Ita est!

In the summer my brother was confined to our hometown, because everyone considered it too dangerous for his poor after the operations heath to let him go anywhere. He was supposed to stay at home to study and read, but mostly to relax – to do nothing that could harm his condition. As it could be easily guessed, opposite to this, it tormented him. What could he do all summer, all day long in the sweltering, emptied town? Everything he liked would be the same, and sooner or later he would exhaust his enthusiasm. The only entertainment in the heat of the summer at home not indifferent to him were neither the TV programs, nor songs, movies and meetings friends, it was photographing the sunsets that made his days. He was prescribed three-kilometer walks every day, so he took his camera and lenses and went away from home to wait for the last rays of the sun for the day.

While I was in all kinds of summer schools, exchanges and trips, he took piles of pictures and became inspired by the magnificent views people from Haskovo never see in their lives. He found the best places for watching the setting sun, and one day when I was just back from the last camp for the summer, he took me with him to see it.

All I knew was that it was next to the water tower I used to ask my father to take me to, when we were going to our villa in the “Yamatcha” hill. Daddy always refused to take me there because, as he told me, it was full of dangerous people living around it. 10 years later I was rushing to it, urged by my brother’s insistence to get there on time. He was no longer slower than I, and this time he was determined to take pictures.

I asked him to tell me where exactly we are going to, but soon, I found it out myself. We were gradually floating into an unknown-language tide. Altaic words were the only articulate sounds surrounding us. We were making our way into the “Turkish Neighborhood”. People there live with animals in the yards of the dirty miserable houses with aluminum window frames. People inside the frames looked at us in a very peculiar way – they didn’t know us, and they were surprised to see a girl and a boy, speaking in Bulgarian rushing towards the water tower with full of heavy equipment backpacks. They were staring at us, and this frightened me. This time it wasn’t the feeling that they were looking at me with full of malevolence glance, it was even worse – their eyes didn’t express anything. Their faces were not even covered by masks, but they exposed the emptiness beyond the visible lack of features.

Until we reached the Water Tower I was already stunned. My mind was full of the series of pictures of unconscious despair and not minded poverty and stink of miserable life. We were now on the hill, right under the enormous concrete device. My brother was excited by the unparalleled beauty of the colorful sky above the fiery red sun. He took photos, and he pointed it, smiling with delight and repeating “this is what is worth! It is magnificent; it’s the best place to watch sunsets! How I wished I came here more often! You like it, don’t you?!”

Right next to him I couldn’t see the beauty, created by the sun, because I was dazzled by the poor reality surrounding me in my own town. I obviously wasn’t familiar enough with it, to know its real state. I had to examine it. From that hill I could see the whole of it, with all the groups of houses and blocks of flats and. The proud symbol of Haskovo, the Blessed Virgin Mary Monument high above on the “Yamatcha Hill” protected the town keeping everything in her arms and eyes. She seemed to hold everything but she had turned her back on the Water Tower and the life around.

At the weekend I went to Shumen to take part in a competition in Informatics. I had been listening about the statue of the 1300th Bulgarian anniversary with the 1300 steps you must climb to reach it since August, and I was eager to see it.

On Friday evening, I couldn’t make people come with me to see it. Instead, they preferred to go to a restaurant and have a beer before the competition. I didn’t mind hiving a juice with them, however.

On the way through the central part of the city, I saw the most significant building in Shumen, together with a high, enormous, mighty, concrete building. It looked like the municipality halls in many towns, but my question “Wow, what’s that building?” was taken as a joke, and no one told me what does it stand for. On my way back to the hotel, I was alone with one boy from Shumen, and when I saw the imposing figure again I asked him what people do in that building and, again, he smiled and answered nothing important, so we passed on my next inquisitive question.

After the competition, this time with tha sun above the horizon, I was together with my friends, we followed the previous night’s route, and when we went close to the striking building, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It stood there, high above everything else, frozen, unfinished and deserted, as a reminescence of communism. Through the epochs, the tallest building in the city was considered to symbolize the power ruling the world of that place like the cathedrals and palaces, followed by scyscrapers nowadays.

Here in Bulgarian cities, the most impressive buldings, stand for the unfulfilled ideas and dreams of the country and its resigned people 1300 years after their ancestors obtained that rich land for them.

Surprisingly, I’m not going to say anything about prof. Yulian Vuchkov now. “The Professor” this time is Damien Rice, and, actually, everyone who sings together with his record.

Loving is good if it’s not understood
Yeah, but I’m the professor
And feel that I should know…

It’s true that everyone feels the urge to know more about love. With every song I hear, every book I read, and every day I live, I see that people are pretty fond of talking about love. I’ve wondered why love mater is not only discussed so commonly, but analyzed, and what the special thing so interesting about it is. Eventually, I have an answer!

In “Portrain in Sepia” by Isabel Allende I recently read the following idea of a young lady in love.

“If a dead poet on the other side of the world could describe my feelings with such precision, I had to accept with humility that my love was not exceptional, that I had invented nothing, that everyone falls in love in more or less the same manner.”

It made me realize that it is not the uniqueness of each love that makes the great minds think of the aspects of love for centuries. What makes it common, must be the essential thing sophisticated people try to reveal. By all the descriptions, good authors do not just want to present a love story and make one closer to others’ affairs, but they yearn for its real hidden essence, which provokes the similar conditions of diverse people.

so few people listen to Will Dailey!

A few days ago, while I’ve been looking for Damien Rice’s videos, I came across that name and I thought “I should try something new” and listened to one of his songs - “Bi Polar Baby”. I felt it was amazing and found it in YouTube, I found his website, his profile in My Space and an article about him in Wikipedia, but hadly anything else - just the lyrics of two old songs.

“He is notable as being the winner of the 2006 Boston Music Award for Best Male Singer-Songwriter” as it is written in Wikipedia, but why so few people know “Bi Polar Baby” - it was viewed only 990 times and has only 6 ratings.

When it is about music, one can never be impartial and I can’t see why it is not popular, and I think it should be.

Hmm, can you understand the whole text? I can’t! Ha-ha maybe that’s why I still like it, unlike others who don’t insist on spreading it