The invisible door

Finally rain. Wind whiling leaves and my polka-dot dress, hats flying all over the street. Blessed. happy hair extending out into supreme happy fizziness to express joy for the summer tempest. Night has replaced day and freshness ,the melting evaporating live-concrete.

The museum is like a little hub, the in between world,  a sterile home, a hotel or an airport, where everyone feels at home and not at the same time, and it is precisely this statute of uncertainty, and distance form  life, that allows a comfortable place to retrospect, distance and observe, the rush hour that immerses you everywhere else.
So. Whilst enjoying the removal from home and attention to detail and family, I can finally stop and recall last night.

 I walked across the hot concrete stone tourist saturated city of sounds and colours and palm trees and ferries and disappeared into a door , between day and night, into the twilight literally. This time it was easy. Like Harry Potter I just ran for the invisible door, in-between people chewing pizza triangles and fake sunglass salesmen. It could have been just a splat. But no, what you could have heard in my head where the sounds of the snake charmer's flute, and I enchanted, found myself blinking at the dark and neon.
"Your late." Said a very tall and deadly serious, praying mantis wearing just a bra, a thong and enormously tall platform shoes.
Gulp.
I'm five minutes late. I replied worried that time had elapsed unnoticed.
"Late never the less"... The mantis flickered its legs and wings.
The next movement in the dark was produced by the movement of a black diamond, zooming itself at me, in its proximity  turning into  micro knickers, worn by the tribal queen.
and than all was well. Tribal queen calculated mantise might be hungry or something and lead me to the opposite side of the room, to a divan, made me the welcoming hot beverage and night started .

Can you recognise the place? I have described it to you before. And you may have visited it in your fantasies or trough the movies. But here we are. Neon lights a flickering. New names. Do I have a name? Star? instead of Sun? We are drinking coffee, all is quite normal really , other than the fact all the ladies are wearing underwear, only. Everyone is wearing sexy underwear, accentuating the animal within, and skyscraper shoes . The tribal queen notices I am not in dress code. She brings me her fabulous black lacquered shoes strewn with diamonds and I too turn into a skyscraper girl. yay. Not feeling any inhibitions this time. Too much clothes in this place makes one look and feel un-godly and flat shoes are just plain sacrilegious. I have come to paint and I will feel fabulous doing it .

when they sat and sprawled and where slow , the painting was slow, and tough, when the vine opened, the painting became easier, when  champagne was popped, the painting poured and jumped off the page, I could not change the pages fast enough before the brush would finish the next. There was a "guest" at our table. He bough me a bottle of champagne. You are learning. Said proudly the tribal queen. Perhaps I am becoming one of the amazons. I made the girls dance so that I can paint . He was too much of a local to get them dancing. So the girls danced for me, and he bought the champagne and the club came to life. As if at one point, without punters even, the girls awoke, needed to dance, the first inspired the second, and a chain reaction occurred, and as the started dancing, so the energy was felt beyond the walls, and people started to come in. girls started to dance. girls started to dissapeer behind curtains with clients,  I painted those dancing, my glass kept filling and filling and the painting started being so fluid. I could again not see colours in the darkness so creating with a feeling for light and shadow, they danced for me, they danced for the paint, they daned for their danced, so that they will remember it once it is over, once they wake up, in the normal life, they wanted to the their faces on these dancing bodies which poured out of the brush, even though I could not see but bodies and shadows.

than they dressed me up. corset, thongs , scryscraper shoes. There was no reason to feel inhibitions,





.

The Crop Circles

 

I can tell you how crop circles are made. Incredible mystery to all who have not seen them made, who have not made one. The search of a life time. Search addicts all over the place. Stalking these circles. These stupendous mysteries produced by something that came form the stars. Pure magic for the scientist. A tantalising yet possible, never the less frustrating, perhaps unattainable, perhaps a never ending hunt.

There are search addicts out there taking photographs, writing notes, songs, calculating mathematically , but never knowing. Wishing it would happen to them, be they quartered by aliens in the process, they want to live it, see a glimpse, so that they know that they have lived it, so that they can, the rest of a lifetime refer, back to that moment.

Ladies working at supermarket tills, single mom's, rugby stars, barristers, super stars, artists, book worms, teenagers, excavator drivers, a whole load of teenagers, and Bridget Joans friends of mine. All waiting for their moment.

Hiding behind a wheat stalk, slimmer than a wheat stalk , invisible in the night, waiting at the crop circle to happen before it does.

Does it ever? How many nights, shooting stars, aeroplanes, plucked daisies, satellites, pass before their eyes see, an unidentifiable flying object ,of the desirable shape and quality, scorch their borne-ready field ,for that unexplainable but lovely cause?

I have made crop circles. All one must do to make a crop circle is just allow your self, to feel rhythm in your legs and arms, and not think about your breath. The opposite of meditation.  All kinds of shapes are created really. Unidentifiable. Unpredictable to architectural tools and rationality.

The ants did not understand those unforeseen crops circles , too wast, to the ants my crops circles where just sudden sunshine, where there was none before. To the cows my crop circles where probably uninteresting. To the farmers the circles we made where greatly annoying I would assume. But to us they where perfect circles.

All you have to do is throw your self in to the wheat field. It can be a green wheat field, like they are at beginning of summer. Or it can be a golden wheat field before harvest time. You throw yourself in to the wheat. The green fields are softer, they have softer leaves. But than who does not like a bit of rugged earth to claw your hands into? You throw your self in, or you get pulled in, or you walk trough a long, very long , field creating some sort of trail, leaving a scent of something irresistible, pheromones behinds you . Is it even possible to describe what happens..

He takes off your shirt, kisses your hair, your lips, your neck, your shoulders, and you are on the ground before you even know you are making crop circles. Your naked skin is on the earth, feeding it, giving it energy, and you are unstoppable, possessed, driven by nature, tons of millions of years of instinct, and scent, that incredible scent of his neck, his hair, the taste of his mouth. Your hands grasp his hair. You are riding inside his eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the universe. All the darkness and all the light is contained in his irises. In his eyes lies the whole universe. The whole universe you care about. Nothing else exists.

The sun is yellow and golden and hot.
The sun goes down.
The sun sets and can-can's its skirts and underskirts of colours.
The sun rises.
Dawns are cold and the dew is wet and you still don't care or feel the cold , or feel the stones ,or feel the dirt in your nails, all that you see and want and feel is the one before you.

Love? I'm afraid I don't know any other world for it. Total love. In love-ness and beyond it, to the other side of space, with a Ferrari, Lamborghini space ship thank you. No this can't be bought dear, or reserved, or booked please, thank you very much. And there is absolutely no way you can predict how your crop circle will look at the end of the day. It may be a set of circles joined up, you have seen the pictures. But you most certainty would have ended up with one, I'm sure, if you went to the wheat field with the right person. And how was the circle made? Well leave the farmer guessing. Let them charge their crystals on good energy in these circles. And heal, and roll and pray in the circle you leave.

Its about the right time of the year now. The wheat is green and lush and soft. The stalks are tall enough to hide you.

Tall enough to hide us as we jump into the sea of green wheat and disapeer from sight. No one will see us, not from the village, not from ten feet away. Maybe the birds will, and the UFOs of course should they fly overhead.

The Bar Tender

As you all know who have read that article of mine ages ago, men in Croatia, in my experience of them, all have a watering hole, a bar, a pub a place they go and do that business men do, newspapers, gossip, gaping at boobs of female customers and so on. ..

Well my husband of course has his local hole, and its my business not to intrude too much on his watering hole, else he would no doubt change it for another. Its just the way thing are. Men go to these places to be safe from their wife's, and only bring the wife's to inspect the spots on special occasions.

So. If Intend to use his hole, I must do it when he is not there. Only that way can my husbands watering hole be mine to use at liberty. Duje and I adopted my husbands hole, around the 11th hour. We would go for coffee after park every day during the winter, for long enough to be missed when we changed our day plans.

But from time to time its fun to go to this hole. Because its the opposite to the watering hole I choose for my self. My day bar has lots of sunshine, lots of air, plants ,flowers, white , lots of while colour, hard pretty chairs to perch upon, and plenty of fancy, fashionable and arty people served by young and fresh skipping waiters

My husbands bar has lots of smoke, it lacks air, the air you breathe is definitely made of nicotine,  there is not much light in this place,  the colours are saturated and place is full of comfy couches. There you are served by a grouchy, owner, over dosed on  people in his life and thus dislikes them in general, so every drink he serves he serves with a cynical comment at the world.

But sometimes I like to have coffee there just for this. You escape the sunshine and enter this half dismal bar, you enter a world. The music is good. The man knows his stuff. The coffee is perfect. The alcohol is good too, the owner has experience. There are lots of regular men who use the bar as the living room. And than there are the women.

All kinds. I have to have noticed, its a thing I do as you know, collect the curious. So I noticed the women who enter this bar like bees attracted by that giant rotting flesh scented flower. These women may have got lost somewhere along the way , and ended up for coffee at this place, that is not a women kind of place. But once they discovered it for what ever reason, they keep coming back.

A law secretary. A nurse.  Aged post office lady. All kinds of middle aged, past their prime violets, dressed in clothes which mean to camouflage them into those flower printed lavender sacks. They pass and your brain for an instant thinks a country wardrobe passed you by, as they even smell of lavender. And they always have some sort of mission, a letter to give, pick up, something involving touching  the grouch owner . Exchanging something physically. Sometimes even money is enough. She pays for her coffee and greedily slurps up his fingers as he returns the coins.

Yesterday a woman of this description entered the bar from the back. She perched next to the loo  for ten minutes just staring at him, the greying, grumpy owner, slouched in his greying velvet armchair, sipping back his vodka hidden in soda water.

I was unsure whether she had gotten lost. Than whether she needed something. But I decided to just observe. He must have noticed her, as waiters do, and chose not to twitch. So she stared, like a giant jelly, all the flowery shapeless clothes erect and projecting her face at him. She than waved. He reacted nonchalantly, half irritated. As he came close to her, the woman simply blossomed. Grey became pink. Fireworks lit up her face from within. She recited , what ever reason, she invented for coming to see him , than died like a desert flower after a few moments, retrieved back into the darkness of the bar, and slithered away.

I realised than that this was not the only of the kind. There are a whole range of women coming to this very bar tender for a dose of a flirt. On a dailey or a weekly basis. All sorts of women. And he is the kind of guy, always complaining at the lack of sex in his married life, wistfully talking about the good old days when he could have had any woman, he could have screwed a fly in flight.

I suppose he gets his day's flirt fill too. He plays a roll in many a life thus. Of the women glad of some attention,  and catering to the men who need to have a bar like this to relax in from time to time.  The cantankerous , cynical, bar owner is a proper well in demand social function. There is no psychologist who could satisfy the needs this one man does , by simply being a grouch and doing his every day job.

Their bodies made of space and stars

There I was, the sole public, in the darkness, and a dim , smoky light . Afore me beautiful women, dressed in the same dim light and spangled with green light dots.

Their bodies made of space and stars .

 

I was the sole public, and they danced for me, and I have never seen anything like it.


The first was very slow. Extraordinarily sensual. Her hips moved tantalisingly to the mellow music.
However,  the most sexual part, of her performance,  was the cleaning.

 Have you ever seen a pole dancer, polishing the metal pole?

She uses  a completely ordinary paper tissue, but the way that she uses it, oh .
 She wraps her hand around it and the pole, and than slowly , very slowly, slides the hand to the base of the protrusion. Her legs do not bend, no, her head dives down , it dissapeers together with the back , behind her bottom, a very deliberately pouting bottom on top of miles of legs and killer stilletoes, and that enormously round, sex laden ass, stares at you, quite deliberately.

Yes, gulp.  Her ass is out launched at You. Me.
She slides the hand and the perfectly ordinary hanker chief up and down that pole in the most provocative and least ordinary manner. So all you can do is, gasp. Look out falsely, politely away. Than, revert your eyes, fascinated, greedy eyes. Cant'not look, there is a female ass, with all the round volumes and extravagant shadows in the middle, pointing at you, All that is separating it, and you is a little lace , somewhere in the naughty shadows.

And, she hasen't even started dancing.

Oh come on, It really was just cleaning? There is no one there to be watching her, only other dancers, and I, a female. What's that to her?

And than.

She dances.
I can't draw her.
I hide in to my coffee mesmerised, doo be doo, here I am with a friend , just drinking coffee, its true, no one could disproove it.
But I keep watching.

More girls arrive to work.

Outside is still sunshine. They enter, into the darkness, velvet safe darkness, with little magic lights, like when faries pass you, and they start rejecting their vestiments, armour, ordinariness, in the changing room. They throw off all the armour, rhino skin, the belonging to others, the wife ness, the daughterness, the girlfriend ness, and than all that is left is they,

a she.

Like in that  Russan tale ,where swans throw off feathers, and prove to be nude women underneath.
These throw off their ordinary women, and
swans emerge.

One by one they take the stage.
And I start painting.
I don't know how to paint .
They are beautiful, I am speechless, and my paint doesn't know how to event try to describe them.
They are sexy, and erotic, and sensual and so strong, performing the most incredible moves, to the music, and aimed at me.

I can't see the colours in the dark, but I make the paint wet, and feel for shadows in the palette, and paint somwthing inbetween the energy and the movements, but nither. They are too fast. Alien star ships. Ufos. Did I just see that? I am more dazzed by the speed and movement than my hand can follow.

One by one the girls dance.
They climb the pole,
 and slide
 and writhe,
 and open their legs,
 and bend that ass always pointing it at me,
 and she spins, and falls,
 and slides up side down,
 and I have no intention of goin away.

I'm on a completely new continent  sitting with the chief of the tribe.
Cannibals of course, every and each, one of them. Everyone knows that back home, they are man eaters.

Yet here I am. Privileged to be allowed among exotic beings. Far away form home, around the tribal flame, with the amazons dancing for me, showing me the best they can be, their dance.

 The empress, patronises my work, my being there you see, they haven't boiled me in the cauldron with carrots yet,  no, the empress sits, on the couch, next to me, in her red bikini and see trough platform stilettoes, drinking coffee, quite civilised .

The girls sweat,  move to the rhythm, return wet, drenched, and flop around me, decadently.

 Would it not carry you away? Would you not wish to stay in summerland, where hours pass like seconds? Would you not come back again, for a drink, for a look, for a time not to think?

I painted them all. Hello Monsieur Lautrec, Monsiour Degas, voila I have arrived too, to the bar after dark, and I understand. Each century has its seductive ,forbidden dance, the cancan, the ballet, the dances in the pagan temples and forests thousands of years ago. I painted until the paper run out, and than on the backs of other paintings.

And when there was no paper left, and hours had passed by, and dancers had all danced more than once ,and it was time to have breakfast, they said, oh let us dress you up now.

We women, have those expected common prejudices, men too, but there among the deshabilled females, powdered with darkness, mystery,  neon lights I felt like my power grew. Not when I entered. I was wary to enter even. As the full moon grew, so this my confidence, and wish to dance, the backbone straightened , the body absorbed some of the sensuality, when I walked I could feel it. The girls undid my big flowery dress and put my torso in a black corset, my feet into tall lacqured stiletoes a strewn with diamonds. The kind I would never have looked at before. The kind I must have.

 Did you know I have miles and miles of legs? Oh yes I have the kind of legs that ordinary mortals have to look up to, to see the ends of, somewhere in the clouds, in the land of giants and goddesses, the kind you can't touch. ? When I wear there magic shoes.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

I awoke the husband somewhere at am, he must have been worried, where I was, that late, having left to paint in the afternoon, tea time, and having awoken him up so late, he might have been, a little annoyed, but once he opened the door, of the house, and saw ,the new person standing there, was it something in the eyes, in the posture, in the stilettoes? He suddenly was awake, and looked happy to be awoken even, I could say. His eyes, mad in love mad mad eyes. What the heck happened?

I  did leave the house to paint that day. I left the house to paint a goddesses. She was going to let me paint her meditate, and but instead she took  me to  paint her dancing.

Kaštelanski film Noire

Sjedimo u autu u sred vlaške. Naravno oko nas se ta Vlaška i miče, trće unazad, krićavo zelena stabla obojana svjetlima auta, i oni telfonski stupovi iz kaubojskih filmova, a van tog okvira mrak.

 Nov je mjesec. Nov početak. Moguče je da je pobiga od doma, ali dali ima muda za to? To bi bila ta dobra verzija da je pobiga od doma, I krenija prema Rijeci ili nešto, da je živ. Da bila bi dobra verzija u kojoj je on Živ.

U velikoj borši na kolinu, punoj akvarela, flomastera , svakakvih boja, plik postera sa crno bilom facom mog brata. Polu nasmješenog, jel on to vibrira iz neke druge happy  dimenzije tako namsmješen ili pak je sve ok pa izgleda nasmješen?
Uz postere veliki paket cookisa za živce, moje živce naravno, jer muž ima cigarete.

Nesta Ti je brat.

Rekla mi je večeras Zrinka iz Zagreba, koju je zvala njena mater iz Kaštila, kada je to pročitala u novini.

Nesta je prija 3 dana.

Meni mater ništa nije rekla. Nije me tila brinit, mene I moju obitelj, a mislila je da če se do sada već vratit. Kaže.

Oko nas teče ta pusta Vlaška, I mračina. Biče dehidriran leži u travi negdi. Nevirujem da bi on nekog pita išta, kunu, za poziv, za autobus, da bi se uopče šverca, biče hoda doma I leži negdi u smeđoj, vlažnoj travi, a noć je hladna.

Zubi buldozaju cookise , Šibenik je toliko dug. Ma on se nebi snaša da je prova. Zato mu I triba 4 dana. On razmišlja ko vilenjak, ne vidi prometne znakove, objašnjavam ja mužu,on če uz more, priko polja , šume, di god nije logično.

Čudno je to, kažem mužu koliko ljudi postoji u Kaštilima kojima je potriba otič u brdo, danima, danima sam bit u nekom brdu, nigdi ih nisam toliko srela ko u Kaštilima, svi imaju neku potribu bit u divljini I na brdu. I Antonio je posta jedan od tih.

Šibenik je grad duhova. Nigdi ama baš nikoga za vidit. Je da je noć ali pari neko američko predgrdđje iz surealnog filma. Uz praznu policijsku postaju, I zatvorenju kapiju, mala kućica, kockasta stračara a u srtračarici prignječena, policajka oblika unutrašnjosti  kućice. Cilu ju je popunila. Sisa pun stol, brkova puna usna, bonbon prazna kesa, a u ruci olovka, nočna policajka precrtava ilustracije dječjih knjiga. Dobar znak? Antonio ilustrira.

Policajka, nazove kolege, doda telefon, da  mi kažu da mi ništa neče reč.  Sve šta če reč, mora reč mojoj materi, koja je podnila prijavu nestanka mog brata.

Ali svadili mo se, malo prije, išla sam doma saznat šta se dogodilo, nasta je svinjac-vatromet, neznam nikakve detalje, objasnim ja barba policajcu.


 Detalje če kolege u kaštilima, koji vode istragu, mada je brat nesta u šibeniku, reč materi koja je podnila prijavu. A meni ništa, nek pitam mater.

 A postere mogu ja lipit ako je to u suglasnosti,  sa materom koja je podnila prijavu, ako ona odobrava , on ponovi, a on nema pravo da mi išta na to kaže.

Debela brkata policajka, kvalificirana za holivudske filmove, napiše ime Antonio na komad šporkog papira sa olovkom, naj bitniji je bio ops njegove frizure,  I eto rješeno je tim sve. A za tim doda.. Moga se bacit sa litica tvrđave , moga se utopit u moru ,nebi ga do sada našli, jeli ma koju poseno dragu osobu ili mjesto di bi se sakrija? Time mi doda materijala mašti.

Šta čemo dalje? Upuštamo se lipit postere po gradu. Kako se to uopče radi? Dali postoje pravila gdje se takve stvari lipe? Pitanje je života I smrti, ali opet nemogu baš lipit svugdi. Neželim negatvine konotacije, okruženje loših postera,  zbog sriće.

Prvu sam zalipila kraj fast fooda, navečer tamo idu svi, drugu spod slike malih mekih pasića u Šibenskom kolodvoru ,treću na hobotničinu glavu, morskog murala. I tako stigošmo do tvrđave iz koje je brat u Nedilju pobiga.

Bija je sa materom na koncertu. On se uglavnom ponaša sramežlivo pored novih ljudi, mnogo ljudi, pa ne radi, a već ima 26 godina , I kome nebi to do pizdilo,  I virjeme je da radi, da se socializira, pa ona ga pokušaje socializirati. I tako su bili u tvrđavi na Jazz koncertu a on je samo šmuga u noć.

Počela je kišica. To če ga potirat doma kaže muž. To če ti smočit postere. Kaže muž. Morala sam zalipit jednu na tu tvrđavu. Na zid. Na ime ulice. Ali tako hladno, jezivo mi je izgledala slika na tom zidu. Pre jezivo, cijelo mjesto. Zar su tvrđave inače tako jezive?. Strah me je bit sama u tom mokrom maglovitom mraku, iako samo ulicu dalje od muža, u noći, ovjde.

 Šta to sam ga zalipila na zid Groblja svete Ane?  Zalipila sam sliku brata na jebeno groblje. No way. Skidam ga I trćim niz ulicu "Put groblja" prema svitlu, svitu I lipim bratovu glavu na vrata od nečjeg vrta.  Razumit če ljudi. Ako dodam flomasterom "nesta ovdje."

Osječaj da plačem mi skače u očima ko oni baluni što se stvore žabiu grlu dok krekće, suze nabubre, I nestanu, I tako, recikliram istu vodu više puta. Nema jebenih suza kod mene, the show must go on. Ali kuda? Oblipimo autobusne stanice at random iz Šibenika do Rogoznice duboko u noć. Prošetamo uz zadnju autobusnu stanicu za koju smo imali poster. Lipo tu miriše,ta trava, jele. Spod ceste neka vala, more. Možda mu je ovoi pustolovina. Zoven bratovo ime u noć  , idemo kući.

Mater I brat 3 traže ga od Nedilje, i lipe iz drugog smjera. Zovu dva u jutro ,da su ga ljudi vidili kako sidi na zidiću,izgledao je zapušteno,  al na zidiću, taj dan.

U jutro zovu jer su ga vidili više ljudi, facebook je proširija vjest ko požar, po Dalmacije gleda oko sebe,  da vide Antonija. Antonio sramežljivi Antonio koji je pobigao.

Svi znaju za tu potragu, osim brata 2. Ja sam izgubila telefon I nemem njegov broj, a mater mi taj broj nije tila dat. Ne samo šta mi  ga ona nije htjlea dat, nego mi ga se nije usudija dat ninajmlađi brat kojem je mater zabranila. Da ne uznemirujem bezveza brata koji radi u Istri, da ne ostavlja svoj posal.

Moram ga zvat insistiram, I reč mu da je Antonio nesta,  na I njemu je izbor šta če radit, ali ima pravo znat. Kad si ga već ti u Šibeniku izgubila.I tik tako sam upalila ono.

Prvo pravednički, čvrsto uprt u me,  prst. A zatim promjenu glasa, mucanje odbačeno, nov glas, iz dna metalnee bačve,  urlikao je "Izlazi iz moje kuće ", sve zmije u kosi siktajući, "Van iz moje kuće, Ja sam Majka ja znam što je dobro za moje Sinove". Tresla se kamena kuća iz temelja, a iz drvenih usta ispadaše I svi koji su dotada s njom bdili.

Pronađen je.

Zove mater sljedeće podne. Pronađen je u Kaštilima. Mater opet muca od emocija,od muke, od spašenja, muca lome se rijeći.

Sa njom dokona kolekcija obitelji s kojom nije do dog trenutka bila bliska godinama. Jesu li bili gladni priče ili su iskreno došli pomoć u teškom trenutku.  Na vratima je I pas bio zbunjen jer  u kužini dočekala me je  teta s kojom godinama Mater nema vezu, skuvla teta ručak, grli me , ljubi me prvi put u pola dekade, stavlja pijat ispred mene, na stol. Ja  u suvom šoku , više nema potriba za ianci s od suze. 

Di je brat. ?

U krevetu. Nos I ruke izgoreni od sunca.

Polje je bilo bliže od kuće. Puno polje trišanja. Četri dana nije ija. Na na vlak ni u autobus ga nisu pustili, ni kada je prova im ostavit osobnu,  pa je hoda, za kune nije nikog pita,  telefon mu je več dugo razbijen,  a za vodu se snaša .

Naija se trišanja, I zaspa u poljskom šatoru, a onda je pred kućom dogegala u spas, "pronaći ga " lokalna policija.

I jel bilo šta zanimljivo putem? Pa bilo je zmija. Probudiija se jutros u Trogiru za zmijom kako sikta do sebe. Bilo je I zmija u moru. Jesi li to ikad vidila? Ima zmija koje plivaju po moru, mogu plivat do otoka.
 Bilo je neočekivano puno lipih mista uz obalu. I shvatija san da ako mogu četri dana hodat bez hrane, pa da mi je hrane moga bi hodat I godinu dana bez problema.
Moga bi I nač posal negdi daleko od Kaštila. Ajme crnjaka šta su svi ovo morali znat. Posal negdi u berbi voća, daleko, di mogu ostat. Ili nešto drugo u prirodi. Al bija sam malo gladan, I malo su me počele bolit noge. Ubuka san tanke patike, za koncert, jer mater je navalila, dobila je neke karte za Jazz, I da se ne dere san iša, ali nisu to bile cipele za hodanje.

I šta onda dogodilo? Svadili ste se pa si pobiga? Ma ne. Nisan tija ič na concert pa me je izbacila me  iz auta. Sta san u šibeniku dva dana, pa san krenija doma. Nije biloteško pogodit di je Split, ima jasni znak, izlaz za Split.

gray as air

Grey men are invisible. They sink their head into their shoulders, and disappear in to their elastic generous neck skin. Like vultures when they pull their head into the feathers. I bet that the vulture too thinks he is invisible as he looms up ahead circling, low key, flying high enough, he believes he is camouflaging behind the  flies, which are close to the ground .
Any way these grey haired men, hide in their hair, in their bad eye sight, and like little children believe that if they do not see you, you will not see them.
They pantomime next to grey stone walls and believe in their supernatural ability to assimilate with the wall. My father does it. He really thinks I don't see him as we by pass in the street, when he wears his invisibility cloak. As he is hiding behind obstacles in his own head. Or wearing red stands next to tomatoes in the market. That is until on visible days he passes me and says hello, what have you been up to?
 But its not just him. There are others too. The white haired photographer who turns into his hat when he wants to by pass a particular someone in a busy coffee shop. The man is incredible. He has white hair, white beard, wears a white hat, and his face just adopts the colour of some greenish white slimy mushroom, once he nears the unwanted potential hello. Of course people avoid him in that state. Than , as he escapes danger, his face turns back to glowing orange, his visible colour which welcomes greeters and accidental bumps on the street.
But its only the grey haired men, who do this, and really seem to believe , that the mind will over rule physics. They are not visible to the mortal eye. Its something about the hair. Grey as air. I'm as gray as air. Im as gray as air..... 

the stalker you know.

I'm siting in the gallery bar,  heels caught in the high stool bars, eyes apparently looking at the screen, yet, the in the ephemeral vision, my eyes are spy laser beams. The music is  a lullaby, plinketey pinkitey plonk. One might think I was a sculpture, a long asleep soul, a shell in a dress.
 But there's the catch my friend. I am watching. I can see you in the corner of my eye. Oh yes. I have seen you. I have seen you sashay for coffee and invite your best looking, middle age, perfumed females. You sat among them like the ceramic garden gnome, among healthy green moss, proudly decorated by it, framed by it, but of course superior. You have a red hat. What is some any day moss compared to the garden gnome?  You laughed those exaggerated loud laughs of  grey haired men which scare all the sparrows out of their nests. Drank the sparrows with milk froth instead of sugar, got them stuck in your teeth, and continued producing the loud , I'm here, I'm here, postulations.
Pity that all efforts hit the high walls as forcefully as moist air, and slid down it, in the form of un happy mildew, none was home.
The next day, you climbed the bicycle. A tourist. A bump in the street, oh what a surprise, to see you here. Ah was that, yes he, a big important person there , oh really?
Third day, you parked the bicycle, rather accidently, right next to the car, of the really big important person there. I passed you, on my way to the market, I bought a kilo of strawberries, and cucumbers, and duck fodder, my shoe strap broke, I tucked it in, walked very slowly along the heavily cogged streets, and saw you in the same, spot, next to the fucking bin,  next to a couple  giant house trash slightly dripping containers, egg shells , fish bones, the old slimy bean, you in your Hugo Boss starched shirt with both sleeves accurately rolled up to a perfect parallel, an hour later. Edged three to four meters closer to the dumpster. Not sure if the other part of the victimised dialoguer was the same, or a new  acquisition. They where surly not aware of their role as the deliberately low carrot content of imperfection next to you and the 24 carrot gold hand made spectacle frames, which hopefully sparkled in the light if looked at from the planned angle.
I nodded, to make you realise that I noticed you both times.
And you nodded , to acknowledge my presence, and send a dis-invitation.
 Do not disturb it said on your pink face, and leg mid air, one foot on the bicycle pedal as if you had just landed. Its a private booth, where I do things which are none of your business.
I would have forgotten it, bar being slightly bemused, had I not found your sentence in my laptop, the same one I sit behind, working, and well could I ignore you being right up in side it now? You had surreptitiously squeezed in to it, to participate in an art project, lets pretend ,and left your, little statement hoping it would be read. Some one had to, so I did, and woe thee, still not the right person.

Do you know a man by the name blah di blah, I finally asked the museum director at coffee . Yes. He replied surprised by my question. Well he is trying to catch you, he has been cycling around the museum for a whole week . Really? He is in town is he? Surprised the director exclaimed, well he does have my number, why does he not just call me?