what i do

i've said it so many times that i love my job, the work that i do. i am a translator. i retell other people's words. i have the opportunity to get involved in what someone said, emerging myself, soaking up the smallest detail.
time stops. time stops like in no other situation in life. (workaholism helps, but i'm recovering.) words on paper are almost forever. (does blogger.com make hardcopy backups of these lines?) when you are working with something that is forever, your effort is timeless. the pulse of the world around you has no meaning. you take all day to find one word. then next one takes a fragment of a second.
as you make your way through the text you slowly start understanding the author more and more. when i read i focus more on the characters, the descriptions. translation, understanding each word to the extent that you can retell it in another language, takes you behind the scene. you imagine the writer, not only his message. i've never translated anything i've written (i try even not to read what i write). what secrets lie hidden in the choice of a single word, the rhythm, the pace. do written words carry information about my slow breathing, or the passion that leads to fervent typing and table-rocking. does the reader adjust the reading-speed to my breath. can the writer make someone just stop. breathe in. breathe out. breathe. in. breathe. out. breath. pause. breath. pause... pause... stop.
did you get the last line? how much should i care?

going the distance, growing apart

it’s not about leaving things/people in the dust – it’s about flying solo. no wingman, and you always need someone to watch your back. especially when you’re out in front, at least in this one direction. “it’s lonely on the top”, although i wouldn’t dare call this the top. it’s just a place, a rural road seldom traveled. rolling hills with the fresh spring grass and a mellow sun scorching arms that haven’t seen the sun in months. others didn’t take this turn onto the small road running through the pines.
we would met up again later down the road. at least for a while. the detour wasn’t one that cost me much. it was there and i had the time. the day was far from over, and i wanted to take advantage of it - i wanted to see the winding road and the forest and whatever lied beyond it. it was a large hilly clearing in the middle of the mountain. for some reason it was named after a spirit. no, not a ghost, but a beverage. strange people live in the next forest. and it is a beautiful forest. the sun shines though the leafless canopy. and there are few people along the way – big guys with saws and the occasional lumber truck. no one else ventures here, i’m not sure whether they have no reason or they don’t dare. but i chose to.
the forest ended abruptly at the top of a steep cliff. from it you can see a river cutting its path through the valley and making its way to the sea far beyond the last hills visible on the horizon. spring had just arrived and the trees were awaking. a dog ran ahead of me down the road and seemed to jump off to the right and down the cliff. strange. but what is strange, anyway? was it him running, seemingly for no reason, or i who had absolutely no reason for being on this road except to see what was there, and then going on. and he had a lot less reason not to be there.
i trembled the entire way down. if i had only left word that this was where i was going to pass perhaps they would know where to search for me if i didn’t surface. this wasn’t where i wanted to go. it wasn’t worth it; the ride isn’t exciting enough, and the location isn’t exotic enough. it would just be plain stupid.
the rendezvous turned out to be just downstream from the cliff. it was civilization. or at least the place mankind left a greater footprint than a 5-meter-wide artificial strip through forest and stone. i spoke of the road less traveled. they spoke of the same things as before. i realized that there was a difference. an increasing difference. i had been different in choosing the pines, now i had added the meadows and cliffs, and dogs and big men to that. and apparently i was looking at the world from an entirely different angle. but wasn’t that the point? or at least the point to hear about the world from a different angle? no. it is about talking about common things, ones that the listener can understand without hearing about them, just adding new information to the abundance of malignant information that corrupts clarity of thought. a civilization of data junkies with a touch of cerebral dystrophy. and me physically addicted, with my brain screaming for help. it just seems to revert back to the simple plug’n’play information sources saturating the world surrounding me. no backbone, on abs.
so i find myself wondering in the noon sun, among cafes under linden trees, watching the people doing their thing. and i find myself as far from them as can be, without leaving the continent. i flip through the phonebook in my head, looking for someone that might be available for a fast trip through the real reality - the one that everything else builds up to, the one we occasionally dare to dream of – but there is no one. just another reminder of solitude bordering on loneliness. well-dressed thugs discussing business, twentysomethings reading newspapers. “get your work done and just get out” i keep repeating to myself. i don’t have the willpower. i feel the city dragging me down, sucking me into the lethargy that is my hometown. at least its not the hyper-productive well-greased machine of real metropolises; those can really get you.
i slumped into bed when i got home. i tried reading the book, but it wasn’t the same. the hero was still in the forest, but i was now surrounded by concrete. just a little depression nap. how time crawls by when your having no fun. as the sun set i make my way out onto the terrace and try writing. it brings some satisfaction but far from that of the meadows and pines. this is life in the 21st century. the standard 21st century. i remember someone calling me a renaissance man. i remember a choose-your-own-adventure book when i was a kid, with the whole story taking place in medieval times. i rarely made it out alive in those books.
am i moving in a different/opposite direction of my surroundings? am i moving backwards in time? will i end up a neanderthal at some point; strong and with excellent survival skills, but ungroomed and lacking all but the most basic communication skills?
planes pass each other in the sky, as i yearn for the pines...

bikeabout

it was difficult to write on the road. i don’t understand the difference while on the road – it’s the coming home that completes the circle.
it was too cold to stay on. one spring shower and everything became too cold. the wind started chilling right to the bone, and the sun just couldn’t keep up with it. big mountains. big enough to keep the sun’s heat out of april. big enough to remind me what frost looks like in the early morning, when the sun still hasn’t reached the summit plateau. so big that the pine trees cannot break them and streams cannot wash them away. so big that even just going down them hurts your hands and abuses your breaks. so big that you come out of them lost.
the body reverts back to its prehistoric operating mode – high energy consumption, high output, movement, metabolism kicks into high gear, endorphins slowly creep up on you leading to a gradual high that lasts all night, and into the beginning of the next fix. it’s just too easy to be a junkie. everything you eat is spent, junk food ceases to exist; sweat expels toxins and t-shits become white with salt. the vision of the goal ahead is the only driving force, the only reason to be. existence becomes simple.
the spirit is elevated as hills are left behind and new peaks rise in the distance. traditional roads wind up through pastures, blossoming cherry trees, and pine forests, new roads soar up legbreaking gradients. the occasional car passes by, people nod, sheep scatter. and at the summit omnipotence mixes with vulnerability, the power vs. mortality of the human body. the realization of the accomplishment is equaled by the awareness of how many things can go catastrophically wrong; the actual drops of sweat on the climb behind vs. the possible drops of blood on the descent in front. life literally hangs by the threat of the break cable. the ultimate test of self-confidence – it was me that installed that cable.
staring down at the asphalt snake gives you new appreciation for travel in days of yore. merchant caravans making their way from valley to valley across mountain passes. you imagine horses making their way along these same paths, which have in the meantime been widened and paved, but still the same path. voyages that lasted weeks now last hours, even for a biker with twenty-five kilos of gear. and the villages in the valleys are as they were: farming communities, with minimal outside communication. only today there is more traffic passing through, straight through. but life is the same: fields, home, cattle, crops, evening drinks at the tavern. people still don’t go anywhere. perhaps to the city to see the doctor or relatives. and the big rigs kick up dust as they whiz past carrying goods far away. the lone bike rider pedals away.

the great escape!

getting things sorted, and then days of preparation and anticipation. on the road. i studied my geography (the same one that i evaded at all cost in high school), inspected by bike, tested my telecommunications - and then GO!
it's the third day now. just pedaling. just getting to the next point. learning about where my ancestors came from. learning about layers of culture from the way that roads are and were built, to architecture and contemporary views. and how to tackle mountains. (surprise answer - brandy and self-doubt!)
it's all subtle impressions, layer upon layer, kilometer after kilometer. so difficult to put into words. it includes the sound of birds singing, the cherry tree blossoms, the weight of the bike and the fatigue of my legs, the perseverance that gets you where everyone thinks it can't be done, and the exhilaration of going down the other side of the hill. i thought i could.
and that is just the abstract. some things were never meant to be put into words. some things have to be experienced. dancing about architecture...

cherry blossoms - serbian style

roof down and out of town. people checking you out as you smile by. the great escape, too bad you can't take everyone with you. but then good things happen to those that do things. it's been like that for me for years, a simple who-dares-wins program. jus' sun, sunday, dazing, N-great! and a special treat - a hillside of cherry blossoms caressed by the spring sunshine. and another photo geek to share it with. laughter. goodtime.