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Vladimir Martinovski (Macedonia)
MID FLIGHT
At about 25.000 feet a pianist
is practicing a Chopin concert on an
imaginary keyboard. He admits to me
that he often has such “dry runs”. In between two
airports. Before he sits in front of a Steinway & Sons,
with the orchestra ready to pounce like a jaguar in hiding.
And you, when do you write? Do you do “dry runs”,
sans paper? – he asks while calmly
rehearsing the next movement in adagio.
I write mid flight – I respond – when we wait to take off
and while we’re in flight, when the plane
shakes like a truck on a country road. When mothers
breastfeed their babies so their ears don’t hurt
as the plane ascends. Or when we
applaud the pilot for the successful
landing. I do “dry” writing even when
I realize that I have picked up a similar suitcase,
yet the wrong one.
When do you write down the poems? –
He asks me while he practices the prize piece
for the encore of tomorrow’s concert.
Also, in flight – I confirm – between two unexpected
departures and forced landings in
my life. When I’m not wearing a
life vest. When the constraints of everyday
obligations are not too tight. When my
fingers ache with an unbearable
pain from too many unwritten poems
and verses. When I find pen and paper.
when I realise that everything else can wait
and that life is flowing independently of me
(and shall continue to do so after I’m gone)...
As he listens to my clumsy answer, he is practicing
the second encore, too. Even though it’s a “dry run”, I can hear
the chords, mixed together with the sounds of the airplane landing
and the clapping of the other passengers.
(Translated by Milan Damjanoski)
At about 25.000 feet a pianist
is practicing a Chopin concert on an
imaginary keyboard. He admits to me
that he often has such “dry runs”. In between two
airports. Before he sits in front of a Steinway & Sons,
with the orchestra ready to pounce like a jaguar in hiding.
And you, when do you write? Do you do “dry runs”,
sans paper? – he asks while calmly
rehearsing the next movement in adagio.
I write mid flight – I respond – when we wait to take off
and while we’re in flight, when the plane
shakes like a truck on a country road. When mothers
breastfeed their babies so their ears don’t hurt
as the plane ascends. Or when we
applaud the pilot for the successful
landing. I do “dry” writing even when
I realize that I have picked up a similar suitcase,
yet the wrong one.
When do you write down the poems? –
He asks me while he practices the prize piece
for the encore of tomorrow’s concert.
Also, in flight – I confirm – between two unexpected
departures and forced landings in
my life. When I’m not wearing a
life vest. When the constraints of everyday
obligations are not too tight. When my
fingers ache with an unbearable
pain from too many unwritten poems
and verses. When I find pen and paper.
when I realise that everything else can wait
and that life is flowing independently of me
(and shall continue to do so after I’m gone)...
As he listens to my clumsy answer, he is practicing
the second encore, too. Even though it’s a “dry run”, I can hear
the chords, mixed together with the sounds of the airplane landing
and the clapping of the other passengers.
(Translated by Milan Damjanoski)
