Fairytales and pierced ears

My father raised me as a son he never had. My mother raised me as a little princess. When I was four I wanted to get my ears pierced but my mom argued that with holes in my ears I would not make a good princess and this terrible drawback I did consider for a few days. And then marched down to the salon with a strong conviction that whatever there is in stake for me – I sure hope it’s not becoming a princess.

Of course as all little girls I would play dress-up and put on mum’s make-up, but then with all that I’d jump on the side of the sofa pretending to ride a horse through a jungle and fighting off the evil and unjust. I’d climb all the trees imagining I was saving animals, rode my bike down all hills I could find ending up with scared legs and a happy soul.

Before going to Australia my wonderful father gave me one of the best presents I’ve gotten in my life – a Swiss knife. My mom watched me from aside, happy as a clam, and I saw her in that very moment finally accepting that it is not a pretense for me – I don’t try to seem tough (cause I’m not), but I just love to death anything that sharpens the edges of my life and awakens me from emotionless gliding through it.

Ever since I can remember my life was a fight – my childhood was as pleasant as it gets and I could not have been more loved and cared for – but I always had the urge to fight for – the truth, the brain or the individual. I could never accept that one can bow ones head and conform and not ask for more – more taste, more edge, more borderline fun.

Everyone was speaking about the fact that the moment of the royal nuptials will define a specific moment in your life – something one will be able to refer to even speaking to ones children or grandchildren. So for the sake of it I organized a dinner and invited over some friends.

Throughout the ceremony I couldn’t rid of the feeling of frustration – to me it ultimately felt like a funeral. How can a wedding be so ice cold, emotionless and formal to the bone? All protocol and a peck of 1,4 seconds. Unintentionally I reached for my pierced ears and reminded myself how lucky I am not to be a princess.

no cool

I see people as energy. As something that interacts with the mythical symbolic framework I have inside my head. I see people do magic – very rarely – but when they drop their cool and they venture to be what they are, or what they want to be – it’s more than I can hope for. It takes a shitload of courage to not care about the outside opinions and to just be.

We’ve been, I know we’ve been. My last year of school was all about thinking that the world is an oyster and we can make whatever we want out of it. I still do think that – in a much more reserved manner and no longer with a “wise” backdrop to it. I think I’ve gotten wiser, but isn’t that what all of us think every two to five years?

There’s also an option of not thinking about it at all. Just chillin, y'all know, going with the flow and stuff. I’m not wired for that. And I’m aware that this brings unwanted complications and all that serious-faced stuff. But that’s what I am.

Of course we all think we’re gonna be big. We’re gonna be something. But are we? It scares me to think otherwise. It’s scary to pour your soul out - and it’s not productive nor does it work in your favor. But what are you, if you’re not your true self? You’re a tool, a cool object, but cool doesn’t drive me, does not inspire me at all.

The people I’ve loved in my life are the ones who’ve had the courage to challenge themselves, to venture beyond the normal, the perceived, and the expected.

I need someone to see me like I see people. I see people as something magical. Anyone who has insight, or wit, or anything that makes me hold my breath for a second – is magical. I know it’s cheesy. But that’s how it is.

I may not surprise you. Cause I’m the same as you – the same decaying matter, not a unique snowflake (as outlined in the Fight Club). But if I don’t surprise you, then we are more alike than you think we are.

Would you kill me? If I needed you to, if I desperately had no other option, would you?

Ribbon whaaat?

This whole conflict between Hollywood and the alternative cinema makes me giggle a bit. Every European filmmaker declares that Hollywood is decadent and that he despises it and spits on those who even try to compare his genius to anything of Hollywood. The latter of course does not give a shit as it makes a shitload of money and rarely takes the time to get involved in useless European discussions.

My argument certainly isn’t that Hollywood movies are good and European are bad; what I’m aiming at is that the juxtaposition – intentional to the bone – is simply childish.

Take The White Ribbon that I painfully watched yesterday. Yes, perhaps it is a piece of art in the cinematographic sense; yes, the cast is without fault whatsoever (especially the children). But once again I object the “art for the sake of art” standpoint. You may call me trivial but seriously, I need a message in a movie and that’s what I think they’re for. And if you deprive me of catharsis, if you leave me with nothing more but a tape of black and white images in my head after two hours – I consider those two hours wasted.

It’s what Lithuanians love doing with contemporary cinema as well. The freaking country of cinematic disaster, traumatized by gloomy Russian literature and not talented enough to pull off a Dostoyevsky they march on with their “Brisiaus galas” kind of mindset. Oh, there’s gotta be tears. And a deep dark depressing onset. And some violence for the sake of violence (and this is not addressed to Zero as I consider it a truly wonderful statement. And some very few truly inspiring movies like Balkonas. In your face Nereikalingi Zmones). Like the recent Lars von Trier, whom, I’m sorry, I don’t understand either (I mean duuude, if you suffer from severe depression and various phobias – do you really have to put me through it too?). And yet again I may be called an ignorant and superficial cinema nazi, but seriously, do we NEED that violence? Is it the only necessary tool to bring out the message? Cause honestly, I’m getting a bad case of compassion fatigue.

And yet there are masterpieces that may be a bit gloomy, a bit slow, but they do it for a reason, a message, something my brain feed on like vultures for days and days in a row. Like Das Leben der Anderen – it could be regarded as a slow movie but to me it seemed perfectly paced, bringing out the essence scene by scene, sound by sound.

Like the Cidade de Deus may seem too violent at times but it has nothing to do with hitting a penis with a hammer (thank you, Lars, for engraining that image in my mind for eternity). It’s a heartbreaking story which absolutely cannot be told without the images of violence – it is the essence of it, it disturbs and yet leaves you hungry for peace.

I even truly loved The Believer, as it sets off to explore self-hatred and self-search in such a painful, personal way. And Little Ashes – a quote from which I use in the opening of my blog and which has become part of my everyday life.

I could go on and on with examples of brilliant movies made all around the world for the purpose of sending a message. And to my mind a movie is much more powerful if it has one, rather than when it simply is a statement of a self-absorbed artistic individuality.

Warning: media

Warning: this post may be biased and narrow-sighted as it is infused by frustration while still in a lecture.

Why did I choose to study journalism? This question crosses my mind more often now than at any other time in my life. This is because during the time of my studies in Lithuania I could blame the system for the journalism studies’ shortcomings – the whole educational system is rotten, young people don’t contribute to the educational progress etc etc.

But then I went to Denmark – the best journalism school in the country and a university that ranks in the top 60 of the world’s universities. And then I went to Australia – to a no1 journalism school in Sydney. And my frustration has not diminished, vice versa - it has grown fiercer with every day.

What is my problem? The humongous gap between practice and theory. I get a lot of counter arguments to this one saying that most disciplines face this controversy. I say we have to look at a particular case – journalism is all about practice. You cannot read McLuhan or McQuail and then just easily adapt it in your work. It does not work that way cause the guys are not living on another planet, they are living in another universe for god’s sake.

Journalism scholars think they know better and journalism professionals think they know shit. The scholars research the media in a way it should function ideally – and I don’t even know what the ideal is (please do inform me if you’re aware of these ideal conditions). Has it ever functioned in an ideal system? No. Has the need for it decreased because of that? Quite contrary, in my opinion, journalism is at its best today, because there’s so much social interaction and higher accountability due to the fact that the access to information is no longer limited to the privilege of the journalists.

Yet the scholars see a problem in the PR overtake, in the diminishing role of the journalistic professionalism, in the lack of specialization etc. Of course there are problems but this is not the problem. The problem is that the scholars are not addressing the problems in a right way. They distance themselves from the practice; take the position of some kind of a preacher who knows better and therefore misses the target completely.

Scholars love saying that if journalism won't start abiding by the scholarly advice it will become so rotten it will actually one day die. I find this hilarious and in this case want to remind you something that Socrates said and Plato recorded on paper:

"The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise. Children are now tyrants, not the servants of their households. They no longer rise when elders enter the room. They contradict their parents, chatter before company, gobble up dainties at the table, cross their legs, and tyrannize their teachers.”

According to him the youth should have ruined the planet completely and driven the world to anarchy if not worse. And yet we progressed and our world is more wonderful than it has ever been. That’s what I think about journalism as well – every generation of journalists’ thinks that they are the last ones who are credible and yet journalism survives and, further more, progresses. Maybe not in an ideal way, but still.

Australia, New South Wales, Sydney

I think – I THINK – I have settled now. So here are my first notes.

Sydney is big. I mean really big. And it gets even bigger when you try to minimize your public transportation use. Not because it’s dodgy or something – it’s great. As a matter of fact it’s so great, people thank the driver getting off the bus. Seriously, everybody yells thank you, even if they’re getting out through the back door. No, I avoid buses in order to see more, feel more, soak up the sun and feel the humid warmth in my lungs and my bones. Yes, it’s usually 25-32 degrees Celsius.

It’s a living, breathing organism. Literally. Their cockroaches are the size of my palm. You see them everywhere. And then in one night you see a huge rat running by, a bat is throwing food at you and you step on some sort of a huge slimy moving thing in your kitchen. Awesomeness.

It’s laidback. I’ve never been to a place so busy and yet so relaxed at the same time; the coexistence of these contrasting traits, to my mind, is what makes up Sydney. This is why the first two weeks I’d leave home at 10am and get back at 12am – the city grips you and doesn’t want to let go. I didn’t put up a fight.

I have a home now. Compared to my shoebox in Denmark this is a palace and people are already joking around that I won’t leave my Ivory tower without a good reason. I live in an old terrace house (quote from Wikipedia: “Terraced houses in Australia refers almost exclusively to Victorian and Edwardian era terrace houses or replicas almost always found in the older, inner city areas of the major cities.”) It looks something like this:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/48/Paddington2_terrace.jpg

The area is called Glebe, which is known for being a bit alternative and hipster. What I love about it is the Saturday flea market, the tiny cafés where everybody sits back to back, antique book stores and simply the feeling – I stroll down the main street at least twice a day and stop by the same fruit market and chemist store every week – I get to know people – because all the stores and small, personal, like you’re transported back in time when there were no supermarkets and people knew the ones who sold them food from a local farm (as their grandfathers knew each other).

I didn’t even think I’d like those times until now: the two Asians who own a post office/groceries store call me “the girl from Europe” every time I drop by, and an aged Italian lad working at Pastabella café winks if he sees me pass by. A guy from a seafood restaurant promised to call if a job opening comes up. These little instances of everyday personal interaction warm my heart and make me realize that the world we live in has made us become indifferent to each other to an extent we don’t even realize.

Things happen here. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of seeing Annie Leibovitz originals, almost touching them, grasping the depth of the colours, the texture of background and the intensity of emotion when a picture is 2X2m. I would have never even dreamt of this opportunity and there I was, staring at Susan Sontag in a casket, almost crying, so moved I could not talk.

Or last night – I went on YouTube and at the top there was a banner saying, “YouTube Symphony live streaming from Sydney Opera”. Jumped in a cab and 10min later I was standing at awe in front of those magical projections, feeling the breeze of Sydney harbour on my skin, fighting the occasional raindrops and glaring at the full moon hanging on the side of the opera café.

There are three Lonely Planet travel books on my night table – I brought them all the way from home no matter that they added perhaps 3kg to my ridiculously poor luggage. But every time I open them now it’s no longer some distant ephemeral thing I’m looking at – it’s my present, it’s very much real and it humbles me. I bow down once again before fate and, most of all, my parents, who provided me with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I can’t really tell you why exactly I’m so amazed. Nothing’s too new – I’ve seen the skyscrapers millions of times, swam in both Atlantic and Pacific oceans, saw many cultures and met many people. One of those countries that truly took my breath away was Syria, but I never had the feeling I could reside there. Whereas Sydney… Something just clicked. It’s like the feeling when you know you’ve forgotten something, but you can’t remember what and you don’t even remember where to look for it, and then – bam – you find it, and a sudden wave of relief ripples through your body head to toe. That’s how I feel. Like I’m finally home.

The next "Survivor" series

Reposted from my sister's blog:

Six married men will be dropped on an island with one car and 3 kids each for six weeks.
Each kid will play two sports and take either music or dance classes.
There is no fast food.
Each man must take care of his 3 kids; keep his assigned house clean, correct all homework, complete science projects, cook, do laundry, and pay a list of ‘pretend’ bills with not enough money.
In addition, each man will have to budget enough money for groceries each week.
Each man must remember the birthdays of all their friends and relatives,and send cards out on time--no emailing.
Each man must also take each child to a doctor’s appointment,a dentist appointmentand a haircut appointment.
He must make one unscheduled and inconvenient visit per child to the Emergency Room.
He must also make cookies or cupcakesfor a school function.
Each man will be responsible for decorating his own assigned house, planting flowers outside, and keeping it presentable at all times.
The men will only have access to television when the kids are asleep and all chores are done.
The men shave their legs,
wear makeup daily,
adorn themselves with jewelry,
wear uncomfortable yet stylish shoes,
keep fingernails polished,
and eyebrows groomed
During one of the six weeks, the men will have to endure severe abdominal cramps, backaches, headaches,have extreme, unexplained mood swings but never once complain or slow down from other duties.
They must attend weekly school meetings and church, and find time at least once to spend the afternoon at the park or a similar setting.

They will need to read a book to the kids each night and in the morning,feed them,dress them, brush their teeth and comb their hair by 7:30 am.

A test will be given at the end of the six weeks,and each father will be required to know all of the following information:each child’s birthday,height, weight,shoe size, clothes size,doctor’s name,the child’s weight at birth,length, time of birth,and length of labor,each child’s favorite color,middle name,favorite snack,favorite song,favorite drink,favorite toy,biggest fear, and what they want to be when they grow up.
The kids vote them off the island based on performance.
The last man wins only if…he still has enough energy to be intimate with his spouse at a moment’s notice.

If the last man does win,he can play the game over and over and over again for the next 18-25 years,eventually earning the right to be called Mother!

be good. be better.

“Perfekcionistų gyvenimą gerai iliustruoja antikinis mitas apie stipruolį Heraklį. Olimpo dievų buvo nuspręsta jam leisti tapti pusdieviu, tačiau tik su sąlyga, kad Heraklis išmėšiąs milžiniškas arklides. Kiekvienas perfekcionistas gilumoje yra Heraklis, turintis ambicijų įsikurti bent jau Olimpo papėdėje.”

-- http://www.vmsi.lt/n/4/53/Kai-Reikalai-Auksciau-Visko

[Rough translation: The lives of perfectionists are well illustrated by the ancient myth of almighty Hercules. The Gods on Mount Olympus decided that they’d let him become a semi-god with the condition that he’ll clean out stables of an enormous size. Every perfectionist is Hercules, fostering the ambition to one day reside at least at the foot of Mount Olympus]

Firstly, I apologize for having gone missing for a while. Sydney has been quite overwhelming and I promise to write it all down as soon as it sinks in fairly enough to evaluate it. Cause now I’m just like “oh my God this is all waaayyy cool” haha. Not very impartial I’m afraid.

However, I am writing this post. And this is just because it would’ve seemed insane not to – a friend [let’s call her the Stewardess] wrote me on FB whom I haven’t spoken with for perhaps a year [and who’s leading an amazing and inspiring life at the moment] and basically just asked me why I’m not posting anything and then brainstormed a bit on the topic of perfectionism. Out of nowhere. This made me ridiculously happy because that was a direct proof that this tiny blog is doing it’s job – provoking to think, to ask questions and to discuss together, which is truly one of my greatest passions. Thank you so much!

Then, maybe an hour or two later, I completely accidentally stumbled upon this article: http://gyvenimas.delfi.lt/career/perfekcionizmas-xxi-amziaus-moteru-liga.d?id=14959020 [sorry to all those English speaking friends who are reading – this great article is written in the very cool language of totally cool Lithuanians]. Its title says: Perfectionism – the XXIst century disease for women? And it goes on to cover the topic in detail.

But it gets better. I’m skyping with my mom tonight and she randomly posts the quote that I’m using in the opening of this post. How odd is that? The universe has united on directing me towards this topic ;]

So. Perfectionism.

I do agree that it is the most malicious disease that contemporary women suffer from. We have to excel in everything – career, family, LIFE. It is seen as a virtue if we can cook and clean, and “hold the four corners of a household”. By nature (and by upbringing) I am truly not capable of that. I most deeply despise interior pampering with candles and flowers and what not. And numerous boyfriends have pointed it out with poorly disguised regret.

I am, however, interested in quantum physics, in failing economies, in various religions (purely for religion studies), in muscle cars and a solid glass of the old fashioned at the end of the day. Yet none of these interests are seen as a virtue as far as I’ve noticed.

A brief jump of thought – I just received another letter regarding my babysitting services poster in Denmark. It’s a third one I’ve received and what I find interesting is that all of them were written by men. Sometimes countries of deep-rooted feminism bring such joy to my heart ;]

Back to the topic. I’d have to agree with the Stewardess that perfectionism causes drinking problems above all things. When one no longer knows how to let go of days work, or how to seek relief from all surrounding pressures, she may start abusing alcohol.

Another thing perfectionists are prone to – depression. When you’re stuck in the vicious circle of never being good enough – how can you possibly enjoy life? It is the highway to apathy, dissatisfaction and anger management problems.

My intention is to ask you to share your thoughts: why do you think we become perfectionists? Are you one? What’s your story? Is it about the upbringing and if so, what do parents do wrong? How to balance it out between caring for the child but yet not pushing him too hard; between inspiring him for greatness and giving him all the tools but not depriving him of simple joys? Do you fight perfectionism or do you give in to it? How do you give yourself a break from it? How to manage it and adjust it to work in your advantage?

These are my questions for you today, so please, drop a line or two.

“One needs to learn to ride without waiting for the stables to be cleaned” – Daniel Casriel