From the Archives (2000): Pismo uzaludno

Srđanu, 13.11. 2000.
Subject: pismo uzaludno

jeste, uzaludno jer i ne znam da li ćeš ga i kada pročitati. nekako mi je ovih dana sve jasnije da uopšte nije u redu što se ne čujemo češće, mislim ti, ja, branko, zlata... dođe ti da se zapitaš, koja je svrha posedovanja roditelja, braće i sestara ako čak i ne znaš šta se s njima dešava uopšteno govoreći, da i ne spominjem trivijalnosti kao na primer, kako si proveo dan, šta si sinoć jeo za večeru, je l imaš cipele za zimu, šta ima novo u domu, je l čuvar opet nekog ubio, je l se pojavilo kestenje i šta si poslednji put sanjao. ovi detalji uopšte i nisu bitni, u nekom normalnom životu, a opet ih saznaš, nekako, i kad ih nema moguće su čak i egzistencijalne sumnje u samo postojanje osoba o kojima više nemaš takve informacije. pitam se dakle postojite li. i onda...

... sedim tako i buljim u ekran već satima, skoro; ne zanimaju me neke sigurno zanimljive stvari, podaci o najnovijim dešavanjima, ratovima, kupoprodajnim ponudama, filmovima i more informacija na netu; vođeni čisto instinktivnim automatskim pilotom moji prsti kuckaju banjaluka u potrazi za slikama, čak me ni reči ne zanimaju, trebaju mi slike, nešto što se konzumira odmah i bez čekanja, nešto što te jasnoćom i emocionalnom blizinom odmah zadovolji. i nađem. the story of banja luka, sajt napravio neki damir tomičić, nostagični musliman, gotovo sigurno, sudeći po kratkim sentimentalnim natpisima i beskrajnim fotografijama porušenih džamija. ali ima on i za mene nešto, čitav red za redom malecnih fotografija različitih delova banjaluke, neprepoznatljivih dok ih ne uvećaš, a onda se polako centimetar po centimetar, otvore, uvećane i lako prepoznatljive. otvaram tako jednu po jednu, dugo proučavam svaki detalj, boska, vrbas, gospodska, šehitluci, panorama sa belim zgradama borika i brda u pozadini, i onda...

... sličica je suviše mala da bih isprve prepoznala šta je u pitanju, ali negde mi u glavi zvone zvona, iz davnina. kliknem i čekam, u neizvesnosti. gornji deo slike se prvi pojavi, polako, komadić po komadić, kao da putuju odatle do ovamo, nešto ljubičasto i blještavo u uglu, slika se spušta i uvećava, polako polako, otkriva nebo rasparano munjom, oštrom i razgranatom, koja udara u vrh neke zgrade, onda se i zgrade pomaljaju odozgo naniže, prepoznajem ih, žute i crvene, boki sa aluminijumskom folijom protiv sunca, jovan sa otvorenim prozorom, niz samoubica, proleću; noć i uključena svetla u stanovima; onda pijaca, sabiranje i oduzimanje ne dinara konvertibilnih maraka voće i one lubenice sećaš se vraćamo se preko livade, sparušene, sad je crna i mokra od kiše i ne vidi se samo ja znam da je tu jer znam da je tu; ekran i dalje produžava sliku, korektno i bezosećajno a ja gledam i onda, krug. gotovo neverovatno, betonski, prijateljski krug, mokar i svetlucav pod kišom, krug, ti lozić draž i boki (je l boki?) igrate večiti derbi, a na ivici s desne strane sedi onaj zadrigli komšija iz beogradske 1 sa klinčetom za koga ovog leta nismo znali je l njegov ili nije. krug.

sliku sam skinula sa neta i prebacila je kao glavnu sliku na mom kompjuteru. i sad je tu, kad god ga ukljucim, kao da izađem na terasu u kuhinji i gledam napolje. i sve mi se čini, sasvim je moguće da je neki kecman napravio tu fotografiju...



Mala verzija te slike, bez kruga: pravu nisam mogla da nadjem u fajlovima, a onog sajta vise nema...

Explosion

The lights in the auditorium went dim, the spotlights hit the musicians on the stage, the notes burst in a well-timed explosion, scattered around, and then rushed back jumping headlong into a frenzied Hungarian Gipsy melody, sweeping everything in its way. Right away, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, they came; without asking, without knocking, without a warning, they flung open the doors of my eyes and ran gleefully down my face. I sat and listened, knowing that everybody was there, in this music; everybody I could remember, everybody I called mine, and me, we were all there, in the music. It was too much, and it was not enough. It was a home, without a house.


Kalman Balogh Gipsy Cimbalom Band performs "Aven shavale..."

From the Archives (1999): Love in a Plastic Box

(mojima)


"glasovi"

... ustreptali, njihovi. usne zamisljene razvucene u osmeh, s mojim imenom. meki obli sareni glasovi, njihovi...

... pritajeni zaustavljeni izdisaj suncanog popodneva, okruglo decije oko u iscekivanju, preskoceni otkucaj srca, mog. pritajeni zaustavljeni dah i eslplozija glasova, mekih oblih, mog imena...

... isprepleteni izukrstani paralelni isprekidani u zici slusalice, glasovi. slusam. tu u ruznoj plasticnoj kutiji cuce, izvijeni u osmeh glasovi, obeglavljeni. preskocen otkucaj srca, mog. moja tuga moje t meko tiho moje oko izvrnuto istegnuto za glasovima...

... kao trunke prasine kao parcici proslosti kao pulsirajuca zenica plivaju plutaju lebde glasovi, njihovi. slusam cujem ljubav. slusam cujem ljubav peva u ruznoj plasticnoj kutiji. preplavljena moja je ljubav kao. glas nikao iz kutije. krik kroz zicu, zaljubljen. pesma glasna od srca, ljubav je moja, slusaj...

... nezno s ljubavlju ruzna plasticna kutija peva glasove, njihove, grlate, za mene. slusam, cujem: ljubav.
**********************************************************
(to my family)

"love in a plastic box"

... tingling voices, theirs. imaginary lips stretching into a smile, with my name in it. soft curved shimmering sounds of voices, theirs...

... hushed suspended breathing out of a sunny afternoon, a childlike eye rounded with anticipation, a missed heartbeat, mine. hushed suspended breath then an explosion of voices, soft curved, of my name...

... interweaving criss-crossing parallel and intermittent in the wire of the receiver, voices. i listen. there in the ugly plastic box they are crouching, curled into a smile, voices, headless. a missed heartbeat, mine. my sorrow, my t soft and quiet, my eye craning straining after the voices...

... like specks of dust like particles of the past like pulsating pupil in the eye, the voices swim float hover, theirs. i listen i hear love. i listen i hear love singing in the ugly plastic box. flooded is my love. like a voice sprouting from the box. a scream through the wire, in love. a loud song from the heart, is my love, listen...

... tenderly with love the ugly plastic box is singing the sounds of voices, theirs, throaty, for me. i listen, i hear: love.

A Sketch of Week #1889

Monday, March 2



9:20 a.m. and I’m leaving for the 10 o’clock class. It’s cold and slippery, I negotiate carefully with the icy patches in the yard, open the gate, and gingerly step onto the even icier back alley. I turn around to wave at Kitty, who has acquired the habit of seeing me off at the back-yard window in the morning. But his back is turned to me – he’s looking at something inside the house. I stand there for a few seconds, reluctant to go without this wave, but on the edge of being late. He is still turned away from the window. “Kitty!” I whisper, inaudibly. He turns and looks at me right away, and I wave, and the week can begin.


Kitty at a (different) window


4:00 p.m. I am waiting at the Peel metro station, after a swim at the YMCA. I know exactly where to stand so I would get into the car which will unload me in front of the proper exit at Berri-Uqam where I change lines. Vaguely happy about my well-chosen spot, I turn around to cast a look at the few people sitting on the stone benches behind me. My eye is instantly drawn to a yellow-haired man in his 50s, dressed in a black suit, absent-mindedly picking his nose. Then, as if it were one continuous, seamless movement, his hand goes straight to his mouth, where his fingers stuff the catch through the barely open lips. The train roars in, and we all get on it, the man making miniscule chewing motions.



Tuesday, March 3



9:25 p.m. God bless small pleasures, like the anticipation of watching again a movie you love. I’m about to see Revolutionary Road for the second time, and I know I will sink and drown, and I like it, and I let myself go, and I am not here any more.

Wednesday, March 4

1:58 p.m. I am walking down 3G wing, on my way to my BXE class starting at 2:00. A girl, in between classes, stands leaning against the wall in the corridor. Her left arm is thrown up and around the back of her head, her left hand holding the cell phone pressed to her right ear. Instant yoga? Stretching exercise? A ploy to attract looks? She returns the glances of passers-by with a hint of a dare. She’s 18, after all.

Thursday, March 5

2:15 p.m. It’s about 20 minutes after the usual time I leave to make it to the pool, so I’m in a hurry. Just outside the back gate, I become aware of a strange, methodical noise coming from somewhere in the yard. My first instinct is to let it be, and simply go on with my projected day (now somewhat late). The noise, however, is insistent, and I locate its source underneath the plastic cover protecting the hibernating barbecue from the winter elements. The plastic is visibly shaking, announcing the presence of a living thing in its bosom. At first I think it’s a raccoon – a rare visitor in our neighbourhood (but which did appear one evening a couple of years ago, swaying it’s big rear end lazily across the yard and slowly climbing the tree outside on the pavement, from where he looked at me calmly). I am a little nervous but mostly curious, and try to sneak up to the barbecue as quietly as possible. But the snow crusted with icy layer on top gives me away, there is a sudden silence inside the barbecue, and from underneath, a squirrel darts out, and hops onto the trellis above. She stays there for a few seconds looking at me, upset at being disturbed; in her mouth she holds a sizeable wad of cotton-wool, undoubtedly looted in order to build a nest. That’s right, the nest. It’s March 5, and the squirrel knows without knowing that spring is coming.

11:15 p.m. Everything is ready: the vast green towel (inherited from Sophie, after she went back to France in 1999) laid out and straightened across the cleared table, the iron into which I’ve poured some water for steaming, the concentration-inducing music on the radio. They say it will be +9 degrees tomorrow, and I want to wear my new, pleated skirt. The problem: the damn thing is made of some hyper-creaseable fabric, and even the pleats themselves are half-lost in the crisscrossing crease-lines. And I’ve never been good at ironing. (I’m so not good at it that, the evening before my Ph.D. defense, it was my boyfriend at the time – a chemistry student with gentle fingers and the necessary patience – who in the end ironed my pants for the big occasion the following day). I apply myself fully to the task at hand, the iron hissing and spitting as I manipulate it here or there, tracing the pleats. Twenty minutes later I look at what I’ve done, and it’s not so bad. In fact, it seems pretty decent, and I spend the next half-hour in front of the bedroom mirror trying on various vestiary combinations with the tamed skirt… only to find out that I can’t really wear it before the summer since it doesn’t have the lining and keeps ballooning around the height of my crotch as it comes into contact with my nylon tights (definitely indispensable in March). I can only laugh at the whole thing; and put the skirt away.

The pants, which were perfectly ironed the night before (did I ever say thank you?), looked like this after my 3-hour long Ph.D. defense

Friday, March 6

12:20 p.m. Walking through the underground corridor connecting the college with the mall where I get my lunch, I spot a dimly familiar woman (a colleague from around the D wing?) going in the opposite direction. She’s wearing a black skirt made of a felt-like fabric, severely crumpled and thronged above her knees, from the friction with the tights. And she doesn’t seem in the least bothered by it.

Saturday, March 7

10:30 a.m. Still in my PJs, I slip my feet into Martin’s humongous yard shoes, throw my winter jacket loosely over my back, and run out to investigate the barbecue situation. The plastic cover is too stiff to remove completely, but I manage to lift it enough to see what the squirrel was doing the other day. The inside of the cover is lined with a thin layer of cotton-wool, which now shows gaps and empty patches, where the squirrel tore it off in her nest-building zeal. Good luck, in any case!

This is what the squirrel wants: cotton-wool

Sunday, March 8

Early morning. I am in Belgrade, and I can see that I will be late. I need to take streetcar number 3 but since I haven’t been here in a while, I can’t find the terminal right away. I seem to remember parts of some streets leading there, but many things have changed, and in the end I have to ask a passer-by for directions. Finally, I get to the right place, and notice all the novelties, such as the electronic board displaying in red the order in which streetcars covering various lines are coming in. There was nothing like it when I lived in Belgrade, and I’m impressed. I see that the next one up is number 3, and I approach the stop but there must have been some mistake as, instead of my streetcar, a red bus zooms by without stopping. I have only 25 minutes left, and I’m now quite worried about the time, and upset with myself for not having checked out the route the day before. I am on my way to register for something called “the civilian army” and it is becoming quite clear that I won’t make it to the registration place even if the streetcar were to arrive this very minute. Suddenly I realize that cika Stanko is here, with his composed posture and reliable moustache, ready to help out just as he helps the kids from the apartment building when they get in trouble. “Cika Stanko,” I whine, “what am I to do?!” He seems to be fully convinced that I will make it on time – perhaps he means that I should take a cab? And this is when Martin brings purring Cica to bed, by way of saying bye before he goes to work. I stretch under the covers, quite pleased at my narrow escape from a possible boot camp.

Monday, March 9

12:30 p.m. I sit in my office and calculate that this was (roughly) the 1889th week in my life.