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.