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.

Dance me ... till the end of love

Sursa foto

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.

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

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.


_____________



At the stroke of midnight, the pounding at the door rang out clearly—unmistakable, nothing less than a cry for help. She glanced at the clock in fright, then, her eyes still half-closed and irritated by the pale light of the bedside lamp, made her way toward the door. She opened it slightly, cautiously, carrying in her arms heaps of questions.

The stranger on the threshold looked at her with an emptiness that held both half a smile and half a sigh, woven together across his face. Though they were strangers, his eyes brought the story with them.

She was living then in a modest apartment, in a tall building with long corridors where many doors stood side by side. The doors were different—some carefully tended and freshly painted, new and gleaming; others old, their paint peeling, exhaling the scent of involuntary experience, of hurried years gone by.

Every evening and morning she would look at the doors, trying to sketch a complete picture. Some were slightly ajar, allowing a fragment of a glance to slip inside. Others stood half-open, enough for one to form a fairly clear impression of the tenant. And then there were the doors that seemed bolted forever, as though sunlight had never once forced its way through. She wondered whether anyone lived there at all—and if so, what strange species of neighbors they might be, so buried in secrets.

A simple calculation reassured her each day: the number of unbolted doors far exceeded those shrouded in mystery. And so she felt somehow safe, knowing that on the night she would need just one open door, she would surely find it.

She no longer remembered why she had knocked that evening on the closed door. It was a new door—lacquered, tall, well-kept and clean. Someone always came out of there; she had seen him a few times in passing. Yet the door closed each time without a sound, with perfect discretion.

She knocked timidly and did not even wait for an answer, turning quietly toward her own home. But the answer came. Soon the silence of the long corridor was disturbed by the sound of a key turning in the new lock, and the door opened just a crack.

Days of long conversations followed—always on the threshold. Their neighboring doors opened each day at the same brief signal and remained so for hours. The neighbors grew used to finding them there, sharing bursts of laughter and experiences, dreams and uncertainties.

And then, without her noticing, one day her door slammed against the wall. The hinges strained slightly, and every corner holding secrets surrendered to the light: a steaming mug of coffee, a glass of red wine from the previous evening, a few empty vodka bottles—broken—in a corner, shards of old dishes, an empty crib, a disheveled doll tossed onto a shelf.

She could no longer remember how many passed along the corridor to witness the horror. Her door, though always slightly open, had never allowed so many glances inside.

Then one night she believed she had had a strange dream. It seemed that a scoundrel obsessed with semantics had somehow managed to alter the known meanings of words simply because he disliked prefixes. Thus people were now forced to accept that incorrect was correct, indispensable was dispensable, incredible was credible, incompetent was competent—and countless other dizzying inversions.

She awoke shaken and, before she could even decide whether it had been a dream or not, ran to tell her fantastic tale in a single breath. He listened with wide eyes, one hand as though controlling the opening of the door.

Then something broke.

In the days that followed she gradually realized the dream had not been a dream at all. She began hearing voices behind his door—fragments of conversation, nothing that quite connected. They spoke a few more times, always interrupted by a ringing phone. One evening she hurried home, saw his door slightly ajar, cast a quick glance and noticed a torn letter lying on a table—but she withdrew at once: the door was not open for her.

His door never again swung wide against the wall, despite promises and postponements, assurances and pleas. On several nights she fell asleep on his threshold, afraid of missing some sign of life. Yet while she slept, the door opened and closed a few times in perfect silence.

In time, the doors closed one by one. Then the sound of chains securing discretion could be heard.

“So,” she asked him rhetorically, looking at him through the links of the chain that prevented the door from opening, “you say we were friends?”

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...

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.

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.

"Strainul din oglinda" / "The stranger in the mirror"

Eram clasa a saptea, cred, cand circula pe ascuns, printre banci, cartea asta, din seria generica “Sandra Brown”. O citeam cu nesat, lacomi dupa scenele de amor necenzurate. In cateva zile citeam pe rand cartea din scoarta in scoarta, mai repede decat efectuam orice alta lectura cu caracter obligatoriu. Nu-mi amintesc un rand din carte, din actiune, nici macar din scenele deocheate descrise in amanunt. Imi amintesc insa titlul, e metafora care la vremea aia nu insemna mai nimic, insa zilele astea e asa de puternica si de rezonatoare. 

Ne schimbam, de la o generatie la alta, de la un an la altul, de pe o zi pe alta… Schimbarea, ca mecanism natural de adaptare a fiintei umane la noile conditii, ca mijloc de aparare de factorii externi din ce in ce mai agresivi, ne trasforma usor pe toti in gandaci de bucatarie, campioni in domeniul adaptabilitatii. 

Si ma gasesc tarandu-ma prin viata, un gandac de bucatarie schiop, pentru ca ceva din mine nu s-a adaptat. Am invelisul tare, lucios, o aripa ascunde smechereste membrul beteag, ultima urma a ceea ce era odata. Ma recunosc inca in oglinda. Imaginea e mai palida, culorile mai mate, amestecate intre ele, dar sunt acolo, nu m-am transformat, inca, intr-o straina. Inca un an in care timpul sa stea in loc, si nu mai promit nimic…

***

I was in seventh grade, I think, when this book, from the generic "Sandra Brown" series, was secretly circulating among the desks. We read it ravenously, greedy for the uncensored love scenes. In a few days we were reading the book from cover to cover, faster than we did any other required reading. I don't remember a line of the book, of the action, not even the dirty scenes described in detail. But I do remember the title, it's a metaphor that at the time meant nothing, but these days is so powerful and resonant. 

We change, from one generation to the next, from one year to the next, from one day to the next... Change, as a natural mechanism of adaptation of the human being to new conditions, as a means of defence against increasingly aggressive external factors, easily turns us all into cockoaches, champions in the field of adaptability. 

And I find myself crawling through life, a limping cockroach, because something in me hasn't adapted. I have hard, shiny shells, a wing clumsily hiding my drunken limb, the last vestige of what once was. I still recognize myself in the mirror. The image is paler, the colours duller, blended together, but I am there, I have not yet become a stranger. One more year of time standing still, and no more promises...

Erase and rewind

De-ar fi asa de simplu... Punct, si de la capat, cu forte noi, cu credinta ca totul va fi bine si frumos, cu increderea nestirbita in propria persoana si in cei din jur. De-ar fi asa de simplu, probabil ca am trai o mie de ani fericiti si nestingheriti, nu am mai albi nicioadata si nu ne-am lupta cu ridurile din jurul ochilor. De-ar fi asa de usor, ne-am ierta erorile si pripirile de moment, convinsi fiind ca totul o sa fie bine, intr-un final, mai devreme sau mai tarziu. Dar viata nu e asa de simpla, invatam asta an de an, cu fiecare esec, pierdere sau dezamagire pe care le incasam fara drept de replica.

Din fiecare experienta traita ar trebui sa invatam cate ceva, din greselile noastre sau din greselile altora. As vrea sa-mi dau seama si de data asta care e lectia, ce trebuia facut altfel, cum am fi putut opri drobul de sare sa se pravaleasca la vale. Poate e nevoie de ceva mai multa vreme, sa acopere totul cu putina uitare si cu transparenta, ca sa putem deschide ochii mai luminati. Deocamdata totul e incetosat si fara noima. Incerc sa ma bucur ca uite, si de data asta, am picat in picioare, insa nimic nu mai e la fel.

La fiecare sfarsit de an ne dorim "un an nou mai bun", ducandu-ne singuri cu vorba ca o sa fie bine, sau, in mod ideal, "mai bine". Pentru ca tocmai am pus capat unui capitol important, in care am investit poate mai mult decat eram in stare sa o fac, de aici si dezamagirea enorma, imi doresc ca noul an sa-mi aduca energia unui nou inceput si puterea de-a uita ce-a fost, de-a intelege ce se intampla in jur si ambitia de a demonstra, a cata oara, ca pot. Si, Doamne, daca nu e prea mult, fara dezamagiri anul asta...

Punct. Si de la capat, in 2010.

La multi ani!

***

If only it were that simple... Period, and from the beginning, with new strengths, with the belief that everything will be fine and beautiful, with unwavering trust in yourself and in those around you. If only it were that simple, we'd probably live a thousand years happily ever after, we'd never go white again and we wouldn't struggle with wrinkles around our eyes. If only it were that easy, we'd forgive ourselves our mistakes and momentary hastiness, convinced that everything will be all right, eventually, sooner or later. But life isn't that simple, we learn that year after year, with every failure, loss or disappointment we take without right of reply.

We should learn something from every experience, from our mistakes or from the mistakes of others. I would like to figure out this time what the lesson is, what should have been done differently, how we could have stopped the salt drip from going downhill. Maybe it needs a little more time, to cover it all with a little forgetfulness and transparency, so that we can open our eyes a little brighter. For now everything is still and meaningless. I'm trying to be glad that look, and this time, I've fallen on my feet, but nothing is the same.

At the end of every year we wish for "a better new year", taking it upon ourselves to say it will be good, or ideally "better". Because I have just ended an important chapter, in which I have invested perhaps more than I was able to, hence the enormous disappointment, I wish that the new year will bring me the energy of a new beginning and the strength to forget what has been, to understand what is going on around me and the ambition to prove, for the umpteenth time, that I can. And, God, if it's not too much, no disappointments this year....

Period. And from the top, in 2010.

Happy New Year!

Scene din alt film / Scenes from a different movie

Imi propusesem sa scriu despre concertul Judas Priest, cu grandoare si spectacolul pe care le-a adus, despre mainile intinse in aer si pletele scuturate ritmic, despre decibeli, lumina si culoare. In cap insa mi se zbat alte ganduri, alte senzatii si alte idei. O sa scriu despre timp si despre felul in care se scurge el, mai repede peste unii si mai greu peste ceilalti. Un bilet m-a condus inapoi in timp, in vremea cand eram si eu, ca si ei, acum, rebela si nebuna. Am vazut in jur poate cei mai frumosi oameni, asta pentru ca gusturile nu se schimba niciodata. Am simtit ca pentru mine anii astia, care au trecut din liceu pana acum, mi-au pus pe umeri mult mai multe decat lor, cei din jurul meu, care nu-si tradeaza nici pentru o secunda varsta. Poate ca sunt mai trecuti prin viata decat mine, dar au ramas cumva ancorati acolo, in vremurile bune si lipsite de griji. Ma uit parca cu stupoare in jur, si nu-i mai inteleg. Afara sunt peste 35 de grade, si ei poarta bocanci si negru, atat de mult negru... Ma simt rupta din alt film, parca nu imi am locul aici, nu mai sunt de-a lor. Si imi amintesc doar vag cum am fost odata, cand bocancii faceau parte din uniforma, chiar si pe plaja. Si ma trezesc muncita de ganduri atat de stupide, incat imi vine sa plang, de superficialitatea mea si de imposibilitatea de a trai momentul. Viata e o eterna ocazie de a face alegeri. Pe unele le faci cu ochii inchisi, fara a reliza macar impactul lor asupra vietii. Am ales ce sunt acum, ma simt bine in pielea mea, chiar pot spune ca de multe ori sunt fericita (pentru ca superlativele nu sunt realiste). Si totusi, nu pot sa nu ma intreb daca nu cumva m-ar fi caracterizat mai mult uniforma de rocker rebel, decat tinuta office.

***

I had set out to write about the Judas Priest concert, with the grandeur and spectacle it brought, about hands in the air and rhythmically shaking hair, about decibels, light and colour. But other thoughts, other sensations and other ideas are swirling in my head. I will write about time and the way it flows, faster over some and harder over others. A note took me back in time, to the time when I was, like them, now, rebellious and crazy. I saw perhaps the most beautiful people around, that's because tastes never change. I felt that for me, these years that have passed from high school to now, have put so much more on my shoulders than theirs, those around me, who don't betray their age for a second. They may be further along in life than I am, but they're still somehow anchored there, in the good, carefree times. I look around in amazement, and I don't understand them anymore. It's over 35 degrees outside, and they're wearing boots and black, so much black... I feel like I'm out of another movie, like I don't belong here, I'm not one of them anymore. And I only vaguely remember how I once was, when boots were part of the uniform, even on the beach. And I wake up exhausted by thoughts so stupid, I feel like crying, my shallowness and my inability to live in the moment. Life is an eternal opportunity to make choices. Some you make blindfolded, without even rereading their impact on your life. I chose what I am now, I feel good about myself, I can even say that I'm often happy (because superlatives are not realistic). And yet, I can't help but wonder if my rebel rocker uniform might have characterized me more than my office attire.