ja. v bistvu neke sorte vulkanizerstvo. zamenjajo poceno pnevmatiko, potrepljajo po rami in vozi misko. vem za klinicno psihologijo, torej support brez medikamentov: vecino prometa delajo s soft casi, t.i. epizodami, za glavni kriterij se gleda bazicno samostojno vsakdanje funkcioniranje in cim je temu za silo zadosceno, potrepljajo po rami, dajo vizitko in vozi misko. sve su ostalo nijanse...

[NemirniTujec]
> [mrkolice]
>
> se nemirni manjka, da te sadike nacepi na nietzschejanski amor fati, to bo sele veselo oznanilo

Nietzsche bi rekel, da so vsi ti avtorji - od fromma do frankla pa vsi frankfurterji zraven - zgresili v osnovi ker se napajajo tako v Kantu kot v Psihoanalizi. Iz Kanta lahko nastane samo seksualno zavrt cmeravec, iz psihoanalize pa nekaksna pretenzija, da je ze v redu, da je tak, ker drugacen pac biti ne more.

Vsa ta literatura je vseeno odlicno gradivo za vzgojo brezglavih telet v odgovorna goveda, ki so nujno potrebna za stabilen donos mleka in zrezkov. Nikoli pa goveda ne bodo nic spremenila ali sploh odlocala o cemerkoli na tem svetu - o stvareh odloca clovek ki ima voljo. In ki mu resnicno dol visi s katero finto, ki ji podleze kantovsko vzneseni in samopomilujoci duh, bo goveda peljal v klavnico za najboljse snicle, in ne tamo neko klavnico za poli salamo.

S tem se je ukvarjal Nietzsche - kako se zazreti v brezno Nica (brezsmiselnost pehanja bioloskega cloveskega zivljenja brez duse, brez boga, ki se razkroji in ga pozrejo crvi), v nicevost clovekovih bednih muk in sanjarij sprico neskoncnega vesolja, in ob tem ostati dusevno zdrav, in maso cloveskih goved ponucati za osvajanje vesolja (vsega - nica), ki naj Mi sluzi - Moji volji. Kako biti kot posameznik vseeno del tako neskoncnega podjema, del prevrednotenja smislov, kako se zavedati, da kljub neskoncno majhnem doprinosu posameznika vendarle doprinasam in da je na voljo samo to, ali pa biti govedo za hranjenje idej in interesov tistih, ki to zmorejo.

Nietzscheju je bilo resnicno vseeno, ali creda goved trpi medtem ko je izkoriscana za ideje tistih z voljo, ali se ima creda prav fajn poleg. Njemu je slo dosti bolj zato, da bi tisti z voljo izstopili iz vecnega kroga platonsko pojmovane "druzbe" - na katero je nato krcanstvo cepilo idejo boga in nebes in pekla - sodobni socializem (ali marksizem) pa se v bistvu razvije iz krscanstva nazaj v nekaksen pravicniski platonizem za bebce, ker mu je znanost ubila boga in posmrtno zivljenje. Nietzsche hoce iz ljudi (ne)vzgajati nova bitja, ki se nehajo vrteti v krogu vecnega vracanja enakega, izmisljenih kulturno pogojenih igric o "dobrem in zlem" - hoce bitje s cisto voljo in interesom.

Seveda nic takega biti ne more, zato je tudi nietzsche koncal kot spolno zavrt fantast, ki kljub vsej svoji pameti ni uspel okoli prsta namotati in si jajc sprazniti na eni cisto povprecni artisticni smrklji. Naposled se mi je zaradi spoznanja, da je duhovno neskoncen, v praksi pa cisto navadno govedo za razrez v poli salamo, povsem zmesalo.

Neomarksistom na udobnih univerzitetnih stolckih v frankfurtu se seveda ni moglo zmesati, ker jih boli kurac za vse te vzvisene ideje, oni so samo malo bolj nacitane kopije Boruta Pahorja. Viktorju Franklu pa se ne more zmesati, ker so mu vse cute za ugodje sprazili v konclagerju, zato z najvecjim veseljem predava kako vesel je da je ziv - in od tega mu je uspelo narediti kariero :-)

Kako boste pa vi, pricujoci, sprejeli dejstvo da se vam naprezati ni treba in torej lahko lagodno zrete v vse interpretacije nicevosti vasega obstoja... hej, kdo bi vedel.

Morda bodo nekoc v prihodnosti ugotovili, da je nasa nagnjenost k filozofiranju, ali k pretvarjanju da smo nadvse zaposleni denimo z zbiranjem znamk, ali lezenjem po karierni lestvici, ali izumljanjem novega appa, ali pa raje delamo samomor ali koljemo druge - ali pa celo odpornost na splosno nicevost nasega bivanja - povsem odvisna od razmerij kakih kemikalij v nasih mozganih, ne pa od vseh teh ucenih teoretskih knjig ali od nase dojemljivosti za "razumevanje" tega iz zakompleksanih riti potegnjenega speha.

Namesto fromma bos dobil eno injekcijo na 6 mesecev in bos nehal jokati za smislom.

... čuj, če do zdaj nisem vedel, da moram biti zadovoljen, ker se zanimam za fuzbal, zdaj vem ...

P.S.: karkoli sem o Nietzscheju slišal v gimnaziji, sem že zdavnaj pozabil, nikoli pa ne bom pozabil grafita v enem mariborskem podhodu, kjer je pisalo "Nietzsche: Bog je mrtev." in potem zraven še "Bog: Nietzsche je mrtev." ...

btw, tu sem odkril svojega novega role modela. lusna anekdota je. sveti ivan rilski je pomembna figura v bolgarski nacionalni zavesti, na podoben nacin kot santiago med spanci ustoliceni zascitnik vseh bolgarov. bil je puscavnik, bival je v nekih nedostopnih jamah nad rilo. zgleda, da mu je pocil film in je vse skupaj steral v tri krasne in se umaknil v svoj mir. ko se je o njem razsiril glas, da je brihtna buca, so zaceli k njemu hoditi ljudje po moder nasvet in prava navodila. resnicno, dober glas seze v deveto vas, in tako se je na obisk k asketu odpravil tudi sam glavar bolgarov, car peter prvi, z delegacijo streznikov, oborozenega spremstva in otovorjenih oslov, ki so na svojih hrbtih nosili draga darila za ivana. pot je bila naporna, gor v gmajno, ampak do svetnikove jame jim zaradi tezkega terena ni uspelo priti. prisli so pa dovolj blizu, da sta se puscavnik in car lahko pogovarjala tako, da sta kricala en drugemu. kaj natanko sta si kricala, ni ostalo zapisano in je prepusceno domisljiji prihodnjih rodov, sam se nagibam k interpretaciji, da je dal ivan carju petru nasvet, naj ga za bozjo voljo pusti pri miru in da naj se raje ubada s svojimi problemi. kakorkoli, nekdo iz carjevega spremstva je bil ocitno dovolj nadarjen alpinist, da je modrecu do jame odnesel nekaj malega hrane, ostali tovor pa so morali osli odnesti nazaj v dolino. tako gre to.

en.m.wikipedia.org/w...hn_of_Rila

zmaga, hvala :)

oni moj bolgar se ni nic javil, tako da fajn, da si sel na fact finding mission.

zaenkrat sem si pogledal samo en coworking plac in z enim francozom sva sla na juzno, je tu ze dve leti in se gre spletni marketing in mu laufa, mi je pojasnil par dobrih trikov. prvi vtis je, jasno, da vsi nekaj mutijo. pa ruski kapital rula, npr. ena ideja mi je bila spletna stacuna, ampak bi moral prakticno celo nabavo preko njih delat, kar je kurac. shipping (dhl, fedex...) se dobim sele v naslednjih tednih, njihove storitve so v generalnem plasmanu sicer baje bistveno cenejse kot v slo, bom videl kako se bom spogajal, na zacetku me bojo sigurno poskusili fejst opaliti. na podlagi researcha polagam najvec upanja na bansko z okolico, tam je se nekaj manjsih smucisc, kjer bom cez ene 2-3 tedne. na izi grem, 80% turisticno. imajo pa vrhunsko omrezje, npr. wifi je boljs kot v lj. zivljenjski stroski pa smesno nizki. pa babe so lusne, postavce izrezane, zelo malo zaspehanih, zgleda da pazjo na zdravo prehrano in se dost migajo.

[abohte]
> [mrkolice]
> za glavni kriterij se gleda bazicno samostojno vsakdanje funkcioniranje in cim je temu za silo zadosceno, potrepljajo po rami, dajo vizitko in vozi misko. sve su ostalo nijanse...

Pa saj, a ni to definicija zdravja? Kot je fizično zdravje odsotnost bolezni? Sicer pa bi jaz domneval, da v večini primerov pacienti pomahajo v slovo terapevtom in ne obratno.

ne bi se spuscal v teoreticno diskusijo o kriterijih dusevnega zdavja oz. nezdravja, ta je vecinoma tako ideolosko obremenjena, da postane kilavo. npr. podobno neplodno kot toksicno prepucavanje med avstrijci in keynesijanci. vem pa za praktikum kako laufa, in ta se vecinoma fokusira res na najbolj bazicno funkcioniranje, kjer se poskusa cloveka opolnomociti, da si sam rit obrise, na kruh namaze pasteto, morda celo ocvre jajca, nenazadnje placa poloznice. danes se vse vec posvecajo bildanju kao zdravega ega oz. ohranjevanju mocnejsih dusevnih meja vizavi neposredni okolici, npr. ogromno je primerov iz prifuknjenih druzin, kjer se izkaze, da so starsi (ki sicer briljirajo na kriterju vsakdanjega funkcioniranja) fejst bolj zreli za strokovni tretma, ampak v obravnavi naposled pristane njihovo prevec obcutljivo nedonoseno dete. se pa se je tega. in se to kar omenjas, ja, idealno je, da "pacient" rece, da je ok, da spet stima, da bo zvozil sam. poudarek je na sam. da dojame uvid v svoj zajeb in se distancira od bolanih simbioz. stroka ni substitut za ubrisano mater ali odsotnost ocetovske figure, lahko pa pomaga v tem smislu, da zrtvi pomaga splezati iz jame toksicnih familjarnih odnosov. tega je dalec najvec v vsakdanji klinicno psiholoski praksi.

[mrkolice]
ja. v bistvu neke sorte vulkanizerstvo. zamenjajo poceno pnevmatiko, potrepljajo po rami in vozi misko. vem za klinicno psihologijo, torej support brez medikamentov: vecino prometa delajo s soft casi, t.i. epizodami, za glavni kriterij se gleda bazicno samostojno vsakdanje funkcioniranje in cim je temu za silo zadosceno, potrepljajo po rami, dajo vizitko in vozi misko. sve su ostalo nijanse...

Ja, ampak v tem je kavelj 22.
To je namreč možno samo če se pacient zaveda svojega problema in si sam želi pomagati.:

“There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

[FrRoSt]
> [vickibedi]

> > [FIN-311684]
> > Slovencem ne bo ostal v dobrem spominu, saj v konfliktnih situacijah nikoli ni zagovarjal slovenskih interesov, olajševalna okoliščina zanj je nesposobna Cerarjeva vlada in posebej ministra Erjavec in Židan, ki sta v svoji nesposobnosti škodovala slovenskim interesom. Za dobro mu je šteti nedavni dogovor s Trumpom o ustavitvi trgovinske vojne.

> Torej - lahko bi bilo slabše.
> In tudi za Cerarja velja enako - lahko je še slabše, kot zdaj tudi vidimo :)

Nikoli ni tako slabo, da ne bi moglo biti slabše in nikoli ni tako dobro, da ne bi moglo biti še bolje. :)

In slabo je velikokraat bilo. :)

Takrat so (ponavadi razumni) ljudje rekli: Vse je za nekaj dobro!

*Morda ti še kdaj prav pride. :)

Ja, po stari židovski pravljici: Vedno je lahko še slabše.

Gre pa nekako v tem stilu, da je modri rabi tako svetoval nezadovoljnemu kmetu (ki je imel premajhno hiško in je težko živel z ženo, otroci in starimi starši na kupu) da v hišo spusti še kravo, kozo in vse kokoši. Šele ko jim je postalo pa res nevzdržno, so lahko spustili ven živali in svet zaživeli srečno in složno življenje :)
Tako nekako kot Šarec&Co, ki nam dajejo podoben zgled :))

true, true...

***

Yossarian owed his good health to exercise, fresh air, teamwork and good sportsmanship; it was to get away from them all that he had first discovered the hospital. When the physical-education officer at Lowery Field ordered everyone to fall out for calisthenics one afternoon, Yossarian, the private, reported instead at the dispensary with what he said was a pain in his right side.

“Beat it,” said the doctor on duty there, who was doing a crossword puzzle.

“We can’t tell him to beat it,” said a corporal. “There’s a new directive out about abdominal complaints. We have to keep them under observation five days because so many of them have been dying after we make them beat it.”

“All right,” grumbled the doctor. “Keep him under observation five days and then make him beat it.”

They took Yossarian’s clothes away and put him in a ward, where he was very happy when no one was snoring nearby. In the morning a helpful young English intern popped in to ask him about his liver.

“I think it’s my appendix that’s bothering me,” Yossarian told him.

“Your appendix is no good,” the Englishman declared with jaunty authority. “If your appendix goes wrong, we can take it out and have you back on active duty in almost no time at all. But come to us with a liver complaint and you can fool us for weeks. The liver, you see, is a large, ugly mystery to us. If you’ve ever eaten liver you know what I mean. We’re pretty sure today that the liver exists and we have a fairly good idea of what it does whenever it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing. Beyond that, we’re really in the dark. After all, what is a liver? My father, for example, died of cancer of the liver and was never sick a day of his life right up till the moment it killed him. Never felt a twinge of pain. In a way, that was too bad, since I hated my father. Lust for my mother, you know.”

“What’s an English medical officer doing on duty here?” Yossarian wanted to know.

The officer laughed. “I’ll tell you all about that when I see you tomorrow morning. And throw that silly ice bag away before you die of pneumonia.”

Yossarian never saw him again. That was one of the nice things about all the doctors at the hospital; he never saw any of them a second time. They came and went and simply disappeared. In place of the English intern the next day, there arrived a group of doctors he had never seen before to ask him about his appendix.

“There’s nothing wrong with my appendix,” Yossarian informed them. “The doctor yesterday said it was my liver.”

“Maybe it is his liver,” replied the white-haired officer in charge. “What does his blood count show?”

“He hasn’t had a blood count.”

“Have one taken right away. We can’t afford to take chances with a patient in his condition. We’ve got to keep ourselves covered in case he dies.” He made a notation on his clipboard and spoke to Yossarian. “In the meantime, keep that ice bag on. It’s very important.”

“I don’t have an ice bag on.”

“Well, get one. There must be an ice bag around here somewhere. And let someone know if the pain becomes unendurable.”

At the end of ten days, a new group of doctors came to Yossarian with bad news; he was in perfect health and had to get out. He was rescued in the nick of time by a patient across the aisle who began to see everything twice. Without warning, the patient sat up in bed and shouted.

“I see everything twice!”

A nurse screamed and an orderly fainted. Doctors came running up from every direction with needles, lights, tubes, rubber mallets and oscillating metal tines. They rolled up complicated instruments on wheels. There was not enough of the patient to go around, and specialists pushed forward in line with raw tempers and snapped at their colleagues in front to hurry up and give somebody else a chance. A colonel with a large forehead and horn-rimmed glasses soon arrived at a diagnosis.

“It’s meningitis,” he called out emphatically, waving the others back. “Although Lord knows there’s not the slightest reason for thinking so.”

“Then why pick meningitis?” inquired a major with a suave chuckle. “Why not, let’s say, acute nephritis?”

“Because I’m a meningitis man, that’s why, and not an acute-nephritis man,” retorted the colonel. “And I’m not going to give him up to any of you kidney birds without a struggle. I was here first.”

In the end, the doctors were all in accord. They agreed they had no idea what was wrong with the soldier who saw everything twice, and they rolled him away into a room in the corridor and quarantined everyone else in the ward for fourteen days.

Thanksgiving Day came and went without any fuss while Yossarian was still in the hospital. The only bad thing about it was the turkey for dinner, and even that was pretty good… but even that idyll had ended on a tragic note; he was still in good health when the quarantine period was over, and they told him again that he had to get out and go to war. Yossarian sat up in bed when he heard the bad news and shouted.

“I see everything twice!”

Pandemonium broke loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions and ringed him in a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the humid breath from their various noses blowing uncomfortably upon the different sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beams of light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks, drew blood from his veins, held anything handy up for him to see on the periphery of his vision.

The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up directly in front of Yossarian and demanded, “How many fingers do you see?”

“Two,” said Yossarian.

“How many fingers do you see now?” asked the doctor, holding up two.

“Two,” said Yossarian.

“And how many now?” asked the doctor, holding up none.

“Two,” said Yossarian.

The doctor’s face wreathed with a smile. “By Jove, he’s right,” he declared jubilantly. “He does see everything twice.”

They rolled Yossarian away on a stretcher into the room with the other soldier who saw everything twice and quarantined everyone else in the ward for another fourteen days.

“I see everything twice!” the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled Yossarian in.

“I see everything twice!” Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink.

“The walls! The walls!” the other soldier cried. “Move back the walls!”

“The walls! The walls!” Yossarian cried. “Move back the walls!”

One of the doctors pretended to shove the wall back. “Is that far enough?”

The soldier who saw everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded weakly too, eying his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He knew he was in the presence of a master. His talented roommate was obviously a person to be studied and emulated. During the night, his talented roommate died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough.

“I see everything once!” he cried quickly.

A new group of specialists came pounding up to his bedside with their instruments to find out if it was true.

“How many fingers do you see?” asked the leader, holding up one.

“One.”

The doctor held up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see now?”

“One.”

The doctor held up ten fingers. “And how many now?”

“One.”

The doctor turned to the other doctors with amazement. “He does see everything once!” he exclaimed. “We made him all better.”