Koju vi nećete ni primetiti :)))
Barem ne biste trebali, jer je preseljen i domen koji je do sada bio redirektovan na WP-ov hosting . . .
Blog se nalazi ovde tj na domenu http://drveniadvokat.com.
Uglavnom, veliko HVALA Tijani, Slavku i Ivanu na drugarstvu i nesebičnoj pomoći pri pakovanju i selidbi, jer bez njihove pomoći se ona ne bi ni dogodila :)
Živela blogosfera!!!
P.S. Promenite adresu u blogrollovima :) hvala!
Nešto što je toliko istinito . . . i šta ne bih razumela da sam dobila pre dve godine . . . sada razumem. Itekako razumem.
Za vas koji imate roditelje,
Za vas koji ste roditelji,
Za vas koji ste imali roditelje,
Za vas koji znate one koji imaju roditelje
I za vas koji poznajete nečije roditelje.
Dragi sine/kćeri,
Sada još nisam ostario, a kada me budeš video takvoga, budi strpljiv sa mnom i pokušaj me razumeti ako se zaprljam u vreme ručka, i ako se ne mogu sam odenuti, budi strpljiv.
Seti se sati, koje sam potrošio, dok sam te tome naučio.
I ako u razgovoru ponavljam iste stvari uvek ponovo, nemoj me prekidati, saslušaj me! Kada si bio malen, morao sam ti istu priču čitati uvek ponovo, pre no što si utonuo u san.
Ako se ne budem želeo kupati, ne ismejavaj me i ne vređaj. Seti se kako sam te morao loviti i izmišljati hiljadu razloga, da bi ušao u kadu.
Kad opaziš moje nepoznavanje nove tehnologije, daj mi vremena i nemoj me gledati s podsmehom na licu. Ja sam tebe naučio mnogo stvari: pravilno jesti, pravilno se obući, suočiti se sa životom.
Ako nekad u razgovoru zaboravim ili izgubim nit razgovora, daj mi malo vremena, da se prisetim i ako mi to ne pođe za rukom, nemoj se uznemiravati. Nije mi najvažnija stvar na svetu naš razgovor, već to, da sam s tobom i da me znaš slušati.
Ako ne budem želeo jesti, nemoj me prisiljavati da jedem. Sam znam najbolje, kada mi je hrana potrebna, a kada ne.
Kada mi umorne noge više neće dozvoljavati da hodam, pruži mi ruku jednako kao što sam je ja pružao tebi, kada si pravio prve korake.
I ako ti jednom kažem, da više ne želim živeti, da želim umreti, ne ljuti se na mene, jednoga dana ćeš me razumeti. Jednom ćeš spoznati, da sam ti uprkos svim učinjenim greškama, želeo samo najbolje i pokušao sam te pripremiti na putovanje života. Ne žalosti se, ne ljuti se i ne osećaj se bespomoćan, kada me budeš gledao pored sebe takvog. Budi pored mene i pokušaj me razumeti i pomoći mi tako kao što sam ja pomagao tebi, kada si počeo živeti. Budi mi oslonac, pomozi mi završiti putovanje s ljubavlju i strpljivošću. Vratiću ti osmehom i neizmernom ljubavlju, koju sam oduvek čuvao za tebe.
Zaista sam u poslednje vreme rastrzana na hiljadu strana. Retko pišem jer, kada mi se piše uglavnom nemam vremena ili uslova za to, a kada umam vremena i uslova nisam raspoložena za pisanje . . . ali ovaj blog će ovde da stoji dokle god je wordpressa i weba! Da, planiram da ga selim na lični hosting, ali ovo što je na wordpressu neću sklanjati. Šta je poenta ovog teksta? Želim da uputim apel blogerima da NE BRIŠU SVOJE BLOGOVE!
Nekoliko puta mi se desilo da odem na nečiji blog i jednostavno se zakucam na stranicu na kojoj piše da je blog obrisan! I svaki put doživim stres kada se to desi. Ok, razumem, svako ko ima blog razmišlja na sledeći način: „Moj blog – moja stvar.“ Nije toliko jednostavno. Ljudi se vezuju za blogove. Mene svačiji blog podseća na nešto/nekog/određeni vremenski period/emociju/štaveć i isfrustrirana sam kada kliknem na link u blogrollu i dočeka me sledeći prizor
Jednostavno ne vidim poentu. Zbog čega nešto pisati, voditi, negovati određeno vreme i potom ga izbrisati?! Navikneš ljude na svoje postojanje u blogosferi i onda puf?!
Ako odlučiš da više ne želiš da pišeš blog, u redu, tvoja stvar. Ali ako odlučiš da ga obrišeš, znaj da će neko, možda ne taj dan ili te nedelje ili čak ni tog meseca . . . ali će neko nekad navratiti na tvoj blog i sa osmehom čitati stare tekstove, možda čak i ponovo ostaviti komentar na iste. Zato nemojte brisati blogove, oni su svedoci jednog vremena, koliko god to apsurdno zvučalo.
I have known him for more than thirty years. We are of the same age. A long time ago, we used to have an active friendship. Back then, we were children. He was always different, smaller, and thinner. He wore glasses, always with muddled lenses, and was all messy and untidy. When he spoke, he lisped and twisted his lip in a strange way, so his saliva was on his lips and in the corners of his mouth all the time. I found that disgusting. To be honest, I used to avoid him. He was not a fast runner, he was clumsy with a ball and had no bike. I simply had no idea what to do with him.
When we did play together, he slowed down the whole team. We would lose games, ruin our reputation in the eyes of the neighbourhood boys, we were teased because of him. That is why he spent most of his time alone, playing with needles. We called him a tailor for that. Sometimes he cried, and that would made us even louder:
Tailor, tailor, dirty as a sailor!
Tailor, tailor, ugly as a jailor!
I have never been at his place. He came from a workers’ family with a lot of children, but they were not poor. They were in the same situation as everyone else in those times of political troubles and crisis. His mother, unlike mine, was untidy, always wearing an apron. I didn’t like to touch her and avoided shaking her hand although she practiced that when we would meet. Every time would pretend that I was in a hurry and would pass her as fast as I could, with a loud hello, as my upbringing required me to do.
We started to go to school. From three schools in the surrounding area and from five classes in a school, somehow he came to be in my class. I was angry. I remember that I screamed when I came home and threw my bag at the wall. I broke a vase doing that, and the water from it fell on the carpet. Then I was punished for that, and then I hated him even more.
During breaks between classes I would try to run away before he approached me. Once he found me, it was impossible to get rid of him. Often I would hide in the toilets or behind the school. During lectures I would laugh loudly if the teacher would ask him something and he couldn’t answer. With other boys I would hide his stuff all over the classroom and would rejoice when he cried for not being able to find it. During physical education classes, we put chewing gums into his sneakers and balloons filled with water in his bag, so when he would put books inside they would break and make a mess. We would cry from laughing. The first class ended in that way.
I had known some of the boys in my class from before, and some I got to know better. I started to ignore him completely.
Willard Wigen had troubles with learning. That didn’t interest me a lot back then. He didn’t interest me. I had my own problems, I had to win the school tournament and prove myself in front of other boys. I wanted to be the fastest, the most precise in goal shooting and I invested every atom of my strength and concentration into that. The day before the tournament, after the classes ended, he approached me in a hallway. I was nervous and packing my things to go home. I noticed he was hanging around me, but I didn’t pay any attention to him. I had better things to do. Shyly, he told me:
• Mathew, can you help me with math? We have an exam in two days and I’m afraid I will not do well. My final marks depend on it.
• What?! Are you crazy?!? Tomorrow is the tournament; I’m not going to waste my time on you!
I pushed him as hard as I could and left. He followed me.
• Mathew, please. You have good marks in math. Just a bit about fractions, I don’t understand the subtraction of the negative ones…
I didn’t react, although I was terribly nervous. He followed me till the exit door. In front of the school he approached me again.
• Mathew . . .
Then I exploded. I turned around and hit him in the face so hard he fell on the ground. Blood streamed from his nose while I kicked him and screamed all the possible insults I could remember at that moment. The last thing I told him, the most expressive and probably the loudest:
• Fuck off you disgusting tailor!
A few days later, after we received the results from the math exam, I have heard the conversation between our teacher and Willard’s mother. It happened by accident. His staying in school was uncertain. His marks were bad, he could hardly read or write, he had difficulties comprehending things we learned in the school. The teacher accused him of being lazy, and Mrs. Wigen accused the teachers of discrimination. Willard stood next to them, silent and looking at floor. I could see him twisting his lip, and his saliva dripping from the left corner of his mouth to his chin. Then, for the first time in ten years since we had known each other, I realized I somehow felt sorry for this boy. Obviously, he was suffering. The elders were trying to solve the problem, but no one paid attention to its source – to Willard.
I spoke with my father about what I had heard and when I told him that Willard had difficulties with reading, writing, and with simple math functions, he explained to me that Willard most probably suffered from dyslexia, the syndrome of special lexical difficulties, and that he was neither lazy nor stupid as he had been tagged, but he simply could not do some things. No one noticed his talents – the drawings and mosaics he made on the small spaces of paper, on the back sides of his notebooks.
He couldn’t pass that class so he was sent to another school. I’ve heard the teachers were even worse to him there, that pupils bullied him and that he hardly finished primary school. I haven’t seen him or heard anything about him for a long time.
After I finished my studies I moved to the capital. Higher chances for success have led me a couple hundreds of kilometres away from my home town and the street where I had spent my childhood. My town, family, surrounding, conditions, and life had been totally changed and I had forgotten about Willard. Entirely.
Yesterday, I was returning home from work following the route I am accustomed to. I hardly found a place to park my car, two streets away from the building where I am living. I was standing at a traffic lights waiting for a green light when a man stopped beside me. I looked at him and he smiled with pearly white teeth. The moment he spoke I recognized him.
• Mathew? It’s you?
• Willard?
• Yes, it’s me. Hello.
• Hello Willard. Why are you here?
• I came to be a guest in a TV show.
• I’m glad to hear that Willard. When is the show on?
• Tonight in the news.
• Ill watch it. See you around.
• See you Mathew.
He was walking in front of me, so I had a chance to take a better look of him. In a suit he looked much different from his picture in my memory. He spoke more clearly and understandably, and there was not a trace of his untidiness. He was all tidied up in some “microscopically precise’ way.
I’ve heard passers-by whispering:
• That’s the guy who sold his sculpture for twenty million!
I couldn’t wait to see the evening news and the report about Willard. That made everything clear.
P.S. Priča Mikroskopsko ništa koju sam pisala kao zadatak za školu web novinarstva je prevedena na engleski jezik i objavljena ovde.
Otkako imamo istorijske podatke o zajednici u kojoj su ljudi živeli i porodici kao zajednici, pripadnici muškog pola bili su zaduženi da brinu o egzistenciji porodice, a, ako mogu tako da kažem, uloga ženskog pola je bila da se brine o deci i kući. Vratimo se samo stotinjak godina unazad, obrazovanje je bilo rezervisano isključivo za mušku decu, dok su se devojčice pripremale za spremanje hrane, čišćenje kuće, izradu ručnih radova i brigu o deci. Dobro, možemo reći da one i jesu u neku ruku predodređene za brigu o deci, majčinskim insinktom. I dok su muževi zarađivali, njihov zadatak jeste bio da ih kod kuće dočeka čisto, skuvano. One su stvarale dom, a oni su ga omogućili.
Sadašnjost je iz moje perspektive potpuno drugačija. Devojčice se ravnopravno školuju i postižu jednake rezultate, devojke, kao i momci završavaju fakultete i dobijaju stalne poslove na radnim mestima zajedno sa muškarcima. Radno vreme je za oba pola jednako, kao i plata. Neću ulaziti u pitanja ravnopravnosti, mobinga, polne diskriminacije koja postoji, jer ne planiram da pišem o tome u ovom postu.
Dakle, ako uzmemo za primer jednu klasičnu porodicu danas, poslovne obaveze su jednake. Oba supružnika su zaposlena, zarađuju i materijalno doprinose zajednici u kojoj žive. To je ono što se promenilo u odnosu na prošlost kada žene nisu imale priliku da rade i zarađuju. Ono što je ostalo isto je da su svi kućni poslovi ostali na ženama. Kuvanje, peglanje, higijena stana/kuće i briga o deci su uglavnom njene obaveze. To je ono što me iritira. Ako je pitanje egzistencije u materijalnom smislu olakšano muževima, zbog čega nije i drugi deo poslova podeljen?
Nedavno sam otišla kod druga na rođendan. Sticajem okolnosti je tamo bio njegov stariji brat, koji je oženjen i ne živi sa njima već nekoliko godina, pored kog sam slučajno sela. Malo po malo smo se raspričali. Primetila sam da im je kuća kompletno ukrašena ručnim radovima koje je napravila njihova majka, te sam je pohvalila. Tada je on počeo da priča o svojoj supruzi. Tačnije da je ogovara u negativnom kontekstu. Kako ne kuva svaki dan, kako je on prinuđen da ponekad ispegla svoju majicu, kako im je nered u kući. „Znaš“, rekao mi je vidno ogorčen, „desi se da dođem sa posla i zateknem poruku na stolu u kojoj piše kako je otišla da radi (u drugu smenu – prim. drveni advokat) i da ništa nije skuvala, već da imam spremljen sendvič u frižideru! Pa, ja bih da jedem kuvano posle posla, kad se vratim umoran! To se kod moje mame nikada nije desilo!“ Prva emocija koju sam osetila je bila sažaljenje. Žao mi je bilo čoveka koji je gladan. Kako je nastavio sa pričom a ja sa razmišljanjem o situaciji koju mi prepričava postalo mi je jasno da on ništa ne radi u kući. Njegovo je da ode na posao i donese platu, a njeno da isto to učini, plus da vodi računa o kući. Vrhunac je bio kada je rekao da je znao da će tako biti da je ne bi ni oženio. To mi je bilo previše. Nisam htela da ulazim u raspravu, ali sam kasnije razmišljala o rečenom.
U čemu je problem? Vaspitanje ili egocentričnost? Navike? Predrasude? Nacionalno ili rodno nasleđe? Šta mu daje za pravo da očekuje da ga njegova „slabija/lepša“ polovina služi? Da li joj je predodređeno da pored posla na kom zarađuje ima i „posao“ u kući?
Nedugo nakon toga sam se ponovo susrela sa istom pričom. Devojke su konstanto pod lupom. Da li ume da kuva? Kakva je domaćica? Kakve su joj navike po pitanju urednosti i higijene? E pa, ako tako gledamo, maltene se nijedan ne bi trebao oženiti. Ne znam nijednog muškarca koji vodi kompletnu brigu o kuvanju i higijeni kuće, peglanje i da ne pominjem.
Pitam se, da li ulazak žene u brak i stvaranje porodice ili početak nove zajednice nosi sa sobom i okove očekivanja bračnog druga koja se ne smeju izneveriti? Ako je tako, brak će me zaobići. Ne zato što ne umem da kuvam, peglam, spremam i ostalo, već zato što neću da služim nekog ko se na taj način odnosi prema meni.
