Patient of Love

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That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. I got up and walked away.

---

"If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn't you?"
I didn't say anything.

---

Katharine

The first time she dreamed of him she woke up beside her husband screaming.
In their bedroom she stared down onto the sheet, mouth open. Her husband put his hand on her back
“Nightmare. Don’t worry.”
“Yes.”
“Shall I get you some water?”
“Yes.”
She wouldn’t move. Wouldn’t lie back into that zone they had been in.
The dream had taken place in this room – his hand on her neck (she touched it now), his anger towards her that she had sensed the first few times she met him. No, not anger, a lack of interest, irritation at a married woman being among them. They had been bent over like animals, and he had yoked her neck back so she had been unable to breathe within her arousal.
Her husband brought her glass on a saucer but she could not lift her arms, they were shaking, loose. He put the glass awkwardly against her mouth so she could gulp the chlorinated water, some coming down her chin, falling to her stomach. When she lay back she hardly had time to think of what she had witnessed, she fell into a quick deep sleep.
That had been the first recognition. She remembered it sometimes during the next day, but she was busy then and she refused to nestle with its significance for long, dismissed it; it was an accidental collision on crowded night, nothing more.
A year later the other, more dangerous, peaceful dream came. And even within the first one of these she recalled the hands at her neck and waited for the mood of calmness between them to swerve to violence.
Who lays the crumbs of food that tempt you? Towards person you never considered. A dream. Then later another series of dreams.


He said later it was propinquity. Propinquity in the desert. It does that here, he said. He loved the word – the propinquity of water, the propinquity of two or three bodies in a car driving the Sand Sea for six hours. Her sweating knee beside the gearbox of the truck, the knee swerving, rising with the bumps. In the desert you have time to look everywhere, to theories on the choreography of all things around you.
When he talked like that she hated him, her eyes remaining polite, her mind wanting to slap him. She always had the desire to slap him, and she realizes even that was sexual. For him all relationship fell into patterns. You fell into propinquity or distance. Just as, for him, the histories in Herodotus clarified all societies. He assumed he was experienced in the ways of the world he had essentially left years earlier, struggling ever since to explore a half-invented world of the desert.

At Cairo aerodrome they loaded the equipment into the vehicles, her husband staying on to check the petrol lines of the Moth before the three men left the next morning. Madox went off to one of the embassies to send a wire. And he was going into the town to get drunk, the usual final evening in Cairo, first Madame Badin’s Opera casino, and later to disappear into the streets behind the Pasha Hotel. He would pack before the evening began, which would allow him to just climb into the truck next morning, hung over.
So he drove her into town, the air humid, the traffic bad and slow because of the hour.
“It’s hot. I need a beer. Do you want one?”
“No, I have to arrange for a lot of things in the next couple of hours. You’ll have to excuse me.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t want to interfere.”
“I’ll have one with you when I come back.”
“In three weeks, right?”
“About that.”
“I wish I were going too.”
He said nothing in the answer to that. They crossed the Bulaq Bridge and the traffic got worse. Too many carts, too many pedestrians who owned the street. He cut south along the Nile towards the Semiramis Hotel, where she was staying, just beyond the barracks.
“You’re going to find Zerzura this time, aren’t you.”
“I’m going to find it this time.”
He was like his old self. He hardly looked at her on the drive, even when they were stalled for more than five minutes in the spot.
At the hotel he was excessively polite. When he behaved this was she liked him even less; they all had to pretend this pose courtesy, graciousness. It reminded her of a dog in clothes. To hell with him. If her husband didn’t have to work with him she would prefer not to see him again.
He pulled her pack out of the rear and was about to carry it into the lobby.
“Here, I can take that.” Her shirt was damp at the back when she got out of passenger seat.
The doorman offered to take the pack, but he said, “No, she wants to carry it.” And she was angry again at his assumption. The doorman left them. She turned to him and he passed her bag so she was facing him, both hands awkwardly carrying the heavy case in front of her.
“So. Good-bye. Good luck.”
“Yes. I’ll look after them all. They’ll be safe.
She nodded. She was in shadow, and he, as if unaware of the harsh sunlight, stood in it.
Then he came up to her, closer, and she thought for a moment he was going to embrace her. Instead he put his right arm forward and drew it in a gesture across her bare neck so her skin was touched by the whole length of his damp forearm.
“Good-bye.”
He walked back to the truck. She could feel his sweat now, like blood left by a blade which gesture of his arm seemed to have imitated.

She picks up a cushion and places in onto her lap as a shield against him. “If you make love to me I won’t lie about it. If I make love to you I won’t lie about it.”
She moves the cushion against her heart, as if she would suffocate that part of herself which has broken free.
“What do you hate most?” he asks.
“A lie. And you?”
“Ownership,” he says. “When you leave me, forget me.”
Her first swing towards him and hits hard into the bone just below his eye. She dresses and leaves.

Each day he would return home and look at the black bruise in the mirror. He became curious, not so much about the bruise, but about the shape of his face. The long eyebrows he had never really noticed before, the beginning of grey in his sandy hair. He had not looked at himself like this in a mirror for a years. That was a long eyebrow.

Nothing can keep him from her.

---

A list of wounds.
The carious colors of the bruise – bright russet leading to brown. The plate she walked across the room with, flinging its contest aside, and broke across his head, the blood rising up into the straw hair. The fork that entered the back of his shoulder, leaving its bite marks the doctor suspected were caused by a fox.

---
A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle.

Half my days I cannot bear not to touch you,
the rest of the time I feel it doesn’t matter
If I ever see you again. It isn’t the morality,
It is how much you can bear.

No date, no name attached.

---

He has been disassembled by her.
And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to?

---

“I just want you to know. I don’t miss you yet.”
…
“You will,” she says.

From that point on in our lives, she had whispered to him earlier, we will either find or lose our souls.

---

(The English Patient - Michael Ondaatje)

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"Te nocci ... 28. septembra ..."

Uzmem ja malopre knjigu da pronadjem neshto... otvorim nasumice, tj. vishe se knjiga sâma otvori... znash na kojoj strani? "Als sie zum ersten Mal von ihm träumte, ..."

"... vladao je 28 godina kao kralj Lidije..."

"... dok sam se ja zaljubio zahvaljujuci jednoj anekdoti.
Rechi, Karavadjo..."

"paranoja i klaustrofobija..."

"I believe you have become inhuman... I don't think you care... You slide past everything with your fear and hate of ownership, of owning, of being owned, of being named. You think this is a virtue. I think you are inhuman."

"There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire. A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant..... It is a consuming of oneself and the past."

... strast infantilnost (psiho)patologija ...

"We die containing a richness of lovers... bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead."

http://www.mycity.rs/Knjizevnost/Procitali-ste-sko.....tml#582173

http://www.mycity.rs/Kultura-i-umetnost/Amalgam-Lj.....tml#220818

http://www.mycity.rs/Blog/to-the-Palace-of-Winds.html

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Ovolika doza ljubavi moze da bude (stvarno) stetna. Svi smo mi pacijetni ...

A to sto si ti spomenula 28 sept. (kada je bio u mom kutu svijeta kada sam pisala post) ne da sam ga cekala, nego sam realizovala da je 28i kad sam zavrsila post, i pitam se "Da li da prekucam i spominjanje broja 28?" ... i nisam. Jer .... mozda .... slucajnost. Ko zna? I da se knjiga "otvori" na pocetku istog dijela ... sve je slucajnost.

Knjigu sam samo jednom procitala. Film sam (do sada) pogledala bar jedno 13 puta. I opet cu. U stvari svaki put kad je na TV-u ja ga gledam. Bez obzira da li je pocetak, sredina ili kraj. Meni nema veze. Ali prica je stvarno da te ostavi ranjenog, ako ne izgorenog ("For the heart is an organ of fire."), slicna iskustva (sta ces).

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Ne verujem u sluchajnosti Ne znam shta je... ali, jednostavno, previshe ih je (i to kakvih ...)

Da, knjigu jednom, ali cu opet, a film nebrojeno puta... Odlichan je, odlichan izbor glumaca, odlichno uklopljene priche, odlichna gluma... kad chitash knjigu nakon gledanja filma, i tachno vidish pred sobom onaj pokret glavom, onaj prezrivi pogled... pa chak i koshchata kolena Mislim ... 'de ih samo nadjoshe Zatim, drago mi je shto neke stvari nisu unete u film. Ne znam iz kog razloga, da li praktichnog ili umetnichkog, ali kako god - pun pogodak. Inache bi ta filmska pricha dobila jedan posve drukchi ukus... Ovako je savrsheno - savrshen film, savrshena knjiga, savrsheno samostalno i savrshena dopuna

Btw, i sve ono shto je Ondaatje o Ratu, o Pustinji, o Vetru, o Chitanju, o ...

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Da, slazem se (). Vjerovatno jedna kombinacija koja je po svojoj razlicitoj similarnosti (hmm ... (?) ) ubjedljivo vodi na prvom mjestu. Knjiga je knjiga, da. Film je film, da (izbor glumaca, odigrane uloge) ... sve je jednostavno savrseno. Da, i pogled, i klimanje glavom, i arogancija u ocima, i ljubavna mrznja, i sve .... sve. I krug je kompletan kad se procita i odgleda, po mogucnosti i dozivi/prozivi/osjeti.

Black Orchid ::Btw, i sve ono shto je Ondaatje o Ratu, o Pustinji, o Vetru, o Chitanju, o ...

Amin.

"A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing - not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is consuming of oneself and the past."

---

"Just the Bedouins and us, crisscrosing the Fourty Days Road. There were rivers of desert tribes, the most beautiful humans I've met in my life."

---

"I came to hate nations."

---

"We seemed to be interested only in things that could not be bought or sold, of no interest to the outside world."

Kvalitet ljudskosti, koji je (sve vise mi se cini) prisutan jos samo u knjigama. Ali je prepoznat.

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da, taj deo, razlichite nacionalnosti u pustinji, gde to prestaju da budu, bash taj deo o idiotizmu granica i podela... (opet prochitah jutros/juche ) mozhesh li to da prekucash? mogu i ja, ali knjiga koja je kod mene je na nemachkom, pa neshto ne znam kome bi to znachilo..

a muzichka zhelja je onaj kratki opis nje kada chita 'anegdotu' i (u)chita(va) svoj zhivot + opis svih onih vetrova koji postoje .. (gde pominje chak i Jugoslaviju, lol..)

( o Pustinji na razlichite nachine kroz celu knjigu - prochitati knjigu... mislim, ipak, stvarno, jel'te )

inache... bilo je stvari koje su me malko 'iznenadile' u knjizi, mozhda samo zato shto u filmu nema ni nagoveshtaja... to - bez kojih apsolutno mozhe, a sa kojima je kompletno...

p.s. samo se u Krugovima i kreccemo... eventualno pravimo osmice

p.p.s. zashto (among other things) ono:
"Denys: You've ruined it for me, you know.
Karen Blixen: Ruined what?
Denys: Being alone."
(film Out of Africa (1985), ko nije primetio linkove.. )
Almásy je prethodno isto bio "samodovoljno sâm"... and then she "ruined it..." i isto se obojica gube na neodredjeno... s tim shto postoji razlika, ali za to - odgledati film... da ne kvarim
(hoccu recci, preporuka, jel'te... makar i samo zbog priche o Kavezu & Dozhivljaju "Samo Sada" ...)

druga preporuka je Wuthering Heights (1992), "K: I am Heathcliff!" ... ("A passion. An obsession. A love that destroyed everyone it touched." sounds familiar?)

& trecca - Sunshine (1999) ... jos jednom uklopljene priche, rat, pricha o (na)silnoj ljubavi/strasti, drushtveno ludilo, potresna porodichna saga, ...

"Valerie: I have seen the collapse of government after government, and they all think they can last a thousand years. Each new one always declares the last one criminal and corrupt, and always promises a future of justice and freedom.
---
Gustave: I'll never forgive you, you know.
Valerie: For what?
Gustave: For marrying him instead of me.
---
Valerie: Politics has made a mess of our lives.
---
Ignatz Sonnenschein: ... But if you feel you have power, you are mistaken. If you feel you have the right to put yourself ahead of others because you think you know more than they do, you are wrong. Never allow yourself to be driven into the sin of conceit. Conceit is the greatest of sins. The source of all other sins.
---
Adam Sors: But if your life becomes a struggle for acceptance, you'll always be unhappy. Religion may not be perfect, but it is a well-built boat that can stay balanced and carry you to the other shore. Our life is nothing but a boat adrift on water balanced by permanent uncertainty. About the people whom you will judge, know this; all they do is struggle to find a kind of security. They're just people, like us. Therefore you mustn't judge them on the basis of appearance or hearsay. Trust no one. Examine all things yourself. Do not join with power. Despise all rank. Do not be ostentatious with what is yours. Owning possessions and property ultimately comes to nothing. Possessions and property can be consumed by fire, swept away by flood, taken away by politics. Do not undertake what you do not know. This causes anxiety which makes you ill. Exercise discipline.
---
Ivan Sors: For the first time in my life, I walked down the street without feeling like I was in hiding. My great grandfather Emmanuel must have been the last Sonnenschein to feel like this. I knew the only way to find meaning in my life, my only chance in life, would be to account for it. My grandmother's words return to me; "Try to photograph what's beautiful in life." By the time I finish this story, the third tragic misadventure of the 20th century was over. After the monarchy and fascist rule, the communist regime also went up in smoke. I remembered the recipe book that we had lost and suddenly realized that the family secret was not to be found on its pages. It was preserved by my grandmother. The only one in our family who had the gift of breathing freely."

*
http://www.mycity.rs/Poezija/Posle-tebe.html

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"We were German, English, Hungarian, African - all of us insignificant to them. Gradually we became nationless. I came to hate nations. We are deformed by nation state. Madox died because of nation.
The desert could not be claimed or owned - it was a piece of cloth carried by winds, never held down by stones, and given a hundred shifting names long before Canterbury existed, long before battles and treaties quilted Europe and the East.
Its caravans, those strange rambling feasts and cultures, left nothing behind, not an ember. All of us, even those with European homes and children in the distance, wished to remove the clothing of our countries. It was a place of faith. We disappeared into landscapes. Fire and sand. We left the harbours of oasis. The places water came to and touched ... Ain, Bir, Wadi, Foggara, Khottara, Shaduf. I didn't want my name against such beautiful names. Erase the family name! Erase nations!
I was thought such a thing by the desert."

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"He's always, always in my mind - not as a pleasure, any more than I am a pleasure to myself - but, as my own being."

"I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free... Why am I so changed? I'm sure I should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills."

"The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!"

"I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there; not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart; but really with it, and in it."

(Wuthering Heights)

* * *

Ella ::... Beyond Borders

Sarah: Never forget what took me a lifetime to learn; you have only one heart, be true to it.
~~~
Sarah Jordan: Why do you never say my name?
Nick Callahan: Sorry?
Sarah Jordan: You never say my name. Why?
Nick Callahan: pauses - What's the first thing you do when you get a cold?
Sarah Jordan: What?
Nick Callahan: What's the first thing you do when you get a cold?
Sarah Jordan: Uh... chicken soup, aspirin, scotch...
Nick Callahan: You never just have the cold?
Sarah Jordan: I don't know what...
Nick Callahan: interrupts - Taken nothing. Just have the cold?
Sarah Jordan: No
Nick Callahan: No, and that's us, right? We drown it. Kill it. Numb it, anything not to feel. You know, when I was a doctor in London, no one ever said 'medahani'. They don't thank you like they thank you here. Cos here they feel everything, straight from God. There's no drugs, no painkillers. It's the weirdest, purest thing - suffering. And when you've seen that kind of courage in a li... - pauses, tears well up -... in a child... How could you ever want to do anything but just hold him in your arms? You remember that boy in London, JoJo?
Sarah Jordan: Yes of course
Nick Callahan: He was my first save, 10 years old. So thin he could barely stand. But he still found the strength to bury the rest of his family. We have no idea what courage is... He used to write me little notes. He helped me in the clinic. He was good. He was sweet, he was good. He wanted to be like me, I liked that. I mean, it was silly and childish, but it made me feel good about myself. So I took him with me to London, you know, my talisman, my courageous Africa... - pauses - How could I be so bloody stupid? How could I be so totally selfish? The point is... he was my friend. He had a name. So now I HAVE to remember him. If everybody I lose has a name .....
svezhe odgledala, ranije prozhivela, juche o tako tome nekom prichala, kroz film ponovo "prozhivela", sutra ...

"Ljudi ne znaju shta znachi jedna pomorandzha..."

... ili kap kishe, koju ovde psuju i proklinju...