lipanj/srpanj june/july
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Jutro je. Sjene su kratke. Nečija potkoljenica naslonjena uza zid. Jedna gospođa vitkih nogu s trbuhom poput mjeseca govori mi da osjeća kako se vjetar mijenja
It’s morning. The shadows are short. Somebody’s lower leg leant against a wall. The lady with thin legs and a moon-like belly tells me she can feel the wind changing.
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Pljusak. Ljudi se komešaju, brzo kupe stvari i odlaze s plaže. Tri mladića sjede na ručnicima i ne miču se. Ja se bacakam u plićaku sve dok mi nove naočale za plivanje ne skliznu s glave. Onda ih tražim u zamućenoj vodi, uzaludno, dok mi kuglice krupe bolno udaraju o potiljak.
Downpour. People rush around, rapidly they pick up their things and leave the beach. Three young men sit still on their towels. I throw myself about in the shallows until my new goggles slip off my head. Then I look for them in the turbid water, in vain, while hailstones painfully hit the nape of my neck.
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Nekad zaboravim da je ljeto. A onda gospođa u ružičastom pareu, koja pije kavu stol do moga, uzme čašu vode s njega i prolije si je po glavi.
Sometimes I forget it’s summer. But then a lady in a pink pareo, having her coffee at the table next to mine, takes a glass of water from it and pours it right onto her head.
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Na društvenim mrežama ljudi objavljuju fotografije zalazaka, mora i lubenica. Iznad njih pišu stvari poput konačno zen, odmor iz snova ili volim ljeto. Ja objavljujem fotografiju dvojice vojnika koji jedu kobasicu. Ispod nje stoji tekst: Šuti Otto! Ti uvijek upropastiš priču o podmornici.
On social networks people post photos of sunsets, sea and watermelons. Above them, they write stuff like finally Zen, dream vacation or I love summer. I put up a photo of two soldiers eating a sausage. Beneath a text says: Shut up Otto! You always ruin the submarine story.
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Plavokosa djevojčica sjedi na ručniku i doji svoju lutku. Kad je završila s tim, pažljivo je odlaže u plastičnu nosiljku, potom se presvlači i dugo namješta gornji dio kostima. Njen otac, kabina, strpljivo drži ručnik koji je štiti od pogleda.
A little blonde girl sits on her beach towel breastfeeding her doll. When she’s done, she gently puts her into a carry cot. Then she changes herself, adjusting her upper bikini part for a long time. Her father, the cabin, patiently holds the towel that protects her from gazes.
intermezzo
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ljeto je enklava, entitet,
ograđeni geto.
u njega se ne ulazi,
ono se događa.
ljeto je ljepljivo, hlapljivo,
golo.
spava nepokriveno, na propuhu,
crnih, najcrnjih tabana.
ljeto se ruga, ismijava
sva ostala godišnja doba.
kaže im, o meni možete misliti
što hoćete, ali samo ja pokrećem ljude.
milijuni malih gnjilavaca
sanjaju samo o meni i
mojim nabreklim obalama bezbrižnosti.
summer is an enclave, an entity,
an enclosed ghetto.
you don’t walk in,
it just happens.
summer is sticky, voracious,
naked.
it sleeps uncovered, in the draught,
with black, the blackest soles.
summer mocks and ridicules
all other seasons.
it says, you can think of me
whatever you want, but I’m the one
that sets them in motion.
millions of little slugs
dream of nothing but me and
my erected coasts of ecstasy
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vjetar se ukočio u granama.
nekad si bez namjere, nekad sav od nje.
stopala mirišu po trešnjama
koje je zaustavilo tlo.
u prostoriji iza vremena
jedna se žena razodjenula
i tvrdi da je Prometej.
trava je suha i oštra, ne oprašta.
u cirkusu, djeca bogova plešu po žici,
publika je nijema i pulsira.
ništa se nije dogodilo,
nitko nije pao.
between branches the wind is numb
sometimes you’re without intention,
sometimes you’re nothing but.
feet smell of cherries
caught by the ground.
in a room behind time
there is a woman undressing,
she says she’s Prometheus.
the grass is dry and sharp, offering no forgiveness.
in the circus, the children of gods dance on a wire,
the audience is silent and pulsating.
nothing happened,
nobody fell.
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sve važne adrese zapiši po rukama
i brojeve, po redu kako idu.
u prizemlju tišine postoji opasnost od buke.
voda se dvoumi u napukloj čaši.
neke su žene nezgrapne
u svojim svilenim spavaćicama
i ne znaju svirati ni jedan instrument
write all important addresses all over your hands
and numbers too, in their right order.
on the ground floor of silence
there is a danger of noise.
in a cracked glass
water is having second thoughts.
some women are graceless
in their silk night-gowns and
can’t play a single instrument.
kolovoz/rujan august/september
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U srcu artičoke mala je princeza koja kad zgotovimo jelo pliva po ulju i izležava se na zelenim listićima. Nigdje graška, samo bob. Na njega se penje i onda skače na glavu natrag u ulje. Nikad je ne pojedemo. Pa nismo mi divljaci da jedemo princeze.
A little princess lives in the heart of an artichoke and when we finish the dish, she swims in the oil or lies around on the green leaves. Nowhere peas, just broad-beans. She climbs onto them and then jumps headfirst back into the oil. We never eat her. We’re not princess-eating savages.
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Nakon što sam odgledala Thelmu i Louise hodam po stanu i govorim teksaškim naglaskom. Glumim slobodu, mladost, obespravljenu ženu s Juga.
After I’ve seen Thelma and Louise I walk around my apartment and speak to myself in a Texan accent. I play freedom, youth, a woman from the South, deprived of her rights.
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U hotelu život ima svoju dinamiku. Između napojnica, žalbi i numeriranih ključeva, u pauzama između punjenja i pražnjenja mini frižidera, Zemlja se zavrti, spotakne i padne nasred predvorja. Neki se gosti hihoću, upravitelj trči, pruža joj ruku da ustane.
In a hotel, life has its own dynamics. Between tips, complaints and numbered keys, in breaks between stocking and emptying mini refrigerators, the Earth spins, stumbles and falls in the middle of the lobby. Some guests giggle, the manager runs, offering his hand to help her up.
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Na brodu, neki su konopi manje, a neki više važni. Vjetar se mjeri sa svih strana. Švicarske gospođe uzdišu dok se penješ po jarbolu. Pušimo skrivećki u prostoriji za posadu i tresemo pepeo kroz okrugle prozore. Kažeš da si volio književnost dok si bio u školi.
On a sailboat, some ropes are less, some more important. Wind is measured from all sides. The Swiss ladies sigh as you climb the mast. We hide for a smoke in the crew cabin and flick our ash through the round windows. You say you loved literature when you were a boy.
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Navečer buka popusti, upale se lampioni i ljudi se spuste u grad. Trombonu je ipak najteže, jer od svih solista ulazi zadnji, kaže jedan stariji gospodin koji ne liže sladoled.
In the evening the noise gives way, the lanterns flicker and people go downtown. Trombone has it hardest, for he’s the one to enter last, says an older man who isn’t licking an ice-cream.
