“This fleeting feeling, I think I saw somebody having it! I’ll do whatever they did and then the Grail will bless me as well!” But to no good end. This is just the same drudgery all over again, harnessing yourself before a load you don’t want to pull. Struggling to stumble forward, teeth pressed together ’till they bleed, just in the hope of finding it…

And then giving up. “This is folly! No such thing can exist! The only happiness can be found in pretension! Life is never as good as the fantasy that is so readily conjured up for you! Live through the screens, be somebody else for a moment! Forget who you are! That is the happiness you can have! Easy to obtain, ever wilder, louder and more extreme!” They try, but still it keeps haunting them. You see it in the moments between the pretensions of a heartfelt laugh, between the adrenalin highs. You see that they don’t believe it themselves. That can’t be right, this can’t be as good as it gets.

It is not. They are right, it can be better. Yet they keep on waving off this alarm bell that keeps on ringing, they rather plunge into yet another new thing, more, wilder, bigger, louder - either a distraction from their goal or a false one - maybe this time it will work as they promised…

I am sorry for them. I think they have never known that they have potential for greatness, they have potential for this happiness they seek, more readily available and more intense than they have ever imagined. They just have to stop. For once stop! Shut off the distractions, shut off the mirages. Listen to the alarm bell. It has a voice and this voice is yours. It tells you - maybe in a child’s voice, if you stopped listening to it that early, maybe a bit older and more developed - where you should go to find this happiness you seek. You yourself can be the only one to tell You what You want.

Oh, it won’t be easy to get it. You have to struggle, you have to show strength, cunning and bravery. But this time this is the real prize, the only possible prize for you. This is custom design, designed by You for You. This prize doesn’t make anyone else happy, yet you’ll see others grabbing for it, hindering you, struggling to get it from you. But this time You have more power they have - you have the passion, you have the knowledge of what exactly it is and the feeling that this is for You, this is what is right and this is what you will obtain.

Once you shut off the distraction, forget about the false goals and go where the alarm bells guide you to. Please, discover, and then remember who you are.

liriel

blog.liriel.pri.ee

My thanks to Hugh for reminding me every day of who I am.

That door was locked.

Locked..? There had to be a course starting in ten minutes!

Upon close inspection I found a doorbell with a speaker amongst motley of partially torn ads and announcements. I pressed it. Someone answered on the speaker, asked about where I wanted to go - and right at that moment someone came out the door and I could go in. I hesitated for a moment - I still was not that sure, whether it was the right place - but I went in nonetheless after saying everything was OK to the speaker.

The moment I got in I felt there was something wrong still. I found myself in an empty staircase. After the first afternoon  warmth of summer the staircase was chilly and gloomy. I went up to first floor, found the door with Art Academy sign - but that door, too, was locked. Now I found the doorbell more easily, but this time there was no answer. I waited for a while and pressed the button again. No luck.

Giving up, I looked around at where I was. The staircase continued up for a few more floors. I thought maybe they had a room upstairs somewhere for that course and started up. There were several doors with no signs on them. My steps echoed in the stone, walls had random drawings on them. The bleak stairwell reminded me of 3D shooter games, where you have grey-grey rooms and nobody anywhere to be seen and you have to figure out how to get out of this room - on to the other levels - with the items you have gathered previously. I was hard pressed not to start searching for hidden doors or kicking open any door that seemed to be hiding some room I could continue my quest in. And I have not played such games for years. Vigilant, careful, I sneaked up to the upmost level, where the staircase started to be dangerous, with no railing. I had found nothing useful up here. I was getting desperate.

I looked at the clock - five minutes until the course was supposed to start. Was I really in the wrong place? I remembered the course description - there was no room specified, just the address and Art Academy. I had not printed the description, could it be, that I didn’t notice some specification for the location? Maybe they had official location here but the course was to be held in some other rooms?

I went back to the door with their sign, pressed the doorbell again - with no luck. In addition to my agitation about my course, not being in the right place, the staircase with its floors upon floors started to frighten me as well. I felt haunted and strange, I rather went outside. In the sunlight it seemed strange that such a desolate place could be hiding right beyond that cosy-looking historical house. I used the wonders of our technical age there to get the phone number for the course organisator, to call her (she didn’t answer) and just then, as before, someone stepped out of that door and into the sunlight with a sign “Drawing and painting course” and started pasting it to the door. Happily I stepped in again. Through that door, that was locked before, but now had a carpet stopping it from falling closed; through still bleak corridor and up the staircase to the door, that had seemed the likeliest before. That, too had the sign for my course on it.

Later, after our teacher had spoken to us about how to use skechbooks and sent us out to try it out, draw in it some things we felt strongly about, I went and I couldn’t do anything else, I just had to keep drawing that staircase and nothing else but that.

I am not a writer. Yet? I hope so. I wish I was one day. I have been wanting to get off from procrastinatination and daydreaming. When I was a child I dreamt about being an author for some books one day. I knew

they had to be eliticist, the kind that literature critics adore - but as an adult I have been terrified of doing that first step and being no good as all beginners must be at first.

I have a blog. Many who have read it, have said I write well and I have good English (not my primary language). Not many have read it though and I haven’t fed the ones that have. There have been months and months I haven’t written anything there. Yet I have ideas. Ideas I know I have to get out of me, out into the open. Ideas for fun, ideas for serious texts, ideas that might grow into full books…

It’s the same about drawing and painting. As a child I wanted to be an artist as well. Ideas are here, in my head, wanting to get out…

I think I’ll try. It’s time.
Maybe some days I’ll tell about a painting that isn’t ready yet. For me, that counts for something as well.

I hope you’ll accept me amongst you.

liriel

PS: Not really 300 words this time, though. I’ll try to do better tomorrow.

75g võid
100g suhkrut
1 klaas keefirit või hapupiima
250g jahu
1tl söögisoodat
25g tumedat šokolaadi
1 banaan
vormi määrimiseks võid

Sulata margariin, sega juurde suhkur, keefir ja enamus jahu. Tükelda šokolaad - jäta pigem natuke suuremad tükid mitte ära tee päris pudiks - ja lisa taignale; samuti tükelda banaan ja lisa taignale. Kõige lõpus lisa omavahel segatud söögisooda ja ülejäänud jahu võimalikult väikese segamisega. Taigen pane määritud ahjuvormi - arvesta, et ta tõuseb 50% ja väga kõrgeks tõusmise puhul kipub pudisema. Küpseta ahjus 200 kraadi juures kuni pealt tõmbub kergelt pruunikaks.

Head isu!

Siiani on ainult positiivne tagasiside olnud. Väga lahe ja motiveeriv ja tujutõstev :) Ja mõtlema panev.

Ma ei keela kriitikat ja lausa ootan ka seda muuseas.

http://sayat.me/liriel

liriel ütleb (11:03): teen siin kõrval vaikselt oma tööd eksole..
K. ütleb (11:03): einoh muidugi, nagu minagi… vähemalt natukese aja präast
liriel ütleb (11:04): see on nii kummaline, kuidas suudab siiski suhelda hoolimata sellest, et tegelikult samal ajal tööd teed.. ja nii häiriks, kui sedasi teeks “päris elus”
K. ütleb (11:05): “päris elus”?
K. ütleb (11:05): ahjaa, sa mõtled näost näkku
liriel ütleb (11:06): just
K. ütleb (11:06): jaaa, see on omapärane, aga nuh, mõnes mõttes on võib olla asi selles, et sa oled kirjutamise “modes”
K. ütleb (11:06): et sa kasutad sõrmi ja mõtled kuvaril või nii..
liriel ütleb (11:06): see oleks päris kummaline, et räägid kellegagi juttu ja samal ajal teed oma tööd rahulikult edasi
liriel ütleb (11:07): ma arvan, et osaliselt on asi ka selles, et siin vaata ei ole jutuajamine nii sujuv, on mingid hetked, kui sa ootad teise vastust
liriel ütleb (11:07): et kui juttu räägitakse, siis saad sa
liriel ütleb (11:07): jutu
liriel ütleb (11:07): kätte
liriel ütleb (11:07): jooksvalt
liriel ütleb (11:07): sõna
liriel ütleb (11:07): haaval
liriel ütleb (11:07): või
liriel ütleb (11:07): lausa
liriel ütleb (11:07): häälik
liriel ütleb (11:07): haaval
liriel ütleb (11:07): tegelikult
liriel ütleb (11:07): eksole
K. ütleb (11:08): oeh
K. ütleb (11:08): see on jah päris jube tegelikult
K. ütleb (11:08): rääkides pead sa kogu aeg keskenduma, siin keskendud sa sel hetkel kui sa ise kirjutad või vastust loed
liriel ütleb (11:08): jah.

Kõigist märkustest, mis mu poeg mulle selle talve jooksul koju on toonud, on kõige valusamad olnud need kaks korda, kui õpetajad on kurtnud selle üle, et ta ropendab. Nii kummaline kui see ka ei ole, on need valusamad kordadest, kui õpetajad on värvikalt kirjeldanud tema poolt (kogemata?) teistele õpilastele tekitatud vigastuste raskust. Sellest valusam oleks vast (ja võib vast tulevikus olla - kui mu poeg ei suuda sellele kiusatusele vastu panna) teade, et ta kasutab meelemürke, kasvõi kõige labasemat sigaretti. Labasemat! Ma jälestan suitsetamist ja häbenen neid kordi, kui hormoonid (või ma-ei-tea-mis) on minust võitu saanud ja ma ei ole vastavalt käitunud. Ma hoian hinge kinni, kui tänaval keegi minu ees suitsetab; mina, kes ma ei ole eriliselt julge teisi inimesi korrale kutsuma igas muus olukorras, osutan bussi ootepaviljonides suitsetada üritajatele seda tegevust keelavale kleepsule… Ma olen pojaga meelega nendes olukordades otsustavalt hukkamõistvalt käitunud ja ma loodan, et see on temas piisavalt sügavale juurdunud, et ta suudab sellest pahest eemale hoida ka siis, kui mingil hetkel paratamatult talle suitsu pakutakse.

Siiski ma kahtlen selles, sest suitsetamine on salakaval ja sotsiaalselt ootuspärane, seltskondlikult soodustatav teatud eas. Ma tean, et ka minul oli kahtluse momente, kui asjaolude kokkulangemisel ma oleksin võinud jõuda nii kaugele, et ma oleks selle ära proovinud; võimalik, et ka püsivalt sõltlaseks jäänud. Ja ometi olin mina väga korralik ja sotsiaalselt vähelõimunud laps; ma ei osanud ette kujutadagi, et ma püüaks ennast sotsiaalses hierarhias tõestada mingi sellise julgustüki demonstreerimisega. Siiski ma teadsin, et seda oodatakse ja see on teatud - popis - seltskonnas ootuspärane, gruppikuulumist kinnitav käitumine. Keskkoolis hakkas see mulle tõsisemalt huvi pakkuma just selle sotsiaalsest aspektist ja ma küsisin kõigilt, keda ma oma tutvusringkonnas tabasin suitsetamiselt, lihtsa küsimuse: “Miks sa suitsetad?”. Vastuseid oli erinevaid, kuid tegelikult need kinnitasid mulle alati ühte - ei ole tegelikult mingit head põhjust suitsetamiseks. See on kõigest halb harjumus ja kõik suitsetajad soovitasid mitte proovidagi, kui neilt seda tõsimeeli küsiti. Seega sain ma sellega kinnituse oma veendumusele, et rumal on suitsetada ja ma ei taha seda kunagi ise teha.

Mingis mõttes on see väga sarnane ropendamisega. Seda oodatakse samuti seltskondlikult teatud eas ja teatud seltskonnas popp olemiseks. See on samuti teatud kinnitus ühtekuuluvusesest, teatud enese julguse tõestamine. Ma olen seda põlastanud veelgi kauem kui suitsetamist. Kui suitsetamist ma kuni keskkoolini pidasin veel huvitavaks nähtuseks ja omal moel ka uurisin, siis ropendamine on minu jaoks olnud labasem kui mina eales olla tahan juba ammu enne poolde põhikooli jõudmist. Ma ei usu, et ma kunagi oleks tõsiselt ropendanud, kuid umbes poolest põhikoolist ma mäletan seda teadlikku otsust - või võibolla teatud laadi äratundmist -, et mina olen inimene, kes ei ropenda. Lihtne k***t küll vahel lipsab tahtmatult mu suust siiani, kuid midagi vängemat ma ei kasuta. Pigem eelistan ma jätta sellised tunded sõnadesse panemata - väljendada neid ürgselt ja keeleüleselt mõistetavate häälitsustega -, mis täidab eesmärgi mind ja mind ümbritsevaid inimesi labastamata.

Seda otsust on isegi raskem põhjendada kui suitsetamise põlgust. Ropendamises ei ole midagi tervistkahjustavat - pigem peetakse seda efektiivseks viisiks oma tundeid välja elada - ja väljaelamata tunded on kahtlemata liigse stressi põhjustajad. Ometi kipub olema nii, et mida targem ja haritum inimene, seda vähem on kuulda tema suust vägisõnu. Minu jaoks on - sarnaselt suitsetamisega - iga kord valus pettumus, kui ma kuulen vandesõnu inimeste suust, kellest ma muidu lugu pean. Mu südamest käib läbi valus torge iga kord, kui oma pettumus või valu pööratakse räigeks mõne v**u või t**a või m***i abil, seda vahel ka inimeste poolt, keda ma enda sõbraks olen pidanud, kelle intelligentsi mul oleks raske muidu kahtluse alla seada.

Iga kord, kui ma kuulen neid ennast alandamas rõvedate väljendustega, ma mõtlen, kas ma tahan ikka olla neile sõber. Kas ma tahan olla lähedane inimesega, kes oma ebaõnne korral oma lähedastesse kõige rõvedamaid kujutelmi kallata tahab? Kes ei leia paremaid väljendusi oma tunnete väljendamiseks kui räiged kujundid valdkondadest, mida keegi heal meelel ei puudutaks? Kas tõesti võib olla võimalik, et nende endi jaoks on nende sõnade tihe kasutamine viinud juba tähenduse niivõrd tugeva lahjendumiseni, et nad ei saa arugi, millist kahju nad oma isiksuse tajumisele ropendamisega teevad? Või võib olla, et nad on endiselt algklassilapse tasemel, kes selleks, et tõestada, kuivõrd vägev ta on, kuivõrd hoolimatu ta selles vägevuses võib olla teiste vastu, otsib üles kõige rõvedamad kujutluspildid ja kõige räigemad sõnad nende kohta? Kas võib üldse loota, et nad sellest sotsiaalsest tasandist kunagi veel välja saavad - mõistavad, mida tähendab kaaslastest hoolimine ja vastavalt käitumine; mille jaoks on sotsiaalsed reeglid kokku välja kujunenud/lepitud ja kuivõrd raske peab olema olukord, et nende rikkumine oleks põhjendatud? Väga hästi on selle kohta kirjutanud The New Republic (Steven Pincher) (tänud, Vetikavabrik, mind sinna viitamast!). Seal küll kirjutatakse ka sellest, et oskuslikul kasutamisel võib ka ropendamine olla huvitav, lausa pikantne - nagu väike kogus tšillit mõningate roogade juures ma ütleksin - aga see ei ole kindlasti asi, millega valimatult kõik üle valada niiet suhu jääb ainult tule ja mitte roa maik; ja kahtlane on selle kuulsuse väärtus, mille võib saada sellise mürgi levitamisest. Muuseas, ka tšillist olen ma tegelikult praktiliselt loobunud.

Minu jaoks oli see otsus mitte ropendada pigem intuitiivne ja selgelt õige põhjendamatagi. See oli nii iseenesestmõistetav, et minu jaoks ei tulnud see pähegi kui miski, millest peaksin eraldi rääkima oma pojaga. Ma isegi ei osanud mõelda, et eeskuju ei ole piisav selle labasuse ärahoidmiseks - ja sealt siis ka see viga. Tema muidugi ongi alles algklassilaps ja elab just praegu läbi seda, kuidas seltskonnas hierarhiad tekivad ja kuidas seal populaarne olla. Ropendamist see ei õigusta, see on sama nõme kui see on täiskasvanute juures. Muidugi olen ma püüdnud seda talle nüüd selgitada. Ma väga loodan, et ta peagi jõuab ka selleni, et saab aru, mis toimub sotsiaalses plaanis, mis seal juures tegelikult on oluline ja mis on suisa kahjulik. Mina aga püüan samas rahulik püsida.

The first painting I did ever do by myself (not under the guidance of somebody else), years ago, was “Of Who I Am” (see right, click to see bigger, sorry for bad quality). That one surprised even me with how shining the colors were and how right it seemed about me. But it also got me thinking - I don’t think people perceive me like this. Actually, a friend once told me how surprised he was that my paintings always have such vibrant colors and dynamics. That he would have thought they would be darker and gloomier. And he is a friend, someone who knows me quite well!

What is truer then? The picture I drew myself, from inside of me, which I felt was true to the last line - or the picture those closest to me had of me? It took me a while to realize that they are both right. They are not distinct and different, but the same person seen from different perspectives. Just like the parable about blind people, who describe an elephant - one touches a leg, the other an ear, etc and so their descriptions do not and cannot match. That was the same about me and other people. I, the extrovert inside myself, can see myself - but others see my dull and blurred gloomy shell that I have laid layer by layer on this interior.

But why have I hidden it so well? And then I did another painting, Nothingness on the offensive (see right, click to see bigger). That is when I had realized, that I am not the only one that is so shiny, vibrant and dynamic inside. Everybody is. Everybody is special, trying to show that vital self but also frightened of the possibility that somebody could see it leak out. Frightened, and hiding it. Hiding it and dulling whatever is left of what is seen by the others, pretending it is not what it is. Showing only vague glimpses of themselves to their most trusted ones.

I saw this bright self most clearly when my sweet child was just learning to live in his first years. How brilliant he was, how passionate! How spontaneous, how direct, how trusting! And that is how it shows, the shining, vibrant self.

At the beginning we all are like that, even the introverts like me. We try to connect, to share what we feel to be ourselves, but we are not always welcomed to do so. We cannot be so selfish, we are thought - even before we know the word. We cannot do everything we want, we do not always get what we want. We are thought to behave, to follow orders, to do the way it is done.
It couldn’t be any other way. If we want to live together we need the rules, we need the limits, we need respect for other beings that are older and more knowledgeable - or weaker and uninitiated in the ways of human social life. We are called to order, we are taught the right behaviors. This can be done lovingly, carefully, without damaging the self inside, without hiding the real personality inside, let it be open to others still, but in a socially acceptable way.

But others are not ourselves, they are themselves. They can themselves be hiding, they might themselves have trouble protecting themselves, intuitively growling and biting to protect what they perceive as an attack against their most precious treasure. They can be busy living the way it is done, they can be busy acting properly, they can be busy distracting themselves from their true life. They are not really sharing themselves any more, they are afraid, hidden in the shell. That is why too often the tempering goes farther than is needed. Our ego gets bitten, our passions are ridiculed, our notions are laughed at, our thoughts dismissed.

The pain of the denial of that primal closeness that we feel to be our birthright! The pain and loss of that precious shining self! There is no bigger pain than losing part yourself! There is no bigger fear than the fear to lose yourself! And we’ll shelter it intuitively. Shelter it from the hurt, shelter it from the loss. We will lay the layers of the shell, we will hide ourselves behind the proper behavior - or in our bitterness and pain lash out to those that we think can help us be ourselves. We lay the layers one by another, we learn from the disappointments one after another, we cut our tentacles that are trying to reach out still to others, trying to connect the others and in that connection brightening ourselves. Some shelter it so hard, hide it so well, that they themselves even forget that it even exists.

How difficult making that connection can be from inside the shell! How difficult to entrust someone else with something from inside it! The shell is there to make it difficult, but still we long for it. We long for the connection with family and other people. We long for the unity of all people through connected vibrant selves. We long to share and take part. But only in showing yourself can this connection be made. So we show glimpses of it in hope the others will not diminish us and accept the connection. If not, the shell is hardened even more. If they do, we have made a connection, gained a friend and we might be encouraged to carefully show them more and more. And this is what we long for, that sharing of ourselves. This is what we love, the inner selves of others when we have in their passion given a hint of what it might be.

But nobody can share all of what they long to share - the shell is there, the shell is forever. The shell is needed. We cannot share it all. We must always be at our guard, because even the closest friend has their own shell, their own self to protect - and in doing so they might harm ours. So we share only a little, something that is just barely visible through the shell, but is there nonetheless. To be seen, to be heard, to be connected to. And we hide it - behind belittling it ourselves, behind lies, behind pretension. We do this dance of showing and hiding, tempting and then escaping, forever, never really opening up all the way.

And vice versa - we long to see the passion in others, we long to see their inner self, yet we know we cannot break in to get it. We need to give a piece of ourselves in return to get the other opened up voluntarily. And more than that we are afraid that what is offered is rejected - ridiculed, belittled, burned, bitten, torn. And so we’re afraid of it, so some of us don’t.

Still some have so desperately sought the connection that whenever they see a glimpse of the other’s they want to get it so much that they engulf them with everything they can, to incorporate it in their starvation for connection, to rip this tender self apart in the need to connect to it.

Still others have hidden it so well they have forgotten it’s there. They ridicule the notion it exists, they have a shadow of a connection through shared vicious denial of the possibility and then call it friendship. Yet they are always on guard that somebody in their midst could find out they too have that self hidden inside. Some of those say that it is negligible and they want to end their whole life - yet they come to say it to others, searching for connection with others through the impossible notion of giving up the possibility to live - and receiving only pity or contempt, which do not come close to that friendship they inside themselves had envisioned.

But everybody has it, whether they recognize or not, whether they show it or not. Here, here you have part of mine. This shell doesn’t have to be that thick and dense. It might let some of the light through. It might let you connect with friends; it might be your biggest strength instead of a liability to be hidden. This inner self is what gets things done the way you need to be happy. This inner self gives you the source for creating your meaning in life, for connecting with people you wish to connect to. Without it you are nothing. Go search for it inside you! Nurture it, love it - and you will get the connections you long for. At least I believe so. I am not there yet, but I am on my way and I can sometimes thin the shell to give a glimpse - though I am afraid, I am very much afraid of doing so.

I remember walking out of the cinema and wondering – why did I watch it? There was nothing in it for me. I just lost about 90 minutes of my life and gained nothing. But I couldn’t say it wasn’t exciting or anything. But why should I care about these quite random characters in the movie I couldn’t really find anything similar to me? There was no reason why this would be educating or fun. Even the fact that I shared this eyes-on-screen time with my boyfriend didn’t make this time worthwhile. I could have spent more exciting time with him at home or just walking outside or anywhere.

At that day I decided never to watch action or comedy in the cinema. Why should I pay for it? I can understand sometimes relaxing in front of TV at home, but not paying for it specifically. No comedy or pure action movie is worth paying the high price the cinema charges for a seat, the smell of popcorn and hearing rustling of wrappers. And even at home, rather choose some movie to actually make you think.

My son, he taught me to see how unimportant these things really are and how attached I am to them. When he woke crying, there was nothing else to do but to go and greet him, deal with his problems, deal with life and those closest to me. The one most important to me. It was abnormally hard to get up from the couch and do it.

But I did. It is hard to find something better to motivate you than the cry of someone you love.

I stopped watching soap operas. It is just disgusting to me now. I sometimes have no choice but to see them, to hear them anyway. It is frightening, how alluring they are still. The emotions, the intrigues! You watch and you stop living your life. You stop.

First and foremost and obvious – I was used to some background noise. A radio was always playing in the kitchen at my parents’ house. Not in the night, but from the time my mother got up from bed to the very late evening. I was used to be distracted by the music on the radio when I ate. It was reassuring to hear it throughout the day when I was moving around in the house. It was homely.

But I didn’t like to be addicted to noise, I wouldn’t like to be addicted to anything and noise isn’t something as primary to life as to be normal to be addicted to. The noise is not important, this addiction is not something I would like to admit about myself – so I started to accustom myself to be without it. I was in silence whenever I could. Even when my parents took pity – or rather couldn’t bear it themselves while they were here – and brought me an old radio from their house, I continued being in silence as long as I was alone or only with my son.

It was masochistic at first, a torture for myself, maintained only through discipline and perseverance. It was not understood by anybody I told about it – but after a while it did pay off. I started thinking. I started understanding. I understood how the background had always given me something to think about, something to occupy myself while I wasn’t busy with something practical to think about. I was so used to being distracted all the time that I missed it when there was nothing to distract me. I was even afraid of being without it. Without the distraction, only with my thoughts. I started being there, in the moment, conscious, active, alive, like I had never been before. I started to understand how I had forgotten myself into the books, into TV or radio, never really living only zombieing through life. I started to understand, why I always found a book whenever I felt angry or rejected in childhood. I started to understand so many things, because only then did I really think about them.

But I was shocked about the others: there were many pictures of TV or computer screen and some, the most shocking of them all, about the family he lived with - us. I think many people wouldn’t have thought twice about just deleting the pictures about TV and computer screen and seen as cute and loving the ones taken about the family. I didn’t. Pictures about the family were really deserving of a name “Contemporary family life” - and that in a bitter meaning. There was a picture of me reading a book. Another of my mom at the computer. And a picture of my father relaxing on the couch, apparently watching TV. Nobody noticed this little spy and so there wasn’t any happy masquerades of closeness, only plain painful truth.

Family life..?! There was no interaction! There was no “family”! Everybody entertained themselves any way possible, but alone although in the same room. Did we talk? Did we do something together? No, if you don’t count being alone together as doing something together. It would have been too much of an effort. Seeing that, it was not at all surprising that loneliness is the top-ranking complaint these days. People entertain themselves and do not connect with one another even though they might be physically together. Even the pictures of the TV and the computer screen were part of it – these items were just as important and close to this small developing child as the members of his small family…

Stephanie concurs, “Yeah, let’s go play”.

“But we ARE playing!” says Pixel, the techno guy, who has just invented a remote control, that can make anything do anything he wants. Quite fascinated, he is making a basketball do all kinds of tricks without moving more than pushing a few buttons on the remote.

“No we’re not. This is boring! We want to play with our hands, our feet, our bodies!” exclaims Stephanie, the sportiest girl you might have ever seen.

“Yeah, this is like … like watching someone else eat your candy for you!” says Ziggy, the one who is best described by one of his previous quotes “Eating candy, yeah, that’s important.”

Lazytown, the children’s TV show that promotes healthy lifestyle

This one started haunting me. Watching someone else eat your candy for you. I have done it, more than I should have been. And I don’t mean only watching TV - I have cut watching it quite a lot since the childish voice started repeating the sentence in its annoyed way every time I tried to. I didn’t watch it very much before it did as well. And now I never watch it when there is something else I’d rather do – for that end I don’t read the TV guide, to be able to choose the other activities first and only when I feel tired and powerless to act, do I turn on the TV and see what is on.

There are enough channels that there is almost always something. I only watch if it is somehow educating or interesting. How it’s made. How things work. Engineered. No news, I get them from internet at daytime. No sports - what is there to learn from information that someone was able to run a few seconds faster than anyone before? Or that a group of people somewhere was able to win some other group in some game? Yes it is entertaining, it is exciting to watch, it is giving the satisfying distraction from your own pitiful life. It is just soap opera for men. I’d rather go running myself or play a game with my friends or son. This would be a challenge, enjoying your own muscles flex, having good time with other people, being exhilarated by your own adrenalin.

© Hugh MacLeod, gapingvoid.com

But at the same time I also understand Pixel. I have a long history of being tempted to watch and not act. I have a long history of being excited by technical gizmos, that are really just devices to make yourself entertained, alone. I understand the lure to watch others act and get the second-hand taste, the story has been done for you, now you only have to imagine to be in the shoes of the one you see on screen, only imagine that you taste the candy he is eating for you.

The real world doesn’t advertise itself. And most of the time, doesn’t cost as much either. It doesn’t make you pay with yourself, it makes it possible for you to think instead. It let’s you open up your potential, it let’s you shine in the light of the fabulous being that is  yourself, it let’s you be in charge of your life, be the driver not the passenger in the boat of life. But it is hard work. It is frightening and tiring. It is real, it is hard. It is the only way that changes the world.

Oh, but the temptation to just let go, to just let the others decide. Somebody will make it right, somebody will know what to do, somebody will take action. I don’t want to make an effort but live like a good worker bee - wake up, go to work, work, come home, hide myself in TV, let myself be entertained, reproduce, sleep, repeat. Forget that there is evil in the world – good word wins the evil might, isn’t it right? I have had a hard time so long, why can’t I just relax and hide myself from the truth? Why can’t I just hide myself inside all this noise, why do I have to remember, that this world is not a paradise? Why must it be me who makes the change, let someone else do all the work…

I was enraptured by his vision. I told him how great and desirable that was. Alone, without any restrictions! The absolute freedom to do whatever you wanted! The perfect source for creativity, the nirvana Buddhists yearn for, the balance within! I would remove from this vision the material things that were there still. I would remove the rubber floor and imagine myself inside void, weightless, directionless, with no Up or Down. And I would remove the body and leave only a mind with no perceptible shell. And then I would spend eternity within the fantastic images I would imagine around myself. With this mind I would create myself an universe of things, everything I’d ever need. I told him about the start of a book I once wrote and that is unfinished still. I told him about how God felt at the start of creating the Universe.

I told him, it feels great to think.

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