Ma uit perplexa la ce scriam acum un an, doi si-mi vine sa- mi dau palme.
Si rad pentru ca unii au poze si eu am un blog. Am ales sa insemn negru pe alb intreg 'procesul meu de crestere si maturizare' - si-n prostia mea inca o fac.
Citesc niste commenturi, imi vine sa ma plesnesc peste fata. Si rad pentru ca unii faceau poze in timp ce eu scriam pe blog.
Incerc sa-mi amintesc ce-mi trecea prin cap ca si pe vremea aia eram 'dubioasa' si 'misterioasa' si daca da dracu sa-mi amintesc imi vine sa ma ridic de pe scaun si sa ies afara sa fumez o tigara. 
Mi-a zis frati-miu azi, proaspat absolvent de 12 clase, ca proasta-am fost din totdeauna doar ca acum parca vorbesc mai putin. Bine nu s-a exprimat chiar asa ca acuma e baiat finut.
I-am zis sa se duca in pizda masi si acuma parca m-as duce eu.
Nu indraznesc sa ma uit la ce scriam, la ce ziceam si mai ales la ce credeam acum -patru ani. Se zice ca la 16 ani tot ce zboara se mananca, numai ca la 16 ani crezi ca la asta se aplica cand aveai 14. Bai si fata fiind sa scrii tu asa ceva?!
Sa n-ai tu o rochie, o bijuterie o pereche de pantofi spoita pe blog?! Numa amor si ale tineretii valuri?! Numa tupeu si exprimari colocviale?! Numa aere de superioritate si iz de minte necoapta?! Numai gura spurcata si logoree?!
Tu fata fiind!
Si se mai trezeau cate unii sa-mi zica. De aia saracii mi-e mila ca uneori credeau ca vorbesc despre altceva la cat de 'dubioasa' si 'misterioasa' eram - si pe vremea aia.Da de mine mi-e si mai mila decat mi-e de ei ca le raspundeam. Pai sa tin eu fata mare gura inchisa?!(eu de-acum doi ani ar spune "ce-am dat-o p-asta! la mustata!")
Si rad ma, ca unii au poze si eu am blog.  Si vad cum lumea se schimba si noi tot asa ramanem. C-acolo e esenta! La 16 ani spuneai lucrurilor pe lume si tineai lumea in palma! Atunci stai de toate si-i scuipai pe toti in fata. La 20 pleci capu in semn de maturitate si intelepciune.
Alea vremuri! La 16 ani....

N-am mai scris de mult in limba  mea.
Dar cum sa scriu pe limba mea cand n-am mai plans de mult pe limba mea, nici n-am mai ras pe limba mea, nici n-am visat pe limba mea?! N-am obosit pe limbva mea, n-am injurat pe limba mea, n-am blestemat pe limba mea, nu m-am rugat pe limba mea.
Mi-am reconstruit viata pe-o limba straina, m-am indragostit pe-o limba straina, am facut bani pe-o limba straina. M-am 'reinventat' pe-o limba straina.
Am creat tot intr-o limba straina. Am pierdut si-asta tot pe-o limba straina. Si-atunci de ce n-as fi scris pe-o limba straina.
Cei ce n-au casa nu cunosc limba materna.
Cei ce nu prind radacini nu cunosc termenul de 'strain'.
Ce-i ce n-au ce pierde vand lumea pe nimic, dau totul pe praf si spoiesc cuvinte fara sens pe pereti.
Dau orgasme mintale si fac dragoste metafizica.
Spun lucruri pe care nu le cred si se hranesc cu iluzii.

N-am mai scris de mult in limba mea.

Every girl at least wishes she had childhood dramas.

There is illusion...

I sometimes ask people to tell me a story. Nothing more, just "tell me a story".
Some look at me queerly asking themselves while thinking out loud "why?". Some simply say no and sink back into their own self absorbing lies that they colloquially name 'life'. Some smile back and toss a patronising look that accompanies  an "I don't have any", thinking they've just told a white lie 'cause their stories are lived in a world far from human reach.
Some pause for a bit trying to figure me out, some thinking I'm trying to trick them into believing I'm out of this world.. Some look for meaning behind my words.
Some start telling me about stories they lived, some start telling me stories that they want to believe they've lived and some start telling me stories that they want me to believe they lived.
There are those that give me an excuse to compensate for incapacity. Some just give me an excuse and some promise they will one day.
No one ever told me a story.


 ...in waiting for things that you know will not come.

Tell me did you sail across the sun
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there

-Why did you start smoking, Ana?!
Moments like that, moments of what people call coincidence stopped frightening me a very long time ago. Not because I could understand, because I could believe. And I do not believe in coincidence. Intellectuals gazed at me while thinking : I pity the fool. I thought the same - difference is I said it! When you're not an intellectual you don't fear to speak your mind. Intellectuals call it small talk, ignorance, stupidity even. I call it 'saying it like it is' and I'm the one that takes the risk of speaking her mind!
I don't believe in making a statement for eternity in the same way I don't believe in fairy-tales. I don't believe that my truth today will be my truth tomorrow, and that's because I don't believe in the future. Intellectuals seek universal truth - that's why they speak little and make it sound grave as if they're speaking trough and in the name of a supreme God. That's also why they talk shit, contradict themselves and always end up reaching the comforting conclusion that existence is futile and life is a paradox. It's almost an excuse for being wrong.
-...I can't really remember, babe.
-When did you smoke for the first time?
Looking at him I realised he never needed me, not really. But I wanted him to need me, I needed him to think he needs me - and I am notorious for getting what I want. Still, until this day he did not truly need me. I stared at one of the few, if not the only, men in my life that was the same even after he met and was yet to be the same even after me being long gone. 'Incredible' is what I thought! 'this kid is incredible'. I all honesty I was amazed. I was astonished even, not because of my arrogance. No!  Even I have my limits! I know I'm not one of those "awesome" individuals that light up the room with a smile, come into people's lives like rain the desert, spread happiness and preach hope.Heaven forbid! I am a leach. I drain out life, hope, love, energy, money, affection, comfort -pretty much all there is to it - out of ...well out of anyone that crosses my way really: there is no such thing as too little or too small. I drain what I lack like a leach drains out blood. And like a leach I get stuck to my "victim". I rarely get the change to leave out of my own will- I'm mostly removed. And for reasons that far surpass my capacity to understand, people still love me. How do I do it?! I'm taking that one to the grave hoping I'll find out myself....When I walk I leave behind exhaustion, desperation, relief, fuck knows really what a leach leaves her 'victim' feeling- but people are never the same once they've met me..... He was still the same..

In noaptea aia m-am rugat la Dumnezeu sa aiba grija de Bobita!

But you can still cry. Not out of pain, but out of the love you can't feel anymore. They told me every little feeling is love, but I didn't believe them then. They talk a lot.
But when you die you understand.... everything is love or lack of love.
And you can cry 'cause you gave yourself away.You gave every little piece of your broken heart away..and you cry 'cause you gave yourself to mortals and not to the Gods. You cry 'cause you believed in lies and it was your choice to ignore the truth. You cry 'cause it's never to late , but you only know that now.
You cry for what was never yours, you cry cause you gave your heart away even though you know you were not supposed to.
You cry for what you had and you cry 'cause you gave every little piece of your heart away to mortals and not to Gods.

There are moments when you fully lose yourself in desperation and stop asking when or if it's going to end. It's part of not having a "home", of not 'rooting into any soil'...freedom becomes overwhelming.
Without a solid ground, you start questioning your existence, yourself, your beliefs. You feel as if you are nothing without a "home". You lose yourself in fear... you lose dreams, you lose hope , but above all you lose meaning.
You look back on the life you once had, desperately searching in the past to bring back meaning. You're exhausted by the time you realise that none of that no longer exist. You lose your last glimpse of hope right about now... You die inside a bit more, not metaphorically. You physically  feel as if whatever is keeping you breathing is slowly fading away. It's a feeling that very few people know, and even fewer can describe.
You know that nothing can bring you back. You don't believe in love, mercy, kindness. You know there are all fairy-tales and you don't belive in happily ever afters, you only believe in your own faith. But the world is taking that away!
You feel naked inside out. You're dead by now, your freedom is expanding even more- you're overcome fear. At this point, you know that even if the Gods decide to give you days you'll forever be "broken", a cynic, a hypocrite,  an outcast. You'll be dead among the living, but you'll be stronger for you no longer fear. Your freedom is absolute when you can die in any second. And what does that freedom bring you?! What does you power become?! Nothing. You are , you own, you dream of nothing... The Gods give you a blessing still: you smile at the fact that you are dead among the living, but one day thus two shall pass.
There are moments when you fully lose yourself in desperation and stop asking when or if it's going to end ....there are moments when freedom becomes overwhelming.

5 social habits

-Was that Alex? Sasha was never Sasha when he was in England, in more ways than one.
-Yes...
-What did he say?
-...The usual. To be fair we never really talk about much when we call each other.
We both returned to our comfortable silence. I started rolling a cigarette. I don't actually roll cigarettes, I fold them. I put the paper on a flat surface, nicely pick my tobacco, add the filter if I have one and fold it -kinda like a Swiss roll.
-You want me to roll you one, babe?
He nodded. He didn't really smoke. It was more of a social habit. Something that he picked up from me. I didn't want him to smoke.
You know how some thoughts create a chain reaction?That one took me way back to the days where I didn't question common sense and meaning. I used to hide behind the sofa with a pen in mouth pretending I was smoking. I guess I must have been about 5. I remember this one specific time when my grandmother caught me. I knew "smoking was bad" , hence the use of the term 'caught'. I didn't know what to say so I took my beating like a 5 year old -with shouting and tears and of course the regret. I don't remember if she made me promise that I won't do it again. I always loved the feeling of holding a cigarette in  my hand. It  just made me happy.
 I picked up smoking for the social habits, for the air that a lid cigarette gives to the one that's holding it, for the passing of time, for killing boredom, for a better appreciation of fresh air and for the enhancement of wisdom behind even the most stupidest statement.
Smoking makes some people appear more intelligent. I am one of those people. I also picked that up quickly and started using it to my advantage.To be fair 'abuse' would be a much suitable word. I spiced it up with sudden change of tones, inflections and long pauses to fill up my lungs before "la piece de resistance" and of course, my favorite, breathing the smoke out after "la piece de resistance" .
I don't only seem much more intelligent when I smoke, it makes me more attractive. For some reason I also flirt more when I'm smoking: there's nothing like 'the lost' look, the gazing into thin air  contemplating thoughts that don't belong in this world look, with half a smile on your face while your lips are slowly blowing out grey little clouds of consumed pleasure.
Of course it all depends on how you do it. With the right attitude and the proper twists smoking can also make you seem depressed, angry or frightening. It can make you seem important or it can make you seem detached. Smoking is a powerful tool. It's a pity really that so many people want to give it up.It's even more of a pity that very few people know how to use it.

CULTURE AND THE EVERYDAY

-learning diary-

-by Ana Maria Bunaiasu

“Migration and movement from one country to another , whether in  the form of economic migration or asylum seeking, has involved an experience of separation - the migrant has inevitably left behind his or her home, relatives, friends surroundings, and the everyday routine of everyday life.”

(Banal Transnationalism: The Difference that Television Makes

WPTC-02-08

Asu Aksoy and Kevin Robins)

INTRODUCTION

If my everyday is truly as different from everyone else’s as I picture it to be, I truly do not have the slightest idea, and it was never my intention to prove so. This is really just my very own, 100% personal way of de-familiarisation with the routine and habits that we take for granted, often completely ignore and almost never acknowledge. This is my everyday (ELECTRONIC) diary!

I am a twenty year old Romanian girl that came to study in England. In consequence, this diary will be mainly focused on change and how I’ve experienced change in terms of media, being a woman and ‘going green’. It doesn’t and I never expected of it to cover my entire learning or developing experience –that is something that I can never fully put in three thousand words- but it is a collection of thoughts that lead to one step ahead and a new lesson learned about my new everyday life.

 TRANSNATIONAL MEDIA

   As a migrant, one of the things you miss the most about ‘home’ is the media – completely understandable given that it most likely is the biggest part of our taken for granted everyday life. What you never even realised was there is all of a sudden everywhere around you! Out of nowhere it becomes striking. In a foreign language, the turned on tv set is no longer background noise, commercials suddenly become interesting, advertising is no longer something you can ignore because it  ‘paints the picture of a new world’ and the meaning of media that you often believed you do not need to be reminded of is lost in translation.

 As Asu Aksoy and Kevin Robins state in “Banal Transnationalism: The Difference that Television Makes”, the diaspora is “now able to make use of transnational communications to gain access to media services from the country of origin”(Aksoy and Robins,  2003,  pp2).

Often in studies concern with migration such as those of Sara Ahmed and Seda Sengun  migration is seen as exile, “a particular imagination of migration[…] that has taken (what it declares to be) the drama of separation and the pathos of distance from the homeland as its core issue.” (Askoy and Robins,  2003, pp3). They sustain that there are ways of redeeming the sense of alienation and ways of creating new communities to substitute the lost community transnational media being one of them, but they are only partial, and that home will constantly function as a form of reference. As Shegun puts it, her own culture “may function like a teddy bear during the mother’s absence: Familiar tastes, smells, tunes and gestures provide containtment  and comfort, reducing the anxiety of separation.  When a migrant eats food which is specific to his original country, or listens to a song in his own language he is immediately linked to his past and his own culture (Shegun, 2001,  pp68).”

Personally, I agree with Aboy and Robins. For me, as a young immigrant, transnational media works as an agent of cultural de-mythologisation ,”it is working against the romance of diaspora as exile, against the tendency to false idealization of the <>”  (Askoy and Robins, 2003, pp5)

I watch Romanian television, but not on a daily basis. Most of the international channels designed especially for the diaspora target what Asoy and Robins define as the fundamental categories of national mentality: community, identity and belonging.  A look at the broadcaster’s ‘agenda’ is enough to prove the point. Such channels contain a large volume of news reports, cultural and political talk shows and programs designed and based on high cultural and national values such as Romania’s got talent^[1] and Romania I love you^[2].  Such programs revolve around and are designed for those migrants that have an ever present desire to affirm, and often idealise, the culture of the homeland.

I do believe that as migrants we will forever have a sense of a mother culture or home culture that will always differ from that of the culture we migrated towards, but I do not believe that everyone experiences an anxiety of separation, at least not with the same emotional impact. The way I experience transnational media is in no way a connection to my homeland, home is not a switch of a button away, I do not feel at home when I am watching Romanian television. It is coming from too far and it loses its significance. I might feel this way due to being outside the age group or the assumed mentality of the immigrant, but as Thomas Elsaesser put it “ audiences of broadcast television want television programmes that know who they are, where they are and what time it is” (as cited in Aksoy and Robins, 2003, pp13) .

It is thought that transnational television could play a major role in countering migrant conservatism due to the fact that it is ‘refreshingly modern’ but that is truly not the case with Romanian immigrants. In this case, conservatism comes from a political rather than a cultural context and in this sense it is highly unlikely that those Romanians who migrated during the Communist period are conservative in any sense.

“Email was taken up readily ass an intuitive, pleasurable, effective and above all inexpensive way not only for families to be in touch, but to be in touch on an intimate, regular, day –to –day basis that conforms to commonly held expectations of what being a parent, child or family entails.  It appeared as an obvious way of realizing familial roles and responsibilities that had been ruptured by Diaspora, and even of reactivating familial ties that had fallen into abeyance. “

(Daniel Millerand Don Slater, The Internet: An ethnographic approach)

 

THINKING FEMINISM

Coming to England –like never before- it was clear to me that “[…]those versions of two genders are still profoundly influential in our experiences of growing up. Our lives as women and, men continue to be culturally defined in markedly different ways, and both what we read and how it is presented to us reflects and is part of that difference. ” (Winship, 2000, pp 334).

I was always a bit of a Tom boy growing up. Most of the people I grew up with were boys. I was the middle child – a girl between two boys so I supposed I had my reasons to be “less of a girl than a girl should be”.  That matter always troubled me. Why was I less of a girl than other girls? Why were other girls more girls? Along the lines, the course introduced me to feminism and neo-feminism and that itself raised even more questions of gender politics, gender stereotypes, culture, habitus and what does it really mean to be a woman. Does a woman define herself by comparison to other women or through the eyes of a much greater masculine ideology? What is considered proper for a woman and what is not and most importantly by whom? To be honest, it raised even more questions that I initially had or that I ever thought I would  have regarding the matter.

I asked my mother some of those questions. Unfortunately for me, my mother always was a bit of a Tom boy herself, also the middle child and also between two boys.  She always approved of my attitude towards femininity, which to be fair, way always a bit dazzled and a bit queer.

Also, asking a woman that grew up in the days of communist gender equality where men and woman were socially and economically equal and the heterosexual family was the nucleus of society about what it means to be a woman was probably not the best choice I could have made. So I decided to investigate the matter myself.
I started off with woman magazines. I bought myself my first ever Cosmopolitan Magazine. Considered the soap opera of journalism, ”sadly maligned and grossly misunderstood”,  they picture a fairytale a cosy world of happy ever after,  they do not present a real a true picture of women’s lives. As Winship further explains in her article “Survival Skills and daydreams”, cover images and sell lines […]reveal a wealth knowledge about the cultural place of women’s magazines –In fact few women readers will make an immediate identification with these cover images: they are too polished and perfect, so unlike us.  Paradoxically though, we do respond to them. Selling us an image to aspire to, they persuade us that we, like the model can succeed.” (Winship, 2000,pp338).

I asked myself why do women buy women magazines?  According to Winship, what persuades us to buy is that the woman is placed first, she is center stage “the gaze is not simply a sexual look between woman and man, it is the steady, self-contained, calm look of unruffled temper[…] She is the woman whom, you as reader, can trust as friend.”(Winship, 2000,pp339).

In my personal experience with women magazines, quite a modest one I must add – I still haven’t become a fan, I learned that women need what Winship calls ‘the refuge of women’s magazines’ because opportunities and desires are still limited, the vocabulary of the everyday routine is still modest for a woman. We feel it everyday in the simplest, often quite most stupidest of ways when doors are being opened for us, when we find ourselves in the unfortunate position of fancying two boys at the same time, when we wish to play video games, when we curse, when we don’t wear makeup and don’t brush our hair, We are not ‘allowed to’ because we are women.

A lot of effort is put in making them differentiate from one another, through the texture of paper, printing type, design , lay-out, all in the same way that any woman desires to be different from all the other women.  Women tend to be isolated from one another as a consequence.

But for reason I could really never grasp I always felt that women tend to be isolated from one another, that a true friendship two women is never as strong as a friendship between two men.  And this sense of isolation, believes Winship, is caused by the fact that “Men do not have or need magazines for a “A Man’s World”; it is their world out there […]Women have no culture and world out there other than the one which is controlled and mediated by men.” (Winship, 2000, pp335)A not so happy perspective I would say.

“The survival skills offered by feminist magazines

like Spare Rib and Every-Woman may be more political,

 aimed at getting women off the ‘desert island” of femininity
and encouraging their daydreams of a radical future.

 Yet the formula is similar. They offer help and, above all, hope.”

(Janice Winship, Survival Skills and Daydreams)

RUBBISH

CONCLUSION

As Jörg  Durrshchmidt, Argues in an age of globalization, constant progress and movement  through “following the global flows  […]everyday lives are connected with a multiplicity of places, on a more or less temporary or even transient basis.” hence, mobility – the process  defined as  “ bridging the distance between significant places around witch someone’s practical relevances and routines are focused” is now a constant part of our everyday lives ( Durrshchmidt, 2000, pp15)

Through my process of (electronically) keeping this diary I learned that I am one of the fortunate people that experience not only mobility, but also change as part of everyday. Change in itself can be a routine, and change overall is the main theme of every immigrants life.
I never expected to be able to say so much about my everyday- after all, it is something that you rarely acknowledge. But, once again, I learn that it it’s not so bad to be wrong and, with the fear of ending with an over-used cliché, change is normal!

“Integral to the average everyday life

 is awareness of a fixed point in space,
 a firm position from which we ‘proceed’…

and to witch we return in due course.

This firm position is what we call ‘home’…

‘Going home’ should mean: returning to that firm position witch we know,

to which we are accustomed, where we feel safe,

and where our emotional relationships are at their most intense.”

(Agnes Heller, as cited in Roger Silverstone “Why Study the Media?”)

---

[1] In original: Românii au talent

[2] In original: România, te iubesc!,

my snufkin!

http://imgur.com/q1m9a

4 Veronica and Werther

Sasha's call interrupted that  warm, cosy silence that we often share when I space out and he cooks. I can't translate what me and Sasha talk about, it's something that even my own people can't understand, although they sure as hell think they do.
When me and Sasha talk today, Veronica and Werther sit down at a table out on a wooden built terrace on a sunny day, listening to soft rock and look at each other smiling like they know the secrets of this world. Veronica smokes and drinks her coffee while Werther thinks about what she just said. They don't actually speak anymore.  They played their parts and said what they had to say a long time ago, now they're just old friends gazing down on the world and on what they've become. Now they just listen. Nor Veronica, nor Werther exist anymore except when me and Sasha talk. When we say goodbye, Veronica smiles looking straight into Werther's eyes while blowing out the smoke and putting out the cigarette. Her smile is patronising and slightly arrogant. Like me she only smiles with a meaning and half her mouth. Werther smiles back while looking into her eyes. He knows he's being patronised, thought of as a child that the world would force to grow up, but like Sasha, he loves that arrogant, patronising smile too much to wipe it off.
Many people thought many things of me and Sasha. It wasn't his fault he never wanted or earned (so they call it) a social reputation. By default, he ended up with me. The world always had an opinion about me, so the world always had an opinion about him. I guess that was part of the deal he never wanted but somehow made.I'm notorious for getting my way! Unfortunately for one the most beautiful minds the Gods created, he was something I wanted.
I don't owe this explanation to anyone else but him. He cared about such things and as much as I hated it I never could change that. He cared about the 'public opinion', he cared about people knowing that me and him were never lovers, nor sex buddies, nor two teenagers in love. He would have wanted the world to know we never even kissed. He would have wanted the world to know we never even thought about it.
So here it is! The explanation he would want me to give : 'me and Sasha are just very good friends'.
I have so many memories, of so many childish arguments- that I'm pretty  sure we'd still have today- . I grew up being taught not to care about "them", but he cared enough for both of us.
-Why does it fucking matter?! What do they know?!
-It matters to me, Ana! Do it for me!
-Jesus! Why?!Why the hell do you even care?! We both know it's not the truth?!let them talk!
-I'm not like you, ok!? I care! I don't want them to talk.
-So what do you wanna do?! Hide?!...what the hell are we even hiding!? is there anything to hide?!
-Ana...
-...Don't! just fucking don't!
-We can just act differently. in school at least . You know how they are. You know how much they love to gossip.
-That's because they envy us. They always gossip! Are you even listening to yourself 'act differently'!?
-Ana please!
-No! 

I wish I knew back then what I know now.But then again, don't we all?

3 to think of love

An author must never be modest, but he must always seem as if he would be. Wise words, coming from not such a wise man. That was going through my head when he walked in.I didn't make a grammatical error by the way: he must seem as if he would be.
-You alright?
-...Yeah, babe!
And suddenly all that beautiful calm and deadly tranquility went away and I sank down into the swampy lands of mortal existence.
-Wanna eat something?
-Neah. I'm good....
I left that phrase in the air as if it came from a far too distant land and it's meaning was lost on the way ...or if it was something of much greater truth hidden behind those two words, something that he couldn't really grasp and neither could I.
-You sure?
I looked at him. I didn't need to smile but I did. In my mind, someday he'll look back on these days and think of my smile and know that it meant: "I love you. No lies, no promises, no words, no actions. Right now, right here, I love you.".
A girl has her right to fantasise, but a woman should know better. I guess he was proof that I wasn't quite a woman yet. He made me think in 'maybe' and 'what if':  what if the world isn't such a bad place after all? what if I'm not so bad after all? what if I can actually sing? what if I was thinner? what if I had bigger boobs?.
I hate thinking in 'maybe' and 'what if'...but I loved him and he smiled back. I knew he loved me too. I also knew it didn't matter because the world had plans to take us apart and break what we had. But maybe the Gods decided to give us one of those gifts that are meant to be enjoyed while had and then given back to their holy origins. If so, while the Gods were still merciful, we were happy.
I sometimes held on to him longer 'cause I knew nothing lasts. He knew it as well, but sometimes you comfort children with lies and promises to stop them from crying. And sometimes, children stop crying because of lies and promises, not because they don't know the truth, but because you want them to stop crying.
-How's your essay going?
-If I submit on time, and that's a big if, I promise to get so drunk that I'll dance to Skrillex.
-Good girl!
He wasn't patronising, not as patronising as I was when I said: Good boy! And I liked that. I hate to be patronised! And then he made me smile. I hated that he always made me smile, but I loved him.

You will learn to mind me
And you will learn to survive me.

2 excuse my French

Now where was I?! Ah yes!
As a teenager I was always a bit of a rebel- well, in the terms that having a mother that was never there and an retired military general as a father that was there far too much allowed. According to the world I cursed too much, I smoked too much, I drank too much, I was far to inappropriate in far too inappropriate times, I spent too much time with the wrong people and most importantly, all that lead to wasting my talent away. The talent they were talking about or, better put, the talent they thought I was wasting was really I mystery to me. I don't say it out of modesty, I say it precisely 'cause I know my  true talent very well, at least well enough to make such a statement. And! I also know that if they knew my talent or merely had a vague idea about what it really was most of them would've decided to stop wasting energy and 'words of wisdom' on the ignorant. Well at least in the face of the ignorant- few things are more enjoyable than publicly criticising ignorance behind closed doors. And ignorance almost never receives such criticism as it does behind closed doors, where, funny thought that might have occurred to those that have an eye for sarcasm, it is ever so present.
But there's a valuable lesson that people who give out free advice and personal opinions are too busy to learn. You can't save two kinds of souls, those who are (so called) far too ignorant to even realise their sinful nature and those who truly "don't give a fuck" (excuse my French) about your overused, over-shouted, meaningless truth. I was both.
Funny thought ran through my mind! Laura was her name I think.She was one of my (so they call them) coaches in my early days as a legally working immigrant. Along several other things she encouraged me to be confident and 'fuck it', then she spiced it up with a lovely "excuse my French". I started giggling as I do when in a very conservative environment, people put their masks away for a second. She then immediately added "No! It wasn't French! But you get the idea." I thought she ruined the joke and so our little moment of truthfulness was over-foe legal and business purposes. Actually...she thought I didn't get it. 'And you just realised this now?!' I ask myself. Of course I only ask myself rhetoric or obvious questions, I'm too fucking intelligent for any of the rest.

1 bad habits

I was looking at the smoke coming out of the ashtray. No one was smoking, no one was in there but me. There was a certain calm serenity to that that silence. There was a certain peaceful somewhat breathless, somewhat deadly tranquility to that day and I couldn't explain why.
I was thinking about the day when my friends tried to convince me to stop cursing. They believed, like many other friends, acquaintances and neither of those before them, that my language was a bit loose, a bit too violent and somewhat often too colourful. I didn't try  to explain that I speak many languages and it's not so much a matter of vocabulary as it is a matter of expressing myself. I don't believe in a  proper way to speak in the same way I don't believe in a proper way to express yourself, but I do believe in that feeling of warmness and accomplishment that a parent has when he lets his 3 year old have his way in a matter that need not concern him or anybody else, but the child feels he is right about. I guess it has to do with a child's first experience of ethics: you should encourage them for the sake of it before life makes him through them away. So I accepted  to be "house trained". The deal was for every time I cursed I had to give up a cigarette.
I think I ended up giving away a whole 2 packs by the end of that day. Funny thing was I cursed more than usual. I had it on my mind so much. It's like when someone tells you not to think about elephants. What's the first thing that comes to mind?
As I poured a bit of water in the ashtray just to hear the fire dying out I thought I always had that (so they call it) problem. Even when I wasn't speaking English and home still had the standard meaning I still cursed a lot. I think it was in my nature to rebel against the norms really, cause cursing was not the only thing people attempted to 'house train' me on. I think I smiled at that thought, but I'm not really sure 'cause someone's shouting interrupted my thought flow. I can see why shouting can be annoying to some, at some points even I find it to be so and I curse a lot. I don't shout though, not when I want to be heard at least. Not that I don't believe shouting is the best and easiest way to be heard. I'm just too arrogant to make myself heard in that way! My ego needs me to make myself heard even when I don't say a word. That's how my pride works. Some want credit, some want props, some want respect, some want appreciation, some want fame and some want immortality. I just want to be heard.... and I accept that as my sin if that's what it takes.

Don't forget that boy who told you you gotta get that dirt off your shoulders!

Nu stiu de unde sa incep...
Inainte, cand iti scriam, stiam ce vreau sa-ti spun sau cuvintele pur si simplu imi curgeau pe foile albe..dar acum..Acum nu mai pot sa ma adun nici macar ca sa-ti scriu. Si nu cred ca asta e un lucru atat de rau, nu-mi pare rau, nu vreau sa schimb nimic, doar...nu mai pot sa-ti scriu.
Vezi ce face fericirea din oameni?! De cand nu te-ai mai gandit daca mai traiesc sau nu. De cand n-ai mai avut imaginea mea in minte si nu m-ai mai imaginat facand tot felul de nimicuri?!
Nu te enerva! Nu te iau de sus si nici nu-ti vorbesc pe un ton de superioritate. Nu incerc macar sa fiu amuzanta. Ma bucur ca esti fericit.
Acum ceva vreme eram si eu fericta si zambeam ca un copil cand ninge afara si vine Mos Craciun. Dar am prezis ca nu va dura prea mult si nu m-am inselat nici de data asta. Uneori stau si ma intreb daca put si simplu las fericirea sa-mi scape sau nu e chiar fericire si ceva din strafundurile mele simte asta de la inceput...dar cine sunt eu sa spun vorbe asa mari. Si mai mult, nu mai am luxul sa-mi pun atatea intrebari.
Dar ma bucur ca tu esti fericit.
Am incercat sa ma indragostesc, dar pentru iubire cica e nevoie de doua maluri fara ape intre ele. Eu ma simt singura pe o insula in mijlocul unei mari. Iubesc orice corabie care se apropie de insula mea, o primesc cu bratele deschise chiar daca e la kilometrii departare. Poate de-asta nu ancoreaza. Ma sperii atunci cand corabiile ancoareaza pentru ca ceva in strafundul meu imi s-pune... Ma sperii! Prefer sa le vad departandu-se inainte sa ajunga ... trist nu?! Nu e trist. E doar...asa cum e.
Nu ma trata cu mila. Nu pentru ca as fi fost vreodata prea mandra s-o primesc. Dar nu e nevoie de mila acum. Nu pe insula mea.
Barbatilor le plac sanii mari si picioarele lungi. Nimeni nu poate sa faca nimic sa schimbe asta. Nici cel mai frumos zambet, nici niste ochi mari, nici umor, nici inteligenta, nici vorbe spuse la timp, nici promisiuni tinute.Nu incerca sa te flatezi singur! Nici tu esti o exceptie. Esti un luceafar ratacit pe alte taramuri, dar nu te poti ridica peste mocirla in care te-a aruncat umanitatea.Ce crezi ca o spun pentru ca eu pot?! Te rog...
Am spus de multe ori ca exista un Dumnezeu. Prin asta am spus ca sunt fericta si prin asta am crezut ca exista dreptate. Dreptatea mea e fericirea. Si gresesc.
Am prea multa dreptate de prea multe ori. Asta sa fie pacatul meu...

Eu sunt o femeie educata ma, fraiere! Eu sunt o doamna, ce pula mea! Sunt genul de femeie pe care tu, n-o s-o poti avea niciodata! Si stii de ce?…Pentru ca sunt PERFECTA! Eu sunt perfecta, iar tu,  un labagiu de cacat…

And violins were playing in the world where somewhere under the sun something died to leave room for a new life to be born.
The wind blew hard in that forgotten corner on the world where trust burned like letters in the fireplace in winter, desire flew away like browned away dust and people flew through time, not time through people.
There start shined in wide eyes, but hearts built walls 'cause people tried to cheat the truth.And the thuth was not called faith it was called blindness.

You could hear violins but no one was listening in the place where people flew through time, not time through people.

Si se-auzeau viori si undeva in lume ceva murea sub soare ca sa lase loc unei noi vieti sa se nasca.
Batea vantul tare in coltul ala de lume in care increderea ardea precum scrisorile arse iarna in semineu,dorinta zbura pecum praful suflat si oamenii cugeau prin timp, nu timpul prin oameni.
Acolo scateiau luceferi in ochii mari, dar inimile inaltau ziduri caci oamenii incercau sa pacaleasca adevarul.Si adevarul nu-l numeau credinta il numeau prostie.

Se auzeau viori dar nimeni nu le lua in seama acolo unde oamenii curgeau prin timp, nu timpul prim oameni.

what a waste!

-I think I love him.
-....You think too much.
-We can't all be perfect can we?!
-Sinner's mouth speaks the truth!
-...Did you ever love?
-.....
-Did it hurt?
-You know better than to ask.
-Did love make you this way?
-What do you call love? What is love for you really?
-Two shores...with no river between them...
-Watch your mouth!
-God! Just love!You know love. Can you really explain it?!
-...then I guess it might as well could have made me what I am today. Right?
-...I'm sorry!
-You always are!
-You're gonna tell me to stand up for myself now?!
-No...'cause there's a difference between that and being sorry.
 -...Shame you don't write, Ana!
-I think you write enough for both.
-Oh but I could never write like a heartless, cynical, nihilistic, unhappy bitch! There's plenty of room foryour truth in the world, darling! You should fucking share!
-I don't bother with things like that....and keep your pity for more proper occasions, sweetheart. I do believe you're wasting valuable emotion...
 -....They made you this way...
-You know better than to ask.

And i will have a game on the coconut shy
And win a prize even if it's rigged
I won't know when to stop
And you can leave off my lid, and i won't even lose my fizz
I'll be the polkadots type.

Tine minte!

Era 3 dimineata si ploua. Am intrat pe usa uda pana la piele rugandu-ma la toti Dumnezeii pe care ii puteam numi sa nu fie nimeni treaz. Spre fericirea mea erau toti beti.

Parind pe veci a rasari,
Din urma moartea-l paste,
Caci toti se nasc spre a muri
Si mor spre a se naste.

" Stiu ca nu ti-am scris niciodata. De fapt, niciodata nu mi-am imaginat ca o sa-ti scriu. Si aveam dreptate! Veronica nu i-ar fi scris niciodata lui Hyperion - un 'muritor' nu ar indrazni sa-i scrie unui 'semizeu' fie ei uniti prin legea sangelui.
Chiar?! E greu de sesizat ironia in scris?
Sunt curioasa... ce e mai greu!? Sa fii muritor sau sa fii zeu? Ce e mai greu? Sa decazi sau sa ascezi?
Nu te enerva ca te intreb! Nu sunt nici beata nici trista, doar curioasa. De fapt, nici nu te intreb pe tine! Nu stiu cine esti. Eu il intreb pe fratele meu Hyperion. Daca primesti scrisoarea asta in locul lui....dai-o te rog. Daca a murit....nu-mi scrie inapoi, dar arde scrisoarea asta. Stii exact ca atunci cand ai dat foc intregii tale credinte. Am crezut ca doar ardeai niste hartii, ca era doar un 'gest simbolic', ceva de fatada si mandrie prosteasca a oamenilor care gandesc prea mult. Dar tu chiar ti-ai dat foc credintei.  Am ars si eu candva un teanc intreg de scrisori, dar eu doar am dat foc unor hartii. Eu nu sunt si n-am fost semizeu.

Daca vrei....da-ti cu parerea despre ce-am intrebat! Nu-mi pasa sincer. Suntem numai oameni - e dreptul nostru sa ne dam cu parerea despre lucruri de care nu avem habar.

Mai scrii?! Mai arzi ce scrii? Nu te enerva ca te intreb, Nu sunt nici beata, nici trista, doar curioasa.
Ti-aduci aminte cand  plangeam?! Ti-aduci aminte ce-mi spuneai?!  Si ploua mai tare si plangeam mai tare, ti-aduci aminte?! Te intreb pentru ca eu am uitat! Nu te enerva!
Si atunci te enervat aiurea! Te enervai in mandria ta ca muritorii pot fi atat de prosti! Te exaspera prostia umana mai mult ca orice in lume si nu vedeai in aroganta ta decat erori. Si nu vroiai sa vezi sau sa asculti! Dar erai Hyperion! Acum nu mai esti nimic si inca nu vrei sa vezi si inca nu vrei sa asculti.
Ti-am zis si atunci ca-ti pierzi timpu aiurea. Dar sa fiu sincera nu ma asteptam vreodata sa ti-l pierzi altfel. Bine poate nu te luam de sus atunci, dar acum ca suntem muritori toti e mault mai usor sa stai deasupra.
Dar eu nu mai plang si nici nici nu mai privesc in ochii tai cautand mila sau 'vorbe intelepte'. Tu ce faci?!

Ce-ai facut cu credinta noastra?!
Ai dat-o pe pula si nu te condamn caci pe tine te costa mutl mai mult decat pe mine sa o ai. Ti-aduci aminte noaptea aia cand plangeam si ploua si te-am intrebat ce sa fac!? Ti-amintesti ca m-ai luat in brate si mi-ai spus: lasa sa fie!

....Te pup. Ai grija de tine!

Veronica."

Take back this halo from my head,
Take back my starry lower,
And give to me, o God, instead
Of human love one hour.

Out of the chaos was I wrought,
In chaos would I be dispersed,
Out of the empty darkness brought,
For darkness do I thirst..."

Nu parea sa aiba mai mult de 10 ani! Cu o mana isi tinea tatal de brat -similar cu felul in care isi tine o femeie beata de brat barbatul- iar cealalta era erecta ca sa-si poata tine geanta: un fel de portofel blanos si mov cu strasuri metalice...Nu cred ca avea mai mult de 10 ani.
Purta colanti pe post de pantaloni.... erau prafuiti, uzati si rupti si bineinteles ca etalau perfect conturul chilotilor. Surprinzator nu purta tanga.
Era grasa! Nu grasul sanatos al copiilor tineri. Doar grasa. Toate hainele erau mult prea stramte si o faceau sa para si mai grasa. Bluza de trening roz nu-i acoperea burta. Nu-mi amintesc clar culoarea adidasilor, dar sigur erau colorati.
Ploua, dar nu era frig....Erau inca multi alti parinti care-si aduceau copiii la joaca.
Nu-mi maintesc ce purta tac-su. Probabil pentru ca era imbracat neutru, dar pot sa jur ca purta sapca.
 Si l-a oprit ca sa poata sa mearga pe linia bordurii. Barbatul s-a oprit zambind, a incetinit fara nicio impotrivire, a luat-o frumos de mana si a mers in ritm cu ea, rabdator.
Pentru el nu conta cat de grasa sau prost imbracata era fetita lui. Nu conta ca tinea mana aia erecta pentru porcaria aia de geanta. Nu conta ca era penibila in incercarea ei de a se purta ca o adolescenta desi nu avea mai mult de 10 ani! Probabil era un parinte singur...sau poate nu.
Dar m-am intrebat : eu si tata? Si m-am oprit.
Eu si tata nimic.

800 de motive

Amandoi am spus lucruri pe care nu le credeam...Ne-am mintit pe noi si unul pe altu. Ne-am iertat cand am aflat adevarul pentru ca-l stiusem de la bun inceput.
Dar de ce-am construit castele din nisip?
Ce-am cladit noi pe minciuni adevarul n-a putut sa ne ia. Ramane in picioare castelul nostru pentru ca marea n-ajunge la el. Il bate vantul, dar amandoi stim ca e perfect natural ca timpul sa dezintegreze.
Dar de ce-am construit castele din nisip?