Life as Fukú and Zafa

"[...] and I, Shabine, saw when these slums of empire was paradise.  I'm just a red nigger who love the sea, I had a sound colonial education, I have Dutch, nigger, and English in me, and either I'm nobody, or I'm a nation." Derek Walcott
Days have become weeks, and the weeks have become months. Maybe the story began much earlier, but the feelings of vulnerability, the crushing need to move, to do something, to swim, increased in the last few months. And when people are too far away, no matter how near they are, to understand you, when you get swallowed by your own angst, you stop moving. Stop speaking, stop feeling the other world, stop listening to your inner self, stop reading, stop writing. Just working. 24/24.
The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is the first book that I have managed to finish after a long period of time, and the best that I have read this year. Not that there weren’t things in it which I disliked, but that kind of easy book which plays with (low)…

Art and Life

“Art is the lie that tells the truth. Don’t try to understand. You have to feel. And I hope this dove makes people feel. The truth. That we are capable of the most horrible violence.  Which is why we must fight so hard against it." (Genius, Picasso)

Sky Full of Sorrow

I couldn't hide from the thunder in a sky full of song ...
Feeling like living in a loop. Saying, feeling the same things over and over again, feeling chained in a world in which I do not want to live anymore, feeling a foreigner, an alien, in my own shoes, in a world in which I cannot find myself, or hear myself, in all the noise that surrounds me.
I would like to stay on a top of a mountain, closing my eyes, hearing only my own heartbeats. I would like to be able to ignore the other voices that shaped me. Or be able to express myself freely in a world where everyone has something to say. Being able to open myself – really open and dare to say what I really think and feel (especially feel) – without being judged. This is what I miss the most.

I would like for one single day to unleash all my thoughts and feelings. Be a painter, or a god, and draw the sky of my own song. Be able to stop being the mother, the one who always helps, who always listens, who always protects, who always f…


There are moments when I simply want to get out of the school, of the class, and never look back. There are moments when I ask myself if I had taken the right decision, being a teacher, and if in all this time, I couldn’t have done something else.
And there are moments – many moments – when you simply love what you do. You love being in front of children, of students, seeing their evolution, your fingerprint left in their lives. You love being in front of them. Or short epiphanies, when you realise that despite all the angriness, the nerves that they caused you, despite all their ignorance, you care about those kids, more than you thought and realised.

There is a huge struggle inside myself between the system that I hate and the classes that I love, between the communism which keeps on living on the halls of the schools, haunting all of us, teachers and students, and the things that I give and receive from my students. There are times when I am in the middle of a class, and I ask mysel…

The Road(s) Not Taken ...

"If I once convince myself that this kind of life is suicidal to my soul, I will make everything and everybody stand out of my way as I did before now. " James Joyce
And I think it is. Days after days, after days. Days looking all the same. Days of tiredness, of bitterness, of unspoken words, of unwritten worlds, of regrets. Finding shelter in my hidden self. Lighting a cigarette, looking at its smoke how it vanishes into the air. Like all the dreams, all the designs that we once had. Feeling like I cannot find myself in this place. Feeling an alien in a world that I cannot understand. In a world in which I lost its meaning. Chocking in routine. Crushed by cliches. Feeling like all my words are dead before I can even utter them.
Right now, I don’t feel like starting something new. I do not want to be caught in another place. I do not want to be caged again. I do not want to be tamed. I do not want sanity. I want to fly away. Breathing, living, being free. 

Portraits of I

Let me be and let me live. James Joyce
There is the I who would like to fly away. Fly in a more civilized country, where people know how to behave and respect the basic rules. A country in which its streets are cleaner, where people respect one another and things evolve, where you don’t have to struggle so much for a modest salary. A country in which I could finally breathe.
There is the I who loves travelling, who would want to travel across the world, not settling anywhere, meeting, helping people. Flying across borders, living always on the borderland.
And there is the I who would want to settle. Have her own house, with a small garden, making that place after her own design. I would like to sit somewhere, arrange things according to my style, bringing there my personality, having two dogs and a child around me. Growing roots in my career and personal life. Struggling to make a difference, having the professions that I love.

It is peace that all of I-s search. Tranquillity. Life. Mak…


God is war.        M-am simțit în ultimele săptămâni pe un adevărat câmp de luptă, în încercări disperate de a duce la capăt o nouă zi, de a supraviețui multitudinilor de sarcini în care am ajuns să fiu îngropată, de a încerca să sparg acel vid în care îmi simțeam cuvintele pierdute înainte de a fi rostite.       Nu am simțit niciodată în fața războiului, fie el personal sau social, acea reverență, acea sete de glorie, acea luptă pentru un ideal așa cum îl întâlnim în anumite cărți de istorie sau de război. Am văzut mereu în spatele Războiului poveștile nescrise, viețile curmate ale celor mulți. Am văzut absurdul din el, absurdul care înghițea, care îngropa tot ce definea un om, absurdul care ignora evanescența noastră și scotea la iveală tot răul care stă ascuns în om.          Am început de ceva timp Recviem pentru Est de Andrei Makine, roman în care am înaintat cu greu, prea plictisită de o altă carte despre război, prea obosită pentru a înțelege ceva din exteriorul meu, prea satura…