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.

Darkness and Brightness

Spre soare râd!/Eu nu-mi am inima în cap,/nici creieri n-am în inimă./Sunt beat de lume şi-s pagân!
Dar oare ar rodi-n ogorul meu/atâta râs făr'de căldura raului?
Şi-ar înflori pe buza ta atâta vrajă,/de n-ai fi frământată,/Sfânto,/de voluptatea-ascunsă/a păcatului?
Ca un eretic stau pe gânduri şi mă-ntreb:/De unde-şi are raiul -/lumina? - Ştiu: Îl luminează iadul
cu flăcările lui!

(Lucian Blaga – Lumina raiului)

 

Zambim. Ne sărbătorim în fiecare an zilele de naştere, arătându-ne cât de fericiţi am devenit în timp. Ne întemeiem familii, dorind a fi modele, dorind a le oferi copiilor noştri fericirea noastră sau cea pe care noi am visat-o. Invăţăm în licee, lucrăm, ducem mai departe ceea ce alţii au zidit în noi. Societatea ne învaţă că în viaţă nu trebuie să trecem fără să plantăm un copac, să construim o casă şi să avem un copil. Ce ne mai trebuie să fim fericiţi? Suntem condamnaţi la fericire încă de la început. Zâmbim, purtând atât de multe măşti zi de zi, oră de oră, ne modelăm după cerinţe, după “ce va zice lumea”, după tipare, încât uităm cine suntem cu adevărat.

“Dăm petreceri, ne abandonăm familile pentru a trăi singuri în Canada; ne luptăm să scriem cărţi care nu schimbă lumea, în ciuda talentului nostru, eforturilor noastre generoase, speranţelor celor mai extravagante. Ne trăim vieţile, facem ce facem şi apoi adormim – cât se poate de simplu şi de banal. Unii sar de la fereastră, se îneacă sau iau pastile; mai mulţi mor din cauza accidentelor şi marea majoritate sunt devoraţi lent de vreo boală sau, dacă sunt foarte norocoşi, de timp. Drept consolare ni se dă din când şi când o oră, şi atunci vieţile noastre par, în ciuda tuturor adversităţilor şi aşteptărilor, să ni se deschidă plenar şi să ne ofere tot ce ne-am imaginat, deşi toţi, cu excepţia copiilor (şi probabil că şi ei) ştiu că aceste ore vor fi urmate inevitabil de altele, mult mai întunecate şi mai dificile. Cu toate astea, ne bucurăm de oraş, de dimineaţă, sperăm, mai mult decât orice, să obţinem mai mult.

      Numai Dumnezeu ştie de ce-o iubim atât.”

Şi ce se întampla cand totul in noi cade, se naruie, cand ne pierdem printre ore, ce se intampla atunci cand uitam totul – teluri, prietenii, ratiuni, amintiri – cand toate acestea se prabusesc fara zgomot in suflet si odata cu ele cadem in genunchi, sub zidurile de apa ce incep sa ne inconjoare, pe pamantul ce se surpa sub noi … e atat de multa apa, si atata oboseala si tristete in ea, e atat de pustiu si de frig, e atat de pustiu si de intuneric in orele in care razboiul cu noi insine s-a terminat, cand din tot ce am fost, din tot ce am iubit si din tot ce am dat a ramas o simpla epava ce asteapta un val spre suprafata, o mana care sa ne aminteasca de noi. Unde suntem, incotro, de ce?...

Their tears are filling up the glasses/No expression, no expression/Hide my head I want to DROWN my sorrow/No tomorrow ...

Iubim Viata pentru ca … e singura realitate de care ne amintim, e singura garantie, singura secunda din eternitatea noastra in care ne putem simti, cladi amintiri, emotii, idei, face o diferenta, pentru ca speram ca in urmataoarea zi ceva neprevazut, ceva frumos sa se intample, sa apara… si e ciudat, pentru ca unii dintre noi asteptam o schimbare intreaga viata, pierzandu-ne in aceasta asteptare, paradoxal, in rutina. Iubim viata pentru visurile pe care ni le facem, si o uram atunci cand le pierdem. Unii dintre noi devin prea ancorati in realitate pentru a li se mai acorda o sansa de reusita, accepta viata asa cum e, fara a o provoca, fara a indrazni sa spuna “NU”, fara a se cladi – prea obositi, prea plictisiti, prea monotoni pentru a face o schimbare. Altii sunt prea nebuni, prea obsedati, prea plini de energie, de sete de schimbare, de a accepta zarurile deja aruncate de o divinitate.

And I find it kind of funny/I find it kind of sad/The dreams in which I'm dying/Are the best I've ever had ...

Sunt zile cand privim in urma, sunt zile cand ne intrebam pentru ce am trait, ce am facut, ce am schimbat, ce va ramane, cu ce voi ramane … si printre dezamagiri, cutreierand prin suflet, prin praful ce se ridica din tot ce s-a distrus, din tot ce e la pamant, sub zidurile sfaramate, in intunericul din fund, plin de rani necicatrizate, zarim imboldul din spatele energiei din noi, impulsul din spatele fiecarei actiuni, singurul lucru pe care il putem oferi, acel ceva ce ne face sa ne implicam in orice … we simply see, and feel LOVE. Iubirea pentru viata si tot ceea ce ea ne-a oferit …

“Fiecare om isi alcatuieste de-a lungul vietii un edificiu afectiv. Masura in care el este e data de consistenta acestui edificiu, de mana aceea de oameni – ei nu pot fi multi – pe care i-a preluat in el si pe care i-a iubit fara rest, fara umbra, si impotriva carora spiritul critic, chiar daca a fost prezent, a ramas neputincios. Acesti oameni putini care ne fac pe fiecare in parte sa nu regretam ca suntem reprezinta, chit ca o stim sau nu, stratul de protectie care ne ajuta sa trecem prin viata. Fiecare om face fata la ce i se intampla pentru ca este protejat in felul acesta. Fara acest zid de fiinte iubite care ne inconjoara (indiferent ca ele sunt sau nu sunt in viata), noi nu am fi buni de nimic. Ne-am destrama precum intr-o atmosfera in care frecarea este prea mare. Sau ne-am pierde, ne-am rataci pur si simplu in viata. Daca ura celorlalti – covarsitoare uneori –, invidia lor, marsavia lor sunt neputincioase este pentru ca exista cativa oameni pe care ii iubim pana la capat.“

Pe acesti putini oameni ii cautam in clipele de izolare, in incercarea noastra de a ne salva de noi insine, in incercarea unora de a se elibera de sub captivitatea fericirii impuse dinainte de a ne fi nascut … ce sunt? Cine sunt? Cum sunt? Ce vreau? Ne cladim pe noi insine cu fiecare pas, oferim energia si iubirea ce se ascunde in noi, pana in ziua cand suntem secati pana in strafundul sufletului, pana in ziua cand ne simtim atat de singuri in multime …nu e ironic? In marea de oameni, te afunzi tot mai adanc in propria mare, in marea de oameni te simti sufocata de toate zambetele, de toate oglinzile in care trebuia sa te reflecti. "Ce vor spune oamenii daca fac X/Y?" "Ce vor intelege daca le voi oferi o alta definitie la cele mai banale lucruri?" Sufocati de fericirea din jur, privim fara a respira, simtim cum cedam putin cate putin ... si atunci ne prabusim fara zgomot, in noi insine, devenim epave, fantome ce cauta o salvare – cautam lucruri, oameni “pe care ii iubim pana la capat”, iar singurele momente evanescente, oricat de strans le-am strange in pumni, la piept, dispar si ne lasa in intuneric, scufundandu-ne incet, intr-o alta realitate …

Vezi tu, zambim atunci cand fiecare particica din noi plange. Ne sarbatorim zilele de nastere, desi, in fiecare an, ne simtim cei mai tristi, cei mai singuri tocmai in ziua aceea … e prima incalcare a “dreptului/condamnarii la fericire” … Ne intemeiem familii atunci cand ne uitam in calendar si vedem cat de mult a trecut, ce varsta avem, ratiunea, paradoxal, ne impune sa iubim, sau, daca avem curajul/nebunia, ne oprim din cautat inca dinainte de a o incepe. Pentru ca suntem sufocati in durere, in raceala noastra, in mica diferenta dintre ego si lume. Ignoram ce am invatat si oferim totul pentru ceea ce simtim adanc, pentru adevarata noastra fata, continuam sa scriem si sa ne transpunem, sa ne simtim, sa ne facem simtiti, sa ne vindem sufletele, sa oferim lumii intreaga noastra caldura si raceala, sa-i oferim tocmai ei, cea care ne condamna, care ne izoleaza, all our brightness and our darkness … numai ca inainte de a reusi, cadem atat de brusc si de tare …

"The winners take nothing".

Suntem condamnati la fericire. Unii o privesc trist, in tacere, privesc spre cei ca ei, care au rupt tacerea cu un gest, ii inteleg in tacere, si se intorc la un alt timp de petrecere, la un alt tip de Mrs. Dalloway, si o iau spre capatul celalalt, in tacere, singurate, tristete … No, not the road to happiness. Just the road to real things, just the road to me, just another ego, trying to make a difference, with too much Energy, with too much love for life – books, friends, pets, winter, figure-skating, writing … LIFE.  

Scriem, continuam sa innegrim paginile albe, sa spunem povesti, sa fim noi cu noi ... dar nici macar aici nu putem fi egoisti 100%, nici macar aici nu suntem goi, ci purtam mereu, cu noi, acele fiinte dragi ... amintirile lor, un gest, un cuvant, o palma, un razboi, ne face sa coboram in noi, sa ne privim in oglinizi prafuite de timp si sentimente ... every writer has his own readers, every human being is formed by memories and these memories are given by People.

We fall in seas of isolation under the eyes of the crowd. Can you feel me now? Everyone wants something else from us, we want something else from our person and we are scared not to disappoint them. Can you touch me now? We give all our lives and all our love and we scream inside ourselves, in times of need for a feedback to the Life that we have offered ... when we are empty of Life, when we are naked of Love, when we are blind and scared by our own darkness. Can you catch me now? We need to be filled again with hope, with ourselves, we need to be filled with energy and words and gestures ... because the road is long ...

Si in acest lung nesfarsit obositor sfasietor drum, speram ca acesti oameni pe care “ii iubim pana la capat” sa fie aici, sa poata lupta cu tot intunericul din noi, sa poata “look right through me”, sau cel putin speram ca in fiecare noua zi sa mai avem energia necesara de-ai iubi pana la capat, de-a ne folosi propriile sentimente in lupta cu oboseala ce cade incet in sufletele noastre … in Viata pe un peron, Octavian Paler incheie cu o fraza pe care cu totii, cel putin o data in viata, o rostim:

Doamne, apără-mă de mine însumi!

 

Open Wide

You see everything, you see every part
You see all my light and you love my dark
You dig everything of which I'm ashamed
There's not anything to which you can't relate
And you're still here …

 

Words save us, hands catch souls, and gestures make us loving life. Everything begins and ends in Memories. And everything in Life has at its basis, without beginning, without end, FRIENDSHIP. Sometimes we need to be children, sometimes we need to be caught, sometimes kindness, wisdom, sensitivity fall asleep in seas of sadness, in search of identities. “I can be an asshole of the grandest kind” and still “I am the kindest soul with whom you’ve connected”.

I keep on saying ‘thank you’, I keep on falling, but there are some persons closed in my heart that are always here. They feel us, they trust us, they give us words and gestures and hugs in times of need. I gave silence, sadness, tears, fear. And there are people like us, with the same ideas, with the same world, respecting the rules that has formed our souls;  there are cold, stubborn people who become so warmth and so here when we need them, scolding us for our thoughts, soothing our wounds, seeing them when we hide, hearing our crying when we give silence, hugging our souls when we are rejecting every touch. Because they know the truth behind our masks, because they know they must stop us in order to breathe again, because they know the language of Friendship, of Human Soul, the language beneath all words and gestures ... For this kind of people, for those who see, and for those who LOVE our rays of lightness and of darkness, we dare to open slowly our souls, taking their hands and stepping into Life. 

OPENING WIDE, in fears, in hope, opening the world for us, opening in mistakes and blames and broken hearts ... but opening in everything that Life means.  

Open up yu mind mek some riddim cum in
Open up yu brain do some reasoning
Open up yu thoughts so we can connect
Open up fe knowledge an intellect,
Open up de speaker mek we blast de sound
Open up de sky mek de Bass cum down
Open up yu eyes mek we look inside
If yu need fe overstand dis open wide.

Open up yu house mek de Refugee cum in
Yu may overstand an start helping
Open yu imagination, gu fe a ride
If yu want fe overstand dis open wide
Open up yu fiss an welcum a kiss
Getta loada dis open up business

Open up yu Bank Account an spend
Open up yu wallet an chech a fren,
Open up de dance floor mek I dance
Open up yu body an luv romance
If yu have not opened up, yu hav not tried
See de other side an open wide

Open up de border free up de land
Open up de books in de Vatican
Open up yu self to any possibility
Open up yu heart an yu mentality,
Open any door dat yu confront
Let me put it straight, sincere and blunt
Narrow mindedness mus run an hide
Fe a shot of overstanding
Open Wide.

     By Benjamin Zephaniah                                                          

 

 

Ironic?

Life is made of ironies, one here, and one there, one in the past, one for the future. Have you ever felt your thought broken into thousands of pieces, losing that gravitation around an idea? Have you ever blamed so much that you stopped breathing inside yourself and you just wanted to close yourself or run from all the persons that you love? Have you ever lied them when you weren’t ok, because you were ashamed of yourself and you disappointed you? Have you ever felt nothing?

Yes, I guess God is too ironic sometimes. I wanted to avoid my past, I took my life in my own hands and I decided to fight. Ironically, my past is my present, and as one of my favorite writers shows it, only the past is real … I wanted to forget. I met people whose stories remembered mine. I decided to give EVERYTHING for a dream, to do and to write about what I love, to give up useless things and to close myself to others, because there are too many things to be explained. I became nothing and I feel nothing from which I wanted to be. I took challenges in order to show myself who I am, in order to let that awkward energy which is always pushing me taking control … is it real? Am I real? Or should I accept an ordinary life? Ironic again, I have no idea what I have accomplished. What have I showed to me? That I can even when I am down on my knees? That I can fight? But I have been fighting with myself for ages, and I know there shall be a day when Tiredness will take control on everything, as it has done it on that day … MY DAY, MY HEART, MY MIND. Because I feel through mind, because in order to feel, I need to think, and with what force feelings arouse in your soul, when they have in their background the intellectual world … 

Ironies. This year destroyed me. And with all my fights and all my secrets … the winner takes nothing. I learnt all the things that I dislike. All my life I have waited for a moment like that, for a moment in which I can show my soul to the world. Tiredness hit and God, how much I HATED myself then, how much I wanted to disappear, to forget myself, to run somewhere, on the top of the mountain and cry … or to be hugged by persons that I love. I have disappointed; I don’t want to hear encouragements when I hate myself, because, top of all, I have disappointed myself. I did all the things that I hate, and I am sure that I will forget all the things that I have learned, and I gave up the things that I love. Yes, I don't accept people, I don’t want to explain myself, I don’t want to say WHY a faculty means so much for me, WHY ambitions are essentials, WHY I cannot communicate with them … so in both the domains, I am nothing.

How many times have you given EVERYTHING for something or someone and you received nothing or you were blamed? How many times have you given pieces of heaven and you received flames of hell? How many times have you seen yourself in a person’s story but you couldn’t speak, because wounds were too deep, there, in the middle of your heart, and bleeding has never stopped? How many times have you wanted to be understood, to be soothed, to be treated as a child, to be hugged and nobody has seen you? You wanted reality, you wanted real things, take a look in your life, in your bitterness, in your loneliness … do you still want MORE?!

 I blame myself now. Maybe this is who I am, and everything from my life reflects this … accomplishments? Tell me one, just one. Why should future be different from past or present, why shouldn’t I kill all my dreams, and live without living?

I dreamed and I didn’t change anything; I use masks and I want to crush them and close myself in a real shell, giving up everything, turning off phones, shutting my laptop and let thoughts gravitating around blame. I met a person who was a little bit too much like me, I have never had the courage to tell her why, I met a person who was my opposite and I have never screamed at her that she is so pathetic … or am I the one pathetic? I involve in goals, this time I didn’t have the energy, the time, the ME to take this train, I wanted to show myself that I am good at something and I showed myself that maybe it would be better to give up, I criticized the system and I didn’t want to be part of it – now I am part of no system. With how much angriness can we attack our own person? And how far should we go with self-destruction? Because yes, life is made of too many connections, and there are too many ironies, and we are a little bit too Sisif in order to take a sit and say …. Stop.

Yes, a little bit too ironic, even for me ... I am tired to believe in me.

Cuvinte ...

De saptamani incerc sa gasesc un Cuvant prin care sa dau drumul Tacerii din spatele zidurilor, a cortinei, a cochiliei ... Cuvinte prea distante pentru a putea fi intelese, cuvinte prea calde, ce duc la patetism, cuvinte goale, sau prea pline, cuvinte aruncate pe pagini albe, sau colorate, pe pagini noi, abia iesite din tipografie, sau pagini ingalbenite de Timp. Cuvantul ca arma, prin care Tacerea se poate exprima. Ce inseamna, cat inseamna, de ce acest drum, de ce acest etern NU in fata tuturor?

Noatea trecuta am dat peste cuvintele lui Petru Cretia. A fost acea atingere care te impinge spre ceea ce iubesti, cuvinte care ai vrut sa le exprimi, prin care ai vrut sa arati dincolo de pagina imaculata a Literaturii …

A conceptualiza literatura inseamna a pierde din vedere partea umana, artistica din ea. Pot afirma ca Arta este un alt fel de Umanitate? Pentru ca ceea ce este artistic este uman, oricat de distant si de rece ni s-ar parea. A pune la nivel de egalitate un critic cu un scriitor e ca si cum am aseza pe aceasi balanta pe Dumnezeu cu omul simplu, comun. Ce putem aduce nou in sute de pagini de analize, de clasificari si de corpusuri? Putem oferi o perspectiva, din sutele de perspective pe care o carte le ridica. Dar mereu, criticul va fi artistul ratat, va fi acel istoric al artei care nu a trecut testul creatiei si a propriei constinte. Literatura e un joc de interpretari, asa cum teologii, filosofii si ateisti incearca sa gaseasca un sens lumii …

In primul an de facultate, am pornit de la intrebarea ce este literatura? Sute de carti pentru o intrebare ce inca nu are raspuns in paginile de teorie … si daca ne-am intoarce privirile un pic spre “dincolo de …”? Ce simti, ce vezi, ce auzi, ce atingi prin cuvinte? Mereu mi-a placut sa patrund intr-o carte cu fiecare pagina ce o parcurgeam. E ca si cum ai intra intr-o camera fara lumina, si incet, incet, lumina se aprinde; iar tu ca cititor esti un simplu spectator, ce priveste critic lumea in care ai coborat, dar lumea pe care o respecti mai mult decat orice. Pe rand psiholog, filosof, critic sau cititor de rand … ce descoperi pe altarul din fata ta?

Poate ca uneori ar trebui sa pornim de la ideea ca scriitorul, inainte de a fi Artist sau Geniu, a fost mai intai o fiinta umana, si ca oricare alta fiinta umana, a cunoscut cuvantul Viata. Si ce e Viata? Un pic de realitate, un pic de iluzii, iubire, prietenie, tristete, si zgomotul plin de furie (si de ce nu, inocenta si pace, din cand in cand) al unui idiot (sau al unui om de rand) … Liiceanu spunea in Declaratie de iubire ca adeseori uitam sa adunam artistul din carte, cu omul din spatele cortinei, care rade, traieste, e personaj in propria viata, ca pe de o parte cititorii vad doar paginile unui carti, povestea si nu se opresc la Omul ce a scris … oamenii din viata unui scriitor vad persoana, individul, fara a privi dincolo de el, fara a interpreta creatia lui … ce este literatura in fata unei astfel de carti, o carte intima a scriitorului, o declaratie de iubire catre cei carora i-au adus Amintiri? Ce analizam, ce interpretam, ce simtim si evaluam intr-o astfel de carte? Si cati dintre noi le-am multumit celor carora au fost mereu langa noi, cati dintre noi le-am cerut iertare celor carora le-am gresit, cati dintre noi am facut o declaratie de iubire celor apropiati? …

O carte de literatura nu ne invata sa creem produse pentru a ne usura viata, nu ne ofera remedii pentru o viata mai sanatoasa, nu ne ofera definitii … ceea ce literatura aduce e o alta poveste, atat povestea de pe scena, cat si povestea adeseori uitata de cititorul de rand … In spatele fiecarei povesti gasesti o parte din viata, din acest univers comun, in care valorile supreme se regasesc, in care fiecare dintre noi valsam zi de zi. Si de ce nu, o carte e uneori refugiul in care te retragi, in care fugi de propriul tau ego, in care te lasi sa cazi doar pentru a o lua de la capat. Cel mai indepartat drum spre casa, dar care trece drept prin suflet. Si poate ca asta e ceea ce conteaza.

Si daca inca nu poti gasi Cuvantul pentru a exprima ceea ce simti, poate ca urmatoarele vor mai lumina un pic acest intortocheat drum al ideilor si sentimentelor …

,,Stradania ta sa nu aiba nelinistea grabei si pripa soroacelor, macar pentru ca, atunci cand trebuie sa urci in genunchi, zorul doare mai tare. Uita-te si pe tine, si lungimea artei. Scriind romaneste, nu-ti pese de rostirile noastre, cum vor fi fost, ci de obarsia din care ele toate s-au nascut si poate sa se nasca si a ta. Arde-ti batranii pe rug, ca sa-ti ramana din ei, inarticulate si patrunzator, doar parfumul. Cauta sa reconstruiesti cultura in natura si nemijlocire. Tine minte ca vointa opereaza doar achizitiv, antiinertial si polemic, iar restul e doar un fel de lunga iubire fara sorti stiute. Traieste, gandind si scriind, doar in prezent si cat mai deplin. Restul nu e decat retorica timpului subiectiv. Si totusi, uita-ti cititorii sau, mai degraba, instituie-i tu. Ia seama ca nu esti dator nimic, ca fapta ta si pretuirea ei incepe cu ea insasi, ca un dar. Si ca restul, ultimul rest, este numai, sa zice, PRIETENIE, adica un indiciu intre altele ca ceva din noi, gasindu-si expresie privilegiata in durata culturii, este mai cuprinzator decat ea si, daca nu vrei sa admiti ca ii da sensul, poate da un sens superior insesi neizbanzilor noastre.”

(Petru Cretia – Arta poetica)