Možda je Splitu i Zürichu svejedno kojim jezikom im dolazi razglednica, njemački, hrvatski, engleski, možda im je svejedno tko je kad i zašto došao, otišao, kako se snašao, Ima onih koji iskoče iz aviona, ali nikad ne padnu na zemlju, dapače svako približavanje zemlji ih rastuži, lebde povrh sela, gradova, pokazuju na groblja i na dječje vrtiće, pogledaju u bolnice, tu i tamo im padne na um tamo žive moja djeca, tamo su umrli moji preci, tamo će umrijeti moja braća. Većinom se takve padobrance bez padobrana svrstava u ošamućene, opijene letenjem, neshvatljive ni sebi ni drugima. Nitkove, nistavne,kurve, zalutale anđele, ne tako ih ne zovu jer ne znaju za njih nego ih se oterase, previde ih, ne zbrajaju ih u popisu stanovništva, to su oni bez rubrike neopredjeljen, sad to mogu biti spolnosti ali ne nacionalnosti, Jugoslaveni su nestali, Hrvati se rodili, ovi leteći su sve promjene već prije osjetili. Nebonostalgičari.
Kako sam tada jos slatka od neispunjenih snova, mislila da treba samo dugo raditi, djecu ljubiti, sasvim se skupiti i sebe zamrznuti, zaboraviti dok pravi život ne istrči kao zec sprem mene. Život pun radosti, blagostanja, blistavih prostora i čednih svitanja, onaj osjećaj da si u raju jer ti je Bog to sudio, jer si bila marljiva, ustajana, pokunjene glave si
zaslužila sreću. Tada shvatih da je mjesto mog rođenja to obećalo imenom Radošić, imaju dva Radošića u Dalmaciji jer valjda nikad dovoljno takvih mjesta za radost.
Nije mi bilo milo kako su živjeli padobranci godine 1980 pobjegli iz socijalističke realne države Jugoslavije u Švucarsku, živjeli su kao i ja , devet sati čisćenja, devet sati znoja, riječ bauštela ne treba prevoditi, još sramnija riječ, pogrdna gastarbajter, ista ona zbog koje sam izbjegavala reći ja sam iz Radošića jer je svima jasno da si rođeni vlaj i od ognjišta ružan za grad osim ako im ne nosiš sir za prodat. Pitao nas je matematičar Brkić u Gimnazije Ćire Gamulina da li su u Kaštelima sazrele trešnje, njemu su i Kaštela u koja su se vlaji sakrili bila daleko , Split je imao značenje rijeci staklo, sklisko, Zürich mi je pričao da je Gustav Matoš tu prosao putujući iz Ženeve, voleći jednu ženu, doktoricu , lijepu,
Marko Turina srca vadio i opet sadio, tu su novci Kralja Aleksandra, Rudolf Steiner je bio rodjen u Crkvenici. zaborav nadmoćnih je velik i svaka generacije preskače jučerašnju.
Nisu to veze kako ih mi danas zovemo, to su samo eha, rasude koje nose mnogo predrasuda , u Zürichu sam pronašla grob, Jamesa Joice, Lenjin je živio tu a nema gdje Goethe nije prespavao, Einstein i Milena u ono doba, jedna izložba Meštrovića u Kusthaus u kasnim godinama došla
Kitim se imenima da očistim prah poniženja i samoponiženja. Od danas kažem vam pišite me na adresu “ničija” ili u dvije rubrike s znakom polovine ili četvrtine, svejedno.
Medju mužkima žensko, medju ženama skoro žensko ali ne skroz. Medju piscima ona koja piše iako riječi dobro ne zna, nije ih nikad upoznala bile su u mlijeku iz bočice umjesto majčine cice.
U totalnom mraku svjetlosti ona je čovječja ribica.Piše jedan “ja sam dijete gastarbajtera” ne, ti si djete s osobnim imenom i prezimenom sukladno običajima.
Ne znam da li sam u svemu ovome u pisanju zaboravila mahnuti sebi s zemlje i njenog krivudavog puta. Postoje crte i ljudi kojima se koža plavi od nesreće, rata, zle sudbine tamo gdje ih je trebala snaći sreća, umjesto da se udruže i tješe oni jedni druge podrugljivim imenima zovu mjereći svoj usud metrom tuđih predrasuda.
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Pozdrav iz zraka
Nevidljiva Dragica
Perhaps the language on a postcard makes no difference to Split or Zürich, could be Croatian, German, English; perhaps who left, where, when, for what reason, then arrived, found their way wherever it was, is all the same to them.
There are certain types of people, usually women, who jump out of the airplane and never reach the ground, instead they grow gravely sad as they near the earth. They float along
over villages, cities, take in the cemeteries, point to the kindergarten with outstretched fingers, cast their glances through hospital windows as they comprehend – that is where my children lived, that is where my parents are buried, that is where my brothers are building animal traps. These floating beings are so often called crazies, drunk off of flying and as incomprehensible to themselves as to anyone else. Still others call them nobodies, worthless harlots, angels gone astray. They are not registered in the census, not even in the “undetermined” category. Yugoslavs vanished this way too, and Croatians were born in their place. The floating women understood this from the time they were born, and now can only be described as nostalgic for heaven.
It was in Zürich that I recognized for the first time I was someone born in Split. To have been born in Split stemmed from my desire to be like my brother, different from myself, who
had smeared the sheepskin with birth blood in the village of Radošić. Back then
I did not know that the name of the village Radošić literally meant joy, which
is why there were two Radošićs in Dalmatia, because there can never be too many
names that promise a life of blessings, of happiness.
Those innocent
sunrises, feeling like you’re in paradise because this was where God intended
you to be, to live for only ten years.
In 1980, when at twenty
I came to Switzerland for love, everyone I discovered there, fellow countrymen,
were living in hardship. Nine hours of menial work, piggy banks in stockings to
build up their reputations in their villages, dream houses turned to millstones
around their necks. The term construction site made its way to Split, it didn’t
need translation. Children were the only things that weren’t meant to grow,
because they had to be caramelized until life at home became “normal” and rich.
Still worse is the term
guest worker in both languages, like when I arrived at school in Kaštel Stari,
the word Vlaj. Even our math teacher asked high schoolers, sneering, whether
cherries were ripe yet by us in Kaštela.
Split, to my ear,
sounded clean, and at the same time felt slick on my tongue, like the word
glass. Staklo, Slatko. First pair of glasses in my father’s hands at Doctor
S.’s, whose niece I would meet twenty years later as a poet in Zürich.
Everything I had from Split felt like a membrane of those five letters, which
in retrospect would at least qualify me, even if it was a scam, protect me, by
way of a name at my birth; it was as if Split had stood beside me in the form
of a birth fairy and promised: I will always be with you. When I left St.
Gallen for Zürich in 2006 I searched for the grave of the Jewish poet Mascha
Kaléko, who sang of pre-war Berlin only to be forced to flee. James Joyce died
in this city as did Elias Canetti. Zürich did not tell me what had not been
recorded, on which platform Gustav Motoš climbed aboard his train as he
traveled from Paris through Geneva to Zagreb, or how he parted in Geneva from
his beloved.
Those sorts of trails
are erased by other people as time marches on, and it seems that the expansion
of buildings is a means of reflecting oneself in concrete; scaled-down, empty
rooms of struggle in distant countries.
The heart surgeon Marko
Turina spent day after day transplanting hearts, regardless of their country of
origin, so they could continue their service of being alive in another chest.
Guest workers in Zürich were unable to attend Ivan Meštrović’s exhibit in
Kunsthaus Zürich, it took place during work hours, as well as overtime hours.
The shininess of the
big names gradually melts away, becomes superfluous; I wrote poems in an
adopted language dedicated to those “not heard” in the language of hearing. It
is time to change the place of my birth, not because it has become more
beautiful but because it has become extinct, it remains only as a memory in
Wikipedia.
As peoples’ skin turns
blue from unhappiness, from terrible fates which the powerful are only too
happy to weave into their own good fortune, one thing remains – to wash
away/erode/scrub away those terrible names, to stop them from being passed on,
to keep secret how much it hurt to be called guest worker, Vlaj, a have-not.
Someday humans will have golden eyes, said the Austrian author Ingeborg
Bachmann, who never stopped dreaming of the day
when awakened beings would be truly capable of love and free of
prejudice. There is still room up here above the clouds, come, join me when you
can no longer bear a lamb’s point of view.
Sincerely, floating
Dragica
Povrh oblaka ima još mjesta pa navratite kod
meine kad vam dosadi perspektiva janjaca.
Vaša
lebdeća Dragica
Translate
Caroline Frohlich USA
Vielleicht ist es für Split und Zürich absolut egal auf welche Sprache sie eine Ansichtskarte erhalten, kroatisch, englisch, deutsch, vielleicht ist es ihnen genau so gleich wer, wann, wohin, wozu weg ging, ankam, wie sich zu recht fand wo auch immer.
Es gibt jene Menschen meisten sind es Frauen welche aus dem Flugzeug springen und nie auf die Erde fallen, in Gegenteil schon Annährung an die Erde macht sie todtraurig, Sie schweben über die Dörfer, Städte , schauen auf die Friedhofe, zeigen mit dem Finger aus die Kindergarten, werfen Blick durch Fenster in die Spitäler und sie begreifen dort lebten meine Kinder, dort sind meine Eltern begraben, dort bauen meine Bruder Tierfälle. Mehrfach werden solche schwebende Wesen Meschuge gennat, trunken von Fliegen und sich selber wie den anderen unbegreiflich. Andere wiederum rufen sie Nimande, nichtige Huren, verirrte Engel. Sie werden nicht auf in die Akten der Volkszählung eingetragen, nicht mal in der Rubrik “unentschidene”. Jugoslawen sind auch so verschwunden und an ihre Stelle u.a. Kroaten geboren. Die Schwebenden haben dies schon von Geburt an gefühlt und man kann sie nur beschreiben als Himmelnostalgiker.
das Leben voll Segen, Glück, verspricht.
Seine unschuldige Sonnenaufgänge ein Gefühl du bist in Paradies weil Gott das für dich vorgesehen hat das hat man nur bis zehnten Lebensjahr dort.
1980 als ich zwanzigjährig in die Schweiz kam Liebe folgend haben alle anderen welche ich dort vorfand, Landsleute schwer gelebt. Neun Stunden niedere Arbeit, Sparschweine in Strumpfen für Erhochung des Ansehens in ihren Dorfern,Traumhaus wie Klotz am Bein. Das Wort Baustelle breitete sich bis Split aus , man musste nicht übersetzen. Nur Kinder sollen nicht wachsen, nur nicht weil man musste sie fast karamelisieren bis Leben “normal” und reich in der Heimat sein wird.
Noch schlimmer ist Wort Gastarbajter in beiden Ländern, wie damlas als ich in die Schule en Kaštel Stari ankam Wort Vlaj. Sogar unser Mathematik Lehrer fragte Gymnasiasten hönisch ob die Kirschen reif sein bei uns in Kaštela.
Split hat in meinen Ohren ein Zauber Ton und fühlte sich zugleich glitschig in Mund wie Wort Glass. Staklo, Slatko. Erste Sehebrille am Hand des Vaters beim Doktor S. wessen Nichte ich zwanzig Jahre später als Dochterin in Zürich kennenlernen würde.
Alles was ich von Split hatte war wie Mebrane der fünf Buchstaben welche wenigstens nachhinein mich berechtigen würden wenn auch durch Schwindel mich geschutzt durch ein Name bei meine Geburt als wäre Split in Form eine Geburtsfee mir beigestanden und versprochen du hast meine Anwesenheit immer. Als ich 2006 aus St.Gallen nach Zürich kam suchte ich Grab der Jüdische Dochtern Masch akeleko welche Belrin der Vorkriegszeit besang um von dort fliehen zu müssen.James Joice starn in dieser Stadt genau wie Elias Canetti. Zürich hat mir nicht erzählt was er versaumt hat zu notieren, wo hat Gustav Matos Zug auf welchen Gleis ist er eingestigen auf dem Weg von Paris über Genf nach Zagreb – wie hat er sich in Genf von seine Geliebte getrennt.
Solche Spuren der Schusaulen werden in laufe der Zeit getilgt von anderen und es scheint das die Expansion der Gebauden dazu dient anderswo sch in Beton spiegeln, in fernen Ländern verkleinerrte leere Raume der Mühe erzeugen.
Nur Herzspezialist Marko Turina hat Tag aus Tag ein die Herzen tranplantiert damit sie unabhängig von entstehungsland in andere Brust ihre Dienst des Lebendigsein fortsetzen. Ivan Meštrović Ausstellung in Kunsthaus Zürich haben die Gastarbajter nicht besuchen könne es fand während Arbeitszeiten statt und über überstunden Zeiten.
Schmuck der Grossen Namen zerfliesst langsam, wird unnötig, ich schrieb auf adaptierte Sprache Gedichte gewidmet den “nicht gehörten” in der Sprache des Gehörs. Es ist die Zeit mein Geburtsort ändern nicht weil es schöner geworden ist sondern weil es ausgestorben f ist, so bleibt er als Erinnenrung in Wikipedia stehen.
Während die Menschen ganz blaue Haut bekommen wegen des Unglücks, schlechten Schiksals an wlechen die Mächtigen so gern zum eigenen Glücke weben
solchen Menschen bleibt nur eins -die schrekliche Namen auszuwaschen, sie nicht weitergeben, einfach verschweigen wie weh es tat Gastarbajter, Vlaj und Habennichts genannt zu werden.Einmal werden Menschen goldene Augen haben sagt Ingeborg Bachmann östereichische Autorin welche Lebenlang nicht aufgehört hat zu treumen über die Zustände der erwachten Menschen fähig für Liebe und frei von Vorurteilen.
Hier über die Wolken wo ich mich befinde gibt es noch Platz, kommt zu mir wenn ihr die Perspektive der Lämmer nicht mehr erträgt.
Herzlich schwebende Dragica
Povrh oblaka ima još mjesta pa navratite kod meine kad vam dosadi perspektiva janjaca.
Vaša lebdeća Dragica