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.