I became a milkman s donkey

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Elvin Bryan
5 years ago
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1 I became a milkman s donkey

2 1.

3 I haven t met you. I didn t know back then that you would appear, I didn t know your shape. 4 5 I ve tried persistently to imagine your face, that you don t slip past by chance. In the streets, between the arcades, under the gate of Saint Denis.

4 6 Indeed, I thought I saw you, several times you changed shape, you danced in different rhythms or out of rhythm, each time sipping a drink of a different colour, you smelled of different perfumes boasting about your knowledge or ignorance, you spoke languages, poorly, 7 even your body language would betray you. Except, when you changed the colour of your skin, I liked that the most, it was soft. All curious I caressed you amazed by the contrasts, but you would disappear so quickly, almost running away, that I finally sensed it cannot be you. Our dance,

5 8 would have to last longer like a very long talk with digressions, or like an exciting exchange without too many words. True, you ve asked questions, and all of them were fine because I wanted it so, I stayed pondering over the answers untill I snapped out of it, realizing, that you were not there that you were 9 somewhere else, dancing, with another body which could not follow you easily, but you danced well nonetheless. Equally absent, you were asking that other woman some other questions equally irrelevant, while I was constructing by myself, answers

6 10 which interested only me. Sluggishly slow, you would stay sometimes, night after night, without words without questions we would tumble the mattresses trying to find a cozy place for you to fall asleep, and for me to look at you asleep, 11 in wonder. You would vanish, in the morning in a myriad of new ways, you would leave without finishing what you ve started, without an explanation and without lies, your whole body would betray you, a body without a language, your huge mute body, would leave mine

7 12 lustful, to talk to itself, to entertain itself, in a dirty bed where you, the night before slept, or were wide awake. in the shape of an aroused animal you were drinking my blood as if it were someone else s blood of nameless me some nameless you, 13 you without a name you, with someone else s name, which I deliberately forgot or I thought I had known, that name, a long time ago, so I came here, to look for you, so that after a whole eternity of postponing our encounter and promises of happiness

8 14 you could finally surprise me, with your fearsome face, and stunted hand, and again scarily mute, with a smile too stupid, to betray me, one last time. No, that wasn t you. That was always me, inclined to imagine you, to invent you, countless times 15 and again tell lies and torture us, by digging deeper and asking you to disappoint me, betray me, break me to pieces one more time. In that broken step between you and you, in the last jolt of impatience I finally met myself.

9 What sudden joy or calm now I know, 16 making the mistakes, all of those countless, painful mistakes 17 to make room for just one bulls eye shot, in the end.

37 2.

75 There was a poet there. He worked at a bar that had become my haunt. I used to go there with Sanda. And with Žarko and Viktor. I quickly fell in love with them, we went there often.

38 75 There was a poet there. He worked at a bar that had become my haunt. I used to go there with Sanda. And with Žarko and Viktor. I quickly fell in love with them, we went there often. I became like a milkman s donkey, which has finally narrowed its route in this enormous city. I was expected to devise and document the process concerned with how much time it takes a person in a new city despite the fact that everything was familiar, or appeared to be familiar to start to feel at home there. To create a familiar terrain for oneself. I

39 76 was struggling for a whole month after Asia, I tripped over and fell in a public place, having a bruise on my knee for weeks that s how poorly I ve adapted, in the wrong clothes, out of the habit of dressing up, weaned off the idea of individualism, obsessed with the possibilities of becoming aware of one s personal position in the bigger picture, of the position of an individual versus a group, a group versus another group, my own self and all ourselves, so lonely, dazed, self-indulgent, in this part of the world. Us so insignificantly small, but so big in our own eyes. I didn t know what to do with myself, I was feeling less worthy than all those dressed up people who were suddenly all around me, laughing at me from every corner, shouting at me and sneering in a language I couldn t understand. I hated the power of imperialism whose echoes are hollow, but last a long time, although I did use to eye those armed soldiers who were guarding me from the façades which screamed about the end of the 77 world. My bruise started to fade, and I was wondering about the importance of the fall, about the meaning and significance of the fall, even that final one. Maybe the soldiers armed with empty weapons were guarding the façades from me, I was certainly the suspicious one, as I got the door code for undesirable guests. The cleaner there whispered the code in a familiar language and became an accomplice in my encounter with myself. She and the soldiers, the only ones who knew how often I hadn t slept alone, they may have even had jokes at my expense. When I occasionally greeted them they looked down at the floor. So I slowly started to blend in, but only when I came back from Marseilles. I went there with Sanda, whom I had only just met and who

40 78 seemed to me, after an initial rapture, all of a sudden too biting, out of her own anger aimed in the wrong direction, aimed at other women, unknown and innocent women. We are all so innocent, blaming one another and ourselves we are blocking our own paths. Mothers, sisters, daughters... Tired and fragile, already during the first night, in a bed that we shared, we untangled the knot, we hugged each 79 other in the dark depths that we touched together, we appeased one another and got closer in love for eternity. We enjoyed the food, the dirt and the laughter. The sea! It is not just going to be a summer in the huge city harsher than the roughest sandpaper but it ll be the sea and the sun and all the different skin colours. A naïve attempt in rebellion, a beginner s mistake. A dirty contribution to the reproduction of a wrongly built system. In fact an

41 80 unconscious acceptance, in fact a silent sustention. Adding oneself to the given order, an inevitable contribution to the order, but latent defeat. Participation in a defeat. An obvious self-betrayal. Marseilles was important, I had to leave in order to come back, since only when I have somewhere to go back to I maybe have a home. Anyway I only feel at home when I know that departure is imminent uncertainty being the only certain thing, Paris became my home for three months. From Cité through Marais, which I ve never grown 81 to love there were too many objects you could buy and I felt unsettled even more because of the number of those to whom they could all be sold to by the Pompidou, most often along the street where the whores are, they are important to me, maybe because I am important to myself, right under the arcades where I always get confused which one is which, to the 10th arrondissement, my favour-

42 82 ite, to the liveliest of all the streets, next to Sanda s, in which, in our bar, the poet was working. And while I, longing for a lasting relationship (physical at least, because I stopped expecting long ago anything more than that) was with Miša, who seemed affectionate enough and willing to be present enough, in fact he was the only one brave enough to shut my mouth when I would start a conversation or a debate (it looks like I expected more, in the end) and not with arguments but brutally, with kisses, all the while the poet was collecting my glances that were not even secret, as I would have taken both Misha and the poet home with me had they been close enough, but they were not. 83 The poet resembled a restrained dreamer, dressed up in last century s fashion, from the time between the two world wars, in many ways my ideal type or what could have been my type in the past. A long time ago I lowered my expectations, for fear of being alone and lonely, traumatized by some arrogant smart-asses from my youth, I allowed ignorance in and gave it room. Relativizing what I believed in (and my own worth too) for years and years I, the silly one, was messing up with messed up fools. The poet would respond, sometimes with a glance,

43 84 85 sometimes with an unintentional touch. I was curious to know what his poems were like while Miša was following me persistently, proud of himself for having me, silent, he wasn t speaking, he wasn t talking, even worse he never came. Never! For days, for weeks, for a whole month never. Despite our continuity and warmth, even though it was silent, without words, and in spite of an ultimate pleasure I was coming closer to, for the very first time. Maybe that s why I put up with him the way he was, and the only thing bothering me then was the fact that I couldn t get French to read those poems and to ask Miša some questions in order to remember their voices maybe. But Miša couldn t get the plural nor the tenses right, our mutual understanding stemmed from my patience, which is puz-

44 86 zling me even today. In the meantime, the poet spoke English sufficiently enough for us to have inspiring conversations on the importance of walks, identity, abolition of work and psychoanalysis. Still. I started to get tired of socializing, most of the time I stayed on my own, during the days and throughout the nights, those boys were more of an incident than a habit or they were traces of a routine that lasted for years, my futile attempt to achieve intimacy. A great deal of time I walked alone, aimlessly, along the streets, by the river across the parks, I carried all my books with me, having invested in a gadget which stored 87 all of them, and which fitted perfectly in the inside pocket of my raincoat. By then I had already got the knack of my style, my street skin started to suit me, I stopped being an obstacle to myself among the half-humans, which obviously constitute more than a half of humanity. I waited for the moments when the city gets quiet, when everything turns silent in its midst, I was collecting those rarest moments of peace in restlessness, but I didn t take photos of such moments, nor did I take any photos whatsoever. Topics of great importance for me were invisible, all the questions remained mine, I set to seek their answers within myself, other people were just a random sample, a test of potential understanding and desired exchange. I wasn t too surprised by the lack of it, as I was learning how to be on my own. For the very first time in my whole life I enjoyed my solitude and my walks, feeling content was my responsibility now and knowing that power was

45 88 hiding happiness. The world within was so dynamic, every interaction with the outside was a distraction, socializing became too easy and staying alone the biggest challenge. A piano from a composers studio used to wake me up every morning just before 10am along with the light across my face, I enjoyed slowly my rich breakfast, which I had prepared with great pleasure, I walked for couple of hours every day, in one and then another direction. The day lasted long as the sun came down at nighttime. Night still amused me, my occasional drifting into night, but gradually I stopped asking or expecting anything from it, I just started to laugh a lot. I was getting myself prepared for a new intimacy, with a different kind of people, with hand-picked people, in broad daylight in languages we have in common. The more I knew about myself the less time I had to waste. 89 On my very last night in Paris, after avoiding seeing me for such a long time, Miša didn t want to sleep with me. As it happened the poet called and wished to meet me, me all in tears and very drunk, miserable because I had to leave, to meet me on my way home, for the first and last time, so that we could spend the night together, the two of us. After a month-long relationship with Miša and after a night in tears with

46 90 the poet, more passionate for its cinematic scenery than for my involvement, it also somehow happened that all his semen ended by mistake in me. I was left disgusted, sickened by this injustice or of my inability to perceive this string of events as justice. I never addressed the poet by his name. Instead of a goodbye, like in a song that I will get to love later, while holding me tightly in his arms when will I come 91 again, he asked. He was the only one who left the building through the main entrance, he didn t look back nor did he wave, his swagger was of a victor so full of himself. Maybe he was simply happy which made me angry or sad. His shadow stretched long in the early morning light, on my last morning in Paris, I knew that he was not the one. Neither was it Miša, nor Ulysses nor Tristan,

47 nor the fourth one whose name I never knew. It was not the stupid Pilot either. Certainly, and luckily, that wasn t you. It was your absence and in that absence a sign that you exist. I thought I had fallen in love with Paris, I thought I want to come back here. I wanted peace

70 3.

140 141 Even back then I knew your name. It was evading me yes.

71 Even back then I knew your name. It was evading me yes. It has tickled the tip of my tongue like a familiar melody, or a rare word which I will recall, which will surprise me, the moment I stop reminiscing and evoking it, at an odd moment it will hit me, between the wind

72 and my breath it will start to pulse, I will then start to sing, and that will be a call for you Keen on listening to signs and trusting what I hear I went along that path, in the opposite direction of the Parisian cul-de-sacs. So tender-hearted I got carried away and went to the hills next to the sea.

73 I wasn t expecting you. Neither your shape, nor your face or voice I didn t mistake you for someone else I didn t miss you in the crowds. I did recognize you. At the very last moment I hugged you.

74 I know it is you and what you are touching that is me.

94 I became a Milkman s donkey is a book about longing. It is a letter from Paris that Katarina Šoškić wrote in Belgrade in October 2015, to a person that she has never really met. It is translated from Serbian into English by Svetlana Rakočević. It is printed in three copies in Vienna in spring 2016.

95 Katarina Šoškić

I found nothing. No past no future

I found nothing. No past no future I found nothing / No past no future Katarina Šoškić / I found nothing No past no future / Antwerp 11 19 / 08 / 14 One / 13/08/14 I don t know what to expect. I feel nothing spectacular will happen. Memory