sâmbătă, 27 mai 2017

The dream

I dreamed
I had this disease
I could hear people's thoughts
It wasn't just any people whose thoughts I could hear
It was strangers
Passers by.

Some had strange ideas
Others were depressed
Most of them were worried
About their jobs
Their health
Their families
"Did she cheat on me?" was the thought of a young man wearing a grey suit
"Did she really do it?"

Some would have disturbing ideas
Others would sing songs in their heads
Most of them were boring.

I started looking for people that were in love
They had the happiest thoughts
"Which movie shall I take him to? What would he like to see?"
"I have to think of a nice surprise for her birthday!"
"Can't believe I'm going to propose to her!"
"I wish I could run faster home to give him the great news!"

The only problem I had
Was that people who fell in love
Could also fall out of love
But I learned soon enough to look for fresh couples
They were everywhere in parks, restaurants,
Walking in the rain
Spending the nights under the stars
Soon enough I knew all the places where to search for them
And then I saw him

Looking at me
"The light is blind
And pointless on the sun;
So, in search for purpose
It roams from star to star
And finally finds its shelter
In my love's hair"
That was
The first thought
And only one I could actually hear

He shouted his name at me
And my ears were filled with pleasure
For I could taste the sweet air around me
And him
And feel

Like I was protected
His touch made me feel
Like I was wearing a summer dress
Made of light

I told him about my disease
And he closed his eyes
He told me the light was too bright
And was hurting his eyes
I had a shiver crossing through my body

And he never spoke to me again
Instead he would speak to everyone else
About me
And my disease

Soon
They got me
They closed me
They told me
They would treat me
For I was sick
And I need to get better

"Doctor, will I ever love again?"
"We don't know yet, it's better that you rest."
"Doctor, will I ever love again?"
But the doctors were silent
And so were the nurses and the rest of the patients
Silent
For I couldn't hear their thoughts anymore
From all the storm of thoughts in me

Then I woke up from my dream
And he was next to me
Smiling at me
And it was
The first time
I didn't want to know what he was thinking.

joi, 18 mai 2017

Despre Dire Straits și căpșunele din curtea bunicii

E mai și în curtea bunicii sigur căpșunele se coc.
În fiecare an căpșunele erau culese cu grijă de-o fată cu părul lung și negru. Le spăla în două ape și apoi le punea pe o farfurie, își lua o carte și o pătură și dispărea pe după crini în grădină.
După o vreme bunica o găsea tolănită la soare, adormită cu cartea în mână.


Dire Straits a purtat mereu un loc special în sufletul meu, le fel ca și Sigur Ros, Pasărea Colibri și Vama Veche. Și Edith Piaf. Dar să ne întoarcem la Dire Straits. Muzica lor mă face să simt miros de drum de țară, de flori de câmp, de struguri copți și apă rece de fântână. Mă imaginez mergând pe drumul către câmp în satul natal al mamei. Pentru mine nu există nimic mai fascinant încă în lume ca peticul de pământ unde mi-am petrecut copilăria, unde grijile dispăreau, iar bunica ne făcea mereu clătite când o rugam frumos. Iar Dire Straits îmi cântă despre dansuri pe dealul ce ducea spre canal, printre salcâmii tineri plantați de tătăițu' și pe cele 3 dale de piatră ce stau și acum la intrarea în curtea cu gard alb, boltită cu viță de vie și presărată cu ghiocei și lalele primăvara, cu crini vara, cu crizanteme toamna și zăpadă de 2 metri iarna.


E mai... iar căpșunele se coc, dar nu mai nimeni să le culeagă. Iar părul fetei nu mai e lung. Iar bunica a și uitat că are căpșune.

luni, 15 mai 2017

Angels in Purgatory

- Heaven has angels. Hell has devils. Then who would you say keeps an eye on Purgatory?
She looked at me for a few seconds and then frowned, and then ran her index finger over her lips.
- I guess it would be retired angels.
- Retired angels?
Her eyebrows frown a little more.
- Retired angels. Don't you think there's some that get really tired with all the running around taking care of people? I know I would be. I can hardly take care of myself, imagine if I had to take care of an entire city.
- But you're not an angel.
She softly kicks me with her left foot.
- You don't know that. I might be an angel in disguise.
She sticks her tongue out and makes that face I adore.
- So how would you say a typical day of an angel goes?
- Pfuuuu, I guess it depends on who they have to take care of!
- I take it your angel is always busy with keeping you from running the car into trees or burning down the house?
Space between her eyebrows gets dangerously narrow.
- You know, this story is actually interesting. Angels in Purgatory. I can imagine them to be old Angels that have seen it all and got bored with being Angels.
- How can one get bored with being an Angel? They have eternal life, they can speak to God, they have redeemed themselves and they have wings!
She smiles at me and puts a finger on my lips.
- It's easy, can't you see it? Angels in Purgatory want to be humans again!
- Why would you want to be human again?
- So that you can dream and suffer and hope, why not? I'd like to be a human forever.
I smile and I take her in my arms.
- How can you be human when you're my angel?
- I found a way out of Purgatory!

vineri, 12 mai 2017

The story of Min and how I learned to stop shouting - part |||

... find a way of expressing the feeling of warm softness in his heart. He couldn't find the right explanation for it, he just felt like he was soft as a feather and could fly over the countries, over the rivers and seas he found in his way.
After a few days of wandering around, he decided to set camp next to a small village and rest for one day and then start his mission again. He realized he will have to renew his water supplies, so he went into the village. But what he found there scared him.
Everybody was gone. There was little sign the village was inhabited, except for the fact that the streets were clean, the houses looked well maintained and the well was in perfect use.
Just when he decided that it's better to leave, he saw an old man walking down the street. He watched the old man as he walked passed him as if he was a statue. The village was probably miles away from any other one, so seeing a foreigner in these parts would have been a... noticeable event.
As he stared at the old man getting smaller in the distance, he realized that there's somebody else coming. A woman. This time she was walking towards him. She came with a sure step and started getting water out from the well. She didn't salute or make any kind of gesture that would acknowledge his presence there.
Min felt very weird. Silencers were usually very polite to each other and a great deal was given to greeting people, even the ones you didn't know.
To his surprise the woman drifted away with one bucket of water that she was spilling everywhere. She wasn't really paying attention to that, as if she was daydreaming. At one point, she actually tripped over a rock in the middle of the road and the bucket went upside down.
As he was contemplating the entire scene, Min couldn't help but notice that the woman wasn't really in a hurry to pick everything up and get back home. She sat there for a while, calmly touching the ground around her. It was that moment that Min realized something was off. She wasn't patting the ground, she was looking for something. The woman was blind.
He immediately started walking in her direction and he saw her turn her face in his direction. She strangely opened her mouth and closed it for a few times. She pulled back when she felt Min's steps getting closer and got up to her feet.
Min wasn't sure what to do. He just sat there and watched her.
After a few seconds, the woman started running in the opposite direction and even if Min thought like it was a shame she left her bucket there, he also felt strangely relieved.
He turned around to find himself faced to the old man.
The old man smiled. He had a piece of paper in his hand. There was something written on it. It was...

sâmbătă, 25 martie 2017

Dilema zilei

Visez la o lume a mea, în care nu trebuie să mă trezesc în fiecare zi la 7, în care nu mă grăbesc să ajung la muncă în timp ce-mi sorb cafeaua dintr-un termos, în care scaunele de la birou nu sunt inconfortabile, în care calculatoarele nu dau greș și nu au nevoie de upgrade-uri, o lume în care totul se întâmplă în acum și nu mâine, peste o săptămână, peste o lună sau peste un an. O lume în care atunci când plouă oamenii sunt fericiți și se oferă să-ți prepare ceai și biscuiți.
Biroul te face să îți pierzi culorile dimineața, iar până la ora de plecare ești deja o schiță în creion. Biroul te obligă la dietă zilnică de mail, ecommerce, sales, ședințe și business.
Biroul te face femeie din copil, îți pune costum și cămașă călcată în loc de tricouri colorate cu AC/DC, Nirvana, Winnie the Pooh. Te îndoapă cu ceas și pantofi și tone de make-up cât mai natural. Te face să râzi mai rar și mai rezervat. Alexandra, reminder: comportă-te ca o profesionistă.
Alexandra înainte de birou avea 20 de ani, purta eșarfe colorate, se îndrăgostea nebunește și suferea ca proasta după fiecare bou, purta bocanci de munte, scria poezii răsuflate, respira libertate și era tristă câte o oră pe zi pentru că realiza că există multe, multe, multe probleme în lume pe care nu le poate rezolva.
Alexandra din birou are 29 de ani, are un desk mic și două monitoare, poartă tocuri ortopedice (că are probleme cu spatele), fuste mulate, scrie în jur de 100 mailuri pe zi din care 50 sunt forward-uri, are 4 conferințe pe zi, organizează meeting-uri și spune cuvinte precum color accuracy, device manager, TMP module, operating system, IP67 și hot swappable, totul ca să apară în rapoarte de shipment la sfârșit de lună cu cifre de milioane de dolari.
Și totuși, când face pivoți și calculează rate de YoY growth, Alexandra visează că e beată în Vamă și dansează pe plajă, că mănâncă pateu cu ceapă în Trascău și culege căpșuni din grădina bunicii. Și când intră în câte o cameră de hotel de 4 stele începe să râdă și să spună cu voce tare printre hohote "uite unde a ajuns țăranca de la Ștefan cel Mare" (inside joke, sorry), când are o audio-conferință cu IT Manager-ul dintr-o companie de engineering mestecă gumă mentolată și face baloane, iar în loc să răspundă la escaladarea aia importantă care ne-ar putea costa contracte de milioane de euro, Alexandra se duce-n parc cu o carte a vreunui autor francez obscur ca să uite și să deconecteze și să-și lase subconștientul să rezolve problemele. Pe drumul de întoarcere la birou subconștientul bate la ușa conștientului și uite-așa totul se termină cu bine.
Când Alexandra a început această postare era necăjită și credea că și-a uitat visele, dar a realizat că se înşală și că de fapt și-a reciclat visele și ele sunt încă acolo. Alexandra rezolvă 99% din dilemele pe care le are pe drumul de întoarcere și în timp ce scrie sau se vaită despre ele.

marți, 3 ianuarie 2017

Packing myself

As I pack my bag for the first time this year, I realize how many things I leave behind.
There's costumes of an Indian princess, a Bavarian girl living in the mountains, a 60s gal, there's cards, notes and old remains of the games we used to play, all the books I've read, all the books I wanted to read, photos, weird souvenirs and gifts, shoeboxes of my old diaries, theatre and concert tickets, old gadgets I really should throw away, guitars and so many bags I could fit all my stuff in them.
Back then, I would go to a costume party and dress up in the bathroom of Springtime because I'd be running from work to school and then to an unhealthy dinner with a friend.
Back then, I'd get nice birthday cards I'd frame and put on the wall. I've actually found some Christmas cards I forgot to deliver to some of my friends.
Each time we wanted to watch a movie together we'd make small pieces of paper and write the names so that we all get a chance to pick the movie.
Books were my only treasure and I'd feel like a king if I could afford the luxury of spending the last of my pocket money on them.
I've never been a fan of photos, but I seem to appear in a lot of them. I even have one painting of myself.
2 years ago I got a dragon sculpture from a friend because I am Khaleesi. I love that present because it's weird, it's lovely and it has a cool blue light when you plug it in. Yes, my friend, this sculpture can be plugged in. Deal with it.
Back then, I'd write on scrapbooks and notebooks in a small writing that's now spreading from page to page because of the low quality pen I was using, making it impossible to read.
Remember when we fell from a boat and I got my Kindle and phone soaking wet? I kept those 2. I'll probably throw one away because the other is sufficient to remind me about this one.
Now I don't need so many things. I go to parties as myself, I no longer need any costume. I no longer get so many cards and if I do, I don't frame them anymore. It's because people tend to fade away once their writing has been framed. I watch movies alone most of the time, mostly because I can't stand it when people ask me about the plot instead of actually following it. I no longer buy so many books because I have a subscription to all the public libraries in Catalonia. I've learned to appreciate photos, but I still don't take a lot of them. I hereby thank my friends for taking a shitload of photos and sending them to me.
I'm sad I'm leaving again, I'm happy I know what awaits me. Now I am sure my heart cannot be still.
Now I am sure I'll never follow crazy dreams again. I'll just be happy with normality and every time I'll miss being a loveable idealist I'll open one of the shoeboxes I have and remember the times when I used to be one. And my heart will be as young as it is beautiful.

sâmbătă, 26 noiembrie 2016

About cowards, mediocrity and shaded people

I've always been attracted by the quiet and shaded people. 
The kind of people that don't speak much when they're in a big group.
The expressive kind.
The kind that make you say to yourself: what's up with him/her? 
The troubled kind.
I guess they have the best stories to tell. I guess it is those stories that make them go quiet. Like they've seen enough from this world to want more. They just wait for the end of it.
You can see it in thier eyes, they suffer and they hide it. But they don't do it very well. Because there's something in the way. It's their own soul, that wants to breathe out through them. Like if they don't let it out from time to time they risk to implode.
I admire them, I want to stay close to them and I want to become one of them.
But I don't.
Because there's something in the way.  
It's my fear.
It's the fear.
I feel like if I become one of them, I wouldn't be able to go back. And I've never been too good at controlling my emotions, unless I make a big effort. Bigger than most people, but I still do it and it counts because if I were to say "fuck off" or "I love you" every single time I felt I should my world would have desintegrated. I'd be ashamed of myself for being so honest.
I know I'd be self distructive if I were to let out that side of me that knows how to write, that knows how to sing, that knows how to express pain and happiness and loathe and sickness of this entire collection of blind heartless people our society has created. I know I wouldn't be able to take it.
I may seem like I'm making a big deal out of it, but I'd rather be ridiculously right than deadly wrong. It's the fear again, and she's my best friend.
I don't even have to wonder why things are like this, because it's simple. I'm not the only coward. There's lots of them. And they all come together as big groups of cowards that do the same cowardly things: go to the same highschool, do the same jobs and hang out in the same bars.
I'm a fucking coward and I love it.
However, I still have this attraction to the dark, to the artistic, to the insane.  And it's morbid and it will probably consume me if it gets me.
I guess it will not, thanks to my dear cowards.
And thanks to the shiny, happy and kind cowards that are attracted to me. They are dear to me, but they bore me to... was about to say death, but I'm not dead yet. 
So, in order to close this outburst of sincerity that is making me write exactly what I think, I just want to glorify my cowardness by saying: even if I make it, even if I let all the talent in me touch the world, I'm sure I'd still be mediocre to myself and most people.
Here's to the safety of mediocrity! I love it!

miercuri, 21 septembrie 2016

tu me plais, să mor dacă te mint

îmi place de tine.
nu mă faci să te visez în fiecare noapte, nu mă zgudui cu iluzii care mai de care, nu îmi dai lumea peste cap.
n-ai nici cea mai mică intenţie să mă ameţeşti, să mă zăpăceşti, să-mi dai frisoane.
nu îmi aleargă inima pe câmpii de tâmpită când te văd. nici nu arăţi a cine ştie ce. ce-i drept, îţi stă bine cu cămaşa aia bleu.
nici măcar nu ştiu ce culoare au ochii tăi, tu realizezi? cred că-s albaştri, că poate aşa se explică treaba cu cămaşa bleu.
ah, şi n-ai păreri care mai de care, nu exagerezi, nici nu faci excese. nici prea relaxat nu eşti.
şi totuşi îmi placi.
ai un zâmbet tâmp care îmi aduce aminte de unul din şoriceii din Cenuşereasa. Cred că ăla gras, deşi tu nu eşti gras. Gus Gus. ce mai comedie.
şi-ţi place brânza împuţită şi vorbeşti cu accent franţuz, ce nebunie.
cred că ştiu de ce îmi place de tine.
ai nişte steluţe în ochii de culoare neidentificată de fiecare dată când mă priveşti. şi se asortează de toată frumuseţea cu zâmbetul de Gus Gus.
şi steluţele din ochii tăi aprind steluţele din ochii mei şi zâmbetul tău tâmp trezeşte un zâmbet absolut ridicol pe faţa mea.
hai să bem vin, să mâncăm brânză împuţită şi să parlons nous d'amour, cheri.
să mor dacă te mint.

joi, 1 septembrie 2016

despre azi

beau vin
c-un vecin
ascult jazz
ce mai haz

cam atât.
a se nota că am diacritice.
şi nu mai ştiu a scrie cu literă mare la început de frază.

anarhie
şi beţie.