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!!!

Sursa foto

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. 

Citat / Quote

M-am apucat iar de citit, o pasiune mult neglijata, din cauze multiple, mai mult sau mai putin inventate. Si, cum sunt loiala, fidela si rutiniera, caracteristici care pana acum nu mi-au prins chiar bine, dar, asta e... am pus mana pe o carte de Pascal Bruckner, mi-a placut, si m-am decis instant sa ii citesc toata opera. Am cumparat 11 bucati carti scrise de susnumitul autor, deocamdata sunt in plina lectura al celui de-al patrulea exemplar, pana acum, nici urma de dezamagire.

Din cand in cand, in pauzele de citire, imi revine in minte cate un pasaj, metafora, poveste, fragment care ma marcheaza si ma urmareste. Ultimul paragraf de acest fel imi permit sa il citez mai jos. Citit ieri, in autobuz:

"Bantuit intotdeauna de dezintegrare, m-am nascut batran, secatuit de parca as apartine unei rase sfarsite. Am acum 38 de ani, insa par de 50. Adapostesc in mine un cadavru care ma roade si creste pe seama mea. Mi-ar fi placut, inca din adolescenta, sa cumpar de la vreun negustor transe de timp ca sa franez uzura. Cenusiul mi s-a asternut pe chip inca din leagan si nu m-a parasit de atunci". (Pascal Bruckner - "Hotii de frumusete", o carte recomandata chiar si pentru cei care nu apreciaza stilul aproape porno :) abordat de scriitorul francez).

***

I took up reading again, a long-neglected passion, for many reasons, more or less invented. And, as I am loyal, faithful and a routine lover, characteristics that so far haven't suited me very well, but, that's it... I got my hands on a book by Pascal Bruckner, liked it, and instantly decided to read his whole work. I bought 11 books written by the aforementioned author, so far I'm in the middle of reading the fourth copy, so far, no sign of disappointment.

From time to time, in the breaks of reading, a passage, a metaphor, a story, a fragment that marks me and follows me comes back in my mind. The last such paragraph I take the liberty of quoting below. Read yesterday, on the bus:

"Always haunted by disintegration, I was born old, drained as if I belonged to a finite race. I am now 38, but I look 50. I harbour within me a corpse that gnaws and grows at my expense. I would have liked, since I was a teenager, to buy from some merchant time tranches to brake the wear and tear. The ashes have been on my face since the cradle and have not left me since." (Pascal Bruckner - "The Thieves of Beauty", a book recommended even for those who do not appreciate the almost pornographic style :) approached by the French writer).

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.

Text din obligatie / A text because I have to

Mi-am luat un angajament fata de mine, in primul rand (incerc sa ma catar iar pe prima pozitie in clasamentul prioritatilor mele, e cam greu, dupa tot praful care s-a asternut in anii astia) sa scriu cate ceva in fiecare zi. Terapie, sa-i zicem, sau nevoie primordiana de a ma simti, intr-un fel, utila.

Azi n-am ce scrie, iar versurile pe care am zis ca o sa le citez sunt mult prea transparente pentru ce as avea de zis, asadar o sa imi rod gandurile in liniste si o sa astept sa se potoleasca si sa-mi dea pace, sau, daca nu, macar sa se aseze regulamentar intr-o ordine mai transparenta, pe care sa o pot analiza si transpune in practica.

Lumea se invarte fara mine. Ei, nu ca nu stiam, dar era placut sentimentul ala ca as fi, macar pentru unii, centrul universului. Ei bine, nu-s, si, in caz ca isi mai face cineva iluzii de acest gen, trag un semnal de trezire: niciunul nu suntem centrul niciunui univers! Si nici cei pe care ii alegem ca centru al universului nostru nu sunt deloc asa, fie ca nu-si doresc, fie ca dispar, fie ca se schimba. Ori, un centru ar trebui sa fie unic si stabil.

A dat soarele, probabil ca natura incepe usor sa isi iasa din amorteala. A trebuit sa se faca dupa-amiaza sa-l observ. O sa ma rup de tot ceea ce nu ma tine captiva si sa ma fortez sa admir privelistea, sa traiesc momentul, sa tac si sa uit.

Revin maine, cu aceleasi ineptii, scrise intr-o alta forma, mai mult sau mai putin patetica.

***

I made a commitment to myself, first of all (I'm trying to climb back to the top of my priority list, it's a bit hard, after all the dust that has settled over the years) to write something every day. Therapy, let's call it, or a primal need to feel somehow useful.

Today I have nothing to write, and the lines I said I'd quote are far too transparent for what I'd have to say, so I'll gnaw on my thoughts in silence and wait for them to subside and give me peace, or, if not, at least to settle into a more transparent order that I can analyze and put into practice.

The world is spinning without me. Well, not that I didn't know it, but it was nice that feeling that I was, at least for some, the center of the universe. Well, I'm not, and in case anyone else is under such illusions, I'm sounding a wake-up call: none of us are the centre of any universe! Nor are those we choose as the centre of our universe at all, either unwilling, disappearing or changing. Or, a centre should be unique and stable.

The sun rises, nature is probably slowly starting to break out of its numbness. I had to make it afternoon to notice it. I'm going to break away from everything that doesn't hold me captive and force myself to admire the view, live in the moment, shut up and forget.

I'll be back tomorrow, with the same nonsense, written in a different, more or less pathetic form.