Becoming Sarajevan

In Sarajevo, everyone knows everyone else.  I have been here long enough that I walk past a coppersmith's shop and the coppersmith recognizes me, invites me in for coffee with him and his wife (neither of whom speak English), then run into the scarf-maker whose husband talks theology with me for an hour, then, this evening, I am walking down the main street in the čaršija and hear someone call my name.  It's Pedja (I hope I've spelled that corretly), a friend of Danis's. I sit and have coffee with him and his girlfriend for a while.  We discuss this photographer whose work I discovered by name today.  And, while talking about Tarik Samarah, who should walk up to our table at the cafe...?

As I thought when I first arrived here... I have come home again for the very first time.




~•~

Being that I saw no Archdukes this morning, I had coffee instead...

Gavrilo Princip

Assassin of Empires

~•~

Further Metafiction Blending in the Shades of Morning Gray

So here in Sarajevo, I've been mistaken a few times for a local musician (long-haired and--for Bosnia--curiously-bearded ((as opposed to just bearded))) who's stage name is Puško.  This morning, as I go over my hand-written manuscript for a short-story I wrote during the week between Višegrad and Sarajevo, I discover what this name--Puško--means.

In Bosnian, it's the male denominative for rifle.

Those with a knowledge of rifle manufacturers and my own surname might notice the synchronistic irony.  My own ironic poisoning is due to the fact that I discover as someone writes out the name Puško on a notebook page of my short story ... which involves a sniper in the hills above Sarajevo.

Given my surname matches such a weapon and I was searching for the correct nickname for the character (I'd been told the actual one, that is, the character in this reality who is the basis for the character on the reality of the page--did you follow that?--but since I did not know the correct spelling, I wrote it phonetically...and since she is a she and not a he, the name is Puška), these moments of coincidence could easily be seen as just that: mere coincidence.  I see it all as pieces of a puzzle being given me to assemble.

A grail, if you will, from my time here in the field around the palace...

In the past of this reality, Puška wrote poetry between trigger pulls.

In the reality of the page, I am using the poetry of two people I know (slightly altered to fit the shading of the story).  They have not been asked for their permission yet, but I feel confident in my stealing their words for such a purpose.

They will be, as they have long been, my first readers.




~•~

Tanović & Metafiction

Met with film director Danis Tanović yesterday morning.  He introduced me to the five other members (there may be a few others) of his political party at their headquarters.  Which, like all great political parties, is a sedate café.  We didn't exactly hit it off at first, due to a misunderstanding on the telephone the evening before about just where to meet.  I waited outside the whole while he was inside...  Funny how things work out.
But, through numerous distractions and a sideline conversation about other things, he, one other, and myself ended up, as he said, "Discussing philosophy with this guy from North Carolina before 10 in the morning."

He said he didn't think he could help me with my work, even as the few incidents he spoke of were just the sort of thing that does indeed inform my work.  Perceptions.  Confusion.  Lack of rational sense to any of it.

That's what this is all about.  Forming so kind of narrative out of these bundles of chaos and confusion.

In the end, he did tell me that they meet most every morning at their campaign headquarters (my euphemism, not his), and that I was welcome to drop in again before leaving Sarajevo.

I think I will do just that.


Next entry, I may voice a few things about Višegrad.  It seems to be where I entered Chapel Perilous; moved from the field around into the Palace...  Certainly where my journey became metafiction (that is, beyond realistic belief), which, I suppose, is as it should be.  Pararealism at the other side of the Bridge on the Drina.


~•~

Srebrenica

Yesterday, while here in this internet cafe posting the photos, the internet caretaker (a lady of a few years older than me) saw them from over my shoulder and asked about them.  I told her I'd just returned from there.  She looked at me and said in a relatively even voice, "My husband is in Srebrenica."

She didn't say died, she didn't say killed, she didn't say buried.

Any of the others might not have slipped past my defenses I have placed against emotional reaction against these stories.  But her expression and words slipped in and tore a hole.  For the next half hour when other people would come into the cafe, I heard the break hidden in her voice.  She canceled out my time on the computer (essentially giving me an hour for free), and, when I finished, I walked over to her and said, "I'm not sure what it would mean to you, but I am sorry."

She clutched my hand tightly in hers and spoke so hushed her words sounded like an escaped sigh.  "Thank you.  Thank you for visiting there."

Later, in speaking with a close acquaintance here, I heard the repeated phrase, "There is nothing to say about Srebrenica.  It is a place you simply have to go to."  And, "Everyone on the planet should visit Srebrenica."

I've been through two Nazi death camps.

The town of Srebrenica and the memorial at Potočari are different.  Not that there's an atrocity contest, but this place is different than Treblinka.  It's different than Auschwitz and Birkenau.

It is a still and quiet place.  It is a place far beyond words.

"My husband is in Srebrenica."

That was the most painful thing I have ever heard spoken in my entire life.

The rest is silence.



~•~

Almost Wordless...

I'm not yet ready to talk about the people I met outside of Višegrad and what I saw and heard there, but in returning from there, I met up with an American girl who's been doing research here in Sarajevo for the past month and together we voyaged to Potočari / Srebrenica today...

Srebrenica Meditation

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shakedown Bear in Potočari

~•~

Old town alleys

No matter how many old town alleys you wander after midnight,

the same hungry shadows find you

to gnaw at your heart in the borderlands

between your Love and Fear.

The Gate is closer than it's ever been,

and I have seen the Palace.

But the Path is still obscured from me...

"Not yet," the ghosts all tell me

while the angels still are crying

lament their whispers in the dark.

~•~