Alignment

Ainsi, plus je réfléchissais et plus de choses méconnues et
oubliées je sortais de ma mémoire. J'ai compris alors qu'un homme qui n'aurait
vécu qu'un seul jour pourrait sans peine vivre cent ans dans une prison. Il
aurait assez de souvenirs pour ne pas s'ennuyer. Dans un sens, c'était un
avantage (Camus, L'Étranger).

Some days are strings of lucky moments aligned. You run unknowingly into the first one, and from then on, they're lined up on the sunny side of the street, waiting with arms wide-open for you to collect them all in passing. After the first couple, you simply know this is your day, you can see it lining up for you, a little like knowing that the bowling ball will knock down all the pieces in the rack even before it touches the first one.

When I caught the metro right away on Easter Sunday, I knew the day might be shaping up well. After some hesitation in the morning, I had finally decided at the last moment to try to make it to the Serbian Church in Westmount just before the end of the Easter liturgy. Everything, though, depended on that metro -- either it would be there immediately and I would make it, or all of this was in vain. So when I heard the distant rumble of the train as I was passing through the slot machine, my whole body smiled as I sensed the gracious touch of luck. Putting my metro pass in the pocket with one hand, and holding the strap of my backpack with the other, I ran across the passerelle above the tracks, and then scrambled in staccato rhythm down the stairs to the platform, almost half-turning to my left to see if Mary was following slightly behind me, like she did that dusty day in Belgrade. She had stayed overnight at my grandmother's place where I lived during my studies, and we must have been going to university, or perhaps downtown. We saw the red trolleybus number 29 approaching the stop across the street, and we started running, madly, histerically, passionately, with the full force of our twenty-something years. I remember looking down at a pair of black tall boots (was it early spring?), hitting the cracked concrete with staccato urgency, but I can't remember if it was Mary or me who wore them. While the trolleybus was nestling into the bus stop area, we flew up a small flight of stairs on the embankment, and across the four-lane street, our hearts jumping out of our mouths. And we made it -- a little out of breath but smiling broadly, sliding victoriously into the day that was starting.

Twenty minutes (and fifteen years) later, I'm in Westmount, and get off at Vendôme. This western tip of De Maisonneuve along which I walk towards the park and the church is the open stage for spring's April frolics: the yards around the houses are cascades of all imaginable early flowers and plants, bursting under the sun's recovered grace in the very places which were buried and frozen under three feet of snow only a few weeks before. Flowers, plants and trees are gifted: they can sense the exact moment when they should peek out from their winter sleep, and then don't waste a second; they know the sun is an unsentimental rake who will forsake us without mercy soon enough again -- allegedly to visit its other children -- so they push onwards for all they're worth, with no second thoughts and no regrets.... And just as I was going to develop further these idyllic thoughts on the subject of spring, renewed life, etc., a bird (possibly starling?) flew overhead and made a categorical pronouncement on my philosophizing in the form of a missile-dropping -- which missed me by about a nanosecond. One half-step further, and the whitish liquid that splashed against the concrete would have anointed my head. Taking this as a definite solidification of my lucky alignment, I turned and looked up, laughing blindly at where the bird may have been at that point, and caught the sight of the benevolent face of a passer-by who witnessed my good luck and wore what looked like a congratulatory expression around his eyes.

Armed with my lucky shield, I walked confidently through the park, and wasn't at all surprised to see from the distance that the church wasn't closed yet, and that bunches of holiday-ornamented people stood around the main and the side doors. Even my usual unease at entering churches as "other people's" places where I am a self-conscious intruder -- courtesy of socialist-communist times of my childhood -- was momentarily gone, and I trotted up the stone steps and through the wide wooden door with the sway of a rightful owner. I bought a small church calendar and a handful of yellow-wax candles at the front desk from the man with a Bosnian Serbian accent (what is your story, brother?), and soundlessly walked into the high-ceilinged, somber room full of serious-faced icons and people gathered in a semi-circle around the almost invisible priest in the middle. And then there was the incense.

Rijeka Crnojevica (Montenegro) from the satellite

... the incense, whose heavy-clean, penetrating smell had no choice but to stick around my one and only "religious" memory: my baptism, at 25, in a cold river etched into steep Montenegrin hills and mountains. It was August, and I walked barefoot from the little chapel in the monastery of the village and across the stone bridge, wearing a long, white, coarse-linen dress which Father Jovan had ordered especially for me. A small procession of monks and my godmother and friend Coka followed us unhurriedly down to the bank of the river, and I was fully plunged three times into the glacier-cold morning waters of Rijeka Crnojevica, my breath cut in two by the chill. What a sight it must have been, unwitnessed by anyone but a herd of donkeys grazing their breakfast not far away.

Holding my candles firmly, I advanced unobtrusively towards the front area flickering with small candle flames. My favourite part of the church, and possibly the only reason I come here. I lit the candles one by one using the neighbouring flames, and stuck them in the sand slowly, with premeditation and love, in the section marked "For the Peacefulness of the Dead." A small ancient gesture for which no words or religions are necessary. My ligament. My umbillical cord. Just at that moment the priest announced the Resurrection. And I knew that his words will never mean much to me, but that I will always, and after, be drawing alignments (in a church, or on a bridge); connecting the numbered dots into an emerging shape.

The stone bridge in Rijeka Crnojevica, Montenegro, August 1998

Of Insects, Life, and Death

My office being in the D wing, and the nearest washroom in the E wing, the trek there is always a little adventure. I follow the winding corridor in the D wing westbound, then cross the corridors leading to the G and H wings, then turn right into the corridor leading to the A and B wings, then turn left into the E wing, and the washroom is right there, on the right. The other day, as I was washing my hands, I saw a ladybug wobbling clumsily on the sink. Since all the windows are hermetically sealed, she must have gotten a ride on somebody's clothes, and was now stuck, her faded orange tailcoat fading even more. I dried my hands thoroughly, cupped one, and as gently as possible pushed her off the sink and into my palm. She faked she was dead, but I knew better. Not feeling her weight, but my palm beginning to sweat nevertheless, I started the trek back to the office. Halfway there I caught up with Sally, the 80-year-old legend of the Department, sailing slowly down the hall. I explained I was on a mission to transport the lost ladybug into one of the bushy plants in my office; her eyes glimmered for a second, as if she had unexpectedly remembered her best childhood friend, then she whole-heartedly approved of my plan, and wished us good luck. In the office, I deposited the ladybug onto the Spider Plant I had bought at the flower shop in the mall across the street, and as it was sliding down from my hand to the new greenness of the day offered generously by the long leaves, I thought of the hot summer day when I accidentally killed a bee.

It was 10 years ago. Late morning on a sizzling summer day in Bosnia. I must have been at home in Banja Luka for the summer vacation. Those summers I loved the best: lush and carefree, like the perfumed air after the whimsical June shower, or the tanned kids running barefoot around the neighbourhood. Late working-day mornings were my favourites: everyone else at work, and me lounging in the sun-washed kitchen and living-room, taking time. My inescapable morning ritual was the Turkish coffee, which I still drank at that time; I savoured the few minutes it took to prepare it, relaxed with the first faint whiff of that irreplaceable smell, and dived into the zen zone of well-being, casting benevolent looks onto the world underneath our third-floor balcony, whose door was permanently ajar in the summer. On sweltering days like that one, there was hardly anyone outside at that hour, the school-yard, the playground, and the trimmed green lawn (nowadays a small shopping centre) all reflecting the sunlight and the heat evaporating tremblingly above the ground in the distance. That morning, then, I was going through the small motions of preparing coffee, making each one last a tad longer than necessary: I measured a cup of water, poured it into our red boiling pot, and boiled it on the smallest hot plate for a minute. But even the smallest plate was too big for the little red pot, and its outer rim would turn burning orange within seconds. Separately, I measured two hefty teaspoonfuls of coffee, and put them in the cofee pot with a long handle, together with one teaspoon of sugar. I removed the red pot with boiling water from the plate, poured half of it into the coffee pot, and put it on the edge of the plate without turning my gaze from it (this was the tricky part -- the coffee would bubble up suddenly and swiftly, and if you weren't watching, it would boil over, hissing angrily). I waited until it rose precariously close to the brim of the coffee pot, then in one sweeping motion removed the pot to the side, to fill it up with the remaining boiling water before I put it back on the plate briefly, which would mark the end of the whole procedure. Just about then, however, a heat-heavy fumbling bee buzzed lazily in through the balcony door, by mistake, or perhaps attracted by the sweet coffee fumes. And before I could do anything, it landed on the momentarily empty, burning-hot plate, instantly getting stuck to it. As in a sped-up sequence after a skipped frame, I turned off the plate, took the bee by the wing between my thumb and finger, and put it on the side, letting go of the wing. It had died instantly. The melted blackened side of the bee's body contrasted sharply and irrevocably against the white enamel of the stove. I just stared at it for a little while, thinking, how stupid; then deposited it into the garbage, along with my morning, and never forgot about it.

And here is a story of a fly, with a more ambiguous ending, but the cleanest and most human-free of the three.

Redux

ENCOUNTERS

Not to draw back from a chance
Locking of eyes in the street,
To sustain a few seconds of
Intrusion into a soft tissue,
The guarded privacy,
To gleam back a consciousness
In passing,
An open and absolute
Recognition
Of a random life,
Walking away.

(2003)


TENDRILS

Soft underwater brush
Against the foreign body
At the edge of the pool,
Breezy graze against the knee
Of a bike’s wheel
On the metro,
One eye in the sheets and
Kitty cushion-paws
Against the morning
Cheek,
Index finger offered
As a companion
At a cross-walk,
My mother’s palm
Kissing
My forehead:

Spring tendrils
Pushing timidly,
Irresistibly,
Through the soil
Of winter sleep,
With their long
Dainty fingers
Touching,
Caressing,
Holding on,
Keeping the world
In place.

(2008)

En Attendant Le Printemps: La Suite

The best music to the ears in April.

New York Lists

1. List of Kindness

• The clanging, schreeching, and thumping of the subway. Things happen fast, nothing will wait for you. People are loaded and unloaded, lost and found; platforms are endless; letters, numbers, and arrows dance all around; public annoucements are cheerful but half-unintelligible. With people milling away from it, a train is about to jerk its heavy machinery into motion again, when the train operator sticks his head with the official hat out of the window, his upper body twisted at an awkward angle. He starts yelling agitatedly at someone ahead, evidently continuing some conversation they must have had minutes before: "Hey, get that one! Go, go, that's the train you want!" Silently thankful, the passenger at whom this volley of vociferous instructions was directed starts running towards the indicated doors, his head slightly cowering between shoulders, like a pupil reprimanded but never in a million years doubting the omniscience and good-will of his teacher... The train operator nods curtly, to no one in particular, and gets the train moving.

Thirteen Street Repertory Theatre

• It's a lovely, airy, early spring afternoon in Greenwhich. Looking for the 13th Street Repertory Theatre, we stroll through the lingering scent of yesterday's rain, and past small, quirky stores and cafés (we're passing by a "Paperie," which Martin -- whose half-forgotten Catholic demiurgs rise their sleepy heads -- glosses as "the place where they sell The Pope"). On our right, a building with glass walls, a centrifugal chaos of action deep inside, and "Dog Day Care" sign above. Naturally, we walk in, and as if drawn by a gigantic magnet, approach the glass partition, beyond which is a room with about 20 deliriously happy, tongue-hanging, ear-flapping dogs, chasing each other or running towards their guard: a thin, tall, dreadlocked man in his 30s. One of the excited dogs crouches, and leaves a little pile on the floor; other dogs quickly and curiously gather round the offensive heap, some sniffing it. The guard is there in a second, takes on a serious and semi-reproachful look, and yells out, "No, guys, no! --I got snacks for you over there." And he skilfully draws their attention away to the other corner. By now two other passers-by have strolled in from the street and are glued to the window with goofy smiles on their faces. The guard notices the small audience, and leads his protegés towards us in a controlled gallop. He stops right in front of us, puts his hand up against the glass at our eye level, pretending to offer treats, and the euphoric dogs prop up on their hind legs, leaning their front paws on the glass, a few centimeters away from our thrilled faces. The smaller ones jump up and bark their hellos. For a few seconds, the entire raucous menagerie is there, seemingly just for us. The guard smiles and nods his head briefly, curteously at us. His eyes are sparkling. He loves his job. And he just made our day.
  
  

• We're deep in the insides of a "Whole Foods" store in Chelsea. From a low-flying plane, we'd look like two dots surrounded by a continent of shelves, stacks, pyramids of foods. Everywhere you turn, vast expanses of colours, packaging, and labels spread into diminishing vistas, leaving you dizzy. If you don't know the store, finding a particular item quickly verges on the impossible. We're looking for cocoa nibs. We bumped into areas that could have been "right" (with all kinds of cooking chocolate, and cocoa) but no luck. Suddenly, an official person in the store uniform flits by, on some errand, and we stop her, asking for help. As she listens, her face opens up into a smile, and she swiftly transforms into a fairy, taking us here and there, exploring this avenue of shelves, or turning right at that crossroads of signs, in search of the desired product. After a while we feel bad for giving her so much trouble, so we thank her and go on looking for other things. We give up the idea of cocoa nibs, and 10 minutes later, we don't even remember any more that we wanted them. Suddenly, as when she first appeared, the fairy-assistant materializes again, holding something in her hand. It's not cocoa nibs, but it's something even better: peeled cocoa beans! She holds out the pack, and un unhurried smile -- we take both, and count our lucky stars.





• On the subway again. We're going to Coney Island, but we have no idea how to get there. It's the last stop on a few different lines in Brooklyn, but there's seemingly an inextricable maze of stops and changes that needs to be disentangled before. I'm standing in front of a subway map (and it is most certainly the "subway" -- once I was asking the man in the booth in one of the stations for directions and mentioned the word "metro" -- he just didn't get it until I realized my mistake and used "subway" instead of "metro"). It's an extended version of the map, one that includes the southern tips, and it takes quite an effort to interpret all the symbols representing various junctions, local or express trains... A discreet but firm tapping on my shoulder wakes me up from my helpless reverie: a girl sitting on the bench behind me looks up from behind her fringe with big, round, sincere eyes and says in the earnest voice of a dilligent student, "Where do you want to go?" I tell her, somewhat apologetically, almost guilty for attempting to go to Coney in March, when one still wears a hat or a scarf. She doesn't seem to mind, she is being simply helpful. She says to change trains at Atlantic Avenue (the way she pronounces it, it sounds like alanic avenue), and to catch an F train but to stay on this side (she repeats it twice). I thank her with a smile as big as an airplane (that seems to be the currency here), and 40 minutes later, we're walking into the ocean wind's outstretched arms on Coney Island Beach, sun-tanning seaguls and strolling Russians the only other visitors. And the beach is lovely, and long, and sparkling, and it's all ours.

2. List of Action

• We decide to explore the eastern edges and go see Chelsea Piers on the Hudson River. In a block next to a primary school, a small bunch of small, vibrantly-clad figures is forming a miniature road block. As we approach, we realize these are kids, 10 or 11 years old, with banners and posters. We stop and I ask them what it's all about. They suddenly get shy, and in answer, simply lift up their banners showing photographs of haggard-looking animals, and hand-drawn candy. A couple of them muster up enough public-speaking courage to tell us in simple sentences they are demonstrating against Hershey's because they test some chemicals on animals. I look at them admiringly and bemusedly, wondering if they actually know what they are doing... then I am instantly ashamed of that thought because of course they know what they are doing, they know very well, these kids... A memory of another bunch of kids floods me momentarily from head to toe, a sea of white hats and red scarves, and me one of them, Tito's pioneers, taking an oath in a huge sports arena -- and it lodges like a fish bone in my throat.





• A couple of days later, grown-ups are demonstrating in Union Square, against Bush and a war on Iran. Their colours and energies are darker, more somber, more vocal too. A thin trickle of protestants along the 14th street suddenly widens into a sizeable lake of human presence in the Square. They are holding blue banners with anti-war slogans, some are calling out messages to passers-by and inviting them to join in, and in the middle of it, as if presiding above everything, is Mother Death herself, all in black, and holding a dead child in her arms. The most chilling yet the most consistently overlooked, the most stubbornly forgotten symbol in the history of humanity.

• The city seems to fight many other, smaller battles. In the most renowned vegan restaurant "Angelica's Kitchen" in East Village, they are raising funds to help provide drinking water everywhere on the planet whose 70% is made up of water; in the 13th Street Repertory Theatre, the 91-year-old owner Edith O'Hara is fighting an epic legal battle against those who want her theatre brownstone building demolished; after a scintillating performance of Pinter's "The Homecoming" in the Cort Theatre on the 48th street, the actors quickly turn into fund-raisers with baskets for donations at the exit, for the retired actors' fund. All this in only 5 days we spent among New Yorkers.

3. List of Sleep
(Thank you, M.G.)

How Small

In the Adirondacks (New York State),
from Canada,
listening to the Brazilian
Caetano Veloso
singing Paloma
in Spanish,
reading Mesa Selimovic's
story about WWII
on the Bosnian mountain
Majevica,
I felt like crying,
not from sadness.