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.

Dintr-o dimineata / Random morning

Piciorul tau drept paseste repede pe trotuarul umed, iar urma pasului tau dispare treptat, uscata de vantul de primavara.
Pe trotuar se tarasc melci multi, rataciti prin lumea moderna, fugiti sau pierduri din hatisul de ierburi de pe margine. Dupa-amiaza, cand soarele va fi uscat trotuarul si inainte de ploaia de seara, le pot urmari traseiul fara tinta care a lasat o urma mucoasa pe caldaram, la capatul careia se afla cadavrul proaspat al nefericitului. Ma napadeste un val de scarba amestecat cu mila, o stare pe care o experimentez zilnic, dar cu care nu ma pot obisnui deloc.
Analizez in tacere tatuajul generos de pe piciorul tau drept, un tatuaj ciudat, negru, cu forme rotunjite si colturi indraznete, un desen de vreo palma si jumatate, motiv tribal, sau rod al imaginatiei artistului, sau poate ceva care inseamna mult pentru tine. Ma amuz in sinea mea gandindu-ma, de fiecare data cand te vad, ca nu am mai vazut niciodata asa postas, sa semene cu Dr. House si sa aiba un tatuaj mare pe piciorul drept, si pantaloni trei sferturi.
Aici nimic nu e ca acasa. Nici eu macar nu mai sunt. M-am pierdut. Iar. Si nu mai e nimeni care sa ma gaseasca. Si eu am renuntat sa ma mai caut.
Maschez durerea sub un strat gros de nepasare, iritabilitate, bucurie mimata si negare. Ma doare propria fiinta, ma doare timpul pe care il simt in spate, ma doare absenta vocii tale, ma doare locul unde candva aveam o inima.
Piciorul tau drept, cu care calci stramb...

 

***

Your right foot steps quickly across the wet pavement, and your footprint gradually disappears, dried by the spring wind.

Many snails crawl along the pavement, wandering through the modern world, fleeing or lost from the jumble of grasses along the edge. In the afternoon, when the sun will have dried the pavement and before the evening rain, I can follow their aimless trail that has left a mucous trail on the warmth, at the end of which lies the fresh corpse of the unfortunate. A wave of disgust mixed with pity overwhelms me, a state I experience daily but can't get used to at all.

I silently analyze the lavish tattoo on your right leg, a strange, black tattoo with rounded shapes and bold corners, a design about a palm and a half long, tribal motif, or figment of the artist's imagination, or perhaps something that means a lot to you. I amuse myself by thinking, every time I see you, that I've never seen such a postman, looking like Dr. House and with a big tattoo on his right leg, and three-quarter pants.

Nothing here is like home. I'm not even me anymore. I'm lost. And again. And there's no one left to find me. And I've given up looking for me.

I mask the pain under a thick layer of carelessness, irritability, mimed joy and denial. It hurts my own being, it hurts the time I feel behind me, it hurts the absence of your voice, it hurts the place where I once had a heart.

Your right foot, with which you stomp...

Alta / Another one

Intr-o alta viata as urca cate un munte in fiecare zi, echipata cu un rucsac care sa imi care toata bogatia si toate grijile, as cutreiera lumea cu sau fara tine, purtandu-te mereu in gand si avand grija ca toata lumea sa stie asta.

Intr-o alta viata as trai de zece ori mai mult in fiecare secunda, suprimandu-mi lacrimile in spatele unui zambet urias care sa ma cucereasca chiar si pe mine.

Sursa foto

Intr-o alta viata te-as iubi patimas, fara rusine, fara regrete, fara limite, fara grija de gura lumii, de reguli si de obstacole. Si m-ai iubi si tu, pentru ca intr-o alta viata as fi altfel, imposibil de neiubit, as fi tot ce nu sunt acum, fara tot ce ma face sa plang si sa bantui ca o stafie trista prin viata asta. Si nu ai inceta sa ma iubesti, pentru ca ar fi viata mea perfecta, diferita de asta, intr-o lume utopic de buna.

O alta viata nu m-ar darama, ci m-ar face mai puternica. As face totul altfel, sau la fel, dar mai bine. As transforma regretele in oportunitati, as rasturna lumi, as crea altele. Si as scrie carti, pentru a potoli vocile neobosite care ma bantuie zile si nopti, cu fraze pline de inteleseri clare numai mie, cu metafore amare, cu simboluri opace.

Ne vedem acolo.

***

In another life I would climb a mountain every day, equipped with a backpack to carry all my wealth and all my worries, I would travel the world with or without you, always carrying you in my mind and making sure everyone knew it.

In another life I would live ten times longer every second, suppressing my tears behind a huge smile that would conquer even myself.

In another life I would love you passionately, without shame, without regrets, without limits, without caring about the world's mouth, rules and obstacles. And you would love me too, because in another life I would be different, impossible to unlove, I would be everything I am not now, without everything that makes me cry and stalk like a sad ghost through this life. And you wouldn't stop loving me, because that would be my perfect life, different from this one, in a utopian good world.

A different life wouldn't make me weak, it would make me stronger. I'd do everything differently, or the same, but better. I would turn regrets into opportunities, I would turn worlds upside down, I would create new ones. And I would write books, to quiet the relentless voices that haunt me day and night, with phrases full of meanings clear only to me, with bitter metaphors, with opaque symbols.

See you there.

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.

Sursa foto

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.

Sursa foto

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.

Sursa foto

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

Sursa foto

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.