2010 in review

The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

The Louvre Museum has 8.5 million visitors per year. This blog was viewed about 100,000 times in 2010. If it were an exhibit at The Louvre Museum, it would take 4 days for that many people to see it.

In 2010, there were 23 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 258 posts. There were 93 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 22mb. That’s about 2 pictures per week.

The busiest day of the year was June 6th with 609 views. The most popular post that day was how to raise a saint and a martyr in the heart of Europe today.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, whispersintheloggia.blogspot.com, mahalo.com, search.aol.com, and networkedblogs.com.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

how to raise a saint and a martyr in the heart of Europe today June 2010
1 comment and 1 Like on WordPress.com,

2

what is left of the West September 2008
150 comments

3

polygamy in the USA June 2008
21 comments

4

one nation under Obama May 2008
50 comments

5

Sendler’s list – Catholic woman rescued 2,500 Jewish children May 2008
20 comments

Some of your most popular posts were written before 2010. Your writing has staying power! Consider writing about those topics again.

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in the shadows of gray

Reminiscing is not easy. Sipping my cup of tea, I’m trying to distinguish between the reality that was awaiting me and the far surpassed life given me as a gift I don’t deserve.

I came to this world as a rather fearful, somewhat disoriented, internally intrigued and at the same time outwardly sound-minded heart. My first memory is saturated with the color of gray walls in the building where I spent the first years of my earthly pilgrimage. The beam of lights cutting through this deserted place are also present in my memories, invigorating the sadness and overwhelming heaviness.

My mom and I lived in an old building surrounded by 3 sides with similar giant, obscure, upraised old German apartments. These ancient dominating buildings were always there and everywhere. My apartment was on the third floor. From the balcony, I could see another gray giant, with it’s windows starring at me.

Some windows were inhabited by people recognizable to this small gray community. One window had a man with a loud puzon (trombone). The man would practice daily at different times of the day. I don’t even know if he belonged to some orchestra or was it just his hobby. His window seemed loudly disturbing. The lace curtains decorating it would fly open quite often, revealing pieces of old-fashion furniture. But there was not enough light in our yard to distinguish the interiors of his living place.

There was another interesting window across. This one was always occupied by someone from the family. Mostly by the mother and one of the daughters. It was incredibly amazing how they could be so well informed about the whereabouts of most of the occupants just from observing and watching. They were mobilized if a new person would pass by, they would be vigilant at evening times, they would listen attentively to the echoes of the voices bouncing in between the buildings, trying to decipher the meaning of the words, to feed their hunger for gossips. I was thinking often, when do they have time to cook, to clean and to do other “normal” things of life. They were probably bored. They were waiting with anticipation for something great or even less then great to happen. Something that would change the monotonous existence within the scratched walls.


Every time I stood in front of these buildings I was diminished and conquered by their firm and depressive presence. They reminded me of the times we lived in. These old tenement houses supported the idea of the ruling system, proclaiming loudly the common share, common property, common life as a massive blurb of otherwise not important individuals, working for the better tomorrow in the land of common satisfaction. The patches with falling paint, pieces of bricks and whatever else might stick to them in the last 100 years, were slowly giving in under the pressure of time.

The yard was ugly. Squeezed in between monster buildings, there was black dirt, beater (for cleaning the carpets) and the doors leading to the outside world of streets, cars, shops and people. Nothing else.

Looking from my balcony, to my left, there was a piece called the “Jewish yard”, to my front and right was “our yard”, and behind my building was the “Gypsy yard”. The last one had a story and a social right to be named in such a way. Gypsy families were living nearby, their numerous children would play in there, making constant noise by loud laughter, songs and frequent fights in a language not understood by the rest of us.

This is the back view of my building from the “Gypsy yard”. On the left would be the “Jewish yard”, to the right and in front – “our yard”.

But every space called yard around my building, was the same. It brought the same feelings, the same disappointing “luck of hope and the future” message banging over our heads, falling straight from the sky, sinking deeply into our very conscious and alert minds. No escape was the refrain of this chant soaking daily into our existence, trying to penetrate to the very bone of leftover faith in humankind’s goodness.

The only thing you could do in that place called yard was to imagine. Therefore creativity blossomed exponentially. There is a limit to the number of times you can play hide and seek or jumping ropes. Beyond these familiar games there was a wide open world of unrestricted imagination. And the kids were freely exploring this childhood universe without boundaries and borders. But today is late and I need to go to sleep…


These 3 picture are not of the place where I actually lived, but were taken in Poland and depict accurately the feeling of the times.

Innocence

nie zapomnę niewinności

co zaklęta jest w skale poznania

choć nie da się jej odtworzyć

bez pogardy odsunę kamień zamieszania

utkwię mój wzrok w bezczasie wieczności

z filigranowej teraźniejszości się otrząsnę

wyleczę się z turbulentnego narzekania na monotonię codzienności

przeniosę punkt ciężkości z niejasnej rozpaczy na stałość kochania Twojego

tak się pomodlę dzisiaj

i niech takjuż zostanie

a gdyby coś zostalo

jakiś ochłap nadziei w mroku

to daj mi znak

czekam

niespokojne jest serce moje

dopóki nie znajdzie Ciebie

niestłumione cierpieniem doczesnym

pocharatane czasem utraconym

nieutulone pocieszeniami codzienności

wyczerpane zziajane niedospane

odsłoń mi świat który jest

cichutko do mnie mów

pochwyć mnie

unieś w najprawdziwszą prawdę

tylko nie uspokajaj

nie chcę umierać w spokoju

photo by Cognitive Ambition

barren

photo by joanna eleanor

emptiness inhabited by never fulfilled desires

crawled and twisted almost forgotten

catapulting from decades before

mixing times and seasons

troublesome space of dreamed fantastic accuracies

woven through dangerously attractive prophecies

how could that be

barren became a friendly soul

fading memories having the last chance of resurrecting

from distant horizons balancing upon the ocean of divine whispers

bringing me nearer

to this one thing

I will look toward the everlasting captivation

faintly but truly

I desire