Post 30 / After 30

Dupa 30 de ani iti bate maturitatea hotarata la usa si, fara sa te mai intrebe daca esti sau nu pregatita, se instaleaza in viata ta ca la ea acasa.

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Ai alternative: poti sa te obisnuiesti cu gandul ca nu esti perfecta (cine este, la o adica?) sau sa incepi frumos sa ocolesti oglinda, care iti tot aminteste nerusinata ca nu te-ai obisnuit cu realitatea cruda.

Incepi sa poti aminti in discurs fara jena sau fara vreun tremurat de barba numele organelor sexuale masculine si chiar sa ti le asumi din cand in cand, fara sa te mai amuze deloc ridicolul situatiei.

Iti faci fara sa vrei un sumar al esecurilor si succeselor inregistrate si incerci de acum inainte sa nu le lasi, pe niciunele, sa iti dirijeze viata.

Constati cu consternare si un zambet amar cat de mult semeni cu mama, aia pe care o huleai la varsta nebuna a adolescentei.

Devii mama cuiva, fie ca e copilul tau, carne din carnea ta, sau o persoana asupra careia versi toata mamicia din tine, ca trebuie sa o versi undeva, altfel te sufoca.

Mai simti din cand in cand cate un clocot in sange si, daca viata te lasa, te lasi purtata de val in niste nebunii despre care crezi ca o sa iti redea tineretea pe care o crezi pierduta.

Asta e strada pe care ea, intr-o noapte de septembrie, ca asta, a decis sa isi agate grijile cu o funie, de grinda. Tocmai implinise 30 de ani.

***

After 30 years, maturity comes knocking at your door and, without asking whether you are ready or not, settles into your life as if it were at home.

You have alternatives: you can get used to the thought that you're not perfect (who is, after all?) or you can start nicely avoiding the mirror, which keeps shamelessly reminding you that you're not used to the harsh reality.

You begin to be able to recall in speech without embarrassment or any shaking of the beard the names of the male sex organs and even assume them from time to time, no longer at all amused by the ridiculousness of the situation.

You unwittingly make a summary of your failures and successes and try from now on not to let them, any of them, run your life.

You find with dismay and a bitter smile how much you resemble your mother, the one you used to boo at the crazy age of adolescence.

You become someone's mother, whether it's your child, flesh of your flesh, or a person upon whom you pour all the motherhood in you, that you have to pour it somewhere, otherwise it suffocates you.

You feel a little boil in your blood from time to time and, if life lets you, you get carried away in some crazy thing you think will restore the youth you thought you lost.

This is the street she, on a September night like this one, decided to hang her worries on a rope, from the rafter. She had just turned 30.

Dor de mine / Missing myself

Numaram zile, saptamani, apoi luni. Acum numar ani. Ani in care uitarea creste in mine ca o pacla neagra, acoperindu-ma, sufocandu-ma. Din cand in cand prind cate o bula de aer si imi contemplez sufletul zbarcindu-se sub greutatea dorului.

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Nu mai stiu cum arati, cum respiri, cum zambesti. Cu fiecare noua zi aerul devine tot dens si presiunea dureroasa. Ma apasa toate, din toate partile primesc doar impulsuri violente. Ma chinui uneori sa pic, dar viata nu-mi da voie. Nu mai stiu nici sa respir.

Ma intreb uneori daca si tu ai uitat. Sau, mai bine, daca ai avut ce uita. Poate ca am ramas cu tine acolo, in universul nostru paralel pe care l-am construit pentru noi, jucand pentru o secunda rolul unui dumnezeu confuz si partinitor. Si poate ca acolo traiesc, in timp ce aici, in corpul meu in degradare, a ramas doar o iluzie, o palida stafie a ce am fost candva.

Imi sterg ochiul uscat, cu nostalgia lacrimilor de alta data si intorc privirea de la oglinda. Si ea ma minte, cum ma mint si eu.

***

I used to count days, weeks, then months. Now I count years. Years in which oblivion grows inside me like a black fog, covering me, suffocating me. Every now and then I catch a bubble of air and contemplate my soul buckling under the weight of longing.

I no longer know what you look like, how you breathe, how you smile. With each new day the air grows thicker and the pressure becomes painful. I'm pressed down by everything, from all sides I receive only violent impulses. Sometimes I struggle to fall, but life won't let me. I don't even know how to breathe.

Sometimes I wonder if you've forgotten too. Or, better, if there was something for you to forget. Maybe I'm left with you there, in our parallel universe that we've built for ourselves, playing for a second the role of a confused and biased god. And maybe that's where I live, while here, in my decaying body, I've remained only an illusion, a pale ghost of what I once was.

I wipe my dry eye, nostalgic for the tears of yesteryear, and look away from the mirror. And she lies to me, as I lie to myself.

When September ends

Ultimul septembrie pe care mi-l amintesc a durat vreo 9 luni.

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Totul a mers "ca la carte": mai intai a picat o frunza galbena, asa, din senin, ca in cantecul ala, m-a izbit in viata mea roz, a tulburat putin oglinda apei.
Apoi au aparut si alte frunze, din ce in ce mai multe, mai galbene, mai uscate, care ma napadeau din toate partile, imi intrau in suflet, in ochi, in viata. Dar mergeam tantosa, cu capul sus, ignorandu-le.
Apoi am inceput o lupta nebuna cu ele, dadeam din maini, picioare, urlam, sa le fac sa dispara. Dar ele se tot strangeau, sufocandu-ma.
Intr-o zi m-au ingropat... Afara era un soare cald, de septembrie, insa eu il vedeam sangeriu. Ganduri dintre cele mai stranii imi inundau mintea. Citeam carti pe care nu mi le mai amintesc, urmaream seriale ore intregi, ma plimbam prin parc si ma surprindeam stergandu-mi lacrimi de pe obraz, cu toate ca nu ma gandeam la nimic. Si ma cufundam in depresie in fiecare zi mai mult, mai greu, mai periculos.
Apoi, am inceput sa accept treptat ca voi purta mereu in suflet o urma de septembrie, ca galbenul, ca ma prinde sau nu, va deveni o culoare obligatorie a garderobei sufletului meu, ca unele lucruri sunt facute sa nu se intample, ca...

Dupa 9 luni am invatat subit sensul expresiei "cui pe cui se scoate". Fara prea multa pasiune pentru ironie, a trebuit sa o accept, sa o imbratisez, sa o iubesc, sa o povestesc. Alte 9 luni dupa asta mi-am rontait temerile, strofocandu-ma continuu sa nu le las pe ele sa ma rontaie pe mine. M-am transformat, reinventat, m-am pregatit pentru "ce-o fi, o fi", pentru mine, cea de acum, si pentru el.

Nu numai in septembrie imi amintesc de acel septembrie. Septembrie merge cu mine pretutindeni, e parte din cine sunt, il regasesc in oglinda, in scrierile mele, in felul in care relationez cu oamenii, in ochii lui, cei fara griji si plini de inocenta.

Hai, frunza galbena...

***

The last September I remember lasted about 9 months.

Everything went "by the book": first a yellow leaf fell, just like that, out of the blue, like in that song, it hit me in my pink life, it disturbed the water mirror a bit.

Then other leaves appeared, more and more, yellower and yellower, drier and drier, and they covered me from all sides, they entered my soul, my eyes, my life. But I walked around, head held high, ignoring them.

Then I started a mad fight with them, waving my hands, kicking, screaming, to make them disappear. But they kept squeezing, choking me.

One day they buried me... Outside it was a warm September sun, but I could see it was bleeding. The strangest thoughts flooded my mind. I was reading books I can't remember, watching TV series for hours, walking in the park and catching myself wiping tears from my cheeks, even though I wasn't thinking about anything. And I was sinking deeper, harder, more dangerously into depression every day.

Then I gradually began to accept that I will always carry a trace of September in my soul, that yellow, whether it catches me or not, will become a mandatory color of my soul's wardrobe, that some things are made not to happen, that...

After 9 months I suddenly learned the meaning of the phrase "nail on the head". Without much passion for irony, I had to accept it, embrace it, love it, tell it. Another 9 months after that I nagged my fears, continually stroking myself not to let them nag me. I transformed myself, reinvented myself, prepared myself for "what will be, will be", for me, the now, and for him.

It's not just September I remember that September. September goes with me everywhere, it's part of who I am, I find it in the mirror, in my writing, in the way I relate to people, in its eyes, the carefree and innocent ones.

Come on, yellow leaf...

Transparent

Ceata era groasa si umeda, invada interiorul si exteriorul. Ochii trecatorilor lacrimau in cautarea claritatii, brobonele de apa se scurgeau haotic pe ochelari, posete, poposeau pe firele de par rebele, intrau in suflete, reci si clare.

Rochia lunga, cu falduri generoase, usoara si cocheta, nu mai ascundea nimic, era si ea o ceata. Intr-o lume opaca, am ales transparenta totala, plimbandu-ma printre straini cu labirintul sentimentelor la vedere. Stive de vorbe nespuse, aruncate la intamplare, fara a-si mai gasi vreodata locul, alergau prin ceata densa.

Oamenii treceau prin mine, neatenti la dezastrul ce ma tinea ascunsa privirilor lor nepasatoare, si

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fiecare trecere strica si mai tare echilibrul fragil al elementelor care compuneau totul pe care il reprezentam.

Transparenta si invizibila, imi petreceam zilele sortand caractere, punadu-le in sertare mici, incuidu-le pe unele in locuri pe care speram sa nu le mai vizitez vreodata. In zilele cand prea multi calatori treceau absenti prin transparenta mea obscura, seara ma prindea cautand raspunsuri si solutii, varsand lacrimi pe cat de invizibile, pe atat de nimicitor de fierbinti. Si atunci am inceput sa te caut.

Erai o alta silueta ratacita, in noaptea aia cetoasa, ce parea eterna, o alta transparenta absoluta, cu teancurile ei dezordonate de trairi ascunse, cu franturi de povesti din alta lume, cu sperante si cioburi de vise. Te vedeam pentru ca eram atat de transparenta, cu nimic de ascuns, cu un curaj nebun de a schimba totul, acolo, pe loc, de a intoarce roata destinului care ma calcase in picioare fara mila.

Pentru ca in negura groasa ingerii sunt mai vizibili pentru cei care ii cauta bezmetici de nopti intregi, sperand ca, transparenta peste transparenta, sa isi recapete conturul, viata, visele.

***

The fog was thick and wet, invading inside and out. The eyes of passers-by watered in search of clarity, water bubbles dripped chaotically onto glasses, purses, landed on stubborn hairs, entered souls, cold and clear.

The long dress, generously folded, light and flirtatious, hid nothing, it too was a mist. In an opaque world, I chose total transparency, walking among strangers with the labyrinth of feelings on display. Stacks of unspoken words, thrown haphazardly, never finding their place, ran through the dense fog.

People passed me by, oblivious to the disaster that kept me hidden from their uncaring eyes, and each passage further upset the fragile balance of the elements that made up everything I represented.

Transparent and invisible, I spent my days sorting characters, putting them in little drawers, locking some in places I hoped I would never visit again. On days when too many travelers passed absently through my obscure transparency, evenings caught me searching for answers and solutions, shedding tears as invisible as they were hot. And that's when I started looking for you.

You were another lost silhouette, in that foggy night that seemed eternal, another absolute transparency, with its messy piles of hidden traumas, with shards of stories from another world, with hopes and shards of dreams. I was seeing you because I was so transparent, with nothing to hide, with a mad courage to change everything, right there, on the spot, to turn the wheel of destiny that had trampled me mercilessly.

Because in the thick blackness angels are more visible to those who search for them, blindly, for nights on end, hoping that, transparency upon transparency, they will regain their shape, their life, their dreams.

Dance me ... till the end of love

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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.

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

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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.

Despre ingeri / About angels

Cand rasare soarele, primul lucru pe care suntem tentati sa il facem este sa tragem draperiile, sa deschidem geamul larg, sa lasam lumina sa intre si sa uitam de negura noptii, de frig, de intuneric si necunoscut. Cand rasare soarele, pentru un moment nimic nu mai conteaza decat noua zi, cu toate provocarile, bucuriile si lumina ei, care ne imbata si ne face sa uitam.

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Pe la amiaza, pleoapele se ingreuneaza placut, intram intr-o stare de usora somnolenta, facem o cafea tare si, privind in adancul cestii, ne revin in minte imagini ale noptii trecute, cu orele in care am privit neajutorati tavanul, cu clipele in care am crezut ca cea mai buna alternativa e ca noaptea sa devina eterna, cu ingerii negri care ne-au bantuit visele si cu cei pazitori, putini, dar prezenti, care ne-au tinut de mana si ne-au ghidat catre lumina unei alte dimineti.

Ingerii umbla liberi printre noi. Ii recunoastem in zorii zilei, ii ignoram o vreme, apoi, privind in luciul cafelei aburinde de dupa-amiaza, ii identificam exact, asa cum sunt, cu tot ce au facut, ne amintim caldura mainii care, fara a cere nimic in schimb, ne-a departat de marginea prapastiei. Si ne gandim sa le fim si noi ingeri pazitori intr-o zi, pe care insa nu ne-o dorim apropiata.

Multumesc ingerilor mei, ii port in suflet, ii pomenesc in rugaciuni, ii tin pe piedestalul de pe care nimeni si nimic nu ii va da jos vreodata!

***

When the sun rises, the first thing we are tempted to do is to pull back the curtains, open the window wide, let the light in and forget about the darkness of the night, the cold, the dark and the unknown. When the sun rises, for a moment nothing matters but the new day, with all its challenges, its joys and its light, which makes us drunk and forgetful.

By midday, our eyelids are pleasantly heavy, we enter a state of mild drowsiness, we make a strong coffee and, looking deep into our cups, images of the night before come to mind, of the hours when we looked helplessly at the ceiling, of the moments when we thought the best alternative was for the night to go on forever, of the dark angels who haunted our dreams and the few but present guardians who held our hands and guided us to the light of another morning.

Angels walk freely among us. We recognize them at dawn, ignore them for a while, then, gazing into the glow of steaming afternoon coffee, identify them exactly as they are, with all they have done, remember the warmth of the hand that, without asking anything in return, has steered us away from the brink. And we think of being their guardian angels one day, which we don't want to be any time soon.

I thank my angels, I carry them in my heart, I remember them in my prayers, I keep them on a pedestal from which nothing and no one will ever take them away!