Have you been, my young brethren,

Have you ever been to a graveyard,

To a large graveyard?

– Well, we are always in a graveyard.

The earth we walk on is a graveyard;

The water we sail on is a graveyard;

Yards and gardens are graveyards;

Hills and valleys are graveyards,

Each foot

Grave next to grave.

The monument of all times is a graveyard;

The books we read are a graveyard;

The history book of all lands,

Of the olden emperors, kings,

And the obituary of higher images

Of the chosen ones, of martyrs,

From as far back as memory goes;

It’s all a graveyard –

But a cradle too.

There is no name and no number

For all the stars high above,

And even less can there be number and remembrance

For the graves in the dear earth!

Millions were swallowed by darkness,

The pitch darkness of many a millennium,

Nobody remembers them still,

But a candle always burns for some of them.

It is either a candle, or the name is bright,

Or the deeds are ever-burning,

So that they adorn with their rays

The rows of the endless cemetery.

These graves,

Old, new,

They shine

For every generation –

When minds get engrossed in the past

For them not to get lost in the darkness;

When you plunge into the holy ancient times,

Both holy and cursed ancient times,

For your thought not to get you off your way.

They are harbinger fires,

Which reach from distant eons

In that long procession –

Shining a light for one another

With a stream which flows forth,

Striving toward a single goal, –

And so the bright beams

And so the bright traces

Of a single spirit of various ages,

A spirit which has no grave.

– It merely chucks the bones into the grave,

Shakes off the ashes which impede it.

For a faster progress, higher flight

Toward an elevated future.

He who turns around to look

With a clear eye and sight

At these bright graves,

History books in a long succession,

He must hear how,

Through centuries, through mist,

Grandfather to grandson, father to son,

Warrior to warrior

Loudly cried:

‘Where I stopped – you will go!’

‘What I couldn’t – you will do!’

‘Where I couldn’t – you’ll arrive!’

‘Whatever we owe – you pay it off!’

These are the words, these are the voices,

Which adorn the past,

Which penetrate through the world of darkness

From those shining graves,

Binding with a thunderous roar

And with a divine force,

Binding centuries together

And binding man with man.

[…]

I have a friend who ran a marathon today. She finished it. Its amazing!!
Yesterday we made a massive walk (8 km)...direction... well, whatever... its Saturday and its lovely and Sam will join us.
Sam is a guy who is remo(r)tely related to Nicole Kidman, whose grandma was a chicken sexor (google it, and no, its not a power metal bend from Australia) and who is busking up on the Montmartre hill for the past few days (thats not how I met him). Btw, I don't think he knows how shark looks like (which makes him even more peculiar since he is from the place where they have a bunch of them) and he has a general problem with fauna (and flora). Strange dude.
But Annie finished 26.21875. In miles. Brava <3

I was walking around Beaux Arts, rue Bonaparte and Latin quarter just to kill some time until my friend's exhibition (yes, in BA) was ready to be opened. And somehow I finished in front of the sign. Simple one. With lotzaaaa stickers. This one from above. But I stopped for the other reason. I saw written in red - Mileta. Mileta was my professor of drawing at some point in my life. Before university. Before architecture. Before serious things. Before realizing that life is not a serious thing. Bah. Before...you know what I mean.

Later he moved to Korea. The good one. Good Korea. With his wife. I don't remember her name, just that she was lovely. I met him only once in the street, during these, well, many years and I remember well that he told me some inspiring words. That he gave me that push, that I felt better and that I was aware that I can make more and be better in everything I am doing.

Us, the crew that was taking drawing classes in his atelier, just above one famous bar back home, have had a huge respect for that man. He is only a few years older, but we believed in advices he was giving. All of them. At least I did.

Now, why does my post has a silly title: Mileta&respect. There goes the story... One day he came into atelier, to give us the class in super cool T-shirt. We were all like - yeah, what a cool professor we are having. It was written RESPECT. Big, bold, sans serif (if I remember well) letters. RESPECT. We told him, hey Mileta, that shirt rocks! He, modest as he was, looked at the shirt and said in his specific, slow
voice: Oooooh, tnx, but I am a bit confused what does -respect- mean in this context... I should respect someone, or somebody should respect me, or that is respect in general...

He is an amazing artist. I went to his blog. Realized he is living in South Africa. My close friend, Dave is also living there now. That Mileta moved away from Korea. That I need to write him an e-mail to tell him he made my day once again!

And one thing is certain. I have no idea what the author of the shirt from above wanted to say. But, respect goes to Mileta. 

We spent morning running around taking photos for a site we are making. We finished it with some kind of brunch, sit down for a coffee/squashed juice and relax. Place is on Liman, nice designed super pricey café  called Organic something, not sure... sorry.
Then I found a perfect moment to take a photo of everything what defines this old friend of mine...