Tralala zura nje gale
Edhe nje, u bene dy
Tralala zura dy gala
Ato duan shoqeri
Tralala zura tre gala
Porse kater ku t’i coj
E zeza me gjet belaja
Keq t’i mbaj, keq t’i leshoj
Une llois e ato hop pese
Gjashte, shtate nje mori
Tralala doja nje gale
Kam perreth nje lukuni
Kendej sqepa andej glasa
Pupla e xixa plot shkelqim
Une me galat u ksehasa
Tralala deri ne agim
My friend,
I am out of moves.
No left, no right
no up or down
no back or front
everywhere cars
and pawns that block my way
I am done.
I like my name. It has a dual nature, just like ever other element of what makes me. It is difficult to understand at first for many people. Then they spell it and laugh at how easy it is. It is a pretty simple denominator of a bygone era. It is a bit out of fashion but it has never really been in fashion either. It does not inspire ethereal dreams or dangerous thoughts of fatality. It is what it is and it cannot be made any better or worse. There is no need and no reason to change it or alter it in anyway. It is the only thing by which I can be called.
Or that is what I thought.
Listening to my little nephew call me “auntie” and my sister call me by my “easy” name I realize that I have changed already. I have entered another stage of my life, where I am not an individual anymore, but a brick of my family structure. As timeless as I like to think of myself, along comes this new entity and messes up everything. I can’t think of my mom as mom anymore but as “granmammy”. If I call her “mom” he looks at me puzzled. That is not mom, the lovely younger creature that I protected fiercely and simultaneously hid from all my life is mom now. Daddy is now someone younger than me!
The rest of the family seems to have settled in their new skins without any outward signs of trouble. They have made room and rearranged themselves for this little terror without thinking twice. It all seems so natural and they can’t seem to remember a time without him. I have been caught between my desire to give in, to please and enjoy with the rest, and my scaredy cat brain terrified of any changes, that feels like another chip is off my identity as an individual. I find myself afraid of the word “aunt”. Not because I look the part. Well maybe I do look the part, but I am not worried in that respect.
Aunts have historically been strange. Black sheep aunt, rowdy aunt, spinster aunt, sister-aunt, bonkers aunt, hot aunt, creative aunt, witchy aunt, cookie monster aunt, ATM aunt, auntie dearest. It all feeds into the mystique I want for myself and the place I would once like to occupy in the family history. You know, THAT Aunt. But nobody told me it was going to be like this, so Alice through the rabbit hole. I am an aunt, a (much) younger generation is born, and my family, my anchor in stressful times has been altered right under my nose.
He does not accept no for an answer. He does not acknowledge or even notice the reluctance but climbs right on my lap and gives me a kiss in the nose. He does not know how to kiss yet so it is just an air smack, but it makes me feel warm. He settles in my lap and expects me to “read” the colorful book with four pages and ten words he shoves under my nose. Somehow it is a more difficult read than War and Peace. Usually I have to read and think a lot to get what the author has to say. Then, to show my intelligence and womanly maturity, I have to discuss it with other impossing figures while nonchalantly but uncomfortably perching on bar stools and inhaling secondhand smoke. Here, I have to look at illustrations and speak in different voices. He soaks it all up and “helps” me over the difficult parts. He knows them all by heart.
I love it. I am terrified of it. I like holding his hand in mine, and being pulled as an argument into the “going at daddy’s home” war. I like to know that he wins arguments with all, but can’t stand up to cookie monster. He always does what I say even when he doesn’t.
So yes, another change has happened. We did not know about it before, and everybody seems to have forgotten it as soon as they noticed if they noticed it at all. We have been replaced by pod people. I am now another thing and another thing I am called by.
You ask why I don’t like reality
I say because
I like to be something magic
Not something crazy
You ask why I am not in your head all the time
I say because
I like to rest now and then
being an idol is tiring work
You ask why I am not larger than life
I say because
your eyes can only see my body
and your soul is asleep
You ask why I have an answer to everything
I say because
You always ask the same questions
and I like to stir the pot
http://prishtinapoeticmemories.com/indexsh.html
I normally don’t attend many Albanian book promotions, unless I am specifically invited, know the author or I am helping in some capacity. I prefer to stumble upon books on my own, to pick what I like and express my opinion. Instead, during these book promotions I have to smile, compliment something I haven’t read, or be appropriately impressed at meeting “great writers” who can only be deciphered by the old ladies in their villages of yore.
Furthermore, when I want to support, inviting other people to these events (even with the lure of free cheese and wine) becomes a dreadful chore. The location! the circulating “great minds”! the mangled Albanian and English! the hopeful look in the poor author’s eyes! the horrific, coma-inducing “presentations” and “book analysis”! the rabid egoes! etc etc etc…
One could argue that the attitude described above is probably keeping me and other “connoiseurs” from enjoying some geniuine good work and supporting books I would otherwise “inhale” in one sitting. However, enough pretenders have squandered my time, attention and money, that diving through drivel to find that one “rough gem” has become physically impossible.
Anyway, I went to the “Prishtina – Poetic Memories” promotion simply because it was hosted by Fadil Berisha’s studio and I was guaranteed meeting a friend or two. And yes, free cheese and wine were a factor too. I told some people about it as well, and curiouser and curiouser they showed up.
I am glad that I went. I had surmised from the invitation that the book was indeed a collection of photographies, and it was. While I have never been to Prishtina, the book evoked a feeling of nostalgia and simplicity, and the author was pleasant enough that I bought it. I browsed some pages when I was mingling with the other participants and I enjoyed it.
The “author” (I use the term loosely because Ms. Shijaku was actually the curator who collected, selected and printed the pictures of the Prishtina museum) was very pleasant and kept her introductionary speech to a minimum, without (gasp!) hailing herself as the next best thing to sliced feta, or as the greatest patriot since Ismail Qemali. The participants were mainly young, learned and interesting, and most (unheard of) bought the book simply because they were intrigued by it.
The book has a simple monochromatic cover with only a splash of light blue, and the pictures inside are black and white. It did remind me of old Korca for some reason, even though the two cities are probably nothing alike. My favorite picture is Nr. 76, (spoiler alert!) that shows a young boy drinking from a public water fountain in the middle of a cobblestone street with old and low houses. The fountain is almost as big as a house and totally out of place in that environment, which makes it very intriguing to me.
Kudos: Keeping it simple and unpretentious. The simplicity permeates the whole book and makes it easy to connect to, especially if someone grew up in the stony and rundown streets of Balkan cities like me. The map was a great way to extend an invitation to visit Prishtina, possibly with this book book and camera in hand. I also liked the fact that the text was in four languages, all given the same amount of space in the book.
Suggestions: for a Prishtina virgin like me, it would have been better if the author had chosen to go with her original idea (include photographs of the same locations in modern times). While the photographs were interesting, I would have liked to have that perspective from past to actual times. Also, I would have preferred that the captions were included with the photograph, instead of being listed at the end. Possibly a couple of sentences with memories, or why the author chose to feature that particular photograph.
Conclusions: Although, there is room for improvement, the book is well-made and a very good tool for the people who need retro inspiration, historians, nostalgics and curious bunnies like me.
If you would like to know more, please click here:
Dear unknown cop in the subway, who keeps staring at me like there is no tomorrow.
Don’t think I did not notice that you took a ride just to make sure that I was the same girl you had gone out on a date so many years ago. Don’t think I don’t know why you got off at the same stop as me, or why you wanted to say hello. I have not forgotten your face either. I just can’t get over the fact that a little unknown man would shape part of my life with just one thoughtless comment.
I have always loved blond hair. I don’t know if it was because I was blond as a child and felt cheated when my hair turned brown in puberty. Or maybe because true blond hair is relatively rare in my country and therefore much prized.
As I grew up, Marilyn and her figure entered the picture and I was hooked once more in the whole blonde thing. I wanted the bust, I wanted the glamour, I wanted the big platinum hair and the attention. But of course, being blonde was also risque. People classified a blonde girl automatically as one of “those”. If a good girl from a good family with honest brown hair turned blonde overnight, she “had done something”, “gotten off the handle” and was possibly “beyond redemption”.
My family didn’t help. My mother and grandmothers all belonged to the “water and soap” school of beauty for good girls. They gave me good genes, and that should have been more than enough for me. The more my grandma boasted of how her genes were too strong and had won over the blonde side of the family, the more I despaired. The stinging sarcastic comments of my cousins didn’t help. I could not bear to be defined as “sheep/goat hair”, “spotted cow” “peroxide washed brains”, “Factory blonde” and other endearing terms usually used for blonde-ish and blonde-wannabes around us.
But I wanted to be a blonde.
So I started surreptitiously. Unfortunately, various experiments with chamomile tea, lemon juice and sun, beer and mayonnaise did not help. My hair became shiny and soft, but it still had the wooly brown qualities I was waiting so hard to get rid of. By the time democracy came and hair color finally lost its stigma, I was all ready for the bottled gold of Revlon and Wella. Still, I aimed to be “classy” and “natural” (like ignoring dark roots and burnt ends was the right way to go).
By the time I came to the US, I had achieved the epitome of what I thought of as beauty. I had long blondish big hair, I could fit into a 6, and wore miniskirts with black tights in winter to great success.I could blend in with the blond-haired, true Americans in TV! Just like Madonna and Pamela Anderson.
Instead, New York in the 90ies appeared straight out of puritan country with girls in long pencil skirts, high thick heels and turtlenecks. There was a visible effort to hide boobs and iron hair within an inch of their life. All I had gotten right was the blonde (but highlights) and monochromatic outfits.
Anyway, I had pretty much acclimatized, when you and I met one St Patrick’s eve, drinks in hand and coy smiles on our lips. You asked me out and I said yes. I confess that I have always had a weakness for men in uniform. I wore my best short skirt, heels and made my highlighted hair fall in ringlets around my face. So there I was at an American bar, with American style hair, having an American date with American beer and an American boy. Yay me!
Then you asked me why all Eastern European girls had a tendency to dress in short black skirts, dye their hair blond and curl it like it was 1985. All my American dream came shattering down. Why was it so easy to detect me, single me out and group me with Eastern European girls? I wasn’t American enough for you?
Shallow, I know. But I cut my hair within an inch of their life during the following week. Time for a change, I said. My hair needed a rest, I said. It was too expensive. Hard to maintain. Men did not like long blond hair anyway. So passe.
As the years went, I also went through different styles, colors and dates. Did not dare to go blonde again for the longest. I could not pull it off without looking Eastern European. Or gypsy.
But then I said what the heck! let’s make myself happy again. Changing for other people did not bring me second dates, intelligent boyfriends or better paying jobs. I became American but it wasn’t because of my hair. And peroxide did not interfere with my brainwaves, neither did tinfoil wraps. It was expensive, but then I have never been much at saving money.
So I changed back into a blonde. I felt like coming home. I like my hair color, I like my curls, I like the sensation. I don’t care if people think I am Polish, Russian, Moldavian, or just stuck in the 80ies. My friends and family still love me. And the dates are about the same.
And then today, you my dear tormentor appear again. You look at me increduously because I have the same exact big blond hair, black sequined mini and black coat on. I know you like what you see, because it is not only the novelty that made you jump into the train and stare at me like there is no tomorrow. I know I look smashing because many commuters are stealing glances as well in that stealthy New York way. When men do it, it merely means that I am sexy, but when women do it, it means that I am truly beautiful.
Which is why I feel so great ignoring you. Vindicated at last.
Then I understand that it does not even matter anymore. I like myself and what I have become. And everything else can go hang itself. Or drink with itself if it can stand itself. I have a whole Holiday season to celebrate my return to myself, even if it is out of a bottle.
What did we do, for life
got complicated all of a sudden.
Breathless words took on a new meaning
whispers died young
and smiles rotted with the butterflies.
The road lengthened into a small destiny
too far for my swollen feet
I wanted a dream that came true
and I did not want its brown color
I take my solace in bitter coffee and you,
you only drink morning dew
with zero calories.
We are grown up.
finished products with an expiration date
Best before instead of best after,
and best during.
Old habits die hard they say
but they never say what happens after
as habits walk around undead
chewing a bit of heart
just for the heck of it
and making me wonder
what did we do,
to live in such interesting times.
words are so light,
so heavy
they break bones
hearts,
friendship
they change color
so white
so black
so murky brown
words fire
big fires
big showers of pain
they create fog
acidic poison that
does not,
does not quit
words have
mile long legs
and longer bifurcated tongues
they slither inside souls at night
and lick puss into wounds
words kill in whispers
sugary whispers of madness
and little slivers of malice
words are all around
bee drones that don’t quit
a sting for every hug
the soul wants
but does not deserve
it gets words instead
words so quiet
so constipated.
it can’t wait for the s**t
to fall.
Let me say this right off the bat: I have great respect for anyone who can work boobs into a comedy and make it funny. And Roland Uruci does exactly that in his play “Invitation to a marriage; It has all been arranged”. I for one was very impressed.
Jokes aside, the comedy makes for great entertainment and will keep you laughing from the beginning to the end. Even when the actors forget or stumble over the words, the laughters keep coming. The writing is smooth and the lines come naturally. It is almost a shame to pay only $20 and to have that much fun.
This is the first comedy I have seen from Roland Uruci, even though he has acted in several others. When I first met Roland, he was writing a sci-fi novel so I am thankful he found the time to do this as well. While the plot had the mandatory happy ending story and most Albanian wedding traditions were exaggerated for a few more laughs, it was all done to great effect and the audience kept applauding, Albanians and non-Albanians alike.
The actors themselves, meshed with each-other very well and gave a great overall performance as well as personal performances. If I hadn’t seen Diana Cena as the Albanian version of Juliet in the movie “My Destiny”, I would not have believed her capable of anything else but being a soft-spoken, son-crazy Albanian mother who spoils her children rotten, yet keeps the peace and the customs as proper as they should be. Her “husband” Dritan Biba, was also very convincing in the role of the typically overworked Albanian head of the family, who prefers to do three and four jobs, just so that his family won’t go without.
A great balance was offered by Anisa Dema and Besnik Shabani in the role of the Albanian future in-laws. In contrast to the traditional Begu family (whose watch has stopped the moment they got off the plane), the Bekteshi family has gotten on with the times and has become modern, even though they reveal themselves to be just as stubborn and backward as their Americanized counterparts.
Anisa is great in the role of Bardha Bekteshi (ostensibly called Bordha by her stage husband playing on its hidden meaning “farts” which describes her character perfectly) Her voice and her mimic make the Bekteshi couple and she has great chemistry with Diana, her in-law. Ii like, i like.
Bujan Rugova is very believable in his role as the “persecuted” younger son and makes it easy to create stage chemistry with the other actors. And such energy! Where does he hide all that voice?
Leonarda and Lumi bring a fresh take on the respective roles of Albanian and American roommates confronted with a surreal situation. Not as funny as Anisa or Diana, they nevertheless gave the show the serious and absurd tone it needed to become complete.
Adem Hoxha was well cast in the role of the good son who has learned to manipulate his parents from an early age and has managed to stay a child, until his love for Leila forces him to grow.
Jimmy Rugova did not even need to speak. That belt buckle said everything for the Albanian superintendent who has no qualms about admitting he sold himself for a green card and a job, and who thinks he is God’s gift to women. How well we know!
So go see the show people! It is on for four more nights at the Producers Club, 358 W 44th Street in Manhattan.
Your Albanian mother in-law will like it, your girlfriend will like it (mine did) and there is enough American and Albanian jokes for all to laugh.
E is getting married
Another fort is down
Another wall has collapsed
A frozen statue has finally moved
Its eyes cracking an eager smile
E leaves in the wings of love
that brings convenience and safety
A whole new lipstick is drawn
and stockings, and corsetts
and new rimmed glasses
and shoes with sensible heels
but heels nevertheless
and sparkle
so much sparkle has fallen
kissing her with lips of hope
because E is getting married
whispers of sweet things
propriety, normalcy, pride
walks in the elbow of a man
she found, she culled, she replanted
life starts now
unknown, unsung yet
but it will she hopes
and so she departs
and I marvel
E is getting married
