Sebično zadovoljstvo

Bio jednom jedan čovek koga bogovi voleli nisu - počinje poema Amy Lowell, A Tale of Starvation, na koju naiđem jutros tražeći sebičnu dozu sebičnog zadovoljstva za raspoloženje - krajnje sebično. A vetar je napolju hladan, vazduh još hladniji, zemlja zaleđena mesecima, i moje obrve i nos se pridružile jutros tom opštem stanju, pa kad sam sela za sto i ispružila noge da ih naslonim na radijator sa druge strane, po redovnoj navici potražih nešto za sebično zadovoljstvo.
Svratim tamo - ništa, svratim i onamo - i onamo ništa. Otvorim jedan folder - malo bolje. Otvorim ‘favourite pack' pa siđem mišem niže, još niže - hmm, da probam. Ne, ni ovo, mh-mm, nije to to. I zaustavi se miš na imenu Amy Lowell. Otvori se kratka biografska priča - kakva priča! I lista poezije - kakva poezija!

Onaj nevoljeni čovek s početka se prozlio bio, mrzio i psovao je sve, sjaj sunca i sve živo, i psovao, psovao od jutra do mraka, pa opet iz početka sledećeg dana.
(Original je nešto niže, i preporučujem od sveg srca za one koji mogu da čitaju na engleskom, a ja ću ovde ukratko prepričati bajku)
Nije možda takav uvek bio, ali izdali su ga prijatelji, pobegla mu žena, uništena su mu polja, životinje pobegle ili pomrle, kokoške prestale da nose jaja... i u njemu se osušila krv i ostali su samo psovke i jed. I živi takav - nikakav.

Kopao je jednog dana, sa velikom mukom, kad ispod motike vidi da nešto sija. Udvostruči napor, i leđa bole dvostruko, i uz veliki trud izvuče staru vaznu prekrivenu rđom i zemljom. Kad na nju pade sunce, ona zasja neverovatnim spektrom, preobrazi se prosto. 

Očisti je starac od prljavštine, odnese kući ali u tom sivom domu ona ne sija. Izvadi  krpu pa oriba prozore koje je ranije ofarbao da mu ne ulazi svetlost. Zasija sunce kroz stakla i vazna opet oživi, sva blista od lepote boja i fino oblikovana.

Zaboravio je čovek da psuje, zaboravio je bio i na jed. Vaznu je svuda sa sobom nosio, i u polje i u selo, a kod kuće bi je gledao što god radio, da mu njena lepota greje dušu.

Kopao je jednog dana u bašti, vazna kraj njega, kad naiđe učitelj. Čovece pusti, ta vazna puno vredi, treba je čuvati na sigurnom a ne tako po polju, razbiće se - kaže učitelj.  Uzvrati čovek da on voli da bude sa njom, uvek i svuda, eto zato je ona tu. Ma razbićeš je - tvrdi učitelj, i ode.
Ni zamakao nije kad se čovek vrati svom poslu, ali okliznu se, pade, motika se spusti silinom velikom na vaznu - i razbi je u bezbroj sjajnih delića.

Trese se od bola i jauče bez glasa, ali ni reči ni psovke iz njega ne izlaze. Sakupi pažljivo svaki, i poslednji komadić blaga, i vrati vaznu na isto mesto, u rupu u kojoj ju je i našao. Prekrije sve opet zemljom. Vratio se svojoj kući, prekrio prozore da sunce ne ulazi, seo pred hladnim ognjištem, i tu su ga našli tri dana kasnije, mrtvog.

A Tale of Starvation by Amy Lowell

There once was a man whom the gods didn't love,
And a disagreeable man was he.
He loathed his neighbours, and his neighbours hated him,
And he cursed eternally.
He damned the sun, and he damned the stars,
And he blasted the winds in the sky.
He sent to Hell every green, growing thing,
And he raved at the birds as they fly.
His oaths were many, and his range was wide,
He swore in fancy ways;
But his meaning was plain: that no created thing
Was other than a hurt to his gaze.
He dwelt all alone, underneath a leaning hill,
And windows toward the hill there were none,
And on the other side they were white-washed thick,
To keep out every spark of the sun.
When he went to market he walked all the way
Blaspheming at the path he trod.
He cursed at those he bought of, and swore at those he sold to,
By all the names he knew of God.
For his heart was soured in his weary old hide,
And his hopes had curdled in his breast.
His friend had been untrue, and his love had thrown him over
For the chinking money-bags she liked best.
The rats had devoured the contents of his grain-bin,
The deer had trampled on his corn,
His brook had shrivelled in a summer drought,
And his sheep had died unshorn.
His hens wouldn't lay, and his cow broke loose,
And his old horse perished of a colic.
In the loft his wheat-bags were nibbled into holes
By little, glutton mice on a frolic.
So he slowly lost all he ever had,
And the blood in his body dried.
Shrunken and mean he still lived on,
And cursed that future which had lied.
One day he was digging, a spade or two,
As his aching back could lift,
When he saw something glisten at the bottom of the trench,
And to get it out he made great shift.
So he dug, and he delved, with care and pain,
And the veins in his forehead stood taut.
At the end of an hour, when every bone cracked,
He gathered up what he had sought.
A dim old vase of crusted glass,
Prismed while it lay buried deep.
Shifting reds and greens, like a pigeon's neck,
At the touch of the sun began to leap.
It was dull in the tree-shade, but glowing in the
light;
Flashing like an opal-stone,
Carved into a flagon; and the colours glanced and ran,
Where at first there had seemed to be none.
It had handles on each side to bear it up,
And a belly for the gurgling wine.
Its neck was slender, and its mouth was wide,
And its lip was curled and fine.
The old man saw it in the sun's bright stare
And the colours started up through the crust,
And he who had cursed at the yellow sun
Held the flask to it and wiped away the dust.
And he bore the flask to the brightest spot,
Where the shadow of the hill fell clear;
And he turned the flask, and he looked at the flask,
And the sun shone without his sneer.
Then he carried it home, and put it on a shelf,
But it was only grey in the gloom.
So he fetched a pail, and a bit of cloth,
And he went outside with a broom.
And he washed his windows just to let the sun
Lie upon his new-found vase;
And when evening came, he moved it down
And put it on a table near the place
Where a candle fluttered in a draught from the
door.
The old man forgot to swear,
Watching its shadow grown a mammoth size,
Dancing in the kitchen there.
He forgot to revile the sun next morning
When he found his vase afire in its light.
And he carried it out of the house that day,
And kept it close beside him until night.
And so it happened from day to day.
The old man fed his life
On the beauty of his vase, on its perfect shape.
And his soul forgot its former strife.
And the village-folk came and begged to see
The flagon which was dug from the ground.
And the old man never thought of an oath, in his joy
At showing what he had found.
One day the master of the village school
Passed him as he stooped at toil,
Hoeing for a bean-row, and at his side
Was the vase, on the turned-up soil.
„My friend," said the schoolmaster, pompous and
kind,
„That's a valuable thing you have there,
But it might get broken out of doors,
It should meet with the utmost care.
What are you doing with it out here?"
„Why, Sir," said the poor old man,
„I like to have it about, do you see?
To be with it all I can."
„You will smash it," said the schoolmaster, sternly
right,
„Mark my words and see!"
And he walked away, while the old man looked
At his treasure despondingly.
Then he smiled to himself, for it was his!
He had toiled for it, and now he cared.
Yes! loved its shape, and its subtle, swift hues,
Which his own hard work had bared.
He would carry it round with him everywhere,
As it gave him joy to do.
A fragile vase should not stand in a bean-row!
Who would dare to say so? Who?
Then his heart was rested, and his fears gave way,
And he bent to his hoe again. . . .
A clod rolled down, and his foot slipped back,
And he lurched with a cry of pain.
For the blade of the hoe crashed into glass,
And the vase fell to iridescent sherds.
The old man's body heaved with slow, dry sobs.
He did not curse, he had no words.
He gathered the fragments, one by one,
And his fingers were cut and torn.
Then he made a hole in the very place
Whence the beautiful vase had been borne.
He covered the hole, and he patted it down,
Then he hobbled to his house and shut the door.
He tore up his coat and nailed it at the windows
That no beam of light should cross the floor.
He sat down in front of the empty hearth,
And he neither ate nor drank.
In three days they found him, dead and cold,
And they said: „What a queer old crank!"

Dijagnoza

Niz događaja koji je doveo do mog razgolićenja jutros je započeo prekjuče jednom običnom manifestacijom prehlade - bolelo me je lice. Odnosno, bolela me je glava, ali ne onaj uobičajeni deo koji je obično pokriven kosom ili čelo već cela desna strana glave, uključujući lice. Kad bih pritisla na desni obraz uzvratio bi bol. Kao da sam imala nevidljivu modricu, ali iznutra. Upaljeni nervni završeci, je verovatna dijagnoza takve jedne senzacije.

Bol u licu je bio tu i juče, samo je jenjavao. Ali je zato juče bio vrlo hladan dan, uz još hladniji vetar, koji mi je ostavio crvene pečate na oba obraza. Nekrotično tkivo, je verovatna dijagnoza te neprijatnosti, samo što ova ne boli.

Zvao me je sinoć jedan prijatelj koji kad mu dođe da plače ili jauče, zove me telefonom i ja ga slušam. On obično otegne sa pričom, i kad meni dođe da zaplačem ili jauknem, ja mu kažem da ne mogu više. I tu se lepo rastanemo. Tako je bilo i sinoć. Umro mu je jedan prijatelj od raka i juče je bio na sahrani. Tema je visila nad našim glavama na suprotnim linijama telefonske veze, ali nismo u stvari pričali o smrti - o njoj nema štada se prica. Život je jedina materija koju zaista poznajemo, a i tu se ne snalazimo nešto naročito dobro.

Jutros me više ne boli obraz, crvenilo je manje, ali još nisam bila napolju. Imam armiju reči-dobrovoljaca u glavi na jednu temu, upalim kompjuter, pročitam par mail-ova, svratim na blog, nešto im server kašljuca, svratim na aldaily ali ništa mi se u stvari ne čita, otvorim par blogova sa linkovima pa ih odmah i zatvorim - svi ljudi na netu, njih bezbroj miliona, plaču za pažnjom, i to je nekim danima podnošljivo a nekim ne - odem na B92, i tamo neki ljudi puštaju muziku. To mi se sviđa ovog jutra. Odnosno, dopale su mi se dve-tri stvari iz selekcije koju sam otvorila, ali ja sam već kod prve, i najbolje, ustala i skinula se.
Lover, You Should've Come Over, i Jeff Buckley. Intimna pesma i intiman glas. Šta drugo uraditi?
Lepo jutro, je precizna dijagnoza ovog postupka.

Od jutra do jutra

Dobro je trajalo - od jutra do jutra. Umorila sam se negde oko 8 am. Tu je započeo dan a ja završila. Sa... - završila. Loš dan nije veća misterija od dobrog dana.

Danas sam bila svilena buba. Recimo. Da je neko pogađao šta sam bila danas, to ne bi pogodio. Sve se razvlačilo kao pljuvačka jedne obične svilene bube. I onda mi je rekla jedna osoba koju volim da je izgleda bolesna. Odnosno, bolesna jeste, samo još uvek ne zna koliko puno, iako ni malo nije za zanemariti, ali šta ako je puno..
I tako sam se posle 24 sata odsustvovanja vratila na temu smrti. Neko pametan bi rekao da je nisam ni napuštala, ali pamet ima svoju primenu i ovo ne bi bila jedna od njih. Moj deda je nadživeo previše ljudi, tako je zaključio već negde nakon smrti svoje žene. Kad je moja sestra od strica umrla, to je bila poslednja kap predugog života.

U filmu ‘Moonstruck', koga inače mnogo volim, pita Rose Castorini, slomljenog srca u poodmaklom srednjem dobu, muškarca-namernika zašto muškarci jure žene, i odgovara umesto njega da je to zbog straha od smrti. Ja nemam mišljenje po tom pitanju, nije mi ni važno da li je zaista tako ili nije, ali je to jedna od mnogo lepih scena koju sam zapamtila jer sam film videla bar deset puta (i svaki put slučajno; naletim na pola, četvrt, ili još manji komad  i ostavim sve što sam radila pa sednem i gledam, i lepo mi je).

Ako već moram da se pojavim sa nečim, mislim da je strah od smrti decoy. Tj. vozač valjka pređe valjkom i zaravna kompleksnu građevinu pa na njoj industrijski tipovi grade industrije sa puno, puno, ali zaista puno profita. Eto, to je neko ko se zaista boji smrti. Šteta, jer je u pitanju... - nije šteta, kome je šteta nek se odšteti.

Blisko prisustvo smrti omekša i najtvrđu vodu, eto to sam pokušavala da smislim od jutros. I onda sam čula moju klinku kako pevuši nešto. Oslušnem, kad ono - Bob Marley. Hvala, ljubavi. Niko mi neće verovati, ali rekla bih da sam upravo rođena, ovog petka, prestupnog dana u prestupnoj godini, u 8.01 pm.