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.
~•~
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