Just the other day

We were standing on the bridge, the wind blew pollen in our faces, a car sped by behind us, thrusting hot air onto us, there were still some drops of whiskey at the bottom of the bottle, bright lines trembling on the water, the river stepped out of its usual channel, the bridge was shaking, strong splashing sounds and moaning around the pillars, rattling teeth as all the rubbish hit the steel, everything was in its place, the heat paired up with our thirst, as we left home, we could never go back there, the wind of a truck blows under my shirt, we leave our mark on the night, we step over the rails, our feet in perfect unison, fading paint, silver graffiti, scared look on the face of a cab driver, the lamps by the bridge, signs that were put there for boats, traffic lights, he counts, one-two-three, I bend my knees and jump, but as soon as my feet leave the ground, I know how stupid this whole thing is, the irreversibility of the deed has destroyed the excitement of it, I was contemplating my fall with the leftovers of this faint excitement, I could say I was sober if I hadn’t been drunk, he was falling next to me, under me with his eyes closed, as if we were one person, as if gravity had a greater effect on him, as if ropes were pulling him down, I’m a good swimmer, I know I’m going to survive, I’ll climb out of the water, I’ll make my way home drenched in water and alcohol, I’ll sleep it off and then I’ll call him, mischief, bohemian show-offs, he’s been looking for trouble ever since he was a kid, he likes challenging destiny, I really don’t think he’ll lose this time, and I didn’t get tangled in the rubbish, I didn’t freeze to death, I didn’t whirl down deep, but then when I got home, I couldn’t take it anymore, I hadn’t slept for three days, my friend had a miscarriage, my lover left me, my accomplices had a fight and then it all came crashing down, it was the neighbours who called the ambulance, next day I woke up clinging to an unknown pillow, the prof with the white hair is testing his residents, they’re nodding, the prof is looking at my chart, I don’t understand a word of what they’re saying, they’re probably going over the drug addict-epilepsic-panic attack-depressed versions of my diagnosis and the doctor lingo makes them scary, the nurse is smiling at me, they want hope from me and they know that I want hope from them.

Points to consider

(I am sitting undoubtedly far
from the center of this humorless
world in the dark morning light
and I don’t believe a word)

*

My ground is crying
My air is crying oh why
would I ever cry

*

It could be blunter with
every step and it could get
farther with every step -
I’d arrive asleep –

*

And into none of the opening
rooms.
It’s more spacious outside:

Oi va voi!

I’ll ask you one of these days, when we’ll have something to talk about. I might even cry, I might even let that part of my soul free, which you drew in, the way my mother used to draw the curtains when she was sewing. I’ll write a novel about our stories, I might even publish them. Stories that never even happened, only in my head, only in your head, simulating a relationship, hallucinating reality. We never shared a caleidoscope, but the stars were the same. The stars, the pebbles and the two stains on my white shirt. One of these days something, someone will let it hurt. That, which had forgotten to hurt before. Words will be as simple as they can get and sadness will be as clean as it can get: to love is to be a fool. I’ll admit that only the anger was real, the hate wasn’t. Everything I know about the world, I learnt from you. Pretty depressing stuff, buta t least it’s true. You can’t even lie for beauty. You can only lie for the truth. One of these days we’ll be standing in front of each other, we’ll be the same height, I’ll nod my head in agreement with the truth and after that we can never see each other again, after that, in all my mistaken life …. amen.

The chisel was dancing

The chisel was dancing in God's hands,

when he was carving my soul.

I thought I would make a dream come true,

a human destiny and my own world.

Dew is mud, capturing my feet,

poison is nesting in broken eggs.

Word-maggots bearing narrow vertebra

sneering midget, so that's what he wants.

The chisel was dancing in God's hands,

when he was carving my face.

I came with great plans, to a field of poppies,

my past was gleaming, following me right behind.

Maybe, if I saw, a real pearl,

covered with a word the colour of milk.

Maybe, if I took a step, from a snail's cold shelter

onto a warm palm of a hand, onto a steaming hot brownie.

What's it for?

My robe is soil, my shirt underneath it is damp, soaked with salt.

My hair is a pine tree, a bush and ready to harvest.

My nourishment is the clouds, a cool nut by the dawn's early light.

My harbor is the wood of the cart, unbendable.

I play with rain, ice, it's all for free.

I lean on the light, which I can give away.

My song is the lightning and it sounds like thunder.

A star slides on my pin, hugging a green stone.

I imagine a bug out of a veil and grass, to put on a trail,

My book is transparent parchment, waiting to be filled,

My sorrow isn't gaudy, it can hardly be heard,

My mantra is a monotonous fairy castle, waiting to be cradled.

Moon on the soles of my boots, I pretend to be the sun which dances.

I mix colours with the feathers of my wings to be painted.

I ask for a candle to put on the peak of my soul to light it up.

My dust is blown away by a cat, no use in weeping for it.

Score

It's cracking. It's happening little by little and that's not a bad thing. Something's falling off it, something that up till now seemed totally solid and strong. Well, coz I made it solid and strong, of course. A one-person totality, something I can never reach. Fucking illusion, unreal, childish expectations. Childish waiting. A lot of waiting for children. No way! Is that really what you want? You don't even know who you are anymore. You don't believe a word you say. You sit in your little chair, moving your fingers, thinking of him and then not thinking of him, you don't think of him, you only think of him and noone else, he's not the only one you think of.

You're fighting with your own self in reality, as if someone had to win. Noone has to win. It's unnecessary. No doubt.

It's not only here that you're not present. You're nowhere. I can't find you anywhere. What is it really, that I'm looking for? I have no idea. At times, an object comes along that gets the role of what I'm looking for and then I realise, I was wrong. Aimless. Dartboard. I'm gonna fire, boom! Come with me! Put my fire out or go to hell! And I'm gonna fire again and then no more hurting you coz I realise, there's no purpose behind it. It came, but then the points change, everything is moving, I am moving and I'm grateful for that. And that's more than enough for me. I see change compared to him. And if he/this leaves, I know another one will come along, another one, another kind, what kind? The loveable other kind. In another way.

War

I vomit rights, I dance like I'm deaf

I vote for death in rhyme

I grit the scales: there's war underneath

And blood drips in a democratic way

Cross-hairs and crosses on graves,

I shut out the smell of damask-tablecloths

I'm killing Jesus inside me, so opposition will decay

And blood flows in a conservative way

Pretend we're in an amusement park, it might be easier

Let's break the rocking-horse's forehead into a million colourful pieces

Let's count, who gets the last marble

And blood squirts in a liberal way

I clap on my knees, I scream a new god

My fist is scratching at the neck of cannons

My boots are a pamphlet: I take it all in, to the right!

And blood splutters in a dictatorial way

Mea vulva

- He should be kind, sweet, you know … inner values. A tiger taking quiet steps, that’s a real man!
These lines around her waist, the ponytail flinging as she moves her head, the imponderable little laughters, they all scream for education.
- A man is someone who has no cunt.

Our conversation is interrupted by Michael, he waves to me like a shy little boy and awkwardly makes his way towards the counter. It’s obvious from the moderate enthusiasm that back in the day there was less than a sheet between us. We are trying to hide the mistakes and the silent failure characteristic of meaningless relationships. We were cheating on ourselves with each other, it would be better to forget the whole thing. The girl sitting at my table is demanding an answer with her pencil-drawn eyebrows high up on her forehead.
- Well??
Her voice is full of contempt and doubt. I translate her question: „What were you doing with this guy?” And then I continue: „With this characterless guy.” She means, why did I have a fling with his worn-out sneakers, his drink made of cheap coffee and his Ford Fairlane quotes.

I’m not the caritative type, but if it’s to amuse myself, I give give give. Four sentences come to my mind: „Get ready for joy. Knowledge is sexy. Get ready for pain. Knowledge is suffering.”

My karma could use a little charity from me.

1st lesson: Inner values.
Get ready, girls.

- What was I doing with this guy? – with my two hands I show a size somewhat bigger than average and I nod my head with admiration. My corky hint is followed by a light ’hehe’ and a covert flood of thoughts from her part. She sips from her glass and glances at the counter. Good, she’s on my hook.
- It is only with the eyes that one can see rightly. – I reassure her, giving her the green light.

Michael calls me a couple of days later to tell me that the girl I was with the other day … In my answer I reassure him of the lady’s serious intentions and I tell him that to her, inner values are the most important thing.

And then I rejoice at the thought of the girl’s character-development in the moment when she frees Michael’s tiny, but very kind penis from his zipper’s teeth.

Mea vulva.

Between man and woman

We fight our modern battles not with bards, guns or bits, nevertheless, we are fighting them. World War I. happened because of desire for power and World War II. happened because of pride and arrogance that sprung from low self-esteem. The third world war is being fought for the truth between opponents never before seen: man and woman.

Our allies are fashion designers, cosmetic companies and role models like Peaches, Mata Hari and Betty Boop. Our most dangerous utensils are high heels, push-up bras, lip gloss and our mouth. Like every decent amazon, I too, paint my face before going to a battle. It's like a ritual that prepares me for the fields soaked in blood. Because if it's good, there is blood. (Anything else is simply called business). Lines drawn by an eyeliner are prayers, sacrifices to the gods. I'm preparing to win, not to go for coffee. Did you really think women put on make up before a date just for fun?

Every engagement ring hidden in a jacket pocket, every glance at your ass, every male-chauvinistic remark is like an achievement sticker for the cunt. You're scared, right? Come on, you don't have to be, you see the goal is soft pleasure down there. Of course, someone has to fall down on the battleground. Don't worry though, coz if you're good enough, it won't be you.

So, you say every guy just wants to fuck you? A promising start, my friend. In order to achieve your goals, first of all you have to be charming. Don't take out your bard, gun and rolling pin just yet. Learn how to make a good stew and how to give a good blow job. Use what you have by nature and shower him with flattery.

I gave him the last bite with a seemingly innocent smile.

- You're sweet.

What was I gonna say to that?

- More or less.

Berlioz gets on the train

Berlioz gets on the red train. He didn't have time to get ready, he got to the foreign station just minutes before the train left and he had to buy his ticket first. He didn't even say goodbye, he jumped through the sliding door which was just like the doors of the tram, except theses weren't yellow, they were red. He sat next to the window as always (he was probably hoping to get hit by a stone, like that kid that was travelling with his grandmother and when Berlioz was little, it was all over the news). He saw huge tubes, lyrics pinned together, concrete fences and rubbish on the ground. The train made no noise at all as it made its way towards the three-meter-wide imaginary glass door. Berlioz should have felt like he was stuck in between two worlds, but the state he was really in was much worse. He thought of his dreams from two days before. "So that's what's keeping your mind busy." - M said to Berlioz. A sentence got stuck in his head, it pushed the part where his soul usually is and it screamed through Berlioz's every nerve-cell: "Somebody is going to die. And it's not going to be me."

A long time passed before it turned out, that Berlioz was wrong.

Pablo Neruda to me ...

I'm reading essays and analyses. I realised that what I love is the fact that I forget to analyse and interpret even those poems which are easily understandable and with a little background knowledge can be clearly analysed. Not because I'm lazy. I just don't want to know what they mean. I don't want to understand the message they send. I just let myself automatically apply the words to my own self, I let myself love every single word, phrase and line for what they are. Not just in an emotional way, not just to get the feeling of it.

But to

smoke one poem

every night.

Totally unprovable ...

... I found myself in the room where I really was lying. A double bed set in concrete; the bed, the curtains and the cover on the bed-stand were all made of the same old fabric we would nowadays call retro, too many mirrors on the cupboards and a chandelier that harmonized with the night-lamps. The people around me were Transylvanian writers, I explained to them that once in Cluj-Napoca in the bar ..., and then one of them told me he did the same thing, only a couple of years earlier than me. Then an actor approached me, came closer and closer, the bed was placed in the middle of the room and an unconscious alcoholic was sleeping right behind it. They asked about stuff and then I tripped in other people's suitcases. Weird things happened next that I don't remember clearly. Suddenly I realised I was hallucinating. I tried coming out of it, but the unsolvable happenings formed a thick layer around me head. I knew I had gone crazy and I can't stop my brain. And then I felt like I did it, it stopped, I was on the left side of the bed, seconds away from fainting. I woke up and looked at my watch; I had fallen asleep about 29 minutes earlier. My dream played a part in reality (or was it reality that played a part in my dream?), I tossed and turned until ten to in between the three seemingly very true realities: I had no say in either of them and all three were unprovable. I was hallucinating in my dream, I went crazy and I diagnosed myself. I felt this inert dread come over me. We keep struggling for life like a bee that drowns in tea with honey and our dreams grow on us like gladiolus grows over a child every day, until eternity ...

I speak of myself in the past tense. I'd like to watch my inexistence.

Self-esteem, height and some weight, too

Hitler, Stalin, Mao.

Let me continue: Napoleon.

If these men had grown just 20 cm more, would they still have become dictators?

If a tall man appears somewhere, people are sure to notice him – even if just for a moment. With a little bit of luck and a mediocre gene pool, his days are like a playboy’s. Fucking asshole.

Men with low self esteem wish to compensate all the time. Their complexes don’t necessarily originate in their height, but it’s very probable that it defines their attitude. Short men are suspicious. It doesn’t surprise anyone when these men use immoral means in various situations, when they behave in a superior way or surround themselves with tacky status symbols. When he cuts in front of you while standing in line, he will go out of his way to prove he is right with no air of elegance or he will flash his smile at you from the front seat of an ugly sports car. It’s these times when you imagine patting his head and saying: Aww, poor thing. It’s not his fault. (If he hurts you, just tell him he’s short.)

There is one thing worse than short men with low self-esteem. Tall men with low self-esteem. He has everything to make a decent impression on you: himself and his height. And then what does he do? He makes you pay half of the bill.

Tall men’s advantage in life is the same as their disadvantage. The tragedy of midgets: their height. A tall man has everything going for him because of something he was born with, while a short man has to compensate all that by being kind, funny and rich. Annoying, right?

That’s exactly why we don’t see a lot of successful tall men. They’re not as driven, since they start their journey with a significant plus that not a lot of people have. Vantage-point. A lot of them take advantage of their height, thus getting stuck on the dumb-ass fuckface level. It’s a damn shame, coz I like them tall. I’ve no problem with short men who have high self-esteem, but they’re usually not rich enough and they have little money. Haha. I need my height. Such is life, others are vegetarian because they don’t like the taste of meat and I need my men to be tall because that’s what gets me off.

No worries, I’ll give women a slap, too. There are the obese women. You know, the type that thinks every woman thinner than her is an anorexic bitch, all men just want to fuck them and noone cares about her soul and thoughts. Come on!

You have to be generous. And not just with others.

Jumble of thoughts

I keep thinking, how many of the people that I see on the street are truly happy. Of course, truly happy doesn't necessarily mean not having problems at all and everything being perfect in their lives. I believe problems and solving those problems is an essential part of true happiness. I see young couples holding hands, walking next to each other and they seem so distant, like they don't even know each other. One of them is listening to music, the other one is reading, they don't even look at each other, the fact that they are holding hands seems like it's just something they have gotten used to. They'd probably say they are happy if they were asked, but how much of that is true?

And the elderly? The old lady walking on the street, going to the market has to look at every price tag twice, there's a big difference between 1 euro and 1,50 euros.

Or the thirty, forty, fifty-somethings, who on their way home from work are thinking about whether they'll be able to buy their kids a birthday present. They say money doesn't buy happiness. Bullshit. I mean, sure, you need your friends, loves, your big life experiences, but what do you do with your friends and loves under the bridge, starving to death?

I get so sad when I see how some people have to live. It's so depressing to see sadness in every pair of eyes, in every movement.

Oh and the superficiality of people. It drives me mad. I'm sick of society, all the false smiles, the fake conversations. Why should we pretend to love everybody? If I have a problem with someone, I tell them. If I want to get to know someone better, I take a step toward that person. Shouldn't it all really be as simple as that?

The wonderful strings of the human soul

Every single day we have to start all over. We come to this world crying and screaming and the basic mood of human life is - let's face it - depressed. We are all condemned to death. In order to reach the state of joy, to be in a good mood, to feel happy, one has to constantly pick oneself up. We have to be aware of the fact that there is an "Up" and we have to keep moving in its direction.

An example: every musical instrument is out of tune to begin with, the strings are loose. It's the same with people. In order for us to be able to play those instruments, we have to get them in tune. That's when we will be ready for the music. That's exactly how a human soul works. If we don't get ourselves in tune every day, we are bound to stay that way - out of tune.

The big question is: How? Well, I don't know. This is a constant problem, a question that is always present in my life. Take the theater for example. I spend most of my time there and I am faced with actors who have to be in tune and ready to perform at 7pm even if their mother had died just hours earlier. I've seen it happen. For this to be possible, the actor has to be in love with his/her art form.

There are countless ways and shades of how to get oneself in tune. To a religious person, I'd say, you have to believe in God. To a transcendent person I'd say, you have to believe that the invisible world is going to help. To someone whose education was based on oriental doctrines I'd say, you have to meditate, because in that state, you will touch the sky with your spirit. But an artist is not a yogi and he might not even be a believer. But he most definitely is the priest of the stage. He loves his profession more than anything else in the world and this means that he can even forget about his mother's death because when he's performing, the stage is a more important and more sacred space than real life is.

I'm not sure if these examples of being in tune are clear or not. If we don't tune ourselves, we are going to stay out of tune. It's as simple as that. Everyone has to find their own tool with which they can tune themselves. It's different for everyone. A lot of people think there is a general solution to the big questions of life. Well, there isn't. Every person reaches his point of ecstasy at different places, every person has a different spot on their body that has to be touched in order for them to regain consciousness. And everyone has to find that spot inside them. The spot that will allow them to be redeemed.

Every person is a unique piece of this world. We are not created in mass production, like the Toyota that can be called in for service. We are unique and therefore everyone has their starter motor in different places. I have found mine and when I talk to people, a lot of times I can find theirs. Most of the times it's in a totally different place than mine.

This is nothing artificial, this is a basic question of mankind. How to tune oneself. Some people do it by passionately committing to something. Other people fall in love or listen to some nice music or drink good wine ... as I said, it's different for everyone. And the most important thing is - only you can find your own key. Once the lights are turned off inside us, noone can turn them back on, except for us.

This might sound weird, but even love isn't a universal key. Like when I deeply love someone, but he leaves me - how do I tune myself? Or when I love someone more than anything else and they die - how do I pick myself up? What do I do? How do I get up, spread my wings and start flying again? This is rebirth itself. The key to rebirth. The answers are inside us and I am positive that those who look for them, will find them.

This is quite a personal question, so I can only speak for my own self when I'm asked about tuning myself. I go into the theater and see my actors, talk to the directors, listen in on some rehearsals, pick up a script and read it. These encounters are my point of ecstasy. I get so much positivity from these people and situations and I know that I give out at least the same amount to them. I love it when I see my reflection in their eyes. Two sparks meet. And two sparks are a flame.

Don't ever forget: tuning yourself means tuning a whole orchestra. I don't tune my own violin to play a solo. I tune my own violin to tune others' instruments as well.

Papeles mojados

He's always been my idol. Ever since I could walk and talk - and probably even before that - I want(ed) to impress him, make him proud, get praised by him. He isn't the kind of person who communicates his feelings. He never has been that kind and I know that, but it's hard accepting the facts when I'm all about my emotions and about letting people know in some way or another how much I appreciate them.

When my mum died, things got even harder. Since that day, something changed (well, a lot of things did, but that's for a later post). My main goal for the past three years has been never to contradict my father. Whatever he says, goes. No matter how much it hurts me or how inconvenient it might be, I have to do as he wishes. I don't want him hurting even more.

Sometimes it just gets to be too much. I break down and I scream at him. We fight and then he acts like nothing happened. And the worst part of it is, he really feels like nothing happened. He has no idea what his words and actions cause. He has no idea how much I'm suffering. He has no idea how much he is hurting the one person he would never want to hurt.

It was always my Mum that I talked to when something big was going on. It was she who knew me, who knew my boyfriends, who knew about my problems, my thoughts, my worries, my ideas. And then she was gone. And there was noone to talk to. And there still isn't. Usually, I'm strong. I can keep it all in, pretend I'm dealing with it in a brave way. But every now and then, I get tired of pretending. I get sick of how little my family knows about me. I get tired of acting as if I didn't want them to know more. I get sick of feeling lost and not having them take my hand when I need it.

Don't get me wrong, we are a very tight-knit family, it's just that I'm the odd one out. I always have been. My mum got me. My dad and sister don't. I'm not angry, I'm not disappointed, I'm not surprised. I'm just really, really sad.

Might or might not ...

I might meet somebody someday and I might live happily ever after with him. I might fall in love again and I might hug someone with all my heart again.
But you are the love of my life.
And I wouldn't change that for all the money in the world.
:-)