mentality or a shy and polite, albeit distant respect for these people, matters none in this situation. The question was… How do you talk to someone like that? Two lines in, you will be considered a freak and they will start to distance themselves from you. It may be romantic the first two hours of passion, but later on, it may become worrisome. They have pills for people like us now. Normal people take a very long time to face their demons or their quirks, because us, creatives, we tame those nasty demonic bitches very early on to serve us. “I may be a psychopath”… Yes. I know. It makes for a great story. Write about it. “I may be a sadist”. Sure. The next time you play an instrument, prove it. “I may be a bad person”. Okay. Put it on the stage and let’s see how good you are at being bad.

We are not afraid of being interesting, because the story is the one currency that never gets old. The normal, though… This may tire them. It may burden them. How do you woo a normal without lying to them or without trying to change them?

Suddenly I understand the bit about the fish and the bicycle. Not the bit about the fish and the bird, because I am omnisexual and would fuck anything in any form I was in, but… It is really hard to mix these two kinds.

… Says a woman, married to a General who is never ever late and gets angry if I buy crafts or buttons or books…

… Naa. If the guy wasn’t a total closeted adventurist and a romantic, he’s never get to taste this sugar. It just goes to show I choose my anchors well.

Not so much my challenges.

Holy shit, we passed out not yet at 8pm and slept all the way through the alarm... That's like nine hours of sleep without... any reason really. For someone who hates sleeping, this felt like catching up on all those sleepless nights, because other than that, I cannot explain it :D

I've spent the last few days working in dad's vineyard, and by this I mean WORKING. He tries to make full use of me while I'm there, so he stacks three different tasks simultaneously, until I am doing a gig meant for two IN THE RAIN. But I like the rain. It poured on me today, in full sunshine, surrounded by greenery and nimbus clouds. I love summer. I like winter, love spring, think autumn is the most beautiful, but I love summer the best. Come rain or shine or both.

Then I went to a concert and talked to theater people about a play. Worst way to ignore and idea if there ever was any. Now my head is all into re-rewriting Verisimilitude back into a play.Of course I am. I only needed a year to change it into prose.

Killing s#4.1

I'm liking this poster for the new season.. Linden looks like a cute boy or something, but the blood rain is a nice touch.. considering.