What's wrong with their faces?

Before we begin, I must warn more sensitively, so that there is no fainting: in the text that follows, the author does not choose words, except according to the criterion of accuracy. That is, reality chooses the words, and I write them down. And no, I won't apologize for it.

They came among us, or they tried to attack us, with only one intention: to mess with our lives. And they do it from day one, constantly increasing the intensity of the diarrhea. Under normal circumstances, this is regulated by probiotics, but these are aggressive and malignant parasites, here only surgery helps - although it is much too late for her. It is not known what this can remove, and if it is not removed from the body, it will remove the body. However, not before sucking all the life juices out of him.

In the 1990s in one way, in the last twelve years in another, but with equal recklessness and inhumanity, they messed up our country until they made it impossible for a life worthy of a human being, they messed up in our cities, first some across this or that river, with weapons and hatred, and then they moved to the most domestic terrain, where they work hard and build what and where and how a smart person would not, and demolish what and where a normal person would not, and he has no right to because no one left it to him in a will. They messed with our professions, making us feel ashamed when we say that we are journalists, professors, architects, judges, doctors. They messed with our families, kidnapping our children either by sending them to perish, or by forcing them to flee to the other end of the world, or by possessing their souls and making them similar to themselves.

What happened last Friday in an instant on fourteen of the most unlucky among us - because any other fourteen of us could also have found themselves in that place - leaving them absolutely no chance of survival (which is what earthquakes, floods and tsunamis do). , because nature is wild and indifferent but not cruel and nihilistic) is not a shelter but the accumulated toxic burden of all these over thirty years in which, with one break, deposited their excrement on us and on all ours, even on our ž. Stanici - because that's what we here call it out of love and familiarity: ž. The station, or even just ž - from which we left before their time, happy because we would be back soon, and afterwards we left, at best, satisfied that we would escape them. Admittedly, they were also satisfied because the fewer there were of us, the more of them there were.

They were there on Friday, showing their amateurish grieving faces, as if someone really needed them. Only the Main one conspicuously failed, because that is his manner: he creates all the shitty situations of our lives, and then stands above them, as innocent and amazed, leaving for himself the position of the one who will judge, condemn, free, explain, console.

I looked at those faces trying to read something normal and human from them, but the more I looked at them, the less faces I saw and more asses, and the more I listened to those words-non-words, the more and more clearly I heard the accompanying sounds of bowel relief. The asses simply continued their many years of work, this time sent on a damage control mission, but this is nonsense because they cannot and do not know how to control damage all the time even if they wanted to: they only know how to produce it and pile it up until it gives way under its weight all that, once before them, was set up by civilization to protect the head of a human being from natural disasters and from human stupidity and stupidity. There is no cable in the world that can withstand so much crap and so little washing forever.

I'm not mentioning their names because you know them very well, and what's with the asses' names? But prison numbers would look good on them, as would appropriate striped uniforms. To everyone, starting with Number One. Those names are disgusting anyway, and the fact that we know them all by heart only shows how deeply we have fallen into slavery, how deeply we have sunk into the cesspool that they are still filling up. And because of that, the only truly important question is whether we will let them continue to do this to us, or whether we will finally give them a qibla in the right corner, under a tall, small window with a lattice pattern of heavy metal.

That is why, instead of the names of those who are nobody and nothing, it is better to know, if we haven't, the names of those who are somebody and something, those who built and enriched our lives, our cities, our everything. Among them is Imre Farkaš, the maestro-designer of the building of the Novi Sad railway station, which opened for traffic in 1964, a beauty from whom nothing was taken away - but that's why her human-like buttocks may have managed to take everything away from her. We were always proud of it, we loved it even when, in bad times, it fell into disrepair, but even when it was rickety and desolate, it never fell into disrepair, because well-made things are hardly perishable and completely indestructible, just as honorable and a normal man never wears his ass on his face but where it belongs.

All that master Farkaš's masterpiece needed was good ongoing maintenance, like any building, private or public, in which people reside. Well, imagine if someone closes London's Victoria or Paris's Gare du Nord for a couple of years, and then spews something of his own there, it's a sweet secret what and how and on what basis?! And those buildings are much older than Farkaš's. No "thorough reconstructions" were needed there, because there was nothing to "thoroughly reconstruct", at least so that the station would be closed once, and then again, for what it is only supposed to serve, while who-knows-what takes place in it, and we are not authorized to know anything about it, because it is not done for us anyway, but to fill both the lower and upper asses with our money, with a lot of our money, because there are also many clientelistic asses, and the more placed in the ass hierarchy, the more inscrutable they are.

photo: marija janković

Each of us has our own story with the railway station, or several, so I have them too. Maybe my favorite is this one. It was the war, sanctioned, icy winter of 1993 and 1994, Serbia was ruled by the previous incarnations, the younger versions of these same butt-faced bandits. There was not much to do, and there was especially no electricity that winter. In the end, the whole of Novi Sad was divided into only two groups: half of the city had no electricity for six hours, and then the other half, and so on indefinitely. Liberation Boulevard was one of the dividing lines; my aunt lived in the single room on the left as seen from the floor. Station, and very close to it, before "Kokra". It gets dark early in the winter, they will cut off our electricity at six, and I had no idea what to do all evening in that freezing darkness. Then I came to an idea: I took a thick book, sat down well and went to the train station, in whose waiting room, among sleeping drunkards and stray passengers from Nowhere to Nowhere, I spent six hours reading, and I felt good, the best I could then it could be. I didn't start home until midnight, foot by foot through the icy and deserted boulevard, finally waiting another ten minutes in front of the salt solitaire for them to remember to turn on the little electricity. And I was fine at the train station, I didn't feel like an intruder, even though I wasn't traveling anywhere, except in the reader's imagination. But h. was my spare home, and she gave me the only thing she had at the time: a bit of spiky light and a bit of drafty warmth. Enough, sisterly.

I thought then that we were going through the worst years of our lives. And we are, without a doubt. Not far from us, nothing died, and we survived nothing, except I guess because of the hope that this and these will come to an end. This came to an end when they exhausted all possibilities to continue it, but Ovi did not; even when it seemed that it had shriveled up, vampirized itself, put on fancy suits and threshed money - our money, and whose? They build what we don't need, because it fills their pockets. They destroy what we need, because that also fills their pockets. Even things that don't seem to tear down - tear down. It is kanda stronger than them. No one can tell you now whether the railway station will survive their devastation. In the meantime, they are also deliberately demolishing, let's say, another masterpiece of Yugoslav modernism, the Hotel "Yugoslavia". They are also tearing down the bridge over the Sava, I guess because those bridges, brother, have multiplied too much, and we don't have any of that. We, that means - they. Who knows what else will fall for their little greedy eyes. Ah yes, the one who is now playing the role of prime minister and flaunting China, of all countries, also wanted to bring down SPENCE.

What will be born from all this? Some resignation, some melodrama, maybe some prison for some... static or extra? Who knows what a serious study of statics will show. Stations. If they took it away from Belgrade, why wouldn't they tear it down from Novi Sad? Even if, as in the story, he will pull a real brick out of the wall. Maybe they see it as a great business opportunity too. To build it anew, to their own measure and taste and to the extent of their pocket. More beautiful and older, like Dubrovnik back then.

And maybe it was enough? And this spilling over all of us must come to an end. You just need to finally apply the right medicine. And we all know what the opposite of diarrhea is called.