On a Pink Bunny comotion day. Dear Goddess, hope you are doing just swell...
I lost my younger sister yesterday...she died piacefully in her sleep...or maybe she did not die...but, she is seven years younger then me and situated in Timsoara what used to be Hungarian Temishwar... She was long time married for a train attendant name Kosta who's family were jews from Zayechar... Kosta was the only holocaust survivor of the entire family of a well know yugoslawian glassmaker Ludwig Kraus...
Rest of them were deported to rather remote areas of northern Poland and there is no trace of those peole, what so ever...Kosta was raised at the pig farm near town of Cervenka and he emigarted to Romania in early fifties ... Romania was building it's railroad slopping the entire country across the Tranisilvania all the way to the Black Sea... He met my sister in Budapest in fiftysix... the revolution was on and the russians were firing up engines for the final cut which took place some few days later... After that, blood was spilled everywhere.... Kosta took Kelly (my sister) too live with him...he got the job as a farmer-telegraphist which was a most common call back in the day in the country which was basing it's exellence on petolyetkas, an economy five year old time frame plan jacked from early lenin post revolutionary era...basically what he would do, in the afternoon he would be planting watermanlon and yaprak, a strange sort of cauliflower which was originatined in bukovina.. morning were all for the working class. Kosta was making sure that all the telegraph action has been dispatched and received right on time...silly everyday things like news for the local radni secretariat instructed by the headquarter in Buchuresti...every day had it's own tesk and it own level of accomplishment..there were certain party wings ( odsyex) which were sometimes not able able to meet the quote of a grain income in the corn warehouse or a straving mountain areas the would failed to produce enough coal required by the norm, but those were not too many and if it was any from time to time, the kominterna was making sure that the officer (komandilni) would be just on time to spit on a traitor's face and shove the bullet in poor fellow's head...Kosta was making sure that the headquaters of the nation was listing the village of Samorsko as just another fine obeying settlement ready to work and report suspected counter revolutionists..and that was the case...the time was getting nastier and more fucked up day by day..plus,there was a brand new rocker on a rise...Nicolai Ceusescu...
For his soldiering work and a dedicated relationship to the party, Kosta was promoted and schooled..He was sent to voz-kurs in Belgrade, sort of a railroad academy to put it that way..
Kelly was all of a sudden Kalina, which was more slavic which was again more preferable in terms of garvitating toward our mother Russia at least by the name of a citizen...
Kosta took classes very seriously expecting his final test not by the Belgarde school master but from his own party back in Romania..Surely the guy decided to get himself ready...
meantime, my sister would spend her dull afternoons at the Moscow hotel in downtown Belgrade ...
Like any other ordinary woman back then she would be drinking numerous kafas and smoking cigarette after cigarette.. That saturday she saw him for the first time...He was a tall and handsome thou quite skinny which was a business as usual in physical terms for serbian men... His name was Mesha...
two o clock in the p.m. every day..no missings no skipping...if you were there you could see him.. He told her of his childhood in Tuzla, a north bosnian town ran down by hordes of a croatian fascists during the early autum of ninteenfourtytwo...sort of a story that she was dropped on her knees not many years ago but sort of a story only offered by another man of her heart, Kosta.. First night that they slept,well...it was a day...On the tip of her mastrubating course she could see a great fortress the Kalemegdan tangling it's images in the distance.... He couldn't see anything except to hear voice of Slavka, little girl who's head was rotating on a croatian storm troopers bayonet... Then after those hours of exaustion they would lay in bed for another hour or two...
You said you tried to write like Yesenin. she asked him....I don't know..the more I think , more I realize how my basic sense for poetry is ,well..nothin but...basic...
Basic... why would you say that? I read o noci and I think it is excellent..
From american prospective, yes.... but in russia I would be dismissed and humiliated in a heartbeat...
Now, that is not fair, isn't it? Look at you.....
And they would go on and on like that for hours....
What is your stand on Turgenev ?
Great, amazing, but when I was reading it I was too young, I don't think my opinion is still valid in this case....
How 'bout Gorki ? It was a basis of socialism..no one ever picked up a world's leftovers in a form of real shit as he did...I bound in front of him for that...
Who else ?
Chekhov... an emotion first class solicitor...a blueprinter of structure... I don't think Hollywoood would ever get the chance if it wasn't for his basis..no, seriously...
Faulkner?...Tell you that the sound and the fury is the biggest fuck up if you ask me, but I tell you too that As I Lay dying is the greatest thing ever written in that part of the world...
And Melville?..Hmmm..Endlessly narattive...obscene for anyone's intelectual indulgence...A time mover of an enormous proportions...what else I can tell you..?
That you love me...
As she said that he looked at her...Any other real questions?
Bukowski?
Who?
Bukowski...Charles Bukowski....from Los Angeles....
He looked at her for a second...
Never heard of him...
Dear Creditor, so what I am saying, I received a telegram, the old ways are still living in that geographical part I assume so...and it gets pretty uninteresting when your days get to be numbered all of a sudden and nothing really changes.. climacy around here is always pretty much the same..It is either hot or hotter as I lean myself against a carbon color stick shipped by the united parcel service from Texarcana..Place I visited once...when Kelly was joining me and we were kids back then...back then, eighthundred and four miles east of El Paso, the place were the finest people of this country come from or even finer ones accros the bridge ( but that is another matter)... As for Kelly...she is berried by Kosta, at least what they recovered as his bones after he was lost in saibirian tundra threehundred and some fifty miles northwest of vladivostock..he lasted the entire sixteen years at the labor camp Olyozny...
She wrote me... Sister of mine...I stopped bleeding more then three months now... I think I am carrying something...It is not what, it's who this cursed thing belong too.. Timsoara is getting larger day by day...there is always fresh labor arriving from Moldavia and Ukraine, but there is gypsies in large and proportionally more palm readers and tarot women..oh many, many, my sis...This is my final letter..at least for awhile... I know a woman from Vrsac..her brother is a mason in Klagenfurt in Austria..I am leaving by the end of the week... Yours... Kelly...
The letter never arrived to the U.S.... It was holded and filed in the militzia's cabinet and stayed there till ntwo months ago..god damned, half a century late...It came with this telegram...
The rest is my own grief.. Can you help me somehow with that?..What feelings I have left at this stage...what to split my head over except for the common coldness that is fairly and daily existing at this most notorious place for heat and unbearable temprature...
Oh lonely ideals...Oh you all abondend ideals ...Oh life...where do we go from here?...
I myself actually didn't know that till I read the Piano Teacher for the first time... My hands were shaking,my knees filled with water, unable to force those limbs to move forward...
I was choking as a war prisoner forced to drink a car battery fluid... I cried for days as
Goyka asked me repeatedly of what the heck is going on... But I cried in grief not knowing that I am actually crying into the happiness...then sudden joy overwhelmed by heart.. But , fuck it..that is how the life is...
Seven days later I wrote to my niece.. she of course never answered...she might have been working on another novel...I suppose... they say that kelly died of cervical cancer...quite common way of leaving these days, I would say, don't you think...For Mesha Selimovich. he died in ninteeneightytwo leaving more then ten novels behind for which the greatest one, Death and the Dervish had been translated in more then twelve languages up to this day...
Zero
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