prose, proza

A CASE FROM A YELLOW PRESS

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Chinese president Su Thong gave a statement for the yellow press yesterday that he would ensure the elongation of the Great Chinese Wall which would then serve to reroute all the possible issues into the right direction. A dog and two blind men, one of who was a murderer, supported him in this endeavors…

The amendment has still been considered, however the Chinese are still pretending to be the Englishmen. Anyhow, Su Thong (and we wouldn’t make a criticall error if it would be Jintao Sinjang) explicitly thought on good things. The Chinese only need to understand it.

The next day, those Chinese who lived in the parts close to the Wall didn’t find it where it should have been. Instead, the Wall appeared on the opposite end of the world. AmidstHollywood, in the middle of the yard where married couple, an actor Quini Doyl and actress Many Hoyl have lived. Each of the media gave different announcement, and indictments started to hail…

 

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prose, short story

Boris K. and The Serial Killers, “The Adventures Of Boris K”, Leila Samarrai

Boris K. and The Serial Killers

Boris K. was a good driver. He never had trouble finding a job as a taxi driver for the Republic because in his younger days he drove in Formula One races, though only in amateur competitions sponsored by the Socialists. On one occasion, while lighting a Lucky Strike® cigarette and waiting for riders, he sees two black silhouettes apparating from the dark. They were a man and woman, moving in rhythm and snapping their fingers at exactly the same time, so in sync, their heads appeared conjoined. They ask him for a ride, giving him an unfamiliar address, and Boris K. grudgingly stubs out his cigarette and gets into his cab with the mysterious couple. He puts his hands on the wheel and then looks ahead, focusing on the dashboard where the mobile command center tells him where to go.  He peels out into the street, while glancing in the rearview mirror.  Puzzled, he watches while the man takes off his cap and the woman opens her Louis Vuitton purse so she can check her lipstick.  She opens the tube, revealing a deep violet color, freezes her face, puckers her lips, and begins making circular designs around her nose and face. When she’s done, she turns, revealing her horrific appearance to her man with the spiky hair, à la Hans Holbein, and says:

“Put that cap back on, DAMN you! ”

A second later, she screams:

I HATE YOU!”

Startled, Boris K. hits a pot hole and bounces off the seat.

Through the mirror, her gaze momentarily meets with Boris K, who quickly but unsuccessfully averts his eyes to avoid her demonic stare.

“But, honey…”

“Don’t you dare try to talk sweet nothings to me! I should have known that for our fifth year together, you would secretly buy a Louis Vuitton purse for another woman…a Venetian no less!”

“There’s no way in hell I would buy her a Louis Vuitton purse!”

He pauses, “think Aschenbach from Death In Venice!”

“Do you swear it was just a knock off?” she stares him down.

“I swear.” He answers.

The woman cries out violently and slaps him, leaving a red stain on his face.

“I’ll give YOU Death in Venice… Suddenly This Summer!” she yells.

Distracted, Boris K. almost collides with a car coming towards him.

“But you screwed it up. You got it all wrong!” the woman said smugly.

“When I found that purse you had gift wrapped for your lover, I sprinkled anthrax inside the middle pocket so you could watch her die when she opened it!”

The woman laughs demonically as Boris K. feels the seat trembling beneath him.

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“I’m used to your murders,” says the man nonchalantly, as he places his cap back on his head and sinks comfortably into the back seat. The woman looks up and subtly lifts her skirt, giving Boris K. a view of her lacy thong from the mirror.  He starts to sweat and averts his gaze once again. The man continues:

“I got over it when you poisoned my dog. I even forgave you for killing my mother. Nothing surprises me anymore. Not even if you slaughtered this taxi driver!”

She smiles at her lover.

“Ah, my dear, you know how it goes…an eye for an eye …

And YOU killed my mother that summer…! ”

“In your house on the Coast of the Cantabrian Sea …” the man finishes her sentence and sighs.

“How romantic that was! We were so happy back then, and now look at us.  We’re two murderers in retirement.”

They turn toward each other wistfully.

“We should just live in the grace of the victims we meet on the road coincidentally. No more careful planning… ”

They smile and embrace each other.

Boris K. feels a quick tightening in his chest. He goes pale from the awareness, feeling fearful and dark. He pulls over to the side of the road, worried he might crash. Suddenly everything goes black. When he wakes up, he feels as if he has left his body and is watching everything unfold from above the seats.  He sees himself lying on his back, eyes closed, while these two killers bring him back to life.

“I think he had a heart attack!” he hears their excited voices overlapping, as if the sound is emerging from the depths of the sea. They appear disfigured, slowed down and distant.

Slowly, like soul threads being wound back onto a spool, he feels himself returning to his lifeless body. As he comes to, he wipes his hand over his sweat-drenched forehead and murmurs:

“The murder … the murder”

As soon as his blurred vision clears, he looks into the worried faces bending over him.

Their long noses seem to be waving back and forth at him. His eyes widen, and a cry breaks from his throat. Suddenly, he feels the water they’re splashing on his face. Boris K, now completely lucid, jumps up quickly to defend himself, while the man and woman reassure him:

“Don’t be afraid. We were just rewriting our dialogue, “says the man.  The woman adds:

“We are writing a series.  It’s called THE WINDSHIELD. These are just our scenes, buddy. If all our scenes are as brilliant as these, we’re sure to be a hit!” With that, they all get back in the car and continue to their destination.  However, Boris K. is too shaken up to drive and he crashes, thus ending his illustrious career as a taxi driver.

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prose, proza

“Roman bez imena”, uvod

Inspiraciju za ovaj roman sam dobila, nažalost, ličnim iskustvom sa osobama koje predstavljaju nešto… ovako (videti sliku)

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Poštovani mister Clunes,

Na kraju sam traganja. Ili na početku. Ko to zna? Ovo je prvi zapis moje tajne istorije. U njoj se nalaze izgubljene stvari. Možda neću uspeti da, u rasulu uma, pepela – oslepela i nakazna naslikam avetinjsku kuću, a da vi pljesnete rukama i u basu zagrmite: ah, sjajno, ah, vrcavo, sou mač parabolično! Da…

Koliko alegorično,  snoliko i gadno.

–  A realizam? Sve avetinjske kuće liče jedna na drugu… tako bi mogla da započneš zapis. Šta bi falilo? – rekli bi mi čitaoci. Možda i moji literarni junaci koji su mi oduvek davali instrukcije kako da o njima pišem. Znate, gospodine Clunes, i oni imaju pravo na svoje mišljenje. (autor osluškuje)

Da, to je taj glas. Avetinjski ličan. Mislila sam da ste to Vi, da čitam odgovor na pismo poslato vam ovog popodneva, ali.. (autorka uzdiše) To sam samo ja. Trgla sam se iz sna, sve vreme sam knjavala. (obično ne koristim glupi arg, ali neka, ne smeta. A ako smeta, vi recite, blaženi bili…) Zašto mi se nestvarno čini stvarnijim?

Moram da zapišem ovu misao, blistava je.

Samo tren, mr Clunes, samo tren. Sve ću reći. Na vreme. Ništa ne brinite. Neću vas izneveriti. Ta, zar mislite da pišem nekakvu bednu autobiografiju u klasičnom narativu? Dopustite mi da se nasmejem, mr Clunes. Ne vama, o ne vama, nikako.

To je… taj glas. U mojoj glavi, nikako stvaran glas, štoi je šteta. Makar bih se sa nekim sita ispričala, ovako sam sama,  pod budnim okom noćnog terora. Vi znate ko je Rabisu? Dobro je. Ponekad je utešno znati da nisi jedini… Ili ne?

Nekad bih volela da je Rabisu samo moj. To bi laskalo…

“Rabbi Isa… Rabi..sss….” Baš tako govori. Tako voli da me prestravljuje pred san.  Oko 22h, otprilike. Ranoranilac je.

I onda me izudara, dobro me izudara da zaspim.

Kunem se da je ovo istina. Ne pišem bestseler pa da pokušavam da pridobijem čitaoce jeftinim trikovima. Ne bih se usudila da izreknem laž. Ipak pišem umetničko delo, mr Clunes.

Dobro. Priznajem. To je slika laži u prečistom sjaju istine. No, ima tu i malo istine. Tu i tamo prozborim s nekim. Kao na primer s ličnim savetnikom i probačem hrane za mačke gospodinom Hakimom, a on mi na tečnom sirijačkom kaže:

“Nema krošea. To je magija. To nisu pesnice, već Džebrailova anđeoska krila.”

Ali ja znam da to nije tako. Svako govori iz svoje perspektive, mr Clunes. I vi biste, iz plamene hijerarhije anđela izabrali najmoćnijeg, najkrilatijeg, najjačeg i najpoverljivijeg za zaštitu, kakvog Gabrijela. Tvrdim vam. SVE OVO je Rabisuovo vampirsko delovanje”

Znate, mr Clunes,. svesna sam da ne postoji nikakav Hakim Sirijac i da možebitno sanjam i Vas i da me je neko u snu skoro pretukao i da, opet jako verovatno, bežim od ološ – jave kakogod umem i znam, na taj način prodrevši u ultimativni smisao eskapizma.

Ne, ja nisam ta, ona mala žena koja je započela veliki rat, ona Harriet, nisam to ja, mr Clunes. Nisam ja taj tip. Ja se samo suočavam kroz eskapizam. Potirem. Dolazim do suštine.

Rabisu često govori: “Postoji drugi svet. Načinjen je od senki.”

Rabisu priča isklišeizirano. A ja? Ne, ne mogu razumeti sadašnjost, a da ne govorim o prošlosti.

A tako bi bilo divno tuliti o sadašnjosti. U klasičnom narativu. Novinarskim stilom. Bila bi to beskrajna tugovanka u noveli, sačinjena od vanredno jasnih i lepih oblika.

Istovarivala bih, ispovraćivala. Kako ko shvati užase (mog) postojanja. Ovako bi išlo: sedim u tuđem toaletu, buljim u četku za ribanje toaleta koju bih opisala, onako po američki, u sitna crevca, ja, Amerikanka u literaturi, veća Amerikanka i od Hilari Klinton…

Da ne pominjem gorki dim upaljene cigarete. Kakve on samo za pisca mogućnosti pruža! To bih gorko opisala, sekla bih u tananost, udrila bih opisom u goloruka prsa kakvog detalja na podu, plafonu, izvan, unutra, u ono što jesam, u ono što nisam, pre u stvarnosti nego u sećanju, uglavnom obrnuto.

Kad bih samo pušila! Kad bih samo mogla da nađem  reči koje su od mene pobegle, blebetala bih o mračnoj pećini sadašnjeg i strasti prošlog i nečeg trećeg (a to ne bih imenovala, misterioznosti radi), no, opakog, što uvek se u smrti okonča, sačekavši smrt sa svim raspalim stvarima da se u grob stameni ujedine.

Opako biće, Rabisu, poprima raznorazne oblike, on traje do gorkog kraja, do prašine, tokom života do buđenja, ali samo kod nekih, tvrdi Rabisu i dodaje: “Ti si odabrana.” Dodaje da je polaskan mojim izrazom lica nakon buđenja, “Tako divno obrubljenog strahom, lice luzerke u kojoj se nastanilo celokupno iskustvo ljudske samoće. Autorko, ti si arhetip!”, oduševljeno će demon. “Fascinira me tvoj opak i lucidan nagon za nastavljanjem beskorisnog života…” drži me za meso i kosti kadgod poletim da se bacim kroz prozor  nakon buđenja. “P0lako… Ne tako beskorisnog. Pred tobom je zadatak koji moraš ispuniti ma koliko ga mrzela. Moraš rečima, onako hilarično, da ukleseš u stub srama (javiću ti u snu tačnu lokaciju gde ćeš da staviš spis kad ga dovršiš) o čudovištima kakva ni sam eonima nisam video. Monstrumima većim od mene samog. Prokaži ih i uništi. Postoji samo jedan Rabisu!”, mrgodno će on. Tako on prkosi mojoj zlobi – “Ti si zlobna, ponosna I opasna. Tvoja zloba puca visoko.. Kad sam video kakvi te demoni na javi obilaze, shvatio sam da nikako ne možeš biti obična i da si i ti.. neka vrsta Rabisuovke, na svoj način razume se”.

“Čista duša pade mi u krilo. Nešto kao anti – Rabisu, no still opaka.. Uživa u senkama. Ni za šta na svetu te ne bih propustio. Vidim, nisu ni oni. Ti ćeš mi pomagati da lociram nove demone, ako ih ima još…”  Čini sve Rabisu ne bi li mi se približio, začikavajući me da sam jutrima anti – demonka, a negde pred ponoć okorelo zlo ili.. obrnuto. Naši razgovori se odigravaju tokom REM faze. Ako pripovest tvoja ostavi mesta, ako tvoj duh na tren, smiren umukne pred nastupom strasti da se sve potanko iskaže, ispripovedaj, ne sa manjim ushitom, u kurzivu naše tajne noćne susrete. kao pravi Pehovin svedok!”, Rabisu je u telu demona čezn uo za šalom. Često je tvrdio da redovno sedi pored mene, nevidljiv, mada mu ne bi palo tepko da sebe pohrani u dubine moje duše i tu se nastani. “I tako mi redovno, znala ti to ili ne, živimo i najavi, zajedno gledamo Penny Dreadful”..

Rabisu me je prestravljivao do mere gubljenja razuma. No, uvek je znao kad da se zaustavi. Očito je želeo da me upravlja mojim odlukama u svoju korist jer mu je do napisane knjige jako stalo. S druge strane, kakav bi on demon bio da me ne muči bez preke potrebe. tek žalosno priviđenje. Možda i plod mašte namučenog uma. Rabisu je stvaran!

“A onda neće ostati ništa do hrabrosti da se bude svoj I izgradi istina i unutrašnja tajna. Tako ćeš i pisati. Smrt bez žurbe. Čežnja da rastočiš mrak, da u naručje vekova rečima ukleseš zločinstva što su ti načinili. Da od njih sačinjih odsanjane nule. Nema većeg monstruma od Rabisua i ako to učiniš mojim konkurentima, ja ću te pustiti da spavaš mirno, kao zaklano čedo… ” Sve dok ne prokažeš te male demonske gnjide, malaksaćeš od straha, opkoljavaću ti bol, iznova ćeš proživljavati vriskove iz tame, vrištaćeš i urlaćeš nalik na zapaljenu vatru bićeš. Komšije probudićeš!” – grohotom se smejao Rabisu i sam pomalo zbunjen smehom usled pretnji koje navode prokletnike da se ne nadaju ničemu boljem do bezbolne smrti, načini pomalo tužan izraz lica, umoran od mnogobrojnih izrečenih drevnih pretnji. Više nego bilo čega, Rabisu se bojao klišea, ali mu je retko umeo umaći. No, bio je strašan, nadvijen nad samoćom i bolom. “Dok to ne učiniš i spis ne sačiniš, uskakaću ti u san”, zapreti glasom promukle vrane.

“Imam li izlaza?”, upitala sam ga jednom, dok sam se ogledala u njegovim crnim očima, tokom jedne more, hodajući među ruševinama  starogrčkog polisa, grozomornog izgleda, po Rabisuovom odabiru, ljubeći čeljusti reke Nestos.

Muzika

Eskapizam

Radost

Tuga

Sve.

I ničeg ljudskog nema pod suncem.

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prose, Uncategorized

Some questions for followers of my blog

LINK: A BIT OF WEIRD PROMOTION OF THE BOOK “THE ADVENTURES OF BORIS K.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsZ9JzBlVK4&feature=share

1. There is a fine line between debate and boycott by the publisher dressed in a plaid shirt) which seems pretty illogical and nasty “move”, during the promotion of the book.
The publisher is limiting his “discourse” or his perception of my book “The Advantures Of Boris K. He is focusing his discourse exclusively on daily satire from newspaper colums and Boris K. is far away of that thus showing he doesn’t get the book he chose to publish (free of charge due to its quality) at all.
Also, he is emphasizing that I am someone who is trying to get a big breakthrough in Serbia 🙂 by writing satire but also that this is wrong “move” because I am an unknown writer – which is not true, at least not in Serbia… I am represented in Serbian Wikipedia and I also published a book of poetry, winning the first prize and thus publishing that book of poetry that got reissued (my book of poetry “The Darkness Will Understand” is digitally republished 10 years after her printing debut)
Also, I won some prizes for aphorisms, you can check my literary CV and I am preparing the publishing of the medieval – history – nordic – horror saga etc.
Also, the Publisher asks in public, in the book promotion – Who is going to read your book?
I am putting all this talking because I want to reevaluate my beliefs. Do you, like me, find, the publisher’s behavior strange?
Not to mention a violation of copyright after… In Serbia, it is something like “good morning sunshine”…

2. do you agree that the writer, idest, little me (the one’t that is talking constantly 🙂 managed to pull out promotion of such banality with the point that the artist is not some computed, calculated artisan who will care only how to sneak his hero in some kind of genre “that is not worth it in terms of money and selling” but acts according to his/her instincts? His teasing I need to write horror in accordance with my horror life I can explain only by the fact that I was and I am a victim of mobbing in Serbia, consequently the sequence of events which is long and quite a different story but I will fight for a breakthrough on the foreign market.
3. Boris K, also is a multilayered piece and fantasy satire painted in some sort of subversion criticing society, an absurd fantasy satire with, even, some elements of surrealism.boris-k

 

4. Do you want to read some Boris K. english – translated stories to make your opinion and impression? I would be glad to hear your opinion.

5. I am sorry for the bad snapshot (recording) Medias are boycotting, generally, all writers who don’t write cheap literature engulfing them with euros. I am also sorry for maybe bad subtitles, made by a Russian who doesn’t know a word of Serbian 🙂 but I am hoping you will manage to understand the point. Thank you.

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boris k, prose

BORIS K. In the Literary Club, “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai

BORIS K. In the Literary Club

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Boris K. was finally, but somewhat begrudgingly accepted into the Literary Club. By no means did he fit in, however.

First Big critic’s was transfixed on an ashtray full of Pierre Cardin cigarettes, amid debate about the essay on Leo Tolstoy, which was written for certain by Anna Karenina, and here signedly spat the phrase through his gnashed teeth:

“Levin mowing.. But WHY? ”

Boris K. could not possibly agree with the idea. He was, in fact, very fond of mowing. A former member of the Transnational Lawnmower Fan Club, he genuinely enjoyed reading the forewords. That was his favourite part of the essay.

“Therefore, the novel War and Peace is something else.”

“It describes the state of mind of man in war,” these words were huffed by another member of the club’s haughty membership.

Boris K. again could not agree less, because he always worshiped War and Peace, jumping in and out of the pages like some frantic frog, but overall, he had always been a dilettantish reader of Russian writers.

When speaking of heroes of the modern novel,they mentioned Proust, whom Boris K. always thought about too long afterward.

Boris K.,as of late, began to seriously marvel at himself as a virtuoso, a genius and a maestro, so that, seeing that everyone was at ease gabbing about the great Proust he felt helpless,  decided to take action, and mouth a word. Before he could say something, someone remarked:

“Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer.”

Boris K. was annoyed because he was once again deceived. He fumed to himself: while he did not read the Crab Story, he loved the Goat Grimoire, but…What to do now? He fell silent, and felt as if he was expected to utter some sort of wise parable. Even the great sages of old contemptuously glanced at him. Then Boris K. stood, and with thundering voice, boomed forth his life’s motto:

“Acta Non Verba”, and with a firm step, he went to the coffee machine, serving a cup of coffee in plastic cups on the big Hollywood waiter’s tray to all those present in the hall.

A bitter discussion, a Gladiatorial debate about the literature of the ancient Romans ensued. Boris K. then broached the day’s topic.

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prose, proza

Ljubodrag Stojanovic, on “The Artists” story by Leila Samarrai

What  I exceptionally like in your writing, is the top dislocation of epochs and people, an erudite toying with the documentary and imaginative, unpredictable, magnificent imagination and brilliant dialogues. No need to be Tagore to enter the ruins of your worlds and mazes, where  Mozart and Trier face, as well as Wagner and Bach or Bachs. You use time and space as toys, sometimes as means but not an end (goal), well before limbo in which, in fact, does not exist. In your necropolis living people live their lives, while dead or inanimate are walking the streets, and these dislocations seem quite convincing, realistic, and even logical. Such writing and you as the author, deserve much greater number of readers, because the fate of the poem-letters-the story is not to remain silent nor the fate of brilliant writers to be silenced.

Ljubodrag Stojanovic

http://www.alma.rs/autori/lj-stojanovic.html

 

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prose, proza

Umetnici, The Artists

UMETNICI, Leila Samarrai Green

This is the story of two artists, male and female, they are the actors in an unusual film scene, including even crazier scenario, a motive for the shooting is totally avant-garde, and satirical, in the best manner of Lars Von Trier. I was inspired by Eva Green, a bit and her “story” with famous Danish director, but the story is genuine. Unfortunately, I do not have an interpreter, so who doesn’t know Serbian, he/she will have to wait.. 😦

***

“Pažljivo sam pročitao tekst o Vagneru, gospođice. Vrlo strastveno, silovito. Baš zato što nisam vagnerijanac, dozvolićete mi (nadam se) da iznesem neka kritička zapažanja.”

Mary Lynne je sebi dopustila sitan smešak i prekrstila noge za stolom.
Muškarac se svesno naprezao da ne gleda u njene krasne, vitke noge.

“Tekst počinjete udarno, naslovom koji gađa usred srede, bez okolišanja. Čitaocu se učini da ćete… ćeš… – njegov namrgođeni izraz je smekšao – već u prvom, pa već u drugom pasusu razraditi, argumentovati kvalifikaciju koju si iznela… snela.. avaj.. oh bože, izgubiću se… u naslovu, da tako se to kaže, U NASLOVU!, načas se pribrao i počeo da udara glavom o sto– a ono ništa.”
Kažeš da se iživljavao na bližnjima i na kolegama, ali da ne možeš da navedeš nijedan konkretan primer, jer nijedan zapis ne postoji, ili nije obelodanjen. Čudno, upita se čovek: a otkud onda smelo tvrđenje da je čovek bio osvedočeni sadista, kad ni dokaza ni primera nema?

Muškarac pruži ruke ka njoj. “Oh, Maryyyy… Zadaviću teeee! Petljom od žice, bre!”

Muškarca je zgrabila panika. Uhvatio se za gušu. Vrištao je: “Zgrabila me je panika, zgrabila me je! Moram da skočim!”

I skoči na nju mrmljajući kako je uistinu nesretan.
“Gle ti nje, kako mi se daje lako! Nisi više gorda tako! Diži noge bre klado neotesana! Kad bi dunuo neki vetar pa da ti zadigne suknju, a ne sam da se mučim, još da ispadne silovanje!”

“A i bilo bi romantično”, mazno će Mary Lynne.

“Jeste, kao u Tanhojzeru. Zapevaj zapevaj mi, budi ti moja… Vilhelmina Šroder!

“Jel kao Venera?”
Umesto odgovora on joj digne desnu nogu kao da gura plug. Prebaci je preko levog ramena.

Venera zapeva:

“Oprostiti ti nikad neću jaaa
vrati mi se ako želiš srećuuu”

“Moja sreća”, zadihano će on i tad prebaci njenu levu nogu preko desnog ramena (a gde se dela druga, nije bio siguran) – Moja sreća leži u Mary!”

I dodade:
“Mislim, takođe, da bi tekst bio upečatljiviji da nije pominjan Hitler. Šta, pa nema šanse da Staljin, koji ni po čemu i nipošto nije bio manji monstrum i ubica od Hitlera, nije voleo Glinku, ili Borodina, ili, najpre će biti, Musorgskog. To ne znači da su ovi kompozitori bili zlikovci. Postoji nemala mogućnost da je Idi Amin voleo Tartinija ili Paganinija, što da ne. I kontraprimera ima: Betoven je obožavao Napoleona godinama, njemu je i Eroiku posvetio, pa se posle razočarao, digao ruke od Bonaparte.”

“Eto”, reče Mary nakon eksplozivnog završetka a la Eroika. “A sad.. hoćemo li malo Vilhelma Fridmena za moju dušu, ljubavniče?”

“Počni!” – s Marynom haljinom nadohvat ruke, on se nabrzaka obuče u žensku haljinu i našminkan i doteran u manga stilu podiže uvis dlakave noge, psujući što mu depilacijska krema Cliven nije bila pri ruci.

“Znaš koliko mi je stalo do higijenskog standarda!”, zaplakao je On.

“Ma najbolja je hladna depilacija tigar lepkom za gumu”, smešila se ona. “A sad počuj…”

“Uf…”

“Vilhelma Fridemana su napljuvali do bola. Alkos, raspikuća, umro u bedi… (UZDISANJE) Priznaju, pritom, da je bio najveći instrumentalista svoga doba. Taj je razapinjao klavijaturu, niko nije smeo da mu izađe na crtu. Biografija naoko slična nalickanim biografijama znamenitih rokera. Snimljen je, avaj, i film, mislim da je baš takav naslov Vilhelm Frideman, gde on, kao, ispašta i muku muči (UZDIŠE SVE JAČE I STRASTVENIJE) kao daroviti sin znamenitoga oca. Fora je u tome što njegov otac uopšte nije bio tako znamenit kad je Vilhelm Frideman svirao, i njegov problem nije bio ni sa očevom ni sa bratovljevom senkom (za Karla Filipa Emanuela Mocart je svojevremeno rekao: „On je otac, mi smo svi njegova deca“ (OH BOŽE!!!), što su posle nesmotreni istoričari transponovali, kao da je Mocart mislio na J. S. Baha, a nije) (OBOJE UZDIŠU I JAUČU), već sa svim onim raznim muvama, buvama i planktonima koje čine život i nas, kao živ organizam, usred tog života. Leopold Mocart, ćale Volfgangov, slikovito je i narodski opisao habitus Vilhelma Fridemana Baha: „Izvanredan muzičar, vrstan kompozitor, ali mnogo, mnogo pije.“

On je dahtao: “Hendla mnogo volim. Imam Muziku na vodi u nekoj nedokumentovanoj verziji, tako da ne znam ni ko je izvođač ni kada je snimljeno, a verzija je, jednostavno, boli glava, otkida… Slušao sam razne druge verzije, ali sve je to uglavnom šit, ni do ramena ovoj mojoj. Hendla i Telemana, inače, smatram većim kompozitorima od Johana Sebastijana Baha…”

Za to vreme, u pozadini se emitovao Lars Fon Trier – ov “Antihrist”. Prizor uda u erekciji doprinosio je čaroliji i romantici ovo dvoje. Sveće su bile suvišne pored tolikih stimulansa. Na vrhuncu uzbuđenja, jedno drugom su naizmenično lupali šamare, svađajući se koji je kompozitor bolji.

“Alkos, raspikuća, umro u bedi, alkos, ra…a….. ah, mužu, mislim da bi to za večeras bilo to”

I dok se on presvlačio u muško odelo, Mary Lynne je ispred ogledala pevušila Messiaen: Turangalîla-Symphonie (Joie du sang des étoiles), režiser Umetničke trilogije Ron Gabe Jebster skoči na noge lagane i uz jedno Kamera, stop, oglasi kraj snimanja.

“Mnogo sam ja vama umetničke slobode dao! Svega toga u scenariju nije bilo!” – zamisli se – “A sad ti, mali, donesi Mary pištolj da ti prosvira glavu!”
Tad se glumica uzjoguni: “Nismo se tako dogovorili!
Jebster je na to uzviknuo: “Niko ne preispituje moj autoritet! Već dva sata iza one tamo.. staklene pregrade.. australijski ministar kulture sedi i čeka na scenario koji će prezentovati njegova mučna zalaganja na Art Konferenciji sa fokusom na neprofitni menadžment. Naša zemlja ne može ekonomski da se razvija bez inovacija na ovom polju. I edukovanja! Šta mislite vi? Ko mi je kupio ovaj Canon EOS 6D da vas snimam. Ženo, uozbilji se i nastavi oralni, sa sve Šopenom i mužem.”

“Ali.. Mi smo UMETNICI!”
“Precenjena reč. Ja ne razmenjujem ideje s personalom. Mi režiseri slavimo živu i rastuću kreativnu privredu!”

Tada mu i On i Ona priđoše i izdevetaše ga, dok je Jebster klizio na pod u svom prevelikom odelu.

“Hoćemo li sad da nastavimo gde smo stali?”
“Misliš.. dok Ministar iza Pregrade gleda?”
“Pa posle pištolj u glavu, kao Romeo i Julija. Ili beše otrov.. ali ne cepidlačimo”
“To bi verovatno bila greška, no… kao što rekoh… umetnici smo, kolega, i u Umetnosti sretan par. Bez drame ne možemo”
” I voajeri”, rekao je neko šapatom, zaseo na stolicu gde se nalazio sad već onesvešćeni režiser i uputio im gromoglasan aplauz.
Tada svo troje nastaviše predstavu složivši se da i Suprugu treba dati kakvo takvo ime.
Mary je naglo podigla pogled i rekla: “Zvaće se Frederik. Kao naš nerođeni sin”
Niko nije imao zamerke, tako da je Frederik mogao da počne.
Ministar, koji je izgledom podsećao na glavnog majstora za struju, snimao bi nešto skupljom kamerom. Ali, pod uslovom da glumi Šopena.

“Bah Bah, The Best Boy”, oboje mu uputiše strastveni poljubac. Potom se, uz erotsku igru, zagrliše.

“Umetnici.. kakvi umetnici!”, mrmljao je Tajanstveni Putnik, Gledalac, Onaj Treći Bez Koga Se Ne Može, na umetničkom carstvu nebeskom.

Ali, Mary Lynne i Frederic su bili u zasebnom svetu, ovenčani muzikom i obdareni darom dostojnim bogova.

Kamera zazuja. Reflektori bljesnuše.

SCENA 25:

Pažljivo sam pročitao tekst o Bah- u gospođice. Vrlo strastveno, silovito. Baš zato što nisam bahovac, dozvolićete mi (nadam se) da iznesem neka kritička zapažanja.”

SCENA 26:

“…… što se porodice Bah tiče, volim Vilhelma Fridemana i Karla Filipa Emanuela, oni su zakon, svako na svoj način, ali provalio sam i neke druge likove – odličan je, recimo, Johan Bernhard Bah. U klasicističko doba istakao se Johan Kristijan Bah. Zamisli to čudesno stablo, tu familijetinu, koja se razgranavala u periodu od bogami dobrih sto i kusur godina, i davala sve zanimljive muzičke plodove. Ludilo.” (VRISAK)

REZ.

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prose, proza, Uncategorized

I think I had enough. THIS IS NOT A STORY. TRUE EVENTS. UNFORTUNATELY. FOR THOSE WHOM IT MAY CONCERNED, PLEASE READ AND COMMENT.

I think I had enough. THIS IS NOT A STORY. TRUE EVENTS. UNFORTUNATELY. FOR THOSE WHOM IT MAY CONCERNED, PLEASE READ AND COMMENT.

Bearing in mind all my experience and wearing this letter in my mind, I knew not how to answer properly and logically on the issue I have to put, because the questions are logical, yes and yet, it seems that they are not. Or it is hard to explain without writing an essay which I am doing since I cannot leave Serbia in an instant. If the situation with gym trainers is not as with therapeusts in this hell of the „country“ or if they are not, but some of them are, in the need of the same, after all I have experienced in gym, I would check it out for an anger management!

In addition and at the begginning I have to apologize if I will put many informations creating confusion, but I hope you can follow me reading this.
Specifically, I’m trying for two years to persist in the struggle with something that I do not even understand… this is so weird and surreal… which is the question or an issue (I am really trying to transfer the meaning as much as I can) It has to do with G trainers, more precise with their behavior, or more so I wonder how they managed to come to these “titles” – and they are the owners and trainers of the Serbian gyms. On behalf of that, I wrote a story Boris K. and the gym. From the behavior and conversations and through experience with the, let’s call them so called – gym coaches, I am finding out that

1. Either they do not like their job 2. Or they are behaving strangely, to put it mildly, types look down, do not show their clients who are not paying over 100 euros how they should be working on the devices, or they often interrupt training: I apologize, but go down from the device, I have individual training … or they found the devices far more important than the client, as some of them patrol constantly around the devices with an obsessive compulsive cleaning… hindering me in my training, and all that with a confrontational tone. In a country overrun with poverty their goal is to collect an obscene amounts of money for something that they can not even, nor provide in turn, and that’s coaching the client without the ill-treatment of the same.
This experience dates back a very long time, at first my towel was problematic, then one went around me and scolded me, saying not to damage the device ??? because I was sweating in the gym too much for the good taste… wearing tha mask from the Hygienist…(???), and that is the not so important, but so „fancy“ gym on nevermindwhatplace.

One so called the „posh“ coach looked at me, he seemed surprised when I asked him random questions and he said with his rural, not so well hidden accent: before I answer you anything or you sit down, read the price list.
Later I learned that this fancy coach is very much in the hands of steroids.
So, there are gyms and they are very well equipped, but in wrong hands, with the wrong way…, with astronomical prices, making little but „clever“ problems with all that „mind over matter“ quotes and stuffs.. to the individual who does not pay the individual training of over 100 euros.

If I hadmoney, I would not give them the pittance, because they do not deserve nothing, they do not have the knowledge or culture, or anything, they are not real sportists, they are just well fed with euro – pasta) They make you feel bad enough because you pay only! regular membership fee, which is not cheap at all.. on the contrary. And if you don’t pay they will make you those little obstacles, not looking at you, interrupting you, so one should very quickly give up

Then something happened, for Serbia unexpectedly. Serbian representative in bodybuilding opened a gym in New Belgrade, the price was acceptable. I had a female couch. In two she took off some excess pounds from my body and did an amazing job. My metabolism went nuts, and every day I lost 1 kilogram, in addition I practiced to home alone, had a lot of energy, was motivated by watching how my body changed and I could not believe the transformation that I have experienced both physically and psychologically.
Two years ago I was on every day diet regime, trained very powerful workouts at home. Before getting ready for a marathon, the landlady threw me out of the apartment in a rural town on the outskirts of Belgrade where they do not have a decent gym, not to mention the trainers, nor running path, a bus trip took at least two and a half hours, to arrive to the centre….

I’m looking for a coach the entire 2014 and 2015 and after a horrible experience with one inexperienced coach who told me I was in climax in my 37, I came across the add pasted on a street pole. The „gym“ was situated inside the very modern gym, that gym with obsessive compulsive cleanears wearing V for Vendetta Hygienist masks and evil spoken speaker to the practitioner who pay less than 100 euros

Tonight I was shocked by the „conversation“ and the questions set up and that.. you name it.. would require a special version if the translation which I am not capable for. In short, I immediately realized that the person is not professional, nor the coach, she doesn’t look like a couch at all and almost asking me for an advice on how to lose weight herself with all one thing repeating: alas, god .. so how do you do that? But very cynical, mixed with the spicy way of putting the questions like someone who is curious but still raises questions, as if I was the coach, not her: : „Oh, how remarkable that is.. just relax.. it is only psychological problem! (???) But I never find anyone who was entering less calories as you did still having so much energy… , ie under basical methabolism.. you know what is it, dear?“

… At first I noticed her ignorance regarding the work on the treadmill, and that she does not differ miles of kilometers more than an asphalt from the treadmill . I asked if I could have her try her program but to use the treadmill, too *that one obsessively cleaned up!, but said „Oh yes, but it needs an additional charges and prices… above all.. your organism will see.. (???)
Also, she said that my diet was horrible (I’m sure that she will benefit from it because I have sent it to her but if it helps to some poor dear who will be her client, I don’t regret of doing so, except she will present it of course as her „tesla sportslike patent“) Then she asked whi recommended such horrible diet: I said: Serbian champion in bodybuilding and his spouse, a coach of the month which now lives and works in NYC.

Then that „coach of all coaches“, to get back to the topic, who has her own team, with pretty coreographs, drinking coffee, and singing songs, some twisted version of Jehova witnesses a la Gym version, her fb group, who operates in the context of this gym with which I have aboveforementioned “wonderful” experience and at first glance there is no reason that I haven’t tried to contact her or any trainer, once more… she said that there is another option: „You see, you can run in nature because it is healthy (for this I have no comment, since I was preparing for the marathon ..) Also, you can pay cardio and working with dumbells in the Gym!“ (that obsessive cleaning hygienistic… . I think I said it a couple a times before…)

My mother told me to be patient, we will again try to get stepper, perhaps some dumbbells, still to do at home and to continue, and I said: „I haven’t trained for a while… maybe a year… I need someone who will push me a bit, at least to avoid to get hurt..“
The problem is that I was, during those two years taught myself a certain way of life that I do not want to change, but it is very difficult after such a long interruption of training just to do everything alone, without any assistance.
I start, than I stop…
The easiest way to lose weight in the gym, but it takes a professional to help in this, and this does not exist here.

(In this letter – essay the theft and attempts of raising the payments after a while and stealing my shirt for the training, for which I have long saved money to buy it, stolen by the “fancy” trainer, all excluded)

So, once more into the battle, I recalled a nice guy from a gym in New Belgrade. I was working with him, but I was forced to move… In USA people are moving constantly, I know that, because my aunt Suhair is moving constantly, my uncle Labib did it I think two times… but in Serbia this is a shame and a disgrace!)

Also, I have to stress this, an exercise is very important to me. It is not a question of just about having an athletic body, but also about the connection of body and spirit. Some “runners’ high” feeling after the great workout!
So, to finish this sob story, I called the number and I heard a male voice with the accent of Tweebuffelsmeteenskootmorsdoodgeskietfontein:

“ Whooo? Ooo, heeee! He is not working here anymore. He is in retirement”
I think I can handle with this gentlemen.
Could you?
But I think I had enough.

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boris k, prose

NO NEED TO LEARN ENGLISH LANGUAGE

Boris K. would like to know English to be understood by 0.01% percent of Chinese who speak English (which is not a small number)
Although, adds Boris K, the Chinese do not even know Chinese, let alone English.
Boris K. would like to know English so he could say to Elisabeth: “Long Live The Grandma!”
Though, Elisabeth has her younger brother… Long live to celebrate his third term…!
Boris K. would love to know English so he could greet Obama, but Obama does not speak English, he speaks American.
And that’s why Boris K. decided to say hello to Obama in the Swahili language, which is the dialect in Central Africa, where Obama was born.
“Habari za jioni Rais, kama wanawake na watoto!”
Obama was thrilled!
Boris K. realizes only Obama understands him.
Still, Boris K. will not vote for Obama because that would be his third term which is impossible to be.
Boris K. would vote for Putin as Putin could stay in Russia for all time, as the president of Russia, in order not to spread his influence further …
Boris K. , also, will not vote for “The Pussy Lips”, since Serbia already have enough fools who will vote for him.
Boris K., in the end, would love to say hello to the Indians but they are dead and gone thanks to Buffalo Bill.
Boris K. would like to know English so he could say something to Buffalo Bill, but Bill is dead and gone.
Thus, Boris K. understands that there is no need to learn English language, at all.

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The trial begins. WITCHES!, Leila Samarrai

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(c) Bruce Castle Museum (Haringey Culture, Libraries and Learning); Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

image found here

I stand naked
Wrapped in flame and smoke.
My long hair–
Oh, my long, flax fiber hair…
I forgot my hat and broomstick
I left my shoes in the chimney.

The trial begins.

WITCHES:
The first witch wears labeled clothes
Her name is Margaret.
She claims she has never been to Oz.
But you can see the magic swimming eerily in her eyes.
“Sheriff Corwin, the black Tutuba, actually Succuba
the poet is from Barbados
The magic is swinging eerily in her eyes!

JUDGE: “Whatever it is…the woman it is!”

Abigail, stop twitching in your sleep!
Again, she is having nightmares, Judge!
Another wears pointed shoes, she is Edwardian.
Abigail’s mother,
She’s The Queen of spades with a high hat

THE VILLAGE:
“You do not have a husband! Who delivereth you? The devil! ”

“I am,
washerwoman
The executioner and the victim“

THE VILLAGE:
“She does not deserve to live!”

The third was my mistress.
Stingy with words.
Goddamn my black blood
In the ludus!
Hold it!
Startled by a witch!
Back into the darkness!
“Go away, you’re dead!
She’s dead! ”

So I died.
As befits,
Tomorrow I’m going to die
Tomorrow is going to die
Love will die
Between empty hands
(The absence between hands)
Eyes are for blindness .. a daily basis

I will be rooted deep like an oak
I will be that gentle, sweet sonnet
I no longer dream of poppies in wheat
Yes, I, A Witch in Salem’s village,
I listen to someone else’s breath inside me.
I burn in the fire and
I’m shivering.

The trial continues uninterrupted.
My ashes descend.

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