Thursday, February 21, 2008

हार्दिक शुभकामनाएं

Happy birthday, my dear Martin! <3
Честит рожден ден с много любов

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Долната земя

I can't help it. I loathe Sofia. It's just so against everything I hold dear and common sense, to top it all. There are friends. But not like before. I'm aware nothing can stay the same forever, but that doesn't stop me from wishing some things did.
The good things which happen are like differently coloured beacons on my calender; and I had a softly green one last Friday at Petko and Beni's. It keeps me warm.

Thursday, February 7, 2008


I've never been particularly fond of poetry, and I've never quite understood the appeal of it. I recognize it can evoke emotions and, as a language-schooled person, I can appreciate its unique use and moulding of language, but I'm just not a fan. However, since there is a certain holiday coming in the middle of the month, and I signed up for a related event on the CoS boards, I found myself re-reading the few poetry books I have, and thinking that there is something about poems after all. I also found out that my tastes and the way I form a liking to a particular piece have changed.

My current favourite is Love by Atanas Dalchev, which seems to exert a powerful pull on the pleasure centre of my brain; plus it makes me chase the sources of its exremely strong, dense aroma, gets me weighing and analysing its words and images, rummaging through the net of meanings it creates - and all that also gives me immense pleasure. It's like magic, really. There are three pointsin it which create the poem's plane - the scarlet tomato, the green eyes and the nail, shining like a star - they are like beacons, casting a soft light over the rest of the poem and revealing its delicate structure and a certain very distinct exquisite quality. It's a gem, a delight. I tried to translate it into English, but failed completeley... Here it is in its original Bulgarian:

Над старото тържище ален
бе залезът като домат
и все тъй строен, все тъй млад
стоеше бедният хамалин.

Засипваше дрезгавина
очите, веждите му вече,
но не дойде и тази вечер
зеленооката жена,

която го веднъж повика

с очи, със поглед, без слова
и зарад тежкия товар
му заплати една усмивка.

Да би дошла и тази нощ. . .
да би му станала невеста. . .
до гроба би я носил весел
на гръб в широкия си кош.

И всеки гвоздей от обущата му
би грял в нощта като звезда,
когато долу през града
към къщи с нея ще се спуща.

Сънуваше ли? Сам в света,
хамалинът стоеше влюбен.
И мракът от лика му груб бе
изтрил и сетната черта.

I am also particularly fond of Emily Dickinson and her acutely characteristic verses.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

If travel is searching...

... and home what's been found, I'm in a hell of a journey right now, and I don't mean this in a good sense. All the flats and rooms for rent in Sofia seem to be either filthy, or in dodgy neighbourhoods, or both. It's a nightmare. And when I do find where to live, I'll have to work, to figure out the topic of my thesis, to live with my sister - in short, to struggle a lot.

Last night I watched a series of shorts, called 10 Minutes Older - among the directors were Aki Kaurismäki, Wim Wenders, Werner Herzog, Spike Lee, Victor Erice, Jim Jarmush. I liked Erice's best, although admittedly I was a teensy bit too tipsy to properly appreciate the second half of the films :p I's comforting to know that some things haven't changed despite time and space alterations - like Alexander's always having some cinematic gems to share.