In a universe like a beehive, all people exist, But there’s another, unique and not isolated, where he persists. He’s unnamed, but I’ve always dreamed Of piecing together bits of everyone, to make him complete. Half a century ago, and now too, he’s the same, Eyes wrinkled in the corners, smile, whimsy, scent, touch, thought, But none have all of these, only parts. For 50 years, I’ve pieced together this new… Keep Reading
Back when I was a teenager, my mom would always say, ‘My Tanja is still playing with Barbies!’ Well, I wasn’t exactly playing with Barbies, but I was still ‘riding’ my bike all day with my friends, spending summers swimming in the Danube, and considered going out with my gang or eating Banini cookies on the Tamiš riverbank in Pančevo (where my mom’s from) the ultimate fun. There were various childhood crushes, hiding… Keep Reading
This article is published via Thrive Global portal: Do you have the strength to play the Game all over again? How much death can a man take? How long is my Pacman game going to last and when is Pacman going to win and eat everything that crosses his way? One of my first memories is the memory of death. I was two years old. I was standing next to a heavy two-and-a-half-meter high wooden gate at the end of the passage and slumped in a corner to watch… Keep Reading
At the age of 11, somewhere back in 1984, I wrote an application to increase the allowance to Tatomirović family council, which consisted of mom, dad and me. Inflation had eaten away my budget and I acted as an equal member of the council of each family. The request had an appropriate date, a stamp, as well as an appropriate facsimile next to my signature. A couple of years before that, the family council had decided to motivate me with such a gift, because my mom was in hospital, and I was pretty terrified of her absence, or, even more, of the time that I spent with my dad, so I wanted to formalize my requests, pleas, feelings and desires. By facsimile. To my family. To my home council. My parents, being afraid that I will become… Keep Reading
The year 1995 The lights were turned off, and a drunk DJ in the corner was playing some unrecognizable music. She was walking down the stairs in a short skirt and ten-centimeter-high heels, looking at each step carefully as if she wanted to check every one of them. She had drunk vodka for the first time. The high heels didn’t stop her from dancing all night. At 4 a.m., he would take a… Keep Reading
When I was little, and it was thirty years ago or more, I was not a child who could start crying easily. People would rather expect me to argue, break up a fight, or be quiet in a sulky way until I get my way or this feeling releases. I did not cry even when in one terrible cold January of 1985, compared to which this January of 2016 is nothing, my dad came to the school during the break. I knew that grandpa passed away. The grandpa, my mother’s father, who allowed… Keep Reading
I was maybe six or seven years old when, one evening, two of us went for a walk from our building in 6 A. Glisica Street along Nemanjina Street to Kneza Miloša Street … and we were walking to the park near the building of the former federal Ministry of Internal Affairs. It was winter. Then I still liked the winter. It was snowing heavily. We were talking about everything, because we have… Keep Reading