Vlad lives on

(Emile Gaboriau - 'The Boiscoran Trial', translated in Romanian by Vlad Musatescu)

Nobody reads poetry anymore

Yesterday I entered a bookshop. There was a magical smell of paper and tea. On the shelves there were thousands of books. And in front of them, there they were - the best-sellers. I read the titles, I skimmed through some books, and then I asked the shop assistant to direct me to the poetry section. It turned out that it was on the first floor. And all of the poetry - be it Romanian or international - was summed up into one shelf. A couple of volumes were resting their abandonment, and I felt for them.

It is sad that all the verse cannot find their place amongst us. Not even the blank one! I remember a time when learning how to recite a poem was a true artistic act.

To the star that has just risen in the sky/ There is such a long path to cross,/ For thousands of years its light has travelled/ In order to bright our way.

I wandered lonely as a cloud/ That floats on high o'er vales and hills,/ When all at once I saw a crowd,/ A host, of golden daffodils. 

Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore'. 

He had a bicycle. She was 7 years old.

Other details are absolutely irrelevant. A means of transport is always useful.
She. Well, she was 7 years old. The most important age, for they showed how well-behaved she was. She would always greet one with a smile and utter the sweetest 'thank you' and 'please'. Nowadays, one does not get to hear  'please' so often as one used to!
Therefore, they were both rich. He knew how to pedal, and not even once did he fall down from the bike. That is, of course, ever since he learned how to ride it as he was 4 years old.
As a matter of fact, the years were her fortune. She had lived them intensely and fruitfully. She knew how to recite poems and make shoe laces with ribbon. But most of all, she had learned to refrain from sticking her tongue out.

The hammock

There was a bed in my grandparents’ house. A special one. We used to call it the hammock because it had a hole right in the middle of the mattress. At that time I was not familiar with the word stress, and was too ignorant regarding the importance of relaxation. But I do recall the satisfaction. I used to sink half of my body in the mattress and would sleep the sleep of angels. Sometimes, in the evening right before getting into the house in order to go to sleep, I used to stop in front of the house. I would breathe in the keen wind of the night and approach the flowers in my grandmother’s garden. They were Nicotiana alata. Ever since then, it seems to me that all summer nights have that scent. Strong, but delicate at the same time. Then, I would glance at the sky, being under the impression that here, at my grandparents’ place, the sky was more generous. Not only was I able to see more stars, but I reckoned that the stars I knew were closer to me here than in other places. And the moon.. Well, the moon would shine brighter here.  I don’t know why, but I always thought that faced with such splendor even Creanga’s mother would have had uttered the same famous words, but this time referring to the moon: Do come out fair-haired child so that the moon would shine. And the moon would come out as it knew with whom was dealing with. Then I would come into the house, with my shoulders wet from the chilliness of the night. And all I wanted was to get under the sheets and warm up. Once I was comfortably installed in my hammock, I would start dreaming. Or maybe I was, actually, continuing the dream. For weren’t that smell of Nicotiana alata and the clear sight of the moon parts of a dream?!

The Orange Girl

I must admit. The tile of this book, written by Jostein Gaarder, convinced me. So I didn't bother to randomly read some lines, as I always do before buying a book. 
I told myself 'it's about oranges, so it must be interesting'.
So I carried it. 'Carried it' because I put at least 1000 miles between the bookstore from where I bought it and the place I read it. 
Now I understand why I was so fascinated with the clear sky on summer nights, with Venus and even with the Milky Way. 
I will not make a resume of the book because that would be totally unfair. Not to me, but to the people reading the book. 
But I will add, though, that I haven't been so spell-bound since reading 'The truth about the Harry Quebert affair'. I read all of it at once. It fascinated me, it thrilled me, but mostly, it made me remember a long lost love - The Orion's Belt. 
Trying to find out more about the author, I discovered 'The Orange girl' movie. More details here.
Lucky You!

Living like being on a trip

For quite some time now I have been travelling by train. I let myself be spellbound by its magic. From time to time, I got my nose out of the book I was reading and contemplated the scenery passing by in front of the window. Lately, it has been hard not to give in to nostalgia. The trees are to blame. Actually, the green leaves of the trees. Wet with rain and wind-beaten. They made me remember a trip from my elementary school. My first school trip. I was so thrilled to be going on a trip! I had lunch, wrapped in a special box. In those days that seemed rather big since only adults carried around lunch boxes. Every evening I used to watch my father preparing his lunch box and I took it as a great honor to be sharing the same experience with him, even though I was not yet an adult.
The night before the trip was like a train going through a tunnel. One could not wait to go out into the light. In the morning, when I opened my eyes - disappointment. It had rained. I hurried to school even though my mother told me that the trip might be off. In the schoolyard, my colleagues were facing the same worries. The teacher came. She told us to get into the classroom. She explained to us that due to the weather we could not go on that trip. But we would have a picnic together and go home early. Therefore, my first picnic took place in a classroom. As glad as we were to be getting home early, we were disappointed. Still, this could have turned into something worse - a regular schoolday. 
But the thing I remember the most is the sight of wet leaves across the window. Not long afterwards I had my picnic outdoors. But even better, I was repaid for that lost trip - with a lot of trips.

To be on one's own

‘To be together does not mean to be alike, but to have common aspirations. Because we are parts of the same body and no one is on one's own. As a rule, man is not on one's own. Only a finger or a broken leg could be on its own.' 

‘The box-tree grove’ - Mihail Ancearov 

'Kanfietu vas?'

Some say that a child can connect easier with the ones around it, lacking prejudicies and fear of rejection. Also, they say that a child can find out more accurately what it really wants. Looking back, I must say that there is only one thing that never changed regarding my wantings - my insatiable craving for sweets. After the fall of the communist regime, trade suffered some changes. In the city by the Danube, where I was born, this change was easily spotted. People coming from Ukraine, especially for the Saturday fair, would bring various products to sell. The chance to see something new was one that every Romanian wanted to seize back then. We used to go and watch the wonderful spectacle of 'free trade' (freedom was a word highly used during the first years after the revolution in 1989). Completely different puppets than the ones I could see in the window shops of Romanian stores would arise my interest, but most of all I found myself spellbound by the colored wrapping of sweets. Russian chocolate was the first thing I tried. I didn't like it. But I was not discouraged. I tested all kind of candies. And these were to my taste. Having witnessed such high interest in sweets, a she-merchant taught me how to ask 'have you got sweets' in Russian. If I remember it well, it sounded like 'Kanfietu vas?'. Once the language barrier was overcome, I stopped wasting time scanning the products on the stalls. I used to go from one stall to the other, and I wouldn't stop until somebody answered 'Da' (which is 'Yes' in Russian). My folks would laugh on my expense, but the merchants were much more amused. Nevertheless, they were facing a client who knew what she wanted, not claiming too much. And one knows that such thing is very hard to find. « Kanfietu vas ? »

How to tell if you're special?

When your father's name is looked up for in a Spanish-German dictionary.

I am fully aware of the fact that my father's name is difficult enough for Romanian people to pronounce it, but I had a hearty laugh and I could not see this occurrence but as a great compliment.

I am a special person.

Boredom

Today Mr. Beaver has decided upon never answering to the door whenever bored. He had giving this a lot of thought: If I am bored, why spoil it? It is better to keep it low. One never knows, but instead of being bored, one could get insanely mad over anything outside one's door.
Sometimes boredom feels nice. It gives a somewhat feeling of belonging, of knowing that the feeling is so intense that you could actually touch it. And by touching it, one could also prove one's existence.
Mr. Beaver always considered himself a great philosopher although he had never had a proof of acknowledgement from others. He took a glimpse of himself in the mirror and concluded that he could easily pass by as a philosopher. He surely had the Roman jaw for it.
Mr. Beaver sat down on one of his grassy chairs, grabbed the wooden pencil his old friend Fox had given him and started scrawling on a water melon: I am bored therefore I am.
He grinned at himself thinking: Descartes got it totally wrong.

I, the illustrator

When I was in kindergarten I loved to draw. I loved using especially colored pencils as it seemed to me that in this way the drawings were much closer to reality. Thus, my parents made sure that I never run out of laid paper and colored pencils.
I used to have two drawing obsessions: bunch of grapes and people. Hundreds of pieces of paper spread all around the house would praise the purple bunch of grapes. A green one would have given me the impression that it was not ripe, and I had no idea whatsoever that red grapes existed. A straight line made of circle next to circle would be my perfect drawing of a bunch of grapes, and beneath it I would draw another one, with two circles less. I was an artist and no one in my class could match my talent.
My drawings of people weren't so successful. My parents disliked the fact that they were so hirsute, and that their arms were almost always longer than their legs. And so, for a while I gave up on drawing. Instead, I wrote capital letters on the back of chairs and tables in the house, using colored pencils. 
In my secondary school I came to my senses. When tree-dimensional geometry and I were introduced. The cone, the conical frustum, the cylinder, the pyramid etc., all were magical to me. I drew them with utmost dedication until the year ended. Then, I stopped.
Nowadays, I started drawing again. With the most ardent devotion. People and squirrels. I have never found myself flying so high.

Witness for the Prosecution (1957)

Please be sited as comfortable as possible since you are going to be charmed for almost two hours and not be able to leave your sofa. The suspense and humor are mainly responsible for it.

The script of the movie is an adaption of the play of the same name by Agatha Christie, and the leading actors are Tyrone Power, Marlene Dietrich and Charles Laughton.

Sir Wilfrid (Charles Laughton), barrister, comes home after being discharged from hospital following a heart attack. He received recommendations in order to change his way of life, closely supervised by nurse Plimsoll (Elsa Lanchester). Disobedient and jestful, Sir Wilfrid wins over the spectators right from the first remarks he makes to nurse Plimsoll. And just as it seems to have no escape but to comply with the recommended schedule, Sir Wilfrid receives a visit from one of his colleagues, asking to receive a case. To his nurse and his employees dismay, Sir Wilfrid accepts to defend Mr. Leonard Vole (Tyrone Power), and not because he finds the case interesting, but because Mr. Vole's wife, Christine Vole (Marlene Dietrich), intrigues him. Being an American war veteran, Mr. Vole is accused of having murdered Mrs. Emily French (Norma Varden), a widow of 56 years old. Even though he is happily married, Mr. Vole enjoys Mrs. French's company, with whom he often discusses about his inventions, the latest being an egg batter. The case gets more complicated when news spreads out that Mrs. French had left Mr. Vole a fortune of 80.000 pounds. Thus, the only witness that could avow Mr. Vole's innocence is his wife, being his only alibi. 

Turn-overs happen and Mr. Wilfrid tries to find the best solutions in order to prove his client's innocence, in which he believes more and more as the trial advances.

Being one of the most famous and inspired American directors from Hollywood's Golden Age, Billy Wilder chose to film wide frames, giving the spectators the chance of a broad perspective upon the action and letting them draw their own conclusions, without trying to influence them. That is why narrow frames will be noticed only at times when characters are distressed.

Mr. Leonard Vole appears to be a dreamer, an innocent and inexperienced idealist, just as flexible as a marionette in the hands of his wife's. From the very beginning, Mr. Vole claims to have done nothing wrong and he truly believes that he cannot be arrested for something that he did not do. Only when Sir Wilfrid informs him that he might be arrested does Mr. Vole start to worry. The maximum naivety moment Mr. Leonard Vole was caught in was when he finds out about the amount of money he inherited from Mrs. French and picks up the telephone to inform his wife.

Just as Sir Wilfrid was questioning his future client, police come to arrest Mr. Vole. The barrister's remark illustrates his belief about the accused: "Here is the dangerous Mr. Leonard Vole. You'd better search him. He might be armed with an egg batter."

Right after the arrest, Sir Wilfrid advises his colleague regarding the way he should inform Mrs. Vole about what happened to her husband, and tells him that as the lady is a foreigner, she might get hysterical. This is when Christine Vole makes her appearance, interrupting Sir Wilfrid and telling him that he must not be afraid as she is very disciplined. The answers, but mostly Mrs. Vole's behaviour, intrigue Sir Wilfrid so much that he feels obliged to defend Mr. Vole. When visiting Mr. Leonard Vole in the prison, and trying to explain the conduct of the mysterious Mrs. Vole, Sir Wilfrid asks him to describe the circumstances in which he met his wife. A full-hearted Mr. Vole tells the story of their encounter.

Christine Vole appears as an example of self control. Compared to her husband, Christine appears to be unyielding and vindictive, and this antithesis between what Mrs. Vole seems to be and what Mr. Vole tells about her is the motivating factor for Sir Wilfrid in order to establish the truth.

'Witness for the Prosecution' cannot be described as a simple movie, centered upon a murder case. It is a beautiful account of the human life and whirl. It can be, at the same time, comedy, drama and thriller. It is a movie that makes us witness a love story, like it was and like it will be, with only one exception - the intensity lived by the characters. And from all of the questions, surely one will endure for centuries to come: what is one willing to do for one's loved one?

The Student Dream

Today I saw a squirrel. No, I have not been to the woods. I was passing by an university when my attention was drawn by a fluffy tail, moving around quickly. I thought I was seeing things. But I was not. It was a happy-go-lucky squirrel running on a high ramp in front of the university building. Around there were students of all ages, dressed in lively colors and wearing the most beautiful accessory - a smile. And then how could not a squirrel run around them so freely? 
I remembered the times when I was a student myself and I could not refrain from making a comparison. Every day, when leaving the university, I had to face a dreadful wind as the building of the university was in the middle of a land outside the built-up area. But this was not the greatest challenge. The bus that connected the university to the dorm I was living in would come once every 30  minutes. If you missed it, you risked to stand against the wind and cold until the next one would come.
Contrary to what I saw today, the students back then would wear a lot of accessories but seldom smiles. And my waiting was never rewarded with the sight of a squirrel running around. Today I felt avenged.

Wings

I have wished for such a long time to be getting wings! 
I almost believed I could grow some in my beauty sleep. I woke up one morning and decided that it was high time I stopped dreaming. And opened my eyes. My glance was cast upon you, and ever since I have been hearing sweet notes coming far-far away from a red piano. Now I no longer have dreams with me flying over meadows and deltas. I am actually flying. No wings involved. In fact, I received a pair of them as a gift, but I have kept them in their special box, trying to keep them new as much as possible. And thus I learned that far away can be sooner reached than what’s close, and that dearest is not a noun or an adjective, but a magnifying glass. You just have to know when to use it. And more important: never, never raise it up to your eyes. Instead, make sure you bent your view through it, and not the other way around. Things are always clearer when nothing is distracting the sight.

Canto

When I was a teenager I had a friend who attended singing lessons. It is true that I had never heard her sing (she claimed that she cannot sing in front of the people she knew), and I took her at her word that she had a beautiful voice. Well, after 10-15 attendances she was already bored. And not because of the signing, but because the teacher blessed her with a song she had to sing at every attendance, Barbra Streisand – Woman in love. She became so horrified with the song that she started shivering any time she used to hear the word ‘love’ or if somebody mentioned the name of Barbra Streisand. This is why I think that two years ago she must have been on the brink of depression to hear almost ceaselessly on the radio a song that kept repeating: Barbra Streisand. I truly believe that she must have felt avenged and supported the people who wanted to record a similar song, praising Stela Popescu.

Anyway, I used to hear her telling me about the diaphragm – that thing that supports the singing – and I used to imagine myself (as I was her friend, and that somehow guaranteed me my voice, too) as the new Whitney Houston, to say the least. And so I used to grab the red badminton bat and confidently perform in front of the mirror in my room. I would inevitably start with « end aiiiiiiii » (in those times I had no idea what that lady sang and how one would spell it – I was certain about one thing, something was hurting her. I, instead, was tormented by talent) and I would not stop until my sister would come, probably sent by my mother, to calm me down, whispering affectionate menaces. My precious memory, actually proving the beauty of my voice, leads me back to one summer afternoon. My mom and my sis were in the living room, tailoring and sewing some clothes. I had to make the most of it as they weren’t around the stage, and the sewing machine was noisy enough. I took the microphone a.k.a. the hair brush and I started: « bitaaar suit me-morizz… ». Perking up my ears, I continued to sing encouraged by the fact that no one came to ask me to shut up and I concluded that since I had been singing so much, my voice must have sounded better. I finished my song. Still no one appeared. And so I started singing another song. And this was when I heard footsteps in the hall. The door to my room opened. Two inquiring eyes were staring at me. My sister’s eyes. “Ah, it was you singing! And we thought that we left the radio on!” I had never felt so proud before. If my voice sounded just like one on the radio, then I was going to have a glorious musical future.

Fame has not yet been cast upon me. But I won’t stop. « End aiiiiiii, uil olueiz lave iuuuuuu……..»

The storyteller

My mother is the best storyteller. I think that only in few occasions was I lucky enough to meet people so devoted to the plot, but also to the gestures and mimics of the main characters. There are stories that I heard my mother tell a dozen of times, and I just can't get enough of her retelling them. Just like my father, my mother left her mark on the way I see the world. But in order to be completely honest, I must add that she helped me understand the world by enabling me to imagine it. Thus, I learned to imagine sketches, and my imagination was always encouraged to go beyond limits, even if these limits applied to theater directing or costumes.

Her stories captured me because of their plot, but they way they were presented encouraged me to always imagine the set in which the action took place, to actually see the characters (even if I never met them), to hear their words and to notice their tone of voice, to almost smell the perfume of an immense bunch of freesia carried by a passer-by and to hear the harsh remark of a participant to a serious dispute.

I am not in the wrong to state that almost all my mother's stories were kept in my memory as wisdom stories. Their value is priceless, and not because of their application in the real life, but because of their immeasurable connection my mother created between us, the members of her family. As she will always be the authentic storyteller, and us the faithful preservers of the story.

Moray

A scent of blue beneath the coast,
I wandered awfully astray.
A touch against your weavy mask
And you appear.... Moray.

I dreamt about you ceaselessly
And waited for a spark to climb,
While they were talking bitterly
About the years to come.

There is no turning back to this.
I praise you: Shine!
And I will give you utter bliss
Upon the day you're mine.

Masks

For there's no mask
without the purple blame.
which cuddles into soft erosion,
a wise man whispered in the morning,
in an oblivious, but yet soared motion.

I looked around me.
And at myself.
And realized the stage I'm on.
'cause there's no mirror and no stones.
But only masks to look upon.

I searched for answers
and I was told:
"Despair not at their heavy tone,
and keep your mask forever on".

Response

Yesterday I saw a snail jumping out of a window. He was happy. Happy to finally try out the sensational bungee-jumping. I met him afterwards at a dinner table. He was sitting right next to Robin Hood. He told me that he had given it a lot of thought and decided upon joining a different kind of Army. I asked him if he really still believed in the power of good. Snail told me he was fed up with such a question, turned on his spirally coiled shell and flew off using his stalked eyes.

Since then I have been hearing about various attacks upon rich people. And about snails.

Moon

A few years ago my nephew used to call any lighted bulb as moon.

Christmas is almost here and whenever I hear carols, I remember the lights of the Christmas tree from my uncle's house. I do not know why, but the lights installation in his house seemed magical. I used to watch it in silence while I was perking up my ears, hoping to catch uncle G. slipping the present right in my hands. I loved spending Christmas day in uncle G.'s house. Maybe because of the happy face my father had when together with his brother, my uncle, started caroling. They usually sang old carols, honoring the memories they had together.

People are always talking about Christmas spirit, about the goodness and joy, about giving, and most of all about cherishing. I cannot say for certain if I truly understand the Christmas spirit, but I surely have memories to keep it alive.

Moon!

A figure of dance

Around me people are dancing. And their moves are characterized by despair, longing, hope and sorrow. I am muttered by their courage, and also by their suffering. But it is a dance and I cannot and must not interfere. I must respect their choice of moves, no matter how much it torments me. Still, I hold on to the most impressive of them: he gently caresses her cheek, looks her deep in the eyes, takes her hand and presses it onto his chest, where his heart beats so fast. He then brings her closer to him, he touches her forehead, playing with her fringe and before letting go of her hand (with tangible pain) he softly presses his lips on her left shoulder.

Snow with chances of… Are there chances?

I think my upstairs neighbour lives in Siberia. He must be. Otherwise I cannot explain the noise going on in his room late at night and very early in the morning. And the cold gets so heavy that he pulls to his bed all the furniture in the room: bookcase, table, chairs, desk etc., to keep him warm during his sleep. Early in the morning, when he wakes up, he pushes them all to their proper places, and rushes to the bathroom. Typhoons and lightnings must fight for his attention, while he clumsily reaches for the comb. That must be his first worry: One must look incredibly handsome! Then he goes to the kitchen and, against a dreadful earthquake, he manages to drink his coffee while sitting.

Oh dear, and I thought the heavy snow outside is the most horrible meteorological phenomenon.

Beautiful People

All around the globe people are complaining about the worsening of human relationships. Almost no one believes anymore in the kindness of others, and fewer talk about beautiful people they once met and were impressed with. And so I thought about taking the initiative and give my thanks to perfect strangers that gave me a grain of hope in the goodness of people. I chose to thank strangers because I consider their gesture even more uplifting.
I would like to thank:
- the manager of Edu Publishing House.
- the lady in Amsterdam, which I stopped on a Thursday night two years ago, and who helped me arrive at my destination. Not only did she took the map of the city from her purse, but she took the time to look over it with me and helped me localize the street I was looking for. When we said goodbye she gave the map to me, explaining that she knew how to get home and I was in more need of it.
- the lady in Vienna who, noticing our lost look, stopped and without us asking "Please, can you tell us where this street is?", she gave directions and wished us a happy trip.

- Irene for being an inspiration in order for me to start writing. 

- Suzana Bantas, which I met in September 2011 at one of her own exhibitions in Casa Armatei, and who encouraged me not to give up on painting. 

P.S. And the list remains open J

In search of an anthem

There are moments in life when your perspective changes and you desperately need motivation for your newly found goals. In such troubling times there is only one alleviation: your own anthem. As they say: if something ain't, you ought to invent it. And so I did. I made up an anthem to sooth my quivering. I gave it life and I pinned it on my window pane so that anytime the sun rises or goes down, its reflected light could gently caress the ribboned spare of my thoughts.

The Social Contract

"Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains."

After more than 200 years since Jean Jacques Rousseau uttered the aforementioned saying, I feel that nowadays we are in the same situation as then. There are strict social limits to live by and few are encouraged to do more or to embrace their calling.

My social experience until now has brought me to the conclusion that it is more important to have an opinion of my own regarding certain things than to "inherit" it from others. I met people who were so much indulged in living by others' life standards that they did not even realize how miserable they were. And how could they be aware of that, when all of their lives they were "helped" not to feel their inner feelings, needs and aspirations?

It is the same in Plato's Allegory of the Cave, only if one wants, can one come out in the sun and see the shapes as they really are.

I think that every one of us should engage once in a while in "absolute subjectivity" and try to understand who she/ he really is, the direction she/ he needs to take in order to be happy (so that the others could be happy. I always thought that happiness occurs due to a chain reaction. It cannot come out of nowhere. It can only be felt, lived and "transmitted" to the others around). I think this is how we should raise the young generation. I reckon this is the basic knowledge the youngsters should have when they set out on the journey of life.

Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandfather!

A granddaughter's cry for attention. Grandfather was engaged in a conversation. Rose (let's call her this as she was wearing a red jacket) was happy. She was experiencing a breathtaking moment. She yelled something. But it was too loud to understand her. And then she turned to her grandfather, knowing that he will understand and share her happiness.

Grandfather gave her a glance while he was still talking. He was trying to find out if this was not one of her usual moments of effusion. He was very used to that. Surprisingly, he was very used to sadness and rage, too, as I could make up from his conversation. Between Rose's cries, grandfather looked her again in the eyes and he found that this was something different. So he stopped talking and embraced her. Gratefulness. Happiness. I saw them both in Rose's eyes and it was such a splendid sight that it made me wish I could only see it more often.

Change

There is a tree outside your bedroom. A tree once indulged in silence. Now, all is swish. Branches, leaves, buds, flowers, all whisper. The murmur has been ignored. Until now.
Suddenly, a woodpecker has changed the tune. The murmur has been transformed into a constant hammering. A scared hedgehog was seen running for its life, while a squirrel snarled at the noisy intruder. 'Cut the coat according to the cloth', said the hedgehog, and kept running until it disappeared behind a rose bush.

White frogs dancing in the sky

White frogs dancing in the sky.
I saw them once, when I was ten.

It’s just a game of you and I
And a remembrance of then.

They’re holding hands, and jumping,

And laughing at the noisy birds.

Don’t bother now restructuring

What you believed when you were kids!

White frogs dancing in the sky.

Be still, and breathe the current view.

And all you have don’t question why!

Just taste the courage of the few.

They’ve started yelling at the rain,

But then again, rainbow would come.

And clean the blisters and the pain,

And weave the future with a comb.

White frogs dancing in the sky.

Be sure to find what you expect.

And all in all, they’ll bear you out,

Then it is you who must you not neglect!

Games

Why must I not

ask about

diamonds and rats,

castles and hats?

No Jack of diamonds

Is going to believe that

You’ve stolen the parrots,

and suddenly got mad.

I’ve seen all the feathers

dropped in the sand.

You’ve tickled the bearers,

Then grubbed the land.

Spades, hearts and decks.

The jumble of feelings

Goes out of hand

And all out of meaning.

Imagine the dices,

The poor Queen of hearts.

Then tell me your vices

And their form of art.

Picture

I am standing here.

And unabridged

you want your letters

to be heard.

I’m saying: That’s a lovely dress,

but loose those wrinkles in your hair.

I might have been

mistaken, unaware.

And then again,

I must collect no flaws.

By darling, you must mean novette.

I know that now and I accept.

Correct illusions. Don’t suggest!

Repel and scream and disconnect.

My dad wanted me to be a dressmaker

It seems I have given signs of artistic skills ever since I was a little girl, and my dad was convinced - until a certain point - that I will grow up to be a great dressmaker. It is true, though, that my closets are filled with patches of fabric that were once cut, sewed and abandoned only to think that one day I will be just inspired to continue the work of art I once began.
My whole life has been marked by the existence of women talented at tailoring or sewing clothes. Mom was the first woman that seems to have started the movement. Then, it was my sister's turn. She took it to another level. Once a month 'Burda' magazine would enlighten our house. The floor in our bedroom would be filled with patterns, fabrics, centimeter, spools of sewing thread and scissors. My sis used to tailor wonderful costumes, jackets, dresses and skirts. I still remember the red tie she made for herself, with the help of the magazine. But the clothing item that still lingers in my mind after so much time is the skirt-pants. It was made of two different pieces of fabric. One for the front and another for the back. Well, and how am I suppose to not have gained such taste for clothes when I had so many inspired creators around me?!

Just yesterday my experienced eye noticed a tweed jacket. Well, it fits but no so much in the shoulders area. I must make some adjustments. It's an honorable challenge. So I got ready by arming myself with two scissors, one small and one big, a needle and thread. I took a minute to thoroughly analyze what I had to do. I slipped open one of the sleeves. I cut a little from the fabric of the shoulder and then I started sewing the sleeve back on. It was the same as in the story of the great tailor. Only it was completely different. I made sure that the thread was tightly sewed. The final result? The sleeve presented unwanted folds. 'Ok', I said to myself, 'I will slip it open again'. And so I had and sewed it back on. I finished the job and tried it on. It looked like the first time. Only worse. And just about then I had my Evrika moment. I should have prepared the sleeve for edgestitching and then sew it. It was by far a very complex cognitive process. So I had to stop and take a break. There's always tomorrow.

A scent of self-consciousness

Today I read an interview. Regardless of the identity of the public persona, I could not understand how the woman telling the story of her life (a very sad one, actually) did not go out of her mind when reading the draft of the interview. She recollected how she had given up work and settled for being just a housewife, how she spent all of her life alone, while her husband was away, working, and her children busy with ignoring her.

In a nutshell, it was the saddest story I have ever read. What puzzled me the most was that she did not question her existence, no matter how frightened she was of financial instability and being alone (besides her marital status, she was actually alone).

And even though she could not realize it in the past, when she read the interview, was she not horrified? Was not she sad and embittered that she lived her life without being loved, cherished, respected and cared for? And so I remembered what a genius Plato was for writing the Allegory of the Cave.

A few days ago I was talking with one of my friends about the few models of womanhood we had had as little girls. I had an aunt that was very stylish, but the thing about her was her scent. I remember when she came to visit and everything she touched would smell like her. Her scent was a mix of chamomile and nicotiana alata on a summer night. She did not have to say anything as she was enchanting everybody with it. She used to laugh differently and initiate different kind of conversations. But most of all, I cherish her and her memory as she was the one that introduced me to the novels of Vlad Musatescu.

I have rarely seen women paying attention to themselves, their lives and their needs, women that could be proud of the way they lived their lives, women that dared to smile, women that were able to look at a calendar and not divide the calendar year into periods for doing the holiday cleaning and cooking. I hate it when Romanian women choose how to understand getting ready for holidays. They engage themselves in a “general cleaning”, as they call it, and in cooking more than everybody can eat. And they stop at that, rightfully tired.

And thus, I cannot see this interview but an important “do pay attention”. Maybe instead of religious icons Romanian women insist on putting in their houses, they should frame this interview. And keep it as a token of self-esteem.

One little green chair

Those who are dead, are not dead

They’re just living in my head.

                                                                “42”- Coldplay

I saw two chairs yesterday. Two parched, brown and old fashioned chairs. They were left outside a bistro. And just for a brisk moment I had the feeling of using the time machine. And going back in the past.

My grandparents’ courtyard. My grandpa and I are sitting on the porch, waiting for grandma to come to lunch. It is summer and the weather is terribly hot. Which is why grandpa decides to go in the house after lunch. I am invited, too. But I have to refuse, no matter how nice and chilly the bedroom is. I ought to stay outside. Grandma never sleeps around noon, and moreover I must inspect the fruit trees and see if I find another colorful dragonfly in the vineyard.

Grandma was amused. She saw me going to the poultry yard to check if the poultry laid eggs.

Grandpa’s chair was outside, in the sun. I looked at it while I was sitting under the pear tree. Once green, now the chair had an indefinite color. It was small and old and I never knew why grandpa kept it.

Now I do.

Beautiful Mind

1. Mind your fears. Mind your projection on others. But most of all, mind yourself.
2. Thought comes to mind like waves to a shore. Mind the tide!
3. When out of one’s mind, one must be careful to find an adequate receptacle.
4. To give you a piece of my mind would mean to actually tell you the truth about something that you cannot handle. But then again, I’d mind you not minding.
5. Make up your mind. Don’t make up excuses!
6. To have a creative mind is to remind others what they already know.

Moon River

Pink leaves on a riverbank. Moonbeam gently caressing the silent sleep of a deer. The grass slightly moving by the touch of a misty wind. A star flickering on the top of a fir. A rabbit perking up its ears in order to hear where the other rabbits have run to. A cloud smiling at a firefly. A butterfly sleeping on a yellow mushroom. Two owls flying in the sky. A hedgehog and a turtle stuck on a path in the woods.  

There is such a world to see…