Дечиња

На Гедора, Рагбена, Ешко, Сара, Сухамед, Мевљана,

Рафаел, Арбихан, Селвија, Мартин, Медијан, Бекир...

Мислиш ли Создателу

на сите овие дечиња

со кал под нивните ноктиња

со сјајни бели запчиња

или црни од ефтини колачиња?

Им пееш ли ноќе Создателу

на сите овие дечиња

тивки и небесни мелодии

дури спијат и сонуваат

со насмевка да се разбудат?

Плачеш ли понекогаш Создателу

за сите овие дечиња

низ дождот што тивко ромоли

по трошните лимени покриви

и нежно се лее по нивните лица

како солзи ангелски?

Мост (На Иво Андриќ)

Во снежната ноќ,

возевме крај мостот на Дрина

разговарајќи за Штајнбек, Толстој, Џојс...

И за тој стар мост, што и да го снема

ќе продолжи да постои заради тебе.

Like Jesus Himself

There is something in the Bible that we so often miss. And that is how compassionate and indignant God is when it comes to four kinds of people: the widows, the orphans, the poor and the strangers. The Bible is full of exhortations and warnings that we should treat rightly these groups of people. In other words, make sure that we provide justice for them. Isaiah 58 is a great example of that.

That’s why working in Shutka with the Roma kids and teenagers we want to remember their situation and do something about it. We want to help them practically and we want to help them understand who they really are and have their dignity as beings created by God. Every Thursday we come together with around 30 kids to play and have fun, but also to worship the Lord together and try to hear what he has to say through the Bible. What he has to say about who they are, that they are beloved children and have a great worth for Him. And for us also.

Our hearts just can’t sit right seeing a child only in his slippers and without socks or in a light sweater without a jacket going around on the biting cold. Seeing all the dirty hands and dirty faces from scavenging through the trash. That’s why cooking a nice dinner and setting the tables for those kids like someone very important is coming should not be something strange, but something normal. Cause the secret is to see the image of God in everyone and treat them like Jesus himself would come to dinner. And beside me are the unsung heroes (Dijana, Ivana, Gricko), or rather, I have the privilege to be beside them. Many times the tears can't stop from showing in our eyes...many dreams, many sighs, many wishes for these kids.

We can talk about changing communities and changing the world but we must start somewhere. So we should dare to start where we are and start small. Many times it won’t be easy and won’t be pretty. But we need to always remember: everyone bears the image of God.

Derrida on love

One of the first questions one can pose is the question of the difference between the who and the what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some things? Okay, supposing I loved someone. Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? “I love you because you are you”. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence? Does one love someone, or does love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, separates the heart.

It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is? Often, love starts with some type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realize the other person doesn’t merit our love. The other person isn’t like this or like that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are, but because they are such and such. That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what.

The question of Being - to return to philosophy – because the first question of philosophy is: What is it “to Be?” What is being? The question of Being is itself always already divided between who and what. Is “Being” someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone – singularly, irreplaceably – and one perceives that this someone isn’t x or y. They didn’t have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I’d loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.

(This excerpt is taken from the film about Jacques Derrida called "Derrida".)

Поезија (3 песни)

Пророк

Најпрво ја налепувам брадата на пророк.

Потоа ја облекувам туниката и се наметнувам со наметка.

Половината ја препашувам со појас.

На нозете имам сандали, а во раката стап.

Можеби така некој ќе слушне што имам да кажам,

можеби така на некој ќе му е гајле.

Музите се гулаб

Музите не се ниту крава, ниту слон,

ниту каков било влекач

тие не се ни јазовец ни волк,

ни златно теле. (Ниту жени се).

Тие се гулаб

штотуку прелетан над вжарен вулкан

блага сончевина има во крилјата негови,

молкот на исихастот е воздухот што го сече.

Тие се гулаб

што како низ звучен ѕид преминува

од онаа страна на видливото,

песната на ангелите му пулсира во срцето.

Кога слетува над тебе,

иако мирен,

трепериш.

Срам

Ноќва посакав темни облаци

да ја покријат месечината,

ангелска рака да ги распара

и да ги наполнат кофите и легените

на мојата душа.

Ноќва ја повлеков завесата

и се мушнав во кревет

со свртен грб како налутено дете

покриен со чаршафот на несигурноста.

Како прељубник што и свртел грб

на својата верна придружничка,

ноќва се срамам од месечината.

Никола Маџиров (5 песни)

Со тоа дека Никола Маџиров е најдобар поет од новата генерација македонски поети ќе се согласат повеќе луѓе и љубители на поезијата. Тука направив мал избор од 5 песни од неговата збирка 'Преместен камен'.

Сенките не одминуваат

Еден ден ќе се сретнеме,

како бротче од хартија и

лубеница што се лади во реката.

Немирот на светот ќе

биде со нас. Со дланките

ќе го помрачиме сонцето и со фенер

ќе се доближуваме.

Еден ден ветрот нема

да го промени правецот.

Брезата ќе испрати лисја

во нашите чевли пред прагот.

Волците ќе тргнат по

нашата невиност.

Пеперутките ќе го остават

својот прав врз нашите образи.

Една старица секое утро

ќе раскажува за нас во чекалната.

И ова што го кажувам е

веќе кажано: го чекаме ветрот

како две знамиња на граничен премин.

Еден ден сите сенки

ќе не одминат.

Градовите што не ни припаѓаат

Во туѓите градови

мислите спокојно скитаат како гробови

на заборавени циркузанти,

кучињата лаат на контејнерите и

снегулките што паѓаат во нив.

Во туѓите градови неприметни сме

како кристален ангел заклучен во

непроветрена витрина, како втор земјотрес

кој само го разместува веќе уништеното.

По нас

Еден ден некој ќе ги здипли нашите ќебиња

и ќе ги прати на хемиско чистење

од нив да го истрие и последното зрнце сол,

ќе ги отвори нашите писма и ќе ги реди по датуми

наместо по исчитаност.

Еден ден некој ќе го размести мебелот во собата

како шаховски фигури на почеток од нова игра,

ќе ја отвори старата кутија за чевли

во која ги чуваме паднатите копчиња од пижамите,

недотрошените батерии и гладта.

Еден ден ќе ни се врати болката во 'рбетот

од тежината на хотелските клучеви и

сомнежот со кој рецепционерот ни го подава

далечинскиот управувач.

Туѓите сожалувања ќе тргнат по нас

како месечина по заталкано дете.

Откривање

Веќе одамна никому не припаѓам

како паричка падната од работ на стара икона.

Расфрлен сум меѓу строгите наследства и завети

над ролетните на спуштените судбини.

Историјата е првата граница што треба да ја поминам,

го чекам гласот одвоен од созвучјето на послушноста

за мојата далечност што ќе извести.

Како бронзен споменик под плоштадот од ѕвезди сум

врз кој птиците ги вежбаат химните на надеж,

како пердув залепен врз лушпа од јајце се откривам,

за прерано заминување кој раскажува и

новиот живот што го навестува.

Домот секој ден

под шаторот на светот тајно ми се менува,

само детството е како мед

што не допушта туѓи траги во себе.

Тишина

Не постои тишина во светот.

Монасите неа ја измислиле

секој ден да ги слушаат коњите и

падот на пердувите од крилјата.

"The Sound And The Fury" by William Faulkner

I almost never write on my blog about books that I have read. I remember that the last time I did that was after reading Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s “In The First Circle”, a wonderfully written novel. This time I want to write about a book by an American author called William Faulkner, a nobel-winning author writing mainly about the normal people of America's south. The first of his books that I read was “As I Lay Dying” a book telling a story of the death of a woman and the process in which the family tries to take her body to another town to be buried. The whole book is written through a mix of narratives spoken by different members of the family and friends. The whole story developes through the eyes of each of the speakers. Really well thought and well written.

This time I want to write few words about Faulkner’s fourth novel called “The Sound and The Fury” written before “As I lay dying”. It is probably one of the most complex novels in literature and is mostly written in the “stream of consciousness” style mostly used or you can say even invented by James Joyce. Basically, the book doesn’t tell a linear story but describes the dissolution of an aristocratic southern family through four narrators.

The book is divided in four parts, each narrated by a different member of the family (3 brothers), except the last part which is narrated by a third person omniscient point of view.

The first part is written by Benjy, a retarded autistic son in the family, writing which is characterized by short and simple sentences. His part happenes in one day but what is especially hard to follow and confusing is that the story goes back to three parts of his life, all the time shifting swiftly from when he was a little child to the present when he is in his thirties and then when he was a teenager.

The second part is written by his brother called Quentin, a young man studying at Harvard who commits suicide at the end. He is the hope of the family, obsessed with the dignity and chastity of his beloved sister who ends up pregnant, left by the man and running away and marrying someone else. His inner struggle leads him up to drowning in to a river. His part is also hard to follow as he jumps back and forth between events from the past and the present day.

The third part is written by Jason, Benjy’s and Quentin’s brother, a hard working, “in your face”, greedy and cynical man. He is the only son which their hypochondriac mom loves and who takes care of the family after his sister runs away and his brother commits suicide. As part of the family we also see Quentina, the child that his sister Caddy has left and who now is a seventeen year old girl. Jason misuses and steals the money that Caddy is sending for her daughter thus profiting from her predicament.

The fourth and the last part is focusing mainly on Dilsey, a black woman among the servants, responsible for running the household. Her grandson Luster looks after Benjy, the retarded son. In the end of the story, we see Quentina finding all the checks that her mom has sent, stealing them from her uncle Jason’s room and running away with a guy from the traveling circus.

What makes this book so complex and good is Faulkner’s mastery to get behind a character and portray it so authentically. All four narrations happen in four single and separate days. Benjy’s, Jason’s and Dilsey’s parts happen in 3 consequent days in 1928 and Quentin’s part happenes in 1910. Through 4 days and a lot of going back and forth Faulkner is wonderfully weaving a story in a way in which only few writers have been able to do. That is probably why this book has been studied and analyzed so much by scholars and is one very fine piece of literature.

The Invisible

Midnight had come and gone to the city crouching around a sprawling lake. The moon had tiptoed behind the mountain's back and spilled a bucket of light down the length of its spine. The summer night exhaled through open windows and onto people comfortably stretched out in their beds, painting the scene with sound. The garbage truck groaned into being from around the corner, ponderous and slow, like some huge, panting animal. It grew steadily louder until it reached the dumpsters huddled together near the five-story apartment building. It invited a carnival of noises. Its engine growled in a rasping voice, the dumpsters, brimming with garbage complained against being dragged so roughly, clanged on metal with metal as they were fastened on hooks, rattled with glass bottles as they regurgitated their insides into the truck. The hydraulics hissed in an urgent exhalation. No human voices were heard. The garbage men had either spent their words for the day, or else the night shift had robbed them of any desire to make conversation, projecting themselves already in bed, fast asleep like the people behind the windows. The entire scene was over as soon as it had begun. This nocturnal parade of sounds lasted no more than two minutes. The dumpsters were emptied and put back in their places. The bits of garbage that had fallen out on the street were carefully collected and fed to the ever-hungry maw of the truck, and with a loud snarl it lumbered towards the adjacent alley. Silence reclined over the landscape again, as if into an old, familiar hammock. The moon kept shining, unflinchingly, onto the spine of the mountain. The people, oblivious, slept on in their comfy beds. One thing however, clung to the air. The insults that P., his mind engulfed in alcoholic vapours, had flung into his wife's face like a slap in front of their two small children. His threats of leaving her, that it's only a matter of time, that he cannot stand her and that he's an idiot for putting up with her. This stain went unnoticed by the garbage men. And even if it had, they could never wash it clean.

Excellent translation by Ivan Petrovski

Def(y)ine normal

“Hey, you should come down there later!” we are shouting and laughing as we drive. “I will, I will come for her” shouts back the guy beside the road that’s selling stuff. We laugh again. The sun is burning. People are walking in the middle of the street. “I will park the car here in this little shade”. Huh, it’s so hot. The huge trash nearby is burning. Nothing new. “Alek! Alek!” Kids are approaching me, jumping through the dry and thorny grass. Can’t see them clearly from the scorching sun. Hugs, shouts, loud. “Watch out for the thorns!” “Whatever happened to the water pump? We have no water. If we would, we could take the hose and just sprinkle all around the playground”. We hear the sound of the tall dry grass burning still far from us. Taller than us. One of the kids is riding a horse. Actually it’s a human horse. Every now and then there are small explosions in the burning trash. What can that be? Some kind of bottles under pressure? “Hey, who wants water?” The smell is getting worst and the wind is blowing dark clouds our way smelling of burning plastic. “If you don’t give him the ball I’ll take it away!” “Don’t you think we should call the fire brigade? What’s their number?” “I know” a confident little voice says. 192!” “No, that’s the police!” A bit later a truck comes and they start putting down the fire. “Come on guys, let’s go, it just smells too bad”. We are on the way. The wind is blowing. Suddenly it’s 3 trucks. Suddenly the fire is going wild just 2 or 3 meters from our playground. Not the playground! Thousands of shiny drops are attacking the flames. The battle of the elements. I hope the water wins this time. Little bit later the bottle of water is moving among the thirsty firemen. Phew! That was close. Back in to the car, my clothes reek of smoke but I’m happy. “Honey, guess what happened today?” “What? A normal day in Shutka?” “Depends how you define normal”.

Невидливото

Беше некаде после полноќ во градот крај големото езеро. Месечината веќе одамна се имаше искраднато од зад грбот на планината и сега го осветлуваше нејзиниот срт по целата должина. Здивот на летната ноќ влегуваше низ отворените прозорци зад кои повеќето луѓе удобно беа сместени во нивните кревети па сцената се одвиваше во областа на слухот. Ѓубреџискиот камион најпрво се слушна додека вртеше зад аголот, тежок и бавен како забревтано животно. Потоа стануваше се погласен сè дури не застана покрај контејнерите пред петокатницата. Тука почна карневал од звуци. Грубото брчење на моторот, влечењето на полните контејнери, звукот на удар на метал со метал додека ги закачуваа на куките, ѕвецкањето на шишиња додека содржината се истураше во утробата на камионот, шиштењето на компресијата што ја издишуваше истиот. Човечки гласови не се слушаа. Ѓубреџиите или веќе си имаа кажано се што имаше да се каже за тој ден, или ноќната смена им ја крадеше желбата за разговор и си замислуваа како се во нивните кревети и мирно спијат како луѓето зад прозорците. Целата сцена, целата ноќна парада од звуци не траеше повеќе од две минути. Контејнерите беа испразнети и вратени на место. Ситното ѓубре што се имаше претурено беше грижливо изметено и сместено во секогаш гладната уста на камионот кој повторно гласно за’ржа и бавно се придвижи кон соседната уличка. Тишината повторно се спушти како во удобна лежалка и се олабави. Месечината и понатаму го осветлуваше грбот на планината додека луѓето и понатаму лежеа во своите кревети. Само едно нешто остана да виси во воздухот. Навредите што претходно истиот ден, на истото место, П. поднапиен и ги плесна в лице на својата жена пред нивните две мали деца. Дека е само прашање на време кога ќе ја остави, дека не може да ја поднесе и е глуп што ја трпи. Тоа ѓубреџиите не го видоа, а и да го видоа не ќе можеа да го исчистат.

Norway: A surprising reaction

A tragedy happened in Norway few days ago when a 32 year old Norwegian put a bomb in front of the government in Oslo that killed 7 people and then went to a small island 30 km from Oslo and killed around 70 young people gathered for a camp. This kind of attacks happen all around the world but somehow it's stronger when you have friends in a place that has been attacked in this kind of way.

I don't want to go through the reasons why that guy did the attack but say something about what really surprised me and that was the reaction of the norwegian people. Watching CNN just an hour or two after the attack and hearing the mayor of Oslo talking about how people should stay together, don't panic and surround themselves with good friends was really something different, a tone in his voice which was rather calm and sober.

And yesterday 150.000 people gathered in Oslo for the rose ceremony to mourn and grieve the death of the people that were killed in the attacks. Everyone held flowers sending the message that Norway will continue to be a free and open country, believing in democracy and refusing to react with hate. I don't know about you but I find that surprising.

This is what a german newspaper said: "Even in their deepest sorrow the Norwegians don't get hysterical. They resist the hate. It is amazing to see how politicians and the whole country reacts. They are sad to the deepest thread of their souls. They cry in...dignity. But nobody swears to take revenge. Instead they want even more humanity and democracy. That is one of the most remarkable strengths of that little country".

And there is just one more thing that came to my mind after the attacks. There is no perfect country on earth. No country where you earn a lot of money, live a peaceful life and enjoy perfect safety.

Amy Winehouse: A Star and a Victim

Amy Winehouse was found dead yesterday. Probably from overdose and that doesn't come as a surprise to anyone. About her talent, her exquisite voice, her great songs there is no need to talk. The word that best describes all this is, "Sad".

Everyone is responsible for their behavior and choices and she had hers. She didn't drink or take drugs cause someone forced her to do that, that's clear. She wanted to sing and as she said she didn't ask to be famous. But when you are famous, when people like you and when you make lots of money from it, you kind of get hooked to it.

I remember thinking many times about her situation and feeling sorry for her. Sorry because she was a victim. Victim of the music industry, of the age of consumerism, where music can't be enjoyed simply for what it is but must be connected to money, profit, contracts, touring...How can you not feel sorry when she comes out on the stage and can hardly stand on her feet but the band is playing, she must sing, "the show must go on", as Freddie Mercury sang. Why nobody in the band and the people around her said "we are not going to continue to do this until you fix yourself?"

People would go to someones concerts to get what they want (enjoyment, high) and would not give a damn for the musician as a person. That's what we are like. And that's sad also.

Seeds of the future

Reading "Jesus and the nonviolent revolution" by Andre Trocme, I was really amazed by this short paragraph that explains the essence of Jesus' mission in a beautiful way.

"Jesus overcomes the world not by condemning it, but by saving it. He does not offer us an abstract kingdom of ideas, but redemptive actions of healing and liberation. Jesus came from God and returned to God, but only after having planted the seeds of the future: the kingdom on this earth. And Jesus the Messiah will return, because his final aim is to save the entire cosmos. There will be redemption, not just for individuals, but for the whole world. His kingdom will come fully to the earth, just as it is in heaven".

Не можеш да ја украдеш месечината

Рјокан, зенистички учител, живеел наједноставен живот во мала колиба на подножјето на планината. Една вечер во колибата влегол еден крадец, само за да се увери дека во неа нема ништо што би можело да се украде.

Рјокан се вратил и го фатил на дело. "Сигурно долго си патувал за да дојдеш кај мене", му рекол на својот непоканет гостин, "затоа не би било добро да си заминеш со празни раце. Те молам, дозволи ми барем да ти ги подарам своите алишта".

Крадецот се зачудил. Ги зграпчил алиштата и избегал.

Рјокан седел гол гледајќи ја месечината. "Кутриот човек", помислил во себе, "о, да можев, ќе му ја подарев оваа прекрасна месечина".

(Преземено од "101 зен приказна")

"Осло" + "Ибица"

Инспириран од расказот "Осло" на Тони Попов, седнав и го напишав расказот "Ибица" што одамна се токмев да го напишам. Намерно ги ставам еден по друг затоа што расказот го пишував како некаква паралелна верзија на расказот на Тони.

Осло (Тони Попов)

На улицата Кирке Гате во Осло ноќе има проститутки од целиот свет. Бели, црни, жолти, стари, млади, грди, убави. Може сешто да се види. На таа улица, 6 години по ред, услужува клиенти дваесет и седум годишната Маријама Дарбо од Гамбија. За ова време додека е на улица, запознала стотици луѓе. Некои од нив се навистина фини, како на пример, адвокатот Бјорн Колбир. Некои се грозни, како оној Грис кој грофта како свиња кога лежи врз неа и многу се поти. Или човекот со лузна на кого не му го знае името, кој постојано ја пцуе. Најчуден меѓу нив е Тангбранд, пасторот на една малечка црква во близина. Тој и плаќа само за да зборува со неа и секогаш и носи топол чај во термос. Само тој од сите тие луѓе знае дека таа е од селото Кер Аулди, дека има болни татко и мајка, три помали сестри и едно братче, на кои Маријама им испраќа пари. И само тој (иако таа тоа не го знае) секогаш кога му се моли на Господ за неа, плаче.

Ибица (Алек Маџаровски)

Веќе три години проповедникот Брајан Хисли и неговото семејство живееја на островот Ибица. “Господ ни даде посебно место во срцата за овој остров”, велеше тој кога ќе го прашаа зошто одлучија да се преселат токму таму. Но, неговиот пристап беше поинаков. Наместо да проповеда во некоја црква, тој ноќите ги минуваше по улиците на Сан Антонио обидувајќи се да им помогне на пијаните млади туристи да си го најдат хотелот или сместувањето, разговарајќи за животот и за верата со секој што беше расположен за тоа. Речиси секогаш имаше неколку доброволци што беа дојдени на Ибица да му помогнат во неговата работа. Со неговата жена Стејси одеа на смени. Една ноќ тој остануваше дома со децата додека жена му и тимот одеа низ улиците, додека другата ноќ дома остануваше таа. На улиците преполни со пијани Англичани и млади од целиот свет, дојдени на островот желни за разврат и забава, каде се мешаа звуците од ноќните клубови и баровите, тие се среќаваа со разни луѓе. На пример, таму го запознаа Мајкл од Глостер, Англија, чија девојка го остави само после два дена поминати на островот и кој не можејќи да стои на нозе со пиво во раката им раскажуваше како неговиот живот нема повеќе смисла и дека размислувал за самоубиство. Таму го запознаа и Карл од Јамајка, кој работеше во еден бар а и растураше дрога, не можејќи да се врати дома. Или пак Карен од Ирска што не можеше да престане да плаче не знаејќи да објасни зошто и која подоцна им го исповрати целото задно седиште на колата.

Таа вечер тимот отиде на една од плажите каде што работеа африканските проститутки. Плажата беше настрана од другите плажи во центарот на градот, како и меѓу проститутките да имаше расна поделба, нешто што всушност беше точно. Монифа, беше дваесет и седум годишна девојка од Нигерија што веќе цела година работеше на Ибица давајќи услуги на таа изолирана плажа. Додека стоеја заедно со Оморосе, уште една девојка од Нигерија, забележаа како им се приближува еден бел средновечен маж. Во раката држеше грст бели рози. Кога им се приближи на неколку чекори погледите им се сретнаа. Во очите на Монифа немаше ниту флерт, ниту одглумена страст, туку само тажна празнина. Веќе ги делеше помалку од еден метар кога човекот неспретно зема една од розите и ја подаде на Монифа и со несигурен глас и рече, “Убава и скапоцена си во Божјите очи”. За момент сè беше тивко. Само малите бранчиња тивко удираа по брегот а месечината како нем сведок висеше на летното небо. Месечината беше таа што ги осветли солзите, солзите што се тркалаа по лицето на Монифа и солзите што се тркалаа по лицето на Брајан.

Државата го уби или не?

Се уште е актуелен случајот со убиеното момче кое во неделата вечер, додека траеше прославата на политичката партија што победи на изборите, беше претепано до смрт на самиот плоштад од страна на вработен во МВР. Уште следниот ден почнаа протести на улиците против бруталноста на полицијата и за откривање на сторителот. Разгледувајќи ја целата ситуација не можам а да не ги споменам следниве работи:

1. Зошто МВР цели 24 часа и повеќе одрекуваше дека станува збор за убиство и се обидуваше да го прикрие случајот? Кога рекоа дека било пријавено мртво момче беше речено дека кај него немало траги на насилство (каква иронија). Зарем е можно МВР да не знае за што станало збор а таму имало очевидци што го виделе целиот настан? Дури потоа, кога се изврши медиумски притисок и кога почнаа протестите и кога се пријавил сторителот рекоа дека ќе бидат преземени соодветни мерки. Она што ме интересира е следново: Дали ако не се извршеше притисок ќе се прикриеше целата работа?

2. Дали државата го уби детето или не? Од една страна, државата секако дека не го уби детето, зашто се работи за поединец (вработен во МВР) што убил некого како изолиран случај. Но од друга страна, јас ли го вработив тој човек или државата? Така што, држвата и МВР да поминат без апсолутно никаква одговорност би било нонсенс. Работодавецот на тој човек мора да сноси морална одговорност.

3. Она што мислам дека предизвика да се вжешти атмосферата меѓу младите е фактот што вакви случаи (секако не толку екстремни што завршиле со смрт) се имаат случувано многу пати кога припадниците на алфите се имаат однесувано "несоодветно" па така тоа незадоволство се таложи веќе неколку години. Свесни сме за профилот на тие луѓе и за нивното однесување па кога се случи последново реакцијата беше, "До кога?!! Што е следно?!" Да не зборуваме и за стравот од полицијата наследен од времето на социјализмот.

4. Колку заслепен треба да си од политичките фактори во земјава за веднаш после почнувањето на протестите да кажеш дека имаат политичка позадина? Младо момче било ноншалантно претепано и убиено од припадник на полицијата. Дали треба да сум член на партија за да се разгневам и протестирам?

Три минијатури

Никој ниту да праша

Имаше две грицкалки за нокти, една пена за бричење, едно кутивче неотворени жилети, три ролни селотејп, два шпила карти во пластична кутија, една тубичка суперлепак и две батерии од еден и пол волт врз картонската кутија зад која на земја седеше брадосан стар човек и гледаше неодредено во луѓето што минуваа. Но никој ниту да застане, никој ниту да праша.

Однатре

Велат дека тоа што поларната мечка ќе го улови и ќе го изеде за време на пролетта, треба да и трае сè до следната пролет. И јас како неа, ова априлско утро, ги отворам сите сетила и лакомо ја впивам пролетта во себе, со надеж дека на зима ќе раззеленам...однатре.

Изговор

“Ќе одам да го фрлам ѓубрето” реков, како изговор да излезам и да ја помирисам расцутената праска.

Am I the brother of the lost son?

Yesterday I preached about the story of the prodigal son from Luke 15. Two days ago when I wrote on facebook that I will speak about that someone said (I think my finish friend Laura) that I should post it on my blog so others can enjoy it.

A short version of what I said would go something like this...

Almost everyone that reads the Bible or has read it at least ones knows the story of the Prodigal Son. How a father has two sons and the younger one asks for his part of the inheritance, he gets it and then goes and spends it. After some time he is hungry, lonely and devastated and decides to go back to his fathers house. He comes back wanting to be just a slave but the father receives him as his son and puts on him new clothes, he gives him a ring which means that he restores his sonship and throws a big party (with lots of meat).

The older son, who has been working on the field, coming back home hears the joyful sounds and is confused. He is informed that his father is throwing a party because his brother is back. Then he gets angry and doesn't want to join the party. His father comes to him and asks him what's the matter. The older son says that he is working like crazy all the time and he never got a treatment like this. Then the father says something very important, which is crucial to our story. He says, "My son, you are together with me all the time and everything I have is yours".

First, the older brother thought that the father was not fair. That he was not treating them equally. But if we think little bit deeper and if we compare the father with the Father God (something which is obvious in this story), then we will come to the conclusion that God's grace is not fair, that God's love is not fair cause it gives us generously something that we don't deserve. So if we have been given grace and love we shouldn't be angry when that same love and grace are extended to other people. Something which is not easy cause I felt for the older brother many times when I would read the story. :)

Second, he said that he is working like crazy and that he never did anything wrong towards his father. We have a picture of a obedient, hard-working, respectful, good guy. And that is ok. It's great to be someone like that. But his problem was his picture of his father. He lived in the same house with his dad but he still saw him as a slave master. (But his dad was definitely not a slave master and a controlling person cause when the younger son asked for his inheritance he didn't say no which speaks something about him).

My point is this. The way we see God will determine the way we will live. If we see him as a slave master we will always unconsciously try to work hard to please him. We will think that we suffer and work hard for him, never asking for a "party", trying to be nice people, always positive and ready to help. We can do all those things and still not be happy and fulfilled. When we understand that God takes pleasure in us even before we do anything for him then we are free to enjoy God and enjoy life. (Even before Jesus did a single miracle the Lord said, "This is my beloved Son and I really like him"). I think that in that "everything I have is yours" there is not only a material provision but a quality of life, a life of freedom and joyous participation.

One question that we can all ask ourselves is this, "Do I enjoy life? Am I excited for being alive and serving God?"

I hope that this makes sense and I pray that everyone of us will understand that "all I have is yours". Amen.

p.s. While looking for some photos to put with the post I found this wonderful poem called The Second Prodigal.

He was lost too,

although he could not see it,

for he had stayed at home, was

loyal, hard working,

steady...

but lost.

*

Trying all the time

to prove himsel,

he put in long hours,

denied himself

all pleasures,

lost himself in toil

and busyness.

*

He was lost,

but somehow he didn't know

that he had

cut himself off .

Our relationship suffered.

I longed for him

to be home.

*

He was as lost as his brother

a second prodigal,

upright and clean living,

but lost,

so consumed with doing,

that he forgot

how to be

my son.

*

...and I am still waiting

for him to come home....

*

is this you??

Someone to hate

Today, the whole world is echoing with the news that Osama bin Laden is dead. And there are thousands americans celebrating on the streets. I'm not interested in politics and I don't want to be pro or against but that makes me think.

When 9/11 happened there were few thousand people killed in the attack and that is sad. It's sad when anybody dies. And then we all know that the war against terrorism began and so on. It was such a big thing. It was said that Osama was the guy responsible for that which is probably true. It's good for the people to have someone that they can blame, someone that they can hate, right?

But my question is this. Do you know how many kids will die in Africa today because of starvation and lack of medicine and nobody makes a big deal out of it? Do you know how many kids were abducted and turned into killers in Uganda and other african countries and nobody cares? Do you know how many kids are forced to child labour and nobody gives a damn about it? And we can do something about this. But we don't want to.

Human lives are human lives. We are all equal and there are no first class world citizens and second class world citizens. In the eyes of God we are all the same. So seeing people celebrating the death of the "bad guy" who is a threat to their comfortable life and rich provision of oil makes me sick.

Без душа (Томас Бернхард)

Се додека лекарите во болницата се интересираат само за телата, а не за душата за која очигледно не знаат ама баш ништо, болниците ќе мораме да ги нарекуваме не само институции на јавното право, туку и институции на јавното убиство, а лекарите и нивни соучесници. Кога телото на некој самостоен научник од Отнанг кај Хаусбрук, кој бил упатен во болница поради некоја таканаречена необичност, му било целосно прегледано, тој, како што напишал во писмото до стручното медицинско списание Лекар, прашал: "а душата?", на што лекарот, кој го прегледувал телото му одговорил: "бидете мирен!"

We have a Father

I write this mainly for my friends from Glasnost but anyone is welcomed to read it. I think that it is both relevant and important at this time. I took the text from a book called "The Healing Path: Overcoming The Wounds Of Slavery And Orphanhood" by Robin Pasley. Probably it will be followed up by few more texts from the same book.

"Orphanhood entered our lives in two ways in the Garden of Eden. No only was the enemy hoping to bring a physical and spiritual separation from the Father through Eve's sin of disobedience, but he also intended to plant the seeds of doubt about the character and nature of God into the mind of all human kind to come. When we ask, "does God have a place for me?", we unearth this doubt of God's character.

Think about it. We all struggle at one level or another to believe that God is really good to us and that he really approves of us, don't we? We also struggle to really believe we have a Father who loves us unconditionally - that is, regardless of our failures. If we have ever attended a church service we've probably heard that God loves us, and most of us would say we like the idea, but we still have trouble living like he loves us. This struggle can pursue us even after we have decided to follow Jesus and receive his love for us. Even as believers we still act as though we may have to go out and scratch and fight and kick our way to a place of accomplishment in order to be noticed and have any secure place in this world. This is the orphan spirit at work inside of us.

When we have not lived into the truth that we are loved and accepted unconditionally, we will reach out for other kinds of acceptance. This deep cry for a place in the world transforms itself into an external need to be received and embraced by others in order to feel like somebody. This need, when allowed to flourish in us, becomes what we call the "fear of man".

The fear of man is in contrast to the fear of the Lord. When we say "fear" we are not talking about terror, we are talking about respect. We respect the edge of a high building not because the edge of the building is terrifying, but because if we walk past the edge we will be terrified at the consequences. The fear of God is like this. We don't fear him because he is terrifying - in fact, we know him as pure Love - but we do fear him because of the consequences of living past the edge of his pleasure and approval".

I belong to the world

The other day, on National Geographic, I somehow stumbled upon a show called "Long way down" where Ewan McGregor and another guy travel on bikes from Scotland all the way down to Cape Town, South Africa. I must say that I was captivated by the show. Now I'm in the middle of watching the six episodes and I enjoy it so much. Just to be able to travel and explore, learn, meet people, experience life firsthand I think it's amazing. The landscapes, the history, the people, the nature, the adventure...

All that is great, but there is one thing in particular that is very interesting to me. Driving through Sudan, I think, they met this english guy riding a bicycle through the wilderness/dessert who said that he left England 13 years ago and has crossed the Atlantic with a paddleboat, crossed America on rollerblades and now is cycling through Africa. Later they met another couple who have been on the road for 9 years, been almost all around the world. Later still, they met this young british guy who is traveling alone from Cape Town all the way through Africa. Last summer in Ohrid we met an austrian guy who cycled from Austria and was on his way to Greece. He told me that on the road he met with two more guys. One of them was traveling from England to Istanbul and the other guy from Portugal to Vietnam, a trip that should take him 3 years.

Now, we can say that these people are crazy and maybe irresponsible, that instead of building a career they are just playing games. Some people will admire them and say that's great but it's not for them. Some might say that you have to be an adventurist by nature and that they are just pursuing their passions, which is great.

First of all, something deep in me admires these people. There is no doubt that they are adventurists but I think that there is something more to that. At least that is what I think. What if this people revolt and rebel by traveling. What if they have sensed deep inside that they are created for something more than just an urban existence, living in concrete jungles, consumed by consumerism, shallow relationships and pretending. They don't have to have that all figured out but they are still doing it.

And there is also the urge to get to know and experience the world. To observe and to experience the creation. I'm thinking a lot about that lately and I can say that that is not vanity, that is nothing sinful, provided that you have your life centered on the Divine Center.

That is why I'm not ashamed to say that I belong to the world. The world that the Creator didn't despise and will one day redeem. I belong to the human race for whom He gave the best he had.

madzar32@hotmail.com (a short story)

More than ten years ago, I think it was the winter of '98, when the global network was still into its childhood years, and far from the 'peeping tom' years that followed, I opened an e-mail address. Actually, my friend M. that worked in an internet-cafe opened it for me. "Try with madzar" I told him, "because of the surname". "It's busy" answered M. after checking on the computer. "Is madzar32 ok?" he said. "It's all right" I told him without even thinking.

Now, all that would have been long forgotten and the e-mail address would have drown into the sea of zeros and ones if I deleted it, but I didn't. And now, especially now, something is intriguing me. The number 32. You ask why. How can a two digit number upset me. What is so threatening in that number? Actually there is. Because as I write this, there are just two hours left till my 32 birthday and that little detail, that worthless number doesn't give me peace. All kinds of scenarios are running through my head. Is there any meaning to the number? Can it be that my friend M. was led by an unseen force, a whisper in his ears to choose that number? Is something bad going to happen, an accident perhaps?

* * *

The night is cold and the sky sprinkles light snowflakes that hesitantly fall to the ground before they are gone forever. (Maybe they hesitate and fall sadly cause there is no one to watch them, no one to be amazed by them). The clock on my lap-top shows 00:41. That means that it's already my 33rd birthday and I'm still alive. Now I can peacefully write the last sentence of this short story, close my lap-top and go to bed.

sleeping.little.face.

Meditating on life while watching the face of your sleeping child. So comforting...so hopeful...

Dancing with the Bible in her hands

It takes just few seconds of the hip-hop and R'nB beats and the bodies start to move. Immediately the rhythm that flows through these kids veins starts to pump and express itself in movements. And there, among everyone, is this tiny dark-skinned girl, almost half the size of everyone else. Dressed in a cute violet Nike outfit she is moving like a professional break-dancer stealing our attention and smiles. She is shining, all carefree and alive. When we watch her dance we become alive too. Someone gave her a Bible with pictures. And she is dancing with the Bible in her hands. What is this girl made of? Dancing like this. The night is cold and the night is dark. The future is much like the night. But she is dancing. With the Bible in her hands.

No matter what they do, your kids will always be your kids. You will always love them. So make space, my heart, make space for many kids! Spread your wings and receive them. Don't complain of the smelly kids, don't complain of the loud and wild kids. Don't look down on them, don't get proud my heart. And let mercy and love flow like a river. Let them flow like a great flood from our hearts. Let the love of our Perfect Parent come among us. Cause we are dirty, and we are wild, and we are smelly, but he loves us. Let the love and the kingdom of our Daddy come! And we will dance, right here, in the trash, we will dance, with Bibles in our hands...

September 8, 1960. Nativity of Blessed Virgin

Importance of being able to rethink thoughts that were fundamental to men of other ages, or are fundamental to men in other countries. For me, especially - contemporary Latin America - Greek Patristic period - Mt. Athos - Confucian China - T'ang dynasty - Pre-Socratic Greece.

Despair of ever beginning truly to know and understand, to communicate with these parts and these distances, yet sense of obligation to do so, to live them and combine them in myself, to absorb, to digest, to "remember". Memoria. Have not yet begun. How will I ever begin to appreciate their problems, reformulate the questions they tried to answer? Is it even necessary? Is it sane? For me it is an expression of love for man and for God. An expression without which my contemplative life would be senseless.

To share this with my own contemporaries.

Thomas Merton wrote these words in his diary 50 years ago but it's like describing my heart today.

Good world/Bad world

More or less, everyone wants a better world. I think that even the Christians (at least I’m qualified to talk about them) who most of them believe in going to a better place one day and to a certain degree despise this world, still, maybe even unconsciously, crave for a better world here and now. A world where things are as they should be, with meaningful relationships, with peace and harmony, where beauty surrounds us and we enjoy it to the full. But faced with the reality of the world, it takes just few minutes to get disillusioned and discouraged. You immediately want to give up on it. Even if I have to, how can I change so messed up a world? I’m fighting to survive and doing my best not to hate the people around me, people (victims) stuck in the system of injustice and not very different than me. Not to hate the dark side of human existence (can I call it sin?)

Most of us won’t be presidents of countries and in a position to decide about huge issues of environment, ecology, economics, war and things like that. But the question is, do only those kind of people decide where the world is going? Do I have a part to play in changing the world? When I was a kid, I remember watching those coca-cola commercials with their “the whole world” feeling, with all kinds of faces and people, and I felt for the world, I had a vision that the world can be changed, honestly. Maybe it sounds foolish, but that’s how I felt.
I think that everyone, no matter how small he or she feels, has a part in changing the world. Now, I don’t think I can explain well why I think like that, but that’s what I think. My conviction is that every little attempt to do something good, to change the world for good is not going unnoticed by God who created that world. Every smile and kind word to an old lady, every little gift given with love to someone, every tree planted, every poem written (about your beloved, or about someone who fought for justice), every hug given to an orphaned child, every tap on the shoulder to a discouraged friend…they simply can’t go unnoticed. Maybe they will go unnoticed by the people around you, but not by God.

Having this in mind, I decide to go for it. I’m going to believe that I glorify God when I treat his creation (the earth, the people) with respect. I’m going to continue to do small things in spite of what those around me say. If that means collecting my coins for the Roma kids in the “Little Friends” preschool so they can go to the zoo or have a cake for their Christmas party, or give some money for kids and people in a small mountain village in Uganda so they can have blankets or go to school, then I will start there. And the opportunities are many. The point is just not to stay passive knowing that it matters to God.

thinking.talking.writing.

Probably a week ago I started reading Thomas Merton’s diary, or a selection of his best entries called “The Intimate Merton” (thanks to my finish friend Laura). I must say that he inspires me. He says some things about writing and journaling, which really helped me.

I’m 32 and I want to write. I want to write but I’m fighting a feeling, or a thought, that there is no point in that. In our time, in these years filled with so many voices and thoughts, expressed in all kinds of mediums, who cares about what I have to say. There are smarter people than me in any area of interest. And it's not only that but many times I wonder if it's smarter to remain quiet and just say few but chosen words.

If I try to search myself and find out the real reason why I want to write, it’s not hard to find that I want to write for people to read what I write. Do I want to write so I can get some self-validation from the opinions of others? Sure. I have no false humility about that. But the motives are definitely mixed and can’t be discerned so easily like black and white. Of course there is also a desire to inspire someone, to encourage or challenge someone, to change something with the writing, so not all is egotistic.

There is something else. I feel like I’m good in different things but I’m not a specialist in one. That is a frustrating place to be cause you don’t feel competent in one specific area and that affects your picture about yourself. Even in theology, an area that I love and I’m familiar with, I don’t have a degree or any paper that says I’m a specialist in that. But on second thought I’m not sure if I dislike that position. Maybe if I’m a specialist in only one area that would make life little bit more boring, who knows?

But I’m in my thirties, the melting pot of desires, visions, ideas, motivations, and hopefully the refinement of all those things is successful and I enjoy life in fullness. Not that I’m not enjoying my life now, but I expect a lot of the present frustration to leave as things and motives are refined.

This makes me think of the present moment and living life in the “now” which is another subject and I will write about that in another post.

Masters of war

This is what Bob Dylan sang in 1963.

Come you masters of war
You that build the big guns
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks.

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly.

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain.

You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion'
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud.

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins.

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
That even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do.

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul.

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand over your grave