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.

Matilda i Kisela Baba , Prvi dio

Kako se zapravo djevojka zove i neznamo, kada je imala 11 godina otkirla je knjigu zvanu Matilda o djevojčici koja je posjedovala čarobne moći, o kojoj je naša mala toliko pričala da je od tada i roditelji i prijatelj jednostavno zovu Matilda.

Matilda je sada već odrasla. Radi u arheološkom muzeju šetnjicu od doma. Čak je i zaručena. Jednog dana hodajući preko parka Zrinjevca zagledana u igru ptica u krošnjama spotakne se i padne na koljena u svježu rosu jutra, strašno zablativši svoje bijele hlače na koljenima. Nije bilo vremena za presvući odjeći ili glačati nešto drugo, te Matilda vrlo svjesna svog neruednog izgleda uđe u muzej. Cijeli dan mučila su je ta prljava koljena. Kako bi posjetitelji ušli u prostrojiu u kojoj je radila, tako bi se Matidla okrećala k zidivima i kabinetima nastojeći satkriti prljava koljena. No ta nelagoda pratila je Matildu tjednima poslje incidenta. Matilda je svakim danom bivala sve nemirnija tokom radnog vremena. Čitala je informacije o grčkom dolasku na jadran po tisućuti put, i buljila u kožu stare mumije, u povjesti tražeći nešto što će je razriješiti osječaja nelagode. No po prvi puta muzej koji je strašno voljela postao joj je tjeskoban, stvarao je u Matildi osječaj kao da svakim ulaskom u muzej se zakopava u golemu mračnu gorbnicu, bez da je nešto protrebno postigla ,no nije sigurna bila što.

Boromir njen zaručnik primjetio je Matildin nemir te nakon nekoliko tjedna što ju je ostavio da mu sama bez uspjeha upita Matildu. "Već dugo te nešto mući, o čemu je stvar?

Matilda ga pogleda iznenađena što je njen nemir tako očit, te ogdovori sjetno.." Zapravo neznam što mi je. Godinama sam sanjala da radim u arheološkom muzeju, i uživala sam svakim danom tamo ići, no od nedavno, odlazak na posao mi je toliki napor. Po cijele dane studiram iznova izložbe i tražim nešto što nedostaje. No neznam zapravo dali nešto nedostaje muzeju ili pak meni samoj.

" Dali možda je vrijeme da potražiš posao drugdje? " Predloži Boromir.

" Ne. Ogovori instinktivno Matilda. To je točno mjesto gdje želim raditi, ali postoji nekakva zagonetka koju moram riješiti, samo problem je što neznam što je"

Da se ne nalazi problem van muzeja? Oprezno zapita Borimir.

" Ma mislim da ne , uživam u našem društvu i izlascima, volim ovaj naš grad, i posao, i sretna sam što se uskoro se vjenčajemo, i mada mi se sve čini kako treba, ipak imam osječaj da nešto nisam ispunila što moram, a ta kamena zgrada muzeja podsječa me na piramidu u kojoj sam pre rano zakopana i nemam pravo na to, na mir, dok nešto ne riješim."

Mada je Boromir tada osjetio olakšanje što se Matilda ne premišlja o njemu, Matildi nakon tog razovora nije bilo ništa lakše . Sutra dan za vrijeme pauze izišla je u muzejski vrt , sjela piti čikaru kave i gledala u skulpture donesene iz stare Salone. Po vrtu su stajali razbacani ostaci kipova žena, muškaraca te rimiskih gorbnica dekoriranih sa reljefima života onih davno pokopanih. A po svemu je skakutao kos.

Ja sam kao taj kos, pomisli tužno Matilda, nalazim se sred nečeg davno stvorenog, što nastojim razumjeti, prenjeti drugima, a da neznam odlakle potječem.

Te večeri Matilda radosno zargli Bormira i objasni "Orkrila sam što me muči. Muči me što neznam odakle moji preci potječu. Kakvo je to mjesto. Koji su to bili ljudi i kako su živjeli. Uskoro će nam biti vjenčanje a što ću pričati djeci ako ih budemo ikada imali? O nastanku dinosaura, ilirima, a kad me pitaju odakle su djed u baka, što su naši korjeni, odgovriti ću da neznam. "

" Dakle zato te hvata tjeskoba u muzeju, nedostaje ti vlastiti povjesni kontekst. S olakšanjem skoži Boromir.

"Očito" "Pa istražimo ih" Predloži Boromir čija je rodbina već stoljećima živjela i rađala se u Zagrebu , te čiji su djed i baka, dalje živi i dostupni za posjete u gornjem gradu te nikda nije bilo velike misterije tko su oni i odakle su.

Raj

Ko vjeruje da je raj otvoren samo za udubljene bradate jogije pokrivene blatom ili extra pobožnim vjernicima, vara se.

Raj je samo tramvajsku stanicu dalje.

Ili tamo negdi na dnu šetenje.

Što je raj zapravo, sjetimo se? Opisuju ga sve vjere, i poklapaju se,. Raje je mjesto gdje se svi slažu, svi su sretni, u raju cvijeće raste, krasno miriše, ljudi svih rasa se smiju, životinje žive bez da se javno proždiru.. Dali se slažemo opisu?

E pa raj se nalazi na trgu Kralja Tomislava, pored gradskog kolodvora.

Vodoskok žubori i skače. Sunce sija taman dovljno da je toplo, ali ne peče. Trava je zelena, mekana, izaziva ljude da skidaju cipele, odječu, hodaju bosi, leže i pričaju. Zelenilo je obrubljeno bojama raznolikog cvijeća, koje miriše ,uz miris svježe posječene trave, miris proljeća. Na travi sjede zaljubljeni. Na travi se hihoću školarke. Grupa dečki sa gitarama svira, svira cijelo popdne,ne odlaze, za sebe, za svih, ne smetaju, sviraju dovodeći sebe do ekszaze smijeha i tjerajući sve gole nožne prste da tupkaju u ritmu. Prolaze vlakovi djećice iz vrtića. Kruže u obilasku razredi srednjoškolaca. Čovijek na klupi spava i drijema dok druhi bez košulje love sunce. Šest muškaraca u širokim hlačama odbijaju se jedni drugima o ruke, izvode salta, plešu. Tramvaji kruže u cijelokupnom ritmu. Procvlale krošnje velikih stabla Mangolije svako malo ispuštaju oblak rozih latica koje se vrte u zraku i padaju po hrpi tinejđera što sjede pored debla u hladu. Dugo uha vesela doga trči oko vlasnice u igri dok desetak šarenih pasa prolaze, i javljaju se. Po ruci mi putuje mrav. Istražuje. Malo dalje upravo je sletitlla bubamara. Pčela skanira tratinčice i moju torbu zum zum zum tražeći nektar, a u točkastoj haljini ja čitam, i pijem mmm naj uksniju kremastu bijelu kavu. Kinezi s crvenim šeširima i patikama poziraju sa crvenim tulipanima.Muzika se mijenja. Oko trga magnetski privučeni šetaju profesori, poslovni ljudi, bake u šarenim šeširima. Golubovi se dižu u zrak u velikim jatima, obljeću, kruže, u smijeru povjetarca koji rashlađuje, i razbacaje mi kosu. A beba se svako malo javi iz trbuha.

Nije potrebno čekati kraj, ma vidite koliko je samo dostupan taj raj. Pitanje je samo gdje če te ga naći van Tomislav trga, ali sigurna sam da ima načina.

Mister raven

When no one is paying attention, the large gray raven lands first on to the chiminey, than "tup" by the garage and digs into the jelly cat steak. Despite all the codes of the crow city mafia, he has not reavealed the seecret spot to any other crow. And here he is, like every day, when the neighbour plops the wiskers cat food into the dish, and the cats are still sprawled aobut the block in the sun, Mister Raven greases his beak.

Mister gavran

Kad niko ne gleda, veliki sivi gavran sleti prvo na dimljak, pa tup pored garaže i navali na žele mačji odrezak . Unatoč svih pravila gavranske gradske mafije, nije ni jednom drugom gavranu tajno mjesto otkrijo. I evo ga opet kao svaki dan, kad susjet iskrene whiskers u tečicu, a mačke se još razležavaju po kvartu, mister gavran kljunaši u masti.

What is a man without the mother?

(INTRO: Here in the context I am writing in, Croatia, 2013, this article reffers to a grave number of male acquaintances , it may not apply to the international contexts of my readers but , it is a topic I felt had to be written about, if for no other reason but to send the article to a few individuals who inspired it, to see their reaction, to see will they be insulted, will they have excuses which exonerates them from being identified with the type of people described here, or are they truly resigned and comfortable as they are. The article I have written yeasterday morning originally in Croatian and find it interesting how many ex girlfriends and friends, recognised these men, and agreed on the existence of a problem at least in sheer numbers of types here described.)



Without entering deep Freudian dilemmas, for a moment let's turn around our axises, a full circle, 365 degrees, take of the sun shades and count the number of men who still live with their mother after they reach the long awaited age of 18.

At that mature law approved age people can drive, drink, travel, study, get married, they can hardley await the age of 18 so they can slap the mother and father with the words " Who are you to tell me what to do, now that i am officially an adult". But than the lad continues lounging aobout the house, waiting for dinner to abracadabra on to the table, and fresh socks to pair off automatically and jump into the sock drawer.

The adult male now drinks and degenerates all the more, rightfully being an adult an' all, threatening mother that he will leave when she complains, yet years later he has not moved the mere length of a beard along. When he does find a way to earn some money, it is spent with the speed of lightening, on going out, travel and toys, thus for coffee and cigarettes he still whines at mother how little she cashes out.

I would never have breached this topic, where it not that my wide friend and family circle includes boys aged, 20, 30 and 40 who still live the symbiosis of moaning at and co-habitation with mummy. As you see most of them are indeed not boys any longer, but fully grown men who consider their age unnoticeable, they are young at heart , so they say, but the fact that Peter Pan's hair has gone gray, he him self does not notice, he goes out for beers with mates when ever he can, checks out younger girls, his mother still buys his underwear, all is same as before, as always, which is enough evidence in his opinion to prove that he hasn't grown old, nay.

To even suggest to such characters very simple recipes which have functioned for all others in order to get independent, to find a job or two, rent an apartment for him self or with a friend, there is no sense, as they have no strength, will , nor desire to get away from mother, and have one thousand and one reason explaining why such a thing for him, would be absolutely impossible. Everyone else who has managed, they consider Lucky, convinced someone else prepared terrain for them. There are even those who on getting a decent job, and starting a career, still find it impossible to pick up anchor and sail away from mummy.

Is the mother to blame? A good relishing probably, for she does not want to be abandoned by the sons, and so tolerates all kinds of nonsense just to keep them at home. In some things she smothers disabling the sons from being independent, in order to feel needed, in other things she pushes them to work as they give her too many worries, ultimately resulting in fights over petty things. They irritate one another. She is 60 and the son is 30 and every so often they flap about like raging turkeys because it must be some body's fault why she can not find her spectacles and he can not find his trainers.

Last week at lunch a French man living in Croatia for a year, announces how he has noticed that the difference between Croats and Slovenes is that young Slovenes, weather they are broke or not , move away from their parents rent flats in city centre, making ends meet is the cost of freedom, and end up organising all kinds of creative projects. English among who i grew up, from the age of 18, move away from the parents to another side of the country, and do not sleep at home ever apart from during the holidays. No matter how low on money they be, or without food for several weeks, they figure it out with friends, trough adverts, to share a flat, a house , or even move to a squat to have the freedom to concentrate on realising their dreams. Finances are made finding a variety of jobs unrelated to their studies as long as they have to, instead of swearing at mother under the breath about having to hoover the house, wasting their youth's idealism with which they would otherwise be channeling into changing the world. None "hands" these people a a job, nor food, nor gets the bills. Its not easy to start out by one self, no where, but its worth it.

An independent man no one bothers, or if some tries to - he doesn't have to listen because no one else is his mother. No one controls where he is, what he is doing, whom he is with , at what time is he coming home, and where he spends his own money. Seeing he sees to feeding him self, he will learn to think about the ways of spending money, and how he invests it as if he does not have enough money until the end of the month to eat, he will learn eventually not to spend all money on alcohol for one night, as when living alone there may not be anyone waiting for him to wake up to at 4 in the afternoon and ask what is for dinner.

. Lets get back to my friend who has long passed his 30, has an amassing car, but his parents pay for all his bills, all food, shampoo, clothes detergent, ear buds, and who still lives at home in the childhood bed room. Apart from missing out all the glory of Independence, well how will he ever find a wife? Actually he can not even keep a girlfirled interested, as every one , even if she does fall in love eventually gets bored of having to shag in the car. That would have been exciting if they where teenagers, but considering he is over 30 years old his uncut umblilical chord is not attractive. And how many girls who have worked to become independent dream of a guy who she will have to keep and provide for in her own apartment? This type of male, like tumble weeds cruise from one relationship to the next, looking always for younger and younger girls who have not yet developed a criteria, yet after a brief romantic interval in which he may even start hoping it would grow into something more serious, gets dumped, because whilst it was fun for a while, unfortunately he is old. Of course the guy does not get it, and may continue with the same scheme for decades. Often he does not even see a reason to move away from mom, paradoxically planing to do it once he finds a wife.

Now lets get back to the younger version of the guy tied to his umbilical chord, the one in his Early twenties, who is not seeking a wife, but girls, travel and fun. He is still at home. He needs mom to give him money for realisation of any plans. She insists he earns it. So they argue. They can't stand each other ,but he does not leave. He dreams of how great it would be to live alone but simply does not look for a job. He does not find a job , he does not become independent. He waits for someone to " recommend him" "Get him a job". Not any job, but something easy, an easy one , something he will like, and also find him a flat. Until someone does that for them, they do not even think of an alternative. Everyone has it easier than him.

There exist exceptional situations in which the guy inherits a flat of house, mercy of a dead relative who could no longer watch how mummy is still spiting on a handkerchief and cleaning a grown mans chin. That kind of excetpitoonal situation may project the retard to stand on his own two feet, but it may also just extend the territory for the piggy to spread in, so that his mother now has to come over clean his new place and iron his clothes there, whilst he psychologically and habitually remains the same as he was at home. For these sorts of guys, the question is, is there any kind of hope?

On the other hand sometimes eurekas occur, and the mama's boys snap, move out, realising they can tailor their own life. Often as soon as they rent,, buy or build their own ,earn their own money, suddenly they meet the long awaited girlfriend, and start their own family, realising that its not so bad, enjoying it even.

Life today is obviously too easy and whiteout real threats. As much as the Croats here are acutsomed to mutter into their beards, about how everything is absolutely impossible, there is no work, or money, nor passion for changing anything, so that mum's boys have all the time in the world to extend 3 years studies into a decade , or slobber about at home whithout noticing the passage of time in any other from other than seeing their rock days-long hair, start bolding. In comparison about a hundred years ago, boys younger than 20 used to get together to plot the ways to overthrow the Austrian empire, to liberate the small country, and later on to throw off various historical invaders, the young fought for ideals, secretly or publicly openly risking their lives, and actively trying to fill the short mortal time they accepted with as much meaning, and realisation of happynes as they could, such as to to fall in love, to become independent, to help their family, nation, to travel and see. Now whiteout any real threats present, men hang off their mothers like monkeys for decades, becoming all the more incapable and dependant. Maybe it is time to create some put.the-fear-into-the bones-institutions , in which if a heatley young man-woman live parasiticaly up to a certain age they are forced into an institution where they spend days digging up rocks.The system would probably frighten the parasitic into action, as the flabby characters would a, start to get muscles and become attractive enough for someone to try pull them out of their mother's house, b start to take inciatives to work, and so create and develop the state of the country they are used to whine about.

The mothers could finaly enjoy their retirement and travel to Turkey or where ever ther favourite soap opera is set.

The men who are independat need not be angry at my statements here as i consider them to be the normal ones and enjoying the benefits and fruits of their efforts, as for girls who flab about for decades, just wait for the next half of the article .

Šta je muškarac bez matere?

Bez da ulazimo u duboke frojdovske dileme, okrenimo se trenutak oko sebe, cijeli krug, 365 stupnjeva, skinimo cvike i prebrojimo koliko muškaraca oko nas i dalje žive s materom nakon što napune jedva dočekane 18 godine.

Dali u tu kategoriju spadaju više manje svi vaši muški poznanici, osim mali izuzetak?

Sa osamnajest ljudi mogu vozit, pit, putovat, studirat, ženit se, i svi jedva čekaju osamnajstu tako da mater i čaču mogu ošinit riječima " E ko si ti da mi govoriš šta da radim sada kada sam punoljetan" , a onda mali nastavi razležavat se po kući, čekat da mu se ručak abrakadabrira na stol a da se friške bičve same sparaju i slete u škafetin.

Punoljetan mali sad sve više pije i banči opravdano jer je punoljetan, i prijeti materi kako če ič ča kad mu ona prigovori, ali godinama kasnije, i dalje se nije za pedalj brade dalje maka. Ako i nađe načina da zaradi koju kintu on je brzinom svjetlosti potoši na izlaske, putovanja , i igračke, te za kavu i cigarete opet cvili materi koliko mu malo daje.

Možda nikada nebi na ovu temu ni skliznula da u moj širi prjateljski i obiteljski krug ne spadaju dečki, od dvadeset, trideset i četrdeset godina koji i dalje žive u simbiozi grintanja i suživota sa materom. Kao što vidite nisu zapravo većina više ni dečki, zapravo su odrasli ljudi koji smatraju da se ne primjećuje koliko su godinama ostarili, jer su u duši oni mladi, tako bar kažu, a to što petar pan je već dobio sjedu kosu on sam ne primjećuje, pije pivu s ekipom kad može, gleda mlađe ženske, a mater mu i dalje kupuje mudante, sve je isto kao prije, kao uvijek, što mu je dovoljan dokaz da očito ostario nije.

Uopče početi predlagati takvim likovima vrlo jedonstavne sisteme koji su upaliali sivima ostalima da se samostale, naći posal ili dva, iznajmiti stan sebi ili s prijateljm, nema smisla, jer oni za odmaknut se od matere nemaju snage, želje, razloga, te imaju sto jedan razlog zašto je to baš njima absoljutno nemoguče, a svi ostali koji su se ostamostalili oni smatraju kao sretnici jer im je netko drugi to riješio. Ma čak ima i onih koji si nađu pristojne poslove, karijere, a nemogu od svoje matere nigdi.

Dali je mater kriva? Vjerojatno dobri bokun jer zapravo ona i ne želi često da je sinovi ostave pa trpi svakakve gluposti samo kako bi joj oni bili kući. U nekim stvarima sinove onesposobljava da budu samostalni, da se osječa potrebna, a u drugima ih gura da rade jer joj kad tad stvore previše briga, i rezultat su svađe oko gluposti. Jedni drugima idu na živce. Ona ima 60 godna a sin 30 i svako malo razjapure se ko purani i urlaju po kući jer netko mora bit kriv što ona nemože naći naočale a on patike.

Prošli tjedan na rukču izjavi francuz koji živi u hrvatskoj već godinu dana da primjećuje, kako največa razlika između Hrvata i Slovenaca je da mladi Slovenci, makar bili bez para, odsele od staraca, i u večim brojevima iznajmljuju stanove u centru Ljubljane, nemaju novaca ali se snađu za slobodu, te izmišljaju svakojake zanimljive umjetniče idruštvene projekte . Anglosaksonci među kojima sam odrasla, od 18 godine odsele od staraca na drugi kraj države, te nikad osim za blagdane više ne spavaju u kući od roditelja, i koliko god bili bez novaca, ili totalno bez hrane koji par tjedana, snađu se sa ekipom, prijateljima ,preko oglasnika, iznajmiti, kuću, stan, ili makar odesliti u skvot, kako bi imali slobodu da se koncentriraju na ostvarivanje vlastitih snova. Financirajući život nizom zaposlenja ne vezanih za njihov studij dokle god moraju, umjesto da psuju mater ispod brade kad ih ona tjera da usisavaju, trateći njihov mladenački idealizam kojim bi inače mogli promjeniti svijet. I ne, nitko im ne riješi posao, niti hranu, niti osigura struju, kontarij svih mogućih hrvatskih odgovora kako je naravno lako je njima, nije. Nije lako počet sam njigdje, ali se isplati. Samostalnog čovika nitko ne gnjavi, ako gnjavi on to nemora slušat jer mu nitko drugi nije mater. Nitko ne krontrolila gdje je ,kud je, u koliko sati dolazi doma, sa kim je, što radi i kako troši vlastiti zarađeni novac. A s obzirom da sam se hrani kad tada nauči da mora jesti da preživi pa počme sam razmišljati o tome kako troši svoj novac i u što ga investira, ako neće imati za dovoljno para do kraja mjeseca za jesti, naučit će ne kupovati 10 litara vina za jednu večer na zidiću, jer nema se kome probudit u 4 popodne i pitat šta za obid ima.

Vratimo se opet mom prijatelju koji je davno navršio tridesetu, ima super auto ali mu roditelji plačaju sve račune, svu hranu, šampone, prašak za robu, štapiće za uši, pastu za zube, i koji još doma živi u dječjoj sobi. Osim što propušta gušte samostalnosti, ma kako će on ikada nači ženu? Zapravo on nemože zadržati ni curu, jer svakoj, makar se ona zaljubila, dosadi se ševiti u njegovom autu. Ta faza bi joj bila ok da su oni još tinejđeri, ali s obzirim da on ima trideset godina njegova neprerezana pupkovina nije privlačna. A koliki broj cura koje su se uspjele osamostaliti sanjaju muškarca kojeg treba uzdržavati u njenom stanu? Ovakva vrsta muškog kao kugle korova kovitlaju od veze do vezice, tražeći sve mlađe i mlađe cure koje nisu još razgradile kiterije, te nakon kratkih romantičnih brijanja u kojim se on možda i ponada da če konačno bit nešto ozbiljnije, te cure takve tipove odbacuju, jer bio je zabavan kratko, ali nažalost je star . Naravno to dečki i ne kuže te mogu nastavljati sa ovom šemom desetljećima. Često i ne vide razloga da se odsele od mame paradoksično planirajuči to za dan kad si nažu ženu.

A sad se vratimo na mlađu verziju tipa vezanog za pupkovinu, onog u ranim dvadesetima, koji ne traži ženu već želi cure i putovanja. I dalje su doma. Frustrirani grintaju. Terba im mater dati svaku kunu. Ona ih tjera da to zavrijede. Pa se svađaju. Nepodnose ali ne odlaze. Sanjaju sako bi super bilo sam živiti ali jednostavno ne traže si posao. Ne nađu si posao, ne osamostaljuju se. Oni čekaju da im neko nešto "riješi". Riješi posao. Ne bilo što, već lagani koji im bi se svidio. I riješi stan. I dok im to netko treći ne riješi, niti ne pokušavaju za sebe smisliti alternativu. Svima je lakše nego njemu.

Postoje izvaredne situacije u kojima mali nasljedi nekakvi stan ili kuću, od milosti odumrle rodbine koja više nije mogla gledati kako mama pljuvačkom i maramicom odraslom čoviku čisti bradu. To je izvaredna situacija koja možda kepeca pokrene da se osamostali, a možda jedonstavno znaći da se prašćič raširi pa sada mu mater mora dolazit čistit i taj stan, peglat tu robu, a on psihološki i po navikama ostaje isti koda je doma. Za takve likove pitanje je imali ikakve nade.

A dogode se i neke eureke kada ovi mamoni sami prelome neki trenutak, odsele, shvate da si sami mogu stvoriti život. Često ćim si nađu ili sagrade vlastit prostor, zaradu vlasite pare, odjednom si nađu i dugo nedostatnu curu, te naprave vlastitu familiju shvateći pa da to uopče nije loše, čak uživaju.

Život je očito danas pre lagodan i bez prijetnje. Koliko god hrvati naučili gunđati u bradu i govriti kao je sve absolutno nemoguče, nema se posla ni para, ni žara za išta mjenjati, te mamoni imaju svo vrijeme na svijetu da studiraju ili se razležavaju kod kuće bez da osjete kako vrimeme prolazi osim što iz dugo-kosog rokera postaju pelavi. Za usporedbu prije nekih sto godina momci mlađi od dvadesete, kovali su planove za osobođenje od Austrije, pa kasnije Italije, mladi su se borili za ideale, tajno ili otvoreno riskirajući tako život, i nastojeći u kratki život koji su prihvatili, da postignu što više stvari koji ih usrećuju, da se zaljube, da se osamostale, da pomognu svojima ili naciji, da vide i putuju. A sad bez rata, bez prijetnje, vise o materi desetljećima ko majmuni, postajući sve nesposobniji i ovisni. Možda je vrijeme stvoriti strah-u-kosti insitucije u kojima ako fizički sposoban momak- cura ne odeseli od doma ili ne radi do neke godine, prisiljeno ulazi u instituciju gjde cijeli dan kopa kamenje. Stvar bi sigurno prestrašila ljenčine u akciju, pomogla i ekonomiji o kojoj svi jauču jer bi vrlo brzo mlohavci a, dobili mišiće i postlai privlačniji drugom spolu koji bi ih izvlačio iz kuće, b , počeli uzimati inicijative, raditi , stvarati i razvijati stanje države o kojem su navikli samo kukati.

A matere bi konačno mogle uživat penziju. Prestale bi četrdesetgodišnjaku kupovati čarape, uložile bi novce za zaslužena putovanja u Tursku i odakle god potječu njihove najdraže serije.

Muški koji se osamostale netrebaju se ljutiti na ove moje izjave jer ih smatram normalnima i naravno uživaju u prednostima i plovodima svojeg rada a za cure koje mlohave doma stoljećima, čekajte nastavak članka.

The satisfaction of colour

People shouldd really invest more in colours. Children are almost agressive aboout the coloures they want in particular moments, and those coloures which reflect their wishes, intuitions and desires make them happy . Just colour makes them happy. A rainbow ice cream. A pink dress. Yellow toy. Orange sweets. Blue pen. Glittery pink shamppo. Yelly blue dinosaur. They draw the sky as orange becouse it pleases them and do not care aobut its relevance to reality. Adults tend to obtain things for their content, for their fashion or ability to be useful. Gray suit, and gray tie, and gray socks, and more gray things to go with the other gray things. Or lots of black which goes with more of black things becosue it makes it easey to mix and match things. But do these milions of grays or blacks make the proprietor happy? For a week i keep thinking aobut grass green shoes i have passed with a taxi on the way to the park. I have dreamt them. Any as i entered the shop to buy them and noticed same type shoes in 10 other coloures, baige, black, navy, red,.. i started wandering wether i ought not to give in and go for a colour that would go with the things i have to wear. Useful colur. Logical colur. That would go with anything. Yet i would not have even noticed the shoes where they any other colour. It was not their shape that made them stick in my mind but this amazing grass green. So i got the grass green shoes, ah, and what happyness. Happy ness of a child with the fresh ice cream, new toy, going to the sea side. Coloures doubtlessley ressonate some interior scenes, feelings, chakra energies, and i think rejecting them it to reject the possiblity of satisfaction and the furthering of a chain reaction of little things which make one happy, or on the aother hand embracing them one starts a whole chain reaction of small things which make you smile, the next person smile, the dog wag his tail, the cat purr.

My aunt was rich, bored, anorexic and lived in a mental asylum.

-- I had an aunt.

The chorus sings " She had an aunt"

My aunt was rich, bored, anorexic and lived in a mental asylum.

The chorus sings" Her aunt was rich, bored anorexic and lived in a loony bin"..





By the time the first ritual description with song, and chorus, and theatrical make up ends you realised you have heard the same story in a new outfit.

Emily had this miserable aunt who took no joy in food, took no joy in life, smoked cigarettes, lived in and out of institutions, scribbled down melancholic bored remarks about her melancholic bored life, tired to gas her head in the oven a few times and somehow fell in to crowds of glitter wearing people who had drug and alcohol problems. They convinced her that her starved frame was elegant and her scribbles where worth reading. They excited her for the first time. She opened her legs to many a famous man who had his time in magazine and newspaper headlines and never mentioned her name. Now her youth is gone, she sits in powdery rooms, looks out of windows, smokes her cigarettes, drinks whiskey at breakfast. A smug look on her crinkled dry face accidentally name drops the men she had sex and drugs and hotel rooms with to anyone who wants to listen. Her posture is proud like that of a crow, her nose in the air, and the moment her listener goes, closes the door, she is left once again to effervesce into silence and memory, alone, melancholy, bored and old.

Any yet, young women, idealise, adore, look up to, smoke cigarettes, down whiskey,opiates and men, imitating glory days of such aunts than.

Tey oh just so want to be like the old aunt they have met or heared of. So bohemian. Beautifully tragic. Glamorous and yet such a social success. More articles are written about the aunt. Stories told about the aunt. By the girls who want to be like the aunt. Or perhaps found that the years, and choices lead them always to the same swampy place, not unlike the aunts glory days.

Between the oscillations of extreme highs, and dark lonesome lows, crawling between the feet of new friends in fabulous new clothes, unnoticed, she makes that aunt her hero, her idol, balms her, mummifies her, wears her as a mask, a measurement, of personal success to all those who dare to reach out and ask , how do you do?

Such brief rocky instants, pauses in the merry go round, scare her, bring her to the edge, bring her to almost consider, think about change, but than in a flash she cuts off her mind. She is strong, She laughs with hilarity and vigour, nose in the air, her hands on the hips, smoking alluringly on her cigarette, the one she is holding on to for her dear life, and than she acidly kicks down the person who dared to ask.

More black and white photographs from aunts institution days are dug up. More male and female names from the 70's 80', dear Emily researches in order to find out the exact numerical quantity of popularity her aunt had socially sexually. More boring articles, come out in glossy magazines.

One day a young girl comes to interview Emily. She looks up with shiny eager eyes, sucking on a cigarette, making an effort to sit elegantly, consciously nonchalantly. She does not ask about the articles Emily has written about her aunt. She asks Emily about Emily. Emily's eyes open a little suspiciously, than soften finally realising she has matured into a somebody worth being written about. The girl wants to know about the famous men she had slept with, and woman too, the bulimia, the psychiatrists, the parties. And after the interview is scribbled. And the doors close, Emily is left to effervesce into silence and melancholy, alone, bored, she shakes the ice cubes in her drink and realises she never really made an effort to live anything but her aunt's shadows, never tried for a happy end, and now has simpley grown old.

painting

Yeasterday painting felt like this:

Painting is not a lovley dovley ceresing of life with a paint brush, it is a damn battle. Who will win this time pends the question every time one dares to enter the arena. The invisible master of the game, or me the mere pawn fighting in the name of things visible. Invisible master gets snappy if you win too many moves , he starts hitting you with wet paint, every two seconds, making you skickey, multycoloured, nervous, make mistakes, produce bogg colured mud, and than he relaxes when it all looks pooey, but once you wipe him off, and get a bit right he gets right down mean and nasty.

Today the same painting feels like this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwXai-sgM-s

The portrait i am painting of Daria evolved into a living soceres, who can turn any viewer into a frog. And I after the battle won can breathe again.