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Nina Dragičević: Ljubav reče greva

20.00 

Nina Dragičević: Love Says Let’s Go (ŠKUC, 2019)

 

About the author

Nina Dragičević is a poet, essayist, composer and a holder of the Master’s degree in Sociology. She is the author of four books: the novel Kdo ima druge skrbi (Who’s Got Other Concerns, 2014), essayist monographs Slavne neznane (The Famous Unknown Women, 2016) and Med njima je glasba (There Is Music Between Them, 2017) as well as the long poem Ljubav reče greva (Luv Says Let’s Go, 2019). Her texts have been translated into English, German, Czech and Spanish. In 2019, she was the author in focus at the international festival of contemporary arts The City of Women. Nina is a member and collaborator of the Slovenian Writers’ Association, and has helped it run a series of conversations at the Slovenian Book Fair since 2017.

In 2018, she won The Knight of Poetry competition, and was the first in its history to receive both the Jury Award and the People’s Choice award. The same year she was presented the Outstanding Achievement Award of the University of Ljubljana and the award of the Faculty of Social Sciences. In 2018, she was shortlisted for the European award Palma Ars Acustica. Her poetry book Love Says Let’s Go was in 2019 shortlisted for both the Veronika and the Jenko Award.

 

About the book

What I find interesting in Nina Dragičević is how she verbalises that which remains concealed and not talked about in the popular ideology of individuation. She takes on systemic inconsistencies and does not attempt to reconcile them at the level of private life, unlike her generational colleagues; she does not try to reinterpret the social-systemic relationship in order to legitimise her own subordinate position, but instead insists on the deprivatisation of her own subject, radically and on the verge of self-destructiveness.

Just as the hyperindividualised world is growing more narrow, Nina Dragičević is determined to expand it, also in the linguistic sense. She takes what used to belong to the chosen few, while simultaneously tearing down any sense of affiliation. The only possible form of belonging shows itself as “luv”. The latter exists as an idea that is being realised in the space of present-day-ness, the space of no exit. The idea of reality suffices, while the speaker tries to distinguish between the idea of reality and reality itself. Like the sound produced by her walking, while she is listening to other sounds. Apathetic sounds. Sounds which are socially regulative. Sounds that communicate the superiority of the women employed in the field of culture, writers, executioners who slaughter and yet swear that they do not eat meat.

The long poem Love Says Let’s Go is a carefully conceived artwork. On the micro level, Nina appears to be capturing present moments, although she actually generates an autonomous world. Departing is a conscious process and not an act of despair. The subjective privatisation into the field of personal management is not seen as a possibility. She is raising up her arms against those, who, at a confluence, call to her »come disappear stay«, while her only real concern is whether “luv” will call. – Gabriela Babnik

 

/ excerpt /

 

i go, go, shoes on clothes on wrap myself weigh myself down, go out, vrə

go, stand still, go slow, go to the corner stop pause turn stop turn

become together squeeze eyelids copulating, more, yet more rubbing against each other chafing, yet more yet more yet

more intensely more intensely snuggling creasing tightening in i look in front

step back turn step back turn

i think together and all in disdain,

carry myself over, turn, turning around, step back take step turn go home

i turn go to the city, i am not, something is saying don’t, not something, not a thing, someone, right, someone, thus something, not something, someone, right, you are someone i tell myself don’t,

but what is going on with me, i know, know what it is, when i think about all that could happen,

and it sure will.

 

love writes, says let’s go wants let’s go all the time,

when thus haunted and chased she says love me fast walks slowly i walk from and to, when love writes i take a cigarette it drops on the ground i stare think to myself, should i pick it up, outside surely wouldn’t lick the ground, but who knows what i’ve swallowed thus far, but still i am, look at me now, won’t and won’t die, someday there’ll be a fine war, what if i win,

but when love writes,

when love calls, i answer because her call means

she is still alive.

 

love she says what are you doing i say i’m writing she says about what, love the master of impossible questions,

i say what should i do she says what, what should i do i say i’m writing what else should i do she says what will you do i say nothing she says what can you do i say what should i do she says what you can, i say nothing, she says let’s go.

i’m overly worried if she’s alive, when i insist that there is noone, especially no living, while there are many others as many as you wish, but i don’t, but who cares. i postpone to whenever, say i’m writing about departing, walls, i swear i have met haushofer, her wall is just a scam, she just does not feel like it and neither do i, i love you.

i say i would go, i’m writing i would go, pause but where i’m dwelling on it, so, i go,

i say i would go, she says but where i say i would go she says with me i say nothing,

i would like to and can’t wait till she comes.

further i say, thinking out loud, so she wouldn’t worry that i’m not alive i sure am,

i say how woolf totally fucked us up, all of us, with that room, well she didn’t say who had built it, and she didn’t say how many rooms she had, and she definitely didn’t say that she most definitely wasn’t here, let alone now.

when i get carried away, get worried, what am i saying to her when i’m talking, don’t know if she is alive i curb myself, say are you even interested in this she is she sure is, we’re talking only to each other now,

the putsch has done its job, in the morning we go to sleep.

 

i say and what are you doing, she says i’m writing, thinking about you, living somehow, she really is, i think,

she thinks i am bored, she says are you even interested in this of course we are in all of it, but we are assuming the general antiinterest, wholly, we are interested of course in what we are saying, but

neither of us knows how much longer the other will still be alive,

we’re saving time, using it to ask ourselves whether we’re interested.

she says you’re writing about departing i say yes she says i know says i’ll bring shepard says shepard the cowboy always goes says patti smith says cowboy says love, jessica lange says cowboy says love,

we are still here have been sitting here forever and for half an hour already we are saying but where, but where she says come to me we go to me are sitting by me are lying by me and are asking each other, where,

she says come to me comes to me.

 

love does not ask herself where, she is here playing resignation,

says i’ve done everything i could drilling into her head suppressing consolation,

and even this she had to carve out on her own to the core clearly on her own clearly says i’ll bring shepard read, shepard went into a car drove off across america slept in motels, shepard went, shepard went,

sorry, i feel sorry when listening to her love i am looking out at the parking lot, where is shepard, where is the car, there isn’t anything, there isn’t, i’m sorry,

there isn’t, there isn’t, which is why where possibly always means here.

i will finish her off, love, one way or another either with a revelation, a recollection

over and over again or with silence, she says tell me, tell me, i do know you that much she says,

knows what i will say, she hopes i will, so she will finally tell me that she doesn’t make a living,

she hopes i won’t so she will say we’re happy,

when she says colette didn’t make a living, friends helped, i say ethel didn’t make a living, friends helped,

she says see i say what she says, when thus comforting, when only much later she says

what a crime.

Translated by the author and Barbara Jurša


Tisto, kar me zanima pri Nini Dragičević, je, kako upoveduje, kar v popularni ideologiji individuacije ostaja zamolčevano. Nase vzame sistemske neusklajenosti, in jih za razliko od svojih generacijskih kolegic in kolegov ne skuša uskladiti na ravni zasebnega življenja; družbeno sistemskega razmerja ne skuša preinterpretirati, da bi legitimirala lasten podrejen položaj, pač pa radikalno in že samodestruktivno vztraja pri deprivatizaciji lastnega subjekta.

 

V poemi Ljubav reče greva je kar nekaj prevpraševanja: Kako naj se subjekt orientira v perspektivi prihodnosti? Koliko subjekta je sploh še? In kako naj se umesti v raztelešeno telo? Ko se hiperindividualizirani svet oži, ga Nina Dragičević, tudi v jezikovnem smislu, širi; na način zaklinjanj, preklinjanj. Zahtevo po širitvi prostora izpeljuje v staroveški formi. Vzame si, kar je nekoč pripadalo izbranim, hkrati pa pripadnost ruši. Edina možna pripadnost se kaže v obliki ljubav. Ta obstaja kot ideja, ki se izživlja v prostoru današnjosti, prostoru brezizhodnosti. Ideja o realnosti ji zadostuje, medtem ko izrekajoča skuša ločevati med idejo o realnosti in realnostjo. Kot zvok, ki ga proizvaja s hojo, medtem ko posluša druge zvoke. Apatične zvoke. Zvoke, ki so družbeno regulativni. Zvoke, ki sporočajo superiornost zaposlenih kulturnic, književnic, rabljevk, ki koljejo in hkrati prisegajo, da ne jedo mesa.

 

Poema Ljubav reče greva je precizno zasnovana umetnina. Na mikro ravni se zdi, da Nina lovi zdajšnje trenutke, čeprav proizvaja avtonomen svet. Odhajanje je zavesten proces in ne dejanje iz obupa. Subjektivne privatizacije v polje osebnostnega menedžmenta Nina ne vidi kot možnosti. Zamahuje proti tistim, ki v sotočju vpijejo pridi zgini ostani, skrbi jo le to, če bo ljubav poklicala.

 

Gabriela Babnik

 

 

/ odlomek /

 

če bi začetek bil bi ponoči odjeka ritmizirano bobnenje

simetrične detonacije tik nad menoj (nikjer drugje)

to je

distance nad menoj

sploh ne tu

a predvsem tu in natanko zato

bobnenje in ne šum

detonacije in ne koraki.

 

ti koraki so koraki po neiztrebljivem minskem polju

to niso koraki po neiztrebljivem minskem polju

pač pa telesa mine

to je

to so

tla našpičena

po katerih detonira telo mina,

ne, ker bi jo tla pognala,

temveč,

ker lahko.

 

tako se telo mina detonira se regenerira se vedno znova

komponira ponovitev, ki to je ali pa ni, a

gotovo na meni,

ki gotovo nisem niti po izbiri niti slučaju

temveč

prisotna moteča v prisotnosti zvoka,

ki ga gotovo prisiljena gotovo jaz

pri sebi gotovo deklariram

et voilà

kompozicija detonacij alias tako pač je,

se lahko ponovi, zato, ker lahko,

zato začetkov ni

in

pazi to

tudi koncev ne.

 

kar sledi, sem.

kar sledi kompleksen argumentacijski proces

kognitivni transfer, rečem ne boste

v neoprijemljivosti neobtožljivosti

aplicirali svoje moči

rečem stanovalka

rečem lastnica ali pa ne

moje je moje, kolikor se mi ljubi

evo neskladja.

 

ko zadoni, zadoni, vstopi vame,

sama zavist me je,

evo neskladja

in doni, doni izrazito prijetno relativno nizko in brez ostrine

nekakšna molitev, ki se je zgodila prevečkrat

anestetična repeticija vstopi natanko

vame

vso gugavo

vsa odklanjalna izganjam

ne morem kaznovati korigirati

željna natanko donenje natanko uničiti, a

tu ni dogovorov

tu ni dialogov niti prenesla ne bi

velesubjekt se zrinem nad zvočnost tega jarka

nad zvočnost kot primitivno

obenem civilizacijsko

evo skladja.

 

zelo močno šibka

se postavljam nad odjeke velike neurejene množine

do kraja prečiščenega volumna,

ko tako grem, grem, zadnje zatočišče tako imenovani dom,

a ja nimalo spremna

pripravljena priseči,

da sem onstran nevzdržne zunanjosti kontaminacije v stanju obupa

moram ukrepati

grem, brcam

ob vse, kar

mi pride

nasproti

čisto tako, da se zagotovim,

da sem nad njo oblastnico,

končno nekaj mojega, a

spregledujem njeno oblastniškost

naivno vztrajam obvladujem dopovedujem,

v tem mestu

ambicij

ni.

 

v tem mestu, tem blodnjaku

odbija oratorij za komorni

duhamorni

naravnani

neskončno linearni

konsenz in

to mesto, ta blodnjak

neskončno barje

večno predpotopno stanje

v grlu brboče

penetrira vlaži in

tu potekajo orgazmi neke druge sorte.

 

burnato je slišati je prhutanje kril novorojenih ujed,

ki mečejo se ven poletijo in bobneče razglašajo svojo ekskluzivno možnost odhoda si nihče ni predstavljal,

zato se tudi ni zgodil.

utopično bi bilo in za družino pogubno,

če bi se razšli,

zato se nihče ne razide,

tudi zato se nihče ne razide,

ker bi tako šle k vragu vse ekstaze užitka družbenega umora.

in vsi hočejo nekam stran.

 

tako se gre:

ena ima razbito glavo, ena ima zlomljeno nogo,

ena ima zlomljeno srce, ena nikdar ni bila cela.

tako je mnogo zlomljenih in rehabilitirajo se na drugi pretrgane tudi vezi povezujejo zlomi,

skupna valuta sentimenti stanejo živce so prosile za nasvet ali pristan,

nato so se zbrale so rekle

zbrati se moramo in

zgodil se je udar je zato, da udari.

prej ali potem so srečale pamet, a so se zgrešile.

lepo so bivale in lepo so se razbijale na prafaktorje se fragmentirale

tako precizno, da jih še danes ne najdejo.

na srečo jih tudi iščejo ne.

 

 

 

 

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