Quicksand - mişcătoarele nisipuri

I did, I did!

2010-08-30T21:53:00.002+02:00

Meaning I did go bike riding after all :)) unfortunately, just once, since last weekend the weather was not our friend... and it seems to be going downwards from now on. As I say, winter's just around the corner :p

Some picks from the trail:

Otherwise, motivation has returned. You know, that which had gone away. Youpie :)
I don't know how it's going to be during the last month, probably tough.

And I feel like waltzing :) I made a waltz playlist today and I will keep adding to it, but it already contains some real gems. enjoy!

Howling at the moon

2010-08-04T17:40:00.002+02:00

I am starting to lack motivation. This is really bad - in my case, it means I really want to stop doing that for which I have started to lack motivation. It means I already resent doing that. Untreated, it can build up into hatred.

But I am faced with a moral dilemma now: there are other people involved. How can I tell them I want out? Although by no means irreplaceable, I am a part of the machine. Take one wheel out and it stops working well. I sort of gave my word I will stay with them until the end.

So here I stand, torn between my desire for freedom and my promise. *sigh* The thoughts that go through my head now clamor that people should not make promises or, if they do, those promises should include a "change of mind clause". It's more humane. And more realistic.

Either way, one party is going to be disappointed in this matter. I fear that party will most probably be me.

Sometimes it's really annoying being me.

Freedooooom!

2010-08-02T14:20:00.004+02:00

These past two weeks were a bit full - regular schedule work and, after that, 3 hours of painting course every weekday - although I would generally start to lose my patience and gather my stuff after 2 hours and a bit... good thing class time was not a strict matter, so I could leave earlier. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the course, but 3 hours every day is a bit much when you're already tired from work. I learned how to handle the brush and how to control the amount of water and ink/colour in it, how to make lovely flowers, animals and landscapes appear with just a few carefully placed lines and spots... and I also realised I didn't have the patience and discipline needed to properly master Chinese painting and calligraphy. But it's alright, I never intended to become a master of that. I am simply looking for my own style of expression and I am glad to expose myself to many different techniques and pick up what I like and what I can do... and one day, out of all that mess, something nice will come up. I have no doubt about that.

Peony - Chinese painting class, July 2010

It's so good not to have to do anything. Last weekend was such a time, nothing planned, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Saturday was pretty much house-based, did some washing and made some bread (don't go imagining picturesque dough-kneading and oven-baking, I have a bread-making machine - the luxury of these times; although my hands do enjoy kneading dough, it's a lovely sensation); after all that and some time wasted on the internet, I went and pumped some air into my bike's tyres, adjusted the seat and handle and considered taking it out for a ride on the nearby bike trail. What with me being a disaster at cycling (no practice) and also a lazy-bum and rather afraid of cars, I decided not to take risks and went exploring the bike trail on foot instead, so that I knew what to expect next time I felt like doing it on the bike. The trail is mostly concrete, there are trees, there is countryside, it goes under the railway track and next to the highway and, somewhere in the distance (I stopped at some point), it meets a busy road that needs to be crossed. Then more trees, countryside and so on and it apparently goes around the entire city (I checked it out on the net). After this short walk I returned, sat on a bench and counted my blessings in writing (a very good exercise, maybe I will post it), part of which was done under the umbrella, soft rain pattering on the ground and occasionally sprinkling my notepad.

Sunday was more outdoorsy - after a good, long sleep, I got up (late, of course), had breakfast, wasted some time on the net then decided to take my bike (finally!) and a rug and go the park to read a book on the grass, write, lay in the sun, whatever... as I was getting my backpack ready, a phonecall changed my plans and I ended up spending the afternoon at the pool - some good sunshine (some occasional clouds, too), a little bit of swimming and splashing about in the outdoor pool... then I went home and watered the garden, then M&K came over and helped me mount the last door on the Ikea wardrobe in my hallyway (it's been missing for ages, when I bought the doors I picked up only one pack of hinges, absent-minded me. Then I had the hinges but had to wait for them to make time and come over to help, the door was pretty big and I couldn't do it myself, altough I am a bit of a DIY freak... but height was a problem... heh). And then we went out to eat. And that was it.

Now I am turning around in my head the thought that I have nothing planned for any of the afternoons this week... it tastes good, almost like holiday. Numerous project await my attention at home, in case I get bored and decide to do something more than reading or watching TV or wasting time on the net. Or I could go out. Or just to the park to lay on the grass. Or laze about in an outdoor cafe and stare at people. Or... anything... :D

The post's title reminded me of this funny sketch:

I still have one thing to do, though: I have to take the car* to the dealer for a check-up, she's been making a strange noise (fan belt, most probably)... *sigh*.

*yes, I have a car now :) she (he?) doesn't have a name yet. Still waiting for something suitable/special to pop up.

later edit: rehearsals on Wednesday afternoon... well, at least there will be dancing! :))

Dizzying heights

2010-07-30T12:15:00.004+02:00

I was talking to my girl M. the other day to share my misery:
- He's too tall and too young for me anyway...
- What's all this nonsense?! There's no such thing!
M. is a great girl, full of warmth and positive insight. And I'm me:
- Well, it's way better than saying I'm too short and too old for him, innit?

Leaving the age thing apart, it's sad to realise you're too short for the love of your life.
I cannot wear dangerously high heels at all times, that is if I don't want to forge a really special relationship with my orthopaedist. Kissing in the absence of props for me to stand on proves to be a bit of a contorsionist's skill for him, whereas I have to stand on tiptoes like a ballerina. And it's still not good enough. Plus, I worry about his spine - all that bending down like that cannot be healthy in the long term. He's already developing a stoop, what with him being so tall compared to the rest of the world and I'm not helping. I don't want to mention other innovative ways we have to find to do things together... and we look rather funny in pictures. Sort of Laurel and Hardy, except I'm not that fat. Only too short by comparison.

Oh well, maybe the next love of my life won't be so damn tall.

2010-07-24T16:37:00.000+02:00

2010-07-22T16:17:00.000+02:00

It's not that I don't like work. The problem is it takes away a lot of time from the things that I would really like to do.

Bamboo, Chinese painting class, July 2010

Serious stuff roll with a bunch of white grapes

2010-02-17T11:57:00.000+01:00

1. MIT is really generous - besides their free online courses, they also have a site where they provide videos of significant events, talks etc. that took place at MIT.

N.B., for those who don't know: MIT = the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, one of the world's best reasearch universities.

2. Michele Woodward shares with us her discovery: the best job interview question ever.

3. I recently discovered TED. And their youtube channel. There are lots of interesting talks there, from an immensely varied range of areas, such as this entertaining talk on "life lessons" from an ad professional.

Reminder to file away somewhere

2010-02-16T11:52:00.002+01:00

For the time when I have my own garden.

Courtesy of so wabi sabi, here are two books about growing your own organic produce all year round - The Winter Harvest Handbook and Four-Season Harvest.

I see both books are written by men. So are really men better gardeners? :))

Update

2010-02-15T17:58:00.000+01:00

The background is ready. Now I have to clean it up a little and find a fixing medium.
And start work on the diorama.

Bonus pictures: lily and ranunculus :)

Afternoon roll with a bottle of mineral water

2010-02-12T17:30:00.002+01:00

Ok, I am into SF. I really like this futuristic-looking flying thingy. And check out the interior! *drool* Makes me think of the aircruise ship in the Fifth Element. Was that cool or what?

A Hong Kong architect has transformed his tiny lodging into a modern, fully functional sliding appartment.

When I read this, I had two thoughts:
1) oh, so I'm not having it so bad, after all...
2) I'd still like to go to San Franciscoooooo (and wear a flower in my hair, weather permitting).
By the way, it's funny.

You may not have heard of him if you're not French or a student in philosophy, but Bernard-Henri Levy has been had. Mwahaha. Hihihi. Hohoho. (yes, I find it amusing)
Anyway, could happen to anyone, if one doesn't check one's sources properly.

You may not have heard of him either, but The Rumpus has: an interview with Romanian novelist Dumitru Țepeneag, a surrealist by choice and a disident by force.

May not be of interest to some, but tiny Lux-Duchy has its own traditions and is celebrating them all year long. Oh, the link is in French. Sorry :p

I stumbled upon this beautiful gallery of old pictures from my beloved Constanța (Romania). It was nice to see what familiar places looked like many, many, many years ago.

The Guardian is advertising Timișoara, another lively Romanian city.

These wonders of ice made me dream... it takes a lot of talent and a lot of work to produce such beauty.

Aaand... there's some wonderful Romanian handmade porcelain waiting for you right here.

Well, that be all for today. Be good, do good, good night.

Ode to decluttering

2010-02-11T21:14:00.007+01:00

In prehistoric times, humans where either hunters or gatherers.
I would have qualified as a gatherer.

I gather things, I accumulate - ergo, I am an accumulator.
What does an accumulator do? Memememe, pick me, Ma'am, I know the answer!
Ok, you. Go.
An ac-cumul-ator... stores energy and then... and then... and then gives it away!
Why does it give it away?
...erm, well... I guess it's 'cause otherwise it would BURST!

So I accumulate stuff and then I give it away.
There must be a balance in things. Things must not burst. Or BURST.
Sometimes, when I feel restless, I think it's because I have accumulated too much and not given away enough, so I start a clean-up session. A de-cluttering.

It's not easy, it's not simple, not for a gatherer.
Not for the concrete stuff, not for the abstract.
Not for the palpable stuff, not for the ethereal.
Not for the unnamed. (mwahahaha)

So yea. There. Not easy, but declutter is good. Good is to declutter. All hail declutter.
Lemme hear y'all holla "DECLUTTEEER"!

Right. Now get declutterin'.

Evening roll with a cup of herbal tea

2010-02-09T19:05:00.000+01:00

Romania's beauties in pictures (no, not the girls :p the UNESCO heritage sites). Definitely worth a visit!

Detroit has a house of ice. Pretty, methinks.

Real estate news: Russia has bought itself a little place in the very center of Paris. Watch out, frenchies ;p

Entertainment news: Priest suspended from Russian clergy after playing a jester role in Tsar.
Too unorthodox for them? Seems the guy was a nonconformist anyway.

For the crafty: if you celebrate Valentine's Day and want to make a customized heart to give away (since you need your own to live, doh), here are some ideas from a talented lady. And here are some non-heart ideas from another crafty lady.

Coda: Tristeti din Bucuresti. Si, tot de acolo, ceva mai putin trist: vesti despre hotelul Cismigiu. In sfarsit misca ceva. Si asta. Ar trebui s-o vizitez data viitoare cand mai trec pe acolo (cand oare?).

Slowly progressing, but still progressing

2010-01-25T21:27:00.006+01:00

Come the new year, I've started working on the autumn diorama. When I find some time, which (surprisingly, haha) I don't really manage to.

First, the background: I glued on it the largest pressed leaves I had, left them under a stack of very heavy books for a week (that is, until I found time to work on it again). Next, I will use these smaller pressed leaves to "fill in" the spaces.

Perele la agățat

2010-01-17T20:16:00.005+01:00

12.01.2010, L...

Când s-a mai curățat aerul, odată cu sătenii s-au trezit din amețeală și perele și, târâș-grăpiș, au reușit să ajungă în satul vecin. Nici nu fură bine ajunse, că se și puseră pe agățat. Numai că, fiind mici și cam pălăiețe, n-au reușit, așa că pe la amiază au prins a se ruga de vreo trei neni care sprijineau gardul CAP-ului îngrijind cu duioșie o sticlă de pălincă:
- Neneee, agață-mă și pe mine, te rog, că de doo ore încerc și n-am reușit nimica!
Se uită nenii la ele lung, pufnesc a mirare și le întorc spatele. Săracele pere! Dacă văd ele așa, se milogesc de trecători, doar-doar și-o face vreunul milă și pomană cu ele. După o vreme, în care au adunat numa refuzuri, bașca un car de înjurături, ba chiar și o afurisenie din partea popii, care se împiedicase de ele și-și murdărise cu noroi bunătate de sutană, le-a văzut agronomul:
- Ia uite, săracele de voi, ce faceți aici?
- Vrem și noi să fim agățate, dar nimeni nu ne ajută! s-au smiorcăit perele în cor.
- Păi hai că v-agăț eu!
S-au bucurat perele că au găsit o inimă milostivă și s-au dus în livadă, unde agronomul le-a agățat cu grijă la loc în pom. I-au mulțumit frumos și au adormit fericite, că se lăsa deja noaptea, legănate de vânt și culcușite între frunze. Iar agronomul s-a dus în ale lui, că era om ocupat.

Perele în sat

2010-01-17T20:12:00.003+01:00

7.01.2010, S...

Întrucât erau cam pălăiețe, nimeni nu le-a băgat în seamă. Sau poate sătenilor nu le era foame. Tocmai ce fusese o mare sărbătoare în ajun și mâncaseră toți pe săturate, chiar și cei mai sărmani, că mâncarea fusese gratis la standul electoral al primarelui - făsui cu afumătură și ceapă pentru toată lumea. Drept e că afumătura cam lipsea, dar deh! Calul de dar nu se caută la dinți, așa că se ghiftuiseră cu toții cu făsui cu ceapă, chiar și opoziția, și acum întreg satul plutea într-un nor mirositor care amenința să se extindă și la satul vecin.
Primarele plecase la băi, lăsând vorbă să fie anunțat când se limpezește atmosfera.

Iar perele?

Perele, sensibiloase, leșinaseră de atâtea gaze într-un lan de porumb, pe când încercau să evadeze către alt sat, mai frumos mirositor.

Exerciții de scris pentru mâna stângă

2010-01-17T20:08:00.006+01:00

(scrise inițial pe hârtie, cu mâna stângă, de unde titlul)

6.01.2010, S...
Ana are mere.
Petre are pere.
Dacă Ana îi dă lui Petre merele ei, iar Petre îi dă Anei un șut, unde sunt merele?
Merele sunt în stomacul lui Petre.

Iar perele?

Perele pălăiețe s-au plictisit de prea puțină aplecare asupra acestui aspect al lor și s-au strecurat șușotind spre sat.

Snippet

2009-11-29T12:26:00.002+01:00

Try watching Shakira's latest video, She Wolf, without the sound (not that with the sound it would be much better)... it looks hilarious, in a sad way.
And those gymnastics in the cage - wtf ?!

...

24, Faubourg

2009-11-25T11:54:00.011+01:00

I was in my first years as a student at the University of Bucharest when I bought a foreign fashion magazine because it wasn't very expensive (it was a past issue, brought to Romania as, I suppose, it hadn't sold out in the country of origin) and because it came with a small perfume sample. In those days there weren't many perfume shops around and if there were, I didn't dare go in because I felt embarassed knowing I didn't have the money to buy any perfume there. So I was delighted to find this magazine with its small sample and I actually loved the perfume since the first time I smelled it. It was sophisticated and it went perfectly with the autumn air. I used it sparingly, spraying only a little bit now and then on a scarf... but I eventually finished it. I kept the sample phial and the little orange box it came in and I used to smell it from time to time and remember the beautiful autumn days when I wore it.

Some years later, now an employee, my finances were much better, so I started to look for that particular perfume in the now more numerous and rather more accessible (for me) perfume shops. It would still be very expensive, but I could buy it, with some effort. However, I couldn't find it anywhere. None of the shops had Hermès perfumes. Not fair, I thought.

The years passed, the shops still didn't have Hermès perfumes, and even if I did travel abroad on three or four occasions, I somehow managed to come back without the long-sought perfume (either I didn't have the money, or I didn't have the time, or I couldn't find it, or I had other more pressing matters on my mind/hands...).

I finally found and bought it two years ago, while traveling abroad for the job interview that would bring me here. It was a happy moment. I was afraid my tastes had changed and I wouldn't like it anymore, but one sniff was enough to cast that fear away. It was a matter of seconds: I saw it (the warm orange colour, the slightly feminine inner curves of the bottle, the delicate arabesque decoration), I smelled it, I grabbed it, I paid for it, I had it. I finally had it. Other perfumes would come after it, as I could now afford to buy them, but it stayed my favourite so far. And, I don't know why, these days, these autumn days, it is the only one I can wear. Every morning I smell the other two or three perfumes and they're either too sweet, or too sharp, or too impersonal... so I wear 24, Faubourg. Warm, woodsy and bright, it goes perfectly with the cool autumn air.

Technicalities: it was created in 1995 by Maurice Roucel for the house of Hermès.

According to osM oz, it is a chypre-floral perfume and the notes are as follows:

Top notes: bergamot, orange, peach, hyacinth.
Middle notes: Tahitian gardenia, orange blossom, jasmine, iris.
Base notes: sandalwood, patchouli, amber, vanilla.

It is named after the address of the Hermès flagship store in Paris.

(I haven't used much of it so far because for some time I put it on the side and favoured lighter, less... special fragrances - I had some issues to sort out - and also because, as you may see, it is Eau de Parfum, therefore stronger, so only a little bit is more than enough).

ps - I subsequently made an obsession for the beautiful Hermès silk scarves, but that's another story, still to follow. They are very expensive!

Should I go to Dublin?

2009-11-25T11:43:00.003+01:00

Yesterday I read a short article of someone who had been for the first time, and only for a couple of days, to Dublin, and had absolutely loved it. The illustration of the article depicted the author reading James Joyce's Ulysses and holding a tray with a big glass of Irish coffee (no mistake, there was written "Irish coffee" on it :p ), a shamrock and the Irish flag. And I found myself dreaming back.

This morning, there was the regular Luxair advertisment on the radio, promoting their reduced-fare flights to Dublin. As I wasn't yet fully awake, I had a short if refreshing dream about going to Dublin for a writing vacation, taking up a room in the Oliver St. John Gogarty hostel & pub, listening to live Irish music every other evening, walking the streets, living the life and generally enjoying myself.

Not a bad idea.

I still have to visit Edinburgh, though. Never been there, but really want to.
Then I'll make up my mind: Ireland or Scotland?

I want my MTV back!

2009-11-24T11:14:00.005+01:00

I said it more than ten years ago and I will say it over and over again: I want my old MTV back, with Ray Cokes's MTV's Most Wanted, with Vanessa Warwick's Headbangers Ball and with all the good stuff. Or with something similar.

Those were the days...

Then they cancelled the shows... and then they replaced MTV Europe with the local version and the magic died for good. That was one instance where the localization of a product was the worst idea ever. They ruined it for us.

And I want my old, not dubbed Cartoon Network back. They're not exactly, specifically, cartoons for little kids that can't read. They're for older kids (teenagers and adults included) and those kids are supposed to be able to read. If they cannot, then they damned well should start learning! Dubbing is for little kids and lazy-heads.

Maybe I wasn't clear enough...

DUBBING IS FOR LITTLE KIDS AND LAZY-HEADS

I hate dubbing.

Autumn, art and whatnot

2009-11-23T09:54:00.009+01:00

Note to self: if you use a body cream based on grapes, there are high chances you will smell like a wino.

On Saturday, I saw Saint Nicholas and Zwarte Piet, riding an open carriage somewhere in Gasperich... already?! No, I don't have a picture of them, they were moving fast, we were moving faster... you get the picture (sic). Instead, it being an amazingly beautiful and sunny autumn day ("amazingly" because it's Luxembourg, after all), I have some nice photos to share:

That's a cute little duck that I haven't seen last year in the park. It was very curious and, of course, wanted food - it simply jumped out of the water on the edge of the pond and kept coming towards me. I went away, it followed. At some point, it decided I had nothing for it to eat, so jumped back into the water. The other waterbirds in the pond (two types of "common" wild duck, some Mandarin ducks and another species of duck that I don't know, plus some very noisy bald coots) contented themselves to follow me around the pond looking hopeful. Unfortunately for them, I didn't have anything to eat. I intend to come back one of these days with a can of corn.

The rest of the day can be summed up as follows: collected some dried or drying leaves (including of Ginko Biloba, lol), bought some art stuff and then spent several hours needle-sorting beads (some of which very tiny). But what a satisfaction afterwards: now all my beads are properly sorted and ready to use. Yey.

(come on, laugh)

Sunday was more outdoorsy, and it didn't rain at all (youpie!). We did a 2-hour walk in the forest of Larochette, during which I managed not to sprain my ailing ankle again (I was however wearing a pair of sturdy mountain boots, especially for the purpose of protecting said ankle) and gathered lots of interesting stuff that I intend to use for an autumn diorama. As the frame I already bought is quite small, I will only use some of the stuff and then maybe make a second one or maybe not.

Then we got to listen to a concert held in the local church by the local amateur orchestra (it seems every town or village has an amateur symphonic orchestra / marching band, around here :)) ). The programme included Offenbach's "Orpheus in the Underworld" (bits, I suppose? they were just finishing it when we came in, it was the Galop Infernal part, better known to the world (including myself, until I looked it up) as the predilect music for can-can acts :p ). They were ok for amateurs, we stayed for about 10 minutes for Tomaso Albinoni's Adagio and Douglas Court's Fantasy Jubiloso (yes, I have the programme in front of me :)) neither my memory nor my cultural knowledge are that good).

Here's the stuff I gathered from the forest.

In the foreground, you may notice an almost intact bird's nest :) I found it on the forest path. It was getting dark and I almost trod on it... I won't use it for the autumn diorama, I intend to "restore" it with some glue and feathers and add some small eggs (quail eggs, maybe, from the supermarket) for a possible spring diorama :)

ps - how to preserve berries? I found some late raspberries and I'd like to include them in the diorama. Apparently, I could use glycerine, or borax and silica gel. Hm. If I go to the pharmacy and ask for glycerine, I assume no one will give me any strange looks. Right?

Which witch watches which Swatch watch?

2009-11-19T22:43:00.002+01:00

I have a very good and lasting relationship with my Swatch watch.

I love it and it never lets me down.

Tea, snowflakes and Donnie (and a little adorable kiwi)

2009-11-19T21:41:00.009+01:00

My tea is ready. Lime tree blossom, verbena, marjoram, lavender... zzzzzz
(hopefully)

Today I did a good thing: I collected some snowflakes for the Babies. They need to be ready by mid-December, and the picture book as well, which means I have to get busy and select those pictures, work on them, place the order...

Right. Just not now. Now I'm watching Donnie Darko.

The song reminded me of this wonderful animation below. The first time, I saw it in the "Mad World version" - first under the "related videos". It had me in tears...

When too much is too much and books are too good. And other uninteresting stuff.

2009-11-18T21:15:00.016+01:00

On Monday I woke up earlier to harvest the pumpkins (otherwise they go bad). Then I fed the fishies (otherwise they die), collected eggs, milked the cows, put the restaurant employees to work and arranged to have two more dishes cooked in the cafe. Then I went to work.

In the evening, I sent the restaurant employees to rest, checked out the cafe and served the dish that was ready, harvested the grapes and planted potatoes, cleaned the fish tank and fed the fishies, checked out the cats (none of them lazy bones had gathered the required amount of yarn yet) and then went to bed wondering when I had become a slave of what had seemed to be a nice way of killing time occasionally, that is when it needed killing.

Word of the day: should - do the laundry, do the dishes, draw, write, stop wasting time... study for the French test tomorrow...

That last thing wasn't actually much of a problem.
On Tuesday I quickly revised before the test and things went rather smoothly. As we were dismissed earlier, I could finally go to that shoe shop and buy those shoes that I had been wanting and needing to buy for a long time but never got around to do it cause I was never free before the shop closed, that is 6pm... I love this town. Then I went to Russian class and this time I industriously studied before the class began the two texts that we were supposed to study at home. Better late than never.

Then I went home, brewed some tea, did the slave thing again (was very frustrated that one of the farms wasn't loading, my tomatoes would surely rot, darn it!), practised some gentle guitar, completely failed to either draw or write (although the projects were eyeing me reproachfully) and went to bed around 10pm with a book in hand, planning to read for 15 minutes or so and then go to sleep.

Subsequent Note to Self: never read an interesting book before going to bed. That is exactly what you should NOT do before going to bed with the purpose of falling asleep in a couple of minutes. A book that you read before going to bed must NOT be interesting.
Have I made myself clear?

So last night I went to sleep well after midnight, after having devoured Douglas Adams's "The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul". On one or two occasions, minute details reminded me of Good Omens, Small Gods, the character of Cohen the Barbarian or even Harry Potter. And, of course, the whole thing reminded me of Neil Gaiman's American Gods. I say "reminded" because I had read all those books before this particular one, although it is obvious and I am well aware it came first.

I concluded (once more) that it's very difficult to be original these days - I swear I had thought of the horoscope thing before reading the book! Anyway... I drank my cold tea and went to sleep.

ps - today I am closing down the cafe and the fish farm. Easy does it.

pps - I also had a strange dream. I suspect my subconscious is trying to turn me into an atheist.
But why?! how?! who?!

will it work?

"Grassy notes with a tang of acids and a hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness"

2009-11-16T11:30:00.003+01:00

Apparently, according to scientists, this is how old books smell.
They haven't broken down the aroma of new books yet. I wonder if it contains cinnamon.

Last week was rather full and my NaNoWriMo count was at a painful standstill.

On Monday, I went home early to thoroughly clean the house because I had to call the landlord to come over and inspect the malfunctioning cooking plates. And when I'm not in the mood or I don't have to, I don't clean the house. It's fine as it is. It's not a pigsty, just a normal house where everything isn't sparkling clean. Before going to bed I studied some articles on climate change, in French, for the presentation that I had to give the next day in French class. I didn't have the time or inspiration to write one single word (NNWM count of 2500 of Sunday, instead of 12500, I am going to be such a failure this year too).

On Tuesday, I called the landlord and agreed that he would come by on Wednesday morning. After lunch, French class. Four hours, of which 1 and a half of grammatical revision for next week's midterm, which translated into utter boredom and stiffled yawns. My brain didn't feel challenged so it mostly slept. During the second part of the class, I delivered the presentation, looking at the articles only occasionally, for figures (they sometimes elude my memory). The subject being vast, I had plenty to talk about, although I only presented the big picture with a couple of interesting details. The discussion that followed (as prescribed by our teacher - "every one of you has to ask a question or make a comment") turned to green houses, with practical examples from experience, so it wasn't all that boring. Then I rushed to Russian class, got there 15 minutes earlier and used that time to lounge about and relax, then the class began and I realised I hadn't done my homework. Luckily, there was just one exercise and, as we are beginners, quite an easy one. I could do it on the spot. The teacher, a motherly Ukrainian lady whom I like a lot, asked us if we had written the exercise down. Quite the right question, as she insisted that's one of the ways to get accustomed to the cyrillic alphabet. The other one is reading, a little bit every day. In my case: double fail. I promised myself to make up for it, and I wished they had some children's books in Russian in the Cultural Center's library. I got a ride home, which was quite nice, and although I still had 2 hours to bed, I didn't have the time or the inspiration to write one single word. NNWM count: still 2500.

On Wednesday, the landlord came at 8 sharp. Presently decided to buy a new appliance with 2 cooking plates rather than replace the whole unit (which includes a small fridge and a sink and I believe dates from the '70s). I shunned the possibility of doing that myself (he would pay for it anyway), I really had no time for that, and he said he'd go buy it and bring it over the same day. One thing solved, two to go. That afternoon I had a doctor appointment and then, at 7pm, I had to be in the center to go to the opera - Wagner's Lohengrin. I waited for two hours at the doctor's, that I spent reading the beginning of Steven Pinker's The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature, which I had brought along for that exact purpose. The other people in the waiting room were reading magazines or nothing at all and occasionally eyed me inquisitively. I must have looked quite the intellectual with that big, serious book, heh. After that, I left in a hurry, missed one bus and arrived at the opera venue at 7:15. It had just begun, but I couldn't go to my place anymore, they were already playing the ouverture. I had to stand for the duration of the first act, completely dressed (since the tiniest noise of velcro would win me murderous stares from other people and even sharp remarks that I may not have understood anyway, given the fact that, of the three official languages, I only speak French and that's not the first language you'd be addressed in at such events). The first act lasted for one hour (oh my poor legs and especially my poor sprained ankle still in healing, but I managed to protect it at the expense of the other, healthy one). It was quite good. From my standing position on the right-hand side of the balcony, I could see everything on stage and in the orchestra pit, and I quite enjoyed that. During the recess, I joined my friends, found my place and could sit down peacefully for the rest of the opera. Which lasted another 4 hours, recesses included. I had been warned that Wagner was not for everybody, but I had never thought that referred to the patience of withstanding such a long performance. The music - I liked. It suited me. The singers were good, especially the mezzosoprano playing the antagonist woman (Ortrud), as well as the lead soprano (Elsa) and the bass (King Henry). Amazingly strong voices. Kudos to them. The mise-en-scene - I wasn't particularly impressed, but neither disappointed, like one of my friends, who was expecting knights in shining armour and dainty damsels in silky dresses and was regaled instead with a first act that seemed to be taken straight from the period between the two World Wars, greyness supreme. As I didn't have any specific expectations, I was ok with it. But by the end I was so tired that I was anxiously waiting for the grand finale, so that I could go home. Which I was able to do eventually, around midnight. On foot. During weekdays, there is no nightbus, dear children. You can easily imagine the last thing I was thinking of when I got home was the NNWM word count.

On Thursday, after dutifully toiling at work, I went in the evening to the Pyg, to meet two friends who were moving to London and had decided to organise a little get-together with their buddies, acquaintances and families. I hadn't planned to stay long, but I ended up leaving around 11pm. After a healthy march from the Nether City to the Upper City, hurrying up cause the two guys who walked with me had to catch the last train to their town (which they did, with a lag of 20 seconds (!) - that was a close one), I eventually got home around midnight. No time or inspiration for NNWM, of course. What a stupid question.

On Friday, after dutifully toiling at work, as usual, I went in the evening to the Bonnevoie Cultural Center to see the Ten-Minute Play Festival of the New World Theatre Club (an enthousiastic group of amateurs who are decided to bring English-language theatre more often on the local scene. God's speed, I say!). A couple of the plays were good, one was totally uninspired, not to say off-the-mark in its subject (I cannot believe they went ahead and staged it), and the rest were whatever. The actors were ok too, two or three I really liked a lot. Needless to say, I got home after 10pm and, as I had some sleep arrears from the previous two nights, didn't even think about starting the computer to do some NNWM work. I'd do that during the weekend.

On Saturday, I woke up at 1pm and generally spent my day lazying around on the internet, happy in the knowledge that there wasn't anything I had to do that day. Sweet day of doing nothing. Forget about the NNWM word count, I had no time or inspiration for that. I did start to practice the guitar (my first-ever guitar, a brand-new sunburst Fender CD60 which didn't cost much and sounds really nice and I love a lot) and, from the book, managed to execute a very hesitating slow version of the famous four lines of Ode to Joy on the first two strings of the guitar, which were the first that the book taught. You know, the really thin ones. That hurt your fingertips when you press them really well against the fret, like you should. I can't wait to get my calluses. In the meantime, I had to sacrifice my fingernails on the altar of what would be, one day, hopefully, art. Oh joy.

On Sunday, I woke up around 11 and lazed around on the internet until 2pm, happily wasting my time with farmville, farmtown, fishville, restaurant city and the likes, practising the guitar while waiting for the farm worker to finish its job, and thinking that I didn't quite feel like getting out of the house that evening to go to a postmodernist play in the city of EsA, as planned. Did some housework, ate some leftovers from the omelette I had cooked the day before and tried to convince myself to do some NNWM work. Around 6pm I got a call from the friend I was supposed to go to the theatre with, telling me she's too tired and won't go anymore. Faced with the perspective of going alone, through the cold and unfriendly night, to the unknown venue in the lovely city of EsA, I quickly decided I'd skip that chance at discovery and stay in the cosy warmth of my studio. Good decision, I'd say, since afterwards I felt a bit inspired and managed to produce 2000 words (don't laugh, it's not as easy as it seems, they're words, not characters). Not only that, but I also watched Madagascar 2 and laughed a lot, and then I wrote an extra 500 words that led me to the conclusion I may have to quit the NNWM challenge this year (not that I had any chance at getting to the finish line anyway, with 4500 words instead of 50000 at the two-week mark :)) ). The idea was that what I had written so far would be nicely linked to two separate storylines I had developed before, and thus I would get a lot of material to work on throught the winter and hopefully, for the first time since highschool, get close to completing a sort of a novel. Thing. That may be.

And that concludes my week. Not before having my usual inspiration surge right after going to bed, with bright ideas popping up from everywhere as to how to link this to that and justify the presence of this and that and so on and so forth and I eventually fell asleep without having written down any of them but hoping that I won't forget anything or at least most of them (please) till morning. (I didn't).

Recapituleișăn

2009-10-15T19:02:00.003+02:00

So I'm back to normal.
That is, slightly mad :)
Slightly confused
But full of glee and with loads of projects
And time to stop and smell whatever flowers are still resisting this frost.

I call it a state of inebriation in the absence of alcohol (or any other such stimulants). It's my normal state of mind (hic! :p)and I've been missing it so over the past one year and a half. And I hope to hold on to it for as long as possible - even if I fall again, it can be done with grace, with detachment and amusement at this tiny speck in the fabric of the universe that is one human's existence.

Honestly.

Smile and enjoy it again and again ;)
(I'm really glad this one is legally available on the net, that means there are less chances it will disappear).

Oui, je pense

2009-10-01T16:22:00.005+02:00

On ne doit pas chercher la perfection, cela prend trop de temps et souvent ne vaut pas la peine.

Comme le dit Zazie.... au diable nos adieux

ps - je pense que la dernière ligne du refrain devrait être "Je n'ai Dieu/d'yeux que pour toi"...

Wtf?!

2009-07-29T16:11:00.006+02:00

[...]

Where the hell are all those nice little things, romantic dates, flowers, holding hands, getting to know each other as persons and not just in the Biblical sense?

Now all they do is sleep with you, maybe take you out to dinner beforehand (sex on an empty stomach not a good idea) or to a movie (comedy, action or romance, for obvious reasons; maybe a horror film too, it fosters physical approach) or simply to a pub (to get you faster in the mood with reduced efforts).

If things work out alright, they may also want something more serious, but don't count on it too much, butterflies never stay for too long on the same flower.

What really annoys me is that they also expect you to be faithful.
Honestly, faithful to what?! to a dick?

I rest my case.
[...]

Snippet

2009-03-08T18:10:00.006+01:00

While I'm asking for others not to be hurt, is there anyone looking out for me?
Sometimes I feel I care more than I should...

Diary of Dreams - She

Let's play...

2009-03-05T23:05:00.009+01:00

My first wish came true, I had to walk for 30 minutes in the rain...

Now let's play a game, from shaki :)

Go to Wikipedia. Hit “random” (left-side of the page). The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

Go to “Random quotations” or click here. The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

Go to Flickr and click on “explore the last seven days” or click here. The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

Use Photoshop or similar to put it all together.

I used the new version of Picasa. And here's the result:

NB - This beautiful photo is copyright Ashley Claire.

ps - the game goes on: river and, if he's not feeling particularly antisocial and too serious :p cristy

Unexplained hugs

2009-03-05T15:34:00.006+01:00

I want to walk out in the rain for half an hour and think about nothing and cry if I feel like, or not if I don't... but I don't have the time. I don't have it when I need it and when I have it I don't know what to do with it.

I wish I had someone that I could just go to and ask for a big, warm, long healing hug, without any explanation, without having to worry that if I say what's the reason I would put a burden on and sadden that person too...

I wish it to be true that the blue eyes never lose their childish smile and that I would finally find my sea of peace in them. Then I'd have all the unexplained hugs I'd need and I would smile at the rain with that childish smile that wakes up in me every time...

Snippet

2009-01-28T13:40:00.006+01:00

I learned a very important lesson at squash today: in order to have control of the racket and the ball, you need to relax your grip on the racket and play with it lightly.

I dreamt you lived on another planet

2008-11-21T09:05:00.006+01:00

I dreamt I was waiting for you on my own little planet.
I dreamt you did come to visit, and I would range all my weird colourful dolls around the spaceport, to greet you.
I dreamt I hoped you won't find them silly or scary or too bizarre.
I dreamt I hoped you'd like them more than just like.
I dreamt I hoped and I dreamt I dreamed about you.
I dreamt I realized I was stupid.

I dreamt you were however very nice and you did come to visit and I would range all my weird colourful dolls around the spaceport, to greet you.
I dreamt it was in vain, after all.

I dreamt you lived on another planet.

I wanted to post my current music obsessions, but I couldn't find Calla's Play Dead or Stumble anywhere. So here's my third-ranked obsession: Pulverized.

later edit: I found a way :)

Here's Play Dead
Here's Stumble

All I know is you're moving too slow
Hold me close and don't let me go...
:)

wonderful (as it was then, is now and will be)

2008-11-16T19:52:00.003+01:00

Maybe butterflies are grieving

2008-11-10T22:03:00.004+01:00

[...]
I promised myself: when I reach the top of the glacier I'll cry.
But I didn't. Not then.
Truth is, I wasn't quite at the top.

But today I got there, even if the glacier is now thousands of kilometers away. And for thirty minutes I cried like I did when I was a kid, in my most horrible summer I can remember - funny thing, the problem back then was the same as now.
I just realised I had my second most horrible summer. I don't ever want another one.
It's been slightly better since then, but it seems it won't be as good as before. At least for a while.
And I figured out why... the conclusion is I cannot stay here in these conditions. It will eventually kill me. What to do, what to do?
I know what to do, but it's not easy - I wish it were.
I wish I had someone I could talk to about this. I listed all my family and friends and of those few that I could talk to, they either are pretty depressed themselves or I just don't feel like putting the burden of my current unhappiness on their shoulders. Don't mention third parties such as shrinks or priests, confiding to strangers has never helped.

Loneliness doesn't suit me. If it did before, for some time, well, this is no longer the case.
Action must be taken. Thing is, I am not an action person.
What to do? Go out and... have fun, no matter what you do, as the song said. I wonder.
Life's not that simple. There is no button to push for instant happiness... nor does it come in evenly-portioned packets of ready-to-eat, ready-to-drink, ready-to-feel whatever...

I must ponder on this. And, at the same time, I must stop thinking.
This complex exercise may take a while.
Patience is, therefore, a prerequisite. Which I have been lacking lately.
I hate having to do things alone.
But I need to escape.
Thus we learn new virtues.
And then we go to sleep and dream of battles which, if we win, we have won.
[...]

Sidekicks and stuff

2008-10-20T16:46:00.009+02:00

In the Guardian, Anna Pickard talks about stupid sidekicks in TV series and draws up a list of the best sidekicks ever to make our delight on the silver screen - featuring, at no. 6, one of my favourites, Pinky from Pinky & the Brain. Not that it's my favourite cartoon ever, for that position there is a grim battle, with Bugs Bunny, Pepe Le Pew and Banderas's Puss in Boots barely holding their ground against Slappy Squirrel and her cartoonish squirrel clan, which includes Scrat from Ice Age and Hammy from Over the Hedge).

But back to the sidekick hall of fame on the stupid side - at the top of the top, we have a legendary character from one of my absolutely all-time favourite series: ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Mister... Baldrick! (quick, hide all the turnips!... oops, too late...)

(the picture is © Radio Times/Don Smith. More pictures here. My personal favourite is this - I also like Miranda Richardson a lot. I think it worth mentioning it was at watching those particular episodes that my father surprisedly remarked: "You know, this Mr. Bean guy can look quite handsome. I would've never thought". Heh).

We learn in the same article that it's the 25th anniversary of the Blackadder series and that there is also a blog. Which reminds me I promised myself to get the whole series package and laugh myself silly anytime I feel like it.

If you're interested, Anna Pickard also has a top of sarcastic sidekicks.

From sidekicks and Blackadder I drift to Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie and find out they were both ridden by serious depression. What do you know, two of the funniest British actors... Laurie says P. G. Wodehouse helped him a lot through the bleakness of depressive times.

Which makes me check out my own lifebuoy. Thus I learn (among other things) that Terry Pratchett mentions Mark Twain among his influences. Mental note: I am an incredibly uncultured bumpkin, the only works of his that I read were back when I was a child, namely The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, those of Huckleberry Finn and The Prince and the Pauper. So that's it. I also learn a new word: engram. I like it. It sounds promising. It makes me want to look further into whatever studies were made on memory and its mechanisms. Since I have no time to do that properly, I convince myself to forget about it. Which I do on the spot. I'm really good at forgetting potentially useful stuff, while stupidly clinging onto bad memories like ugly, cheap souvenirs that you don't quite feel like throwing away although the very sight of them makes you sick. I really should learn to get rid of... whatever I need to get rid of. And whenever, wherever... we're meant to be together... bleah. Childish stuff. Carriage return and start with a fresh paragraph.

No connection (or maybe there is on a subliminal level, beats me and I couldn't be bothered to analyse further); I just love it (and the video, very, very much) - today's tune: Disarm.
(I also recommend Bullet with Butterfly Wings).

The perfect treatment

2008-08-27T10:53:00.005+02:00

I have a stack of interesting books to read, but I carefully keep away from them, because they all tend to be rather on the dark side of life... I save them for later, when I have reached balance again, maybe even an overload of glee.

What I need right now is light and laughter.

So I am reading Terry Pratchett's "Making Money", but in a different way than before. I used to gulp his books in one go, because you just can't put them down. This time, however, I have decided to take the gourmet approach, rather than the glutton one - I read it slowly, chapter by chapter - one in the evening, before going to bed, and another one in the morning, while having breakfast before going to work. It is the best treatment ever - smart, funny, full of hope while not shunning the dark bits. It's perfect for chasing away dream-haunting monsters and the potential gloom of another day in the office.

I cannot say how grateful I am for this wonderful writer. I hope God gives him lots of health and good times and inspiration for many, many more books :)

From the first time I read one of his books (I think it was "Reaper Man", on loan from the British Council library, which I am quite missing right now), I felt the urge to share this amazing discovery. And I am quite happy I managed to introduce him with huge success to some of my friends - they became instant fans. You know who you are :) enjoy your Pratchett of the day, my dears.

And today's beautiful tune:

Do we lose our dreams because we grow up or do we grow up because we lose our dreams?

2008-08-24T20:13:00.004+02:00

I may be starting to recover mine, image by image, tiny fragment of magic by tiny flicker of hope...
The process of recovery is so painstaking and slow, yet losing them can happen in just an instant.
That hideous monster called "fear" is still gnawing at my soul, but my dreams and I are holding together again to chase it away - as far away as possible, ideally for good.

She was simple in her brown coat, but fierce - she would suffer no one near. People just gave up, she was considered a lost case. I started talking to her, explaining everything, about the saddle, about the reins... she was keen to find out and quite pleased someone finally took the trouble to shed light over that which she feared - now no more, for she had understood it. She accepted it all and together we rode far and jumped obstacles and the world was ours.

If only life was so simple :)

Quand les pensées ne veulent pas se taire...

2008-08-21T11:05:00.010+02:00

L'amour fait mal, l'amour fait souffrir... on sait déjà, c'est un lieu commun.
Souvent on pense que ce serait mieux sans l'amour, que la vie serait plus belle sans les souffrances qu'il amène. Et on essaie de s'en débarrasser.

Mais quand on perd l'amour, quand il part de l'âme, on est en danger de mort.
Quand on arrive á n'aimer personne, on est déjà mort.
(Non, aimer soi-même n'entre pas dans la définition de l'amour qui fait vivre.)

Que choisissiez-vous? La mort ou la souffrance d'être et de se sentir vivant?

Est-ce qu'il y a une euthanasie de l'âme?

(NB - I chose this "video" for the fact that it also has the English translation of the lyrics next to it. For the lazy :) ).

[Lookie, ma', I'm thinking in French and listening in German, ain't that swell?]

Anyway, we die

2008-08-15T21:43:00.002+02:00

Before I begin to write, I take the notebook out of its drawer.
I look at my hand holding the notebook between the last three fingers, and the pen between the index and the middle finger.

It looks so inspiring.
Like a cigarette.

I don't smoke.

I've seen Sagan.

What is it that we actually have? Life.
And life is meant to be lived and enjoyed and savoured with all the good things it can offer.
Because then we die. And before that, maybe we suffer.
And that, for sure, is nothing to be enjoyed.

When we leave this world, may we be as lucky as to have peace in our souls that we have lived, and no regrets.

That is an ideal to pursue.

2008-08-15T18:05:00.003+02:00

There were times when I dreamt, and there were long and beautiful dreams, in colour, where good generally prevailed and I had no reason to wake up feeling low or depressed or sad or not wanting to get out of bed and face the world.

My soul has been through some turmoil recently, but that should've stopped already. I've fixed the problem. I've performed the necessary exorcism. It's done. Why can't I have my dreams back, please?

Afară plouă cu soare.
Înăuntru e frig și mâinile îmi sunt reci și uscate pe tastatură.
Mă duc să-mi fac un lapte cu ness și să mănânc măsline cu migdale.

Sheep and Chocolate Eggs

2008-08-15T13:47:00.006+02:00

I remember the first chocolate egg... the first "Kinder egg", as we called them - there was "Kinder" written on them, so that must have been their name, right? None of us spoke German anyway.

I still have the "surprise" that came with it: a small, sleek black biker on a red motorbike.

We received a "Kinder egg" each, at Christmas, like oranges and bananas, and we treasured them. Such delicacies were really rare in Romania in Communist times and I must admit we were among the lucky ones. I still don't know how our parents managed to get them, but we lived in a city full of sailors that traveled abroad and there were also the famous "shops" (that's exactly what we called them, because there was "shop" written above the window...). You could buy foreign stuff in these "shops", with foreign currency. They were mostly in hotels, for the use of foreigners and out of reach for us. They smelled of good coffee and chocolate and many other fine things, and maybe that's why, for years, I associated that smell with the good stuff in life...

But let's get back to the "surprise eggs" (alternate name).
I loved the chocolate and I loved the surprises inside the eggs. Both my brother and I collected them. After the Revolution, after the opening, when the shops became flooded with merchandise, and after I grew up and "Kinder eggs" were everywhere, I continued to collect the surprises. My parents still give us (and everybody else) "Kinder eggs" at Christmas... I guess it's become a family tradition. Although at some point I stopped buying/eating & collecting them - maybe because I realised I could not have them all anyway, or maybe because I became disappointed in time with the decreasing inventiveness of the surprises... it was as if the magical hens had lost their imagination. I still have lots of surprises back home and I do buy the occasional egg out of nostalgia.

I haven't bought a "Kinder egg" in a while now. Since the "Shrek 2" series, I think - which, besides the featured series, brought nothing interesting. The attraction seemed too be lost.

Until today, when I saw a pretty little colourful house made of cardboard, with 6 "Kinder eggs" inside and, on the house, drawings of the featured surprise series: sheep. Black sheep and white sheep. Wild sheep and good sheep. Girl sheep and boy sheep.

Sheep.

I don't know what's with me and sheep. Maybe I was a shepherd in a previous life.
Or maybe I was a sheep.
I have taken pictures of Luxembourgish sheep and of Icelandic sheep and of Romanian sheep and I will probably be photographing sheep wherever I go. In my office, I have postcards from Ireland and from Iceland - sheep. One, three, many sheep.

I don't care much about any other such "household" animals (ok, horses are horses and cats are cats, they're by default picturable).

I seem to be a sheep paparazzi. Don't know why. I just like them.

So when I saw the new sheep series, I had to have them. I bought a 6-egg house that guaranteed it sheltered at least 2 sheep. I have already found them: the white "out-of-touch-with-this-world" dreamer and the black "peace man" bongo rastafarian. Rasta sheep, hihi.

I may be going a bit bonkers :) does it matter?
be-he-heee :p

(12.08.2008)

Sushi

2008-08-13T21:59:00.003+02:00

I was in my early twenties when, on a hot November day in L.A., in a Japanese restaurant, a quiet Romanian and a fire-worshiping Assyrian introduced me to sushi.

It mostly felt like eating fat and I hated it. The soy sauce was too salty, the wasabi too hot and the ginger simply unpalatable.

Some years later, on a cold September evening in Helsinki, an incessantly-smiling Mongol taught me to make simple sushi and enjoy it. There was no ginger or soy sauce, but I really appreciated the properties of wasabi. After all, horseradish was a favourite of mine.

A few years after that, I find myself drooling when I see a sushi place or in front of the sushi stall in a supermarket.

I still cannot wield the chopsticks too well, but I am learning. And I think ginger has an exquisite savour.

How and when do we begin to appreciate the things we previously hated? Our reactions and convictions don't stay put with age and we may find ourselves embarrassingly having to admit that... well... maybe telenovelas are not so bad/stupid/silly/absolutely pointless waste of resources and broadcasting time. I am exaggerating a bit, of course.

But what changes? For the object of our previous hatred and current liking stays the same.
The mutation is inside us.

I remember deeply disliking "Lost in Translation" when I first saw it. It was the first movie ever where I wanted to just get up and leave the cinema. I could not understand the movie, the characters, I found it boring and them fake... Years later, I saw it again, pushed by friends who loved it. I still didn't enjoy it, but for a wholly different reason - I found it sad. I had finally understood it. And the characters. And there came the depressing realisation that it was because I had grown up. Or old. And the happy realisation that it was because I had accumulated better experiences in life. The first time, I had seen it with the eyes of a child and the mind of somebody too young (and inexperienced) to understand that, sometimes, a (straight) man can sleep in the same bed with a beautiful woman and not make a move on her... I had the innocence of not knowing there were so many reasons for leaving someone... and the burden of not having met a man like that. What?! They had no sex?! Rubbish! Impossible. He just left, just like that?! He didn't leave everything behind and elope with her and she with him?!

I think I had seen too many Hollywood movies by then. They get to you...
But then I changed.

And, besides having learned all these things growing up, I have also found out that people are not like sushi or movies. If we really dislike someone the first time we meet that person and he/she doesn't change in time, there are very high chances that we will still dislike that someone. Yes, maybe we learn tolerance and patience with time (or age), but feelings won't change from - - to + just like that, in spite of mathematics. At least not for me.

And that is what I had to say for now.
Not much.

(11.08.2008)

My obsession

2008-08-05T08:55:00.001+02:00

Panseu

2008-07-31T14:56:00.005+02:00

Nu mi-e dor de el tot timpul, dar când mi-e dor, mi-e dor rău.

Ce-ar conta (dacă ar avea vreun rost :) ): cantitatea sau calitatea?

My subconscious told me that....

2008-07-27T13:01:00.007+02:00

...I have just won a decisive battle over my inner demon. The fight still continues, of course, it will go on forever, for this irksome denizen of my inner self is part of me and it will always be.

But at least in this particular matter, my dear demon, I will have no more of your poisoned whispers.

----------

On another note and another subject, it's been already 10 months and I'm still not over it. I never thought I would miss her so. Every time I stumble upon a picture of her (and I have so many) it hurts. She was truly like no other, it amazed me how different she was from all the others that I had known (and she still is, from all the others I meet). Sometimes I think she was an angel sent from heaven to teach me how to love.

I think I'll never want another cat.

Mein Herz brennt - or does it anymore?

2008-07-18T20:44:00.010+02:00

I may have a theory on why it happened. I think I finally figured it out. Or at least a version of the absolute truth about what and why.
Perhaps it was not that I couldn't, it was not that there was something (or someone) preventing me from doing it, it was not that it wasn't the time and place... or maybe the latter was true, at least as time is concerned. Time has a lot to do with it.

To cut the yadda-yadda short, I've grown tired of playing the game.
I'm sick of having to put myself on display, to pretend, to say words for the sake of words and to do the right gestures in the right sequence at the right time and all that crap that I have unconsciously come to master very well in the last couple of years and currently despise. We shouldn't need that. We really shouldn't hide behind pretense and masks. I am perhaps nurturing the (very feeble, I admit) hope that someone will still see me among all the glittering butterflies and that this time it will be the right someone. And yet I doubt it would happen. I have started to doubt a lot lately. I doubt myself, I doubt circumstances, I doubt people and their reasons, I feel like I cannot believe in anything anymore. Nothing is certain and this uncertainty is eating away at my balance. I didn't even realise that, I didn't think that this could very well be the reason why I dress like this lately, why I don't enjoy going to clubs anymore, why I avoid having too many people around (and if there are, I have mastered the art of ignoring their presence), maybe that is why I lately tend to shy away from people altogether...

Maybe. I don't know for sure. I don't pretend I can understand myself completely and nor do I require that of others.

I feel sometimes that I have permanently withdrawn somewhere within myself and will probably die there sooner or later, irrespective whether this bodily husk will continue to walk, breathe, eat, sleep...

A long time ago I wrote a poem that, although partly clumsy and childishly constructed, perfectly depicts how I have been feeling for some time. I didn't feel like that at the time, it was an age when I walked with a smile on my face and felt happy most of the time. Perhaps I had a vision of the future. Especially the last six lines, which are my favourite and which were the only ones I could actually remember before rummaging in my computer for the full version (which I am not convinced I should post in its entirety, but wth...).

I am sitting at a table
In a tiny coffeeshop,
And I’m drinking up my coffee,
Asking for another cup.

People passing by the window
Quickly, in the rain that falls,
I am waiting here for you,
Staring blankly at the walls.

Three coffees and a piece of pie
I pay the waitress for.
I still don’t want to leave
And, hopeful, watch the door.

My watch is ticking slowly,
Slicing the time for me.
I hate its hasty pace
Towards eternity.

And outside evening falls,
Streetlights begin to glow…
I walk among the shadows,
Alone and feeling low.

The city’s heart is beating,
Nighlife’s a bullet fired.
Young couples pass me by -
I’m old, alone, and tired.

There was also a chorus (I always wrote my poems as possible songs at that time), but it is of little importance.

By the way, this is what I found myself listening to after my butterflies crumbled into dusty moths. (the song. the video is random).

I had no idea what the Russian words meant.
I should learn Russian. It would fit me. It's the language of melancholy.

And I did find that lake I was looking for.

But I didn't have the time to stop and become a stone on its shores.
Perhaps I shall go back there one day to heal my soul. Or maybe I will just let it dwindle away.

I haven't decided yet and maybe it's not for me to decide.

Cure for depressive moments - machine translations :))

2008-07-18T12:25:00.007+02:00

Excerpts from various google/babelfish translations that made my day:

Halt mich - mein Leben - halt mich! = Stop me - my life - keep me posted!
(yep, my life, please keep me posted :))) )

Aus schlaflos gelebtem Tagtraum erwacht = From sleeplessly lived conference area awakes
(conference area from hell; if it actually were that :p )
(Lacrimosa - Halt mich)

Tuck you in, warm within =
(google) Tuck vous, au sein chaud (hihihi)
(babelfish) Rempliez-vous dedans, chaud en dedans (fill yourselves, you gluttons)
(Metallica - Enter Sandman)

Une parole encore = a floor again
(one word, two word, three word - FLOOR!)
Voilà mon destin te parler, te parler comme la première fois = This is my destiny you speak, you speak like the first time
(eh, when do I get to speak, for a change?)
(Dalida - Parole Parole)

Infiniment féminine = Infinitely female
(poetry is dead, long live science and lust :)) )
Je crie depuis toujours tout mon amour = I shouted historically all my love
(yes, baby, give me more of that wooden talk, oh that's so good...)
Le temps d'un taxi = Time for a bus
(yea, I heard that in some countries there are collective taxis in the form of minibuses... France must be one of them)
Peu m'importe si parfois la nuit nous trahit, enfer ou paradis = Shortly me if the night sometimes we betrays hell or paradise
(one could write modern poetry with this kind of lines. The machine is a poet!)
(Romane Serda & Renaud - Anais Nin)

You should really give it a try if you feel bleak thoughts stalking you. Just introduce your favourite band's lyrics or some piece of poetry or crafty prose and enjoy :)) I vote that google translations is far more fun than babelfish.

N.B. - not all google/bablefish translations are that extraordinary. Some could even be altogether boring (i.e. correct).

I've been to downtown Amsterdam

2008-07-16T11:15:00.006+02:00

I never thought I'd be quite happy to return to Luxembourg.
But there I was, after an exhausting and complicated train trip (due to the Belgian railways): downtown Lux-city, the air pure and smelling of lime-tree blossoms and lavender, the streets quiet and the night calm.

In all my years in dirty, hectic Bucharest I had longed for a green, tranquil town that wasn't necessarily lost somewhere in the countryside... so I really shouldn't have been complaining that I received what I wanted.

Forgive this child :) she's just come to realize she's thankful.
And she's still learning how to be.

(N.B. I hope that the next such realization will come much sooner and in due time, or else we learn nothing from our mistakes. Sadly, life so far has in fact proven that, indeed, we don't.)

But I did... and I still do

2008-07-05T10:07:00.002+02:00

Şi, peste toate, golul

2008-04-07T16:25:00.002+02:00

Ce frumos titlu de roman psiho-depresiv, nu?
N-am mai scris de-o veşnicie. Nici n-am mai citit. Nici nu cred c-o să mai citesc. M-am gândit că pierd vremea aiurea cu creaţiile altora, în loc să-mi văd de ale mele. Poate am să rămân o incultă, dar măcar dac-aş reuşi să dau afară din cap toate gândurile astea care mă bâzâie ca un roi de albine sălbatice. N-au pic de milă. Parcă n-ar fi ale mele.

Uneori mă simt străină de mine însămi. Simt că mă privesc şi mă analizez şi mă judec ca un străin. [...]

Mi-ar plăcea să mă pot programa să iubesc pe cine trebuie. Dar nu pot. Invariabil, fac pasiuni şi obsesii stupide şi mă pierd aiurea în sentimente inutile. Mereu. Şi iar. Şi încă. Şi din nou.
Şi nu ştiu cât o să mai pot… am devenit mai blazată – nu credeam. Am devenit mai cinică – nu credeam. Pe de o parte, asta îmi dă distanţă şi confort; pe de alta - am pierdut. M-am pierdut. Nu-mi mai amintesc dacă am iubit vreodată cu frisoane, cu tremurici, cu picioare tăiate şi inimă nebună. Se prea poate - dar am uitat. Şi mă cam îndoiesc - cu toată sinceritatea omului raţional - că am prea mari şanse să (mai) iubesc vreodată aşa [...]

Nu mai vreau să mă gândesc. Simt nevoia unui loc pustiu, un mal de lac pe care să stau şi să privesc în gol şi să nu gândesc nimic. Să exist doar, ca o piatră. Oare cât ar dura să mă transform în Baba Dochia?

Aoleu

2007-07-31T20:59:00.000+02:00

Sunt semne că îmbătrânesc.
Nu e vorba de dorinţa acută de a mă pensiona, pe asta o am chiar din primul sau al doilea an petrecut în câmpul muncii.

În ultima vreme visele mele cu ochii deschişi au început să cuprindă un procent din ce în ce mai îngrijorător de fantezii privind o bătrâneţe liniştită. Mă văd într-o casă cu grădină, încă activă, încă zâmbitoare şi cu toată afurisenia intactă. Desigur, probabil din această cauză, tot singură (ha ha ha). Nu mă deranjează că am riduri, atâta timp cât sunt sănătoasă, mai am destul păr în cap şi muşchii în formă. Şi 14 pisici, vorba lu' frate-meo, vizionarul de el.
Singură şi senină. Fericită, scăpată de rutina muncii la birou, fără nimeni care să ma bată la cap şi căruia să îi subordonez toate chefurile sau lipsurile mele de chef. Pot să fac ce vreau şi asta fac.
Prototipul pensionarului american din filme şi reclame.

Cred c-am început să obosesc. Pe mai multe planuri.
(27.07.2007)

[ Oricum am înţeles că-n circa 4-5 ani de zile avem mari şanse să ne ia gaia pe toţi. Explozii solare, alea-alea. ]

Panseu de ordin lingvistic

2007-07-29T20:47:00.000+02:00

Pierzându-te prea mult într-o limbă străină, ajungi să uiţi sonoritatea şi frumuseţea propriei limbi. Ceea ce e trist, căci aceasta din urmă este unicul idiom pe care-l ai sădit în tine de la bun început, cu bogăţii lingvistice şi permisivităţi de licenţă literară pe care cu greu le cucereşti în alte limbi - şi chiar şi atunci cu teama de a nu fi nicicând acceptat ca izvoditor de noi forme de exprimare şi valenţe de către limba adoptivă (ca un cal nărăvaş ce nu se lasă încălecat de orice nou-venit).

Se pune, desigur, problema copiilor bi- sau pluri-lingvi. Fără a studia chestiunea în amănunt şi doar pe baza unui raţionament simplu şi intuitiv, aş considera ca prima limbă, limba de bază şi definitorie, acea limbă pe care copilul a folosit-o cel mai intens şi cel mai des în anii formării sale. Mai apoi, însă, translatat într-un spaţiu cu o altă limbă de bază, ce se va întâmpla oare cu acel copil? Desigur că va uita limba primară şi se va dezvolta apoi în limba adoptivă.

O concluzie ar fi, aşadar, că limba folosită cel mai mult şi mai intens pe parcursul vieţii unui om (tinereţii, aş preciza eu) este aceea de care vorbim şi, deşi greu şi nu fără aventuri, limba "maternă" a unui om îşi poate pierde statutul de sămânţă definitorie a actului de exprimare al acestuia. Este însă o dovadă de snobism şi, oarecum, de negare a propriei esenţe, să pretinzi acest lucru când nu este adevărat sau necesar. Văd asta în jur, la foarte mulţi tineri, inclusiv la generaţia mea. Şi îmi recunosc mie însămi acest păcat (uneori ivit mai mult din dorinţa de a lărgi aria comunicarii) .

Recunoaşterea este primul pas spre absolvire.
(22.07.2007)

One wish come true :p

2007-02-06T12:47:00.000+01:00

Acum ceva timp (nu de mult) ziceam că ar fi foarte interesant dacă nişte oameni talentaţi şi inspiraţi s-ar gândi să facă benzi desenate cu scriitori români. Ei bine, am aflat ieri că există un asemenea proiect, aflat în lucru de nişte luni bune.

Excelent.

Extrasul dat la sfârşitul articolului nu mi se pare grozav, dar salut din toată inima iniţiativa şi sper ca băieţii să nu ducă lipsă de inspiraţie.

Abia aştept să apară pe piaţă.

ps - Website or fi având?

Luna asta mergem la muzeu

2007-02-02T14:39:00.000+01:00

Tantza_1940 has joined the conference.

Clipul se difuza deja prin troleele din Bucureşti de ceva vreme când au auzit şi internauţii de el. Poate ei nu merg aşa des cu troleele respective? Un sondaj social ne-ar lămuri, dar n-are rost.

Apoi, s-au trezit şi gazetarii. E bine că se scrie în presă despre aceste campanii, de altfel foarte reuşite. Întrebarea este de ce durează atâta până să se scrie... desigur, interese, priorităţi etc-uri. Problema e că am senzaţia de "old news". Tristă senzaţie - ca pagini îngălbenite de vreme şi praf mirosind a vechi.

În orice caz: îmi place la nebunie. N-am scris până acum despre clipul ăsta pe blog pentru că blogul l-am început mult după ce apăruse clipul, drept care, conform dictonului "old news is no news", m-am abţinut. Până acum, stârnită de articolul pomenit. Clipul e genial, iar ţărăncile (arhetipuri de bunici şi mătuşi rurale), sunt ca un suflu de aer proaspăt de la ţară pentru orăşenii mult prea poluaţi.

Cred c-am să mă duc la Muzeul Ţăranului Român în curând.
Ne vedem acolo?

Alte activităţi "cultural-educative" pe care n-aş vrea să le ratez sunt Expoziţia Luchino Visconti 100 de ani (la Muzeul Municipiului Bucureşti; ţine până pe 25 februarie) şi Amintiri din Epoca de Aur (la Muzeul Naţional de Istorie, până pe 26 februarie; biletul costă 3 lei).

Şi mai vedem.

Vândut!

2007-01-26T14:19:00.000+01:00

Aflăm de prin presă că Hanul lui Manuc a fost vândut. Sau, după o citire atentă, este foarte posibil să fie vândut de familia Cantacuzino, care l-a recâştigat recent. Noul proprietar (potenţial): City Grill - numele nu promite lucruri bune pentru vechiul stabiliment, dar să ne uităm ce-au făcut la Carul cu Bere. În concluzie, este posibil să se păstreze specificul locaţiei, dar preţurile vor creşte că doar, deh, e-n buricul târgului, investiţiile or să fie şi ele destul de mari şi aşa mai departe.

Nu ştiu ce să zic - o fi bine? o fi rău?
Alegere: optimism.

Pe de altă parte, aflăm tot de prin presă că oferta controversată de vânzare a Castelului Bran către Consiliul Judeţean Braşov nu mai este valabilă, castelul fiind cumpărat de "o firmă din America". Nu ştiu ce să zic, fiţuica asta nu-mi inspiră încredere, am tendinţa să tratez treaba ca zvon, dar... dacă? Mi-e că vom asista la o Draculizare greţoasă a Castelului Bran, eventual va fi transformat în hotel de lux pentru americanii bogaţi şi amatori de senzaţii tari, pentru că - nu-i aşa? - li se va pregăti şi un program "cultural-distractiv" cu vampiri seducători care vin la miez de noapte şi se fac că muşcă din gâtul grăsuţ al oaspetelui care chicoteşte înfiorat de plăcere... nu vreau să mă gândesc mai departe.

Alegere: pesimism.

Sfârşitul ne va fi fierbinte

2007-01-17T15:22:00.000+01:00

Întâlnim din ce în ce mai des în presă articole (unele preluând informaţii din cea străină) care ne avertizează că sfârşitul lumii e aproape. Recent:

Adevărul ne povesteşte despre efectele acestor temperaturi ridicate asupra faunei piscicole din ţara noastră - aflăm că până şi guvizii s-au hotărât să emigreze. În Germania. Ştiam deja că urşii nu mai hibernează şi răscolesc înfometaţi gunoaiele de la marginea oraşelor. Că păsărilor migratoare li s-au dereglat itinerariile: dând de climă caldă pe la jumătatea traseului, au considerat că nu mai are rost să parcurgă de-aiurea şi restul de drum şi s-au oprit acolo. Evident, vor da iama în flora şi fauna locală, neobişnuite cu atari vizitatori pe termen lung.

Şi, la urma-urmei, şi eu simt un fel de nelinişte în oase.

Cotidianul ne previne că 2007 este anul cel mai fierbinte de până acum. Dereglările meteorologice înseamnă indundaţii, furtuni, secetă (foamete) şi probabil că şi alte bucurii (dacă e să ne gandim la articolul de mai sus).

Aşadar, mi-e din ce în ce mai clar: sfârşitul ne va fi fierbinte. Posibil şi pustiu.

Sau, cum ziceam eu altă dată: Our end will be the Hot Age. Nothing cool about that, unfortunately.

Corecţi până... unde?

2007-01-15T14:52:00.000+01:00

Aflăm din România Liberă că ne paşte corectitudinea politică. Franţa are deja mari probleme, iar cazul expus, deşi hilar, îmi dă fiori:

In ultimii 15 ani, clientii nostri parca au innebunit: ne cer sa scoatem toate injuriile si toate referirile la orice minoritate sexuala, religioasa, orice referire la droguri, alcool, tigari sau la marci", s-au plans traducatorii, spunand cum, de exemplu, in loc de Mercedes sunt nevoiti sa spuna "masina sport nemteasca".

E ridicol. O să ajungem la un limbaj de lemn greu de suportat, actele de cultură vor suferi din cauza asta, nu-mi place ideea. Absolut deloc. Până acum ceva timp râdeam de americani c-au luat-o razna cu limbajul "corect politic". Văd însă că spectrul corectitudinii s-a întins bine-mersi şi mi-e că va ajunge şi la noi.

Asta şi Articolul 13 din noua lege a cultelor care, dacă ar fi aplicat strict, ne-ar priva de opere de referinţă ale culturii universale. Avem aici un articol un pic mai vechiuţ, în care diverşi oameni de cultură din România îşi expun părerea vizavi de ce opere de acest gen ar scoate în afara legii Articolul respectiv.

Drăguţă perspectivă.
Acu', nu-s o susţinătoare a drobului de sare, dar nu mă pot împiedica să nu mă gândesc ce putere oferă aceasta lege unui (de exemplu) magistrat cu tendinţe totalitare. Îl poţi obliga să nu aplice litera legii aşa cum a fost ea scrisă? Păi cum, n-ar fi abuz de putere, de funcţie, de influenţă, de ce vreţi voi? Nu am împiedica un om să-şi facă datoria? Vai-vai-vai...

Nu degeaba spunea Goya: somnul raţiunii naşte monştri.

Sper să nu adormim de tot.

La răsărit de luceafăr

2007-01-15T13:00:00.000+01:00

Acum 157 de ani (1850), se năştea Mihail Eminovici, cel care avea să îşi ia numele de Eminescu şi să intre, vrând-nevrând, în panteonul literaturii româneşti.

Suficientă introducere, orice român ar trebui să ştie cine a fost Eminescu şi măcar câteva versuri sau poezii, acolo...

În această zi aniversară au loc o grămadă de activitaţi cultural-evocative, se comemorează, se povesteşte, se analizează şi se scriu articole. Un cotidian naţional s-a gândit să publice câteva dintre versificaţiile "obscene" ale marelui nostru romantic, suscitând tot felul de reacţii, de la indignări născute din pudibonderie sau considerente "mitologice" (spurcarea imaginii unui mare simbol al literaturii române etc), la entuziasm în faţa revelaţiei că Luceafărul era şi el om, ba chiar dezamăgire că nu a produs nişte versuri obscene mai frumos sunătoare din coadă şi din măsură.

În articol se menţionează că aceste poezii (scrise sau doar culese de Eminescu - nu se poate şti cu siguranţă) au apărut în volumul al XV-lea din Operele lui Mihai Eminescu publicate de Academia Română şi că au făcut obiectul (şi subiectul) unei lecturi-dezbatere în Club A, anul trecut. Nu constituie, aşadar, o noutate pentru specialişti şi o mică parte a publicului amator de cultură mai mult sau mai puţin subterană. Însă pentru majoritatea românilor, e o revelaţie. Plăcută sau ne, în funcţie de gradul de flexibilitate mentală al fiecăruia.

Celor care l-au pus pe Eminescu pe piedestal şi refuză să-l dea jos în virtutea marii iubiri şi admiraţii ce i-o poartă, nu le spun decât atât: e frig şi singurătate acolo sus. Este o falsă adoraţie - de fapt îl ţineţi prizonier etern al orgoliului vostru. Nu-l putem iubi cu adevărat pe Eminescu decât dacă încercăm să-i cunoaştem cât mai multe faţete, să îl înţelegem, să acceptăm faptul că avea o personalitate complexă.

Nu-l stimez mai puţin pe poetul romantic pentru că nu stătea tot timpul cu ochii-n stele, aşa cum se cuvine unui romantic care se respectă, ci participa activ şi pasionat la viaţa jurnalistico-politică a vremii; sau pentru că la întâlnirile cu băieţii de la Junimea vorbea despre femei sau mai zicea o porcoşenie în versuri. Poezioarele naiv construite, cu p... , f.. şi alte cuvinte asemenea, nu ştirbesc cu nimic strălucirea şi geniul real al celorlalte creaţii ale sale, fie ele în versuri sau în proză.

Dacă oamenii ar fi fost unidimensionali, lumea asta ar fi fost tare gri.

În încheiere, câteva caricaturi sau desene tematice care mi-au plăcut, din toate cele cuprinse în galeria de pe www.caricatura.ro (site care a demarat un proiect cultural la care au fost invitate diverse talente din grafica satirică naţională şi din alte colţuri ale lumii).

Legendă:
1. Fabio G. da Silva (Brazilia)
2. Fil Foutisse (Franţa) - favorita mea.
3. Sandra Khoo (Malaezia) - zici că-i personaj de bandă desenată. Îmi place ideea; chiar, cum ar fi o bandă desenată cu Eminescu, Creangă, Caragiale şi alţii asemenea lor? ;)
4. Rene Bousquet (Franţa) - îmi place freza, foarte frumoasă grafica.

My own private religion

2007-01-14T21:29:00.000+01:00

Aflăm de prin ziare cum că biserica scientologică (creată de scriitorul de science-fiction L. Ron Hubbard) susţine că am fi bântuiţi de extratereştri. Una dintre doctrinele de vârf ale scientologilor ar fi credinţa că acum ţâşpe milioane de ani (75, mai precis), un extraterestru pe nume Xenu sau Xemu a adus pe dragul nostru Pământ o grămadă de extratereştri pe care i-a exterminat şi, de atunci, sufletele lor au rămas aici şi ne tot bântuie. Se pare că această doctrină este accesibilă numai iniţiaţilor celor mai iniţiaţi, aşadar ne întrebăm cum o fi "transpirat" în afară...

În fine, indiferent cât de departe o fi mers L. Ron Hubbard cu religia pe care a creat-o pe baza imaginaţiei sale debordante (şi poate suntem extratereştri reîncarnaţi, la asta s-o fi gândit?), ideea e interesantă.

Ce-ar fi fost dacă J.R.R. Tolkien, în loc să fie retras şi foarte nesociabil, ar fi avut un ego cât distanţa de la Pământ la Lună şi nevoia de a-i potoli foamea cu ceva mai substanţial decât inventarea unei întregi mitologii complicate? Până în ziua de azi ar fi reuşit poate să ne convingă că, acum ţâşpe milioane de ani, Pământul era de fapt Middle-Earth şi că, la urma-urmei, este destul de evident că majoritatea suntem descendenţii acelor oameni, iar o mică parte - urmaşi ai elfilor şi piticilor. Şi că Sauron s-a reîntors de câteva ori până acum, de fiecare dată cu urmări devastatoare şi mai mult ca sigur că încălzirea globală din ce în ce mai accentuată în ultimul timp nu înseamnă altceva decât că activitatea Muntelui de Foc se înteţeşte, aşadar trebuie să ne aşteptăm la o nouă bătălie pentru Pământul de Mijloc... ăăă, adică Pământul nostru.

Şi ce-ar fi dacă, într-o bună zi cu soare şi două-trei picături de ploaie caldă de vară, Terry Pratchett şi Neil Gaiman se vor întâlni la o cafea şi vor hotărî să pună bazele unei religii comune? Vom ajunge să-i adorăm pe vrăjitorii de la Universitatea Nevăzută de pe Lumea Disc pentru că, nu-i aşa? ei au creat ciudăţenia asta de planetă rotundă. Ne vom uita cu teamă în toate ungherele, vom fi foarte atenţi când călătorim cu metroul sau trecem peste anumite poduri şi vom învăţa tehnici de autoapărare împotriva monştrilor şi a altor fiinţe supranaturale; vom fi circumspecţi vizavi de necunoscuţii care intră în vorbă cu noi, ca nu cumva printre ei să se fi strecurat vreo divinitate deghizată şi cu temperament coleric; basmele şi legendele ar fi literă de lege şi magia obiect de studiu la toate universităţile de prestigiu; ţestoasele ar deveni sacre şi cîntecul "Supa de broască ţestoasă" ar fi expurgat din "Alice în Ţara Minunilor".

Eu cred că sunt doar nişte copii mari care îşi construiesc o lume a lor şi se joacă acolo. Dar se pare că nu le mai ajunge lumea lor, de-au năvălit şi peste-a noastră.

Temă pentru acasă - parafrazaţi, vă rog:

Împăraţi pe care lumea nu putea să-i mai încapă,
Au venit şi-n ţara noastră de-au cerut pământ şi apă.

Unhappily watching

2007-01-12T20:00:00.000+01:00

Iar am nimerit, tot din amarnică greşeală, o minunăţie teve: serialul american Unhappily Ever After. Cred că am rezistat preţ de vreun sfert de oră, chiar dacă numai pentru a-mi cimenta opinia formată chiar din primele 2-3 minute: copie evidentă, crasă, proastă şi stupidă a "Familiei Bundy" (Married With Children). Un el şi o ea trecuţi de prima tinereţe, nefericit căsătoriţi, cu 3 plozi (ah, o diferenţă; mă scuzaţi); el - copie fidelă (dar proastă) în toate, a lui Al Bundy: de la atitudine, mers, comportament, vorbit, chiar şi voce, până la genul de meserie - vânzător de maşini la mâna a doua (probabil pe locul doi în topul celor mai nasoale slujbe din SUA; îmi imaginez că o completare perfectă ar fi adăugarea pe locul trei a meseriei de comis-voiajor de diverse chestii inutile); ea - habar n-am şi n-am avut curiozitatea să aflu; copiii - o Kelly deşteaptă, un Bud prostănac şi-un alt frate, mai mic decât ei.

Parcă mă uitam la o parodie ratată.
Parodie nu era.
Ratată da.

Ce-o fi fost în capul ăluia de-a aprobat serialul ăsta? cum de i s-au alocat fonduri? cum de n-a disparut în neantul coşului de gunoi pentru producţii tv jenante? şi cum de-a rezistat 4 (!) ani de zile?!

Mister.

Verdict: crimă.

ps - punctajul de pe imdb pun pariu că e o făcătură. Dacă e să judecăm după numărul de voturi, cred că au votat absolut toate rudele şi prietenii apropiaţi ai celor implicaţi în jaful ăsta de serial.

din coadă frumos sunătoare

2007-01-12T19:33:00.000+01:00

Călătoria cu metroul sau cu orice mijloc de transport în comun e motiv de profunde introspecţii, întrucât încerci să ignori, cât mai bine posibil, că te afli mult prea aproape de aproapele tău, concetăţean au ba, spălăţel sau murdărel, tăcut sau vorbăreţ, cuminte sau libidinos (caz în care e totuşi recomandat să nu te dedai introspecţiilor, ci să evadezi către alte părţi ale cutiei de sardele).

Azi, în metrou, ca de obicei, mă plictiseam. Aşadar preţ de vreo două staţii şi-o staţionare, am brodat un fragment de poezea care a debutat poporal-miştocăresc şi s-a încheiat suprinzător. Ceea ce dovedeşte pregnant că până şi treburile imateriale au viaţă proprie şi, suspectez, chiar ceva personalitate. Atât de ocupată eram cu pritocirea minunii respective, încât era să uit să şi cobor la staţia la care trebuia.

Dar destulă vorbăraie. Iat-o:

Foaie verde foi de dud,
Astăzi iar ne plouă ud.
Pleacă, ploaie, pe câmpii;
Lasă-mi lacrimile vii.

Să le simt, să le sărut,
Să cadă unde-au căzut
Ciobul ars din ochiul meu,
Firul alb şi trupul greu.

Sibiul - mare atracţie turistică sau fâs european?

2007-01-12T11:45:00.000+01:00

Din două articole diferite (1 şi 2), scrise de doi oameni diferiţi, de la acelaşi ziar şi, mai mult, in aceeaşi ediţie, aflăm, pe de o parte, că:

"Sibiul ocupă poziţia a noua într-un top intitulat „50 de locaţii turistice fabuloase ale lumii“ (permiteţi-mi să mă tăvălesc pe jos de râs) "alcătuit de cotidianul britanic „The Guardian“. Potrivit publicaţiei, Sibiul este una dintre cele mai atrăgătoare destinaţii mondiale pentru acest an [...]." (o să mă umplu de praf, zău. cred c-ar trebui să aspir mai des covorul). "La capitolul atracţii, notate de jurnaliştii londonezi, se numără frumuseţile centrului istoric, din care nu lipsesc melanjul de arhitectură, fortificaţiile Sibiului," (aici tre' să fiu de acord, e frumos, interesant) "precum şi bogata viaţă culturală şi de cafenea din oraş." (rugăm vreun localnic să ne lumineze în această privinţă, eu am oareşce dubii, dar nu pot spune că sunt fondate pe fapte, ci mai degrabă intuitive) "[...]Revista din Hexagon apreciaza că oraşul fascinează prin pluralismul cultural, (da?) "amestecul de tradiţii surprinzătoare şi diferite totodată, (...) "notînd că statul român a investit 21 de milioane de euro pentru restaurarea centrului istoric, zece pentru manifestari culturale şi alte 60 pentru modernizarea aeroportului." (purcoi de bani; sper că fonduri europene, nu locale sau naţionale; măcar o fi meritat?).

Îmi place Oraşul Vechi şi vă recomand să-l vizitaţi, dar de aici şi până la a fi o "locaţie turistică fabuloasă a lumii" e cale lungă.

Pe de altă parte:

„The Guardian tratează cu totală lipsă de entuziasm acest aspect. [...] (păi cum, nu era vorba că ne-a lăudat în sus şi-n jos capitala culturală europeană, că e pe locul 9 în topul ăla fabulos?!) "... Sibiu, o colonie germană din Transilvania, România, cu case colorate în pastel, străzi înguste şi recent renovatul Muzeu al Trofeelor de Vînătoare“, scrie ziarista Emilly Strokes. Din punctul său de vedere, cele cinci lucruri pe care un european trebuie să le ştie despre Sibiu sînt: în 1989, Securitatea a recrutat aici 830 de informatori, dintre care 170 erau copii" (evident, senzaţionalul vinde); "în anii ’80, Sibiu a fost casa lui Nicu Ceauşescu, unde locuia alături de servitorii, sclavii sexuali şi bodyguarzii săi" (idem, plus sexul şi privirile aruncate în budoar; poate ar trebui să facem o casă memorială "Nicu Ceauşescu" pentru onor turiştii englezi şi nu numai, cu proiecţii de imagini şi filmuleţe evocative...); "anul acesta va fi redeschisă pivniţa Muzeului Farmaciei, unde în anii ’80 a avut loc un performance al artistului Alexandru Antik, „Visul n-a murit“, în cadrul căruia acesta recita un text în fata unor intestine de animale, eveniment întrerupt violent de intervenţia poliţiei" (adicăcum au deschis-o din nou? ca spaţiu cultural underground, avangardist, sau doar i-au deschis porţile să se mai aerisească puţin?); "Castelul Bran, cunoscut sub numele de Castelul lui Dracula, este în apropiere de Sibiu. Domnitorul Vlad Ţepes (Dracula) a tras în ţeapă 10.000 de locuitori ai Sibiului (iar Dracula, îmi vine să trag pe cineva în ţeapă, zău. Dar nu mă pot hotărî între occidentalii obsedaţi de personajul ăsta (plus că s-ar putea să le facă mare plăcere, cine ştie...) şi specialiştii ce lucrează la imaginea României (care specialişti?!) şi nu au reuşit să impună un alt brand turistic naţional care să-l detroneze pe nenea vampirul fictiv suprapus peste imaginea lui Vlad Ţepeş); "circulă o superstiţie conform căreia Podul Mincinoşilor din Sibiu se va prăbuşi dacă cineva minte pe el." (stai să vezi cum or da năvală la Sibiu toţi obsedaţii de adevăr şi nefericitele lor perechi; o să se prăbuşeasca precis podul ăla. De greutatea lor.)

Acum, să fie clar: din ce zice jurnalista de la The Guardian reiese exact ce mi-a zis mie un japonez odată: ca să atragi turiştii îţi trebuie o poveste deosebită, ceva ieşit din comun, care nu se mai întâlneşte în altă parte. Povestea vinde. Degeaba ai ruinele cetăţii şi casele medievale dacă nu le pui la dispoziţie vizitatorilor tururi cu ghid (nu la preţuri nesimţite, vă rog, ne lăudăm că avem economie de piaţă dar ignorăm cele mai elementare noţiuni ale acesteia), în cursul cărora să li se povestească şi istoria locului, dar şi diverse întâmplări deosebite care au avut loc în zonă, ciudăţenii şi anecdote. Nu cunoaştem nici una? cercetăm, săpăm, vorbim cu arhivarii, cu istoricii, cu bătrânii locului... trebuie să existe. Dar nu inventăm. La gunoi cu Dracula.

Adaugă alt ziarist britanic (am aflat că era altul pentru că am căutat pe site-ul trustului The Guardian Unlimited, articolul din ziarul român fiind ambiguu şi putând da impresia că tot dna. Stokes emisese această opinie): "Pentru mulţi dintre noi, intrarea în noul an cu un concert East 17 şi Smokie ar fi considerată o tortură."
Şi pentru mulţi dintre noi, dear. Din păcate, nu noi, cei mulţi, hotărâm.

Precizări: o căutare rapidă pe site-ul The Guardian a revelat următoarele: 1) articolele respective au apărut de fapt in The Observer, ziar care face într-adevăr parte din aceeaşi "familie" editorială ca The Guardian dar, fapt demn de reţinut, nu este The Guardian.
2) articolul lui Daniel McLaughlin nu se reduce la două rânduri despre East17, Smokie şi tortură, ci povesteşte despre istoria oraşului, inclusiv despre Nicu Ceauşescu şi revoluţia din 1989, renovarea superbului centru vechi şi compararea realităţii cu scenariile apocaliptice vehiculate în ultima vreme de media occidentală vizavi de exodul românilor către ţinuturile vestice pline de câini cu covrigi în coadă.
3) Nu văd unde este lipsa de entuziasm invocată în articolul nr.2 al ziarului românesc, nici la Daniel McLaughlin, nici la Emily Stokes. Ambii tratează subiectul detaşat şi povestesc diverse ciudăţenii ale locului, pe scurt: îi fac reclamă.
4) Topul "The Fabulous 50 for 2007" are mai multe secţiuni, dintre care una se numeşte "New Horizons" şi aici regăsim Sibiul nostru, după Oceanul Indian, Sarajevo şi râul Yangtze şi înainte de Yemen şi Algeria. Mai mult, "topul" nu este numerotat, aşadar nu ştiu dacă îl putem considera top.

Cu alte cuvinte, mai mult studiu, domnilor ziarişti. Nu ne mai băgaţi în ceaţă aiurea.

La muncă!

Cât de proşti suntem (consideraţi)?!

2007-01-10T11:08:00.000+01:00

Celularul. (dacă nu te uiţi bine, crezi că-i filmul cu acelaşi nume; evident, d-aia nu i-au zis "mobilul").
Film serial pentru tineret. (nu zău? detalii mai jos)
Recomandat acordul părinţilor (părinţi, nu le daţi voie să se uite!)
Distribuţia: (mai bine nu le dau numele, e de toată jena)

Descriere-reclamă şi analiză:

"Celularul" e un serial de ficţiune, dedicat unui public tânăr.
Mai precis, unui public cu vârsta de 2-3 anişori, cel mult, care se amuză când vede oamenii mari prostindu-se aiurea şi nu dă doi bani pe veridicitatea interpretării (sau lipsa crasă a acesteia). Şi nici nu se prinde că e de fapt un filmuleţ de reclamă (proastă) de 15 minute (mamă, ce de bani). Mă întreb dacă are audienţă (în afară de cei 2-3 rătăciţi ca mine care a doua oară oricum nu mai calcă p-acolo).

În fiecare episod, telespectatorii vor afla mai multe despre prietenia, sentimentele şi conflictele dintre 6 tineri, ascultându-le conversaţiile telefonice.
Foarte interesant. Om fi noi popor de voyeurişti (că doar d-aia ne plac aşa mult telenovelele, nu?), dar ce ni se dezvăluie nouă în acest mirific serial e absolut banal şi neinteresant. Chiar şi pentru un pasionat de telenovelisme. Nu e vorba de pană de imaginaţie, de fapt nici o pană, de nici un fel, scenariştii ăia n-ar trebui să aibă voie să aştearnă cuvinte pe hârtie sau pe ecran, chiar cred că se cere o lege în sensul ăsta, cu pedepse între 2 şi n ani de muncă silnică în sala de lectură.

Grupul este format din 4 fete şi 2 băieţi, fiecare având o personalitate aparte [blablabla]
Deosebit. N-am mai inşirat aici "personalităţile" respective, că pot să vă zic în două vorbe: personaje-tip. Nimic incitant.

Ar mai merita să pomenim calitatea interpretării "actorilor" (execrabilă, până şi un copil de şcoală generală ar juca mai bine), dinamismul scenelor şi al dialogului (extraordinar, dar lipseşte cu desăvârşire), scenariul captivant (parcă am zis deja cât de captivant. Dac-ar ieşi la pescuit n-ar prinde nici măcar o fâţă).

Mi-ar fi jenă să-mi apară numele pe un asemenea produs, ca actor, scenarist sau regizor.
De fapt, care actor/scenarist/regizor?! nu se poate vorbi despre aşa ceva în cazul ăsta. Dar nici ca amator sau băgător de seamă nu m-aş dori în schemă, nici în visele mele rele, nici măcar ca tanti Leana, femeia de serviciu care face curat după ce măreaţa echipă a terminat filmările.

Nivel de greaţă: vărsături serioase, se recomandă odihnă susţinută si consum de sitcomuri reale şi de calitate. Nu româneşti (precizare frizând pleonasmul, deocamdată; din păcate).

ps - ca idee de marketing, interesantă, cu potenţial. Dar această punere în practică mi-e că ar putea avea efecte adverse asupra companiei-sponsor. Chiar dacă numai din punctul de vedere al cheltuirii total aiurea a unui buget, cred eu, deloc de neglijat (strict de marketing vorbim, da? nu de cine trebuia să execute contracte şi să ia bani pe tema asta). Dar, dat fiind că trăim în România, e foarte posibil să aibă mare succes. Trist.

"Prostirea fraierilor" sau "marketing eficient"

2007-01-09T21:27:00.000+01:00

Dragă Mamă şi Tată,

Aflaţi despre mine cum că sunt bine-sănătoasă, ceea ce vă doresc şi voo.

P-aci pe la oraş se poartă magazine mari cât tarlaua cu porumb a lu unchiu Vasile, pline ochi cu tot soiu de trebi de n-a văzut neam de neamu nostru până acu, ba au si nişte chestii la care le zice "oferte" şi "superoferte", stai să vezi.

Ofertele sunt trebile alea care-n revistuţa aia lucioasă de-i zice catalog arată de zici că ţi-a pus Dumnezeu mâna-n cap de poţi cumpăra lucruri aşa frumoase la preţ aşa bun. Te duci la magazin, chitit să cumperi lenjeria aia de pat arătoasă şi ieftină, că-i păcat să laşi să treacă ocazia. Dai în cele din urmă peste ea, după ce întrebi în stânga şi-n dreapta la fătucele alea care-s puse acolo să aibă grijă de rafturi şi purcezi să te uiţi cu atenţie la lenjerie, că dacă o fi având ceva descusut sau lipsă? Aşa cum m-ai învăţat mata, Mamă. Şi desfaci punga aia cu fermoar în care e şi pui mâna pe ea. Şi te scarpini în cap şi te uiţi la etichetă. De două ori. Da, ăsta e. Te uiţi la toate celelalte pungi de pe raft, imprimeuri, la material - nici unul nu seamănă cu ăla din catalog (şi din poza de pe pungă). Da' nu-s nici măcar asemănătoare sau p-aproape. Toate-s urâte rău. Da' ştii cum? Ca Nataşa alu nea Gheo din deal, de n-o lăsa ta-su să iasă afară ziua că-i speria orătăniile şi începeau cânii să urle a morţiu...

Şi să vezi, dragă mamă, cum scurmă lumea prin ţarcurile celea de "oferte" pline de ţoale la fel de urâte, de şosete în culori turbate şi papuci prost lipiţi...mai ceva ca râmătorii noştri. Că mi-am amintit: ce mai face Ghiţă? Sper că i-aţi zis c-am plecat la oraş, să nu mai sprijine degeaba gardu ăla, că mai are puţin şi cade naibii grămadă cu el şi zău că-i mare păcat să se prăpădească aşa gard bun.

Aşa.
Astea erea ofertele. Iar superofertele-s şi mai şi.

Şi mai e o treabă la care îi zice card, pe care strângi puncte (adică ţi le bagă pe card când dai bani, când plăteşti la casă ce-ai loat, na, da' nu le vezi, numa cardu şi nişte aparate de citit ştie de ele) şi cu punctele alea poţi să te duci să-ţi iei fără bani diverse chestii dintr-o vitrină mare, da' nuş cum naiba că n-am reuşit să iau până acu tigaia aia mare pe care pusesem ochii, de voiam să ţi-o trimit matale, Mamă, s-ai în ce face jumări la toată şleahta; apăi n-am putut, că crecă n-am ţinut io bine minte câte puncte trebuiau, mi s-o părut la început (când am loat cardu, na), că ereau 500, da' dup-aia când am făcut 500 şi m-am dus s-o iau, erea 1000, d-aia zic io că n-am văzut bine prima dată, m-oi fi uitat ca proasta la şervetu de lângă, ăla o fi fost 500... acu mai am puţin şi fac 1000, mă duc negreşit s-o iau, numa mi-i un pic teamă că nici a doa oară n-am vazut bine, crecă-mi trebe ochelari, na acu alta belea!

Vă pup cu mult drag,
a voastră fică iubitoare
(nu mă semnez, că mi-a zis mie Tanţa alu Văsâi că-i la modă s-o dau "anonimă", adică să nu mă semnez).
Şi să-i ziceţi lu ăla micu că-i trimit vinerea viitoare cu personalu de 4 un pistol de cela cu apă şi-o minge nouă să-ntrebaţi la mecanic.
Apăi multă sănătate şi să ne vedem cu bine când oi veni de Paşte.
Leanca.

2 vorbe

2007-01-09T19:24:00.000+01:00

Răbdare. Cugetăm, schimbăm, vom şi scrie.
Între timp, însă, simt nevoia să trag nişte şuturi zdravene inspiraţiei, care, ca de obicei, e lipsă la apel.

Ruşinică.