GOD BLESS AMERICA

Raša Todosijević, (koregirano) final corrections

Beograd, 04. 07. 2010

Gospodin i gospodja Anderson se voze iznajmljenim drvenim čamcem po jednom pustom jezercetu. Jezero je obrubljeno svakojakim vodenim biljem koje je dobro zagazilo u plićak, zatim niskom travom a onda, četiri-pet korak dalje, gotovo neprozirna hrastova šuma. Naokolo vlada praiskonska letnja tišina. Gospodin Anderson, Bob Anderson, lenjo poteže vesla, pogledom prati let usamljene ptice, i, lepe li sreće, on nigde ne žuri. Da se Robert pita on bi najradije da peca, da zabacuje varalicu sred ove umirujuće čarolije ali Mej prezire taj, kako ona obično ume da kaže, «dozlaboga dosadan sport». Njegova draga Mej sedi na pramcu. Mej u levoj ruci drži roze suncobran koji su usput kupili na benzinskoj pumpi a drugom rukom bajagi vesla kroz bistru vodu. Mej je malčice bucmasta ženica; ima izrazito svetlu put, velike zelene oči, gustu zlatkastu kosu i mogla bi biti privlačna, pa čak i lepa da nije onih tamno ridjih i strogih mal’ ne muških obrva koje je nasledila od nekog rutavog irskog pretka. Ako bi trebalo da se pogadja svako bi smesta ustvrdio da ona nema više od 45 godina mada stvari ipak stoje nešto drugačije, dosta drugačije. Roze suncobran njenoj pojavi daje zasenčeno topli crvenkasti ton i naspram zelene šumske tame Mej izgleda veoma ljupko.

Njena frizerka Kristina, koja je, udavši se za izvesnog Travisa, naprosto nestala iz njihovog kraja, često joj je zanovetala i prijateljski je ubedjivala da podreže ili makar posvetli obrve. Mej nije htela ni da čuje za tako nešto. Travis se u frizerskom salonu predstavljao kao glavni doktor u veterinarskoj bolnici ali je Mej sumnjala u to njegovo prostačko hvaljekanje. On je njoj ličio na serijskog ubicu. Čak ni u najludjem snu niko ne bi mogao zamisliti da će se lepršava Kristina smrtno zacopati u tu mračnu spodobu besnog pogleda i vampirskih manira. Pljunuti grof Drakula.

Nekoliko meseci kasnije Kristina se iznenada pojavila živa, zdrava i lepša no ikad. Frizerkama je trijumfalno objavila da je postala udovica. Naglasila je da više neće morati da rinta niti da sluša baljezganja dupeglavih žena jer joj je njen Travis u nasledstvo ostavio kuću punu dragocenih stvari i poveći račun u banci. Eto, lakonski rečeno: Bože blagoslov

DNEVNIK, 50 OKTOBARSKI SALON, BEOGRAD

Todosijević Dragoljub Raša:

Short and embellish version of my miserable life in Belgrade

Belgrade 2009


I was born on the second day of September in the year 1945 in Belgrade, in the People’s Front Street; before Second World War the name of the street was Queen Natalia’s Street. At first, we – my honest and righteous parents and me – we have lived in Romanian Street, up there, on Dedinje Hill. Afterwards we have, and nobody knows why, moved to Šajkaška Street no. 17. You know, it’s down there, next to “Danube” railway station. When city authorities, for no apparent reasons, have crashed that beautiful edifice in Šajkaška Street, we have moved to Cvijićeva Street no. 115, close to New Cemetery. After, let’s say, ten years, and perhaps a few more, we’ve gone to the outskirts of the town, beyond nowhere, in Jablanička Street no. 21. Much later Marinela and me finally got our own flat, our own little room of freedom, on Senjak Hill, in Prahovska Street no. 4a – actually in former American Lane. When her parents had left this world we have settled downtown in General Zdahnov Street no. 9, which regained, few years ago, its old, prewar name: Resavska Street.

Erstwhile, I tried to be an air force pilot. It was in Mostar. Since I was no good at this, nor did I like the boring company of the cadets, I have returned to Belgrade. For two years I’ve took courses in drawing and sculpture in Šumatovačka Street no. 122a. Finally, in the year of 1964 I’ve enrolled the Academy of Fine Arts in Belgrade. My professors at the Academy were people of unpleasantly low talent and even lower education. There was nothing left for me but to travel throughout the world and to educate myself, the ways only I did knew, in order to be able somehow to break, with my tiny powers, the invisible bondages of omnipresent provincialism. I’ve got my studio exactly after thirty years, at the so-called Old Fairgrounds, which during Second World War was a German concentration camp. Sometimes, when in my atelier I listen to the silent music on the radio, it seems to me as if souls of murdered camp inmates are visiting me.


I was born on the second day of September in the year 1945 in Belgrade, in the People’s Front Street; before Second World War the name of the street was Queen Natalia’s Street. At first, we – my honest and righteous parents and me – we have lived in Romanian Street, up there, on Dedinje Hill. Afterwards we have, and nobody knows why, moved to Šajkaška Street no. 17. You know, it’s down there, next to “Danube” railway station. When city authorities, for no apparent reasons, have crashed that beautiful edifice in Šajkaška Street, we have moved to Cvijićeva Street no. 115, close to New Cemetery. After, let’s say, ten years, and perhaps a few more, we’ve gone to the outskirts of the town, beyond nowhere, in Jablanička Street no. 21. Much later Marinela and me finally got our own flat, our own little room of freedom, on Senjak Hill, in Prahovska Street no. 4a – actually in former American Lane. When her parents had left this world we have settled downtown in General Zdahnov Street no. 9, which regained, few years ago, its old, prewar name: Resavska Street.

Erstwhile, I tried to be an air force pilot. It was in Mostar. Since I was no good at this, nor did I like the boring company of the cadets, I have returned to Belgrade. For two years I’ve took courses in drawing and sculpture in Šumatovačka Street no. 122a. Finally, in the year of 1964 I’ve enrolled the Academy of Fine Arts in Belgrade. My professors at the Academy were people of unpleasantly low talent and even lower education. There was nothing left for me but to travel throughout the world and to educate myself, the ways only I did knew, in order to be able somehow to break, with my tiny powers, the invisible bondages of omnipresent provincialism. I’ve got my studio exactly after thirty years, at the so-called Old Fairgrounds, which during Second World War was a German concentration camp. Sometimes, when in my atelier I listen to the silent music on the radio, it seems to me as if souls of murdered camp inmates are visiting me.

Marinela i Raša na izložbi Uroša Djurića u Beogradau

1974 Studentski Kulturni Centar, Beograd

REČI DRAGOLJUB