Verde Que Te Quiero Verde

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 with each reading. Every time we bring different things into it and in return find different things waiting for us. Searching for the story, filling the gaps in meaning, aim for a single correct reading kills the reader's power to interpret and find their own meaning. There's no order anymore, no sequential story, no rules.

My three stories are the story of a green maiden, standing on a balcony, the story of a man in blood stained shirt climbing to the high balconies, and the story of drunken Guardias Civiles, pounding on the door. The last ones are the most intangible, representatives of power, order and rules, renouncing all of it in their alcoholic intoxication.

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Ko sem hodila v srednjo šolo, je bil na dolgočasni fasadi hiše na Trubarjevi ulici z rdečo barvo izpisan grafit "zeleno, ki te hočem, zeleno". Že takrat se mi je zdel nevarno intimen, podobno kot glas, ki izgovori te besede v Lorcovi pesmi. Nekaj erotičnega je v zeleni, če jo povežem z Zeleno pesmijo Kajetana Koviča in s prebujajočo se pomladjo v Ittnovi interpretaciji zelene barve. In morda z mladenko zelene kože in zelenih las, ki stoji na balkonu in čaka, medtem, ko jo stvari, ki jih ne more videti opazujejo iz teme. Zelena vešča je tisto, kar pod ciganskim mesecem opazuje dekle. Pravzaprav je druga verzija mesečine, druga luna. Ni tisto kar gledamo temveč tisto, kar gleda nas.

Nima smisla iskati linearno zgodbo v pesmi, dogajanje ki bi nam povedalo za kaj gre. Mesečniška romanca je to, kar že naslov pove: mesečniška romanca. Je kot ponavljajoče se sanje, ki pripovedujejo isto zgodbo iz treh zornih kotov, ki se med seboj ne skladajo. Z vsakim branjem so nekoliko drugačni, saj vsakokrat prinesemo v pesem nekaj drugega, najdemo nekaj drugega. Iskanje zgodbe, zapolnjevanje manjkajočih polj v pomenu, stremljenje k edinemu pravilnemu branju zabetonira bralčevo moč kreiranja lastnega pomena. Tu ni več reda, ni zaporedja, ni pravil.

Moje tri zgodbe so zgodba mladenke, ki stoji na balkonu, zgodba moškega v krvavi srajci, ki pleza na visoke balkone in zgodba pijanih orožnikov, ki tolčejo po vratih. Ti zadnji so še najbolj neoprijemljivi, predstavniki oblasti, reda, pravil, ki jih v opoju alkohola sami zanikajo.