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>Articles posted by mirafurlan

Maybe it’s time to resume my blog activities.

In a couple of days, I’ll fly into LAX, the Los Angeles International Airport. Once I pass passport control and pick up my luggage, I will see a big picture on the wall, the picture of the president of the United States of America, the country I chose as my temporary home when, as it then seemed to me, I had lost my own. For the last eight years, every time I looked at the picture of Obama’s face (under

It is not quite cool to love it. Like loving a beautiful but empty woman or a perfect but artificial flower. Just as with a beautiful and (because of it) a suspicious woman, one should, of course, use it and secretly enjoy its charms, at the same time publicly despising it and spreading all the dirt about it. One should say with a jaded smile: “Ah, that sun that shines relentlessly every single day! How boring, how monotonous, how depressing!”

There’s a guy who goes back to the old country on a regular basis. His plan is to work here, in America, and live there, “at home”. Because, according to him, that is where you can truly live. Here, in the good old US of A, he says, your life seems to have been shut down, as if you’ve been put on hold indefinitely; here, he says, you can’t get past the secretary whose advice is always the same: to

“April is the cruelest month.” T. S. Eliot. Used to love him in my intellectual youth. Now, in my anti-intellectual middle age, I only remember this one verse. Instead of growing, I feel as if I'm shrinking. Shrinking, shrinking, shrunk. Soon, there will be nothing left. And that's ok. A distant friend of mine has recently given me a task: that my next blog should be a happy and cheerful. Sorry, Remi, no can do. In fact, I couldn't write for

This is what I will remember from Phoenix: sitting on the stage for the Babylon 5 panel, watching the screen with a seemingly endless list of names of our fallen comrades. Names and dates in brackets, coldly and impersonally indicating the year of birth and the year of death, framing finished lives within neat and indifferent parenthesis. It went on and on, mercilessly. When it finally ended, I felt as if a big train had run me over. The panel

I'm back home in Los Angeles, with Sarajevo on my mind. The images: an unspeakable number of hungry, abandoned dogs roaming the streetheaps of uncollected trash in front of the once elegant, now disheveled Austro-Hungarian buildingsclosed museums and galleries that nobody wants or needs to financecrowded graveyards where you see the same date of death again and again: 1994 and 1995, just as you do at the Jewish museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina where the year of death is always 1942 or

When I was a child, my grandmother, a former citizen of the country called The Austro-Hungarian Empire, was teaching me German, the official language of her (by then) non-existing country. One of the books she used for that purpose was a counting book with a mildly disturbing title "Zehn kleine Negerlein", a title that we will translate, benevolently and in the spirit of political correctness, as "Ten little black boys". At the beginning of the book there were ten little

The poster for the film "Cirkus Columbia" in which I play the lead opposite the actor Miki Manojlovic, features the two of us sitting on a merry -go-round. The image is from the last scene in the movie where the estranged couple finally reunites against the background of the approaching war. It's a moving, surprising end of this couple's turbulent and hostile relationship and, also, a sadly optimistic ending of the movie. Two middle aged people sitting on a merry-go-round,

Writing this blog seems to be impossible. That's why the only solution is writing about the impossibility of writing. How do you do that? You list the reasons that prevent you from writing. Here they are: I have no desire to do it.I don't know why I do it.I don't know who I'm addressing it to.I don't know if anybody ever reads it.I don't want to do it.I am unable to choose a theme from a billion threads in my head.I feel like I'm wasting