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Predug dan, budna od pet ujutro, radila non-stop 7:30-14:15, onda downtown da vidim stan tog tipa sto trazi cimera; imao je nekog prije mene pa sam provela sat u Timothyju pijuckajuci neko cudo od kave/karamela, ne volim te stvari, ali eto tako, da imam nesto ispred sebe dok gledam u ljude na ulici, kakve face i pojave... Kao da sam digla pogled iz krticnjaka na karusel s mitoloskim zivotinjama, i odmah mi se odbacuje sve sto jesam i kako jesam, i tako bih voljela, tako bih voljela, da mogu isprobati jos tuce zivota, na stotine uloga, da mogu iskusiti sve. Iskapljuje vrijeme, a ja se jos nisam odlucila: lik iz price ili pisac? Istina je da nisam ni jedno ni drugo, niti ikad vise mogu biti, sve je odluceno, svrseno, karte podijeljene, ja sam davno, davno sve izgubila. I ostala mi samo jedna vjestina, u rijecima Elizabeth Bishop: The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. |