She always

stays true to herself.

Life is a cabaret

on Sunday evening.

One

of the guests of the evening.

We just don't

and it kept us guessing what they just don't.

Sometimes it seems

that the only way to keep depression at bay is to attend a clown performance.

But clowns are never merely happy, they are always also sad, and sometimes your feeling of sadness is too deep and the clowns don't really do anything for you in the sense of cheering you up. Well, ok, you might chuckle (Emilie, I remember to chuckle and not giggle) every now and then, or experience a momentary lapse of reason in which you forget your woes, but in the end you come out of the theatre sort of empty, with a deep reverberating void (or hurt, or sadness, or... I don't really know what it is) somewhere deep inside your soul (and no, it has nothing to do with the performance).
So you stroll down the old Roman road and find yourself in an old crusader's church, which is rather unusual for the town you live in (I mean the church is unusual for the town you live in and it is also unusual for you to find yourself in a church in the town you live in).

And just as you are trying to get your head round these surprising facts you realise a spaceship is trying to land inside the church and you just stand there, mesmerised, gazing at the spaceship, wondering if they have come to fill your void or take away your pain (it is really surprising how self-absorbed one can be at a moment like this) .... But they don't.... They just hover there, gazing back at you, totally oblivious as to what is going on inside your head. After a while you realise you have been involuntarily involved in a staring competition. Minutes pass, maybe hours, days, weeks, months, years or maybe even lifetimes. You no longer know how long it has been. You are tired. Tired of staring, tired of standing, tired of yourself... Suddenly the spaceship is sucked into your big void and for a micro-second you are content, because you have just realised that this void of yours has a name.
But now the church is empty. You step out and find yourself in a magic garden.

 It is the middle of the night and time has stopped. Shiny, colourful and bright watering cans are hovering over the bushes bathing them in white light. They never stop. Hovering. Watering. You splash some white light across your face. It keeps you awake, but also makes you notice that parts of your beard have turned grey. It sure has been a long day. Your mind tries to recapture the day. You try to remember what is was like when you woke up.The morning seems so long ago and far away that the brain just sends a G291 system error, and after a quick shower in the white light you step out of the enclosed garden and into a dark closed space.

It is a small, dark space and yet an  entire galaxy of red dwarfs and electric blue wormholes are confined within it. You step onto the Einstein-Rosen bridge, look into the deep, black (but for the flickering explosions  of blue light) abyss below and suddenly you are looking up at something that seems so similar and yet so different you just can't put your finger on it. You slowly count the trillions of red dwarfs, and as you gaze at each one, you feel what an uneventful existence they lead. On the way you alternate between crossing Einstein-Rosen bridges and sliding through wormholes. Finally you have counted all the red dwarfs, crossed all the bridges (and burnt some of them), crawled or sledged through each wormhole and entered all the data into a spreadsheet. You know your day's work has been done, so you decide to jump on the bridge and catch a wormhole so that you can have a quick drink with a friend from the past.

 You fall head first into his Paris studio, but he does not flinch when you tumble across the floor and the room overflows with body parts, cameras, negatives, captured images and memories that spill throughout the room. Once you pick up your body parts and pull yourself together you look at the man at work, deeply engulfed in his thoughts, observing the rays of light spreading across his studio and you immediately know it is 1921 and that he is onto something important, so you just pat him on his back gently, whisper an almost silent hi man, climb back onto the bridge and catch the last wormhole going in the morningbound direction.

The long way home

During which I wrote a song that would be perfect for these two (that was on the way home from the their concert), but unfortunately I did not actually write it down, so it has disappeared somewhere in my synapses. 

They tried

to jumpstart my heart by trashing it around the place. But it didn't work on this evening.

Joke

It is always great fun when Joke come to town (and this ain't no joke), so as they are currently touring the region, you better chuck in the towel, grab a beer (which I couldn't as I was still on antibiotics), go to their concert, have fun and worry about tomorrow and all the serious stuff when the time comes for it (it is summer after all).

Trnfest - 1st day of the edition that never happened

Supposedly this year's Trnfest is never going to happen. Last year was the last one ever. So roughly a week after it would have started if it would have happened (but which it is not, might I remind you)  we all miraculously gathered at KUD to convince ourselves that it is truly not happening. So what we did not see was the new director of KUD (above) recite a poem and share a few words with us...

 ...we certainly didn't see Brane (iz Ljubljane) perform his antics on stage (nor did we hear him recite his deep and meaningful poetry)...

...nor did we see Katjuša the cat wondering across stage...

    However we did see bat(wo)man sleeping in the cave

 while listening to the soothing sound of the accordion

   and the slightly rougher sounds of the guitar.

 (And this is some of us later on in the evening... not bad for a non-event, eh?)

Sea & air

Don't mind if I do (get some sea and sea breeze that is). 

Even though

I preferred the support act (Parliament attack), which was much more punk (even though, once I saw some of their photos from before I did start thinking that they might be a bit more planned - not quite on the level of the Sex Pistols,  Malcom McLaren and Vivienne Westwood) but some thought was put into their image and the way the want to come across (damn this consumer world in which even punk bands (supposedly fighting against it) fall under its charms), I still decided to post a photo of the main act (Spunk on toast), just because I liked this photo at the moment I started writing the blog, and because it is my blog and I can do whatever I want (ufff I need to be a spoiled twelve year old brat sometimes).
(The sentence above (yes, it is just the one) just shows that I have been working too much lately on translating scientific texts from Slovene (where they really like their long sentences, with a side order of a double espresso, for breakfast))

Angry songs

because the men (and women and children) in the street are angry. They are slowly running out of options to be anything else really. Slowly (I wrote slowly, and immediately (!) realised that this process is not really unwinding so slowly) all the rights our grandparents were fighting for in the war and our parents were streaking naked through the park (which I consider a more fun option than fighting wars - not to mention a less dangerous one) for, are being stripped away (yup, just like the clothes). So are we going to wither away in a dark, cold (well OK, not cold at this moment as we are just going through a heat wave) and damp corner, hoping to survive another pathetic week just so the two dates on our gravestones will be a bit further apart or are we actually going to do something about it?

I usually

really like this guy, but this time he was as prepared as a schoolboy on his first day of school after a really really long summer break during which he fell in love for the first time, learned how to swim, watched his parents get divorced, moved to a different town, got a puppy as a consolation prize and on the last day of the summer holidays got the newest, baddest, wickedest playstation game ever made.

Surf rock

I can't really get into it without the breaking waves, blue skies, at least one woody and a couple of surfs on its roof, and girls in bikinis in the background.

Trnfest 2013

some say it is the last one. Ever. Last year they told us it might be the last one. Ever. But today was the first day. And there are more than 30 to go. I guess this means we have to party like there is no tomorrow. Or at least as if there will be no Trnfest next year. So, see you there.

But what if we

never make it to our village?

Can

you tell from this photo whether it was punk or pop (or anything else for that matter)?

Some concerts

are better than others. And usually they are better when you see the band is having a good time. You know, having a laugh, seeing one of them smile at something the other band members, they, or somebody from the public has done. And then seeing another one smile because of something. And then smiles eem to overcome the stage... These are the little things that make a better concert... Because believe me, if we wanted it to be all perfect and robotic, we would just go and buy an overproduced CD and listen to it at home. And this concert reminded me of one of their first concerts (in the same venue - but indoors and not at the same time (festival time) of the year, but quite a few years ago)... you could see they enjoyed it. I am sure the reasons were different, but the joy was back.

Free Pussy Riot

'nuff said.

They did

it again (I guess). The whole 26 hours of improvised theatre. And if I hadn't had so much work on my plate, I truly would have tried to spend all the hours with them... But with all the deadlines in the week, there was just no chance.