Povratak u djetinjstvo

Premda sam sva poglavlja, osim ona o poeziji, pisala na engleskom jeziku, ovaj se puta opredijeljujem za hrvatski jezik jer je tema, o kojoj ću pisati, vezana uz djetinjstvo — točnije, uspomene kojima su me dovela plodna polja koja sam neki dan posjetila prvi puta nakon dvadesetak godina. Riječ je o zemlji koja je pripadala mojem pradjedu s majčine strane, a s kojom sam i sama, preko mojeg dide, bila povezana. Kad su još bili u moći da zemlju obrađuju, baka i dido zaputili bi se ondje te bi kopali, sadili, žnjeli, kupili šljive i odmarali pod tad velikim stablom vrbe, kojeg više nema. Ondje bih se, u hladu tog raskošnog drveta, skrila u hlad i igrala. Dido ga je zasadio kad je bio dječak.

Vrativši se u svoje selo sasvim nenadano, uspomene su se počele oživljavati. Nedugo o svom povratku, dobila sam ideju da na tim prostranstvima fotografiram nekog mladića i oživim sjećanje na svog didu, prema pričama iz didine mladosti koje mi je pripovijedala baka.

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Moments

IMG_8634Long time ago I wrote a chapter of this kind. There is a huge change happenning to take over my life and it took a lot of my attention recently. As everybody else, I am affraid of the huge change. Even though I know that “the fear is a liar”, it does not help as I imagined for it to be. The hardest thing is to begin — but as the process starts to reveal itself the way it actually is, many of us realize that a lot of our concerns were in vain. Above all, that huge change brings me back to thinking about the transience of time. These thoughts keep coming into my mind: the past, the transcience of moments, their inconsistency; being only a passenger in this world.

There is one special constitution that occupies me here: “the last time”. The majority of time I am simply passing the moments, as their uniqueness does not deserve more. To live in the present moment seems to be quite a tough assignment: one will usually think that there will be the next time, as the future is secured. People tend to look at the new things with the old eyes, the eyes of the past. I am one of them — that makes me nostalgic. Soon, all the moments I live here will reach that special constitution I speak about: “the last time”.

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The story of a writer

In this new chapter (and the new category) of my blog I would like to tell a story about something that occupies me for two years now. The idea was born soon after I moved to Dublin in December 2014. I did not think about it before, but it obviously got a chance to show up after I was surrounded by the new experiences and things to consider. Even though I started to write my first novel when I was only 13 years old, that attempt never got its end – now I even count seven of them! That wish – to write my first novel – was a seed that I never let to blossom, because I cut its buds off each time they showed up: for seven times. That even meant deleting the material made of 80 pages (the third attempt). Why was it so?

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