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.