novembrski

razodetje

nad mestom sine svit, svet je mehak in čist
bleda zavesa jutra na strehe stresa sneg,
mrak odteka, med ustji ulic kipijo struge mleka,
pomrzli brsti pod prsti gredo v cvet
zrak stekleni. nad vitjem vej visi nebo
kot gaza, nad črnim drevjem zeva gobec, božji ses,
pogoltno grabi grla, srca tisočerih,
oči se zvrnejo nazaj v temo lobanje, dih zastane,
pot polzi po polti, kri plimuje,
obličja bije presvetljena luč, ko križani na drugega
telesi dveh ljubimcev, vnebovzeti, jaz in ti,
drhte gladita bele ude, lebde nad mestom
pijeta poljube, pleteta jezike, vsem trombam navkljub,
freska na svodu, znamenje na nebu
opomin nevernežem.


4.11.13

obstajam ostajam vstajam
sedim delam. ob jutrih hitim, pljuvam
iz srca izkašljujem kri in pretekli večer.
smrdim razpadam padam
pepel imam na prsih in prst med zobmi.
hlastam grabim rabim
služim pijem gnijem cvetim
venim fukam ležim
ne spim ne jem čakam
med prsti mečkam čas in papir
hodim blodim trudim se
tako se trudim da me boli
vsak dan se ženem gonim
pozabljam jočem
hočem nočem živim.

28/10/13

i.

with a mere shiver, then,
he says: 'she was the one.'

and all thing stop to listen,
wind ceases, light dies,
trains arrive before time,
and i, silent, watch the shadows fade
and sun rise, i leave to
touch the passing cars
and things have meaning. i ponder-

so much love has died
and we're still breathing.



ii. (a list #2)

born in 1990. loves to draw.
drinks too much beer, and then,
enchanted by herself, explodes
to a million flaming fragments.
enjoys debates as long as
she is listened to. well-spoken.
lukewarm, often depressed.
likes to show off. long hair.
her walk is arrogant, almost
agressive. has poor imagination,
although is often pronounced otherwise.
very undecided, being passive
gives her a false sense of freedom. afraid
of being proved wrong, or worse,
stupid. likes to laugh. doesn't brag,
but subtly hints a depth inside her,
which makes her superficial.
at night, she often thinks of dying and
how to make the others like her.
a conformist, due to her father.
a good listener. brutally honest.
still clings to the idea that she's
important. loves the sea.
writes mediocre poems about herself
because no body else does.

jantar

z obeh strani ovita v večer
komaj upam dihati, da ne bi
pogasila sveč, da ne bi
preplašila slokih senc, ki podrhtevajo
skoz zrak, pretkan, pretaknjen vse počez
s skrivnostno nitjo. spet in spet
skrivaj, boleče plaho, izpod vek pogledujoč
častim tvojo podobo, izjedkano v noč,
skrbno si slikam v zavest
zlatasto ikono na tkanini mesta
kako sediš tam čez, ovit edino v šal
in s knjigo na kolenih, kot kak prerok,
da se ti verzi zapletajo med prste in v lase -
komaj verjamem, res, da je to zame
razprtih ust strmim v to lepoto,
jo pijem, točim v sode, hranim za kasneje,
moja je,
otrpla spremljam ples
teh svetih rok, okamenela pred dverjo,
kar naenkrat prestreljena s smislom
mirna, tiha in prosojna
v cerkvi najinih teles, in kasneje
ko pod kožo val hotenja zmrzne v smrtni krč
slišim sama sebe šepetati pesmi zvezd.

jadna pesma #2367

the things i want to say have all been said before.

i've said them in so many ways and nothing helped.

so now i think of what is left to try,

how, with some genius verse, i  can still make you understand

what you already know,

and do not care.

 if i try to explain, i know i'll only make it worse,

push you away, i'll start to talk too loud

and hyperventilate. i guess

i should try to reason less.

i should be straight and to the point,

but 'i love you' has been abused

too much and its cold threat will make you run.

and yet, i do.

there is no point in saying what you wouldn't hear.

 

no point in throwing words at you when all you want

is to be left alone.

i guess i best show that i care

by letting go.

i've seen it move

I always had a soft spot in my heart for men with holes in their chests. Where I come from, they call it 'chicken chest', and hearts of these men are said to grow smaller than the others.

There is a town in the south, a town with narrow streets and tall houses made of stone, that stretches itself along the coast, squeezed between the sea and the mountains. The cats there are said to live longer than people, and when they turn their heads for a moment and look towards you with their gleaming yellow eyes, such things are easy to believe.
In the only square, townspeople gather at dusk to talk about the day's catch. They're slow, reliable people, and their brown skin is weathered with wind and salt. They live with the great turquoise sea and they are bow-legged from ever sailing their boats.

It is dusk, and I am standing knee-deep in the water, watching the sky turn from blue to velvety, fragnant lavender. All the townspeople are at the square, and I can hear their soft murmur in the distance.

My life is a piece of fiction, mediocre for its fabula but rich for its style and language. I've seen beauty move among the trees and disappear in an instant. There wasn't much to it, really.

The others are sitting on the shore, they have the sky in their eyes. They're laughing at something, I don't know what. It's good to be young and to have the sky in your eyes. But soon it will be autumn again, and we will return to our dark apartments with ever burning lights and empty beds and to our falling leaves we so love to catch with our hands and admire for a second, knowing they will rot soon, and their weight on our palms makes us sigh.
I don't think about it. I think about the sea that fits my knees perfectly like a piece of beautiful cold metal jewelry. I think about a man with a hole in his chest who never speaks a word and has the sky in his eyes. I've seen beauty move under the surface of his skin like a smooth shiver and disappear in an instant.
I've met someone recently. The hole's in place, but his heart, unlike others, has not grown small. It's big, and there's plenty of room in it. I think I'll cling to him for a while.

I always had a weak spot for men with holes in their chests, you see. I suppose it has something to do with my heart, that's grown as small as the head of a nail.

how to be alone

 

 

a beautiful poem by tanya davis.

 

If you are at first lonely, be patient.

If you’ve not been alone much, or if when you were, you weren’t okay with it, then just wait. You’ll find it’s fine to be alone once you’re embracing it.

We can start with the acceptable places, the bathroom, the coffee shop, the library, where you can stall and read the paper, where you can get your caffeine fix and sit and stay there. Where you can browse the stacks and smell the books; you’re not supposed to talk much anyway so it’s safe there.

There is also the gym, if you’re shy, you can hang out with yourself and mirrors, you can put headphones in.

Then there’s public transportation, because we all gotta go places.

And there’s prayer and mediation, no one will think less if your hanging with your breath seeking peace and salvation.

Start simple. Things you may have previously avoided based on your avoid being alone principles.

The lunch counter, where you will be surrounded by chow-downers, employees who only have an hour and their spouses work across town, and they, like you, will be alone.

Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone.

When you are comfortable with eat lunch and run, take yourself out for dinner; a restaurant with linen and Silverware. You’re no less an intriguing a person when you are eating solo dessert and cleaning the whipped cream from the dish with your finger. In fact, some people at full tables will wish they were where you were.

Go to the movies. Where it’s dark and soothing, alone in your seat amidst a fleeting community.

And then take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching because they’re probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats, is after all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating. And beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things, down your back, like a book of blessings.

Go to the woods alone, and the trees and squirrels will watch for you. Go to an unfamiliar city, roam the streets, they are always statues to talk to, and benches made for sitting gives strangers a shared existence if only for a minute, and these moments can be so uplifting and the conversation you get in by sitting alone on benches, might have never happened had you not been there by yourself. 

Society is afraid of alone though. Like lonely hearts are wasting away in basements. Like people must have problems if after a while nobody is dating them.

But lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless, and lonely is healing if you make it.

You can stand swathed by groups and mobs or hands with your partner, look both further and farther in the endless quest for company.

But no one is in your head. And by the time you translate your thoughts an essence of them may be lost or perhaps it is just kept. Perhaps in the interest of loving oneself, perhaps all those “sappy slogans” from pre-school over to high school groaning, we’re tokens for holding the lonely at bay.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

It’s okay if no one believes like you, all experience is unique, no one has the same synapses, can’t think like you, for this be relieved, keeps things interesting, life’s magic things in reach, and it doesn’t mean you aren’t connected, and the community is not present, just take the perspective you get from being one person in one head and feel the effects of it.

Take silence and respect it.

If you have an art that needs a practice, stop neglecting it, if your family doesn’t get you or a religious sect is not meant for you, don’t obsess about it.

You could be in an instant surrounded if you need it.

If your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

There is heat in freezing, be a testament.

real lady marmelade

 

 

ko sem bila majhna, je moja babica vsako leto vkuhavala marmelado iz cibar in sliv. vsi v družini smo smo se nad tem bolj kot ne pritoževali, saj je gospa sredi že tako vročega poletja zakurila v največji peči v hiši, pristavila ogromen lonec in v njem cmarila sadje cel ljubi dan. hiša je bila polna sicer prijetnih, a zadušljivo lepljivih vonjav in izparin, v sami kuhinji pa se je temperatura povzpela na nivo tiste v kaki steklarni ali kovačiji. 

zato sem vedno imela občutek, da je kuhanje marmelad občutljiva, naporna in izjemno mučna dejavnost, in se je sama zelo dolgo nisem lotila. po lanskoletni izkušnji s hruškami in letošnjem bližnjem srečanju s figami pa ugotavljam, da sem se pošteno motila. domača marmelada je lahko pripravljena tudi v dobri uri, s pravo klimo pa tudi temperatura ostane znosna.

 

figov džem

 

1kg fig

50dag sladkorja

1 limona

1 strok vanilije

 

fige opereš, olupiš in narežeš na manjše koščke. v večji posodi z debelim dnom (zato, da se bolj enakomerno segreva) karameliziraš 5dag sladkorja. dodaš fige, kuhaš cca 10min. v drugi posodi segreješ preostali sladkor, ampak paziš, da ostane bel. posuješ po figah, dodaš semena iz stroka vanilije in iztisnjen sok ene limone. dobro premešaš, kuhaš še dvajset minut do pol ure. ko se kapljice marmelade na hladnem krožniku začnejo strjevati, je zadeva gotova. 

 

na tem mestu naj priznam, da sem 20dag sladkorja nadomestila z želirnim sladkorjem, ampak mi je zdaj za to žal. marmelada je postala preveč čvrsta, želejasta, zato sem jo tudi prekrstila v džem. zato v opozorilo: ne dodajaj želina, tudi če te je strah, da boš skuhal figovo juho! s hlajenjem se zadeva precej strdi in pridobi na čvrstosti.

 

 

heatwave

 

 

 vroče je. na hard.

let's reconsider

tole sem našla v beležki iz leta 2010. it's all coming back to me now.

 

it's so good to watch him, you know. so good to see him speak, then pull his head back, swiftly, his eyes secretly but intentionally meeting mine in a sort of silent provocation, a sort of clash of two intellects. there is the unmistakable sparke of intelligence in them. his hand, suddenly rising towards the burning hair, his moves so synchronised and nonchalant. a real divine outcast. carelessly he gets up and breathes in the last smoke of his cigarette, then puts it out with his long pianist fingers, his eyes still glistening towards me. with a smirk he turns away and jumps into the sea, his arms wide open, like a seagull. a picture of pure strength and perfection, raising lust in every single inch of me.

under the spreading fig tree, with a book and a cigarette burning in my hands, i realised

there are so many futures that are not meant to be lived.

 

ob ponovnem branju sicer sliči na doktor roman, ampak spomnim se, da mi je tale odstavek v določenem trenutku kar veliko pomenil.

kar pa se tiče futures that are not meant to be lived... hm, let's reconsider.

 

aja, ker je v kontekstu: summer son.

 



weekend in the city

ta vikend sem preživela v družbi dveh mačk v lepem, svetlem stanovanjcu v rožni dolini, ker se je njuna lastnica podala na mallorco, mene pa zaposlila kot regentko.

že nekaj časa sem si želela popolne samote, in kot naročeno, so tudi vsi moji ljubljanski znanci trenutno nekje v inozemstvu. med konstantnim menjavanjem maničnih in depresivnih faz sem tako preživela vikend indijske kuhinje, bizarnih reality showov, nočnih sprehodov do pozabljenih delov ljubljane, risanja, izračunavanja rojstne karte (!), opazovanja spreminjajoče svetlobe na belih zavesah in učenja morsove abecede.

hecno je, kako hitro se človek odvadi govorjenja. po nekaj dneh samote se premikanje ustnic zdi kot eden večjih naporov na svetu - enako kot normalno oblačenje, prehranjevanje s priborom, upoštevanje časovnih omejitev ali sploh kakršenkoli stik s civilizacijo.

nisem prepričana, če si želim sama živeti za vedno, trenutno pa sem preutrujena, da bi sploh razmišljala o čem drugem. umorna sam, shrvala me za ljubavlju tvojom duga glad.

 

naslov posta je, spet, naslov albuma, ker se je ravno tako izšlo, tokrat benda bloc party.



strange cacti

 

ta štiri botanična čudesa sem kupila v baumaksu za borih 1,20€ each. eno od njih je skoraj zagotovo aloe vera, vse pa so baje pripadnice skupine, ki v angleščini nosi ime succulents.

kljub temu da potrebujejo dobro drenažo sem jih posadila v pristno slovensko ilovico, upam da jim bo ok. lahko pa, da bodo mutirale, tudi to bi bilo nekaj.

mexican lonček je seveda domače izdelave, se vidi.

 

naslov posta je naslov albuma prelepe angel olsen: strange cacti. hint hint.

 

 

kraljevina žužkovina

včeraj je bil precej carski dan za fotografiranje prebivalcev polj - zatopljeni vsak v svojo medeno čašo se niso pustili motiti. najs.

kljub temu, da sem še sveža z morja, mi tudi travniki niso odveč, sploh ne.
končno poletje, pa še siva blaga mati je vse ven potegnila. razmišljam, da bi morala vse te modrosti moje stare mame nekam zapisati, preden jih pozabim. morje vse ven potegne. če ni za bit, je pa za it. če ni, še vojska ne more vzet.
silva ftw.

stvari s plaže

lani je morje v naš zaliv naplavilo cenik neke kavarne v novih vinodolskih, kar je na celini, kakih 8 kilometrov stran. precej smo se zabavali z idejo, da bi poskusili naročiti kaj s tistega cenika, in res - letos je poleg stvari na sliki naplavilo še dve velikanski flaši vode (taki petlitrski, za v avtomat) in eno napol popito steklenico roseja (v nobeni ni bilo pisma - wie schade).
naslednje leto naročim viski.

das experiment

kdaj komentar k pesmi
postane pesem sama
oboje je vendar ponavadi
brez pomena ali rime
ali torej lomljenje misli
v vrstice, poudarke
daje človeku potuho
(je torej vsak zapis, lomljen na verze,
pesem? pa niti to ni pogoj)
lahko bi napisala esej o tem
pa se mi ne da
(tu postane jasno, da sem lirski subjekt
jaz sama)
(a je sploh kdaj drugače)
zato pišem 'pesmi'
da mi misli ni treba dokončevati
ali je raziskati do izvira
vendar lenoba ni prava pasivnost
drugače bi verjetno že magistrirala iz daa
v čem je sploh smisel
če tukaj priznam, evo, da to nima smisla
razen tega, da na ta način deluje zavest
vsaj moja,
in jo postavljam na ogled,
brez prave potrebe, razen lastne, ampak
zaupam občutjem
(kot antipodu misli)
ki izvirajo iz jeter, medenice in pogačic v kolenih
trust your body to know what to do
to reče v avatarju
to je film
pravijo da je zanič, ampak meni je všeč
(to je občutje, na primer)
pri meni, se mi zdi, gre večinoma
za transkript monologa moje zavesti
(to ni čisto res, če sem iskrena, vsako pesem
večkrat pazljivo preberem, in pazim, da nek moj interni
ritem štima) (tudi to je hecno, zakaj se mi zdi,
da moram iti v novo vrstico
ravno tu in nikjer drugje)
in kot tak nima pomena
večjega, kot ta, ki mu ga da moj ego
je pa odtis nekega trenutka v času
in dokaz, kakšnim banalnostim
gre moja volja
in interes
zato me preseneča
da več ljudi ne počne tega
se pravi,
zapisuje svojih najbolj irelevantnih misli
in jih objavlja na internetu.

junijske

i.

so večje skrivnosti od te
zakaj so vse bazilike na svetu
od nekdaj gradili tako, da se jim zvoniki
ozirajo proti zahodu
in zakaj v zgodbah o žabah slučajno
vedno nastopajo tudi kovinski predmeti
ko sem bila majhna je stara mama
spraševala, če sem šla na vrt in videla smrt,
skoraj kot da bi vedela,
da so vrtovi na splošno nevarni za človeške usode
stvari, ki jih gledam danes
bodo šele jutri dobile pravo težo, zato
nanje odgovarjam brez premisleka
ko bom sedela pred kaminom v rožastem predpasniku
in strašila svoje vnuke, šele takrat
bom vedela, v čem je bil pravzaprav ves čas problem.

ii.

vsi ti obrazi na avtobusih
koliko mesa
kako v vsakem od ostalih ločenem telesu
tli neznosna navezanost na to meso, kako v vsakem
vlada isto hrepenenje
o čem razmišljajo, zares,
toliko časa je minilo
da smo pozabili, kako je
in je vse le davna želja,
lastiti si neko telo, ki ni tvoje
poznati vsak njegov skriti del
vsak njegov tesnoben drhtljaj
vedeti, da bo to telo sledilo tvojemu
in bo v isti grob položeno
da bo to telo, drugje, na drugem mestu,
v nekem trenutku obstalo
in skozi temu namenjene žleze
zate izjokalo žegnano vodo,
in vse je le davna slutnja,
da je nekje telo
ki je tvojemu telesu oditek v mavcu
ki bo vse praznine zapolnilo
in bo s teboj v grob položeno
in bo tretji dan s tabo od mrtvih vstalo
in tako na veke vekov
amen.

iii.

zdaj smo prišli že do tega,
da sredi noči vstanem in si odrežem nekaj las
ker imam kao neko moč sama nad sabo
predvsem pa zato, da gre pivo laže dol
ne bi poimensko, ampak kaj pa je na njej takega
tamle v kotu pri mizi za ročni fuzbal
ivan pravi, da je lahka ko pero
ni dvakrat za rečt
res mi ni več do tega, sori
če samo pomislim kam je šel ves sneg z metelkove
:ni ga več:, to je.

not much, but still

not every day
but often enough
at midday when shops close
and market women close their mouth
flies find their stony tombs and
rest their wings, and the river
grows thick and sticky with the heat
i think of your black t-shirt
and a necklace with a violet stone
you bought me, what, six years ago,
and even further back
when i knew nothing of what was to come
a day as hot as this
when other flies, as ignorant as these,
were sleeping on the ceiling.

life, lately

sinead o'connor

obleke so mi še vedno prav
kava diši kot po navadi
nikomur mi ni treba povedati
da sem si kupila novo spodnje perilo
in da sem včeraj
spila celo buteljko sama
nikomur ne gledam v oči
če mi ni do tega

od postelje do mize
so štirje koraki
moji prsti so umazani od barve
in poleti grem v firence
kadit cigarete in gledat lepoto

tega ne zamenjam za nič
niti zate ne

končno, pizda.


nubes nigras timeo

svetloba zamrzne. oblaki
izvlečejo niti, kot pajkove mreže
in spuščajo rahlo, previdno
na zemljo steklene kaplje dežja.
hladne dlani imam. spet
je poletje in v krošnjah
se sonce zatika, ne pade na tla.
mesto je živo, kot vedno
po ulicah plujejo
majhne, preproste besede
ostajajo blizu svojih lastnikov
da jih lahko ti po potrebi vzamejo nazaj.
mesto je živo in vse luči so prižgane,
jaz pa stojim in poslušam
za hribi se nekaj premika
in bo zdaj zdaj
kot visoka črna plima
planilo na nas.

kako si

spet to glupo vprašanje
in najprej rečem v redu
ampak potem se odločim
da bom enkrat za spremembo iskrena
- klasična pijanska odločitev -
in ji ob pol treh zjutraj v premier pubu
povem svojo življenjsko zgodbo
kot da se je zgodila nekomu drugemu
in da sem v kurcu, pravzaprav,
kdo pa ni v kurcu, če gre
ob pol treh zjutraj v premierja,
govorim o vsem, kar se je zgodilo
medtem ko ji čeljust pada dol
ker niti ni hotela slišati vsega tega
vmes itak vizualiziram tiste kavče
in odbleske svetle kože v temi
na večer devetindvajsetega marca
kar celo stvar dodatno poslabša
in govorim vedno bolj doživeto
povem ji še, da zdaj več rišem
in manj pišem
in da so retro stefson blazno ok
in da bom ziher še eno pivo
vidim, da bi rada nekaj rekla
ampak ji ne pustim do besede
sama si je kriva
kaj pa sprašuje taka glupa vprašanja

closure // sredi tega stoletja

jehuda amihai: sredi tega stoletja

sredi tega stoletja sva se,
kot prastara egipčanska slika
s pol obraza in celimi očmi,
za kratko obrnila drug k drugemu.

pobožal sem tvoje lase, v obratni smeri od tvojega potovanja,
vzklikala sva drug k drugemu,
kot ljudje vzklikajo imena mest vzdolž poti,
v katerih se ne bodo ustavili.

prekrasen je svet, ki se zbuja zgodaj, da bi delal zlo,
prekrasen je svet, ki zaspi, da bi grešil in odpuščal,
v pregrešnosti najinega skupnega življenja, ti in jaz.
prekrasen je svet.

da bi jih pozabila, pije zemlja ljudi
in njihove ljubezni kot vino. vendar je to nemogoče.
in prav tako kot obrisi judovskih gora
tudi midva ne bova našla počivališča.

sredi tega stoletja sva se obrnila drug k drugemu.
videl sem tvoje telo, ki meče senco, me čaka.
usnjeni pasovi dolgega potovanja
so bili že dolgo navzkriž pritrjeni čez moje prsi.
spregovoril sem v hvalo tvojih smrtnih ledij,
ti si spregovorila v hvalo mojega minljivega obraza,
pobožal sem lase v smeri tvojega potovanja,
dotaknil sem se mesa, glasnika tvojega konca,
dotaknil sem se tvoje roke, ki ni nikoli spala,
dotaknil sem se tvojih ust, ki bodo zdaj, mogoče, pela.

puščavski pesek je pokril mizo
s katere nisva nikoli jedla.
toda s prstom pišem vanj črke tvojega imena.


closure

for a while, special friend,
we walked our separate paths
only a foot apart
hands touching now and then
always by chance
(of course)
then i turned left
and you turned right
(the sky was already cracking then)
it seemed
i needed closure, and you didn't
(but i was trying just a little too hard)
and when i turned around to say i was sorry
(i was rude and childish,
and let's try again, special friend)
you were already gone.

pridiga

pridi po poti. ostani en sam

zaščiti s telesom ta ogenj ki tli,

ne misli na zimo. požanji si sanje.

postani roka, postani oko

utrgaj telo, ki te greje.

ustvari svetlobo iz teme

pred zoro položi glavo na kamen

in spi. postavi si kočo

ne bodi brezbrižen, ko gledaš lepoto
in seme, ki raste. po svoji podobi

iz zemlje naredi boga in se z njim posvetuj.

ob mraku stopi med hraste
in bodi čuvaj med čuvaji.

vkleši v steno, kar vidiš, pusti svoj del,

daj drugim svoje besede.

odkleni si dver ki gre vate

in pojdi skoz njo. ulovi metulja

in ga izpusti. kar si ustvaril, zapusti,

in pojdi drugam. stopi ob stran
in poslušaj, ko drugi molčijo.
ostani en sam. ko vidiš, da sonce

obstane na nebu in ne zaide,

obrni zemljo. popravi, kar je pokvarjenega.

potegni si jezik iz grla in poj.

sleci si kožo in jo zakoplji

tri metre globoko, da ne pride za tabo.

ko hodiš, hodi naprej ali v krogu.

naberi si rose in umij z njo srce,

ki si ga izbral in je nad vsemi.

spoštuj.

kar si rekel, ne jemlji nazaj, razen včasih.
potopi glavo v morje in dihaj.

postani roka, postani oko.
ostani en sam.

oda ljudem, ki sem jih poljubila

1.
nikoli mi nisi bil zares všeč
in naravnost sovražila sem tvoj štrikan pulover z jelenčki
ampak ko sem prestala preizkušnjo
in splezala s tabo na tisti hrib
sem si zaslužila poljub
in sploh ni bil slab, za prvič

2.
sneg mi je lezel za majico
in spila sem že kar precej jegra
žerjavica je počasi ugašala
mislim da je bil to eden izmed najsrečnejših večerov
v mojem življenju

3.
všeč mi je bilo, da si prijazen
in da se spoznaš na računalnike
na tvojem mp3ju sem poslušala fear of the dark
in to je bilo vse, kar sem takrat potrebovala

4.
nikoli se nisi preveč dobro poljubljal
ampak rada sva se imela dolgo, dolgo časa
in zato to sploh ni bilo pomembno

5.
prosil si me za poljub
sam enga, dej no
in bila sem že dovolj pijana
da sem rekla ja, čeprav mi ni bilo do tega

6.
vse sošolke so se tisti večer poljubljale s tabo
in zato sem se tudi jaz
pa mi ni bilo všeč
tvoj jezik je bil hrapav in hiter kot mačji

7.
zanimalo me je, kako je poljubiti žensko
zato sva izvedli eksperiment
ugotovili sva, da ni občutek nič posebnega
se nato zaleteli z zobmi
in bruhnili v histeričen smeh

8.
poljubljala sva se izčrpno in temeljito
po več ur naenkrat
vseeno se mi zdi,
da se tebe ne bi nikoli naveličala

dve o samoti

arthur rimbaud: sensation
par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue,
rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.
je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
et j'irais loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
par la nature, heureux comme avec une femme

in za tiste, ki ne znamo francosko, čeprav bi se spodobilo:

arthur rimbaud: a feeling
on summer evenings i shall take the bridle ways
wheat pecking at my wrists, slim grass beneath my thread
i'll let its coolness penetrate my dreamy haze
and let the wind wash over my uncovered head.
i shall not speak, i shall not think of anything
but through my soul will surge all love's infinity.
far, far away i'll go, a gipsy wandering
content in nature as in woman's company.

to je vedel tudi byron (v romanju grofiča harolda):

there is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
there is a rapture on the lonely shore,
there is society where none intrudes,
by the deep sea, and music in its roar:
i love not man the less, but nature more,
from these our interviews, in which i steal
from all i may be, or have been before,
to mingle with the universe, and feel
what i can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

hejtrska

nekega dne ob devetih dvaintrideset ugotovim, da sem postala mali človek
vse od jutra in obvezne kave (ko bi vsaj prebrala časopis!)
pa do večera in rutinske masturbacije
mi je vseeno
hvala, o predniki, za vašo slovenskost
zdaj si ne upam niti natakarju reči da je moja juha hladna
in ko mi vzamejo igrače previdno sklonim glavo
se ne splača, kao
več kot poznaš ljudi, več imaš problemov
to so me naučili in zdaj vem
hvala, vi, ki smo vas baje izvolili izmed svojih vrst in ste poslani
za producente naše osebne in moralne krize
iskreno se mi gladko jebe za vaše vikende na morju
boli me le, ko moram praskati po žepih namesto da bi razmišljala o čudežih sveta
in da ne jem, da si lahko kupim eno knjigo o calatravi
(to res obstaja, ljudje! revščina je med vami, in kužna je)
ča bi lahko, bi tudi jaz sedela vrh akropole v požgani travi
in dekodirala razmerja belih stebrov
tako pa me skrbi za golo eksistenco
kje bom dobila službo in bon za manj kot dva evra
hvala tudi vam, bodočnost naroda, ki vam je omogočeno upirati se
lahko je biti študiozen, če so tvoji roditelji prav tisti nouvelles riches
ki so še danes dolžni mujotu in hasotu plačo od oktobra lani
ni res, da uspejo pridne in pametne punce, precej pomaga če imaš oblečeno kaj lepega
spoštujem vaš angažma, gospodična, ampak a je to chanel nr5
'vse se mora spremeniti, da bi vse ostalo tako kot je'
ni čudnega da je država v kurcu če se lahko borijo samo tisti,
ki se nimajo za kaj boriti
od kod se bo tokrat dvignil mali človek
če med krediti in socialnimi podporami nima časa da bi prebral časopis
mogoče bolje, ker je tisk itak skorumpiran
mogoče bolje, da posluša wernerja in modrijane
mogoče je to naravni tok dogodkov
in je moje življenje kolateralna škoda
v tem primeru ok, 'se odpovem' in 'gospod je moj pastir, nič mi ne manjka'
in kljub vsemu sem hvaležna, da se včasih dvignem nadse
če pogledaš od zgoraj so stvari precej irelevantne
zaenkrat ni nihče obdavčil zdrave pameti
(najbrž se ne splača, ker je je ostalo tako malo)
občudujem vkoreninjenost ljudi v to življenje
in potrebo po spreminjanju časa v skladu z nekim v njihovih glavah zraslim idealom
zato
medtem ko svet trga meso z lastnih kosti
stojim ob strani in gledam luno ki zahaja.

mother tongue

že precej časa mi leži na vesti dejstvo, da pišem ta blog v angleščini. s tem sicer najbrž ni nič narobe, svoboda govora in metropolitanskost bralcev sta vendar brezmejni. poleg tega je angleščina milozvočna, besedno bogata in v primerjavi s slovenščino skoraj nikoli ne zveni okorno. kljub temu pa me zadnje tedne prežema blažja oblika nekakšne domovinske zavesti, da si skoraj očitam avtomatično pisanje v tujem jeziku. je res vredno zanikati materinščino, samo zato, ker se sosedove besede bolje slišijo, se njihovi stavki lepše skladajo in so zato moje skoraj brezvsebinske pesmi takoj dvignjene na nivo vsaj povprečne kvalitete? tujega vendar nočemo, svojega pa ne damo! (in naj mi še kdo reče, da ni tole reklo najlepša prispodoba slovenskosti vseh časov)
najbrž bo treba precej dela in miselnega napora, da se bo moj pesmo-tvorni (ker mi je zoprno napisati 'pesniški') refleks preselil nazaj v rodne jezikovne kraje. pesmi v slovenščini (z izjemo pred kratkim objavljenega slavospeva ljubljanski mladini) nisem napisala že od gimnazije. spodnja zadeva datira nekam v leto 2009, se mi zdi, in je ena od zadnjih slovenskih. pa še onomatopoija je v njej, svašta.

v trenutku tišine narahlo
zapoje mi severno morje
naplavljene duše mornarjev
ki strgajo rjo z rdečih čeri
kam teče meglica večera
čez rob v obzorje
sirene so danes le jadra
in svet je resnica
čemu to obilje neznanih tokov
če me čaka za hrbtom svetilnik
na mizi pogrnjena rjuha
in trije kozarci -
prisežem:
lahko bi bilo mnogo bolje
kot dan za dnem padati s klifa
v temno vodovje.

after a while

i know i'm gonna be ok
until i see your face again
a glimpse of your familiar smile
amongst the crowd.
it could be someone else, in fact
i can't really recall your features
i once claimed to be mine only.
the way you speak has probably changed,
with time your gestures surely altered,
still, i recognise you in the passers by
and feel the cosy touch of your hand
when i accidentally bump into a stranger.
i have marks left on my skin where your body used to touch me,
sometimes i examine them with pride like battlescars.
i miss you like a missing limb
that has been rotting, i know it's better cut off,
yet a phantom aching wouldn't let me sleep.
we did have quite a story, don't you think?
i can remember being so excited
about telling how we met to our children,
now never to be born, erased from every possible future.
are you ok?
it's difficult to think a part of me now lives its own life.
sometimes at night, i go to where you work
and press my cheek against the cold glass door.
you are not there, but maybe, if i knocked,
you would come out like always,
let me in, make me some coffee,
ask me how my day was.
and then, after a while, i leave
and let myself be swallowed by the city's crossroads.

asian cuisine

we're full of gleaming curry yellow
like little kittens, paralysed by careless strokes
our skin gives in and there's no barrier.
we open up like oysters, overcooked
to show our soft pink insides
our eyes grow steamy with the heat.
i suck the breath out of your lungs, surprisingly
it tastes like sushi i ate with my bare hands the day before -
you are a rare delicacy.
in a way i am disgusted
by the simplicity of love
when it, moist and tender, like raw fish
ascends our bodies
and makes me shiver with your greedy kiss.

solar deity

after what seemed like forever, the sun finally made its way through the winter clouds. i am thankful to raa, svarog, helios, apollo, sol, or whatever the name may be, for riding their solar barge again and making me feel a wee bit more elated and warm. when the first beams reached ljubljana yesterday, suddenly it seemed as if everyone dropped what they were doing and turned towards the sun, almost incapable of believing such light and warmth still existed. but after this forst moment of shock, the whole city shivered, smiled and gave in to the gentle strokes of a long lost lover. loving life is easy on days like that.
now i'm counting down the days until the equinox and the final victory of the solar deity. just 18 to go!

vicious pages

my daily morning routine consists of a long coffee with milk, short excercise and a stroll through a couple of blogs and pages i check out every day. i have been following some of them for quite a while, and some of them can be quite addictive, so think twice before you follow the links below -  especially if you're a sucker for pretty pictures and visual inspirations like me. most of the content is actually pretty useless, it's a great way to start a day though.

a beautiful mess - a blog led by elsie and emma, two super chic sisters whose lives seem like a fairytale from afar.

lovely, dark and deep - the most beautiful tumblr of them all. i want to live a life inside every single one of these pictures.

lost at e-minor - a mecca of modern design, architecture, art and everything a hipster should know.

encyclopedia of the exquisite - a blog about curious pleasures and unusual delights.

honestly, wtf - another design/fashion/diy/art/lifestyle blog.

and last, but not least:  ta-daam!
pinterest - the vicious page i have become quite addicted to. it's like a women's magazine with endless tips, tricks, pretty pictures, recipes, new clothes, quotes, and there's even more of them every time you hit refresh! you can follow my pinterest boards here.

gosh, judging by these links, i really am vain :)

royal cabaret

the queen of spades
was caught in bed
with jack of clubs
and king of hearts
made quite a scene
and wasn't seen
since that day on
it was the royal cabaret
a fucked up game
one cannot play
so i, and it was only fair,
returned to playing solitaire.

martha and agnes

when i was about 16 i was even more self-conscious and anxious than i am now. i was just beginning to discover improv theatre, and exposing my innermost emotions in public was a big challenge at the time. frequently i was depressed and unsatisfied with myself after the shows, up to an extent where i became a burden to my colleagues, always whining and traumatising about how i could have done things so much better. i didn't understand then that improv is actually all about mistakes, about making things exactly the way you do it even if they seem wrong, and it can never be done better than it is at a certain moment in time.
i remember one evening when me and my improv group were all hanging out at our menthor's apartment. somewhere between cups of tea she pulled me away from the others and gave me a weathered photocopy of a letter the dancer martha graham had sent to her friend agnes demille. the letter was exactly what i needed, and it has become my guideline for most of what i do in terms of art. even now, everytime things get tough, everytime i censor myself, everytime i am dissatisfied with what i do, its words ring in my mind. by now, i know it by heart.

there is a vitality, a life force, a quickening, that is translated through you into action. and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. the world will not have it. it is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. it is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. you do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. you have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.
keep the channel open. no artist is pleased. there is no satisfaction whatever at any time. there is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.
(martha graham to agnes demille)

bits and pieces

the artistic renaissance i wrote about a few months ago is seemingly coming to an end. i'm dry, weathered, empty, like i have nothing left to say. in a way, it's a pleasant feeling, being able to actually sit down without my brain on the brink of explosion. on the other hand, i'm dying for the wave to come back soon. talking bout duality.

anyway, i've managed to watch quite some excellent movies lately. the ones i liked most are:
stay (2005), cloud atlas (2012), take shelter (2011), the tenant (1976) and nostalghia (1983), the latter being a photographic masterpiece by the russian director andrei tarkovsky. it's been haunting me ever since i saw it on thursday. i went to the cinema with a friend, but as i purchased my ticket much later than she did, we didn't get to sit next to each other. after the initial disappointment, i slowly began to re-discover the pleasures of going to the cinema alone. definitely something i should do more often!

being alone is something i've been craving lately. right now, i wish for a vacation in the middle of nowhere, preferably somewhere in the mountains, all by myself. it seems i'm shedding my skin again.
after all, spring is on its way.

language switch

zdi se mi, da nekaj zamujam
čeprav
smo skoraj vsak teden v kudu
in zagotovo še večkrat na metelkovi
praznimo steklenice eno za drugo
(sicer vem, da se to za damo ne spodobi)
in džojnti romajo iz rok v roke
kot vroč krompir iz tiste igre
ob torkih se dobivamo na vajah z bendom
in ob sredah v gledališču
vmes si vzamem še precej časa
za pisanje pesmi in postmodernistične debate
in študij arhitekture, ker je treba kaj znati,
in zares spominjamo na vse tiste
literarne klube preteklih stoletij
ali pa na kakšno čudaško komuno
in prav gotovo bomo čez dvajset let
vsi del davno izpete ljubljanske elite
s svojimi šoferji in možmi in ljubicami
ozirali se bomo nazaj na ta čas
ko se nam je zdelo, da nekaj zamujamo
čeprav smo pravzaprav živeli
prav tisto čudežno življenje
ki je uničilo še vse naivne mlade intelektualce
in jih spremenilo v starce
s kozarci šampanjca in honorarji od prodanih knjig
in naši otroci
se bodo potepli po mestu in ljubili
drug drugega, kot se ljubimo mi.

i tried to translate the thing, but it just didn't sound right. so here it goes.

two in a row

duality

i am both
gold and silver
fire and ice
in both i perish.
i have two hearts
my veins pulse double-time.
i live in two lands
two paths lead through my life
what i say, i say twice
just to make sure i really mean it.
i am my own twin sister
and eventhough i try
one of me is always lying
to the other.
i am not grey,
i'm black and white
always
i split and multiply:
eight limbs, four eyes, two minds,
two men
two names i cry
two places i reach out to
when i wake in the night
from a double dream
and am afraid, beacuse i know,
despite it all
i don't have twice the time
and once i will,
despite it all,
decide,
and with a carefully pointed thrust
i'll kill the other i.


singularity

nothing within my reach
is safe from me.
i am a child,
i break my favourite toys,
i take the best from what i love
and kill it.
i am the darkness of the void
a black hole, singular,
i'm destined to destroy,
distorting space and time
i am the point
where everything goes wrong
and is corrupted,
a twisted star, annoyed
with its existence
slowly forgetting what it's like to shine
i devour all i like.

the more i grow the more i gravitate
the more i grow the more things come my way
attracted by reflections of the universe
and time will come, no doubt, when all this ends
and i explode, outgrow myself as well.

new world order

there is nothing left.
your smile drowns in the half drunk coffee
and suddenly, it's afternoon.
we reminisce a little,
feeling absolutely nothing,
not even the post-modern spleen,
not even the mid-life contempt
not even rage of present day,
we sit and talk.
a quietness, like milk,
secluding us from every stirring,
our minds, a vast, deep sea of whiteness,
blankness, of acceptance
like dogs before they kill them.
we don't lie, the truth just failed to happen.
we do not question our existence
we do not call ourselves 'the lost',
because the name's already taken .
our bodies die, unused,
as we watch from a distance,
feeling nothing,
nameless, shameless
apparatus of rememberance,
the unnoticed generation,
left with nothing
to improve.