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-

Voujvou'dina.

I come from Serbia; actually Vojvodina, the north-most territory of the small central-Balkan country- however, a rather hot spot of today's political and territorial debates. Still, I won't get into it on this occasion. Although there is a lot to be said, most of which you won't hear on the news, stuff a bit more personal and local that nobody seems to have time to report about these days. In any case... I come from Vojvodina, the place where "the local" still matters and where people still have time to care. How I wish I could tell about  it  in English! But that cannot be, for English still hasn't come up with the words which can describe Vojvodina. I doubt it ever will. I mean, come up with the words that I might find adequate enough to talk about my place of origin. I'll stick to my native tongue this one time, if you will excuse me.

Vojvodina…široke ulice koje moja baba jos naziva sokacima…male hoklice koje su iznosili na šor…švapski amfori i oker-žuta fasada i belom oivičeni pendžeri…mađari i slovaci i srbi i hrvati i  rusini i rumuni…Balaševic koji peva “Srem, Banat i Bačka…i Srbija” a da se niko ne uvredi…sremice koje su svadljive, mađarice koje su zavodljive i koketne, lalinke koje su škrte i pričljive, bosanke koje su vredne, bačvanke koje su probirljive…Novi Sad koji je vojvođanima istovremeno kosmopolitski poput Njujorka i arhaičan poput Budimpešte…Fruška gora koja se nadvija nad Dunav…i Dunav koji je beskrajan kao Atlanski okean…i sve uglovite ulice koje znače red...sva tišina nedeljnog jutra…sva graja Egzita…ergele konja…Sremski Karlovci sa kaldrmisanim trgom i crkvom od isprane crvene cigle…Karlovacka gimnazija gde su junaci iz Lajanja na zvezde zasmejali mnoge…nebeska pučina bez kraja i nijedne prepreke na vidiku…salaši i kočije…parola “ima vremena, polagano”, laka nirvana…starci koji s novinama pod miškom idu iz dućana…teritorija na kojoj su jednaki i provincijalci i starosedeoci…automobil koji se zaustavi na pešačkom prelazu…slanina i valjuške sa sirom…Č kao Čurug, Ž kao Žitiste, Dž kao Odžaci …šest jezika…i oduvek samo jedna teritorija.

                 Pictures taken by Goran Wendlener