Friday, 17 April 2015

Nuestras vidas son los ríos que van a dar a la mar,que ès el morir

Los encuentros entre los seres humanos a menudo lo veo así son como el cruzarse de trenes que pasan a toda velocidad en la profundidad de la noche. Son fugaces, apresuradas las miradas con las que intentamos ver a los otros, sentados detrás de los vidrios opacos a la luz crepuscular, que desapare-cen de nuestra vista antes de que podamos distinguirlos. 
Cada mirada del otro, cada intercambio de miradas, ¿no es como un brevísimo, fantasmagórico encuentro de miradas entre viajeros que se cruzan, ensordecidos por la velocidad impensable y el golpe del viento que hace temblar y resonar todo? ¿No se deslizan nuestras miradas sin detenerse sobre el otro, como en un veloz encuentro nocturno, dejándonos atrás sin otra cosa más que conjeturas, pensamientos fragmentarios, presuntas descripciones? ¿No es verdad acaso que no son los seres humanos quienes se encuentran, sino las sombras que proyectan sus propias representaciones?
La distancia que nos separa de los otros se vuelve aún mayor cuando cobramos conciencia de la diferencia entre la percepción que tienen los otros de nuestra forma exterior y la percepción que logramos a través de nuestros propios ojos. No miramos a los seres humanos como miramos las casas, los árboles o las estrellas. Miramos a los seres humanos con la expectativa de poder enfrentarnos a ellos de determinada manera y así hacerlos parte de nuestro propio ser íntimo. Nuestra imaginación los recorta de manera tal de poder adaptarlos a nuestros deseos y expectativas, pero también confirmar en ellos los miedos y prejuicios propios. Nunca llegamos, seguros y libres de prejuicios, a la forma externa de otro. Nuestra mirada se desvía, se enturbia, porque intervienen los deseos y los fantasmas que nos convierten en quienes somos, seres especiales e inconfundibles.
¿Es el alma un espacio de hechos reales? ¿O lo que suponemos hechos reales no son más que las sombras engañosas de nuestras historias?

Thursday, 9 April 2015

"Talking" with God

You can never be alone in this world, because this world is not alone. Some days pass such that in them, apparently, nothing happens.The routines of the soul and body, the daily and nightly "reflexive choruses" the humming or snoring of the internal "substations" of apathy. Some days, however, are such that they don't pass. 
My native country doesn't exist anymore. However, at the time I lived a life rich in many areas, but I didn't go to church. I didn't read any religious or spiritual books, nor did I pray to God. Being raised in a communist country where according to the dictated general views only old and backward people where still holding to religion. I never had any experience with neither religion or church. As a child I was not baptized. 
Churches and monasteries were to be visited only as historical sites, not places of worship. Who was going to pray in church when we studied Marxism in school and were taught that "religion was the opium of the masses"?!
That day in the morning I went to work taught my classes attended a contentious faculty meeting and come back home. As I was walking I thought about God's existence. I sat on the lowest stone step with the sandy beach. Then inexplicably for the first time in my life, I wanted to have some "direct contact" with God.
"God, please give me a sign". For some reason, I thought that a sign would come to me from the gulls above that a bird would fly over my head, or come close to me, but that didn't happen. I looked at the waves dancing before my eyes. I thought that maybe they would either rise or make some special sound but didn't happen either. Nothing extraordinary came from the gulls or from the water.
 When it didn't come, with seadness and disappointment I looked down, then next to my right foot, I saw a small stone. You know what was on the stone? Inscribed on its surface, there is a letter and it is A. 
I got up and started walkin toward home, knowing that I was holding a precious possession. And the elation I felt! It seemed as if I was walking on air, not touching the ground. I didn't immediately start analyzing the sign. I just know that I was given one. The letter - it is an initual of my name. Was the message that God is in us, that I need not look outside, but in my soul?
I thinking about how I could best share my "experiences" through writing, and then I realized that all of this evolved over a long period of time and that I need to let it flow at its own peace....



Sunday, 22 March 2015

Kada čuješ tišinu stvari, spoznaš samoću....

Sadašnjost je jedna matematički pojmljiva tačka dodira prošlosti i budućnosti.
Dragi Bože, čuvaj svoje male ljude od Velikih Vremena. Može li se veliko vreme u kome živimo da razmeni u čase, tako da svaki čovek ima svoj trenutak? Kažu da je vreme novac. To mora da je negde drugde otkriveno. Mi u  Srbiji za takva naučna istraživanja nemamo ni vremena ni novca.
Mi više ne trebamo sunce - satovi nam pokazuju tačnije vreme. Htela bih da se istopim u suzi u kojoj je sunce zaustavilo svoje zrake i da se isplačem na kraju svetlosti...

Monday, 16 March 2015

A walk through Barcelona...

The skies were electric blue and a crystal breeze
carried the cool scent of spring and the sea.
 The lamps along the Ramblas marked out an avenue in the
early-morning haze as the city awoke, like a watercolour slowly
coming to life.
The brightness of dawn filtered down from balconies and cornices
in streaks of slanting light . . . At last I stopped in front of a
large door of carved wood....
A cold, piercing breeze swept the streets, scattering strips of mist in its
path. The steely sun snatched copper reflections from the roofs and
belfries of the Gothic quarter...
Plaza de San Felipe Neri is like a small breathing space in the maze
of streets that criss-cross the Gothic quarter.
Stone dragons guarded a lamplit façade. Inside, voices seemed to echo
with shadows of other times. Accountants, dreamers and would-be
geniuses shared tables with the spectres of Pablo Picasso, Isaac
Albéniz, Federico García Lorca, and Salvador Dalí.
Dawn was breaking, and a purple blade of light cut through the
clouds, spraying its hue over the fronts of mansions and the stately
homes that bordered Avenida del Tibidabo. 
Recent arrivals complain about noises and banging on the walls
at night, sudden putrid smells and freezing draughts that seemed
to roam through the house like sentinels. 
The city is a sorceress, you know?
It gets under your skin and steals your soul
without you knowing it . . .

Remembering in one day


I've lived more than a thousand years. I have died countless times. I forget precisely how many times. My memory is an extraordinary thing, but it is not perfect. I am human.The early lives blur a bit. The arc of your soul follows the pattern of each of your lives. It is macrocosmic. There was my childhood. There have been many childhoods. And even in the early part of my soul I reached adulthood many times. These days, in every one of my infancies, the memory comes faster. We go through the motions. We look oddly at the world around us. We remember.
I say “we” and I mean myself, my soul, my selves, my many lives. I say “we” and I also mean the other ones like me who have the Memory, the conscious record of experience on this earth that survives every death. There aren’t many, I know.At least one of them has a memory far more extraordinary than mine.I have been born and died many times in many places. The space between them is the same.Only God and the devil can be counted on for all the thrilling parts. The great hits of history go along without the notice of most. I read about them in books like everybody else.
Sometimes I feel more akin to houses and trees than to my fellow human beings. I stand around watching the waves of people come and go. Their lives are short, but mine is long. Sometimes I imagine myself as a post driven into the ocean’s edge.
 I’ve never gotten old. I don’t know why. I have seen beauty in countless things. I have fallen in love, and she is the one who endures. I killed love once and died for love many times and I still have nothing to show for it. I always search for love; I always remember her. I carry the hope that someday love will remember me......

Saturday, 7 March 2015

I neka moja ruka bude u tvojoj ruci...


Ćutiš. Ćutim. Kažu, ne možeš sa svakim ni da ćutiš.Gledaš put mora. Gledam te kradomicom oka, kao da ću uhvatititi putanju tvog pogleda. Da pitam nešto, eto tek da prekinem tišinu koja mi para uši i ne sluti na dobro?! Korak tvoj, korak moj još su u paru...Kako se čuva ljubav? - prevalih preko usana. Nisi me ni
pogledao, more je tvoj vidokrug, ipak mirnim glasom kažeš: "Uzmi malo peska i stisni šaku".
Sagoh se i zahvatih nešto peska u šaku, kao poslušano đače. Sama za sebe progunđah, tako vešto da i ti čuješ - beži, migolji se. Uzdah ti napušta grudi i zanjim samo kratko - znam. Tišinu razbija huk mora iz koga kao da izroni tvoj glas i reči - sada potpuno otvori šaku. Kao u čudu, ispružih dlan sa koga se razlete sav pesak. 
Moja ruka u tvojoj ruci i savet - sada uzmi pesak i drži ga na dlanu koji je dovoljno zatvoren da ga sačuvaš i dovoljno otvoren da bude slobodan.....
Zagledah se u pesak na polu savijenom dlanu i čuh - ETO KAKO SE ČUVA LJUBAV

Your name rings out, like lightning from a clear blue sky.....


But gently, in the silence of the night, you breathe
To reach the stears that mark the Sun's path in your sleep.
You listen to the throbbing of your heart beneath
That beats like stone
And when  my failing heart falls silent in my bed
At last, on your soft pillow shall I rest my head....