This is some material I have cut from my upcoming memoir, Six Years in Slovenia. The reason I’ve cut it is that it doesn’t really advance the story forward, but it’s kind of interesting on its own.
August 5, 2009, Brestanica train station
It is raining again. Only lightly, but that makes me happy because it is cool enough to get things done. I am going to Brezice again to finish what I started yesterday; that girl I sometimes see is here, the one I have an odd little story about that I don’t want to tell right now. I was a little freaked out by that but I still like her. She is not one of the fairy-like Slav beauties, but there is something graceful about her silhouette. I avoid striking up a conversation, though. I fear intimacy.
Friday November 6, 2009
Tonight Friday, 7 o’clock train from Dobova, I get off the train and the girl is there, walking up the platform and up the steps to the road. It’s her. I only see her from the back but I recognize the line of her graceful figure at once, and her boots. Impulsively I decide not to go to the WC as I usually do when getting off the train, as Krško’s WC is never open, but to follow her instead. She followed me one day, all the way to the end of the Trg, stood looking after me as I walked on then turned back.
She must live somewhere on the Trg; I am curious to see where she goes.
In the first post of this series, I describe how W. and I met, were friends, fought and broke up. In the second post, I analyze some of the emails he sent me afterward. In this final post, I analyze more emails and come to some conclusions about W.
In the first installment of this series, I introduced my ex-friend W. and explained how we met, became friends, fought and broke up. This installment describes what happened after that.
“No one is born a bigot. Hate is learned.”
This is a old childhood picture of someone who used to be my friend. This cute little boy, smiling so brightly, surely deserved to be happy and loved.
But W. was viciously bullied. He wasn’t athletic and the other kids constantly made fun of him. Home wasn’t much of a comfort either, because his mother would punish him for trivial things by sending him to his room. He spent much of his childhood immersed in comic books.
He grew up believing that people in general were just cruel to one another. This cruelty affected him to his core: inwardly he aligned himself with the bullies and learned to take pleasure in other people’s suffering, and call it humor. But you wouldn’t see it if you know him only casually, because on the surface he can be very kind, generous with gifts and time. You might think he has a dark, twisted sense of humor, but you’d probably overlook it because he seems so good in other ways and is devoted to his friends.
He seems like a nice guy – as long as you don’t get too close.
I hate TV, and watch it only rarely, so on a lark I just googled “People Who Watch Too Much TV” and came up with an interesting article over at The Minimalist.
This particular reason for not watching TV resonated with me:
It is taking you away from the real people all around you. The characters on television are not real. They are thought up in an office building and given life on a piece of paper. In contrast, you are surrounded everyday by real people living real lives. These real people are facing real problems. They need you. And you need them.
Have you ever met people who can’t seem to talk about anything other than what they saw on TV? I meet them all the time. How much of our lives do we waste watching fake stories about fake people, soaking up advertising slogans and piss-poor values, rather than living our own lives, getting to know real people, and thinking our own thoughts?
Read the whole article here. (Skip the stupid comments; they seem to be unmoderated.)
Blue, White 2 by M.K. Hajdin
I feel like I’m being more true to myself by being essentially worthless in this society.
Me too, Tyler.
Artists are basically worthless to society; there are too many of us, and we produce luxury items that no one really needs in a world with too much luxury for too few. Disabled people are considered worthless because they can’t slave away to make our corporate overlords even richer. So being a disabled artist entails double the worthlessness.
But the society we live in is so sick, and its priorities so twisted, that I would hate myself if it ever embraced me, for then I would know I’d gone wrong.
I’m proud not to fit into this sick, sad world.
Forest Pool by M.K. Hajdin
There are two kinds of people: those who have spent most of their adult lives partnered, and those who have not.
I’m one of the latter, and I feel like we’re a minority among all the happy (or happy-seeming) couples out there. But I have found a number of other people who have spent their adult lives alone, too, and it helped me to feel less weird about it.
I wonder if there are any reading my blog and if they’d like to share their stories. It doesn’t matter if you are willingly or unwillingly without a partner.