jurnal

Thursday, August 30, 2007

They

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.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

biscutii de cacao

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

textura incarnata

ierihon

Monday, August 13, 2007

cum respiram vacanta

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 ...

Thursday, August 9, 2007

boare de sineala

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...

Thursday, June 28, 2007

the woods cracked under the thumb's nails

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

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 .

Friday, June 1, 2007

Bootleggers

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?