jurnal

Mint tasting breath

2010-06-24T09:47:00.001-07:00

It was official, a new season began. On his beard, little drops of mint tasting breath gave their lives to chemical reactions, dedicated to transformation. Threads of his taste pulled themselves away from what she called a reversible reaction. The season had already come, so they needed a new state of mind, of being. Little drops of icy mint tasting heaven. One had no clue that the changes should surround every piece of mint tasting breath, and pull it to a different space, where the sunsets were not the same as they used to be, the smell of fresh crushed almonds was not the same as it used to be, where the sound of his pulmonary retractions and reactions over her ear was not the same as it used to be. A new coat was all that One needed. It hated go shopping, to many things and nothing that seemed real to it, to much life it could feel how the death smell landed right at the next corner. So it decided it should turn into a quitter. Little things have big ideas so they have always told, so now it was time to prove that that was not just a formality to escape with an intelligent sentence a person had said in an entire conversation. The intelligence is yet expected to come. One pushed itself away from that mint tasting cluster with a pain it felt only in its mind. It wasn’t real, as nothing it is. Just our own desires and milky ways built through lots of loans (of imagination, of feelings, of ideas). Our own thieves we are as One always used to say. In her fall she felt the grief of all those other changed threads of mint tasting breath. Not for its departure, yet for their settlement.

Abordarea orizontala a psihicului

2009-12-06T06:52:00.000-08:00

- psihicul este redus la miscari, succesiuni -> combinarea lor-> suntem mediul in care se dezvolta noi relatii intre particule de acelasi sex, sau de sexe opuse; miscarile se combina cu succesiunile, succesiunile se deplaseaza, deci miscarea traieste in simbioza cu succesiunea, deci nu ar putea niciodata sa se combine intr-o explozie de mici particule din care descind licuricii. succesiunile se combina cu alte succesiuni, deci rezulta ca o combinare intre indivizi care nu apartin aceleasi specii nu ar putea exista, nici macar pe plan psihologic. tot ce exista este simbioza, mutualismul, acea forma abstracta de convietuire, de extractie a sevei si sevrajul rezultat dupa distrugerea unuia dintre simbioti prin uitarea indusa de psihic, ca o forma de evitare a supraaglomerarii sinapselor.

Precessional motion

2009-12-06T05:52:00.001-08:00

Could it be that in a relationship there are people that identify themselves with the precessional motion of a peg top? The couple formed by the forces tends to come perpendicular to the revolution axes of the peg top. The same time, the revolution axis tends to go further from the couple. Its state of perfection represents the faultless parallelism created between it and the couple of forces. The more it tries to get further from the couple, the more the couple tries to crash it under its perpendicular state. The perfection is never reached. The revolution axis never comes across the road having a parallel direction with the road of the couple, and the couple never gets to the revolution axis. It is such a perfect example of separate togetherness, where one wants to have its own life, yet not be alone, hungry for the taste of one kiss, one touch, one simple beautiful thought, one look that could lay the other ones feelings under a soft holey blanket, in that never ending race in search of accomplishment. Is it so frustrating that all the forces in the world, never reach that perfect state? Even Newton was wrong when stating that the revolution axis remains almost still in its position during a year’s passing. How could such a great-grand mind be so wrong? Obviously he did not have much experience in a relationship rendezvous. Like in the case of universal forces and couples created through such complicated (as stated by the physicians) laws and causes, a relationship is no more different than a link of reactions and attractions. The higher the value of the frictional force is, the stronger the link between the two items is. Yet, when this link becomes so sticky that the sensation of suffocation becomes more and more visible and available in the mind of one “force”, the everlasting run, race, hunting, cuts in. Like in a dramatic piece of act, the roles become so unclear, sides are not respected anymore, no one sticks with its side, the hunted becomes the huntress and the hunter becomes the prey.

Jupiter

2009-12-02T09:55:00.000-08:00

One year and a half has gone by and I haven't heard a word from you. I sat in that smelly living room, or was the bedroom filled with their memories, I don’t even know what it was more, but yet, I can still remember the heat, the misty windows, the warm milk, the steps under which the floor kept on cracking. I tried to bring you back, to see how it all turned after you were gone. I miss your hair, the way you washed it, then brushed it with your special hair brush, made of bone, the way it curled around the curve you traced with so much care, the way the swallow gathers those little string of human and horse hair, the horse hair has more strength, it is used to build the nest’s backbone, and little pieces of mud, crackers, nutshells, and stitches.

Is that all that we are? Pieces used to make a huge something else? Aren’t we that big something that the rest cosmic pieces need to stay away from the void of happiness? If a person gets to be melancholic, why do the rest of the human beings, two legged pieces in the cosmic puddle, walking lacks of consciousness, floating basic concerns, with nothing to think of but the primary needs, become suddenly enlightened? Does someone’s nostalgia, loss of direction, hazard, fuzziness, uncertainty, unexpectedly triggers that little foreign key in humans’ brains full of vegetable earth connected to a questioning, unlimited source of energy. That key, which is no more than an ordinary one, even if I sometimes want to think of mine like those keys used to open secret gardens, full of small guns which never trigger, roses that are always close to that step when they bloom, but they never do, with birds that have almost learned how to fly, but they never do, with nymphs that have almost metamorphosed, but they haven’t yet done that. Isn’t that what every little insect on this little blueberry planet does? Starts so many things, that it forgets which of those they have started on their own, which is their job to complete, they even don’t know what they know, or don’t know that they don’t know so many things. Yet they know how to forget, and they know they know that.

My key is different. It’s a journal I keep to remember the doors I have opened, the locks it stuck into, the latches where I felt another insects breath, finger touch, pulse, heart pumping with a full capillary dilation, inhaling every microbe, every microscopic particle of my frigid key. This journal has many incrustations, flowers that were forgotten, left aside for new fresh ones, bronze, frozen sticks, apples traded for talking birds, kept in caves made of those frozen sticks, cut in the middle, pieces of the planets it had been to, it just bit those rounded ( hate it when they’re round), models of supreme formation, cluster and handcraft. Formation of many cores gathered in one place not be alone anymore. It is a constant fear of singleness. Yet everything is governed by such a separate togetherness, that every inch of every something’s body, became separate from its formation, shell, tissue, scars that have never healed become separate, giving that whole a lose of memory, much needed, for continuing the decomposing, scavenging for more freshness, for another self.

Get in the row or pass by

2009-07-28T04:31:00.000-07:00

Taken by surprise she didn’t get much time to think. She had to act that very instant. It was very hot and those little drops of sweat started to go on their own road. They traveled across the fine strings of hair, which, controlled by a rude commandant, who liked to scratch and penetrate the skin, gathered in a convex formation, building up the left “wing” of the lively composition. One by one the threads led the drops to the next stop, a huge valley yet with smooth, velvety, rosy, cranky, busy, lit, shadowed curves. They had a huge luck those little things of salty water. Even if she thought that their mother was the sea and the father oceans it selves, they were young as the night that was near to come if she didn’t make a decision now, and on that huge area, covered with different geological secrets that waited anxious to be discovered, it was a great possibility for any of them to be chosen the one to get lost or worse to get into the system by contemplation. Like a mortuary trip where no-one is allowed to sing any of those strangely boring and inappropriate songs, the dropsy nopsies continued their “research” reaching a mammoth arrangement. It was the supreme conquest they might have made. Regrouping was in its course of appearance. Dropsy by dropsy exercised its personal tricky move: the coconut beat, the butterfly getaway, the goat in the jungle, the mummy reaching for water. All these they learnt while watching the threads of hair in the alignment being taught by their Comandante(that’s how those little ungraceful, plunging structure of keratin cells and many others, liked to call him). In the battle with the gargantuan enemy, all the moves were required, yet the conquest was never made. Many soldiers were bumbling in the lost of sodium chlorate, which escorted them to the ever peaceful demise. Massacre brought to the system, which received actually quite well the humble submission.
With her face clean she now had to speak up.

afterlife

2008-05-24T11:14:00.000-07:00

lost in thought

2008-05-24T11:11:00.001-07:00

hayling

2008-05-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

tun it into a drip

2008-05-24T10:58:00.001-07:00

fake fendi

2008-05-23T12:57:00.000-07:00

caliente

2008-05-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

dwan

2008-05-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

mazzy stars

2008-05-20T11:01:00.000-07:00

The musk filled her wet nostrils,

Diamonds fell off her lashes

In a desert, unwell known

And the blanket took her thoughts

In a cactus thorn-

Bathed in strangers’ sights

With nothing but spicy bees

And electric fences-

Air lost its bunny,

In stars that never die-

Fade in the making of nothing

She always got her drama in a simple package.

bleed it

2008-04-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

split

2008-04-14T04:54:00.001-07:00

hate me

2008-04-13T11:13:00.001-07:00

shane

2008-04-13T11:05:00.001-07:00

she was the keeper of that something. she was the one that could make it all better with a kiss. she had those hands that healed. she brought bones from the store. she was that girl next door. she was the one that used to wore orange knickers. she had the power to smile and rip your life to pieces. she was alone in all that she did. she had the key to the magic garden. she took care of it all with a little magic. she had hidden the secret book of shadows.
she is gone.

flu flu

2008-04-13T10:53:00.001-07:00

how cold is the water you water?
how lost is that drop you blink of your eye?
how lonely does a master feel in those written pages?
how shaded is the voice she whispered?
how long had that moment last?
how faded is the fade away phrase?
how minded is the idea you can't take your mind off?
how twisted is an elephant's rose?
how mean is the bug that bugs you?
how long does a stop take?
how symphonic does a mute sound?
lie down and stop.

time is fuel//gap tulips

2008-04-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

Noise

2008-01-30T00:27:00.000-08:00

Gentle ache fears out

Tenderness lost in drought

Steps fall right of the stage

See the space in lost shout -

Scatter wind busts into shivers

Overground in strange houses

Sprinkles dust in dull corners

Wings that surround me, hurt me.

piano thingers

2007-12-04T00:41:00.000-08:00

Pasii ei alunecau usor pe mazga neteda ce acoperea , cu o sclipire gri verzuie ,toata strada Mainfield .Sunetul asurzitor al linistii ce o inconjura o facea sa se insece cu propria rasuflare. Aerul rece ii patrundea prin porii larg deschisi ,care parca complotau impotriva ei. Canalul lor, presarat cu ace ce o dureau, intepand-o cu gheata propriei negreti, lasa toata raceala din atmosfera sa o invaluie ,sa o copleseasca, sa devina una de-a lor.

Nu se mai impotrivea acuma… Acum udpa atat timp ,cand totul se dizolva la fel ca sarea scarboasa in paharul din fata ei... Iar traia din amintiri care se pierdeau ca fumul printer frunze. Uitare… Goliciunea mintii o facea sa fie altfel. Ura grozava i-a disparut odata cu flash-urile groaznice. Acum parea fericita la simpla ivire a unei frunze batuta parca de trecerea chinuitoare a timpului ei. Ea era ace frunza… Purtata de valul confuziei mergea pe strazi necunoscute, dar care parca o aduceau intr-un loc acolo unde numai ele stiau… Incepea sa urasca strazile ca stiau .. Ea nu stie… Totusi ce bine era san u stii. Doar asa putea vedea dincolo de obsesia subiectiva , incarnate in ganduri proprii.

Greata ii revenea cand isi vedea papucii plini de o substanta cleioasa … Poate acesta era raspunsul .Mazga o facea sa isi aminteasca acea stare de greutate apasatoare. Simtea cum se sufoca ,iar mirosul devenea insuportabil. De unde atata scarba? De ce simtea lucruri respingatoare? Parul ii venea pe pielea palida a fetei gingase inca neatinse de soarele palmuitor. Ochii se uitau continuu la ceea ce n-a inteles niciodata. Ce facea cu lucrul acela in mana? O statuieta mica , intruchipand o femeie, cam grosolan sculptata ,goala , fara cap. Culoarea ei o impresiona insa. Deodata o durere o facuse sa inchida ochii .Se rezema de peretele plin de mucigai albastru-verzui cu un miros de umed putrezit in tacerea tunelurilor uitate de timp .Asta era… Odurea timpul trecut fara stiinta, vantul pe care l-a uitat in turbarea vijelioasa ,firicelele nisipului colturos de pe plaja din spatele zidului racit… O dureau conexiunile greoaie facute de socurile prea tarzii din creierul ei lasat in deriva singuratatii sale. Ah cat de tare o ustura aerul acela al caldurii artificiale ,mirosul bland cand o strangea in brate pe Ea, parul moale in adierea acelui vant primitor care ii inunda narile cu mirosuri dulci… Si totusi cine era Ea?Poate ca nimeni . Poate citatoate acestea din cartea subconstientului ei asurzit de lumina puternica a viziunii din trecut .Sau poate era ea insasi. O alta ea… Mai buna ca cea care se holba la statuieta rece si groteasca. Si ce placut era sa stea asa langa peretele acela, care intre timp ii devenise cel mai bun prieten. Ar fi vrut atunci sa devina una cu el .Da… sa lase mazga sis a se contopeasca cu constiinta mucegaiului proaspat format cu firele parului cleios de atata durere .Da …peretele ar fi inteles-o . Peretele ar fi ajutat-o sa inteleaga .Peretele a primit-o .Boarea amara a unei prezente anonime se stinge in intunericul ochilor pierduti. Nimic nu s-a schimbat .Doar totul a ramas la fel… Nepasator… Ca o statuieta urata cioplita de o mana nechibzuita…

playground

2007-11-25T05:11:00.000-08:00

cluster?

2007-11-24T10:48:00.001-08:00

Sound of silence

2007-11-24T10:29:00.000-08:00

Bucata de panza lasata sa sfarseasca intr-un colt de masa putreda, s-a desprins usor de starea aceea inerta. Vrajba setei a facut-o sa perceapa altfel lumea asta in care se scufunda incet, si mai incet…pana s-a oprit… Tic-tac, tic-tac…un ceas vechi de mana statea si o privea inlemnit, totusi prea ilustru pentru cadrul acela rustic.

S-a lasat desprinsa incet cu o durere sfasietoare, tocmai ca sa uite si mai mult… Incheieturile o dureau, linistea o sfasia, si se desprindea usor, usor de un trecut care apartinea ei. Si era nedumerita cum se facea ca o briza atat de senina sa ii intre in palma ca o batatura mica de stejar.

Frunzele o certau cu un inteles greu de perceput in limba aceea inclestata. Cu cuvinte tari, grele de marmura o faceau sa alunece si mai greu. De ce nu ii dadeau drumul pana la capat si o tineau ca un gandac blajin pe o coasta acida de stanca? Albastre, bej, negre, scurte, mari, patrate, victime, cataratoare, cutremuratoare, surde, fade, cu unghii, fara cap, toate stau acolo si o privesc. Nu mai are intimitatea de care a visat cu o seara inainte. Este prinsa in cosmarul acela cu elefanti de care nu mai poate sa scape de o seara? A trecut asa de mult timp incat acum uita tot si se lasa patrunsa de un adanc neant cu fulgi de praf inghetat de la prea multe stele? Curios…cand a avut ea timp intr-o zi de viata statuta, mai mult decat o balta lasata sa se usuce la soare, sa cunoasca o viata intreaga?

Ceasul devenise irezistibil pentru firele ei rasfirate. Se destrama in amintiri scazute, cu o vartoasa rasfatare. Se rasfata in ganduri. Era numai ea cu ceasul acela care venise tocmai pentru ea. Il atinse in caderea ei incetinita iar sa mai absoarba o amintire inainte sa uite tot. Clipa asta era pentru ea, ce era un avion pentru un aeroport. Citise asta dintr-un catalog al unei firme cu un nume greu de pronuntat. S-a intristat dintr-o data ca nu tinuse minte acel nume amarat. De ce?

fairytale

2007-11-17T04:18:00.000-08:00

si cum mergea prin labirintul incetosat de atatea fantasme care pluteau in aerul de alabastru, gasi o punte: "trebuie sa il platim sa ne treaca de partea cealalta". si scoase doi banuti de alama stalcita, balbaita, si ii intinse mana acelei creaturi curioase. pe chip i se citi disperarea, si mana mai departe luntrea care plutea incet pe frunzele coapte de un soare pe moarte...

plain wind

2007-11-17T03:09:00.001-08:00

2007-11-15T06:30:00.001-08:00

2007-11-15T06:21:00.001-08:00

2007-11-15T06:15:00.001-08:00

2007-11-15T06:11:00.001-08:00

2007-11-15T06:06:00.002-08:00

2007-11-15T06:03:00.001-08:00

linger

2007-11-15T05:56:00.001-08:00

made in iasi

2007-11-15T05:13:00.000-08:00

Cati pasi se pierd pe niste strazi pline de claxoane indiferente?

In fiecare dimineata ies din casa la 7:45 si incerc sa imi fac loc prin mormanele de vorbe rostite printre dinti, masini slefuite si oameni grabiti care nu mai dau importanta restrictionarilor impuse.

Imi dau seama ca trebuie sa fac un ocol neprevazut: se fac niste lucrari neanuntate, vis-a-vis de caminele Puskin, care taie partea de trotuar pe care voiam sa o strabat. Niste sarme ruginite cu hartii albe din constiinta, murdarite insa cu tus necitet, ne faceau sa calcam pe spatiul verde si asa mult prea batucit de promisiuni. Am trecut si peste asta.

Termin programul nu tocmai corect, la 12:00 in loc de 14:00. Imi zic ca nu e nimic. O parte din trotuar ne este redat noua cei care ne lasam amprenta amintirilor zi de zi, dimineata, amiaza si seara. Sarmele au fost inlocuite de funii la fel de obosite. Indrazneti din fire, tineri aventurieri uita de acele penumbre atarnate si trec viteji prin ele ca prin unt (nu e cea mai buna comparatie). Frunzele nu mai aveau nici ele acces in acea zona crepusculara in devenire.

Pentru o basculanta care nu cara nimic si cateva tevi, o jumatate de zi din viata calcata in picioare a acelui trotuar s-a dus pe roti de cauciuc somnoros intr-o dimineata de joi.

Cu zmeul pe pleoape

2007-09-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

Era un cer frumos afara,de amurg, cu cai, iepuri, mierle si tot ce era mai placut la vedere in acei nori grasi care apasau asupra mea. Alamele si corzile tari imi rasunau in urechi, poate chiar si in creier, de la castile haioase pe care le purtam. Ei erau asa frumosi. Nu credeam sa zic vreodata despre oameni ca sunt frumosi. Parca ma reuneam cu lumea asta pe care am parasit-o cu mult timp in urma . Parul imi era mult prea imbacsit de fumul de tigara pentru ca vaporii masinilor grotesti sa mi-l domine. Pasii ma indreptau spre un loc rupt parca de lumea cu care tocmai ma contopeam. Ezitam. “Sa mai stau si la semaforu’ asta?” .Un cuplu se saruta de zor cu fumul de tigara inca in gurile induiosate. Altul tocmai iesea. Se simtea o aura imbietoare venind de la el. Dar nu pentru asta venisem . Un sunet placut de clape albe si negre rasunau cu o dulceata de mult uitata in acel loc. Ma pierdeam in acea atmosfera crepusculara. Lumanarile ardeau cu o caldura care ma facea sa ma lipesc de primul scaun si sa ascult vocea care tocmai mergea alaturi de notele care zburau peste tot. Mi-a zis sa mai astept. Insa ma afundam tot mai tare intr-un somn moale. Nu puteam sa controlez starea de veghe in care ma infundasem. Parca nu mai era lumea dinainte ,pe care incepusem sa o vad cu alte pulsatii. Si ce voce calma ,plina de iubire, plina de trairi ,plina de cuvinte care nu pot fi spuse. Imi venea sa plang. Nu credeam sa mai am parte de atata fericire numai pentru mine. Fetele zambeau. Ei radeau cu un ras de mult pierdut pe holurile unui teatru vechi cu lampi fumegande. Zaceam intr-o inconstienta absoluta. Un puhoi de chestii dulci, de tartru smaltuit. Am lasat deoparte castile arzande de sunete tari si-amare .Acrul era mai dulce acum. Mare, sirena, mana, povestea, vantul. Pletele lor se imbinau cu clape ingalbenite care fugeau pe niste scari de ploaie .Nu, nu ploua. Cu toate ca asta mai lipsea. Se oprea sa isi aduca aminte niste note pierdute printr-un caiet prafuit ,cu paginile gri,roase. Si tot veneau…parka erau chemati de sunete metallice de acum, dar asa de dulci. Nu am putut sa nu-mi iau un ceai. Chiar daca terminam , macar stateam ,citeam,acolo, cu ei. Eram numai eu. Nu am simtit atata egoism .Pentru mine. Cu toate ca era momentul ,nu voiam sa fiu cu nimeni. Meditatia incepuse. Telefonul nu suna. Mi-l si uitasem. Doamne cat de mult avusesem nevoie de asta. Reflexia de pe pianul vechi de un maro care ii placea ei ,lasa pletele-i sa-i curga ca si suvoiul de lumina umbrita care ii venea in cale. Nu putea sa plece la tigara, care il inebunea de placere. Statea in usa ,alegoric, dionisiac, cu suvite lungi curly. Se intoarse. Uitase de tigara.

Miros de ceai, sunet cald de gat palid, zgomot de discutii inutile. De ce sa mai vorbesti? Cald. Dulce. Si totul asa a ramas. Si a venit noaptea ca o ancora de care ne agatam toti .Si stau, si nu mai vreau sa plec. Dar tigara ma astepta flamanda.

They

2007-08-30T13:08:00.000-07:00

Pe copacul de plasa uda statea ea, un siroi lung de apa seaca, urata si cam proasta. Se prelingea cu acea geana de care nu scapi nici cand te doare mai tare, te inteapa pana ti se scurge si ultima vlaga de tifon cu gauri. Spatiul se ingusteaza , gaurile te inghit si patrunzi intr-un loc cu mult prea multa lumina. Este bine daca iti dai drumul sa cazi? Cat de des o facem noi?
Privesc cu o idiotenie greu de inteles la ora asta pt mine cel putin, statusuri 'istete','moraliste' as putea spune... 'Twin Peaks' pe langa asta pare bebelush invelit in hartie glazurata cu noroi. Si totusi de ce e namolul asta asa de scarbos? Poate doar faptul ca ne aflam in el fara sa vrem, cu picioarele intepenite ,negre si zbarcite. Ridurile arata intelepciune?
Cerul se inegreste cu un tipat ascuns. Ii simti falfaitul aripilor de guma stearsa .Gatul mi se inclesteaza la auzul acela care nu imi da pace, imi inunda ochii cu un suras calm si neted pe care numai o astfel de clipa il poate da. Haos. Cum sa stergi haosul de pe fata celorlalti cand tu il traiesti pe propria piele?
Galantul domn T si-a luat ramas bun de la cel mai bun prieten al sau. Pleaca cu spatele incovoiat de prea multa greata . II vine sa vomite si nu i se da voie. Nu e politicos. Nevoile primare devin secundare intr-o lume plina de prejudecati starnite dintr-o doza mult prea mare de egoism dur.
Clasic . Cu perle sau fara? Straina de tot ceea ce este chic ea se repede la gogoasa plina de glazura de pe tejghea. Praful nesters de 2 saptamani nu a impiedicat-o sa ridice bucata cazuta si sa o bage gentil in gura atingand usor cu cotul ziarul de alaturi.
'Va veni! Stiu asta!Mi-a promis!' Dar de 10 ani nu s-a mai intors. Si totusi acolo il puteai gasi in fiecare dimineata stand la masa numarul 3 de langa coltul plin cu lampi de mana a 3-a .Ce naiba mai cautau lampile alea acolo? Un miros inecacios de sulf ii umple narile larg deschise. Sunetul de pian din camera de alaturi imprastie fumul gros de gaz ars de 10 ani. Cine canta la pian la ora aceea? Era dimineata sau seara? Unde? Prea multe intrebari si pianul suna asa frumos ca ii venea sa se contopeasca cu el si sa uite ca a fost uitat , lasat sa priveasca aceeasi gogoasa cu glazura acoperita cu praf. Allb si negru. Clape misterioase fugeau pe o linie fina ,invizibila aproape ,pe o carte scrisa cu batai proprii inimii lui. De ce o mai iubea inca? Mai avea sentimente de care nu stia ca exista? Se laga la cap cu o floare vestejita pe care a gasit-o in capul mesei vecine. Ei! Cine erau ei? Ah! sunetul acela il inebunea. Nu mai voia sa asculte. Isi imagina din nou scena aceea . Franghii de sus pana jos ,capete atarnate .Ochii! cu ce ochi il priveau acei scarabei ai lumii in care nu traia .Asta era! De ce auzea la nesfarsit acelasi sunet, aceeasi muzica, simtea acelasi sentiment ,cum ca pluteste pe o foaie de aer, mult prea firava ca sa se rupa,de ce?
Stupid.

biscutii de cacao

2007-08-19T02:33:00.001-07:00

tejgheaua prafuita sta sa cada sub presiunea acelor particole minscule."cat de mult as vrea si eu sa fiu ca ele".. nu isi mai aducea aminte nimic din ceea ce fusese candva..simtea doar aievea din nou boarea proaspata ce venea de la roua proaspat cazuta..stia daca a plouat la PARIS in noaptea de 5 decembrie 1567 ora 22:45:46...cu un chin enorm care i se citea pe fata aceea palida, incerca sa simta remuscare pentru ceea ce facuse..dar nu..nu se putea gandi la atceva decat la iubirea, recunoasterea,starea de beatitudine pe care o simtea cu fiecare clipa mai mult ca inainte..pe masa stateau lipiti unul de altul niste biscuti cu cacao de care nu se atinsese de secole.."partea proasta e ca sunt expirati"..cum expiram?fiecare are termenul sau de valabilitate in care trebuie sa se incadreze ca sa zica apoi ca si-a indeplinit scopul pentru care a fost conceput..? CARE E TERMENUL MEU DE VALABILITATE? dar al tau?
o musca isi plimba pasii goi prin fata unui articol dintr-un ziar cumparat de mult cu regret..securitatea e calcata usurel in picioare de o musca aparent lipsita de toata cacaoa din biscuitii aceia goi.
mizeria de nesuportat o facea sa se simta bine..cum asa? tacea si se uita cum totul se murdarea si devenea altceva doar biscuitii inca nemancati isi asteptau secolul potrivit..este vreun lucru care are momentul sau cand trebuie infaptuit?
era timpul..clepsidra isi scursese ultimele granule cu un tipat de disperare..s-a terminat mult prea repede..mai repede decat asteptase ea..era timpul...trebuia sa ia o decizie...plasma grea care ii apasa ochii turbulenti o inghesuia intr-un colt restrans..o usa enorma i se deschisese in fata..de unde stim cand trebuie sa intram pe usa care e in fata noastra si cand nu?

culoare

2007-08-19T02:26:00.000-07:00

textura incarnata

2007-08-19T02:18:00.000-07:00

2007-08-19T02:12:00.000-07:00

ierihon

2007-08-19T01:55:00.000-07:00

2007-08-13T08:33:00.000-07:00

cum respiram vacanta

2007-08-13T08:19:00.000-07:00

stau intr-un scaun cam acceptabil de inconfortabil si imi zic:ce postam azi? pai ce sa fie?pentru ce exista blogosfera asta in care ne cufundam mult prea mult cu totii de pe plaiurile blogotice?respir deci exist . cum respiram cand aerul nu mai e incarcat de atata stres cu care suntem obisnuiti in fiecare zi a noastra de oameni ocupati. ocupati cu ce?lucruri pe care nu le mai facem dupa ceva timp ca nu mai sunt la moda,lucruri in fata carora radem cand ne amintim peste cativa ani. o prostie mare asta e.. aerul e acelasi..insa respiram mai greu ca suntem mai lenesi..gradele ne apasa si ne tin in casa ca niste criminali de ozon. picioarele devin retele infinite de prea multe torrente luate in fiecare zi de pe un site mult prea aglomerat de despuieri imginabile in ghereta. ne cibernet-arim cu fiecare spatiu nou cercetat in zona de navigare permisa, cu fiecare cont pe cine stie ce site de care uitam mai apoi si ne intrebam "ba?care pana mea mi-o fi parola si la asta?" . daca stii sa cauti gasesti chiar lucruri interesante,culturale..dar multi ar spune "ce nevoie de atata culturalizare cand pe masa ne umbla furnicile? si pe noi avem doar soarele asta cald de care toti fugiti ..pana la iarna" . naspa tare treaba si cu aia..dar eu nu vorbesc despre ei..vorbesc de cei care respira calm si limpede pe limba noastra dulce de moldovean sictirit . si nu mai ploua ...

2007-08-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

boare de sineala

2007-08-09T01:54:00.000-07:00

cu pasii care m-au durut atat de tare m-am indreptat spre ceea ce credeam a fi un glob...ma intreb de multe ori cum putem scapa de ceea ce ne macina,care ne spune cand ne doare,cand ne magaie,cand totul se transforma intr-o cocina pe care doar tu o vezi..da..greata ma face sa zbor,sa uit , sa las,sa pasesc in urma si sa las totul asa cum este..pietrele soptesc adanc cand noi nu avem urechi sa le auzit suspinul inramat...asta sunt ..o fata pusa intr-o rama cu un zambet intors...mi-a intors spatele azi...da..nu mai e nimeni aici..doar eu cu un suras blestemat...

the woods cracked under the thumb's nails

2007-06-28T12:31:00.000-07:00

The dull night approached my coat with strong senses. Like a daughter of hers, the fog flooded all the forest ,covering even the slightest view I had with the river. The air was fed up with sharp smells, wet feathers, branch creaks ,all trying enter that part of my body, where they could be ‘tasted’ with a special sensation. The old smell of cold ,moulded ,black-marooned tree-stump ,reminded of that day. Quick bundles were made in my head...that little head covered with curled pieces of hair ,and the funny black stripped hat .But suddenly all those imaginary threads ,got ripped away leaving behind only the dust of what could be another successfully remembering .The sound that made all these happen, those vocal cords that almost torn up side down the smoothly silence of the place called wood ,like a scream of close danger ,still like a following ,with the sun in its deepest sounds. Oh sweet noise of freedom ,of escape .’Listen!’, ‘What ?‘, ‘just stay and listen ‘ . I couldn’t ;the silence hurt my eyes, my mouth, blocked my ears. It was too much pain in that wet-wood smelling silence. ‘Now because of the silence I can’t hear what she’s saying ‘ ,’Who?’ ,’The voice ‘ ,’Ah ,that voice. You could cross the river ,and then see it ,or maybe you could read her lips.’ But I couldn’t . The water would have grabbed me. My feet would have sensed the cutting stones .The creek never allows to no one to cross it. All I could do was wait for it to let me know when . Even if until then I would have bent and broken under the dizzy clouds of ideas .’ I want a bridge ‘ ,‘What are you saying ,fool me ?’ .I couldn’t move my lids. Too much air covered them like pieces of grey lead .I took it away, and so it went with peaceful screams of a mad beeing. ’Go, go away’ , ’So you could see the light , isn’t that so?’ , ‘what light ?You are getting more and more....’ , ’ How ? mad? My pills are in the black hole of the tree-stump. If you see the light you will see that too.’ The light was there . I sensed it on my right hand’s hair. The fog screamed of full delight .The chillness was cut with white rays of rich light .

Distorted sounds reached the top of my head . Something I wasn’t sure of but I was aware of . Sentences crossed the paths of the prototype minded me. If the voice had heard those propositions forming, it would have thought a totally different thing.

‘ Stop thinking, you’re making me dizzy .’ , ‘Sorry can’t help it ,these smells give me such a great appetite for... thoughts ,I could eat them with toast.’ , ’Toast is good ,but in the morning ‘. My self was right .It was the nightest night ever. We were almost like one,still I was with one foot out. Her darkness pulled me in, ripping my coat full of fog .Then I realised what I was missing. A face .Me and myself were strangers kept in iron cages in another time. Less were the things we knew about each other .’I could try to sculpt you a face ‘ , ‘If the trees let you’.

A strong wind blew that idea and the branches almost reached my long nails. ‘You should cut them, they are too long ,you might cut the wood.’ ,’ Leave me alone,I can’t stand me anymore, get out ,I can’t let you inside me, not even a second’ , ’You keep forgetting that a second is what I want it to be :an year ,a monkey , a moment of your life ,a short sound, a room , a thread of dust...’ , ‘Stop it,I can’t hear me thinking. You are so noisy today.’

Then the blue of my eyes turned around the shinny star, sun/The sight was great ,time of exposure was set ,I focussed and .... I was able to see the light . ‘You’re a good student .Learn fast .’, ‘Good teacher. Now help me see the bridge .’ ,’ Patience me, patience.’

words in a tales room

2007-06-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

The ravens were flying overhead in a strange, frightening dance. “ Bad sign” she said. The old woman knew He was back. She felt even the moment he thought of it . Ravens never lie. They thrive .Even a small step he would decide to take ,and the birds she had put her spell on would have felt it ,even the moment the electrical signals would link to process a possible thought .It was in His blood .He was bounded to those creatures through the small ,unseen paths,that only the old woman’s mind could perceive.They would form a way she would feel it like a well-read clairvoyant .

“Come my children!” ,she said and she stretched her hand with small, uncertain trembles, letting something be seen that it had been kept out of sight long time ago :part of her uncovered skin .Her fingers pointed with long ,bended nails to her birds she laid all her thoughts to .Suddenly a pack of three ravens flew straight towards a point on her wrinkled hand .She received them with those black eyes on white ivory background ,sparkling of knowledge ,cunning and a lost dizzy thread of love ,maybe her only way of showing her sweet ,warm caress she had for them .Then something amazing started to happen ,her straight unseen lines which showed her focussed attention ,crossed the three birds’ point of attraction :her thoughts state .A strong communication took shape ,but in another ,out of sight ,maybe still unwritten ,place ,beyond reason ,built only by feelings ,sensations ,perceptions.

She entered a new phase of her lost spirit .She found herself again .That “herself” was not the old lady ,it was Ahmen .They had been separated too long ,her pain grew ... .Higher Ahmen went ,downer the birds’ keeper collapsed .Her mindfield was much more than a desert .It had corners where He would hide ,waiting for her to come ,and so the battle should once again begin .Shadows would start to move across that long community of undefined .corners would turn into round shaped boxes ,trapped there ,with her shadows ,her ravens ,maybe Ahmen too.

Thrives made her hand move easily .Maybe Ahmen was lost .He fed himself with all her strength .The old woman knew that now for sure ,ravens told her .Her ears began to sharp their senses .She heard Ahmen’s laments ,far from reason .A path was built .She felt it .But her powers couldn’t help her do this journey all alone .The old woman decided to join herself .Her hood with dark shapes ,the grey wooden sticks she carried in her bagful among the round link which kept with its total conviction the nine keys she needed ,all these couldn’t protect her anymore .He would grab Ahmen ,like He did before with long lost souls .

Ravens started to tremble more and more .In a circling dance ,far from a dance of joy ,more one of spirits’ calling ,the little creatures started to fade away .They fed with her fears ,they bathed ,drunk by her loneliness ,in her feebleness .

She left leaving behind only a dark cloak .The blackness kept inside spread away with long mourns, melted in just one piece of that thread of love.

She will return... one old woman in a black cloak .

Bootleggers

2007-06-01T08:03:00.000-07:00

and the tiny string appeared..with that cozy ray that shined far far away in the darkness i have seeded..launched in a journey of fears with hope,thrilled with joy....happiness might have come..Sic was tired of his own darkness,should he need mine?

2007-06-01T07:40:00.000-07:00

stone

2007-04-26T03:43:00.000-07:00

..si pe fata din umbra cadea o roua cu lacrimi de ceara ascunse in catarul spatelui pierdut...

maison

2007-04-25T13:36:00.000-07:00

cella que je reve..
..mais je la pleure...

song notes

2007-04-25T13:14:00.000-07:00

....Marea Trecere a Timpului plin de cariile nepasarii, necoapte inca...
Si statea...astepta...pe veranda cu scanduri mucegaite..."Vine dupa mine, mi-a promis..."

shelter

2007-04-25T12:26:00.000-07:00

seek shelter where you could never
imagine...the cradle has just released
its rough branches...

sineala insangerata

2007-04-25T12:18:00.000-07:00

si s-a dus...pe ochii ei purpurii se citea
o implinire ce acoperea adevarata
murmurul dulce al unei dureri de
mult simtite...

inlantuit

2007-04-25T07:00:00.000-07:00

piscul negru cadea in spate cu sunetul unui
muribund de seceta sunetului mut...

incearca sa auzi cu ochii

2007-04-25T06:05:00.000-07:00

sunetul dulce al ochilor jelind in urma
unor pasi de mult uitati in sala rasucita...

jurnal

2007-04-25T02:24:00.000-07:00

sufletu-mi scrijelit de atatea unghii rupte, isi intinde disperat ultima raza de cenusa...

timp efemer

2007-04-25T01:55:00.000-07:00

si totusi nu imi pasa daca sufletu-mi e rupt, murdar de sticla mult prea sparta de atata nemurire care cade intr-un dulce neant...

fetita cu-n chibrit

2007-04-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

ochii supti de vlaga fumului inchis salveaza deziluzia inertiei suave...

intalnire in obscur

2007-04-24T11:37:00.000-07:00

inclin spre o larga prelegere

captiv in trecut

2007-04-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

trecutul ma retine... ma macina... ma striveste sub mucegaiul amintirilor mult prea grele pentru orasul claustrofobic in care le tin captive...