Abordarea orizontala a psihicului

- 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

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

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

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

lost in thought

hayling

tun it into a drip

fake fendi

caliente

dwan

mazzy stars

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

split

hate me

shane

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

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

Noise

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

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

cluster?

Sound of silence

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

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