Bookmark and Share
nl | en |
contact   |  credits 

Družinica / Family

1

He always looks and laughs at me, while with his Danish cap, he nods and asks me about connections. Uncle Tom is a warm man. Gray mouse eyes, with front teeth like a rabbit, cheerful but timid at the same time, explains his adventures. The venom is pervasive - only people who have seen something have a heart as big as a house, and rapid legs like a rabbit.

He comes to visit and eat pancakes every Sunday and brings goodies for us. Always the wine of choice for my dad, today it is the rose of 1886, and for me exclusive Dutch candies with raisins, raisins and more raisins. I'm sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth while he describes his house again.

None of us have stepped in there yet. He says that there is no place for us. He has so many things that accumulate and accumulate and climb over each other and over each other that he himself can no longer walk around. Uncle Tom likes to collect things. Up already at 7.20am in the morning, he’s in front of the antique shop to find the rarest items people throw away, and he gives them a new home. He takes care of his things like children. He immediately loved me, even though I am not from here - like his treasures from all over the world. I get caught up with mind painting the house he lives in while he’s telling my dad why he still has a nightstand. The floor is flooded with things so he can't get to the bathroom at night without stumbling upon them. Which, of course, can be dangerous.

The house is coloured as if you ate salmon and then shaved it off (if, of course, our digestive tract still retained the colour of protein). The door is greenish when you open it, it makes you warm at heart. It smells of ginger, mixed with curry and grapes, and the walls are covered with oriental, Roman and Mesopotamian mosaics. Oh, and the posters from the 1969 Woodstock Festival hang in the lobby, because Uncle Tom was there, of course.

2

To the left of the front door there is a small pantry. Uncle Tom can't get in, he's too big, as he regularly receives a lot of kindness from his friends. There are no windows, no lights. Inside there is only food and food products, you can almost hear the scent of smells. The woods, the hatch, are yelling. There is a sense of nervousness there – the pressure a young substitute teacher has in a school while first teaching in a wild. It is overwhelming. You get panicked. There are too many people in here, too many memories and places that do not belong here. They all belong here but at the same time not, just like you, stranger, and at the same time remind the space that it will never host something intimate.

The square. This is basically a market. This is where masks and non-masks of people show up. This is where things go, telling their every story, since none of them is the same as their family knows them. If the family can even know the individual.

In this illuminating darkness, Uncle Tom is often lost if he enters without a plan. Therefore, every day he thinks carefully about what will be for lunch, dinner and breakfast. Where will the taste take him so he doesn't get lost in this never-ending swirl of memories.

3

I run out of the pantry and climb the steep and narrow stairs. Each one is lined with words, completely overcrowded and stuffy, the is hardly enough space for a grownups pair of shoes.

I can easily overcome the stairs though. By myself. The hallway is blue, dark as the lights are off. There are five doors in front of me, each with different shades of wood, but neatly polished. The corridor is small, I don't know how my uncle gets around in here.

I hesitate, as I do not know which door to choose. I sit on the floor and crave in the dark. I no longer pay attention to my surroundings; I feel as if I can no longer absorb the information. There are is too much. Is that why uncle frequently doesn’t have a lot to say?

How do you choose the right door? How do you decide who you're going to marry, Mom? I ask her, when I am confused, picking out the dresses from the last century from her closet and cannot decide which one to take. “You just know.” How do you know? How did you know about your dad? How come my uncle has no wife, no husband, no dog, no cat? "Because there is no room for them in my house." Not in mine, since I don't have one at all, so will I always be alone?

 

4

My thoughts slowly creep back to the present when I hear Uncle Tom describing his bedroom – and surprisingly, inviting us over tomorrow. What a delight! Father’s face started to glow at this announcement!

Does the vendor trust us? What is the house he has been talking about all his life?

The next day, I walk through the door expecting millions of things dropping on me. The house is empty. Tom is looking at us sadly. There is no love here, there is no one here to fill up someone as alone as my uncle.

 

 

Wall

What is silence? When you wordlessly lie in a warm bed at home - that is, in the house where someone had raised you. Is that home? I never thought I belonged there, since I really don't, but today I would go home. I didn't go to the studio because I couldn't stand thirty people breathing, walking, existing around me. I am increasingly losing the ability to express myself in Slovenian, I’ve been noticing. I'm confused, tired, but not me. How could I say something without using words? In fact, that's what I do every day. It's easier for me to speak through material than through voice. What do you want to say? That there is an unbreakable wall between me and others that I built when I was five years old and have been carefully nurturing it ever since. I water it, brush it, caress it, short it. I carefully add concrete layers to it and patch its holes so no one comes through. I'll be alone. I can do everything myself. Without people watching me, without us. I can be responsible for myself, I don't know with others. I'm tired. Sleepy. I run out of motivation and I feel lost. What am I doing here? How do I get started? What's happening? What's not going on? Why am I thinking too much about everything? What is it? It's tiring. It's tiring today. Today I was hiding behind four walls of my seven square meters. Is it normal that when you change your environment you lose yourself? I feel lost. The wall is standing, and I have no intention of breaking it. I have to write one or two A4 pages about my future work, but I simply have no idea. An empty head. Am I really that bad?

 

Družinica

1
    Ves zvedav me gleda in se mi smeji, medtem ko s svojo na Danskem kupljeno čepico prikimava in me sprašuje o povezavah. Stric Tom je topel človek. Sivih mišjih oči, s sprednjima zoboma kot zajec, veselo, a hkrati plašno, razlaga o svojih dogodivščinah. Venomer je na preži – samo ljudje, ki so nekaj videli, imajo srce veliko kot hiša in urne noge kot zajec.
    Na obisk in palačinke pride vsako nedeljo in prinese dobrote za naju z očetom. Za njega vedno izbrano vino, danes je to rose letnik 1886, zame pa ekskluzivne nizozemske bonbone z rozinami, rozinami in s še več rozinami. Sedim na tleh po turško in se zibam sem ter tja, medtem ko ponovno opisuje svojo hišo.
Nihče od nas še ni stopil tja. Pravi, da za nas ni prostora, da ima toliko stvari, ki se kopičijo in kopičijo in povzpenjajo druga na drugo in čez drugo, da tudi sam ne more več hoditi naokrog. Stric Tom rad zbira stvari. Vsak dan je že ob 7.20 uri zjutraj pred starinarnico, da bi našel najbolj redke izdelke, ki jih ljudje zavržejo stran, on pa jim da novi dom. Za svoje stvari skrbi kot za otroke. Slednje ima tudi zelo rad, a jih sam nima. Mene je takoj vzljubil, četudi nisem iz teh krajev – tako kot njegovi iz celega sveta pridobljeni zakladi. Ponovno se ujamem, kako si slikam hišico, v kateri prebiva, medtem ko očetu pripoveduje, zakaj ima še vedno nočno posodico – toliko stvari ima na tleh, da enostavno ne more ponoči do kopalnice, ne da bi zletel čez njih. Kar je seveda lahko tudi nevarno.
Hiša je obarvana, kot če bi pojedel lososa in ga potem posral (če bi seveda naš prebavni trak še vedno obdržal barvo proteinov). Vrata so zelenkasta, ko jih odpreš, ti postane toplo pri srcu. Diši po ingverju, ki se meša s curryjem in grozdjem, stene so v celote prekrite z orientalskimi, rimskimi antičnimi in mezopotamskimi mozaiki. Aja, pa še posterji s festivala Woodstock iz leta 1969 visijo v veži, saj je bil stric Tom seveda tam.

2
Levo od vhodnih vrat je majhna shramba. Stric Tom ne more skoznjo, je prevelik, saj redno prejema veliko dobrosrčnosti od svojih prijateljev. Brez oken je, ni luči. Notri se tare hrane in izdelkov za živež, vrvež vonjav lahko skorajda slišiš. Šumi, loputa, se dere. Kljub temu, da je v neskončnost zevajoča tema, tu vlada pritisk, ki ga imaš, ko prvič kot nadomestni učitelj učiš na šoli v podivjanem razredu. Grabi te panika. Tiska. Preveč ljudi je tu notri, preveč spominov in krajev, ki ne spadajo sem. Ki so tu doma prav tako kot ti, prišlek, hkrati pa prostor opominjajo, da ne bo nikoli gostil nekaj intimnega.
Trg. To je v bistvu trg. Tu se kažejo maske in ne-maske ljudi. Tu stvari nastopajo, govorijo vsaka svojo zgodba, saj nobena izmed njih ni tista, taka, kot jo pozna njena družina. Če družina sploh lahko pozna posameznika.
V tej presvetli temi se stric Tom velikokrat izgubi,  če vstopi brez načrta. Zato vsak dan temeljito premišljuje o tem, kaj bo za kosilo, večerjo in zajtrk. Kam ga bo okus popeljal, da se ne bo izgubil v tem neprekinjenem vrtincu spominov.

3
Pobegnem ven iz shrambe in se povzpnem po strmih in ozkih stopnicah. Vsaka posebej je obložena z rečmi, kompletno prenatrpana in zasuta, prostora je le za par stopal moške številke 45 – tukajšnji ljudje so pač veliki.
Sama po stopnicah brez težav zdrvim, jih preplezam in se znajdem v prvem nadstropju. Hodnik je moder, temen, saj so luči ugasnjene. Pred menoj je pet vrat, vsaka so različnega odtenka lesa, drugače so polakirana. Hodnik je majhen, ne vem, kako se stric sploh stlači sem.
Obotavljam se, saj ne vem katera vrata naj izberem. Usedem se na tla in ždim v temi. Nisem več pozorna na svojo okolico, občutek imam, kot da informacij ne morem več absorbirati. Preveč jih je. Je zato stric velikokrat redkobeseden?
Kako se odločiš za prava vrata? Kako se odločiš s kom se boš poročil, mama? jo vprašam, ko cela zbegana izbiram obleke iz prejšnjega stoletja z njene omare in se ne morem odločiti, katere bom vzela. »Enostavno veš.« Kako veš? Kako si ti vedela za očeta? Kako to, da stric nima ne žene ne moža ne psa ne mačk? »Ker ni prostora za njih v moji hiši.« V moji tudi ne, saj je sploh nimam, bom torej vedno sama?

4
Misli mi počasi prijadrajo nazaj v sedanjost, ko slišim, kako stric Tom opisuje svojo spalnico – pri tem očetu obljubi, da naju jutri povabi k sebi domov. Kakšno navdušenje je spreletelo očetov obraz ob tem oznanilu!
Nama vender le zaupa? Kakšna je hiša, o kateri pripoveduje že vse življenje?
Naslednji dan vstopim skozi vrata in pričakujem, da bo name zletelo na milijone reči. Hiša je prazna. Tom naju žalostno pogleda. Tu ni ljubezni, tu ni nikogar, ki bi zapolnil nekoga, ki je tako sam, kot je stric.

Maja Bojanic


 

 

 

 
*) verplichte velden