Dance me ... till the end of love

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Au dansat o viata intr-o noapte, cand muzica curgea pe fundal, fara sa-i pese cuiva cine o canta, cand lumea se invartea in jur buimaca, iar lor nu le pasa ce isi spuneau intre ei.

A fost vals, sau tango, sau vreun dans lent, cu miscari suave, in care simturile se combinau haotic pentru a crea magia? A fost vis, sau realitate, au fost ei, sau altii?

Suntem liberi sa ne imaginam orice, cu farama aia de amintire ascunsa undeva adanc, sa ne imaginam ca am fost noi sau altii, ca dansul a fost un inceput sau un sfarsit, ca intr-o alta lume povestea a continuat de-acolo si a ajuns departe, in pagini de roman celebru.

Dansez pe sfarsitul povestii, cu un ochi plans si unul ascuns, cu un obraz rece si unul fierbinte, cu gandul macinat de intrebari si cu o duzina de raspunsuri pe care le ignor rotindu-ma continuu pe muzica aia dementa, hipnotizanta, pe care nici macar nu mi-o mai amintesc. Ma mangai cu gandul ca ai uitat, sau ca nici macar nu (ma) stiai. Pana la urma, ce mai conteaza, un dans in plus, cand viata ne roteste mereu cum vrea ea?

Ritmul? Ni l-am impus! Pasii? I-am inventat! Muzica? Nici nu conta, am dansat nebuni si in pauze!

O viata intr-un dans, un singur dans intr-o viata.

***

They danced for a lifetime in one night, when the music flowed in the background, no one cared who was playing it, when people were milling around buoyantly, and they didn't care what they said to each other.

Was it a waltz, or a tango, or some slow, smoothly moving dance where the senses combined chaotically to create magic? Was it dream, or reality, was it them, or others?

We are free to imagine anything, with that shred of memory hidden somewhere deep, to imagine that it was us or others, that the dance was a beginning or an end, that in another world the story continued from there and went far away, into the pages of a famous novel.

I dance on the end of the story, with one eye watering and one hiding, one cheek cold and one hot, with my mind consumed with questions and a dozen answers that I ignore by spinning continuously to that insane, hypnotic music that I don't even remember. You tease me with the thought that you've forgotten, or that you didn't even (know) me. After all, what does it matter, one more dance, when life always spins us around as it wills?

The rhythm? We imposed it on ourselves! The steps? I invented them! The music? It didn't even matter, we danced madly in the breaks!

A lifetime in a dance, one dance in a lifetime.

Te uita cum ninge decembre... / Just look how it snows in December...

A inceput luna aceea blestemata, in care te simt mai aproape decat in tot anul. A inceput luna in care aniversam trist Craciunul ratat, in care plangem mai mult decat in restul anului, in care se aduna regretele gramada si intrebarile curg in fiecare zi. Si tu nu mai esti aici sa mai raspunzi niciunei intrebari.

E cea mai fericita luna decembrie din viata mea, luna pe care mi-as fi dorit mai mult ca niciodata sa o traiesti

si tu. Si mi-as dori sa nu-mi mai fie dor si frica, si mi-as dori sa mai citesti din Minulescu si sa-ti urasc tigarile innodate din bucatarie. Si mi-as dori sa nu mai plang acum, dupa jumatate de viata fara tine.

Ce-ai spune tu acum? Ai plange cum plang si eu, de fericire si de grija, si m-ai alinta cum numai tu o

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faceai, si te-ai bucura fara sa-ti fie teama si rusine ca te va judeca cineva ca esti mai putin barbat ca plangi ca o femeie la fiecare emotie. Pentru ca asa esti tu, asa ai ramas in amintirile mele dragi, asa te-am cunoscut si te-am iubit, asa ai plecat, cu un zambet pe buze si cu ochii in lacrimi.

Cred ca sunt fericita, dar mi-e frica sa recunosc. Cred ca ai ceva de-a face cu asta, pentru ca de curand am inceput sa cred in ingeri. Cred ca te-ai zbatut sa ajung aici, cred ca ma vezi si mi-ai trimis ce am bun in viata, incercand sa estompezi si raul de care am avut parte.

Mi-as dori sa ne pregatim sa te serbam de Mos Nicolae, cu toate ca noi nu eram asa festivi. Mi-as dori sa fii ceva mai batran decat mi te aduc eu aminte, dar cu bagajul plin de glume si bancuri, la fel de emotiv si sincer, la fel de adevarat. Mi-as dori sa vin acasa sa te gasesc jumate sub masina, sau la cafeaua de dupa-amiaza, sau ascultand Edith Piaf sau contrand-o pe mama care zicea ca aia nu e artista, ci doar o femeie usoara.

Mi-e dor de tine si anul asta nu am nici energie si nici nu gasesc vreo motivatie suficient de puternica sa ma prefac ca nu a inceput decembrie.

***

That damned month has begun, where I feel closer to you than I have all year. The month has begun where we sadly celebrate the missed Christmas, where we cry more than the rest of the year, where regrets pile up and questions flow every day. And you're not here to answer any more questions.

It's the happiest December of my life, the month I wish more than ever you could have lived too. And I wish I didn't miss you and I wish I wasn't afraid, and I wish I could still read Minulescu and hate your knotted cigarettes in the kitchen. And I wish I wouldn't cry now, after half my life without you.

What would you say now? You'd weep as I weep, with happiness and care, and praise me as only you would and you would rejoice without fear and shame that someone would judge you less of a man for crying like a woman at every emotion. Because that's who you are, that's how you stayed in my fond memories, that's how I knew and loved you, that's how you left, with a smile on your lips and eyes in tears.

I think I'm happy, but I'm afraid to admit it. I think you have something to do with it, because I've recently started believing in angels. I think you struggled to get here, I think you see me and sent me the best I have in life, trying to blur out the bad I've had.

I wish we were getting ready to celebrate you for Saint Nicholas, though you weren't so festive. I wish you were a little older than I remember you, but with baggage full of jokes and pranks, just as emotional and sincere, just as true. I wish I could come home to find you half under the car, or at afternoon coffee, or listening to Edith Piaf, or contending with my mother who said she wasn't an artist, just a little bimbo.

I miss you and this year I have neither the energy nor can I find any motivation strong enough to pretend December hasn't started.

Despre ingeri / About angels

Cand rasare soarele, primul lucru pe care suntem tentati sa il facem este sa tragem draperiile, sa deschidem geamul larg, sa lasam lumina sa intre si sa uitam de negura noptii, de frig, de intuneric si necunoscut. Cand rasare soarele, pentru un moment nimic nu mai conteaza decat noua zi, cu toate provocarile, bucuriile si lumina ei, care ne imbata si ne face sa uitam.

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Pe la amiaza, pleoapele se ingreuneaza placut, intram intr-o stare de usora somnolenta, facem o cafea tare si, privind in adancul cestii, ne revin in minte imagini ale noptii trecute, cu orele in care am privit neajutorati tavanul, cu clipele in care am crezut ca cea mai buna alternativa e ca noaptea sa devina eterna, cu ingerii negri care ne-au bantuit visele si cu cei pazitori, putini, dar prezenti, care ne-au tinut de mana si ne-au ghidat catre lumina unei alte dimineti.

Ingerii umbla liberi printre noi. Ii recunoastem in zorii zilei, ii ignoram o vreme, apoi, privind in luciul cafelei aburinde de dupa-amiaza, ii identificam exact, asa cum sunt, cu tot ce au facut, ne amintim caldura mainii care, fara a cere nimic in schimb, ne-a departat de marginea prapastiei. Si ne gandim sa le fim si noi ingeri pazitori intr-o zi, pe care insa nu ne-o dorim apropiata.

Multumesc ingerilor mei, ii port in suflet, ii pomenesc in rugaciuni, ii tin pe piedestalul de pe care nimeni si nimic nu ii va da jos vreodata!

***

When the sun rises, the first thing we are tempted to do is to pull back the curtains, open the window wide, let the light in and forget about the darkness of the night, the cold, the dark and the unknown. When the sun rises, for a moment nothing matters but the new day, with all its challenges, its joys and its light, which makes us drunk and forgetful.

By midday, our eyelids are pleasantly heavy, we enter a state of mild drowsiness, we make a strong coffee and, looking deep into our cups, images of the night before come to mind, of the hours when we looked helplessly at the ceiling, of the moments when we thought the best alternative was for the night to go on forever, of the dark angels who haunted our dreams and the few but present guardians who held our hands and guided us to the light of another morning.

Angels walk freely among us. We recognize them at dawn, ignore them for a while, then, gazing into the glow of steaming afternoon coffee, identify them exactly as they are, with all they have done, remember the warmth of the hand that, without asking anything in return, has steered us away from the brink. And we think of being their guardian angels one day, which we don't want to be any time soon.

I thank my angels, I carry them in my heart, I remember them in my prayers, I keep them on a pedestal from which nothing and no one will ever take them away!

Am iubit un maidanez / I have loved a stray dog

Asta nu e poezie, nici proza, nici metafora, e confesiune, e justificare, e felie de viata pe paine. Cei inteligenti, vor intelege, de restul, nici ca imi pasa...

Dragostea si respectul fata de animale le-am avut in sange, mostenire genetica de la tata, nu prea am avut de comentat in legatura cu asta. Copil fiind, am invatat cum sa ma comport cu animalele, astfel incat nu am ezitat niciodata sa mangai toti cainii de pe strada, chiar cu protestele mamei.

Mama iubea animalele, dar nu in casa, asa ca nu am avut voie sa crestem decat hamsteri, pe care i-am iubit generatii de-a randul, de la albi, crem, gri, mari, mici... Din cand in cand mai ingrijeam cateva zile cate un puisor de guguta cazut din cuib, plangeam o vrabie calcata de masina, mangaiam pitigoii care intrau in casa, ca a doua zi, dupa ce ii eliberam, sa se intoarca...

Asta pana in dimineata aia, cand a sunat mama la o ora imposibila, de la munca, sa ii spuna lui tata sa vina repede, ca la ei in curte este un catel frumos. A fost scanteia care ne-a adus-o in viata.

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Aveam vreo 13 ani. Telefonul m-a trezit, asa ca am asteptat cu sufletul la gura sa se intoarca tata. Imi amintesc si acum cand au intrat pe usa, el grijuliu, ea, eleganta, increzatoare, cuminte, cel mai frumos caine urat pe care l-am vazut vreodata! O boxerita de vreo 4-5 ani, roscata, cu botul negru si nasul cret. Abandonata de ceva timp sau neglijata, dupa cum se vedea dupa numarul coastelor la vedere, batuta cu piciorul, pentru ca avea rani si vreo 2 coaste rupte, purta la gat o lesa improvizata de tata dintr-o fasa medicala.

M-am napustit asupra ei cu o inocenta si o dragoste de care numai un copil este in stare, facandu-l pe tata sa paleasca pregatindu-se sa ma scoata din coltii animalului strain. Dar ea a acceptat imbratisarea ca si cum ar fi asteptat-o de mult.

Timp de o saptamana mama ne-a amenintat in fiecare zi ca "Maine o ducem la curte, la bunici", insa Lassie a ramas cu noi, membru al familiei, cel mai inteligent, docil, recunoscator, cuminte si educat caine din cati credeam ca exista. 2 ani si jumatate ne-a luminat fiecare zi si ne-a facut sosirile acasa o sarbatoare, agitand ciotul ei de coada si gudurandu-se de parca s-ar fi indoit ca ne va mai vedea vreodata. Ne-a creionat personalitatile, ne-a sadit in suflet ceva din bunatatea ochilor ei, ne-a ajutat sa ne gasim calea si sa ne descoperim principiile.

Lassie mi-a murit in brate, la 7 ani, varsta la care, de obicei, boxerii se duc. I-am vazut lumina disparandu-i din ochi, i-am simtit ultimul spasm si, daca sufletul ar fi fost material, l-as fi prins si l-as fi mai tinut cu noi o vreme, dar n-am putut. Am plans-o si o plang si acum, o simt in ochii fiecarui maidanez pe care nu ezit nici acum sa il mangai pe strada si pe care nu ezit sa-l compatimesc.

Pentru ca fiecare familie are nevoie de o Lassie care sa-i deschida ochii!

***

This is not poetry, nor prose, nor metaphor, it is confession, it is justification, it is slice of life on bread. The intelligent ones will understand, the rest, I don't care...

Love and respect for animals was in my blood, genetic inheritance from my father, I didn't have much to say about it. As a child, I learned how to behave with animals, so I never hesitated to pet all the dogs on the street, even with my mother's protests.

My mother loved animals, but not in the house, so we were only allowed to raise hamsters, which we loved for generations, from white, cream, grey, big, small... From time to time we would take care of a little dove that had fallen out of the nest for a few days, we would cry over a sparrow that had been run over by a car, we would stroke the bluebirds that came into the house, so that the next day, after we had freed them, they would come back...

That was until that morning, when my mother called at an impossible hour, from work, to tell my father to come quickly, because there was a beautiful puppy in their yard. It was the spark that brought her into our lives.

I was about 13 years old. The phone woke me up, so I waited with bated breath for my dad to come back. I remember even now when they walked in the door, he thoughtful, she, elegant, confident, well-behaved, the most beautiful ugly dog I've ever seen! A little boxer about 4-5 years old, red hair, black muzzle and curly nose. Abandoned for some time or neglected, as you could see by the number of ribs in sight, kicked, because she had wounds and a couple of broken ribs, she wore a leash improvised by her father from a medical bandage around her neck.

I swooped down on her with an innocence and love that only a child is capable of, making my father pale as he prepared to pull me from the fangs of the foreign animal. But she accepted the embrace as if she had been waiting for it for a long time.

For a week my mother threatened us every day that "Tomorrow we're taking her to the yard, to Grandma and Grandpa", but Lassie stayed with us, a member of the family, the smartest, most docile, grateful, well-behaved and well-mannered dog we thought existed. Two and a half years she brightened our every day and made our arrivals home a celebration, wagging her tail stub and gurgling as if she doubted she would ever see us again. She shaped our personalities, she soaked into our souls some of the kindness of her eyes, she helped us find our way and discover our principles.

Lassie died in my arms, at 7, the age at which boxers usually go. I saw the light disappear from his eyes, felt his last spasm, and if his soul were material, I would have caught it and kept him with us a while longer, but I couldn't. I cried it and I cry it now, I feel it in the eyes of every stray I still don't hesitate to pet in the street and I don't hesitate to pity.

Because every family needs a Lassie to open their eyes!

Arid / Dry

Cand nu mai pot nici sa plang, lacrimile se transforma in versuri, cuvinte si note muzicale, razbesc pentru cateva secunde doar in lumea de afara, se incarca de sens si apoi se intorc spasite acasa. Atunci ma gandesc la tine, incerc iar, in zadar, sa dau pagina, cu mana usor tremuranda, si in loc sa inchid cartea, mai scriu un paragraf.

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Nu mai ploua pe strada mea. Norii stau gata sa se rupa, in fiecare zi, furtuna se dezlantuie numai la mine in suflet, cateodata devenind uragan si maturand totul in cale, ca sa se astearna apoi linistea. Totul e prafuit in jur, timpul ne-a facut pe toti pudra fina si ne-a imprastiat aiurea, farame din tine cu farame din mine, zacand fara sens pe trotuar, pe geam, pe frunze. Si fiecare pala de vant ne amesteca si ne desparte, si tanjesc dupa ploaie, sa ne spele, sa ne adune, sa ne ascunda, sa ne inece.

A trecut anul si nici nu mai stiu daca mai doare. Iti zambesc larg, fara subintelesuri, mai sincera decat am fost vreodata. Ma hranesc zilnic cu lumina din privirea ta, pasind cate o secunda in intunericul dulce-amarui al sufletului drag, fara sa incerc macar sa deslusesc povestile innodate acolo.

Timpul ma intareste, imi privesc carcasa calcifiata si simt constant cum se extinde, cuprinzand treptat fiecare coltisor de fiinta. Sunt clipe cand nu mai simt nimic, in afara de tine, stropul de viata din sufletul meu. Si as vrea sa stii cum imi salvezi viata zilnic, dar mi-as dori sa nu ti-o spun niciodata.

***

When I can't even cry anymore, the tears turn into verses, words and musical notes, they linger for a few seconds only in the outside world, they charge with meaning and then they return home spastic. Then I think of you, try again, in vain, to turn the page, with a slightly trembling hand, and instead of closing the book, I write another paragraph.

It's not raining on my street anymore. The clouds stand ready to break, every day, the storm rages only at my soul, sometimes becoming a hurricane and ripening everything in its path, to then stand still. Everything around is dusty, time has made us all fine dust and scattered us haphazardly, shards of you with shards of me, lying senseless on the sidewalk, on the window, on the leaves. And every wind blade mixes us and separates us, and yearns for rain, to wash us, to gather us, to hide us, to drown us.

It's been a year and I don't even know if it hurts anymore. I smile wide, without undertones, more sincere than I've ever been. I feed daily on the light in your gaze, stepping for a second into the bittersweet darkness of your dear soul, without even trying to unravel the stories knotted there.

Time hardens me, I look at my calcified carcass and constantly feel how it expands, gradually encompassing every corner of being. There are moments when I feel nothing but you, the splash of life in my soul. And I wish you knew how you save my life every day, but I wish I never told you.

Optimism

Am ajuns odata cu inserarea. Pe maini aveam sange rosu, cald, in suflet aveam un gol mare. Ma priveai crud si rece, dezamagit de tot, scarbit de mine. Murisem si inviasem acolo, sub privirea ta usor sfidatoare, ma tavalisem pe jos, in propria mea rutina, bolnava de tine, umilita de griji, indoita de ganduri negre.

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Mi-am sters fata de lacrimile care curgeau fierbinti pe obrazul meu crapat, si am lasat o dara de sange coborand incet de la ochi catre barba. Am simtit sagetile privirii tale si am stiut acolo, pe loc, ca era ultima secunda.

Incepuse sa ninga. Ascultam muzici ciudate si ma rugam sa-i fie bine. Si ninsoarea ma ascundea de privirea neiertatoare, de toate credintele nefondate, de juraminte, minciuni si ambiguitati. Simteam ca fiecare fulg care imi atingea fata e fierbinte si ma arde, lasand cratere adanci in piele. Mi-am ascuns ochii o secunda si ati disparut, cu totii.

Am ramas singura, pe strada pustie si rece, cu gandurile si grijile sfidandu-ma, cu rasetele care ma asurzeau, cu gandul la sfarsit, si cu rugaciunea in suflet: sa-i fie bine. Si mi-am dorit in secret sa ma salvez salvandu-l pe el.

Spre dimineata m-am ridicat din noroi ca sa fac loc celorlalti. Am clipit des si mi-am admirat mainile curate cu care am pipait apoi obrajii reci.

Soarele stralucea. O sa-i fie bine!

***

I arrived once the evening came. There was warm, red blood on my hands, a big hole in my soul. You were looking at me raw and cold, disappointed in everything, disgusted with me. I had died and gone back there, under your slightly defiant gaze, I was wallowing on the floor, in my own routine, sick of you, humiliated by worry, bent by dark thoughts.

I wiped my face of the tears that ran hot down my cracked cheek, and let a trickle of blood slowly run down from my eyes to my beard. I felt the arrows of your gaze and knew right there and then that it was the last second.

It had begun to snow. I listened to strange music and prayed for his well-being. And the snow hid me from the unforgiving gaze, from all the unfounded beliefs, from oaths, lies and ambiguities. I felt every flake that touched my face hot and burning, leaving deep cracks in my skin. I hid my eyes for a second and you disappeared, all of you.

I was left alone, on the cold deserted street, thoughts and worries defying me, laughter deafening me, the thought of the end, and the prayer in my heart: be well. And I secretly wished I could save myself by saving him.

Towards morning I got up from the mud to make room for the others. I blinked often and admired my clean hands with which I then pecked my cold cheeks.

The sun was shining. He'll be fine!

Despre rataciri / About wandering

Cu fiecare clipa care trece, cu fiecare gand care mi se perinda de dimineata pana in miez din noapte prin creierii obositi, cu fiecare zambet fortat sau hohot retinut, cu fiecare lacrima potolita, cu fiecare soapta secreta, simt cum te pierd.

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Aluneci treptat intr-o uitare grea, iar cand tacerea ta ma amuteste, uit sa mai respir. Iau apoi guri mari de aer, cu sperante impletite, colorate, ravasite, pentru a ma pregati pentru urmatoarea scufundare.

In apa deschid ochii mari si vad valurile navalind peste mine, de un albastru-verzui curat, crud si salbatic ca ochii tai, neintelesi. Si-mi amintesc de cate ori am incercat sa le sparg portile, sa le deslusesc misterul, sa le interpretez chemarea spre abis.

Si-n scufundare simt pulsul cum mi se linisteste, golul din piept mi se umple si in sfarsit nu ma mai gandesc la ce ma doare. Traiesc momentul, inconjurata de apele ce ma strang ironic in corsetul libertatii.

Raman ratacita, intre tarm si larg, plutind pe o pana roz, cu o mana intinsa, pe care nu o vezi, cu un strigat inabusit pe buze, pe care nu l-ai auzit, carand in spate cufarul cu amintiri care ma trage catre adancuri.

Cu fiecare zi in care mai mor cate un pic te caut si sper sa te regasesc, mai mult decat pentru o secunda, mai mult decat in vis, sa-ti fiu mai aproape ca umbra, mai calda ca rasuflarea, mai puternica ca vointa.

Respir sacadat si stau nemiscata, de teama sa nu sperii linistea. A mai trecut o zi.

***

With every passing moment, with every thought that wanders through my weary brain from morning till midnight, with every forced smile or held-back sob, with every quiet tear, with every secret whisper, I feel myself losing you.

You gradually slip into a heavy oblivion, and when your silence stuns me, I forget to breathe. I then take big gulps of air, with braided, coloured, ragged hopes, to prepare for the next dive.

In the water I open my eyes wide and see the waves lapping over me, pure blue-green, raw and wild like your eyes, unintelligible. And I remember how many times I tried to break through their gates, to unravel their mystery, to interpret their call to the abyss.

And as I dive I feel my pulse calming, the emptiness in my chest filling and finally I no longer think about what hurts. I live in the moment, surrounded by the waters that ironically squeeze me into the corset of freedom.

I remain lost, between the shore and the open sea, floating on a pink feather, with an outstretched hand that you can't see, with a muffled cry on my lips that you haven't heard, carrying the chest of memories that pulls me to the depths.

Each day I die a little more I seek you and hope to find you, more than for a second, more than in a dream, to be closer to you than shadow, warmer than breath, stronger than will.

I breathe shakily and sit still, not to frighten the silence away. Another day has passed.

Naiva / Naive

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Eram doar eu si cu tine

Doua aratari ciudate dintr-o carte de povesti.

Incercand sa-mi fie bine

Te-nvatam sa ma iubesti.

Sus era cerul albastru

Prea departe sa-l cuprind.

Legana pe el un astru

Care-apuse stralucing.

Mai tarziu, dupa furtuna

Incercam sa te gasesc

Alergand ca o nebuna

Dupa visul tineresc.

A ramas o amintire

Dulce-amara, undeva,

Un ciob trist de stralucire

Cu parfum de-al altcuiva.

***

It was just you and me

Two strange illustrations from a storybook.

Trying to make me well

I was teaching you to love me.

Up was the blue sky

Too far away for me to grasp

A star hung on it

That set away brightly.

Later, after the storm

I was trying to find you

Running like a madwoman

After the youthful dream.

Remained a memory

Bittersweet, somewhere,

A sad shard of glow

With someone else's perfume.

Cafea si tigara / Coffee and a cigarette

Pe plaja bolovanoasa erau aruncate corturi la intamplare, cearsafuri sifonate de vant si iubire, o palarie de soare cu esarfa colorata, umbrele roz, verzi si violete, sticle de vin golite si aruncate aiurea. Si tu... cu ochii limpezi, cu stralucirea din par, linistea din glas, puterea din brate.

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Pe buza de jos, rosie de soare, uscata de vant, ti se oprise un strop de apa sarata. M-am apropiat si l-am sarutat scurt, cu pofta, si gustul a ramas cu mine toata ziua.

Si pielea mea mirosea a cafea, iar mana ta mirosea a tigara. 

Si povesteai cu frenezie, te ascultam cu ochii mari, imi stapaneam o lacrima de fericire, de dorinta, de prostie. Iar tie un ochi iti plangea si celalalt iti radea.

In toate cestile mele e o farama din iluzia unei zile perfecte, pe o plaja populata, dar pustie, cu o mare linistita, nisip murdar, piele arsa de soare, ziua in care pielea mea miroasea a tigara iar mana ta mirosea a cafea!

***

On the boulder-strewn beach were haphazardly thrown tents, sheets soaked by wind and love, a sun hat with a colorful scarf, pink, green and purple umbrellas, empty wine bottles tossed haphazardly. And you... with clear eyes, the glow in your hair, the quiet in your voice, the strength in your arms.

On your bottom lip, red from the sun, dry from the wind, a drop of salt water had stopped. I moved closer and kissed it briefly, hungrily, and the taste stayed with me all day.

And my skin smelled of coffee, and your hand smelled of cigarettes. 

And you talked frantically, I listened wide-eyed, I held back a tear of happiness, of longing, of stupidity. And you had one eye crying and the other laughing.

In all my cups there's a trace of the illusion of a perfect day, on a populated but deserted beach, with a calm sea, dirty sand, sunburnt skin, a day when my skin smelled of cigarettes and your hand smelled of coffee!

Cer senin pana la destinatie / Clear sky till the end

Huruitul motoarelor ma tine jumatate treaza, jumatate aruncata intr-o mare de nelinisti si intrebari. Pe geam vad din cand in cand cate un norisor pe care incerc sa il ignor in impertinenta lui de a fi asa de usor si lipsit de griji.

Nu pot sa nu ma intreb daca vin sau daca plec, daca destinatia e mai departe sau mai aproape de... ce?

Sursa foto

Jocul de sah a inceput. Tineretea a avut un debut mai lent, adesea am crezut ca o sa piarda meciul,
miscarile ii erau haotice, lipsa ei de strategie ma facea sa imi pierd mintile. A inceput cu pionii, pe care i-a pierdut, pe rand, chiar daca, prizonieri asa cum erau, nu erau ridati si le-ai fi dat o alta varsta. Apoi, dupa primele acorduri, piesele de sah au capatat viata lor, tineretea statea deoparte si, ingamfata cum o stiam, privea spectacolul cu un ranjet pe figura. Sah!

Mi-am prins o agrafa in suflet, de culoare aprinsa, doar-doar va antrena in jocul ei si restul.  Neamaiavand oglinda, am sters masca si am defilat goala pe strazi, printre oameni. Am devenit parte din spectacol. Am uitat sa dorm si sa ma plang si mi-am reamintit sa traiesc, cu sufletul mare.

Si mi-a placut, mi-a placut la nebunie! Pentru ca unele lucruri trebuie facute la timpul lor, iar altele, trebuie facute pur si simplu!

***

The roar of the engines keeps me half awake, half immersed in a sea of anxieties and questions. Out of the window I occasionally see a little cloud that I try to ignore in its impertinence of being so easy and carefree.

I can't help wondering if I'm coming or going, if the destination is further or closer to... what?

The chess game has begun. Youth had a slower start, I often thought it was going to lose the game, its moves were chaotic, its lack of strategy made me lose my mind. It started with pawns, which it lost, one by one, even though, prisoners as they were, they weren't wrinkled and you would have given them a different age. Then, after the first chords, the chess pieces took on a life of their own, the youth stood aside and, naive as I knew it, watched the show with a frown on her face. Chess!

I caught a staple in my heart, brightly coloured, hoping maybe it will encourage the rest of us in the game.  Not having a mirror, I wiped off the mask and paraded naked through the streets, among the people. I became part of the show. I forgot to sleep and cry and reminded myself to live, with a big heart.

And I loved it, I loved it! Because some things have to be done in their own time, and some things just have to be done!

Prapastia / The abyss

Prapastia din vis se adancea nebuna in fata privirilor mele demente si ma atragea cu o forta pe care nu mi-o explicam, pentru ca stiam amandoi ca nu vreau sa o inteleg. Si ma apropiam de marginea ei, cu pasi marunti, dar siguri, manata de curiozitate si de dorinte autodestructive, priveam spre abis cu pupilele dilatate.

Sursa foto

In prapastie vedeam zambetul tau, unic, fermecat, si lacrimile mi se opreau in suflet si inghetau acolo, sangele clocotea si o lua la fuga spre inima, si o dorinta nebuna ma indema sa invat sa zbor. Imi spuneam ca nu trebuie sa ai aripi ca sa zbori, atata timp cat zborul e descendent. Numai sa ajung la tine, sa-si sterg lacrima pe care o simteam pe obrazul tau.

Simteam perechi de maini mute cum ma opresc, ma apuca cu disperare de brate, de par, de picioare, dar calcam inainte, cu pas rar si decis, cu privirea din ce in ce mai salbatice. Pamantul sub picioare devea din ce in ce mai aspru, il simteam cum aluneca sub talpa mea, si in loc sa ma tem, ma umpleam de o bucurie nebuna: mai era putin si ajungeam la tine. 

M-am oprit la marginea haului sa privesc inca odata lumea din jur: trecutul, viitorul, prezentul jalnic. Ce pierdeam, sau cine ma pierdea. Am zambit triumfator, am tras aer in piept si am infruntat realitatea: m-am aruncat in gol.

Plutesc, sau zbor, si asta de o vreme. Te vad din ce in ce mai aproape, ma imbat cu tine, si astept sa imi finalizez picajul, sperand ascuns ca undeva, pe parcurs, sa ma opresc brutal in bratele tale, inainte de a ma imprastia pe fundul prapastiei fara nume.

***

The abyss in the dream loomed crazily before my demented eyes and drew me with a force I couldn't explain, because we both knew I didn't want to understand it. And I approached its edge, with slow but sure steps, driven by curiosity and self-destructive desires, I stared into the abyss with dilated pupils.

In the abyss I saw your smile, unique, enchanted, and tears stopped in my soul and froze there, blood boiled and rushed to my heart, and a mad desire urged me to learn to fly. I told myself I don't have to have wings to fly, as long as the flight is downward. Just to reach you, to wipe away the tear I felt on your cheek.

I felt pairs of mute hands stopping me, desperately grabbing my arms, my hair, my legs, but I stepped forward, my step slow and determined, my gaze growing wild. The ground beneath my feet was getting rougher and rougher, I could feel it slipping beneath my soles, and instead of being afraid, I was filled with a mad joy: I was almost there. 

I stopped at the edge of the haystack to look once more at the world around me: the past, the future, the pitiful present. What I was missing, or who was missing me. I smiled triumphantly, took a deep breath and faced reality: I threw myself into the void.

I've been floating, or flying, for a while now. I see you getting closer and closer, I'm falling with you, and I wait to complete my plunge, secretly hoping that somewhere along the way I'll come to a brutal stop in your arms, before I splatter myself to the bottom of the nameless abyss. 

Dor / Missing

Mi-e dor de el, infiorator de dor, in fiecare clipa, ziua si noaptea, cand dorm, cand respir, cand plang, cand rad. Mi-e dor, cu toate ca nu l-am cunoscut niciodata, nu l-am strans in brate, nu l-am sarutat, nu i-am pregatit hainutele, nu i-am mirosit varful capului, sa ma imbat cu mirosul si sa imi dea energia vitala de zi cu zi. Mi-e dor de el si de sentimentul ala pe care mi-l dadea, ca nimic nu mai conteaza daca suntem amandoi, ca traiesc cu el si numai pentru el, ca m-am nascut sa-i fiu aproape, sa il protejez, sa il iubesc, sa il rasfat, sa il fac mare.

Sursa foto

Mi-e dor, si dorul doare si erodeaza si nu pleaca. El a plecat, nici n-am simtit, nici n-am stiut, de parca anestezia ar fi fost facuta dinaintea plecarii sale, si dureaza si acum.

Mi-e dor sa il ascund, in suflet si in trup, sa fie secretul meu cel dulce si frumos, speranta mea, viitorul meu. Mi-e dor sa il visez, sa imi fac planuri pentru el, sa ii fac promisiuni pe care stiu foarte bine ca nu le voi putea respecta. Mi-e dor sa cred ca nu voi mai fi singura niciodata, mi-e dor de singuranta si de lipsa de temeri pe care mi-o dadea. Mi-e dor sa fiu cea mai puternica femeie din lume, pentru el.

Mi-e dor sa nu-mi mai fie dor.

***

I miss him, terribly, every moment, day and night, when I sleep, when I breathe, when I cry, when I laugh. I miss him, even though I have never met him, never held him, never kissed him, never prepared his clothes, never smelled the top of his head, to be imbued with his scent and to give me vital daily energy. I miss him and that feeling he gave me, that nothing matters if we are together, that I live with him and only for him, that I was born to be close to him, to protect him, to love him, to spoil him, to make him great.

I miss, and the longing hurts and erodes and doesn't go away. He's gone, I didn't even feel it, I didn't even know it, as if the anesthesia was done before he left, and it lasts now.

I long to hide him, in my soul and in my body, to be my sweet and beautiful secret, my hope, my future. I miss dreaming of him, making plans for him, making promises to him that I know I can't keep. I miss believing that I will never be alone again, I miss the safety and lack of fear he gave me. I miss being the strongest woman in the world for him.

I miss not missing him anymore.

Un el si-o ea / A He and a She

Despre el si ea nu s-a scris niciodata nicio carte, niciun rand macar, nu s-a compus niciun cantec, nu s-a scrijelit niciun vers pe hartie, pentru ca el si ea nu au existat vreodata, iar povestea lor, nescrisa, necitita, nepovestita, nu a zguduit niciun suflet in pragul serii.

El si ea s-au cunoscut candva, dar nu s-au cunoscut niciodata, iar cand s-au intors cu spatele sa uite, refuzand sa scrie povestea, ecourile le-au rasunat un timp in suflet, le-au brazdat un rid pe frunte, apoi au trecut, pentru ca de fapt nu s-au auzit niciodata.

Sursa foto

El si ea s-au plimbat de mana pe malul marii in Vama, intr-o noapte cu o luna mai mare decat exista, dar nu au facut niciodata vreun pas impreuna, chiar daca din cand in cand isi mai simt picioarele pline de nisip si parul mirosind a mare. Pentru ca marea era prea tulbure si luna nu se oglindea perfect in ea.

Un el si-o ea, niste straini, atat de cunoscuti insa mie si tie, si-au spus totul fara sa rosteasca vreo vorba, s-au privit ore intregi, insa cu ochii inchisi. Si-au dat mana si au refuzat sa mearga mai departe si sa raspunda intrebarilor nerostite.

El si ea, ea si el, prea greu sa inteleaga ce nu era de inteles, prea bland sa nu raneasca, prea trecator sa nu dureze, prea inficosator sa nu fascineze, prea evident sa nu treaca neobservat.

***

No book was ever written about him and her, not a single line, no song was ever composed, no verse was ever written on paper, because he and she never existed, and their story, unwritten, unread, untold, never stirred a soul on the threshold of evening.

He and she once knew each other, but never met, and when they turned their backs to forget, refusing to write the story, the echoes sounded in their souls for a while, furrowed a wrinkle in their brow, then passed, because they never actually heard each other.

He and she strolled hand in hand along the seashore in Vama on a moonlit night, but they never took a step together, even though every now and then they could still feel their sandy feet and their hair smelling like the sea. Because the sea was too murky and the moon didn't reflect perfectly in it.

A he and a she, strangers, so familiar to me and to you, told each other everything without saying a word, looked at each other for hours, but with their eyes closed. They shook hands and refused to go on and answer unspoken questions.

He and she, she and he, too hard to understand what was not to be understood, too soft not to hurt, too fleeting not to last, too inficuous not to fascinate, too obvious not to go unnoticed

Loves me, loves me not

Sursa foto

Mi-am rupt petalele una cate una, incet, ritmic si am ramas acolo, in plansul gol, in fata multimii salbatice, cu genele in pumni si cu margaritare in par. Si pentru o secunda, doar pentru o frantura absurda de timp, rasul lor m-a asurzit, am simtit sangele inghetand undeva intre inima si creier, rozul a devenit negru, sec si crud, iar tu ai devenit strain.

M-am intrebat la rand, de zeci de ori, pana cand cuvintele, repetate la infinit, si-au pierdut sensul si au devenit absurde si fade: oare ce am invatat eu din asta? Si linistea de dupa m-a asurzit, mi-am piedut echilibrul si am inceput sa delirez impartind ganduri in stanga si-n dreapta, fara a cere permisiune sau a primi vreun raspuns de la vreunul dintre umerii pe care am plans.

Nu mai am incredere in oameni. Unii, mai desptepti, experimentati si mai optimisti, recunosc, decat mine, ii spun starii asteia "prudenta in business" si o catalogheaza ca pe un castig. E un fel de a colora golul ca in tablourile 3D, sa creeze iluzia inaltimii, sa ascunda uratul.

Ma rup de ce-a fost, chiar daca am transformat, cu buna stiinta, punctul in trei puncte, si atarn acum in suspensia lor.

Si daca te intrebi si tu ce-am invatat din asta, stai langa mine si asteapta sa imi creasca petalele la loc. Ceva imi spune ca vor fi si mai spectaculoase, colorate cu experiente, asteptari, regrete si bucurii. In linistea din miezul noptii sunt convinsa ca le-am auzit crescand din carne, sfasiind invelisul aspru.

Si daca vor fi  urate si batrane, coloreaza-le cu grija si drag, iubeste-ma si nu ma intreba niciodata ce am invatat din asta!

***

I tore my petals off one by one, slowly, rhythmically, and stood there, crying naked, in front of the wild crowd, eyelashes in my fists and daisies in my hair. And for a second, just for an absurd fraction of time, their laughter deafened me, I felt the blood freezing somewhere between heart and brain, the pink turned black, dry and raw, and you became a stranger.

I wondered in turn, dozens of times, until the words, repeated over and over, lost their meaning and became absurd and bland: what have I learned from this? And the silence afterwards deafened me, I lost my balance and began to deliriously share thoughts left and right, without asking permission or receiving any answer from any of the shoulders I had cried on.

I no longer trusted people. Some, more savvy, experienced and admittedly more optimistic than me, call this state "business caution" and label it a win. It's a way of colouring the void like in 3D paintings, to create the illusion of height, to hide the ugly.

I tear myself away from what was, even though I have knowingly turned the point into three points, and now hang in their suspense.

And if you're wondering what I've learned from this too, sit next to me and wait for my petals to grow back. Something tells me they will be even more spectacular, coloured with experiences, expectations, regrets and joys. In the midnight stillness I am sure I hear them growing from the flesh, tearing at the rough covering.

And if they will be ugly and old, color them with care and love, love me and never ask me what I have learned from this!

Usa / The door

In miezul noptii, bataile in usa se auzeau clar si nu puteau confundate cu nimic altceva decat cu un strigat dupa ajutor. Se uita speriata la ceas apoi, cu ochii inca pe jumatate inchisi, deranjati de lumina palida a veiozei, se indrepta spre usa. O intredeschise usor, cu teama, purtand in brate mormane de intrebari. Strainul din prag o privea gol, cu o jumatate de zambet si jumatate de suspin, in celasi timp, impletindu-i-se pe chip. Desi anonimi, ochii lui adusera povestea.

***

Sursa foto

Locuia atunci intr-un apartament modest, intr-un bloc cu multe etaje, cu paliere lungi, unde se invecinau multe usi. Usile erau diferite, unele atent ingrijite si vopsite, noi, lucioase, altele vechi, cu vopseaua scorojita, emanad miros de experienta acumulata involuntar, de timpi trecuti in graba. In fiecare seara si dimineata privea usile, incercand sa contureze un tablou complet: unele erau usor deschise, lasand sa patrunda inauntru o farama de privire, altele erau chiar semideschise, astfel incat iti puteai face o parere destul de clara despre locatar. Mai erau si usile care pareau a fi ferecate pe vecie, pe unde soarele parea ca nu a razbatut vreodata. Se intreba daca locuieste cineva acolo, si daca da, ce fel de specie ciudata de vecini or fi, atat de ingropati in secrete.

Un calcul simplu ii confirma in fiecare zi ca suma usilor neferecate era net superioara celor acoperite de mister, astfel incat se simtea cumva in siguranta stiind ca atunci, in noaptea cand va avea nevoie de o singura usa deschisa doar, o va gasi cu siguranta.

Nu isi mai amintea de ce sunase in seara aceea la usa inchisa. Era o usa noua, lacuita, inalta, ingrijita si curata. Cineva iesea mereu de-acolo, il vazuse de cateva ori in fuga, insa usa se inchidea de fiecare data la loc, fara zgomot, cu o discretie desavarsita. A batut timid si nici nu a asteptat macar un raspuns, indreptandu-se tacut spre casa. Insa raspunsul a venit, curand linistea culoarului lung a fost tulburata de zgomotul cheii invartindu-se in broasca noua, si usa s-a crapat discret.

Au urmat zile de discutii lungi, mereu in prag, usile lor, vecine, se deschideau in fiecare zi la acelasi apel scurt, si ramaneau asa ore intregi. Deja vecinii de pe palier se obisnuisera sa ii gaseasca acolo, impartind hohote si experiente, vise si nelamuriri. Si, fara sa isi dea seama, usa ei s-a izbit intr-o zi de perete, balamalele s-au fortat putin, si toate colturile cu secrete s-au lasat cuprinse de lumina: cana aburinda de cafea, paharul de vin rosu din seara precedenta, niste sticle de vodca goale, sparte, intr-un colt, cateva cioburi de vase vechi, un patut gol, o papusa ciufulita, aruncata pe o polita.

Nu isi mai amintea acum cati au trecut pe coridor atunci sa vada grozavia. Usa ei, desi mereu intredeschisa, nu lasase totusi atatea priviri inauntru.

Apoi intr-o noapte ea a crezut ca a avut un vis ciudat. Se facea ca un scelerat pasionat de semantica reusise cumva sa schimbe sensurile cunoscute ale cuvintelor, doar pentru ca nu ii placeau prefixele. Astfel, oamenii erau acum fortati ca accepte ca incorect era corect, indispensabil era dispensabil, incredibil era credibil, incompetent era competent si multe, multe alte exemple naucitoare. S-a trezit zguduita, si, inca inainte de a realiza daca a fost vis sau nu, a fugit pentru a-si povesti intr-un suflet istorioara fantastica. A ascultat-o cu ochi mari, cu o mana controland parca deschiderea usii.

Apoi ceva s-a rupt. Zilele urmatoare si-a dat treptat seama ca visul nu fusese vis. Apoi a auzit in spatele usii lui niste glasuri, franturi de conversatie, insa nimic care sa se lege. Au mai vorbit de cateva ori, mereu intrerupti de un telefon sunand. Intr-o seara a trecut grabita spre casa, i-a vazut usa intredeschisa, a aruncat o privire scurta si a  vazut o scrisoare rupta aruncata pe o masa, insa s-a retras rapid: usa nu era deschisa pentru ea.

In mod cert, usa lui nu s-a mai dat niciodata de perete, cu toate promisiunile si amanarile, cu toate asigurarile si rugamintile. In cateva nopti, ea a adormit pe pragul lui, ca nu cumva sa rateze vreun semn de viata. Insa in timpul somnului usa s-a deschis si inchis de cateva ori, intr-o liniste desavarsita.

In timp usile s-au inchis pe rand, apoi s-au auzit si lanturile asigurand discretia.

***
- Si, spui ca am fost prieteni? il intreba retoric, privindu-l prin zalele lantului care impiedica deschiderea usii.


_____________

In the middle of the night, the knocking on the door was clearly audible and could not be mistaken for anything other than a cry for help. She glanced fearfully at her watch then, eyes still half closed, disturbed by the pale light of the lamp, she walked to the door. She opened it slowly, fearfully, carrying piles of questions in her arms. The stranger in the doorway stared at her blankly, a half-smile and half-sigh at the same time, twisting across his face. Though anonymous, his eyes brought the story.

***

She lived then in a modest apartment, in a multi-storey block with long landings, where many doors were adjacent. The doors were different, some carefully cared for and painted, new, shiny, others old, with peeling paint, emanating the smell of involuntarily accumulated experience, of time spent in haste. Every evening and morning she looked at the doors, trying to get a complete picture: some were slightly open, letting in a glimpse, others were even half-open, so that you could get a pretty good idea of the occupant. There were also doors that seemed to be locked forever, where the sun seemed never to have shone. One wondered if anyone lived there, and if so, what strange sort of neighbours they were, so buried in secrecy.

A simple calculation confirmed to her every day that the amount of unlocked doors far outnumbered those covered in mystery, so she felt somehow safe in the knowledge that then, on the night when he needed only one door open, she would surely find it.

She couldn't remember why she had called that night to the closed door. It was a new door, lacquered, tall, neat and clean. Someone was always coming out of there, she had seen him running away a few times, but the door always closed again, noiselessly, with perfect discretion. She knocked timidly and didn't even wait for an answer, quietly making her way home. But the answer came, soon the silence of the long hallway was disturbed by the sound of the key turning in the new lock, and the door cracked quietly.

Days of long talks ensued, always on the doorstep, their neighboring doors opening every day at the same short knock, and staying that way for hours. Already the neighbours on the landing had got used to finding them there, sharing sobs and experiences, dreams and anxieties. And, without realizing it, her door slammed against the wall one day, the hinges forced a little, and all the secret corners were filled with light: the steaming cup of coffee, the glass of red wine from the night before, some empty, broken bottles of vodka in one corner, a few shards of old dishes, an empty crib, a tattered doll thrown on a pole.

She couldn't remember now how many people had passed through the corridor then to see the horror. Her door, though always ajar, still hadn't let so many eyes in.

Then one night she thought she had a strange dream. It turned out that some semantics-loving scoundrel had somehow managed to change the known meanings of words, just because he didn't like the prefixes. Thus, people were now forced to accept that incorrect was correct, indispensable was dispensable, unbelievable was credible, incompetent was competent and many, many other naughty examples. She woke up shaken, and, even before she realized whether it was a dream or not, she ran off to tell her fantastic story in a heartbeat. She listened with wide eyes, one hand seemingly controlling the door opening.

Then something snapped. The next few days she gradually realized that the dream had not been a dream. Then he heard voices behind his door, snatches of conversation, but nothing that connected. They talked a few more times, always interrupted by a ringing phone. One evening she hurried past the house, saw his door ajar, glanced briefly and saw a torn letter thrown on a table, but quickly retreated: the door was not open for her.

Certainly, his door had never been banged against the wall, with all the promises and postponements, all the assurances and entreaties. In a few nights, she fell asleep on his doorstep, lest she miss some sign of life. But in her sleep the door opened and closed several times, in perfect silence.

In time the doors closed one by one, then the chains were heard ensuring discretion.

***

- So, you say we were friends? she asked rhetorically, looking at him through the chain link that prevented the door from opening.

Candva, dar nu azi! / Someday, but not today!

O sa iau toate puntile ce ne leaga, o sa le faramitez marunt, o sa le spal cu cateva lacrimi stoarse intr-o seara inutila, si apoi o sa le arunc de pe un alt pod, mai inalt, in apa limpede.

O sa uit tot, o sa iau un burete mare, galben, care miroase puternic a creta uda, si o sa sterg cu el tabla pe care ai mazgalit niste cuvinte si niste priviri, si niste experiente, si niste vise. Si o sa o sterg totul, cu miscari neregulate. Tabla o sa ramana un timp uda si soioasa, apoi se va usca si vor iesi la iveala urmele pe unde a trecut buretele. Si tabla va mirosi mereu a creta uda.

O sa simt curand sangele curagandu-mi prin vene, rapid si  viu, energizandu-ma la fiecare pas. O sa imi simt fruntea senina si sprancelene relaxate, intr-o urma de zambet.

O sa imi schilodesc trecutul, ca sa fac loc viitorului, asa schiop, cum e si el. Si n-o sa intorc capul dupa ce a fost, sau n-a fost, sau este...

O sa imi creasca aripi si n-o sa-mi fie frica, o sa survolez mica mea lume si o sa pot admira din nou frumosul si sa compatimesc uratul. O sa invat sa simt, sa actionez si sa reactionez.

Candva, o sa reinvat sa traiesc, sa o iau de la un capat, pana la celalalt.

***

I'll take all the bridges that bind us together, I'll smash them up finely, I'll wash them with a few tears squeezed out of a useless evening, and then I'll throw them off another, higher bridge into the clear water.

I'll forget it all, I'll take a big yellow sponge that smells strongly of wet chalk, and wipe with it the board on which you've smeared some words and some looks, and some experiences, and some dreams. And I'm going to wipe it all away, with irregular movements. The board will stay wet and soapy for a while, then it will dry and the sponge marks will come out. And the board will always smell of wet chalk.

I will soon feel the blood coursing through my veins, fast and alive, energizing me with every step. I'll feel my forehead serene and my eyebrows relaxed, in a trace of a smile.

I'll cripple my past to make room for the future, as lame as it is. And I won't turn my head after what was, or wasn't, or is...

I'll grow wings and I won't be afraid, I'll fly over my little world and I'll be able to admire the beautiful again and pity the ugly. I'll learn to feel, to act and to react.

Someday, I'll learn to live again, to take it from one end to the other.

Fara rabdare / Patienceless

M-am rugat pentru multe prostii in viata asta, dar niciodata pentru rabdare. Si foarte rau am facut, pentru ca rabdarea este o virtute cu care sunt mult prea putin inzestrata, e o calitate a carei absenta nu o simt mereu, insa atunci cand apare nevoia de rabdare, simtirile sunt profunde, chinuitoare si de lunga durata.

Nu mi-a placut niciodata sa astept, nici autobuzul, nici soneria sa anunte finalul orei, nici telefonul sa sune, nici o declaratie de dragoste, nici pe el sa apara de oriunde ar fi plecat, nici inceputul, nici sfarsitul. De multe ori am stricat lucruri frumoase, din imposibilitatea de a astepta ca pur si simplu sa se intample.

Sursa foto

Cand astepti destinul sa se decida e insa si mai greu, sau asa mi se pare. Pentru ca acum, cu rabdare sau fara, sunt obligata sa astept. Imi simt mainile incatusate la spate, simt funia cum mi se strange in jurul picioarelor, nu pot sa fug, simt calusul din gura care sa impiedica sa urlu ca sa minimizez tensiunea. Si zilele trec, nici nu le pasa de toate framantarile mele, pentru ca timpul, asa cum am realizat de la Morometii incoace, nu prea mai are nici el rabdare...

A venit vara, fara sa intrebe pe nimeni, de la fular si umbrela intr-o zi, am trecut a doua zi la maneca scurta si 25 de grade. Simt ca am pierdut ceva intr-o noapte, un intreg anotimp, si ma gandesc fericita ca Cerul si-a facut mila de lipsa mea de rabdare si m-a purtat cateva luni mai tarziu. Insa lucrurile sunt tot neterminate, tot incepute si lasate asa, in paragina, in jurul meu numai bucati de vise, cioburi de sperante, farame de amintiri, regrete si bucurii. Planuri nu mai fac, cum as putea oare? Ma ghidez dupa amanari, incurajari, din ce in ce mai putine, incertitudini si amagiri.

Si tropai nervos cu picioarele sub birou, ca si cum as fi baut in graba trei cafele una dupa alta. Si nu mai am rabdare...

***

I've prayed for a lot of crap in my life, but never for patience. And very badly I did, because patience is a virtue with which I am far too little endowed, it is a quality whose absence I do not always feel, but when the need for patience arises, the feelings are deep, tormenting and long-lasting.

I have never liked waiting, not for the bus, not for the bell to announce the end of the hour, not for the phone to ring, not for a declaration of love, not for him to appear from wherever he has gone, not for the beginning or the end. Many times I have ruined beautiful things out of the impossibility of waiting for them to simply happen.

When you wait for destiny to decide, however, it's even harder, or so it seems to me. Because now, patiently or not, I am forced to wait. I feel my hands cuffed behind my back, I feel the rope tighten around my legs, I can't run, I feel the callus in my mouth preventing me from screaming to minimize the tension. And the days go by, they don't even care about all my frailties, because time, as I've realised since Morometii, doesn't have much patience either...

Summer came, without asking anyone, from scarf and umbrella one day, I switched the next day to short sleeves and 25 degrees. I feel like I lost something in one night, an entire season, and I think happily that Heaven took pity on my lack of patience and carried me a few months later. But things are still unfinished, still started and left like that, in ruins, around me only pieces of dreams, shards of hopes, shards of memories, regrets and joys. I don't make plans anymore, how could I? I am guided by postponements, encouragements, less and less, uncertainties and amazements.

And I trot nervously with my feet under my desk, as if I were hastily drinking three coffees one after the other. And I couldn't wait...

Definitie / Definition

Sunt urma de ruj lasata pe tigara mocninda. Sunt tot ce ar fi putut sa fie si n-a mai fost deloc. Sunt o parere, un regret, o gheara infipta in sufletul zdrentuit. Sunt lacrima amara picurata in paharul pe jumatate gol.

Sunt silueta palida ce a disparut odata cu zorii zilei. Sunt statuia gri ramasa fara cuvinte, asortata cu cerul plumburiu pe care l-am adus. Sunt un vis despre care nu te-ai decis inca daca a fost frumos sau un cosmar.

Sunt o urma de toc pe asfaltul incins, oamenii vor pasi pe langa mine si vor simti ca cineva a trecut pe acolo in momentul nepotrivit. Sunt privirea ascunsa de ochi straini, sunt secretul sinistru ce te infasoara.

Sunt o petala cazuta in tarana, pe un mormant proaspat pe care nimeni nu il mai viziteaza. Sunt un fluture care a poposit pentru o secunda in viata ta, si a disparut lasand in urma o atingere discreta si o bataie colorata din aripi.

Sunt simbolul a nimic.

***

I'm the lipstick smudge left on the smoldering cigarette. I'm everything that could have been and wasn't. I'm an opinion, a regret, a claw dug into a shattered soul. I am the bitter tear dripped into the half-empty glass.

I am the pale silhouette that disappeared with the dawn. I am the grey statue left speechless, matched with the leaden sky I brought. I'm a dream you haven't decided yet if it was beautiful or a nightmare.

I'm a heel print on the hot asphalt, people will walk past me and feel like someone walked by at the wrong time. I'm the hidden gaze from foreign eyes, I'm the sinister secret that shrouds you.

I'm a petal fallen in the dust, on a fresh grave that no one visits anymore. I am a butterfly that has landed for a second in your life, and disappeared leaving behind a discreet touch and a colourful flutter of wings.

I am the symbol of nothing.

Cu nasul in batista / Running nose

Sunt bolnava... Ei, nu rau, cu siguranta nu o sa mor din asta, m-a tras pe sfoara un soare zglobiu in weekend, si iata-ma dependenta de ceai si nurofen... Si stand eu si zacand asa, mi-am dat seama brusc de cat de putine ori in viata asta mi-am permis luxul de a zace, pentru a-mi recapata energia, pentru a fi in convalescenta, pentru a ma face bine... Si, a nu se interpreta gresit: "mi-am permis" nu e deloc impersonal, e o expresie care implica un agresor - EU si o victima - tot EU. Adica, pe scurt, eu nu mi-am dat voie mie sa pierd timpul refacandu-ma, dupa orice. Si ma mai miram ca la 20 si ceva de ani ma simteam obosita?

Sursa foto

In 8 ani de munca am avut concediu medical o singura data, si era dupa o operatie, trebuia sa stau acasa 2 saptamani, insa dupa 5 zile, in care am stat calare pe telefon si laptop (mi-aminteesc ca, ironic, s-a defectat routerul wireless, drept pentru care m-am mutat cu arme si bagaje pe hol, langa priza de internet, stand pe jos, ca sa verific mailul...), incotosmanata in halat de baie si papuci de casa, m-am intors la munca "refacuta" complet.

Anul trecut, cam pe vremea asta (sau mai devreme putin, prin februarie), m-am luptat cu o gripa teribila, cu frisoane noaptea, cu febra, cu mare, mare nevoie de stat in pat si tratat babeste. Dar credeti ca am stat acasa? O, nu... Aveam treburi mai importante de rezolvat, la munca... Si uite ce bine mi-a prins, eforturile mele au fost indeaproape observate si luate in seama! Cum confundam responsabilitatea cu prostia!

Cum de am ajuns sa ma iubesc atat de putin? De unde tendinta asta de a ma plasa pe mine pe ultimele locuri in lista de prioritati, si, daca eu gandesc asa, de unde pretentia ca ceilalti sa ma plaseze in topul listelor lor de prioritati?

Mi-am acordat prea putin timp sa ma refac, sa jelesc, sa port doliu. Lasati statuile sa fie construite pentru altii, oricum mare utilitate nu au pe lume, decat sa foloseasca ca vesnic suport pentru gainatul porumbeilor...

Asadar, chiar daca m-ati cauta azi, e posibil sa fiu ocupata - bolesc!

***

I'm sick... Well, not bad, I'm definitely not going to die from this, I got dragged down by a miserly sun over the weekend, and here I am addicted to tea and nurofen.... And sitting and lying there like that, I suddenly realized how few times in this life I've allowed myself the luxury of lying down, to regain my energy, to convalesce, to get better... And, not to be misunderstood: "I allowed myself" is not impersonal at all, it's an expression that implies an aggressor - ME and a victim - also ME. I mean, in short, I didn't allow myself to waste time recovering, after all. And was I surprised that at 20-something I felt tired?

In 8 years of work I had only one sick leave, and it was after an operation, I had to stay at home for 2 weeks, but after 5 days, when I sat on my phone and laptop (I remember that, ironically, the wireless router broke down, so I moved with arms and luggage in the hallway, next to the internet socket, sitting on the floor, to check my mail...), in my bathrobe and slippers, I went back to work completely "recovered".

Last year, about this time (or earlier, around February), I was battling a terrible flu, with nighttime chills, fever, a great, great need to stay in bed and treated sick. But do you think I stayed home? Oh, no... I had more important things to do at work... And look how well I did, my efforts were closely observed and taken care of! How we confuse responsibility with stupidity!

How did I come to love myself so little? Why this tendency to place myself at the bottom of the priority list, and, if I think that way, why the demand that others place me at the top of their priority lists?

I have given myself too little time to recover, to mourn, to grieve. Let the statues be built for others, anyway they have little use in the world, except to serve as an eternal support for the pigeons' sheath...

So, even if you were looking for me today, I may be busy - I'm sick!

Viata nu e ca in filme... / Life is not like movies...

Filmele tampesc. Sau, ma rog, incearca sa tampeasca, sau sa isi bata joc de inteligenta noastra, aia, cata mai e ea acolo...

Tocmai ce am vizionat doua filme care jongleaza aceeasi idee cretinuta: sotii inselati iarta si uita repede.

Primul: The End of the Affair. Ea il inseala de-l rupe pe amarat, pana la urma isi lasa si amantul, din motive mai mult sau mai putin obiective, apoi, spre finalul vietii (ca vorbim de o drama, nu asa, oricum), se reintoarce la amant, iar sotul ei cel mult iubitor accepta sa stea la capataiul ei de muribunda impreuna cu amantul. Pentru c-o iubeste asa de mult...What????

Photo source

Al doilea, The Painted Veil: la fel, ea inseala un prostisor mult prea moale si prea prins de menirea lui de om destept, el afla, se supara, dar supararea dureaza mai putin de 2 luni, si cand ii trece, ii trece asa de tare incat accepta si ideea ca nevasta-sa e insarcinata cu un copil despre al carui tata nu este sigura nici ea cine este... Si, la finalul grandios, care se lasa, desigur, tot cu o moarte, a lui, ea e rupta in doua, sufera cumplit, dar mi-e neclar daca din cauza mortului sau din cauza ca se simte vinovata.

Nu stiu cum se intampla lucrurile in filme, eu cunosc sentimentele alea care se cimenteaza mai greu si dureaza cu anii, cunosc gelozia aia nebuna, pe care o asociez cu o iubire la fel de nebuna.

Si imi tot spun: mai putine filme, mai multa lectura...

***

Movies make us stupid . Or, well, they try to make us stupid, or to make fun of our intelligence, that is, how much of it is there...

I've just watched two movies that juggle the same moronic idea: cheating spouses forgive and forget quickly.

The first: The End of the Affair. She cheats on the poor stupid, eventually leaves her lover too, for more or less objective reasons, then towards the end of her life (like we're talking drama, not like this, anyway), she returns to her lover, and her much-loved husband agrees to stay at her dying bedside with her lover. Because he loves her so much...What????

Second, The Painted Veil: similarly, she cheats on a fool who's far too soft and too caught up in his clever man's mission, he finds out, gets upset, but the upset lasts less than 2 months, and when it passes, it passes so badly that he also accepts the idea that his wife is pregnant with a child whose father she's not sure who the father is either... And, at the grand finale, which of course also ends with his death, she is torn in two, suffering terribly, but it's unclear to me whether it's because of the dead man or because she feels guilty.

I don't know how things happen in the movies, I know those feelings that take years to cement, I know that crazy jealousy that I associate with an equally crazy love.

And I keep telling myself: less movies, more reading...

Cand ai plecat / When you left

Iti amintesti privirea ei cand ai plecat? Se pierduse cumva in adancul sufletului tau, cautand cu disperare raspunsuri si solutii. Si nu te-a rugat sa stai, cu toate ca i se innodau silabele in gat iar sufletul gemea sub greutatea cuvintelor pe care nu putea sa le rosteasca. Ar fi vrut sa te cuprinda pe tot intr-o privire, sa te inchida intr-o casetuta ascunsa adanc in sine, sa iti deschida portile catre sufletul ei, in speranta ca vei intra si nu vei mai pleca. Dar n-a facut-o.

Sursa foto

Iti amintesti discursul ei cand ai plecat? A intrugat in pripa doua fraze, jumatate confesiune, jumatate lamentatie, a suspinat adanc intre ele. Ar fi vrut sa se arunce in genunchi, sa se agate disperata de glezna ta, sa uite de toata lumea din jur, sa urle, sa isi smulga straturile ce ii acopera sufletul, doar sa stai. Dar n-a facut-o.

Iti amintesti lacrimile ei cand ai plecat? Au tasnit din ochii mari, doua fire salbatice de cristal transparent si fierbinte, s-au rostocolit pe obraz, s-au desprins si s-au lovit violent de asfaltul rece. Ar fi vrut sa pice si ea acolo, in mijlocul multimii, sa hohoteasca ore intregi, sa isi urle durerile pe rand, doar sa mai stai. Dar n-a facut-o.

Ochii ei te-au urmat pana ce silueta ti-a devenit transparenta si difuza in noapte, apoi, dupa ce ai disparut privirilor ei, a continuat sa stea in mijlocul strazii ca o stana de piatra, sperand sa te intorci. Dar n-ai facut-o.

***

Remember the look on her face when you left? She was somehow lost in the depths of your soul, desperately searching for answers and solutions. And she didn't ask you to stay, though her syllables were coiling in her throat and her soul groaned under the weight of words she couldn't speak. She would have wanted to take you all in with a glance, to lock you in a little box hidden deep within herself, to open the doors to her soul, hoping you would enter and never leave. But she didn't.

Remember her speech when you left? She hastily strung together two sentences, half confession, half lament, sighed deeply between them. She wanted to drop to her knees, cling desperately to your ankle, forget everyone around her, scream, tear away the layers covering her soul, just sit. But she didn't.

Remember her tears when you left? They spilled from her big eyes, two wild strands of clear, hot crystal, rolled down her cheek, broke loose and smacked violently against the cold asphalt. She would have liked to fall there, too, in the crowd, sobbing for hours, howling out her pains in turn, just so you stay. But she didn't.

Her eyes followed you until your silhouette became transparent and diffuse in the night, then, after you disappeared from her gaze, she continued to stand in the middle of the street like a stone pillar, hoping you'd come back. But you didn't.

Masca / The mask

Da-ti masca jos, carnavalul a luat sfarsit, artificiile au ars pana la ultima, au luminat cerul si au speriat porumbeii de pe stalpi. Jocurile au fost facute, rolurile au fost jucate, aplauzele au palit, cei care au huiduit urmeaza a fi omorati cu pietre, in alta piesa, mai sangeroasa.

Sursa foto

Asteptam cu inima la gura sa inceapa viata. Cum, nu esti pregatit? Eu m-am nascut pregatita, numai ca de atunci au trecut niste ani.

Mi-am agatat masca intr-un colt de suflet si ma lupt cu mine in fiecare zi sa imi arat fata in public. E bine ca publicul e diferit, cel putin cateodata, e bine. Nu-mi trebuie spectatori, si nici spectacol, de altfel. Vreau liniste, sa refac machiajul in spatele cortinei grele, sa-mi aleg costumul si rolul, sau sa renunt la toate si ies goala in fata tuturor, tinandu-mi strans intre dinti inima.

Renunta la masca, paseste gol prin multime. Si ei sunt goi, cu totii, insa se tem de priviri, de reprosuri, de sentimente. Alearga cu mine de mana, cu ochii inchisi si mintea deschisa, vom ocoli prapastia impreuna, sau ne vom imbata cu ecoul caderii in abis.

***

Take off your mask, the carnival is over, the fireworks have burned down to the last, lit up the sky and scared the pigeons off the poles. The games have been played, the roles have been played, the applause has paled, the booers are to be stoned to death in another, bloodier play.

We wait with bated breath for life to begin. What, not ready? I was born ready, only it's been a few years since then.

I've hung my mask in a corner of my soul and fight with myself every day to show my face in public. It's good that the public is different, at least sometimes, it's good. I don't need an audience, and I don't need a show, for that matter. I want quiet, to redo my make-up behind the heavy curtain, to choose my costume and role, or to give it all up and go out naked in front of everyone, holding my heart tightly between my teeth.

Drop the mask, walk naked through the crowd. They're naked too, all of them, but they're afraid of stares, of reproaches, of feelings. Run with me by the hand, eyes closed and mind open, we'll skirt the chasm together, or we'll get drunk on the echo of falling into the abyss.

Femeia care umbla cu un cutit infipt in spate / The woman who walked with a knife in her back

O vedeau trecand pe strada, mai mult o umbra, cu parul acoperindu-i fata plina de secrete, cu mainile infundate adanc in buzunare, cu capul plecat in pamant. Nu purta accesorii, se imbraca mereu intr-o haina lunga, neagra, asortata cu vremea de afara, sfasiata in spate de un cutit mare, cu manerul de os. Umbla cu el in spate pe strazile pietruite, refuzand sa dea detalii despre cum a ajuns cutitul acolo, cine e mana criminala, daca are dureri, de ce nu sangereaza si, cel mai important, de ce nu scoate cutitul din rana, sa mearga mai departe.

Pe la colturi se vorbea ca ar fi fost indragostita candva de un frumos cu ochi patrunzatori si sub povara vinei isi infipsese singura pumnalul in spate, pentru a impiedica aripile sa creasca. Dar mai mult nu se stia: fusesera vreodata impreuna? Iubirea fusese impartasita? El cine era si unde disparuse?

Se tara in fiecare zi cate un pic, in privirile intrebatoare ale celorlalti. Dupa o vreme, munciti totusi de nelinisti, oamenii s-au potolit, au incetat sa se mai minuneze de ciudata aparitie. Era un loc comun in peisaj, nu mai cerea nimic, nici macar eticheta, tot timpul ala pierdut inutil, in care se lovisera de lipsa ei de reactie, ii convinsese ca nu are niciun sens sa se mai strofoace pentru ea.

Au gasit-o intr-o dimineata ploioasa, zacand sub un pod, invelita in haina ei neagra si lunga, cu parul depletit, intins dezordonat pe pietre, cu un zambet trist inghetat pe figura impietrita. La cativa metri de trupul parasit de suflare lucea trufas cutitul cu manerul de os, usor patat de sange.

Investigatiile efectuate de politie au descoperit imediat cauza mortii: femeia misterioasa fusese ucisa, cineva ii scosese cutitul din spate.

***

They saw her walking down the street, more of a shadow, her hair covering her secret face, her hands deep in her pockets, her head bowed to the ground. She wore no accessories, always dressed in a long, black coat, matching the weather outside, torn at the back by a large, bone-handled knife. She walked the cobblestone streets with it on her back, refusing to give details about how the knife got there, who the killer hand is, if she's in pain, why she's not bleeding and, most importantly, why she won't take the knife out of the wound to move on.

There was talk in the corners that she had once been in love with a beautiful man with piercing eyes, and under the burden of guilt she had stuck her dagger into her own back, to prevent the wings from growing. But more was not known: had they ever been together? Had the love been shared? Who was he and where had he disappeared to?

She dragged herself a little every day, in the questioning eyes of the others. After a while, still troubled by anxiety, people calmed down, stopped marvelling at the strange apparition. She was a commonplace in the landscape, she no longer asked for anything, not even etiquette, all that time wasted uselessly, in which they were struck by her lack of reaction, had convinced them that there was no point in struggling for her.

They found her one rainy morning, lying under a bridge, wrapped in her long black coat, her hair disheveled, lying messily on the stones, a sad smile frozen on her frozen face. A few feet from the breathless body gleamed the bone-handled knife, slightly stained with blood.

Police investigations immediately discovered the cause of death: the mysterious woman had been murdered, someone had pulled the knife out of her back.

Flori de cires / Cherry blossom

Astept sa infloreasca ciresii. Merg des in livada improvizata de la marginea parcului, de vreo luna, urmarind in fiecare zi mugurii timizi care abia daca isi fac simtita prezenta. In fiecare zi sunt mai mari, mai plini, mai indrazneti. Unii au pocnit deja si au explodat intr-o mare de culoare gingasa, un roz pal, sensibil, ingeresc. Restul asteapta sa iasa mai mult soare pentru a se imbraca pentru bal.

Sursa foto

In mai putin de o saptamana rozul va invada livada, iar galbenul din straturile de narcise ii va tine companie. Va fi o simfonie de culori si miresme. As vrea sa fiu aici s-o pot simti, dar sunt departe, din ce in ce mai departe. Ma simt pierzandu-ma printre propriile degete, ca nisipul din Vama  in ziua aia pe plaja, cand am vazut sarpele in apa. Mai stii?

Ma regasesc scriind prostii in vid, sau ma pierd si mai tare, ce mai conteaza? Sunt aici o clipa, apoi ma dezintegrez, revin, dispar...

Sunt si flori mai putin fericite, pe care le-am gasit deja calcate in picioare, cazute prea devreme, inainte de a fi admirate, adulmecare, invidiate. Au trecut prea brusc de la stadiul de boboc in postura de cadavru tanar, intins in iarba. Nu am vazut pe nimeni sa le planga soarta cruda, e ca si cum nici n-ar fi existat pe lume, n-au lasat in urma decat o pata roz-albicioasa in iarba curata, uda de roua si inca arsa de vantul rece de primavara tarzie.

***

I'm waiting for the cherry trees to bloom. I've been going to the makeshift orchard at the edge of the park for a month or so, watching every day for the shy buds that barely make their presence felt. Every day they are bigger, fuller, bolder. Some have already popped and exploded into a sea of tender colour, a pale, sensitive, inborn pink. The rest are waiting for more sun to come out before dressing for the ball.

In less than a week the pink will invade the orchard, and the yellow in the daffodil beds will keep it company. It will be a symphony of colours and scents. I wish I could be here to feel it, but I am far, far away. I feel myself getting lost in my own fingers, like the sand in Vama that day on the beach when I saw the snake in the water. Do you remember?

Do I find myself writing nonsense in a vacuum, or do I get even more lost, who cares? I'm here for a moment, then I disintegrate, come back, disappear...

There are less happy flowers, too, that I've already found trampled, fallen too soon, before being admired, sniffed, envied. They've gone too suddenly from bud to young corpse, lying in the grass. I saw no one mourn their cruel fate, it's as if they never even existed in the world, they left behind nothing but a whitish-pink stain in the clean grass, wet with dew and still scorched by the cool late spring wind.