Some years back, in another life I was on Tjentište with bunch of "young artists". I dreamed to become what I am now, and I had no idea that my dreams are so cruel to fulfill. I socialized mostly first post with Slobodan Blagojevic. The jukebox could be heard only "Cyrillic" (the same was the case with the times-voice first post in "radnoakcijaškom" settlement), and is free to the tapes had all the Stones, Floyd, Dylan ... We drank gin and tonic: I was drinking gin and tonic on. About a month after that called me from Amsterdam. Postcard was addressed: DACO - SARAJEVO. On Saturday I received a letter from America. Addressed: Dario Džamonja, 71000 Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Europe. I read it and nothing is clear to me: my wife writes on the birthday first post of our daughter who was 28 May !? I looked at the seal, and there "some dates in June." Have a look at the envelope and see the second seal "Misssent to Sri Lanka", which is to say that the letter was mistakenly sent to a completely different end of the world, that he traveled back to America to be there a postal clerk remembered that there Bosnia, first post that there Sarajevo and that it is in Europe. So, our four years of "glory" are irreversibly last - no more us on CNN, on the front pages of Newsweek, Time; We iščiljeli first post the memories and hearts of the world. For our "glory" We can not blame our enemies, but we are forgetting themselves on death's doorstep. That same Saturday was the anniversary of the death of a dear friend Mladen Paunovic, Friday was a commemoration Dubravko Brigić, now eight years since I took leave of the soul man called Hamić, approaching the anniversary VUKSAN death, only in recent Sunday I found out that my eternal smiling friend Racho called Arslan - not me he said, but his (smiling first post again) of obituaries in newspapers; Major also completed his wanderings ... God, I'm staying this I am in Sarajevo? While seductive height lures her into his arms, phone ringing and I'm getting neighbors Boro and asks me what I'm doing. "Damn it, now nothing. I just figured how to whack when you called ... Stop by the brandy." Phone rings again, and the line is Mirza: "Is this the Duck?" (His daughter first post Senka me named Duck Daco.) "Well, first post you are, Mirza. Are you calling from the studio or from home? Stop by for a drink, first post they will come and Boro." Simon and Garfunkel sing Scarborough Fair, and I'm not alone - a gap is slowly charged for each call: called Pasha and asks me when I will return first post to his vacuum cleaner. I suggest to him that we sell it (cheap) and that he then borrows from me whenever he needs it; soft voice my stepfather first post from the Netherlands all quivering with joy, and my mother reiterates its (already legendary) sentence that I "just do not drink and everything will be fine." first post It spoke to me in war, and I, whenever I bent over a beer, he felt guilty while the shells were falling around; Mensud Keco calls me and asks me if I need one hundred and video ... I answer: "Nope! You should be." "Fuck you - that I need, I would not have offered you." ... Biljana Grahovac me "pray" to collect first post dirty laundry to her to bring it to wash; Dick has some plates for me; Amela is separated carpet; Jana asks how we doing iron; Nail calls me to vacation in Orebic. And then comes the pepper to pilava: that voice that dream: "Hi, Dad." I start stammering cry ... "What are you crying, first post Daddy?" "I'm not crying son Nevena ... something we flew into the throat." "Dad, do I have where to sleep with you when I come to Sarajevo?" "Son, you have everything." "Okay See you soon, Dad." "When first post you come from, son?" "When I get ... Oh, yeah, and one more thing I ask: Do you live alone?" "I do not live anymore." * * * She came Nevena accompanied by a flight attendant. This is a big girl and I can not pick up more in his arms. She brought me a box of "Camela". From the airport to return by taxi. I show her her room: "And where are you going to sleep, Dad?" "In the other room." "But there's no bed?" "Well, you know, my son ... my spine pain and I'm better off sleeping on the floor ..." I'm trying to sleep, but every now and then lift up off the floor, I go into her room and watch her breathe, as he perched first post her cheek with his hand, how crowded a blanket, her leg hanging over the edge of the bed, to the table holding a picture of my primordial, as her sweaty forehead accumulated pearls first post and I'm chilling first post them breath first post ... The sun is setting, and I'm still awake: some - it will be time to sleep. To dream is never too late.
"My name is Dario Džamonja. I was born in 1955 in Sarajevo. In Sarajevo alone and died in 1993 when I left it. In 1998, I again died when I left America and their children. Now again I try to live in Sarajevo of writing. "
One Flew Over the vrapčijeg nests (III)
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