I've come to a realization. The only way to deal with somebody's death is to be damned sure that you did everything you could to make their life bearable.

…are we, too, part of the highly modernized world of today?

At one moment, I’m watching Sex and the City, the ground-breaking and most outspoken TV Show of the 1990s, which speaks of transgressing the outdated sexual, gender, cultural and class boundaries. And I myself tend to imitate “the merry Manhattan four” at times. And I look for pieces of myself in each of them, while actually I’m none of what they are. But still… I go for a drink in the evening, sit by the counter, want to order a Cosmo. Screw Cosmo, I’ve caught some crappy cold, “Chamomile tea here, please.” Saturday morning, there’s Sex and the City on again. Sure, why not? Gosh, how I’d love to be a Carrey Bradshaw! Doesn’t she look lovely in that yellowish night dress? Kind of what I saw in Zara a couple of day ago, innit?

 

At another, I’m hearing mom saying something. She enters the room, leans on the fireplace and starts another one she heard in the street this morning. “Have you not heard of it?” Something along these lines: a local girl of 22 died of tuberculosis last week. I’m in disbelief (Hasn’t the sixteenth century passed long time ago?). Yeah, well, the local doctors thought she had a regular cold, sent her off home, said “have some tea and take more vitamins, and you’ll do just fine, gal.” Nah, her parents took her to Novi Sad to have her checked up in a hospital. “Oh, it’s Friday and weekend’s coming,” said the nurse, “the doctors can check her up on Monday earliest.” She didn’t have a cold. And she passed away on Saturday eve. Geez, I wonder what the local doctors did that evening? Did they even flinch at the thought of having made a mistake?

Sharlot looks stunning in her new wedding dress! One of my girlfriends has the isn’t-it-cool, so-NYC-style, glamo-fuckin’-rous habit of throwing a Sex and the City party/marathon with her three girlfriends. Afterwards, they go for a cocktail, acting it all out. Some other girls I know feverishly held on to their cinema tickets for the film premier of “the famous Manhattan four”. There’s so much of Sex and the City around us. Does that mean that we, too, live that reality? Is it really within our reach as the cinema or TV screens are? At one moment, I think yes. At another, my mom comes in and I don’t feel as safe anymore as Carry Bradshaw sweet-talks me into.

On the Christmas Eve, I become once again deeply aware of the discrepancy between reality in Serbia and that which the world has supposedly reached. Sure, we tend to be globalized, feel globalized, live *and* think globally. “Local” is out of fashion these days. Boy are we all world citizens! How far did we all get, didn’t we? I have friends living Sex and the City. How cool is that, right? Hold on, we’ve got something else too. It’s rather local, I can promise you that. Kids die of tuberculosis in Serbia. There’s no one to take the blame. No one to explain how come the sixteenth century has intruded the Sex and the City-Manhattan-Aiden-Carry Bradshaw-Coctail party-The Beast-crazed girls-Serbia of the twenty-first century. Now, isn’t that amazing.....ly unbelievable?

And what about those friends who are not friends?

…Some are around here all the time, and yet, you are sure you could do without them, too. And some stop by occasionally, unannounced and, at times undesired, and still. You’re glad to see them again. Especially those you said goodbye to a long time ago. And you meant it too. But some of them are incredibly tough and you seem to cannot shake them off of you. I really dislike that type. They remind me of how fake I am when I say goodbye to people. I enjoy making a whole drama out of it. And then, it gives me such pleasure to have them back from time to time. “Just a quick hi,” they say. And in a matter of seconds, I utter a quick hello back. And it spoils the magnificent halo of formality between us. We’re back to where we were ages ago. That also reminds me of how malleable, insignificant and debatable time is. Sure, a lot of time has passed since we said goodbye. And yet again, for a moment we’re back a couple of years in time. And the men of science claim one cannot travel through time. I think we mastered that skill a long time ago. At about the time we started interacting with one another. Anyway, it’s good and it’s bad. Having them back. Having them remind of you of what once was. And you feel tempted to compare it to what is today. It rarely feels worse. Usually, it appears to be better than what you have now. Actually, it’s the uncertainty of living and that old thing many of us claim we don’t feel – insecurity - which prevent you from seeing how great what you have now is. Okay, perhaps we’re not friends any more. But surely we are something. You don’t show up like that for no reason. Maybe we should come up with a name for it, you know? The name for those occasional incomers who disturb the present by raking up the past. True, we’re not friends. But…I’m just thinking…could we not label it? Leave it as it is? Does that sound possible at all? Well. Let’s be conventional. Practical. What we have is what most people call “friendship” nowadays anyway. Labelling is just a petty custom, isn’t it? There. Stop by whenever, I’m not going to call you a friend of mine, you’re going to stay unnamed; but, you know.

Where have I seen this scene? ...oh yeah, in real life!

 I've been quite unable to express my feelings about this entire "presidential elections" game. It's not that I haven't thought about it; it's like I got confused by the theatrical atmosphere which accompanied the campaign and the elections, for I expected it would be something very serious since it shapes my life and the lives of my people to a large extent. Instead, they put a real funny show on. Or sad. It depends on what you expect from life and what you think "the respected gentlemen from the top" can offer to you. Having seen the outcome of the elections, I'll stick to the sad version for a while now, if you don't mind.

I'm not creating this link between politics and theatre for nothing. This morning, I came across the column which tells about an extremely brave reaction to the Serbian politics of the past 10 years, and the connection between politics and theatre cannot be any closer. The column is written by a freelance journalist, Nenad Šebek, and I took some time off work to translate it into English. I think it was worth it. It goes like this:

The play - Zoran Đinđić

"To the show 'Zoran Đinđić' please don’t go wearing a suit and a tie. It’s hardly practical. Wear something casual, old, patched. Something over which one can put bandages and plaster; something you won’t be sorry vomiting all over if necessary. Because it is worthwhile preparing yourself to being hurt, to feeling pain and shame, bitterness and anger, shedding tears, or even hearing yourself laugh. If you fail at feeling all of these, then it means that you have an integrated Nazis-tic armour around your body, in which case you should leave after 10 minutes for you’re wasting your time and taking the place of somebody who would like to be sitting there, in the Atelje 212 theatre, watching the play - 'Zoran Đinđić'.

When my friend offered me the premier tickets, at first I frowned, since it is impolite to say no; yet there’s been a while since I’ve stopped believing in the political theatre stage, especially in our country. A long time ago, we relocated into the real life everything which should belong to the world of the theatre only. I asked: “Who wrote the play?” Nobody. Hmmm… Based on conversations, authors project, experimental theatre? Ugh, each worse than the other. Still, politeness made me accept the tickets.

Fortunately. And so, almost a week after, I’m still wondering what was it that I saw on the stage of the Atelje 212 theatre. It certainly was not a traditional play.

Political pamphlet? Experiment? Avant-garde? Something directed in a hurry?

You know what, dear readers? It is entirely irrelevant which form Oliver Frljić & Co. chose for the play 'Zoran Đinđić'. At these times, when the form largely dominates the essence, so refreshing was it to finally see the accumulation of essence in a play. And the essence is that our society hasn’t faced the past and the play explicitly says it to all those who have the capacity to see it and hear it. It hasn’t faced it; for, if it had, Serbia would not be asking itself after May 20^th whether Ivica would change his mind and divorce Boris in order to marry Toma. If we’d had, both Ivica and Toma would have barely passed the census this time.

I’ll stop discussing the political shift in the Andrićev venac Street and its consequences in the Nemanjina Street, for these days you will be overwhelmed with the opinions on such matters by some Johns, Smiths and the likes. I won’t draw parallels with Britain and Germany, where the leader of the party which lost the election would normally resign from that position. If they don’t do it in Greece, why should we try to be better than the Hellenic people? Therefore, I’ll continue speaking about the play 'Zoran Đinđić', for I believe it is very significant, in particular after such outcome of the presidential elections.

Clichés such as “the play divided the audience in two” dominated the premiere overviews and reports in the newspapers. I dislike clichés, even if they state the obvious, but, on top of it, in this case it is also incorrect. This play did not divide the audience; the audience, being a metaphor for Serbia, divided itself even before it stepped into the theatre. And got hackneyed. A long time ago. Divided into those who yell “Toma, you’re a true Serb!” and those who find the fact that he is Serbian irrelevant in itself.

Serbia is divided into those who believe we are a heavenly people and those who think we are bad people. Into those who find loss the greatest victory and those to whom victory is the greatest loss. Into those who use the idea of Srebrenica to punish themselves by whipping the people and those who ask: “What Srebrenica?” Into those who weep for Kosovo and those who’ve never trod on that soil. Into the refugees and those who find it disgusting that their Belgrade got “overcrowded by pitiful souls”. Into those who are sorry that October 6^th never happened and those who are sorry October 5^th did happen.

The play 'Zoran Đinđić' is significant because it dares throw this truth straight into your faces. And not only that. It aslo throws into your faces the truths we would like to forget, if we haven’t done that already. It’s not only the stage that is illuminated; the half of the audience is illuminated as well, so we can face one another in the audience. And the actors see us as well. Which is very important, since the play opens with a loud 'j’accuse', directed at everybody in the audience. What is even more painful, the accusations are well deserved. I don’t believe in the collective guilt, I’ve never had; thus, every message that Frljić & Co. screamed in my face, I took very personally. I’m not asking other audience members (or readers) to share my opinion, for the essence of democracy indeed lies in forming one’s own.

As a citizen of Belgrade, I feel ashamed that the play was directed by a Croatian (as Frljić was described by Bane Trifunović in a preamble to the play). To make this clear, I would feel exactly the same even if Frljić were Danish, Turkish, Japanese... My shame is caused by the sad fact that it took somebody else to come visit us in our country and say it all to our faces. To avoid any misunderstanding, Mr. Frljić, I thank you for having done that.

Quite contrary indeed, I am very happy that my Belgrade friends invited Oliver Frljić to perform the play. Honestly speaking, in 2012, something like that would never happen neither in Zagreb, nor Sarajevo, not even in Copenhagen, Ancara, Tokyo... (how much I’d love the world to negate my words!). And not only did they invite him, but they also stood by him, despite all pressures. And pressures were present from all sides, but Frljić craftily transformed them into an amazing ending of the play, in which the actors read „the excerpts from reports about every single moment in the play, including the conversations between Frljić and the manager of the Atelje 212 theatre Kokan Mladenović, that the Security Information Agency submitted. The reports were about which actor left the stage and which remained on it“.

No, of course that the Security Information Agency did not waste their working hours and financial resources on such trifles, although in a country which Nušić, Domanović and Kovačević depicted in such great detail, sometimes disturbingly, and often satirically, it would not have been a great surprise. There are more „rats“ in our country than the Agencies can normally note down and deal with. And that is what the play is all about. It also speaks cruelly about the institution which enjoys the highest respect among the Serbs- the Orthodox Church. The play director hangs Kalashnikov around the necks of bishops and priests, and puts guns into their hands. He mercilessly brings the ex-president, Vojislav Koštunica, before the „theatre court“, re-reads the speech of the bishop Amfilohije which he delivered next to the dead body of Zoran Đinđić to all those who’ve forgotten it. None of it sounds pleasant to the actors, and none of it will sound pleasant to you.

I am deeply convinced that it didn’t sound pleasant to the director of the play either, but somebody had to say it all. Congratulations for having done that.

Because of it all, go ahead and watch it. Get prepared to feel pain, misery and shame. Those are the feelings that are awaiting in the days which are to come."

The original text in Serbian can be found here:

http://www.mondo.rs/s245482/Kolumne/Kolumne/Nenad_Sebek_/Predstava_-__Zoran_Djindjic.html

05. maj ove godine.

...kada je Mornarica uplovila u matičnu luku zvanu Novi Sad

     Kažu, bilo je oko 40.000 ljudi na trgu tog predvečerja. Koncert je bio zakazan za „kada se smrači“. Išla sam na nebrojeno mnogo koncerata ali nijedan nije počinjao kad i Đoletov. Ih, da je samo po tome jedinstven... “Pesme su te koje vrede, sve ostalo su samo neke leve priče“. Tako nešto bih odgovorila kada bih morala da poredim Đoleta sa nekim drugim tipovima. Na svu sreću, nema mnogo onih koji pristaju da ih porede s onim Balaševicem. Eto, tako nekako.

     Popeo se na panonsku mornaricu u 21h. Ali, centar Nova Sada bio se talasao vec u rano predveče...da kojim slučajem ne okasnimo, mislili smo. Nema tog koncerta na koji dođes četiri sata pred početak. Osim možda na koncert Đorđa Balaševića kada dođe da peva kod kuće. Tu onda ne kasniš, jer nisi siguran da li je domaćin on ili ti, i čiji je red da sačeka gosta na vratima. Đole je te večeri rekao „svi smo ovde domaćini“ i pevali smo za nas ovaj put. Neki drugi put ćemo pevati za njih, za goste. Sinoć je bila privatna žurka, a 40.000 domaćina je zvučalo kao jedan, ili dobro, dva glasa dok pevaju završne stihove Ringišpila. Znaš ono „sustajem, odustajem, pritiska me kao pegla...“ i „o daj okreni taj ringišpil u mojoj glavi“ koji se vrte u isto vreme pa ti treba neki deran koji će da viče u sav glas kraj tebe?

      Rekao je „moje pesme su sve starije od 87-og godišta“. A ja sam videla neke klince kako žmure i osećaju pesme kao svoje. Ja sam mlađa od Đoletovih pesama a svaku pesmu sam prisvojila kao svoju i tako sam je i pevala. Za svaku pesmu što je otpevao, ja sam imala svoju priču i svoje kulise sam kačila na binu. I na kraju koncerta sam se sećala kako sam na DVD-ju videla da u Puli neke žene plaču dok im Đole peva. Zamišljala sam da ne bih zaplakala i ja, jer taj koncert je bilo nešto o čemu sam maštala 21 godinu. To je dosta godina, čini mi se. Sasvim sigurno, dovoljno godina da sam mislila da sam izvrtela u glavi svaki mogući scenario, da sam u glavi odslušala svaki ton Đoletovog glasa i da sam čula sve njegove pričice između pesama. Ali Đole uvek izvuče neki novi kec iz rukava i ja se nađoh zatečena, jer ovu verziju nisam znala da naštimam u glavi bez Đoletove pomoći te večeri u Novom Sadu. Znam i još par klinaca kojima je ovo bio prvi koncert Đorđa Balaševića. Nadmašio je Đole i svu našu klinačku maštu i vešto je izveo ovaj manevar, dakako. Kako ono ide? „Obeć’o sam srca teška“ da neću zaplakati kao one ženturače na DVD-ju, „aj jebeš ga“. Dok je veče zamiralo uz reči „Laku noć dame i gospodo...eto i ova predstava je završena. Nadam se da ste uživali u njoj“ ja sam se borila da ne shvatim baš tada da sam bila na koncertu Đorđa Balaševića. Neka me to lupi kasnije, daj da se probijem kroz masu do Bazara pa ćemo onda polagano...ovaj osećaj vredi štedeti i cepkati deo po deo da što duže potraje. Da, kad god pogledam u crnu hroniku, se setim 05. maja ove godine i svih onih ruku koje su se u istom ritmu, u istom smeru klatile dok su pomerale Miletića levo-desno kao kakvu krpenu igračku, a trg odzvanjao „javi se, pojavi se, i dodaj svetu malo boje“.

      I tako...dočekao je Novi Sad, i ispratio, Vasu Ladačkog, Bubu Erdeljan, Božu zvanog Pub i ostale cirkusante. Odložili smo svi maske na podu te šatre negde malo posle ponoći i slili se niz šorove Nova Sada, svako u svoj skroviti kutak da odsanja koncert još koji put pre nego što zaspe te noći. Ali, poneo je svako jedan deo meseca u očima, kako je rekla jedna moja drugarica. I eto, Đole je dobio par belih zecova a mi parčićice meseca. Tako se, društvo, završavaju Đoletovi koncerti.

Pazite, ja vam obećavam da 40.000 ljudi na Đoletovom koncertu peva kao jedan. Dobro de, izvol’te proverite:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ByFBJ8CL2-k&feature=related

Droll thing life is.

"Droll thing life is - that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose."
Joseph Conrad, The Heart of Darkness


Life is such a bitch most of the times, that's true. But people can be bitchy themselves, so life can, at best, prove to be a dead race: you can’t really win, but you can at least be a serious threat to it. Give life a hard time and, overall, you’ll do just well.

This is how I deal with the bitchiness of life. Might be wrong, but it is one of the “winning combinations” which has taken me to where I am now:

-I don’t expect freakishly much but I work hard as if I do

-I always have plan B, and plan C for that matter, because I say you should never settle for one plan only since there is never one way to get to the finish-line

-Start locally and on time because nothing is waiting on you, lest you impose

-Sometimes reason fails you but you learn to joggle with emotions

-Never cease to care or try

This is “how I roll” and it has paid off so far- I have a great life. Thanks to the people who have persisted in my life and I won’t mention their names, for they know who they are. Professionally, I have reached some heights and am hoping for more. Actually, I am working towards more. I teach. So, I try to teach this lesson too. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most important one. You can have it all and have nothing at the same time. The trick is to be happy with who you are and where you are at. To get back to the beginning, life is such a bitch most of the times, but we are all made of that tough and durable fibre which persists.

Stories told to conceal rather than reveal

Picture by Jeanne Illenye

Given the extent to which competitive capitalist dogmas have permeated into the human nature, the humanity has very well mastered the craft of concealing and deceiving. Art has always mirrored the human nature. And so, today I no longer trust art. Just like I no longer trust people. Consider blues of the early 20^th century. It sprang from the irrepressible need to reveal all the misery of slavery. Consider Russian realist novels. The best of those recount family tragedies. Consider the post-war literature. In it the human cruelty and the tragedy of self-inflicted pain stand naked before the reproaching gaze of the millions. What I am saying is this: back then, there existed the idea of redemption through art, accompanied by the illusion of the possible bettering of the “grand race”, if only artists would write down all which many feared to utter out loud. As it turned out, the grand race has let us down and the artists of today know that there is no redemption or improvement though art. As least we have understood the self-delusion which we used to take hold of so firmly in the past. And we have realized that the art of today needs not offer consolation or explanation. As the good nature of art has backfired on itself, art has grown sick of the idea of revealing and has stuck to its opposite, the idea of concealing. Nowadays, I read Nabokov with great pleasure, taking absolutely no offense when I get taken on or misled by what I am reading. Because the story IS there to mislead you or to trick you. The story IS there to conceal its true nature and prove a winner at the end of the race. Much like the people of today, if you ask me.

"all art is deception and so is nature"

-Vladimir Nabokov-