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Big City Living (why I Love the Smell of Garbage)

December 26, 2017

What’s better, to live in a big city or a small village? Hey, there’s a thought: what’s better, to live in a small city or a big village (and does that phrase make sense)? I was born in a metropolis with a bit over 4 million inhabitants. I lived there until I was 17 – hence, a massive influence on my personality. Then I moved to another metropolis, about the same size (maybe very slightly bigger in absolute numbers, but covering a larger area it always felt smaller).

And then, I moved to a hamlet with about 100 inhabitants. Don’t ask why or where, it doesn’t matter. Life just happens. And life just happened when, after about two years in that village, I moved to a town that was larger by about 2000 people – and colder by about 40 degrees F (20C) on average. There, I lived for another two years until I moved to the place I currently live – a city of about 350.000 inhabitants.

Big city
My favorite city is in the mind
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Free Time and Work: A Matter of Ideology

December 25, 2017

Sometime ago I read an article about working conditions in Finland (that developed, modern, free Nordic country). It described how utterly depressed Finnish workers are, being forced to chase income in second or third part-time jobs, then returning home exhausted and crying. Needless to say, try to imagine the situation in places like the USA. No free time, only work. What’s the ideological connection between work and free time? Let’s take a closer look at systems that valorize and promote work versus free time, to get a better feel of the situation.

slave worker with no free time
“It’s called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe in it”
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Nostalgia: The Illusion of Space-Time

December 23, 2017

I don’t want to reveal my exact age, but I am not young. I am not old, either – although, perhaps this latter claim would automatically categorize me as old. In any case, I am at an age where I can look back and have a concept of nostalgia, of memories, of childhood.

I also have an uncannily good memory – which is a blessing for a writer. This memory is in fact multi-layered: Not only do I remember the past, but I remember myself in the past thinking about the past.

Nostalgia. Sunset
The place I spent most of my summers as a kid. But nostalgia is neither about the place, nor about me being a kid.
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