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.