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marți, 23 noiembrie 2010

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.

vineri, 19 noiembrie 2010

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

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

luni, 15 noiembrie 2010

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.

luni, 8 noiembrie 2010

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.

joi, 4 noiembrie 2010

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!

miercuri, 3 noiembrie 2010

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!

marți, 2 noiembrie 2010

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.

Vorbe scurte

Nu aştepta tot timpul să apară ceva nou. Sunt sigur că sunt unele vorbe care ţi-ar plăcea, ascunse prin arhivă. Un pic mai jos sunt secţiunile şi acolo ai ce citi cu siguranţă. Aceeaşi filozofie o poţi adopta şi în viaţa de zi cu zi. Poate ceea ce-ţi doreşti cel mai mult stă lângă tine, chiar sub nasul tău, de atâţia ani.

Vorbe scurte

Când vei fi bătrân blogul ăsta va fi vintage.

Vorbe scurte

Am un pahar de plastic. Şi în paharul de plastic mai am un pahar de plastic. Am pus două ca să nu mă frig de la ceaiul fierbinte. Ce interesant că "frig" poate exprima căldura extremă.

Prognoza meteo: Lună prezintă