Despre rataciri / About wandering

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

Sursa foto

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cafea si tigara / Coffee and a cigarette

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

Sursa foto

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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.

S-a sinucis o anonima... / A stranger killed herself...

Am invatat in scoli, la rand, despre momentele subiectului epic, in literatura, cu aplicabilitate in viata, sau invers, mai degraba. Orice naratiune sau viata ar trebui, teoretic vorbind, sa aiba expozitiune, intriga, desfasurarea actiunii, punct culminant si deznodamant. O incercare reusita, pentru o vreme, de a universaliza si uniformiza povesti.

Toti caram in spate o poveste, de la nastere pana la ultima suflare suntem un roman in devenire, un bestseller pe care prea putini au rabdarea sa-l citeaca si sa-l interpreteze, o opera epica traita cu indrazneala de a nu respecta, de cele mai multe ori, "momentele subiectului". Pentru ca intriga se lasa mult asteptata, expozitiunea se confunda cu desfasurarea actiunii iar despre punctul culminant si deznodamantrul sosit uneori prea devreme, ce sa mai vorbim...

"S-a sinucis Madalina Manole" suna altfel decat "S-a sinucis un anonim", cum scria Minulescu. Sau suna absolut identic, dar suntem prea superficiali sa ne dam seama. O femeie, urcata pe un podium de unde deznodamantul povestii ei a rupt cate ceva in toate sufletele care au varsat cel putin o lacrima ascultand "Suflet gol".

Azi povestea se sfarseste, fara ca sensul gestului extrem sa fie vreodata clar pentru cineva. In lacomia noastra de a devora viata lor, a celor care refuza sa mai fie anonimi, aveam pretentia de a intelege, de a diseca un suflet si de a ne droga cu durerea din el. Suntem parca dezamagiti ca nu a aparut nimic murdar, noroi cu care sa aruncam in memoria ei. Si tragem azi cortina peste tot, odata cu prima lopata de tarana asternuta pe sicriul ei alb, prea imaculat ca sa faca deliciul publicului.

Nu, nu am fost fan, nu ma pot bate cu pumnii in piept ca am stiut ceva depre viata ei cat timp si-a purtat povestea printre noi. Ii fredonam refrenele din inertie, ii admiram vocea incredibila si feminitatea demna pe care o afisa in public, si-atat. Poate de-asta moartea ei este, pentru mine, o drama la fel de mare ca moartea unui anonim, nepatata de cinismele lumii mondene.

Odihneste-te in pace, suflet trist, nu gol, ci prea plin de simtaminte ca sa fii inteleasa de o lume nebuna!

***

We learned in schools, one after the other, about the epic subject moments, in literature, with applicability in life, or vice versa, rather. Any narrative or life should, theoretically speaking, have exposition, plot, unfolding action, climax and denouement. A successful attempt, for a while, to universalize and standardize stories.

We all carry a story, from birth to last breath we are a novel in the making, a bestseller that too few have the patience to read and interpret, an epic work lived with the audacity to disregard, more often than not, the "moments of the story". Because the plot is left long overdue, the exposition is confused with the unfolding of the action and the climax and denouement sometimes arrives too soon, what to speak of...

"Madalina Manole committed suicide" sounds different than "An anonymous person committed suicide", as Minulescu wrote. Or it sounds absolutely identical, but we're too shallow to notice. A woman, standing on a podium where the outcome of her story broke something in all the souls who shed at least one tear listening to "Empthy soul".

Today the story ends, without the meaning of the extreme gesture ever being clear to anyone. In our greed to devour their lives, of those who refuse to be anonymous anymore, we had the pretense of understanding, of dissecting a soul and getting high on the pain in it. We are seemingly disappointed that nothing dirty, nothing muddy has emerged to throw at her memory. And we draw the curtain over everything today, with the first shovelful of tarana laid on her white coffin, too immaculate to delight the public.

No, I wasn't a fan, I can't pretend that I knew anything about her life while she carried her story among us. I hummed her choruses out of inertia, admired her incredible voice and the dignified femininity she displayed in public, and that was it. Maybe that's why her death is, for me, as much a drama as the death of an anonymous person, untouched by the cynicism of the mundane world.

Rest in peace, sad soul, not empty, but too full of feeling to be understood by a mad world!