THE SERBIAN ARMY
SRPSKA ARMIJA – THE SERBIAN ARMY – L’ARME SERBEE
SRPSKA ARMIJA JE SRPSKI NAROD!
SRPSKI NAROD JE SRPSKA ARMIJA!
GLAVNI I ODGOVORNI UREDNIK
DIREKTOR & IZDAVAC
IRIS DE VRIES
4 JANUARI 1942 – 10 JANUARI 2006
Born on 1950 in Zemun, Republic of Serbia, Yugoslavia
Graduated from the College of Mechanical Engineering at the University of Belgrade
Length of service: 35 years
Where the world’s media stops, Miroslav’s Antic work begins
Miroslav Antic isn’t your everyday sort of guy. He’s done a lot. Seen a lot. Been around a lot. Some people might think his word is the truth. Others might think of him as a keyboard guerrilla.
Born in Serbia, in 1950, Miroslav is actually a Power Engineer. He has been one since the age of 20. It’s not what he does in the real world that attracts us though. It’s his virtual stuff — Miroslav’s Web Page ANTIC.org ( The Serbian News Network News Portal ) — that does.
His site goes against conventionality. It concentrates on under-reported news, forgotten scams, guerrilla warfare and what not. In its creator’s words, "It is about the dissimulation, falseness, double-dealing, political and journalist prostitution and propaganda."
What prompted you to set up Miroslav’s Web Page ?
I started it in 1995, during the war in Yugoslavia. While surfing online, I realised that even mainstream media journalists weren’t aware of that fact — or, what was even worse — didn’t want to accept it, that the former Yugoslavia didn’t exist any more.
Is the site truly a one-man effort?
Yes, this is really a one-man site. I use WYSWIM — What You See Is What I Made, down to every line of code. I know there are excellent content editors, but I prefer being a sort of Internet Sinatra, doing things ‘My Way’. No help needed. I even cook my coffee by myself.
What draws you to the world of wars and guerrilla warfare?
You could ask the same question to thousands of my visitors, too. Almost all of them come by submitting the key word ‘war’ to their search engines.
What kind of feedback do you get? Any threats?
No threats at all. Though, at times, I think that isn’t a good sign.
How does online journalism compare with traditional journalism?
It is not comparable, first of all, because it should be the same. So-called online journalism is, or should be, simply journalism using new information technology. There is no good or bad journalism; there are only good and bad journalists.
Each time has its primary source of information. Today it is the television, but I think the next one will be TV combined with the Internet, and not the Internet alone.
Online journalism suffers from a crisis of credibility. How can this be overcome?
Media credibility was always a matter of its audience’s judgment. And that is the only freedom and credibility one can count on. I would say that it is not ‘online journalism’ that is in crisis. In fact, thanks to online journalism, it is traditional media (newspapers, radio and TV) that should take more care than ever before putting out what they consider to be verified ‘truth’. They know that average Internet users can compare it with other sources in a matter of seconds and draw their own conclusions.
Does your site have a political agenda? Or do you try and represent all views through the links you provide?
I am not sure whether one could call it a political agenda or not. I am just trying to help people get usually under-reported news and sources so that they can go for a news coverage comparison. But I would never suggest what "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth" is. I do believe the average people is capable of drawing his or her own conclusions. I hope I’m helping them create their own criteria for judging who is who or what really happened.
Why don’t you accept advertisements on your site?
My opinion about online advertisements is that too many of them could suffocate a Web site and scatter visitors. The main reason why I don’t have advertising is because my Web hosts gave me a lot of space on their servers free, for my home site in Canada and the US, so I can’t use it for commercial purposes. But I’m afraid I’m just the last Web romantic in cyberspace.
How do you manage to populate your site with so many links?
It’s a result of many sleepless nights and days of surfing, but I’m also a subscriber to many Internet lists, newsletters and forums. Visitors suggest certain sources too.
How does it feel to be well known one-man shows online?
When I started out, I wanted to be different. I did my best doing that. More than 30.000 hits so far, and counting.
WHO MIROSLAV ANTIC REALLY IS?
AN ANSWER TO AN UNASKED QUESTION
In Serbian literature of the second half of the XX-th century there are two prominent poets whose destinies hear some features characteristic of the legendary heroes.
One of them is Branko Miljkovic ( 1934-1961 ), as very young elevated to the pedestal of prince poet who, burning his candle at bofh ends ended his life by committing suicide.
The ofher is Miroslav Antic ( 1932-1986 ), a lyrical poet with his specific vision of the old, flat panonian Serbian Vojvodina, a province where he was born. It is bofh about his feelings for his native Vojvodina and the spirit of love that in his poems he used to sing rhapsodically, at the top ol his voice. He-was best at it and most convincing at his adolescent age.
His book THE BLUE LOCK (1965) had more editions and was published more copies than the most important works of classic Serbian literature.
In Strange coincidence. It is by living turbulently, like many great lyrical poet of Serbian and European Romanticism, that MILJKOVIC and ANTIC have completely disrupted the established patterns of life and art. They bofh died prematurely, which proves that their life flame was burning too fast, with ominous intensity and power steering the course of their lives and the streams of their poetry.
ANTIC was a great admirer and avid reader of the Russian poets from the beginning of this century: MAYAKOVSKI, YESENJIN and BLOK. MILOS CRNJANSKI (189 VI977) geographically his neighbour, was the first poet from his national tradition with whom he discovered spiritual kinship. That classic poet of modern Serbian literature was his lifelong load star. The phenomenon of migrations, that constant doom of wandering, bofh for CRNJANSKI and ANTIC epitomised a kind of a North star foretelling our future and showing us the right road to follow.
Exuberantly temperamental as he was ANTIC’ also used to impressively retire his poetry to the interested public gathered in numerous centres of European and universal spiritual and cultural heritage. In Paris he was Prevert’s friend. On the ofher hand, he was also attracted by the magic of the East and the unfathomable mysteries of the past.
This is the reason behind his obsessive search for his own roots we reveal in his NOTES FROM MESOPTAMIA and NOTES FROM THE FOOT ICE MOUNT ARARAT.
Born in a tlar parr of the country he very early realised that all observatories in ancient ami modern times were located either in the plains or on the platens. From Haldea to Nevada.
An avid reader, from among the symbols of the modern world he loved best the trains, the last romantic itineraries, the stars and the birds.
Like PAOLO UCCELLO, in his vivid imagination ANTIC used to dream freely and unrestrainedly about the birds, about the power of knowledge beaming from the SUN, about oranges and about the lanterns in the night.
Second to none and probably the last famous bohemian in Serbian literature, living the way he did, ANTIC- selflessly wasted his unique poetic talent for lyrical descriptions of dramatic Panonian nights and lavish girts for painting, reporting and Him making, revealing and spraying in all sorts of local inns.
As tar as I know even 13 years after his death Antic is still the hero of most legends, stories and anecdofes than-any ofher poet.
I was lucky enough to have him work with me on his imaginary biography entitled: THE INVISIBLE EMBELLISHED (198}). Writing this book we bofh greatly enjoyed in daydreaming its content.
At one of the ends of his imaginary biography ANTIC says:
All over the world fairy tales begin with the words:
Once upon a time there was…..
Trying to convince us that what follows is true,
that it really happened.
All over the world, except in CAUCASIA.
In CAUCASIA they begin their fairy tales by saying:
Once upon a time may be there was, and may be not ….
Up to you to believe, or not
This is how everything about me should end:
In CAUCASIAN style: Once, there was an ANTIC, or may be not…."
It is obvious that he emerges from the fairy land of the famous Danish writer ANDERSEN, hut it is also evident that ANTIC has enriched that fairy land with fresh blood and exceptional poetic imagination.
The book he liked best:
THE SEA GULL JONATHAN LIVINGSTON by Richard Rah. The capital city of his world:
A small inn filled with smoke open round the clock, next to a small railway station.
His beloved saint:
Our Lidy with a cofton clofh halo – his mofher Melanie.
His lavourite trips:
To the North, for the sake of travelling, out of sheer pleasure.
The rivers clear to his heart:
The extinct ones, including Aranka (Zlatica) that used to tlow through his native village Mokrin.
His wandering gaze:
When talking to someone he used to look straight at his forehead, as it trying to confuse him. Not once did his interlocutor use his handkerchief to wipe out the non-existent, say red dot from his forehead.
His date of birth:
As it, according to the Tibetan theory of cycles, ANTIC, decided to be horn in 1952, exactly a century after DURA JAK8IC (1852-1878). This outstanding Serbian poet and painter was also horn in the Panonian province of Ranat, in Srpska Crnja, a village about 20 km from Mokrin, ANTlC’s place of birth.
May be rhat some events, or some legends re-occur a century later.
All people born in flat regions dream about the South, and the higher mountains.
A water well, a church bell tower, human voice resounding far in the distance, an ear of grain.
In our rather gloomy literature of the fifties a naughty big boy by the name of ANTIC’, in a somewhat frantic manner, introduced the charm of smartness and surprise accompanied with a certain smile.
Like all great romantics in European art ANTIC- enjoyed listening to gypsy music.
May be that, like PUSHKIN, he preferred to wander by following the clouds high up in the sky.
His MYTH Of The BIRD is actually an unhealed wound, a unique poem devofed to our unfulfilled dreams about life and what it oflers to us.
ANTIC was different from the great European metaphysical writers who preferred the isolation of a hofel room because he used to turn the big geographic maps of the world into his own, luxurious, lyrical working space.
By travelling a lof he achieved a lof instead of us, for our sake.
Actually, MIROSLAV ANTIC is our most unusual and universal alibi: for our failures, our limirations and all sorts of personal shortcomings.
AN IMMORTAL POEM
It you hear that 1 died
and it I was dear to your heart
may be that inside yourself
you will tee! dreariness, all of a sudden.
Fog on the eyelashes.
An ashy trace on rhe lip.
Have you ever thought
about the real meaning oi lire’
Like snow on your palm
childhood melting away in yourself.
Do they really exist? Sorrows…
Do they really exist’
On the ladder of imagination boldly climb up to your youth. It’s waiting lor you over there, A beautiful bur enticing rainbow,
And live your life.
Live it to the wry last drop.
Don’t nibble .it it, like a mouse his days.
Chew the air with all your teeth.
Run taster than rhe winds and the birds. Overtake them al
Never fbryet that all durations are short.
in some mirrors,
all of sudden get wrinkled.
If you hear that I died
let me toll you what it will really mean.
Thousands of fish of different colours and shades
will he fluttering through my eye.
And I’ll be hidden under the ground
and weed will cover me up.
In the meantimes I’ll he soaring…
Do you really think that my hand,
or my head,
could, tomorrow, turn into
a willow’s root
Do you really think that a small secret,
or a silly fear, 15
could, tomorrow, turn into
You should know that I, actually, come from the stars.
That light created me.
Therefore, nothing will become extinguished,
or shrunken inside me.
Only, one day, and it usually happens at dawn,
I’ll return to my distant Sun
with golden eyes.
Because, I am meant for the theatres
a good deal of heart and plenty of zeal,
the theatres of laughter and tears,
where there is no order,
the theatres with a lot of quarrelling,
a lot of singing,
With the end of the performance known in advance.
I the aimers where you don’t expect them to be tears waiting in an umbush.
Troubles arrive on tiptoes.
The years are getting drearier and drearier.
you feel the world getting tighter anil tighter
and smile muter and muter,
and somehow – distorted.
Therefore, live your life.
Live it to the very last drop.
I lived my lite that way.
In firry years
I have been in so many centuries.
I admit that it was a silly lite, in a way,
But 1 never stayed put…
All the time on the go…
on, and on…
Now, honesty, tell me
have you ever thought what it really means to die?
And where, in tact the dead disappear.’
What is it that was trying to get him all the time?
Hon t go to the cemeteries – there, you will understand nothing. Cemeteries are the dreariest fair grounds and an ugly theatre.
"You are not meant for such theatres,
with no hope, or zeal,
the theatres ot dried up tears
operating according to the graveyard rules,
with no quarrels, no songs,
With the end known in advance.
I have lived a magnificent life because I knew how to do it.
But, it you heat that I died,
– don’t believe it.
Because it’s something I don’t know how to do.
|6 Live was the only air
I was breathing.
And smile the only language in the world I understood.
I have just dropped on this eanh, in passing, to give you a wink. To leave behind me just a fluttering trace.
Therefore, don’t be sad
because the only thing I want is
to remain silly in your eyes and strangely dear to your heart.
At night, when you lift your eyes up to the sky you too, give me a wink, let it be our secret.
In spite of the dreariness of your days whenever you notice a shooting star making tin- sky blush,
remember: that’s actually me, crazy as I am, still (lying and living.
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