"The color of this life is water"

In its deepness, warmth and happy moments. In its turmoil, and sadness, and scars, and irony. Water which we love and cherish, daring to walk on it in our faiths, our trust in our beloved ones. Water in which we sink and forget how to swim. Water which swallows us in a few seconds, in which we search for that thing to grasp. For a meaning. In its waves. The two sides of the coin from our lives, from my life, water as peace and water as death, water as stability and water with its insanity, silence and noise.

“Envy's color is the color of her pleasuring, and what is the color of grief? Is it black as they say? And anger always red? The color of that sad shade of ennui called blue is blue but blue unlike the sky or sea, a bitter blue, rue-tinged, discolored at the edges. The color of a blind man's noon is white, and is his nighttime too? And does he feel it with his skin like a fish? Does he have blues, are they bridal and serene, or yellows, sunlike or urinous, does he remember? Neural colors like the fleeting tones of dreams. The color of this life is water.”

(Cormac McCarthy - Suttree)

Die Worte/Words

When I say Deutschland I first think of autumn and language. Autumn because of its colours, not only in the street, but also among persons and peoples, a mixture of races, cultures, and personal searches, here, in a foreign country. A mixture of peoples, so different in their customs, voices, ways of thinking.

Language is the most intriguing, confusing, difficult aspect for me. In a war among three languages inside my head and heart – Romanian, English and German, you start feeling yourself in a maze of words, in the search for understanding, for meaning, and for Home. Words and accents get mixed inside yourself, and the more you stay among the Others (while you are the other), the more a new language invents itself inside yourself. It makes you think of what you study, of those artists who had to struggle and to live with/among/inside a new language, forging their new identities.

But language comes for me with its own anxiety, deepening the wars inside myself, with the miss of Home, of small routines, in a conflict with why you are here, with your inner searches of peace, tearing you again in two … I am used to feeling language, to play with it, to understand it … and the break in the wall comes for me from it, from the lack of understanding. I try to grasp a meaning, to find some ground beneath my feet, but there is only air, and sounds, and vivid memories of a world that was … and words go too deep, unable to grasp them anymore, but they still haunt ... as the feelings, the searches, the agenbite of inwit which are so buried, so present, inside yourself.

Insomnii

De ceva saptamani am uitat si eu cum se mai doarme. Noaptea in special, in acel intuneric pe care tot incerci sa-l alungi de langa tine. Poate ca nu am stiut niciodata, si m-am obisnuit - mai mult decat ar fi trebuit - cu insomniile care nu-ti mai dau pace. Asta pana ce te intalnesti din nou cu tine insati, acolo unde te astepti mai putin, in incercarea de a chema somnul, de a rupe sirul gandurilor, de a te uita, de a nu te reintalni cu tine insati. O pagina cu mici semne descifrate parca intr-un alt timp, care-ti aminteste de acel tu - uitat, insomniac, ratacit. Prea ocupat cu gandurile adunate-n manunchiuri de amintiri, gata oricand sa dea pe dinafara. Le linisteai candva scriind. Si asta parca intr-o alta viata. Acum doar umbra ta mai poposeste deasupra unor ecouri venite din acele alte lumi, rostite de alte glasuri, pe jumatate vii, spre a-ti aminti ... numai somnul nu vrea sa-si reaminteasca de tine. 

,,Am uitat deja deseori cum sa dorm si-a trebuit sa reinvat apoi cum se face. Ori e foarte simplu, ori nu merge deloc. Totul doarme spre dimineata, chiar si pisicile si cainii se tot invart in jurul tomberoanelor doar o jumatate de noapte. Cand stii ca tot nu poti sa dormi, e mai usor sa te gandesti in camera intunecata la ceva luminos, decat sa inchizi ochii degeaba. La zapada, trunchiuri varuite de copaci, camere albe, mult nisip – cu asta mi-am petrecut timpul pana s-a luminat de mai multe ori decat mi-as fi dorit.”

 (Herta Muller - Astazi mai bine nu m-as fi intalnit cu mine insami)

Re-Imagining Old Languages

“Our family is not what it was, but we are all gravitating back into family lives of one sort and another; it is a drift that people cannot seem to help, in spite of lessons learned the hard way … I think often of the ancient times, long before Latin, when words were new and had no connotations. Pure words stood for single things: ‘Family’ meant people in a house together. But that was in a language so far back that all its words are gone, a language we can only imagine.”

 (Rich in Love, Josephine Humphreys)

Travels in the Scriptorium

Mi-e teama de singuratate. Mereu mi-a fost. Atat de teama incat am acceptat ani la randul iluzia unei inchipuiri. Atat de teama incat nu am vrut sa vad sau sa inteleg cat de singuri suntem in aceste iluzii, in aceste creionari ale oamenilor pe care dorim sa ii pastram in viata noastra si pe care ii consideram speciali. Atat de singuri incat nu mai vedem ca acei oameni pe care candva i-am venerat si i-am pretuit nu mai sunt demult aici, cu noi. Dar continuam sa ne hranim prin amintiri.

Ne inchidem adeseori intr-o camera ideala, feriti de Realitatea mult prea nemiloasa, nemaigandind, nemaidorind sa ne amintim, captivi in rutina, in cotidian, in iluzii si afundati in temerile noastre pentru a mai vedea si altceva. Daca dam frau liber imaginatiei si incercam sa ne jucam putin cu filosofia sau cu teologia, am putea ajunge si noi in camera lui Paul Auster, din Travels in the

Scriptorium.

“Who is he? What is he doing here? When did he arrive and how long will he remain?” (1)

Travels in the Scriptorium este o carte ideala pentru o zi caniculara, de vara, scurta si simpla, dar care ne antreneaza imaginatia. Suntem cu totii niste Mr. Blank, prea absorbiti de fricile noastre pentru a mai indrazni sa verificam daca usa este sau nu deschisa, prea adanciti in remuscari inconstiente pentru a ne aminti de ceea ce am facut sau de oamenii pe care i-am ranit. Si de ce nu, suntem cu totii niste personaje in cautarea raspunsurilor de mai sus. Cine suntem? Ce cautam aici? Cum am ajuns aici, cat vom mai sta? Ne jucam de-a Dumnezeu, asa cum demult, poate un Dumnezeu/creator s-a jucat cu noi. Si la fel ca el, ne intrebam la sfarsitul unei zile “When is this nonsense going to end?”

“It will never end. For Mr. Blank is one of us now, and struggle through he might understand his predicament, he will always be lost. I believe I speak for all his charges when I say he is getting what he deserves – no more, no less. Not as a form of punishment, but as an act of supreme justice and compassion. Without him, we are nothing, but the paradox is that we, the figments of another mind, will outlive the mind that made us, for once we are thrown into the world, we continue to exist forever, and our stories go on being told, even after we are dead.” (129)

Dear God,

Se spune ca niciodata nu primim mai mult decat putem duce, ca lucrurile care ne doboara acum vor fi intelese in viitor, ca totul este pentru ,,binele nostru”, iar fiecare zi ne este oranduita asa cum trebuie, si ca vom vedea ca Binele triumfa in final. Nu spun ca astfel de lucruri nu se intampla, dar nu mai vreau o lume absurda. As vrea sa stiu unde a fost, este si va fi acea finalitate pentru cei multi, pentru toate victimele distruse de la inceputurile omenirii, din povestile biblice, din razboaiele mondiale sau pentru acei simpli muritori, oameni banali, dar care poarta ca fiecare dintre noi o poveste, si care dispar zilnic, in fiecare ora, nelasand nimic in urmele lor. As vrea sa stiu unde este acea ,,Fericire”/,,Mantuire” pentru ei, acel ceva pentru acei oameni care au suferit de la inceput si pana la sfarsit – un sfarsit prea brusc, prea crud, prea nedrept.

As vrea sa nu aud ca totul va fi dat ,,in viata de apoi”. Am crescut cu astfel de povesti, cu aceasta promisiune, si toate istorisirile, credintele, poruncile Bisericii, fie ca vreau sau nu, vor fi mereu incrustrate undeva in sufletul meu. Numai ca vezi tu, nu vreau o minune pentru mine, pentru cei apropiati, pentru cei puternici, ci vreau acea liniste, acea implinire pentru fiecare dintre noi. Oare de ce doar unii dintre noi am avea dreptul la un happy ending, de ce trebuie mereu sa impartim lumea intre Buni si Rai, Invingatori si Invinsi? … As vrea sa ne gandim pentru o clipa si la cei umili, la cei mediocri, la cei care stapanesc pamantul. Nu vreau sa ma gandesc acum la oamenii speciali, Supermen sau eroi, ci oamenii aceia care nu se ridica deasupra plevei printr-un har divin ci sunt simple produse ale locului in care traiesc, ale familiei, ale anturajului, si care dispar odata cu ultimele amintiri a lor pe acest pamant … As vrea un Dumnezeu milostiv, un Dumnezeu care sa ofere acea fericire promisa acum, aici, pentru toti, nu unul absurd, ,,gelos”, care condamna, loveste, ucide, ca cel dintr-un Vechi Testament … si as vrea ca fiecare dintre noi sa primeasca ceea ce i se cuvine, nu sa dispara in chin, inainte de a intelege ce inseamna de fapt a trai.  

I dance a tango with my hubris ...

There was once a story that I read. The Yellow Wallpaper. I don’t remember exactly the “action”, but I do remember how it made me feel. Loneliness in an absurd, meaningless world, struggling among words, hopelessly grasping for air.

Everyone should have ”the people” near them, no matter what, or at least this is how the ancient story of humanity goes, this is how the bedside stories tell us, the films, the fairytales or the books that we read. My Bible. Beyond the success that you have, and the small or the big victories, for each of us there should be somewhere a peaceful, meaningful Ithaca. And instead of this, some of us receive in their lives only cold shoulders, duties, responsibilities, pain, indifference, remorse, and so damn much heaviness.  

I envy and I cannot understand people who have this promised story and aren’t able to see what they have next to them, who are unable to get up, to follow their dreams. I want to hit them and make them feel for a second a Yellow Wallpaper. I have always seen Ithaca, with its warmth people from inside, a nucleus, with such energy that someone can overcome all the problems from his/her road. The God, my God, the one that matters God. It doesn’t matter the money (who the fuck has it?), where we live, how far we want to go, how many things we have to do. Nobody’s life is perfect, but Ithaca is the heartbeat of our victories, of what human being means. And at the end, if this turns out to be a Camus story, then where did we go wrong, how bigger were our sins to deserve that, for what we have lived, what was the worth of all these?....

I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing ...

I'd like to build the world a home

And furnish it with love

Grow apple trees and honey bees

And snow white turtle doves

Seen. Heard. Loved. Understood. Appreciated. As probably the best TV series that I have ever seen puts it in its last episode (but not only there) these are the things that people – broken or “normal” – keep on searching in their roads.

It's been a long time since I wanted to write about Mad Men, but there are too many things to be said and felt about this TV series. I think that Life is not a simple story where happiness means a home with a child and a wife in it + a successful career, but maybe it’s simply about what you feel inside yourself: the haunted wounds from within, the wars with yourself, the culture and the time when you are born. I also believe that there are different ways to watch it: from a surface level, where we see only the adventures of some characters, judging their lives, from a historical and cultural point of view – an image of (the) America(n) dream, from a psychological perspective, or from a personal point, from Person to Person.

"My name's Leonard and I don't know if there's anything that complicated about me. And so I should be happier, I guess.[…] But I've never been interesting to anybody. I, m-- I work in an office. People walk right by me. I know they don't see me. And I go home and I watch my wife and my kids. They don't look up when I sit down.
[…] It's like no one cares that I'm gone. They should love me. I mean, maybe they do, but I don't even know what it is. You spend your whole life thinking you're not getting it, people aren't giving it to you. Then you realize they're trying and you don't even know what it is.
[…] I had a dream I was on a shelf in the refrigerator. Someone closes the door and the light goes off, and I know everybody's out there eating.
And then they open the door and you see them smiling. And they're happy to see you, but maybe they don't look right at you, and maybe they don't pick you. And then the door closes again. The light goes off."

Home ...

,,Iţi scriu ca să te întreb dacă tu, dragă Udo, care ai plecat şi nu te-ai mai întors niciodată, ai plecat definitiv, cum se spunea înainte, ai ajuns acasă?”(Adela Greceanu, ,,Papusa")

 

I came across these lines several days ago. Finding Home, Ithaca, Neverland … Will I ever be Home? I think I have never been so far from Home as I am now. In a desperate search of a meaning, of a shelter, of some(thing/one) to believe in … I cannot find my place here. I cannot find myself in the job that I now dislike, I cannot find the language in which I can express myself, always searching, feeling, measuring its/their limits … I cannot find my religion and I don’t know if I have lost it somewhere in this road or it has never been there. I have kept on trying to offer shelter, protection, safety, but I … . I cannot find the proper book, the perfect words. I cannot find myself, in all my wanderings, and sins, and memories. And like a small child, I tremendously miss the belief in my own Ithaca.  

Et in Arcadia Ego

Violence tortures me. I hate it, I run away from it; I try to avoid it as much as I can. Violence is my weakest spot, be it physical or hidden in the spoken word. I turn off the TV when I see it, or I change the channel. I skipped classes when my teachers/professors were too aggressive, I gave up my pride, my point of view when my friends were too violent in their language. I withdraw in myself. In 90% of the cases, I run away. Because violence is my torture, the thing that I hate the most, the thing that I cannot face. Sometimes I answer through violence. And I hate myself when I do this. I wish we could live in a peaceful world, without wars, fights, violence….

“It was thirty minutes before anyone appeared in the street.  They spoke in whispers.  As they approached the cantina one of the men from inside appeared in the doorway like a bloody apparition.  He had been scalped and the blood was all run down into his eyes and he was holding shut a huge hole in his chest where pink froth breathed in and out.  One of the citizens laid a hand on his shoulder.

A donde vas? He said.

A casa, said the man.” (190)

So how the hell can I read and choose him?

I strongly believe we are our choices. And as this book points out, human beings are beasts. It is in our nature – Americans, Romanians, Chinese, Russians – to be driven by evil, to hit, to kill, to hurt the one next to us. We are selfish beings, animals, and most of us are unable to see the Other, be it male or female, husband or wife, mother, father, friend, sister or brother. We see ourselves as the Universe, either we acknowledge this or not, and nobody and nothing else, except our needs, matter. In our road to success, or growing up, we leave behind dreams, people, principles. We blame the others, rarely ourselves. We lack time to try to see through their eyes. And we become the things that we hated the most. In our way to conquer civilization.  

Cormac McCarthy is a highly intellectual writer. His prose is filled with symbols from various areas, and in order to really understand him you need some help – history books, knowledge of Spanish, German, philosophy, religion. He is one of the most lyrical writers that I have ever known. And at the same time, Blood Meridian is by far the most violent book that I have ever read, and one of the most shocking. It was really difficult to digest, to understand, and way too often it was unbearable. It was also difficult when it came to vocabulary, to syntax, to style. After I had finished it, I didn’t know what I want to do next: to start all over again, so I can understand it better, or I felt happy that it was over, no more massacres, deaths, killings …

I don’t know how many can read such a book because of its violence and language, but I know for sure that this novel goes beyond literature. Man is war, man is destruction, man is chaos. And still, I stubbornly believe that there is a glimpse of hope for this world. Because violence is my torture.  

If I were God ...

As sfasia pagini de jurnal, si toate acele insemnari postmoderne dintr-o epoca prea digitala, as sfasia amintirile, si zilele, si parti din cine sunt. As rupe bucati din gandurile mele si le-as azvarli in toate valurile care ma-nconjoara. Si m-as adanci si eu, odata cu ele, in mare, in valuri, in tacere. As opri din mersul lui firesc un carusel si l-as face sa se intoarca indarat, to the square one. As ingropa fiecare sunet dinainte de a se naste, in cotloanele impaienjenite ale caselor modeste, prin dulapuri de bucatarie, prin sifoniere, prin unghere, lasand ca praful sa se asterne peste ele. Si tacerea. Primordiala, adanca, atotcuprinzatoare. As ucide fiecare cuvant, fiecare silaba dinauntrul meu, si apoi as trage obloanele ferestrelor prin care pot privi acea mare si acel alt eu zbatandu-se in ea. Le-as lua pe toate – si val, si mare, si sunet, si gand – si le-as transforma in mici fulgi de nea, oferindu-i omenirii. Pagini mazgalite sau ascunse-n vreun fisier, caruseluri ruginite de povara propriilor amintiri … Ar ninge incet, ar ninge continuu, ar ninge in tacere, fara durere, cu tot si peste tot ce-a fost scris candva de-un alt Dumnezeu mai mare decat mine. 

Portrait of Artists and Small Good Things

I came across these thoughts which reminded me of how much I searched and gave for such a miracle. I wonder if such things still exist or our world is too busy and depressed for art, artists and friendships, a universe too tired to see and feel miracles. "Faith is a powerful thing", warned me someone, long time ago. And even so, I guess I am one of those few insane people who still believe in fairy-tales, although this often offers us only destruction ... but no matter what the cost is, we all need something to believe in, don't we? ... 

"Usually the artist has two life-long companions, neither of his own choosing ... poverty and loneliness. To have a friend who understands and appreciates your work, one who never lets you down but who becomes more devoted, more reverent, as the years go by, that is a rare experience. It takes only one friend, if he is a man of faith, to work miracles." (Henry Miller)

Drums and heartbeats

This cover reminds me of my own heartbeats. Deep down, behind the sound/the flesh, behind the lyrics/my words, behind every utterance, every breathing, every mask. It is the rhythm that you hear especially at the beginning, the one that I hear inside myself, when I listen, the one that I heard so long ago, on ice. It reminds me of what I have put in all my dreams – deferred, destroyed, or still hanging there. It reminds me of my first flames of passion, of how much I loved to dance and how much I wanted to be born in another country. And it reminds me of growing up, of meeting the World of Words, putting in them what I felt in every winter and what I had to leave in the world of childhood. I am probably a slave of my own heartbeats, inside myself, outside myself, in the things that I search, in everything that I want to say, in every person that I meet and cherish. It is this heartbeat that I want to offer to my people, this one that I try to put on a blank page, and at the same time, the one that burns. It is the sound that I want to let it free, the one that I keep searching, being there, and still, unable to grasp. The only religion that you have, the only thing that makes you feel alive. And still, without a name, without a proper word to be defined ...