This story is not about love. This story is not about religion. It's not even about you. It is about benignity and how we lost it. Most of the stories stepping in into the lights with "There was once..." are quite self-satisfied like dressed well to look a part ladies at the Saturday farmer's market-place in emphasizing the way better life, world and everything that goes with it were once upon a time. Sure it was for we were in our 20's then. An old man's grudge on current youth serial models is just an envy about everything lost on the speedway to maturity.
To tell you, it seems to me that it is not important how fast you should run. It's not even important will you be able to hand the baton. It is the baton itself that is important.
What is the thing you are handing me there?
The leaves of the chestnuts in the park were brown and dry, covered all over with holes...
I am surrounded by people who had been stuffed with that talk about integrity and tolerance and integration, sticks and carrots for decades or even since the early months of 681 when this land performed on the scene as a state. We even had the war recently in the 90's. Freaking epidemic, especially because of the spots, films, books, on-air expert's opinions and all the try-to-make-me-cry articles in the daily lists that were subsequently poured on us. The leaves of the chestnuts in the park were brown and dry, covered all over with holes, because of this war, for God's sake. And we're constantly destined to not be able to perform the autumn waltz by the end of October.
I'm stuffed too. I was at risk to deny the existence of the blue color because of the UN Blue helmets. Here is a lesson about it. A lesson taught by less literate and technically intelligent people who made an attempt to hand in the baton when nobody of a reasonable mind would dare to. And...is there anybody out there?
Have a look at 1795. Remember this? Turbans and fez were into fashion on the Balkans then. The last word in hats, I say! There wasn't a mere governor on the horizon in possession of Oriental name and identity who would refuse to wear them. Oh, it had to be such a flair! Could you imagine buying a coffee, which package lacks the popular head with a fez on it? NO. NO. NO. Those were the days that brought us the coffee in a "dzhezve", prepared slowly on warm sands. This is it - slowly.
Osman Pazvantouglu prepared slowly the revolt against the Sultan's delights. It was not only about taking some heads off on random occasions. No. He had an abundance of books in his library. This is the second it - the books.
His barracks are constructed in the form of a cross. He has put a heart on the top of his mosque instead being so predictable in choosing the traditional crescent. Or, perhaps, he has just lost the taste for it. Every day the mosque looks at the Christian church across the promenade and waves a right-hand Hello to the Synagogue down the very same street.
It is the street at which one end the Muslims will bake bread for everybody in the neighborhood, accidentally prepare some baklava and halva and the Jews would teach arts when the Sabbath is over.
Have a look at them! At the bazaar square in the past day's parade, they'll mix in the flow of multicolored shalwars and even the traditionally embroidered white shirts of the Christians admitted to correspond with the Turkish fez.The synagogue has been on fire 7 times since it's construction. The community equally joined efforts to do the restoration works every time. It is valuable for its acoustic. Such a sound can be rarely found nowadays.
Each morning I'm strolling or jogging this street where the three temples form a triangle. I see people. Mainly worried, sad and nervous. People who put "an outstanding team player" in their CVs, yet unable to come to an end with one of their partners and colleagues and with almost nobody in the family. People, unable to agree on how much sugar should be added into their coffee. And people whose wardrobes will soon crack under loads of clothes in them, yet people who spend half an hour in front of the drawers in an obvious strain to choose what to wear today. Such an indecisiveness is a sign of confused spirits.
There are also those days when I meet people trying to negotiate with themselves on their own. Not the ones with the technical bug in the ear. No. It's pressing, you see. We have them every day at the book corner of the internet in ardent arguments how red is the red and is it red at all. Right. So, we had those guys back in 1795 who had a pretty substantial and reasonable baton to hand in. Is it that we lost it on the way or is it that there was nobody out there? I don't have the answer by the time this post is released. But I'll tell you what, I see both the evidence of the benignity and the lesson every day down the street of the Triangle. It is ruined and the community left it like that.
The last David has departed the other day for Jerusalem. Osman is long gone now. And the others...the others in their Sunday embroidered white shirts are in the book place to quarrel over substantial matters like should we sign the petition to save the cow Penka's life who spent 14 days in non-EU Serbia.
