I've known Petre a long time. To be precise, when I was 7. I had made acquaintance of some of his kin, but meeting him was special. Peach, pencil, peacock, plum, parrot, purse, peanut and others had been presented to me, before, but only by means of sound. Thus, it was high time we met face to face. That is, me facing down towards the piece of paper, and Petre written on it. Until I managed to correctly pronounce it, I kept repeating "Pietre" (stones in Romanian). But I succeeded. And ever since, every time I hear the first name Petre, it gets me dreaming about a rocky valley of a river.
Wednesday, 11 November 2015
Friday, 6 November 2015
Nowhere in the world the rain falls as it used to while I was in my grandparents’ house. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to hear once more that linear and mysterious clink. That solid drop on eaves, dripped afterwards in a liquid icicle, performed at the same time with the sound of a thousand needles stinging the leaves and flowers in my grandmother’s garden. Every time it rains, my ear draws itself closer to the window, perking in order to break the secret code. The land is moist, but not due to the rain. This time, I’ll try using my sight in order to discover the secret.