30.04.2007., ponedjeljak

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Feral Tribune od 25. travnja, 2007.


GLEDE & UNATOČ


ZANAT



Piše: Heni ERCEG


Žale se ovih dana splitski poduzetnici i članovi Liste Velog mista kako naprosto ne mogu za svoje pogone pronaći tokare ili podopokrivače, o keramičarima da se i ne govori. "I ako pronađem petoricu tokara", kaže poduzetnik Silvano Bralić, "četvoro će odmah otpasti jer su nestručni, a peti će raditi mjesec dana i potom otići, jer da mu je posao težak". Drugi jedan majstor tvrdi kako bi u Splitu mogao poimenice nabrojiti samo sedam keramičara koje bi preporučio, dok je sve ostalo čisti fuš. Ispostavlja se da su srednje škole za navedena zanimanja prazne jer rijetko koje dijete želi izučiti neki pristojan zanat, mada se upravo na tim poslovima itekako dobro zarađuje. Naravno, to je priča za sociologe, no i laik zna koji su pravi razlozi devastacije skoro svih proizvodnih struka u državi - usput rečeno, državi koja ionako nema nikakvu suvislu proizvodnju - odnosno odustajanja od svakog posla koji ne donosi brzu i laku zaradu, dovoljno bi bilo tek ovlaš pogledati novine posljednjeg desetljeća da bi se saznalo na kakvim su temeljima, kakvim društvenim preporukama i vrijednostima stasale generacije mladih koji bi trebali svojim radom i profesijama podignuti zemlju iz proizvodnog mrtvila.

Ono što im se sugeriralo sve tamo od utemeljenja Hrvatske jest da se mnogo više od školovanja i kasnijeg poštenog i predanog rada isplati svaki oblik kriminala, sitnog ili krupnog, svejedno, odrastali su na saznanjima da im očevi u najboljim godinama također ne rade zato jer su, ili bačeni na ulicu, uništenjem nekadašnjih im poduzeća, tvornica, ili su uspješno od države naplatili svoje stvarno ili lažno sudjelovanje u takozvanom domovinskom ratu, naučili su lekciju kako je rijetko koji kriminalac, potkožen zahvaljujući famoznoj hrvatskoj pretvorbi i privatizaciji, završio iza brave, shvatila je ta mladost još i to da tamo gore, u visinama hrvatske politike, žive neki ljudi, ni broja im se ne zna, svoj lagodni virtualni život, nazivaju se političari koji svoj mandat na vlasti koriste mahom za stjecanje enormnih materijalnih dobara.

Pa zašto bi onda oni, misle ti mladi ljudi, učili za tokare, stolare, keramičare, varioce... pa valjda i oni mogu nekom prečicom do ostvarenja svojih snova.

I vrlo je moguće da bi u svakom razgovoru s većinom pripadnika generacije devedesetih dobili isto retoričko pitanje: A što se to promijenilo? Je li itko zbog kriminala i krađe društvenoga novca, zemljišta, nekretnina, završio u zatvoru? I, nažalost, bili bi u pravu. A ako se već dogodi procesuiranje tu i tamo nekog lopova ili grupe kriminalaca, u pravilu tek nakon višegodišnjeg inzistiranja nekog medija ili pripadnika opozicijske stranke, njegova ili njihova "vještina" doima se tako fantastičnom, poput predloška za neki kriminalistički film, čini se, naime, posve nemogućom i nestvarnom. Upravo je takva i priča o velikoj krađi, vidljiva u sudskom iskazu stanovitog Drage Mačeka, ključnog igrača iz afere Brodosplit, one iste koju je premijer Sanader mjesecima, pače, godinama poricao, a riječ je o nestanku skoro šest milijuna dolara iz posrnulog brodograđevnog diva u Splitu, novca koji je transferiran na strane račune, a za čiju se krađu terete direktori i menadžeri splitskog brodogradilišta.

Elem, taj Maček u svom iskazu mrtav hladan tumači na koji je način veliki splitski gubitaš dodatno oštećen u, za normalnog čovjeka, nemogućoj misiji otuđenja velikoga novca, pa kaže kako su sporna četiri tankera, građena u Splitu, zapravo prenamijenjena u brodove za obuku kadeta i časnika, da je to tražio naručitelj brodova, neki Wesels, a budući da je taj fantastični "koncept" tankera i školskog broda, sve u jednom, sve po zamisli toga Weselsa, trebalo zaštititi od vražje konkurencije, on je morao ostati tajni projekt Brodosplita, pa su stoga tajni bili i računi u austrijskim bankama na koje su odlazili oni milijunski dolarski iznosi... Maček je za svaki slučaj objasnio i to kako konačnu suglasnost na svaki ugovor, pa tako i onaj splitski, za gradnju četiri broda po narudžbi njemačkog Weselsa, daje hrvatska vlada, pa ispada kako nema nevinih u toj gadnoj priči, te da je sav Sanaderov bijes kojim je obasipao SDP-ova zastupnika Marina Jurjevića koji je i potegao pitanje kriminala u Brodosplitu, bio zapravo tek dimna zavjesa, puki blef, svakako ne i jedini.

No ni mi, a sigurno ni ona mladost s početka priče, nemamo puno iluzije da će ova afera imati svoj pravedni kraj. Valja se samo prisjetiti sličnih ili gorih otuđenja društvenoga novca, kada su skandali zamirali onoga trenutka dočim bi mediji, zatrpani sličnim aferama, gubili za njih interes. Evo tko se još sjeća brojnih skandala izvjesnog Miomira Žužula, visokog državnog činovnika i premijerova miljenika, koji je ama baš na sve imao odgovor, pa bi ga vjerojatno imao i za posao koji itekako miriše na skandal da je on, a prema pisanju Novog lista, svojim političkim vezama omogućio svojim rođacima i njihovim tvrtkama da dobiju značajne i skupe poslove na izgradnji autoceste Rijeka - Zagreb, pa je tako Skladgradnja u vlasništvu Slavena Žužula, Miomirova rođaka, angažirana na poslovima čak pet dionica autoceste, a tvrtka Euro construct u vlasništvu Ive Žužula, opet Miomirova rođaka, vrag zna koliko ih samo ima, na izradi zemljanih radova. Naravno da ne treba posebno napominjati da su radovi dobiveni bez javnog natječaja, ali treba spomenuti da im se vrijednost procjenjuje na oko deset milijuna eura, a spomena je svakako vrijedna i skromna prošlost te Skladgradnje koja prvi veći posao u cestogradnji dobiva, koje li slučajnosti, baš 2003., baš na autocesti Zagreb – Split, baš na onom slijepom, ali skupom i dakako važnom, odvojku autoceste koji vodi do sela Dugogabe, rodnoga mjesta gospodina Sanadera.

Pa je ta tvrtka Miomirova rođaka, Žužula S., od 150 radnika porasla na skoro 800, a porasli su bogami i prihodi, i netto dobit, riječju, hrvatski je san ostvario još jedan Žužul čija je firma do te 2003. radila uglavnom kao sitni kooperant u Brodosplitu, ali ne i politički sitan, važno je, naime, zvati se Žužul i imati rođaka za ministra vanjskih poslova, pa im se između ostaloga pripisuju i zasluge za imenovanje onih istih članova uprave Brodosplita koji se danas na sudu brane zbog sklapanja štetnih ugovora s njemačkim naručiocem i svakovrsne druge marčapije.

Pa vi sad fino kažite svojoj djeci neka izuče neki zanat, tokara ili varioca, keramičara, pitura ili šnajderice, jer da samo poštenim radom mogu dobro živjeti. Ma umrit će od smija ili vas poslat na liječenje. I, nažalost, bit će u pravu!


- 13:32 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

29.04.2007., nedjelja

Dan D (20)


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- 10:05 - Komentari (6) - Isprintaj - #

28.04.2007., subota

Lektira (3) - treći nastavak





7

Moments later the door unlocked and a smiling monk with hair the color and texture of mold fuzz came in with Brother Fred, who still had his pump shotgun. There were two dead folks with them. A man and a woman. They wore torn clothes and the mouse-ear hats. Neither looked long dead or smelled particularly bad. Actually, the monks smelled worse.
Using the barrel of the shotgun, Brother Fred poked them down the hall to a room with metal tables and medical instruments.
Brother Lazarus was on the far side of one of the tables. He was smiling. His nose looked especially cancerous this morning. A white pustule the size of a thumb tip had taken up residence on the left side of his snout, and it looked like a pearl onion in a turd.
Nearby stood a nun. She was short with good, if skinny, legs, and she wore the same outfit as the nun on the bus. It looked more girlish on her, perhaps because she was thin and small-breasted. She had a nice face and eyes that were all pupil. Wisps of blond hair crawled out around the edges of her headgear. She looked pale and weak, as if wearied to the bone. There was a birthmark on her right cheek that looked like a distant view of a small bird in flight.
"Good morning," Brother Lazarus said. "I hope you gentlemen slept well."
"What’s this about work?" Wayne said.
"Work?" Brother Lazarus said.
"I described it to them that way," Brother Fred said. "Perhaps an impulsive description."
"I’ll say," Brother Lazarus said. "No work here, gentlemen. You have my word on that. We do all the work. Lie on these tables and we’ll take a sampling of your blood."
"Why?" Wayne said.
"Science," Brother Lazarus said. "I intend to find a cure for this germ that makes the dead come back to life, and to do that, I need living human beings to study. Sounds kind of mad scientist, doesn’t it? But I assure you, you’ve nothing to lose but a few drops of blood. Well, maybe more than a few drops, but nothing serious."
"Use your own goddamn blood," Calhoun said.
"We do. But we’re always looking for fresh specimens. Little here, little there. And if you don’t do it, we’ll kill you."
Calhoun spun and hit Brother Fred on the nose. It was a solid punch and Brother Fred hit the floor on his butt, but he hung onto the shotgun and pointed it up at Calhoun. "Go on," he said, his nose streaming blood. "Try that again."
Wayne flexed to help, but hesitated. He could kick Brother Fred in the head from where he was, but that might not keep him from shooting Calhoun, and there would go the extra reward money. And besides, he’d given his word to the bastard that they’d try to help each other survive until they got out of this.
The other monk clasped his hands and swung them into the side of Calhoun’s head, knocking him down. Brother Fred got up, and while Calhoun was trying to rise, he hit him with the stock of the shotgun in the back of the head, hit him so hard it drove Calhoun’s forehead into the floor. Calhoun rolled over on his side and lay there, his eyes fluttering like moth wings.
"Brother Fred, you must learn to turn the other cheek," Brother Lazarus said. "Now put this sack of shit on the table."
Brother Fred checked Wayne to see if he looked like trouble. Wayne put his hands in his pockets and smiled.
Brother Fred called the two dead folks over and had them put Calhoun on the table. Brother Lazarus strapped him down.
The nun brought a tray of needles, syringes, cotton and bottles over, put it down on the table next to Calhoun’s head. Brother Lazarus rolled up Calhoun’s sleeve and fixed up a needle and stuck it in Calhoun’s arm, drew it full of blood. He stuck the needle through the rubber top of one of the bottles and shot the blood into that.
He looked at Wayne and said, "I hope you’ll be less trouble."
"Do I get some orange juice and a little cracker afterwards?" Wayne said.
"You get to walk out without a knot on your head," Brother Lazarus said.
"Guess that’ll have to do."
Wayne got on the table next to Calhoun and Brother Lazarus strapped him down. The nun brought the tray over and Brother Lazarus did to him what he had done to Calhoun. The nun stood over Wayne and looked down at his face. Wayne tried to read something in her features but couldn’t find a clue.
When Brother Lazarus was finished he took hold of Wayne’s chin and shook it. "My, but you two boys look healthy. But you can never be sure. We’ll have to run the blood through some tests. Meantime, Sister Worth will run a few additional tests on you, and," he nodded at the unconscious Calhoun, "I’ll see to your friend here."
"He’s no friend of mine," Wayne said.
They took Wayne off the table, and Sister Worth and Brother Fred, and his shotgun, directed him down the hall into another room.
The room was lined with shelves that were lined with instruments and bottles. The lighting was poor, most of it coming through a slatted window, though there was an anemic yellow bulb overhead. Dust motes swam in the air.
In the center of the room on its rim was a great, spoked wheel. It had two straps well spaced at the top, and two more at the bottom. Beneath the bottom straps were blocks of wood. The wheel was attached in back to an upright metal bar that had switches and buttons all over it.
Brother Fred made Wayne strip and get on the wheel with his back to the hub and his feet on the blocks. Sister Worth strapped his ankles down tight, then he was made to put his hands up, and she strapped his wrists to the upper part of the wheel.
"I hope this hurts a lot," Brother Fred said.
"Wipe the blood off your face," Wayne said. "It makes you look silly."
Brother Fred made a gesture with his middle finger that wasn’t religious and left the room.

8

Sister Worth touched a switch and the wheel began to spin, slowly at first, and the bad light came through the windows and poked through the rungs and the dust swam before his eyes and the wheel and its spokes threw twisting shadows on the wall.
As he went around, Wayne closed his eyes. It kept him from feeling so dizzy, especially on the down swings.
On a turn up, he opened his eyes and caught sight of Sister Worth standing in front of the wheel staring at him. He said, "Why?" and closed his eyes as the wheel dipped.
"Because Brother Lazarus says so," came the answer after such a long time Wayne had almost forgotten the question. Actually, he hadn’t expected a response. He was surprised that such a thing had come out of his mouth, and he felt a little diminished for having asked.
He opened his eyes on another swing up, and she was moving behind the wheel, out of his line of vision. He heard a snick like a switch being flipped and lightning jumped through him and he screamed in spite of himself. A little fork of electricity licked out of his mouth like a reptile tongue tasting air.
Faster spun the wheel and the jolts came more often and he screamed less loud, and finally not at all. He was too numb. He was adrift in space wearing only his cowboy hat and boots, moving away from earth very fast. Floating all around him were wrecked cars. He looked and saw that one of them was his ‘57, and behind the steering wheel was Pop. Sitting beside the old man was a Mexican. Two more were in the back seat. They looked a little drunk.
One of the whores in back pulled up her dress and cocked it high up so he could see her pussy. It looked like that needed a shave.
He smiled and tried to go for it, but the ‘57 was moving away, swinging wide and turning its tail to him. He could see a face at the back window. Pop’s face. He had crawled back there and was waving slowly and sadly. A whore pulled Pop from view.
The wrecked cars moved away too, as if caught in the vacuum of the ‘57’s retreat. Wayne swam with his arms, kicked with his legs, trying to pursue the ‘57 and the wrecks. But he dangled where he was, like a moth pinned to a board. The cars moved out of sight and left him there with his arms and legs stretched out, spinning amidst an infinity of cold, uncaring stars.
"...how the tests are run... marks everything about you... charts it... EKG, brain waves, liver... everything... it hurts because Brother Lazarus wants it to... thinks I don’t know these things... that I’m slow... slow, not stupid... smart really... used to be scientist... before the accident... Brother Lazarus is not holy... he’s mad... made the wheel because of the Holy Inquisition... knows a lot about the Inquisition... thinks we need it again... for the likes of men you... the unholy, he says... But he just likes to hurt... I know."
Wayne opened his eyes. The wheel had stopped. Sister Worth was talking in her monotone, explaining the wheel. He remembered asking her, "Why" about three thousand years ago.
Sister Worth was staring at him again. She went away and he expected the wheel to start up, but when she returned, she had a long, narrow mirror under her arm. She put it against the wall across from him. She got on the wheel with him, her little feet on the wooden platfonus beside his. She hiked up the bottom of her habit and pulled down her black panties. She put her face close to his, as if searching for something.
"He plans to take your body... piece by piece... blood, cells, brain, your cock... all of it... He wants to live forever."
She had her panties in her hand, and she tossed them. Wayne watched them fly up and flutter to the floor like a dying bat.
She took hold of his dick and pulled on it. Her palm was cold and he didn’t feel his best, but he began to get hard. She put him between her legs and rubbed his dick between her thighs. They were as cold as her hands, and dry.
"I know him now... know what he’s doing... the dead germ virus... he was trying to make something that would make him live forever... it made the dead come back... didn’t keep the living alive, free of old age..."
His dick was throbbing now, in spite of the coolness of her body.
"He cuts up dead folks to learn... experiments on them... but the secret of eternal life is with the living... that’s why he wants you... you’re an outsider... those who live here he can test... but he must keep them alive to do his bidding... not let them know how he really is... needs your insides and the other man’s... he wants to be a God... flies high above us in a little plane and looks down... Likes to think he is the creator, I bet..."
"Plane?"
"Ultralight."
She pushed his cock inside her, and it was cold and dry in there, like liver left overnight on a drainboard. Still, he found himself ready. At this point, he would have gouged a hole in a turnip.
She kissed him on the ear and alongside the neck; cold little kisses, dry as toast.
"...thinks I don’t know... But I know he doesn’t love Jesus... He loves himself, and power... He’s sad about his nose..."
"I bet."
"Did it in a moment of religious fervor... before he lost the belief... Now he wants to be what he was... A scientist. He wants to grow a new nose... know how... saw him grow a finger in a dish once... grew it from the skin off a knuckle of one of the brothers... He can do all kinds of things."
She was moving her hips now. He could see over her shoulder into the mirror against the wall. Could see her white ass rolling, the black habit hiked up above it, threatening to drop like a curtain. He began to thrust back, slowly, firmly.
She looked over her shoulder into the mirror, watching herself fuck him. There was a look more of study than rapture on her face.
"Want to feel alive," she said. "Feel a good, hard dick... Been too long."
"I’m doing the best I can," Wayne said. "This ain’t the most romantic of spots."
"Push so I can feel it."
"Nice," Wayne said. He gave it everything he had. He was beginning to lose his erection. He felt as if he were auditioning for a job and not making the best of impressions. He felt like a knothole would be dissatisfied with him.
She got off of him and climbed down.
"Don’t blame you," he said.
She went behind the wheel and touched some things on the upright. She mounted him again, hooked her ankles behind his. The wheel began to turn. Short electrical shocks leaped through him. They weren’t as powerful as before. They were invigorating. When he kissed her it was like touching his tongue to a battery. It felt as if electricity was racing through his veins and flying out the head of his dick; he felt as if he might fill her with lightning instead of come.
The wheel creaked to a stop; it must have had a timer on it. They were upside down and Wayne could see their reflection in the mirror; they looked like two lizards fucking on a window pane.
He couldn’t tell if she had finished or not, so he went ahead and got it over with. Without the electricity he was losing his desire. It hadn’t been an A-one piece of ass, but hell, as Pop always said, "Worse pussy I ever had was good."
"They’ll be coming back," she said. "Soon... Don’t want them to find us like this... Other tests to do yet."
"Why did you do this?"
"I want out of the order... Want out of this desert... I want to live... And I want you to help me."
"I’m game, but the blood is rushing to my head and I’m getting dizzy. Maybe you ought to get off me."
After an eon she said, "I have a plan."
She untwined from him and went behind the wheel and hit a switch that turned Wayne upright. She touched another switch and he began to spin slowly, and while he spun and while lightning played inside him, she told him her plan.


9

"I think ole Brother Fred wants to fuck me," Calhoun said. "He keeps trying to get his finger up my asshole."
They were back in their room. Brother Fred had brought them back, making them carry their clothes, and now they were alone again, dressing.
"We’re getting out of here," Wayne said. "The nun, Sister Worth, she’s going to help."
"What’s her angle?"
"She hates this place and wants my dick. Mostly, she hates this place."
"What’s the plan?"
Wayne told him first what Brother Lazarus had planned. On the morrow he would have them brought to the room with the steel tables, and they would go on the tables, and if the tests had turned out good, they would be pronounced fit as fiddles and Brother Lazarus would strip the skin from their bodies, slowly, because according to Sister Worth he liked to do it that way, and he would drain their blood and percolate it into his formulas like coffee, cut their brains out and put them in vats and store their veins and organs in freezers.
All of this would be done in the name of God and Jesus Christ (Eees num be prased) under the guise of finding a cure for the dead folks germ. But it would all instead be for Brother Lazarus who wanted to have a new nose, fly his ultralight above Jesus Land and live forever.
Sister Worth’s plan was this:
She would be in the dissecting room. She would have guns hidden. She would make the first move, a distraction, then it was up to them.
"This time," Wayne said, "one of us has to get on top of that shotgun."
"You had your finger up your ass in there today, or we’d have had them."
"We’re going to have surprise on our side this time. Real surprise. They won’t be expecting Sister Worth. We can get up there on the roof and take off in that ultralight. When it runs out of gas we can walk, maybe get back to the ‘57 and hope it runs."
"We’ll settle our score then. Whoever wins keeps the car and the split tail. As for tomorrow, I’ve got a little ace."
Calhoun pulled on his boots. He twisted the heel of one of them. It swung out and a little knife dropped into his hand. "It’s sharp," Calhoun said. "I cut a Chinaman from gut to gill with it. It was easy as sliding a stick through fresh shit."
"Been nice if you’d had that ready today."
"I wanted to scout things out first. And to tell the truth, I thought one pop to Brother Fred’s mouth and he’d be out of the picture."
"You hit him in the nose."
"Yeah, goddamn it, but I was aiming for his mouth."

10

Dawn and the room with the metal tables looked the same. No one had brought in a vase of flowers to brighten the place.
Brother Lazarus’s nose had changed however; there were two pearl onions nestled in it now.
Sister Worth, looking only a little more animated than yesterday, stood nearby. She was holding the tray with the instruments. This time the tray was full of scalpels. The light caught their edges and made them wink.
Brother Fred was standing behind Calhoun, and Brother Mold Fuzz was behind Wayne. They must have felt pretty confident today. They had dispensed with the dead folks.
Wayne looked at Sister Worth and thought maybe things were not good. Maybe she had lied to him in her slow talking way. Only wanted a little dick and wanted to keep it quiet. To do that, she might have promised anything. She might not care what Brother Lazarus did to them.
If it looked like a double cross, Wayne was going to go for it. If he had to jump right into the mouth of Brother Fred’s shotgun. That was a better way to go than having the hide peeled from your body. The idea of Brother Lazarus and his ugly nose leaning over him did not appeal at all.
"It’s so nice to see you," Brother Lazarus said. "I hope we’ll have none of the unpleasantness of yesterday. Now, on the tables."
Wayne looked at Sister Worth. Her expression showed nothing. The only thing about her that looked alive was the bent wings of the bird birthmark on her cheek.
All right, Wayne thought, I’ll go as far as the table, then I’m going to do something. Even if it’s wrong.
He took a step forward, and Sister Worth flipped the contents of the tray into Brother Lazarus’s face. A scalpel went into his nose and hung there. The tray and the rest of its contents hit the floor.
Before Brother Lazarus could yelp, Calhoun dropped and wheeled. He was under Brother Fred’s shotgun and he used his forearm to drive the barrel upwards. The gun went off and peppered the ceiling. Plaster sprinkled down.
Calhoun had concealed the little knife in the palm of his hand and he brought it up and into Brother Fred’s groin. The blade went through the robe and buried to the hilt.
The instant Calhoun made his move, Wayne brought his forearm back and around into Brother Mold Fuzz’s throat, then turned and caught his head and jerked that down and kneed him a couple of times. He floored him by driving an elbow into the back of his neck.
Calhoun had the shotgun now, and Brother Fred was on the floor trying to pull the knife out of his balls. Calhoun blew Brother Fred’s head off, then did the same for Brother Mold Fuzz.
Brother Lazarus, the scalpel hanging from his nose, tried to run for it, but he stepped on the tray and that sent him flying. He landed on his stomach. Calhoun took two deep steps and kicked him in the throat. Brother Lazarus made a sound like he was gargling and tried to get up.
Wayne helped him. He grabbed Brother Lazarus by the back of his robe and pulled him up, slammed him back against a table. The scalpel still dangled from the monk’s nose. Wayne grabbed it and jerked, taking away a chunk of nose as he did. Brother Lazarus screamed.
Calhoun put the shotgun in Brother Lazarus’s mouth and that made him stop screaming. Calhoun pumped the shotgun. He said, "Eat it," and pulled the trigger. Brother Lazarus’s brains went out the back of his head riding on a chunk of skull. The brains and skull hit the table and sailed onto the floor like a plate of scrambled eggs pushed the length of a cafe counter.
Sister Worth had not moved. Wayne figured she had used all of her concentration to hit Brother Lazarus with the tray.
"You said you’d have guns," Wayne said to her.
She turned her back to him and lifted her habit. In a belt above her panties were two.38 revolvers. Wayne pulled them out and held one in each hand. "Two-Gun Wayne," he said.
"What about the ultralight?" Calhoun said. "We’ve made enough noise for a prison riot. We need to move."
Sister Worth turned to the door at the back of the room, and before she could say anything or lead, Wayne and Calhoun snapped to it and grabbed her and pushed her toward it.
There were stairs on the other side of the door and they took them two at a time. They went through a trap door and onto the roof and there, tied down with bungie straps to metal hoops, was the ultralight. It was blue-and-white canvas and metal rods, and strapped to either side of it was a twelve gauge pump and a bag of food and a canteen of water.
They unsnapped the roof straps and got in the two seater and used the straps to fasten Sister Worth between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was a ride.
They sat there. After a moment, Calhoun said, "Well?"
"Shit," Wayne said. "I can’t fly this thing."
They looked at Sister Worth. She was staring at the controls.
"Say something, damn it," Wayne said.
"That’s the switch," she said. "That stick... forward is up, back brings the nose down... side to side..."
"Got it."
"Well, shoot this bastard over the side," Calhoun said. Wayne cranked it, gave it the throttle. The machine rolled forward, wobbled.
"Too much weight," Wayne said.
"Throw the cunt over the side," Calhoun said.
"It’s all or nothing," Wayne said. The ultralight continued to swing its tail left and right, but leveled off as they went over the edge.
They sailed for a hundred yards, made a mean curve Wayne couldn’t fight, and fell straight away into the statue of Jesus, striking it in the head, right in the midst of the barbed wire crown. Spot lights shattered, metal groaned, the wire tangled in the nylon wings of the craft and held it. The head of Jesus nodded forward, popped off and shot out on the electric cables inside like a jack-in-the-box. The cables pulled tight a hundred feet from the ground and worked the head and the craft like a yo-yo. Then the barbed wire crown unraveled and dropped the craft the rest of the way. It hit the ground with a crunch and a rip and a cloud of dust.
The head of Jesus bobbed above the shattered ultralight like a bird preparing to peck a worm.

11

Wayne crawled out of the wreckage and tried his legs. They worked.
Calhoun was on his feet cussing, unstrapping the shotguns and supplies.
Sister Worth lay in the midst of the wreck, the nylon and aluminum supports folded around her like butterfly wings.
Wayne started pulling the mess off of her. He saw that her leg was broken. A bone punched out of her thigh like a sharpened stick. There was no blood.
"Here comes the church social," Calhoun said.
The word was out about Brother Lazarus and the others. A horde of monks, nuns and dead folks were rushing over the drawbridge. Some of the nuns and monks had guns. All of the dead folks had clubs. The clergy was yelling.
Wayne nodded toward the bus barn, "Let’s get a bus." Wayne picked up Sister Worth, cradled her in his arms, and made a run for it. Calhoun, carrying the guns and the supplies, passed them. He jumped through the open doorway of a bus and dropped out of sight. Wayne knew he was jerking wires loose, trying to hotwire them a ride. Wayne hoped he was good at it and fast.
When Wayne got to the bus, he laid Sister Worth down beside it and pulled the.38s and stood in front of her. If he was going down he wanted to go like Wild Bill Hickock: A blazing gun in either fist and a woman to protect.
Actually, he’d prefer the bus to start.
It did.
Calhoun jerked it in gear, backed it out and around in front of Wayne and Sister Worth. The monks and nuns had started firing and their rounds bounced off the side of the armored bus.
From inside Calhoun yelled, "Get the hell on."
Wayne stuck the guns in his belt, grabbed up Sister Worth and leapt inside. Calhoun jerked the bus forward and Wayne and Sister Worth went flying over a seat and into another.
"I thought you were leaving," Wayne said.
"I wanted to. But I gave my word."
Wayne stretched Sister Worth out on the seat and looked at her leg. After that tossing Calhoun had given them, the break was sticking out even more.
Calhoun closed the bus door and checked his wing-mirror. Nuns and monks and dead folks had piled into a couple of buses, and now the buses were pursuing them. One of them moved very fast, as if souped up.
"I probably got the granny of the bunch," Calhoun said. They climbed over a ridge of sand, then they were on the narrow road that wound itself upwards. Behind them, one of the buses had fallen back, maybe some kind of mechanical trouble. The other was gaining.
The road widened and Calhoun yelled, "I think this is what the fucker’s been waiting for."
Even as Calhoun spoke, their pursuer put on a burst of speed and swung left and came up beside them, tried to swerve over and push them off the road, down into the deepening valley. But Calhoun fought the curves and didn’t budge.
The other bus swung its door open and a nun, the very one who had been on the bus that brought them to Jesus Land, stood there with her legs spread wide, showing the black-pantied mound of her crotch. She had one arm bent around a seat post and was holding in both hands the ever-popular clergy tool, the twelve-gauge pump.
As they made a curve, the nun fired a round into the window next to Calhoun. The window made a cracking noise and thin, crooked lines spread in all directions, but the glass held.
She pumped a round into the chamber and fired again. Bullet proof or not, this time the front sheet of glass fell away. Another well-placed round and the rest of the glass would go and Calhoun could wave his head goodbye.
Wayne put his knees in a seat and got the window down. The nun saw him, whirled and fired. The shot was low and hit the bottom part of the window and starred it and pelleted the chassis.
Wayne stuck a.38 out of the window and fired as the nun was jacking another load into position. His shot hit her in the head and her right eye went big and wet, and she swung around on the pole and lost the shotgun. It went out the door. She clung there by the bend of her elbow for a moment, then her arm straightened and she fell outside. The bus ran over her and she popped red and juicy at both ends like a stomped jelly roll.
"Waste of good pussy," Calhoun said. He edged into the other bus, and it pushed back. But Calhoun pushed harder and made it hit the wall with a screech like a panther.
The bus came back and shoved Calhoun to the side of the cliff and honked twice for Jesus.
Calhoun down-shifted, let off the gas, allowed the other bus to soar past by half a length. Then he jerked the wheel so that he caught the rear of it and knocked it across the road. He speared it in the side with the nose of his bus and the other started to spin. It clipped the front of Calhoun’s bus and peeled the bumper back. Calhoun braked and the other bus kept spinning. It spun off the road and down into the valley amidst a chorus of cries.
Thirty minutes later they reached the top of the canyon and were in the desert. The bus began to throw up smoke from the front and make a noise like a dog strangling on a chicken bone. Calhoun pulled over.

12

"Goddamn bumper got twisted under there and it’s shredded the tire some," Calhoun said. "I think if we can peel the bumper off, there’s enough of that tire to run on."
Wayne and Calhoun got hold of the bumper and pulled but it wouldn’t come off. Not completely. Part of it had been creased, and that part finally gave way and broke off from the rest of it.
"That ought to be enough to keep from rubbing the tire," Calhoun said.
Sister Worth called from inside the bus. Wayne went to check on her. "Take me off the bus," she said. "...I want to feel free air and sun."
"There doesn’t feel like there’s any air out there," Wayne said. "And the sun feels just like it always does. Hot."
"Please."
He picked her up and carried her outside and found a ridge of sand and laid her down so her head was propped against it.
"I... I need batteries," she said.
"Say what?" Wayne said.
She lay looking straight into the sun. "Brother Lazarus’s greatest work... a dead folk that can think... has memory of the past... Was a scientist too..." Her hand came up in stages, finally got hold of her head gear and pushed it off.
Gleaming from the center of her tangled blond hair was a silver knob.
"He... was not a good man... I am a good woman. I want to feel alive... like before... batteries going... brought others."
Her hand fumbled at a snap pocket on her habit. Wayne opened it for her and got out what was inside. Four batteries.
"Uses two... simple."
Calhoun was standing over them now. "That explains some things," he said.
"Don’t look at me like that..." Sister Worth said, and Wayne realized he had never told her his name and she had never asked. "Unscrew... put the batteries in... Without them I’ll be an eater... Can’t wait too long."
"All right," Wayne said. He went behind her and propped her up on the sand drift and unscrewed the metal shaft from her skull. He thought about when she had fucked him on the wheel and how desperate she had been to feel something, and how she had been cold as flint and lustless. He remembered how she had looked in the mirror hoping to see something that wasn’t there.
He dropped the batteries in the sand and took out one of the revolvers and put it close to the back of her head and pulled the trigger. Her body jerked slightly and fell over, her face turning toward him.
The bullet had come out where the bird had been on her cheek and had taken it completely away, leaving a bloodless hole.
"Best thing," Calhoun said. "There’s enough live pussy in the world without you pulling this broken-legged dead thing around after you on a board."
"Shut up," Wayne said.
"When a man gets sentimental over women and kids, he can count himself out."
Wayne stood up.
"Well boy," Calhoun said. "I reckon it’s time."
"Reckon so," Wayne said.
"How about we do this with some class? Give me one of your pistols and we’ll get back-to-back and I’ll count to ten, and when I get there, we’ll turn and shoot."
Wayne gave Calhoun one of the pistols. Calhoun checked the chambers, said, "I’ve got four loads."
Wayne took two out of his pistol and tossed them on the ground. "Even Steven," he said.
They got back-to-back and held the guns by their legs.
"Guess if you kill me you’ll take me in," Calhoun said. "So that means you’ll put a bullet through my head if I need it. I don’t want to come back as one of the dead folks. Got your word on that?"
"Yep."
"I’ll do the same for you. Give my word. You know that’s worth something."
"We gonna shoot or talk?"
"You know, boy, under different circumstances, I could have liked you. We might have been friends."
"Not likely."
Calhoun started counting, and they started stepping. When he got to ten, they turned.
Calhoun’s pistol barked first, and Wayne felt the bullet punch him low in the right side of his chest, spinning him slightly. He lifted his revolver and took his time and shot just as Calhoun fired again.
Calhoun’s second bullet whizzed by Wayne’s head. Wayne’s shot hit Calhoun in the stomach.
Calhoun went to his knees and had trouble drawing a breath. He tried to lift his revolver but couldn’t; it was as if it had turned into an anvil.
Wayne shot him again. Hitting him in the middle of the chest this time and knocking him back so that his legs were curled beneath him.
Wayne walked over to Calhoun, dropped to one knee and took the revolver from him.
"Shit," Calhoun said. "I wouldn’t have thought that for nothing. You hit?"
"Scratched."
"Shit."
Wayne put the revolver to Calhoun’s forehead and Calhoun closed his eyes and Wayne pulled the trigger.

13

The wound wasn’t a scratch. Wayne knew he should leave Sister Worth where she was and load Calhoun on the bus and haul him in for bounty. But he didn’t care about the bounty anymore.
He used the ragged piece of bumper to dig them a shallow side-by-side grave. When he finished, he stuck the fender fragment up between them and used the sight of one of the revolvers to scratch into it:
HERE LIES SISTER WORTH AND CALHOUN WHO KEPT HIS WORD.
You couldn’t really read it good and he knew the first real wind would keel it over, but it made him feel better about something, even if he couldn’t put his finger on it.
His wound had opened up and the sun was very hot now, and since he had lost his hat he could feel his brain cooking in his skull like meat boiling in a pot.
He got on the bus, started it and drove through the day and the night and it was near morning when he came to the Cadillacs and turned down between them and drove until he came to the ‘57.
When he stopped and tried to get off the bus, he found he could hardly move. The revolvers in his belt were stuck to his shirt and stomach because of the blood from his wound.
He pulled himself up with the steering wheel, got one of the shotguns and used it for a crutch. He got the food and water and went out to inspect the ‘57.
It was for shit. It had not only lost its windshield, the front end was mashed way back and one of the big sand tires was twisted at such an angle he knew the axle was shot.
He leaned against the Chevy and tried to think. The bus was okay and there was still some gas in it, and he could get the hose out of the trunk of the ‘57 and siphon gas out of its tanks and put it in the bus. That would give him a few miles.
Miles.
He didn’t feel as if he could walk twenty feet, let alone concentrate on driving.
He let go of the shotgun, the food and water. He scooted onto the hood of the Chevy and managed himself to the roof. He lay there on his back and looked at the sky.
It was a clear night and the stars were sharp with no fuzz around them. He felt cold. In a couple of hours the stars would fade and the sun would come up and the cool would give way to heat.
He turned his head and looked at one of the Cadillacs and a skeleton face pressed to its windshield, forever looking down at the sand.
That was no way to end, looking down.
He crossed his legs and stretched out his arms and studied the sky. It didn’t feel so cold now, and the pain had almost stopped. He was more numb than anything else.
He pulled one of the revolvers and cocked it and put it to his temple and continued to look at the stars. Then he closed his eyes and found that he could still see them. He was once again hanging in the void between the stars wearing only his hat and cowboy boots, and floating about him were the junk cars and the ‘57, undamaged.
The cars were moving toward him this time, not away. The ‘57 was in the lead, and as it grew closer he saw Pop behind the wheel and beside him was a Mexican puta, and in the back, two more. They were all smiling and Pop honked the horn and waved.
The ‘57 came alongside him and the back door opened.
Sitting between the whores was Sister Worth. She had not been there a moment ago, but now she was. And he had never noticed how big the back seat of the ‘57 was.
Sister Worth smiled at him and the bird on her cheek lifted higher. Her hair was combed out long and straight and she looked pink-skinned and happy. On the floorboard at her feet was a chest of iced-beer. Lone Star, by God.
Pop was leaning over the front seat, holding out his hand and Sister Worth and the whores were beckoning him inside.
Wayne worked his hands and feet, found this time that he could move. He swam through the open door, touched Pop’s hand, and Pop said, "It’s good to see you, son," and at the moment Wayne pulled the trigger, Pop pulled him inside.


© 1989 by Joe R. Lansdale
Originally published in 1989 in Book of the Dead. Included in By Bizarre Hands, a collection published by Avon Books.

- 10:30 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

27.04.2007., petak

Blanka i mi


Znam da vas zanima što se dalje desilo s Wayneom i Calhounom u pustinjskom Jesuslandu, ali morat ćete se strpiti do sutra, danas bih htio s vama popričati o ovom članku iz jučerašnje Slobodne:


Slobodna Dalmacija od 26. travnja 2007.

PLIMA PRED OSAKU NOVI PROBLEMI SA STAROM
"TRENING DVORANOM" NA SPLITSKOJ BRODARICI

Blanka pred deložacijom,
cijela sezona u opasnosti



Piše: Vlado OZRETIĆ

Iseljavanje iz dvorane prije prosinca imat će velik utjecaj na Blankinu izvedbu u Zlatnoj ligi, kao i na Svjetskom prvenstvu. Ne želim niti pomisliti što bi bilo da moramo odraditi trening na otvorenom, a da taj dan padne kiša - kaže Joško Vlašić


Svi su izgledi da će se Blanka Vlašić morati iseliti iz Diokomove dvorane, u kojoj trenutačno trenira, puno ranije nego što se mislilo.
Naime, prema prijašnjim dogovorima između vlasnika objekta Željka Keruma te Joška Vlašića i Ivana Veštića, naša najbolja atletičarka je trebala spakirati "kufere" u rujnu, za vrijeme Svjetskog atletskog prvenstva u Osaki. Na taj bi način, mislilo se, šteta za njezin trenažni proces bila minimalna. No, kako saznajemo, Kerum će radove za ojačanje infrastrukture dvorane morati obaviti što prije. U prijevodu, već u svibnju!

Prisilna migracija

Tako je pred Blanku iskrsnula i najnovija prepreka u dosjeu "Dvorana" koju će naša visašica pošto-poto morati preskočiti. Pred njom je, dakle, jednomjesečni egzodus s jedinoga mjesta u Splitu gdje može trenirati... Iako se ne radi o prislinoj migraciji, ona će definitivno utjecati na formu naše najbolje atletičarke. Pred sezonu koja će krunu imati u Osaki na Svjetskome prvenstvu Blanki Vlašić prijeti - prisilno odmaranje. - Odgovorno tvrdim kako će svako iseljavanje iz dvorane prije prosinca imati velik utjecaj na Blankinu izvedbu u Zlatnoj ligi, kao i na SP-u u Osaki - kazao nam je tata Joško.
- Svakodnevno se susrećemo s gomilom problema, a k tome sad moramo razmišljati i o selidbi. Ne želim niti pomisliti što bi bilo da moramo odraditi skakački trening na otvorenom, a da taj dan padne kiša. Radi se o dosta specifičnim i isplaniranim treninzima koji se nikako ne smiju propuštati. U protivnom, sav trud pada u vodu. Da ne spominjem koliko će vremena trebati kako bi se polovica potrebne opreme iselila iz dvorane, pa opet vratila u nju - blago je ogorčen Vlašić.
- Sezona na otvorenom samo što nije počela, ubrzo starta i Zlatna liga, a mi ćemo prije svakog treninga morati gledati u nebo. Bezbroj ponuda smo imali, u Zagrebu su, osim sjajnih uvjeta za trening, Blanki nudili stan, meni direktorsko mjesto, ipak smo ostali ovdje. No, ne sumnjam kako ćemo u suradnji s gospodinom Kerumom uspjeti dogovoriti pravo rješenje. On je uvijek imao sluha za takve stvari - objasnio je Joško Vlašić.

Trening napretka

Blanka je prije dva dana napravila težak trosatni trening na kojem su se mjerili svi njezini parametri. Malo je reći da je samo napredovala... Osmijeh na licu tate Joška i trenera Bojana Marinovića sve je govorio. Ipak, naša je visašica na trening došla uz galamu i "barufu" golemoga Komatsu "jaružala" koji u dvorištu pravi (ne)red. Praćena pogledom radnika koji su upravo odlazili s posla, morala je prijeći preko desetak metara armaturnih šipki, nekih vezanih "ruzinavom" žicom, da bi se nakon toga popela uz improvizirano "vergulasto" stubište od drva i željeza na koje ne biste ni ruku naslonili, a kamoli na njega zakoračili.

Šuplje za prazno

Pitanje za drugi bodovni prag bi glasilo otprilike ovako: kada će Blankini problemi s famoznom dvoranom napokon prestati. Odgovor? Za njega ne treba uopće upotrebljavati jokere, prilično je jednostavan - kada se napokon izgradi prava atletska dvorana u Parku mladeži. Sve radnje do toga trenutka nisu ništa drugo nego "prelijevanje iz šupljeg u prazno".



Što mislite o pročitanom? Jadna Blanka, vidi kako trenira u neuvjetnom prostoru. A znate li da su u istoj dvorani čitave zime trenirali i juniori ASK-a, među kojima ima i djece predškolske dobi? Da su prelazili preko istih ruzinavih šipki, između kamiona, ispod dizalica u pogonu, i penjali se uz isto improvizirano stubište kroz oblake cementne prašine, jer na gradilištu se čitavo vrijeme radi punom parom. Sve dok prije par tjedana nije dovoljno zatoplilo da se vrate na ASK-ov kompleks. Gdje stalno treniraju na otvorenom osim za kišnih dana, kada vježbaju u mračnim i memljivim hodnicima ispod tribina. Blanki i njenom ocu svaka čast, ali ovo nije priča o njima. Svima ostalima, uključujući i novinare, debeli minus, jer problem imenuju tek kad zadesi nekog poznatog. Vrhunski sport trebao bi predstavljati vrh piramide sportskog života jednog društva. Sport i rekreacija mjerilo su naše civiliziranosti - bez toga su sve zlatne medalje samo fasade na Potemkinovim selima. Bez masovne sportske infrastrukture, sportski život populacije svodi se na najžilavije, one koji se bez obzira na vremenske prilike pentraju po obližnjim planinama, pedaliraju po prometnicama ili trče po zvizdanu oko Marjana dok im srce ne otkaže.

Kod nas su naravno važnije "kapitalne investicije" poput pelješkog mosta, tunela kroz Biokovo i Kozjak, a o sportskoj infrastrukturi se razmišlja samo u kontekstu kandidatura za prestižne međunarodne sportske priredbe, nipošto kao o načinu da se poprave standardi življenja. No, budimo pošteni, u situaciji kad nas je polovina spojena na septičke jame, a kanalizacija drugih samo način transfera govana u djevičanski netaknutom stanju u najbližu rijeku ili more, kad živimo na pragu zaraze zbog neodgovarajućeg tretiranja otpada i devastacije resursa, govoriti o civilizacijskim normama pismenih društava zvuči kao zajebancija. Što je blistavo rekao Dejan: "Selo gori, a baba se češlja".

Sredinom osamdesetih iznenadio sam se kad su mi moji češki prijatelji rekli kako u njihovom gradiću Chomutovu od 40000 stanovnika djeca u osnovnoj školi kao slobodnu aktivnost pored nogometa, odbojke, košarke i rukometa mogu birati hokej na ledu, streličarstvo, plivanje, jedrenje,..., dakle sportove za koje je potrebno imati dvorane, rekvizite, tehniku. Česi i Slovaci su tada još bili u sovjetskom bloku i na njih smo gledali svisoka. Pogledajte web stranice Chomutova danas - kakve sve sportske i rekreacijske sadržaje ima mjesto koji još uvijek nema više od 50000 stanovnika. Uzgred, imaju i zoološki vrt pred čijom bi se organizacijom mogao zamisliti i maksimirski.

U Splitu, gradu kojemu polovina stanovnika nikad nije bila ni na Marjanu, kao znanstvena fantastika izgledaju odgovori koje su na na anketno pitanje dali žitelji malenog Chomutova:


Sportujete?

Ano, závodně... 14%
Ano, hodně... 5%
Ano, rekreačně... 19%
Ano, ale nic moc... 44%
Ne, jsem lenoch... 18%
Ne, nemohu... 0%


A ja vam na kraju pokazujem slike nešto starije grupe djece - polaznika atletske škole splitskog ASK-a na ulazu u dvoranu o kojoj se govori u članku. Slike su nastale prije otprilike dva mjeseca.


















- 10:51 - Komentari (5) - Isprintaj - #

26.04.2007., četvrtak

Lektira (3) - drugi nastavak




4

Wayne rose out of it as quickly as he had gone down. Blood was trickling into his eyes from a slight forehead wound. He used his sleeve to wipe it away.
His first clear sight was of a face at the window on his side; a sallow, moon-terrain face with bulging eyes and an expression like an idiot contemplating Sanscrit. On the man’s head was a strange, black hat with big round ears, and in the center of the hat, like a silver tumor, was the head of a large screw. Sand lashed at the face, imbedded in it, struck the unblinking eyes and made the round-eared hat flap. The man paid no attention. Though still dazed, Wayne knew why. The man was one of the dead folks.
Wayne looked in Calhoun’s direction. Calhoun’s door had been mashed in and the bending metal had pinched the handcuff attached to the arm rest in two. The blow had knocked Calhoun to the center of the seat. He was holding his hand in front of him, looking at the dangling cuff and chain as if it were a silver bracelet and a line of pearls.
Leaning over the hood, cleaning the sand away from the windshield with his hands, was another of the dead folks. He too was wearing one of the round-eared hats. He pressed a wrecked face to the clean spot and looked in at Calhoun. A string of snot-green saliva ran out of his mouth and onto the glass.
More sand was wiped away by others. Soon all the car’s glass showed the pallid and rotting faces of the dead folks. They stared at Wayne and Calhoun as if they were two rare fish in an aquarium.
Wayne cocked back the hammer of the.38.
"What about me," Calhoun said. "What am I supposed to use?"
"Your charm," Wayne said, and at that moment, as if by signal, the dead folk faded away from the glass, leaving one man standing on the hood holding a baseball bat. He hit the glass and it went into a thousand little stars. The bat came again and the heavens fell and the stars rained down and the sand storm screamed in on Wayne and Calhoun.
The dead folks reappeared in full force. The one with the bat started though the hole in the windshield, heedless of the jags of glass that ripped his ragged clothes and tore his flesh like damp cardboard.
Wayne shot the batter through the head, and the man, finished, fell through, pinning Wayne’s arm with his body.
Before Wayne could pull his gun free, a woman’s hand reached through the hole and got hold of Wayne’s collar. Other dead folks took to the glass and hammered it out with their feet and fist. Hands were all over Wayne; they felt dry and cool like leather seat covers. They pulled him over the steering wheel and dash and outside. The sand worked at his flesh like a cheese grater. He could hear Calhoun yelling, "Eat me, motherfuckers, eat me and choke."
They tossed Wayne on the hood of the ‘57. Faces leaned over him. Yellow teeth and toothless gums were very near. A road kill odor washed through his nostrils. He thought: now the feeding frenzy begins. His only consolation was that there were so many dead folks there wouldn’t be enough of him left to come back from the dead. They’d probably have his brain for dessert.
But no. They picked him up and carried him off. Next thing he knew was a clearer view of the whale-shape the ‘57 had hit, and its color. It was a yellow school bus.
The door to the bus hissed open. The dead folks dumped Wayne inside on his belly and tossed his hat after him. They stepped back and the door closed, just missing Wayne’s foot.
Wayne looked up and saw a man in the driver’s seat smiling at him. It wasn’t a dead man. Just fat and ugly. He was probably five feet tall and bald except for a fringe of hair around his shiny bald head the color of a shit ring in a toilet bowl. He had a nose so long and dark and malignant looking it appeared as if it might fall off his face at any moment, like an overripe banana. He was wearing what Wayne first thought was a bathrobe, but proved to be a robe like that of a monk. It was old and tattered and moth-eaten and Wayne could see pale flesh through the holes. An odor wafted from the fat man that was somewhere between the smell of stale sweat, cheesy balls and an unwiped asshole.
"Good to see you," the fat man said.
"Charmed," Wayne said.
From the back of the bus came a strange, unidentifiable sound. Wayne poked his head around the seats for a look.
In the middle of the aisle, about halfway back, was a nun. Or sort of a nun. Her back was to him and she wore a black-and-white nun’s habit. The part that covered her head was traditional, but from there down was quite a departure from the standard attire. The outfit was cut to the middle of her thigh and she wore black fishnet stockings and thick high heels. She was slim with good legs and a high little ass that, even under the circumstances, Wayne couldn’t help but appreciate. She was moving one hand above her head as if sewing the air.
Sitting on the seats on either side of the aisle were dead folks. They all wore the round-eared hats, and they were responsible for the sound.
They were trying to sing.
He had never known dead folks to make any noise outside of grunts and groans, but here they were singing. A toneless sort of singing to be sure, some of the words garbled and some of the dead folks just opening and closing their mouths soundlessly, but, by golly, he recognized the tune. It was "Jesus Loves Me."
Wayne looked back at the fat man, let his hand ease down to the bowie in his right boot. The fat man produced a little.32 automatic from inside his robe and pointed it at Wayne.
"It’s small caliber," the fat man said, "but I’m a real fine shot, and it makes a nice, little hole."
Wayne quit reaching in his boot.
"Oh, that’s all right," said the fat man. "Take the knife out and put it on the floor in front of you and slide it to me. And while you’re at it, I think I see the hilt of one in your other boot."
Wayne looked back. The way he had been thrown inside the bus had caused his pants legs to hike up over his boots, and the hilts of both his bowies were revealed. They might as well have had blinking lights on them.
It was shaping up to be a shitty day.
He slid the bowies to the fat man, who scooped them up nimbly and dumped them on the other side of his seat.
The bus door opened and Calhoun was tossed in on top of Wayne. Calhoun’s hat followed after.
Wayne shrugged Calhoun off, recovered his hat, and put it on. Calhoun found his hat and did the same. They were still on their knees.
"Would you gentlemen mind moving to the center of the bus?"
Wayne led the way. Calhoun took note of the nun now, said, "Man, look at that ass."
The fat man called back to them. "Right there will do fine."
Wayne slid into the seat the fat man was indicating with a wave of the.32, and Calhoun slid in beside him. The dead folks entered now, filled the seats up front, leaving only a few stray seats in the middle empty.
Calhoun said, "What are those fuckers back there making that noise for?"
"They’re singing," Wayne said. "Ain’t you got no churchin’?"
"Say they are?" Calhoun turned to the nun and the dead folks and yelled, "Y’all know any Hank Williams?"
The nun did not turn and the dead folks did not quit their toneless singing.
"Guess not," Calhoun said. "Seems like all the good music’s been forgotten."
The noise in the back of the bus ceased and the nun came over to look at Wayne and Calhoun. She was nice in front too. The outfit was cut from throat to crotch, laced with a ribbon, and it showed a lot of tit and some tight, thin, black panties that couldn’t quite hold in her escaping pubic hair, which grew as thick and wild as kudzu. When Wayne managed to work his eyes up from that and look at her face, he saw she was dark-complected with eyes the color of coffee and lips made to chew on.
Calhoun never made it to the face. He didn’t care about faces. He sniffed, said into her crotch, "Nice snatch."
The nun’s left hand came around and smacked Calhoun on the side of the head.
He grabbed her wrist, said, "Nice arm, too."
The nun did a magic act with her right hand; it went behind her back and hiked up her outfit and came back with a double-barreled derringer. She pressed it against Calhoun’s head.
Wayne bent forward, hoping she wouldn’t shoot. At that range the bullet might go through Calhoun’s head and hit him too.
"Can’t miss," the nun said.
Calhoun smiled. "No you can’t," he said, and let go of her arm.
She sat down across from them, smiled, and crossed her legs high. Wayne felt his Levis snake swell and crawl against the inside of his thigh.
"Honey," Calhoun said, "you’re almost worth taking a bullet for."
The nun didn’t quit smiling. The bus cranked up. The sand blowers and wipers went to work, and the windshield turned blue, and a white dot moved on it between a series of smaller white dots.
Radar. Wayne had seen that sort of thing on desert vehicles. If he lived through this and got his car back, maybe he’d rig up something like that. And maybe not, he was sick of the desert.
Whatever, at the moment, future plans seemed a little out of place.
Then something else occurred to him. Radar. That meant these bastards had known they were coming and had pulled out in front of them on purpose.
He leaned over the seat and checked where he figured the ‘57 hit the bus. He didn’t see a single dent. Armored, most likely. Most school buses were these days, and that’s what this had been. It probably had bullet-proof glass and puncture-proof sand tires too. School buses had gone that way on account of the race riots and the sending of mutated calves to school just like they were humans. And because of the Codgers – old farts who believed kids ought to be fair game to adults for sexual purposes, or for knocking around when they wanted to let off some tension.
"How about unlocking this cuff?" Calhoun said. "It ain’t for shit now anyway."
Wayne looked at the nun. "I’m going for the cuff key in my pants. Don’t shoot."
Wayne fished it out, unlocked the cuff, and Calhoun let it slide to the floor. Wayne saw the nun was curious and he said, "I’m a bounty hunter. Help me get this man to Law Town and I could see you earn a little something for your troubles."
The woman shook her head.
"That’s the spirit," Calhoun said. "I like a nun that minds her own business... You a real nun?"
She nodded.
"Always talk so much?"
Another nod.
Wayne said, "I’ve never seen a nun like you. Not dressed like that and with a gun."
"We are a small and special order," she said.
"You some kind of Sunday school teacher for these dead folks?"
"Sort of."
"But with them dead, ain’t it kind of pointless? They ain’t got no souls now, do they?"
"No, but their work adds to the glory of God."
"Their work?" Wayne looked at the dead folks sitting stiffly in their seats. He noted that one of them was about to lose a rotten ear. He sniffed. "They may be adding to the glory of God, but they don’t do much for the air."
The nun reached into a pocket on her habit and took out two round objects. She tossed one to Calhoun, and one to Wayne. "Menthol lozenges. They help you stand the smell."
Wayne unwrapped the lozenge and sucked on it. It did help overpower the smell, but the menthol wasn’t all that great either. It reminded him of being sick.
"What order are you?" Wayne asked.
"Jesus Loved Mary," the nun said.
"His mama?"
"Mary Magdalene. We think he fucked her. They were lovers. There’s evidence in the scriptures. She was a harlot and we have modeled ourselves on her. She gave up that life and became a harlot for Jesus."
"Hate to break it to you, sister," Calhoun said, "but that do-gooder Jesus is as dead as a post. If you’re waiting for him to slap the meat to you, that sweet thing of yours is going to dry up and blow away."
"Thanks for the news," the nun said. "But we don’t fuck him in person. We fuck him in spirit. We let the spirit enter into men so they may take us in the fashion Jesus took Mary."
"No shit?"
"No shit."
"You know, I think I feel the old boy moving around inside me now. Why don’t you shuck them drawers, honey, throw back in that seat there and let ole Calhoun give you a big load of Jesus."
Calhoun shifted in the nun’s direction.
She pointed the derringer at him, said, "Stay where you are. If it were so, if you were full of Jesus, I would let you have me in a moment. But you’re full of the Devil, not Jesus."
"Shit, sister, give ole Devil a break. He’s a fun kind of guy. Let’s you and me mount up... Well, be like that. But if you change your mind, I can get religion at a moment’s notice. I dearly love to fuck. I’ve fucked everything I could get my hands on but a parakeet, and I’d have fucked that little bitch if I could have found the hole."
"I’ve never known any dead folks to be trained," Wayne said, trying to get the nun talking in a direction that might help, a direction that would let him know what was going on and what sort of trouble he had fallen into.
"As I said, we are a very special order. Brother Lazarus," she waved a hand at the bus driver, and without looking he lifted a hand in acknowledgement, "is the founder. I don’t think he’ll mind if I tell his story, explain about us, what we do and why. It’s important that we spread the word to the heathens."
"Don’t call me no fucking heathen," Calhoun said. "This is heathen, riding ‘round in a fucking bus with a bunch of stinking dead folks with funny hats on. Hell, they can’t even carry a tune."
The nun ignored him. "Brother Lazarus was once known by another name, but that name no longer matters. He was a research scientist, and he was one of those who worked in the laboratory where the germs escaped into the air and made it so the dead could not truly die as long as they had an undamaged brain in their heads.
"Brother Lazarus was carrying a dish of the experiment, the germs, and as a joke, one of the lab assistants pretended to trip him, and he, not knowing it was a joke, dodged the assistant’s leg and dropped the dish. In a moment, the air conditioning system had blown the germs throughout the research center. Someone opened a door, and the germs were loose on the world.
"Brother Lazarus was consumed by guilt. Not only because he dropped the dish, but because he helped create it in the first place. He quit his job at the laboratory, took to wandering the country. He came out here with nothing more than basic food, water and books. Among these books was the Bible, and the lost books of the Bible: the Apocrypha and the many cast-out chapters of the New Testament. As he studied, it occurred to him that these cast-out books actually belonged. He was able to interpret their higher meaning, and an angel came to him in a dream and told him of another book, and Brother Lazarus took up his pen and recorded the angel’s words, direct from God, and in this book, all the mysteries were explained."
"Like screwing Jesus," Calhoun said.
"Like screwing Jesus, and not being afraid of words that mean sex. Not being afraid of seeing Jesus as both God and man. Seeing that sex, if meant for Christ and the opening of the mind, can be a thrilling and religious experience, not just the rutting of two savage animals.
"Brother Lazarus roamed the desert, the mountains, thinking of the things the Lord had revealed to him, and lo and behold, the Lord revealed yet another thing to him. Brother Lazarus found a great amusement park."
"Didn’t know Jesus went in for rides and such," Calhoun said.
"It was long deserted. It had once been part of a place called Disneyland. Brother Lazarus knew of it. There had been several of these Disneylands built about the country, and this one had been in the midst of the Chevy-Cadillac Wars, and had been destroyed and sand had covered most of it."
The nun held out her arms. "And in this rubble, he saw a new beginning."
"Cool off, baby," Calhoun said, "before you have a stroke."
"He gathered to him men and women of a like mind and taught the gospel to them. The Old Testament. The New Testament. The Lost Books. And his own Book of Lazarus, for he had begun to call himself Lazarus. A symbolic name signifying a new beginning, a rising from the dead and coming to life and seeing things as they really are."
The nun moved her hands rapidly, expressively as she talked. Sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip.
"So he returned to his skills as a scientist, but applied them to a higher purpose – God’s purpose. And as Brother Lazarus, he realized the use of the dead. They could be taught to work and build a great monument to the glory of God. And this monument, this coed institution of monks and nuns would be called Jesus Land."
At the word "Jesus," the nun gave her voice an extra trill, and the dead folks, cued, said together, "Eees num be prased."
"How the hell did you train them dead folks?" Calhoun said. "Dog treats?"
"Science put to the use of our lord Jesus Christ, that’s how. Brother Lazarus made a special device he could insert directly into the brains of dead folks, through the tops of their heads, and the device controls certain cravings. Makes them passive and responsive – at least to simple commands. With the regulator, as Brother Lazarus calls the device, we have been able to do much positive work with the dead."
"Where do you find these dead folks?" Wayne asked.
"We buy them from the Meat Boys. We save them from amoral purposes."
"They ought to be shot through the head and put in the goddamn ground," Wayne said.
"If our use of the regulator and the dead folks was merely to better ourselves, I would agree. But it is not. We do the Lord’s work."
"Do the monks fuck the sisters?" Calhoun asked.
"When possessed by the Spirit of Christ. Yes."
"And I bet they get possessed a lot. Not a bad setup. Dead folks to do the work on the amusement park–"
"It isn’t an amusement park now."
"–and plenty of free pussy. Sounds cozy. I like it. Old shithead up there’s smarter than he looks."
"There is nothing selfish about our motives or those of Brother Lazarus. In fact, as penance for loosing the germ on the world in the first place, Brother Lazarus injected a virus into his nose. It is rotting slowly."
"Thought that was quite a snorkel he had on him," Wayne said.
"I take it back," Calhoun said. "He is as dumb as he looks."
"Why do the dead folks wear those silly hats?" Wayne asked.
"Brother Lazarus found a storeroom of them at the site of the old amusement park. They are mouse ears. They represent some cartoon animal that was popular once and part of Disneyland. Mickey Mouse, he was called. This way we know which dead folks are ours, and which ones are not controlled by our regulators. From time to time, stray dead folks wander into our area. Murder victims. Children abandoned in the desert. People crossing the desert who died of heat or illness. We’ve had some of the sisters and brothers attacked. The hats are a precaution."
"And what’s the deal with us?" Wayne asked.
The nun smiled sweetly. "You, my children, are to add to the glory of God."
"Children?" Calhoun said. "You call an alligator a lizard, bitch?"
The nun slid back in the seat and rested the derringer in her lap. She pulled her legs into a cocked position, causing her panties to crease in the valley of her vagina; it looked like a nice place to visit, that valley.
Wayne turned from the beauty of it and put his head back and closed his eyes, pulled his hat down over them. There was nothing he could do at the moment, and since the nun was watching Calhoun for him, he’d sleep, store up and figure what to do next. If anything.
He drifted off to sleep wondering what the nun meant by, "You, my children, are to add to the glory of God."
He had a feeling that when he found out, he wasn’t going to like it.

5

He awoke off and on and saw that the sunlight filtering through the storm had given everything a greenish color. Calhoun, seeing he was awake, said, "Ain’t that a pretty color? I had a shirt that color once and liked it lots, but I got in a fight with this Mexican whore with a wooden leg over some money and she tore it. I punched that little bean bandit good."
"Thanks for sharing that," Wayne said, and went back to sleep.
Each time he awoke it was brighter, and finally he awoke to the sun going down and the storm having died out. But he didn’t stay awake. He forced himself to close his eyes and store up more energy. To help him nod off he listened to the hum of the motor and thought about the wrecking yard and Pop and all the fun they could have, just drinking beer and playing cards and fucking the border women, and maybe some of those mutated cows they had over there for sale.
Nah. Nix the cows, or any of those genetically altered critters. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and he drew it at fucking critters, even if they had been bred so that they had human traits. You had to have some standards.
‘Course, those standards had a way of eroding. He remembered when he said he’d only fuck the pretty ones. His last whore had been downright scary looking. If he didn’t watch himself he’d be as bad as Calhoun, trying to find the hole in the parakeet.
He awoke to Calhoun’s elbow in his ribs and the nun was standing beside their seat with the derringer. Wayne knew she hadn’t slept, but she looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She nodded toward their window, said, "Jesus Land."
She had put that special touch in her voice again, and the dead folks responded with, "Eees num be prased."
It was good and dark now, a crisp night with a big moon the color of hammered brass. The bus sailed across the white sand like a mystical schooner with a full wind in its sails. It went up an impossible hill toward what looked like an aurora borealis, then dove into an atomic rainbow of colors that filled the bus with fairy lights.
When Wayne’s eyes became accustomed to the lights, and the bus took a right turn along a precarious curve, he glanced down into the valley. An aerial view couldn’t have been any better than the view from his window.
Down there was a universe of polished metal and twisted neon. In the center of the valley was a great statue of Jesus crucified that must have been twenty-five stories high. Most of the body was made of bright metals and multicolored neon; and much of the light was coming from that. There was a crown of barbed wire wound several times around a chromium plate of a forehead and some rust-colored strands of neon hair. The savior’s eyes were huge, green strobes that swung left and right with the precision of an oscillating fan. There was an ear to ear smile on the savior’s face and the teeth were slats of sparkling metal with wide cavity-black gaps between them. The statue was equipped with a massive dick of polished, interwoven cables and coils of neon, the dick was thicker and more solid looking than the arthritic steel-tube legs on either side of it; the head of it was made of an enormous spotlight that pulsed the color of irritation.
The bus went around and around the valley, descending like a dead roach going down a slow drain, and finally the road rolled out straight and took them into Jesus Land.
They passed through the legs of Jesus, under the throbbing head of his cock, toward what looked like a small castle of polished gold bricks with an upright drawbridge inlayed with jewels.
The castle was only one of several tall structures that appeared to be made of rare metals and precious stones: gold, silver, emeralds, rubies and sapphires. But the closer they got to the buildings, the less fine they looked and the more they looked like what they were: stucco, cardboard, phosphorescent paint, colored spotlights, and bands of neon.
Off to the left Wayne could see a long, open shed full of vehicles, most of them old school buses. And there were unlighted hovels made of tin and tar paper; homes for the dead, perhaps. Behind the shacks and the bus barn rose skeletal shapes that stretched tall and bleak against the sky and the candy-gem lights; shapes that looked like the bony remains of beached whales.
On the right, Wayne glimpsed a building with an open front that served as a stage. In front of the stage were chairs filled with monks and nuns. On the stage, six monks – one behind a drum set, one with a saxophone, the others with guitars – were blasting out a loud, rocking rhythm that made the bus shake. A nun with the front of her habit thrown open, her headpiece discarded, sang into a microphone with a voice like a suffering angel. The voice screeched out of the amplifiers and came in through the windows of the bus, crushing the sound of the engine. The nun crowed "Jesus" so long and hard it sounded like a plea from hell. Then she leapt up and came down doing the splits, the impact driving her back to her feet as if her ass had been loaded with springs.
"Bet that bitch can pick up a quarter with that thing," Calhoun said.
Brother Lazarus touched a button, the pseudo-jeweled drawbridge lowered over a narrow moat, and he drove them inside.
It wasn’t as well lighted in there. The walls were bleak and gray. Brother Lazarus stopped the bus and got off, and another monk came on board. He was tall and thin and had crooked buck teeth that dented his bottom lip. He also had a twelve-gauge pump shotgun.
"This is Brother Fred," the nun said. "He’ll be your tour guide."
Brother Fred forced Wayne and Calhoun off the bus, away from the dead folks in their mouse-ear hats and the nun in her tight, black panties, jabbed them along a dark corridor, up a swirl of stairs and down a longer corridor with open doors on either side and rooms filled with dark and light and spoiled meat and guts on hooks and skulls and bones lying about like discarded walnut shells and broken sticks; rooms full of dead folks (truly dead) stacked neat as firewood, and rooms full of stone shelves stuffed with beakers of fiery-red and sewer-green and sky-blue and piss-yellow liquids, as well as glass coils through which other colored fluids fled as if chased, smoked as if nervous, and ran into big flasks as if relieved; rooms with platforms and tables and boxes and stools and chairs covered with instruments or dead folks or dead-folk pieces or the asses of monks and nuns as they sat and held charts or tubes or body parts and frowned at them with concentration, lips pursed as if about to explode with some earth-shattering pronouncement; and finally they came to a little room with a tall, glassless window that looked out upon the bright, shiny mess that was Jesus Land.
The room was simple. Table, two chairs, two beds–one on either side of the room. The walls were stone and unadorned. To the right was a little bathroom without a door.
Wayne walked to the window and looked out at Jesus Land pulsing and thumping like a desperate heart. He listened to the music a moment, leaned over and stuck his head outside.
They were high up and there was nothing but a straight drop. If you jumped, you’d wind up with the heels of your boots under your tonsils.
Wayne let out a whistle in appreciation of the drop. Brother Fred thought it was a compliment for Jesus Land. He said, "It’s a miracle, isn’t it?"
"Miracle?" Calhoun said. "This goony light show? This ain’t no miracle. This is for shit. Get that nun on the bus back there to bend over and shit a perfectly round turd through a hoop at twenty paces, and I’ll call that a miracle, Mr. Fucked-up Teeth. But this Jesus Land crap is the dumbest fucking idea since dog sweaters.
"And look at this place. You could use some knickknacks or something in here. A picture of some ole naked gal doing a donkey, couple of pigs fucking. Anything. And a door on the shitter would be nice. I hate to be straining out a big one and know someone can look in on me. It ain’t decent. A man ought to have his fucking grunts in private. This place reminds me of a motel I stayed at in Waco one night, and I made the goddamn manager give me my money back. The roaches in that shit hole were big enough to use the shower."
Brother Fred listened to all this without blinking an eye, as if seeing Calhoun talk was as amazing as seeing a frog sing. He said. "Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite. Tomorrow you start to work."
"I don’t want no fucking job," Calhoun said.
"Goodnight, children," Brother Fred said, and with that he closed the door and they heard it lock, loud and final as the clicking of the drop board on a gallows.

6

At dawn, Wayne got up and took a leak, went to the window to look out. The stage where the monks had played and the nun had jumped was empty. The skeletal shapes he had seen last night were tracks and frames from rides long abandoned. He had a sudden vision of Jesus and his disciples riding a roller coaster, their long hair and robes flapping in the wind.
The large crucified Jesus looked unimpressive without its lights and night’s mystery, like a whore in harsh sunlight with makeup gone and wig askew.
"Got any ideas how we’re gonna get out of here?" Calhoun asked.
Wayne looked at Calhoun. He was sitting on the bed, pulling on his boots.
Wayne shook his head.
"I could use a smoke. You know, I think we ought to work together. Then we can try to kill each other."
Unconsciously, Calhoun touched his ear where Wayne had bitten off the lobe.
"Wouldn’t trust you as far as I could kick you," Wayne said.
"I hear that. But I give my word. And my word’s something you can count on. I won’t twist it."
Wayne studied Calhoun, thought: Well, there wasn’t anything to lose. He’d just watch his ass.
"All right," Wayne said. "Give me your word you’ll work with me on getting us out of this mess, and when we’re good and free, and you say your word has gone far enough, we can settle up."
"Deal," Calhoun said, and offered his hand. Wayne looked at it.
"This seals it," Calhoun said.
Wayne took Calhoun’s hand and they shook.

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25.04.2007., srijeda

Lektira (3) - prvi nastavak




ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE CADILLAC DESERT WITH DEAD FOLKS
by Joe R. Lansdale

For David Schow,
a story of the Bad Guys and the Bad Guys


1

After a month’s chase, Wayne caught up with Calhoun one night at a little honky-tonk called Rosalita’s. It wasn’t that Calhoun had finally gotten careless, it was just that he wasn’t worried. He’d killed four bounty hunters so far, and Wayne knew a fifth didn’t concern him.
The last bounty hunter had been the famous Pink Lady McGuire – one mean mama – three hundred pounds of rolling, ugly meat that carried a twelve-gauge Remington pump and a bad attitude. Story was, Calhoun jumped her from behind, cut her throat, and as a joke, fucked her before she bled to death. This not only proved to Wayne that Calhoun was a dangerous sonofabitch, it also proved he had bad taste.
Wayne stepped out of his ‘57 Chevy reproduction, pushed his hat back on his forehead, opened the trunk, and got the sawed-off double barrel and some shells out of there. He already had a.38 revolver in the holster at his side and a bowie knife in each boot, but when you went into a place like Rosalita’s it was best to have plenty of backup.
Wayne put a handful of shotgun shells in his shirt pocket, snapped the flap over them, looked up at the red-and-blue neon sign that flashed ROSALITA’S: COLD BEER AND DEAD DANCING, found his center, as they say in Zen, and went on in.
He held the shotgun against his leg, and as it was dark in there and folks were busy with talk or drinks or dancing, no one noticed him or his artillery right off.
He spotted Calhoun’s stocky, black-hatted self immediately. He was inside the dance cage with a dead buck-naked Mexican girl of about twelve. He was holding her tight around the waist with one hand and massaging her rubbery ass with the other like it was a pillow he was trying to shape. The dead girl’s handless arms flailed on either side of Calhoun, and her little tits pressed to his thick chest. Her wire-muzzled face knocked repeatedly at his shoulder and drool whipped out of her mouth in thick spermy ropes, stuck to his shin, faded and left a patch of wetness.
For all Wayne knew, the girl was Calhoun’s sister or daughter. It was that kind of place. The kind that had sprung up immediately after that stuff had gotten out of a lab upstate and filled the air with bacterium that brought dead humans back to life, made their basic motor functions work and made them hungry for human flesh; made it so if a man’s wife, daughter, sister, or mother went belly up and he wanted to turn a few bucks, he might think: "Damn, that’s tough about ole Betty Sue, but she’s dead as hoot-owl shit and ain’t gonna be needing nothing from here on out, and with them germs working around in her, she’s just gonna pull herself out of the ground and cause me a problem. And the ground out back of the house is harder to dig than a calculus problem is to work, so I’ll just toss her cold ass in the back of the pickup next to the chain saw and the barbed-wire roll, haul her across the border to sell her to the Meat Boys to sell to the tonics for dancing.
"It’s a sad thing to sell one of your own, but shit, them’s the breaks. I’ll just stay out of the tonics until all the meat rots off her bones and they have to throw her away. That way I won’t go in some place for a drink and see her up there shaking her dead tits and end up going sentimental and dewey-eyed in front of one of my buddies or some ole two-dollar gal."
This kind of thinking supplied the dancers. In other parts of the country, the dancers might be men or children, but here it was mostly women. Men were used for hunting and target practice.
The Meat Boys took the bodies, cut off the hands so they couldn’t grab, ran screws through their jaws to fasten on wire muzzles so they couldn’t bite, sold them to the honky-tonks about the time the germ started stirring.
Bar owners put them inside wire enclosures up front of their joints, staffed music, and men paid five dollars to got in there and grab them and make like they were dancing when all the women wanted to do was grab and bite, which, muzzled and handless, they could not do.
If a man liked his partner enough, he could pay more money and have her tied to a cot in the back and he could get on her and at some business. Didn’t have to hear no arguments or buy presents or make promises or make them come. Just fuck and hike.
As long as the establishment sprayed the dead fur maggots and kept them perfumed and didn’t keep them so long hunks of meat came off on a man’s dick, the customers were happy as flies on shit.
Wayne looked to see who might give him trouble, and figured everyone was a potential customer. The six foot two, two-hundred fifty pound bouncer being the most immediate concern.
But, there wasn’t anything to do but to get on with things and handle problems when they came up. He went into the cage where Calhoun was dancing, shouldered through the other dancers and went for him.
Calhoun had his back to Wayne, and as the music was loud, Wayne didn’t worry about going quietly. But Calhoun sensed him and turned with his hand full of a little.38.
Wayne clubbed Calhoun’s arm with the barrel of the shotgun. The little gun flew out of Calhoun’s hand and went skidding across the floor and clanked against the metal cage.
Calhoun wasn’t outdone. He spun the dead girl in front of him and pulled a big pigsticker out of his boot and held it under the girl’s armpit in a threatening manner, which with a knife that big was no feat.
Wayne shot the dead girl’s left kneecap out from under her and she went down. Her armpit trapped Calhoun’s knife. The other men deserted their partners and went over the wire netting like squirrels.
Before Calhoun could shake the girl loose, Wayne stepped in and hit him over the head with the barrel of the shotgun. Calhoun crumpled and the girl began to crawl about on the floor as if looking for lost contacts.
The bouncer came in behind Wayne, grabbed him under the arms and tried to slip a full nelson on him.
Wayne kicked back on the bouncer’s shin and raked his boot down the man’s instep and stomped his foot. The bouncer let go. Wayne turned and kicked him in the balls and hit him across the face with the shotgun.
The bouncer went down and didn’t even look like he wanted up.
Wayne couldn’t help but note he liked the music that was playing. When he turned he had someone to dance with.
Calhoun.
Calhoun charged him, hit Wayne in the belly with his head, knocked him over the bouncer. They tumbled to the floor and the shotgun went out of Wayne’s hands and scraped across the floor and hit the crawling girl in the head. She didn’t even notice, just kept snaking in circles, dragging her blasted leg behind her like a skin she was trying to shed.
The other women, partnerless, wandered about the cage. The music changed. Wayne didn’t like this tune as well. Too slow. He bit Calhoun’s earlobe off.
Calhoun screamed and they grappled around on the floor. Calhoun got his arm around Wayne’s throat and tried to choke him to death.
Wayne coughed out the earlobe, lifted his leg and took the knife out of his boot. He brought it around and back and hit Calhoun in the temple with the hilt.
Calhoun let go of Wayne and rocked on his knees, then collapsed on top of him.
Wayne got out from under him and got up and kicked him in the head a few times. When he was finished, he put the bowie in its place, got Calhoun’s.38 and the shotgun. To hell with the pig sticker.
A dead woman tried to grab him, and he shoved her away with a thrust of his palm. He got Calhoun by the collar, started pulling him toward the gate.
Faces were pressed against the wire, watching. It had been quite a show. A friendly cowboy type opened the gate for Wayne and the crowd parted as he pulled Calhoun by. One man felt helpful and chased after them and said, "Here’s his hat, Mister," and dropped it on Calhoun’s knee and it stayed there.
Outside, a professional drunk was standing between two cars taking a leak on the ground. As Wayne pulled Calhoun past, the drunk said, "Your buddy don’t look so good."
"Look worse than that when I get him to Law Town," Wayne said.
Wayne stopped by the ‘57, emptied Calhoun’s pistol and tossed it as far as he could, then took a few minutes to kick Calhoun in the ribs and ass. Calhoun grunted and farted, but didn’t come to.
When Wayne’s leg got tired, he put Calhoun in the passenger seat and handcuffed him to the door.
He went over to Calhoun’s ‘62 Impala replica with the plastic bull horns mounted on the hood – which was how he had located him in the first place, by his well known car – and kicked the glass out of the window on the driver’s side and used the shotgun to shoot the bull horns off. He took out his pistol and shot all the tires flat, pissed on the driver’s door, and kicked a dent in it.
By then he was too tired to shit in the back seat, so he took some deep breaths and went back to the ‘57 and climbed in behind the wheel.
Reaching across Calhoun, he opened the glove box and got out one of his thin, black cigars and put it in his mouth.
He pushed the lighter in, and while he waited for it to heat up, he took the shotgun out of his lap and reloaded it.
A couple of men poked their heads outside of the tonk’s door, and Wayne stuck the shotgun out the window and fired above their heads. They disappeared inside so fast they might have been an optical illusion.
Wayne put the lighter to his cigar, picked up the wanted poster he had on the seat, and set fire to it. He thought about putting it in Calhoun’s lap as a joke, but didn’t. He tossed the flaming poster out of the window.
He drove over close to the tonk and used the remaining shotgun load to shoot at the neon Rosalita’s sign. Glass tinkled onto the tonk’s roof and onto the gravel drive.
Now if he only had a dog to kick.
He drove away from there, bound for the Cadillac Desert, and finally Law Town on the other side.

2

The Cadillacs stretched for miles, providing the only shade in the desert. They were buried nose down at a slant, almost to the windshields, and Wayne could see skeletons of some of the drivers in the cars, either lodged behind the steering wheels or lying on the dashboards against the glass. The roof and hood guns had long since been removed and all the windows on the cars were rolled up, except for those that had been knocked out and vandalized by travelers, or dead folks looking for goodies.
The thought of being in one of those cars with the windows rolled up in all this heat made Wayne feel even more uncomfortable than he already was. Hot as it was, he was certain even the skeletons were sweating.
He finished pissing on the tire of the Chevy, saw the piss had almost dried. He shook the drops off, watched them fall and evaporate against the burning sand. Zipping up, he thought about Calhoun, and how when he’d pulled over earlier to let the sonofabitch take a leak, he’d seen there was a little metal ring through the head of his dick and a Texas emblem dangling from that. He could understand the Texas emblem, being from there himself, but he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why a fella would do that to his general. Any idiot who would put a ring through the head of his pecker deserved to die, innocent or not.
Wayne took off his cowboy hat and rubbed the back of his neck and ran his hand over the top of his head and back again. The sweat on his fingers was thick as lube oil, and the thinning part of his hairline was tender; the heat was cooking the hell out of his scalp, even through the brown felt of his hat.
Before he put his hat on, the sweat on his fingers was dry. He broke open the shotgun, put the shells in his pocket, opened the Chevy’s back door and tossed the shotgun on the floorboard.
He got in the front behind the wheel and the seat was hot as a griddle on his back and ass. The sun shone through the slightly tinted windows like a polished chrome hubcap; it forced him to squint.
Glancing over at Calhoun, he studied him. The fucker was asleep with his head thrown back and his black wilted hat hung precariously on his head – it looked jaunty almost. Sweat oozed down Calhoun’s red face, flowed over his eyelids and around his neck, running in riverlets down the white seat covers, drying quickly. He had his left hand between his legs, clutching his balls, and his right was on the arm rest, which was the only place it could be since he was handcuffed to the door.
Wayne thought he ought to blow the bastard’s brains out and tell God he died. The shithead certainly needed shooting, but Wayne didn’t want to lose a thousand dollars off his reward. He needed every penny if he was going to get that wrecking yard he wanted. The yard was the dream that went before him like a carrot before a donkey, and he didn’t want any more delays. If he never made another trip across this goddamn desert, that would suit him fine.
Pop would let him buy the place with the money he had now, and he could pay the rest out later. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. The bounty business had finally gone sour, and he wanted to do different. It wasn’t any goddamn fun anymore. Just met the dick cheese of the earth. And when you ran the sonofabitches to ground and put the cuffs on them, you had to watch your ass ‘til you got them turned in. Had to sleep with one eye open and a hand on your gun. It wasn’t any way to live.
And he wanted a chance to do right by Pop. Pop had been like a father to him. When he was a kid and his mama was screwing the Mexicans across the border for the rent money, Pop would let him hang out in the yard and climb on the rusted cars and watch him fix the better ones, tune those babies so fine they purred like dick-whipped women.
When he was older, Pop would haul him to Galveston for the whores and out to the beach to take potshots at all the ugly, fucked-up critters swimming around in the Gulf. Sometimes he’d take him to Oklahoma for the Dead Roundup. It sure seemed to do the old fart good to whack those dead fuckers with a tire iron, smash their diseased brains so they’d lay down for good. And it was a challenge. ‘Cause if one of those dead buddies bit you, you could put your head between your legs and kiss your rosy ass goodbye.
Wayne pulled out of his thoughts of Pop and the wrecking yard and turned on the stereo system. One of his favorite country-and-western tunes whispered at him. It was Billy Conteegas singing, and Wayne hummed along with the music as he drove into the welcome, if mostly ineffectual, shadows provided by the Cadillacs.
"My baby left me,
She left me for a cow,
But I don’t give a flying fuck,
She’s gone radioactive now,
Yeah, my baby left me,
Left me for a six-tittied cow."
Just when Conteegas was getting to the good part, doing the trilling sound in his throat he was famous for, Calhoun opened his eyes and spoke up.
"Ain’t it bad enough I got to put up with the fucking heat and your fucking humming without having to listen to that shit? Ain’t you got no Hank Williams stuff, or maybe some of that nigger music they used to make? You know, where the coons harmonize and one of ‘em sings like his nuts are cut off."
"You just don’t know good music when you hear it, Calhoun."
Calhoun moved his free hand to his hatband, found one of his few remaining cigarettes and a match there. He struck the match on his knee, lit the smoke and coughed a few rounds. Wayne couldn’t imagine how Calhoun could smoke in all this heat.
"Well, I may not know good music when I hear it, capon, but I damn sure know bad music when I hear it. And that’s some bad music."
"You ain’t got any kind of culture, Calhoun. You been too busy raping kids."
"Reckon a man has to have a hobby," Calhoun said, blowing smoke at Wayne. "Young pussy is mine. Besides, she wasn’t in diapers. Couldn’t find one that young. She was thirteen. You know what they say. If they’re old enough to bleed, they’re old enough to breed."
"How old they have to be for you to kill them?"
"She got loud."
"Change channels, Calhoun."
"Just passing the time of day, capon. Better watch yourself, bounty hunter, when you least expect it, I’ll bash your head."
"You’re gonna run your mouth one time too many, Calhoun, and when you do, you’re gonna finish this ride in the trunk with ants crawling on you. You ain’t so priceless I won’t blow you away."
"You lucked out at the tonk, boy. But there’s always tomorrow, and every day can’t be like at Rosalita’s."
Wayne smiled. "Trouble is, Calhoun, you’re running out of tomorrows."

3

As they drove between the Cadillacs, the sky fading like a bad bulb, Wayne looked at the cars and tried to imagine what the Chevy-Cadillac Wars had been like, and why they had been fought in this miserable desert. He had heard it was a hell of a fight, and close, but the outcome had been Chevy’s and now they were the only cars Detroit made. And as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing about Detroit that was worth a damn. Cars.
He felt that way about all cities. He’d just as soon lie down and let a diseased dog shit in his face than drive through one, let alone live in one.
Law Town being an exception. He’d go there. Not to live, but to give Calhoun to the authorities and pick up his reward. People in Law Town were always glad to see a criminal brought in. The public executions were popular and varied and supplied a steady income.
Last time he’d been to Law Town he’d bought a front-row ticket to one of the executions and watched a chronic shoplifter, a red-headed rat of a man, get pulled apart by being chained between two souped-up tractors. The execution itself was pretty brief, but there had been plenty of buildup with clowns and balloons and a big-tittied stripper who could swing her tits in either direction to boom-boom music.
Wayne had been put off by the whole thing. It wasn’t organized enough and the drinks and food were expensive and the front-row seats were too close to the tractors. He had gotten to see that the red-head’s insides were brighter than his hair, but some of the insides got sprinkled on his new shirt, and cold water or not, the spots hadn’t come out. He had suggested to one of the management that they put up a big plastic shield so the front row wouldn’t get splattered, but he doubted anything had come of it.
They drove until it was solid dark. Wayne stopped and fed Calhoun a stick of jerky and some water from his canteen. Then he handcuffed him to the front bumper of the Chevy.
"See any snakes, Gila monsters, scorpions, stuff like that," Wayne said, "yell out. Maybe I can get around here in time."
"I’d let the fuckers run up my asshole before I’d call you," Calhoun said.
Leaving Calhoun with his head resting on the bumper, Wayne climbed in the back seat of the Chevy and slept with one ear cocked and one eye open.
Before dawn Wayne got Calhoun loaded in the ‘57 and they started out. After a few minutes of sluicing through the early morning grayness, a wind started up. One of those weird desert winds that come out of nowhere. It carried grit through the air at the speed of bullets, hit the ‘57 with a sound like rabid cats scratching.
The sand tires crunched on through, and Wayne turned on the windshield blower, the sand wipers, and the head-beams, and kept on keeping on.
When it was time for the sun to come up, they couldn’t see it. Too much sand. It was blowing harder than ever and the blowers and wipers couldn’t handle it. It was piling up. Wayne couldn’t even make out the Cadillacs anymore.
He was about to stop when a shadowy, whale-like shape crossed in front of him and he slammed on the brakes, giving the sand tires a workout. But it wasn’t enough.
The ‘57 spun around and rammed the shape on Calhoun’s side. Wayne heard Calhoun yell, then felt himself thrown against the door and his head smacked metal and the outside darkness was nothing compared to the darkness into which he descended.

- nastaviće se -
- 10:32 - Komentari (1) - Isprintaj - #

24.04.2007., utorak

Introspekcija





Pretpostavljam da bi ljudima kojima se ne da pretjerano uživljavati u tuđa piskaranja, atroke tražiti stare postove, bilo dobro pojasniti moja polazišta.

Kao prvo, nisam jugonostalgičar u smislu da mi posebno nedostaje Jugoslavija, niti da priželjkujem ikakvu njenu restauraciju. Ne kažem da su te dvije pozicije nužno loše ili diskvalificirajuće, kao što ni jugoslavenstvo kao nacionalni osjećaj sam po sebi nije ni dobar ni loš (i kako NEMANJA dobro primjećuje, može se ispoljiti i kao agresivni nacionalizam/šovinizam). Meni je doduše u Jugoslaviji u razdoblju od sredine šezdesetih, kad sam rođen, do početka devedesetih bilo dobro (pravo ima odmak), ali ne želim svoju situaciju generalizirati: sasvim je moguće da je nekome u istom razdoblju bilo loše, kao i da bi meni u nekom drugom razdoblju, npr. početkom pedesetih, bilo gore. Da izbjegnem sve nesporazume (ne volim kad naprečac donose površne zaključke), moji su roditelji bili vanpartijci, normalno zaposleni u običnoj tvornici ("Jugovinil"), iz ne osobito boračke obitelji (jedan djed mobiliziran u domobrane, drugi '45. u partizane, u 45. godini života) - dakle kao obitelj nismo bili privilegirani - iako smo dobili stan od poduzeća, i kasnije ga zamijenili za veći.

Manjak općejugoslavenskih osjećaja nisam kompenzirao naglašenim hrvatstvom, ali sam bio i ostao skeptičan i prema kozmopolitizmu. Nikakav poseban ljubitelj ljudske vrste i njenih podvrsta, prije skeptik opće prakse. Što se poslije pokazalo sasvim opravdanim - trebao sam zapravo biti i kritičniji.

Možemo li dakle reći da me živo boli kurac za Jugoslaviju kao državu? Da. Kao što me boli kurac i za Hrvatsku. Nisam doduše imun od mlakog osjećaja sažaljenja (obojanog nijansom prezira) za stanovnike prve (bivše) i druge (umiruće) države, tj. za ono što su vlastitim zalaganjem učinili od sebe. Ne zato što su, kao, većinom nacionalisti, ili desničari (a i nisu), nego zato što su većinski glupi. Njihove afinitete i animozitete programiraju političari kroz medije. Dajte mi medije i godinu dana i uvjerit ću natpolovičnu većinu da glasa za bilo što. Taj film smo, uostalom, već gledali, ali malo tko je razumio njegovu poantu. (Budimo pošteni, nisu žitelji bivše Jugoslavije bili puno gluplji od onih drugih država, sličnim bih programiranjem u većini "razvijenih" zemalja postigao tek za desetak posto slabiji rezultat).

Aha, programirani mediji i manipulativni političari - evo nas na skliskom terenu teorije zavjere. Možemo li zaključiti kako se radi o smišljenom projektu KOS, UDBe, CIA ili KGB? Jebiga, ja ne mogu. Previše sam skeptičan; nije da ne vjerujem kako se zavjere kuju svaki dan i kako su špijuni svud naokolo - jedino mi je teško povjerovati u provedivost plana koji bi doveo do ovako kolosalnog pičvajza, kakav se u nas desio - život ipak ne potpisuje Ludlum. Ne želeći potcijeniti KOS, mislim da je on odigrao ulogu koju npr. u Splitu imaju vaterpolisti. Vaterpolisti? Pa da, analizirajući gradske moćnike u jednom razdoblju, došao sam do zaključka kako ih je dobar dio nekad trenirao vaterpolo, ili bio vezan uz pojedine klubove. Razumijete što hoću reći: ljudi su se povezali kroz stara poznanstva i prijateljstva. Slično vam je i s KOS, čini mi se - dio ljudi od položaja u prošlom sistemu bio je povezan obavještajnim vezama (ni to ne treba mistificirati, takve veze postoje u većini država), i stara je druženja iskoristio u doba kad je KOS prestao biti aktivni subjekt. Ovo je moje viđenje - ne bih se kladio u iole veću svotu da je točno, ali mi kombinatorika teorija zavjere ide na živce, pogotovo što su potencijalni akteri tih zavjera ovi naši politički blesani koji ne znaju igrati ni Monopol. Šuruju oni - dakako, ali na kratke staze i na tako niskom nivou da to prolazi samo kod nas.

Iako sam prema Hrvatskoj i drugim x-Yu državama ravnodušan želim im sve najbolje, uglavnom zato što sam bio prelijen i pretrom da se ispalim u široki svijet, pa mi djeca moraju odrastati ovdje. Zato sam vitalno zainteresiran za svako poboljšanje stanja, u nas ili u komšiluku - slični su nam problemi i zablude, slične klike vladaju, kradu i međusobno bezočno surađuju. Zašto dakle normalan svijet, onih 10 - 15% mislećih stanovnika naših državica ne bi mogao surađivati u zajedničkom interesu - ne u obnovi Jugoslavije, nego u pretvaranju naših država u zemlje u kojima se može živjeti, umjesto samo preživljavati. Toj mislećoj desetini stanovništva (nisu to većinski ni Jugoslaveni, ni urbani, ni nužno visokoobrazovani) treba svaka moguća i zamisliva pomoć. Ako mi je ikoga na ovim prostorima zaista žao, to su oni. To je razlog zašto vam serviram tekstove s bivšejugoslavenskih prostora, a ne jugonostalgija.

A ako ovo vidite samo kao niz opravdanja lika koji se ne želi vidjeti u ogledalu, opet super. Nemati dilema je uvijek bilo cool.

- 10:04 - Komentari (6) - Isprintaj - #

23.04.2007., ponedjeljak

Driving in my car (11)




Počinje novi tjedan, i u njemu novi dan. Gledate veselu jutarnju igru kontejnera, parkiranih auta i dostavnih kamiona u sporednoj ulici u novijem splitskom kvartu. Dalmatinci su druželjubivi ljudi, pa ovakve situacije često urode nezaboravnim poznanstvima.



Kontejneri su puni jer ih od petka ujutro nitko nije ispraznio. U Dalmaciji je komunalcima dovoljno triput tjedno prazniti kontejnere, jer se zbog relativno visokih temperatura, pogotovo u proljeće i ljeto, otpaci u njima konzerviraju toplinom, pa nema neugodnih mirisa, a i zaraze su isključene.



Iz istog razloga kontejneri se ne pokrivaju, što govori o finim manirama ovdašnjih ljudi, koji nipošto ne bi uprljali ruke eventualno masnom ručkom poklopca. Uostalom, ovako u kontejner i više stane.



Dekorativno raspoređeni kućanski elementi i mekani madraci u pozadini popodne će poslužiti kao dječje igralište.



Predveče će se, kao i svakog dana, oko kontejnera okupiti vrijedni umirovljenici.



- 10:54 - Komentari (2) - Isprintaj - #

22.04.2007., nedjelja

Dan D (19)


http://img490.imageshack.us/img490/3766/love02lu7.jpg


http://img112.imageshack.us/img112/276/1161544209wwwxukru00dp5.jpg


http://img260.imageshack.us/img260/1729/1163880390wwwxukru07dh8.jpg

- 10:42 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

21.04.2007., subota

Kurt Vonnegut (1922–2007)


Bokonon's 53rd Calypso


Oh, a sleeping drunkard
Up in Central Park,
And a lion-hunter
In the jungle dark,
And a chinese dentist,
And a British queen -
All fit together
In the same machine.
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice;
Nice, nice, very nice -
So many different people
In the same device.






Vreme, 15.04 2007.

Čovek koji je topio glečere



Autor Klanice pet i Kolevke za macu umro je u svojoj osamdeset četvrtoj godini. Tako mu je to.
piše: Dejan Anastasijević


Ako niste čitali knjige Kurta Vonegata u pravo vreme, a to je negde između petnaeste i dvadesete godine, verovatno je kasno da sada počinjete; a ako jeste, verovatno ih niste skoro uzimali u ruke. Poput Hermana Hesea i Franca Kafke, Vonegat je jedan od onih pisaca koji se čitaju gotovo isključivo tokom sazrevanja i kojima se zreli ljudi retko vraćaju, ali zauvek ostaju važan deo njihovog kulturnog identiteta. S tim što je, za razliku od pomenute dvojice autora, Vonegat uvek bio u stanju da čoveka zasmeje do suza.

Vonegat je rođen 1922. u Indijanapolisu, u porodici druge generacije nemačkih iseljenika. Nakon što su njegovi početnički književni napori grubo odbijeni od nekoliko izdavača, upisao je biohemiju, i da ga u mladosti nije zakačio Drugi svetski rat, pitanje je da li bi postao pisac. Pred sam kraj rata je, kao zarobljenik na prisilnom radu u Drezdenu, jedva preživeo divljačko savezničko bombardovanje ovog grada. To iskustvo, koje mu je potpuno promenilo život i pogled na svet, detaljno je opisao u svojoj najpoznatijoj knjizi Klanica pet i u svojim autobiografskim esejima.

Posle demobilizacije, Vonegat je ponovo počeo da piše, ovaj put naučnu fantastiku; njegov prvi roman Mehanički pijanino (1950), negativna utopija o društvu u kome su mašine potpuno zamenile radnike, prošao je sasvim nezapaženo čak i unutar ovog prezrenog žanra, a sledeći, Sirene sa Titana (1955) jedva nešto bolje. Mada mnoge njegove potonje knjige sadrže elemente naučne fantastike, Vonegat se nikada nije sasvim vratio žanru, ali je u svoja dela uveo svoj mladalački alter ego: pisac naučne fantastike Kilgor Traut, prepun odličnih ideja ali beznadežno netalentovan, čija se dela objavljuju isključivo u pornografskim časopisima, pojavljuje se kao glavni ili sporedan lik u čitavom nizu Vonegatovih romana. Međutim, kada je etablirani pisac ovog žanra Filip Hoze Farmer, u nameri da oda počast Vonegatu, objavio roman Venera iz školjke pod pseudonimom Kilgor Traut, Vonegat ga je pozvao telefonom i sočno ga ispsovao. Trauta je usvojio i nobelovac Salman Ruždi, koji ga diskretno pominje u romanu Zemlja pod njenim stopalima.

Tek u Kolevci za macu, objavljenoj 1963, Vonegat se uzdigao do punog satiričarskog majstorstva i ovladao veštinom totalnog rasturanja autoriteta, zbog čega je do kraja života voljen i osporavan. U romanu, čiji naslov predstavlja engleski naziv za dečju igru koja se kod nas zove "kolariću-paniću", nalazi se i Vonegatov kredo, izgovoren kroz usta jednog od likova, inače patuljka po imenu Njutn:

"Nije čudo što deca odrastu šašava", reče Njutn pružajući ruke umazane bojom kao da je među njima razapeta kolevka za macu. "Kolevka za macu nije ništa drugo nego gomila iksova među nečijim prstima."

"I?"

"Nema nikakve proklete kolevke i nema nikakve proklete mace."

Vonegatova Klanica pet, objavljena 1969, u jeku protesta zbog rata u Vijetnamu, doživela je ogroman uspeh, jer su je deca cveća odmah usvojila, nalazeći paralelu između besmislenog bombardovanja Drezdena fosfornim bombama i obilate upotrebe napalma u Vijetnamu. Glavni junak Bili Pilgrim, koji je kao i Vonegat preživeo drezdenski pakao, "otkačio se u vremenu" i veruje da komunicira sa vanzemaljskom vrstom sa planete Trafalmador. Trafalmadorci imaju sposobnost da sagledavaju vreme u celosti, umesto linearno kao ljudi, a kad neko umre, oni su u stanju da vide tu osobu u svim fazama života, pa se njihov stav prema smrti (koju je Pilgrim usvojio) svodi na kratku rečenicu: "Tako mu je to." Ova fraza postala je slogan studentskih antiratnih protesta, a da je imao priliku da napiše svoj epitaf, Vonegat verovatno ne bi rekao ništa više.

Iako je Klanica pet dugo ostala na prvom mestu američke liste bestselera, Vonegata kritika nikada nije prihvatila kao prvorazrednog pisca, i nastavili su da ga svrstavaju u autore naučne fantastike ili čak među bit književnike, kojima nikada nije pripadao. Uspeh mu nije prijao, upao je u depresiju i alkoholizam i zakleo se da više nikada ništa neće napisati. Obećanje nije ispunio – objavio je još šest romana, nekoliko drama i niz eseja – ali je doživeo nervni slom i jednom ozbiljno pokušao da se ubije. Kao strastan pušač, pred kraj života se šalio da ima nameru da tuži proizvođače svojih omiljenih cigareta jer su ga slagali kada su na etiketu stavili natpis "pušenje ubija".

Iako se poslednjih godina vratio političkom aktivizmu, propovedajući protiv Džordža Buša mlađeg i rata u Iraku, Vonegat nikada nije gajio iluziju da je pero moćnije od mača. "Uvek će biti ratova", piše u Klanici pet, "i knjige ih ne mogu zaustaviti ništa lakše nego kretanje glečera... A čak i kada bi prestali da nadolaze kao glečeri, uvek će ostati dobra stara smrt." Tako mu je to.

- 10:27 - Komentari (7) - Isprintaj - #

20.04.2007., petak

Poruka premijeru


Piše u novine da se Sanader najidija šta nismo dobili nogometno prvenstvo, traži glave odgovornih.

Evo što su zadarski birači odgovorili premijeru:



- 10:43 - Komentari (0) - Isprintaj - #

18.04.2007., srijeda

Driving in my car (10)


Moram priznati kako sam bio pomalo zatečen kad je po mom sudu inače prilično racionalni NEMANJA osuo paljbu po meni i zadnjem Hemonwoodu kojeg sam ništa ne sluteći prenio. Kao, radi se o "jugoslavenstvu, pritajenom iza ovakvog fake pojma građanstva, zapravo realiziranom u svojoj malignoj formi: formi resentimanom opterećene svijesti o iščeznuću vlastita nacionalnog prostora, Jugoslavije, i posljedničnom mržnjom spram onih koji su se od te zemlje emancipirali i taj prostor razlomili". Uau!

Razmijenio sam zatim s njim (malo na mom, a malo na njegovom blogu) nekoliko kurtoaznih rečenica (s moje), a žučljivo ispisanih stranica (s njegove strane), ali nisam uspio dokučiti kog vraga ima protiv jednog u suštini laganog i bezazlenog teksta, i zašto se upeo da mi pripiše anacionalnost i kozmopolitizam, kad već ne može "manifestno jugoslavenstvo" ili "latentni muslimanski fundamentalizam", što čuva za "bosanske seljačine" i "Musliće".

Njegov efektni nastup imao je draž i gracioznost jednog Kramera, koji nepozvan izbezumljeno uleti u vaš stan i popiša vam se u pitar sa điranima. I još veli, ono, brišući kurac o zavjesu: "Mosore, kako glasi barem jedna nelogičnost u gornjem tekstu? Što te zbunjuje? Rado ću objasniti sve što nisi razumio. Samo, molim te, nemoj odmah to svoje nerazumjevanje učitavati u tekst. Mislim da su brojni drugi čitatelji sve odmah dobro shvatili. Vjeruj mi, imam takav osjećaj, i ti si to shvatio, samo ti se nekako ne sviđa to što si shvatio."

Razmišljao sam bih li mu pokušao objasniti kako čitanje bilo kojeg teksta traži od čitaoca poznavanje konteksta, strpljenje, interes i određenu suživljenost s autorom. Ne nužno i slaganje, ali ukoliko čitalac od početka tekst čita samo da bi potvrdio svoje i oborio autorove teze, smisao čitanja se gubi. Kako su teme vezane za vlastito odrastanje u retrospektivi, reminiscencije mladenačkih ushita, muzičkih idola i drugih dragih uspomena uvijek i nužno do neke mjere mitologizirane i nerealne i da apriorna ironija nije najbolji ključ za njihovo razumijevanje. Ironijski odmaknuti, u Hendrixu vidimo samo prljavog narkomana koji se ugušio vlastitom bljuvotinom, u Štuliću klinca s dijagnozom, a u nama samima šačicu glupastih i razmaženih balavaca u tranziciji u nešto još bezveznije.

Kako je vjerojatno u pravu kad sumnja u mit o sukobu "urbanih Sarajlija" i "papaka", ali i da je taj mit bezazlen, i da je uostalom pristojno ismijavati tuđe mitove tek kad se obračunaš s vlastitima. I kako mu je traženje nekakvih imaginarnih Jugoslavena i razotkrivanje njihovih "urota" jalov i uzaludan posao, ali ako ga veseli...




Pod dojmom Nemanjinog komentara, prolazio sam usputno Solinom, i tada se dogodilo. Opazio sam ih krajičkom oka, ali i to je bilo dovoljno da izazove trenutnu mučnu reakciju. Oprezno sam okrenuo glavu, i zaista - bile su tamo. TRI zastave. Na TRI jarbola. Hrvatske zastave, doduše, ali odmah sam shvatio suštinu demonske instalacije. Svaki pravi Hrvat s grozom se sjeća vremena jugokomunističkog terora, kad su podli Jugoslaveni isticali po TRI zastave: omraženu jugoslavensku, bezbožnu crvenu i tobožnju hrvatsku, s nakaradnom zvijezdom.



Obuzet zlim slutnjama, potrčao sam prema zgradi pošte. Izdaleka sam ugledao nosače za zastave - bila su tri.



Obišao sam i zgradu Općine. Ovdje su bila čak četiri nosača. Podišla me jeza.



Sjeo sam u auto i uputio se prema Splitu. Na stupovima za rasvjetu vijorile su se zastavice sajma jahti. Po dvije. Nosača su međutim na svakom stupu bila tri.



Shvaćate li sada kako ste naivni ako mislite kako je to slučajnost? Zapravo očito da je riječ o zavjeri smišljenoj od infiltriranih operativaca jugoslavenskih tajnih službi.



Tko zna koliko nacionalno svjesnih Srba ili Bosanaca svakodnevno prolazi ispod sličnih trokrakih nosača u svojim zemljama, ni ne sluteći kako jugoslavenski obavještajci među njima samo vrebaju trenutak da na njih ponovo zakače mrske zastave? Umjesto hrvatskih, srpskih, bosanskih, Fuldinih, Konzumovih, Michelinovih,...

Jebate, je paranoja zarazna. Ma, aj ti lipi moj NEMANJA... pišat u svoje đirane.

- 10:08 - Komentari (17) - Isprintaj - #

17.04.2007., utorak

Driving in my car (9)


Imali smo popodne manji požar na predjelu između Solina i Klisa. Gorilo je nekoliko sati, dok vatra nije došla do ruba sipara, gdje je predveče jenjala i ugasila se.









Rano je počelo. Ako se obistine prognoze meteorologa, moglo bi ovoga ljeta biti dosta vatreno u ovim našim krajevima.
- 20:55 - Komentari (1) - Isprintaj - #

Ima neke logike, kad razmisliš (ili: Driving in my car (8))





- 10:15 - Komentari (2) - Isprintaj - #

16.04.2007., ponedjeljak

Zvijezde pjevaju, plešu,...


Moja mala od 8 godina nažalost voli sve što vole mladi, pa tako prati i subotnji HTV show Zvijezde pjevaju.

I kaže: "Prije je bio Ples sa zvijezdama, sada Zvijezde pjevaju. Šta će iduće, seksat se?"



- 12:15 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

15.04.2007., nedjelja

Driving in my car (7), ili Dan D (18) - kako hoćete


Jeste li već vidjeli ovu reklamu za kavu Gloria?





Ha, neš ti reklame, reći ćete vi, namještena poza gore i stupidna poruka dolje, uz standardno navlačenje na nagradnu igru. Ali pogledajte još jednom. Te neuvjerljive, napadne poze modela, izravni pogledi, značajni osmijesi. Jesam li toliko opterećen, ili imamo posla s prvorazrednom pornografijom, koja ovaj put ne prodaje seks i strast, kao nadomjestak za stvarne osjećaje, nego, eto, samo kavu. Znate već kako diktira scenario u pornografskom filmu: ona se sunča kraj bazena, on kosi travu. Ona se dosađuje, a na vrata zvoni vodoinstalater. Oni peru prozore, ona ih zove na marendu...

Tako ja kad u gradu ugledam gornju reklamu za Gloria kavu - ne mogu da ne zamislim idući kadar, onaj nakon tri točkice. Ruka lagano dotiče lakat, pa zatim kao slučajno klizi na sisu. Oči se zatvaraju, šalica odlaže na stol... Jebi ga, gledali ste, neću vam valjda prepričavati pornelu.

A slične su i pojedine reklame za druge napitke, pa onda neke za donje rublje, rebatinke (traperice), kreme i sapune,... Daleko od toga da bi mi to korištenje seksualnosti radi oplođivanja kapitala smetalo, nisam nekakav puritanac (samo mi je malo smiješno, kao što mi je i pornografija pomalo smiješna), ali kad smo već tu, daj da fenomen nazovemo pravim imenom.

Razmotrite još nekoliko propagandnih poruka, koje se služe sličnom taktikom.



Prvi primjer:




Podravka čaj Vaš najbolji prijatelj!
Podravka čaj nudi svojim potrošačima prepoznatljiv okus i aromu te im pruža potpuno zadovoljstvo i opuštanje u kratkim trenucima predaha u brzom životnom tempu.



Drugi primjer:



Začini za jela fina - Nadalina!
Tradicija uporabe aromatičnog bilja u mediteranskoj kuhinji obogaćena najnovijim saznanjima svjetske gastronomije - ZAČINI NADALINA -



Treći primjer:



Severina z Rašico!
Rašica je predstavila nov katalog kolekcije pomlad - poletje, katerega prvi obraz je znana hrvaška estradnica Severina.


Zar vas ta tri propagandna uratka ne podsjećaju na pornografiju? Ili sam ja zahirio poput onog lika iz vica što je u svemu vidio pičku?
- 09:10 - Komentari (4) - Isprintaj - #

14.04.2007., subota

Hemonwood (6)


Link na članak.


BH Dani od 13.04.2007.

Hemonwood

Valterdan


Piše: Aleksandar Hemon



Proljeće je uvijek nekako počinjalo 6. aprila, na Valterdan. U zraku se osjećao kraj škole; maturanti su, iz razloga kojeg se ne mogu sjetiti, dobivali crvene karanfile; neki su bili primani u Savez komunista; hrabriji, zagorjeli parovi su se na Vilsonovom već znali pofatati ispod još malo pa prolistalih kestenova; džepovi zimskih kaputa su se polaki punili naftalinom; dani su znali biti dovoljno topli da bi se neko usudio otvoriti prozore u tramvaju, prouzrokujući tako promaju opasnu po zdravlje starijih građana, koji zimsku odjeću nisu skidali do Dana rada; a na Skenderiji pod bistom Vladimira Perića Valtera ukazali bi se vijenci i buketi cvijeća.

Valterdan je bio lokalni, urbani praznik, beznačajan izvan domena grada Sarajeva. Istaknuti pojedinci i organizacije dobijali su Šestoaprilsku nagradu, i građani su nekako bili lično vezani za dobitnike, pošto su znali tračeve o pojedincima, a radili su za organizacije. Bilo je škole, ali je sve bilo opuštenije - moglo se razguliti na ime neke svečane akademije ili koncerta Breza. Dok su federalni i republički praznici bili apstraktniji, vezani za mutna dostignuća narodnooslobodilačkog rata, socijalističkog samoupravljanja i Titovog života, važnost Valterdana - Dana oslobođenja rodnog grada - bila je konkretna i očigledna: da Sarajevo nije oslobođeno, niko ne bi smio luftati da se fata na Vilsonovom, niti bi u Domu mladih, na koncertu povodom (misteriozne) dodjele crvenih karanfila, Ljubiša Račić, taj rock'n'roll pregalac i vođa grupe Formula 4, svirao za vratom brze solaže na svom Stratocasteru, sa kojim je, činilo se, onomad sa ranjenicima pregazio Neretvu.

Valterdan je bio urbani praznik i zato što je Vladimir Perić Valter bio mnogo više dio urbane nego socijalističke mitologije. Poginuo je na Marijin-Dvoru, na ulici, kod Davora, jednog od ranih sarajevskih kafića, za razliku od svetišta narodnooslobodilačke borbe do kojih se moralo prvo autobusom, a onda uzbrdo, pješke. Bio je mlad k'o proljeće kad je, na Dan oslobođenja 1945. istupio iz redova života, izbjegavši tako moralno-političku korupciju kojoj su podlegli njegovi preživjeli drugovi. I ne samo da je bio ilegalac (divna riječ: ilegalac, suštinski alternativna i drugačija od rukovodioca ili legalca - nijedan tinejdžer nikad nije htio biti legalac), nego je imao i vrlo zajebano, ilegalno, asfaltno ime, ni nalik na nadimke tipičnih narodnih heroja: Crni, Stari, Španac, Uča. Mitski Valter je bio urbani pojedinac, heroj koji je operisao u gradu, u betonu, za razliku od narodnih heroja koji su na čelu narodnih masa u opancima i gunjevima bježali kroz obruče okupatora i domaćih izdajnika, sa jedne slobodne teritorije na drugu. Mitski Valter je bio špijun, jalijaš, prevarant, laufer - jednom riječju, sarajevski lik.

Valter brani Sarajevo, taj kultni film, nije samo eksploatisao tu valterovsku urbanu mitologiju, nego ju je i potpuno ustoličio, uprkos tome što ni Bata Životinja ni Smoki Samardžić nisu imali ni zeru sarajevskog akcenta, niti je Sarajevo geografski precizno predstavljeno, a da ne govorimo da je u ime bratstva i jedinstva (vidljivog i u izboru glumaca) eliminisano prisustvo ustaša, koji su harali Sarajevom za vrijeme onog rata. Valter brani Sarajevo je, naravno, tek slučajno bio film o narodnooslobodilačkoj borbi - njegova ideološka struktura je mnogo manje važna od njegove žanrovske strukture - što je vidljivo i u naslovu: Valter brani Sarajevo = pojedinac brani grad, što je bilo i jest vrlo različito od "narod se bori za slobodu". Zapravo, pojedinac je bio identifikovan sa gradom - Das ist Valter, kaže na kraju filma poraženi Švabo, dok pokazuje na grad, uključujući i vidljive socijalističke nebodere Novog Sarajeva.

Taj urbani individualizam i mitologija koja se oko toga prirodno gradila bila je privlačna onima koji su početkom osamdesetih, na zalasku socijalizma, konstituisali sarajevsku rock scenu - prvi album Zabranjenog pušenja se zvao, kao što znamo, Das ist Valter, a dio sljedeće generacije bio je i bend zvan Valter. Krajem osamdesetih, mit o Valteru je potpuno izgubio svoju socijalističku-ideološku dimenziju i potpuno se preselio u domen urbanog diskursa. Proslava Dana oslobođenja Sarajeva bila je lišena partijsko-državne retorike, te se 6. april pretvorio u čisto urbani praznik. Otud ima precizne simbolike u tome da je napad na Sarajevo na izvjestan način počeo oko Valterdana 1992., kao što je nekako osvješćujuća činjenica da je bivši Valter Bata Životinja lako postao ozbiljan četnik, i da se Doktor Karajlić, jedan od osnivača Zabranjenog pušenja i ključni urbani mitolog, bez pozdrava vojnim avionom ispalio u Beograd, upravo negdje oko Valterdana.

Rat je bio zasnovan na nacionalnim mitologijama, koje su bile izrađivane i razrađivane u uskim krugovima, što će reći da je u ratu de facto poražena svaka urbana mitologija. Nakon svega što se desilo, Valter brani Sarajevo nije više od divne, naivne bajke u koju je bilo lako vjerovati, zato što smo - urbani pojedinci - bilo skloni vjerovati u herojske individualce. A sarajevska rock scena danas prouzrokuje nostalgična sjećanja nalik na reminiscencije onih koji tvrde da su bili na Woodstocku - bilo je kratko i zanosno, mada se teško sjetiti detalja, pošto smo svi bili poneseni mladošću i alkoholom. I dok je herojski otpor Sarajeva za vrijeme opsade zasluživao ponavljanje rečenice sa kraja Valtera, od rata naovamo nema više heroja, osim ako u svjetlu poslijeratnog moralnog kolapsa Ćele i Gašiji ili neki drugi gangsteri, koji nikad ne bi dali sto maraka, a kamoli život za slobodu ili bilo kakvu ideju koja nije zasnovana na njihovoj guzici, ne izgledaju nekome kao junaci. Možda je Valter lik iz bajke, ali bajka je poučna.

Otud bi se možda Valterdan trebao slaviti kao što se slavi Nova godina - bio bi dernek, možda i teferič, pilo bi se, jelo bi se, a u neka doba, ne nužno u ponoć, svi bismo se do pasa izljubili, poželjeli jedni drugima bolje Sarajevo i razmijenili crvene karanfile. Djeca i omladina bi od Čika Valtera dobila poklone upotrebljive isključivo u urbanom kontekstu: malu električnu gitaru, ritam-mašinu, sintisajzer, loptu, rolšue, rezervaciju za klupu na Vilsonovom, kartu grada na kojoj se mogu obilježiti mjesta od lične važnosti, jednogodišnju pretplatu na taxi i glasački listić uz pomoć kojeg bi se s vlasti sklonili oni kojima je Sarajevo samo prijestonica nakaradne države.


P.S. Znate li kako izgleda naslovnica novog broja BH Dana? Ovako:




Pa nek nam je na čast.

- 09:32 - Komentari (6) - Isprintaj - #

12.04.2007., četvrtak

Thompson revisited


Ovih dana i tjedana dosta sam u trci, pa me me ima samo u tragovima. Pustit ću zato da umjesto mene govore drugi pametni ljudi.


Oslobodjenje od 05. travnja 2007.


Koncert za uzbunu



Piše: Gojko BERIĆ


Marko Perković Tompson, čije pjesme imaju učinak droge na hrvatsku crnokošuljašku desnicu, izložen je progonu, a Tompsonovi progonitelji su sarajevski i zagrebački Židovi!? Tako bar tvrdi najtiražniji hrvatski dnevnik, desničarski “Večernji list” - izdanje za Bosnu i Hercegovinu - koji je u broju od 1. aprila polovinu naslovne strane iskoristio da, valjda kao najvažniji, krupnim slovima najavi tekst pod naslovom “Thompson pjevač na udaru Židova”. Ovdje, kao što se vidi, nisu potrebni nikakvi stručnjaci za dešifrovanje nejasnih poruka, pošto je posve jasno da se konzumentima pomenutog lista sugerira kako je u toku “židovska hajka” na pjevačku ikonu dežurnih hrvatskih domoljuba.

U takvoj interpretaciji ovog slučaja akcenat je očito stavljen na Židove, a Marko Perković, zadnja pošta Čavoglave negdje u Dalmatinskoj zagori - selo čiji mještani ponosno ističu da partizani u njega nisu nikada ušli - manje je bitan.

Uzbuna je, kao što je poznato, nastala zbog najavljenog Tompsonovog koncerta u Sarajevu, koji bi trebalo da se održi 10. maja u Zetri, u organizaciji Hrvatskog katoličkog dobrotvornog društva, na čijem je čelu don Anto Jelić. Koncert bi, tvrde organizatori, imao humanitarni karakter i bio bi posvećen obilježavanju dolaska pape Ivana Pavla II u Sarajevo. To je izazvalo žestoke proteste ratnih veterana Armije BiH i Saveza antifašista. Oni Tompsona smatraju fašistom. U istom tonu oglasila se i Jevrejska zajednica BiH, koja je za svoj stav dobila podršku Židovske općine Zagreb. Sa pomenutih adresa upućen je zahtjev vlastima Sarajevskog kantona da se pripreme za Tompsonov koncert smjesta obustave. Uzgred rečeno, Tompsonovi nastupi su zbog isticanja fašističkih obilježja svojevremeno spriječeni i u Amsterdamu i Roterdamu.

Žanrovski nedefinisan kao pjevač, neka vrsta mješavine ličkog ojkanja, hercegovačke gange i folka, Marko Perković je godinama bio nacionalni megafon većinske Hrvatske, tada savladane puzećim fašizmom u vidu neoustaštva, tog ni do danas iščezlog naslijeđa Gojka Šuška i Franje Tuđmana. Njegovi se koncerti u pravilu pretvaraju u demonstraciju ustaštva, sa odgovarajućom ikonografijom i znakovljem u publici. Podrazumijeva se, naravno, da su Tompsonove pjesme glavni detonator eksplozije šovinizma na njegovim “domoljubnim” misijama diljem Lijepe naše. On sam je mentalni uzorak najprimitivnijeg soja hrvatskog pučanstva, posebno onog frustriranog ishodom Drugog svjetskog rata i zadojenog kleronacionalizmom.

To je svijet čijih se likova i ikonografije sjećamo sa masovnog mitinga održanog prije nekoliko godina na splitskoj Rivi u znak podrške generalu Mirku Norcu. Oni su istinski fanovi pjevača iz Čavoglava.

“Jasenovac i Gradiška Stara” - hit je kojim je Tompson, čiji su koncerti uvijek unaprijed rasprodani, dizao na noge i staro i mlado po svim hrvatskim gradovima. “Jasenovac i Gradiška Stara, to je kuća Maksovih mesara/Kroz Imotski kamioni žure, voze crnce Francetića Jure/U Čapljini klaonica bila, puno Srba Neretva nosila”. Slijedi, kao poenta pjesme, logična i očekivana poruka: “Sjajna zvijezdo iznad Metkovića, pozdravi nam Antu Pavelića”.

Svijet estrade posljednja je stvar koja me interesuje, ali je “slučaj Tompson” neočekivano upao u moj film. U sindikalnom smislu, Marko Perković pripada svijetu estrade, ali njegovo osnovno zanimanje nije muzika, već proizvodnja mržnje i rata.

Od tog posla živi kraljevski, kako i dolikuje postkomunističkim idolima. Tompson je nesumnjivo jedna od najfurioznijih pojava u Hrvatskoj, neprevaziđeni estradni bakljonoša nacionalističke euforije. On ne odustaje od svog koncerta u Zetri. Uostalom, i toliki drugi prije njega upisali su Sarajevo u svoju biografiju. Tompson kaže da su sarajevski katolici kupili 40 tisuća primjeraka njegovog CD. “Zašto se njih ne pita žele li moj koncert ili ne.”

Međutim, ovdje nije u pitanju nesporazum sa Markom Perkovićem iz Čavoglava, jer on je to što jeste, i sve što je u vezi s njim poznato je i posljednjem čitaocu novina. Nesporazum se odnosi na one koji su Tompsona pozvali da gostuje u Sarajevu, posljednjem mjestu na svijetu koje bi trebalo da jednom fašistoidnom drekavcu prostre pod noge crveni tepih. Više je nego čudno da pomenuti don Anto Jelić nije to imao u vidu. Ne opravdava ga ni činjenica što među biskupima, svećenicima i drugim službenicima Katoličke crkve Tompson ima svoje pristalice. To je njihova, kao i don Jelićeva, privatna stvar. Don Jelić kaže kako Tompsona sluša svaki dan (!?), ali da u njegovim pjesmama ne vidi ništa loše: “On promovira najveće vrijednosti kao što su Bog, obitelj i domovina.” E sad, kako objasniti bliskost između Boga i “Jasenovca i Gradiške Stare”, to valjda zna samo don Anto.

“Bude li koncert zabranjen, tada će se znati gdje živimo”, upozorava dotični svećenik. To je tačno, ali to je samo polovica istine. Druga polovica istine glasi: bude li u Sarajevu održan koncert Marka Perkovića Tompsona, tad će se takođe, konačno i definitivno, znati u kom gradu živimo.



Da većinska Hrvatska Thompsona doživljava kao šareni i lepršavi folklorni dodatak glazbenoj sceni znamo. Da manji dio njenih stanovnika Thompsona vidi kao idola također znamo, ali žmirimo na to, iako je među njima puno, i previše mladih - Thompsonove se umotvorine naime slobodno puštaju na radiju i slušaju, pored ostalog, i u dječjim vrtićima.

Zato se treba zamisliti nad definitivno ružnom slikom koju to o nama stvara u inozemstvu - iako bi nam trebalo biti važnije shvatiti kako takva slika uopće nije pretjerana.

Evo vam još jednog vrlo dragocjenog poticaja za razmišljanje - isječka iz članka Marinka Čulića iz jednog od lanjskih Ferala.


Feral Tribune od 2. kolovoza, 2006.


ČAVOGLAVINJANJE NACIJE



Piše: Marinko ČULIĆ


...Naravno, tu su onda i obavezni simboli tobožnjeg nacionalnog junaštva, na prvome mjestu Čavoglave, koje se već desetljeće i pol treštavo reklamira kao neosvojivu utvrdu tamošnjih ustaša, koji, biva, nikada nisu dozvolili da četnička noga stupi u njihovo selo. Ali, avaj, to je čista tlapnja, čak ludorija, za što je ovih dana pristigao i neobično dragocjen dokaz. U izvrsnoj knjizi "Razgovor s Adžijom", koju je upravo objavio zagrebački Razlog, i u kojoj se iznose sjećanja iz Drugog svjetskog rata brata Božidara Adžije, Nikole, uglednog prijeratnog HSS-ovca i neko vrijeme gradonačelnika Drniša, Čavoglave se opisuju sasvim drukčije.

To, istina, jest bilo selo koje je, štono se kaže, disalo za NDH, ali su u pljačkaške pohode na nj najčešće išli ne četnici nego ustaše koje su se otele kontroli komande, zbog čega su se tadašnji sumještani obitelji Marka Perkovića Thompsona često morali žaliti i ustaškim vlastima. Nikola Adžija bilježi samo jedan četnički napad na Čavoglave, izveli su ga četnici iz Žitnića i Moseća, pobivši pri tome stanovitu obitelj Perković, koja je vjerojatno u srodstvu s obitelji danas poznatog trubadura novoustaškog folka.

Ali, veći zulum žitnićkih i mosećkih četnika spriječili su četnici iz nedalekih Baljaka, koji su pritekli u pomoć Čavoglavama i otjerali napadače. Da, dobro ste pročitali. Čavoglave su spasili četnici od drugih četnika i to onda još prijavili i hrvatskoj žandarmeriji, što nije bila nikakva neslana šala, nego dobro uhodani red. Četnici su, naime, toliko tijesno surađivali s ustašama (protiv partizana) da su od ustaških vlasti primali, preko Talijana, čak i plaće i međusobno se posjećivali na raznim proslavama, a ako je među njima tu i tamo i zaiskrilo, to se u pravilu lomilo samo preko leđa nenaoružanih hrvatskih i srpskih civila.

Eto, na takvoj "junačkoj" epici ustaša i četnika Dalmatinske zagore hrani se danas nacionalni ekstremizam u Ravnim kotarima. Svaka vlast bila bi presretna da ima posla s nacionalizmom takvih korijena, jer bi sa samo karticu-dvije pametno ciljanog teksta pomela tu hrpu najgoreg crnila i pseudopatriotskog kretenizma. E, ali tih karticu-dvije ovdje jednostavno nema tko napisati. Vlasti na ovim prostorima, čak i kada su se emancipirale od najvulgarnijih izdanaka ovdašnjih nacionalizama, toliko im duguju da jednostavno ne treba očekivati da s njima sasvim raskinu.

Pogotovo nije realno očekivati da se "čavoglavinjanje" ovdašnjih naroda po najgorem mulju lažnih nacionalnih mitova može naredbom zaustaviti, kako to ponekad izvoljeva zahtijevati Carla del Ponte. Ali, ono što se od tih vlasti smije i mora očekivati je da sude onome što treba sudski goniti – i ostave na miru ono što nije gonjenje – i tu nikakvog popusta ne smije biti. Ta vrsta čavoglavinjanja, ako se nastavi, preskupo će stajati ovu zemlju.


A onoga što ja mislim o Thompsonu možete se podsjetiti kliknuvši ovdje.

- 14:35 - Komentari (8) - Isprintaj - #

11.04.2007., srijeda

Upoznajte azbestozu... Možda ćete se družiti (8)


Nastavljam pratiti razvoj situacije s tvornicom "Salonit".





Stari postovi - 1. nastavak
Stari postovi - 2. nastavak
Stari postovi - 3. nastavak
Stari postovi - 4. nastavak
Stari postovi - 5. nastavak
Stari postovi - 6. nastavak
Stari postovi - 7. nastavak


Slobodna Dalmacija od 08. travnja 2007.

Smrt iz Vranjica MEĐUNARODNA MISIJA OSOBNO SE UVJERILA U KATASTROFALAN NEMAR DRŽAVNIH INSTITUCIJA U SLUČAJU “SALONIT”

Splitska okolica zatrpana AZBESTOM


Piše: Nikola BAJTO


Kamioni azbestnog otpada bacaju se u more s južne strane tvornice prema Splitu. Nelegalna odlagališta su još u Mravinačkoj kavi, u Kosici, krugu tvornice, pokraj Žrnovnice. Tisuće vodovodnih i kanalizacijskih cijevi, krovova, zidova, stupova, pregrada u svim dalmatinskim mjestima načinjeno je od smrtonosnog materijala, koji je ugrađivan i u bolnicama


Višegodišnje bacanje azbestne prašine u oči tijelima Međunarodne organizacije rada (MOR) stajalo je Hrvatsku posjeta MOR-ove Misije za izravne kontakte na visokoj razini, čijih je petero članova ovog tjedna ispitalo predstavnike nekoliko ministarstava, Vladinih ureda, Državnog inspektorata, sindikata i medicinskih ustanova, da bi se u vranjičkoj tvornici “Salonit” osobno uvjerili u nepoštovanje odredaba Konvencije o azbestu.

Iako su još 2003. godine ekološke udruge svojim pritužbama MOR-u uspjele slučaj trovanja azbestom podići na međunarodnu razinu, nakon čega je hrvatska strana više puta dala obećanja o poduzimanju ozbiljnih koraka, članovi Misije zatekli su ove srijede u krugu tvornice, kontaminirane ubojitom azbestnom prašinom, hale pune opasnog otpada i još oko 900 tona otpada na otvorenom, prepuštenog vjetru.

Voditeljica misije Cleopatra Doumbia-Henry, direktorica Odjela za primjenu standarda MOR-a, umjesto planirana četiri sata, produljila je boravak u tvornici za još toliko, da bi se nakon iscrpljujućih razgovora s 30-ak predstavnika radnika, sindikata, ministarstava i stečajnim upraviteljem, oko 20 sati sastala i s članovima Udruge “Barbarinac” i Udruge oboljelih od azbestoze. Iako je protokol nalagao suprotno, na poziv udruga Doumbia-Henry pristala je doći na taj sastanak u kuću Grge Mandića, predsjednika Udruge oboljelih.

- Inicirali smo tri pritužbe MOR-u jer smo izgubili svaku nadu u hrvatski način rješavanja ovog pitanja. Jedini način na koji smo se mogli boriti bio je da upozoravamo na problem nepoštovanja Konvencije o azbestu, uz pomoć naših prijatelja, odvjetnika Veljka Mikelića i pulmologinje prof. dr. Jadranke Tocilj - objasnio je Mandić, podsjećajući na to kako je došlo do iznošenja problema pred ovu međunarodnu instituciju.

- Kao bivši zaposlenik “Salonita”, ja sam obolio, dok su tri člana moje obitelji umrla a da nisu ni ušla u tvornicu. Ilegalna produkcija i prodaja azbesta se nastavlja. Imam troje djece i ne želim da im se dogodi isto - dodao je Mandić, nakon čega je s Lovrom Grgićem i Mariom Bašićem, mladim aktivistima “Barbarinca”, iznio pred Misiju opsežnu dokumentaciju.


Nema specijaliziranih

Ustvrdili su da se azbest, unatoč zabrani od početka 2006. godine, i dalje prodaje i ugrađuje, pri čemu se njime rukuje na nepropisan način. Najozbiljnija optužba iznesena na račun sadašnjeg postupanja nadležnih bila je da se sanacija i zbrinjavanje preostalog azbestno-cementnog otpada iz tvornice, koju provodi Fond za zaštitu okoliša, radi na način protivan Konvenciji.

- Prema Konvenciji, taj otpad mogu sanirati samo specijalizirane tvrtke, a jednim dijelom to radi i tvrtka “Cian”, koja nema iskustva u tom poslu. Osim nje, na sanaciji su angažirani i oboljeli zaposlenici “Salonita”, iako Konvencija o azbestu zabranjuje rad oboljelih na takvim poslovima - kaže Bašić.

Kako je Fond za zaštitu okoliša osigurao više od milijun kuna za trošak plaća 85 zaposlenika angažiranih na sanaciji, članovi udruga kazali su da država time samo kupuje socijalni mir.

Upozorili su na Misiji dotad nepoznatu činjenicu da su neke tvrtke, kao što je obrt R.L.E., unajmile dio kontaminiranih prostora “Salonita”, koji je u stečaju, te da njihovi radnici trenutačno tamo rade bez ikakve zaštite. Upitno je znaju li vlasnici megajahti, koje se sada obnavljaju u krugu tvornice “Salonit”, za azbestnu prašinu.


Radnici bez zaštite

- Osim što radnici u tvornici nikada nisu bili zaštićeni na način predviđen Konvencijom, nitko ih nikada nije educirao o kancerogenosti azbesta, nego im se godinama lagalo kako azbest nije opasan. Generacijama se u Vranjicu govori da azbestoza ne postoji, da je izmišljena - navodi Lovre Grgić, pokazujući zapanjenim članovima Misije publikaciju za medije koju je “Salonit” izdao 2004. godine, u kojoj stoji da azbest nije opasan i da se protiv tog materijala provodi kampanja, započeta u SAD-u, tobože da bi se progurala konkurentska tehnologija. Konvencija o azbestu, koju je MOR usvojio 1986. godine, a ratificirala najprije Jugoslavija, pa 1991. godine ponovno Republika Hrvatska, izričito nalaže da radnici moraju biti upoznati s opasnostima koje prijete od azbesta.

Članovi udruge pokazali su Misiji i fotodokumentaciju koju su prikupljali šest godina. Posljednju od tih fotografija snimio je fotograf Slobodne Dalmacije, na sam dan dolaska Misije u Vranjic, a na njoj se vide nove količine azbestnog otpada, nedavno dovezene u Mravinačku kavu pokraj izvora Jadra, u koju se, prema tvrdnjama nadležnih, azbest “ne odlaže već tri godine”. Pokazali su i fotografije mjesta na kojima se azbestni otpad donedavno ispuštao i bacao u more.

Hrvatska se ovim slučajem, koji je doveo do posjeta Misije, što je zapravo krajnji potez koji MOR povlači tek kada postoje dugotrajni problemi s primjenom konvencija, osramotila pred međunarodnom zajednicom. Kao da je to htjelo zatajiti od hrvatske javnosti, Ministarstvo gospodarstva, rada i poduzetništva, koje je bilo zaduženo za prihvat Misije, nije o njezinu dolasku ni obavijestilo medije, nego su Slobodnu Dalmaciju obavijestile udruge. “Barbarinac” i Udruga oboljelih od azbestoze također su neslužbenim putem doznali za dolazak Misije, iako su inicijatori cijelog postupka i premda je Misija izričito tražila sastanak s njima. Službena obavijest stigla im je tek na njihov upit, i to tek dva dana nakon dolaska Misije u Zagreb. Na koncu, Misija je primila na znanje i takvo ponašanje Ministarstva.


Stotine umiru

Zbog ugrožavanja okoliša, teškog narušavanja zdravlja i smrti više osoba, udruge su podnijele kaznene prijave protiv više od 30 odgovornih osoba iz “Salonita”, međutim, do sada nije bilo nikakve reakcije Državnog odvjetništva.

- Prije dvije godine bacali su kamione pune azbestnog otpada u more s južne strane tvornice prema Splitu. Cijeli komad obale tako je nasut. Nelegalna odlagališta su još u Mravinačkoj kavi, u Kosici, krugu tvornice, pokraj Žrnovnice... - nabraja Lovre Grgić.

Dodaje da se azbest sada ugrađuje u novo splitsko rodilište, u brzu cestu Trogir-Split, u autocestu i Eko-Kaštelanski zaljev, pri čemu neupućeni radnici režu cijevi i tako stvaraju opasnu prašinu, čije udisanje uzrokuje azbestozu.

- Europska banka za obnovu i razvoj ne smije financirati projekte u kojima se koristi azbest. Obavijestili smo ih da se on koristi u gradnji autoceste i u projektima Eko-Kaštelanskog zaljeva, ali nije bilo nikakve reakcije - kaže Grgić.


Ako su vas ovi podaci zabrinuli ili prestrašili, to bolje - vrijeme je da se konačno trgnemo iz letargije i tlapnji o "jedinoj nam i najljepšoj Lijepoj Našoj", krajnji je čas da se stvari (a i neki ljudi) pospreme gdje im je mjesto. Ovakva Hrvatska nije mjesto za koju bi se ginulo, a definitivno ni u kojoj bi se živjelo.

P(r)ozivam premijera Sanadera, kao i resorne ministre da uskoro, što prije, posjete vranjički Salonit, prošetaju njegovim pogonima (s maskama ili bez njih), obiđu odlagališta azbestne šljake uz naselja i susretnu se s ljudima koje ovoliko dugo bezobrazno (najblaže rečeno) ignoriraju i obmanjuju. Više se nitko ne može izvlačiti na neinformiranost. Duguju nam u najmanju ruku iskrenu i poniznu ispriku, a zatim i konkretan i hitan angažman. Ukoliko ovakva reakcija izostane, moje uvjerenje kako se radi o pompoznim i nesposobnim, neodgovornim budalašima upotpunit će se i saznanjem o njihovoj beskrupuloznoj i zločinačkoj prirodi. Teške riječi? Procijenite sami, kojim riječima opisati ljude koji svjesno i izravno ugrožavaju zdravlje stotina tisuća ljudi?

Gospodo iz Vlade, vrijeme vam teče, i nije vam ga mnogo ostalo.
- 10:30 - Komentari (1) - Isprintaj - #

10.04.2007., utorak

Predostrožnost (ili: Driving in my car (6))



- 09:10 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

08.04.2007., nedjelja

Dan D (16)


http://hosted.met-art.com/Trial_met-art_err_103_598/full/met-art_err_103_5.jpg


http://hosted.met-art.com/Trial_met-art_psh_197_60/full/met-art_psh_197_8.jpg


http://img175.imageshack.us/img175/2305/1174593336jr7.jpg
- 10:52 - Komentari (2) - Isprintaj - #

07.04.2007., subota

Copy - Paste



U jučerašnjem izdanju BH Dana prenesen je iz New York Timesa zanimljiv članak Slavoja Žižeka.





BH Dani od 06.04.2007.

Svijet: Može li mučenje zarobljenika biti opravdano?

Povratak živih mrtvaca

Piše: Slavoj ŽIŽEK

Jedan od najslavnijih suvremenih svjetskih filozofa u New York Timesu je prije desetak dana objavio komentar u kojem analizira posljedice nekih metoda u ratu protiv terorizma na suvremeni svijet. Žižekov je tekst, po obicaju, poziv na razmišljanje svima. Dani ga prenose u cijelosti


Otkad je objavljeno dramatično priznanje Khalida Shaikha Mohammeda, moralno zgražanje nad obimom njegovih zločina pomiješano je sa dvojbama. Može li se vjerovati njegovim tvrdnjama? Šta ako je priznao više nego je zbilja učinio: zbog sujetne želje da bude upamćen kao veliki teroristički vođa ili pak jer je bio spreman priznati bilo što da bi zaustavio "usavršene metode ispitivanja", uključujući mučenje tipa uranjanja glave pod vodu dok ne počne gušenje.

Ako postoji neki nenadan aspekt cijele ove situacije, on ima manje veze sa samim priznanjem, a više s činjenicom da je prvi put u dugom nizu godina mučenje normalizirano - odnosno predstavljeno kao nešto prihvatljivo. Etičke konsekvence toga trebale bi zabrinuti sve nas.

Zločinac ili neprijatelj

Makar je obim Mohammedovih zločina očevidno strašan, treba primijetiti da ga Amerika nije tretirala na način na koji se tretiraju zločinci, čak i oni najgori, onako kako su u civiliziranom svijetu prije sudenja i robije tretirani čak i najizopačeniji ubice djece. Svako legalno suđenje i kažnjavanje Mohammedovo sada je nemoguće: nijedan sud koji radi unutar zapadnih pravnih sistema neće prihvatiti nezakonito zatvaranje, priznanje dobiveno mučenjem i slične stvari. (To se, na perverzan način, poklapa sa Mohammedovom željom da ga se ne tretira kao zločinca, nego kao neprijatelja.)

Nisu, dakle, samo teroristi ušli u sivu zonu zakona, u nju ulazi i borba protiv njih. Danas faktički imamo "zakonite" i "nezakonite" zločince: prvi imaju pravo na zakonsku proceduru (na advokate i tome slično), dok su potonji izvan granica zakona, njima se bave vojni sudovi i smije ih se držati zatočenima skoro beskrajno.

Mohammed je postao ono što talijanski politički filozof Giorgio Agamben zove "homo sacer": biće zakonski mrtvo makar je biološki još uvijek živo. I on nije jedini koji živi izmedu dva svijeta. Predstavnici američke vlasti koji ih zatvaraju postali su njihovi svojevrsni pandani: dok se ponašaju kao zagovornici moći zakona, oni djeluju u zrakopraznom prostoru u kojem je zakon suspendiran i koji zakon ne regulira.

Nekima sve ovo ne smeta. Realistički protuargument glasi ovako: rat protiv terorizma je prljav i čovjek se može naći u situaciji da može spasiti hiljade života uz pomoc informacija koje se mogu dobiti od zatočenika te se stoga moraju poduzeti ekstremni potezi. Kako kaže Alan Dershowitz s Pravnog fakulteta na Harvardu: "Ja se ne zalažem za mučenje, ali ako se već treba desiti, vraški je dobro imati sudsko dopuštenje." Eh, ako je to "iskrenost", hvala na pažnji, ali meni se više svida "licemjerje".

Televizija i stvarnost

Tačno je, većina nas može zamisliti situaciju u kojoj bismo se poslužili mučenjem - recimo, ako treba spasiti voljenu osobu od trenutne užasne opasnosti. Ja mogu zamisliti takvu situaciju. U tom je slučaju, međutim, ključna stvar ne pokušati uzdignuti vlastiti očajnički izbor u univerzalni princip. U slučaju trenutka neizbježne brutalne urgentnosti, takvo što bih jednostavno učinio. Ali to ne smije postati prihvatljiv standard, mora se u pravom smislu osjetiti užas onoga što se učinilo. Jer kad mučenje postane tek jedna u nizu metoda od kojih se sastoji rat protiv terorizma, sav smisao užasa se gubi.

Kada u petoj sezoni TV serije 24 postane jasno da onaj koji stoji iza terorističke zavjere nije niko drugi do američki predsjednik, mnogi od nas su uzbuđeno iščekivali da li će Jack Bauer i protiv "lidera slobodnog svijeta" koristiti metode kojima se inače služi kada od terorista treba otkriti tajnu koja može spasiti hiljade života. Da li će mučiti predsjednika?

Stvarnost je prevazišla televiziju. Ono što je u seriji 24 uznemirujući i očajnicki izbor Jacka Bauera u stvarnosti je postalo uobičajena stvar.

Na neki način, oni koji su protiv podvrgavanja zarobljenika mučenju, ali ga prihvataju kao legitimnu temu za debatu, opasniji su od onih koji ga otvoreno odobravaju. Moralnost nikada nije stvar puke individualne savjesti. Moralnost uspijeva samo ako ju podržava ono što Hegel zove "objektivnim duhom", skup nepisanih pravila koja sačinjavaju pozadinu onoga što poduzima svaki pojedinac i kazuje nam šta je prihvatljivo, a šta neprihvatljivo.

Primjera radi, jasan znak napretka zapadnih društava jest činjenica da nije potrebno navoditi argumente protiv silovanja: "dogmatski" je priznato kako je silovanje nešto loše. Kada bi neko opravdavao silovanje, bio bi toliko ridikulozan da bi se instantno diskvalificirao za bilo kakvu dalju raspravu. Isto bi trebalo vrijediti i za mučenje.

Kao u Srednjem vijeku

Jesmo li svjesni šta je na kraju puta koji se otvara legitimiziranjem mučenja? Znakovit detalj u vezi Mohammedovog priznanja daje dobar nagovještaj. Rečeno je kako su se i ispitivači podvrgli uranjanju glave pod vodu te da su bili u stanju izdržati u prosjeku petnaestak sekundi prije nego bi bili spremni priznati bilo šta. Mohammed je, medutim, izdržao dvije i pol minute i time zavrijedio njihovo zavidljivo poštovanje.

Jesmo li svjesni da takve stvari nisu bile dio javnog diskursa još od Srednjeg vijeka, kad je mučenje bilo javni spektakl, častan test koji je zarobljenom neprijatelju mogao donijeti poštovanje gomile ako bi dostojanstveno podnio bol? Želimo li se zbilja vratiti ovoj primitivnoj ratničkoj etici?

Zbog toga su najveće žrtve prihvatanja mučenja kao nečeg normalnog ustvari oni koji za to znaju, informirana publika, odnosno mi sami. Dragocjen dio našeg kolektivnog identiteta je nepovratno izgubljen. Nalazimo se usred procesa korupcije morala: oni koji imaju moć upravo lome kičmu naše etike, umrtvljuju i uništavaju ono što je možda najveći domet naše civilizacije, rast naše spontane moralne osjetljivosti.

(Preveo: Muharem Bazdulj)

- 10:32 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

06.04.2007., petak

Driving in my car (5)




Split, jutros. Štednja u MORH?
- 10:20 - Komentari (5) - Isprintaj - #

05.04.2007., četvrtak

Zgodan i poučan tekst


Ukoliko vam se donji tekst svidi, evo linka na stranicu s koje sam ga posudio.




Fisting and God's Will


The sex act called fisting is a source of confusion and misconceptions for many Christians. This is unfortunate, because it means that many Christian men and women are depriving themselves of what could be the most spiritual sexual experience of their lives. Like anal sex and BDSM, fisting is often mistakenly associated with the gay community or is considered a sex act too extreme to be appropriate for Christian couples. Not only are these views incorrect, but fisting actually has a scriptural precedent, as we will show.

The Fist of Might

Over and over in the scriptures, the hand and fist of God are described as a symbol of His awesome power and the means through which this power manifests: "O God, God of our ancestors, are you not God in heaven above and ruler of all kingdoms below? You hold all power and might in your fist.” (2 Chronicles 20:6) Of course, the Old Testament often makes reference to God smiting his enemies with his fist or striking down the wicked with his hand, but it is also the means through which he administers his blessings and benevolence to the righteous: ”You open Your hand and satisfy the desire of every living thing.” (Psalms 145:16) Through the hand of the Lord, he guides us to do his will, touches our lives, expresses His love, and provides for our needs with His abundance.

The biblical significance of the hand is important, because in the act of fisting, one partner (usually male) inserts his entire hand and fist into the vagina or rectum of his partner. Rather than copulating with his penis, he penetrates her with his fist. Given the powerful symbolism of the fist, it is no surprise that couples who have partaken in the practice of fisting have described it as being a profoundly spiritual experience. On a symbolic and sexual level, a wife who is fisted by her husband has the experience of surrendering completely to the divine love and power of the Lord, as embodied by her partner’s hand. The husband in turn has the experience of touching and caressing her inwardly, in such a deep and intimate manner as God touches our own souls with His grace.

Powerful Yet Gentle

In the Song of Solomon, the Bible describes the act of fisting and the profound erotic bliss it induces: It is the voice of my beloved! He knocks, saying, "Open for me, my sister, my love, My dove, my perfect one”…My love thrust his hand through the opening, and my feelings were stirred for him. (Song of Solomon 5:2-4) Here we see the lover gently coaxing his companion to open up to him, metaphorically “knocking at her door,” preparing her sexually and emotionally to receive his hand inside her. Gradually he works more and more fingers into her, until the moment when her vagina yields and his hand slips fully inside her, thrusting “through the opening.” She then describes the powerful passion that this arouses in her as she envelopes his entire hand inside her body. Many couples describe this moment, as the fist makes full penetration into the vaginal opening, as transcendent and a sexual revelation. As the woman’s body accommodates her husband’s hand, both may experience a sense of physical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual oneness.

Some common misconceptions about fisting are that it is very painful or that it is somehow violent or abusive. This is far from the truth, and as we can see from the above description, it can be a gentle, loving, and highly erotic act. Fisting does not have to be painful if it is performed correctly, using enough lubrication and patience. The hand is inserted in a slow and controlled manner, and is preceded and followed by other sexual stimulation which may lead to orgasm. Both the vagina and the rectum are extremely elastic – a vagina, after all, can stretch to accommodate a full-term baby. And in fact, a woman who has been blessed with motherhood can more easily enjoy fisting because her vaginal opening is more flexible.

The act of fisting is physically challenging to perform, requiring patience on the part of the active partner, and relaxation on the part of the receiving partner. It cannot be rushed, and the two participants must communicate closely, with the fister carefully observing and attending to his partner’s comfort and limits, and the fistee directing her partner as to when to push forward and hold back as he works his hand into her. A Christian couple can use fisting to build trust and intimacy between them, as well as strengthening their relationship with the Lord.

Fisting as an Act of Faith

Before attempting fisting, a Christian husband and wife should pray together and ask for divine guidance. The husband should ask that God guide his hand and work through him, and for the skill and patience to fist his wife correctly and maximize her pleasure. The wife should pray for openness and readiness to receive God’s love and grace in the form of her husband’s hand.

Both should treat the act of fisting as a divine spiritual mystery to be entered into with reverence and awe, especially the husband. In another spiritual interpretation of fisting, as he inserts his hand into his wife’s vagina, a man is symbolically re-enacting the moment of truth following Christ’s resurrection from the tomb, when Doubting Thomas touches the wounds in the Savior’s flesh: Then He said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and observe My hands. Reach out your hand and put it into My side. Don't be an unbeliever, but a believer.” (John 20:27) Thomas’ doubt would not be satisfied until he physically felt the wounds in Christ’s body and penetrated His flesh with his hand. Likewise, the spiritual and sexual power of fisting cannot be known unless experienced physically.

Role Reversal

So far we have only discussed a husband fisting his wife, but some couples may wonder if it is appropriate for a wife to fist her husband if he enjoys anal stimulation. In most cases, a wife indulging her husband’s desire to receive light anal play is not problematic in the context of a healthy sexual relationship. A wife may even anally penetrate her partner with a strap-on dildo if he enjoys this, and if their respective roles as husband and wife are secure outside of the bedroom.

However, because of the intense nature of the act of fisting and the degree of surrender and submission involved in being fisted, a couple should first look deeply into their own hearts and pray for guidance as to whether it is wise for the wife to fist the husband. They should undertake this only if their relationship is such that the husband can assume a submissive and passive role during a sexual act, while afterward still maintaining his role as the spiritual head of the household and leader in the marriage. Our article on Christian BDSM also addresses this issue.

- 09:32 - Komentari (4) - Isprintaj - #

04.04.2007., srijeda

The Cynic (3)


Prošli nastavci:

The Cynic (1),
The Cynic (2).












- 10:40 - Komentari (1) - Isprintaj - #

03.04.2007., utorak

Upoznajte azbestozu... Možda ćete se družiti (7)


Čovječe - tema ima nemilo, mogao bih po tri posta na dan, da je vremena (puca me valjda skribomanija). Prilažem članak iz Slobodne i motive iz vranjičkog Salonita.


Stari postovi - 1. nastavak
Stari postovi - 2. nastavak
Stari postovi - 3. nastavak
Stari postovi - 4. nastavak
Stari postovi - 5. nastavak
Stari postovi - 6. nastavak


Slobodna Dalmacija od 31. ožujka 2007.

APEL IZ VRANJICA MISIJA MEĐUNARODNE ORGANIZACIJE RADA
U NADZORU RADA DRŽAVNIH SLUŽBI

Inspektori iz Pariza stižu
zbog azbestoze i ’Salonita’



Piše: Nikola BAJTO

Hrvatsku će po prvi put posjetiti Misija MOR-a, koja dolazi u slučajevima najopasnijih kršenja međunarodnih konvencija, poput situacije kada oboljeli od azbestoze uklanjaju kancerogeni otpad


Zbog neriješenog problema s azbestom u vranjičkoj tvornici "Salonit", koji se unatoč postojećoj zabrani i dalje prešutno skladišti i stavlja u prodaju, Hrvatsku će sljedećeg tjedna posjetiti Misija za izravne kontakte na visokoj razini Međunarodne organizacije rada (MOR). Dolazak Misije, koji se može očekivati samo kod najtežih oblika kršenja međunarodnih konvencija, potaknut je trima tužbama koje su MOR-u ranije predale nevladine udruge iz Splita i Vranjica.

Globalna sramota

Predstavnici MOR-a će zbog azbesta temeljito "pretresti" cijeli hrvatski sustav i u pet dana sastati se s čelnicima dvadesetak hrvatskih institucija. Obavit će razgovore i sa stručnjacima, udrugama i pojedincima koji su izravno pogođeni izloženošću azbestu na radnome mjestu, a izričito je zatražen poseban sastanak s predstavnicima "Salonita" i obvezan posjet tvornici.
Misiju predvodi Cleopatra Doumbia-Henry, direktorica Odjela za primjenu standarda MOR-a, a članovi su još Catherine Brakenhelm-Hansell, koordinatorica odjela, Budislav Vukas, profesor na zagrebačkom Pravnom fakultetu i savjetnik MOR-a, te Igor Fedorov i Annie Rice, viši stručnjaci MOR-a za zdravlje i zaštitu na radu, iz Ženeve, odnosno Budimpešte.
Glavni ciljevi Misije, navodi se u dopisu Ministarstva gospodarstva, su provjera stanja u "Salonitu" te informiranje o izloženosti radnika azbestu i zagađenju šireg okoliša. Osim toga, preispitat će stanje u vezi s proizvodnjom, stavljanjem u promet i upotrebom azbesta, uvođenjem novih tehnologija bez azbesta i sadašnjim rukovanjem postojećim azbestnim otpadom.
— To je katastrofa i velika sramota za Hrvatsku, jer do ad-hoc posjeta Misija MOR-a dolazi samo u najtežim i najflagrantnijim slučajevima kršenjima njihovih konvencija. Takve misije išle su, primjerice, u Pakistan i Mianmar gdje dolazi do teških slučajeva iskorištavanja dječjeg rada. To svakoj državi predstavlja zvono za uzbunu — kaže Veljko Mikelić, pravni savjetnik Udruge oboljelih od azbestoze i Udruge "Barbarinac", čije su tužbe dovele do rasprave o "Salonitu" na zasjedanju MOR-a.

Panika na Markovu trgu

— MOR je uvidio da su Vladini podaci u raskoraku s činjenicama i dokazima koje smo mi predočili. Mislim da su se sada u Vladi poprilično uspaničili jer je azbest kod nas već godinu dana formalno zabranjen Uredbom o opasnim kemikalijama, ali "Salonit" i dalje prodaje svoje zalihe, čime se zapravo kupuje socijalni mir. Osim toga, na otvorenom se još uvijek nalazi 900 tona ilegalnog kancerogenog azbestnog otpada koji predstavlja opasnost za radnike i stanovništvo u okolini, a teško da će se to moći sakriti prije dolaska Misije — dodaje Mikelić.
Prema njegovim riječima, sanacija azbestnog otpada nije zakonito provedena jer je Fond za zaštitu okoliša dao 2,2 milijuna kuna da posao obave oboljeli zaposlenici "Salonita", većina s teškim dijagnozama, što je kršenje konvencije prema kojoj sanaciju mogu obavljati samo specijalizirane, stručno osposobljene i posebno opremljene organizacije.
— Oni su na taj način isplaćivali plaće radnicima, dok svuda u Europi taj posao rade ljudi koji po opremi izgledaju kao astronauti. MOR je naročito šokiran radom Državnog inspektorata koji je zagađenje azbestnim česticama mjerio instrumentom tvornice "Salonit" — kaže Mikelić.


Vlada prva na udaru

Prema planu posjeta Misije, koji je predložilo Ministarstvo gospodarstva, njezine članove najprije će, u ponedjeljak ujutro, primiti Vera Babić, državna tajnica za rad. Potom će se o azbestu održati sastanci s Damirom Polančecom, potpredsjednikom Vlade, Vitomirom Begovićem, predstojnikom Ureda za socijalno partnerstvo, predstavnicima ministarstava gospodarstva, zdravstva, zaštite okoliša, pravosuđa i vanjskih poslova.
U utorak je na rasporedu Državni inspektorat, kojega će se propitivati o radu inspekcije u slučaju "Salonita", Hrvatska udruga poslodavaca i sindikati, te Vladini uredi. Za srijedu je predviđen posjet "Salonitu" i razgovor sa stečajnim upraviteljem Vedranom Šeparovićem, radnicima i udrugama, a za četvrtak sastanak s liječnicima Odjela za plućne bolesti KB-a Split. U petak će članovi Misije razgovarati s Marijom Zelić, ravnateljicom Zavoda za medicinu rada, i profesorima sa zagrebačkog Medicinskog fakulteta.

Zvono za uzbunu protiv azbesta

Prof. dr. Budislav Vukas, član Misije, smatra da se sa stajališta MOR-a ovo pitanje uzima vrlo ozbiljno.
— Misije dolaze kada MOR vidi da jedna država ima problema u provođenju konvencija. To će biti ozbiljan posjet s ciljem da se potakne rješavanje problema azbesta u Hrvatskoj — kazao nam je prof. dr. Budislav Vukas, jedini hrvatski član Misije, koji do dolaska ostalih članova nije htio detaljnije govoriti o Misiji.

Izravni pritisak na državu

Prof. Boris Buklijaš s Pravnog fakulteta u Splitu, stručnjak za međunarodno radno pravo, objasnio nam je proceduru postupanja MOR-a, po kojoj do posjeta visokih misija dolazi tek kada su iscrpljeni blaži oblici pritiska na državu.
— Postupak takozvane izravne veze, odnosno slanja misije, primjenjuje se u slučajevima kada postoje veće teškoće u primjeni konvencije neke države. Ovo je sigurno jako neugodna situacija za Hrvatsku budući je MOR specijalna agencija UN-a, i to jedna od najstarijih — kaže profesor Buklijaš, koji dodaje da je sankcija MOR-a zapravo davanje publiciteta primjedbama, i više je moralne prirode.








Neke se stvari počinju rasplitati, ali neće se u potpunosti riješiti bez puno većeg angažmana građana, koji kao da ne shvaćaju kako se sami moraju angažirati i kako je to ustvari njihova obaveza prema vlastitom potomstvu. Sramota je i to da se za (još uvijek) zdrave i sposobne građane bore oboljeli radnici i međunarodne komisije. Mislim, štoviše, kako bi ekološki aktivisti trebali početi turistima javno savjetovati da izbjegavaju ugrožena područja (a u splitskom slučaju radi se o prostoru između Solina i Trogira, možda sve do Brača i Šolte) - tek će se tada u ovoj državi stvari shvatiti ozbiljno. Ako ovu sugestiju smatrate heretičnim podrivanjem turističke sezone, razmotrite sami - što je važnije, sačuvati zdravlje ili zaradu?

Sjećam se, jedne smo se davne godine kupali u blizini Rogoznice (kasnije je tu iznikla marina), i u neka doba je u uvalu prispio turistički trabakul s britanskim gostima. Negdje sat kasnije, sunčamo se na betonskom muletu i kroz drijemež čujem nekakav uljudan glas koji kao da nešto tiho govori. Prošlo je i desetak minuta dok nisam shvatio da ne sanjam, pa sam povirio preko ruba muleta u more, a tamo engleska turistkinja, zadnjim se snagama drži za nekakvo željezo koje viri iz onog betona, sva modra, i usrdno moli: "Please... Can you help me?" Otplivala je u dubinu, a nije bila naročit plivač, pa se srećom uspjela dokopati muleta, ali nije imala snage da se popne. I pristojno ponavlja: "Please..."

Znam da me ta scena prilično fascinirala (kasnije, nakon što smo nesuđenu utopljenicu izvukli iz vode), pripisivao sam je britanskoj pretjeranoj civiliziranosti. Naš bi se čovjek u sličnoj situaciji, mislio sam, razgalamio da bi alarmirao i dvije susjedne vale. Danas više nisam tako uvjeren u to.
- 09:15 - Komentari (2) - Isprintaj - #

02.04.2007., ponedjeljak

Peščanik (5)


Nisam davno prenio Peščanik, preskočio sam par emisija. Evo linka na transkript emisije od 16.03.2007, kao i ulomka iz nje:







Gosti: Žarko Korać iz SDU, Dejan Ilić iz Fabrike knjiga, dečak Vasa, sociolog Vjekoslav Perica
Domaćice: Svetlana Lukić, Svetlana Vuković
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...


Svetlana Lukić: ... a sada slušate jednog od dvojice ljudi koji imaju pravo da naručuju gostovanje u Peščaniku. Jedan je gospodin Desimir Tošić, a drugi je Vasa, koji je poslednji put gostovao u emisiji 2003. Tada je imao šest godina, a sada punih deset.

Svetlana: Je l' imate predsednika odeljenske zajednice?

Vasa: Da.

Svetlana: Ispričaj nam malo o tim predsednicima, kako se biraju.

Vasa: Pa, bilo je tipično glasanje, uzmemo papiriće i svako treba da napiše imena tri osobe iz odeljenja za koje misli da bi bili najbolji za predsednika. Onda prebrojavamo te glasove i onaj sa najviše glasova je predsednik, onaj drugi po redu je potpredsednik i tako dalje. Moram reći da se Nevena mnogo bolje ponaša kao predsednik nego Staša prošle godine.

Svetlana: Kako se on ponašao?

Vasa: On nas je izluđivao, discipliničar i higijeničari su mu bili kao telohranitelji. Mislim, strahovlada.

Svetlana: Je li vam objašnjavao kako on doživljava svoju ulogu?

Vasa: On je tvrdio da je naša obaveza da radimo sve što nam kaže, jer on ima pravo da nas izbaci iz škole.

Svetlana: Jesu li deca u to poverovala?

Vasa: Skoro sva.

Svetlana: A da li ima lobiranja? Znaš šta je lobiranje? Lobiranje je kada se jedna grupa organizuje i podržava jednog kandidata i ubeđuje druge ljude da glasaju za njega.

Vasa: Bilo je kandidata koji su sami ubeđivali ljude da glasaju za njih.

Svetlana: Šta im kažu?

Vasa: Pa plaćaju im. Meni je prošle godine Kaća ponudila čokoladu da glasam za nju.

Svetlana: A šta je još moneta?

Vasa: Novac je postao vrlo popularan. Sada počinju i da kradu novac.

Svetlana: Da li se kod vas uopšte pominje politika? Kada su sada bili izbori, je li neko nešto pominjao?

Vasa: Svi su krenuli u napad - za koga su tvoji roditelji glasali.

Svetlana: A šta je tebi ostalo u sećanju od tih izbora?

Vasa: Ostali su mi u sećanju jako glupi slogani, kao na primer - život ne može da čeka, stručnost ispred politike. I glupo mi je bilo što svuda stave ime stranke, a DSS je napisao - glasajte za Koštunicu.

Svetlana: A što ti je to glupo?

Vasa: Zato što se sada nije glasalo za ljude nego za stranke, kasnije će doći izbori za predsednika. Ja mislim da su obe demokratske stranke jako glupe, mislim, nisu same stranke glupe, nego su ova dvojica glupa, Koštunica i Tadić...Siromašni smo, a i dosta smo užasne stvari radili za vreme Slobe, a nećemo da priznamo. Čitao sam u svom udžbeniku iz prirode i društva o tome kako je jedan naš čovek, Gavrilo Princip, izazvao Prvi svetski rat tako što je ubio jednog čehoslovačkog plemića.

Svetlana: Austrougarskog.

Vasa: Austrougarskog, da, tako da sam se zapanjio kada sam čuo da smo mi ovako nebitni i bedni i mali bili usred Prvog svetskog rata.

Svetlana: A zašto kažeš mali i jadni i bedni?

Vasa: Zato što jesmo. Malo-malo, kada sam kod bake i deke, neko kuca na vrata, neka jadna žena u ritama sa nekim malim detetom sa rukavima od pet metara traži parče hleba i putera i nešto malo odeće.

Svetlana: Da li te taj odnos između ljudi koje viđaš na ulici, u prodavnici....

Vasa: Uznemirava me, uznemirava me taj odnos, kako psuju i takođe ne volim to što ima tako puno pijanih ljudi. Mislim, pre neki dan vraćao sam se s karatea - ujutru, a ne uveče, i prolazi neki čovek pored mene i prođe sasvim normalno i negde 50 metara iza mene okrene se i drekne - ej, Pipo, tako me je nazvao, ej, Pipo, sećaš se kad smo zajedno bili u ratu, sve smo ih smlatili, a, to su bila dobra, stara vremena, i tako.

Svetlana: I kako si se ti osećao?

Vasa: Ja sam bio prestravljen. I takođe me brine to globalno zagrevanje, koje bi moglo prvo da dokrajči ovaj svet. Takođe sam čuo za te druge ekološke katastrofe, za koje misle da će se desiti, na primer, u Americi taj prasak Jeloustona, i ono ostrvo što sada juri ka Kini. To je bilo veliko vulkansko ostrvo i ono je eruptiralo i prelomilo se na pet delova, koji sad plove u različitim pravcima i do kraja 2007. se očekuje da jedan udari u Kinu, jedan negde malo više u Aziju, negde oko Rusije, jedan u Južni pol, jedan u Severnu Ameriku i jedan u Južnu Ameriku.

Svetlana: To te brine, je li?

Vasa: Pa, brine me što će tresnuti sve one kontinente. Mislim, ako neki od njih malo promaši, neka struja ga uhvati, mogao bi da nas tresne i u Evropu.

Svetlana: A, to tebe brine?

Vasa: Mada, brine me i da ovaj što juri ka Rusiji ne zakači Japan.

Svetlana: Zašto te brine baš Japan, a ne neke druge zemlje?

Vasa: Zato što mislim da je Japan, za početak, dovoljno katastrofa doživeo sa one dve atomske bombe i mislim da bi ga ovo stvarno dokrajčilo. A i volim Japan, odatle dolaze manga stripovi koje čitam i crtam, odatle dolazi karate kojim se bavim.

Svetlana: Kad si već pomenuo geografiju, ta geografija koju ti učiš se jako razlikuje od geografije koju sam ja učila.

Vasa: E da, takođe mislim da je vrlo glupo što na kraju knjige prirode i društva piše o rascepu Jugoslavije, kaže - Jugoslavija je rasla i postajala sve bolja ekonomija i zemlja do te i te godine, kada se desio konflikt i Jugoslavija se raspala. Ništa ne kaže da je rat rascepio, samo kaže - desio se konflikt i Jugoslavija se raspala, the end. Prosto kao ovo ostrvo što se rascepilo u pet delova, kao da je puklo nešto između i da se ovo razdvojilo u pet sitnih ostrva, ne pet, osam ili koliko već, šest, šest ih ima, je li tako.

Svetlana: Republika bivših, a sada država?

Vasa: Da.

Svetlana: Da li učite mnogo o kosovskom mitu, o Kosovu?

Vasa: Ne, uopšte ne učimo o Kosovu, niti o Albaniji, ni uopšte o drugim zemljama. Učimo samo o Srbiji, što mislim da nije fer.

Svetlana: Što?

Vasa: Kao što rekoh, ova zemlja je dosta nebitna po svetskom poređenju, a mi učimo baš samo o njoj, kao da smo mi kraljevina sveta ili šta već. Dosta je glupa ova zemlja. Ne možemo za početak nikako da se dokopamo nekog normalnog političara. To je kao slepa baba koja po mraku traži mrvu prašine koja joj je ispala, tako mi tražimo pametnog političara, mislim, tolike su nam šanse i da ga dobijemo.

Svetlana: Hoćeš da kažeš da smo mi u beznadežnoj situaciji?

Vasa: Poprilično.

Svetlana: Šta ćeš ti onda da radiš?

Vasa: Ja bežim u Japan, ako ga ne zakači ovo ostrvo. Čim završim fakultet - brišem ja.

Svetlana: Znaš kako je to tužno, ja imam telefonski imenik u kojem je pola imena precrtano zato što su tako zbrisali.

Vasa: Treba ti novi telefonski imenik. Tako možeš da zaboraviš na te koji su zbrisali.

Svetlana: To je teško, nedostaju mi, ja ne želim da ih izbrišem iz svog života, iz svog sećanja i to.

Vasa: Šta da ti kažem, čudna si...Sad mi je skoro jedan mali dečak, igrao sam se sa njim u snegu onog jednog bednog dana zime - i prolaze pored Romi da uzmu nešto iz kontejnera. I on me zgrabi za ruku i kaže - pazi, Cigani, ukrašće te. Ja kažem - otkud ti to, a on kaže - baka mi rekla. Čak nekoj deci koja su Albanci u školi, čak im nadenu nadimak Šiptar, pa ih zovu Šiptar. Mislim, to je prosto nepravda.

Svetlana: To su predrasude, znaš šta su predrasude?

Vasa: Znam, kad nešto misliš o određenoj grupi ljudi i misliš da je to apsolutno tačno za svakog člana te grupe ljudi. Ja se slažem da su Srbi glupi, ali ne kažem da su svi glupi. This country is going to the dogs, to znači ova zemlja ide psima.

Svetlana: Šta time hoće da se kaže?

Vasa: Da je više ne naseljavaju ljudi nego psi. Da, nervira me to što ima tako puno pasa lutalica, što ih neko ne usvoji, mislim.

Svetlana: Misliš da smo mnogo neosetljivi?

Vasa: Da, mnogo vodimo ratove, mnogo ubijamo.

Svetlana: Jesi ti to čuo ili si video na televiziji ili si slušao na ulici?

Vasa: Gledao s dekom na Dnevniku, video neki članak u dekinim novinama...

Svetlana: Kako se osećaš kad to vidiš i čitaš?

Vasa: Besan sam zato što dozvoljavamo da se to dešava. Mislim, taj Gavrilo, kako se već zove, ubio je tog austrougarskog plemića i izbio je svetski rat, a mi i dalje ubijamo, i plemiće i obične ljude, kao da nikada tu priču nismo čuli - a polovina ljudi i nije. Ima u školi dece, na primer, koja ne znaju da razlikuju blok 45 od bloka 44. Oni misle da su blok 45, blok 44 i blok 70 sve blok 45. Misle da to mesto gde oni žive mora da je najveće od svih mesta, najbitnije od svih.

Svetlana: Da je pupak svemira.

Vasa: Da. Hara.

Svetlana: Šta je hara?

Vasa: To je četiri prsta ispod pupka ovako, ta tu tačka, tri centimetra duboko unutra nalazi nam se po japanskoj religiji najbitnija čakra. To je tačka na telu, bitna tačka, najbitnija čakra koja se zove hara, ona nam daje snagu, pamet i sve, hara.

Svetlana: Je l' ti se ne sviđa hrišćanska religija?

Vasa: Ma, ne sviđa mi se ta ideja jednog boga koji je stvorio svet i to za šest dana, ceo svet, a još očigledno smatraju i da je ceo univerzum stvorio jedan jedini bog, koji traži žrtve. Onda je on imao sina koga su razapeli na krst, koji je oživeo, postao novi bog.

Svetlana: Nije, Vaso, to je pojednostavljeno, tu ima nekih drugih stvari...

Vasa: Ma ne, znam ja celu stvar, imam ja ovde Bibliju, dečju mislim Bibliju sa svim tim pričama.

Svetlana: Pa zar nema krasnih priča tamo?

Vasa: Ma ima to da ljudi moraju da plate za praznoverje...

Svetlana: Da li ti veruješ da je tvoj život sudbinski određen?

Vasa: Verujem.

Svetlana: I bez obzira šta ti radio, da ti ta sudbina ne gine?

Vasa: Pa ne, nego da je moja sudbina da radim to što radim, i to naravno dovodi do nekih posledica, koje su isto sudbinski određene time što sam to uradio.

Svetlana: Da li ta tvoja priča ima srećan kraj?

Vasa: Ponekad da, ponekad ne, mada moram reći, u prijateljstvu baš i ne. Moj prvi prijatelj s kojim sam bio od rođenja, kad je krenuo u školu svidelo mu se učenje, okrenuo se učenju i više nije imao vremena da mi bude drug. Onda sam se ja odselio, našao ovde novog prijatelja, koji se naljutio jer sam mu vrisnuo na uvo i zato je ljut već godinu dana. Nemam tu sreće.

Svetlana: A da li misliš da ti možda snosiš neku odgovornost za to?

Vasa: Ne verujem. On se okrenuo učenju, ja ga pitam - hoćeš da izađemo da se igramo, on kaže - nemam vremena, učim. To je jedan od razloga zašto mi je škola neprijatelj - uzela mi je najboljeg druga...Sanjao sam, kad sam imao onu užasnu prvu nastavnicu, onda sam sanjao, jer mi je stalno pretila. Jednom mi je rekla - veruj mi, ne želiš da te ja stavim u kaznu, to ćeš zažaliti, i time me je uplašila i onda sam ja svake noći sanjao drugačiju kaznu. Jednom me je nazvala - đavolov izaslanik, kaže - kazniće te bog, poslaće te u raj, jer za tebe, đavola je to najgora kazna.

Svetlana: Kad naiđe Dnevnik, pa silom prilika moraš da gledaš...

Vasa: Ne silom, kad naiđe Dnevnik ja ga namerno gledam.

Svetlana: Zašto?

Vasa: Eto, zanima me.

Svetlana: Šta si čuo u Dnevniku u poslednje vreme?

Vasa: Sad prate to, kao - eee, uspeli smo da prođemo nekažnjeni za ovo Bosna i Hercegovina i to. Mislim, svi su zbog toga presretni, mada ja mislim da nismo zaslužili, jer jesmo to uradili, mislim, s punim pravom nas je tužila Bosna.

Svetlana: I šta još čuješ u Dnevniku?

Vasa: Ma ovo o Ahtisariju za Kosovo.

Svetlana: Pa šta si tu ukapirao?

Vasa: Ukapirao sam da je Koštunica glavni u kampanji za Kosovo, mislim ono - ne damo Kosovo, dok god Srbija i njeni preci i dede i pradede i čukundede i babe i babetine i šta god, stoje i žive, Kosovo neće napustiti granice naše države. Ne razumem ga, već ga je izgubio, nema šansi. Šta ti misliš, da li postoji šansa da zadržimo Kosovo?

Svetlana: Ja mislim da ne postoji.

Vasa: Teško. Ja mislim da smo gotovi sa tim Kosovom.

Svetlana: Da li bi ti voleo da odeš na Kosovo?

Vasa: Voleo bih, nikad nisam bio.

Svetlana: Da li bi se plašio Albanaca?

Vasa: Plašio bih se, zato ni ne idem na Kosovo. Čujem da na granici čekaju da ubiju Srbe. A zašto nas oni tako mrze?

Svetlana: Zbog toga što su decenijama srpski policajci i srpski vojnici pravili...

Vasa: Spektakl.

Svetlana: Kakav je odnos između dece koja idu na veronauku i ove koja idu na građansko? Jesi li malo zavirio na tu veronauku?

Vasa: Ne, ali mi Nina kaže da uglavnom samo crtaju, kaže - crtamo planetu Zemlju. Ali im je veroučitelj baš pravi pop, ima dugu belu bradu, ćelav je, ima onu besmislenu kapicu, ima zlatni krstić tu i jedan veliki debeli zlatni krst oko vrata i ima crnu mantiju, dole mu se ne vide noge, vuče mu se po podu.

Svetlana: Kada on ulazi u školsko dvorište, kako se deca ponašaju?

Vasa: Sklanjaju mu se s puta, uvek mu naprave pravu liniju, pravu stazu da može da kroči kao neki svetac, mislim, deca koja idu na veronauku, naravno. Nas sa građanskog mora da zaobilazi. Jednom se naljutio na mene što mu se ne sklonim s puta, neće da me zaobiđe, traži da se sklonim u stranu da bi on mogao da nastavi svojom stazom, predodređenom svojom putanjom, koju mu je bog odredio. I to je bio jedini put da mu se obraćam, tako da sam mu tad persirao naravno, mada nastavnici ne persiram. Rekao sam mu - mislim da vašim nogama ipak treba malo više vežbe.

Svetlana: A šta je on rekao na to?

Vasa: On se namrštio, digao nos i zaobišao me. Ali i dalje me nisi pitala ono - zašto sam stvarno baš posle ovih izbora insistirao da pričam. I dalje me nisi ništa pitala šta mislim o rezultatima ovih izbora.

Svetlana: Izvini, to je moja greška. Šta ti misliš o rezultatima o tih izbora.

Vasa: Mislim da je bilo dosta nepravedno, sve manjinske stranke jesu prošle, ali im je trebala ona pomoć, onih dodatnih posto ili šta već da prođu, na primer romska partija, albanska partija. Okej mi je da dobiju pomoć, ali mi nije okej da im je potrebna. Mislim da bi ljudi trebali više da glasaju za te manjinske stranke, a ne samo za Koštunicin stav - Srbija, ura za Srbiju, Srbija je glavna i Srbi Srbiji i Srbija Srbima.

Svetlana: Tamo je bilo nekoliko romskih partija, jesi li uspeo da ih razlikuješ?

Vasa: Da, razlikovao sam jednu koja kaže - mi smo romska partija, a da bi dobili više glasova kažu - ali nemojte da nas povezujete sa Romima, mi smo za sve, mi smo za sve siromašne ljude, nismo mi samo za Rome. E, to mi se nije dopalo, kao manje bi ljudi glasalo za njih ako su za Rome, jer ljudi inače mrze Rome, ne znam zašto.

Svetlana: Nije mi jasno, izvini, neću sad da te uvredim, moje pitanje je da li ti kad govoriš o romskim strankama, o zaštiti manjina, govoriš nešto što misliš da je politički korektno, u smislu da je dobro da se tako govori ili...?

Vasa: Mislim, baš me briga šta je politički korektno, ja imam svoj slobodan stav o životu, a to je - radiću, govoriću i misliću kako ja mislim da treba da mislim i radim i govorim. Ne kontroliše me nikakva politička obaveza ili školska obaveza, mada tu me mama nateruje.

Svetlana: Htela sam da te pitam zbog čega si tražio ovaj razgovor.

Vasa: Tražio sam ovaj razgovor, želim da učestvujem i da ljudi znaju moje mišljenje, prosto, volim da učestvujem u političkom životu. Želim da učestvujem, znam da ovu emisiju sluša hiljade i hiljade ljudi, pa sam mislio da bih mogao malo da utičem na njihovo biranje sledećeg puta, za koga će da glasaju. Za početak, mene strašno nervira taj silni rasizam, svi me zovu prljavi Englez samo zato što sam tamo rođen. Mislim, kada neko nešto ukrade u školi, onda prave listu dečaka i devojčica koji su ušli u odeljenje i odmah kažu nastavnici - ma to mora da je onaj dečak Rom. Ali u svakom slučaju, mislim da su deca sada u mnogo boljem položaju nego što su bila pre 20 godina. Imaju mnogo više stvari, za početak, imaju internet, imaju dvd, dakle, u materijalnom smislu su u boljem stanju, ali je definitivno mnogo veća opasnost od, ne od svojih roditelja naravno, ali od drugih odraslih. Mnogo smo u većoj opasnosti nego ranije, ima mnogo više ludaka. Ja se na putu do škole smešim i pevušim, i druga deca, a odrasli su svi namrgođeni, tužni, mnogo su tužni.

Svetlana: A zašto misliš da su takvi?

Vasa: Izgubili su posao, porodicu, prijatelje, izgubili su ratove, novac. Ništa im više nije bitno, nije im bitno kako se ponašaju prema svojoj porodici, samo im je bitno da zarađuju novac. Ljudi su previše opsednuti novcem, ništa im drugo nije važno. Ja mislim da je sam koncept novca glup, mislim da ne bismo morali ništa da dajemo ljudima da bismo nešto dobili. Treba sve da bude besplatno, onda bi svi ljudi mogli prosto da dođu i sve da pokupe. Treba po zakonu da ima neka određena količina koja ti je dozvoljena dnevno da se uzme. Da nema novca, ne bi bilo ni siromašnih, svi bi u stvari bili bogati, jer bi mogli da uzmu sve u toj ograničenosti koliko kila dnevno... U školi nas uče kao nemojte vi da se brinete za vašu majčicu zemljicu, to će sve da se reši i nema problema, globalno zagrevanje, bla, bla, bla, to ćemo mi da rashladimo, atomski rat, bla, bla, bla, mi ćemo to da sredimo. Govore nam ono što želimo da čujemo, a ne ono što treba da čujemo. Sad učimo iz muzičkog pesme tipa - magarac njače i-a, a kukavica govori kuku-kuku i to je kao hor od koga svi beže zato što su glasni. Učimo o četiri bele guske koje su - sedam jaja snele, pa onda su jednu zaklali, pa su svi za njom plakali, pa kad su je pojeli svi su bili veseli. Iz prirode i društva imamo jednu jedinu stranu gde se govori bilo šta o ostatku sveta, a imamo nekih sto strana u knjizi. Ja mislim da se Srbi ne plaše spoljnog sveta, mi ga ne mrzimo zato što ga se plašimo, nego je suprotno - mi ga se plašimo jer ga mrzimo. Bio je jedan čovek, Slobodan Milošević, koji je se plašio spoljnog sveta i zato ga je mrzeo, a onda je ta mržnja, a ne taj strah prešao na narod, ali je onda iz te mržnje izašao strah, tako da se tu malo vrtimo u krug. Nade je bilo dok su na vlasti bili smisleni ljudi kao što je bio Zoran Đinđić, ali besmisleni ljudi su ga ubili. Sećam se njegove sahrane, to je stvarno bilo pretrpano, koliko je tu bilo ljudi. Jesi li videla koliko je tamo bilo ljudi?

Svetlana: Bila sam tamo.

Vasa: Bila si, ti si jedna od tih ljudi? I to nije bilo samo iz Beograda, dolazili su i iz ostatka Srbije za to.

Svetlana Lukić: Bio je ovo desetogodišnjak Vasa.

- 09:10 - Komentari (0) - Isprintaj - #

01.04.2007., nedjelja

Dan D (15)


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- 09:03 - Komentari (3) - Isprintaj - #

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1. Ja mrzim puno pisati, a posebno mrzim voditi dnevnik. Ali zato volim puno blebetati i vrzmati se s ljudima.
2. S druge strane, blog je neka perverzna vrsta egzibicionističkog dnevnika, u kome svoju intimu ne skrivaš, nego se njome hvališ pred nepoznatim ljudima.
3. Od prije nekog vremena imam potrebu reći neke stvari, motam se po nekim forumima, i treba mi baza na koju bih pohranio neke tekstove, slike, muziku koji mi nešto znače.
4. Što bi rekli matematičari, pokušavam odrediti svoje područje definicije (a potom možda i područje vrijednosti). Pa, hajdemo.