L: o lasam si noi mai moale cu balariile? focus pe cele aproape creative, ca le-ai lasat in paragina.
S: parc'ai fi de la cs: straight to the point. m-a batut gandul sa scriu. pana si tu ai fost mai activa lately, chiar daca scrii din genunchi.
L: mi-e incredibil de dor de tine, jur. sa-mi dai cu tifla cum numai tu te pricepi. exact ca mai sus.
S: ba, si mie mi-e dor de tine. cre'ca putem avea o relatie numai din modul in care facem misto unu de altu. au venit fomei noi la client service, da' nu e scanteia aia intre mine si ele. ntz. tu ramai.
miercuri, 28 aprilie 2010
luni, 26 aprilie 2010
XXX
am incheiat saptamana cu aceiasi 30 de ron pe care ii aveam in portofel si weekend-ul trecut. altfel decat lumea, nu am pus niciodata pret pe sume mari. am mintit ca sa nu merg asta seara in suburbia. decat sa aleg prost, prefer sa nu o mai fac deloc.
ma imbuib de filme, dar nu pot sa citesc. scriu frenetic, in mare parte prostii, idei care aluneca inainte sa le asez in cuvinte. nu raspund la telefon fiindca nu mai stiu vreun grai articulat. iertare. ma descopar agorafobica. zgomotul irita, lumina inteapa, culorile imi dau mancarimi. as face dus cu castile in urechi sa nu-mi aud gandurile.
ieri noapte am visat terasa spitalul universitar, terasa de la et.14.
nu mai caut nimic.
ma imbuib de filme, dar nu pot sa citesc. scriu frenetic, in mare parte prostii, idei care aluneca inainte sa le asez in cuvinte. nu raspund la telefon fiindca nu mai stiu vreun grai articulat. iertare. ma descopar agorafobica. zgomotul irita, lumina inteapa, culorile imi dau mancarimi. as face dus cu castile in urechi sa nu-mi aud gandurile.
ieri noapte am visat terasa spitalul universitar, terasa de la et.14.
nu mai caut nimic.
joi, 15 aprilie 2010
miraj
de fiecare data cand scriu, cobor in mine. poate de-asta vreau sa stramut toate gandurile de aici la o adresa pe care s-o uit ulterior. pana acum am tinut in frau avalansa asta de intamplari, iar acum au navalit gramada. m-am ratacit printre ele. oare am sa mai reusesc sa pun degetul pe mine si sa strig: "asta sunt eu"?
totu-i un miraj, Mickey-Blue-Eyes. e un zbor cu avionul. n-aveam de unde sa stiu ca putem fi vecini de calatorie. eram precisa ca altcineva are bilet pentru scaunul din dreapta mea si-i recitam, in absenta, dintr-o pictura.
mi-am planuit viata milimetric. degeaba apari cand nu ma astept, de unde nu ma astept, calare pe motocicleta ta rosie. n-am sa vin.
noutatea e un miraj si mirajele se risipesc dureros.
taci!
totu-i un miraj, Mickey-Blue-Eyes. e un zbor cu avionul. n-aveam de unde sa stiu ca putem fi vecini de calatorie. eram precisa ca altcineva are bilet pentru scaunul din dreapta mea si-i recitam, in absenta, dintr-o pictura.
mi-am planuit viata milimetric. degeaba apari cand nu ma astept, de unde nu ma astept, calare pe motocicleta ta rosie. n-am sa vin.
noutatea e un miraj si mirajele se risipesc dureros.
taci!
miercuri, 10 februarie 2010
The Invitation
It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.
By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming, from the book The Invitation
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon...
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.
It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.
By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming, from the book The Invitation
luni, 4 ianuarie 2010
closure
simetria de temut. rastoarna si contrazice zodii. horoscoape. stiu ca s-a intamplat. calculez, compar si plang.
joi, 24 decembrie 2009
Buna dimineata, la Mos-Ajun!
revin la taste, de pe plaiuri vrincene, cu o veste de ultima ora: ne-au calcat hotii. pezevenghii nu s-au inspaimantat de alura voinica a lui tata Pluto, nici de toti cei 25 ai sai in serviciul politiei romane.
au trecut tiptil prin holul imparatit de Ratso (a.k.a Pufa-Fufa/Pamfila), nestarnindu-i niciun chitz, lasand-o sa roada in continuare batoane de lucerna in tinuturile ei de rumegus cu parfum (discret) de citrice (!). pot sa jur ca au adulmecat prin bucatarie ciocolata de casa pe care doar mama o scoate cu gust de fudge englezesc si aspect de caramida, ca in poza de pe pagina de mijloc din Sanda Marin, editia revizuita. ehehe, vreo doua veri am stat cu burta pe cartea asta, fascinata de ingredientele care mai de care mai sonore; o citeam si ma simteam satula. ma mir ca n-au dat iama in cuptor peste panettonele cu origini macaronare, insa bine(-)crescut si ritualica friptura de porc. as fi inteles, pentru ca de!, si in familia noastra pofta transcede restrictiile religioase...dar nu, au mers mai departe, neintimidati de bucatele pregatite de mama dupa retete pe care eu nici cu trucuri mnemotehnice nu le-as reproduce cu succes.
vant au facut usii din sufragerie si s-au instalat pe fotoliile proaspat retapitate. au venit, pesemne, cu aceleasi intentii cu care tataie Neculai povestea ca i-au calcat nemtii satul – sa-si bea cafeaua. ca-fea-ua. re-ta-pi-ta-te. mobila asta de-o varsta cu mine a fost ferita cu scrupulozitate de degete murdare, bauturi carbogazoase si pasta de pix. pana noaptea trecuta. colbul s-a ales de catifeaua roz cenusa de trandafir, iar pe unul dintre spatare puteai sa-ti citesti viitorul, atat era zatul de dens. ciucurii covorului compromisi asijderea. persan de Cisnadie, atat va spun.
ne-au calcat hotii si bine-au facut. multumescu-le ca diseara, la masa Ajunului, ne vor merge bucatele lin, iar nu cu noduri.
au trecut tiptil prin holul imparatit de Ratso (a.k.a Pufa-Fufa/Pamfila), nestarnindu-i niciun chitz, lasand-o sa roada in continuare batoane de lucerna in tinuturile ei de rumegus cu parfum (discret) de citrice (!). pot sa jur ca au adulmecat prin bucatarie ciocolata de casa pe care doar mama o scoate cu gust de fudge englezesc si aspect de caramida, ca in poza de pe pagina de mijloc din Sanda Marin, editia revizuita. ehehe, vreo doua veri am stat cu burta pe cartea asta, fascinata de ingredientele care mai de care mai sonore; o citeam si ma simteam satula. ma mir ca n-au dat iama in cuptor peste panettonele cu origini macaronare, insa bine(-)crescut si ritualica friptura de porc. as fi inteles, pentru ca de!, si in familia noastra pofta transcede restrictiile religioase...dar nu, au mers mai departe, neintimidati de bucatele pregatite de mama dupa retete pe care eu nici cu trucuri mnemotehnice nu le-as reproduce cu succes.
vant au facut usii din sufragerie si s-au instalat pe fotoliile proaspat retapitate. au venit, pesemne, cu aceleasi intentii cu care tataie Neculai povestea ca i-au calcat nemtii satul – sa-si bea cafeaua. ca-fea-ua. re-ta-pi-ta-te. mobila asta de-o varsta cu mine a fost ferita cu scrupulozitate de degete murdare, bauturi carbogazoase si pasta de pix. pana noaptea trecuta. colbul s-a ales de catifeaua roz cenusa de trandafir, iar pe unul dintre spatare puteai sa-ti citesti viitorul, atat era zatul de dens. ciucurii covorului compromisi asijderea. persan de Cisnadie, atat va spun.
ne-au calcat hotii si bine-au facut. multumescu-le ca diseara, la masa Ajunului, ne vor merge bucatele lin, iar nu cu noduri.
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