3..on poo

On saturday i went for a long awaited pedicure. Ah. Relishing the freedom of father taking son to a coffe bar, i grabed at afwul woman glossy magasnies with glee, not out of care for them but rather out of the luxury that i have the time to. Here was an hour i was going to spend free of hearing baby sounds i have to react to 24 hours since birth.My armsfelt light as feathers not carrying the little heavy weight,and my feet buzzed up effortesley on the mechanichal white leather cushion of the pedicure chair, ah so light i felt, so right too this little treat was deserved, i was a woman again not singularley a mother, when my foot zoomed into vicinity of the cosmeticians face, and i noticed that on it, on the arch, there was poo. Yup. Golden delicious yellow baby poo .

2 ..on birth

What ever people say. Giving birth is by fare more painfull than anything you will ever live trough.I do feel like giving you the greusome details just to make sure you understand , but my arm is numb, and baby is awake again. So im just going to leave it at, it took me 26 hours and a c-section, husband holding hand, and an epidural which only half worked,as in half the body felt no pain, whilst the other did, from water breaking, to baby being out. The fairy tale that tantric yoga methods of by gone days can make birth a giant orgasm or at least painless, is my dears just a fairy tale, probaley written by men.

1 on babies and beds.

There is no feeling in the world that can better the happyness of the little baby rolling from anywhere in the bed-using its exploding wriggle movement , in order to launch his little belly against my own, throw his wee legs onto mine, and place one hand on my tummy, the other between my breasts, and cheek too, at which point he opens one eye to check im still there , than close it, and flash a tooth-free smile, uber content, before falling asleap. The mothers who at week one, trained their babies to sleep in a cot and are proud about their installation of good behavour, - simpley have missed out. And people whp preech this put the baby in the cot -teach the baby manners, haven't a clue. becouse the joy is re lived each time baby repeats the motion.

Duje is sleeping with his bottom in my right palm, and head cuchioned on my breast. No other sleeping method suits today, so im going to be a good mumy and not move anypert but my left hand. ARE YOU READY? here i go.

Baby duye is arguing with a frankenstein, giraffe-horse-chiken-soft toy. The toy is singing its repeated mechanical mozart composition, and baby Duye keeps trying to start a new conversation. Getting furstrated and punching the toy, than howling to its rytham siinging along, producing all the new sounds he is learning to make, euuu, auuuu, Gu, eh, auwi,mmm. But the stupid toy does not get it. Yes he is deciding the toy is stupid and boring and the wall of the prambulator is by far more interesting making this my que to interveen. This is as much as i can write today. So loong!

Impossible to write these days. Lots i want to say. But baby is 23.5 hours in my arms. Hail to all the readers. I shall always be with you, in the style of Yoda, even when you can not read the proof.

Alowing oneslef to flow with impulse, irrational, illogical, but strong impulse, whislt often badley regarded by firends and people " who want you to do well".. Actualy seems always to lead exactley to whatever you need in life. I have so many times abandoned my logical path, and was looked down upon by frustrated people who "knew better for me", but actualy it seems only when these urges strike I and I go full steam ahead irregrdles of "advice", embracing total changes of direction, everything I want comes to pass. In fact often obssesive sticking to the traintrack which seems to be the right way from A to B in the jungle, can often result in loosing your head. Whilst red-riding-hooding it off the track, folowing random curiosities, pretty leaves an d animals, will lead you right to El Dorado. I have given up this working year for baby rearing, forgot aobut aplications and bienales, and suddnely a boom of invitations to do exhibitions is arriving. Magic.

Man's first trip to outer space

Eennie

minie

miney

mo,

yes or no

yes or no?

Shoull i stay or ought i go?

is what little fingers and toes are thinking right now kicking and pushing trying to sense what is outside this universe.



Lights , sounds, touch from outer-space constanltey interact with his warm cosy atmosphere.

Are there alians out there he may be thinking?

Or is it just me, in this squishy soft world?

Just as he has figured out all the boundries, north ,south, east ,west, in ,out,

as far as the world will strech and react to his feet,

even when he streches the foot as far as it goes

, pushing the furthest bit of his bigest toe,

and he understands the best ways to use this space,

to be as comfortable as he may,

and even interact with thid invisible feeling of touch outside ..



The question is does he want to know more?

Does he want to see if there is anything out there?

Or should he stay ingnore his curiosity..?



He settles to stay here in this world where he reigns, and than hears something intersting outside, a new sound. Than yet again, he has theories of what he may find. How exciting he thinks. Formulates a mix of sensory ideas of that that he will feel if he just dared travel outside.

He knows there is a way.

There must be a way.

There must be a world outside this world.

But the little thing is scared , and tests the waters again with his fingers, and toes, and head, he wobbles, and jiggells, and pushes and tries to hear for some ressonance . Yep. There . I feel something agian . I can hear those familiar noises.



And after conducting the experiment in contorled conditions, for a very long time. Punching for days at the same time to fill up with hot chocholate and cherries.



He says , oh well ,

its now or never

and wades his little feet like a propler,

and flipflops his hands like fins

with all his might pushes off from some hard matter he does not understand are ribs,

and slurp,

jams his head upside down,

into what he thought must be the gate to outer space.





He gets a bit upset for it not being the way he thought. The first experiment he must abort. Now like a squid he is jamed with the head down whilst his legs and arms are still flopping loosley around.



But there must be something out there, he is convinced. Kicks hard again and agian and agian until he feels movement and sounds, the alians are talking back to him. There is no way I can be alone in this world..



He swimms and wriggles and spins on his head like a drill, towards the gate he knows must lead to outer space, than some unexpected strange intertia begins, a thing called gravity, he can no longer pull out, no he doesent want to go, his ears are full of horrible sounds, his hands are getting sucked up too and legs aaa, he ca no longer stop the pull. He has changed his mind he decided, he tiries to wade back, but than light, horrible painful light strikes his eyes, of a brightness that he did not know exsits, and something janks at this body and pulls him into new dimensions.



Waaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. He screams.



Horible giant misty alians he sees.

Cold, so cold ,such as he never felt in his delicious squishey tropical world.

I want to go home, he thinks so hard,and everytime he thinks, scary shrill noises are ejaculated from his throat, waaaaaaah.!



He is than placed on something squishey and warm. He can hear fammilar rythams of tick tock, which remind him of home, and sounds of voices, loud, but which he had heard before.

Something is familiar aobut all this, he thinks.

He moves his feet and feels they move. He moves his hands and they move too. They move much faster than before. Not swimng in lovley goo any more.

Well. Its very very bright he thniks . But at least i know i was right. There is an outer space.

Than again he feels exhasuted from his trip, hungry, and angry, how can he now, get his hotchocholate and cherry fill? Shrill noises are comming from his thorat, he kicks and punches, wanting cherries, but the noise is just getting worse, until, in one instant the tick tocking alian, pushes something squshey and warm into his mouth. And he can taste chocholate and cherries agian . ooh. So good. He thinks. does a few more kicks. Than closes his eyes and dreams.

on cats and dogs..

Its hard to belive but my dog Kupina the cartoon type cat bully- has started to babybysit kittens for a local street cat on her own home turf balcony.. ! whatever next..

A light on Pregnancy

Pregnancy by mothers and those around them often is described in cliches as popular as those cliches about religion. Everyone speaks about weight as if it matters. They speak about sickness, about how tough it is, and about the feeling of aliens moving in the stomach. The clishes are as empty and as insulting as those polystyrene industrial cheese balls claiming to be nourishment.

Attuned to her own spirit and body, a new mother can from day one feel that there is new life within her. Its not complicated. She immediately dreams the baby. Imitate the body refuses certain substances, rejects their intake into the body as in my case was coffee, demands certain foods full of vitamins, and clams territory of time, sets the body to sleep, rest, repose contrary to work ethics, regardless of them, because the mission her body has exceeds in importance all other purpose.

This to someone who is in not in a state to have a child, may seem a ridiculous stipulation and hormone affected thought.Yet, last week in a hospital waiting room i sat next to 6 girls under the age of 32, who had multiple miscarriages, some as many as six, all heathley young women, desperate to have a child, and they have a point of wiew rather different than they had when younger and trying not to get pregnant. Suddenly their main priority in life, became this child they found hard to carry to birth. Their entire purpose, time, money are now directed towards this single goal,the healthy pregnancy. The career however important before completely lost its previous value. Would she get fat or sick along the way or have to inject her self with hormones for months did not prove a problem to any of them.

Pregnancy is not a culmination of exterior cliches which everyone knows. It is not 9 moths of difficult time. It is a world in itself. What have i been doing? Am i going out? Am i meeting people. St oped mattering. I do all those things but feel no need for it, no rush, as i did before. What have i done, which is interesting, of late, that i can chat about, impress , also matters not. An entire world, self sufficient, and content exists between the self and the baby.The purpose of a day is already complete, at start, at dawn or when ever one wakes up, if the baby is well if it moves to say hi.

The connection is total, it moves within one, inside dreams, sleep. The progress it makes from its first days trough out the months is fascinating. Following the development of a few cells , to organs, to a whole child with personality, we finally learn our own coming to being, the way life develops, the process of evolution almost. We notice it starting in its own mysterious way to communicate with the mother, and trough the mother with the world.We start to understand which vitamins and minerals help to form our own body cells, organs, functions. Life gains a new value, as does health, very life is what matters, rather than importance of what the baby will be when it growns up or what will be its name.

Learning ourselfs to communicate, move ones hand ower the belly where the little feet move and sense their reaction and feel the way they search for the warmth of the hand on the exterior of the belly is a thrill. Feeling moments in which the baby is still and sleeps, and than slowly wakes up begging to jiggle its little fingers, hands, than actively play about for and hour or two, before making the mother adjust her body in a way that suits it and fall asleep. It is an amassing experience.

My baby kicks hard, it hurts sometimes, and makes me twist, in ways which suit him better. Because he is positioned with head down, perhaps he does not like walking much and protests about it to make me lie down. So reclining becomes something i do. The wonderful thing is , lack of feeling of missing out anything. I am not painting so what. It will not run away, none of it, world is exterior and separate and matters less. There will be other time for other things. Foloving the way different bumps appear and move in my belly is much move fascinating, trying to guess if the bump is a knee or bottom or a foot making little hills under the skin and disappearing again within.

From the begging i could feel something in the right side, a small presence than much earlier than all the doctors and information said i would, i could feel the movement of a tiny tiny foot, and now he is some weeks before birth and in his sleeps he still settles his bottom into the right-hand-side of the belly, so all his weight is positioned there, when he wakes that is where he most likes to kick his little feet, stretching as far towards the back as poking the little foot just above the hip.

The baby is now a very large bump sticking out what seems at least half a meeter away from the rest of me when i stand up. In the last week my skin can not take the weight and has started to groove, purple, not beautiful but real, its still doesn't bother me as long as baby is doing well. The joints of the fingers, knees hurt, i don't like the new vitamins and so have not taken them last few weeks and can almost feel how energy and minerals are drawn from my own body for the baby. I now can sense how the lack of certain foods and minerals directly affect my body. Not eating magnesium filled foods, dark greens and walnuts results in leg cramps and gastritis within days.

I'm already being asked as to what sports i want the boy to play, or friends imagine our personality projected as if it where a mini m or me, but i feel the whole time this complete little individual. It beats its heart within me, but thinks on it own all ready. It doesn't like all i decide to do and protests. So what will be the personality, what will he like , i cant wait to see. All i can tell he loves being touched and stroked, likes attention, likes flamenco, and is very active.

Its interesting too to observe the relation the father develops with the child. The excitement. The worry at each doctors appointment. The absolute necessity to arrange all the best quality medical treatment and objects baby needs. The love which develops so early on. The ultimate care to make sure , mother and baby inside are ok. Changes in his times prioroties. And in turn the baby very early on starts to recognise the voice of the father, kick every time he comes home from work, say hello and poke when he hears his heartbeat trough my skin.

Any way, we are now in the last weeks or days before we meet the little man face to face.. I supose that will bring on the ultimate change of affairs. Im, still watering plants, doing usual things , its the quiet before the big change.

Adoption

On the floor aobve us, lives a dog. One day she walked to the park and met there a littlle gray kitten. She took the kitten in her jaws and brought her home. From that day the kitten has become apartmant cat and dog's best firend and that was years ago. The cant now hangs out in the house, the dog goes out, hangs out with other cats, but has never bought another home.

The reader

There exsist people who simpley do not read. The atlas of their interest streaches from football results to the pages with photographs of boobs or particularley nastey picturesque murders in the yellow press. They do not enjoy reading. They find their own way to the sublime or divine in life, without having to look for education in litereature. There are many such people.

One of them works on an island in the Adriatic sea. He is allright. Does he posses a working permit, probabley not. You will recognise him by his entriely bald and sun fired head, and the few teeth still clinging to his gums. He is a dedicated worker, drives a jeep, carries luggage, barbicues in scoorching mid day heat, and whenever a chance appears he slips off into the woods to rest his bones, under the pretense that he is still working, and rats out to the boss all the colligues he catches doing the same thing. He is a seasonoal worker from Bosnia.

The tropical Dalmatian island, with its portfolio photographs of flora and fauna resembeling the long lost bibblical paradise gardens, attracted one summer day a gentleman toursit from Belgrade to come and stay.

In the name of good times the man rented the island's largest vila. Yet considerting he had traveled hither alone, the large villa just augmented his lonleyness. What use are three toilets to a man who is alone? And seeing he had a bolding head, in the style of the smurfs arch enemy Gargamil, bold at the top with a bit of dyed black hedge round the base, from all angles the villa's eamptyness reflected off his sun scorched and sweaty head.

He atempted to prevent the reflection of that lonleyness by ganashing upon the boldpatch a hankercheif, held in place with 4 knots, one for each side of the world. But the hankerchief constanltey kept lifting off and setting sail on the island breeze, trying to rid itself of him, and leave him to hide that lonleyness in blind conviction and arrogance owned by all men who appear at the seaside sporting white sandals and white socks.

Upon the same tropical mini cosoms lived a girl employed in the design of jewllery. Her dailey routine was of the freer type, she worked when she wished to, she swam when she wanted, the only activity she compleated in synchrony with thethe rest of the islanders, was eat in the restaurant at same time .

In the restrouant was where he aproached her for the first time.

I have seen you before, during your promenade. A paradise bird. A Beauty.

The middle aged man, with slighltey loose skin, hanging office boobs, and spectacles, did not by any means, on first sight, appear attractive enough to be able to charm a girl half a life younger than he. Yet he, alike much of his breed, was encouraged, by the certanty of assumption, that his image on others left the impression of an interlectual. Further more balkan men are not known for giving up on an idea they have their mind set on, and so the letch insisted, begged for several days that " the young lady join him, for one drink, even, during middle of the day, even in midst of the restourant.

" Champagne" Promptley oredered she. Why not help the restourant, and pay for the boredom she expected.

They sat at a table. The man drew a book out of his towel and placed it nonchalantley on the table's surface. The drink arrived. What do two strangers have to talk about? About what they do usualy and what they are doing on the island. He is a producer of cartoons form Belgrade, here at sea to relax, enrich his mind, he came from the greatest wish to read everything he did not have time for during the year. He brought two suitcases full of books. Yes he came exsclusivley to be at peace and read.

What is that book about? Asked she notioning to the one proped upon the table. Ah, this one he just started. The book was aobut zen philosophy, and the ways to become all together a better man towards himself and others. The drink was soon drunk. The little company fell apart. And thoguh the toursit pleeded for the meeting to strech a little, the girl got up, gave her thanks and dissapered in to the island shrubbery.

The next day when the girl woke up and came to the restoruant for her moring coffee, she met the tourist agian. He invited her to breakfast with him, but she declined.

When she walked a little furither from the restourant, out of the shadows of a tree, exited his pale freckely body, an accidental encounter of destiny ,of course, and very excitedley without premission the man colided with the girl, becosue simpley had to, recount , the enlightening details he disocvered in the book last night. She politley listened, than walked away on her own business.

It appears that this initial curtesy had an effect upon the serbian, he saw in it a possibility to be rid of his tiring and all present lonleyness. Iluminated by the light of the moring and reflections of the agava's the girl appeared like a divine vision, and became to this man the point of his holliday, a key which released a boulder of obssesive behavour to roll freeley down the hill. From that moment the serbian started to jump out of bushes where ever she would appear. He fell out of the thinest possible shadows in the style of Pink Panter the cartoon detective. He managed even to pass unnoticed by the screaming peacoks who had proabablye begun to ignore him due to sheer time lenth he spent waiting to pounce, crouching in the shrubbery .

The bald barbicue man started teasing the girl. When ever she would pass his barbicue, and this happened offten as next to the barbicue flowed the path to the beach, he was selling the serbian man's qualites. Saying how the girl has to give him a chance, hear him out. That he would be real good for her, a fine man, his homie, best mate.

The restourant too started buzzing aobut the girls "friend" who spent the days investigating and questioning everyone as to where she may be.

The crazier he became, the bigger effort she made to awoid him. She began creeping aobut the island, trying to get to the beach without his noticing. Once luckley she saw him in the bar next to the sea, drinking coffee with the workers, and just as she made it around the wall of the bar, head down, to get to the beach quickley and slither to the furthest end of the bay unnoticed, on the other side of the wall, sprawled in the sun and sweating, who does she bump into, but him.

It must have been hours he has been lying there and reading. Says he.

But when will he, oh when will he be able to tell her all about this new book, so intriguing that he has accepted to be hostage and spend the day frying in the sun, just to read it, he is certain it would interest her.

She does not know, she has work to do, she invents excuses to awoid time with him. The predator than speaks a few magic words. Well where do you hide all day? I have searched for you all over the island and I still can not find where you work.

Ah. Fear into the bones. All she needs with the mosquitoes, flies and snakes is this pesty man to follow her and jump out of cactuses out side her hut. She had to satisy him just enough for him to leave her be.

They arranged a diner. The same day. During the day. In the restoruant by the sea. Long before sun set. By the way, could he acompany her now to the place where she swims? No. And the girl sped away across a bay of sharp stones.

Evening. They met at the table under the olive tree. He as always brought his books. How can one interlectual survive the island without a book under the arm? She ordered everything she had not yet tired, and good vine, seeing he wants to socialise so much, make it expensive for him.

The dinner was tastey. He spoke aobut books. She too talked aobut the books she had read. She actualy loved to read, had read a lot, many books he had never heard of. On the other hand she was not familiar with the titles he carried about, so he used the dinner to summerise these new books he has read since they had the glass of champagne. He explained what they where aobut. What happens at the end. And all the possible conclusions that could be drawn. He wanted to teach her, being older, to bring jewls of knowledge to her life on this primitive island. When the dinner was over, the girl used the dark and wilderness , to dissapeer.

Tomorrow she traveled away from the island.

The day after tomorrow she returned .

The bald barbicue man awaited the arrival of the boat, and drowe her with the jeep to the restoruant at the top of the hill. Well did anything happen with my firend. He asked in a friendley tone. No, Of course not. No chance, Answered the girl . Is he still on the island? She asks.

Left this morning, holliday fhinished. So notthing, notthing at all happedend between you? The baldie askes again incredulousley. What an ass. He says.

Not your best mate any longer?

What mate, what friend, he was a clean business transaction. He sneers. I'm right knackered and exhausted because of him, good thing he left. You know, that each night he gave me 100 euros to read those books he constantley carried aobut? I tired, exhausted, all day been working on the barbicue, where'd he come to bother me, stick to me and drink, and than at night I had to read those bloodey books, and you know how in our house the light is bad, and the guys snore in beds around me, had to read with a torch squinting, and that attracts all those fucking mosquitoes.

What? She says surprised. He paid you to read the books? Why?

Yep. So, he'd be cool, be the man. In the morings i had to summerise every part of the book, ma eyes are still in pain, says the barbicue man, wipes the sweat from his head, and swings the jeep in reverse. He wanted to be a hot shot, to impress you with the books, conqour you, how ever you like. But you say he didn't. Im so glad. Dear girl . He told me that I could be doing something better with life. But you see, every night I became a 100 euros richer by the book, and forgive my language,he left with having gotten none, sunburnt, a fool and an ass, and he still doesen't know what is actualy writen in those books. What can i say, its not all about the money, and not all wisedom can be found in books.

COCAINE VILLE

THE EXHIBITION Meeting the neon blond and hyperbolicley tanned man, in Milan, was obviously a miracle.

The star aligned meeting by few weeks preceded the invented date, I had promised to open exhibition in Mexico,to all who would listen , with all likelihood of it never happening, for there was absolutely no organisation behind my words, just a dream , a year long wish to do so.

Yet, this outrageously coloured galerist invited me to do exactly that. Wow. Would you believe that? He wanted to have me show in his gallery as soon as could be done . I had to come. He repeated teeth shining screaming neon violet, his clothes refleting road sign orange, in Milan's after hours club where after an art fair, we had been dancing.

His English was limited to Depache mode lyrics. Our communication was in style of NASA chatting to UFOs. Incomprehensible satellite ejaculations of sound pieces. White noise. words in codes , sequences of letters, something like bad English or terrible Spanish. Who will ever know what was said really.

The plane carrying my body did land on the strip of Monterrey airport. There was a fat little man waiting for me with a huge car. He did not know to to say my name, but I went with him all the same. We drove trough Batman city exhaust fume coloured sunset, roads lined with factories.

Night fell. Fat man drove around and around the same streets. I was on the edge inquietude when the car parked under a tree, by the door of a gallery. Paints where waiting. Aclochol and DJ where ready. A huge roll of paper waited for my installation guidance together with two assistants. My show opened as promised at midnight. The space was packed. The performance turned into a party. The party lasted all night. I felt like a super star.

Sometime deep in the night, the neon haired gallerist said its enough, wer going for an after party. Crowds packed off into cars, as did we , gallerist, assistant, and I. We stopped somewhere on a road. The neon man phoned a friend. A man gave him a something.I was observing the Monterrey sky line, until I heard a police car whine coming up from behind . The police stoped us. I had always been bad at maths but than jumbled images of the last few moments started too rewind and add up. I suddenly trough "shit". A classic American movie drug bust.

Where the hell am I? My brain finally tuned into the cliche tourist fears of Mexico. I am here just to paint, ah too fucking impulsive. Wer going to be arrested. The heart started pumping blood trough the veins in the rhythm of tragedy at the opera. The galerist opened his wallet and slipped the cop a few notes from it, the cop bartered for more, thanked him, walked away, and we drove off in to the night.

The after party was at the house of the gallerist. A strange modern architectural contraption surrounded by trees, decorated with retro glass surfaces, everything being hperbolicacly clean , yet the pervading smell of black shower mould filled the space like an air bag into which you kept hitting your head on, painfully.

The party was full of Monterrey night flies, girls and guys. Saying things which where drowned out by Depache Mode rendered out of a huge war technology stereo. I drunk rum. At some time I wanted to sleep. No one gave a shit. So I stayed awake. Asked for coffee before going back to paint at the gallery. When asking for coffee the only option there is in Monterrey is Starbucks, that surprised me.

THE CITY

Monterrey for the most part is a copy of some small town america, copy of the standard suburbia grid plan, fitted with replica American streets,divided by plastic surgeries and replica houses lived in by women with plastic replica breasts, noses, and teeth. I realised something is entirely amiss when asking for fresh squeased orange juice in a restaurant at breakfast , I got served fanta. There was no feeling of mexico.

The next day I spent in painting. Muses came and went. I drowened my fatigue in the rhythm of the stereo, vine, if the music so much as stoped I would have crumpled on to the floor and fell asleep. The paintings turned out enormous, following my dance moves.

I stoped painting for dinner, some old man with crazy eyes and dog came with us, it seemed all there was to eat in this city was chips of fired meat in tacos. Returning to the house of the gallerist, exhausted I was faced with another night of after party. The strange old man with crazy eyes and his dog stayed the night, even tough they did not have where to crash. I tired to sleep. Depache mode constantly played the kind of concert bass which mushes up the organs in the body. Gave up. Drunk rum with the old man, dog, and galerist who spent the night talking.

THE COLLECTORS/MUSES

MUSE 1 Spent the whole day in the shadows of the suburban gallery. Exhausted, keeping on dancing, painting to the rhythm, whiteout thought process, somnambulist style, paintings turned out amazing. Well until some rich collector, jabba-the-hut-toad woman came, like a devil, to screw with me. Lets face it who can paint a monster the way it really looks, when you know they will snap your spine and chew off your head if you dare.

Monster woman stayed for ages, I painted her swamp green eyes as pretty, diminished her nose, de-stretched her mouth, and ignored the third world war lard storage bags, hanging of the cheeks, chin and eyes than sent her away. She, thrilled at this mirror of her true soul which only I the artist could reach under tons of fat, farted magic powder ions approvingly like a witch, squealing how she will buy the work most definitely, kissed both me and galerist, for no image of her looked so good since her higschool picture at the age of sixteen.

THE OLD ALCOHOLIC AND HOUND The old man, still wearing the same tweed jacket and shirt from three days ago and increasingly smelling of alcohol, followed by his dog, went where ever the gallerist went. Talking incessantly , all day talking shit. I refused to paint until he was removed from the gallery.

However on the way to the house that evening, to rest, after 3 nights with no sleep, muscles aching, there he was, in the car, with us coming home. I protested about his gnarly presence which inspired his dog to puke on my shoe. He goes where ever i go said the galerist as if his life depended on this certainty. His chatting keeps me from feeling lonely.

The old drunk and the galerist spent the night talking. How they could remain awake, I could not understand. The living room was open plan divided from my bedroom by stereo speakers and a wardrobe. There was no magic word that would make the galerist turn off the stereo. I put pillows on my head and slept trough the same again and again and again depache mode album.

MUSE 2 The next day a young and rich industrialist's daughter came to be painted. Before painting though she took me out for my much needed coffee. We went into town, into a huge art museum, sat in the coffee shop empty other than us, and its 200 tables . The only drinking option of this canteen size bar was nesscaffe. Disgrace. I ordered. She did not drink coffee at all. She pulled out of her bra a tiny bag full of white lumps. They looked like stones. This is better than coffee. She said and broke one of the lumps into smaller bits with a key, and than with a wet finger picked them up and sucked them into the mouth. " Cocaine"

The 3 meeter wide picture of her turned out satisfyingly for both of us. She was a well established business woman and a passionate art collector. She decided to buy it immediately. After the painting session she wanted to show me where it will be hung in her house. We Rowe her fancy car into the yard of a large hacienda. Ah. Hope daddy is not home, she whispered.He does not know I went out and he would not approve if I had. It struck me as odd for someone in their mid thirties year to think like that. Passing a yard full of cars, we entered a kitchen full of maids, and children and snuck to her room. Room was huge, and the floor covered with the skins of 12 dead zebras. "Daddy knows I love the zebra pattern, he killed them for me. He can be so sweet some time. On one wall was a giant girlie pink metal art piece. I will put your painting above my head" And she pointed above a king side bed.

"Do you like the dress I bought for your exhibition opening tomorrow? And lifted a Yves st Laurent silver mini thing I too had noticed in the shop window in town" I needed the bathroom, and she apologised , for on the way I had to pass trough a clothes rack jungle inaccessible without a machete. Scratched and bleeding by a wardrobe of couture outfits I made it to a bathroom as big as the bedroom which was packed with plastic storage boxes full of top brands make up. There was more make up in that bathroom than at the back of any beauty rooms of any shop.

" Am i hungry?" I was for something home made and heathey. The maids brought lunch for me, and she again just ate cocaine. "I don't want to get any fatter." She explained. Every month I go for a little bit of lypo, but still its better to not to put on weight. What about the scars? I asked. Ah id rather have scars than be fat, she explained and proceeded to point out the spots on her corps from which she was lyposucked, as well as show me how her, lips and cheeks, and buttocks than where plumped up with the leg fat. " Ah. that's why I had liked her mouth whilst painting. She was a fake, together with silicone boobs. I felt cheated."

On the drive back to the gallery she pointed out a glass building ". That's where I want to buy an apartment, top floor. And its making daddy mad, he wants me to stay home." The galerist told me she directs two companies, I could not understand why she would still, live at home" I need an apartment soon you see, so i have somewhere to meet with my boyfriend. The car stereo was playing some Mexican rap music. "Do you like the music" She asked me. " This song is about my boyfriend" it was really aggressive. Than she slipped a newspaper cutting from her purse into my hand, a photograph of a dark unshaven man." Don't you think he is gorgeous? He is in prison. He killed two men. I saw his picture in the newspaper and immediately fell in love. " Do you know him" I asked. I wrote to him. And i visited him." So you did not know him before the murder?" No, she confessed without timidity,its the second boyfriend i met in this way, the fact he has killed someone don't you think is so manly, so sexy"?

MUSE 3 After her, I painted the owner of a paper factory. His portrait too turned out beautiful and he said he will buy it. As a thank you he invited me to his country house. The gallerist said it was a huge honour as he had not been invited ever before. The man lived outside of town, outside the suburban cauchmare where we left the gallery, outside the caged-in shanty city where we dropped of the gallery assistant, and off red dust roads with real proper tumble weeds and cactuses. He invited me to the post card mexico I wanted to see.

His house was a large blue and terracotta hacienda in a mud wall and dried grass pueblo full of lasey dogs and cricket bands. He lived with invisible servants,withing walled up lush green gardens, walls full of artwork, and socialised only with and an older dry woman he rented to keep his 4 identical gray hound dogs happy. His dogs where exactly the breed which was wowen into the 12 century european tapestries. Difficult to obtain in mexico. Very expensive. He had no girlfriend ,nor boyfriend. The dogs pooed all over the house where ever they wanted ,and the old woman ran about and collected the poo. The dogs sat on chairs, roled on carpets, ate out of plates, and where kissed by this man, all trough lunch.

THE SHOW OPENING The exhibition re opened when i had completed the perfomative painting. 10 muses turned up, dressed for the oscars and feeling like super stars as they where recognisable in artworks. Generally they where all thrilled, all but the fat jabba the hut woman, who on entering and looking for her meaty loaf at the centrepiece of my exhibition could not fail to notice that she had been exterminated, or rather after much effort, sweat and mockery between self and assistants, she was glued ower, and replaced with a portrait of a man who would not destroy my entire exhibition with ugliness. Loosing money did not matter to me so much as the work it self, and the women having turned green said to the galerist she will never buy anything from him agian, and stormed out of the gallery. All the hotshots guys and girls turned up again dressed spick and spam and after the opeing we went into town for yet another afterparty.

All the girls who came with us, where ex pretty girlfirends of the gallerist. I could not understand why for he was not very good looking, if anything he looked like a cartoon character and had an odd personality. His life oriented towards imitating the singer of depache mode, and he had been dresing in the style of depache mode, and listening to depache mode since he saw a concert in England at the age of 16, yet now he was 33. He collected used woodoo dolls from islands in the carribian until he started to be folowed everywhere by polter-ghosts and than sold the antiquarian shop and started dealing contemporary art. .

Apart from the many male artists who he worked with ,i was the first girl artist to show in his gallery. We celebrated, drunk margeritas in some cool sky bar in centre of town, I, the galerist, old man his dog and the ex girlfirends. I felt relif ,for my work was finaly fhinished, several works where sold as soon as they where created ,so i was going to have money, and i relaxed into enjoying this last after party.But the night lead us from one house party to the next. Very often we stoped in converted garages as these thirty year old women all still lived with theri parents. Nobody but me and the dirty old man and his dog ever got hungrey, the rest shared cocaine about as if it was candy.

MORE AFTERPARTY Day after exhibition, we went to the seaside.Mexican comerical beaches are all about mariachi, food, margaritas arriving at your bedside and none of the weight loosing activites which sea meant to me. The night we went aobut town, i wanted to experience a cumbia dance bar. We asked a taxi where it was and just as he arrived in front of a club, the gallerist said something incomprehensible to the driwer who swung the car elwse where. We drowe along the lit high ways, and than up hill to some residential parts, than further into very shabby part of town, with broken glass, and not many street lights. I starated to get afriad. Where are we going i asked. We will be just a minute he replied. The driwer too got nervous he said he is not driving any further than that. That it is dangerous. I was afraid agian. Galerist insisted. I begged to leave, dread filling me. He told me to be quiet, not panick. A man watched us from across the road. It all lasted ten minutes or so. He had his hand on something that looked like a gun. Than aonther came ower, galerist gave him money and the other gave him a tiny packet. Taxi drowe on. You fucking bastard I screamed at him. You took me there for that shit? We could have got shot. There are many murders in that area said the taxi diver as we retuned to the lit part of town.

He parked by the cumbia bar. Insides of a huge hall where filled with 80'style neon lights, and douzens of 80 and 70 year old grandmothers dancing. An extreme atmospheric difference. But among these old ladies at least i felt safe. I ordered rum. Galerist had his white shit. I dared the dance floor and the old grandmas who where all dancing in hpyer groove, felt sorry for my western ways and taught me how to move. I spent the night dancing eaglery, finding it tough to keep up with the fit cumbia old ladies.

It would have been best if thats where the afteparty ended. But it did not. The galerist refused to pay for my work so i kind of stayed around in Montrray a week too long. I felt like a fly who had flown into a jam pot, stuck, unable to get away. He would not give me the money we agreed upon. He kept promising it , later , later, soon, tomorrow. And thats how the date for my aeroplane ticket to euroupe dawned. I had almost got acustomed to this delirium place, where the norm was this common psychosis. They where all rich, all lived with parents until the day they would get married, but they would not for they where too fucked up, they where adults who lived like children, and so took cocaine all the time to easape. I started to recive new work offers, i was asked to participate a work for a sothebies charrity auction, and to do an exhibition in the monterray museum. I started to plan it. Huge enormous paintings of egoes of these cocaine maniacs. I would install the biggest paintings on huge white painfuly clean backgrounds. And i would have the exhibition invitations printed on tiny sugar packets to draw them ,remind them, mock them. But as soon as i made it on to the plane out of town, I felt so relived, like i had woken up out of a bad dream, and i dropped the concept complealteay. I never returned to do a second exhibition in monterrey , and for the first one, I never actualy got paid.

Čitač.

Postoje ljudi koji jednostavno ne čitaju. Atlas njihovog interesa rasteže se od rezultata nogometa do stranica sa sisama ili hohor pričica uz krvave slike iz 24 sata. Oni nevole čitati. Poronalaze vlasit put prema uzvišenom ili divinitetu, ali bez potrage za nekim literalnim obrazovanjem. Mnogo je takvih ljudi.

Jedan od njih radi na srednje jadranskom otoku. Simpatičan je. Dali posjeduje radnu dozvolu, vjerojatno ne. Prepoznat če te ga po sasvim čelavom suncem ošinutom glavom, i nekoliko zubi u čeljusti. Vrijedno radi, vozi đip, nosi prtljagu, peče po zvizdanu na roštilju, i kada god mu se ukaže prilika šmugne među drveće, odmoriti kosti, pod pretensom da i tada radi, te izdaje gazdi sve ostale kolege koje sretne u šumi dok rade isto što i on. On je sezonski radnik iz Bosne.

Tropsko srednjo dalamtinski otok, sa svojim fotografijama flore i faune nalik na davno zapušten bibliski raj, privukao je jednog ljetnog dana i gospodin turistu iz Beograda.

Čovek je iznajmio najveću villu za provod na otoku. No s obzirom da je doputovao sam, velika villa samo je uvečavala njegovu samoću. Što če usamljenom čovjeku tri we-ce-a? A stim da je imao pelavu glavu, u stilu Gargamila, čelavu na vrhu sa malo crno ofarbanog žbunja pri dnu, sa svih kutova čovekova prazna villa reflektirlala je o suncem pocrvenjelu i sjajnu glavu.

Pokušao je ukloniti odraz te samoće nadjenuvši na čelu maramicu zadržanu putem četiri čvora , jedan sa svake strane svijeta. Ali i maramica je vazdan dizala jedro na maestralu, pokušavajući pobjeći i ostavitit ga da skrivaa tu samoću u sljepoj uvjerenosti i aroganciji kakvu ljudi kao on moraju imati, da bi se pojavili na moru obućeni u bijele čarape i sandale.

Na istom tropskom mini kosmosu živjela je djevojka zaposlena u izrađivanju nakita. Njena dnevna rutina bila je slobodnijeg tipa, radila je kada je htjela, plivala kada je htjela, jedino što je činila u sinkroniji s ostalim otočanima jest da je u isto vrijeme u restoranu jela.

U restoranu joj je on prvi puta prišao.

"Video sam vas već prije, kako šetate. Rajska ptica. Lepotica. "

Čovjek u srednjim godinama, s pomalo obješenom kožom, uredskim sisama, i naočalima na nosu, ni po čemu, na prvi pogled, nebi se mogao dojmiti dovoljno privlačan da šarmira djevojku pola života mlađu od sebe, ali kao svi poput njega, ohrabrivala ga je sigurnost predpostavke da njegov imidž ostavlja dojam interlektualca. Uz to balkanaci nisu poznati da lako odustaju od svog nauma, te je čiko insitirao, molio već nekoliko dana " da mu se dama pridruži na jednom pičencu, makar, u sred dana , makar u sred restorana"

" Šampanjac" odmah narući ona. Zašto ne pomoći restoranu? Kako drukčije naplatiti dosadu koju je očekivala?.

Sjeli su za stol. Čovjek je iz ručnika izvukao knjigu i položio je nonšalatnto pored sebe. Stiglo je piće. O čemu dvoje stranca imaju pričati? O onome što rade inače i na otoku. On je producent animiranih filmova iz Begorada, došao je na more opustiti se, obogatiti um, došao je iz velike želje da konačno pročita sve što ne stiže tokom godine. Donio je dva kufera puna knjiga koje sakuplja godišnje . Da isključivo je došao je čitati i biti na miru.

O čemu se radi ta knjiga pita ona. Pokazivajjući na onu odloženu na stolu. Oh tek je ovu upravo počeo. Radnja je bila o zen filozofiji, i načinima kako da postane sveopšte bolji čovek prema drugima i sebi. Piće uskoro se popilo. Malo društvance se raspalo. I mada je turist molio da se to druženje rastegne, djevojka se skupi, zahvali i nestane u žbunje otoka.

Sljedeći dan kada se djevoka probudila i došla u restoran po svoju jutarnju kavu, srela je opet čoveka. Pozivao ju je da dorčkuje s njim, no odbila je.

Malo dalje od restorana pak kada je krenula, iz sjene stabla opet izviri njegovo bjelo pjegavo tijelo, slučajni susret sudbine naravno, i vrlo uzbuđeno i bez pitanja čovek se sudari sa djevojkom jer je sasvim morao, obavezno morao da joj priopšti prosvjetljujuće detalje koje je sinoć otkrio u knjizi. Ona je pristojno poslušala, te odšetala dalje svojim poslom.

No izgleda da ta inicijalna pristojnost je djelovala na čiku-čoveka kao mogučnost da se otarasi njegove naporne i svreprisutne samoće. Oasjana svjetlost jutra i agava djevijka je djelovala kao blažena vizija i postala svrha njegovom ljetovanju, ključ koji je pustio gromadu obsesivnog ponašanja da se kotrlja nizbrdo i slobodno. Od tog trenutka čiko-čovek počeo je izlaziti iz grmlja gdje god bi ona prošla. Ispadao je iz naj tanjih mogućih sjena oponašajući Pink-pantera animiranog detektiva. Uspjeo je čak da se pritaji od kričajučih pauna koji su ga počeli ignorirari s obzirom na trajanost vremena koji je trošio čučajuči u zasjedi.

Čelavi roštiljaš počeo je zadrkivati djevojku. Kada bi prošla pored njegovog roštilja, a to je se događalo više puta dnevno jer pored roštilja nalazio se put za plažu, on je prodavao kvalitete čiko-čoveka, i govorio kako djevojka mora da mu "dade šansu,da ga sasluša. Da bi on bio pravo dobar za nju,fin čovjek, njegov dobar jaran".

Restoran je počeo brujiti o "prijatelju" djevojke, koji je vaz dan svih ispitivao, gdje je ona.



Što je više on ludio, to se više ona trudila izbjeći ga. Počela se šuljati po otoku, nastojati stići do plaže a da ju on ne primjeti. Jednom ga je na svu sreću vidjela u restoranu uz more, kako pije kavu sa konobarima, i tek što je obišla zid restorana pognute glave da dođe do plaže i brzinski odšulja na što dalji kraj uvale, s druge strane zida, izvaljenog na suncu i priznojenog, koga sretne nego njega.

Satima ima da leži tu i da čita. Kaže.

Ali kad će ,Kad će oh, moći da joj saopći sve ovoj novoj knjizi koju čita, toliko intrigantnu da se predaje vaz dan zbog knjige peči na suncu, siguran je da bi je zanimalo.

Ona nezna, ima posla, radi, izmišlja kako da ga izbjegne. Ali predator tad izusti prave magične rijeći. Pa gdje se ti skrivaš po cele dane? Tražio sam te posvuda po celom otoku. Nemogu nikako pronaći gdje to radiš.

Ah. Strah u kosti. Sve što joj je trebalo uz komarce, muhe i zmije, bio je ovaj napastni čovjek da je prati i skače iz kaktusa pored njene kolibe. Morala ga je dovoljno zadovoljiti da se okani .

Dogovorili su večeru. Taj isti dan. Dok traje dan. U restoranu kraj mora. Dugo prije zalaza sunca. Uz to dali može trenutno da pođe on tamo gdje se kupa ona? Ne. I šmugne djevojka brzo preko sika.

Pridvečer. Našli su se za stolom ispod masline. On kao uvjek, nosio je svoje knjige. Kako da jedan interlektualac preživi otok bez knjige pod rukom? Ona je naručila sve što do tad nije kušala, i dobro vino, kad već toliko hoće druženje, nek mu je skupo.

Večera je bila ukusna. On je pričao o knjigama. Ona također pričala je o knjigama koje je čitala. Jer ona zapravo također volila je čitati, mnogo toga je pročitala, dosta toga što on još nije stigao pogledati. Na drugu ruku ove knjige koje je nosio nije poznavala, te on iskoristio večeru da joj saopči nove knjige koje je pročitao odkad su sjedili za šampanjcem. Objasnio je o čemu se rade. Što se na kraju dogodi. I sve moguće zaključke koji bi se iz knjiga mogle izvući. Hteo je da ju poduči,j er bio je stariji,da unese dragulje znanja u život na ovoj ostrvi. No kada je večera bila gotova, djevojka je ikoristila mrak i divljinu otoka, te opet se izgubila.



Sutradan je putovala daleko od otoka.

Preksutra se na otok vratila.

Čelavi roštiljaš dočekao je brod i vozio ju je u đipom od broda do restorana na vrhu brijega. " Pa" Jel se što dogodilo s mojim prijateljm? Pita priajteljski on. Ne. Naravno da ne. Nikakve šanse. Vrati djevojka. Jeli još na otoku? Zapita.

Ošo jutros, gotovo ljetovanje. Dakle ništa ama baš ništa se nije dogodilo? Pita s nevjericom iznova čelavac? Je on budala. Kaže..

Nije ti više veliki prijatelj?

Ma koji prijatelj, koji jaran, on je bio čisto biznis tranzakcija, prodrugljivo če roštljaš, izmučio sam se zbog njega i umorio, dobro da je ošo. Znaš ti da je on meni svaku večer davo po 100 eura da čitam one knjige koje je stalno nosio okolo? Ja umoran, iscrpljen, cijeli dan radim oko roštilja , đe mi se onda nabijo da pije oko mene, a onda naveče moro sam da čitam te knjižurine, a znaš kako je u našoj kući loše svijetlo kolege hrhču u krevetima oko tebe, moro sve da čitam pomoču svjetiljke, a to dovuče one jebene komarce.

Molim?. Začuđeno će cura. Plačao te je da čitaš te knjige? Zašto?

Jest . Pa da ispadne frajer. Faca. U jutro sam trebao prepričat mu svaki dio knjige, još me bole oči. Kaže roaštiljaš, obriše znoj sa ćele, i okrene đip u rikverc. Htjeo je da bude fakir, da te imponira knjigama, osvoji, kako hod hočeš. Al ti kažeš da nije. Baš mi je drago. Moja draga prijateljice. On je meni govorio da bi ja u životu mogao radit i nešto bolje. Al vidiš ja sam se svaku noć obogatio 100 eura po knjizi, a on je da prostiš otišao suvi kao što je i došao, izgoren, i ispao budala, a da još pravo nezna što je zapravo u onim knjigama. A što da kažem? Nije sve u parama, nit sva mudrost u knjižurinama.

the magic behind the portrait

Wow. So having spent the last few hours painting my year long muse i realise we have passed on to a new level. From the begging of this painting ciklus which started jnuary before last, when what i painted was simpley a culmination of aesthetics, colours, trying to please herself and myself trough the surface i am of reecent comnig into confidance trough our painting seseions of my muses life. Lat session turbo pronounces the still life painting into a magical enchantress promising to turn any man into a frog ot kiss one from frog into being a man. This session once agian changed the entire energy ,and aesthetic of the work as the brushes and coloures wouls not stop coming on to the canvass. her stories wher pushing the paint and forcing me to add, and as the stores changed so did her lips for all i have tired to paint tonight where lips, yet i have plaited os many layers of lips as there where changes of story. suddneley i relise behind the face i have managed to capture as magical there is so much magic indeed, the stories are so ritch and unexpected. she has left me here, lips are too thick to carry on, enough stories for this session painting to go on, perhaps i do not wish to end it too soon befor i find out more, as perhaps she does not want to to be fhinished untill she shares some of the storeis . For as all wise men have said to share what one learns is to make it live . And i on the other hand haivng painted portrsits for years, evoked stories and trust enough for people to wish to share them with me, perhaps ought to write thoeir stories down with portraits, so they are not lost, after the picture dries. I do not have any painted face without a story that is the treality.

The stalker who lives in my phone

Im simpley going to have to tell you aobut this charachter.

He phoned me today 8 times, its earley yet mind 2pm, that number will be double by the end of the day. Yeasterday he phoned 19 times. Day before he phoned me 17 times. The phone is on vibrate, i can't listen to the electronic drill so often. Even the vibrating is too much, I bury it in pilows and put it on to the carpet so it does not vibrate trough the couch into me. When I hear it I want to put the phone in to the closest glass of water, or smash it in to the toilet.

Would you say that I have a stalker?

That I should not pick up the phone to this number?.

And so I dont pick up the phone, and than the same man, rings from one of his other multiple numbers . Just to make sure I am not awoiding him, or if I am, he breaks the silence barrier all the same satisfiying him self beating me with this little bit of trickery.

And than he asks politley as if surprried " I belive I have called you two times today, why did you not pick up?".

Than when I make my as polite as can be and varied enough to change from the previous day exscuse, he alters his question pointiendley" I must have called you 12 times and I have left a meassage on the telephone, did you not see?" . And than i just as politley avert the truth by giving a placidifying reason, which does not prevent me sensing a certain colour red rage steaming out of his ears on the other end of the satelite connection.

When I do pick up the phone the conversation may take three directions.

CONVERSATION 1 " He will ask what time is my husband going to drive somwhere." . This question usualy preeceds a trip Mladen is taking a week later. The same question will have been put forwardd to M's father, his mother, M himself several times, the trip would have been anounced to his borther, counsin, uncle and aunt. Before phoning me up for the second, third, fourth, fifth time to aks me what time is he traveling, what time is he going to arrive at his destination and that i ought to tell him to drive slowley becosue , roads are dangerous becosue other driwers , in particular to warn him aobut the lunatics who drive kamikazi style wrong way down a three lane motorway."

CONVERSATION 2 " He will ask when am I going to go to the doctors" . This question usualy preeceds my going to the doctors for a check up by two weeks and folows my having been to the doctors that same day. It is true that I have a baby on the way. The doctors check up results are usualy the only time I actualy have news to share, but if I should so much as dial his number, to satisfy the pesky dear and let him know the good news, before I have even left the hospital he allready had heard all I was aobut to say, using grape vine technologies. Never the less he will phone me two more times that day to ask me to repeat what I had to say. He will than phone another bunch of irrelevant of times just becouse, how many i can not say, as you see by then I have burried the phone in some anti vibrating clothes.

CONVERSATION 3 " What will be the babies name". It is a matter aproached less loosley, having driained me of resssitance and phoned every day for a week, at which point i would have lost my defensivnes, this subject will be hatched at the tail end of one of the other conversations.

Not to be un fair. This question will have been preceded by a gift pack , constituted of carefully wrapped viel shnitzels he has himself bashed thin and wrapped in aluminium, ready for me to fry, and a piece of meat for a soup together with all the vegetables a soup needs, complete with a vegetable stock cube for the full recepie.Also boxes of chocholates, lemons, oranges, fresh island flowers, will have been sent from the south of the country to me, transported by hubby on one of his trips.

After an itroductory conversation aobut the husbands driving back and forth on the gift box delivery, than a refferance checking if i have recived all the particulars in the box, he asks what will be the name of the baby. At the answer he allready knows, he spits and makes some insulting comments, before, telling me he loves me, and asking that the baby should carry his name.



Tomorow my husband is traveling. My next medical exam is next week, and I have not picked up the phone for 3 days. It has become a battle of stamina as to who will win. The longer i do not pick up the phone, the less I want to. And it is driving him mad. He is phoning up with the vengence of a hive of wasps in attack after their nest has been kicked down. He has allready recieived all the information he wants to know from M who he has phoned up muliple times each day, and yet he continues to purusue me.

When he upsets anyone other he gets away with mention of and his old age. But i have no right to refuse him. So he belives. I am new and little in the hirearchy which binds us. I can not enteriely refuse to speak to this man and he knows it, and uses it. His glory days where those of communism. When seecret service knew just aobut everything, using these same methods of speaking to every person, and scrutinising every point of view, to find out each little detial of any situation, by asking the same questions stupifinigley agian and agian until there are no seecrets kept from him. In those days a girl like me down in the hirearchy , would not have dared to refuse a telephone call, from him.

So, he persists as if it is his right, he dials my number again and aigan until he wears out the battery.

Who is this man?. And why have i not shaken him off, god knows I have the gift of gab that can.

Curtesy ,binds me.

The man who calls me on avarage 20 times a day, every day of the week, at any hour, is unfortunaltey no proper proffesional stalker per say, who i could report to the police and have sent away. I cant even use mladens lawyer knowledge to compose some sort of well written threat, or have him macho style bang his fists on his cheast, yell and make him go away, for my inexhaustable caller is non other than the short, slightley rounded, and red faced man,that is my husbands well meaning, and dearley beloved old grandad.

The first coffee and the first kiss

I had not yet drunk a coffee. The smell was appetising, but I could not appreciate the taste enough to drink a cup. My taste buds where used to hot chocolate and fantasy.

As you know Turkish coffee is made in specially formed volcano shaped little pots. That's how all the women made it. How my grandmother drunk it each moring of summer, at dawn long before i was up.

He on the other hand took a big old metal soup casarrole and brewed a liter of the brown stuff. I seemed not to be used to many flavours here considered normal,so having wriggled my way out of well intended offers of food, out of politeness I accepted a cup. It was delicious. Very sweet. Transparent. And seeing that the house was full of his friends it disappeared within an instant. I did not know how to make another. Perhaps I disappointed. When he was hungry I bought him what I considered best, several chocolates, yet here men eat, bread and meat. He brewed for me a second coffee.

All the girls whispered in groups when he's car drove up near . When he would get out of it their chests automatically would be propped up vertically. He was their very own James Dean. Art student.Film maker.Musician. Knew everything there was to know and fix on cars. Experimenting often a over the edge of what was considered proper. With a male possy always following a laughing. His eyes where brown green. His style copied. And behind fat soft lips, he had teeth like a werewolf, sharp, too many of them, maybe even a double row, his mouth was that of an animal, and very sexy.

I believe in god. Ah. Save me. Why I am I in this car right now. I was most probably going to die. So stupid. Why I? Sitting in the front seat, with the driver's body out of the car, all star shoes on the seat, driving on the wrong side of the road as fast as the car would go, with cars following behind and coming at us from the opposite side of the road, just as fast, playing chicken, seeing who would get away first. The fright is real even now. Of course I survived. Panting. Heart beating for ages after from the thrill. I did not know that it was a show, put on specially for me.

My first kiss was needles to say, administered by him. It was night, we where alone, lights where low, his parents where gone, and the kiss was so much better than I had expected. So warm. So lush. Enchanting. More is what I wanted immediately. His eyes bore at me widely, and those animal teeth half smiled half threatened, asking permission, his breath rushing and sweet, body pressing close to me.

I am not ready, I whispered retuning his stare.

Drive me home please. No there was nothing wrong. Its just I was fifteen, and wanted my long drawn out safe fantasy, and until than I was going to keep with chastity.

In style of grease the movie, that was the idyllic school holiday romance, and my first. At night after midnight when grandparents would go to bed, I would throw the hover electric line over the second floor balcony fence, grab it like a climber, land on to the neighbours car, steal into the night ,just to see him, listen to him play guitar on the beach under the stars. But too soon it was over. He was a little older. Needed a girl who would go further. And I returned to school after summer changed, infatuated, broken hearted, mocking all other boys who tired to court me.

That is how summer number one ended. We had three summers. Or 3x 2 weeks of summer. Every few years we seemed to meet right at the end of August. They where always significant. The second summer. He was shooting a film. I made him blue wings. Visited his new life in the capital. Wrote him a cook book with my grandmas' recipes and pretty much wanted to move countries for him. And than once again in the Automn, got back over the ocean to university broken hearted.

Third summer was half a decade ago. Our lives where considerably more grown up. He started to chase me with the loved up eyes I must have had before. We worked on an art project together and never finished it. He suddenly wanted something deeper, but, I did not let him kiss me in the full moon light, it was than all too late,and as ever end of summer ,I left the country .

Last few weeks all of a sudden I dream him at night. We have not spoken more then a hellow for years. I dream an alternative history warped at my age of 20. He is always smiling, looking cool as ever, working on his projects, the details are very lucid, his tooth-full smile, his mother's face. I don't 'know where the dreams come from. Weather they are projected my by subconscious, projected to me by his mothers telepathy, or is he haunting me.

A couple of weeks ago, around Easter, he jumped of a building. So I was told.

Hard to believe.

Than his mother for the first time started corresponding with me. Perhaps to keep him alive. By writing to his friends. Waking up memories.

The dreams keep on coming. He is very real in them, physical. I felt I had to write this to release him. To say good bye. To put these words and memories into the ether where somehow he will find out he was appreciated. Perhaps that's how it works. All the people he knew well must do it. Let him go ritually. One day of tears was not enough. Ignoring it doesn't seem to work. So here goes. I have lit a candle. And have written this post card to add to his travel baggage. Now I ought to say go. You where loved. Go where ever ghosts go. Go into the sun. Or go be re incarnated.

on marriage

To get married is like the famous putting all your eggs in one basket comparison. The basket is huge however, and you have packed so much more than eggs. The love you feel for the one person you marry is like an hot air baloon enormous, huge, colorful, dinstinctive, rises above all things in vicinity. Yet if you get married later, not as a teenager, but years later, that basket whilst grounded, has all sorts of attachments hundreds of litle sands bags of old emotional ties, memories, which help keep the air baloon grounded. Which whilst grounded can appear the alteriror rute, should one decided to run, abandon the voyage with the air baloon. But once you decide to take off. You cut all those strings and sand bags and instanley relived forget them. The basket with all your eggs takes off. The baloon becomes waightless. The love is free. The feeling is amasing and the direction of the hot air baloon does not matter, you fly in it, rising higher. You are flying and will embrace in two, together, what ever happeens and where ever you land. It feels a trilion times better than being grounded.

Matilda and the Sour Hag, Part Two

The next weekend Matilda and Boromir found themselves in the car on the way to the mountainous county of Lika.

" Lets go over everything we know about your relatives" Suggests Boromir. " Apart from the surname"

" Well I know that grandmother is from a village called " The Wrong Path". Her mother was a type of village matriarch. She had a wolf instead of a dog. And once she took a thorn out of a Bear's paw, who knocked at her door"

Boromir was the rational type, these sorts of informations did not give him hope for discovery of any concrete facts, but Matilda was an archaeologist with an imagination, and to her legends where enough for her to dig in to a mountain and search until she does find something.

The journey from Zagreb to the south passed quickly and uneventfully until Matilda and Boromir found themselves on a narrow, cracked road in the midst of a Lika forest . They did not know exactly where they where heading, so they drove slowly and started to notice details. The day was beautiful, promising the beginning of spring. Along side of the road they encountered all sorts of wild birds, and their path was at one point crossed by a heard of trudging wild horses licking the salt of the asphalt. More than an hour they meandered trough the forest and mountains whiteout encountering man, until unexpectedly the forest opened up to a sun shine filled valley , spotted about with sheep and their Sheppard.

" We need to begin somewhere" Said Matilda.

" And it will do us good to stretch our legs" Added Boromir and stoped the car.

Matilda grabbed the thermos bottle and got out on to the road instantly provoking the territorial bark of the Sheppard dog.

" Good day" She wawed at the Shepard.

"Ooo! Yelled back the Shepard waving a great long stick. The Shepard dog started cantering towards the new arrivals barking threateningly.

" Don't mind the old Snake, she won't won't tear your whole legs off, maybe shekl take just a little bite. Not that many a stranger passes trough her field so she barks to let you know who it belongs to, and in case you dare to scatter her sheep, God knows she spends all day rounding them up"

" Hey snake" Boromir tries to befriend the dog who continues to run circles around them barking.

Matilda and Boromir start heading towards the Shepard frightening the anti social sheep to run for their lives. The sheppard was an old man ,weather beaten, with lines and crust around sharp and smiling eyes. " So whats brought you here? He asks the city kids." Yous got lost aren't you?"

" We are not lost, but are looking for something" Replies Matilda

And what in the good lord's name are yous looking for ? Old Wrong un, has eyes like a mag pie, where there anything shiny or worth while to be found here, it'd be sittin' in my pocket already".

Well we don't know exactly what we are looking for." Shrugs Boromir.

"Yous don't know what yous a looking a for, and still yous are a sniffin about the woods"..

Matilda pours hot coffee from the thermos into a cup and offers the sheppard to drink.

" Ouoogh. What an offer! Hot coffee in the middle of snow and field, appeared all by it self to an old man. Maybe ol Wrong un's gone bonkers, or yous two are fay men, come to play mischief on me and the ol Snake, come to enchant our sheep, and than wo ho ho all night, fays are roasting the sheep and dancing circles in the moonlight." The man slurps up the hot coffee with glee.

" We are no faeries" Laughs Matilda " I am looking to find out where my father's family comes from . The only thing is I don't know much about them.I know my grandma was from some village called " The Wrong Path", but I don't know if the places exists still".

" Oh. Why would there not be The Wrong path, no more? Well it hasn't withered unto the earth, and they aren't so good as to have them all lifted up to the heavens. Thous some of them thinks they is.Theres got to be a wrong path on this earth somewhere and God decided that this witchin wood is as good place to put it as any."

I ve' got a song for you from one man who comes from that path, named the Wrong path, to put you on the right path, or better said the Wrong path.The Old man chuckles at his own world play. "

" In the wrong path,

all is wrong,

all paths on the way to a crust of bread are wonky and wrong,

only Man's heart is alive

and still honores and keeps that rock called

The Wrong Path. "



Matilda brighten's up " So mister, you do know where that place is?"

"Look at the young-lady-wrong-un, why wouldn't I know. May be I is one of your relatives, I hope to God I is, because your sweeter than our famous potatos, but I don't follow those blood lines no longer, I am bored of old hags and farty old fellers, and prefer much listening to these sheep here, because they baaaah much less stupidity than men. But I ain't going to set yous off on your way, until you taste a bit of this here good old Lika's plum Brandy.

" I am driving, that is too strong now"Protests Boromir.

" Who's going to see you?" The old man chalenges. "Here everything is wrong, so don't you be acting up some fancy town manners, on Lika's roads, d'y you think there is police here? They's all got eaten by bears. Go on drink up lad." And the sheppard offers his wooden bottle, Matilda and Boromir join the man in toast.

" Have you heard of this one you northerners? You stick a finger into the sea and touch the whole world?" Asks the sheppard.

"'Course" replies Boromir.

" Well you stick your tongue into plum brandy and you understand and speak the language of Lika" Old man laughs devilishly." Now you see, you are better prepared, so I can put my mind at peace and I will let you know the way."

"You go on with the car, until you see an old swamp to the right called the Old Frog. Watch out she's still half frozen and will seem as clear as a lake, and there you turn left.Than you follow the road trough the woods, past the Bear's Hive village, yous a going to recognise it because of a blue house. Than yous a go a bit of galloping up the hill all the way to the Uncle's Shoe, those are just three houses and an old well, but the road than forks, so you take the furthest right towards Blunt Claw. You'l see the trunk of a giant old oak turned up side down, and there take a left. When you pass a mountaineering hut, used to be called The Billy Goat, dont' know what it is now, a mountaineers hut, with three dogs and a cow tied at the back, and you can certainly smell her. Than you's a really close. Just go on forward. And youl get on to the Old Path. There take the second right to get you on the Right Path, and that one leads easey peasey straig on to the village of Wrong Path."

Matilda and the Sour Hag. Part one

What is the girl's real name we don't actually know, when she was 11 she discovered the book called Matilda about a girl who possessed magical powers, and talked about it so much so ,that her parents and friends since than, simply call her Matilda.

Matilda is now all grown up . She works at the Zagreb archaeological museum a walk away from home. She is engaged even. Matilda seems to have it all sorted.

One day walking across the Zrinjevac square amused by birds playing in the tree tops she tripped and fell on to her knees in the fresh morning dew, staining her white trousers in the mud. There was no time to change or iron something else, and Matilda very conscious of her messiness entered the museum. All day she was bothered by those muddy knees. As visitors would enter the rooms in which she stood so Matilda would turn to face the walls or cabinets trying her best to hide the filthiness. Yet that sense of ill-ease remained with Matilda for days after the incident. Each day Matilda became more bothered during the work time. She kept reading up on about the arrival of the Greeks to the Adriatic coast for the thousandth time, and stared at the skin of the etruscan mummy, hoping that something within history will rid her of that feeling. Yet for the first time the museum she had loved so much, became suffocating, making her feel as if buried in some enormous dark tomb, having not achieved something that was needed, yet what that was, she did not know.

Boromir her fiance noticed the restlessness and after a few weeks having allowed time for herself to approach him, unsuccessfully, asks Matilda" What has been botherning you for so long?"

Matilda surprised that her unease is so noticeable replied languidly. " In fact I do not know. For years I have dreamt of working for the archaeological museum, and have enjoyed going there each day until recently that feeling became one of dreading going to work. I spend days studying the exhibits anew, and looking for something that is missing. But really is something missing in the museum or am I missing something, I can not tell"

" Is it time to look for work else where?" Suggested Boromir.

" No. Replies instinctively Matilda. That is exactly where I wish to work, but there is some sort of puzzle which is must solve, only the problem is I am unaware as to what it is."

" Is the problem rooted outside the museum?" Boromir asks cautiously.

No I think not, I love our group of friends, this city of ours, and the job, and I'm excited about the wedding, and though everything seems to be in place as it should, I still feel like I have not realised something that I should , and that stone building reminds me of a pyramid in which I am buried too soon, and have no right to it , the right to feel at peace. There is something that I must solve."

Whilst Boromir felt relief that Matilda is not re considering being with him, Matilda after the conversation felt no better. The next day, during the work break ,she sat with a mug of coffee in the museum garden and mused at the sculptures from the ancient roman city of Salona. The garden was scattered with remains of sculpted women's and mens heads, and sarcophagus adorned with carved achievements of the long buried. A blackbird hopped about it all.

I am like the blackbird, sadly compared Matilda, I find myself amidst something long ago created, which I try to comprehend, and inform others, yet I don't know where I my self have come from.

That evening Matilda joyously hugs Boromir and explains" I have discovered what is bothering me. I do not know where my ancestors come from. What kind of place is it. Who where those people and how they lived. Our wedding is coming up soon and yet What shall I tell our children if we have them. I shall teach them about dinosaurs, Ilirian tribes, and when they ask where are grandparents from, our roots, I will have to say I do not know"

" So this is why you feel such unease in the museum, you are missing your own historical context. " Boromir sums up, feeling relived.

" Obviously"

" Well lets investigate" Suggests Boromir whose relatives have been born lived in Zagreb for centuries, and whose grandmother and father are still alive and available for visits in the old town, and so there was never much mystery as to who they where and where they came from.

Matilda i Kisela Baba, šesti dio

Nastavlja se uskoro..

Matilda i Kisela Baba, Peti Dio

Iznenađeni neprijateljskim tonom Matilda i Boromir odmah se usprave i počmu objašnjavati"

"Dobar dan gospođo. Um. Mi tražimo um. Stariju gospođu koja živi tu pored šume u kući uz potok. Uputili su nas iz mjesta. Možda ste to vi."

"Tražite kiselu babu"? Agresivno če žena"

Matila i Boromir potvrde preplašeno pokretom glave.

" Pa tako kažite. Kisela Baba to sam ja. Šta očete od mene, i ko ste vi"

"Ja sam Boromir."

" A ja sam Matilda i došla sam jer su mi rekli da vi znate najviše o ljudima iz ovog kraja. Moji predci su odavde. I neznam zapravo ništa o njima osim prezimena i to da mi je baka umjesto pasa ljubimca držala vuka, kao i njena majka moja pra baba. I voljla bih saznati nešto više, ako su vam poznati. Evo donjeli smo vam nešto ."

Matilda hitro izvadi vrečicu koju je kupila za kiselu babu u trgovini i preda staroj ženi u ruke. Od nervoze nije primjetila kako su se na Matildine rijeći ženine oći promjenile od prijećih u zainteresirane. Kao da su na tren zasvijetile. Ali babino lice nije mijenjalo izražaj. Pogledala je u vrečicu.

Svaki paketić je prinila očima, proćitavši " Papar. Cimet. Šečer. Sol" Zatim pomono pogleda Boromira, i još duže Matildu, pa kaže. " Kako si ti ispala tako visoka"? " Zatim otvori vrata kuće i kaže puno toplijim glasom " Hodite unutra djeco. Nisam dobila bolji dar, ne sjećam se otkada.

Uđevši kroz vrata kuće našli su se u velikoj kuhinji. Po sredini s druge strane prostorije nalazila su se zatvorena vrata. Sa ljeve strane veliki komin vatrom je osvjetljivao je i grijao prostoriju, a ispred njega nalazio se nekakva vrsta kauča prekrivena ovčjim kožama.Podovi bijaše prekriveni ručno rađenim vunenim tapetima, a posred kukinje strane stajao je rustikalan okrugli stol okružen drvenim tronošcima. Na istočnom zidu kameni sudoper stajao je na drvebom postolju, nad njim željezna pumpa kakve su se nekoć nalazile po bunarima. Mnogo brojne tegle pune voća, bilja, jaja, povrća prekrivale su zidove na prepunim policama, a sa stropa je visjelo svakakvo lišče. Pod je bio prošaran demižanama i boceama punih tekućina i trava. Kuća je bila poprilićno mračna, osim nešto svjetla koje je ulazilo kroz mali prozorčić na svakom zidu, ali bila je topla, i puna mirisa drva i bilja.

Kisela baba više ne progovori ni riječi stoljećima, činilo se Matildi. Ona i Broromir vrtili su se oko vlasitite osi upijajući detalje čekajući kad će ih baba pozvati da sjednu. A zatim sjedoše sami za kauč i u padnu u babinu tišinu. Baba im više nije obračala nikakvu osobitu pažnju kao da su obične kučne mačke a ne stranci . Pumpala je poviše starog sudropera. U čađav crn lončič uljela vodu. U vodu je istresla neko lišće za koje je posegla sa stropa. Štapom je prokopala oganj i žeravice u kominu te postavila lončić na metalni tronožac i pustila da kuha. Zatim otiđe do druge strane kuhinje i ubaci šaku nekih smeđih gruda u kamenu zdjelu. Njih počme gnječiti kamenom dok se ne pretvore u prah. Matilda i Boromir se pogledaše tragajuči u očima jednog drugog dali svarno baba radi što oni misle, gata, čara? Kad konačno baba progovoriše.

"Palačinke".

Opet se pogledaše Boromir i Matilda u tišini ispitivajući kako baba vidi što oni misle dok im je okrenuta leđima, kada baba prozbori.

" Yest dico, palačinke od žira. Niste nikada to jili prije jel tako. E pa sad če te vidjeti koja čuda rastu u šumi."

Baba zamješa prašak od žirova u svijetlije brašno, ubaci par jaja u mješavinu, doda vode, i donese mješavinu do komina gdje namjesti tešku metalnu tavu na nožice poviše žerave i stade peč palačinke. Opojan miris počme se širiti po kuhinji. Zatim baba izlije vodu koju je kuhala u drvene čikare i ponudi mladima po jednu.

" Očete li meda"?

Matilda i Boromir zaklimaju a baba s druge strane kuhunje donese veliku teglu tamno zlatne boje i pune čelinjih saća.

" Niste sigurno ovakav med nikud kušali." Zatim zaškripi smijajući se. "Za ovaj med morala sam tri dana pratiti medvjedicu po šumi. Nebi ona takvu lokaciju tek tako predala. Al vidila sam da je medvedica nešto sretna, valja se po suncu, pa svako malo poliže šapu. I bila sam u pravu. Pratila sam je po brdu i šumi. Par puta me je uhvatila i nestala. Nije lako prevarit medvedičin zaoštreni njuh, znate. Morate se stalno šuljati niz vitar od nje. I mada mene stara medvjedica i tolerira. Nebi ona ovaj med dala nizašta. Etoga. To van je med djeco od cviča divljih jagoda, i kupina, i jaglaca, i zvončića, i malo smreke, ma i puno toga još vidječte da je dobar. Nu kušajte. Kaže baba i stavi mladeži po drvenu žlicu u ruku.



" Mm Fantastičan je" Kaže matilda velikih očiju odmah želeći repete. "Stvarno nisam nikada ovakav med okusio " Doda Boromir.

Hadje hadje , turnite još koju žlicu usta pa koju u čaj, da se isplati svo ono penjanje do moje kuće."

Činilo se da be baba poprilično razvselila. Kad je ispekla hrpu palačinaka, postavi ih za stol. Doda tri tanjura. I pozove. " A što čekate" Sjedite ljepo. Evo imamo crni borov med sa divljim jagodama, mermedladu od borovnice, i slatku kašu od žira. " Možda vam to zvuči čudno ali je za prste lizat. Hrast je kralj šume. "Mažite. "

Tako su Matidla i Boromir sa guštom kušali voće iz šume i darežljivost ove neobične stare žene. Kad je zadnja palačinka bila pojedna, a trbusi svih trje znatno nabrkeli. Babinine se oči skupe ko u lisice. Pa zapita.

" Matilda, je čudno ime, ma sigurno ti ga nije rod dodjelio?" Pita. " Nije odgovori Matilda, sama sam ga usvojila kao djete, svidjelo mi se "

" A Tako " Kaže kislela baba. Njene plave oči uperene u djevojku." A tko je u tvojoj obitelji tako visok i dugo nog" Nastavi ispititvati. " Pa sa mamine strane svi su visoki. A sa očeve muškarci su srednji a žene neznam, nisam ih puno upoznala. "

" Ehe he hehe." Zaceri se Kisela baba. " Sve su male i bodljikave ko kupine. Rekli bi čak i kisele."

U tom trenutku na prozor nešto zakuca. Matilda se prene. Kad na prozoru sjedi kos i gleda ravno u kuhinju. " Stigli su , stigli su." Kaže baba prema kosu. " Zatim uzme malo sjemenka iz neke kutije, otvori vrata, i prospe sjemenke van. Kos odleti sa prozora na gozbu, a baba se vrati za stol. " Ništa mene ne prođe u ovojoj šumi, meni ptice govore sve. Najavili su i vas, par sati prije nego što ste stigli dovle. Nepitajte me kako. Nego. Mala Matilda. Evo jedne zagonetke za tebe."

Ako je tvoja pra baba imala vuka i njena čer imala vuka, a baba je imala dvije čeri, koja je ta koja koja je od te dvi vuka imala?"

"Molim" Upita Matilda zbunjena. " Nisam nikada čula da je moja pra-baba imala dvije čeri."

" A i te kako da je. Dvije čeri je imala tvoja pra-baba mara. Samo što se nji dvi nisu baš puno volile. Ili bolje rečeno svaka je na svoju stranu, bodljikava pa nema neke velike šanse da se iti jedna kada promjeni. Nije ti ni rekla za sestru. A žašto bi?

" A Vi ste znali moju babu i pra babu? " Pita Matilda uzbuđena.

" Tvoju pra babu znala sam više nego dobro, moglo bi se reč." Sjetno izusti kisela baba.

"A za onu divlju kozu, tvoju babu, kako je nebi znala, đava je odnija." Baba se nasmije a zatim brzinom munje njen izraz lica se stvrdne, kao da su ga prešli oblaci i pita.

" Matilda Matilda, koliko vrijedi tebi znanje o tvojim korjenima"?

Matidla se nasmije slatko,pa vidjevši kako je baba zaista ozbiljna , odgovori

" Pa poprilično. Željela bih znati sve što ima. Da znam tko sam. Da imam što pričati djeci kad tada"

" Razumjem" odogovri Kisela baba. " Ono što ja znam, o tvojoj krvi, nitko živ osim mene ne zna. Stoga zanje je vrijedno.

A ja sam stara i mogla bi brzo sa ovoga svijeta. S toga to znanje je duplo vrijednije, jer ga se moraš domoći što prije."

" Nemojte tako govoriti" Nelagodno če Matilda.

" Znam ja što ja govorim i zašto. U tebi je sazrilo da otkriješ sebe i svoje mogučnosti. Ja ti to mogu pokazati. Put koji su prije tebe živjeli tvoji , kako bi ti bilo lakše ići naprijed. Dakle tebi je jako vrijedno to zanje i stalo ti je da ga dobiješ. Ali pitanje je što češ ti meni dat zauzvrat?

Baba je odjedanbut zvučala strašno. Zbunjeno Matilda se okrene Boromiru.

" Donjeli smo vam dar" Kaže Boronmir.

" Jeste. I primila sam ga i vas. Ali moje zanje vrijedi previše da bi ga se rasulo nad jednim čajem, u jednu noć, kako bi sutradan zadovoljivši naj hirovitije potrebae vi otišli nazad u velegrad, smireni, misleći ste našli što ste htjeli, zadovoljili kuriozitet,i nastavili živjeti kao da je kisela baba samo vikend avantura."

I Boromir i Matilda sada izgledaše malo iznenađeni ovakvim stavom babe. " Hočete li primiti novce" Boromir nastavi malo zabrinuto?

" Ma što će novci babi u divljini? Nasmije se baba"

"Za moje zanje hoču barem jedan tjedan života. Hoču da ti Matilda ostaneš ovdje kod mene živjeti tjedan dana.

A ti dečko mada bi mi tvoja snaga i bila od pomoči da sakupiš drva i pomogneš, ipak bolje je da se vratiš doma, i dođeš po Matildu sljedeći tjedan, ako bude htjela ič. " Matilda i Boromir pogledaju se prestravljeno i zaintregirano. Nisu ovako nešto uopče očekivali . " A sad vas ostavljam da porazgovarate, Matilda ako ostaje ostaje još večeras, ili ideš, i netrebaš da se vračaš". Baba tada skupi suđe sa stola, položi ga u lavandin, te izađe iz prostorije kroz vrata pored komina.

Matilda i Kisela Baba, četvrti dio.

Nekoliko kilometara van mjesta zaista naiđu na veliku kamenu gromadu pored puta. " Stigli smo! uzbuđeno zapjeva Matilda. Trpajući vode, i darove za babu u naprtnjaću, vikne uzbuđeno " Idemo" Matilda i Boromir parkiraju auto i upute se kojzim puteljkom jedva vidljvim u dugačkoj travi i žbunju.

Put je vodio uzbrdo kroz šumerak, postajući sve strmiji i kamenitji. Nakon kilometar ili dva počeli su se penjati po golim brijegovima prekrivenim kratkom vejtrom išibanom travom, razbijenom niskim proljetnim cvjetićima što su se izlegeli is tla, i pupajućim žilavim grmljem. Brijegovi su postajali sve strmiji te okruženi panoramom dalekih briježuljaka različitih zelenih boja, tamnih zim zelenih borovinom prekrivenim brijegova kao i svijeto zlelenih nijanse tek propupalih listova. Sunce zajedo s njima putovalo je kroz oblake, povremeno osvjetlujući krasne panorame i boje a povremano napuštajući ih prikazujući tu divljinu kao zlokobnu i sivu.

Penjali su se uzbrdo više od dva sata kada Boromir promrmlji" Pa možda nismo na pravom putu, već dugo hodamo , umorili smo se, a samo dublje u divljinu zalazimo, ajmo se vratiti u auto pa ćemo doći ranije u jutro neki drugi vikend, mogla bi nas zapasti kiša i mrak ako produžimo. "

"Ali već smo tu. Znam da smo na pravom putu" Insistirala je Matilda " Pogledavši na sat kaže " Ako ne nađmo na kiselu babu do pet sati onda se okrećemo. Ajde još malo. Ako ništa drugo bar smo prošli kroz ovu prekrasnu prirodu kakvu nismo ni znali da postoji u Hrvatskoj."

I tako nastaviše prijeđevši te gole brežuljke ,pa gusto zeleni šumarak pun divljih orhidedja, prateći puteljak sve do tamne stare hrastove šume gdje je svako deblo bilo deblje i kvrgavije nego što su gradska mladež u životu vidjela.

"Ovdje se osječa kao da smo u bajci" Promrmlja Matilda" Kao da ovdje žive patuljci i vilenjaci"

" A ja sam skroz izgubio orijentaciju, nema više sunca i nisam siguran gdje je zapad a gdje istok, i uopče gdje se nalazimo. Nije mi baš osječaj ugodan. A telefon mi je van dometa signala tako da smo stvarno izgubljeni."

" Imamo put" Veselo će Matilda. " I pogledaj naprijed, ispred nas je čistina, i čini mi se da se tamo nalazi nekakava kuća. Mislim da je to ono što tražimo ili možemo se malo tu odmoriti pa krenuti nazad." Napravivši sljedeći korak prema kući Matilda je nagazila na suhu granu koja je pukla odzvanjajući suho kroz šumu i pokrenuvši cijeli orkestar pratećih zvukova, žviždanja, pištenja, kukutanja nevidljivih ptica, prije nego što je veliki sivi gavran preletio njihov put goromoglasno graktajući, zatim je iznova nastala čudna tišina.

Matilda i Boromir nastaviše hodati pažljivo dalje, bez govora, pazeći da ne uznemire živtonije lomeći grane i nađu se na čistini. Pred njima se rastezala zaobljena livada, okružena šumom sa svih osim gornje strane koju je činila velika kamena uzvisina. Sa brda tekao je potok prolazevši pored stare kuće . Dono kuće bilo je nisko sazidano od okruglastog kamneja izvađenog iz vode, a tamni krov uzdizao se veoma oštro i visoko u nebo, dok jedne strane krova dimljak puštao je zavijutke sivoga dima.

" Netko je kući" Promrmlja Boromir a zatim stane naglo čujevši uzbuđeno glasanje konja. Skrivena, izad kuće nalazila se i štala.

Prije nego što su Matilda i Boromir stigli do kuće, vrata se otvoriše i van izađe veoma stara, i malena žena.

" Što radite ovdje? I ko ste? " Prijeteći ih je zapita.

Matilda i Kisela Baba, Treći Dio

Matilda i Boromir stigli su u Krivi put. Prošetali su mjestom. Zagledali su se na more na putu do Krmpota. I mada je bila strašno uzbuđena što barem zna odakle potječe, da zaista postoji to mjesto iz neke očeve legende o svomi korjenima , Matildi mjesto ipak nije bilo dovoljno. Neznavši gdje početi, zapute se u lokalnu birtiju i počmu ispitivanjem konobara. Konobar im se samo nasmijao.

"Koje ste ime rekli? Pa tako vam se prezivaju većina mještana ovdje. Eto stigli ste doma među svoje. Šta če te pit?"

To opet nije bio odgovor koji je mongo pomogao Matildi. Ako se svi prezivaju kao i ona opet nije znala kako da sa svima započme neki razgovor. No priskočio je čovjk iz kuta. Veliki crni brkovi sakrivali su mu usta ali činio se dovoljno prijazan.

"Čuo sam što ste rekli, tražite vaše korjene, e pa ima vam jedna baba koja se sjeća svega, svakog ko joj je što krivo napravija, od prošlega stoljeća pa do sada. Starija je od svih u Krivom putu, i bistar joj je um ko potok, ali je ponešto i đavla, i neće sa svima pričat. Zato je i zovu kisela baba. "

"Ma ne šalji djecu u kisele babe, bacit če urok na njih. " Vikne konobar. " Žena mi je kraj njene kuće uvrnila nogu, znam da je babino maslo to bilo"

" Ko zna možda se djeci smiluje. Ipak neće oni kraj babine kolibe ki tvoja žena krast jagode" Ošine brko konobara koji umukne i nastavlja pranjem čaša neodobravanjem mahajući glavom.

" Do babe čete doć prateći put iz mista uzbrdo. Ravno ravo miljama još, pa kad vidite jednu golemu stinu sa planinarskom oznakom na njoj, ostavite auto. Od tuda se mora ić nanoge. Kisela baba živi u šumi, nekih par kilometara od te stine. Vidit čete jedan kozji puteljak, samo ga pratite dok nedođete do kolibe uz potok. Ona živi tu. A oče li bit doma ili neče ko zna, može jedino bit po šumi, a kad tad če se doma vratit."

"A zašto mislite da bi nam ona pomogla" Pita Matilda?

" E sad, oče li ili neče neznam za sigurno. Ali nije ona vještica ili zla žena kako ovdan je zovu od straja, ma ona je povučena i živi na svoj način, ali je stara ko i planina, sječa se vrimena i prije nastanka svita, i po ljudi što su ovdan hodili i rodili se a dosta ih je i ličila kad su se razbolili a doktori nisu znali šta če s njima. Možda eto samo odnesite joj nešto do čega nemože ona baš tako lako doći na dar, jer skoro nikad se silazi u misto. "

" Pa što jede" upita Boromir?

" Uglavnom sve iz šume. A znade i poslat svog konja u misto, u bisegu mu stavi listu onoga šta joj treba i šumskog meda ili sira, i debeljuco odklopče do dučana, u dučanu uzmu te babine proizvode i prodaju ih, a konju u bisagu stave šta njoj triba, pa se on lipo vrati babi, i tako je već godinama."

"Dobar sistem. " Promrmlja Boromir.

" I puno vam hvala za svu pomoć " Zaškripi Matilda već odsutna i željna puta povlačeći Bormira iz birtije, otsisne se prema mjesnom dučanu Krivog puta. " Imam dobar osječaj" Kaže ona Boromiru

"Kislea baba zvući zanimljvo. Ako ne malo čuknuto" Kaže Boromir."Ali šta češ poklonit takvoj babi da joj se svidi?" " Pa razmišljam se šta bi tribalo meni da živim sama u šumi. Znam da zvuči ludo ali mislim da bi joj trebala odnjeti Soli." "Sol " Podrugljivo će Bormir. "Kakav je to dar? "

"Dobar ako ti je hrana neslana" Frkne Matilda." I tako kupi dva kila soli. Kutiju šećernih kocaka. Crnog papra i cimeta". Imam osječaj kao da putujemo negdje u prošlost" objasni se ona dečku, zamisli koliko su začini značili prije par stotina godina kada se putovalo mjesecima u orijent po njih i koliko su samo vrijedili na povratku u Evropu. "

Dečko je pogleda bez da izusti činićni komentar ili dva, još jednom upali auto i zaputi se po uputama čovjeka iz britije tražiti veliku kamenu gromadu kraj puteljka. Mada se njemu cijeli podhvat doimio kao da neče urodti ploda ,bilo mu je drago vidjeti Matildu konačno van melnkonije koja ju je pratila tjednima.

Matilda i Kisela Baba, Drugi Dio

Sljedeći vikend Matilda i Bormir našli su se u autu na putu za Liku.

"Ponovimo što sve znamo o tvojoj rodbini" predloži Boromir. Osim prezimena"

" Pa znam da je baba iz sela zvanog Krivi Put. A da je njena mama bila neka vrsta mjesne poglavarice . Imala je vuka umjesto pasa. I jednom je izvadila trn iz šape medvjeda koji joj je došao do kuće"

Boromir je bio racinalan tip, ovakve informacije nisu mu uljevale nadu za proznalazak konkretnih informacija, ali Matilda je bila arheolog s maštom, njoj su legende bile dovoljne da započme raskopavati planinu i traži dok se nešto ne nađe.

Put od Zagreba prošao je brzo i neprimjetno dok se Boromir i Matilda, nisu našli na uskoj raspuknutoj cesti usred Ličke šume. Nisu znali točno gdje idu pa su vozili polako i počeli primjećivati detalje. Dan je bio prekrasan i nagovještao početak proljeća. Sunce je rastapalo snjeg. Uz cestu susretali su svakakve divlje ptice, čak im je prešlo put krdo divljih konja koji su sporo klopkali cestom lizajući sol sa asfalta. Više od sat vremena vozili su kroz šumu i brda bez da su susreli čovjeka. A zatim se šuma rastvorila i na osunačnoj livadi opaze krdo ovaca i njihova pastira.

" Trebamo počet negdje" Kaže Matidla"

A dobro će nam doć rastegnuti noge" Doda Boromir i zaustavi auto.

Matilda zgrabi termosicu te izađe s Boromirom na cestu istantno izavajući teritorijalni lavež pasa ovčara.

" Dobar Dan" Mahne ona pastiru.

"Ooo"! Vikne pastir mašući velikim štapom. A pas ovčar se zaleti prema novodošlima opako lajući .

" Nebojte se stare Guje, neče vas ujist, dobra je ona, moja Guja. Neprođe puno stranca kroz njeno polje pa malo laje da znate čije je. I da nebi slučajno rastjerali njene ovce, Bog zna da ih cijeli dan skuplja."

" Hej gujo" Obrati se Boromir pasu koji je idalje trkao krugove oko njih lajući.

Približi se mladost pastiru a sve se ovce rastrče, stupi i stari pastir k njima, istučen od vremena, krnjav al nasmijan, oči vedre i mlade . " Nego što vas goni vamo?" Pita pastir Zagrepčane, " ol ste se izgubili"?

"Nismo se izgubili nego nešto tražimo" Odgovori Matilda

A što po bogu dobrom tražite? Ima stari Krivi, oči ko vrana, da išta ovde sjaji već bi ja to vidio, a da vrijedi u mom žepu bi sjedilo. A neznamo točno što tražimo " Kaže Boromir.

Neznate što tražite, ali sve jedno po šumi njuškate. "

Matilda izlije vruće kave iz termosice i ponudi pastiru da pije.

"Ouh. Koja ponuda. Vruča kafa usred sniga i livade sama od sebe stigla starom Krivom. Da nije Krivi po blesavija, ili ste vi vilenjaci, došli da se poigravate samnom i starom Gujom i začarate nam ovce a onda ohoho cijelu veče ,vilenjaci peču ovce i plešu kolo." Sve jedno Krivi s guštom zasrče ustima u vruču kavu.

" Ma nismo mi nikavi vilenjaci" Nasmije se Matilda. " Nego ja tražim odakle mi potječe očeva obitelj. Jedino neznam baš puno o njima. Znam da mi je baba bila iz nekog sela zvanog Krivi put, a neznam dali to mjesto uopče postoji još.

"Oh. Što nebi bilo Krmpota? Pa nije u zemlju usahlo, a nisu ni toliko dobri da bi ih sve u nebo uzdiglo. Mada neki su se umislili tako.

Imam ja pjesmu za tebe od jednoga čovika sa tog puta zvanog Krmpot ko i put, da te na pravi put stavi, ili bolje rečeno da te na krivi put baci. " "U Krivon Putu sve je krivo, svi puti krivi do kore kruva, Samo ljucko srce živo taj gladni kamen štuje i čuva."

Marilda se razvedri" Onda Gospon Krivi, vi znate gdje se nalazi to mjesto?

Nu male krmpoćanke kako nebi znao možda sam ti ja neki rod Bog da jer si slađa od našega kumpira, al nepratim više te krvne slike dosadili su mi babe i laprdavi starci ,draže mi je evo ovce slušat jer bjelje manje gluposti od čovika . Nego neću vas na put opraviti dok ne gucnete kap ove dobre ličke šljivovice.

"Ma vozim to nam je sada žestoko" Protestira Bormir

"Ko če te vidit" Pita Krivi. " Vode ti je sve ionako krivo, pa nemoj glumatat neko pravo gradsko ponašanje, na ličkoj cesti , misliš ti da ima policije? Pojili ih medvidi. Ajde napij se momče." I pastir pruži čuturu. I tako Matilda i boromir pridruže se pastiru u zdravici.

Jeste čuli onu vi sjevernjaci " Staviš prst u more i dodakneš cijeli svjet?" Pita pastir. "Naravo. Odgovir bormir.

" E pa stavi jezik u šljivovicu i razumit češ cijelu liku" Nasmije se đavolski Krivi. "Sad ču vam reč put, dobro me poslušajte.

Ideš dalje autom dok ne stigneš s desne do jedne bare zvane stara žaba. Pazi još pola smrznuta parit če ti se čista ko jezerce, e tu skreneš livo. Pa pratiš put kroz šumerak, prođeš selo zvano Medveđa košnica, prepoznat če te ga po plavog kući. Unda uzbrdo treba vozit do stričeva opanaka, to su tri kuće i stari kameni zdenac al se rašlja cesta, pa ti uzmi onaj naj desniji put prema Tupoj panđi. Vidit češ deblo velikog starog hrasta prventuto pa tu iđeš livo. Kad prođeš planinarski dom , zva se prije Lički jarac sad više neznam kako ga zovu, sve jedno planinarski dom sa tri pasa i kravon vezanon zada nju je lako namirisat. E onda ste blizu. Vozi samo naprid. Stič češ na stari put. Sa njega skreni drugo desno pa češ doć na pravi put, a to vodi u Krmpot ili Krivi Put.