Setaj malo

[zmanic]

Savet za one koji ne mogu da se nateraju da šetaju: nabavite aktivnog psa. Ja sam neprimetno smršao 18kg za dve godine otkako sam nabavio psa koji mora da se izvodi bar 2x dnevno po sat - dva.

[Frank Pembleton]

jel se i ti ne znojiš dok hodaš ( ja biram stranu s ladovinom), ali kada staneš - buuum..gola voda!?

Uh pa to je normalno, to se meni desavalo na trasi do posla kad sam forsirao da idem peske sto vise...Cepam cepam i onda na semaforu na 20m od posla bum sve iz mene lipti...Pitao ortaka medicinara i on mi nesto objasnio tu mehaniku i SUS to je normalno...

[Sir Oliver]

dobro je, već sam se zabrinuo!

[Indy]

Malo esejistike o pesacenju... Herzogov citat je dragulj.From the wandering observations of the sophisticated idler to the pilgrim’s quest for meaning, walking in all of its forms is one of literature’s richest devices, writes Courtney Collins.The last time I was in Sydney I saw a hipster walking a pig. I’d come out of a café in Chippendale and the hipster and his pig were heading towards me, taking up most of the narrow footpath. I stepped to one side, to let them pass. I was openly laughing by then but the guy wore a straight face. He didn’t want to share in any joke.In mid-19th century Paris, apparently it was elegant to take turtles for a walk in the arcades. So reports German literary critic Walter Benjamin in his Arcades Project – a partially drafted collection of quotes and notes on 19th century Parisian life and arcades written between 1927 and 1940. In it Benjamin described a culture of flânerie that grew under covered passages. Sheltered from bad weather, the aesthetic-minded flâneur could stroll and people-gaze at leisure.Benjamin did not clearly define the flâneur but associated him with a certain disposition – he was refined, well heeled and his art – his voyeurism and writing, rested on his strolling. Charles Baudelaire did describe the flâneur at length in The Painter of Modern Life, (1863). His flâneur was a “passionate spectator” moving through the city, observing crowds. He was at home anywhere, an idealised “spiritual citizen of the universe ” and in possession of unearthly gifts: “…the external world is reborn upon his paper, natural and more than natural, beautiful and more than beautiful, strange and endowed with an impulsive life like the soul of its creator.”For both Benjamin and Baudelaire the flâneur’s role could only be filled by one small segment of the population: educated, middle-class men. The flâneur’s freedom to wonder through the city was an exclusively male freedom. The public sphere of work, cafés and bars was closed to the respectable woman. If she did venture out, she was chaperoned and it wasn’t until the late 1800s that cafés and restaurants began opening up that welcomed her, ‘unattended’. If there was a female counterpart to the flâneur, the flâneuse, it was another kind of streetwalker, the prostitute. But to wish the prostitute had picked up a pen seems to not account for reality at all.It could be that the whole flâneur thing is a literary fantasy. In Wanderlust: A History of Walking (2001) Rebecca Solnit questions if the flâneur ever actually existed. She writes: “…no literary detective has found and named an individual who qualifies or was known as a flâneur.” And yet, his influence, as seen in the hipster walking his pig, remains.The New Yorker magazine critic James Wood muses on the literary influence of the flâneur in How Fiction Works (2008). Woods describes the flâneur as “the loafer, usually the young man, who walks the streets with no great urgency, seeing, looking, reflecting.” For Woods, this particular way of viewing becomes a literary model for the modern novel: “This figure is essentially a stand-in for the author, is the author’s porous scout, helplessly inundated with impressions. He goes out into the world like Noah’s dove, to bring report back.” The flâneur’s “report” aims for realism, where the flâneur is not just taking snap-shots with his eyes and describing it on the page, but trying to recreate the effect of randomness and time passing: “the artifice lies in the selection of detail.”Fortunately, feminism has occurred since Benjamin and Baudelaire romanticised the flâneur. If only Wood had gone further in accounting for the power of the gaze, and as it has been especially criticized, the male gaze.Teju Cole’s novel Open City (2011) comes closer to revealing some of the inherent problems of the flâneur as narrator. In his novel Julius, a Nigerian/German immigrant, wanders around New York City and later Brussels with a feeling of not belonging at all. Like Baudelaire’s flâneur he is well travelled and sophisticated – he’s on a fellowship completing a degree in psychiatry. But his ambulation opens up thoughts that are only solipsistic. There is no comfort in his perceptions; they only seem to be making his isolation clearer. Along the way, there are few revelations for the reader of Julius’s character and one of the key revelations, the question – Did Julius rape a girl? lingers but is never confirmed. The reader is alerted to the risk of being drawn into the narrator’s world of self-deception and must be on guard against his lies.Cole exposes the flâneur as a slippery fish transforming nothing and no one, least of all himself. Observing life in a contemporary city does not make him better or worse. Julius remains what he is: at best a solitary walker looking for a fulcrum for his thoughts, at worst a stalking sociopath.If we’re walking and talking and looking for a literary model to hang it all on, I’d choose the honest to goodness sweat and suffering of the atheist pilgrim over the flâneur myself. There’s determinationin the narrative. There’s somewhere to go.Werner Herzog’s Of Walking in Ice (1978) is a short diary of his pilgrimage from Munich to Paris to be with his mentor, film critic Lotte Eisner, as she is on her death bed. For Herzog, walking is an act of secular faith, a resistance to the inevitability of her death: “I set off on the most direct route to Paris, in full faith, believing that she would stay alive if I came on foot. Besides I wanted to be alone with myself.”Mainly, Herzog’s diary documents his physical ailments endured on a walk in open nature, without shelter from arcades. The repeated act of placing one foot in front of another opens his mind to a transcendent state: “…when I am walking I fall deep into dreams. I float through fantasies and find myself inside unbelievable stories. I literally walk through whole novels and films, and football matches. I do not even look at where I am stepping, but I never lose my direction.”Tracks (1980) is Robyn Davidson’s memoir of her walk across the Australian desert in the company of four camels and a dog. Her motivation was to escape a mediated life, to try to learn something of Aboriginal culture and perhaps something about her self: “The hour before the sun spills thin blood colour on the sand, I woke suddenly, and tried to gather myself from a dream I could not remember. I was split. I woke into limbo and could not find myself. There were no reference points, nothing to keep the world controlled and bound together. There was nothing but chaos and these voices.”The beauty of the recounted walk as a literary structure is that it welcomes digression and varied association. It enables a stream of consciousness. But even though both the flâneur and the pilgrim set out walking, it is the flâneur who seems most at risk of remaining in a locked loop of the self. It’s the godless pilgrim who seems to be able to connect with something greater than pure rational knowledge, something very humbling, even if it is a dissolving self.It’s worth noting that Lotte Eisner did in fact live another nine years after Herzog made the pilgrimage to her bedside. I may be falling head over heals into a romance of the pilgrim but the truth is I just don’t want to give way to any more hipsters and their pigs.- Courtney Collins

[I*m with the pilots]

H.D. Toro o setanju @Scribd

[Indy]

[Ajant23]

Znači, posle sat vremena, mozak izgoreo?

[Indy]

:lolol:Jeste, ne treba preterivati.