Creativity and beards

Well hello there. 

This year is almost not this year anymore. Great news, right? News even better. I am not ready to print out the stickers I promised to humanity (in such a loud voice ridiculous amount of times). But there's one preview of three I posted a while ago on Instagram (comicsonic, you're welcome) and one basically giving you the idea:

Good. Now I shut up about them till they're ready. Nice.

Now, going to fill another request I got some days ago. Write about being creative, and shit. Sorry, not shit. Anyway, what is it? It's hard to avoid stating the obvious concerning this question. If you still asked me about it - means you want to hear the obvious exactly from me, this is quite flattering! Good, how you formed your request instantly reminds me of these great minutes on YouTube:

You're welcome once again.

Now, well, time for me to get all boring and wordy? There is one thing that I wanted to clarify concerning creativity widely applied to our poor exhausted minds and about proudly wearing this mythical and mystical title.

Creative = productive.

Certain amount of creativity can be applied to every task we are engaged in. Right, we don't need to elaborate on this. But we're not talking about the brave carpenters searching for some ground-breaking ways to polish their wood  in... open space, with... water and two monkeys... whatever, what I feel we ought to address is just who we are, a bunch of useless teen(or not so teen)agers who like to be all arty and special and you got what I mean if you're honest enough.  And this is pretty damn easy.

Look, listen, absorb, process, think, do. Always think while you're doing, but more importantly, just do.

Not applied to anything, your imagination is worth nothing. Stop doodling, start drawing. If you're doodling,
make it look nothing like a doodle. Whatever you do should not be accidental. Even the accidents.

Imagination, in case you think it lets you down, is also a skill. A skill to be working on: the more you experience, the more you learn, as you solve more problems you will simply see improvements. On the other hand, you need something to make your wild monsters alive. And you don't want any limitations, while insufficient skills (of whatever you're doing) is the first border you are going to hit. Or maybe even the last one. Get up and learn, we are never good enough.

You know, I read one short story some time back - unfortunately pretty sure it's not available in English (для русскочитающих - Л. Улицкая, "Цю-юрихь"), and it is really not in any way related to this topic, but with good old striking contrasting method it made me see how lazily we approach our lives, most of us - me included, obviously. 

Take this "talent" thing, I bet you've heard people throwing this word all around as if the more you pour it on the ground, more red your tomatoes will grow. No babe, they will not. 

Especially people referring to their lack of "talent" when refusing to give something a try. Well, according to your definition, being talented at something means to perform on average or even above-average level with little or almost no effort made. Isn't it a desirable thing? Why yes, and this is also signifying approach that potentially disables you from becoming any better than "average with no effort". Because growing up always knowing you can rely on your so-called abilities, or inborn sense, spoils you pretty bad. And no one is going to care you were such a "promising" child, you're just not used to push yourself to achieve more that you naturally can, because why would you when it kinda worked for ages? 

Similarly less and less of effort do we tend to put in our relationship with other people, making easy and comfortable connections always there to be cut off when pleased. (Not sure I want to keep on with this topic, let's stop before I said something stupid.)

Your own laziness is your only limit. That's all I have to say on this.

Further on your cute questions;

what do I listen to/watch/what is inspiring me.

On the last one - people do. 

For some idea of what I prefer to stare at, just take a quick look at some of my pinterest pins (I was doing this solely for the educational purpose, gotta be back to the place, new things just don't stick to me)

http://www.pinterest.com/mnnrieh/pins/

Like most of us, I listen to lotz of shit, whatever makes me feel better when I feel good and worse when I feel bad. 

Sorry if I sound grumpy. But I am grumpy, so this is quite fair I guess.

Hopefully I answered your question. Do comment though, I don't know how to get back at you anyway.

To any one reading these lines, 

please stay safe and warm during your holidays. Kisses!

faces and I'm too anxious

Little small tiny and quick portrait for today. 

No name, no particular point, just playing with the cuteness of simplicity.  

(needs a bit of editing that is never to be done, most boring thing ever)

Aaaand a video full of sounds and images that I absolutely love. 

 Too much of talent for one piece!

Now something unrelated.
It's crazy how much it is about faces.
You just pick the face you like to look at. For some subtle and gentle time when the desire to see it grows inside you, nothing more frightening can be possibly imagined. But it overcomes that little huge earthquake a single gaze does to your world, overcomes all the motion of blood rushing right to your own face to blur your eyes, scream in your ears and press your insides against something so big it just can't fit in a human being without driving it insane. But it does, and then you become your eyes. A walking sensor. Without looking, you pick up every move, every direction, every expression of the desired face. Now you want to be in front of it. You find yourself in places you wouldn't normally be doing things you wouldn't normally do. All of your gestures are crying for help, all of your sounds are flouncing in the air, directed towards just one point in space, as if some magical magnetic forces were sucking them up, turning into millions of regrets, why did I say that, why, no, seriously, what's wrong with me?
Oh but later you are going to remember that time as the best your faces used to have. Or you won't. Give it some time anyway.
You want that face to look at you, to see you. Then to see only you. Inevitably.
You will do things and say things and do things again, just to see that face responding to what you are up to, you will make it laugh to see it's only you who makes it laugh, and you will hurt it to make sure you are the one who can do it. And the tears you will see are yours, you made them, you own them, you've made such a long way to this point. This is kind of hunger; it's addiction, full dependence. The best and the worst to ever happen and to disappear one day, just as nonchalantly walking out of the door as it once walked in and messed everything up. Leaving just painful relief.

Iiiiiiii don't know.

How do people ever feel brave enough to try to put this shit in words?
Anyway, anyone, talk to me anytime.
Love you ALL (like seriously ALL okay.)

red red red

That mood, you know, when you only want to listen to those songs you know by heart.
Now sleep sleep sleep.

(горбатого могила)

This happened yesterday night when I decided to do some scenery drawing. Yes, this is a scenery. CAN'T YOU SEE (ha-ha-ha get it get it?)

 Hilarious. So original.

Anyway rejoice, I am back with things. So very typical things. Sorry for the mess in the upper left corner (you didn't notice but now you do), it's all because I am shit and I don't have a scanner. Meh, who cares? Don't trust the machines. 

Right, here's my pick for all of the months of my life. 

This is my soundtrack of my life, in case you ever wondered. So healing.

Love you all, people!

How are you doing there?

The City of Chestnuts and Accordions

Delighted to bring this notice to your attention: November is about to end, that month with a beautiful name and horrible personality is fading away slowly, but surely. Sometimes it stretches its pale arms all the way through December, breathes the gloom in your spine in January, or jumps on you on a March morning. You can never get away from your November.

Today I will fulfill one request I received from my friend, namely - to talk about our lovely Ljubljana, and this is what I am about to do now.

Wet, black pavement during the night looks like skin of some terrifying mystical creature, grudgingly reflecting movements of lights and shadows. The city that grows on it, the city I am living in, never stops fascinating me. I swear I have never been to a place that can turn so alive and so dead: this is something that puzzled me for my whole first year of discoveries.

University, conservatory and other buildings, dollhouse-like tiny castles, lighted against dark sky look almost surreal, too close and too naive under the surprisingly cold rain; worn out, but colorful rows of terraced houses growing out of the river seem like the warmest places to be (although we all know the troubles of heating and leaking the have, but the romanticism!), looking at you with unjust coziness of their lit windows; trees, plants, city benches and lonely lights left, as if someone forgot to turn it off, in empty shops, leaking through glass display and not finding anyone to illuminate - nor inside, nor outside... There is no one. Family evenings? Weather preferences? Did everyone decide to taking time for themselves, or to do a little cleaning around the house?
The city is empty. Tiny, tiny (how come they are so tiny?) sculptures are silent. Fences are silent, street lights are silent. A stranger passes, not pleased, swaying about the puddles with no expression on their face, no expression in their umbrella. A pair of stubborn tourists passes, they don't want to miss the evening just because some water was too bored up there and decided to land on some lovely places to see. And they will know that they didn't make a mistake when decided that a quite poor and nasty rain cannot make them stop exploring. An old woman riding a bicycle, wearing something like a giant plastic bag, passes me, and I feel older  than her, folding my umbrella the very next moment.
The emptiness cannot be accidental, for it feels rather mystical. Like visiting amazingly realistic theatre decorations, but not as an actor, with this familiarity and comfort of routine is his eyes, no; more like a child who, crawling, slipped on the stage after all the wine is drunk and all echoes of step-dancing are swallowed by the night sky.

The other evening, perhaps someday in August, I open my windows to the marching bands, so enthusiastic about something you've never heard of, but already feel connected to; I open my door to humid heat and warm smell of grilled meat, to voices and faces of strangers, moving, moving, waving, talking, singing, eating, drinking. The great celebration has fallen down on the town, and you cannot ignore it. A man with painted face and a girl in a costume looking like as if she stepped out that milk chocolate commercial give me a tomato and a paper. People, people, people, can so many of them fit in these narrow and previously so artificial and fragile streets? Oh yes they can - and they also cannot, at some points, so you have to make your way through smoke, through words you cannot even identify, through unjustified cheerfulness and some characters are not even getting of their bikes in this condense mass of celebrating bodies.
People of all kinds, all shapes, all colours and singing in all languages. Tourists, bikes, accordions, artists looking for some fortune or some change, with or without accordions, fancy people certainly without accordions... I can't name them all. All friends, all strangers.
Music finds you everywhere, you cannot escape it. Exceptionally good, exceptionally bad, sometimes it reaches you from three directions at the same moment, and I get both dizzy and happy. The smell, the light, voices, warmth, wind, life that is overflowing with no obvious reasons - and this is how it should be, I believe.

On some nights the smell of roasted chestnuts follows you. On some mornings, that deep white ghost of mist is your companion. On some afternoons, you just look up and see - bas-relief flowers blooming on the walls of modest heights, your eyes meet with hundred of pars of stony eyes - people of the altorilievo nation, characters, beautiful women, handsome men, displaying their graceful figures or beheaded above the main entrance.
How can you feel alone in this city?
I suppose, you can.

This is something I can now remember about that little area that I inhibit, not bigger that the Central Park, and still full of surprises and simple charm. I will add to it, because every day there is a new (often small, familiar, yet so fresh and vivid) sensation right in front of my eyes, waiting for me to let it be the greatest amazement in the entire universe, at least for some moments.
I will not conclude this entry, I leave it opened. Hopefully, for long and long days we still have together.

To my Darling, who is an asshole

It's my personal blog and it's my personal stuff, so fuck off. (don't fuck off, but well... bear with me for a moment, okay? okay.)

Random Tuesday chat, Again

So I took out my imaginary friend for a walk. We stared at the street lamp, stared at the corpses of leaves on the ground, I showed him my favourite bench so we can comfortably stare at busy people passing by (they never noticed it because we're so good). You know, we were having great time and all.

ha

Autumn is a rich celebration of welcoming death and decay to take over the world. Autumn is balancing on the edge of depression as a weather descriptor, and the peak of nature's mature glory and fruitfulness, it's the most decorated and the least promising season. Cheesy as it sounds, I feel some deep connection between us, as if I already knew something about the day I will die. People who die in autumn should become a foggy morning. All of us should, probably. I wouldn't regret dying if I knew I could still amaze someone at least once in a while.

So now, son, we're heading towards the end of this month. We're in the middle of this season, while this year is already at the doorstep, bending down to put the shoes on before leaving, smiling at its own back pain.
_
And here's something I leave for myself to learn and remember.
There's a narrator to each fairytale. But it doesn't matter how soft and nice his voice is, or how gently he holds a book, he is not a part of a fairytale himself. He just reads it out for you. He might even not believe in that fairytale. And that's not a sin, even though he might be a sinner. He is just a bulb, not the light. Do not mix it. Stay sober, and do not invite the narrator to join the fairytale, you don't need him there. He can take you home, but you can't try to take him on stage. Everything and everyone has their own place. And that's good. Good enough.

wow
I don't know. I'll try to draw something. I can't, but I will ignore this. Too shameful.