Biljeska iz Beca br. 5 - Becka golotinja 10/20/2011
Zeljela bih te vidjeti golu. Htjela bih da sa sebe svuces sav sjaj svoje carske proslosti i zablistas u novom svjetlu. Htjela bih da streses sa svojih bokova svu ukocenost valcera i zapleses uz harmoniku na Yppenplatzu. Znam da si balerina u dusi i da to nije tvoj stil, ali meni za ljubav. Ma hajde, skini se. Vidjet ces, svidjet ce ti se! Zanemari plavu krv sto se skuplja po ustajalim barama u coskovima tvojih sarmantnih sokaka i u inat proslosti otkrij svoje novo, mlado lice. I pokazi sta si sve naucila kroz vjekove i kojim jezicima sve govoris! Zamisljam te kao zenu u najboljim godinama. Sigurna sam da me linije tvojih okruga nece razocarati. Uvjerena sam da te nagu mogu beskrajno voljeti, cim zbacis sa sebe svu tu oronulu oholost kojom se branis protiv novih vremena. Ma slatka si mi takva namcorasta! Ali ne prilici jednoj internacionalnoj dami... Pa daj onda, svuci se. I zaplesi uz harmoniku na Yppenplatzu Jer i balerinama treba da se nekad malo otkace. Add Comment Biljeska iz Beca br.4 - Boze, kupi mi auto 04/05/2011
Sunce je vec polako zalazilo kad su zazvonila crkvena zvona. Läuten - podsjetiti narod da Bog ceka. Petnaest minuta prije mise u Sonnenubergasse u Becu, porodica je cekala tramvaj da ih odveze u drugom pravcu. Ipak, zvona su napomenula oca da bi se djeca mogla pomoliti. "U ime Oca i Sina i Duha Svetoga, amen," ponudi otac djeci ocekivani pocetak. "Da budu svi zivi i zdravi, molim te Boze," doda majka. "I da imaju sve sto pozele," nadoveza otac, gledajuci djecu koja su se to tada samo nijemo krstila. Ohrabren lakocom molitvi, odvazi se stariji sin i obrati se Bogu. "Dragi Boze," zapoce on sramezljivo. "Da mi braco naraste veliki," rece on gledajuci u mladjeg brata koji se vec poceo meskoljiti na metalnoj klupi. "I kad naraste," osmjeli se djecak, "Da ima Ferari." Amen. Biljeska iz Beca br. 3 - Slaveci ljeto 06/21/2010
 Negdje izmedju vinograda i plavog Dunava mutne zelenkasto-smedje boje docekili smo novo ljeto, scucureni pod kisobranima sto pucketaju pod napadom bijesnih kapljica vode. Ja sam u svom jesenskom kaputu cekala ljeto da promoli glavu kroz teske oblake, ali ono - ovim kalendarskim varkama - samo je naglasavalo svoje odsustvo. Ipak je bilo lijepo tamo negdje blizu Kremsa, gdje se dvorci izdizu uz obronke brdasaca i male, bajne kucice pretvaraju krajolik u igru djecije maste. Fires filled the evening, lighting up the hillside. Along the facade of Durnstein castle, flames moved furiously to the rhythm of the raindrops coming down on the hundreds of spectators gathered to welcome the boats that would bring the summer along. Only the guest of honour was nowhere to be found. In the end, however, it did not matter at all. Biljeska iz Beca br. 2 - Stara dama, ljeto 06/18/2010
Varljivo Oktobarsko sunce iz dubokih tmina hladnih austro-ugarskih stanova izvlaci u setnju po drvecem obrubljenim alejama proslog carstva, lijepo dotjerane dame u novim mantilima. Te dame - starije gospodje koscatih lica i napucenih usana, elegantno izboranih ruku - skrivene pod sesirima zadnje Becke mode ulazu u gradske tramvaje (to divno cudo mehanike i tacnosti) i guraju se do visecih drzaljki koje se njisu pri svakom zaokretu vagona kao i dame koje su ih se primile. Tim damama se ne dizem. Ne zelim da ih uvrijedim svojim mladalackim dobrim odgojem. Neka se klate u stiklama dok tramvaj pokorava okuka, i nek' posrnu tu i tamo jer sta je posrtaj u tramvaju spram onog pred godinama? Zavidim nekad tim damama na modnom stilu - lijepe, nasminkane, pocesljane - i na zrelom samopouzdanju njegovanom bas tim godinama. I opet im zavidim, dok zajedno silazimo niz tramvajske stube u grad, na njihovom cilom koraku oblivenom oktobarskim zubatim suncem jednog takvog Altweibersommer dana. In Bed 03/08/2010
In bed I wait for the dawn to break over my head Like an egg You have your face muted. And now the salt trickles down into your dirty mouth I had pecked to silence Yesterday we hurled words at the walls I saved you some leftovers “I see it ain’t that hard to milk our sorrow for all its worth.” Over. Easy Our Sunday morning breakfast in bed. My friend, with a belly 03/08/2010
That summer we had decided: I would apply for grad school, and she would become pregnant. It was simple. I needed the next step, to buy time before real life began. She needed kids. For her there was no more time to buy, she was already in her forties. It had taken her that many years to fall in love, to find him, but now, finally, she had a house, a home, and a desire to have him nuzzle up against those shoulders of hers that had hardened in exile. His hands had now made them smoother. She told me, I am glad we are going through this together. To my kids you’ll be able to say “I’ve known you since you were an egg.” The first time I saw them, they were labeled. A and B. Alfred and Betty, her brother-in-law would joke later, two round, tiny eggs that would hatch inside her womb. We didn’t know it at the time, but one would be a boy, his pink skin sensitive to dust and fragrance; the other, a girl, with eyebrows and lashes so long and dark that at 6 months her father swore not to let her date before she is thirty. No one envied his future, swatting her suitors away like flies. I could just imagine. My friend grew equidistantly, the fluid filing her feet, her hands, her face. In the course of the months that passed, her belly extended into the computer desk so that she was able to reach the keyboard only at an angle. In solidarity, I wobbled like a penguin on our way from the office into the car. I no longer wore high heels, ate chocolate in excess and cried like never before in my life. Yesterday I told Jorge how a saxophone player in the Washington Square Park made me sob. Jorge said that it had been just in the last month that he learned how to cry in public. I asked “softly, elegantly?” “No,” he said. “Effortlessly. Anonymously.” Vignette 02/23/2010
In the mornings, I wake up in English, startled. It takes a while before the strong smell of Turkish coffee creeps into the room and I am reminded of where I am. The paintings on the walls are my uncle’s; the skirts in the closet my aunt's; cats crawl outside of the door. Memories begin to swarm, crowding the mornings: this must be home. It takes about 30 seconds for me to recognize my grandmother’s house. The furniture has faded a bit and carpets are not as frequently vacuumed. The dust settles in the corner and is forgotten, unreachable. I am in a house at the top of the stairs that cries colors and breathes yellow sighs like ripe plantains. Only those are the not the fruits that grow in this region. The only thing that grows here is absence, bloated like the sky before the rain, like the children’s moon bounce balloon. In each corner of the house is a remnant of a God that built this country: Catholic crosses, Orthodox icons and Muslim fildzans. Dust settles on their remains and years pile up in layers: first layer for the loss of innocence; second for mistrust; third for growing up, unscathed by the war, the last generation of tree climbers; fourth layer for clandestine blood filling the streets because no one would claim her; fifth for the year when my aunt died. That war I could not claim. I remembered it only in accents that could give you away, let them know you've been away, a traitor. The first time I came back, I wore their sounds on my tongue like prickly scarlet letters. This time, I come with different accents. And this time around they are red badges of courage, testaments to new, involuntary livings. Biljeska iz Beca br. 1 - Zima 02/19/2010
The winter descended upon the city in one large swoop, in three frigid days. Like a swarm of dirty pidgeons. The buildings withdrew into the fog. The city collapsed in on itself. At the beginning, the streets seemed to welcome the first snow. But the immovable asphalt raged against the apparent freedom of the flakes and upon contact, turned them into slush. The new winter boots of the city ladies - bought this season - soon wore salt stains. The sun, exhausted, vacationed in Islas Canarias. And I bought curtains - to pull them apart and let the light in. 7 Train 11/24/2009
Line 7 - the train that runs from Manhattan to Flushing, Queens - is nicknamed the "International Express." Here are some of the people who live and/or work along its tracks.       Revisiting Cuba 11/05/2009
It was in Cuba that I first started taking photos. My friend Kelly gave me a tiny digital camera as a gift. It didn't have a flash. I was hoping to hide behind this little camera and undisturbed observe the lives around me. But ironically it made me more visible, an ostentatious mark of my foreignness. It invited curious glances that turned into conversations - at times friendships - giving me a much greater access to Cuba's realities than I would have otherwise had.             | AuthorJelena Kopanja lives in Vienna, Austria.
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