Lepopisana

Every autumn M and I go to the book fair and every time we buy at least one book. This time there were railways, botany and Turkey, together with a free copy of a family's trip around the world. I can't wait to immerse myself into Borgesian labyrinth of intentionally blurred and winding sentences which enable a book to start over and over again in front of my eyes, each time taking me with it to its wild serpentines of yearning (if I may borrow certain words from the blurb, even if used incorrectly). * Vsako jesen greva z M-jem na knjižni sejem in vsakokrat domov prineseva vsaj eno knjigo. Tokrat so naju zapeljale Bohinjska proga, grmovne vrste na slovenskem in Črna knjiga, poleg tega pa še brezplačna knjiga o potovanju družine okoli sveta. Komaj čakam, da se potopim v borgesovski labirint namenoma zamegljenih in vijugavih povedi, zaradi katerih se knjiga vedno znova začenja pred mojimi očmi. Pustila ji bom, da me vsakokrat vzame s seboj na divje serpentine

I woke up in the middle of a monologue. I was trying to convince somebody to stop upsetting me. After a while I turned and looked into the shadow by the wardrobe to see a small bright light shine for a moment. Did he understand? No, he didn't. A couple of nights later cold air on my cheek woke me. It was like a touch of a finger, only it wasn't a finger, it was air, gentle and cold, caressing my cheek. Like a touch of a moth's wing. I noticed he thickened the dark air with shining thin green threads.  I never think about asking who he is or what he wants. I don't have to. Back there I know. It's here that I don't, and here it ceases to be important.  * Zbudila sem se sredi monologa, ko sem nekomu dopovedovala naj me neha vznemirjati. Čez čas sem se obrnila, pogledala v senco ob komodi, kjer se je za trenutek prižgala močna bela lučka, ki tam ne bi smela biti. Je razumel? Ni. Nekaj noči kasneje me je zbudil hladen zrak, ki me je pobožal po

T he boy is found dead on the grounds of the all-girls posh catholic school. The police are called, they don’t find out anything and the case gets cold. After a year a note appears on the Secret place in the school, saying “I know who killed him.” The Secret place is the bulletin board where students can pin whatever they want, things they would post on Facebook if they were allowed to use it. The Secret place was set up by the school and is monitored by the teachers. We read the story from two points of view. What happens in the present is told by a policeman, detective Moran. His story covers the events after the card appeared. The other part of the story takes us to the time leading to the murder and is told from a perspective of a group of schoolgirls. Eventually both stories merge and I liked how they folded into one another, forming a circle. The story has got its share of social and gender issues, but what I noticed the most was the need to conform, to fit into a mo

I don't remember what I was looking for the other day, when something disrupted the so called order of my moth paintings. Between Actias Luna and Erebus Albicincta Obscurata, fluttered Graellsia Isabellae, perfect for Romance Sonambulo. According to Wikipedia, she is a European version of Actias Luna. Spanish Moon Moth lives in Spain and France. Red lines on her wings make her look less fragile than the green version, Luna Moth, although I think she is equally translucent. Somehow she seems rough, concrete, not something out of a fairy-tale, but a real moth. Beautiful and scary at the same time.  The red lines on her wings remind me of a steel structure of a greenhouse. It's a crumbed down greenhouse, ovegrown with ivy, Virginia creeper and vine, abandoned for decades ... or so it seems. Each night the green maiden comes to the balcony, waiting among shadows. With silver eyes she watches the reflection of the moon on the water below in the fountain. Graellsia Isabel

I remember a house near my old high school. There was nothing special about it except the words written in red paint: green, how I want you green . Even then I thought those words dangerously intimate, the same as the voice saying them in Federico García Lorca's poem. There's something erotic in green colour, like the awakening of spring in Green Poem by Kajetan Kovič and Johannes Itten's interpretation of green. And there's the girl with green flesh and green hair, waiting on a balcony, while things she cannot see watch her from the darkness. My green moth is what watches her under the gipsy moon. The moth may as well be another version of moonlight, another moon. It's not what we see, but what watches us. There's no use in searching for a linear story in Romance Sonambulo. It's what the title says it is: a sleepwalker's ballad. It's like a recurring dream, telling the same story from three points of view not adding up. They are different wit

It was ages ago when I first heard of Leonard Cohen. I don't remember which was the first song of his I heard, but whichever it was, I couldn't put his voice out of my head. It reminds me of autumn fires, it's anthracite grey with a hint of orange. … ponudi ji roko, z dlanjo obrnjeno navzgor. Ona brez razmišljanja položi dlan v njegovo. Zavrtita se mimo palače s stoterimi bleščečimi okni, s kamnitimi podobami desetih lepotic, zaradi katerih smrt joče in s košatim drevesom v vrtu, kjer umirajo golobice. Valček se vrti vase, v smrt, namakajoč svoj rep v morje … He translated Federico García Lorca's Little Viennese Waltz and sang it as Take This Waltz. I imagined it as waltzing through the city in the middle of the night, in the hour when only loners and weirdos remain standing. Like in my dreamscapes, where anything is possible. Reading Lorca and Cohen was suddenly realizing that it's all right not to search for the ultimate linear st

What happens if I abstract a moth into words, or even better, into letters? I watch it greenly disappear into letters flying away one by one. Each letter whispers silently when it rises out of the moth into thin air. No matter what I do, the moth never really disappears. I know it's still there, I can hear it fly in the darkness. The days are getting shorter ... * Kaj se zgodi, če abstrahiram veščo tako, da jo spremenim v besede ali še boljše, v črke? Opazujem kako zeleno izgine v črke, ki druga za drugo s tihim šepetom odletijo in izginejo v nič. Ne glede na to kako se trudim, vešča nikoli zares ne izgine. Vedno ostane. Vem, da je tam, slišim jo leteti v temi, medtem ko se dnevi krajšajo.

To objavo posvečam Taunemu, ki je tukaj .*  Zadnjega dne prejšnjega meseca sva se odločila, da se nekam odpeljeva. Že dolgo nisva šla čez Gorenjsko na Primorsko. Dan je bil siv, meglen in betežen. Napol sva upala, da bo zunaj ljubljanske kotline kaj bolje pa ni bilo. Bolj ko sva rinila proti hribom, bolj enako nizko megleno je bilo. Vrhov bližnjih hribov se sploh ni videlo, bolj oddaljene gore pa tistega dne niti obstajale niso. V Kranjski gori sva se obrnila proti Vršiču. Kadar koli grem v hribe me spremlja občutek, ki ga ne znam opredeliti, podoben je teži, napetosti. Kot da bi mi skale skušale dopovedati, da tam nimam kaj iskati. Nekaj starega je, kar bi morda razumela šele takrat, ko bi nehala potovati po cestah. Kadar koli berem o staroverskih običajih, ki še vedno obstajajo na naših tleh, se sprašujem kako jih je ljudem kljub času uspelo ohraniti. Tam zgoraj, med hribi za vprašanja ni več prostora. Na predvečer vseh svetih so ljudje v starih časih prižgali doma sveč