Today’s poem is inspired by Damir Avdić and his Detroit, and he took me into my old open house.

O
p
e
n
.
h
o
u
s
e

Prompt 10: “First, find a song with which you are familiar … Listen to the song and take notes as you do, without overthinking it or worrying about your notes making sense. Next, rifle through the objects in your junk drawer. … On a separate page from your song-notes page, write about the objects in the drawer, for as long as you care to. Now, bring your two pages of notes together and write a poem that weaves together your ideas and observations from both pages.”
Well, I did choose a song and then it did all the rest. I should translate this song in full one day. Listen to the man from Bosnia, Damir Avdić, even if you don’t understand him. Let the beat into your bones, and then you’ll be ready for my poem which could be much longer than it is.
America Detroit is a ten-minute story of a man who drops the guns, leaves the Balkans behind and ends up in Motor City, MC5, living in the suburbs among people of a different race who respect him even though he blasts Napalm Death and women love his Shetland sweaters. His main problem is his compatriots who play tsuup tsuup turbo folk to him everywhere he goes, bad covers of Bella ciao, and call it sevdah and ethnic. It makes me think of my America. The night before my departure I stay awake because the early flight is from Klagenfurt in Austria hours away. We arrange a taxi who comes early and the driver is let in. No booze for him but we celebrate. Full open house as usual, even though I’m still to buy the OPEN HOUSE sign in Los Angeles, bring it under my arm on the plane, and place it against the kitchen window. But now I’m yet to depart. As many times before, the bell rings and everybody knows it’s the police and they hand me parcels packages boxes. I have a drawer where I put them among lingerie and stockings. (Ah, junk drawer! I thought you said junkie.) The policeman enters – the walls are thin and my neighbour is a numerologist – and I explain to him that I’m leaving for AMERICA! That it’s my first time, and the tourist visa I scored will be my favourite book mark for decades. That Los Angeles is waiting to be discovered. I’ll discover that Venice Beach has friendlier cops, Mr. Cop, but you are alright. Now leave, we need to go. He leaves and everybody collects their packs from the drawer. We reach Klagenfurt but it’s so early that the tiny airport is still locked. It’s December and we are dressed for California. Now, almost thirty years later, it has turned out that my California is closer than I’d thought. In Tuscany the flora is similar, bella ciao is just a greeting, and the junkie drawer is full of junk.
In the photo part, I return to the house in Bežigrad, Ljubljana, where I lived for some twenty years. Most of these photos were taken a year after I moved out and we were visiting. I don’t have any photos from the wild years here with me. Probably for the better.
The walls are still the same colour I left them. Bestia is new. My ex built the shelves and collected most of these cactuses. Then he left them. This photo is from my farewell party in 2014. Soon it will be eight years since I’m in Tuscany. I took lots of books with me but not all. And all the furniture was left. This is sister’s sofa. I really wished to take this round table. I called it Tuscany table years before Tuscany was even on the radar. I measured it wrong by 10 cm and we thought it wouldn’t fit in the car. (Don’t ask.) The look in. These tiles are a pain to clean. The look from the kitchen. Lots of mashed potatoes were made here. Let’s go up. I had my writing desk here (well, computer desk). This window looks out to the street. Like this, if it’s winter. The living room had been repainted. Seeing that it was Mexican pink when I slept here. And this is what I had on my wall. Notice our first dog Žak. And the real tree mushroom. The view out in June. This orchid survived four more years, until I brought it to Tuscany.
For:

This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2018):
For this poem to make sense, you’ll have to click on the link above and see these smiles for yourself.
Miles of smiles Take one smile that you know well, add another that made you you, cry for this smile since it quickly melts, hope all could smile as these two do. Find a random joyful girl or two and another one who gives good kale, one whose smile guards a statue store, one that was happy but lives no more. A smile is to get this book in the mail, or hers with advice to follow your heart, he did it – though happy hippie he’s not, and so did I, bestia and poems and all.
Makes you think of everything and everyone left behind, and what would’ve happened if we had made a different choice.
Great post, Manja.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Bojana. I’m glad it made you think this kind of thoughts. I don’t get them often but sometimes they burst through. I read the poem again and I don’t like the last two lines. It’s not as clear as I’d wish. Ah, well. This poem a day is a job!
LikeLiked by 1 person
It is, and we’re rarely satisfied so…
Here’s sth I’m sure you’ll love.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Haha, I saw this maybe 30 minutes ago on Facebook. 🙂 And yes, I do. I love their deadpan expressions saying those words. It’s an important campaign. Thank you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah? It’s hilarious. (It sure is.)
LikeLiked by 2 people
I enjoyed this post Manja & especially liked your America poem. You captured that last night party so well & I chuckled at the junk/junkie drawer.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much, Sandy. It’s great to see you here again. I was not active much on my and other people’s blogs most of last year but now it’s getting better again. Also, I told Crystal about your latest post and I’m glad she liked it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Welcome back Manja. It seemed as if you were MIA for a long while. Yes I saw your referral. I was reading thru Crystal’s blog and was so surprised to stumble on your comment 🙂 Thank you.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great that you did! I knew she would be interested. And maybe somebody else too.
LikeLike
Is your sister living in the house now? I’ve never gone back to any former residences. I’m sure they are all quite different now.
California is the promised land for many Americans as well as non-residents. My brother lives there, but the bad climate weather is getting to him. I enjoyed both your anticipation and your return! (K)
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you, K. 🙂 She was at the time but now we have a tenant. My parents own the place. I haven’t been back since but I pass it on my dog walks when I visit my old city, since my parents live just a few houses away. Yes, I suppose California is moving away from being the promised land. Not many such lands left.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very poignant visit to your old home. I have never returned to a former home. Your poetry is very evocative of your visit.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you so much, Lynette. 🙂 I’m glad you find it evocative. This was six years ago and haven’t been back since as now a tenant is living there.
LikeLiked by 2 people