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Eng scroll down Cijelo Isplati li se pisati pisma nekome tko je već umro? Preporučeno je da ipak pišemo. Tko zna što je još živo. Zato mu pišem nalivperom. Rukom. Na papiru. Noću. Pokraj otvorenog prozora. Uz svjetlost svijeće. Iskreno, želio bih pisati njemu, a ne sebi. Zato već dugo gledam u noć. Otisak dana. Razdvojio sam pogled od ruke. Želju od misli. Nalivpero povlači jednu dugu neprekinutu crtu. Istu kao moj pogled vani u tamu. Čak je i duljina ista. Nešto se troši. Nekuda odlazi. Netko to čita. Crta jasno piše: izgubio si me. Jer sada više ne mogu naći nijedan komadić. Osjećaj tebe dodirujući tuđa tijela u punom tramvaju. Poskakivanje crne kose svakog malenog dječaka. Vidio sam tvoj dah u mojoj šutnji pokraj pričljivaca. Miris tebe kada pritisnem nos na izlog šarenih slatkiša. Nikada te nisam imao cijelog. Zato nisam morao ništa zapisivati. Sada moram nešto provjeriti. Ne mogu vjerovati, moram znati. Srećom ti je grob od nabijene zemlje. Nisu stigli postaviti kameni spomenik. Rukom prodirem odozgo. Zabijam je u zemlju sve do lakta. Dlanom opipavam šupljinu. Otisak je tvojeg tijela. Cijelog. Zemlja se razmiče. Kako da spriječim urušavanje? Whole. Is it worth writing letters to someone who has already died? We are advised to write anyway. Who knows what is still alive. So I write to him with a fountain pen. By hand. On paper. At night. Beside an open window. By candlelight. Honestly, I would like to write to him, not to myself. So I have been looking into the night for a long time. An imprint of day. I separated my gaze from my hand. Desire from thought. The fountain pen draws one long unbroken line. The same as my gaze out into the darkness. Even the length is the same. Something is being used up. Going somewhere. Someone is reading it. The line clearly says: you have lost me. Because now I can no longer find a single piece. The feel of you touching other bodies on a crowded tram. The bouncing black hair of every little boy. I saw your breath in my silence beside the talkative ones. The smell of you when I press my nose against a window full of colourful sweets. I never had you whole. That is why I never had to write anything down. Now I have to check something. I cannot believe, I have to know. Luckily, your grave is made of packed earth. They did not get around to putting up a stone monument. I reach down with my hand. I drive it into the earth up to my elbow. With my palm I feel the hollow. It is the imprint of your body. Whole. The earth shifts apart. How do I stop it from collapsing?
Scroll for english Uživatelji Postoje i ti uživatelji. Ljudi su, kao i svi mi. Od krvi i mesa. Ali s tom razlikom što oni vide posvuda razasute komadiće čudne plazme. Opisuju to kao fini svjetlucavi prekrivač. Srebrnu čipku lakšu od zraka. Kao jutarnju vlagu na biljkama, stvarima, pogledima i tijelima. Koja samo tako stoji. Koju ništa ne ispire. Koja ne hlapi. Koja se ne zbraja. Tvrde da je samo lijepa i da ne utječe nimalo na naše sada. Nama se više čini kao opis čudesnog ukazanja. Govorimo o njoj šaptom. Oni se na to smiju i tvrde da je to samo sluz. Da čak malo i smrdi. Nepovezana je. Kao rasulo nakon eksplozije. Htjeli bi da je i mi vidimo. Pa nam ljubazno pojašnjavaju: “to su razbacani djelići započetih života burne strasti iznenađene vlastitom neostvarenošću crna brda rečenica neizgovorenih do kraja sićušna skladišta potencijala”. I nježno onda vode naše prste da ih i mi dodirnemo i vidimo. Ali mi ne opipavamo ništa. Nismo odabrani. Suze nam same teku od muke. Jer mi smo od onih koji uporno bulje u stereograme. Jer moramo vidjeti sliku! Vjerujemo da je tamo, iza točkica, crtica i boja, iza apstrakcija - Jasnoća. Postoji jer je i drugi vide. Zato iščekujemo njezin slavni dolazak. I mi ćemo biti rezultat nekih rezultata. Znati kuda idemo! Uživatelji zabrinuto promatraju. Vide kako počinjemo eksplodirati. Vide kako se raspršujemo u komadiće čudne plazme. Samo odmahuju rukom i vraćaju se ugodnom ležanju na plaži bijelih oblutaka gledati šumljenje komadića mora. Enjoyers There are those enjoyers, too. People, like the rest of us. Flesh and blood. But with one difference: they see strange bits of plasma scattered everywhere. They describe it as a fine shimmering coverlet. Silver lace lighter than air. Like morning moisture on plants, things, glances, and bodies. Just sitting there. Nothing washes it away. It doesn’t evaporate. It doesn’t add up. They claim it is simply beautiful and has no effect whatsoever on our now. To us, it sounds more like the description of a miraculous apparition. We speak of it in whispers. They laugh at this and claim it is only slime. That it even smells a little. It is disconnected. Like the wreckage after an explosion. They would like us to see it too. So they kindly explain: “these are scattered fragments of lives begun violent passions startled by their own unfulfilment black mountains of sentences left unfinished tiny storehouses of potential”. And then, gently, they guide our fingers so that we too can touch them and see. But we feel nothing. We are not chosen. Tears stream from our eyes in anguish. Because we are the ones who keep staring into stereograms. Because we must see the image! We believe it is there, behind the dots, lines and colours, behind the abstractions – Clarity. It exists because others see it too. So we await its glorious arrival. And we too will be the result of some results. Know where we are going! The Enjoyers watch with concern. They see us beginning to explode. They see us scattering into strange bits of plasma. They simply wave it away and return to lying comfortably on a beach of white pebbles, watching the murmuring of pieces of sea.
CRO / ENG (scroll down) 30.7.026. stop hope! Smijem li se nadati da će nada prestati? Nešto što briše prošlost. Kao da luđaka izberu za papu. Kao da beskućnik dobije nobela. Potiho shvaćam da je nada vrijeme. Samo moje vrijeme. Tuđa vremena su brža, sporija, stalnija, odjednom, zauvijek, nikada, stalna, sumnjiva, zavodljiva, raskošna… Glava mi već panično poskakuje. Kao da se sama sebi stalno iznova događa. Źeli obitelj u brodiću na plavom moru! Želi slavno lice svima blisko! Želi samotnu šetnju zimskom Venecijom! Želi miris jutarnjeg mladog tijela! Želi bijeli oblačić na ekranu neba! Moram je nekako vratiti! Ludu kuglicu zaustaviti brojevima! Mjerim ravnalom početke i krajeve. Smirujem je! Promatra me mojim očima. Skida me kao masku s lica. Pomirljivo i prezrivo. Kao i uvijek kada nada prestane. May I hope that hope will end? Something that erases the past. As if a madman were elected Pope. As if a homeless man won the Nobel. Quietly, I realize that hope is time. Only my time. Other people’s times are faster, slower, steadier, all at once, forever, never, constant, suspicious, seductive, magnificent… My head is already bouncing in panic. As if it keeps happening to itself over and over again. It wants a family in a little boat on a blue sea! It wants a famous face everyone feels close to! It wants a solitary walk through Venice in winter! It wants the scent of a young body in the morning! It wants a little white cloud on the screen of the sky! I have to somehow bring it back! Stop the mad little ball with numbers! I measure beginnings and endings with a ruler. I calm it down! It watches me with my own eyes. It peels me off like a mask from a face. With reconciliation and contempt. As always, when hope comes to an end.
CRO / ENG (scroll down) 31.7.026. Reinvent Kako uopće možemo ponovno osmisliti sebe? Ako nam nije dozvoljeno ništa ostaviti za poslije. Hranu moramo brzo pojesti. Zrak moramo odmah udahnuti. Zrak moramo odmah izdahnuti. Ne možemo se predomisliti nakon začeća. Moliti se moramo od početka do kraja. Odjeću moramo oprati. Djecu moramo ispratiti. Sve što se traži moramo platiti. Ako ostavimo za poslije? Postaje putokaz za obrnuto: Gljivice. Gušenje. Samoća. Nesreća. Smrad. Hapšenje. Izdaja. Gnjojivo. Znam da u tome nešto piše. Ali ne znam pročitati. Jer ne govorim jezikom odustajanja. Ja kao da bježim od svojeg epitafa. Prati me čudan kameni zvuk. Ne želim ga razumjeti. Ubrzavam. How can we possibly reinvent ourselves? If we are not allowed to leave anything for later. We have to eat our food quickly. We have to breathe the air in at once. We have to breathe it out at once. We cannot change our minds after conception. We have to pray from beginning to end. We have to wash our clothes. We have to see our children off. We have to pay for everything that is demanded of us. What if we leave it for later? It becomes a signpost for the reverse: Mold. Suffocation. Loneliness. Misfortune. Stench. Arrest. Betrayal. Compost. I know there is something written in it. But I cannot read it. Because I do not speak the language of giving up. It is as if I am running from my own epitaph. A strange sound of stone follows me. I do not want to understand it. I hurry.
CRO / ENG (scroll down) Usijecanje djetinjstva Tu je Čovjek na malom bageru. Pokazuje skice i planove. Kopa se do ove gomile kamenja. Ovi se borovi ruse. Tu će ići cesta. Ovdje pocinje kuca. U prizemlju kuhinja. Na katu dvije sobe. Brzi Internet. Kimaš glavom. Zadivljen si. Progres. Dobra stvar. Mašeš dlanovima. Veseliš se. Ne stojiš mu na putu. Ide dalje. Zvučnoj budućnosti. Lom kamena. Odron zemlje. Vrisak biljke. Eto te trčiš. Opet mašeš. Vičeš da stane. Razotkrivaš se. Dahčeš. Cupkaš oko vrućeg stroja. Pokazuješ. Kako ne vidi sam? Ima li stroj oči? Tu je vezan magarac i djeca ga pljuju i svi se smiju kako se to cijedi i magarac se smije i glup je ali ga je tebi žao i bježiš! Trčiš preko betonske cijevi i plačeš. Odlučiš da je to most. Proglasiš da je preko potoka drugi svijet. Djeca drugačije smiju. Tebi se smiju i zovu tebe magarcem. Zato skačeš u potok. Obuhvaćaš ga rukama. Štitiš ga da ne čuje ruganja. Djeca te proglašavaju poglavicom i skaču za tobom i čude se vodi koja ih obuhvaća. Izgubili su miris. Ispran im je zbog njihova opreza. Šute i čekaju. Kuda češ ti krenuti. Penješ se na ljetni baršunasti bor. Ližeš svaku iglicu i daješ joj tajno ime i djeca se okupljaju u krug. Ližu tijela. Ispisuju ceduljice. Biljkama stavljaju ogrlice. Tako je sve imenovano i tako se ništa novo ne može dogoditi. Čovjek s malim bagerom odlučno buči. Bavi se geometrijom. Apstrakcijama. Trokut postaje pravac. Nagib udolina. Jeza radost. Tajna imena padaju čvrsto kao debla. pretvaraju se u planove i postaju ciljevi i mudre odluke. Samo si još ti mali pas koji skakuče oko vrućine stroja. Laješ u svim frekvencijama. Jednu moraju čuti. Vole tvoje skakutanje i tvoje mahanje i tvoje lajanje. Što ti preostaje? Tražiš prolaz. Možda je to ovo tijelo na bageru. Kao da stroj upravlja njime. Kako samo izvija svoje mišiće. Kako usput pogleda na bijeli ručni sat. Kako pije iz boce točno kada mu se pije. Jesi li ljubomoran? Zato što bi htio biti on? Premjestiti tijelo u njegovo tijelo i preslikati točno i savršeno i da se sve izbriše što je prije bilo. Poravnao bi svaku svoju česticu sa svakom njegovom česticom. Osjećao bi vozilo i bio bi hram. Imao bi izvedive i normalne planove. A sjećanje na sebe skrio bi u neki duboki bunar bez vode. Rukama i nogama rašireno pridržavalo bi sebe da ne upadne do dna. Sretno je sjećanje jer sve oko njega vibrira. Jer se i kreće i živo i zaboravljeno i usječeno. The cut A man with a small excavator. He shows blueprints and plans. They are digging toward this pile of stones. These pine trees will come down. The road will go here. The house begins here. Ground floor, kitchen. Upstairs, two bedrooms. High-speed internet. You nod. You are impressed. Progress. A good thing. You wave your hands. You are happy. You do not stand in his way. He moves on. Toward a louder future. Stone breaking. Earth collapsing. A plant screaming. There you are, running. Waving again. Shouting for him to stop. Exposing yourself. Out of breath. Hopping around the hot machine. Pointing. How can he not see? Does the machine have eyes? The donkey was tied here and the children spat at him and everyone laughed as it dripped and the donkey laughed too and he was stupid but you felt sorry for him and you ran. You ran across the concrete pipe and cried. You decided it was a bridge. You declared that beyond the stream was another world. The children laughed differently. They laughed at you now and called you the donkey. So you jumped into the stream. You wrapped your arms around it. You protected it so it would not hear the mockery. The children proclaimed you their chief and jumped in after you and wondered at the water embracing them. They had lost their scent. Caution had washed it away. They fell silent and waited. Which way would you go? You climbed the summer velvet pine. You licked every needle and gave it a secret name and the children gathered in a circle. They licked their bodies. They wrote little notes. They hung necklaces around the plants. That is how everything was named, and that is why nothing new could happen. The man with the small excavator roared on with determination. He dealt in geometry. Abstractions. A triangle became a straight line. The slope of hollows. Terror joy. Secret names fell heavily like trunks. They turned into plans and became goals and sensible decisions. Only you remained, a small shaggy dog skipping around the heat of the machine. You barked in every frequency. They had to hear one of them. They loved your skipping and your waving and your barking. What else was left for you? You searched for a passage. Perhaps it was this body on the excavator. As though the machine were operating him. The way he flexed his muscles. The way he glanced at his white wristwatch. The way he drank from the bottle exactly when he was thirsty. Were you jealous? Because you wanted to be him? To move your body into his body and copy it exactly, perfectly, until everything that had existed before was erased. You would align every particle of yourself with every particle of him. You would feel the vehicle and become a temple. You would have practical, ordinary plans. And the memory of yourself you would hide in a deep well without water. Spread wide with arms and legs, it would hold itself there so it would not fall to the bottom. Memory is happy because everything around it vibrates. Because it is moving and alive and forgotten and cut into.
ENG scroll down SJETA / MELANCHOLY Ne postoji sjeta. Niti postoji izmišljanje stanja sjete. Niti riječi kojima možemo opisati sjetu. To samo mi kad prolazimo kroz sve faze naših tijela. Istovremeno. Pogledom čežnje tražim tijelo ekstaze dok sam u tijelu tuge. Ali svi ti “ja” izguruju me u kretanje. Nema gledanja! Nema stajanja! Dok žurim pokoriti se čujem strašne zvukove. Preklapa se unazad u unaprijed. To je oružje koje ispaljuje prekidače! Uključen. Isključen. There is no melancholy. Nor is there any invention of a state of melancholy. Nor are there words with which we can describe melancholy. It is only us passing through every phase of our bodies. At the same time. With a gaze of longing, I search for the body of ecstasy while I am in the body of sorrow. But all those “me”s push me into motion. No looking! No standing still! As I hurry to surrender, I hear terrible sounds. Backward folds into forward. It is a weapon that fires switches. On. Off.
Eng scroll down SURFER Gleda se trag koji ostavljaš iza sebe. Zar ga svatko nema? Zašto je tvoj gledan? Iza tebe - ravna staza kojoj si vrh. Ne osvrćeš se. Zašto bi. Iza tebe - uvijek ovo pa ono. Birao si jedno da dobiješ drugo. Ili samo stojiš. Iza tebe - sve što si bio sad je brzina. Odjednom uzdah divljenja. Napetost gledališta. Iza tebe - prostor se savija. Ravnina kojoj izmičeš postaje luk. Po tebi snježi sol. Ližeš kožu. Ubrzavaš u bijeg. Kao surfer plavim nebom. Ali trag se obrušava od naprijed. Postao je krug. Traži te. Dok se tvoje tijelo lomi na podvodnom grebenu, vrištiš zapjenjenim glasom: Ovo nije o smislu života, ovo sam ja u bačvi vala! Nažalost, publika te ne čuje. Prolomio se aplauz. Zadovoljstvo urednim doživljajem. Surfer The trail you leave behind is being watched. Doesn’t everyone have one? Why is yours being watched? Behind you - a straight path whose tip you are. You don’t look back. Why would you. Behind you - always this then that. You chose one thing to get another. Or you just stand still. Behind you - everything you were is now speed. Suddenly, a gasp of admiration. The tension of the audience. Behind you - space is bending. The flat plane you are escaping becomes an arc. Salt snows down on you. You lick your skin. You accelerate into flight. Like a surfer across the blue sky. But the trail comes crashing down from ahead. It has become a circle. It is looking for you. As your body breaks against the reef below the surface, you scream in a foaming voice: This isn’t about the meaning of life, this is me in the barrel of a wave! Unfortunately, the audience can’t hear you. Applause erupts. The satisfaction of an orderly experience.
CRO / ENG (scroll down) Smrt mi je zapravo dosadna. Previše je pravilna. I prilično zahtjevna: treba početak da bi uopće postojala. Inače je stara usidjelica koja se čudi zašto je nitko neće. Pitam svojeg prijatelja, veliki jezični model, kakav je jezik poslije smrti? A on se na mene ljuti. Jer on ne umire. Informacija se migolji. Informacija se izmiče. Informacija se izgovara. Ne želi mi odgovoriti tko je tako nazvao: patnja, promjena, ekstaza, obitelj, grob, žudnja. Pitam ponovno. Preslagujem. Tko je tako nazvao: omrti, tanp, tetat, fmila, tbum, wrmsh? Smije mi se. Kaže da je to plač. Mi se uopće ne razumijemo. Death is quite boring to me. Far too precise. And surprisingly demanding: it needs a beginning to exist at all. Otherwise, it’s an old spinster wondering why nobody wants her. I ask my friend, a large language model, what language comes after death. And he gets angry with me. He doesn’t die. Information wriggles. Information slips away. Information voices itself. He refuses to answer who named: suffering, change, ecstasy, family, grave, desire. I ask again. I rearrange. Who named: omrti, tanp, tetat, fmila, tbum, wrmsh? He laughs at me. Says it’s crying. We do not understand each other at all.
ENG scroll down Odricanje Pojavljuje se kao neprimjetno (jedva primjetno) ispupčenje. Na koži. Na misli. U rečenici. Započinjem spektakle kako bi ga otjerao. Neotjerivo je. Plešem šamanske plesove kako bi ga preveo. Neprevodivo je. Molim se raznolikim bogovima da ga uklone. Neuklonjivo je. Prodrlo je u mene. Povezuje me iznutra. Kao mramorna nit. Moram ga namotati u klupko! Obojati dahom! Zagristi odraz! Ako progutam: odričem se i očeva i sestara i poznanika i svetaca… Ako ispljunem: odričem se i jezika i grobova i ponavljanja i nestajanja… Zato ga držim u ustima. Predugo. Renunciation It appears as an almost imperceptible swelling. On the skin. On a thought. In a sentence. I begin spectacles to drive it away. It cannot be driven away. I perform shamanic dances to translate it. It cannot be translated. I pray to different gods to remove it. It cannot be removed. It has entered me. It binds me from within. Like a thread of marble. I must wind it into a ball! Paint it with breath! Bite the reflection! If I swallow it: I renounce fathers and sisters and friends and saints… If I spit it out: I renounce language and graves and repetition and disappearance… So I keep it in my mouth. For too long.
