H.A.P.P.Y.

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

From a Headstone in Ireland

Zile, ore, minute. Sunt zile care trec pe langa noi ca si cum n-ar fi existat, ca toate persoanele pe langa care trecem in fiecare zi, in magazine, pe strazi, fara sa le aruncam o privire. Sunt zile pline de greutati, negre, lungi. Ca cele mai intunecate amintiri, care ne lovesc doar gandindu-ne la ele. Sunt cateva zile pline de soare, de sacru, zile pe care le asteptam, care ne apartin, care ne incarca pentru toate zilele lipsite de sens, tacute, ucigatoare. Sunt zilele noastre, in care invatam sa zambim. Ca putinele persoane pe care le iubim.

Candva, demult, credeam in profan si sacru. Astazi m-am ascuns intr-o cochilie de melc si pe jumatate adormita de la oboseala, de la Cola, de la lupte care nu se mai sfarsesc, ma arunc in nisip, ascultand marea. M-am plimbat desculta pe aici, cautand o ora de ieri, o ora de maine, o litera scrijelita pe o amintire. Fara masti? Oboseala singuratate manie singuratate remuscare singuratate extenuare calm pentru ca sunt infranta. Ironic, rabdarea, speranta mea, au rezistat in fata tacerii, a cuvintelor pline de amintiri, in fata nepasarii, in fata propriilor sentimente, in fata necunoscutului, dar s-au prabusit la un detaliu insignifiant, la un lucru la care nu m-am gandit ... flux al amintirilor involuntare, prabusind un castel de nisip.

As vrea sa taca. Totul. Sa taca amintirile, furtunile de nisip, sa nu mai loveasca. As vrea atat de mult sa nu-i mai aud. Pentru ca azi e o zi ca oricare alta pentru ei. Iar eu nu mai pot ... Candva, imparteam lumea in sacru si profan. Oameni, locuri, zile. Candva credeam in magie. In magia ascunsa in fiecare zi, care erupe in zilele noastre speciale, care ne incarca cu energie, care ne sopteste ca nu suntem singuri. Yes, sure … Erau zile la care tineam, unde atarnam de pereti toate detaliile mele. Nu exista un “nu”, nu exista “hai sa sarim peste acest lucru insignifiant”. Erau zile in care aveam dreptul sa fiu egoista, in care speram tacut si mult prea adanc ca voi simti ca sunt iubita. Azi imi doresc un animalut micut, orice animalut, pentru a simti ceea ce nici un om nu a reusit sa-mi dea …

Urasc lucrurile virtuale. Le urasc atat de mult incat sunt zile cand vreau sa distrug Ithaca. Si locul acesta nu are nici un anisor, dar … Urasc sa ne ascundem in spatele ecranelor si sa spunem cat de mult insemnam pentru o alta persoana, sa spunem multumesc, sa ne cerem scuze, sa ranim, sa distrugem, sa ne aruncam in amintiri de care suntem constineti ca ne vor omori in cele din urma. Ce mai e viu oare in relatiile umane? Cum putem indrazni oare sa spunem “te iubesc” cand e atat de usor sa tastezi aceste cuvinte, cum putem oare indrazni sa spunem “la multi ani” pe un teren ca Facebook? Oricine m-ar cunoaste un picut, oricine ar fi atent la detalii, ar stii ca astazi nu vreau nimic virtual. Pentru ca astazi, doar astazi, as vrea sa fiu respectata pentru ceea ce sunt. Rea, rece, imbecila, mizantropica si tot ce mai vrei. Dar numai azi, as fi vrut o bucatica mica, mica din lucrurile care ma reprezinta. Si totusi, in calmul asta insuportabil, nu-mi mai pasa. De nimic.

Se spune “h.a.p.p.y new year!”, “h.a.p.p.y birthday” si atat de multi “h.a.p.p.y” pe care le uram … suntem cruzi. Atat de cruzi, incat … ne mai pasa? De orice altceva, in afara de fe-ri-ci-rea noastra? Ma uit la orele pe care le am in poala, la literele pe care le strang strans in pumni. A.H.P.H.Y. Nu stiu sa le asez, si-as vrea sa le arunc in mare. In marea mea, imensa, tacuta, calma. As vrea sa inchid ochii si totul sa dispara. As vrea sa fiu luata in brate si sa plang. Si inca le mai tin in mana - A.H.A.P.Y.P -, beata, urand tot ce e in jur, dar inca sperand ca poate intr-un viitor sau intr-o alta viata, am sa le gasesc si eu un inteles.

The Right to Happiness ...?!

„Basmele nu le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii există. Copii ştiu deja că balaurii există. Basmele le dezvăluie copiilor că balaurii pot fi omorâţi.” – G.K.Chesterton

 

Basmele ne invata cand suntem mici ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Atunci cand crestem descoperim ca scriitorii, zeii care au creat povestile noastre, sunt la randul lor oameni. Si viata nu inseamna perfectiune. Descoperim in spatele fiecarui astfel de zeu un om care a fost ingenunchiat de propria lume interioara, in viata caruia uneori Raul a triumfat asupra Binelui …

Cred ca sunt doua tipuri de lumi. Primul si cel mai mare univers e facut din oameni care sunt pozitionati la mijloc de viata. Aici, viata si fericirea inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, iubim si ne indragostim, ne facem o cariera, avem un copilas, murim. Exista bucurii si tristete, exista siguranta, dreptul la fericire, dreptul de a te simti pe tine si de a nu fugi de tine. Exista puterea de a te uita in oglinda si a zambi, de a te ierta, de a zambi in fata amintirilor. Si o astfel de viata e perfecta.

Exista un univers in care putem arunca artistii, criminalii, psihopatii, savantii, alcoolicii, sinucigasii, etc. Piri Thomas. House. Woolf. Joyce. Picasso. Hemingway. Si toti ceilalti a caror nume nu sunt cunoscute. Oamenii de aici sunt pozitionati la extreme. Aici viata inseamna: ne nastem, crestem, luptam, incercam sa iubim si sa ne indragostim, ne autodistrugem si-i distrugem pe ceilalti, visam la TOT ce lumea cealalta are, numai ca balamalele in noi sunt prea subrede pentru a mai putea schimba ceva. Fiecare zi e o noua incercare de a face un pas inainte, de a uita sau de ce nu, a accepta. La toti gasim un centru, o gaura neagra in care balaurii s-au nascut, in care tot ce tine de lumea cealalta s-a pierdut … si cu toate acestea, ei sunt cei care ne invata sa PRIVIM viata, sa o IUBIM, ei ne arata partea cealalta a vietii, si ne fac mai buni, mai sinceri, mai sensibili …

Primul univers reproseaza celuilalt ca nu traiesc. Al doilea ii indeamna pe toti sa traiasca. Primului univers ii este teama de a accepta ca o lume ca cea a lui Piri Thomas exista. Al doilea e dezgustat de realitatea pe care o poarta mereu in el insasi. Primul nu poate intelege deciziile, rationamentele, sentimentele celui de-al doilea. Al doilea ravneste la primul univers, la o sansa la fericire, si mereu se intreaba “Does nobody understand?” Primul e dezgustat de auto-distrugerea celui de-al doilea si vrea sa nu inteleaga. Al doilea, ar face orice pentru a nu se mai simti pe el insusi. Si de a uita durerea din interiorul lor.

It’s all about PAIN. Capital P. Si aici e marea diferenta dintre cele doua. Pentru al doilea, se merge numai pe extreme. De la non-feelings la sentimente care ofera totul. Pain. Pentru ca nu mai vor sa simta ura si dezgustul pe care-l au pentru propria fiinta. Pentru ca nu mai suporta gheata care s-a instalat in jurul lor, pentru ca sentimentul, singurul sentiment urias, care le-a ucis pe celelalte e atat de imens incat distruge totul, de la spirit, la trup. Vor sa uite. Asta e problema. Vor sa uite amintirile care li s-au intiparit in comportament, visele care ii trezesc in toiul noptii, propriile lor fapte. Si daca mai punem temperamentul artistic la scriitori/pictori/etc, care le ofera sensibilitatea aia uriasa la orice, drumul spre iad e deja hotorat. Asa ca Dumnezeu se arunca in uitare … un pahar, doua, o sticla. Dimineata, pentru totdeauna. Faulkner, N. Stanescu, etc, etc, etc. Pastilele care ii slabesc, ii adorm, care ii fac sa uite. Orice pentru a uita. Apa care-i atrage ca un magnet, pentru ca e atat de CALM acolo, pentru ca in acele valuri nu vei mai simti, nu va mai durea, nu vei mai gandi … pistoale care intr-o secunda sterg premii, ani de munca, romane, coduri de onoare. Hemingway.

Cati din primul univers pot privi cu sange rece realitatea de dincolo de ei? Cati dintre noi putem intelege ceva daca nu am simtit, daca nu am trecut la randul nostru prin asa ceva? Cati dintre noi ii pot ierta pe cei de sus? Cati dintre noi ii putem accepta in cercul nostru pe Ceilalti? Cati dintre noi avem empatia necesara si dorim sa intelegem? Do we really want to understand them?! Is it worth?

Singurul lucru pe care-l facem e sa ne facem ca uitam viata lor. Dupa ce au murit, desigur. Daca trecem pe langa un om beat pe strada, simtim dezgust, mila sau ura. Daca citim poeziile lui Stanescu, sau proza lui Faulkner, spunem: Genial. Daca auzim de un X/Y/Z ca s-a omorat, suntem din nou, dezgustati. Daca e un artist maret, suntem socati. Daca Madalina Manole s-a sinucis, majoritatea dintre noi spunem: “A fost o proasta”. Si Hemingway, si Woolf s-au sinucis. E aceasi categorie. Say it. Think it. “Hemingway a fost un prost. Woolf a fost o proasta.”????? No, I can’t. Because they were brilliant people.

Nu afirm ca toti oamenii "cu pasarele la cap" vor fi/sunt genii. Nu afirm ca toti cei care au probleme cu droguri/alcool/etc vor fi/sunt genii, ca omul care doarme pe strada ta, e un alt Faulkner. E mai mult decat distrugere pentru a fi acel Dumnezeu care ne invata ca Binele invinge mereu Raul. Desi stiu ca nu e asa. Desi toti dintre ei, dintre artistii de mai sus, au stiut mereu ca nu e asa. Sansa la fericire. Sansa de a trai. The first universe is in charge. The first universe is their God. Si daca al doilea univers e atat de las incat nu poate coopera cu viata, primul e las pentru ca nu poate, nu vrea sa inteleaga de ce au un astfel de comportament, de ce sunt ceea ce sunt.

Si ma intreb, oare chiar vrem sa-i intelegem, chiar vrem sa privim dincolo de masti, de oglinzi care distorsioneaza, chiar vrem sa-i ascultam, chiar putem sa-i iubim si sa le oferim un loc la fericire? Si daca da, oare de ce?

 

Knocking on MY December’s Door …

Dancing bears/Painted wings/Things I almost remember,/And a song someone sings/once upon a December …

I wish for a white December. From all the months of the year, December is for me the most magical, the most holly, the most sacred. If snowflakes could accomplish me a wish, I would catch one and whisper to it: I wish for my December ...

­I tightly close my eyes and when I open them again, I am in my mountain house. Outside everything is white and I am looking at the fireplace. In this month, I am running on the hills, building snowmen, fortresses, playing with my dogs and my friends. I am dancing on the ice, faster, and faster and faster and when I am too tired, I lay in the snow, looking at the sky. December nights … I like to lay down on the snow, looking at the stairs from the above, and at the stairs around me … there is peace, silence, beauty and a warmth coldness. Yes, you see, I miss warmth ...

“Someone holds me safe and warm”… there is a Christmas, there is a New Eve … and here things stay a little bit different than in my city … no one is busy with cooking, shopping or cleaning, no one “respects the tradition” and forgets the people around him/her. I am looking at the gorgeous Christmas-tree, too excited to open the gifts because I already know what Santa brought me, because I know these things shall be present ONLY here, in my December …

I wish for Peace. And all that I must do is to take the green box and open it up. I wish for Silence. Not the Silence that kills, but the Silence that hugs, that gives warmth, which brings everlasting Peace. I wish for Warmth. Gentle, like a kiss on the forehead. I wish for Forgiveness, towards me, towards all of you. I wish for Snowflakes all this month. All my life I have been looking for these things, all my life I have been demanding them, and now, under a Christmas tree, they lay in boxes, waiting for me to open … cleaning up the pain, charging me with Hope …

But you see, before I can feel them, I again close my eyes and see that the tiny snowflake that I caught has melted away. I am alone, somewhere at the middle of a frozen water, and the snow hits me strongly. I take off my pagan human being-clothes and my naked soul kneels down. The coldness hits me strongly, rushing through my veins, whispering in my ears … You already knew that. You already felt it last year. You are the fool that dared to believe … I wish for this voice to shut up. I wish for human beings to be here. I wish I were God just once and turn back the time. And IT HURTS so much that I'm starting to cry. On a frozen water, full of snow ... December. Full of snow, of thoughts and memories, where things remain the same. You never receive anything, you must give up your foolish dreams ... December that cuts into wounds, December that is the same with one last December, December that is the opposite of my December, December that I want to go away.

 .

LAST WORDS ...

"It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose that someone you love with your useless pride."

LAST WORDS… aren’t always the words that you feel and mean. We scream, we cry, we let our pride rule our actions, not taking into account our hearts. Because in the name of pride, we forget about clocks, saying that for the rest we shall have Time. Even You forgot this, even You forgot me. So dear Pride, let me tell you some things in the name of myself, in the name of souls and hearts.

You’re a fool. This is my beginning. It is said that you never forget, but this time, you forgot so many things! And you ignored, you forgot me. You let your angriness swallow everything that mattered, you attacked your own God, you broke rules. And it is said that you’re fond of rules, isn’t it?

You’re afraid. The more you love, the more you’re afraid; the more afraid you are, the more you attack. It wasn’t nice. You felt angriness from the bottom of our pride; now you feel remorse from the bottom of your heart. Feel ME deep, under your skin. Remember? It’s your own wish, and if you’re so self-destructive, why don’t you let the others LIVE and BE HAPPY? So, let’s die a little, just a little, let’s feel it in order to think of last words, love, friendship and pride. What do you choose now?

You want to apologize, but you can’t. Because you said too much, because you’re aware of this. You want to say the real things now, the things that matter, the things that you value, the things that you worship. But you’re afraid that all your words will be seen as hypocrisy now. This is the worst thing that hurt us, isn’t it? Doubt towards you. Doubt towards soul. Doubt of your friendship. And in reality, things are a little different, aren’t they? She’s not the one who owns you anything; YOU are the one that in all your lifetime, can’t thank her enough. Lots to say here, isn't it? Too complicated, right? And you weren’t angry towards the present, ‘cause you’re always controlled by your own past, ‘cause you don’t feel this wound, that yes, it’s a shit, but you feel the other one, that hollowed your soul.

What about now? Dear sweetie, only Death teaches you to live. Why don’t you see Life, why don’t you learn from it? She was so damn right, isn’t she? And she touched again that wound. Cry now, hear me next to you and yes, you can’t do quite anything to stop me, hear the tocks on your walls, on your TIME, on your last words. Feel and Think. In the name of soul.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love ? ...

“You guys,” Terri said. “Stop that now. You’re making me sick. You’re still on the honeymoon, for God’s sake. You’re still gaga, for crying out loud. Just wait. How long have you been together now? How long has it been? A year? Longer than a year?”

“Going on a year and a half, ” Laura said, flushed and smiling.

“Oh, now,” Terri said. “Wait awhile.”

She held her drink and gazed at Laura.

“I’m only kidding,” Terri said.

Raymond Carver

Today I’ve talked with a child. I have no idea from where to start, how to explain to him the things that I know, how to save his soul. When I was listening to him, I was thinking of Carver’s lines, from What We Talk about When We Talk about Love. Love. How can I explain to him what love is all about?

I am a Carver thinker. Reality emptied of lyrical stuff, reality naked of sentimentalism, of dreams, of forever fairytales. And this reality is being made more powerful, much more stronger, ironically, by its nakedness. Few weeks ago I talked with a friend about marriage and children. She doesn’t want to hear about them right now, but she agreed with me.  Although marriage is a piece of paper and the real marriage is about real feelings, build up in TIME, I advised her to wait. How much time do you need to really know a person, to really know yourself? Beginnings are always nice, sweet, and beautiful. And when I talk about beginnings, I’m not talking about the first months of a relationship, the first butterflies, when you cannot see or talk with anyone else, because your mind is set only on your love, but I’m talking about the first years. Every relation had a beautiful beginning, from those few people who grew older together, to those who divorced, screamed, hit each other, to those people who identify themselves in lines such as “Just gonna stand there/And watch me burn, But that’s alright/Because I like the way it hurts/Just gonna stand there/And hear me cry/Because that’s alright/Because I love the way you lie.” Are these people sane or insane to love PAIN?

So yes, I really disagree with people that talk about marriage after they know each other for a year and a half. I told her that if I were her, I would wait for at least three years, because this is me, and REASON should take control a little bit for such a huge step. Think of the people around you. You think that you’re the only one who felt like this, but ALL the persons – from parents, grandparents to friends – felt the same as you. Because we are all human beings and because for all of them, LOVE had promised a better life and not destruction. Destruction of souls, homes, and bodies. And because in time, for all your love, for all your feelings and for your lack of cold thinking, someone else would suffer. And now I’m talking about that child that I met this morning … how can I explain to him that fairytales does not exist, that people change and are too busy to see, to understand him? How can I make him feel better, not guilty, for all the things that he sees?

I wanted to hug him, but he didn’t let me, as he never lets anyone around him do this. I wanted to soothe him, to make him cry, but all that I could do was to feel his rage. I tried to teach him to give warmth to people that he loves, but when he finally did this, he received coldness, ironic, from those people who scolded him for being too frozen … I don’t want to know what’s inside his soul. And it’s just a child … how fair is the world? How can we judge people being good and bad, when WE create other human beings?! Us, not God. This child should repeat the things that he saw, never understanding his angriness. If he is strong enough, he would take the other road, but what is the price he must pay inside of him for such a decision? And really, honey, I don't think I'm able to handle him on my own.

People are selfish. Too selfish. People feel before they think. And what is worst, they first feel themselves, are thirsty of happiness and blinded by it. Why they just can’t feel the things they do not know, why should things happen to them in order to understand them? We’ve got everything, every feeling, every thought, good and bad, inside ourselves. Why can’t they see, touch this part of their souls? Yes, I think that if we knew each other from the beginning, the Earth would be a Paradise. Meantime, because we’re running after happiness without thinking a little bit of the future, without seeing the people around us, and when we reach this future, we’re too weak to act, to cut the evil, to take life and start over again, to protect our children, the world is just another paradise lost.  

So yes, taking him into account, LISTENING and paying attention to this song, staying in front of such a child, DO tell me how can I tell him that the world is full of colours when he only sees gray, how could I make him smile when he feels the way he feels, how can I teach him to feel LOVE, any kind of love, when he has never received it ... DO tell me, what can I answer when he asks me:" What we talk about when we talk about love?!"

Tara de Carton si Vata

Şsst! E calm aici. O ţară fără soare, fără clădiri, fără oameni. Ca un peron al lui Paler. Şi aici nisipul încă mai e ud de valurile unui potop. Mă joc în nisip şi zâmbesc. Eu ZAMBESC. Mă joc în nisip şi construiesc castele din nisip, o mască, un nou început, construiesc un soare pentru ţara mea. Să-l înalţ sus de tot pe cerul mov. E mov pentru că aşa vreau eu, iar maine daca vreau, va fi verde. O poveste mă gâdilă-n gând, dar sunt prea încăpăţânată, prea ocupată cu nisipul de aici. Si povestea mea e incapatanata si mă gâdilă mai tare: în somn, în tramvaie, pe stradă. Un vânticel rece îmi şopteşte că toată vremea de dincolo, toată toamna asta caldă e liniştea dinaintea furtunii a iernii pe care o iubeşti. Şi zâmbesc din nou.

Mă atingi pe umăr şi-mi zâmbeşti. Şi fără cuvinte, îţi spun să te aşezi în dreapta mea şi să te joci cu mine, să mă asculţi. Pe mine, nu pe ele. Dar am uitat limbajul tău şi nu înţelegi ce zic, aşa că te ascult eu pe tine. Îmi arăţi marea din faţa mea, uriaşă, liniştită, şi rosteşti cuvintele magice care o trezesc. Ma uit la tine si nu intelegi ca sunt mic si nu pot intelege tot, ca nu pot sa cred tot, ca-mi este teama. Aş vrea să plâng şi să m-ascund, dar … şi toate fantomele şi toate măştile fac cerc în jurul meu pentru a mă adăposti de TOT. Aleg să le alung si sa stau aici, să privesc valurile care vin, care trec, aleg să-mi construiesc o lună şi-un soare, un eu şi o identitate, un ego şi o viaţă. Mă joc aici, construiesc incet şi e calm. Şsst!  Te rog, nu mă trezi.

Ţara de carton şi vata

 Eugen Ionesco

În ţara ceea nu deosebeşti piatra
de pasăre sau duh:
sunt de vată şi carton. 

Cine vrea îşi scoate sufletul,
îl pune alături
şi-l priveşte ca pe o fiinţă streină:
am zărit duhuri de pomi, de păsări, de oameni.

Oamenii-păpuşi cântă rugăciune mută:
Dumnezeul lor are barbă albă.
Oameni păpuşi şi duhuri de vată!
Zâmbete de pastă!
Pomi de cauciuc!

Ochi candizi şi ficşi!
Culorile sunt palide, nu ţipă.
Spaţiul are doi metri cubi.

Focul e o cârpă roşie şi îl iei cu mâna.

Ţara asta a mâzgălit-o, pe carton, un copil.
Copilul visează: nu-l trezi.

That I Would Be Good ...

Timpul e o fiara care are nesfarsita rabdare de a inghiti totul.

 octavian paler

Si uite ca sunt si astfel de zile … zile in care cazi ca un Humpty Dumpty si renunti la tot ceea ce tii pentru a simti cealalta parte din tine … cum e daca te-as asculta mai bine? Si o simti cum te patrunde si-ti controleaza vointa, gandurile si pasii … daca mai esti in stare sa faci un pas. Cedezi in fata durerii si o asculti – e parte acum din tine. Te supui cuminte, adormind fiecare particica vie din tine si simti cum cazi in cateva secunde, cum renunti la tot, cum vrei sa tipi, dar ceva din interior te opreste … e tristetea care te loveste, care-ti ridica propriile bariere si ziduri, e tristetea nascuta de ciocnirea dintre mine si tine.

Vreau sa fiu lasata singura in intuneric, sa nu fiu vazuta de nimeni si sa le arat ca pot sa fiu si rea. JUDECA-MA acum, pentru ca acum sunt ceea ce urasc, ceea ce critic, ceea ce detest. Sunt partea pe care o vrei protejata, iar eu o lovesc mereu. Si in acelasi timp, vreau sa fiu strigata, sa urlu si sa dau afara tot din mine, sa spun cat de nedrept e totul, sa lovesc, sa plang si sa cad pentru a respira din nou. Te simti rece, fara sentimente, egoista … durerea e egoista mereu, nu? Iti simti sufletul adormit si gandesti acum ca un animal salbatic, prins intr-o capcana din care nu mai poate sa iasa. Si nu e nimeni aici care sa te trezeasca, sa te scuture, sa te inteleaga, sa-ti dea un pumn si sa ma elibereze pe mine din stransoarea ta, sa-mi spuna “va fi ok”. Cand, cum?

Aici nu sunt eu. Nu ma recunosc, desi ma simt, nu traiesc, desi multi spun ca trebuie sa apas pe frana pentru a simti … ce? Surviving does not mean living. I feel bitterness, ignorance to the other people, I feel dead inside and I see only boundaries: don’t do that, don’t drink that, don’t work too much, DON’T …  si as vrea sa tip si sa lovesc si sa traiesc. Sa inchid ochii, sa te ignor din nou si sa cadem amandoua in TIMP … tinandu-ne strans de mana, lovindu-ne mereu una pe alta, distrugandu-ne cand mai incet, cand mai repede, patinand cu viteza spre ... oare spre ce? 

    

Alte glasuri, aceleasi incaperi ...

Sunt atatea lucruri care ne scapa in fiecare zi. Oameni pe langa care trecem, care ar putea fi ca noi sau de la care am avea atatea de invatat, copaci goi de toamna tarzie, crengi pline de culori, parcuri pustii, linistite, in care epifaniile continua sa apara. Trecem pe langa pasari, vant, toamna si de ce nu, trecem pe langa noi insine, uitand, mereu uitand, sa privim adanc in jur.

Lumea e ca un puzzle, format din miliarde de piese de nisip. Lumea e formata din detalii. E de ajuns sa pierdem o astfel de piesa si lucrurile ar capata o alta nuanta, un alt limbaj. Privesc oamenii din jurul meu si le completez un puzzle - ceea ce le place, ceea ce nu, ceea ce vor sa arate si ceea ce nu, cuvintele prin care isi exprima afectiunea, prin care se ascund si prin care se apara.  Ma privesc pe mine si mai pun, mai dau o piesa ; s-ar putea sa o prinzi, s-ar putea sa o lasi sa zboare-n vant.

Suntem prea ocupati, prea obositi, mereu fugind dupa … dupa ce? Uitam ATATEA lucuri – sa privim, sa intelegem, sa iubim, sa ne amintim – ne uitam pe noi si-n acelasi timp ii uitam pe ei. Ieri tanjeam dupa o ciocolata calda si o amintire cand am inceput sa privesc aceleasi lucruri pe care le-am privit singura acum cateva luni; ieri copacii, ciorile, fosnetul frunzelor erau o alta parte din gandurile pe care nu pot sa le opresc. Stiu ca sunt ultimele zile din toamna si e toamna pe care o iubesc – fara ploi, cu un soare palid, cu fosnete. Si e noiembrie, si va fi decembrie … un alt decembrie. Aici e o alta parte din mine, mai intima, mai apropiata, mai sincera, fara timp, in care amintirile, toate amintirile sunt vii. Am uitat si sa socotesc pe bancile acestea, dar cui ii mai pasa acum de lumea de dinafara ?

Iubesc lumea in care m-am nascut, dar nu o simt parte din mine. Prin faptul ca inot mereu impotriva valurilor, ma face sa ma simt “gresita”. Pe de o parte, imi aminteam ce am citit in urma cu cateva luni si care m-a speriat. In loc sa ma opresc, mi-e sete de ceea ce iubesc, de Viata. E terifiant sa stii ce te asteapta si tu, in loc sa apesi pe frana, apesi pe acceleratie, constienta de tot.

Stiu cum e – si cred ca cu totii stim – sa muncesti si sa nu-ti fie respectata munca, parte rupta din tine. Asa ca as vrea ca macar eu sa le respect munca celorlalti, mai ales atunci cand ei ma ajuta pe mine. E usor a profita, e mai greu sa respectam, e poate imposibil sa fim mereu umani. Si in lumea secolului XXI, ne vindem timpul, energia si propria persoana pentru bani. Tell you a secret … niciodata nu vor fi de ajuns. Sunt efemeri si e atat de TRIST sa pierdem momente unice, sacre, din cauza lor, sa le vindem amintirile care ciocanesc in imaginatia, in fantezia noastra si care vor sa intre in realitate. Nu-ti vei aminti niciodata banii pe care i-ai castigat din reduceri, din promotii, din favorurile facute de colegi, cat ai dat pe o bluza, pe un bibelou, pe un album, pe o amintire. Dar iti vei aminti mereu zambetele pe care le-ai castigat prin a fi AICI in momentele eterne din viata noastra ...

Ma simt “gresita” pentru ca scriu mereu si nu ma pot opri, pentru ceea ce astept pe literatura, pentru ca mereu critic aici, si pentru ca mereu vreau mai mult. Si-n mai putin de o luna, voi parea fie prea rece, prea ‘’intepata’’, fie prea tacuta, acceptand totul, mereu izolata. Ma simt ‘’gresita’’ pentru felul in care privesc lumea, fara pragmatism, fara o religie, doar prin ceea ce mereu am simtit inauntru, prin ceea ce critic la toti, prin intimitatea pe care o iubesc. Din nou, secolul XXI ne-a oferit libertate … de exprimare, de a fi noi. Dar e de ajuns sa privim lumea de langa noi, de ajuns de-ai asculta pentru a stii lucrurile care nu se arata, care nu se spun ; e de ajuns sa scriem pe Google un nume si sa aflam cu ajutorul Hi-5-ul sau a Facebook-ului mult prea multe despre persoana respectiva ... un simplu exemplu, cine nu-si arunca acum toate pozele, de la cele mai hazlii pana la cele mai intime, pe care le iubim, pe astfel de site-uri ? E intimtatea care se pierde, pe care desi e a noastra si e parte din noi, e acum in vazul tuturor. Si ironic, inca se mai numeste intimitate.

Ma simt ‘gresita’ pentru acest conservatorism, pentru cat tin la unele amintiri, pentru ca nu pot sa tac atunci cand scriu, pentru ca simt cum timpul trece si am ceva de zis acum. Si nu pot si nu stiu sa cer o zi. Pentru ca nu vreau sa ma opresc si e ATAT, atat de ironic ca nu cei din jurul tau te vor opri, ci tu insati si e hybris-ul cu care dansezi in fiecare zi. Eu sau Tu? Azi, maine, poimaine, peste un an, sau un deceniu ...? Dar e toamna, e frig, e vant, sunt crengi pline de culori ruginii si verzi si e un soare palid, bland … fara ploi, fara ganduri, fara zgomote … aici, intr-un parc demult, aici, in mine.

(http://raysithaca.blog.com/2010/03/16/sleep/)

 

Reality and Butterflies

Si cum ziceam, “it may be all gone tomorrow”. E ca un basm cu zane, spiridusi, dragoni si printese; voi il scrieti, il pictati, mi-l oferiti, iar eu sunt copilul care crede totul, care priveste cu ochii mari, tremurand, finalul. Numai ca vezi tu, inauntru nu mai gasesti inocenta pe care o cauti, ci doar o maturitate mai aparte intiparita pe zidurile Memoriei. Si inauntru este povestea mea, vie, curgandu-mi prin vene si printre caramizile de gheata, este ceea ce am invatat prin ignorarea propriilor sentimente. Si acum am de ales intre a ma asculta pe mine, cea care simte, priveste realitatea dezgolind-o de lirism si fluturi, si de a te asculta pe tine …

Ce e Real aici, in lume, in mine ? Imagineaza-ti un copil intr-un basm, intre doua lumi. Daca intinde mana spre stanga, isi regaseste lumea dinauntrul lui. Ceea ce e aici, ceea ce sunt, ceea ce simt, ceea ce dau e real. De la autodistrugere la protectie si cuvinte imbracate in fluturi, de la promisiuni la raspunsuri, de la gheata din interior pana la razele care ard. E iarna, e frig si totul e alb si rosu. Si sunt numai eu aici. Dar daca ma intorc spre dreapta, e atat de multa culoare, atatia fluturi care zboara printre frunze, iar acel copil alearga dupa ei, cazand si crezand in lumea unui basm. Numai ca inainte de a intra, de a spune ‘’Si aici e Real ‘’, un zid imens de gheata, ca un voal prea gros, nu ma lasa sa merg mai departe. Si il ating pentru a-l simti, pentru Amintiri. E ATAT de rece incat ma arde, dar e si el real … pentru ca e parte din mine. M-ai inlocuit. Lectia numarul unu, de la care totul pleaca. De ce nu si ei ? Cum sa mai crezi, sa spargi, sa simti ce e in sufletele lor , cum sa-ti opresti propria teama ? Si e granita dintre Eu si Ei, dintre Realitate si Fluturi. Fiecare promisiune a fost goala. Fiecare detaliu ignorat. Fiecare privire s-a ascuns. Fiecare sentiment a luat foc. Fiecare particica din mine, din ceea ce vreau si ceea ce sunt a devenit invizibila. Si ceea ce e cel mai ciudat, e ca aici am invatat ca fericirea lor e doar o iluzie, ca ceea ce simt, vad, traiesc aici e temelia lumii din stanga, temelia de la care fiecare bataie a inimii se ridica. Si din constientizarea iluziilor ridicam Realitatea. Stii cata energie dai in fiecare zi pentru a creea asta ?

Realitatea mea e rece, goala, cu sentimente care circula pe o singura banda : de la mine spre tine. E cea eterna, care ucide de la inceput fiecare lucru efemer, e cea din care basmele nu mai prind viata, dar care inca mai imparte orele in profan si sacru. Fluturii ce zboara spre mine sunt fluturi pe care ii iubesc si in care as vrea sa cred. Dar e atat, atat de greu ! Pentru ca sunt simbolul sperantei, al fericirii, a lumii de dincolo. As vrea sa-i prind si sa-i tin in palme, sa-i ascult si sa-i mai cred. Dar atunci cand terminati de povestit basmul vostru, cand imi soptiti ca nimic nu a fost real, atunci va luati toti fluturasii pe care i-ati aruncat spre mine, cu care m-am jucat, si-i prindeti in pioneze, pe zidul meu. Pentru amintiri. Pentru a invata sa nu mai cred, sa mai sper. Cu toti fluturii morti asezati de-a lungul unui zid chinezesc, INCA mai poti, mai vrei sa crezi?

 Pentru ca sunt din nou un copil care nu mai crede in basme, prins insa intr-unul. Totul e paradox si ironie. Cat ar mai costa inca un vis ? O clipa, o viata, un suflet ? Ce si cat conteaza ? Sa cred in mine, sa cred in tine ? Sa cer o zi, sa nu mai cer nimic, sa ma declar infranta ? Sa sper din nou sau sa zambesc in tacere, ironic, asteptand sa-mi spui ca nimic nu a fost real ? Sa ma arunc in val fara a sti sa inot, sau sa-l privesc cum trece ? Sa dau, sa cer, sa cred … ? Sa aleg : valul sau marea.

Dawns of Hope

Last year I learnt to accept Faith. I have seen every piece of ray slowly sunsetting inside myself and Hope was killed inside of my soul.  I do not believe in anything.” Loneliness will always be here for me” – I knelt in front of it. “The I that you hide and saved you so many times, behind all the masks that you have will never be able to save you, because although you feel its force, you find it unreal.” I also knelt here, silently accepting. I died, this is what happened last year, this is why I can’t find anything good in that period, that’s why I found it funny to hear that while I was dying, hope, life, strength was receiving a shape in someone else’s life. But at the same time it was a warmth feeling, full of joy inside myself: this is what I wanted, this is what I protected. You were mourning yourself, while you were greeting the morning of joy in another dear life.

Slowly, I accepted everything. I retake my old masks – from the social one to the innocent one – and I accepted a future that is similar to my present, without a change. I felt angriness, bitterness, a part of myself was screaming and hitting the other part, but nothing react. Dreams are over. And then I got sad and fall into a sea of apathy: I am unable to believe, to hope, to dream. Let’s fool the others that we are moving, that we’re ok, let’s just smile and make them believe your walls are melting. They are not, because they are bigger, stronger, with new masks that are playing in front of them; the only difference is that another person is now inside of them, closed inside, near the heart, protected by a new orange wall. But inside of me, Silence has fallen, swallowing Faith, neglecting the waves, accepting the years.

You tried to wake me before. You kept on talking, kept on remembering me who I was, pushing me in front of the abyss."MOVE" you scream. “I can’t”, I kept on saying. Today you made my heart run so damn fast! You knew what is hurting me, you knew I couldn’t stand it, you knew my grief. But you kept on playing, like I was playing before… I guess we need to face pain in order to breathe again, to feel it again, to remember, to accept it ... And in those movements, from pain to sadness, from memories to present, suddenly a new voice hits you, united with the other one, making your heart running inside yourself, so fast that you feel the blood rushing inside yourself, hitting your veins, your walls and your pain. You felt a joy so huge, so real, so near your soul that you were afraid.

“You are so crazy! Because you always swim against the wave.” Do you know that I forgot that? With beats of heart you feel hope again. You turn to the other side, getting up from your battle-field. You see the other I, the hidden one, that smiles at you, that waits. I learnt to obey last year. Now I remember how to disobey. I learnt to accept the Silence of defeats. Now I hear the Silence of Hope, of Joy, of marching on. I learnt to kneel and accept everything, to shut up when something is not ok nor fair, to stop telling what it hurts and where. I remember now tears, pain, screams, never kneeling down.

I am afraid of what I feel, new walls in my maze of walls are trembling of joy and fear, not knowing if they should let hope once again into their lives. A life without hope is like a marriage of life with death. I smile, remembering the beats, the joy, the reborn, the strength, the dreams, the I. I am afraid to hope, to look at the dawns of hope. But I write the portrait of today's feelings: I want so much to trust you! And although my mind is telling me not to hope too much, I can't stop what my heart is feeling, I can't stop the joy, the fever, the life inside myself. So I paint with words today's hope because you see … tomorrow it is possible that everything may be gone.

Ain’t No Sunshine …

A storm is approaching inside of me … this year, next one, or maybe in the following years. But its silent wind whispers near my soul that is going to be here and it’s going to be the biggest of all. And it’s ironic, because this one is my creation, has in itself all my weapons and feelings, all my walls, warmth and coldness, all my parts from my ego and all my wishes and it’s going to knock on my door and window: “You were my creator; you called me!”

We raise children to make them happy. We should become parents when we realize that a child isn’t our property, but a different human being, that giving life to a child does not only mean to carry him in your womb, but (and I would say especially) what you offer him afterwards. As parents we shape a life, a destiny. We mould without knowing his psyche and personality, we make him a happy being or a sad one, a ‘good’ person or a ‘bad’ one. “Everything begins in childhood”, the psychologists say. How many of us really understand these words? Adler and Simone de Beauvoir talk of patterns, of how the child imitates his parents’ behavior, how the circle of “good education” or “bad education” spins around for generations. They also talk of the fewest cases that realize their “bad education”, their unseen inner battles and how these persons become best educators, but cold human beings …

 Being a parent means sacrifices. And a real sacrifice made for love will never wear the word “sacrifice”, a person who makes such a sacrifice would never say to the other one “I made a sacrifice for you”. Because we make them in the name of love, for pleasure, for the better, for the safety of the person near us, be it a child, a friend, a lover or a relative. And no matter what we give, we feel a kind of joy inside ourselves. Can we understand and see the world through our children's eyes? Can we see for a moment the world through the eyes of dearest persons?

We should understand that our dreams are not the dreams of the child, we should learn to look at him and accept him as he really is, we should see what he likes and encourage him in his road, accept his silence in teenage years, we should show him his mistakes not by screaming at him “you’re wrong”, but by various questions and examples, we should let him make mistakes so that he can learn from them, and top of all, we should be here for him. In good and bad. Forever.

Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t know and feel so many things. Sometimes I wish I would not feel so old inside … Sometimes I wish that someone would see me and strongly hug me. How old am I? But there is nothing more powerful and everlasting than the sincere love of a parent towards his child. It’s a love different from the others, which maybe makes you a better person, a love so huge and at the same time so fragile that words are not enough to describe it. No matter if he’s your flesh and blood, or he’s only part of your soul. And there are so many, but so MANY mistakes that people do with their own children, so many “instincts” that they think they possess when actually their instincts have their roots in their own childhood, personality and education, so MUCH selfishness when you actually have in your hands the LIFE of another human being.

When we are in love, we feel happy everywhere, as long as we are near the loving one. But Time changes everything, washes away all the ephemeral things, Reality cuts from its roots romanticism and with the help of Time, puts a mirror in front of us. We move. From cities to towns, from towns to villagers; we give up our dearest cities because ... "home is where the heart is". But, how many of these couples think of their children? How many think of their education, of institutions, how many think that if they go on an island, away from civilisation, after a couple of years they would want for their child the best. And because of this they would have to choose: keep him near them, for an ordinary life, or teach him to search for the best, to educate himself and to see everything that can be seen and feel in a lifetime ... What would you feel when it's time to say good-bye?

 You see, these words are part of me, of my FEELINGS. Are they few, are they many? Call them thoughts, but this time, these thoughts have their roots in feelings. And yes, people for me are one and the same, people leave, people betray and they are all gray. I invest my love and time in people that are able to make a difference. Because I simply believe in the warmth and goodness of the soul. And yes, when this latter persons disappoint me or forget me, I feel pain and I close the door a little more in front of Humanity … And now, I feel that I’m on the verge of my last step: opening my hands and let her fly. I know I would do that. I know she would do that. Because I taught her to do so. But I also know that in that day every inch of my soul will burn.      

Call If You Need Me

"I know that the spades are swords of a soldier
I know that the clubs are weapons of war
I know that diamonds mean money for this art
But that's not the shape of my heart "

Urasc telefoanele. Urasc ceasul lor desteptator, care ma rapeste dintr-un somn de care imi este atat de dor … le urasc cand suna fara sa se opreasca, la capatul celalalt fiind persoane banale, de care nu-mi este deloc dor. Si atunci cand suna si ma intrerup din activitatea pe care o fac, si atunci cand – mai ales atunci – cand le ignor si ele tot canta, neincetat, neintelegand ca la celalalt fir persoana respectiva nu e momentan acasa. Le urasc in salile de cursuri, atunci cand intrerup prelegerile, in salile de examen, cand te sperie cu un bazait surd sau cu o melodie nou-nouţă, fredonată de un X sau de o Y.  Imi displace sa vorbesc la ele atunci cand sunt cu altcineva, si imi displac plimbarile in care celalalt vorbeste mai mult cu o carcasa cu butoane … cat de distanti, profani si singuri am ajuns …

Le urasc atunci cand tac. In zilele cand am nevoie de o voce calda sau de cateva randuri de incurajare, atunci cand am nevoie de un prieten. Si ele tac, facandu-mi parca in ciuda …”Nu tu vroiai sa tac? Acum tac.” Le urasc pentru ca nu stiu sa le folosesc atunci cand trebuie, pentru a le spune acestor persoane cat de mult inseamna pentru mine, cand eu sunt cea vinovata, care nu da nici un semn de afectiune. Si cel mai mult le urasc atunci cand transmit un mesaj divagat, cand nici unul/una nu intelege ce se intampla, cand ne certam fara motiv, repetand cu ajutorul lor aceleasi greseli din trecut. Eu prin piticii mei de pe creieri si nesiguranta mea intr-un domeniu pe care-l stii, tu prin ceea ce uiti …

Does anyone know how my day was today? Have you ever been in Hell and then flew back on Earth? So fucking tired. Call if you need me. Because it’s one of the fewest calls that I love and appreciate. Call if I need you. If I knew how, I would definitely call you ... now. 

(end of September)

Toti oamenii sunt muritori

Pentru mine, scriitorii isi pun in mainile omenirii intregul suflet; Cioran ii numeste in Ispita de a exista prostitoate ale sufletului, si oricat de vulgar, paradoxal sau socant ar parea, artistii sunt oamenii care-si etaleaza in lucrarile lor propriul ego, propria lume si fiecare coltisor ascuns al sufletului, pe coala de hartie, prinde viata. S-a vorbit despre orgoliul artistului, de a-i fi apreciata, comentata, corectata, mazgalita lucrarea expusa. Intim … totul este intim, de la cuvintele aruncate in cele mai banale locuri, la eseuri, povesti, comentarii, bloguri si confesiuni; si in orgoliul  si sensibilitatea lui, artistul isi dezvaluie mereu intimitatea  - ganduri, amintiri, sentimente – si o ascunde sub mastile cuvintelor, a istorisirii, asteptand timid si mandru in acelasi timp, un feedback de la cititorii sai. Pentru ca lucrarea le apartine in intregime, scoasa din strafundurile sufletului si ale mintii, dar in acelasi timp incepe sa apartina si omenirii intregi, a celor pe care o parcurg; daca esti suficient de initiat, de intuitiv, inteligent, empatic, vei avea mereu ce vedea si invata; daca nu, fiecare roman parcurs va fi doar o poveste aruncata pe treptele vietii.

O artista in lumea filosofiei si a literaturii este si Simone de Beauvoir. Ateism, existentialism, Sartre, feminism – care este locul ei in literatura? Pentru unii, acest nume nu spune nimic; pentru alţii, numele ei e strâns legat de cel al lui Sartre; împreună au avut multe de zis în domeniul existenţialismului, al ideilor filosofice din acea perioadă, împreună s-au influenţat şi s-au completat. Toţi cei interesaţi de feminism nu pot trece cu uşurinţă peste numele ei, iar cartea care schimbă mentalităţile şi tiparele feminismului, numită şi o biblie a feminismului, este Al doilea sex. In aparenta, esti bulversat de toate exemplele şi ideile acestei cărţi; în profunzime, eşti şocat de dreptatea pe care o are, de adevărul dincolo de fapte, relaţii psihologice şi de ignoranţa unor persoane de a nu accepta realitatea. “NU TE NASTI, CI DEVII FEMEIE”, sunt primele cuvinte din Al doilea sex. Si oare ce inseamna cu adevarat Feminitatea? Una dintre ideile pe care le dezvoltă aici e pasivitatea ca trăsătură caracteristică a feminităţii – trăsătură NU ca un dat biologic, existent în fiecare femeie, ci ca trăsătură pe care o desprindem cu timpul. S.d.Beauvoir arată cum femeile sunt învăţate sau renunţă la INDEPENDENTA lor de-a lungul timpului, cum sunt privite de sexul opus ca Celalalt, ca o completare a vieţii lor, în timp ce ele privesc Bărbatul ca sinonimul pentru Fericire, pentru destinul şi viaţa lor. Scriitoarea încearcă la finele cărţii să contureze o nouă imagine a femeii moderne, independente, în care trăsăturile “virile” să se împletească cu cele “feminine”, în care “masculinitatea” şi “feminitatea” (termeni folosiţi de Woolf în O cameră separată, conturand sumar androginitatea creatorului, dualitatea fiintei umane, nevoia de desprindere de sub tipare, etc.) să fie acceptaţi în fiecare dintre noi, în care Lumea femeii să se deschidă, în termeni simpli, spre … VIATA.

Printre romanele parcurse in aceasta vara se numără şi Toţi oamenii sunt muritori. O cunoşteam pe Simone de Beauvoir pentru feminism, filosofie si psihologie şi eram curioasă pentru latura literară a ei; după cum m-am aşteptat, romanul abundă în idei filosofice, trezeşte noi întrebări, încearcă să înveţe noi lucruri; avem nevoie de imortalitate? Dacă da, ne face oare nemurirea fericiţi? Care este relaţia dintre moarte şi fericire? În paginile acestui roman (pesimist), se conturează importanţa artei de a avea un sfârşit, arta de a muri şi de a accepta asta, absurditatea vieţii şi bucuria regăsită în lucurile simple, efemere, de-o clipă; Cu toţii ne temem de moarte, de a fi uitaţi, cu toţii avem ţeluri şi mult prea mulţi dintre noi le părăsim în drumurile noastre pe pământ. Régine nu e diferită de mine, de tine, de noi. Actriţă, doreşte să devină nemuritoare în inimile tuturor şi caută gloria ca mijloc de a nu fi niciodată uitată:

-      E ceva tragic în dumneata. (Sanier)

-      Ce? (Régine)

-      Gustul dumitale pentru abosolut. Esti făcută pentru a crede în Dumnezeu şi pentru a intra la mănăstire.

-      Există prea mulţi aleşi, spuse ea. Prea multe sfinte. Ar fi trebuit ca Dumnezeu să nu mă iubească decât pe mine.” (Toţi oamenii sunt muritori, 168-9)

Întâlnirea cu un nemuritor care se doreşte a fi muritor îi schimbă însă viaţa. Renunţă la tot ceea ce căuta, încrezătoare că prin memoria lui, va exista pururi pe pământ. Viaţa lui Fosca însă îi arată că toţi oamenii sunt făcuţi pentru a muri, toţi oamenii sunt clădiţi după un anumit schelet, cu toţii visează şi se sacrifică, cu toţii simt bucuria de a trăi, cu toţii caută şi că, ironic, tocmai ziua în care totul dispare te face să iubeşti mai mult fiecare clipă. Ceea ce caută e ceea ce diferă, istoria în care trăiesc îşi schimbă forma, dar oamenii rămân pururi aceaşi: se nasc, au ţeluri, uită de eternitate şi îndrăgesc clipele, formele efemere – o amintire din copilărie, un câmp, un parfum, un glas – şi dispar pentru totdeauna. În cartea sa, Simone de Beauvoir face în acelaşi timp din Moarte o binecuvântare şi o nimicire; binecuvântare prin preţuirea fiecărei clipe, nimicire prin golul, absurdul şi tot ceea ce ea înghite, prin faptul că

Moartea ne face pe toţi insignifianţi.

Un alt lucru ironic din această carte este întâlnirea dintre elementul efemer şi cel etern; Fosca, nemuritorul, de-a lungul timpului îşi pierde bucuria de a trăi, devenind o fantomă vie în sânul Istoriei; “Rămâi un om între oameni”, unul dintre personaje îl îndeamnă; în timp ce oamenii muritori îi redau lui Fosca elementul viu din el, nevoia şi bucuria de a trăi, Fosca pare să le răpească tuturor tocmai acest dar; la finele vieţii, muritorii constată că nimic din ceea ce şi-au propus nu a ajuns acolo unde trebuia, privesc în oglinda imortalităţii şi observă cât de insignifianţi şi asemănători sunt oamenii între ei, mereu învârtindu-se în cercul absurdului.

"[…] el dispăruse, dar ea rămânea aşa cum o făcuse el: un fir de iarbă, o musculiţă, o furnică, un strop de spumă”

Viaţa este Bucuria pe care cu toţii o căutăm şi o iubim atât de mult pentru simplu motiv că este efemeră şi oricând o putem pierde. Istoria îşi schimbă feţele, oamenii îşi schimbă cochiliile, înfăţişările şi dorinţele; dar cu toţii posedă setea de viaţă şi conştiinţa comună umanităţii.

Ultimele cuvinte ale lui Sarte către Simone de Beauvoir, înainte de a muri, redau unul dintre mesajele cheie ale acestui roman:

 "Moartea nu ne va reuni. Așa stau lucrurile. Cu toate astea, e splendid în sine că am reușit să ne trăim viețile în armonie pentru atâta vreme."

Snowflakes

 

I have been thinking of snowflakes these days. When you have to stay too much in bed ('cause everything has a price, hasn't it?), you try to find something on Tv to forget pain, dizziness or simply to kill time. So accidentaly, I found this poem in a movie that I have never seen before and I remembered my snowflakes, in a rainy day ... Melancholy is just another Memory. And I sit at my window, looking and hearing the drops of rain, hearing a nice piece of melody, but I think of my snowflakes, of how much I miss them and the laugh and a winter ... I'm glad that Autumn has come, because winter will be here soon. And snowflakes remind me of lost innocence, of simplicity, of breathing, of skating, of a kid who loves winter, of cold, sweet December ... not the December from the last year, but of my December, a far away place and space, in time and in me, full of ... snowflakes.

 

I’m crouched on the axis of the sun

Seated on the edge of my cloud, 

Womb pregnant with thought. 

Have I been made into this snowflake? 

Or has it been made into me? 

I hate these generous handfuls of snowflakes; 

Like pennies, they slip from my clenched hands, 

And they are never enough.

(Being Erica)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Marching On

I have been waiting for this trip for such a long time. Finally, I’m here, near my mountain, near water, caves, forest, near myself. I love nature and all its loneliness, because in it, I feel me, God, or simply deep inside I feel a Meaning to all this meaningless of Life. I’m happy in nature. Do you know this kind of Happiness? Not the happiness brought by a success, or by a meeting, not the happiness of a hug, a kiss, a word or a gesture, but the happiness inside me, that energy that screams inside myself and to all the dear persons: NEVER give up. Happiness is overrated, true, but Unhappiness shouldn’t steal us from our own Life. Smile in Unhappiness and wait for the rain to come in a long and dry season. Or wait for the snowflakes to fall one by one in your palm, offering you a piece of this kind of happiness.

I needed to be here, to see this, to feel this, to walk, to let thoughts fall one by one, and to join all the broken parts from me. In all these months, I have been more appropriated of that destructive “I” and I was at two steps to fall really bad.

Air, mountain, freedom, peace. Breathe in, breathe out, jump, fall, move on. Cry, be hurt, smile. Life is too short to let bad moments, ignorant people, people that we dislike, hate, or people who are hurting us kill our days, weeks, months. And these months, I wasn’t alive. I got tired to be strong, I was screaming for people to see me, I wanted to stop. Soul and body tired. And here, now, my soul, my energy is wide awake. Although I’m here with four more people, although I have to speak and take care, as I always had to, I’m alone. People are so different from me, people don’t see or hear what I see, hear, feel here; they don’t understand my silence, my need of walking, they interpret me as they want and can, and I don’t want to correct them. Now I stopped inside myself, now I touch the kid – vulnerable, whimsical, needing people, hurt, always hiding behind masks, memories and years, unable to die, unable to move on, the I that is a fighter, the I that is a coward, the I that wants tranquility, peace, happiness, the I that has goals, wants freedom, Life, a difference, the I that destroys me and the I that saves me, the Human with all its warmth and the Inhumanity with all its walls and coldness, the I that protects everyone, the selfish I, and so on. Too many “I”s and ghost, I know.

I feel, I think. Me, God, nature, silence, loneliness. The silence and the loneliness that I love, the silence which is cold and warmth at the same time, which protects me, the mountain with its forest, its everlasting STABILITY, never changing, always being here, massive, strong, and still protective, silent, offering you rays of sun if you manage to get there, on the top of it. So here, but especially there, on top of that hugest mountain, I feel safe, so safe, so protected …

The first thing that I felt there was Tiredness. The first thing that I did was sleeping. Heavy, without dreams. Sounds, memories, couldn’t touch me then. I felt like I was sinking into a purifying water, washing myself from all my sins, all that I saw, felt, washing all my wounds, washing sadness, BREATHING. Do you know Dante’s book? In the last one, when he arrives in Paradise, he washes himself from all his sins and trips and walks into Heaven to see all those circles. In this sleep, in those walks, I felt more or less like him. Everything has a Meaning, or we can find a meaning … I fall There in March, by feeling so close to my heart Death, I couldn’t enjoy any victory because day after day, I was in pain, and I was so afraid that this pain would change me. So I screamed. Now, in August, I saw Death and I moved on, not touching, not speaking, just driving near it, looking into its eyes, feeling no fear, feeling it at the same time as a friend and as an enemy, and going back into Life. And here, I feel Freedom and Peace, Safety, I feel Loneliness from which I don’t run, I don’t cry, but I hug her, because you see, all this Inhumanity has more Humanity than the warmest thing from this world.

So, where do you want to go from here? ... Every breathing, every beat, every sound that comes from the outside, every step, every small memory of happiness from the present or from the past, every drop of rain that you catch in your palms, every snowflake that touches us, should remind us:

Who are we? Really, deep, without masks, feelings to others, in selfishness and love.

Life is short. If we give up to us, to our dreams, goals, or our independency, if we sink into unhappiness and forgot to smile, there shall came a day when we shall search for ourselves and we shall be unable to say “I lived my life, I existed for myself and for the others, I have done all the things that I wanted to do, I’m not a common existence, born only to be born, I’ve said all the things that I wanted to say and I saw all the things that I wanted to see, I met all the people that I wanted to meet, I LIVED. 20,30, 40, 50 or 100 years old, but I LIVED these years.”

So all that we can do - in happiness, in sadness, in joy, loneliness, silence or noise - is to remember us and to march on.

 

Portrait of Memories (2007)

(I wrote this several years ago, on a night, in the 12th grade, when I was feeling the other face of myself. Memories, writing, fears, masks. Isn't writing the greatest mask that writers have for their inner world, and, in the same time, the greatest mirror to their souls? If we simply keep our eyes open to details, to connections, to words. I remember it from time to time, when another part of my Ego takes control and let the other one take a nap. :) )

         Why is it that the most important changes in our lives happen when we least expect them? My life had settled into a comfortable, satisfying routine when suddenly I met her. Again.

         I scarcely remember how things happened. I was driving to my best-friend when she suddenly jumped in front of my car. I only knew that I stopped on time, having in front of me the being who fascinated my entire world in my past. Her dark eyes, in that cloudy and rainy day, unlocked all my memories that were locked somewhere, deep, into my soul. They all escaped in reality, with the park in which we walked so many times, with her sweet voice and the smell of her skin …

         She looked scared at me and before I awoke myself from my own memories, she ran away, disappearing among cars. I jumped from my car, running and calling her. “Lizzy, stay! Lizzy! It’s just me, Robert …” Only now, when I write all these, I remember that rush hour, and how close I were to be hit by one of those cars. But in those moments, I was again on my street, running after her, unable to reach her.”Hurry up, old man! This is all that you can do?!” Her sweet, innocent laugh … and now, she was again running in front of me. Fortunately, she tripped by a rock and fall. “Lizzy, it’s all right… It’s just me, Rob!” She had her eyes full of tears and her hands were trembling. “No, I don’t…oh, yes! Rob… what… you have to help me, please! Help me!” She got up, letting me stare at her, unable, again, to understand her. “Where are you staying?”

         It’s useless to describe what happened after I told her my address, how she refused to return to the car, how we walked for an hour, how she answered at my questions with “yes”, “no”, “don’ now”. Happiness. This is what I was feeling then. Happiness that I met my past, that my muse was again with me. But it all gone away in the moment when we entered my flat.

        She took a cigarette from her pocket and she started to look at my things. She was so nervous and her hands were trembling. She neglected my paintbrushes, all my pictures and drawings, and moving to here and there, said: “Don’t you have something to drink?” “Well… I have coffee; Tom always drinks coffee when he comes here…”

 For the first time she started to laugh as she was doing long time ago and replied: “You kidding, aren’t you? Or you’re too different from the world I came ...”

        She put her cigarette in one of my palette and without letting me say anything, she said: “Look, I need money, a lot of money, and you have to help me.”  “Liz’, I would love to help you, but, you see all these paintings? I invested all my money in the exposition from next week. I’m sorry.” I paused for a moment, looking at her; she wasn’t listening, but she was becoming more and more agitated. Once, I knew her; now … who she was? The girl from my past, the woman from now, me, daring to ask her: “Do you still like my pictures Lizzy?”

         She didn’t answer; after she looked around the chamber and from time to time to the window, taking another cigarette, then letting it fall on the floor, she started to take my books, my pictures, dropping them, one by one. Sounds … I would never forget those sounds, her steps on my pictures, paintings, books, her steps on my soul. “Do you really have in this lodge only books and awkward drawings?! Have you done them?”

         Clouds of smoke. I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Was it all a mere nightmare? And when did I start to say to her all my thoughts…?

         “It’s funny, you know … 15 years ago I was on the verge of hitting a little girl with my bicycled. She started crying and from that moment, we were inseparable. I remember how we fight sometimes, the perfume of your long, dark hair, the little chamber where we shared our dreams, were I was making your portrait and you were talking, and talking, and talking… And I just listened … you wanted to be a famous journalist and I wanted to be a painter. And that last night, that last day, in which the heavy rain seemed to share my feelings. ‘Go, Liz! Run, and be you! Go!” Your last look, your last kiss, the plane that was flying with you, taking with it the only person that I felt close, my confident, supporter, the person who encouraged me, the being who I loved most in my life …Do you REMEMBER?”

         She stopped for a moment, raising her eyes upon me. Big, marvelous, now cold eyes. She started to walk to me, saying in the same time with a sure voice, that I would never forget: “And now? What do you see? Let me answer for you. That little girl is not so little any more, that wonderful hair is cut down and all those dreams, that you sustained we have, had passed away. “Lizzy…” “Hush…” interrupted me, putting one of her fingers upon my mouth. “Of course, she hated all these smoke and everything I demand you today. If I remember them? Oh, how I remember! And do you know what I still remember?”

Silence, as if time has stopped. Her smell, her skin, her lips so close of mine, her voice, her coldness, her words. I closed my eyes, waiting for her voice.

“That you were the one who helped me with that fly, which had seemed to change my entire life. I obtain from you everything I desired and then … went I was. But you were like me and I really can’t understand… how could you have had the strength to believe in you till the end, how could you managed to make your dream come true? Had I told you in that airport not to give up, not to forget me? Maybe I was wrong...”

       I felt her cheek next to mine, I felt her lips on my lips, and then that whisper so close to my soul, which destroyed my whole world: “All your memories are false…”

      The door had been slammed, the telephone had rung so many times; the voice of my friend who was wondering what’s wrong with me. It has been months since I refused to go out into the world. For what to live? But I was working on a last portrait. The portrait of my own memories. Under a heavy sky, some clouds are flying up and down, the pieces of memories are under some dark eyes, a glance that seems to look somewhere on the ground, but whose looking at little dove… me without myself… if our own memories are false, then what is true in life?

          The exposition was a success, but I don’t care anymore. After all, for what all these, when the power I thought I had to achieve success wasn’t there not only a single time in my life. In who can I trust when she disappointed me, when she was never there ?…

        And still … what is real, what is false? This morning, I discovered that she took not only the jewel of Tom’s wife, but also her own portrait made some time ago by myself, in that little chamber of memories … 

(February, 2007) 

        

 

Sometimes We All Need Saving

 

"Get off the bus!"
Why? Because here I stay, in my pain, in my fear, here Time has stopped. And if Future is just another mirror of this present, why should I get off?
How much have I staid here? How to get up from my battle field?

Someone showed me this video these days; yes, it's true, it's another part of LIFE. All of us get on a sort of bus in our lives. Think. Have you ever tried to escape Life, to hide from your own pain, physical or spiritual, have you tried to alienate in something, have you ever fall on your knees or have pain, real pain, put you on your knees? We got on our buses. Some of us feel this own bus, feel the protection, the calm, the peace and freedom of Death, some of us got so tired to be their own parents, friends, doctors, confidents, feed-backers, teachers that they got enough, they got the cowardice, and not the stupidity, to get in this bus. Others take drugs day by day, while others try to find their salvation in human arms. Some of us hide in the past, some drink, some write, some hide in empty beds, trying to reach their own souls, some just wait. For freedom, talking with their own voices, closed inside themselves, so hurt and tired that are unable to go outside the bus, outside themselves. Because there is pain, fear, hate, remorse, and loneliness outside this bus.

Once upon a time there was a cold March and an earthquake of silence destroyed all the masks and force to dream of a future. From that day, you kept on seeing dices rolling in front of your eyes, you felt your soul cut in two pieces and you cried so much – for the pain that you hide, for the Silence, Ignorance and ironically, Happiness around you – you hide so much scaredness – in bones, blood, and soul; every word and gesture that you made, that now you fall into an abyss of FEAR. Get me out of here! Please, get me out of here, get me out of my own miserable memories! Get off the bus.  I dream of a mountain ... for my spirit, not for my body, to start over again in hoping. In Future.
Once upon a space there was a Pandora box. Once there was an Alice in Wonderland, stepping on a rabbit hole. Like her, I step on a broken land which lead me directly into the waves, and then a wave pushed me back on ground, putting on my lap this open box. Past hitting, running into the present, colouring it, killing the future. Mind is a maze, especially if you remember too many things from your life.

What do you want? Who do you need when you come undone? Who is really listening? Who is here? Who is not? Give me trust, show me trust. Have you…?
I have been measuring this bus until I know it as my palm. I watched outside the window and I kept in my arms this Pandora box. One memory here, one there, one flying, one hitting. How did I put it? "flying memories, one here, one there, one being a bird, the other one an ash, lightings setting fire, wanting to get up". Face it! Feel it! Deep, under your skin. Self-loathing. Self-destruction. Wounds that cannot be healed. Tiredness of the soul, melting in the one of the body. Until you feel safe in this bus, or in your battle-field, or in your waves.

Why to get off the bus? Because you cannot change anything of what is called past and you cannot heal yourself. But you can heal, protect, offer all your energy and love to those who bring you tiny moment of happiness. And for those tiny moments of happiness, you have survived, you have given huge amount of what you really are. Why do you keep forgetting this, why don’t you look behind that Pandora box, implanted in the centre of your soul and see the real you, who have saved Life, who have build her own Temple of Memories. Why don’t you go back to happy, warmth moments?
Happiness is not an everlasting state for me. Happiness is not a day, a week, a month, a year, a life. It does not appear in special days, in successes, or it is not brought by a romantic event. It is simply a moment, a smile, a joy that burns your sad soul and gives you energy to move on and hide all of your wounds. Happiness is not a person, but it is brought by one and a Memory – it is the speed underneath your feet, after you had fallen and you got hurt, it is the dance on an ice surface and the stolen smile of a friend. It lays on a hug, or in a childish game with a person that you love, it is a respected promise, a memory brought into the present, it is an orange bench or a green one, it is a tree, a rose, a word, a gesture, a feedback, or it is simply a look. It is a smile brought by magic. And top of all, it is the happiness that you bring to the people that you love. This is happiness, not inside yourself, but outside, not in what your soul feels, but in what your soul can offer.

YES, I am so damn scared! You know of what? Of Future. I’m scared top of all that the fewest people that I love will disappear tomorrow, that I have nothing special to keep them here and one day, sooner or later, they shall be bored. I’m scared that I will be too scared to say it loud and clear my ideas to the world, I am scared of what I feel, that I cannot control all those feelings, thoughts inside myself and if I show them to the world, they would laugh. Because again, I feel Nothing, a Nothing sank into sadness. I am scared of Bad Memories that hit me as they hit me this month, I am scared that nobody will be here to listen and take my hand, I am scared that I shall fall as I did in March and again, I will not have anyone to whom I can whisper how scared I have been…

But again, happiness for me is the rain from the dessert. You simply undress yourself of all the heat from your walk and you start dancing in the rain, in the middle of the dessert. After it is gone, you carefully take some water with you, take a picture with your mind of that moment and you go on. Because you’re no good to anyone in this bus. And you must go on, daring to hope that maybe, somewhere, hidden, Future will have something for you too. And you start hoping that someone will remember you with a call, a hammer, a hand on your shoulder, a word, or a kiss on your forehead. Yes, I know, how paradoxically is that? How childish a person who has never known to be a kid, can be? So please get off your bus, 'cause … No matter how hard it may be, how much pain you would feel in your soul, how much tiredness you feel, and fear and abandonment, no matter how much you feel and touch your dark parts of yourself, in Silence, learn again how to smile.