Big Bang of a Personal Mission I am not given to trends, I am not given to fashion, I am not a man of the latest news, neither I am trivial. I am a son of the moment of spontaneous outpour, a being of drives, a flower only God nourishes. I do not favour crowds, neither like obeying grounds, I do not wish to excel falsely, I was born from the vagina of innocence. They created me to find my own way out, that is how they threw me into this world; my hands are steel clamps, my legs are viaduct ramps, my mind is so solid and bright, following the spirit of future and light. I am inventing new ways, all I do are my own decisions, i do not read titles, papers, columns, I make my own conclusions. I’m not living in the present, I’m not part of the TV event, I’m not an Internet network, I’m a long ago forgotten book! I am the spark of an idea, The Big Bang in the chamber of intuition, The Big Bang of a personal mission, the amazing being of difference...
My paths are blues corridors
strange underworld, moldering doors
My roads are confusing lines
meandering snakes of danger
flat deserts of infinity
My directions are sharp falls
sweeping slopes, sudden peaks
My character is the author of all my moves
I climbed upon a clearing where I peacefully watch the sea, the hills, peaks and canyons, cliffs and the lush vegetation, clouds and islands. There I made myself a home, brought my wife and dog, made love feel at home. In the air there is faith, silence, God. On the earth there is stone, wood, water. Everything is imbued with truth; no dodges, lies, copies, fashion, comfort, laziness ... everything is somehow made to my measure, simple, modest, natural.
The real life began to develop right here, without needless additions and extra spiced contemporary features. To strike the Mediterranean stone with my palm, to offer my body fresh water streams and to my soul the warmth of burning logs in the fireplace...these are the experiences which I live for. I chose the dream far away from the world in some special kind of loneliness, of isolation and spiritual freedom. I found my own hidden paradise. This is where I must create.
Mošćenička Draga, Val Santa Marina, Draga di Moschiena - one of these names takes you back to the epoch when you were young, the most beautiful days, your childhood, or if you are still young, understand Draga as you prefer, and write down the name you like the most. To someone Draga is hotel Sipar, to someone else it is the Church of St. Marina, to others just an extension of the old Mošćenice, to many it is the cradle of fishermen, to modern generations a tourism destination and potential for the future. However, more than anything, Mošćenička Draga is a poetic bay below the “city” of Mošćenice, a strand described in the lyrics of Rikard Katalinić Jeretov, the picturesque Croatian Portofino where movies were shot, wars were fought, hearts were stolen, sails were filled with breezes, nets were cast, vapor waved to, travelers from distant parts of the world were welcomed, the first tourists were hosted and flags changed. Today, on the eastern side of the noble Istria, Mošćenička Draga is the pearl of the Kvarner Bay, where geographically the Opatija Riviera begins, and at the same time it is perhaps the most beautiful corner for dreams, separated from the cities and the civilization, embedded into the sandy bay where once upon a time, a photographic eye of a passerby by accident triggered the first photo. And there it all began...
What follows is a dream came true, an adventure, expansion of consciousness, of the spirit and pupils, a taste of freedom, a touch of stunning nature, deterioration into the subway, flight on winged iron birds, search for the Creator in the desert, Hollywood glamour, New York's rigor and dynamism, blues and jazz in New Orleans, inspiration of the Pacific coast, urban literary motivation, pain and spirituality of Mexico, Texas oil, Arizona heat, San Francisco rain, Chicago wind, spirit of the black and Indian prayer, limousine of movie stars and a torn old Buick from the periphery of Los Angeles, the Tweens and their dust, the lights of Manhattan and nothing in the middle of nowhere in the vastness of the Mojave deserts.
The light afternoon summer breeze filled the sails with positive feelings. The sun has risen high. I am sitting in the shade. I am writing. The open seas present the inspiration. The vegetation is in full bloom. A green and blue mark of the summer. Pleasant warmth. Wine with water. Carefree playing children on the beach. A seagull is drawing a line up high in the sky. It is lunchtime. Grilled fish. Wine in ice. Three steps back a stone house. An olive tree and a pine. Woman. Love. Night with friends. The simplicity of living. Spontaneity. Being unhindered. Silence. Peace. Cricket. The barrel is empty. Guitar and poetry. A song. Lament. Blues. Adriatic blues as a collective lullaby. Midsummer Night's Dream. Life is OK.
Rare are the ones who remain on the road and scramble with breath-taking speed to the top. They do not know the answer, but still persist on the road of personal legend, convinced that blessing waits for them at the end of the road. As the pace of your progress becomes faster, increasingly demanding, complex, more personal, they rely only on themselves and begin to believe in the whatever they do, revealing that they are actually lonely in the wide world, in a duel with Lord the of the Universe where they sharp their weapons of self-confidence and struggle with the challenges of existence. They are alone with themselves, no one else is important, no one else is needed, no one else is visible. Only the two eyes are important that see the misty vision in a distant future.
Discussion Poet - Photographer
At Marino's table several cameras were lined up, small and large ones, old and new ones.
Poet: Which camera do you usually use?
Photographer: With the old one, it's the best. The poetic nature of the photography is important to me, I prefer the artistic aspect. About quality I usually think later, as well as about sharpness and commercial effects. The photo must have a soul!
(soul. .. soul ... the soul! – it rang in their heads)
Poet: Poems also have souls. Poetry is the soul of things. Do you want us to seek the soul of things, people and phenomena together?
Photographer: Let's do it.
This collection is just an attempt to introduce, at least for a moment, the illusions of order into our obscure living, and a tiny incentive in order to continue seeking for the satisfaction in writing, no matter how much power still lacks in our verses. It is about the joy of common creation and the belief that we shall succeed.
The poetic sensibility is what the poems in the collection have in common. I don’t think that there are any perceptional differences between us and our surroundings, in the experience of these thickened and hard times...but what is certainly a trait which we possess are our responses to frequent and everyday questions. Happy is the advantage of poetry which can talk about the painful and the ugly in its own noble manner, as well as lifting up and bringing closer all the good and the beautiful.
Someone will say that this collection too depressing, filled with the ink of underground sounds, woven with strands of death and tears, full of pain and suffering. It is constant in its effort to express deep sympathy with actual sufferers of the present times. A lot of solitude was needed to achieve that, to open all the senses and become more and more enclosed, to pour cold beer into a dry throat and wait for the verses to finally start. And they started, accompanied by horrific scenes from 1991, 1992. Words grew out from the city ruins, desires sprang out from the existence fallen apart, in deep dreams my friends hurt, the alive and the dead ones.