Can you feel the flip?
Sarajevo, one of the better places, but want to play cards? Someone somewhere has a hand of aces. The good byes and the bags pack themselves again, three nights of staying with Lisa, three years till we’ll meet again on another continent, your cook, your company, your house husband. Decide my Selimović book needs a cafe where it can breathe, where I can watch the Bazaar churn, but I fell into the stump; Toothless grin and balding underneath a beanie, shiny rosy cheeks, thinking they can speak the fluency of the fifty words of the fifty languages of market tourists, of which he did. In the crisp freshness of sunlight amongst cold mountains, I said I wanted a coffee, the stump said “Kafa? Come come!” (Can you), for now as the pigeons scattered the square in the warming blue air, he called forth through Bazaar whispers his kin: Castro of Kosovo, with sharp yet weathered grey and sturdy yet shell and skin of a handshake, (feel) and then the googled magnified mole eyes and gummed teeth, slants his thick glasses down to look into you; Aldin. They took my bicycle and me over the slight ways of the bustle, they scattered their plans & the square in the warming blue air, and as they ordered two shots of Raki for themselves, I asked Ardo (Pronouced “ARDO-LEGENTO!”) the bartender for one aswell (the flip).
And then it flipped in that direction, that attention, that perception.
Friday is our day off, from working the mountain roads, tipping back Sarejesko’s back at Ardo’s (Pronouced “ARDO-LEGENTO!”), the Australian is relaxed with us, throwing his change atop his bag of fresh books. My English is not perfect, though no perfection is required in the way men drink and smoke together; perfection is perfected further when it’s a foreigner shouting. Castro has not said much except occasionally “James is good man!” and to laugh and smirk and shy, as I informed the boy how he can’t leave BiH for two years, for if James’ speciality was “good man” Castro’s was in making fake license plates, “Castro too was artist!” says James, and we laugh as he points to the paintings in this run down local hole. I noticed James carefully edge the war, so then I told him the strangeness of my neighbour and friend whom left when it began, to make bullets for the Serbs, and returned when it was over, to walk amongst his bullet marks and blood. Beer by beer, and hour by hour, our thoughts begin to slip. Kosovo though enjoys such spice, suggests to James the park is nice, so carries his bicycle and bags through the busy square proudly. We came to the park for sunshine though steer it to shade, then I steer a looping Castro “One more beer James no?” out of James’ day; Slavically I tell him, (Can you) this boy wants to be on his way, no more time for the louts in Fridays sun, Slavically I tell him, back off this boy is done (feel). But Castro the artist, has one more hand to play, “1 Mark” he hands to James, for the liquor store and he are through, and as they both walk away I feel compelled for what I must do. We came to the park for sunshine though we sat in shade. Beer by beer, and hour by hour, our thoughts begin to slip. James holds me sturdy by the shirt on a bridge, though I can see his calves are shaking, hand him back the 15 Marks I’d stole, thought this moment was mine for taking, a sour fuming boy with his heavy broken trust, Castro tries to plead but in front of a gaping cafe, sharply backwards he is thrust (the flip).
And then it flipped in that direction, that attention, that perception.
Tonight would be cold, I thought, by the green fields and souless blue sky, my sister Jilena and I, again and always. Three knocks on the door, a man with a beard, a bicycle and bright colours, pointing at the grass, I’m fairly sure I’m not so certain; my sister I’d better ask. So we’ve put him in the barn, as it will be minus (pronounced “Mee-nus”) tonight. I make him kafa over not a word of Serbo-Croatian, there be enough cold but be enough warmth in Humans, so we begin our attempt at a “google” conversation. The water is heated so now I think it’s time for his bath, and through further caring pity I give him woolen socks and a new white shirt; he says his Mother would be glad we found him; so why now did this hurt? Eggs, bread, ham and Ajvar, he eats slowly, says he only asked for some grass and this kindness is too far; but it’s nice to tell him we’ve a sister in Brisbane, that we are Serbs, that our parents & brother were killed in the war, that we’ve never married, never had children before. (Can you) By the couch we all watch television, I lie from my scoliosis, but quickly I rise as soon as I’ve something to say. He writes to google, “I’d like to go to bed”, “We won’t go to bed for a long time” we write back, honest, lonely and kurt; so why now did this hurt? I pull out the tea I’ve picked, and soon, with a warm belly my boy he begins to yawn, (feel) “I’m going to bed now” he has said, so with blankets and his resistance, we tuck him safely & warmly into bed. Before my child flys, I give him a purple blanket and 15 Mark, he refuses over groans, in his hand I press, it’s for kafa, burek or pivo my boy, on this road you’ve chose to roam (the flip).
And then it flipped in that direction, that attention, that perception.
Always steal chillies 