E errëta dhe e kobshmja marrin nuanca të tjera dhe krejt abstrakte në prozën e shkrimtares gjakovare Rrona Jaka, shkruana rbresh.info.

Shkrimtarja e zhanrit kriminalistik të romanit, do ta botojë librin e saj të ri me titullin “Pigmalioni, ai shkruan krim jo tragjedi”, një pjesë e të cilit është botuar në gjuhën angleze në revistën ndërkombëtare “Beton”.

Romani i ri i shkrimtares gjakovare trajton temën e depresionit dhe të konfliktit qenësor me veten në një rreth ku individi anashkalohet ose alienizohet tërësisht.

Romani është i shkruar në tipin postmodernist të shkrimit duke përdorur teknika si double coding dhe thyerja e murit të katërt duke futur narratorin dhe lexuesin brenda universit fiksional.

Jaka gjithashtu ka marrë pjesë në festivalin ndërkombëtar të letërsisë “Polip”

Bëhet e ditur se ky është libri i dytë i kësaj shkrimtareje.

Libri i parë mban titullin “Aresa” dhe trajton temat sociale, në veçanti, trajton temën e homoseksualitetit dhe të sistemit “të padrejtë” të drejtësisë.

Veç tjerash Jaka është studente në nivelin Master në Fakultetin e Filologjisë dhe përkthyese letrare për revistën e mirënjohur “Jeta e re”.

Për lexuesit e Arbresh.info është siguruar versioni në anglisht i tregimit të Rrona Jakës:

“Pygmalion, he writes crime not tragedies”

(Graveyard confession)

Hello Alice, are you there? I couldn’t sleep? It’s the same story every night. But it doesn’t matter; insomnia turns my sleepless nights into romantic dinner dates. Loneliness reveals her beauty when the moon stares down my open window. Or it might as well be the effect of morphine that helps me relieve my headache, but it doesn’t matter, now that I am talking to you. In times like these, as I am standing quiet beside my naked call girl, the thing that scares me the most is the passing of morphine effect because it reminds me how much I  really hate this senseless reality. Sometimes I inject a second dose just for fun, but it leaves me torpid for hours. I start talking to my stalking ghastly ghouls in my head, whom I no longer fear. Only the murmurs of my heart prove that I am alive, everything else could just as well be a mere distant hallucination. My schizophrenic dialogs have become formidable. After all that, the ache that rings in my head like a clumsy church bells sings me to a deep sleep as if I were a rotting dead corpse.

It’s been two week since her funeral. Today I woke up earlier. I woke up from a dream where I was punishing Mother Teresa because she likes to be tied up and choked during sex. I was covered in sweat and it felt like I had been sleeping an eternity, but I later realized that it had been less than an hour since I had fallen asleep. I was alone once more. My body wasn’t moving, I didn’t know where she was or if she had left, I never got to know her name. I was laying in my bed reading. Coincidentally it was “The raven” by Poe. After a long theatrical read, I stretched and went to the kitchen to get something to drink only to find out there was nothing left.

Not a single beer, or bourbon, or wine. Even the orange juice was gone, so I grabbed my wallet, a pair of ripped tight jeans and went shopping. The liquor store was closed due to the owner’s health condition so I drove further away to another store. Before reaching the liquor cabinet I bumped into two sales agents whom ignored me after judging me to be a drunk. Anyway I filled the basket and went to the cashier. I could see the condescending gaze of two fat ladies when they saw me spent more than a hundred Euros on alcohol.

I squeezed the gas pedal until my bosom shook. I refused to go inside the blue walls of my apartment, so I drove away. I didn’t want to waste the morning translating thousand year old books that no one else would bother to translate.

Instead I went to Çabrati Hill to see my old man. His cold welcome gave me goosebumps. A chill dew went down on my spine as I approached with two beers on my hands. I opened the beers on his tombstone and laid my back on it. I was openly telling him everything. I was completely honest about everything in my boring life. He wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway. Unknowingly, I was caressing the engraved epitaph while staring at a young lady crying over the worthless bones of her husband. “Still crying?” said I vexed by her tears. Luckily I was able to ignore her screeching scream. Later I started grazing my eyes at other things. The shadow of an apple tree caught my eye. A big old tree bloomed with sweet fresh fruits, even though April imitated the cold winds of October. I’ve been told that these are the sweetest apples ever tasted, which made me wonder “By whom?”, “The dead?”.

“God dammit” said I, “if this tree was somewhere else, it would be a landmark for the tourists”, I laughed at that ridiculous thought, knowing that the tree would have been cut down long ago. “It’s better like this, the living destroy everything” I added after a raven landed on one of the branches.

This ebony raven was the rarest and the most beautiful creature you could ever imagine. On his beak he was caring some sticks, trying to get them to his nest. The beauty of his spreaded wings compelled me. The darkest shade of his black plum turned blue when the midday light hit him. His black eyes didn’t remind me of hell, there was something unique and beautiful in his darkness. I was wondering where Poe saw his deadly raven, because mine was beautiful. He was no longer crying “nevermore”, a synchronized polite caw was all I heard.

When he let the stick in what would later be his nest, he flew away to get some more. This raven made me realize that we’ve acted with prejudice towards his kind. It seems like we were blind, like deadbeat fathers and misunderstood what deep darkness really means. The dark prince was judged harshly and unjustly!

Later on the bird landed near me, wandering around my father’s stony grave.  He jumped on the tombstone and looked me dead in the eye. At first I was afraid because he could gouge my eyes out, but he only stared as if trying to tell me a terrifying sad song. He was well aware and confident and didn’t even crouch when I reached to touch his head. He only left because a crow insulted him with his presence.

My raven lost it only when his lady came around. The synchronized caw turned into a lusty mating scream. His tamed eyes went wild once more. His tail and wings looked like a Saturday night disco ball. After that he flew away with his lady and I didn’t see him again.

Meanwhile I was done with my beer and started drinking the other one. I was thinking about my old man, who unlike the raven never really cared about anything.

Different from popular belief, my father was not a simple man. He was not just a handsome guy drawn to girls and parties, like everyone thought. He especially liked one of Soren Kierkegaards quotes. He requested that one of his quotes be put in his epitaph but no one took him seriously, to them he was hardly a philosopher.

“Marry, and you will regret it; don’t marry, you will regret it; merry or don’t marry, you will regret it either way. Hang yourself, you will regret it; don’t hang yourself, and you will regret that too; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret it either way. This gentlemen, is the essence of all philosophy”

This and more was written on the back of his paintings, that are still collecting dust on the liquor cabinet where grandpa use to hide his finest scotch.

Kierkegaard, different from Camus, use to believe that suffering comes when we accept gods absolute will. But let’s not go there, just yet…

My father was a painter. I was as shocked as anyone could be. My grandma told me where he hid them. She also said that he kept them to himself, because he didn’t want to be shunned and outcast. Only she and I know about this. If you go through the spider webs and the empty wine bottles you can find even more of his paintings.

His paintings are phenomenal, but they gave me terrible nightmares. He wasn’t a sociopathic nihilist as all his paintings suggested. He was a man with biblical morals, no wonder he liked Kierkegaard!  It seemed like an absurd relation between him and his sadistic paintings; as if he wasn’t the kind man who used to hold me tightly in his arms… as if I didn’t know him at all.

From what I could tell, he was suggesting that people could not help being people. That reasoning and logic is a fool’s delusion. He claimed that people are guided by perverted reasons that make them turn off their humanity.

But the most beautiful thing I found in his journals was a short essay comparing literature to the myth of Pygmalion, showing that literature is just an escape tunnel to a different reality. Later, on his essay, it mentioned that literature not only helps people, but challenges them to change.

But who cares… he was dead before his body even realized it. His execution in 1999 was only a formality.

My mom, his friends and all others say that during his last days he was walking like a dead unburied zombie.

Everyone calls him a hero, but it just seems too good to be true. To me, he seems like the third brother from Rozafas’ story, the one who cannot tell the sheep from the wolves.

But who cares, who can claim to really know right from wrong? I am as disturbed as he was. Just as crazy. Like father like son.

Rrona Jaka

Prishtinё, 2017.

/Aarbresh.info/