What of you just hate making dinner? 🙂 (mne tie večere až tak nevadia, ale za prečítanie to stálo)
And worst of all, as the mother-cookbooks make painfully clear, the daily work of feeding children doesn’t fall to the sages. Neither does it, notably, fall to the dads, whom the cookbooks commend for having signature dishes or being grill-masters, but not for punching the clock at breakfast, lunch and dinner. No, cooking belongs, inevitably, to the moms. I’ve tried to find outrage among my sister mothers about this reactionary development. But here’s the unkindest cut: It turns out that other women — traitorously — now like to cook. They find cooking expressive and fascinating. No one but me wants to be a born defroster anymore. “I hear you, but I like to cook,” said one feminist the last time I tried my bold association of foodism with rank misogyny.
But the sensory experience of floating is like nothing else. The only sounds come from inside the body: the whooshing rush of each breath filling then escaping the lungs, the echoing thump of the heart in the chest. At some point (has it been five minutes? 10 minutes?), I realize I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. When I twitch my eyelids to check, the sound of the ensuing blink is a resonant boom. A rumbling begins somewhere behind my right ear, as if a truck is coming around the curve of my head, and as it thunders past, I realize an air bubble has been loosed from my hair. There are subtler noises as well, a regular swish like the hem of a woman’s dress brushing a marble floor—my blood circulating.
parádne fotky tučniakov (a iných zverov)
lienky pred odletom v spomalenom zábere (vyzerajú, akoby sa to ani nemalo podariť a potom nakoniec to predsalen nejako ide):
ešte jedno krátke video: a forest year