“U noći uvek ima straha, kao vlage, nekad više
nekad manje. Njegov uticaj na nas sasvim je nejednak. Ponekad imamo snage da mu
se potpuno otmemo, ponekad nas samo trenutno prođe, kao jeza, a ponekad mu
otvorimo sami dušu i puštamo ga da gazi i hara kako hoće.”
In the night there is always fear, like dampness, sometimes
more, sometimes less. Its influence on us is not at all consistent. Sometimes,
we have the strength to escape it completely, sometimes it grips us briefly,
like a chill and sometimes we willingly open our souls to it and allow it to
trample and devastate at will.
- Ivo Andrić
Oktobar.
Ugruvana
dunja.
Klonula mešalica.
Lozica koja
se nije primila - anemična, skoro prozračna, lebdi.
Zalazak
sunca – vodeno zlatan, ali,
oblak se
odmakne i prospe slatko i med i cigla plane i leto se osvrne.
I was fiddling on Facebook, changing my profile photo,
pouring from hollow to empty, to transliterate the Serbian saying – engaged in a
pointless task. And it was such a warm day. Gray, but warm. And the forecast
says it will not stay warm for long. October. Single digit temperatures are
coming. So I went up to the vikendica
again. Over the past few days, I've been going there and cleaning up
methodically after my dad’s summer building. I washed all the dishes with water
from a plastic barrel with a tap that’s painfully hard to open and close, I
cleaned out the decorative fridge, wiped the dust and grime off grandma’s old
furniture, put a battery in the plastic wall clock and knocked in a rusty nail
to hang it on, reorganized the books and the crystal glasses – all remnants of
my grandparents’ apartment, little glints among the worn and shabby, but
beloved stuff that fills the one room house.
I always come late. There are two windows, but the house is
dark well before twilight. To be there with someone else is wonderful, if that
someone is the right kind. To be there alone with fields rolling down into the
misty valley below and the crickets and the squirrels making their scratchy
arrangements in the attic… To be there with the yellow light coming through the
branches from the new graveyard, one field away… To be there with the fruit
trees adopting their nighttime postures and the sound of leaves touching each other
and the fog gathering at the corners and the house, small as it is, dark outside
the scope of the candle… is to fight fear and call on my love of the place, of
its quiet and the people who built the house, who loved and carried me before I
knew who I was.
It’s an insidious fight that goes on as I work. I wonder to what
use I’ll put the house once I've finished cleaning and ordering… I am packing
it all up into itself, hiding all the stupid new things my mother brought. I
put all of my grandfather’s old woodworking tools in an ugly, but fitting
pitcher. I hung up the blue one-egg frying pan. My grandmother used to fry me a
jaje na oko in it – the egg drifting
like a flying saucer in a few centimeters of oil. Or was it scrambled egg,
scraped up and jostled with a fork? Am I making the house into a museum, somewhere
I will not want to disturb or relax? Is this why it scares me? Not once yet
have I lain down on the couch to read one of my childhood fairy tale books. I
need a guest to bring some disarray, even if only with his presence and words.
Today I gathered up the grape leaves from the cement in
front of the house. I swept the flagstones hard. In the dark, I went to the brush
and wood pile, broke some branches and made a heap on the bald spot where I built
fires last year. I burnt the leaves slowly, handful by scattered handful,
making sure not to smother the fire. Sometimes, I put on a big handful and there
would be a billow of milky, yellow smoke, but the fire would eat through the
leaves and I would put on the next handful. I sweated, I was all in the fire
and even though I knew with my back about the darkness, I was happy. I was
blessing myself in the smoke and blessing the house with its two candles on the
doorstep. Purpose, small and edible was with me.
I wonder if I’m wasting my
time. I could be writing, composing, editing, looking for publishers, reading,
learning, drawing, but there I am melting to the thinnest icicle of fears and
joys on this little plot of land with its wide hazy vista now obscured in
night.
