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.