This online space is a collection of stories of the times during our weekends that are lived within the space of our arm’s reach… the places that are the source of our ‘humanness’… the foundations on which the rest of our life is built. The pieces of our life that quietly pass by – no grand adventures, no obviously meaningful exchanges. The moments where chores happen, we take our children to sports practise, we do our grocery shopping, go for a run, attend a weekend event, spend reverent time with our chosen deity, catch up with friends, try something new or stay home and fold the laundry.
The moments we often perceive as everyday / boring / not worth telling about, are very often just the moments that someone else craves… These are the moments that make up our lives… These are weekends, collected.
sunday. central turns into little manila. I walk through the crowds; pushing my way through. everyone annoys me – with their slow walking, with their screaming kids, with their incapability of walking in a straight or predictable way. this summer seems to be hotter than any of the others. lately, I feel overwhelmed despite never being the particular type to feel in such a way. I used to be able to keep my head above water, remain cool. I have been losing that ability.
I started working on a different project last month. something I hope will last. something that feels like the right thing. dream job. I’m pushing myself out of my boundaries and comfort zone. it’s difficult sometimes, having to carry enough for both.
life hasn’t been particularly easy. but it has been worth. if only for the weekends we spend together.
sara tomovic. originally from the balkans, currently living in south east asia. discovering and documenting the differences of the west and east in hong kong; hoping to become a full-time writer one day.
It’s not that we spend five days looking forward to just two. It’s that most people do what they enjoy most on those two days. Imagine living a life where everyday are your Saturdays and Sundays. Make everyday your weekend. Make everyday a play-day…
- James A. Murphy
Sadly, my big summer event “Fuji Rock Festival” is gone.
It was a beautiful sunny weekend than usual Fuji Rock.
I had really lovely weekend.
I have been this festival for 10 years, spending time there is special for me.
Forget about usual days.
Just feel music from wake up to fall asleep.
Enjoy camping and nature, walking a lot.
Bump to meet friends a lot and Kanpai (cheers) a lot.
Very happy weekend.
There were many great gigs I saw but I want to share one performance for you,
Which was “Nada soso” performance by Japanese band “BEGIN” with a fula dancer “Aureana Tseu”.
Nada soso is very popular song in Japan means “can’t help to shed my tears”.
It’s OKINAWA song so written by OKINAWA dialect. OKINAWA is westernmost city of JAPAN.
I am not special fan of BEGIN but this performance moved me.
Aureana’s fula was a dance that represents the emotion itself.
Tears were falling down before I noticed.
That’s why I love live performance.
I couldn’t take picture of this performance (because I was busy crying, haha),
so this picture was another stage’s one, beautiful sunset.
Can’t wait for next year’s Fuji Rock.
—About Fuji Rock—-
Fuji Rock Festival is the biggest music festival in Japan.
It is held in Naeba Ski Resort, high up in the mountains, very beautiful nature.
And it is famous for the cleanest and safest music festivals in the world.
The festival has a zero rubbish policy. We have to divide into five categories of rubbish, because of being recycled.
Tomoko Niimi works in TOKYO but her heart is on KYOTO ancient city of JAPAN.
Romanticist, loves music, movie, cats and dogs, alcohol and delicious food.
I used to have to do readings in church, and it was terrifying. I would never have my glasses. The words are printed so small even Superman would be nervous. And you’re reading from the Bible. It’s not like you can just make something up and improvise. “A reading from the letter of Saint Paul to the Corinthians. Uhhh. Dear Corinthians, … How was your weekend? Sure is hot here. Uh, tell Jesus ‘Hey.’ This is the word of the Lord.
― Jim Gaffigan
she runs down the stairs, the worn wood of the steps shining in the sunlight coming in through the hallway windows. downstairs, she barely manages to push open the heavy gate that separates the cool darkness of the alley from the heat outside. the smell of dust and cement and hot stone hits her. it’s early morning and the streets are quiet. every so often, the tram screeches as it struggles along its rails cutting through the neighbourhood in an enormous s-shape. the church bells will call for mass soon, even though she has never seen anyone go there or knows what the inside of a church looks like or what it’s good for.
she skips along the street, past the little shop that never sells anything except for bread and apples and onions and beer. it’s so hot, it feels like she is swimming through air, and stepping from shade into sun into shade into sun like crossing countries and like you are a different person depending on which side you’re on. she visits all her favourite places. the salon where her mother gets her hair done, now closed and deserted. the big metal garbage bins lined up in a way so that she can walk behind them and secretly overtake old people that never look at anything but their feet or to see if you are dressed properly anyway. the bakery where she sometimes buys a whole loaf of bread all for herself. the other bakery that sometimes sells cake.
she stops at the main road that separates her neighbourhood from the one where her grandmother lives. she could walk along the railway tracks or zigzag through the apartment blocks past where her school teacher with the parakeet lives. or she could go to the factory where her mother works, the road leading up to it paved in cobble stones so big and uneven that crossing it always feels like wading through a mountain river and that the trucks delivering fabrics and sewing cotton bop around like apples in a bowl.
from the factory, she takes her secret trail through the wood back to the right side of the train tracks. the wood is only three or four rows of trees deep, but if you know how you can walk the length of four or five blocks in it without anyone noticing you. there are empty beer bottles and cigarette butts and a broken chair and her mother says that the people who put them there are bad, but she has never seen anyone who looks bad and she is quicker than them anyways. she passes another church, its doors locked and the windows barred. but the clock at the top of the tower is working and her mother has taught her to see there what time it is so that she doesn’t have to ask anyone and if she does it can only be women.
back home, she pushes the heavy gate open again. it’s too early for lunch. coming from the bright sunlight into the dimness of the hall, everything is suddenly covered in a glossy black and the walls around her seem to move. it smells like coal and wet earth and mouldy stones and she twirls around, letting herself fall from wall to wall until her eyes have adjusted to the darkness and the ground is standing still again. it feels like what being in a spaceship must be like so she runs out again, blinks into the sun for a few seconds and comes back to feel the waves of the glossy blackness another time. the coldness of the alley smells different than the coldness of the cellar and different from the heat of the street, and she wonders what the heat up in the attic will smell like. she is not allowed to go there. the roof beams are rotten and her mother tells her that she will fall through the ceiling if she does, but if you know how you can do it and everything will be fine. there are abandoned storage rooms plastered in old newspapers that you can peel off in long strips, and sometimes she manages to get a whole page off without tearing it to pieces. they are as old as the building and therefore almost as important as things in museums and her grandmother has taught her to read the old font and she sometimes pictures herself reading these newspapers on the tram or at the doctor’s office impressing everyone.
above the storage rooms is the real attic with loose wooden boards that bounce when you step on them. it smells like wood chips and furniture polish and bakelite and walking around there you have to be quiet. she knows that if the old caretaker catches her up here, he’s going to tell her mother. and even though her mother doesn’t like him and says that one shouldn’t feed beer and chocolate to one’s dog, she would still listen to him and agree with him on everything else. and thinking about trouble and because she can’t see the church tower’s clock from the attic and doesn’t want to be late for Sunday lunch, she decides to go home, down the stairs, the worn wood of the steps shining in the sunlight coming in through the hallway windows.
Petra Zehner is a graphic designer, photographer and writer living somewhere between England and Malaysia. She is single, tends to overthink, travels a lot and is trying to figure out how to make a living as a global nomad.
When I deeply see: • bedsheets painted with highlighter? … children live here! • dead rose left too long in vase? … lingering memories of a brother’s gift. • Great-grandma’s wicker laundry basket overflowing in the mudroom? … we had a full, rich weekend! • vehicle souvenirs — a collection of shoes, Sunday school paper, Lego pieces? … we’ll gather them up too. • study table spread out with thoughts and ideas? … we’re thinking now. • a pile of tossed shoes on a shelf in the garage? … worn days of a good summer. • stack of tattered books? … stories that have become real.
― Zondervan Publishing, One Thousand Gifts Devotional: Reflections on Finding Everyday Graces