Kratke priče i pouke...

[dare...]

PUSTINJASve češće mi se događa da oko sebe zapažam obilje nečeg polovičnog čemu se odaje počast.Obilje nesigurnog, prikrivenog i krnjeg, a tako uvaženog.Recimo – vidim početak. Svi okolo se dive. A meni nešto zasmeta. Osećam, treba drukčije.Prepoznam starost novog. Jalovost zahuktalog. Prepoznam gde se mešaju velikodušnost i pohlepa, i beslovesnost i složenost, i saradnja i izazov, i davanje i krađa.Izbrišem sve rukavom i sve ponovo započnem.Ili mi kažu – ovako izgleda savršenstvo. A ja vidim – ne izgleda. I krivo mi što vidim.Još deda mi je govorio: "Treba pustiti svakog da radi kako radi. A ko je sobom ushićen, nemoj to da mu kvariš.Što više njih u zabludi, sve više si ti u pravu."A ja tako ne mogu. Ja zasučem rukave. Izgubim dane i noći. Niti me neko moli. Niti me neko tera. Niti mi kažu hvala.Zapnem umesto drugog, raskrvarim svu dušu, ali mirno i strpljivo dovršim dovršeno...Mika Antić

Edited April 18, 2010 by dare...

[Aleksija]

volim sto sam pisac, ali me zamara sva ta papirologija.

[dare...]

HODAJUĆI NA RUKAMAPonekad mi se učini, da mi beže pod nogama putevi i daljine... I kad god mi se dogodi, da dospem u daleko, stanem nasred njega i mislim: -Konačno, evo me! A, ako podignem oči, vidim da svako najdalje, ima svoje još dalje...Možda je to i sreća. Možda ja imam u sebi, nešto duže od krajeva?Možda imam u sebi toliko mnogo sveta, da se nikada, nigde, neće moći završiti...Nije reč o životu, nego o njegovom dejstvu. Jer, neke stvari se ne mogu saznati samo očima. Postoje u meni mnoga, neverovatna čula. Čula vode i vazduha, metala, ikre, semenja...Oni koji me sreću, misle da ja to putujem. A ne putujem ja. To beskraj po meni hoda...Od koje li sam ja vrste?Znam jednu novu igru. Zaustavim se naprasno i ne mičem se satima. Pravim se kao da razmišljam i da u sebi rastem... Činim to dosta uverljivo. Dok imitiram drveće, neko sa strane, neupućen, stvarno bi pomislio da sam pustio korenje.Razlistavam se sluhom. Zagrljajima. Disanjem. Čak se i ptice prevare, pa mi slete u kosu i gnezde mi se na ramenu.Pravim se, da sam trom sanjar. Nespretan penjač. Spor saputnik. Pravim se da mi je teško, da se savijam preko belih oštrica realnog.Pravim se da mi nedostaje hitrina iznenadnog skraćivanja u tačku i produžetka u nedogled...Ja ne upoznajem svet, već ga samo prepoznajem. Ne idem da ga otkrivam, nego da ga se prisetim, kao nekakve svoje daleke uspomene.Jer mnogo puta sam bio, gde nisam jos koračao. I mnogo puta sam živeo u onom, što još ne poznajem. I mnogo puta sam grlio to, što će tek biti oblici. Zato i izgledam izgubljen... I neprestano se osvrćem. A u sebi se smeškam. Jer, ako niste znali, svet je čudesna igračka!Može li se izgubiti neko, u nekakvom vremenu i nekakvom prostoru, ako u sebi nosi, sva vremena i prostore?Smeta mi krov da sanjam! Smeta mi nebo da verujem...Mika Allmighty

Edited June 7, 2010 by dare...

[dare...]

"... život je zanimljivo rvalište u kojem jedni padaju, drugi pobjeđuju, a ne zato što su gluplji ili pametniji, već zato što su jedni nespretni, drugi lukavi. Nespretne ne treba žaliti, bili bi surovi kao i oni drugi, samo kad bi ih slučaj ili sreća bacili nekome na leđa. Ne treba se uzbuđivati ni zbog čega, i najbolje se svemu smijati, i paziti da ne dođes pod žrvanj. Ako nećes da budeš odozgo, pričuvaj se da ne budeš odozdo, i živi kako ti je volja."Meša Selimović

[le petit nicolas]

a ljudi i ne sanjaju da onaj ko zavrsi jednu stvar nije onaj isti koji je tu stvar zapoceo, cak ni onda kad obojica imaju isto ime, jer je to jedino sto ostaje nepromenjeno, ime, i nista vise.(godina smrti rikarda reisa)poz

[Nesh]

"Pešake treba voleti. Pešaci sačinjavaju veći deo čovečanstva. Više od toga - njihov bolji deo. Pešaci su stvorili svet. Oni su sagradili gradove, podigli mnogospratne zgrade, uveli kanalizaciju i vodovod, popločali ulice i oasvetlili ih električnim svetiljkama. Oni su raširili kulturu po celom svetu, pronašli štampu, izmislili barut, prebacili mostove preko reke, odgonetnuli egipatske hijeroglife, uveli neopasnu britvu, uništili trgovinu robljem i ustanovili da se od sojinih bobica može prirediti 114 ukusnih i hranjivih jela. A kad je sve bilo gotovo, kad je naša rođena planeta dobila prilično uređen izgled, pojavili su se automobili."(Zlatno tele)

[dare...]

U TRI RETKA“Ja sam modro,” reče more.“Ja sam zeleno,” reče jezero.“Ja jesam,” reče voda.Sve se priče događaju u prva dva retka -između mora i njegove modrine, između jezera i njegove zelene boje.Voda je svjedok.Ili je nešto ja, ili ja nisam ništa.Vesna KrmpotićŠta reči znaju o vodiKoja izgubi sve sto nadjeKoju volim da dokazujemKoju zelim da ucinim stvarnomA da je ne zaustavim...A da je ne povredim...B.M.

Edited November 16, 2010 by dare...

[Aleksija]

POZNAJ SAMOG SEBE

Kad čovek nema prilike da pozna koga drugoga, nije rdjavo, od dugoga vremena, da pozna samog sebe. Najlakše čovek može poznati samoga sebe na ogledalu. Ako je dobro ogledalo, čovek može tom prilikom da vidi svoje dobre strane, a ako je rđavo ogledalo, čovek može da vidi svoje rdjave strane!

[Indy]

Dnevnik sam počeo pisati još u osnovnoj školi, u Kninu. Sećam se plavih linija, koje su, poput vojničkog kordona, dovedenog za odmazdu slobodnom mišljenju, držale moja krupna, teturajuća slova u zaptu smera prema masovnoj grobnici večnosti.

Pekic, ofkors

[Elmer]

''Ja sada ništa ne odobravam niti se bilo čemu protivim. Apsurdno je zauzimati takav stav prema životu. Nismo došli na svet zato da paradiramo moralnim predrasudama. Uopšte ne registrujem šta običan svet priča, a nikada se ne mešam u ono što drugi ljudi rade...''''Životom ne vlada volja ili namera. Život je pitanje nerava, vlakana i sporogorećih ćelija u kojima se misao krije a strast doživljava snove. Možda zamišljaš da si bezbedan i smatraš sebe jakim. Međutim, neočekivana nijansa boje u sobi ili na jutarnjem nebu, neki naročiti miris koji si nekad zavoleo i koji budi divna sećanja, stih iz zaboravljene pesme na koji si nekad naišao, akord iz muzičkog dela koje si prestao da sviraš – kažem ti, Dorijane, od takvih stvari zavisi naš život."Slika Dorijana Greja, Oskar Vajld''I evo sad jedne pouke kojoj ćeš se smejati: da je ljubav od svega najvažnija! Prozreti svet, protumačiti ga i prezreti - to je stvar velikih mislilaca. Ali meni je jedino stalo do toga da volim svet, da ga ne prezirem, da ne mrzim ni svet, ni sebe, da na nj, na sebe i na sva bića mogu da gledam sa ljubavlju i sa divljenjem i sa strahopoštovanjem."Sidarta, Herman Hese''...there is a God, there always has been. I see him here, in the eyes of the people in this [hospital] corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him... there is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He will forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need. I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is''The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini

[Elmer]

''Život svakog čoveka je put ka samome sebi, pokušaj jednog puta, nagoveštaj jedne staze. Nijedan čovek nikada nije on sam, ali svaki teži da to postane, poneko potmulo, poneko jasnije, svako kako ume. Svako nosi do konca ostatke svog rođenja, sluz i ljušturu jednog prasveta. Poneko ne postane čovek nikada, već ostaje žaba, ostaje gušter, ostaje mrav. Poneko je gore čovek, a dole riba. Ali svaki je hitac prirode uperen ka čoveku. Svima nam je zajedinčko poreklo, majke naše, svi mi potičemo iz istog ždrela, ali svako, kao pokušaj i hitac iz dubina, teži vlastitoj svrsi. Mi možemo razumeti jedan drugog, ali svako od nas može da protumači samo sebe samog.'' Herman Hese, Demijan''U jednoj pretencioznoj kancelariji, Arčibald sedi naspram doktora Alistera , koji je upravo dobio prve rezultate Valentajninih pregleda. Oba čoveka su otprilike istih godina. Mogli bi da budu braća ili prijatelji, ali vec od prvog kontakta, osetili su da ih suprotstavlja neka gluva mržnja. Jedan je rođen na ulici, drugi na Bakon Hilu. Jedan nosi jaknu, drugi kravatu. Jedan ima životno iskustvo, drugi diplome. Jedan je instinktivan, drugi racionalan. Jedan voli, drugi hoce da bude voljen. Jedan nije mnogo visok ni mnogo lep, ali pravi dasa. Drugi ima lepo lice zavodnika i puna usta komplimenata. Jednome život nije doneo nista, tako da se sam poslužio. Drugome je život dao mnogo , tako da nije stekao naviku da kaže hvala. Jedan se godinama borio pre nego sto je uspeo da se budi pored jedine, jedinstvene. Drugi se oženio svojom prvom devojkom s fakulteta i iskorišćava medicinske sestre, pod neonskim svetlima sale za radiografiju. Jedan mrzi sve ono što predstavlja drugi. I to je obostrano…''Gijom Muso, Kako bih bez tebe

Edited March 22, 2011 by Elmer

[Elmer]

J Joyce The Dead

[Sludge Factory]

Moram sad, ne vredi :D

Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt VonnegutIt was The Gospel From Outer Space, by Kilgore Trout. It was about a visitor from outer space...[who] made a serious study of Christianity, to learn, if he could, why Christians found it so easy to be cruel. He concluded that at least part of the trouble was slipshod storytelling in the New Testament. He supposed that the intent of the Gospels was to teach people, among other things, to be merciful, even to the lowest of the low.But the Gospels actually taught this:Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected. So it goes.The flaw in the Christ stories, said the visitor from outer space, was that Christ, who didn't look like much, was actually the Son of the Most Powerful Being in the Universe. Readers understood that, so, when they came to the crucifixion, they naturally thought...:Oh, boy - they sure picked the wrong guy to lynch that time!And that thought had a brother: "There are right people to lynch." Who? People not well connected. So it goes.The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel. In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had. He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels.So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground. There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought. The reader would have to think that too, since the Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was.And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning. The voice of God came crashing down. He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of the Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity. God said this:From this moment on, He will punish anybody who torments a bum who has no connections!

Edited April 5, 2011 by Sludge Factory

[Elmer]

Dakle, ne ideš sa nama? Ne? Bože dragi, još uvek imaš želju za razmišljanjem, uvek imaš potrebu da razmišljaš o nizu stvari, da gledaš i da vidiš, da meriš, snimaš i beležiš sve ono što ne znaš gde bi smestio. Ostavi to policijskim arhivarima! Još nisi shvatio da je svet misli bedan. Zasmejavaš me tom tvojom metafizičkom teskobom, prpa te je, strah od života, strah od delatnosti, od nereda. Ali sve je nered, dragi moj! Nered su biljke, rude, životinje; nered je mnoštvo ljudskih rasa; nered su ljudski život, misao, istorija, bitke, izumi, trgovina, umetnost; nered su teorije, strasti, sistemi. Oduvek je tako! Zašto želiš da uspostaviš red? Kakav red?! Šta hoćeš? Ne postoji istina! Sve je samo delatnost, delatnost koja je podstaknuta milionima različitih pobuda, trenutna delatnost, delatnost koja se podvrgava svim mogućim i nemogućim slučanostima, antagonistička delatnost. Život. Život je zločin, kradja, ljubomora, glad, žedj, zajebancija, glupost, bolest, vulkanska erupcija, zemljotresi, hrpa leševa. Tu ti ništa ne možeš, jadni moj stari, nećeš valjda početi da proizvodiš knjige?

[Marvin (Paranoid Android)]

Thoughts on Love and Smoking

(Bill Hicks, November 1992)

 

(My first love was like smoking – both bad habits and both totally seductive – and as time goes by, my addiction to both lingers until they intertwine, interchange, become inseparable in my mind – forming a nostalgia on the brain, for which there is no cure.)

 

Autumn in New York. Spring in the step. Rosy-cheeked women dressed in black go bouncing down the avenues. Their coolest coats and jackets hunched against the whipping winds. Their brightly colored scarves dancing under the slate-grey sky. They threaten to turn the clock back to 1964, and everywhere you look is like the cover of a Dylan album – pre-Jesus, post-folk, ultra-cool. This is why I smoke.

 

A cafe spills out into the street. It's warm, roasted light and cappuccino steam drawing mods and spectres and VAMPIRE QUEENS with the promise of fresh-brewed blood from the bean. On the sidewalks nearby, the multitudes flow by. Red lips giving cigarettes a tug, making embers flare like lightning bugs. Fir and woodsmoke fill the sparkling air, the breath exhaled just hanging there like some frozen joyous scream. And all the girls evoke the dream of autumn in New York.

 

It's on nights like this that I think of her the most... When we first met, I was a roaring drunk. I was twenty-six years old and in a grave deep rut. She was a southern girl, which was the same as saying she was insane. All southern women are insane. Some are cold blooded killers and some are harmless eccentrics, but the best of the breed exhibit both of these characteristics and always the one you expect the least at the time you least expect it. She was the best of the breed and the best I've ever had. The night of our third date, I grabbed her by the neck and punched holes in the wall around her head, then tried to hurl her off the balcony of my 22nd floor apartment. That was the night she fell in love with me. She liked my style. See, she was an addict too, just like me... Later, we smoked and had a good laugh over it all.

 

I flipped her every which-a-way, like a cat battling around a half-dead mouse, for its own amusement, staving off the kill. She whimpered and cried and begged for mercy until I found her hot pulse throbbing and bit deep down. Closest to the bone is the sweetest meat. Her hands grabbed my hair and her feet fluttered against my back as I gulped all the life in her greedily down my throat. Then she lay very still. I rolled away and stood swaying next to the bed, letting the blood rush from my head, trying to remember where the hell my cigarettes were. I crashed about in the dark, knocking over tables and lamps and chairs, finally finding my pack in the pocket of the shirt I was wearing. I smoked a few while strumming my guitar, then I wrote a song and sang it at the top of my lungs. A baby cried next door, and a fire truck thundered down the street, its sirens wailing. And all the while she never stirred.In the morning I awoke, curled next to her like a spoon, feeling her bottom pushing repeatedly against my lap while she whispered breathlessly to some dream lover. I got up and put some water on to boil, then sat at the kitchen table, smoking, my back to the bed. Suddenly, her arms were around me and I was smothered in her charm. Her need was ferocious and I lay helplessly on the floor as she exacted her sweet revenge, biting down deep again and again until the shriek of the steam and the sound of my screams was all that filled the room.New York is where we moved when Texas got too small. It was summer time. New York in July is hotter than I care to describe but I will try. Imagine, if you will, the hottest part of hell. The place where advertisers and marketing executives go to dwell. And now try to think of even hotter still, where bankers and landlords and like-minded swill, go to spend all the profits that they've made, eternally. And now, if you can, go even one step further into the furnace, back where coals glow white with rage, where child molesters, bureaucrats, and arms dealers play, and even further still, where the guy who stole my stereo will spend his lonely never-ending night. Picture a heat that hot, only add to it ninety-eight percent humidity. This is New York in July. We had a ball, living in an unair-conditioned railroad flat whose kindling walls bulged under the weight of the infernal heat.I'd come to in the worst part of the day, gasping, and kicking away the non-existent sheets and covers. She'd already be up, pressing a cold water jug to her forehead, leaning naked against the fridge. My dry voice croaked for her to bring me water. As she walks towards me, I feel her heat cut through the New York summer, and her wetness damper than the July air. She sees the look in my eye but reacts too slowly, stupefied by the temperature in the little wood oven we called home. The water jug falls to the floor, forgotten, as I pull her down on top of me and drink from her, long and slow.

 

As the days grew longer, the heat gave birth to some truly inspired inventions. More than once the blistering sun found us lounging in the tub of water, while a fan blew through the cool material of a moistened sheet draped over us from head to toe. Voila! An air conditioner! Rather primitive, to be sure, but that embodied its allure, we were immigrants, setting about exploring our new love, filling the places where others had things, with simple pleasures and ecstasy's screams, from where in the tub we reflected the glare of the sun. Smoking away the heat of the day. Our lighter flicking repeatedly, fighting fire with fire until sun would retreat.At night we'd crawl through the streets of the city, tracking the shy breeze that had poked its nose through our open window, then withdrawing with an almost imperceptible tug on our threadbare curtains, all the 'oomph' of an inaudible sigh. People lolled about in doorways and on stoops, half-dressed and blinking stupidly. The women fanned themselves through damp see-through blouses, their legs apart and skirts hitched high above the knees. Inviting our shy breeze to poke its nose anywhere it likes. The neighborhood crazies were out in force. The Man-with-no-nose oozed by, eyeing me conspiratorially. I wonder if he had heard us earlier? Me yelling 'I love you', as I drove my point home, again and again? Ah, who cares? We’re all nasty, rutting beasts and those who aren't are dead. It was too hot to care or to think, so we just walked along smoking, absorbing whatever hope the night could bring.

 

Once, a careless drunk staggered into the traffic and got sent airborne by a tourist bus late in leaving this freak show of a city. The tourists' cameras started flashing in hope of capturing the drunk as he sailed through the intersection ahead of the bus and finally coming to rest in the gutter he'd just left as the bus trundled on down the street. Everywhere a stillness, a quiet broken only by the sporadic moaning coming from the drunk. 'Shaddup!' the Man-with-no-nose ordered and sniffed disgustedly. Then the stillness would return and everyone sat smoking, lazily pondering their existence. She and I would hold onto each other tightly and come to no conclusion other than IT'S TOO DAMN HOT. We'd buy ice cream and return to the tinder-box. We'd play chess in our underwear, smoking, eating ice cream. She moves. I move. She moves. Check. She looks innocently up at me, licking the last of the ice cream from the spoon. The sun starts to rise behind her. I start to rise in front. She chooses me over the sun, and we tumble into bed where I make my final move. MATE.

 

It all ended rather quickly. One day I came home and found her gone. She'd cleaned the place and baked a cake which sat next to a note on the kitchen table. I ate the note with a glass of milk, then tore the cake into a thousand little pieces. Her dresser drawers were empty as was the clothes hamper. I was hoping she'd overlooked a pair of knickers from which I could inhale her scent again before beginning the arduous task of tracking her down to the ends of the earth and... and... and what? I had no idea. There was nothing I could do, except fall into bed with my guitar, which I banged away on for a month. Playing what was left of my heart out, and crying what was left of my tears, and smoking all the cigarettes North Carolina had exported that year. Classic withdrawal. Finally, I reached the end. I stumbled into the bathroom and a tub of hot water, where every ache and pain was left running down the drain. I smiled rudely to myself, feeling like a new man. It would be hard of course, but I'd make it. This was life, my friend, get used to it. Buckle up! You'll be fine. In the mirror I gave myself a self-mocking scowl, then I reached up on the shelf, and a pair of her knickers wafted down, landing crotch first on my face. That night, the hunt began...Years later we bumped into each other at the club. She was waiting for me, really, but I didn't mind. There will always be something about her that just kills me, and she knows it. Is that why she'd come? Why do I care? I'd been lonely for too long. When she saw me, she took a final puff from her cigarette, then stamped it out and looked up at me - hopefully and a little afraid. So I said 'hey', as though nothing had gone down. As though we'd parted only moments ago. As though... As though... As though... I said 'hey' and she smiled and breathed a slight sigh of relief and then she said 'hey' back to me. Then arm-in-arm we marched right to my bed. God, how I loved her. I thought there must be some hope, some way, some future we could share. I thought of fate and destiny, past lives and tea leaves, of black magic and voodoo and anything else that might explain our recurring rendezvous, as we went about the serious business of washing my sheets in tears and sweat. As usual. God, how I loved her then. I was addicted to her, and she to me. And we always found ourselves rather easily lowering ourselves into each other's hottest fires. Fearlessly leaping into the abyss, mouths locked together in a kiss that killed us long before we ever hit the ground.

 

Afterwards we lay there smoking, legs entwined. She spoke softly everything that came to mind, avoiding only that which was real, and the thousand pieces of my heart each broke again, into a million, leaving a fine layer of bittersweet dust on my tongue which then burned away with every inhalation of my hot smoke.She could still have me, if she'd only let me go. But she won't, ever, and even now she holds me tight with her milky white thigh and her flat stomach presses against my hip and her soft, firm breasts pushing against my chest. And I just wanting to die, to disappear behind my cloud, and listen to her prattle on forever and ever...

 

Epilogue

 

London, England, November. I sit staring at the phone and my pack of smokes which sit side by side on the table before me. The cold grey skies bring out the veteran Heathcliff complex which resides in me, near the surface, always ready to rise. She'd never been to England. She would love it here. My hand reaches toward the table, tentatively rests on the phone. She's a call away, waiting. Pain is one plane flight away. Ecstasy on delivery. My hand leaves the phone and swoops up my pack of cigarettes. I light one up and inhale deeply. No, I won't call. I must drop these bad habits one at a time.

 

And I must start now, with her. 'Goodbye, Catherine', Heathcliff whispers from the thickening cloud of smoke that surrounds him to this day.