Of the pleasures and pains of opium much has been written. The ecstasies and horrors of De Quincey and the paradis artificiels of Baudelaire are preserved and interpreted with an art which makes them immortal, and the world knows well the beauty, the terror, and the mystery of those obscure realms into which the inspired dreamer is transported. But much as has been told, no man has yet dared intimate the nature of the phantasms thus unfolded to the mind, or hint at the direction of the unheard-of roads along whose ornate and exotic course the partaker of the drug is so irresistibly borne. De Quincey was drawn back into Asia, that teeming land of nebulous shadows whose hideous antiquity is so impressive that "the vast age of the race and name overpowers the sense of youth in the individual", but farther than that he dared not go. Those who have gone farther seldom returned; and even when they have, they have been either silent or quite mad. I took opium but once—in the year of the plague, when doctors sought to deaden the agonies they could not cure. There was an overdose—my physician was worn out with horror and exertion—and I traveled very far indeed. In the end I returned and lived, but my nights are filled with strange memories, nor have I ever permitted a doctor to give me opium again. The pain and pounding in my head had been quite unendurable when the drug was administered. Of the future I had no heed; to escape, whether by cure, unconsciousness, or death, was all that concerned me. I was partly delirious, so that it is hard to place the exact moment of transition, but I think the effect must have begun shortly before the pounding ceased to be painful. As I have said, there was an overdose; so my reactions were probably far from normal. The sensation of falling, curiously dissociated from the idea of gravity or direction, was paramount; though there was a subsidiary impression of unseen throngs in incalculable profusion, throngs of infinitely diverse nature, but all more or less related to me. Sometimes it seemed less as though I were falling, than as though the universe or the ages were falling past me. Suddenly my pain ceased...
Kontrastas, bet gal ne toks baisus kaip gali pasirodyti. Aš irgi po savo stogu randu kai kurioms LT pop žvaigždėms vietos. Pvz, turbūt visi čia žino, kad aš esu visai nemenkas Aistės Pilvelytės mėgėjas.
Mano smegenys neregistruoja kai pamatau tokį vaizdą kaip "DjVaids mėgsta Pink Floyd dainą Time", o po apačia "DjVaids mėgsta YVA dainą Vasaros mergaitės" Bet imu pratintis jau.
Parašiau. Prašau, pakvieskit kas nors Pazistu_Mykola pasigrožėt tuo dienoraščiu... bus kaip laiko mašina 10 metų atgal, kai aš bombinau music'ą exceliniais grafikais ir Pazistu_Mykola tik ateidavo pasijuokt iš mano polinkio viskas "užstatistikinti"
Apskritai, senesniais laikais beveik visi kūrėjai pradėdavo su intencija tiesiog dalintis, be jokių monetizacijų. Tik vėliau už tai gavo atlygį. Dabar, deja, viskas korporatyvizuota (jei yra toks žodis), ir sunku pradėti be gero plano nuo pradžių.
Na, skaitoma medija visai kitą auditoriją turi, bet ir palyginti gerokai mažesnė. Tokia jau tinklaraštininkų dalia. Na bet galiausiai, svarbiausia, kad veikla patiktų ir duotų kažko gero bent keliems žmonėms. Ko daugiau ir reikia.
Nebent tai darai kaip saviraiškos būdą neturėdamas noro gauti jokios grąžos. Bet man blog'o formatas mielesnis, aš kai noriu rašau tekstus savo tinkluose ir viskas. Skaitoma medija man visuomet bus pirmiau žiūrimos medijos.
Nu gerai, labiau reiktų kalbėti apie tinklalaidžių kūrimo / žiūrėjimo santykį. Dabar kūrėjų kaip prikakota, o žiūrinčiųjų nors auga, bet kiek vienam kūrėjui tenka žiūrėtojų? Dėl to ta niša man atrodo visai neperspektyvi.