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Showing posts with label Snezana Pisaric Milic Snežana Pisarić Milić. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Snezana Pisaric Milic Snežana Pisarić Milić. Show all posts

Wednesday, 18 October 2023

AN ORDINARY NIGHT IN TORONTO (Chapter I from the biography of "LAZAR - from a farm to Hollywood")

AN ORDINARY NIGHT IN TORONTO (Chapter I from the biography of "LAZAR - from a farm to Hollywood")

My name is Lazar. Lazar Rajić. The son of Stevka Prodanović, a woman with a restless spirit, who died during childbirth. I was only three years old. My father told me that the volcano in her soul did not give her peace, just like me. With her second-born son in her arms, whose cry no one heard, she went to the special chambers of heaven, where young people go. I am the son of Miroslav Rajić, a railway supervisor in Sombor. He was both my father and mother. I loved him more than anything in the world. But he didn't believe in me. And that hurt.

Grandson of Dada and Lazar.

Brother of Stevan.

Husband and best friend of Mona Rheauma, who left her acting dreams to me.

Then, the actor Lazar Rockwood, who, after many ups and downs, achieved the American dream.

Now, after so many years, only LAZAR.

***

This night is quite ordinary. I come home before dawn. The streetlights of Toronto remind me of spotlights and cameras that follow me closely. There is no better feeling. The snow, heavy and wet, squeaks under my cowboy boots. From the treasury of memories, they appear as ghosts of the winter of my childhood. How would these boots look in the calm, tame plain? Nohow! The peasant was not made for a cowboy.

Toronto is my city. However, I sometimes wonder if I got lost here and came to someone else's place, or if I am on my own after more than forty years. Is this my home or is my home the whole world? I belong to everyone and I belong to no one. I know that when the day will surely come, and whether this or some other land covers me, it won't matter to me or everyone else. I just know that when you leave your home for the first time, you can go anywhere. I brought photos from which I usually turn my head away so that they don't touch my heart more than they should. Once in a while, I dust the album so that my thoughts don't escape to my childhood. Because I learned to look forward. I have nowhere to go back. I admit, I had a choice. I chose the distance which suits me best. That is Canada.

Since I found out about the world, I didn't have a mother. My memories do not reach her. I was too young, but the images my soul created are so real that she seems seen and remembered. Then the emptiness becomes even greater, and the sadness comes in like a tide. Who knows, maybe she would have tied me to the home, so even today I would be walking the streets of Sombor, while the American nettle, called Bođoš, would tremble above my head like old boys in front of the eyes of young girls. She would look after my unborn children. Maybe...

Only the one who grew up with such emptiness in his heart knows what a bottomless abyss it is. An abyss that is so gaping and constantly pulling me down that only a great desire, a great dream can be an escape from such harsh reality. That lack of a mother, a being who loves you unconditionally, has followed me all my life. And I have no one to blame for that because that’s just how it was supposed to be. You get a cross at birth and you wear it as long as you live. When I was young that cross was too heavy for me, but I got used to it over time. Sometimes its weight would make my breath stop, and it still stops, and from that place in my soul where my mother was supposed to be, the one I imagined in my dreams, silence echoes.

The Indians told me to listen to the wind, or what the wind says. What winds forced me to leave, to run away, whispering that Sombor and Yugoslavia were too small for me. I wanted to see everything, to try everything, so that life would not pass by me. I didn't want to learn about life, I wanted to live life. If I were to describe where I went, with whom I hung out, and what experiences I gained, it would take a long time. I don't know what other people's experiences are. I know the most important thing, and that is - from a young age I did all kinds of jobs, but only wanted and dreamed of one thing - to become and last as an ACTOR. I would say the following to anyone who wants to make their dream come true: - There is no waste of energy. Focus all the power of thoughts on only one desire. Don't confuse the Universe with more than one. When you know what you want, then the whole Universe tries to fulfill your wish.

You are either born with or not, a constant need and a clear feeling that you have to become "someone" in life. I believe that relatives and many friends do not understand my life, nor my lack of interest in material wealth when value is solely determined by money. From the Indians, I learned that less is more and that life is incredibly easier living that way. You worry less. Great wealth is a burden and a worry.

It doesn't bother me being different, that my desires are different. That I don't fit in with friends, relatives, or neighbors. I don't mind them living different lives. Such lives are not interesting to me. Sometimes I look selfish, that's what they tell me, but if you want to achieve something - you have to be selfish! I didn't step over anyone, but I left everything that could be a hindrance on my way to the goal. That's how you rise to the surface or sink. There is no third. I endured the hardest jobs, even working in a mine, just because I had a goal. I was aware that the money I made would be used to cover the overpriced tuition at Lee Strasberg's acting school, The Lee Strasberg Theater & Film Institute. The measure of success is different. The highest peak of my success was my father's statement after watching a film that was shown on national television, in which I had the lead role:

- Look, he really did become an actor! I lost the bet.

He did not believe that I would be able to live from acting. I proved him wrong. Now I am calm regarding the future. Completely calm. Is there anything more beautiful than that? Darkness is thickest before dawn. Before sunrise, I entered my small apartment. With a glance, I send off and greet all the dear faces from the photos on the walls. I fall asleep with the hope that those who would have deported me as an emigrant to the country from which I left as a nineteen-year-old boy, buying a one-way ticket with someone else's money, will not visit me again tonight.

Monday, 19 June 2017

"Bicikl Velje Subotica" - najduhovitija satiricna prica

Bicikl Velje Subotića


Lepa je Sombor varoš. Mirna, ravničarski pitoma. Nad glavama trepere bođoši k’o stari momci pred pogledom mladih devojaka. A lipa miriše, k’o i svake godine s’ kraja juna meseca. Kafane oživele, k’o da nisu ratne godine. I to one, najgore. Društvo u kafani pije, pa pripoveda kako je u Somboru nekad bilo.
Za stolom, kraj plombiranog bođoša (tu je najbolji fijakerist na svetu, Jagra, vez’o svog Riđana),Velja Subotić, somborski pesnik i glumac zabavlja društvo glasom obožavanog Marašla s’ lulom. Onoga, u kog su se svi odreda kleli decenijama. Sada mu se smeju, a kroz smeh vrca tuga i strah.
Ode Maršal na drugi svet. Ostavi šest kćeri udavača i dve poćerke, da se snalaze kako znaju i umeju. Jedna po jedna, da ne zakasne, da je druga ne pretekne, zgrabi svoje. Mislim, ono što su htele da je njihovo. Poče otimačina. Prva se skloni pod skute stare dame. Ova je prigrli. Druga zaigra šah sa istom. Izbaciše neželjene figure. Treća, eh treća, miljenica, okrvavi ruke... i... ne bih ja više o njima.
Znamo svi, vrag odneo šalu. Stigla demokratija, čuvaj šta imaš. Ono što je preteklo. Vlasnik si samo onoga u glavi i duši, a ni to ne tvrdi da je tvoje. I za šta, i kome, može poslužiti.
- Ukrali mi bicikl mangupi, i to zaključanog! Benzina nema, a peške ne mogu. Gde će im obraz? - progovori stari Somborac, te sede za sto.
Ne zna siroti čovek da je krađa, al’da te ne uhvate, postala viteška osobina. Kada se kuća osipa i imanje deli, sve je i svačije i ničije. A obraz, seća li se neko šta to bi? Ostao na međi.
- Zato su i ukrali što si zaključav’o! Moj je u podrumu, a podrum vazda otključan, - reče Velja, držeći se onoga da je najsigurnija ona kuća koju ne zaključavaš.
Reče i zaboravi.
Jutro je. Uđe u podrum, bicikl nestao.
U kafani isto društvo. Veselije nego juče. Saznali. Ubeđuju ga da ide u policiju i prijavi. Da se policija time bavi, trebalo bi novo odeljenje otvarati.
Velja, umesto u policiju, ode niz glavni sokak, pa u „Somborske novine“ da preda oglas:
„Molim onoga, koji mi uze bicikl da dođe po pumpu, podrum je i dalje otključan.“
Objaviše.
Milo onom od juče, što i Velja osta bez bicikla. Ništa ljude ne zbliži k’o zajednička nevolja.
- Ti to ozbiljno poruči?
- Ozbiljno, nego šta. Šta će mu bicikl bez pumpe?
- Smeju ti se svi u varoši zbog oglasa. Misliš ga uhvatiti na delu?
- Ne, što bih ga hvatao?!
Sutradan, ulazi u podrum, kad tamo, stvarno, nema pumpe.
Ali, bicikl je tu. Njega je vratio!
U kafani veselje. Uzbuđenje. Veljin bicikl postade tema dana, narednih nedelja. Niko ne zna ko je to uradio.
Ali, saznalo se, kao što se sve sazna, da je bicikl, iz čistog štosa, uzeo, pa vratio, Džokej. Nekad ugledni Somborac, potom klošar po svom opredeljenju. Mnogi bi da žive k’o Džokej, al’nemaju hrabrosti.
Eto, ako nešto spasi ovaj narod, to je duh koji nadživi najgora vremena.
Šta bi od pumpe, ne zapamtih.

Ja sam, i dalje, u dilemi da li kuću treba zaključavati ili ne.



Snežana Pisarić Milić

Friday, 4 November 2016

O knjizi ŠEZDESET OBLIKA MOZAIKA LJUBAVI Zorke Marjanović Ivanović

  ŠEZDESET NIJANSI ODRASTANJA
Zorke Marjanović Ivanović


Posle prve pesničke knjige Zorke Marjanović Ivanović, Iz vratnice sećanja, stiže nam uz kišovito proleće rukopis Šezdeset oblika mozaika ljubavi. Pesme su tematski jasno određene. Ljubav je početak i kraj, svrha i smisao postojanja. Zaslužna za sve puteve i stranputice. Nekad je kletva, ponekad blagoslov. Poigrava se sa dušom, poklanjajući joj raspon od lepote ispunjenosti do bezdana praznine, jer je tanka linija od ljubavi do mržnje. Znamo da je najveća suprotnost ljubavi ravnodušnost. Ali, boli i praznina.

Thursday, 22 October 2015

"U PROLAZU" MILICA ARANĐELOVIĆ

U PROLAZU


Da zastanem,......
čula sam 
fijuke nadolezećih vetrova.
Iskosa sam ugledala i pružene ruke.
Hvataju prve opale listove ,
ove rane jeseni.
Da se zaustavim ,
stanem.
Učinile su mi se tople te ruke
slučajnog prolaznika. 

Friday, 8 May 2015

LAZAR - od salasa do Holivuda - Snezana Pisaric Milic






"SOMBORSKE NOVINE", 08.05.2015. - "Pala" prva klapa


NS "DNEVNIK", 08.05.2015. - Holivud stigao u Sombor


"NAŠE NOVINE", 08.05.2015. - Bora Đorđević kao uzgajivač marihuane


"BLIC", 06.05.2015. godine - Lazar Rockwood - Stvarno ću snimati sa Borom?!


Sunday, 4 January 2015

"SVETI JOVAN U MOM BOČARU" - MILICA ARANĐELOVIĆ

SVETI JOVAN U MOM BOČARU
Krute grane smrznutog drveća odlamale su se i mešale sa dimom lokomotive i nestajale brzo iz mog vidokruga. Oduvek sam volela prirodu. Budila je u meni najlepša osećanja. Ovo putovanje vozom činilo ju je neobičnom. Zaista je bilo hladno. Kada smo napokon sišli na staroj stanici mog rodnog sela, tamo nije bilo nikog, samo mi i neki čovek koji se srdačno pozdravio sa tatom, a nama mahnuo i izgubio se žureći u pravcu sela.
Čekao nas je još jedan put. Put do Dejkine i Majkine kuće.

Monday, 15 December 2014

"IZ VRATNICE SEĆANJA" - ZORKE IVANOVIĆ MARJANOVIĆ

                                                         

      Zbirka pesama „Iz vratnice sećanja“ je poetski prvenac Zorke Ivanović Marjanović. Istina, ne deluje da je tako. Kao da je veštinu pravljena stiha sa rođenjem u prvoj suzi donela. Sa lakoćom se stvaraju strofe, samouvereno se nižu rime, izgrađujući smelo svoj pesnički identitet. Stil je jednostavan, svima razumljiv, a opet sve je tako originalno lepo, tanano, protkano mudrostima ponetim sa kućnog praga kao i onim sticanim na kružnom putu života. Znamo da je najteže pisati jednostavno, jer su dubina i jačina lakoće i razumljivog kazivanja uvek bili mera za savršenstvo.

Monday, 8 December 2014

"ŠKOLJKA ZA MARIOLU" - SNEŽANA PISARIĆ MILIĆ

ŠKOLJKA ZA MARIOLU


***

Rekao mi je, krijući poraz u očima – Umoran sam od čekanja! Ne mogu se iz kamena piti sokovi života. Nikada te ne mogu imati, jer te nemam čime kupiti. Tvoj otac te neće  pokloniti. Napuštam naše malo selo.
Odgovorila sam tiho, dajući nadu njegovom ugašenom pogledu – Pobegnimo zajedno! Otac će nam oprostiti.
Ponovio je, odsutno, nekoliko puta - Mlada si, čekaj me... doći ću po tebe...
U mislima je već bio negde daleko.

Tuesday, 25 November 2014

"JA SAM PJESNIK TUŽNOGA LICA" i druge pjesme -VILDANA MUSLIĆ STANIŠIĆ

JA SAM PJESNIK TUŽNOGA LICA 


Ja sam pjesnik tužnoga lica , 
koji za sreću ne zna dugo već .
Ja sam pjesnik ranjenog srca ,
što za svoju bol ne zna naći riječ .

U duši svojoj sve tuge sam skrila , 
sve suze u mome oku jezere . 
Uzdahe sve ja sam popila , 
krvoločna zvijer živu me ždere .

Sunday, 27 July 2014

"NA OBALI" - NOVICA JOVIĆ

NA OBALI 


Na obali
mora
stojiš
šapatom talasa
govoriš
lepota reči te nosi
trenutkom
kruga vode
prenosi