October 22, 2017

Freedom

History is the nightmare from which I am trying to awake. 
(James Joyce)

Freedom. I don’t believe that freedom is everlasting. It is a moment, an evanescent feeling, an urging desire. I wonder if we are ever totally free. We are bound to the work that we do, bound to our old and new families, bound to our society, and most of all, to our inner conflicts.

We are given moments of freedom in all this meaningless routine. We want to climb that damn mountain, but we forget to look around and inside us. We wait for special days for an escape, and we, as human beings, are unable to work outside this history – personal and social.

I wish I were a Dedalus today, fleeing away from everything. Daring to tell my friends how I really feel. Daring to fly from here, daring to quit everything that I have done so far, and start all over again. Daring to fucking breathe.

I am yearning for freedom now: from today, from here, from myself.




October 14, 2017

Burn, burn, burn ...

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...”


I think that this is the best quote that describes what I feel when I choose a person. However, the world seems to be full of dull, grey people, who only say common things and lose themselves in a meaningless routine. I wonder where the people are. I wonder if this town, or even this country, is enough for me, I wonder if I can ever find my place here, if there is a place for me that I can call Ithaca. I start wondering if I made the right decisions in the job that I have chosen, in the place(s) where I am working, and as a song used to say, there is too much life running through my veins for common things.




October 7, 2017

Dreams Deferred

Nu mai e loc nici de cuvinte.

În haosul de acum, în tot ce nu mai există, și ar fi putut fi, în rutina în care fiecare dintre noi cădem puțin câte puțin, în viața pe care ai țesut-o și cumva, cândva, undeva, s-a impus în fața ta.


Rămân doar cuvintele-fantomă, care se-ncăpățânează să rămână aici, care trec dincolo de epuizarea de acum, care te și se izbesc ... de ziduri mult prea vechi, de acel dor ascuns, de tot ce porți în tine și rămâne nerostit. 

..........

September 16, 2017

Dor

… of summers, travelling and good books. Of forgotten letters and unwritten stories. Of daring to hope, of days without masks, of sincerity, vulnerability and humanity. Of my kind of winters.

  

August 30, 2017

Unchain My Mind

Set me free.

Work is knocking at the door, but I am unwilling to open. We keep on running, keep on trying to change the world, keep on trying to make a difference, keep on being pragmatic, thinking with a cold, rational mind, in a continuous chess game. But I am tired of this world, tired of coldness, tired of thinking.

All my life I have been thinking how to do the right thing, how to get where I want to get, how to confront my fears. Somewhere around the road something changed. Maybe I got where I wanted, or maybe I am in the middle and I want to do something different. Maybe I am too wild for the civilized (=insane, godless) world. And the tiredness of struggling inside it made me want to run away.


I would like to get on a train and travel the world. Stop picking up the phone, stop worrying, but never stop caring. Listen to some good music, meeting some mad people, climbing some damn mountains. Finding my Ithaca across the world. I would like to live outside my history, outside borders, inside the wilderness. Guess that’s why I chose McCarthy. 


July 27, 2017

Quicksand

Life showed me that pink is not its colour; it has taught me to be the wise one, the strong one, the one who has to take decisions and be there. It has shown me how wild – in a bad way – the human being can be.

However, during the last few weeks, something cracked. And I have been feeling fear since then. Fear of my own body, fear that I am unable to finish what I have started, fear of the noise, fear of abandonment, fear of the future, fear of boredom, terror towards all the things I left unspoken/ignored.

Last night I dreamt that someone dear was hugging me. No words, no stories, no therapies. I think that all of us are at least two in one, a Steppenwolf and a vulnerable human being, and you see, in my own wilderness, I tried to ignore that feeling (or feelings), to struggle to unchain myself from its grasp. Because I am the one who thinks, not feels. But it was like quicksand. The more you move/speak/think, the more you fall under it.


I wish I were on a top of a mountain, by myself or with the people that I could really choose, hearing only the springs from below and the sounds of nature. I wish I could close my eyes, stop moving, stop being the one in charge, stop working, stop thinking, stop worrying. And I wish I could learn how to breathe – on a top of a mountain, or breaking down all the windows of a house, or in deep quicksand. 


July 15, 2017

The Rest is Silence


"What if there existed a dialogue among the lifeforms of this earth from which we had excluded ourselves so totally that we no longer even believed it to exist? Could it be that dialogue which we still sense in dreams? Or in those rare moments of peace when the world seems in some sense to be revealed to us and to be proper and right?"
(Cormac McCarthy)

During the last few days, I have been in a continuous battle to find the perfect words. The words which describe the unconscious, the natural world, the cyclical time in which past-present and future are all the same, the words of the unspeakable world. How can you express them? The words of poetry and the words of war. The words of what humanity really is, in its pure wholeness.

There have been ages since my first encounter with McCarthy. It is an exhausting battle, as reading McCarthy has always been. With moments of complete hatred, when you wish from the bottom of the soul to quit and to throw away all his books and all the studies dedicated to him. Moments when you feel small and insignificant when you start to understand how this man’s mind has worked, but there are also moments when you feel sitting at a table with an old friend. Talking about Life. Talking about our favourite writers. You see, I enormously liked Faulkner and Hemingway, and I had never imagined that there is someone out there to play with their style and mix them and create something new. Moments when you sit at that long table and you learn to listen to el corridos, and to the silence. 

It takes a great deal of effort to understand Cormac McCarthy. A great deal of knowledge to see what he’s doing in his prose. And a great amount of insanity to work with his prose. But, as one translator put it,


"I would like to make it very clear that translating Cormac McCarthy would not be even thinkable without being in love with language, with words, with their colour, their dark, mesmerizing power. Why? The answer is simple. Because Cormac is Poetry. Epic, lyrical, whatever you call it, it is Poetry.”