Jedan Grad
letters to dubrovnik
14 August
I never appreciated Dubrovnik when I lived there. I never appreciated a lot of things; always wanting to jump ahead and view the world from the future version of me, instead of the now.
I never appreciated falling in love with you-- the slow build of it, the light-headed anticipation, the warmth in my chest when you told me I was beautiful walking down the street at Stradun, the late nights in my apartment when I stayed up thinking, what if?.
Falling in love was too slow; I wanted to be in love, and maybe you weren't there yet. (Maybe you were.) I don't know if I was. I look back on our summer together before I left for LA and see myself as the girl who didn't know what she wanted. I see a girl so desperate for that grand something, all-encompassing romance, that she missed what was in front of her. I'd like to say that I blame her, that I blame myself, for what went wrong between us.
But that's not the truth, and that's not what I promised you. The truth is, I don't blame her at all. I understand her. I still do. I think I always will.
--
19 September
Los Angeles is the opposite of Dubrovnik; and the people I meet here are the opposite of you. The boys I know in LA are pretentious, rich fucks with a taste for organic, locally grown artisanal cocktails; and you and I used to sit on the docks at Costa Serena and pass a bottle of the cheapest vodka available between us. The view was gorgeous there; the crystal clear water and the small mountainous island, the white buildings of the city just behind our backs.
In LA, I sit on the rooftop of a club and stare out at the waters of Santa Monica, and try to picture you on the other side. It's not how geography works, but maybe it's how my mind does. What I'm trying to say is: I miss you.
--
8 October
My majka called me the other week. She said you're still living in Dubrovnik, that you've got a job, and that you've got a new girlfriend. That's nice, because I've got a new boyfriend. Well, not really; we just fuck every so often and talk about poetry, but I guess it's nice. It's not like it was with you, quoting Neruda in bed, listening to you recite "Ode to My Socks" in a lofty tone. My new boyfriend's favorite author is Bukowski. I wish Bukowski was still alive, so I could punch him in the nose.
I've got a job, too. I'm a writer, but you knew that. I've got an agent, now, though, and she got me some stupid job blogging for a magazine. I have my own column; "In My Personal Opinion" by Katya Petrovic. No one knows how to pronounce my name here. I complain about it in my writing. I complain about most everything in my writing, but you would know that, too. I remember when you used to read my work. I remember when you still thought my dark humor was funny.
New York is probably better for a career as an author, but LA is good, too, if I want to move into screenplay, even though I've never been great with dialogue. Both in prose, and in my life, I guess.
I've always been more of the contemplative type than one for talking, but you're aware of that more than anyone, considering you got frustrated with me for it. If I'm going to keep on being honest with you like I said I would, I've never been good at feeling things. Mostly, I just feel what I think I'm supposed to feel.
--
29 October
I'm not heartless, and I wish you wouldn't think I am. I hope you don't think of me much at all, really, except when you get these letters-- maybe then, reading my words, you picture me in a big city, typing my thoughts in a dark room, like the rest of the angry people do.
I've never been much of a fan of the "depressed author" trope. More than anything, it makes me think of assholes like Hemingway and Eliot and Kerouac, beat generation dickbags who hated women and loved themselves. I like to distance myself from that ideal, but I guess it kind of stands true, in a way. I often operate in the strange in-between of arrogance and self-hatred.
The biggest difference from Croatia that I've found here is that you can't really run away from things. I'm usually good at that; you watched me run out of an entire continent. In Dubrovnik, you can drive for hours, with nothing but the green hills by your side, and you won't even reach a fucking McDonald's for five or so hours, maybe a shopping center in seven. You'll pass maybe a few cars every half hour or so. Trying to get out of Los Angeles, you'll sit in traffic for two hours to travel five miles.
It drives me out of my fucking mind to stay in the same place-- and yet, I won't come home. Something in me says I can't; like I've found some sort of purpose here. I hope you've found yours, too.
--
2 December
Believe it or not (I'm sure you won't), but you're the only boy I've ever loved. You always called me cynical (and maybe I am), but I am capable of a few things, and one of them is hindsight. I've never felt the same about anyone as I felt with you.
I don't mind that you don't respond to my letters. I wouldn't expect you to. Of course, I would want you to, but those two things are very different. What I want isn't often what's best.
When I moved to LA, I wanted a lot of things. I wanted the rush of the city, the noise of cars down below my apartment building, the stimulation of living somewhere that was more than just a place, somewhere where I'd be surrounded by those like myself: those that wanted, wanted so much. Artists, musicians, authors.
LA in actuality isn't much like the LA in my mind. The LA in my mind probably doesn't exist. It's a pipe dream. But I don't want it anymore; there's very few things I want lately. Mostly I just want to fill the time, and that's easy here, I guess.
Some days I feel like I'm walking around with a countdown embedded in my brain; the amount of days until I self-destruct. There's a strange inevitability in who I am, and who I probably will end up being. Does that make sense? I know it doesn't, really. It makes the most sense when you don't think about it.
--
1 January
I got fired from my job yesterday, on fucking New Year's Eve.
Part of me thought I'd be sad about it, but it feels like a second chance, like a New Year's resolution to do something useful with my life, instead of just tapping away on my keyboard writing fucking aimless magazine blog posts about my last couple of weeks in Los Angeles. As if every thought that comes into my head was so special that it needed to be shared in a snarkily written and neatly organized blog post.
(Is that better than saying nothing-- Saying too much? I've never been sure. I guess it doesn't really matter.)
I hope you're well. And god, doesn't that sound fucking clinical? "I hope you're well." As though you've not talked me down from a panic attack that one time I almost overdosed on cocaine; as though I've not sat with you and kissed away your tears as you told me about your father's death. As though you never loved me. As though I never loved you. As though, as though, as though.
As though we are strangers. Lately, I feel like, in a way, we are. I'm sorry about that-- leaving things the way I did, I mean. My therapist says I should start taking responsibility for things.
--
4 April
I'm sorry I haven't written, for a while. Well, no, I'm really not-- that's just a pleasantry. I'm trying to get better with those. I don't want to feel so bitter. I could use some pleasantry.
I heard you're getting married, to the girl I congratulated you on before. Your father told me. He emails me sometimes. (Don't worry about that, he doesn't say anything bad. I think he just feels sorry for me.)
I'm not sorry I haven't written, because I want you to be happy. I didn't make you happy. I know that now. I couldn't even make my own self happy, when we were together. Two years later, and I'm still figuring that out.
Your dad said I'm invited to the wedding, but I don't really think I am. Can you imagine how that would play out? "Oh, right, hey everyone, this is my psycho ex-girlfriend Katya-- she's a coked-up pseudo-author from the United States. Did I forget to mention she was coming?" I'd like to think when you think of me, it's slightly more fond than that, but I also don't delude myself.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I miss you, or if the memories of you are so tied up in Dubrovnik that I just miss the city itself. I haven't decided which is worse.
I never appreciated Dubrovnik when I lived there. I never appreciated a lot of things; always wanting to jump ahead and view the world from the future version of me, instead of the now.
I never appreciated falling in love with you-- the slow build of it, the light-headed anticipation, the warmth in my chest when you told me I was beautiful walking down the street at Stradun, the late nights in my apartment when I stayed up thinking, what if?.
Falling in love was too slow; I wanted to be in love, and maybe you weren't there yet. (Maybe you were.) I don't know if I was. I look back on our summer together before I left for LA and see myself as the girl who didn't know what she wanted. I see a girl so desperate for that grand something, all-encompassing romance, that she missed what was in front of her. I'd like to say that I blame her, that I blame myself, for what went wrong between us.
But that's not the truth, and that's not what I promised you. The truth is, I don't blame her at all. I understand her. I still do. I think I always will.
--
19 September
Los Angeles is the opposite of Dubrovnik; and the people I meet here are the opposite of you. The boys I know in LA are pretentious, rich fucks with a taste for organic, locally grown artisanal cocktails; and you and I used to sit on the docks at Costa Serena and pass a bottle of the cheapest vodka available between us. The view was gorgeous there; the crystal clear water and the small mountainous island, the white buildings of the city just behind our backs.
In LA, I sit on the rooftop of a club and stare out at the waters of Santa Monica, and try to picture you on the other side. It's not how geography works, but maybe it's how my mind does. What I'm trying to say is: I miss you.
--
8 October
My majka called me the other week. She said you're still living in Dubrovnik, that you've got a job, and that you've got a new girlfriend. That's nice, because I've got a new boyfriend. Well, not really; we just fuck every so often and talk about poetry, but I guess it's nice. It's not like it was with you, quoting Neruda in bed, listening to you recite "Ode to My Socks" in a lofty tone. My new boyfriend's favorite author is Bukowski. I wish Bukowski was still alive, so I could punch him in the nose.
I've got a job, too. I'm a writer, but you knew that. I've got an agent, now, though, and she got me some stupid job blogging for a magazine. I have my own column; "In My Personal Opinion" by Katya Petrovic. No one knows how to pronounce my name here. I complain about it in my writing. I complain about most everything in my writing, but you would know that, too. I remember when you used to read my work. I remember when you still thought my dark humor was funny.
New York is probably better for a career as an author, but LA is good, too, if I want to move into screenplay, even though I've never been great with dialogue. Both in prose, and in my life, I guess.
I've always been more of the contemplative type than one for talking, but you're aware of that more than anyone, considering you got frustrated with me for it. If I'm going to keep on being honest with you like I said I would, I've never been good at feeling things. Mostly, I just feel what I think I'm supposed to feel.
--
29 October
I'm not heartless, and I wish you wouldn't think I am. I hope you don't think of me much at all, really, except when you get these letters-- maybe then, reading my words, you picture me in a big city, typing my thoughts in a dark room, like the rest of the angry people do.
I've never been much of a fan of the "depressed author" trope. More than anything, it makes me think of assholes like Hemingway and Eliot and Kerouac, beat generation dickbags who hated women and loved themselves. I like to distance myself from that ideal, but I guess it kind of stands true, in a way. I often operate in the strange in-between of arrogance and self-hatred.
The biggest difference from Croatia that I've found here is that you can't really run away from things. I'm usually good at that; you watched me run out of an entire continent. In Dubrovnik, you can drive for hours, with nothing but the green hills by your side, and you won't even reach a fucking McDonald's for five or so hours, maybe a shopping center in seven. You'll pass maybe a few cars every half hour or so. Trying to get out of Los Angeles, you'll sit in traffic for two hours to travel five miles.
It drives me out of my fucking mind to stay in the same place-- and yet, I won't come home. Something in me says I can't; like I've found some sort of purpose here. I hope you've found yours, too.
--
2 December
Believe it or not (I'm sure you won't), but you're the only boy I've ever loved. You always called me cynical (and maybe I am), but I am capable of a few things, and one of them is hindsight. I've never felt the same about anyone as I felt with you.
I don't mind that you don't respond to my letters. I wouldn't expect you to. Of course, I would want you to, but those two things are very different. What I want isn't often what's best.
When I moved to LA, I wanted a lot of things. I wanted the rush of the city, the noise of cars down below my apartment building, the stimulation of living somewhere that was more than just a place, somewhere where I'd be surrounded by those like myself: those that wanted, wanted so much. Artists, musicians, authors.
LA in actuality isn't much like the LA in my mind. The LA in my mind probably doesn't exist. It's a pipe dream. But I don't want it anymore; there's very few things I want lately. Mostly I just want to fill the time, and that's easy here, I guess.
Some days I feel like I'm walking around with a countdown embedded in my brain; the amount of days until I self-destruct. There's a strange inevitability in who I am, and who I probably will end up being. Does that make sense? I know it doesn't, really. It makes the most sense when you don't think about it.
--
1 January
I got fired from my job yesterday, on fucking New Year's Eve.
Part of me thought I'd be sad about it, but it feels like a second chance, like a New Year's resolution to do something useful with my life, instead of just tapping away on my keyboard writing fucking aimless magazine blog posts about my last couple of weeks in Los Angeles. As if every thought that comes into my head was so special that it needed to be shared in a snarkily written and neatly organized blog post.
(Is that better than saying nothing-- Saying too much? I've never been sure. I guess it doesn't really matter.)
I hope you're well. And god, doesn't that sound fucking clinical? "I hope you're well." As though you've not talked me down from a panic attack that one time I almost overdosed on cocaine; as though I've not sat with you and kissed away your tears as you told me about your father's death. As though you never loved me. As though I never loved you. As though, as though, as though.
As though we are strangers. Lately, I feel like, in a way, we are. I'm sorry about that-- leaving things the way I did, I mean. My therapist says I should start taking responsibility for things.
--
4 April
I'm sorry I haven't written, for a while. Well, no, I'm really not-- that's just a pleasantry. I'm trying to get better with those. I don't want to feel so bitter. I could use some pleasantry.
I heard you're getting married, to the girl I congratulated you on before. Your father told me. He emails me sometimes. (Don't worry about that, he doesn't say anything bad. I think he just feels sorry for me.)
I'm not sorry I haven't written, because I want you to be happy. I didn't make you happy. I know that now. I couldn't even make my own self happy, when we were together. Two years later, and I'm still figuring that out.
Your dad said I'm invited to the wedding, but I don't really think I am. Can you imagine how that would play out? "Oh, right, hey everyone, this is my psycho ex-girlfriend Katya-- she's a coked-up pseudo-author from the United States. Did I forget to mention she was coming?" I'd like to think when you think of me, it's slightly more fond than that, but I also don't delude myself.
Sometimes I'm not sure if I miss you, or if the memories of you are so tied up in Dubrovnik that I just miss the city itself. I haven't decided which is worse.
♠ ♠ ♠
Ugh, this is barely edited and truly I'm not sure how I feel about it. I love doing time stamp sort of things like this, and doing the whole "one-sided epistolary" thing, but I hope it comes out having some heart and not feeling too empty. It's supposed to give an overall feeling-- a sort of melancholy nostalgia, rather than a clear moral. BTW, "jedan grad" is a common song that's sung in Croatia, as sort of an homage to Dubrovnik itself. I thought it was apt. xoxo, Carey