Aniversare neagra / Black Anniversary

In casa e cald si pace, miroase  a placinta cu mere si scortisoara. Stam langa bradul impodobit si luminitele ni se joaca pe chipuri. Suntem pregatiti de sarbatoare.

Sunt ani de cand imi canalizez energiile in ajun de Sarbatori pentru a crea noi amintiri. Imi imaginez ca asa voi reusi la un moment dat sa acopar cu ras de copil si clinchet de clopotei zgomotul infernal al taranii aruncate pe sicriul tau.

Sunt 22 de ani in seara asta de cand te-am vazut ultima data. De la usa te-ai intors pentru o secunda parca si te-ai uitat in urma cautandu-mi privirea. Si am cam stiut ca era ultima data... Am ramas acasa cu toate cumparaturile facute pentru Craciun, cu bradul impodobit si cu un imens gol in piept.

Am sters dara de sange lasata in urma ta pe chiuveta.

In urmatoarele 24 de ore copilul din mine a murit. L-am ingropat in bratele tale in cimitirul ala rece si trist. L-am mai simtit odata cand franghia ai nemernica te cobora in fundurile pamantului. Si am urlat ca un animal ranit.

Si asteptand vestea cruda am facut sarmale. Primele mele sarmale. Si friptura. Opera mea gastronomica a fost foarte apreciata la priveghi. Eu nu situ daca am gustat din ele.

Ce mult ti-ar placea azi, tata! Cat de mult ai butona la laptop si ce expert in smarphonuri ai fi! Si cum ai vizita toata lumea si savura betia de informatie!

Dar nu mai esti... A ramas doar senzatia asta de durere surda care ma intuneca in preajma Craciunului, vina ca nu apuc sa-ti vad mormantul decat rareori si privirea aia pe care o am inca vie memorie.

22 de ani.

***

It's warm and peaceful in the house, smells like apple pie and cinnamon. We sit by the decorated tree and the lights play on our faces. We're ready for the holiday.

I've been channelling my energies on the eve of the holidays for years to create new memories. I imagine that this is how I'll manage at some point to drown out the infernal noise of the dust being thrown on your coffin with a child's laughter and clanging bells.

It's 22 years tonight since I last saw you. From the doorway you turned for a second as if and looked back searching my gaze. And I kind of knew it was the last time... I stayed home with all the Christmas shopping, the decorated tree and a huge hole in my chest.

I wiped the blood stain off from the sink.

In the next 24 hours, my inner child died. I buried him in your arms in that cold, sad cemetery. I felt it once before when your bitch rope was lowering you to the ground. And I howled like a wounded animal.

And waiting for the cruel news I made sarnale. My first sarmale. And roast beef. My gastronomic work was much appreciated at the wake. I don't know if I've tasted it.

How you'd love it today, Dad! How much you'd be typing on your laptop and what an expert on smartphones you'd be! And how you'd visit every place and enjoy the information binge!

But you're no longer here... All that's left is this dull ache that darkens me around Christmas, the guilt that I rarely get to see your grave and that look I still have in my memory.

Twenty-two years.

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

Sursa foto

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.

De la "Celei care pleaca" la "Celui ce-a plecat" / From "The one who's leaving" to "The one who has left"

Am o noua preocupare: imi forez in continuu in creierasi ca sa gasesc ce sa mai scriu pe blog. Si cum multe s-au spus deja, chiar si de catre mine, in cele 5 posturi (sau cate sunt ele), sarcina e destul de grea. Si e bine ca e grea, pentru ca niciodata nu am alergat dupa lucurile usoare.

Ziceam mai ieri de versuri transparente, mult prea transparente ca sa le iau ca sursa de inspiratie, si asta m-a purtat cu gandul usor la Minulescu, si la serile alea magice, de acum vreo... 20 de ani (uf, cum suna asta...), cand tu completai integrame, fumai tigara dupa tigara, si imi recitai din Minulescu. Iar eu stateam cu o ureche in radio, cu genunchii la gura, cu ochii mari si cu inima alergand aiurea prin bancile scolii, pentru ca usor, usor, incepusem sa iubesc. Cand ramaneam singura imi rupeam din suflet si insiram pe hartie franturi din ce simteam, in cea mai inocenta si mai naiva forma, versuri de inceput, povesti nevinovate, ganduri razlete, nelinistit si tulburari care nu aveau sa ajunga niciodata la destinatar.

Ma gandesc acum cat de ciudat e ca ani la rand m-am prostit cu ideea ca ne e dat sa iubim o singura data in viata, pana la lacrimi, pana la sange, pana la moarte. Si asta m-a facut sa ascund in uitare toate rascolirile de alta data, sa ma prefac ca nu eram eu, ca nu ma doare ce n-a iesit, ca nu a existat, ca nu m-a marcat, ca nu am trait, nu am visat, nu am plans, nu am strans din dinti amar. Si cum ajung toate sa se razbune...

Am luat de la tine sufletul sensibil, capacitatea de a simti puternic, uneori mai puternic decat ma tin picioarele, puterea de a exprima. As fi vrut sa mai stai, sa ma inveti cum trec peste un esec, cum ascund o durere, cum imi explic niste schimbari, cum sa ma prefac ca sunt bine atunci cand nu sunt... As fi vrut sa ma asculti acum, sa ma ghidezi, sa imi spui in ce parte sa caut raspusul, daca e vreo sansa sa il gasesc vreodata, ascuns printre alte banalitati.

***

I have a new preoccupation: I'm constantly digging into my brain to find what else to blog about. And as much has already been said, even by me, in the 5 posts (or however many there are), the task is quite hard. And it's good that it's hard, because I've never chased the easy stuff.

I was talking yesterday about transparent verses, far too transparent to take them as inspiration, and that led me to think back easily to Minulescu, and those magical evenings, some... 20 years ago (ugh, how does that sound...), when you were filling in crossword puzzles, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and reciting Minulescu to me. And I was sitting with one ear to the radio, knees to my mouth, eyes wide and heart running wild in the school benches, because slowly, slowly, I was beginning to love. When I was left alone I would tear from my soul and paste on paper fragments of what I was feeling, in the most innocent and naive form, beginning verses, innocent stories, rambling thoughts, restlessness and turmoil that would never reach the intended recipient.

I think now how strange it is that for years I fooled myself with the idea that we are given to love only once in our lives, to tears, to blood, to death. And that made me hide in oblivion all the laughter of another time, to pretend it wasn't me, that I didn't hurt what didn't come out, that it didn't exist, that it didn't mark me, that I didn't live, didn't dream, didn't cry, didn't grit my bitter teeth. And how they all end up taking revenge...

I took from you the sensitive soul, the ability to feel strongly, sometimes stronger than my legs hold me, the power to express. I wish you'd stayed, to teach me how to get over a failure, how to hide a pain, how to explain changes, how to pretend I'm fine when I'm not... I wish you'd listen to me now, guide me, tell me where to look for the answer, if there's any chance I'll ever find it, hidden among other trivialities.

De primavara / Spring

M-am reintors sa sterg panzele de paianjen asternute peste gandurile mele, atunci cand ele zburdau vesele intr-o parte si-n alta. 

M-am reintors sa scriu, doar pentru ca dimineata, prin nebunia orasului, cu claxoane, macarale, strigate, nebunii, am auzit, energica intr-un copac, o ciocanitoare... Si m-am trezit brusc in realitatea primaverii care ne inconjoara, si care a venit peste noi, chiar daca noi nu mai avem timp sau energie sa remarcam lucrul asta.

Si era asa de frumos altadata... Veneam fericita acasa cu ghiozdanul plin de martisoare de la scoala, si asteptam cu inflacarare sfarsitul saptamanii, sa merg cu tata sa culegem toporasi, si viorele, si lalele salbatice....de fapt nu, lalele salbatice nu mai culegeam, de cand vazusem posterul ala pe un copac in Crang, care spunea ca sunt protejate de lege...

Avem un loc unde mergeam in fiecare an, la capatul orasului, care imi parea asa departe atunci. Era liniste si pustiu, se mai auzeau in departare cateva masini trecand pe strada...

Trec des pe-acolo, si de fiecare data ma loveste in suflet sentimentul asta de fatalism si necazul ca n-o sa se mai intample niciodata. Am incercat sa vanez un alt colt de oras, al noului oras care ma gazduieste, dar nimic nu mai e la fel. E urat, trist si rece, si atat de putin ospitalier... 

A venit primavara, o alta primavara, niciodata aceeasi...

***

I returned to wipe away the spidery feathers that lay over my thoughts as they fluttered merrily to and fro. 

I came back to write, only because in the morning, through the madness of the city, with its horns, cranes, shouts, madness, I heard, energetically in a tree, a woodpacker... And I was suddenly awakened to the reality of the spring that surrounds us, and that has come upon us, even if we no longer have the time or energy to notice it.

And it was so beautiful once... I was happily coming home with my backpack full of martisoare from school, and I was looking forward to the end of the week, to go with my father to pick up some wild violets and wild tulips... Actually no, I wasn't picking wild tulips anymore, since I had seen that poster on a tree in thenparc, saying that they were protected by law...

We have a place where we used to go every year, at the margin of town, which seemed so far away to me then. It was quiet and deserted, you could still hear a few cars passing in the distance...

I pass by there often, and every time I get this feeling of fatalism and the grief that it will never happen again. I've tried to hunt for another corner of the city, the new city that hosts me, but nothing is the same. It's ugly, sad and cold, and so unwelcoming... 

Spring has come, another spring, never the same...