(P.S. to the 2nd and last letter that I will try and give to Maria through Thorman. He's not my postman, and I feel uncomfortable asking him to mediate in something that is entirely not his problem. It seems it's not Maria's problem also, which is good. This makes it exclusively my problem. Two more letters, I'll copy them here tomorrow or later today, and then I continue writing to her or about her on my flog, the fucking blog.)
In Finland or Venezuela, in Croatia, Italy or Netherlands or anywhere else -- we cannot leave our past behind. It follows us wherever we go. We can choose to forget it, burn all the bridges and run, but it stays with us until we deal with and have dealt with it once and for all. Use the bridges you've built, don't burn them down, we may need them once we start building our future, our lives and stop ruining it punishing ourselves for the sins, real or imagined, of our former selves.
I am one of your bridges. Save me for later. There's little if anything I wouldn't do for you. You are one of my bridges, you connect my dark past with my brighter future, now that I've decided my past (and present) is dark enough, and that there is brighter future I need to tend to. Please be there when I need you. I would like you to save yourself, so that I can count on you for those grim moments when I feel like I have really given up. On life. I really am selfish, like you once told me.
* * *
Life is all about containers. We have to arrange it in little neat compartments or it comes as a fucking tsunami wave in which we'll get very involved drowning. If we're (un)lucky, we'll survive, but we'll swallow a lot of dirty, salty water if we've waited for so long.
* * *
I found meters of 16 mm film in my apartment, I left it lying about. That's my life, too: all black, underexposed or overexposed. I'm a beautiful giraffe with five legs, learning to walk gracefully. I dumped the film today, it makes me fell like an artist that I am not.
* * *
I'm sick of all these things and ideas about them I never followed. I'm sick of myself, sick of it all.
* * *
I'm a nervous wreck. I keep waiting for someone of something to push me over the edge and finally it happened. The UN excommunicated me from the Tribunal, from my home in the Hague and I've pushed them to finish the job and they have. I'm leaving NL. But I'll come back. Like my brother told me in his inscription to the beautiful, new Croatian edition of the Art of War that he gave me for Xmas -- only after you've lost everything can you become a winner. It's not easy, choosing to be a looser is much easier, more convenient, pushing people to making decisions for you and then complain about them. Or cry.
* * *
Why haven't I browsed through my 40,000 photographs to find 400 to send to ECM to expect them to find 40 worth considering for their record covers and eventually publish 4? Because I'm scared they'll find even the four to be shit. I know they're good, I'm just scared of the other 396. I pushed for my laptop to be stolen & now I have to find another one like it, second hand.
* * *
This is my "bum uniform" I'm wearing today, "army" trousers with stains of my own blood and torn at the right knee from when I last twisted my (left) ankle and fell. "Weaker sex and everything, always twisting their knee at critical moment." (Frank Zappa, intro on "Cheapness") "... and cheapness of the movie has nothing to do with the budget, although it (the low budget) helps." (FZ, Roxy and Elsewhere). The UN made me a professional bum last July and I have always worn my uniforms with pride. That's why I have a number of medals. The number? Two: JNA (1985-6) and the UN ICTY (2007).
* * *
Come and see mi, mi amor. I haven't shaven since I've killed myself and I haven't killed myself since I have shaven!
* * *
I'm so fucking tired of all the meanings I read, understand and find in this city, this beautiful country and scared of all the others I do not understand. I need peace in my mind, I can't find it here, not like this, not until every fucking sad song sings about Maria & me, or rather: about me and Maria. Ths guy with a computer and a gadget in the cafe, he's not calibrating the gambling machines, how do I know he's not checking whether I"m killing myself or something in my apartment? How do I know for sure that the rubber chicken next to me was really thrown for Kodi, Jollie's dog and not for me, to remind me what a chicken I am. (Am U chicken? I am. Of rubber. You can chew me and tear me apart, but I still remain a chicken. And did you know cock tastes like chicken? You can try if you wash your teeth!)
So many people in whom I placed the last atoms of my trust in humanity have betrayed me last year. Only one never did. Maria never betrayed me. Never ever. I was willing to bet my life on her and I did. I still live.
* * *
Killing me softly, on the radio now. You're not killing me with this song, you're killing me with them all. And there's nothing soft about it, it's hard-core. Cmulja.
* * *
Lomni glasovi R&B pjevacica su nasljedstvo njihova africkog porijekla i izlozenost arapskom svijetu. Kao sto je u neku ruku i swahili jezik. Pjevaci(ce) virtuozi, kao Lauryn Hill, oni to vec nose u genima, it's a sublimated pain. Arapski svijet je jos uvijek toliko sjeban da nema prilike da ta bol prijedje u nesto manje ocito. Osim u turbo-folk formi kojeg i oni imaju.
* * *
Natas, HELP!!! I wanna be your dog. Mornings are critical for me, evenings are for you. You're a hermit, I'm unemployed and lazy. You take your pills and drink yourself to oblivion, then at 10 am you let your dog lick your face for two hours before you take him out for a walk and wake up drowsy for the rest of the day. Please be with me at my apartment for an hour or two before 13 h every day to "interrogate me" or just tolerate me talking to myself into throwing as much shit away as I can. I blew up my best chance for it, when Maria said I CAN HELP YOU and I just replied, No. (Nobody can help, I thought to myself not daring to say it aloud.) Such a fucking idiot I was. Help me Natas, help me Satan, I've let my Angel go.
And yet it was always Maria that was saying that her life is ruined and that she's given up, never me. I was a hypocrite, trying to be (our) leader.
* * *
On the radio now: THERE'S FREEDOM WITHIN. THERE'S FREEDOM WITHOUT! HEY NOW, HEY NOW!
* * *
I don't want to understand any words, any languages around me. Stop it all! DRZTE ME DA GA NE UBIJEM! Hold me before I kill that motherfucker who was making all the trouble in Thirsty Garry's on Sunday evening. No one had to, they took care of him, there was eventually a little bit of blood. They all stood up, one by one.
I stood up later, in disbelief. I thought it a direct provocation against me. I must have been in TG a hundred times by now and never a problem. How could anyone dare to make problems at Maria's domicile, where I live, at my home? I went home and couldn't sleep until 5 am, I felt violated. You violated my home, stupid motherfucker with a white UMBRO shirt. Even Thorman stood up. You, UMBRO, you "hombre", almost knocked down the loudspeaker I always dance with to Carl's house/techno music, pretending it's Maria. "You should have been a boxer", someone said commenting on my dance. Ah yes? But I've never hit her, the loudspeaker or Maria. I only fight with her without touching, then I lean my shoulder to it, or my head, or embrace it with my arm, playing piano on her hip or waste, carressing it, feeling the bass at my stomack and taking in all the mid-range sounds that are at the hight of my ears. I am the fire, don't play with me. Don't play with us.
Maria and myself we are NATURAL BORN KILLERS, because we're just too polite, too respectful to be fighters until you've pushed the wrong button and then it's too late.
Post je objavljen 12.03.2008. u 13:18 sati.