Tijelom u riječ. Performans stihom
Poem: "Tijelom u riječ " ("Body to word") written by Vesna Biga
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Poem: "Tijelom u riječ " ("Body to word") written by Vesna Biga
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Poems: "Biblijske žene i druge pjesme" ("Biblical women and other poems") written by Dimitrije Popović
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Leaning against the wall of our co-op to which we’ve long since stopped bringing anything, but it still shelters us from the Bura or the Sun, we make up things and try to remember the people we could say something about...
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A million friends have visited us this summer, they’ve remembered that we existed and that they needed to drop by because they love us and they know we’ll be happy to see them even if just once a year and always in August and they also know that we’ll find a hole in this endless time...
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How was it, you ask, what a question, I told the story a hundred times over and you still don’t believe me, sometimes I wonder where I live and who I meet every day, it would’ve been a hundred times better if I’d, when that happened, packed my things up and left for America...
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This is one of those exceptional moments that always catch us by surprise and draw out of us more than we think we can give. Of course, it’s always about the persons we’re talking to, they inspire us with their uncalled-for presence and their freedom from the standard conventional limitations. Nothing but the stimulus.
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Sometimes I feel hopeless. I sit for hours on end and smoke one after another, the landscape slowly fades until it completely disappears and some different world appears before my eyes.
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Yet another thing that makes us different from the tourists is the fact that we never or only rarely eat at restaurants? This unsaid unease is a commonplace of a small island town. But our dear friends who are guests in our house are adamant and persistent, they are almost blackmailing us, they will most certainly get offended if we don’t let them take us to dinner to the fancy restaurant whose terrace borders on the beach. My wife and I keep declining, while our son, who is not even seven years old, jumps up and down on the couch and keeps repeating in the rhythm of his hopping: Let’s go! Let’s go! We’re finally disarmed, sense and friendship have won over the rigid norms of customs.
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When I was leaving home, she says, my father told me what that small pocket on my jeans was for. Always keep a hundred kunas in it, so you can call a taxi and leave the place that’s causing you pain.
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In this photo, I remember it well, the two of us were at daggers drawn. Your mother and I, we were seriously thinking about separating, I nonchalantly tell my little girls after we’ve taken out all those old albums with photos of our families. It is one of the last paper photographs, made before photo albums stopped making any sense and backed down before the ruthless aggressiveness of the screen.
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When I get so angry with my wife that I regret having ever met her, I get out of the house and go to the paddock where my horse grazes, says my friend who I have surprised with an unannounced afternoon visit. I take the horse to the stable, put a saddle on him, mount up, and get going. He takes me where he wants, or I steer him, we never know where we’re going to end up. We wander up and down the vineyard paths, climb up a hill, stop and watch everything that’s in our sight. There’s not much talk, he says, I occasionally pat his neck and that’s all we need.
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It’s summertime. We’re in love. Tired from our walk, and still far away from the apartment where we’ll continue to make love, we look for a table on the terrace at a harbor café.
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This happened, I remember, a long time ago, I couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. I was still alive. Going out, searching. Vainness resided in my steps. And on that very Saturday morning I decided to go back to my student room, open a book, and start a new life. Last night’s drunkenness was leaving me together with the lust that had found no one.
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No referendum could ever show who we are and what we want to be, how the things are and what could make them better, there’s no wisdom or hiding here, whoever touches into that wasp’s nest will get his portion. Our miserable desire to show that we’re better and different proves a suicide mission every time we open our mouth in his presence and he detects mockery in our voice.
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In that fit of privation, I went on everyone’s nerves. All it took was to remember something and, at that very instant, it would warp out of shape, fall apart, being to hurt. I saw clearly everything around me, all the beautiful world that surrounded me, but I somehow wasn’t able to reach it. Longing only.
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We sit at the terrace of our only and dearest bar at the town quay, our back toward a loud table at which arrangements are made about the masks and scenarios that should definitely be shown at the carnival, we learn firsthand what we missed last year because once again we were preoccupied with ourselves, politicians and rich men undress in front of us and run around in their undies, dirty at that, everyone is called out for and reminded of what they’ve forgotten, just for the sake of it, to make it clear that some haven’t!
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This year the olive harvest was poor, the vineyards failed because of disease, we didn’t get the family fishing license, we can’t register at the employment office to get support because this knowledge of ours about the land and the sea no one needs anymore.
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To what extent is Karuza’s writing similar, and to what extent it is different from the existing standards in contemporary Croatian literature? The simplest way to answer the question addressed in this manner is to offer a simulation of a kind of equation; it is similar, or, more precisely, it is different exactly to the extent to which his biography is different from other, somewhat typical and conventional, biographies.
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