HÖLDERLIN TOWER

34 Chengdujska St., flat no. five,
first floor, three flights up,
straight on and you walk into
a big brass plate, the biggest in all Fužine if not
in all Ljubljana – worthy of a poet. It was put onto
the door by my father. It says ZUPAN on it.
This is my Hölderlin tower.
It wasn\'t given to me by a carpenter,
for whom, by way of thanks, I should conjure up gods,
rather, it was rented out to me by Ljubljana City-Centre
Council, but the intention was exactly the same.
This is where I now pass most of my time. I lie about, sleep,
wait for Nataša, fiddle with the remote control and
wait for football to come up on some channel.
Marjan Rožanc would say: mass of the twentieth century.
I move about the stove. Make risotto, pasta, soups.
Bake miracles in the oven. Season salads.

Rocket salad is a must. I dip bread into olive
oil. Eat the Mediterranean. When Nataša comes
home, she eats the Mediterranean too. But the thing I like
most is to be a stow-away on a ship
bound for childhood.Then I write it all down.
Some read it and put it aside with disgust.
Others read it and fall in love with what they\'ve read.
These I prefer. There\'s no need for me to go anywhere.
I rotate an invisible globe, sticking in
the pennants of past and future expeditions.
In the evenings I lock the mouths of books to stop
them from quarelling. Outside flows the River Ljubljanica, thinking
itself to be  the Neckar. But the only river to be the Neckar is
the River Trboveljšèica. I walk along the Ljubljanica. I go
rollerskating. Every time less cautiously. I have already
begun jumping the curbs. So far
with no consequences. With all due respect
to greatness, instead of babbling away
ceaselessly:"Palaksh, Palaksh", I shout on the pitch
at the top of my voice: "Pass the ball,
don\'t play selfish. Defend." People call me on the telephone,
rousing me from my poetic trance, asking:
"Mr Zupan, have you possibly read
my poems? What do you make of them?" I no longer know
how to talk myself out of it. I would like to stop
this heavy work. I don\'t feel at home
in a field of lost souls. Nobody ever comes
to visit. The poetic energies of this place
could make people overly happy and that
frightens them. God knows what my
neighbours suspect me of.
Money laundering. Arms trafficking. White
slave-trading. Selling dreams. Haggling with
words that can heal the worst of wounds.
My photograph is published in newspapers.
The other day I spoke, in carefully chosen words,
in well weighed and elaborate sentences, on the main
news of a private TV station. And once again
people thought: "This guy, this guy must be rich."
I don\'t watch myself on television. The camera makes me too fat.
I used to yearn for the attention of the gloss
and glitter. I longed for an unknown beauty
to tug at my sleeve and say: "I\'ve been
searching for you for ages, you are even more handsome
than in the photographs, is it really you?"
Today I enjoy living undercover. Reading
theological treatises in conjunction with sports
pages. Half an hour of Grace and Gravity
followed by half an hour of World Soccer.
The order is not important and the effects
are already surprisingly visible.

HOLDERLINSKI STOLP

HOLDERLINSKI STOLP

Chengdujska 34, stanovanje številka 5,
prvo nadstropje, po trojih stopnicah
on potem naravnost, da se ti v obraz zaleti
velika plošcica, najvecja na Fuzinah, ce ze ne
v vsej Ljubljani - dostojna pesnika. Na vrata
jo je nalepil moj oce, na njej piše ZUPAN.
To je moj holderlinski tolp.
Ni mi ga sicer poklonil mizar,
ki naj bi mu v zahvalo priklical bozanstva,
ampak mi ga je dala v najem Skupšcina
obcine Ljubljana Center, s tocno istim namenom.
Zdaj vecino casa prebijem v njem. Lezim, spim,
cakam Natašo, pritiskam gumbe na daljincu,
cakam, kdaj se bo na kakšnem kanalu zacel
nogomet. Marjan Rozanc bi rekel, maša
dvajsetega stoletja. Se vrtim okrog
štedilnika. Pripravljam rizote, pašte, juhe.
Pripravljam cudeze iz pecice. Mešam solate.
Rukola je obvezna. Namakam kruh v olivno
olje. Jem Mediteran. Ko pride Nataša
domov, tudi ona je Mediteran. Še najraje
od vsega pa sem slepi potnik na ladji,
ki pelje v otroštvo. Potem vse to zapišem.
Nekateri berejo in branje z gnusom odlozijo.
Nekateri berejo in se v zapisano zaljubijo.
Te imam rajši. Nikamor mi ni treba iti.
Vrtim neviden globus. Vanj zapikujem
zastavice svojih bivših in bodocih odprav.
Zvecer zaklenem usta knjigam, da se ne
prerekajo. Zunaj tece Ljubljanica, ki misli,
da je Neckar. Ampak Neckar je lahko samo
Trboveljšcica. Hodim ob Ljubljanici. Se
vozim z rolerji. Cedalje manj previdno. Ze sem
zacel skakati cez plocnike. Za zdaj še brez
posledic. Namesto da bi z vsem dolznim
spoštovanjem do velicine venomer bebljal:
"Palakš. Palakš," glasno kricim na igrišcu:
"Dej zogo. Bejz u ubrambo. Njahi sulirat."
Ljudje me klicejo po telefonu, me budijo
iz pesniških transov in sprašujejo:
"Gospod Zupan, ali ste ze mogoce prebrali
moje pesmi? Kaj mislite o njih?" Ne vem
vec, kako naj se izgovorim. Rad bi prenehal
opravljati to tezaško delo. Ne znajdem se dobro
v polju neznih duš. Na obisk ne pride nikoli
nihce. Pesniške energije v tem prostoru
bi lahko ljudi prevec osrecile in tega se
bojijo. Bog si ga vedi, cesa me sumijo sosedje.
Pranja denarja. Trgovine z orozjem. Trgovine z
belim blagom. Preprodajanja sanj. Mešetarjenja
z besedami, ki zacelijo najhujše rane.
Moje fotografije so objavljene v casopisih.
Zadnjic sem z izbranimi besedami in v skrbno
premišljenih in dodelanih stavkih govoril v
osrednjem dnevniku na privatni televizijski
postaji. In ljudje so zopet pomislili: "Tale,
tale je sigurno bogat!" Jaz se ne gledam
na televiziji. Kamera me prevec zredi.
Vcasih sem si zelel pozornosti, blešcic
in svetlobe, zelel sem si, da bi me
neznana lepotica pocukala za rokav in
rekla: "Dolgo casa te ze išcem,
še lepši si kot na fotografiji, si to sploh ti?"
Danes uzivam, ce zivim v ilegali. Ce berem
kombinirano teološke razprave in športne
strani. Najprej pol ure Teznost in milost,
potem pol ure Meðunarodni nogomet .
Vrstni red ni najpomembnejši
in ucinki so ze zdaj presenetljivi.