PIC KUP L INES

… Plain and simple. (ignore the poor resolution. The pic is way too good to matter)

Masinile, mess-ul si MP3-ul I

Ma plimbam cu Deedee (sau Didi, sau Didou [didu], sau Didiloi [didloi/didiloa], cum preferi) spre scoala. Fete vesele, in intarziere, nu ne grabeam deloc. De ce ne-am fi grabit? Doar aveam ca prima ora ora de franceza. Si drept a doua ora, tot franceza. Profesoara intarzie de cele mai multe ori (e o femeie foarte ocupata si muncitoare -jos palaria :d ) asa ca nu pare sa existe vreun motiv serios de ingrijoare. Dupa o conversatie relativ lunga pe aceasta tema (de la Sucado pana la coltul Ambasador-ului), ca urmare a trecerii in graba a strazii si a stimularii clacxonului mai multor masini, ne gasim un nou subiect.

L: “Astia se grabesc sa stea la stop. La ora asta sunt o groaza … “

D:”Masinile sunt peste tot!!”

Masinile ne controleaza, ne atrofiaza muschii picioarelor si ne fac sa intarziem la serviciu: cu ele ramai blocat in trafic, cu ele nu mai mergi pe jos decat pana la magazinul de la colt ca sa iei paine, cateodata nici pana acolo (vezi proful nostru de mate dintr-a IX-a). Cu masinile arati cool… de masini se indragostesc unii si nu se mai lasa…

Bineinteles, acum sa recunoastem si rostul masinilor: sunt foarte folositoare, si, defapt, ele iti salveaza de multe ori fundul – ajungi mult mai repede acolo unde iti doresti, esti relativ autonom in ceea ce priveste calatoritul si asa mai departe. Daca stii sa folosesti cu cap masina (si e valabil pentru orice altceva), totul e ok. Imagineaza-ti asta putin… ei, asa da!

L.C.F.

Iata si textul scris de aceeasi Emma mentionata mai devreme la care am raspuns prin “REM”

Without having to follow the pale lights at the turns of the labyrinth with her tired eyes, she knows that the walls she’s going to crush into mean as much as smoke means to someone who was killed by cigarettes. She can (or, rather, could – but she doesn’t want to lose the ability) ascribe pain to sources as many as the tears that flow into the sea. She has been feeling the sand with her fingers, but now her fingers are moist and she can feel currents wrapping around her ankle. She is being pulled betwixt waves and the rocks she remembers from the safety of her hotel room’s window.

Faintly, she also remembers that she can’t swim.

Rage nests in the hollow of her hands and tickles the soles of her feet. The rocks sink into the wall, but she sees this one clearly. The pale light shines – oh, how lights used to shine for her! – And she can tell that she is going to leave the traces of her fingers on sharp corners unless she slows down. She considers the chasm between rocks and how cold the water is and finds many other derogatory elements that she can’t name. She feels the unremittingly blowing wind on her earlobe and sucks it into her lungs asthmatically.

She doesn’t fear death, or dying.

Somewhere, behind her, hands creep on her shoulder blades. Her throat pulses and lets out faint traces of laughter. She considers the hands’ dismal intentions and promptly stops in her tracks. Somewhere, lights nod and yawn; somewhere, darkness is relative and time has been lulled into a drowsy state. She prepares herself for battle, but her senses predict a Pyrrhic victory. She swallows.

She has never (really) been cornered before.

As she opens her eyes, she faintly remembers clutching her fists and times when she could swim against the fury of waves. She feels her body full of a liquid she can’t quite touch and her head signals a bad hung-over. She laughs loudly (she’d remember – much later – how unlike herself it has been). She springs to her feet and feels the dire need to wet her lips and cover her hips. She feels obstinate, although she has never been questioned. She also feels uncomfortably wet.

She never thought she could fall, thus, she has never learnt to fly.

Pure joy blemished her sharp nails and fangs. Egregious softness and promises curled up around her neck and sank into her skin. On their way, they met memories of a run along the hallways and they’ve fallen in awe for the pain and blood mixed up in dark corners. An anathema sang and she sang along; her voice dazed the wind, confused sun. Light shone out of pure stubbornness, clouds no longer created their thick veneer to hide the rain. Among droplets, she danced…

…Although she never heard music.

She abhorrers the stares and can’t stop plummeting head-first through all the cobwebs and ropes that were meant to keep her from falling. She feels attracted to hedonism, but the cobwebs are getting thicker. Every inch of her mind screams “Struggle”, yet her nerves are frail and her hands merely bat away the spiders. Self-sufficiency evaporates from her skin and blood drips tantalizingly on her cheeks and bare shoulder from above. She opens her mouth to cry and tastes crimson tears and the salt of the sea.

Finally, she dies; she is reborn.

Although the current is mild at day and her toes kiss the sandy bottom, she considers iniquity as being inherent to her. Fish don’t swim this close to the shore, although she could’ve sworn she saw scales. Her eyes are open, but her lashes drop gradually as she flounders further. The waters cool and rocks greet her skin bitterly. Darkness is still a world away and seagulls sing without rhythm. She pushes the door open and exposes her body to the chill inside the labyrinth. She whimpers and sets off.

Her seas have no color, and nor do her eyes.

REM

Nota Autorului: Acest text a fost scris cu dedicatie acum aproape 2 ani pentru Emma. L-am pus pe blog ca amintire.

She sits crouched in the corner of a room. She opens her eyes and so it starts, even though the eye lashes cover her brown irises. She stands up and walks forwards, sentenced to move although so many things could bring her down. She does not believe it, but still she goes on, her mind holding secrets no other could decipher.

When have they been printed in her brain?

The tattooed symbols burn her from time to time, but she does not complain, writhing inside a cube, invisible to the world, an inheritance of endurance and pain. As she skims through the library books she finds a small one, a black one and a silver one. She lies down and touches the line. She reads and worlds erupt.

They talk about an end, they talk about life and the hiding behind power and of sacrificing one’s self for the ones she cares about. She holds pillars to temples she does not know, she sits on a rock above molten rocks and bodies and souls in flames.

In her room there is a screen. From somewhere behind her the images are projected on the translucid fabric she does not need to see. A story about promiscuous empires she had lived in, about decadence and implosion. She does not believe there could be something behind the gigantic screen. Sometimes she breaks it and then, in the moment before fright she builds it back, placing each and every piece in place with her shivering hands. She sometimes cuts herself with the shards… but every time, every single time she fails to see the mirror behind the silver frame of the screen.

She starts to run. And so she runs through impressions and deceived hearts ignoring the spikes beneath her feet. She runs to the arms held open for ages. Her eyes are always open. Still she sees more than she thinks possible. And if she tries to blink, she falls through the covers of her bed.

Cold whispers wait for her on the road but she sees the stars above from time to time. They make her feel safe and so she carries on.

Searching for the way home.

Nightwatcher

_Poezie scrisa in ora de engleza cu scopul de a scapa de razbunarea profesoarei_

Sometimes I wonder if you ever feel

All the things I whisper slowly in your ear

At night when you’re asleep, at night

When nothing’s

Real.

A song’s dry trace lingers on your brow

From last night’s slumber clinging to your face

Oh, sometimes I wonder if you ever see

How hard and painful it must be

To wipe away that trace .

When music binds your dreams

And you melt intro my arms

In sleep, in gentle floating,

In those moments it seems

That I’m the only guardian

Lonely and awake

Protecting your utopia

For you my hand to take.

It’s never easy I must say,

Let alone a leisure

But it’s my favorite way to spend the night

Which brings me pleasure.

Forever letting you be strong

And fill yourself with life

As the next day you come along

And take away my pride.

And love me.

Goa

Vine Gigi seara acasa. Intra pe Yahoo Messenger (ca doar nu era sa ne exprimam folosing prescurtarea “mess”) si, uitandu-se atent prin lista,pune ochii pe un avatar interesant…

…si pe inceputul unui text pe care urmeaza sa-l gaseasca ulterior pe net (nu mentionam sursa evidenta, Wikipedia)

“Goa Trance is a form of electronic music that developed around the same time as Trance music became popular in Europe. It originated in the late 1980s and early 1990s in the Indian state of Goa and is distinctive from the forms of Trance music that were developed in Europe. Goa Trance enjoyed the greater part of its success from around 1994–1998, and since then has dwindled significantly both in production and consumption, largely being replaced by its successor, Psychedelic Trance or Psytrance.

Goa Trance is closely related to the emergence of Psytrance during the latter half of the 1990s and early 2000s, where the two genres mixed together. In popular culture, the distinction between the two genres remains largely a matter of opinion (they are considered by some to be synonymous; others say that Psytrance is more “cybernetic” and that Goa Trance is more “organic”, and still others maintain that there is a clear difference between the two). These two are, however, quite sonically distinct from other forms of trance in both tonal quality, structure and feel. In many countries they are generally more underground and less commercial than other forms of trance.

Among the first compilations or albums where Goa Trance could be heard, as opposed to “normal” trance music, are Dragonfly Records “Project II Trance” and its successor “Order Odonata”. Many of these artists are still producing psychedelic electronic music, often called “classic” psy within the scene.”

Ce-o fi asta?! zice omul nostru… si se duce si cauta. Ei, si uite ce gaseste…

Dupa instruiurea de rigoare si o mica durere de cap, se indreapta catre ceva care pare putin mai “calm”…

scufundandu-se in marea de valuri cerebrale suspecte declansate totusi, se pare ca cel de-al doilea rezultat al cautarii este ceva mai frumos… chiar interesant… lui Gigi i se inchid ochii… Incet, fata ii aluneca pe servieta trantita pe podea, langa scaun … o dara de saliva i se prelinge pe hartie, zguduita de trepidatiile podelei cauzate de sforaitul individului. In aceasta seara, ceva straniu se intampla, astfel incat, zilele urmatoare, computerul sta inchis permanent, spre stupoarea nevestei, iar luna urmatoare, Gigi apare ca director general in organigrama unei firme internationale. Anul urmator i se nasc gemenii, urmati de achizitonarea celui de-al treilea Lamborghini, de data aceasta un superb Gallardo argintiu. Pe fundal se aud niste bufnituri. Repetate. Sotia il izbeste cu capul de perete, totul e o varza, iar Gigi intrase in “transa”.

Si astfel marmota fu ciocolita de invelata, inca o data, sub marca de Goa.

P.S. Nu intrebati. Completely random.

Ora de Istorie

In asternutul alb si rece al unfiormei iti port gandurile, tinandu-le lipite de piele, cat mai aproape de interiorul meu, de centrul meu…

Lucrurile merg asa cum stii, urmand cursul stabilit, cateodata surprinzandu-ma. Mi-ar placea sa mai calatorim impreuna. Defapt… hmmm… e dragut sa ma pot autocorecta – sunt fericita pentru ca urmeaza sa mai mergem impreuna in locuri “straine”.

In jurul meu alearga asa-zisa lume “cotidiana”… le monde quotidienne : becuri, note, masini, mode, parfumuri, scutiri, telefoane, machiaj, chei franceze, haine, zbierete, urlete, carti, iubiti si amanti nemulumiti, rasete. Pe fundal se aude un bazait de neon muribund. Totul se estompeaza, iar eu imi pierd implicarea. Aleg sa ma intorc catre un gand mult mai placut. Ca de exemplu, felul in care ti-as spune ce simt printr-un sarut cald, apasat, plin de energie si extrem de lent.

Ti-as povesti lucruri noi, lucruri pe care, din nou, numai tu le-ai auzi si te-as asculta cu inima crescanda in timp ce mi-ai povesti si tu la randul tau.

Lucrurile trec pe langa noi…

colivia

“Cateodata esti ca o pasare intr-o colivie de matase. Atat de mica, incat ti-a devenit haina, prinsa de tine, lasandu-ti doar cateva pene sa iasa putin prin tesatura de care toti se minuneaza, orbiti de lumina, dar vai, cum napadeste tristetea sufletele lor cand, apropiindu-se, vad cat esti de strivit de firele argintii. Cateodata ma intreb daca nu ti-e greu cu vesmintele tale alese. Esti bogat pe dinafara, puternic, taios ca o sabie. Noaptea, atingerea rece a muchiei de metal ma face sa tresar, sa intru si sa ma ghemuiesc in interiorul incandescent. Incandescent, aproape fluid, pentru ca asa te vad pe dinauntru. Ma arzi, ma faci sa ma transform intr-un pumnal, intr-o bijuterie, in materia topita care se prelinge pe lama dura. Te imbrac cu cuvintele pe care le am scrise sub piele, cu cantecul din vene si cu picturile din spatele ochilor mei. Iti acopar tot corpul. Tu razi.

Oftez.Un fir se intinde usor peste buzele mele cosandu-le una de alta. Privesc aripile pe care le tii stranse sub matase, sublime, nevazute de multi. Tu simti si imi aduci privirea catre propriile-mi aripi. Cateodata suntem ca doua pasari in colivii de matase. Cu pene de otel, ascutite, stranse inte sfori pe care le taie incet, incet pana cand ele se rup. In curand, funiile vor cadea. In curand, voi putea sa-ti vad soarele interior iesind la suprafata. Ziua, atingerea fierbinte a metalului trecut prin foc ma face sa ma transform si sa te cuprind. Iti asezi mainile pe gatul meu, cu degetele mari apasand abia perceptibil sub tamplele mele si apropiindu-te. Zambim.”