Petr Moc is the 2nd Satriani!!!

Yeasterday at 9:15pm I left Usti for the concert of my friend Petr Power the mighty;}
We were 4. Me, Jay-my classmate,Lenka-my schoolmate and Sarka-Jay's friend.Right...we arrived in Decin,where was the concert, at about 9:30. So you can presume what kind of ride it was...vvvveeerrryyyy faaast...but Jay is a very good driver;}. 1st band was called Apatheia from Havirov and I realized I know their guitarist. He's cousin of my best friend, whom I've got a band with. Bands,bands,bands...I liked their playing,but their sound was odd...maybe it was the acoustics of that hall. So after them there was a short break but by that time Petr Power had already been fully concentrated on his "storm". His band's called Baf and that sort of stuff. Pretty suitable name. Altough I didn't like their lyrics their music was fascinating. I very much shivered when Petr did his guitar crescendo...What a harmony....You simply got me to my knees....Petr,if I was a girl...no,nothing. Afterwards everyone of us was given a piece of cake, which Baf bought for their singer Jitka. We got back to Usti at around 3am full of new experiences...Thank you Apatheia,thank you Baf, thank you Petr.

What is reality???

This Friday I was waiting on my philosophy lesson and talking to my friend, when a man in apparently worn-out coat rushed into the auditorium. It was him. Our philosophy teacher.The Plan of this philosophy course is 11 lectures with 11 different teachers, so everytime it's very challenging to guess an appearance of a teacher. This time it was exactly the type you would call "a philosopher" and you would certainly believe that his uncle was Aristoteles himself...
We followed him into the auditorium and than a drama started. Basically the lesson was about our perception of reality and what reality actually is. He brought a red mug full of coffee and started arguing that it is a mug for him, but for someone else it is actually a pot. This teacher was so convincing that I believed it was a mug for a moment and for the next moment I believed it was a pot. Anyway....it must be damn difficult to live a life like this....to admit that there is no universal reality.
His handwritting was of a strange style exactly of a philosopher's one. He was very distracted, but that I appreciate maybe the most. I think that his effort would be spoilt by a whirlwind of some cool philosophical words. Instead of this he used extremely simple vocabulary, but the target was hit.....at least my target. So the conlusion is this.....Reality is complicated but simply describable......The end of my rambling......for today;)

One of my essays and the english translation here;)

Ondřej Váhal

Dnes je úterý. Myslím, že je listopad, ale nevím to přesně. Podle toho, že stromy už jsou holé, myslím, že už listopad určitě bude. Ale vždyť je to vlastně jedno. Jmenuji se Ondřej Váhal. Bydlím v Broumově, v pátém poschodí panelového domu v jedné z okrajových částí města. Měl jsem štěstí. Moje sousedka je velice hodná paní, která se mě vždycky zeptá na to, jak se mám. Myslím si, že někdy to dělá jen ze zvyku. Víte, je zvyklá ptát se každého, koho zná. Dříve se to tak dělalo. No ale je to lepší, když se mě zeptá, než kdyby mlčela. Jmenuje se Alžběta. Tak tedy, bydlím v Broumově, v pátém poschodí panelového domu. Můj byt není moc velký, ale pro mě to stačí. Víte, když člověk žije sám, tak se dovede uskromnit.Dnes by měla přijít Olga. Mám ji rád. Vždycky mi vypere a občas přinese šopský salát a pět rohlíků. Myslím si, že se jí líbím, ale nevím to přesně. Víte, to je pro mě důležité, abych to věděl. Včera jsem sledoval zprávy. V jedné z reportáží ukazovali mrtvou lišku. Jak může někdo zabíjet zvířata jen pro srst? Nechápu to. Nechci to pochopit. Mohla to být liška, která se vracela ke svým mláďatům z lovu. A ona už ji nikdy nespatří. Mě to vždycky tak rozpláče. Někdy brečím třeba tři hodiny. Já vím, chlapi by tohle neměli dělat, ale já to nemůžu zastavit. Úplně mě ty hrozné události pohltí. Někdy, když už opravdu nemůžu, tak si zapálím cigaretu. Olga mi říká, že bych neměl moc kouřit. Prý to je špatné na plíce. Ale já mám tak rád ty tvary, které z toho kouře můžu dělat. Občas se červenám, protože vznikají takové zvláštní tvary, které mi připomínají ženskou postavu.Dnes je středa. Včera ke mně přišla Olga. Vypadala unaveně. Ale popovídali jsme si hezky. Vždycky si tak hezky popovídáme. Vyprávěla mi o tom, co dělá v práci. Musí hodně pracovat. Je totiž zaměstnána v jedné překladatelské firmě. Někdy musí překládat dlouho do noci. To je vždy, když šéf potřebuje něco rychle stihnout a poslat do oběhu. O víkendu čeká Olga babičku. Musí si ale doma uklidit, říkala. Ptal jsem se jí proč. „Aby se babička nezlobila“, říkala. Já jsem svou babičku nikdy neviděl. Jenom dědečka. Pamatuji se, jak jsem k němu ve školním věku jezdíval na prázdniny. Nechával mě starat se o dobytek. Někdy mě pochválil, a to jsem pak byl šťastný. Víte, někdy člověk potřebuje slyšet něco hezkého. Když mi bylo patnáct, můj dědeček zemřel. Byli jsme s maminkou na pohřbu. Jenom si pamatuji, jak rakev zajížděla do jakési díry. Tehdy jsem brečel. Věděl jsem, že svého dědečka už nikdy neuvidím. Nemohl jsem se s tím smířit. Nechtěl jsem. Občas jsem se přistihnul při tom, jak s ním diskutuji o svých problémech a potížích, o svých trápeních.Olga odešla po televizních novinách. Chtěl jsem ji ještě chvíli zdržet, tak jsem jí nabídl sklenku vody, ale ona že ne, že už musí domů. Musela ještě překládat. Tak jsem ji alespoň doprovodil na zastávku. Víte, měl jsem z toho takový divně nucený pocit. Doufám, že ji můj doprovod nijak neobtěžoval. Když autobus, ve kterém seděla, odjížděl, měl jsem stejný pocit jako tehdy před lety na pohřbu svého dědečka. Připadalo mi, že už ji nikdy neuvidím. Opět jsem se rozplakal. V poslední době to dělám víc a víc. Zahalil jsem si obličej šálou, aby nebylo vidět, že brečím a šel jsem domů. Nevím proč se mi to děje, ale mám z toho i radost, protože cítím, že jsou to ty nejupřímnější chvíle, které dokážu zažít.-------------------------------------------------------------------------Andrew Vahal.------------Today is Tuesday. I think it’s October, but I am not sure. I think so,because trees have already shed their leaves. However it is, it doesn’t matter. My name is Andrew. Andrew Vahal. I live in a suburb of Broumov on the 5^th floor in a block of flats. I have been lucky. My neighbour is a very nice woman. She always asks me how I am. I guess it’s typical for her. She is used to asking it everyone she knows. People would do it like that when she was young. Anyway, it’ s better to ask than be silent. Her name is Elizabeth. So…I live in Broumov on the 5^th floor in a block of flats. My flat isn’t very big, but it’s enough for me. You know, when someone lives alone, he can do with it (do just fine).Olga is to come today. I like her. She always washes my clothes and brings sopsky salad with five rolls for me. I think she likes me, but I’m not certain. You know, it’ s very important to me. I watched the news on television yesterday. There was a dead fox in one of the inputs. How come that some people can kill animals only for fur? I don’t understand this, at all. I don’t want to understand. It could have been a fox, which was just returning home to her offsprings. And she’ll never see them again. Such things always make me cry. I cry for 3 hours sometimes. I know, men shouldn’t do this, but I can’t help it. It consumes me totally. When I can’t handle it anymore, I smoke. Olga says that I shouldn’t smoke. “It’s bad for your lungs”,she’d say. But I love the shapes I can create while smoking. Sometimes I turn red. The shapes remind me of a woman’s figure.Today is Saturday. Yesterday Olga came to me. She looked tired. Even so, we had a nice conversation. She told me about her work. She must work hard. She’s employed in a translation bureau. Every so often she has to work until late. It is so, whenever her boss has got many deadlines and is in a hurry. She’s expecting her granny at the weekend and must tidy up at home. I asked her why. “In order my granny wouldn’t get angry”,she said. I never saw my granny. Only my grandpa. I remember I would go to him for holiday when I was little. He would allow me to take care of his cattle. Sometimes he would praise me and I’d very happy. You know, from time to time I need to hear something nice. When I was 15 my grandpa died. I went to the funeral with my mother. I only remember the coffin going into a strange hole. I cried at that time. I knew I wouldn’t see my grandpa ever again. I couldn’t deal with it. Later, I talked to him and discussed my troubles with him.Olga left after the news. I wanted her to stay a little bit longer, so I offered her a glass of wine, but she refused. She had to translate. I accompanied her to the bus stop. You know, I had a strange feeling about it. I hope I didn’t bother her. When the bus ,she was on,was leaving I felt like I would never see her again. I cried again. I have done it more and more ,recently. I covered my face with my scarf and went home. I don’t know why it happens, but it’s actually good. I think that moments like these, are the most honest ones I can ever experience. -

It's saturday today and I guess that nothing special's going on. Ecxept for one thing. My father came home today and heard one song on radio and said: "The world had hope at that time. But today......today is everything messed up." Well, while I was listening to that song with my father, I came to understand what he meant.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3m6z1Q2MkVk

My 1st shot or blogging united

Hello and good night for those of us who live in central Europe. As you can see, this blog is called macane's spot. I'll be posting here my thoughts filtered by keyboard. If you stick with me you might get a rough picture of my, so well-guarded, inner world, which is I guess a most dearest thing of every man.