a correction: I can live a hundred lives and read
thousands of books, I can be present in countless
conversations, on these plains of the unconscious, battles,
debts, muddlements, ruses, concealments, denials, lies you
don’t even dream of,
and it doesn’t matter if I’m here for eternity, whether
I’m here for the first and the only and the last day, I’m
extricating myself, believing I’m living, from this crime
which is the first and the only and the last and a whole life,
and it’s as if I’m without any attributes of the living,
I know nothing therefore I’m not going to complicate
anything, but don’t you ever join anything, don’t stay, at
some point she will demand what doesn’t belong to her, she,
the pretence of power, the pretence of being the point of
origin, with thousands of proper names, at some point she
will say, everything is here due to me,
but I only walked by and wrote a few sentences, and if
there was anything due to her, these were only the sentences
I didn’t write, but now I will write them down, because now
I’m making a correction and thus, I will now write down
everything, because this age is either an anticivilization or its
catalyst,
and at the moment that you arrive, cut into, destroy,
interrupt civilization, don’t look towards all those lights at
the end of the tunnels, don’t go there, don’t get closer and
don’t join in like some moronic civilizer,
this is a scam, in the end you will get stuck in a torture
chamber, guilty, and you won’t close your eyes anymore and
you won’t know anything and you won’t see anything and
most of all you won’t see anyone and you won’t be able to
run away from this love anymore,
power incessantly lurking from behind a blinding
searchlight, which is for the time being still wallowing over
there in a puddle with three unread books and preaching,
and when you get closer, she gets born, and this age into
which we stare as repressed morons is above all just the
response, she is capable of,
power and a victim simultaneously, and me inserted into
this mosaic of hers, in which the elements must be totally
mute, because this creature into which we’re investing
our lives so that she becomes our life, knows everything,
because everything belongs to her, because she is everything,
she devours and cleanses space, to disguise her unhealable
insufficiency, the only possible space,
and what you find around here is her post-hygienization
solitude, this martyrdom of hers is her absolute, she is the
victim which is your incapacitating, she is the victim which
is healing herself with the absolute, which is your minus,
she measures out crumbs because she is the victim, which is
the good authority, and her good deeds are crimes, and the
guilty one is me,
but I have only written a few sentences, in passing, I don’t
know where I was headed, onwards through that darkness,
I only encountered her over there and for a moment I
communicated, thinking that I’m living, that I’m passing by,
and then this one with the proper name president installs
this passing-by life of mine into her mosaic and cheers, how
wonderful that you participate,
but I don’t participate, I don’t agree with anything, and
in those moronic sociological concoctions you can read
everywhere, power cannot create identification, though it can
attempt to do that through repression, but identity escapes
power, which is the very essence of the mistake, for power
doesn’t create identification, what does she care who you are,
power encloses you into a moronic mosaic from which you
cannot escape and where you then tolerate moronic concepts,
the blows for which you don’t know where they come from,
and nobody escapes until the living collapses,
and don’t complain, don’t complain to anyone, in the
midst of this human grind your comforter becomes a good
person, she sticks up for you and gets an apology, you, and
thus you become the apology of power, power becomes
friendly protection, friendly protection becomes destruction,
and you its reason,
and I, too polite for too long, I should have been saying to
her all along what I said to her several times though, I should
have been cutting all along, but I stayed for a moment, for
that couple of sentences, for life, this uninterrupted nervous
reflex, believing that I’m in a society, in conversations, among
colleagues, lovers, friends, believing that I’m a society, a
conversation, a colleague, a lover, a friend,
and there has always been this future time, me too all the
while being the very essence of the mistake in expectation
of the future as the new clearing of reason which mends,
regenerates, the very essence of the mistake by regarding past
times as past, and thus, in the perpetual present of terror,
down-and-out, without a past and without a future, now
I’m resocializing myself, delocalizing myself, in order
to go off the radar, in order not to explain anything ever
again, in order not to analyse anything ever again, for an
explanation doesn’t have any consequences and an analysis
doesn’t have any consequences, therefore I’m forever done
with thinking anything well-meaning about what’s going on
Translation: Barbara Jurša
popravek: lahko živim sto življenj in preberem
tisoče knjig, lahko sem prisotna v nešteto
pogovorih, na teh planjavah nezavednega, bitk,
dolgov, mešetarjenj, zvijač, zamolčevanj, zanikanj,
laži, o katerih se ti še sanja ne,
in vseeno je, ali sem tu vso večnost, ali sem tu
prvi in edini in zadnji dan, izmotavam se, misleč, da
živim, iz tega zločina, ki je prvo in edino in zadnje
in vse življenje, in kot da sem brez atributov živega,
vem ne ničesar, torej, nič ne bom zapletala, a
nikdar se ne pridruži ničemur, nikar ne ostajaj, na
neki točki bo terjala, kar ni njenega, ona, pretenzija
oblasti, pretenzija biti izvorna točka, s tisočimi
lastnimi imeni, na neki točki bo rekla, vse je tu
zaradi mene,
toda jaz sem šla zgolj mimo in napisala par stavkov,
in če je že bilo kaj zaradi nje, so to bili zgolj stavki,
ki jih nisem napisala, toda zdaj jih bom napisala, kajti
zdaj pišem popravek in tako bom zdaj napisala vse,
kajti tale doba je bodisi anticivilizacija bodisi njen
katalizator,
in v trenutku, ko prideš, zareži, uniči, prekini
civilizacijo, ne pogleduj k vsem tistim svetlobam
na koncu tunelov, ne hodi tja, ne približuj se in ne
pridružuj kot nek debilen civilizant,
to je nateg, na koncu boš, kriva, obtičala v
mučilni komori in ne boš več zatisnila oči in ne boš
več vedela ničesar in ne boš več videla ničesar in
predvsem ne boš več videla nikogar in ne boš več
pobegnila pred to ljubeznijo,
venomer prežečo oblastjo izza slepečega
žarometa, ki se zaenkrat še valja tamle v luži s tremi
neprebranimi knjigami in pridiga, in ko se približaš,
se skoti, in tale doba, v katero buljimo kot potlačeni
debili, je predvsem odgovor, kot ga je sposobna,
oblast in žrtev obenem, in jaz vstavljena v
ta njen mozaik, v katerem morajo biti elementi
povsem nemi, kajti tale kreatura, v katero
investiramo življenja, da postane naše življenje, ve
vse, ker je njeno vse, ker je ona vse, požira in čisti
prostor, da prikrije svojo nezaceljivo nezadostnost,
edini možen prostor,
in tole tu naokrog je njena posthigienizacijska
samota, to njeno mučeništvo je njen absolut, ona
je žrtev, ki je tvoja onesposobitev, ona je žrtev, ki
se celi z absolutom, ki je tvoj minus, ona odmerja
drobtinice, kajti ona je žrtev, ki je dobra oblast, in
njena dobra dela so zločini, in kriva sem jaz,
toda jaz sem zgolj napisala par stavkov,
mimogrede, ne vem, kam sem bila namenjena,
po tisti temi naprej, njo sem zgolj srečala tamle
in za hip komunicirala, misleč, da živim, da sem
v mimohodu, in potem tale z lastnim imenom
predsednica vgradi tole moje mimohodno življenje
v svoj mozaik in vzklika, kako fino, da sodeluješ,
toda jaz ne sodelujem, ne strinjam se z ničimer,
in vsepovsod v tistih debilnih socioloških zvarkih
piše, oblast ne more ustvariti identifikacije, lahko jo
sicer skuša z represijo, toda pobegne ji, kar je sámo
jedro napake, kajti oblast ne ustvarja identifikacije,
kaj njej mar, kdo si, oblast te začepi v debilen
mozaik, od koder ne moreš pobegniti in kjer potem
toleriraš debilne koncepte, udarce, za katere ne veš,
od kod prihajajo, in nihče ne pobegne, dokler se
živo ne zgrudi,
in nikar ne toži, nikar se ne potoži nikomur, v
tem človeškem mletju postane tvoja tolažnica dober
človek, potegne se zate in dobi opravičilo, tebe, in
tako postaneš opravičilo oblasti, oblast postane
prijateljska zaščita, prijateljska zaščita postane
destrukcija, ti pa njen razlog,
in jaz, predolgo preveč vljudna, ko bi ji vendar
morala ves čas govoriti, kar sem ji sicer nekajkrat
rekla, ves čas bi morala rezati, jaz pa sem za hip
ostala, za tistih nekaj stavkov, za življenje, ta
neprekinjen živčni refleks, misleč, da sem v družbi,
v pogovorih, med kolegi, ljubimkami, prijatelji,
misleč, da sem jaz družba, pogovor, kolega,
ljubimka, prijatelj,
in vedno je bil ta prihodnji čas, jaz pa ves čas
prav tako sámo jedro napake v pričakovanju
prihodnosti kot nove čistine razuma, ki popravlja,
obnavlja, sámo jedro napake v razumevanju
preteklih časov kot preteklih, in tako se sedaj v
večni sedanjosti terorja, brez vsega, brez preteklosti
in brez prihodnosti,
resocializiram, delokaliziram, da izginem z
radarja, da ne pojasnjujem nikdar več, da ne
analiziram nikdar več, kajti pojasnilo nima posledic
in analiza nima posledic, da mi na kraj pameti ne
pade več kaj dobrohotnega o tem, kaj se dogaja
