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03.03.1983. Design junkie (FW, PS, AI, ID, PR, AE, FL, AC), fluent in XHTML and CSS, has basic/intermediate knowledge on PHP and mySQL. I speak Serbian/Croatian, English, Italian, some rusty Russian and ancient Latin, basic German. I write p..s, sometimes prose. I love trees, absurd and learning new things. I live in the centre of Beograd, Serbia with mom, dad and three amazing black locusts in front of our windows.
DISCLAIMER: If you came here through my other site, you're very likely to be disappointed and think I'm not worth standing behind that. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you with how realistic, negative and secular I am; but that's the best way life works for me.
Ask me stupid crap here.
239
Nikad nema kraja, nikad nema kraja,
jednostavno nema kraja.
Kad sve deluje kao prava linija,
stiže još i još krivina.
239,
239,
kao večnost,
239.
239,
239,
Možda nikad,
239.
Dvadesetčetiri hiljade godina.
____________________________
239
It never ends, it never ends,
It just never ends.
Just when it looks like a straight line
There are more and more bends.
239,
239,
Like forever,
239.
239,
239,
It could be never,
239.
Twenty-four thousand years.
Many thanks to Pavel for inspiration. Since I have no friends named Pavel, this is confusing. And I enjoy that.
Tako mi se plavo svetlo
Tako mi se plavo svetlo
prolama kroz sve kapilare
i ubija i poslednji tračak duše
kad se setim svega.
Plava bajka, slična plavoj grobnici,
samo davi na potpuno drugi način,
kako se sve u trenutku promenilo!
Tako mi se plavim svetlom
otvara put kroz tvoju jazbinu,
ono obasjava i poslednji tračak nade
i nigde više nema ničega.
I onda ćeš mi reći
da to jeste plavo svetlo,
ali ne ono na koje mislim,
jer su ga mnogi promašili,
a oni koji nisu,
njima samo svetle zvezde
i negde drugde se gnezde.
Bezveze.
Mislila sam da je to pravo svetlo,
poput onoga na kraju tunela…
…i onda je buka postala jača
i udario me je avetinjski voz.
Gde je sad to gnezdo?
I gde su sad te zvezde?
Ova je pogrešna!
Zašto plavo nije plavo kad je plavo?
________________________________
I So Feel The Blue Light
I so feel the blue light
Breaking through my blood vessels,
Killing the very last bit of soul
When I remember it all.
Blue fairy-tale, similar to a blue tomb
Is suffocating in a completely different way,
How it all changed in a mere second!
I so feel the blue light
Opening the way through your lair,
Shining on the last glimmer of hope,
And there’s nothing left.
And then you’ll tell me
That it is blue light
But not the one I thought of,
Because many got it wrong
And those who didn’t
Their only light are the stars
And they’re nesting elsewhere.
Lame.
I thought it was the real light,
Like the one at the end of a tunnel…
…and then the noise became louder
And I got hit by a gost train.
Where is the nest now?
And where are those stars now?
This one’s wrong!
Why isn’t blue blue when it’s blue?
Since my writing isn’t modern, I tried to give it a spin. Now it’s very hip.
Ae Ae Oe Oe
Nisam bogzna šta,
i šta ja tu mogu,
ko mi je kriv,
konzervativno vaspitanje!!!!
(Aha, malo sutra…)
Ne mogu da
ondže ispod spondže,
knjuka preko kljutka.
Ae, ae…oe, oe!
Ne mogu da
gruzma do trugzma,
mrbnja kako drbnja.
Ae, ae…oe, oe!
______________________
Ae Ae Oe Oe
I am not special
Nothing I can do
It’s nobody’s fault,
It’s conservative upbringing!
(Yeah, riiiiight…)
I can’t
Onje under sponje,
Knyooka over klyooka.
Ae, ae…oe, oe!
I can’t
Groozma to troozma,
Mrbnya while drbnya.
Ae, ae…oe, oe!
This one is meant to be the epilogue of the Wrong Star series and, obviously, it’s what the whole series was named after. While the imaginary story is pretty straightforward and gives one of the meanings to the whole thing; the rest of it, as usual, is left for the reader to figure out.
The nonsense line? Another verb was meant to be there, but it would have been even more nonsense…which is too bad, as it would have created a fairy absurd matter of concern to the narrator.
For anyone who could, possibly, get this wrong and does not have enough history/geography knowledge to get where the stage of these p..ms is: no, the narrator in these wasn’t going on a religious pilgrimage. The narrator is not a nun or monk and this is NOT a Paulo Coelho-like story (though I respect his writing, regardless of how spiritual he is and how de-spiritualised I forced myself to be in the last year and half).
To read more about the whole series, click here.
Pogrešna zvezda
Pogodi šta ima novo?
Bežala sam hiljadusto kilometara da te zaboravim,
zavukla sam se međ’ debele zidove
i tamo nije bilo nikoga,
ništa nije pravilo galamu,
mogla sam da čujem mrava kako kija,
i onda je dunuo vetrić.
O, ne!
Ne mogu da pobegnem.
Ne mogu da te zaboravim,
čak ni na jedan dan.
Dopustila sam pogrešnoj zvezdi da me vuče,
nisam omogućila nikome da me pronađe,
no ti me ipak nađeš svugde,
proklet da si!
_________________________
Wrong Star
Guess what’s new?
I ran seven hundred miles to forget you
I surrounded myself with thick walls
And there was nobody around
Nothing was making a sound
I could even hear an ant sneeze
And then there was the breeze
Oh no.
I cannot run away.
I cannot forget you.
Not even for a day.
Let the wrong star guide me
Didn’t let anyone find me
Yet you find me everywhere
Damn you!
Gee, look at the calendar and look at the clock. This is the right time for the half-assed prologue of the whole series. It’s full of toddler-like observations and it touches the other stories only once. I assume this is how I would’ve been writing had I had a broader vocabulary at a certain age. Then again, I was talking too much at that age, unlike most of the small children I know.
In the meantime, my mom whose first association of this day would be “how she had all the right connections” and “how your father could have died” read some of the p..ms from this series and said that she sees no artistic value in this one, that this one is so-and-so and that this one is really good. She supports my efforts, but she also wonders what do I intend to do with these. I’ll get back to her on that, I guess.
For those who don’t know what a Lazarus Saturday is, it’s an Orthodox Christian holiday one day before Palm Sunday. It’s a holiday of children, where they walk around the church wearing a bell on a strap around their necks and carrying a willow branch, and it is dedicated to Lazarus, as it’s supposedly the day he rose after his four days of death (four again, huh?). I remember my first Vrbica. Granny went to the church and open market and brought bells. Mom received a phone call from her scientist friends in the meantime and when granny came back, the fruits and vegetables were washed to the point when it looked as if mom were insane, and the bells were thrown away before they even reached me. For the rest of the day I was observing my mom cleaning the whole apartment, washing the clothes she had just hung two more times and telling me that we won’t be going to the park until after Easter. I loved the park and she tried to cheer me up by playing me Najlepša pesma na svetu vinyl LP and Bajaga i instruktori’s Sa druge strane jastuka cassette.
Back then I was a blonde, blue-green-eyed toddler who couldn’t pronounce some words (notably “svetlo” which means light) properly. I was obsessed with the Snorks and I wanted to marry AllStar Seaworthy because he was handsome, heroic and a scientist and have my own pet Occy. Later on, I also had a crush on Brainy Smurf, because he was smart and he wore glasses. I think everyone was pretty sure I’d be yet another science-oriented person in the family.
Today I’m a dark brown-haired, hazel-eyed cynic who never learnt to pronounce R and L properly and I did not become a scientist. I didn’t became an artist, either. I am a designer, which is halfway between those two, honestly. And everything that didn’t make sense back then makes sense now. In combo with the year 1999, it’s kind of a…lethal cocktail.
RIP everyone who lost the battle with pixie dust in the meantime. I apologise for using what killed you as a bottomless pit full of inspiration. Nietzsche would’ve known how to explain that, but sadly, I am not good with philosophy and I am not him. I’m just a person with hormonal disbalance, a way with words and visual art.
And for everyone who smells Tito in this one: yes, you’re right, it’s him; and yes, I really wasn’t aware of who he was when I saw his photographs in each single room at the kindergarten. My parents were never in the party, my grandmother was a monarchist. The combo of religious bits from her mouth and Yugoslavian communism bits from the nannies’ mouths were creating a huge, huge confusion in my head.
Puns in this one? Unnecessary punctuation? Criticism of both organised religion and certain government systems? Oh yes. It’s a fusion fission of everything, really.
And, for the end, something to think about: place the day this p..m is obviously about in 2010 and you’d get mass hysteria and people dying because they wanted to upload stuff to Twitter.
Vrbica
Zvončići, zvončići,
zvončići i grančice,
ne donosite ih kući,
bacite ih, bacite ih.
Nije radost sve što sija.
Jagode, jagode,
nemojte jagode,
biće ih i sledeće godine,
biće lepe i velike,
nije ljubav sve što klija.
Udesili nas za Vrbicu.
Nalepnice, nalepnice,
na šarena, šarena jaja,
moraju da prođu kroz vodu,
a ja bih radije išla u parkić,
no nema parkića nedelju dana.
Kišica, kišica,
pada nam kišica,
i zato ne mogu u parkić,
a baka nije kao Beti Bup
da mi napravi parkić u kuhinji.
Pištalice, pištalice,
doneli su pištalice,
izgledaju kao voki-toki
i imaju žuto sveklo,
povremeno malo svekle.
Zelena jaja,
crna jaja,
svetlucava jaja,
jaja, jaja, jaja
…i ja.
Sirene zavijaju dok ih jedemo,
pre šest godina je umro onaj čika,
što visi u svakoj sobi u vrtiću,
jedino ne visi u klozetu…toaletu,
mama kaže da klozet nije lepa reč,
mama kaže da ćemo sutra moći napolje,
mama kaže da nas baš briga za čiku
i da mi danas slavimo nekog Isusa,
koji je bio mnogo mlađi kad je umro
i nisu mu odsekli nogu, samo bušili šake.
Ja ne znam šta to znači “umreti”.
A ti?
A ti?
A ti?
A ti?
Da li si nekad “umro”?
____________________________________________
Lazarus’ Saturday
Little bells, little bells,
Little bells and willow branches,
Don’t bring them home this time,
Throw them away, throw them away.
Not all that glitters is good.
Strawberries, strawberries,
Please, no strawberries,
There’ll be strawberries next year, too
They’ll be nice and huge,
Not all that sprouts is love,
Stickers, stickers,
On colourful eggs,
They need to be wet,
And I’d rather go to the park
But no park for a week
Rain, rain,
It’s raining
And I can’t go to the park
And granny is no Betty Boop
To make me a park in the kitchen,
Squeakers, squeakers
They brought some squeakers,
They look like walkie-talkies,
And they have yellow light,
Sometimes they pulse a bit,
Green eggs,
black eggs,
sparkly eggs,
eggs, eggs, eggs
…and me.
Sirens howl as we eat the eggs,
Because six years ago, some old man died,
There’s a picture of him in all kindergarten rooms
He’s only not hung in the loo…toilet
Mom says that loo isn’t a nice word,
Mom says we can go outside tomorrow,
Mom says we don’t care about that man
Because today we celebrate some Jesus,
Who was much younger when he died
And they didn’t cut off one of his legs,
They only put nails in his hands,
And I don’t know what “died” means.
And you?
And you?
And you?
And you?
Have you ever “died”?
