Merry Crimbo to all and to all a Merry Crimbo!

...and a Happy New Year!

Odeur

This is a true story, something that really happenend to me. Now, women might want to lock their children, hide their pets and look away.
So, I was in the bus, right? Going towards the same place I go to every day, following the same route, my nose in between the pages of a book and other's noses in my business. The first thing you are going to notice in a bus is dirty noses from all the nosing in between other's ass cheeks. That's why I always keep a book or a sudoku magazine or even a notebook quite close to my nose. However, today, the two seats on each of my sides were empty. I was sitting there, isolated like a bomb waiting to be detonated. Nothing could go wrong with so many noses at such a distance, right? Wrong! Where have you read a story without conflict?
Bus stops. Open doors. Enter lady, mild aged. Unpleasent feeling. She asks me if the seat next to me is free, as if it wasn't obvious enough - I know now that the Universe was giving me the opportunity to change my fate, to shout: "NO!". I had a similar idea then but the confusion of not knowing which of the two seats she was referring to acted as a gag.
I returned to my undisturbed state of perfect calm and taoist inertia. People started gathering in a chicken-like fashion, with their eyes like those of pigeons - looking sideways, moving their heads in short bursts of agitated ample movements. The other seat was now occupied also. My claustophobia started pumping more blood in less time, filling the capillaries in the nose and increasing my respiration. And then the smell. The smell of cheap cologne combined with a few drops of perspiration that brought back memories that I was striving to unmemorize.
I was trapped in a death chamber. I knew then and there that, somehow, life was slowly but surely ending. I soon begged the Universe from all my heart for a quick death. It chose to ignore me. The agony lasted until I recovered my lucidity that had to make a detour because of the initial shock. I figured then that soon I would get used to that smell but, somehow, I didn't want to - I didn't want to embrace all those horrible memories that were trying to pierce my cranium. Instead, I challenged my mind to block the perfume but it was futile. I even tried to stop breathing but when I started feeling dizzy, I took a mouthful of air, perfume infested air, intoxicating me further and deepening my dizziness. That only intensified my suffering as I was now feeling every particle of it and I made a quick promise of not trying stupid ideas anymore.
I was now caged in the final stages of my detonation and I really felt like I was ready to blow. I challenged my mind again. I was now trying, with my remaining energy, to change that smell into a more pleasurable one. I provoked my imagination and I filled my mind with happy memories and happy thoughts. Pleasant ones. To no avail. The smell caused them to wither and burn like a flaming filmstrip or a polaroid on fire. Coincidently, that ignited the fuse and the bomb was seconds to explosion, despite my desperation.
My last attempt failed and the bomb went off. Last night's beans and beer were of great use now and, in no time, I was isolated again. The smell was replaced by a far better one and, relieved, I smiled.

This is Unfinished Because I Don't Know How it Ends...

When you wake up next to me
You find me up and running
And when you ask me how I slept
I tell you that you're funny.

But when you change your smile into a frown
I tell you not to worry,
It's normal not to sleep

When sleeping next to you
Turns every night to morning.

And now for something completely different (Bunnies of Values, new section Grand Opening!)

They say that a picture is like a thousand words. What about more than one? What about a polaroid?

Following the same philosophy, which you have been used with here, of saying a lot by short means, here is something completely different. And because comic strips should be just that, here are some filmstrips that describe human values in a quite original way - using bunnies, non-values and vices and trying to be comical in a very noir/noire way [typical]. For a period, this is how things will go around here and this is how everything will look like so don't be shy to share your thoughts and feel free to participate in any way you like (pun intended, click the like button - there's also one at the bottom for the facebook page).

Without further ado, click this link to go straight into the action or, for the dyslexic: click the polaroid! (you'll get used with these "on-purpose badly taken pictures") The next filmstrips will be posted here and in the Bunnies of Values section below where you can find them all. Also, there's going to be an ad somewhere around here which will remind you of your favourite bunnies!

Sketch

Yet another no-comment sketch for Comédie Noire/Noir in preparation for the upcoming new section. Does this count as a comment?

Prognoza pentru week-end III

E decembrie şi s-au schimbat multe şi câteva merită menţionate. Ceea ce nu s-a schimbat este vremea, deci şi week-end-ul ăsta vom avea lună şi, de fapt, şi după week-end. Şi frig. Frigul e îndeajuns pentru toată lumea, nu vă mai înghesuiţi.

Ce s-a schimbat: ce citeşti este scris cu un font diferit, atent ales. Am schimbat partea "Cititori" de jos de tot cu ceva mai modern şi mai interactiv. Are chiar şi un mare buton de like cu care vă puteţi "abona". Veţi primi actualizări şi titlurile celor mai noi vorbe direct pe facebook şi veţi putea participa la tot felul de discuţii. A apărut o listă cu blog-urile prietenilor, deasupra etichetelor şi, cel mai important, un nou concept original Prognoza meteo: Lună - Vorbe scurte. Le veţi putea găsi înşirate peste tot pe blog, de-obicei sub vorbe - sunt foarte drăguţe şi scurte. Nu vor sta mult ca să nu ocupe locul aşa că apucă-te să le colecţionezi pe toate.

De ce atâtea schimbări? Există un proiect în pregătire care, dacă totul merge bine, va fi o colaborare. Nu spun titlu, subiect, câţi se vor ocupa pentru că nimic nu e cert. E doar o imagine în capul meu. Probabil până anul viitor va apărea o nouă secţiune.

În rest, nu vă opriţi din a vă împărtăşi gândurile cu privire la oricare din vorbe sau chiar la Poetry of the Common Fellow şi nu uitaţi să folosiţi butonul de like cu folos şi cu sinceritate şi, dacă vă interesează, să vă alăturaţi paginii de facebook. (jos de tot-de tot)

Mai multe nu mai spun. Fugi de-aici! (nu fugi, poate mai e ceva de citit care ţi-ar plăcea)

Week-end plăcut!

Cuisine

Something that I said I'll never be, I'm slowly becoming. I was half way to a white empty plate when I realized it. Instinctively my eyes raised and stopped on where she sat, an empty seat now, next to a burning cigarette consuming itself in the ash tray on the table, the ignited tip far from the brown-yellowish end. I was reading but I stopped to concentrate in forming a dull and surprised-looking expression thinking of how I wanted her to see me when she would come, even though that moment would not arrive soon. I think she only mentioned it once, she didin't brag about it, she never felt superior or even different, for that matter, in any way, she wasn't trying to convince me or others of her belief. I don't really know how I came across the thought and feeling that something is missing, that something might be wrong or... not right, or different in any way but it hit me right there and then like the Sun temporarily blinds the caveman when he emerges from his cave. I looked again, just to be sure - you know - but reality was not to be altered, no matter how I was handling it. Somehow, it seemed pretty obvious, easy to explain. She was a vegetarian and, since she was cooking for me, she was not serving any meat. But the mere fact that she said nothing about it, that she would do it mellow - but not in a secretive fashion - made my discovery so much more interesting and surprising. The scary part was how I never noticed these simple facts until now, how she knew this and how she took pleasure abusing it. As unconscious as I was eating anything, I was unconsciously being turned to eat only some things.

The Tail I Couldn’t Dye Without Telling

I had received it four years ahead of the time I was supposed to receive it. They told me a lot of things, most of which my short termed memory could not satisfy me with, for now. As they were telling me everything they seemed to be instructed to tell me, I was staring them blankly, unmoved by Granpapa’s occasional spit, nor the often censorship from Aunt Pansy imposed on certain aspects of his storytelling nor the horrible things that they were actually trying to relate. In spite of my father’s wet-melted-wax-like face and my mother’s tears-eroded-canyons-like face I stood still, thinking of only one thing. All four looked very disappointed when I started smiling, becoming shades and outlines of the pale colors of their thick woolen clothes. Granpapa cried a distorted and flat sound followed by a strange alignment of his eyebrows in a way that his astonishment could easily control, but his aged muscles couldn’t anymore. He disappeared in the dark hole that was the bathroom entrance, enclosing himself behind the shut metal door. My mother started crying again and was led out of the small dark and dank kitchen that always had the curious smell of dirty-perspiration-soaked-socks-boiled-in-soup. It was me, my Aunt Pansy and her sadistic look upon her ugly face that brought back so many childhood memories that my mind was struggling to block. And there it was, creating shades of grey in the black kitchen. My big smile had an aura that shone. For a moment I forgot I was cold and shivering, even if my sweater was itching most horribly, irritating my sensible white skin. Aunt Pansy said something, but I can’t remember what right now. I only know that I asked her if it was really true. I think that my prolonged smile started to become a sinister grin because it reflected in Aunt Pansy’s witch-like nose which erected the solitary hair in its tip. That was all she permitted to show of her dread. I know now that she feared me. I asked her once again, almost angry, I even demanded her, taking profit of her unnoticeable moment of sensibility. It was only when my parents flung inside and snatched me, dragging me out of the frozen darkness that my Aunt Pansy stopped them, uttering the expected words: “He must have it. That’s what he would have wanted. It’s his now.”. Right there and then, I had forgiven all of Aunt Pansy’s abuses and tortures.

I hold the grey tail which belonged to my grandfather. I am on my balcony, trying to finish the bottle of brandy, though the heavy morning is pushing my shoulders like Atlas’ burden. I am trying to remember why I wanted this tail so much, why I dedicated my whole petty life and existence to it. I remember when my parents used to send me to my grandfather in the stifling hot summers and I used to sit there, doing absolutely nothing all day, in a small claustrophobic room that permitted no light, nor heat. I could choose, of course, each summer, to go either to the proprietor of the ant sized room or to Granpapa. The latter was a declared enemy of the former and, according to his philosophy; he was keeping his friend far away and his non-friends even further. In a way, my grandfather was the only family I had. I think I do remember how I came across the tail. But I could never say it now. What I need to say, what I need to let out, is that today I decided to dye it. I know you might not understand why I am doing it or why it is so hard to do it that I must empty a brandy bottle before. I am still not fully decided myself, but I know that I couldn’t do it alone. That’s why you are here. That’s your part. You are the impartial judge, the neutral witness, the uninvolved sideshow character. You are here because I needed you to know that I want to dye this tail, because it is the tail I couldn’t dye without telling.

Din colecţia "Poeţi şi beţi" - "În aşteptarea Ionelului"

mănânc o mandarină genială
miroase a crăciun
ar merge o ţigară
dar am păru' ud
Ionelul

The Strange Face of Love

This is the world and myself as I see them today. This two lines I wrote after I finished everything that you will henceforth read and, even now, I feel that I wrote nothing or an incomplete something.

I once felt an unexplicable power, the power to do things my own way. I once felt that the human capacity is only 1/6th of my capacity. I simply felt that I could do anything just by thinking of it, and for a time, everything went well for me.
The first time things started moving another direction I noticed while writing. There was no substance in what I wrote, no inspiration, no easy fluence. That is when I began to be ripped into small pieces and left out into the nothingness of the New Universe. Had I not seen everything? Could I have not been able to forsee everything? I now have the certainty that I was never right, but neither was I ever wrong.
So what happened then? What happened that shook my whole existance and meaning in a matter of days? I could not tell then, and I can't be sure now, but I've seen love doing devastating things. I've seen love destory people to the core. I've seen love infiltrate under the skin and eat everything inside, leaving just a hollow shape behind. You could really see these people, shadows, outlines without filling. Simply talking to them would pull your heart out. It's only when love starts feeling like true pain and it starts hurting like nothing before, it starts hurting being awake, that's when you know and you start realizing, and that's the one moment too late. Nor sleep nor alcohol will help you now, though they might ease you pain. For love is a flame and, like any other burning thing, it fucking hurts.
Not aware of any of these, I continued my life of self-reliability. And for a time, it worked. When love starts to infect you, you first start feeling small holes inside which must be filled. Filling them is the real challenge, something that could change you forever, as I now realize. Some choose to fill them with hate, some choose to fill them with plastic love, a self-induced love which, in retrospective, is as insignifiant as an ant in the Milky Way. I started filling them with happy moments - this is the worse thing you could do when you get infected. Just a higher scale from which you would have to sometime fall.
And that's what I did. I climbed, higher and higher, trying to escape, trying to reach everything I lost, thinking that, somehow, I fell below them. The truth is, as I can now state, unblinded by that foolishness, is that they are somewhere behind, trapped in time, in a place of no return. Trying to go back would only create a paradox. You can go back to a time in which you were someone, only to get there as someone else. I don't know if you understand.
The real mistake I've done is run away. Run away from my feelings, try to somehow hide them, burry them away. This ultimately rendered me as less of a human, with only the idea of living, a simulation of existance. Never has it been so hard to cry, though so necessary. Repulsion comes during the introspection, and from so much hate and disgust, I start neglecting my own self. That's how the altruist was born. I died so many times that I can barely call myself alive. I'm just a walking absence.
In the clarity of things, I was permited to see all this. By embracing my sickness, I started contemplating not upon a cure, but upon a symbiotic way of living. Love is permited in my life, but I give it minimum interest. I find this... well for me.
So why this, I now ask myself? I don't believe that everything has a reason, nor that everything has a meaning. I don't even believe that all the lines will meet in one or more points. But at least one of the many things that turned me into the less of a human-less of a monster I am today must point towards something. I tried with creation. Maybe this state in which I am will help me write or draw. I will let you judge that, I remain skeptic. If it's not this, then maybe this state is not made for the present, but for the future. I tried with past, it only helped me get this far. So what about the future?
We were shown to be mistaken considering time and space as a simple liniar string. I agree. I think that everyone is defined by his own individuality, thus everyone has his own time and space. The whole world, the Universe is as big as each and everyone's world is. Well, maybe not the Universe. So I thought of a braid. Everyone has his own string. Everyone crochets his own way, until they meet with another string. This is how braids are made. Try to pull one string out and the whole fabric rips apart. That is why I will clearly state that retrospective can be done only passive, inactively, without trying to change the past or the way in which you've done things but merely work with what you have inhereted from you past self, as agreed upon earlier, a totally different person. In the same time, future has the same certainty as something that has not yet been knitted. You can only imagine the design, the colors, the material, but never the end result. It all depends on the other strings.
Following this idea, giving up the idea of the birth of a genius creator, giving up the idea of travelling backwards in time, or forward into the future, giving up the idea that there even is something as past and future, I started chasing my own tail. I'm a spinning elipsoid motherfucker in a world of strings.That can't be right. But until now, until I learn something else, until my disease is cured (in this writer's opinion, hopes of a cure are naive and quite dangerous) I will continue pursuing something that is not there. I will not be running away, but I will be running around. I will be doing this alone or, to a certain extent, with whoever wants to run around. This question will still remain: Why have I become what I am today?(not the reason but for what reason)
But I am as sure as the devil's tail that I will be doing everything in this great shadow that love is.

Mişcarea

Zgomotul era redat strident, pe o scară ascendentă, o scară a sunetului, disociată după un anumit nivel. Un marcaj discret. Zgomotul era imperturbabil pentru că nici o sursă nu putea genera un astfel de sunet, un sunet trecut de mult de nivelul bunului simţ, transformat într-un zgomot strident ce definea adevărata natură a unui nucleu cultural care găzduia o multitudine de termeni şi cunoştinţe altfel ascunse pentru cei mai mulţi din afară.

Şi apoi... linişte. Atât de improbabilă, nerelevantă, chiar... nesemnificativă. Produsul unor legături strânse, deşi cu sinapse subţiri, gata să fie rupte la primul semn. Rezultatul unui zgomot strident al cărei sursă o reprezintă forfota şi mişcarea haotică a particulelor elementare ce compuneau întregul.

Fântâna

O casă departe de casă. Un loc etern al purificării, refugiul celor însetaţi de viaţă. Un loc al amintirilor, veşnic emanând fericire. Un elogiu pentru cei pierduţi de drum, uitaţi de vreme, îndrumaţi prost de trecut. Timpul se pierde, căldura se adună şi dintr-un cocon răsare-un nou început. Te cheamă şi, dacă ajungi, uiţi de tine şi de toţi cei din jurul tău. Egoismul pune stăpânire pe tine şi te poartă într-un lin dans al norilor, către ceruri, şoptindu-ţi calm într-o ureche... devii nihilist. Tot ce poţi vedea eşti tu... devii narcisist. Şi dacă asta se va întâmpla, însăşi pietrele din care-i este alcătuită fundaţia se vor ridica să te doboare şi însăşi apa-n care te vei pierde se va strădui să te atragă într-un puţ adânc - abisul - pe un lung drum care nu are mijloc şi sfârşitul nu i-a fost încă atins. Pe drumul care-ţi înşiruie, într-o lungă rânduire de secvenţe, viaţa. Un drum departe de orice drum, departe de casă.

Prognoza pentru week-end II

A trecut aproape o lună... Nu, asta nu e bine. Iată-ne la cea de-a doua mare prognoză... Nu, nici asta nu sună cum trebuie.

Week-end-ul va fi foarte frumos! Mergeţi afară în week-end, nu staţi să citiţi prostii pe bloguri! De luni în colo vor mai apărea două vorbe mai vechi (a se citi foarte vechi) pe care trebuie să le modific un pic şi să le adaug în context şi, probabil, încă două vorbe pentru specificul blogului.

Până atunci, am înghesuit toate poeziile la Poetry of The Common Fellow, au mai apărut câteva gânduri interesante, în caz că le-aţi pierdut (verificaţi arhiva din octombrie), o să inund secţiunea Comédie Noire/Noir cu sketch-uri care o să apară şi aici (sper că aţi observat motto-ul secţiunii) şi am schimbat un pic formatul (am îmbunătăţit?): deasupra arhivei din subsolul paginii am adăugat toate etichetele, cele mai citite vorbe şi dedesubt cititorii înregistraţi (deocamdată unul, poate vă interesează treaba asta, de-asta e acolo) şi citiri (nu vă speriaţi de cifra mare, probabil majoritatea îmi aparţin) şi probabil deja aţi observat deja butoanele de "like" care pot fi folosite fără sfială, dar cu sinceritate!

În rest nu uitaţi că şi voi vă puteţi lăsa gândurile şi chiar şi poeziile la Poetry of The Common Fellow!

Să aveţi o lună plăcută! Nu... nici încheierea n-o nimeresc!

Sketches (Comédie Noire/Noir no-comments)

Poetry of The Common Fellow (New Section Grand Opening!)

Am mutat toate poeziile în noua secţiune intitulată frumos: e scris şi sus, nu-mi place să mă repet. Puteţi continua să încercaţi să transmiteţi cât mai mult în cât mai puţine cuvinte, însă de acum nu veţi mai fi restricţionaţi de către cele trei zile şi nici eu nu voi mai simţi nevoia să mânjesc pereţii blogului de fiecare dată.

Noile poezii vor fi postate aici şi apoi mutate acolo. Simţiţi-vă liberi să împărtăşiţi gânduri în oricare din locuri.

Enjoy!

Dialog Between Two Skeletons

"Comédie Noire/Noir" the section that puts "fun" back into "funeral" and "laughter" back into "slaughter". Some sketches coming up. Till then, a dialog between two skeletons.

Good mourning, neighbour!

Good mourning, yourself!

You sure look good after a moon-less day slept in a velvet coffin.

Well, the moon might shine brighter for you too, today. I hear you are getting your feet replaced.

Yeah, they found some old ones, barely used, by the unnamed graves in the southern area. They figured that someone who used to be in a wheel chair couldn't get used to them. Where to?

I'm going to the market, catch a bit of a laugh with the fish-bone traders. Humor seems to be the only thing keeping this place alive.

Some of my relatives are selling tattered pieces of cloth at the market. One of my old... eh, previous friends, digged in today. He used to be a tailor so I promised him a visit to the market, maybe he can fancy some clothes. Would you be interested?

Not really. Why should we cover our inhumanity with human means?

We are humans! At least, we used to be. What have you been up to?

Stupid travel agents. Don't you just hate them?

Have they been bugging you again?

Are you kiddin' me? They are non-stop in front of my tomb. One cannot rest his bones peacefully?

What did they want now?

Well, they found out that I just got my afterlife credit card upgraded to golden status. They keep bombarding me with they're imperious offers: "Haven't you spent enough time here already?", "Wouldn't you like to ascend to a higher plane?", "Don't you think that all of your spine problems will go away when you become an astral spirit?"

Your spine does look ugly...

That is not of the matter right now.

Your ten stories fall was quite brutal to your spine...

Are you even listening?

Of course I am! You were talking about your spine.

No, you were talking about my spine, I was talking about the darned... nevermind.

Look, I can really relate to your disagreement with those pesky travel agents, but you must admit they are right! You, of all, really deserve a place in the beyond realm! Hell, you can even afford the top traveling means with your golden card. Why do you stay here?

Hell doesn't exist. There's just this place, and the next one, and the next one and the next one... that's why I'm not interested in paying any of those travel agents. I lived for 99 years and 45 days on Earth. And I could have gotten one hundred if it weren't for that disease-carrying birds. Somehow, we got to this... land of the dead and I've worked just as hard as in the previous life to build a respectful and decent life. For once, I am given the option to stay - I'm not going to blow this one.

Well, I don't have the option. I am bound to this world. You can't even hurt yourself here. But I can't say I'm not thinking about the astral plane.

That's exactly what I'm telling you! You used to be flesh, skin and bones. You used to have feelings! Now you're just bones, left without any physical feelings. Don't you think that the "next life" will leave you worse than you've ever been? And the so called "astral plane" isn't just another "heaven" and "hell" that the fanatics have served us all those previous years? You should be happy to be here. You should be happy to have finally reached a balance.

When have you stopped fighting? What happened to the man who had a dream to ascend. To transcend? What scared you, man? In twenty years of residing here I have never seen a man with a golden afterlife, with the unstained life and brilliant mind that you posses.

The sadness. The heavy sadness of the previous life and the deep sadness of this life. I'm scared to even try another life. Scared by the horrible sorrow of a next life.

That Man Who Had No Tale To Tell, Just a Broken Heart

The first day, my gums started bleeding,
My doctor sent me to the dentist,
The dentist said I'm fine.
The second day, my eyes were red,
My doctor sent me to the eye doctor,
The eye doctor said I'm fine.
The third day, my nose was bleeding,
My doctor sent me to the nose doctor,
The nose doctor said I'm fine.
Today my heart stopped beating and I started spitting blood.
I went to my doctor,
My doctor removed my heart and dried my veins.
He held one half of it, the other on the table.
I couldn't cry or feel sorry for myself; he was trying not to.
The nurse passed out, he wouldn't move his eye.
Finally, I asked, and
My doctor said I'm fine.

That Girl Who Had Forgotten To Remember

"Because in a world gone mad, only a lunatic is truly insane."  Homer J. Simpson

It was foggy. Fogging foggy one might say. She was staring out that window at the immovability outside. A recent tune she had danced on the other night was playing in her head, along with the beats and a certain rhythm. The tap of her right foot was almost uncontrollable and unconscious. She was enjoying it. Something in the absence of everything outside was making her angry. Angry on society, yet again. This was one of her concerns, and she didn't like to complicate herself with many concerns, instead uniting them all into one: society. Behind her, a reasonable sized bookcase, from which she would often choose a book to challenge her mind. That was all she had ever needed. Her Window to the Universe and the written essence of it on the other side. Maybe not all she needed. She also had a study and a bed, the bed which would too often prove of the utmost importance. Nothing was happening outside and this was terrifying her. Was she the only one left? She hovered a bit over that idea. She moved her nose a little, sideways, in sings of "no". That was all that the Master Plan needed to realign the planets according to her wish. A sideways nose movement which, if you weren't paying attention, you could have very well missed.
Commoon.... coooomoooooonn! You can do it! Commoooon! Yes! Finally, she detached herself from her windows and, with a delicate modest smile, one which would pull the heart right out of your chest in the appropriate conditions, she made her way to the front door. Even if that was two falling-down-drunken lunges away, none of which were in her interest or knowledge - just the narrator's unit of measurement - the door was, seemingly, very far. First she had to put on her trench coat, (she was already dressed - it isn't in the purpose of this story to describe nude imagery; maybe another time) then deal with feminine problems such as hair, eyes, cheeks, lips and, finally, the perfume.
Her mind was already going round and round and round and round and ... too many things to think of...
Suddenly the rotation stopped. The break point was introduced by the coincidental revolving scarf around her neck. Her fine nose caught a scent. The scent of smoke. But inside it, inside the scent itself, her sensible nose identified the basic elements that composed that scent: lights, music, booze, smoke, madness... all was coming back now. She was just a little girl by day, but, by night, she was something else, something close to a party animal - the call of the wild was always struggling inside, trying to escape its physical prison.
She was sad now, a little depressed. In her constant stream of thoughts and her guilty conscience, her moves became redundant. What she didn't realize was that this, all that was happening to her right now, was not actually a punishment of her own mind, nor a revolt of her conscience. It was the influence of something bigger, something above her, something above your humble narrator, something that was punishing her trying to make her remember. Yes, remember! Because she had forgotten that "God is a DJ and Life is a dance floor".

Balada (e scrisă de el, nu e despre el) Omului Ciuc

Zboară proştii
Cu aripi de cauciuc de prezervativ
În facultatea asta.
Dansează
În seninătatea idioţeniei pure
Pe holurile tocite
De atatea generaţii de astfel de zburători.
Aş folosi time traveling contraception împotriva lor,
Lăsându-i fără existenţă
Dar mi-e că dobor vreun viitor Einstein.

Tocilari proşti care zboară
Deasupra norilor cauciucaţi.
Scrisă şi trimisă prin sms-uri de către Ciucă.

(Neterminat?)

The Long Friday of the Very Short Story II

Piatră aşternută peste stiva de vise.
Diana

Trăise viaţa în tăcere de mormânt.
Wilfred 

(Încearcă şi tu!)

Astăzi e miercuri! Am spus! Deci e Limerick Wednesday!

Era odată o bătrână nebună din Palermo,
Care voia să facă spaghette cu cremă.
Atunci am intrat
Şi m-am speriat,
A dracu nebună bătrână din Palermo!
Wilfred

(Încearcă şi tu!)

Haiku Monday III

Picăturile
Curg pe sticla verzuie
Şi prăfuită
Alexandra B.

Salcia îşi ţine
Crengile aplecate,
Purtate de vant..
Alexandra B.

Cerul zace, stă
Lună, Soare, nori, stele.
Vânt vine Iarna.
Wilfred

Frig umed dat jos
De pe braţele goale,
Ceaţa solidă.
Wilfred

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The Long Friday of the Very Short Stories

Era odată un băiat cu vise
Ilinca

Prietenii apoi cu mers către Tibet.
Alin S.


Soţul meu? Nu, doar o cană.

Wilfred

(Încearcă şi tu!)

"Welcome, The End of the Universe"

I wanted this to be perfect. That is why I kept postponing it, changing a letter here, a word there. Even this phrase used to be different at the beginning. Oh! Joyous beginnings! "What is perfect?" He asked me. I looked at him with mixed emotions. I thought it was another one of his divine jokes. If He said that, it must mean that perfection is of no use here. Maybe perfection lies in the doors you open in the reader's heart and mind and less in the text itself. So, here it goes.

You won’t believe what happened! I know you won’t, because I can’t believe it either. I figured you
would enjoy it , however. The only thing I couldn’t recall was the exact time and place it all occurred.
The only thing that remains certain and as concrete as the very ground I am now sitting on, is the fact that at
the moment I am writing this, the things I will be reporting have already happened. Or have they? I am
really lost right now, I beg you to understand.
You are never going to believe what happened to me. I know you won't, because I wouldn't either.

So I wake up and there's blank all around me. Blank, like white. Nothing at all. Another thing I notice is that I'm not breathing anymore. It's not like I feel any need to breath, anyways. I'm completely floating, hovering in thin... well, not air, but something; looking around me - all white. Ah, there's something! A huge, and I really mean out of proportions, red line separating what seems, oh... the Universe. I am, as suggested by the many signs, at the End of the Universe, somewhere trapped in time and, seemingly, space. I might be bringing very bad news. There's the Universe, I can even see the Milky Way and the stars and everything, and there's this huge, huge red line and then this white space. There's even a sign post here that says it clearly: "Welcome, The End of the Universe". I find it really hard to pick up all my thoughts and place them in a fluid, coherent stream of ideas. Thus, I will resume describing my surroundings. I am sure of everything I am stating right now because the place is stuffed with sign posts. Yes, sign posts! Written in legible and understandable english. Or am I reading in another language? I was searching for a quiet place to write, when suddenly I forgot where I was, or if I was anywhere. A certain paradox, I now find myself in a disruption or time and space. Another certain paradox, if proven right, is that I write in a continuous present about something that happen or is going to happen. I think I now understand what the blank space beyond the line is for. It’s my space. I can do whatever I want there. For example, changing the given variables I could travel back and forth in Time. To prove this, especially to myself in order to preserve sanity, I will change Time and Space itself, reducing them to a mere rank of variable in a complex and collective system of thinking. Even as I'm speaking this into my mind, something, a burning feeling in the back of my throat suggests me that I could somehow be wrong.


 I can see a man coming. A very simple man, as simple as anyone, as simple as you'd expect a simple man to be. He approaches me from virtually nowhere.
"Hello." he salutes me with a smile. From the way he said it, I immediately assumed that he is God. And not any religious type God, not an elephant with many arms, not a white bearded old fellow, not even a black Morgan Freeman - God, as in the Author of our World. God, as in the Narrator of our Lives.
"Are you God?"
"Yes, I am! I see you are confused. Can I help you with something?"
"How did I get here?"
"There are things that not even I know. Such things as you being here. Can't you see that I am as surprised as you are? Since you're here, would you like to ask me something?"
I ask the first thing that comes in mind: "Are we alone?"
"Here, yes."
"In the Universe."
"Oh, no! Alone? You are a lot! More than two billion, not to mention the ants, the bees, the bacterias, the wolves..."
"No no, I mean... are there any aliens?"
"Aliens? You don't even know half of your neighborhood. You can't salute the ones you know, most of the time, and you can't make your friends feel good, but you are concerned about even more lifeforms? Aliens? No, there aren't any for that matter."
"You brought me here to show me how miserable I am?" I try, with a suicidal dare.
"Why do you assume that I brought you here? Everything that happens, blame it on God?!"
"Am I dead?"
"No, we have a special place for that."
"Hell?"
"In your case, yes." his pause made my whole existence tremble. "I'm just kidding" he continued.
"How can you make such a joke?"
"You wrote once that humor was of divine nature. You wrote that only God can truly understand the essence of humor and that humor, in its perfection, is in limited quantities. Can't I make a little joke?"
"Was everything I wrote true?"
"You made it true!"
"Everything I ever write is true?"
"Yes, of course, you make it that way! In fact, everything that everyone writes, paints, draws or creates in any way, everything fills this big blank space. This is how the Universe grows. This is how you keep it growing."
I couldn't say anything else. My mind was filled with everything he was telling... sorry, He was telling me... it's even harder to understand that I'm actually talking to God. 
"I have one more question."
"The purpose of existence? The purpose of the Universe?"
"Not really, but that too, yes! What about love?" my question seemed to fill my new Friend with a feeling so deep that, for a moment, I thought every star in the Universe started to blink twice.
"Ah, love. Beautiful thing, quite complicated." coming from Him made me a little more confident on my own feelings. He continued: "Every time you, your friends, you family, everyone around you and everyone on Earth created something, it filled this blank, this white void. But every time you, the general you, truly loved something or someone, it animated everything that was newly created. Without love, the Universe would be a motionless, lifeless drawing." he paused again and I smiled in anticipation. He smiled back.

Inspirat din "The Egg" (de Andy Weir)

E miercuri, deci e Limerick Wednesday! II

(scuze pentru întârziere şi lamentaţie, once more)

Era odată un dentist care locuia în State,
Şi care iubea foarte mult dinţii de lapte
Îi plăcea să îi vadă,
Cu un cleşte să-i scoată,
De-asta copiii nu mai merg la dentistul din State.
Wilfred

(Încearcă şi tu...)

Vinerea şovăielii acute

Ştiu, nu e vineri, dar ceea ce mi s-a întâmplat week-end-ul ăsta a fost absolut ieşit din comun. Am povestit la un moment dat despre un studiu care a avut ca efect adoptarea zilelor de miercuri şi de luni ca zile ale poeziei limerick respectiv haiku. Se pare că un studiu recent, venit ca răspuns la studiul britanic mai sus menţionat, realizat de către Prof.Dr. Lutoidi Iulutas de la Universitatea Boliviana Lacul Pipikaka, atestă faptul dovedit ştiinţific că ziua de vineri este o zi a şovăielii. Pentru a înţelege mai bine metodele prin care s-a ajuns la această concluzie, voi rezuma mai jos faimosul studiu:

"Vaca face Muu.
Oaia face Bee.
Câinele face Ham.
Pisica face Miau."

Iată, deci, că la cele două zile se adaugă ziua de vineri, Zi a nuvelelor foarte scurte. Oricum, la zilele de luni şi de miercuri nu v-aţi înghesuit, poate asta va fi mai simplu. Merită încercat, altfel mă lăsaţi să mă amuz singur la încercările mele, ceea ce m-am obişnuit deja să fac (ce ipocrit sunt - 300+ vizitatori, conform blogger; acum mă şi laud)! Am mail, număr de telefon, facebook, messenger, cutie poştală şi mă puteţi găsi cel mai des în lume. Iată cum stau lucrurile pe lung:

Very Short Stories este un concept aproape deloc cunoscut, pornit de la Hemingway care a scris la un moment dat, în şase cuvinte: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." şi a numit-o cea mai bună creaţie a lui. It's as simple as that! Tema este aceeaşi ca în celălalte zile, bucurii, dezamăgiri ale zilei sau, pentru că este sfârşit de saptămână şi început de week-end, retrospective, aşteptări. Dacă nimic nu merge, scrieţi în ce limbă vreţi despre orice! Reguli:

• 6 cuvinte
• o poveste

 Aşa că vă aştept să vă alăturaţi distracţiei, nu uitaţi regula generală: dacă ai citit ceva ce ţi-a plăcut, eşti obligat să scrii şi tu ceva - now that's karma! Bun! Dacă măcar asta merge, punem şi ziua poeziei dadaiste! Şi ce idei mai aveţi voi!

Haidi!

Războaiele Şoselelor

Demult de tot (dar în viitor), într-o galaxie aflată departe

departe de noi (în Bucureştiul fictiv)...

Într-o lume fără maşini, 

ei n-ar fi mers pe biciclete. 

Erau bipezii într-o lume a patrupezilor, 

descoperiţi, fără nimic de ascuns. 

În loc să se încurce, 

să se claxoneze, să se înjure ca ceilalţi ei se salutau, 

strângeau mâinile, se îmbraţişau şi se înţelegeau între ei.

Ei mergeau des împreună, în loc să se ciocnească.

Viaţa lor era lungă şi sănătoasă, dar se putea termina brusc.  

Viaţa celorlalţi era în siguranţă, dar numai a lor era aşa.

Ei trăiau cu bicicleta, ceilalţi trăiau pentru maşini. 

Ei îşi respectau bicicleta, aveau încredere 

în ea, depindeau de vânt şi se bucurau de el, 

îndurau poluarea şi tot ce lăsau ceilalţi în urmă.

Ceilalţi ce făceau? Erau cu toţii diferiţi, solitari, însă 

uniţi călare pe două roţi într-o lume a cutiilor de metal.

Aşa au început Războaiele Şoselelor.

Haw-haw @ încercare lamentabilă de imitaţie a intro-ului din Star Wars. Aceasta este doar o introducere, frumoasa poveste stă s-apară. A se citi Războaiele Şoselelor şi nu Războaiele Şosetelor. Acum închide calculatorul şi ieşi afară, admiră natura, întoarce-te când apare.

The Story of How I Lost My Late Wife

"Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most."  Mark Twain

White car. Black car. Green car. White again. Black again. Green... what a funny coincidence. All I have to do now is to replace the broken window with a new one, finish covering up the holes in the walls, change a couple of floor tiles and we're done! Well... I'm done. Guess it's hard losing old habits, eh? Scuze my lack of introduction:
I'm 49 and I was told that I'm losing my minds. The reason I am so calm right now is that I am being help hostage in my very own apartment and I am being kept under a heavy dosage of... well, drugs. The reason I shouldn't be so calm is that up to three days ago, my wife, the person who I have been sharing my life with for the past twenty years, has been brutally and violently murdered in our... sorry, my own apartment. Two days ago, the police investigation rendered my testimonials as absurd as there has been no body discovered or recovered, no signs of violence or murderous acts, no blood - only a very "badly kept" apartment. Furthermore, they discovered that I don't even have a wife, no record of any marriage what so ever. Imagine this: me, on the floor, consuming every fluid in my body weeping, crying and mourning my loss, shouting desperately and feeling my heart break at the thought of all the memories we've had, all the moments together and, most importantly, my love lying there, fading away. Enter police, body is tagged, photographed and bagged, an interrogation is undergone, exit police. Next day, no murder, no body, no wife. But no blood? I have been scrubbing it off the floor for a whole night. I've thrown my clothes straight into the washing machine, soaking with blood. Dry blood on my hands, on my forehead. No bullets? Just choose a hole, any hole you see in these walls. Anyways, this brings us yesterday. I don't remember all the jibberish talk, but the doctor has been pretty clear about it. I'm mad as a raging bull. Tons of prescriptions and 24 hours surveillance by a male nurse at residence.Which brings us today. They say I've imagined myself a fancy life, garnished with a pretty little wife of mine. That's why I choose to ignore them, that's why I choose to ignore the nurse. It's like he doesn't even exist. He often gets annoyed by this. I should offer him some of my medicine. I'm breathing her perfume, I'm hearing her gentle whispers, I can see her in my dreams and in my memories, I can feel the sorrow and sadness in my heart. Though here I am, calm and lucid as if nothing had happened. Nothing more could matter right now, could it? To my left, the broken window through which the dry wind of summer brings a stench of decaying corpse. To my left, the nurse. It's either the hard way out, or the easy way in. I watch the nurse for the very first time. I pierce his eyes with my eyes, staring right into his soul.
"Do you want to dine out tonight, honey?" I ask.
He takes out a syringe and a leather belt with a most sadistic and satisfied smile.

Haiku Monday II

Vânt rece poartă
Valurile, speranţe
Un nou început.
Wilfred

Timp de curăţat
Blana neagră lucie
Limba perie.
Pixel, ghost written by Wilfred

(Încearcă şi tu...)

Episode one of The Heist (is here)

Was I tired? Or was I out of my minds?
Was I me, or was I nothing at all?

Imagine a building, located in a remote location. A three story building, not too old, not too dirty and just the right amount of shady. Don't overuse your imagination, you'll need it for later - imagine a simple block, three big windows on each side, no light coming from the inside.

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The Heist Teaser

M-am apucat de "The Heist". Ăsta este un teaser. De ce l-am numit aşa? Pentru că "The Heist". va apărea episodic, şi va semăna cu un scenariu şi dacă îl printaţi şi îl mestecaţi o să aibă gust de film; nu dau date concrete sau programe pentru că n-o să mă ţin de promisiune. Aşa că aşteptaţi-vă ca sporadic, să apară episoade din "The Heist".. Şi cine zice că am promis să-l scriu în română este un mare mincinos şi ar trebui să-i fie ruşine!
Iată:

I enter the room. They are all standing around the table. I don't like the faces. I don't like them at all...

"What happens?" I ask.
"Tech here interpreted your drawings."
"So it's good?" I ask.
"Tech?"
"Well, your drawings were quite intelligible. Luckily, I know this type of systems and I was able to complete the whole wiring. I deduced two problems for which we are not prepared."
"What problems, Tech?" I ask. I start removing my leather jacket.
"One, if we bugger with the wiring, the system will interrupt itself and the alarm will go off, commencing the lock down. Two, the system is connected to a generator, buggering with the generator would set off the alarm causing the same effects."
"So we can't cut the power?" I ask as I remove my scarf.
"We can, but it would be useless..."
"How much time?"
"For what?"
"How much time until the generator starts. I ask, then I cross my feet and learn against the wooden door, crossing my arms. I could see all of them from that angle and I did not like the faces at all."
"Immediately", this time Kent answered.
"Impossible. How much time?" I insist.
"0 point four seven seconds." Kent answers.
"What can we do in this time?"
"Nothing. You don't have time to spit."
"Nothing?"
"You don't have time to spit." he repeated emphasizing word by word.

I was staring blankly at them. They returned the stare, some only returned a glance. But the faces were all the same: game over. My face was slightly different. I smiled: it was beginning.

E miercuri, deci e Limerick Wednesday!

Era un băiat numit Alin,
Care de păr era plin
Când se tundea
Părul la loc îi creştea,
Aşa arată şi-n buletin.
Wilfred

Era o fată frumoasă,
Care credea că e grasă
Atunci s-a grăbit
Şi a slăbit,
De vânt n-a mai stat pe terasă.
Wilfred

(Încearcă şi tu...)

Şobolibozaurul, poem epic

continuare...

Şobolibozaurul renăştea,
Din Lună cădea,
Pe Pământ ajungea,
Nebunia din nou începea.

Era mai groznic oare
Cu fiecare reîncarnare?
Se lăsase tăcere...

Şobolibozaurul Cel Iubit,
De către toţi era hulit,
Îl voiau răstignit.

De-această-ncercare,
Avea spre purtare,
Un şorţ mare,
Şi-o bonetă.

Aşa că muncea,
Bucătar devenea,
Creatura monstroasă gătea,
Mai zi-mi un cuvânt să se termine-n a!

Dar se-aude de-un erou mitic,
Născut şi crescut de-un pitic,
Care se-ascunde şi doarme-n urzic*
Venit să-mi omoare Şobolibozaurul mic?

Nici vorbă, marele meu balaur,
Ai să mori înecat în propria-ţi ciorbă de taur.

*urzic: aici, copac în care cresc urzici;

Haiku Monday

(scuze pentru întârziere)

Nu îngălbenesc
Nu cad încă frunzele
Toamna nemişcată
Alexandra B.

Cold air blows lightly
The leaves move in disarray
Autumn has arrived
Alexandra B.

Nu sunt nici roşii,
Nu este nici caşcaval,
Ăsta e sandwich?
Wilfred



(Încearcă şi tu...)

That Clown Who Had Too Much To Say (Grand Opening - Comédie Noire/Noir)

 Declar deschisă secţiunea Comédie Noire/Noir şi plâng şi râd în acelaşi timp când mă gândesc câte poveşti şi câte desene şi câte cine-ştie-ce-uri o să fie acolo. De fapt, acum doar plâng când mă gândesc că poate n-o să fie atât de multe lucruri. Şi poate no să placă nimănui. Aţi înţeles, cam pe tiparul ăsta o să fie toate <smiley-face>. Puteţi, ca în orice secţiune, să participaţi şi voi cu creaţii de-ale voastre sau cu impresii, am şi mail şi facebook, şi telefon mobil şi cel mai mult mă găsiţi chiar în persoană pe unde-oi fi. Iată primul lucru care va apărea acolo.


Awake. The alarm clock was buzzing again. It was 7.30 and I was awake again. I kept telling myself that lately: "awake again".

I'm sorry for the lack of introduction. My name is Peter Lynch, and I am a professional clown. I'm guessing you are here for a joke, or something to amuse you? I'm guessing you are here to find comfort in another man's pain. I'm guessing... you have blond hair and brown eyes? No? Well, there's you joke!

It has been more than fifteen years since I gave up myself, gave my whole person to the public, though in fifteen years I have never felt lonelier and more abandoned. You will say that it's funny how that could happen, since every night I'm being applauded by hundreds of spectators. Didn't I mention I was a clown?

It has been more than five years since I stopped wearing make-up. The dark rings around my eyes, result of many sleepless nights, the purple lips, result of the lack of heat in my flat, the pale yellow-white-ish color of my face, result of under nutrition, fatigue, poor health and whatnot, but especially whatnot, all where my natural makeup now. Of course, the audience would not be bothered by the pattern of my mouth: tooth, tooth, tooth, dark hole, tooth, dark hole, dark hole, brown tooth, yellow tooth, dark hole;

Lately, I haven't even been wearing a wig, due to the accelerated balding and "natural" blue color of my hair. Funny story here, but the "toxic waste refinery" near my flat, to which I must be grateful for the blue color of my hair and other degeneration in my body, should have given me an option ten years ago, when they first decided to buy that old factory:

"Please sign here if you agree with the new placement of our chemical research plant. And here... and here... and below please choose which color would you like us to gradually dye you hair into."

Are you still here? Oh, you also find my misery amusing. You think I'm a workaholic? That I dedicated so much to being a clown? Haven't you ever been so deep into something, that's it's hard to ever surface from it? Furthermore, who would accept me as anything else than a clown, especially now when I'm physically turning into one? The little money I get is my grand fortune. The only workaholic I could be, is if I drank workohol!

Speaking of which, did I tell you that I'm a recovering alcoholic? You will say that is a good thing. And it might be a really good thing! Not when you're recovering from the impossibility of buying any booze. Financial-wise. I know what you are thinking, I'm more pathetic than any falling-down-drunk alcoholic. Smoking? I gave it up years ago! In the state I find myself in, when everything hurts even if I think of it, and I avoid touching any part of my body from fear of losing it, smoking would really be too much.


How did I get like this, you ask me? Oh,... I really got too far to even remember how I started. How did you get to talk to someone like me? See, hard to answer. I'll tell you what - something definitely went wrong, ha-ha. And you can laugh to that! Word of advice: next time you think of doing something nice for someone, make him laugh or simply smile, do it with all your heart, kid! Because I didn't.

But I spoke too much for a clown. I've got a show in half an hour, so scram, kid!

It's time to smile and wave.


Ram-pam-pa-na; nah-nah-nah-nah-na-na...

Pixel Art

Pixel Art, în puţine cuvinte, este o artă digitală în care se lucrează cu "lupa" şi cu "pensula" în succesiuni de zoom in, color pixel(s), zoom out. Şi mult undo.

Se poate lucra în două feluri: 2D sau izometric. Stilul izometric este foarte popular astăzi, pe când stilul 2D îl puteţi vedea în jocurile secolului XX şi în grafica de-atunci (sau de astăzi daca vrea să adopte un aer retro).

Caracteristica principală a acestui tip de artă este incredibila atenţie pentru detaliu, luarea în seamă a luminii şi a altor detalii plastice. Unele modele sunt realiste, în timp ce altele sunt artistice.

Acum există numeroase programe care ajută la realizarea tipului ăsta de artă. Încercarea mea de-acum patru ani s-a realizat în MS Paint (nerecomandat) când m-am jucat cu "lupa" şi cu "pensula" pentru a face ceva, ce numai Photobucket mai poate ştii de ce, dacă cumva mi-a scăpat atunci motivul în faţa lui.

M-am distrat atunci, împreună cu sora mea, că începeam să trag linii drepte cu mouse-ul în Paint. Modelele ăstea sunt simpatice, puerile şi nu respectă proporţiile, dar le-am pus aici cu gândul să mă reapuc de treaba asta şi să vă încurajez şi pe voi să încercaţi!

Luni şi Wednesday plictiseală away!

Am aflat şi eu zilele trecute, dintr-un studiu franco-german intitulat "Weiße Scheiße de la Merde Blanche" condus de către Prof. Dr. Micasa Essucasa în cadrul Universităţii din Whitesocks, Anglia, că omul de rând, omul simplu, omul comun, eu, tu, ei, noi, voi, se plictiseşte cel mai mult luni dimineaţă şi miercuri seară.


Aşa m-am hotărât să acţionez prompt la acest veridic avertisment şi să declar luni dimineaţă Ziua poeziei haiku şi miercuri seară Ziua poeziei limerick. Bun. Secţiunea asta o să fie deschisă, deci în zilele cu pricina (de fapt, duminică seară pentru luni şi marţi seară sau luni dimineaţă pentru miercuri) o să puteţi să trimiteţi pe mail (vladwtomescu@gmail.com) să trimiteţi o impresie, să trimiteţi sms, să mă sunaţi, să îmi scrieţi pe facebook, să îmi recitaţi în persoană una sau câte poezii haiku respectiv poezii limerick puteţi. Ambele trebuie să fie scrise în română!


Iată regulile pentru acest tip de poezii în cazul în care n-aţi auzit de ele:


Haiku sunt poeziile, apărute în Japonia, cu o încărcătură filozofică puternică, însă scrise într-un mod minimalist şi simplu. Poeziile de-aici vor fi scrise respectând regulile originale japoneze: 

•  17 silabe, 3 strofe - 5 silabe în prima strofă, 7 în a doua strofă şi iarăşi 5 în ultima strofă.
•  impersonale, fără pronume personale sau mărci personale: eu, tu, el, ea, ele, ei, noi, voi, -mi, îmi, va, etc.
•  atemporale, fără un timp concret, altul decât cel dat de cuvântul specific anotimpului (vezi mai jos): mâine, astăzi, în viitor, etc.
•  să se refere la un anotimp şi la natură (preferabil anotimpul curent, aşa va avea cel mai mare înţeles) şi să conţină un cuvânt specific anotimpului care să stabilească spaţiul temporal: primăvară, vară, toamnă, iarnă, zăpadă, frig, căldură, soare, ceaţă, ploaie, ski, plajă, etc.
•  să nu rimeze şi să nu conţină metafore.
•  şi, în final, să conţină o frază imperativă de încheiere.

Poeziile haiku originale se scriau într-o singură linie dar, de dragul esteticii, noi le vom structura pe strofe. Nu vă speriaţi, citiţi cu atenţie regulile şi scrieţi ce simţiţi şi o să iasă ceva splendid - nu are cum să iasă altfel. Iată o încercare a mea:


Ciorile negre
Zboară în cercuri spre cer,
Unde e iarna?


Puteţi observa lipsa cruntă de talent invers proporţională cu îndrăzneala. Aşa trebuie să scrieţi şi voi. Este o poezie greu de scris, dar poate să vă iasă ceva excelent! Nu ezitaţi, mai ales că în acele dimineţi de luni este foarte plăcut să compui şi/sau să citeşti haiku.


Limerick sunt poeziile apărute în Irlanda, la polul opus faţă de poeziile haiku, şi sunt supranumite şi poeziile omului comun. Pot să conţină teme ca misoginismul, rasismul şi multe dintre ele au un caracter sexual explicit şi un limbaj vulgar. Majoritatea conţin remarci isteţe şi mult umor, jocuri de cuvinte, eufemisme, non-sens şi sunt scrise pentru amuzament. Regulile sunt mult mai permisive decât în cazul poeziilor haiku şi regulile despre conţinut sunt opţionale. (luate din poeziile originale)

• 5 strofe
• primele două strofe au cel mai mare număr de silabe şi rimează între ele (poeziile originale aveau 9/7 silabe)
• următoarele doua strofe au cel mai mic număr de silabe şi rimează între ele (poeziile originale aveau 4/6 silabe)
• ultima strofă are aceeaşi măsură ca prima strofă şi rimează cu ea, sau nu rimează deloc, poate conţine o exclamare (poeziile originale aveau 9/7 silabe)
• rima trebuie să fie a,a,b,b,a
• prima strofă introduce personajul şi trebuie să se termine fie cu numele acestuia fie cu locul de provenienţă
• a doua strofă descrie personajul
• a treia strofă conţine activitatea personajului
• a patra strofă continuă şi completează a treia strofă
• ultima strofă este comica concluzie sau consecinţă

Aici n-aveţi de ce să nu încercaţi, pentru că pur şi simplu nu puteţi da greş! Nu degeaba sunt numite poeziile omului comun. Iată încercarea mea:

Era odată un om din Panduri
Care făcea comerţ cu tauri.
Un taur avea,
Din buzunar nu-l scotea,
Aşa a rămas fără mărunţiş.

Cam asta e tot ce voiam să vă spun. Sper să trimiteţi poeziile voastre, chiar dacă sunt amuzante doar pentru voi, altfel va trebui să le citim pe-ale mele. Majoritatea vor fi publicate aici şi o să apară şi numele sau penname-ul vostru. Sunt foarte bune pentru miercuri seară când începe oboseala şi se instalează depresia de mijloc de săptămână.

Probabil că o să existe în viitor şi o zi a poeziei dadaiste.

Regula generală este că dacă ai citit o poezie care ţi-a plăcut, corect este să scrii şi tu una. Aşa merge economia aici.

Nu uitaţi de impresii, păreri, sugestii şi ne vedem (luni dimineaţă cu o poftă de viaţă, aşa cum am zis!) uite un haiku.

Pe locuri, fiţi gata, start!

Prognoza pentru week-end

Ei bine, şi week-end-ul ăsta va fi lună, începând cu seara de mâine şi pană dimineaţa de luni, nu se anunţă schimbări ale vremii. Poate doar intensificări de vânt şi local ceaţă şi furtuni. În rest sunt şanse mici să nu se întâmple ceva.

În week-end o să scriu ceva cu miros rural. În timp ce scriam "Şobolibozaurul" mi-am dat seama că deşi nu scriu deloc cum scriam înainte, toate povestioarele ăstea mici conturează ceva destul de promiţător. Voi vedea şi eu împreună cu voi. Tine. La momentul la care scriu, am un singur "abonat". Deocamdată mă reobişnuiesc cu graiul mioritic, poate mă ajută şi la examen.

Văd că în limba universală lucrurile nu s-au schimbat, ocazie cu care anunt că am terminat de revizuit capitolul 3 (impropriu spus capitol) şi am scris capitolul 4. Pe la sfârşitul capitolului 4 mi-am dat seama că povestea mă duce iarăşi către ideea iniţială (Rosie is Dead/Roses Perfume - am zis că avea mai multe nume la început). Încă o dată o să vedem ce iese. Până atunci titlul rămâne la fel <introduceţi frază optimistă aici>. Daţi o fugă la Grusome Murders Solved by Detective Rufus Bradford şi nu uitaţi de impresiile nepreţuite!

Spre week-end and beyond!

Şobolibozaurul, creatură mitică

Din Lună născut,

Din Lună căzut,

Pe Pământ Şobolibozaurul a crescut.

Cu sânge de om alăptat

De pomii pădurii curtat,

Şobolibozaurul a căscat...

Un milion de ani a dormit,

O sută de mii i-a postit,

În zece mii de ani a crescut,

O mie de ani mai târziu a căzut...

O sută de ani a agonisit,

Şobolibozaurul era ponosit.

Zece ani s-a mai chinuit,

Un an mai târziu a murit.

Moartea unei umbrele

   Asistam la încă o înmormântare a unei umbrele. Era foarte trist când o umbrelă murea, şi în ultimul timp se întâmpla din ce în ce mai des. O vedeai în privirile oamenilor - priviri adâncite de goliciune, nici una nu se intersecta. Oamenii priveau fix.
     Eram gropar pe-atunci. Stăteam şi mă uitam la marea de oameni. Ei nu se uitau la mine. Lângă mine stătea de data asta Vasile, gropar.

      "Ce ne facem cu toate umbrelele astea?" întreb eu încercând să-mi iau gândul de la ceea ce se petrecea sub nasul nostru.
      "Ce să-i faci?" îmi răspunde Vasile cu o încărcătură de subînţeles şi filozofie "de-a lui".
      "Câte au fost astăzi?"
      "Când am venit dimineaţă, am săpat cincişpe. La Grigore erau douăzeci de gropi şi la tine era numai una. A fost greu astăzi... lună toată ziua. Pe-a ta am văzut-o, tu n-ai mai stat..."
      "Am avut o problemă acasă."
      "Era una roz. Frumoasă! Era întoarsă toată pe dos..."

     Vasile nu mai putea continua. Încercam şi eu să-mi imaginez, dar degeaba. Ştiam prea bine cum e cu umbrelele astea, trebuia să le vezi ca să ştii cu adevărat. Îl vedeam pe Vasile din ce în ce mai preocupat, îl auzeam vorbind cu o pauză între fiecare propoziţie. Simţeam cum gandurile lui îl făceau aproape să mă ignore.

     "Nu ştiu spre ce ne îndreptăm. I-am zis şi lu' Grigore, câmpu' ăsta îl umplem... azi, mâine."

     Vasile vrea să-mi răspundă, însă pare că tot gândurile lui îi ies mai repede pe gură:

     "Toată lumea asta va fi o umbrelă. După ce piere şi ultima umbrelă, cine ne mai protejează de ploaie? Capetele noastre! Cine va mai avea..."

     Am renunţat repede la dialogul cu Vasile. Nu-mi plăcea să-l văd aşa. In timp ce-mi luam sapa pe umăr şi mă îndreptam către marginea câmpului, Vasile mă întreabă aproape şoptit:

     "Ce se anunţă mâine?"
     "Lună. Lună toată ziua." îi răspund aproape mecanic, după care mă îndepărtez de el.

Prologue (deocamdată)

În speranţa că mă voi ambiţiona să continuu, am pus la secţiunea intuitiv numită: Grusome Murders Solved by Detective Rufus Bradford un short-story al cărui titlu iniţial era Roses Perfume şi trebuia să fie cu totul altceva. Aşa că, în ciuda numelui, (sau tocmai conform numelui) nu vă aşteptaţi la ceva care să va pună mintea în funcţiune, la o poveste cu enigme şi cu detectivi geniali, ci mai mult la o serie de descrieri antrenante ale unor scene ale crimei (crime scene, nu?) creative şi viaţa unui detectiv văzută prin ochii lui. În engleză. Nu ştiu cum va continua, probabil pe acelaşi tipar - aştept şi impresii.


Dacă n-aveţi timp de poveşti, secţiunea Little People Inside vă arată cum lumea pe care credeţi că o cunoaşteţi este de fapt total diferită şi că de fapt nu suntem singuri. Când eram mic (mai mic) sora mea mi-a spus că în radio există o femeie şi un bărbat micuţi care cântă şi vorbesc şi realizează tot ce se întâmplă în radioul ăla. Am crezut-o atunci... şi acum.

În final, o să mai apară o secţiune cu un mic short-story, care are un plan de data asta, nu mai rămâne aşa de izbelişte. Va fi în română şi se va numi "The Heist". Probabil. Dar asta mai târziu şi probabil împreună cu altceva.

Până atunci, vorbe aici, cum sugerează şi titlul, şi prognoza meteo.

Maine va fi lună înnorată şi puţin frig. Cât pentru toată lumea. Sunt şanse să se întâmple orice, ca întotdeuna, rămâne să vedem ce se va întâmpla.

Aşa am început!

Acesta este un text anticipativ scris pentru o eventuală retrospectiva târzie. Locul lui este la arhiva şi undeva în viitor. Până atunci va fi o capsulă a timpului în care vor sta blocate evenimentele de astăzi:

Astăzi a fost lună, pe toată perioada zilei.

Temperaturile au fost sub-suportabile.

Au existat şanse de orice.



N-a fost nimic.

Notă către mine din viitor: ţine-te la depărtare de prize. Daca vor mai exista.