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.

Free hugs!!!

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Imbratisarea este un schimb intens de energii, de preferat pozitive, intre doua sau mai multe persoane, un fel de act sexual la care satisfactia deplina nu se exprima prin stare de somnolenta ulterioara, asta mai ales daca a fost facut cum trebuie.

Imbratisarile de grup vin de obicei la pachet cu sticle de licori magice, si de cele mai multe ori nu ajung la rezultatul scontat, drept pentru care se tot repeta, pana la finalizarea cu succes a sticlelor in cauza.

Ne amintim cele mai bizare imbratisari, nu neaparat cele mai importante, cum ar fi cele date de parinti, frati, iubiti, prieteni dragi. De exemplu, mie mi-a ramas in minte imbratisarea primita de la o colega de munca, imediat dupa moartea catelului meu. Plangeam ca un copil pe holul "intreprinderii" si ea a venit si mi-a transferat energia necesara pentru a merge mai departe, printr-o imbratisare. Nu am apucat sa ii multumesc niciodata.

Cred ca ne impartim in doua categorii: oameni care stiu si pot sa ofere imbratisari adevarate, la care totul vine natural, ca si cum ar fi nascuti pentru asta, si ceilalti, pentru care spatiul intim e mult prea important, dar care profita, cand pot, de o imbratisare adevarata. Mereu am facut parte din a doua categorie...

Ieri un grup colorat de activisti, cine stie in ce domeniu, imparteau cu generozitate imbratisari gratis, undeva pe Haupstrasse. Aveau o pancarta mare pe care scria cu litere mari, rosii "Free Hugs". Trecatorii se fereau mai mult sau mai putin politicos. In fata mea, o turista entuziasmata a muscat momeala si s-a aruncat intr-o imbratisare cu straina "activista", care a ramas de piatra, facandu-ma martora la o imbratisare ratata din toate punctele de vedere.

M-a cuprins o tristete bizara si m-am ferit si eu din calea spectacolului, am imbratisari platite in avans, OP-ul il pastrez in suflet si pe chip, insa nu contenesc sa investesc mereu si mereu.

***

A hug is an intense exchange of energies, preferably positive, between two or more people, a kind of sexual act in which full satisfaction is not expressed by subsequent sleepiness, especially if it has been done properly.

Group hugs usually come with bottles of magic liquor, and most of the time they do not achieve the desired result, which is why they are repeated until the bottles are successfully completed.

We remember the most bizarre hugs, not necessarily the most important ones, such as those given by parents, siblings, lovers, dear friends. For example, I remember of the hug I received from a co-worker right after the death of my puppy. I was crying like a baby in the hallway of the "enterprise" and she came and transferred to me the necessary energy to go on, with a hug. I never got to thank her.

I think we fall into two categories: people who know and can give real hugs, to whom everything comes naturally, as if they were born for it, and others, for whom the intimate space is far too important, but who take advantage, when they can, of a real hug. I've always belonged to the second category...

Yesterday a colourful group of activists, who knows in what field, were generously sharing free hugs somewhere on Haupstrasse. They had a big sign on which was written in big red letters "Free Hugs". Passers-by more or less politely shied away. In front of me, an excited tourist took the bait and jumped into a hug with the "activist" stranger, who remained stoned, making me witness a hug that was a failure in every detail.

A bizarre sadness came over me and I dodged out of the way of the show, I have prepaid hugs, the proof of payment I keep in my heart and on my face, but I keep investing over and over again.

Inimi frante/ Broken hearts

Problema cea mai mare cand vorbim de inimi frante nu e durerea nimicitoare, care te face sa iti doresti sa iti scoti inlauntrul la lumina, sa il speli, peticesti, usuci si sa-l indesi sifonat inapoi. Durerea trece, e parte din viata si cumva stim cu totii ca e normal sa apara din cand in cand. Problema cea mai mare este ca o inima franta devine parte din tine, te urmareste peste tot, iar senzatia aia, de franjuri de carne sfasiata, sangeranda, care se zbat in vant, creeaza dependenta, o placere bolnava, amara, astfel incat cei care au ajuns, la un moment dat al vietii, sa fie posesorii unei astfel de inimi, nu vor mai fi aceiasi niciodata.

E culmea cum o maladie asa de veche si de hidoasa e la fel de actuala si ataca la fel de violent, in timp ce ne concentram mai mult pe gasirea de leacuri eficiente contra intepaturilor de tantari.

O inima franta te face brusc matur, te trezeste din visare, te palmuieste ca ai fost naiv, te obliga sa vezi uratul din lume si sa accepti uratul din sufletul propriu. Si cand, intr-un final, sangerarea s-a oprit, cicatricea e atat de hidoasa incat te intrebi daca vreodata cineva isi va mai putea dori sa iubeasca aceeasi inima, pentru ca apoi sa o calce in picioare.

***

The biggest problem when we talk about broken hearts is not the wrenching pain that makes you want to pull your insides out into the light, wash, patch, dry and wring them out. Pain passes, it's part of life and somehow we all know that it's normal to occur from time to time. The bigger problem is that a broken heart becomes part of you, it follows you everywhere, and that feeling, of torn, bleeding, flesh flailing in the wind, is addictive, a sick, bitter pleasure, so that those who have come, at some point in life, to be the possessor of such a heart, will never be the same again.

It's funny how such an old and hideous disease is just as current and attacks just as violently, while we concentrate more on finding effective cures for mosquito bites.

A broken heart makes you suddenly mature, wakes you from your reverie, slaps you for being naive, forces you to see the ugliness in the world and accept the ugliness in your own soul. And when, finally, the bleeding has stopped, the scar is so hideous that you wonder if anyone will ever want to love the same heart again, only to trample it underfoot.