oktoberfest children

what my parents had when they were in their twenties was a privilege many of us nowadays cannot even imagine. besides being young, they had suddenly gained almost complete freedom and control over their lives, and the world suddenly opened up for them to a degree they had previously been unaware of, having been brought up in patriarchal families. namely, in the late 1960s, they both left their respective villages in former yugoslavia, and came to live and work in munich, bavaria. both lived in workers' accommodation homes in central munich, and both explored the city, their newly acquired freedom, and their own selves. they hang out with other young people like them, not only from yugoslavia, but from germany, greece, italy, too. they met partners. finally, my parents met each other, got into, from what i can gather, a somewhat turbulent relationship, and, shortly after getting married, produced me. i came to this world in june 1971, which means that I first got into the womb during oktoberfest 1970. a very jolly start.

thirty-five years later, after we have moved away from munich for many years, and when my father had already been gone, i accidentally discovered i had a half-sister by my father, still living in munich. the two of us met a few months after our first ever e-mail contact, and learned many wildly corresponding facts about our lives. the one we hadn't particularly dwelled on was that she was born roughly one year previously, in 1970, which means that oktoberfest 1969 was the time when she entered her own mother's womb. both times, the player was my father.

now, who can judge such young people for getting intoxicated with freedom, with being young and fun-loving, with the festive commotions of a big city. i am so happy that they had the oppportunity to sow their wild oats, which was, unfortunately, not the case with me, since i lived in much more constricted circumstances when i was that age.

their youthful unabandon brought me a sister, which was a beautiful, crazy, and exciting fact to learn. the two of us got to know each other, and retained our contact over the next fifteen years, as long as she was on this earth. sadly, she passed in 2022, just before her fifty-second birthday, at the same age our father died in 1999, and at the same age our father's mother died in 1964. all three of them had the same genetic illness, even though only my sister was diagnosed with it, and all three lived to be the age i am right now: 51. i have this same illness, too, but i think i will have more luck and live a longer life than them, since i am receiving constant medical care. however, that is not the point i wanted to get across. the point is to praise the passion of oktoberfest, to praise youth and love, to praise freedom and fresh new lives, such as that of my sister, and my own. however troubled, however long or short, however successful or just ordinary, a life is a life, a life is a whole world, and I am thankful for oktoberfest and those young people, who gave my sister and myself a present: our own two lives, our own two worlds.

my sister and me in 2006, checking out the camera timer :)

When Genes Go Awry - English Version

Yesterday I received five copies of the English version of my book about living with von Hippel-Lindau syndrome. Someone in the publishing company 'corrected' my grammar in the title, so they put 'goes' after a plural noun, instead of 'go'. I did not have an official proofreader, the text is entirely mine, so I was hoping there would not be too many mistakes in it, but I really did not think the publisher would be so creative to add new ones. The title inside the book is correct. I am not sure what happens next, and how many copies with the mistake have been printed. I still invite people to read my account, the first public talk about the book will take place in Metkovic, Croatia, in late September 2022, the Dubrovnik presentation will follow after that. 

https://despot-infinitus.com/en/product/when-genes-goes-awry/ 

    

von hippel-lindau - when genes go awry

I have just published a book in Croatian about my experiences with von Hippel-Lindau syndrome. It will come out in English, too, by the end of this year.

https://mojaknjizara.hr/proizvod/kad-geni-zaribaju/?fbclid=IwAR0vUrUjmGc9a2nqN3deol9l-zEJEotBAZtEnsZl9x_e9bfzim482U28f5Q

 

balašević i jedanaestogodišnji ja

do prije nekoliko dana, kada me na dijalizi u dubrovniku zatekla vijest o balaševićevoj smrti, nisam ni slutio koliko je bio važan u mom životu, kao neki element koji se uzima zdravo za gotovo, skoro poput dnevne svjetlosti. neizmjernost gubitka shvatimo tek kad tog elementa više nema.

u zadnjih nekoliko dana, slušajući balaševićeve pjesme i priče, bez ikakvog reda se u meni gomilaju sjećanja, emocije, nadahnuća, "gurkaju se laktovima", penju jedni preko drugih, toliko ih mnogo ima. sve one bi, čini mi se, poslužile kao dovoljno veliko more za inspiraciju jednog života. najdirljivije je to što širom ovog bipolarnog balkana, pa i preko njegovih granica, balaševićevo nasljeđe ne krasi samo njegova velika umjetnost već iznad svega njegovo čovjekoljublje. bez ikakvih malignih političkih predznaka, u bosni opet odvanjaju riječi o miru izrečene u opasno doba, u zagrebu se ćirilica piše s ljubavlju, u splitu uz suze pjeva na ekavici, a novi sad i ulica izvjesnog geografa cvijića postaju drago susjedstvo čak i ako nikad nismo zakoračili u taj grad. nama koji smo na ovim prostorima gubili živote, budućnost, gradove,  nadu, i sve to u vrijeme kog se jako dobro sjećam a nemam još ni pedeset, umjetnost koju ne natkriljuje čovjekoljublje baš ništa ne znači. 

iz tog dubokog i širokog mora nadahnuća koje je balašević zatalasao u nebrojenim grudima, a o kome bih samo ja mogao napisati tomove, ograničit ću se na jedno sjećanje. godina je 1982. i imam jedanaest godina. u mjesecu maju, koji je u engleskoj poeziji oduvijek bio sinoniman sa "carpe diem" filozofijom jer najavljuje ljeto, a u našoj bivšoj zemlji bio posvećen "mladosti", na pozornicama u domovima kulture i školskim holovima nije bilo predaha. u nikšiću, gradu u kom sam proveo školske dane, nama osnovcima su "majske smotre" bile kulturno-umjetnička zamjena za gladijatorske borbe, i svi smo hrlili u "malu salu" lokalnog kina gdje su se održavale. bilo je to poput finala eurovizije ili nekog svjetskog prvenstva: kroz godinu bi svaka osnovna škola pripremala nadarene učenike za recitaciju, ples, dramski skeč, pjesmu. na školskim priredbama bi se odlučilo o dva najbolja nastupa koja bi prolazila na finalnu "smotru". pretpostavljam da je na kraju bilo dvanaest najboljih jer je u samom gradu bilo šest osnovnih škola. dvorana bi bila krcata predpubertetskih i pubertetskih lokalno-školskih patriota, glasnih i razularenih, a na pozornici su se smjenjivali plesači, glumci, svirači. moja susjeda sonja je bila u plesnoj grupi koja je igrala uz čolićevu "mađaricu", kozački kazačok koji je pripremala nastavnica matematike iz moje škole, mira janjušević, par puta je pobjeđivao na "smotri" ali, ja najviše pamtim nastup jednog dada iz moje škole, možda je bio u sedmom razredu dok sam ja bio u četvrtom, i gledao sam ga sa strahopoštovanjem, kako nižeosnovci najčešće gledaju višeosnovce. taj dado je, čini mi se, bio zajebant i ne baš dobar đak, ali je odlično pjevao. u krcatom, zagušljivom kinu, punom hormona i kokica, otpjevao je balaševićevu tek izašlu pjesmu "triput sam video tita". dok je pjevao prestale su se žvakati kokice, utihnuli su krici i arlauci, tišina i emocije su se mogle rezati tupim nožem. mene je sve to duboko, duboko dirnulo, bio sam ponosan na svoju školu "mileva lajović lalatović" koju su gradski snobovi smatrali seljačkom, muzika se igrala s mojim nevinim i naivnim emocijama, riječi pjesme su crtale žive slike pred očima, čak se u njima spominjao i nikšić za koji sam mislio da niko van njega nikada nije ni čuo. najnebitniji u svemu tome je bio tito. ja sam netom prije njegove smrti doselio u jugoslaviju iz njemačke pa nisam baš bio uživljen u taj kult, ali moja predadolescentna, nepoznata, snažna bura u grudima koja u tim godinama hvata najdublji korijen čvrsto se uplela u pjesmu o dječačiću koji je zbunjen i opčinjen titovim prolaskom kroz grad, o mladiću koji s gitarom kroz muziku traži svoj izraz, o tuzi koja povezuje različte ljude tadašnje države, a povezanost je kod nas jedini lijek protiv istrebljenja.  

teško je nabrojati balaševićeve pjesme koje ničim izazvane pokrenu u meni vatromete sjećanja i osjećanja, iako nikada u stvari nisam s namjerom "slušao" balaševića kao što jesam na primjer ekv ili janis joplin. "panonskog mornara" sam dobio kao singlicu od strica kad sam tek doselio iz njemačke i dok još nisam dobro ni znao naš jezik, "jesen stiže dunjo moja" je asocijacija na šetnje po gradskom parku i moj prvi, svevišnji walkman, "putuj evropo" je u mračnim godinama objasnila sve ono što sam i sam mislio i osjećao, ali kada bih morao iz njegovog sveukupnog opusa spasiti samo jednu pjesmu mislim da bi to bila "tiput sam video tita", jer ona, poput nekog davnog parfema koji udara direktno na amigdalu, u trenu oživi tu majsku noć punu čarobnih slika, emocija i uzbuđenja jednog jedanaestogodišnjaka.   

 

           

    

sweet lemons.

in the last year i have extensively written about my compromised health, i think more than ever before. one article about a rare inner ear tumour that i had in the past will come out soon, and i have also written a full-length manuscript about life with von hippel-lindau disease, which might get published one day, too. hence, i am more than ready to turn elsewhere and explore other areas of life, but one little thing from my recent hospital experiences came up as a theme for a blog entry, and refused to be discarded. 

in february 2019 i went to the national institutes of health in bethesda, maryland, very close to washington dc, for one more surgery. it was my eighth major operation, and my sixth at the nih. this time i was there for a complete bilateral nephrectomy, which again lasted almost ten hours, but eventually turned out to be successful. however, the surgery is not the theme of this brief text. here i want to write about the people who work at the nih and how i experienced them. 

being discharged from hospital is way more fun than being admitted, even though at discharge i usually feel like a walking slab of wounded meat. but upon admission, which is usually surrounded by some gloom, there was one thing to look forward to. i would get to see the doctors and nurses and other nih staff that i had met in the past, and that had always treated me with respect, warmth, and professionalism. that is something that always lifts up my mood, and that unmistakably proves to be true. this time was no exception. i felt i had many friends at the nih who were really happy to see me and take care of me again.

every time i stay at the nih i also encounter people i had not known before, and many of them turn out to be as nice as everybody else. for the first time last month i met the staff of the tiny dialysis unit at the nih, where i was dialysed three times a week throughout my three-week stay in the usa. despite some minor technical issues that were emerging occasionally, mainly because of the different approaches to dialysis in europe and in the usa, i felt welcome and cozy during my dialysis sessions, and i chattered away with the staff most of the time. they made me feel comfortable and confident. we raised different topics and got to know each other pretty well. when i was leaving i got big, warm hugs from them, and i somehow feel that that was not the end, that we will have a chance to hang out again in the future.

but one detail that took place during my dialysis days is symbolic of the energy that was present there. one day i mentioned to rick, the male nurse, that i liked trader joe's, and that my cousin nat from seattle had recently sent me a package in which there was a bag of trader joe's dried and sweetened lemons, which i immediately got addicted to, finishing the whole thing in two days. then we switched to another topic. lemons were forgotten. at least until my last dialysis session at the nih. that morning rick came to work and brought me a bag of dried lemons. he remembered it when he was in the store. this touched me so much that i did not know how to thank him properly. my words of gratitude could not match how i was feeling inside. the nih proved once more to be full of compassionate, humble, knowledgeable, kind people. if only more medical institutions were like the nih in this respect the world would be a much, much happier place.

in the end, i hope this virtual text reaches out across the pond and says hi to rick, denise, carol, nguyen, lilian, dr. austin, and lets them know how their friendly but professional approach made the whole experience much more bearable for me.

god behind the screen

the book i have been working on for the several past years is about to come out later this summer.

https://www.routledge.com/God-Behind-the-Screen-Literary-Portraits-of-Personality-Disorders-and/Andrijasevic/p/book/9781138339040

Slippers, or what makes me cry

The tears that we so frequently hold back find their oblique routes through unsuspected alleys. They take us by surprise, and they feel good.

I did not cry in so many life situations in which tears would have been a most natural response. When I was little I was terribly ashamed to be seen crying, so I hardly ever did before others. Only in silence, surreptitiously. I don't cry very often now that I am an adult either, but at times tears catch me unawares.

I cried the other day, over an old memory. It resurfaced from the depths of my childhood, from the kindergarten days in the mid-70s. The teacher assigned us a project - we were supposed to make cardboard models of our own slippers - matching our real life slippers in size, shape, and colour. Mine were blue and red, with a zipper at the front. I remember the final result. I wasn't too happy with it. Still, this memory made me cry.

Later on I tried to understand why. I think that one of the reasons is the loss of that child, of that day and age, of that shape of the world. Ubi sunt? As opposed to that sheltered, cherished boy whose greatest worry was to make a cardboard slipper, I now stand disinherited of that peace and that purpose, and I only wonder where - where has it all gone? Stupid, I know. But so real.

the boon of words

they shut the plastic cage just above your face with a few clicks, then slide you into a narrow tube for about an hour. the noise of the mri goes on continuously. what happens with your head during that hour is partly in your power to control, partly uncontrollable. dozing off, dreams, visions, thoughts. revived scenes from the book you are reading. gratuitous ideas.

in the state of semi-somnambulance while in the mri a few days ago, an unannounced thought came into my mind. 'you should turn everything into sentences, every idea, every vision that arises before your mind's eye.' i was not completely sure what this instruction meant, or where it came from. the essence is probably that i should translate as much of my experience as possible into language. this urge has not been unfamiliar to me. i was eight when i started writing my first diary. but why did the thought crystallize in my mind during this medical examination? as a consolation (for it did feel consoling) or as a reminder that my way in the world is through words?

i wish i was a writer, i wish my words were impeccable. and i do write from time to time, but when my words come out they may sound amputated, banal, strained. i would like to breathe words, to reap words. i would like to give away words as presents. my words should be me, but they are not. they are flimsy bridges, largely unreliable, from which one easily falls into the abyss between essence and expression. maybe the thought that crossed my mind during mri meant that i need to hunt wider and fish deeper for proper words, because they probably do exist hidden at some secret place.

one of the greatest gifts in life is the ability to find the right words. i might keep trying. i might even succeed, but the current reality is that i do desire the right words, but they are still escaping me.

iceland 1986-2016

The world of yesterday is constantly shifting in my mind. Sometimes it feels light years away, and sometimes I have a feeling I am still living in it. Everything is even more complicated when it comes to my relationship with Iceland. I can pinpoint the exact moment in the past when it began, but despite that it seems to have been timeless. Here is how it all began. 

Thirty years ago, when I was fifteen, I came back home from a long day at school, so hungry that I asked my mother to bring me dinner on a tray to the living room. I was leaned back on the couch, with my feet on the coffee table, and while I was eating I causally glanced at the 7.30 news on TV. At the time I had no interest in such things at all. However, at a certain point I was intrigued by the mention of Iceland, a country I had only vaguely heard about in a geography class, a country I knew nothing else about. Presidents Reagan and Gorbachev were meeting there, by a white fireplace (as I remember it), but then the camera switched to show some streets of Reykjavik, its colourful roofs, a mountain in the background that I would later learn is called Esja. That footage pressed a mysterious button somewhere deep down in my mind and soul, for all of a sudden I was struck by what I saw, and I wanted to see and learn more. But in a provincial town in Yugoslavia back in 1986, before the Internet, where was I to learn more about Iceland? And how was I to get in touch with somebody from there? The urge was enormous, I could not help my desire to get in touch with Iceland, I dreamed about it incessantly, and tried to come up with a few strategies of how to get closer to it. 

I did not know a single name of an Icelander, I did not know any street address, and there was nowhere to find such information. No Icelandic embassy in the country. So I decided to make a random telephone call to Iceland, try to explain who I was and why I was calling, and ask for their address so that I could write to them. The man who answered the phone was very kind, and he actually did spell out his full name and address for me. I put it down like this: "Halljajaur Inn, Kringland, some numbers, Reykjavik". Full of elation and hope, I wrote a letter in school English asking them to put me in touch with interested Icelandic pen-friends. Two or three weeks later the letter returned, of course, because neither the name nor the address resembled anything or anyone recognizable in Reykjavik. My disappointment was huge, not just because the letter returned, but also because I had to cross out telephone as a way to stick out with my plan. 

I think a whole year passed without any news about Iceland. I would find an odd, brief article in newspapers about Miss World from Iceland, or some geographical facts in my uncle’s maritime encyclopedias. I treasured it all in my scrap book, but it wasn’t enough. Then my father went to a business trip to Germany and brought back a small Braun electric shaver. I was keen on inspecting the razor, as well as the booklet that came with it. And in that booklet I discovered something that would turn my life around: it included a list of all the services worldwide where the shaver could be taken to be fixed while under warranty. Among them was an address in Reykjavik! The company’s name was Pfaff. As impatiently as ever, I immediately wrote them a letter. The days that ensued were too long. Still, several weeks later I did get a response. That moment was one of the most exciting in my life by that time. The company kindly sent me their badge, and informed me that they had forwarded my letter to one of the popular Icelandic teenage magazines. I felt the world was opening up for me, and I thought I could expect some news very soon. That could have been '87 or '88. I waited, and waited, but nothing was happening for months. I felt I was doomed to failure, and started thinking that what I wanted was impossible to achieve. No new opportunities came into view. I celebrated my 18th birthday in 1989, and went from Montenegro, where I was living, to my native Croatia (at that time both countries still belonged to Yugoslavia), to spend the summer, as I always did. Iceland was a gem hidden from my eyes, but incessantly scintillating within me. Then one day in August my mother telephoned from Montenegro to say that several letters from abroad had arrived for me. I think she mentioned they were from Iceland. Not knowing what they were, but ablaze with the rekindled euphoria, I could not wait for my mum to come to Croatia and bring the letters. When she finally arrived, there were six of them. All were from different young people from Iceland, introducing themselves, some with photographs. ‘Vikan’ had run my add for pen-friends, though with a huge delay. The feelings that those letters evoked were magical. Still, it did take three years for it to happen. I responded to all of the letters, and when I returned home in September more were waiting for me. After a while, I established permanent pen-friendship with four people: Kristin, Katrin, Unnar, and Frida. With some of them I am in contact to this day, and one of them, Kristin, I met several times during my visits to Iceland, and she has become a dear, personal friend. 

The adventures that my love for Iceland has brought to my path are too numerous to cover in one short text. I just wanted to look back at the beginnings and say that Iceland is one of the most constant loves of my life, one that can hardly be described. Thirty years have passed, the world has changed enormously, but some things remain as permanent stars in the sky.

a bundle.

recently i started writing the story of my childhood, giving it the tentative title 'the tumblings of a bundle'. i describe myself as coming to this world senseless and dumb, bundled up, and moved from place to place, from country to country. when i began to write about my life when i had already turned three, i asked a narrator's question of whether it was time to give up calling myself a bundle any more, since i could already walk and talk and think and be sad and happy. but i could not make myself banish the word from my lines. it kept coming back. i had identified with it. and i decided to keep it throughout the book, which i plan to end with my pre-teen days.

there was one more thing that made me keep addressing myself as a bundle in this text, though. i was thinking about my current position in life. i am 45, quite happy with the way i live my life inwardly, but most of the time very powerless to make an impact on how i live it on the outside - where i live, with whom i live, what i do, what my obligations are, how my plans are going to play out. even this summer of 2016 feels like being taken to some foreign cities by an external power, without my say in it. i am aware that it is absolutely vital for me to be here and sort some existential problems out, and i have to admit that i have been enjoying the long stay in the wonderful cities of london, washington dc, and pittsburgh pa. still, a feeling remains that i have been tossed here, like a bundle, all tied up and left to survive, and potentially thrive, and finally find its own way back home.

ime.

u smeđim kožnim cipelama neko će doći do obale i reći - ovo je rijeka. zaustaviće vrh stopala na busenu koji tone, ali ostaje iznad blata. pola koraka ispred je barica. nad namreškanom vodom, i zaspalim muljem, kopljaste travke se ukrštaju. suhe su kao i list koji se zakačio za jednu, i treperi.

ali, šta će rijeka reći za sebe? njena leđa su prljava i duga. nespretno se pretvaraju u utrobu kroz koju voda protječe kao vrijeme. u njoj plešu otkinuti komadići stvarnosti, nad njom odrazi i dah. ona ne kaže da je rijeka; samo diše. 

a reading year.

before 2015 is out, i am embarking on the 45th book this year, atul gawande's 'being mortal'. i never read as many books in a year. this is thanks to a prolonged sick leave, long flights and airport waits, and also to the availability of not only physical books, but kindle e-books, and audio books. i don't find any essential difference among these formats, save for the difficulty of note taking while listening to an audio book.

when it comes to genres, fiction slightly leads in favour of non fiction: 25 to 20.

after remaining utterly exhausted but unrewarded by 'bag of bones' back in 2005, i told myself i would never ever read another stephen king novel. this year i broke the promise and read two. 'revival' attracted my attention for its psychopathological religious theme, but it was too far-fetched to have expectations of it. on the other hand, returning to 'carrie' for the same reason was very fruitful.

there were several other underwhelming experiences, though unexpected. first of all 'goldfinch' by donna tartt, which i loved for about 400 pages, but completely lost the zeal during the remaining two or three hundred; then 'gilead' by marilynne robinson, which i wrote about in my previous post. the same happened with two ian mcewan novels, 'on chesil beach' and 'child in time', but i loved 'enduring love', 'black dogs', and 'the children's act'. the italian classic 'the gold-rimmed spectacles' by giorgio bassani, which i got as a present with warm recommendations, also left me cold, as did the booker runner 'did you ever have a family' by bill clegg. 'girl at war' by sara novic was probably the greatest disappointment.

my reactions were lukewarm to several other exceptional books: 'arthur and george' by julian barnes, 'onitsha' by jean-marie g. le clezio, 'middlesex' by jeffrey eugenides, 'zuckerman unbound' by philip roth', and 'all my puny sorrows' by miriam toews.

the following novels managed to thrill me much more: 'honeymoon' by patrick modiano, 'passport' by herta muller, 'the good son' by paul mcveigh, 'slaughterhouse 5' by kurt vonnegut, 'alone in berlin' by hans fallada, 'moby dick', and 'lolita'. the only book of fiction, however, that i rated with five stars was 'don quixote', which i read integrally for the first time this year. it is a world in itself, not a book.

on the non fiction side of things there have been many more five star books, books that have shook me profoundly and enriched me enormously. in no particular order, they include the following: the autobiography of oliver sacks titled 'on the move', which poignantly allowed me a glimpse into his private life, and make him an even greater hero than he had been; the biography of huston smith 'wisdomkeeper' written by my friend dana sawyer, which discloses the gigantically intricate spiritual legacy of one of the greatest world figures in the sphere of religion; theodore millon's seminal work 'personality disorders in modern life', which subtly and comprehensively encapsulates all psychological perspectives to offer a very humane depiction of personality disorders; henry marsh's 'do no harm' account of a lifelong career, successes and failures of a neurosurgeon, shot through with intimate family episodes; and 'the examined life' by stephen grosz, probably one of the most sympathetic and personal series of psychotherapeutic cases that opens up new questions about well known themes.

i also admired non-fiction books on the themes i have a great interest in: teaching in north korea ('without you there is no us', suki kim), apostates from scientology ('beyond belief', jenna miscavage) the norwegian psychopathic killer ('one of us: the story of andreas breivik and the massacre in norway', asne seierstad), personal accounts of mental illness ('my age of anxiety', scott stosell), london ('londoners', craig taylor), prison libraries ('running the books', avi steinberg), classical music and neurology ('musicophilia', oliver sacks), psychology ('interpersonal treatment of personality disorders', lorna smith benjamin; 'personal intelligence', john d. mayer), franklian logotherapy and literature ('existential journey', micah sadigh), religion ('a medieval mystic', vincent scully), psychopathic parents ('not my father's son', alan cumming), or emotional roots of health ('the healing path', marc barasch). the only non-fiction book i wish i hadn't read was 'i'll never write my memoirs' by grace jones, because it spoiled my image of her and even of her music. it has to be said she was honest, had some extremely good points, but on the whole she was showing off her unpalatable narcissism, which is a great furn-off for me.

2015 was a good year. i stand in awe of all those people who give us so much. they are the salt of the earth.

disconnect.

the novel 'gilead' by marilynne robinson has been on my reading list for a long time. the themes, the form, the style, the acclaim - all that i read about it was telling me it would be a relish to read. i am currently nearing the end of the novel, and all that's been said about it is true. however, i am failing to connect with it, and i do not see it coming before i finish the remaining pages. i could not for the whole world put a finger on what it is that is making it wriggle away from my attention and emotional experience. it must be some indefinable 'key' it's written in that is just wrong for me. so, it's not about the book, it's about me.

'gilead' is not the only thing valuable in itself that i do not manage to appreciate properly. there are so, so many more. my own country (or more precisely one of my own countries) is another field whose narrative i greatly fail to follow. not being arrogant, or indifferent, or overly contrary, ever since i was six, the age i was when i came to live in montenegro, it seems to have lived a life different from my own, with hardly any overlaps. again, it's me, not the country, even though it does deserve some criticism. but that is not the point.

another 'out of comfort' zone for me is classical music. it has skipped me most of my life. however, i recently read 'musicophilia' by oliver sacks, and, influenced by this great author, pushed myself to try to get into classical music a little more. i even googled 'how to listen to classical music'. the result has amazed me. after listening a dozen times to rachmaninoff's piano concerto 1, now i get goosebumps when i play it. and so much more awaiting to be discovered.

i don't think i would love 'gilead' if i reread it (even though i have not yet tried), and i don't think i could smoothly swim in the montenegrin streams (even though i tried a million times). some zones just remain out of comfort for the most part. others, however, eventually open up. they should relentlessly be sought all the time, while other nuts harder to crack we should probably not force upon ourselves too hard. it's just like houses of different styles, or savory dishes, or colours - some are perfect for us, some are much more enjoyed by others.

also a man

thirty years ago i was also a man. a tall, lost, awkward, but a surviving young man, who experienced the world with heightened emotions. i was no longer a child. i was serious, and unhappy. i was fourteen.

my handwriting was unhappy, too. but daring. it pretentiously probed into the big world. my taste in music was peculiar. most of it was awful. the song i mention in this diary entry is indescribably bad. i played it on youtube to be reminded of it, and couldn't listen through to it.

i am as grown up today as i ever will be. my handwriting is disappearing before the keyboard. my taste in music is even more peculiar. most of it is still awful, and i still show off posting weird songs on my facebook page. i am still tall, awkward, and somewhat lost. but not unhappy. and i am a child again.

'the heart of the wound'

scott stosell mentions the phrase 'the heart of the wound' in his book 'my age of anxiety'. a therapist told him that the thing that makes him cry when brought up, not necessarily a thing that would normally cause one to cry, hides deep wounds that are still unresolved, and that should be explored.

i myself am not easily moved to tears, but i also have a wound with a heart that makes me cry, particularly when i am in dire circumstances. over a month ago i had my fifth serious surgery caused by vhl, and the post-op period is always challenging in many ways. emotionally, the same pattern has repeated every time i recovered from an operation. many current things in my life seem to go out of focus - my family and friends, my work, apartment, country. i am not even emotional about the physical difficulties of going through recuperation, or the uncertainties about the outcome of the surgery. the only thing that remains in my emotional range and comes to life is the region where i was born - dalmatia: my earliest childhood, the people who loved me, the music played on the radio, the sound of the words, the light of the sun, the colour of the water. and deep tears start to gush.

i think the reason for this wound is that a strong desire to be in my homeland remained unfulfilled throughout my life. until i was three i lived there permanently, but then i moved to another country, then yet another. growing up, i would spend summer and winter holidays in croatia, but i never went to school there, which i had dreamed of, or worked there, or had a more permanent formal connection with my home country. there are no compunctions now for me to move there, but i doubt that would stop my tears. life took me elsewhere, and there is no easy cure for my wound. maybe i don't even want it to heal. maybe i want the tears to keep me in touch with the region of my birth and with the source of so much warmth and strength coming from there.

en gång i stockholm

i have always been prone to nostalgia. red hot nostalgia, stomach-churning nostalgia, weakness-in-the-legs nostalgia. my childhood displacements from the places i loved probably spurred its growth. now it doesn't take too long for any of its varieties to rise up within me swinging like a cobra and play tricks on my emotions.

the exact type of nostalgia i feel for stockholm is difficult to describe. it has been stirring these days, one year after i left the city in which i lived for half a year. there's a thin whitish film on the surface, and a warm, golden heart on the inside. i did not spend too much time there for my nostalgia to grow mythic roots, but neither too little to avoid being itched and carved by it. now it has an equal place in my personal atlas, along with dalmatia, munich, iceland, usa, and london. stockholm, the city on islands; the city of wispy dreams and loving lovelessness.

the view from my room in rinkeby was nondesript. the one from my hornstull abode was more dynamic. i remember them both. sitting by the window, watching snippets of stockholm life. or how gamla stan would appear ablaze when the train gets out of slussen. or haga parken in september, or countless of rounds around skeppsholmen. the beauty tears are made of.

i left stockholm on 9 february '14 with a bird in my chest. its dysthymic wings still flutter at times. but the bird might have gone.

blood like lemonade.

i have not yet figured out where i live. in my past? possibly. in my reveries? frequently. in my environment? hardly. i actually do not live. life just lives itself, and i happen to overlap with it. sometimes it is blood that runs through my veins, sometimes lemonade.

gutters, neon lights, reflections on soaked asphalt. cranberry juice from tesco express. london scattered in my head.

the art of here and now escapes me. always has. there might have been moments when i breathed time. now i breathe ash.

october smells of london. of metallic moaning of the tube and of dead daffodils in green park. my butterfly net is packed in the bag. time to chase time.

before the applause.

karen armstrong, one of my favourite religious thinkers, said that god can in no way be defined, but can possibly be compared to that pregnant silence which ensues in between the ending of a symphony being played in a concert hall and the beginning of the applause. such meaningful slots of outward emptiness and inner fullness are the portholes into the unfathomable depths of existence, and they leave us awed and puzzled. the glimpses into the deep ocean of metaphysical meaning occur spontaneously, even throughout dull daily routines, not just amid superb artistic or spiritual events. they can be seen as the dots which connect the outlines of what really matters in our lives. taking a shower, waiting at a check-out line, being stuck with the workload - instances just happen when i lose track of who, or where, or what i am. it takes a few moments of resetting to come back down to earth. but during those temporally brief moments there's an intimation of something greater, something comprehensive, warm and dark, deep, essential, illogical. does it mean that we are constantly floating on an ocean of deeper truths, and that sporadic reflections of its shiny surface on our minds reassure us about why it makes sense to live? or are those just sparklings of our own jumbled thoughts and emotions? i would love to believe that the first, not the second question can be answered positively. however, i do not have any proof for it, neither does anyone else for that matter. what remains is to either believe or not believe, both of which is perfectly fine.

taste vs. texture.

texture is more important than taste where my appreciation of food is concerned. i've always known it, but i was recently completely convinced in it. there are two food items that are almost tasteless, but that have completely opposite textures. one are water chestnuts, the other the finnish leipäjuusto, or cheese-bread. chinese and thai food are my all time favourites. however, even though i am not a picky eater, for some reason i cannot stand water chestnuts. tasteless as they are, they make me feel sick. on the other hand, the finnish pancake-looking cheese-base for either salty or sweet spreads, also with almost no taste, is something i am mad about, and prepared to pay for dearly when i come across it outside of finland. and i never put anything on it so as not to spoil the 'taste'.

a leash.

i do not know what the following feels like: to live a life that is easy and uneventful, to live a life filled with pain and suffering only, to live a life that is utter happiness. in my case, i am usually wedged in between the very bright highs and the very dark lows.

the highs and the lows of my life do not refer to my moods or my feelings, but to concrete life events. some of them extraordinary, to be dreamed of, some, on the other hand, scorching with pain.

the only way to keep some kind of balance and stability in such a position is to step back at times from both the good and the tragic facts of my life. to watch the things unfold as if taking place on a theatre stage. to get away from the burning heart of happiness and of suffering. to cast a gaze over my shoulder to the distant hills.

sometimes i take this vulnerable soul of mine on a leash and walk it in the streets of stockholm like a dog. nobody sees it, it leaves no paw prints, it does not pee or poop. it just weeps inside, and when the tears clear the chest and the nasal passages, i put it back into myself and head home.

i do not think i am able to choose which frame of life i would like to fit myself into. it is more likely that the frame of life chooses us. if i could, though, it is the easy&uneventful that sounds so enticing. yearning for it. but then again, i would find a reason to complain about it. nearly everybody does. so, it seems there is no other option but to pigeonhole ourselves into the appointed niches. and take a step back when the going gets tough.