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ARTIST NOTES:
Enclosure Fathom Part 2: The Book
Chapter ?: Irina and her husband
A GATE – Jovan’s Childhood – THE VOID
“To wisely live your life, you do not need to know much.
Just remember two main rules for the beginning:
You better starve, than eat whatever.
And better be alone, than with whoever.”
– Omar Khayyám, Rubaiyat –
The padlock around the front gate was rusted and the shiny particles that
glistened rolled up, and aged, showed up, the silver paint, like fools gold
which simply gave up their defense over a long period of time, like the rest.
The entrance revealed signs of the decided,
absence of an everyday life-force.
The dilapidated wooden gate at the rear exit to the workers property had
the tedious – used look
of an old, comfortable lover, present and functional but not cared for or
loved and or
not cared for in any other way. The little boy drove the gate on a daily basis,
dreaming about
the streets of London and liberation from the backwater small town, he the
only ‘significant other’ in
the gate’s life.
The boy was tall for his age and his shiny hair and the quiet, solemn calm
look in the depths of his
bright eyes always belied the burning effervescence effect in his heart
every time he climbed on top of the gate.
The two extremes that would haunt him all his life.
Sometimes he had been curious about how high he would have to take the
gate; before the rusted parts
would tear open at its screws and make him fly into the air to ‘fairyland’.
He could not see past the old Mostar bridge, but he always dreamed of a
land of gold only,
opposite it. He dreamed how he would leave one day. Jovan came from a
very rich family. Yet, yet
he regularly chose, rather to frequent the parts of the property that were
strictly speaking, enclosed, and set aside where only his father’s servants
were supposed to enter.
Even by modern standards, the Milkovich’s were stinking rich. Jovan’s
father had a hand in every,
possible cause or business throughout the country and was a politician on
top of that as well.
Late one evening the older Milkovich sat listening, as his son complained
about the women of the village and
what they did with their afternoons; instead of making more intelligent use
of their time. His father looked over the
circled, oily spectacle frames and grinned: ‘..and you think you are
intelligent, see yourself as justified and equipped
to rip people apart and still ask for your mother’s sympathy while you do
it?’
“Is it just your hobby or ” yes Jovan’s mother completed the rest of the
sentence for him …. ” he has a day job”.
”That of a silly, pumped full of hormones, 13 year old- still-fish-yet-flesh-
young man ”.
“Just zoom in a bit …… .. earth to Baba !!!!!’’ …….. ( The beautiful woman’s
face was brightly lit with barely concealed anger). ’’I can cry in a sop
bucket, he was just talking about the women who were once again
burningly curious, and full of empty gossip today; instead of being of good
and kind service to the community! ”.
Jovan’s father despised his wife for petting the boy like a baby – “you
Russians always stick together..he he! Sticky, always sticky, you Russians!”
“It’s what you get for lust working up between cabbage heads on a heat
wave – floating roof! Little Babuschka mommy-‘s-old-boy ……. ”
The boy felt great anger well up in him, so much so that he left the room
trembling like a chicken feather leaf in the red dusty wind rolling in from
above the mountain on view.
He hated his father. Had hated him for a long time, young as he was. Just
the gate and he knew how long already. It was the gate whom he spoke to,
with whom he escaped to a future on his magic carpet.
One day he would go away by himself and own his own tour company, one
that can visit previous centuries so that he can miss everything in his family
he hated and fix what needed fixing and find the woman of his dreams.
The boy’s mother just stood up and said with downcast eyes – ” be careful
not to drown in the vodka, even ‘cabbage heads’ know when they are
looking at a drowning rotten piece of ‘castle’.
His father was a dream thief. His ignorance /is /was encyclopedic.
– Abba Eban –
Dedicated with everlasting love to – Jovan Izakov Milkovich –
”One day you shall remember”
The entire world shall be populous with that action which saves one soul
from despair.
– Omar Khayyam –
Copyrighted: 2001 – Sharmaine T. Pretorius
See the interview, story and artwork as published in Dwell Time Press Award winning, not-for-profit arts publication reflecting on mental wellbeing, 09 March, 2021.
ARTIST NOTES:
Enclosure Fathom Part 2: The Book
Chapter ?: Irina and her husband
A GATE – Jovan’s Childhood – THE VOID
“To wisely live your life, you do not need to know much.
Just remember two main rules for the beginning:
You better starve, than eat whatever.
And better be alone, than with whoever.”
– Omar Khayyám, Rubaiyat –
The padlock around the front gate was rusted and the shiny particles that
glistened rolled up, and aged, showed up, the silver paint, like fools gold
which simply gave up their defense over a long period of time, like the rest.
The entrance revealed signs of the decided,
absence of an everyday life-force.
The dilapidated wooden gate at the rear exit to the workers property had
the tedious – used look
of an old, comfortable lover, present and functional but not cared for or
loved and or
not cared for in any other way. The little boy drove the gate on a daily basis,
dreaming about
the streets of London and liberation from the backwater small town, he the
only ‘significant other’ in
the gate’s life.
The boy was tall for his age and his shiny hair and the quiet, solemn calm
look in the depths of his
bright eyes always belied the burning effervescence effect in his heart
every time he climbed on top of the gate.
The two extremes that would haunt him all his life.
Sometimes he had been curious about how high he would have to take the
gate; before the rusted parts
would tear open at its screws and make him fly into the air to ‘fairyland’.
He could not see past the old Mostar bridge, but he always dreamed of a
land of gold only,
opposite it. He dreamed how he would leave one day. Jovan came from a
very rich family. Yet, yet
he regularly chose, rather to frequent the parts of the property that were
strictly speaking, enclosed, and set aside where only his father’s servants
were supposed to enter.
Even by modern standards, the Milkovich’s were stinking rich. Jovan’s
father had a hand in every,
possible cause or business throughout the country and was a politician on
top of that as well.
Late one evening the older Milkovich sat listening, as his son complained
about the women of the village and
what they did with their afternoons; instead of making more intelligent use
of their time. His father looked over the
circled, oily spectacle frames and grinned: ‘..and you think you are
intelligent, see yourself as justified and equipped
to rip people apart and still ask for your mother’s sympathy while you do
it?’
“Is it just your hobby or ” yes Jovan’s mother completed the rest of the
sentence for him …. ” he has a day job”.
”That of a silly, pumped full of hormones, 13 year old- still-fish-yet-flesh-
young man ”.
“Just zoom in a bit …… .. earth to Baba !!!!!’’ …….. ( The beautiful woman’s
face was brightly lit with barely concealed anger). ’’I can cry in a sop
bucket, he was just talking about the women who were once again
burningly curious, and full of empty gossip today; instead of being of good
and kind service to the community! ”.
Jovan’s father despised his wife for petting the boy like a baby – “you
Russians always stick together..he he! Sticky, always sticky, you Russians!”
“It’s what you get for lust working up between cabbage heads on a heat
wave – floating roof! Little Babuschka mommy-‘s-old-boy ……. ”
The boy felt great anger well up in him, so much so that he left the room
trembling like a chicken feather leaf in the red dusty wind rolling in from
above the mountain on view.
He hated his father. Had hated him for a long time, young as he was. Just
the gate and he knew how long already. It was the gate whom he spoke to,
with whom he escaped to a future on his magic carpet.
One day he would go away by himself and own his own tour company, one
that can visit previous centuries so that he can miss everything in his family
he hated and fix what needed fixing and find the woman of his dreams.
The boy’s mother just stood up and said with downcast eyes – ” be careful
not to drown in the vodka, even ‘cabbage heads’ know when they are
looking at a drowning rotten piece of ‘castle’.
His father was a dream thief. His ignorance /is /was encyclopedic.
– Abba Eban –
Dedicated with everlasting love to – Jovan Izakov Milkovich –
”One day you shall remember”
The entire world shall be populous with that action which saves one soul
from despair.
– Omar Khayyam –
Copyrighted: 2001 – Sharmaine T. Pretorius
See the interview, story and artwork as published in Dwell Time Press Award winning, not-for-profit arts publication reflecting on mental wellbeing, 09 March, 2021.