friend – Magis Dolls

Bosnian Pot Stew

magipersic — Tue, 15 Jan 2019 13:03:06 +0000

There are times when I do not know what to cook (and cook one must). I overturn inwardly, my bowels, and I’m deaf to their ideas. I take ” disheveled scrap-scratch pad” – a home cookbook (Food network does not help) and read in the order, seeking an ideal recipe, a lottery win for that day: Branka’s chocolate cake, Ivana’s fondue sauces, Papa’s recipe for cough, Branka’s cheesecake (from another Branka), Igor’s goats , yummy lentil by Ines, Grandma’s lokum-Turkish delight, Grandma’s profiteroles, Somebody’s mint syrup, Vjeko’s stuffed pancakes, Jagor’s cake from the end of kindergarten, Homemade slice, Maca’s spaetzli, Davor’s seitan, Vesna’s biscuits, Your chutney, Amila’s tortillas, Perfect color for painting, Arnesa’s Smurfs, Pizza pastry from a Belgrade Chef, Mirjana’s cake with little cherries, Grga’s pickled cucumbers, Helen’s sticks, Spectacular Spekulatius, Beti’s Sour Cabbage, Bear goulash from wild boar, Sweet&sour à la Ivana, Miki’s yeast dough, Senad’s Grandma…

All of these listed names, were dinners, breakfasts, birthdays, celebrations with dear friends…once. We shared them together, licked both fingers and plates. By writing those recipes down, I’ve inscribed these people into my stomach too. Into my guts. Some I am still digesting, some are fermenting, and with some I still gladly cook cook.

I am in some bluish Sevdah mood today. As if I did not drink enough Donat mg mineral water. And yes, today I miss some of these old friends. From lacking, I’m hungry. My bowels fizzle hollowly. Incurably hungry, and then again satiated with everything.

Definitely, love goes through the digestive tract, and mine just swan in! Constipation is guaranteed today for somebody else, because today I’m listening, on loudest, the song from Kemal (Monteno) “Thank you all from the time of the roses” and spawning the Bosnian pot stew! If you are desirous and hungry, stop by for a ladle of melodie,salt and rosemary, former friends, future friends!

To a Friend

magipersic — Mon, 10 Sep 2018 15:05:42 +0000

Everybody should have a friend. At least one. Someone for themselves. With whom one can be silent and hunt
snowflakes. With whom one becomes and ends. Who can be found within oneself and in whom one is found. Someone
who makes the sun shine brighter and in whose eye universes circulate. Someone who lasts longer than a drop of rain
on the nose, whose touch is like dance of Gods, tenderness like cotton, breath like waves.
Yesterday I met such a friend. He was mine as much as his own. He had the cover of longing and hands dipped into
painting colors. He smelled like southern winds and smiled like a child. He was alone, as much as I was alone. And we
were alone together. He woven into me, and I overwhelmed. By blueness. By depth. Deep. Blue. Night. And then he
carried me from my dream into a vision: I saw them clearly. These small boats, canoes on the surface of his depth. Poets,
painters, writers, sculptors, dancers, singers, as they dip their brushes, quills, voices and movements into this abundance
and reshape it into their work. Separated by boats, and connected by living water. And I saw myself among them;
playful, timeless, protected, playing with incidences and forms. I create a doll from his very essence. From salt. Doll of
salt! It is my gift to him, to my biggest Friend. My favorite toy, with silent mouth that talks through silence. A rag doll.
Inside her chest beats heart of soul.

Star

magipersic — Tue, 01 May 2018 09:39:56 +0000

At each of our coffees she comes prepared, scented with its mysterious waves of silence, irony and misery. Clothed in the majesty of her smile, she throws sparks on me with her sights. Like some queen who wears her throne in her movements; gentle and cruel, spreading her ears like a small squirrel. And she does not know what to give me, and she has already given it all, so she puts a glittering item in my palm, calling it a compass, and says I always know how to find her. I stare at that little device, those copies of her universes, and I’m afraid to get lost. But she got lost. She never called again. She captured herself among the stars. Looking at that compass now, the only thing I really see is the star dust.

Saramago

magipersic — Thu, 08 Mar 2018 15:17:02 +0000

In the last few months, I have been intensively socializing with Jose Saramago. I bring his manuscripts to bed, have lunch with him, breakfast as well. Pictures he composes into sentences have the effect as if he is cutting my skin with a scalpel, incising my vessels and penetrating into the red blood cell, and the other ones too. They circle around my body stabbing into the soul. I’m powerless over that beauty. And I’m scared that it will divide me in half… those who have followed his signs in letter formations know that. To my “words friend”, who brought this treasure to my life, I have made a Blimunda doll – the character from the book “Baltasar and Blimunda” (“Memorial do convento” in Portuguese) as a memorial to all those persecuted, misunderstood, in front of their time, and those all-seeing people, who have been so groundlessly condemned just because they were different and they followed their dream…