Inner Self

I'M PAYING YOU

2009-09-21T10:53:00.000+03:00

What are we paid for? To do our job or to do what we are told to do? The question may have some tricky implications. From historical debates, wheather people did their job or committed crimes when carrying out orders, to smaller matters, just like the Romanian soccer boss Becali who recently fired his trainer for not following his instructions during the game. Some people said he was right, as the man was on his payroll, others said he was wrong, you don't do such a thing, no matter you own the club or the entire country. The debate has gone on in art as well, since people could not decide who owned the girl that had been a statue and became alive: the king, who gave the stone or the artist who carved the girl?
I think this is a matter of perosnal choice: as long as I decide to carry out orders, I'm a hired hand; the moment I decide upon a status, meaning rules for both employer and employee, I have become a professional. The difference between the two is usually a marketing problem.

Where the Story Appeared

2009-09-15T13:33:00.001+03:00

Where the Story Appeared

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RIGHTFUL OR WRONGFUL

2009-08-21T11:30:00.005+03:00

Applying a patent to a product is right; it's definitely wrong to steal other people's ideas. The problem is: the product has to be owned - meaning created - by someone, it has to be original, otherwise the patent applied to it will be just another scheme to make some people rich.

In a Romanian village, Sapanta, there was an artisan who became famous for his wooden crosses, he used to carve and decorate in a funny way, in contrast to their destination: the village graveyard. The place became also famous for his "Joyful Graveyard" and positive attitude facing death. The man who made all these passed away, leaving the craft to three apprentices, who continued carving wooden crosses on their own.

One day, somebody advised one of the three artisans to secretly apply for a patent, which was granted to him. Why? Nobody knows, as making wooden crosses of a specific design and colour was neither his idea (he had learned the craft from his deceased master), nor has he added anything to the process that he could apply for a patent to. Thus, he became the only person legally entitled to carve wooden crosses in the village, the other two artisans remaining jobless. They tried to ignore the patent, and were heavily fined for copyright violation.

Was it right to grant this patent? I don't think so. On the contrary, I find it abusive. What do you think?

AND WHO'S GONNA PAY FOR ALL THAT?

2009-08-20T16:22:00.003+03:00

We've created it: the system. It's called star system. It's a gimmick. Somebody picks up people. Those people don't have to be particularly gifted. They're just odinary people. The fact that they are paid obscene amounts of money for what they do makes them what they are: STARS. People get hysterical over anything their stars do. The stars do very common things, which become extraordinary, because they were done by a star. Why does the star system work? Because a lot of people feed on it, and lots of people don't want to admit that it's nonsense. The people who feed on it are somehow blessed with a certain amount of stardom. Being for instance the driver of a star icreases your salary tenfold, just because you're the driver of a star. Everything that has to do with a star has to be ridiculously expensive. A lot of money is showeled around, and a lot o people make profit. The money comes from other lots and lots of people, who need to be sold an illusion. Some day, the star system is going to explode. Probably some alarmclock will ring in due time. And all we are going to say, will be: "Good morning".

How To Write A Novel

2009-08-18T16:06:00.001+03:00

How to Write a Novel -- powered by eHow.com
Well... so much for the start; let's see what happens from now on.

The End of the World

2009-08-17T12:09:00.000+03:00

Writing about the end of the world has become a common topic. Whenever I come across the theme, I am reminded of a beggar I once saw in Cardiff, U.K.

He was silently sitting behind a box marked "I'm hungry". When I passed him, my face must have looked worried.

"C'mon, it's not the end of the world!"

That was all he said.

He didn't ask for money or anything. I remember I gave him something like 50 pence, all the coins that happened to be in the pocket of my jeans.

Maybe he was smart, smarter than I, and knew how to organize his act. Probably he got what he wanted. I don't care.

Many times, when troubled or desperate, these words kept coming back to my mind:

"C'mon, it's not the end of the world!"