Category Archives: smrt


Bitka za Vukovar, poznata i kao opsada Vukovara se odigrala za vrijeme rata u Hrvatskoj od 25.8 do 18.11. 1991. godine između Jugoslavenske narodne armije, lokalnih krajinskih snaga i srpskih paravojnih formacija s jedne, te hrvatskih vojnih, policijskih i paravojnih formacija s druge strane. Bitka, koja je po angažiranim sredstvima i posljedicama predstavljala najveći okršaj rata, završila je vojničkim porazom Hrvatske, odnosno srpskim zauzimanjem Vukovara koji je u rukama srpskih paravojnih formacija ostao do kraja rata. Međutim, dugotrajnost opsade kao i medijski odjek potpunog razaranja jednog evropskog grada u međunarodnoj javnosti, je potakla srpsku stranu da odustane od pokušaja ostvarenja svojih ratnih ciljeva ofenzivnim operacijama, odnosno dala ključne argumente za međunarodno priznanje Hrvatske nekoliko mjeseci kasnije. Bitka, koja je među svojim posljedicima imala i masakr na Ovčari, se stoga smatra Pirovom pobjedom JNA, odnosno herojskim porazom koji je Hrvatska u kasnije pretvorila u simbol svoje konačne pobjede.

više na Wikipedia

Kad sam kao mali otpušten iz partizana, nerazumno ludilo je počelo… Toliko neshvatljivo, potpuno neverovatno… meni…

Svi ti decembarci koji su spavali na krevetima iznad nas – džombi, završili su u Vukovaru.

U ludilu smrti. Kao roboti, od krvi, mesa, mozga… poslati su u totalni besmisao… poslati su da unište grad i ubiju desetine hiljada ljudi…

Našu braću, naše sestre, naše majke, našu decu… Nas.

A ja… a mi… a vi… Mi smo na tren pomislili da smo se spasili. Da naš prezir i naša osuda nešto znače… Da nas naša rebelska, rokerska, indignacija čini nedužnim…

Oh, kako smo se grdno prevarili. Oh, kako smo se kukavički poneli…

Oprostite deco… oprostite svi.

Amy Winehouse’s Suicide Note

Death, a shape, a thing. Death, a sound, a movement. Death is black, death is going back to black. They use my face. They use my eyes. They sell my soul. They touch me, they molest me. They tell me to stand, they tell me to sing. They plead with me to become.

They make me filthy, then they say they want to cleanse me. Death, the hour awaits, I have nothing, I am neither human nor a machine, stuck in between. I am neither a thing nor a feeling. I am neither alive nor dead. Death, the voice that sinks, the happiness that lingers in the flesh itself.

Death, they tell me to sing for the people. I say nothing, my words are nothing but futile distraction. I lie to humanity. I am a false icon. I am a disease, they, want me to spread. They want me to distract, they use my suffering as a tool to keep the people watching.

When will she break down? I want to break down. Death, awaits those with nothing left. Death, awaits those who betray their life for the meaningless rewards of the future. I want to die, I will die, moments, appearances, all falsities. They want me to sing and dance, they want me to please when there is only suffering left. They want me to be genuine, when it is all process. Fame, fake happiness, pretend desires. It’s all fake, it’s all dead.

Death, it’s all really dead.

Death, I’ve died a hundred times, so what’s one more.

Amy Winehouse

(via The Activists)

Russell Brand on Amy Winehouse

When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call. There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone.
Frustratingly it’s not a call you can ever make it must be received. It is impossible to intervene.

I’ve known Amy Winehouse for years. When I first met her around Camden she was just some twit in a pink satin jacket shuffling round bars with mutual friends, most of whom were in cool Indie bands or peripheral Camden figures Withnail-ing their way through life on impotent charisma. Carl Barrat told me that “Winehouse” (which I usually called her and got a kick out of cos it’s kind of funny to call a girl by her surname) was a jazz singer, which struck me as a bizarrely anomalous in that crowd. To me with my limited musical knowledge this information placed Amy beyond an invisible boundary of relevance; “Jazz singer? She must be some kind of eccentric” I thought. I chatted to her anyway though, she was after all, a girl, and she was sweet and peculiar but most of all vulnerable.

I was myself at that time barely out of rehab and was thirstily seeking less complicated women so I barely reflected on the now glaringly obvious fact that Winehouse and I shared an affliction, the disease of addiction. All addicts, regardless of the substance or their social status share a consistent and obvious symptom; they’re not quite present when you talk to them. They communicate to you through a barely discernible but un-ignorable veil. Whether a homeless smack head troubling you for 50p for a cup of tea or a coked-up, pinstriped exec foaming off about his “speedboat” there is a toxic aura that prevents connection. They have about them the air of elsewhere, that they’re looking through you to somewhere else they’d rather be. And of course they are. The priority of any addict is to anaesthetise the pain of living to ease the passage of the day with some purchased relief.

From time to time I’d bump into Amy she had good banter so we could chat a bit and have a laugh, she was “a character” but that world was riddled with half cut, doped up chancers, I was one of them, even in early recovery I was kept afloat only by clinging to the bodies of strangers so Winehouse, but for her gentle quirks didn’t especially register.

Then she became massively famous and I was pleased to see her acknowledged but mostly baffled because I’d not experienced her work and this not being the 1950’s I wondered how a “jazz singer” had achieved such cultural prominence. I wasn’t curious enough to do anything so extreme as listen to her music or go to one of her gigs, I was becoming famous myself at the time and that was an all consuming experience. It was only by chance that I attended a Paul Weller gig at the Roundhouse that I ever saw her live.

I arrived late and as I made my way to the audience through the plastic smiles and plastic cups I heard the rolling, wondrous resonance of a female vocal. Entering the space I saw Amy on stage with Weller and his band; and then the awe. The awe that envelops when witnessing a genius. From her oddly dainty presence that voice, a voice that seemed not to come from her but from somewhere beyond even Billie and Ella, from the font of all greatness. A voice that was filled with such power and pain that it was at once entirely human yet laced with the divine. My ears, my mouth, my heart and mind all instantly opened. Winehouse. Winehouse? Winehouse! That twerp, all eyeliner and lager dithering up Chalk Farm Road under a back-combed barnet, the lips that I’d only seen clenching a fishwife fag and dribbling curses now a portal for this holy sound. So now I knew. She wasn’t just some hapless wannabe, yet another pissed up nit who was never gonna make it, nor was she even a ten-a-penny-chanteuse enjoying her fifteen minutes. She was a fucking genius.

Shallow fool that I am I now regarded her in a different light, the light that blazed down from heaven when she sang. That lit her up now and a new phase in our friendship began. She came on a few of my TV and radio shows, I still saw her about but now attended to her with a little more interest. Publicly though, Amy increasingly became defined by her addiction. Our media though is more interested in tragedy than talent, so the ink began to defect from praising her gift to chronicling her downfall. The destructive personal relationships, the blood soaked ballet slippers, the aborted shows, that youtube madness with the baby mice. In the public perception this ephemeral tittle-tattle replaced her timeless talent. This and her manner in our occasional meetings brought home to me the severity of her condition. Addiction is a serious disease; it will end with jail, mental institutions or death. I was 27 years old when through the friendship and help of Chip Somers of the treatment centre, Focus12 I found recovery, through Focus I was introduced to support fellowships for alcoholics and drug addicts which are very easy to find and open to anybody with a desire to stop drinking and without which I would not be alive.

Now Amy Winehouse is dead, like many others whose unnecessary deaths have been retrospectively romanticised, at 27 years old. Whether this tragedy was preventable or not is now irrelevant. It is not preventable today. We have lost a beautiful and talented woman to this disease. Not all addicts have Amy’s incredible talent. Or Kurt’s or Jimi’s or Janis’s, some people just get the affliction. All we can do is adapt the way we view this condition, not as a crime or a romantic affectation but as a disease that will kill. We need to review the way society treats addicts, not as criminals but as sick people in need of care. We need to look at the way our government funds rehabilitation. It is cheaper to rehabilitate an addict than to send them to prison, so criminalisation doesn’t even make economic sense. Not all of us know someone with the incredible talent that Amy had but we all know drunks and junkies and they all need help and the help is out there. All they have to do is pick up the phone and make the call. Or not. Either way, there will be a phone call.

(via Exile on Moan Street)

Federiko Garsija Lorka (5. jun 1898. – 19. avgust 1936.)

Na današnji dan, pre sedamdeset i četiri godine, španski fašisti su uhvatili, streljali i bacili u neobeležen grob, jednog od najvećih i najekspresivnijih pesnika i dramatičara XX veka Federika Garsiju Lorku.

Ono što me svaki put iznova zapanji i natera na razmišljanje je ta isključivost i želja fašista da se određene stvari imaju izbrisati i spaliti a njihovi autori likvidirati.

Zbog toga mi je i muka od političkog pluralizma koji, hteo ne hteo, sa oba kraja demokratsko/birokratske govnjive motke nespretno i neprestano udara po glavama svih koji se nađu na putu ovog ili onog napretka, to jest, određene političke vizije napretka.

Svakom zdravom razumu iz tih razloga moraju se gaditi ideje političke korektnosti u istoj  meri kao i pravila neke fašističke ili nacionalističke misli. Pokušaji da se strogo određenom ideologijom, zakonima i jačanjem birokratije stvori privid uređenosti (što isključuje slobodu), moraju biti razotkriveni i izvrgnuti ruglu.

Činjenica da Lorka nije bio politički angažovan (osim na polju društvene uloge teatra) i da je pisao o običnim ljudima, o ljubavi, o prirodi… o životu, njegovu nasilnu smrt čini još nepravednijom.

Mržnja i zlo ipak nisu ućutkale Lorkine reči koje i danas u novoj zori svetskog autoritarizma svetlucaju kao zvezde na mračnom i zagađenom noćnom nebu ljudskih zabluda.


Ne htedoh.
Ne htedoh ti ništa reći.
Jer videh kako iz tvojih očiju
dva luda, mlada drveta mi mašu.
Od lahora, od srebra i zlata.
Ne htedoh.
Ne htedoh ti ništa reći.

don’t try

Dinosauria, We

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break
As political landscapes dissolve
As the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
As the oily fish spit out their oily prey
As the sun is masked
We are
Born like this
Into this
Into these carefully mad wars
Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
Into bars where people no longer speak to each other
Into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
Born into this
Into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die
Into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty
Into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
Into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
Born into this
Walking and living through this
Dying because of this
Muted because of this
Because of this
Fooled by this
Used by this
Pissed on by this
Made crazy and sick by this
Made violent
Made inhuman
By this
The heart is blackened
The fingers reach for the throat
The gun
The knife
The bomb
The fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
The fingers reach for the bottle
The pill
The powder
We are born into this sorrowful deadliness
We are born into a government 60 years in debt
That soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
And the banks will burn
Money will be useless
There will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
It will be guns and roving mobs
Land will be useless
Food will become a diminishing return
Nuclear power will be taken over by the many
Explosions will continually shake the earth
Radiated robot men will stalk each other
The rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground
The sun will not be seen and it will always be night
Trees will die
All vegetation will die
Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
The sea will be poisoned
The lakes and rivers will vanish
Rain will be the new gold
The rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
The last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
And the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
The petering out of supplies
The natural effect of general decay
And there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
Born out of that.
The sun still hidden there
Awaiting the next chapter.

C. Bukowski


ili kako bi rekao Oleg Tomić: “Prusta u ruke pa čitat.”

Mesta koja smo poznavali ne pripadaju samo prostornom svetu u koji ih smeštamo da nam bude lakše. Ona su tek sitan odsečak među nanizanim utiscima od kojih se naš život tada sastojao;
uspomena na jednu određenu sliku samo je žaljenje za jednim određenim trenutkom; a kuće, putevi, ulice, avaj, jednako su prolazni kao godine.

Marcel Proust – U potrazi za izgubljenim vremenom