XANTIPA 2.
English version. Romanian version, below.

    I have never felt more abstracted, more alone, more sad and bitter. And it is so very difficult for me to express what or how I feel, or the intensity of these moments that doesn’t listen to the law of the irreversible pass of time, as it’s defined in any serious physics book, and I sometimes realize that time doesn’t pass at all, though sometimes it seems to me a few hours passed by… in fact those were mere seconds. And it’s a common thing to say that time heals and helps you detach... but it really doesn’t. On the contrary, each day I wake up feeling that everything happening to me is more and more intense and hard to take, and feeling that, instead of healing, it gets worse, and instead of moving away from what seemed to be, at some moment in time, just an unpleasant moment of my life… I keep going back to it and, instead of surpassing it, I keep seeing it in front of me. Time flows backwards, when it decides to pass. Most often I feel stuck, like a stranded boat, led by a clumsy steersman in the muddy waters of an unknown river, stuck in a continuous present, without being able to see any potential future, and unable to leave behind of detach from this sad past that keeps following me every second of my life. I once could distinguish between the value of a certain time, and just another moment, as I somehow had given a greater emotional meaning to those moments, compared to other times of my life, and I shun from using that word too often, as it seemed to me to be an epithet, and I was trying to conserve a reference point value of the moments that kept coming and going… and everything that is happening now just seems to be an endless... moment.

    I don’t know if the lines I intend to write may be taken as a confession, or as an autobiography, or even a failed attempt of catharsis – in hope of an even temporary detachment of all things happening at this time. It may very well be that it is all fiction, an attentively calculated one, with a plan and notes, with a gradually rising suspense and a predictable happy ending… it might be a novel as many others. It may possibly be the last lines of a finished man, who doesn’t believe in anything anymore, and who is waiting for the fulfilling of his destiny. It might be a will.

    While ironically smiling (or at least I think she was, as I didn’t see her while saying this), she had told me one to write a novel, explaining that maybe this was my destiny- to write something memorable for mankind, from all this story. My first reaction was rejection, refusing, suspecting her of the fact that she was only amusing herself at my expense, as she had done so many times before. Nevertheless, her words lingered in my mind in the days to come after that talk, and at one point I was really taking into consideration the thought of writing something, not as much for me of others involved, but for people who, at this time, don’t even realize what is actually going on, and by the time they will understand, my fate in this world will be long ended. How could I transcribe what I feel, when I feel my days are numbered, and I know my time is shorter and shorter, and there is no turning back, and I feel condemned, deep inside me? How could I write something definite when I feel incapable of translating into words ideas and feelings that I don’t fully understand myself? When those around me are not capable of understanding something I myself cannot, or they put their hopes in something I have given up a long time ago? Which words to choose, what moments to mention, how to avoid surpassing barriers I myself cannot surpass in my own self? How to define the undefinable? It will be a real challenge to try to write something, to try to express something I cannot think of in a detached and serene manner, so I could start writing about it, stating what I have to say. But… the question is: what do I really have to say? I am tempted to give up, to avoid any more attempts, making up excuses in my mind that maybe what I have to say has been already said thousands of times, in thousands of languages, fearing I will lamentably fail in capturing what could make everything sound like new. Sadly, Tristan and Iseult had lived their story a long time ago, and in Romeo and Juliet’s case there’s nothing more to say. It all sometimes seems to be a mere repetition of other repetitions, dusty old ones. Why would anything I have to say be special? Or us and our story? This may be the key question.

    I do not know whether I will fill more than a few pages and abandon afterwards, or whether I will be stubborn in my desire to write, without caring about what is going on. I don’t know if this will be a novel, fiction or confession. I sometimes remember simplistic interviews with writers who afforded to pencil new worlds and new universes, with tens, thousands of characters who interacted amongst them in such a way that you needed a dictionary of characters to keep up with the vertiginous rhythm that the action was unfolding in… and the question was something like: “And what will happen to character X?” leading to a slightly dazed face of the questioned… “I can’t tell yet, I haven’t gotten to write that part yet.” I do not know what will happen to these lines swirling in my mind either, whether they will lead me to an answer, or whether it all would end abruptly.

    I somehow feel indebted to try, to build up the courage to sit at the table and try to lay the first few words on paper. But I feel overwhelmed by the cold immensity of the sheet of paper, by the silent expectancy of words which seems to erupt from me and now, in the decisive moment, I am trying to postpone, to do all those little things that eat up all the time you want them to, from an unconscious hesitation (or supposedly subconscious)... as I see no purpose yet, I do not believe in the fact that I could sketch something. Maybe I just am selfish and I want to keep it all for myself, or maybe I am just fooling myself in believing that I have something to say. I feel distracted and incapable. I keep pacing the floor with small steps in the room where once there was so much life, and now there is no sound, transforming it slowly into a temple of silence and remembering, and to which I have so often tried to give up because of the ghostly images going round in front of my eyes... and yet I can’t. It’s like I buried myself in oblivion, I would give up remembering, I would be in abandonment. I am oscillating between two worlds, I am swinging between the need to share what I think I am feeling, and the inability to decide to at least try to… And I cannot even say that tomorrow is another day, a new one, a day when I will find something new to do, something to distract me, to make me forget about myself. But it doesn’t happen… a new day, the same well established routine, same feelings, same gestures… repetitively. Just like being condemned to live over and over again one day, one hour, one moment. I know that, no matter what I claim, whatever motivation I should find, as much as I would try to avoid it, I would sooner or later find myself in front of the same table, with the same blank piece of paper, with the same urge to break these invisible chains around me that make me ignore what is inside me.. and facing the same dilemma: what do I have to say?

     I had tried a while back to write a children’s story. I had already sketched in my mind the frame of the story that would be easily understood, and somehow attractive to any 2 or 3 year old… I picked up the characters and the place of action… and I was afraid to write it. I have no idea why. And just the same, each day passes by I promise to myself that I would write about these, because I know that someone in this whole wide world is waiting for it, and maybe the addressee will enjoy it, or at least I would like him to... And every day I procrastinate and find reasons not to write it, to ignore it, to avoid it, to pretend there are many other things more important to do, although most often I stiffen in the same corner of the room, with the same photo in my hand.. What am I running from? I don’t know, and I sometimes wonder I don’t write it, why I don’t do what I was said to do, though joking. Am I afraid? I have no idea. But I do hope it will not be the same case, in continuing with the same procrastination, and postpone that moment when I would sit down, and start writing. I do hope to find out the answer to this situation.

    I feel so very tired…

@special thanks again to Oana , for all her support , patience , understanding and help.Not only to have this in English, but as a whole.

versiunea in limba romana.

Nicicand nu m-am simtit mai ingandurat, mai singur , trist si mai innegurat. Si imi vine cumplit de greu sa exprim ce simt sau cum simt, intensitatea acestor clipe care nu respecta nici o lege a trecerii implacabile a timpului asa cum e ea definita in orice manual serios de fizica, si imi dau seama ca uneori nu mai trec de loc si desi uneori par a trece ore, in fapt nu sunt decat simple secunde. Si e banal cand se zice ca trecerea aceasta a timpului alina si te face sa te detasezi.. dar nu se intampla asa. Din contra , in fiecare zi ma trezesc ca ceea ce se intampla cu mine sau in sinea mea , e tot mai intens si mai greu de suportat , ca in loc sa treaca se acutizeaza, ca in loc sa ma indepartez de ceea ce parea a fi la un momentdat  doar un moment neplacut din viata mea.. ma reintorc catre el si in loc sa il las in urma, il vad in fata mea. Timpul curge invers, atunci cand se hotaraste totusi sa mai si curga.Cel mai adesea ma simt impotmolit, ca o barca esuata condusa de un carmaci nepriceput in apele tulburi ale unui rau necunoscut, blocat intr-un prezent continuu fara sa vad nici un fel de potential viitor si incapabil sa las in urma sau sa ma detasez de acest trist trecut care ma urmareste clipa de clipa. Candva faceam o distinctie intre valoarea unei clipe si a unui moment, cumva dadusem o mai mare incarcatura emotionala  clipelor  comparativ cu alte momente din viata mea, si ma feream sa folosesc cuvantul prea des, parandu-mi cumva un epitet, incercam sa ii pastrez o valoare de etalon a momentelor care veneau si se duceau.... si tot ce se intampla acum imi pare a fi doar o interminabila si fara de sfarsit.. clipa.

Nu stiu daca randurile pe care intentionez sa le scriu  pot fi luate ca o confesiune, sau ca o autobiografie sau o incercare nereusita de catharsis, in speranta unei detasari fie si momentane de ce se intampla. Posibil sa fie totul doar o fictiune, atent calculata, cu notite si plan , cu un suspans crescand gradual si un previzibil final fericit, sa fie un roman, ca atatea altele. Posibil insa sa fie doar ultimele randuri ale unui om sfarsit, care nu mai crede in nimic si care nu isi asteapta decat indeplinirea destinului.  Un testament. 

Zambind cumva ironic (cred, pentru ca nu o vedeam in momentul respectiv), imi spusese ea candva sa scriu un roman, ca poate asta mi-a fost destinul , sa scriu ceva memorabil pentru omenire, din toata povestea asta. Prima reactie a fost de recul, de a refuza, banuind-o de faptul ca incerca doar sa se amuze pe seama mea, cum facuse de atatea ori pana atunci, dar cele zise de ea mi-au ramas undeva in minte in zilele care au trecut dupa acea discutie si ma gandeam la un momentdat tot mai serios sa incerc sa scriu ceva, nu atat pentru mine sau pentru altii, cat pentru cei care in acest moment nici nu isi dau seama ce se intampla, si cand vor putea sa inteleaga singuri..destinul meu pe aceasta lume se va fi incheiat de mult. Dar cum sa transcriu ceea ce simt, cand imi simt zilele numarate, cand stiu ca timpul meu e tot mai scurt si nu mai e nici o cale de intoarcere si in sinea mea sunt deja damnat si condamnat .Cum sa scriu ceva concret cand ma simt incapabil sa transpun in cuvinte idei si sentimente pe care nu le inteleg eu pe deplin in primul rand? Cand cei din jurul meu nu sunt capabili sa inteleaga ceva ce nu inteleg eu in primul rand, sau spera in ceva in ce eu am renuntat de mult sau mai sper? Ce cuvinte sa alegi, ce momente sa pomenesti, cum sa eviti depasirea unor bariere pe care nici in sinea ta nu le poti depasi? Cum sa definesti indefinibilul?  Va fio o reala provocare sa incerc sa scriu ceva, sa incerc sa exprim ceva la care nu ma pot gandi detasat si senin , astfel incat sa incep a scrie , a spune ce am de spus. Dar.. ce am de spus totusi? .Ma simt tentat a renunta, a evita orice incercare, scuzandu-ma in sinea mea ca poate ce as putea eu spune s-a mai spus de mii de ori , in mii de limbi, temandu-ma ca voi esua lamentabil in a surprinde  ceea ce ar trebui sa faca totul sa fie nou. Din pacate Tristan si Isolda si-au trait de mult povestea lor si in Romeo si Julieta nu mai e nimic de spus nou. Uneori pare ca totul e doar repetitie a unor repetitii , si ele deja prafuite. Cu ce ar fi mai special ce am eu de spus? Cu ce as fi eu mai special? Sau noi si povestea noastra? Aceasta poate este intrebarea cheie.

                Nu stiu daca voi depasi mai mult de cateva pagini si voi abandona, sau daca ma voi incapatana sa scriu, fara sa imi pese de ce se intampla. Nu stiu daca va fi roman, fictiune sau confesiune. Uneori imi aduc aminte de interviuri simpliste luate unor scriitori care isi permiteau sa creioneze noi lumi si universuri, cu zeci, sute de personaje care interactionau intre ele intr-o asemenea maniera incat aveai nevoie de dictionar de personaje ca sa poti pastra pasul cu ritmul ametitor in care se desfasura actiunea… si intrebarea era ceva de genul :” Si ce se va intampla cu personajul X?” ducand la o figura usor mirata a celui chestionat.. “ nu stiu sa va zic inca, nu am ajuns sa scriu partea respectiva”. Nu stiu nici eu ce se va intampla cu aceste randuri pe care le am in minte, daca vor duce la un raspuns sau totul se va termina abrupt. 

           Cumva , ma simt dator sa incerc, sa imi fac curaj sa ma asez la masa si sa incerc sa pun primele cuvinte pe hartie. Dar ma simt coplesit de imensitatea rece a colii de hartie, de asteptarea tacuta a cuvintelor care pareau sa erupa din mine si acum , in momentul decisiv , incerc sa aman, sa fac cele o suta de mici lucruri care iti mananca cat de mult timp vrei, dintr-o ezitare inconstienta ( sau constient pretinsa) … pentru ca inca nu vad nici un scop, nu cred in faptul ca as putea cumva sa schitez ceva. Poate sunt de fapt doar egoist si vreau sa tin doar pentru mine, poate doar ma amagesc crezand ca am ceva de spus. Ma simt distras, ma simt incapabil. In pasi marunti masor camera in care era candva atat de multa viata si acum nu se mai aude nici un sunet, transformandu-se pe nesimtite intr-un templu tacerii si al aducerii aminte, si la care am incercat de atatea ori sa renunt din cauza imaginilor fantomatice care mi se perinda prin fata ochilor..si totusi nu pot. E ca si cum m-as ingropa in uitare, as renunta sa imi amintesc, ar fi un abandon. Pendulez intre doua lumi, pendulez intre nevoie sa de a impartasi ce cred ca eu simt, si neputinta de a ma hotara sa incerc macar… Si nici macar nu pot sa zic ca maine e o alta zi, o noua zi, in care voi gasi ceva nou de facut, ceva care sa ma distraga, sa ma faca sa uit de mine.Dar nu.. o noua zi, aceeasi rutina bine stabilita, aceleasi sentimente, aceleasi gesturi.. repetitiv. Ca si cum ai fi condamant sa traiesti o singura zi, un singur ceas, un singur moment, incontinuu. Stiu ca indiferent ce as pretinde, ce motivatie mi-as gasi, cat de mult as incerca sa evit, maine ma voi regasi mai devreme sau mai tarziu in fata aceleiasi mese cu aceeasi coala de hartie goala in fata ochilor, cu aceeasi nevoie impetuoasa de a rupe o data aceste lanturi invizibile care ma fac sa ignor ce e in mine  si in fata aceleasi dileme.. ce am eu de zis?

                Incercasem acum ceva vreme sa scriu o povestioara pentru copii , schitasem deja in minte scheletul unei intamplari care sa fie usor de inteles sau macar sa fie atractiva pentru orice pustiulica de 2-3 ani, imi alesesem personajele si locul actiunii… si mi-a fost frica sa o scriu. Nu stiu de ce. Si in fiecare zi imi promit ca o seara o voi scrie, pentru ca stiu ca e asteptata undeva in lumea asta larga, sau macar destinatarul ei se va bucura , cred eu, sa o auda.. si in fiecare zi aman sa o scriu, in fiecare zi imi gasesc pretexte sa ignor, sa evit, sa ma fac ca sunt alte lucruri mai importante de facut, desi cel mai adesea intepenesc ore intregi in acelasi colt de camera cu aceeasi fotografie in mana… de ce fug? Nu stiu, si ma intreb adeseori de ce nu o scriu, de ce nu fac ceea ce ..tot cumva in gluma mi s-a propus. Mi-e frica? Nu stiu. Dar sper sa nu fie cazul si aici, sa aman in fiecare zi acel moment in care ar trebui sa ma asez, si sa incep sa scriu. Sper sa aflu raspunsul la aceasta situatie.

                Ma simt cumplit de obosit.

  XANTIPA.

english version.romanian version below.

Lie to me still that spring is here

In the year of our everlastingness,

And tell me there’s a summer…

…Late in the night , dreamy,  with a cigarette lying forgotten in the corner of my lips, slowly fading away in smoke, I was glaring with foggy eyes at the coffee cup in front of me, searching for a sequel, trying to find the thrill that a moment before flashed throughout me, bringing out through my lips the first three verses. It would not come. In the dusk of my days, I was always thinking of what I would call my past. I know I never was the kind of man who could write in one breath ten pages, to describe a sunset, without repeating the same word twice along the way. I was never able to describe a landscape, as for me the written word would only bring out a simple fact, a picture, and though I often lay, alone or not, in rapture and contemplating the beauty of that moment, as if bewitched, I could never describe what I was seeing  and feeling, the thousands colors, from the brightest white to the profound black of the night, going through all the possible scale of colors- blue, yellow, red and sometimes green- that sparkling green that they say it sometimes shows itself in the clear summer evenings, when there’s no cloud in the sky..  a color so overwhelming in its solitude, a color that some say it can only be seen by those with a certain gift. It’s like a short, intense flash of astounding green that makes one sometimes wonder if he really saw it, or if it’s just an illusion stemming from the impatience of the expectation for that specific moment. It is and always has been difficult for me to express myself, both in speech and in writing; I was never able to say more than three words when I wanted to tell something really important, and in writing… oh my, I was severely lost. I had not the slightest chance to freely express what dwelled inside me, and I preferred being silent and not uttering a word, although I fought true oratorical battles on the inside, in metaphors and rhymes never seen before. But I had no chance of freely expressing what I was going through, no matter how much I wanted to find that freeing word, that would give me the possibility of telling it, of getting it all out, or… no matter what I wanted to do, I couldn’t say a word.  That might have been the main reason I always warned everyone around me to stay aside and not insist in their attempt to make me speak, when I was in total silence, but to join me in silence, as they sometimes risked to be the detonator, and be mere innocent victims of my explosions, especially when the situation was of such strain, that there was nothing wise to say. Some understood it, some did not. I had always been afraid of the written word, as I knew how acid and caustic I was and still am in speech… and to write, under these circumstances…?  Tempt me not! I wrote once what one could call in technical terms “prose” and it shocked a whole generation of youngsters with its deliberate bitterness that was sometimes searched for and found in the lines on a piece of paper, that were rapidly and crazily scribbled in staggering speed...  until one day I realized I have nothing more to write about, nothing more to speak of. I was mute and silent on the inside, and I abandoned any attempt to write again, though sometimes, in long summer nights, some friends, gathered around me and some long-empty bottles,  insisted I should not give up, and write again… but it was all in vain.

   There was nothing left in me, just emptiness and silence. I was long past the poem phase; I was past any chance given to my literary claims and, with small exceptions, I haven’t got the slightest idea where the things I wrote then could have gone to. I would have been really interesting to take a final look at them with a bitter sneer on my face, before throwing them away forever in the garbage bin of literature. I do not believe and I never have believed in the mission of writing something of genius, which would be appreciated hundreds of years from one’s death, when he surely does not care anymore about it. And although I seldom felt a whiplash, a smoldering fire that appeared to burn somewhere within me, I stopped paying attention to this subject, choosing to go on with more “worldly” and “human” things, and to somehow integrate discretely in the grey landscape of mundane routine, lying to myself that I have to have a job, a family, usual stuff that they say will make you whole and for the sake of which you have to sacrifice the best years of your life, ending up to drawing a line, facing your most dreaded alternative and realizing that nothing was really worth doing it. And you just sit and wonder what was it all good for, feeling like a poorer version of Jove from the Bible, without any light in front of your old eyes, tired from the too many things seen...  and there is no answer. I think I always hated the incapacity of coherently linking more than a few words, in writing or not, and I sometimes wonder what it would have come out of me, of us, of this whole world, if some time, in the middle of the night, or during a horrid fight, I would just have said everything I had to day, or I would have picked out my words to do it. Or rather just shut up and smoke my cigarette, and let the words come out... I will never know, and now it seems like it all happened thousands of years ago... though maybe it happened just yesterday. Or maybe today.

   I always hated, or, to say it more politely, I have discretely admired the ones capable to bind words together, in a deceiving way, or from their hearts, in a way that amazes folks around them, or the ones capable to express themselves in writing. I did not even know the names of the colors, I had no idea and I still don’t what “crimson” looks like, or what color is the amethyst. .. Therefore how could I comprise the emotion and ultimate beauty of such moments I cherished, when I totally lacked the knowledge that is supposed to be needed for it? When I opened my mouth to utter, I felt a knot in my throat and I suddenly was swept by the inescapable swirl of thoughts, ideas, analyses, doubts that irredeemably blocked any possibility of expression... And in writing? I could not write anything, I felt completely handicapped. I preferred looking for a picture and send it, looking for a genius photo of an anonymous author, and I truly hope that the person at the other end would understand my message, and extract from it what was impossible for me to express. I seldom succeeded in doing it.  I wasn’t born a Demosthenes, or a Cicero, and not even a Baudelaire...  so I could be able to take out from the most simple words those feelings that take you there, carry you in your imagination and make you wake up dreaming with your eyes open. I was somehow forbidden to be able to do that. I was thinking too much, and when I had something to say, I was lost. I could not even keep a simple diary with the most common or mundane aspects of my life, and it was impossible for me to say something in a diary, taking into account the fact that I had read many journals kept by other people, and I was always surprised by the way they could take you into the atmosphere of their life, to make you be there with them, to watch - as an invisible spectator – the privacy of their lives. And now, when I think of the things I left behind, I feel the more frightened and uncertain in my tardy decision to recall this line of events, at least for myself. And because of not being able to dialogue properly, how could I hope to describe in writing, to take into words the intensity of those moments that are still crushing me under their weight.. how could I ever put them on paper so that the one, if any ever, reading them would properly understand,  what and how happened. It seems impossible for me to succeed what I couldn’t do in so many years of my life, and the tendency to retreat, to escape and abandon everything before I even start is growing stronger in me. It will be a battle, as everything else in these times. And even if the trial of putting into dry words the bitterness of the last periods of my life will be a torture, I accept this challenge.

   I have no name, no location. I could be your neighbor. We could meet on the stairs, say hello while smiling, exchange small talk or talk insipidly about the football match of our favorite teams. Maybe I am the one driving you crazy with long auditions from Wagner in the middle of the night. You will never know.

@special thanks to Oana for her kind help in order to have this English version too.

XANTIPA

1.

   Mai minte-ma ca este primavara,

   In anul nemuririi noastre

   Si zi-mi ca inca este vara

   .. visator, tarziu in noapte, cu tigara uitata undeva in coltul buzelor, stingandu-se incet , ma uitam cu ochii incetosati catre cana de cafea cautandu-mi continuarea, incercand sa gasesc fiorul care sclipise o clipa si imi adusese primele trei versuri pe buze. Nu vroia sa vina.In amurgul zilelor mele , gandindu-ma la ceea ce puteam deja denumi trecut , ma gandeam la tot ce se intamplase.Stiu ca niciodata nu am fost genul de om in stare sa scrie dintr-o rasuflare 10 pagini pentru a descrie un apus de soare , si inca fara a repeta acelasi cuvant de 2 ori de-a lungul randurilor. Niciodata nu am fost capabil sa stau sa descriu un peisaj, pentru ca pentru mine, in scris, era un simplu apus de soare si desi de atatea ori am stat singur sau nu rapit si dus pe ganduri de frumusetea acelui moment , cuprins parca de o vraja , niciodata nu reusisem sa descriu ce vad si ce simt, miile de tonuri de culoare de la albul cel mai orbitor pana la negrul complet al noptii , trecand prin toata gama posibila de degradeuri , albastru , galben , ros si uneori verde – acea sclipire de verde despre care se spune ca se arata in serile senine de vara, cand nu e umbra de nor pe cer, un verde coplesitor in singuratatea lui , si despre care zic unii ca doar cei care au un anume har il pot vedea. O fulgerare scurta si intensa , un verde ametitor de uneori stai si te intrebi daca l-ai vazut cu adevarat sau e doar o inchipuire venita din infrigurarea cu care ai asteptat atata vreme clipa respectiva. Mi-e greu si totdeauna mi-a fost greu sa imi exprim gandurile, atat verbal cat si in scris , niciodata nu am fost capabil sa leg mai mult de 3 cuvinte cand vroiam sa zic ceva cu adevarat serios si in scris, vai , ma pierdeam iremediabil.Nici o sansa sa dau glas la ceea ce era in mine si preferam sa tac , sa nu zic nimic desi in mine se dadeau adevarate batalii oratorice in metafore si rime nemaivazute.Dar nici o sansa de a exprima liber ceea ce simteam, indiferent cat de mult imi doream sa gasesc acel cuvant eliberator, care sa imi dea posibilitatea de a zice, de a ma refula sau .. indiferent ce as fi vrut sa fac , nu puteam sa rostesc un singur sunet. Poate de asta imi avertizam toti cunoscutii sa nu incerce sa stea pe capul meu si sa ma traga de limba cand tac, ci sa mi se alature mie in mutenia mea pentru ca uneori riscau sa fie factorul declansator si sa fie doar biete victime nevinovate ale exploziilor mele , mai cu seama cand situatia era de asa maniera incat nu era nimic bun de spus. Unii au inteles.. altii… Mi-a fost frica tot timpul cumva de cuvantul scris , deoarece stiu cat de caustic si de  acid eram si inca sunt in viu grai , dar inca sa mai si scriu?Departe de mine aceasta ispita! Scrisesem candva ceea ce s-ar putea numi in termeni tehnici proza si socasem o generatie intreaga de juni imberbi cu duritatea voita , uneori cautata si gasita a randurilor asternute in graba si nebuneste pe hartie , intr-o viteza spulberatoare.. pana intr-o zi cand mi-am dat seama ca nu mai am nimic a scrie, nimic a spune.Eram mut in mine insumi si am abandonat orice incercare de a mai scrie , desi inca mai insistau unii prieteni in noptile de vara, adunati in  jurul unor sticle de mult goale , sa nu renunt , sa incerc sa scriu.. degeaba.

   Nu mai era nimic in mine, doar pustiu si tacere. Trecusem de mult si de faza versurilor , trecusem de orice sansa acordata veleitatilor mele literare si , cu mici exceptii , nu am nici cea mai vaga idee unde au putut ajunge cele scrise atunci, ar fi fost interesant sa mai arunc o ultima privire pe ele, cu un rictus amar inainte de a le arunca definitiv la lada de gunoi a literaturii. Nu cred si nu am crezut niciodata in menirea de a scrie ceva genial , care sa fie apreciat la sute de ani de la moarte, cand tie sigur nu iti mai pasa.Si desi uneori mai simteam o zvacnire, un foc mocnit ce parea sa arda undeva in mine, nu am mai dat atentie acestui subiect si am preferat sa imi vad de lucruri mai lumesti si mai omenesti , sa ma integrez cumva discret in peisajul gri al rutinei cotidiane, mintindu-ma cumva ca trebuie sa ajung si eu sa am un serviciu, o familie, chestii uzuale despre care se zice ca te fac om in viata si in numele carora iti jertfesti cei mai frumosi ani ca la urma sa tragi linie si sa iti dai seama, pus in fata ultimei si cumplitei alternative, ca nimic nu a meritat in ultima instanta.Si ajungi sa stai si sa te intrebi la ce bun, ca un Iov si mai sarac decat cel din Biblie, fara nici un fel de lumina in fata ochilor imbatraniti si obositi de prea multe lucruri vazute.. si nu vine nici un raspuns. Cred ca am urat intotdeauna neputinta de a lega in mod coerent mai mult de cateva cuvinte, in scris sau nu si uneori stau si ma intreb ce s-ar fi ales de mine , de noi , de lumea asta daca candva, in miezul noptii sau in timpul unei certe cumplite , as fi zis ce aveam de zis sau as fi zis-o in alte cuvine. Sau in loc sa tac si sa trag din tigara, sa imi dau drumul la cuvinte… nu voi mai sti niciodata, acum, cand totul pare a se fi intamplat cu mii de ani in urma, desi poate s-a intamplat doar ieri. Sau azi. 

  

   Tot timpul am urat sau, ca sa zic mai politicos, am invidiat discret pe cei capabili sa lege cuvintele intre ele, intr-un mod inselator sau din inima, care sa poata sa uimeasca pe cei din jur cu intoarcerile elegante de fraza, sa fure urechile si inima ascultatorilor, sau sa isi exprime in scris ideile.Eu nici macar numele tuturor culorilor nu il stiam, habar nu aveam si nici acum nu stiu ce e aia carmin sau ce culoare are ametistul, cum sa surprind eu atunci emotia si frumusetea ultima a unor momente atat de dragi mie, cand imi lipsea complet bagajul care se presupune ca ar trebui sa il ai oricand la indemana? Cand deschideam gura mi se punea imediat nodul in gat si ma pomeneam brusc luat de vartejul implacabil al unui noian intreg de ganduri , de idei , de analize, de indoieli care imi blocau iremediabil orice posibilitate de a ma exprima.. iar in scris? Nu mai puteam scrie nimic, ma simteam complet handicapat.Preferam sa caut o imagine si sa o trimit, o fotografie de geniu a unui autor anonim, si sa sper ca celalalt sau cealalta sa inteleaga mesajul meu, sa extraga de acolo ceea ce mie imi era imposibil de exprimat. Rareori am reusit. Nu m-am nascut sa fiu un Demostene sau un Cicero si nici macar un Baudelaire, ca sa pot scoate si din cele mai simple cuvinte acele sentimente care te fac sa ramai purtat de ganduri si sa te trezesti visand cu ochii deschisi.Mi-a fost interzis cumva sa pot face asta. Gandeam prea mult si cand aveam ceva de zis, eram pierdut. Nici macar un  simplu jurnal cu cele mai banale sau cotidiene aspecte ale vietii nu reusisem sa tin, mi se parea imposibil de a spune ceva acolo, tinand cont ca citisem atatea jurnale ale altora si ramaneam intotdeauna surprins de modul in care reuseau sa te induca in atmosfera vietii lor, sa fii acolo langa ei, sa te uiti - invizibil spectator - in intimitatile vietilor lor. Si acum, cand ma gandesc la ce am lasat in urma, ma simt cu atata mai speriat si mai nehotarat in incercarea mea, tardiva, de a-mi orandui macar mie acest sir de intamplari. Si nefiind in stare sa port un dialog calumea, cum as putea eu sa sper sa redau in scris, sa surprind intensitatea unor clipe care inca ma strivesc cu greutatea lor, cum as putea eu sa le astern pe hartie asa incat sa inteleaga si cel ce va citi aceste randuri , de la va citi cineva vreodata, ce si cum a fost sa fie…  Mi se pare imposibil a reusi acum ce nu am reusit in atatia ani de viata si tendinta de a ma retrage, de a fugi, de abandona inainte de a incepe e din ce in ce mai puternica in mine. Va fi o lupta, cum a fost totul in aceste timpuri. Si chiar daca va fi un chin incercarea de a transpune in seci cuvinte amarul ultimilor perioade din viata mea, accept aceasta provocare. 

       Eu nu am nume. Si nici locatie. Ti-as putea fi vecin.Sa ne intalnim pe scari , sa ne salutam cu zambetul pe buze, sa schimbam amabilitati sau sa ne interesam ce a mai facut echipa de fotbal favorita.Poate eu sunt cel care te innebuneste cu lungi auditii din Wagner im miezul noptii.Nu vei sti niciodata. 

bird of pray...

Anotimpuri.. 

Nu mai sunt zori.Sau rasarit.

Apusa pentru totdeauna-i dimineata.

E o noapte lunga in asfintit

Si printre clipe ni se scurge viata..

Nu te urasc.Tu ma ignori

Doar ai in fata un nou destin.

Ai preferat asupra-mi sa cobori

Cortina unei piese in care nu-ti mai apartin…

Si anotimpuri cuvintele-mi consideri

Caci grabita esti acum sa fie dusa

Clipa de azi, cum dusa fu si cea de ieri

Cand de-al viitorului miraj tu esti sedusa..

E ..atat de rece iarna vrajbei noastre,

Nicicand nu va mai fi si o alta toamna.

Si-n vara pribegiilor sihastre,

Primavara…  nimic nu mai inseamna.

De neoprit, incet  sfarsitul vine.

Straini ne suntem pentru a cata oara?

Si nu iti  pasa daca-i rau, sau bine..

Sau cat de mult inca o sa mai doara.

21.08.2011

always watch your back

LizzArd

Dragonfly