The little match girl

Of all the comments that had been circling around social networks about Mr. Minus-Degree that came late, but more than effective, I liked Peter´s point the most: “A winter night like this one killed the little match girl.” If your parents never told you this saddest Hans Andersen´s fairytale (?) of all or if you´re too old to remember - the little girl with the matches died on a winter night somewhere in some nameless street as she was selling matches that no one wanted to buy. She used them to warm herself and when the last match was gone, she died.

I´m not going to spill out any long words now and make a big point out of it. There probably isn´t a child or even a grown up whose heart doesn´t shrink when they hear this Andersen´s story. It was a winter, minus a lot and a little girl died, because no one helped her. Sometimes simplicity of the facts and silence bring out the point the best. And sometimes no point, but an appeal is needed. An appeal for you to be grateful if you are lucky enough to sit in a warm place, drink a tea and cuddle under a blanket, while reading this. If a smell of a home-cooked dinner, glass of whiskey (because wine is too mild for cold winters) and a presence of someone dear enrich you during this winter, be more than happy.

Because the little match girl, although she had never harmed anybody, didn´t have any out of those as she froze to death on a winter night like this.

Has the book reached its verdict?

Don´t judge a book by its cover is one of those common, worn-out saying, which is, like many others alike, used every day without any reflection of the content of its meaning.  Basically, it should implicate that the outer-appearance of a book is irrelative for its inner quality and warn the potential reader not to fall for an alluring cover, but let´s be realistic – is there really anybody who fundamentally believes in this aphorism, other than shabby old teachers and posh grandmas who force the children to read?

Taking a risk to sound all too alternative and rebellious once again, I´ll voluntarily state that I almost always judge a book by its cover. Moreover the cover, pages and I indulge in a mutual, interactive connection that, like in the human relations, leads to various kinds of relationships.  And yes, like in the human relations: outer-appearance does matter.

Now, I didn´t say it was crucial, God forbid!, but it is important. Almost 99% people choose a book randomly by its title and cover. A significant percent also goes to the recommendations and critics, or to the “commercial preferences” and “common view”. I´m thrilled when I find a good book lying in dust somewhere in the attic or buried under the pile of bestsellers, but such memorable encounters happen all too rarely (which is also the reason why, like any true relationship, such books engrave a long lasting mark in the corners of the soul).

My point is that there´s no general rule for a book judgment, because a reader-book-writer relationship is threefold complex and extremely personal. When I was little my mum never allowed me to write on the covers, fold or “misbehave” the books, but as I grown to be a passionate reader of my own in time, I found out that I treat some of my books in a very different way. For example the books that have been for ages in our library I avoid reading and if I´m very interested I take them out of public library instead, because I´m afraid to damage them. However, I don´t have this problem with the old books my parents got as presents when they were younger and I enjoy snooping around their dedications  and wondering, how they felt like while reading the book.  The books I read more than two times or the ones that traveled from hand to hand when I borrowed them to someone are full with marks and traces of different readers. I like those marks, if they aren´t terribly harsh, they tell a lot about the people, their lives and feelings.

As much careful as I try to be my favorite books always end up folded and yellowed, because I read them so often and, one could say, passionately. It´s not seldom that their cover page is wrinkled or that the pages are broken, because I love to lie on the side when I read, curl myself up and somehow hug the book until I fall asleep. On the other hand any hard-book covers wake up a serious sense of respect in me and their pages are new and white, so they can brag around representative from my book shelves. School books and school literature I hate (although I bravely read almost everything), because the long, exhausting interpretations and moreover poor, socialistic covers simply revolt me. I´m fond of paperback covers you can buy on European train stations or the newspaper stands, because they have a certain small of lightness and nomadism. My favorite collection of Momo Kapor essays “Strolling around and talking” (Skitam i pričam) is underlined, folded, wrinkled and glued twice, because it’s an essential part of my suitcase every time I go somewhere. Crnjanski’s novels smell of damp and my beloved Vojvodina, Andrić is stained with smell of gunpowder and Bosnian kitchen that I just can get out of him. Some of the Orhan Pamuk’s books I ornamented with drawings of oriental patterns, Bernahrd Schlink’s books unavoidably com with some posh bookmark and some others with mixture of coffee and burek stains and tears, some with lists what to do… And their cover always speaks about the book, about the previous and future reader, about the writer and their relationship.

A definition I found on Wikipedia that should diagnose my book-affiliation: Bibliophile - some who love to read, admire and collect books.

Frida

Due to the lack of time and inspiration, I decided just to post short croquettes that I use to restore my creativity, when studying law and partying in Vienna flows away in to a cliché port of averages.

Here’s a first one like that, motivated by an article in culture magazine P.U.L.S.E. Good one, I recommend. It’s about Frida Kahlo, one of those rare women, who actually stood up to a standard of being a true, unique woman and not a rotten copy of some plastic sex model in a magazine.

“They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn’t. I never painted dreams or nightmares. I painted my own reality.”

“I’m not sick. I’m broken. But, I am happy as long as I can paint.”

“I paint self-portraits because I’m often so alone, and because I’m the person I know the best.”

“Feet? Why do I need them, if I have the wings and know how to fly?”

“What do you care about my opinion? If you’re a real painter, you’ll paint because you can’t live without painting. If you’re a real lover, you’ll love because you can’t live without love. You’ll paint and love till you die.”

Tulips in December

I were a painter I would´ve painted a woman with tulips I saw tonight. It would be a mixture of surrealistic painting with elements of impressionism, because, you will admit: it´s quite surrealistic to see a woman with a bouquet of colorful tulips on a rainy December night in Vienna. It was a small moment of enchantress and most of the enchantress happens in the fog of impressionist atmosphere, where its origin and flow can never be precisely defined.

I was on my way back from Christmas market at Schönbrunn, which is probably the most beautiful royal castle of the Habsburgs Family, something like a Viennese Castle of Versailles.  This was actually the first time I had been there, although I´ve read a lot about it throughout the years of studying in almost every German course book I had. The visit wasn´t at all the way I pictured it, because I came for traditional Christmas mulled wine, without actually the purpose to admire glory of ex-Austrian monarchy. I delayed this visit on purposely, because I really wanted to make a moment out of it.

Well, it made a moment out of me. Magically, spontaneously, unexpectedly and unpredictably, just the way all got moments happen. The slow rain that unstrung in drops during the whole day turned into a storm. I drank red wine with amaretto and set on a wet bench. Then I started to run, because A) I felt like running, B) otherwise I could´ve gotten totally soaked.  Freedom dazzled me to the arms again. Breathless, I got into a metro and saw the tulips and the woman in a black coat holding them. She was smiling with an example-like in love look drawn upon her face. She had every reason to be in love, I thought. Because love is not a sensation, or a relationship, or good communication, lack of conflicts and regular sex or whatever else the ruling society values and cosmopolitan trends might have on the menu these days. Love are tulips in Vienna in December together with the whole immense bunch of other irrational moments and things, that make the picture impressionistic-surrealistic. They are the ones that give life a small amount of meaning and color.

After-sex breakfasts

Sunday somewhere past noon I was drinking my already traditional coffee at an old Italian coffee shop near my current flat. I discovered this place while strolling along the streets in search of a student dormitory  and like in those fairy-tale stories where true love always happen spontaneously and least expectedly – I was dazzled by it at the first sight. I still can´t decide whether it was the real Italian coffee or free internet access that drew me to café Aroma, but the old Italian waiter, who was at the same time the owner of the place, gained a new regular customer. A reason more for my overwhelming joy and customer fidelity was his old-timer Italian charm and homemade cakes I sometimes got for free.

So ever since that fateful meeting, if the time and circumstances allow, I try the coffee on Sunday mornings at café Aroma to be my ritual. I bring my laptop, as I still don´t have internet at home, chat, Skype and surf the morning away. All my friends are, as a rule, sleeping at this morning-noon hours, scattered by Saturday´s night parties, but the Italian coffee at Aroma is my ultimate wake-up remedy. I get to summarize the week and make plans for the next one. I get to learn couple of Italian words and melt in an almost orgasmic taste of espresso macchiato or cappuccino latte.

“Wir hätten gern Früstuck”, said the couple that this Sunday came in. It was already half past two and they wished to have breakfast. I smiled to myself. Outside was gray and dull Viennese sky that struggled with raining attempts for several hours. The couple kissed and Mr. Rossi went to get traditional Viennese breakfast – croissant and mélange.  They serve it in Aroma the whole day – you never know when does a customer feel a desire to breakfast.

This reminded me how much I love after-sex breakfasts.  Especially on Sunday, when the whole world stops and throws the people out of a rather pointless spinning.  Somehow you find yourself out of machine in a frozen moment. You talk, you kiss, you smile, but your mind is blown away by a flashing darkness which seduced you last night.  Lascivious, ambiguous words, sticky looks and intense smells still linger threw your skin.

After-sex breakfasts contain rather peculiar amount of intimacy that is small, but sufficient enough.  Like a poison that comes in a small bottle, but kills one strongly. It doesn´t matter if they happen in at 6am in a just-open bakery where a fresh smell of kifle and burek (traditional Serbian pastry) naughtily plays with the lovers while the morning mist slowly leaves the town, or in an elegant coffee shop or restaurant where lovers are rarely noticed and the hot sweet bitterness of the coffee can wash their inconvenience away.  They are good even in a cozy ambient of someone´s flat, but only under circumstances that they are not forced and that both actors want to take part in a play. Such after-sex breakfasts tend to prolong till late afternoon and they inevitably leave the traces of their presents long after the flat goes back to its routine. I know people who stay at after-sex breakfasts for days; my friend´s personal record is a week.

The best after-sex breakfasts come with very few words. Sure, we can talk, exchange looks, jokes, flirts, interests… but we already did that last night, right? No need to bother. After-sex breakfasts are best way to practice your personality threw silence – to be alone with yourself and your thoughts together with someone who is also alone with himself and his thoughts. They send a message of soundless understanding, a note I wish to see you in a day light and I wish you to see me in a day light. How are you? – ask after-sex breakfasts.

It´s absolutely irrelevant, if the lovers see each other ever again after that. If they stay together and the breakfast becomes their routine, or if they drift apart each back to their world. It goes beyond reach of the breakfast magic. But a memory of a morning confusion (even if the morning is at 3pm) and coffee that drives it away remains on lips, even when we stop to remember.

Red bus

Don´t you just love that unrepeatable colorful thing called life? I know I do. Especially in those sparkling moments when I get overwhelmed by its concurrent tininess and vastness, an unique net woven with coincidences. It all must probably make sense to someone somewhere in the whole unspoken elusiveness of the universe, but to me, as just a bare subject of star dust, it is a vortex of symbols and enchantment.

I´ll avoid going further in the facts and suspicions of nature, that I, like almost any well raised social scientist know very little about. Despite my all time favorite physics professor Braca´s efforts,  physics was always either incomprehensive math and formula or a complex logical conflict for me. The rather old fashioned, medieval explanation: “It´s magic!” works perfectly as long as I´m concerned.   I don´t have to know the alleged laws of life to be fascinated by them.

Escaping a little bit from this mix of science and Harry Potter, I would finally like to come to the reason why I started this story at the first place. Yes, it lies in the sweet little coincidences that enrich the daily routine, but it also lies a lot more concrete in my friendship with Stefan Nikolic, who´s currently studying international business in London.

I was on my way to university after a Skype-matinee with Stefan, when a red bus happened. Stefan and I have a thing for red transportation. We missed an envying number of DB red trains during our New Year´s trip in Germany, had couple of dramatical goodbyes in front of a red bus station in Belgrade and when he first moved to London, he called me with his iPhone from a double-decker to show me around London. As I still didn´t have any internet at home, I was arranging all my Skype-meetings in an Italian coffee shop across my, now ex-flat. It was an interesting old-time Italian setting for a talk with Stefan, who works as a barista in Starbucks and who is rather an expert when it comes to coffee drinking.

Anyway, after I finished my talk with him couple of weeks ago, I got on the tram (a red, old Viennese one) and I was just about to put my headphones one, when I heard a British accent in front of me. A well-dressed middle-aged man was showing his daughter the parliament building and the Volksgarten across it. The girl was maybe 6-7, ginger with freckles and she looked like a model from children´s commercials. A real British doll.

“This is the parliament´s building, honey,” said the father.

“Take a photo, take a photo,” yelled the little one.

“I can´t honey,” explained the father. “The red bus is in my way.”

“But it´s not a double-decker bus, right?” asked the girl.

“No, it´s not… It´s another bus.”

I laughed quietly to myself, dazzled by this cute scene of everyday life and drown by curiosity turned back to see what kind of a bus was disturbing the picture. It was a red NIS EKSPRES, my hometown bus. I almost burst in laughter at this tiny life irony and called Stefan imidiattly upon arriving to the university to tell him the latest news. He was waiting for a bus when I called.

Later that week I was waiting for another red NIS EKSPRES bus on a Süd Tiroler Platz (widely known as Sidtirola plac among Serbians working in Vienna), but that´s another experience of its own.