Indubitabil, Nu Conteaza.

I used to admire strong women - “a woman like a man“, as Damien Rice puts it in one of his songs… Not anymore, I don’t. They all seem fake and plastic on the outside. And on the inside, they look just like cardboard paper boxes: overused and on the go to be recycled.

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I have a vision of me which I tame will not be accomplished. Don’t know, I get this weird intense feeling that circles stretch around my waist, my heart, my neck… It’s like a kabuki nightmare you want to put an end to but can’t drop the curtain. I isolate myself in times like these. I too become a cardboard paper woman. Only my recycling brings me to a better world… Well, I got newsflash for you: this better world hasn’t happened in ages!
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A few days ago, I met someone funny and smart and witty and… I just rest my case. I do admit it: I’m a pusher. And good people that happen to cross my way become idols, dolls, then rags. Not all of them, no. But some, the best, if not cherished properly, end up losing themselves to me and me to them. A mambo-jumbo that often requires heart surgery after and tons of cellulose wasted on hankies.

Tonight I feel lonely. I feel so not me (and it’s not even the first time it happens). No, not depressed, just not me. I read Adi’s blog but cannot match the feeling. I am not a philosopher, though I studied philosophy for 2 years… Maybe I forgot it all, it happens. Or maybe it’s there, in the back of my head… But anywayz, this is not the point.

Tonight I’m sad and for good reasons. I am not a strong woman, at least not the strong woman YOU think you’d find in me. But I do my best at being bold. And I fail. And I get kicked in the ass. And I read books. Not self-help best-sellers, no. Plain library books, like Harper-Collins/Humanitas editions or so. (Yet, too seldom to mention.)

I love good books but have no time to finish any. The most recent book I read in whole was Rosa Montero’s “La hija del canibal”, translated in Romanian as “Ziua Inocentilor”. And I never finish my ideas, as you may well see.

So, being bold once does not guarantee you become imune for life to critics. And, as one said in a certain comment on a certain blog, “I like coaches and trainers better than critics” (my guess is critics are a lost profession).

Yes, lack of motivation kills. No instantaneously but like poison, in slow motion. It is what’s happening to me for a while now: can’t find joy in anything I do. I live routine like mechanical watches, counting the days as they pass by, slower or faster, rainy or sunny, better or worse.

For me, LOVE’s not a word, it is The Ultimate Remedy. I need a higher motivation, a reason to wake up in the morning and wink at the face in the mirror. And I believe a feeling of humongous proportions can embed it all: pleasure and pain, living and dying, rebirth and renewal. I believe it can transcend the gaps and cracks and spaces open that suck us in and lose our joy and hope.

I’ve had only one great passion and other big or smaller crushes. I even hallucinated of being in love, until I realized it was only an egoistical approach to bedroom and boredom. But NOW… Now it all has to be perfect. At least, the closest carbon copy to perfection. I am aware there’s no such thing on Earth as “identical fit”, but I could wear a glove with +/-0,01 inches failure…

Recently, I’ve noticed I put as much effort into being joyful over peculiar things as into great discoveries, that I just ran out of LOLs and my energy’s been squeezed off to the max. I’ve also noticed my blog doesn’t reflect me anymore. Have stuffed so much junk in, it has become obnoxious.

Need to refresh, but for now feels I have no clue as about where to start or where I’m heading to. People that read it yell me feedback: “Change template. Change style. Change something.” Well, folks, if I don’t change me first, why then redecorate my home?!

Some more, I’ve noticed SEX STILL SALES. Or buys you mates. Massively, ’round the globe. No breakthrough news, and marketers will blame me for redundancy (check!). But hey, am I the only one who sees things done dirt cheap in mashes and POSMs and billboards all around? I find it awkward that men are only driven by translucid flesh & tiny waistlines. We’ve landed on the Moon, created robots and nano-tech is going sky-rocket. So, where’s the fun in stalking teenage girls in bars? Are 40-over women doomed? Are 50 year olds bound to die in pain while attempting suicide? Are decent men extinct?

Furthermore, I see myself digging the gap between the world outside and the teen generation, whose sole aim is to gather like sheep and drink and talk nonesense, then go home, sing in and chat their brains out, rollback to partying hard, and chat some more and hit on guys/girls over IM, and have VoIP sex (‘cuz cybersex is so out of date). Geez, I must be getting old if my perception shrinked as much as wanting to have a pain-free long-term relationship! (LOL)

Mai nou, ma ocup de stergeri,
De rupt calendare scrise in lut.

Neste oameni ma bate la cap ca ei dom’le nu (mai) poate sa iubeasca. Ceea ce nici eu nu pot, evident.

Dar mie imi plac neputintele. Fiindca doare. Fiindca e ceva asa, ireal-boreal despre care vorbesc la o bere/cafea/cico cu fantomele trecutului imediat sau cu prietenii mei imaginari. Cei reali ieste ocupati extrem si nu poa’ sa empatizeze.

Acestea fiind zise, sa amintesc despre trebi serioase care este: Lansarea TRAVKA. In Fabrica a fost un adevarat regal (ca tot se poarta cliseul). Ce cute sa stai in primul rand si sa te sprijini de boxa cand valul de pogari rabfunea in tine! Si l-am ratat pe Beigbeder.

Stii ce misto e sa te uiti cum treci pe langa… tine, gafaind, si sa te vezi din spate cum dispari in ceata in fix 5 minute? E incredibil de relaxant. Apoi iti dai seama ca… NU MAI EXISTI. Oau!

Dar nu te speria; dezastrul abia acum urmeaza.

Ai pierdut tot ce ai, tot ce n-ai si toti prietenii, pe deasupra. Esti ON in stil sinucigas, self-combustion type, gagica kamikaze perfecta. Ai frunze-n par, praf in ochi, nori in gura, dar tu tot alergi; ai adidasii rupti, coatele julite, genunchii sangerand, dar tu tot alergi; te ai pe tine, toata, si-ti e de ajuns. Ai vrea sa poti mai vast, sa vrei mai mult, sa-ncerci mai mare. Dar nu te-ajuta nimeni, deci keep walking.

N-am timp sa ma plang, n-am timp sa ma bucur, n-am timp sa… nimic. Si stiu ca nici tu n-ai.

De aceea te retin acum, aici, o clipa. Sa nu dispari de tot. Sa mai respiram putin acelasi aer pixelat, impreuna. Tu de-o parte a monitorului, eu de cealalta…

Nu te vad si nu ma vezi. Dar simt, si stiu ca dincolo de interfata asta pretentioasa, si tu ma simti prin fiecare rand, prin fiecare link…

Stiu ca ma crezi o ciudata cu toane. Si-ti dau dreptate, pe alocuri. Si te sarut pe frunte, ca de obicei…

Cu drag,
yours truly,

womanchild

(Paroles et musique : R. Steelcox)

Comme des empreintes de mains
Sur un trottoir
Du côté d’un certain
Hollywood Boulevard

Il reste dans nos cœurs
Des rêves usés
Des scénarios, des peurs
Jamais oubliés

Puisque tout finit et que rien ne dure
Le temps d’un road-movie
Ai-je été dans ta vie
Une valeur sure ?

Qu’est-ce qui fait qu’on s’attache
Qu’on nous revient toujours ?
Qu’est-ce qui fait qu’on se fâche
Qu’on se sépare un jour ?
Comme ces mails qu’on adresse
Qu’est-ce qui fait nos destins ?
Les souvenirs qu’on laisse
Un jour dans le cœur des humains

Je traîne jusqu’au matin
Sur ce trottoir
Dans ta rue mais si loin
D’Hollywood Boulevard

Je m’accroche à tes traces
A m’en faire mal
Refusant que s’effacent
Nos poussières d’étoiles

Puisque tout finit et que rien ne dure
Façon Tom et Jerry
J’étais pas dans ta vie
Une valeur sûre

Qu’est-ce qui fait qu’on nous parle
Parfois qu’on nous sourit ?
Qu’est ce qui fait qu’on nous charme
Ou bien qu’on nous oublie ?
Qu’est-ce qui fait mauvaise presse
Ou passer pour un saint ?
Les souvenirs qu’on laisse
Un jour dans le cœur des humains

Les hommes pourraient s’aimer
A défaut s’estimer
Dans ce bas monde
Mais juste pour une idée
Bien avant d’en changer
La terre gronde

Tous les dieux les prophètes
Ont le même discours
Leurs messages sont en fait
Des commandements d’amour

Qu’est ce qui fait mauvaise presse
Ou passer pour un saint ?
Les souvenirs qu’on laisse
Un jour dans le cœur des humains

by Muse

Far away
This ship has taken me far away
Far away from the memories
Of the people who care if I live or die

Starlight
I will be chasing a starlight
Until the end of my life
I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore

Hold you in my arms
I just wanted to hold you in my arms

My life
You electrify my life
Let’s conspire to re-ignite
All the souls that would die just to feel alive

I’ll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away
Never fade away

Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations
Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations

Hold you in my arms
I just wanted to hold you in my arms

Far away
The ship has taken me far away
Far away from the memories
Of the people who care if I live or die

I’ll never let you go
If you promise not to fade away
Never fade away

Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations
Our hopes and expectations
Black holes and revelations

Hold you in my arms
I just wanted to hold you in my arms
I just wanted to hold

Poetii mi se par niste oameni teribil de tristi. De aceea, nu-mi citesc decat propriile poezii, ca sa-mi confirm ca inca sunt o vietate cu emotii. Una care NU plange la telenovele ca apoi sa se smiorcaie pe blogurile altora. Ci se exhibitioneaza in versuri simple si diforme ca sufletelul ei mutilat de alternante punctuale intre depresie si frenezie. Sau in proza, pe blogul personal.

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Poetii mi se par niste oameni extrem de tomnatici. Angoasele lor, mai ales cand sunt scrise in versuri albe, ma cuprind univoc, fara putere de impotrivire. De aceea, ma strang ca in cusca si ma alienez de tot ce-mi pare viu si gratios. De tot ce-mi pare uman, in ultima instanta. Ma arunc in mare uitarii si ma dau la fund, ca si cum nu as fi. Eu, o vietate atat de rasfirata.

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Poetii mi se par oameni pervers de subtili. De parca numai ei stiu ce vorbesc si noi, profanatorii de volume, nu vom fi in stare sa le descifram subliminalul. De aceea, ma straduiesc sa scriu cat mai criptic cu putinta, sa vada tot omul ce n-a vazut nici Parisul, nici Micul Paris la un loc. Si de-o iesi vreo transparenta, sa-mi fie cu iertare. N-aveam somn.

Incredibil cat de putin e nevoie ca sa transformi o femeie…

Gratie Ioanei, aseara m-am tuns frumos. Aproape mai frumos ca niciodata in viata mea, cu vreo 3-4 exceptii. Eu, care imi tai seldom parul [sa nu spun rar, ca se incurca :)] fiindca am o fobie de coafeze mai ceva ca de dentisti, m-am simtit MINUNAT vazand cum pleata mea se disciplineaza sub perie, intinzandu-si cuminte carceii si vartejurile. La sfarsit, a primit taietura de maestru.

Bineinteles, bucuria n-o sa dureze decat vreo 2-3 zile, daca-mi feresc parul de apa. Apoi, se va zbarli iar dezordonat, si cum eu sunt o fatuca ocupata, n-o sa stau sa-l perii. Cel mult, imi cumpar o vaca precum in reclama la stii-tu-care lapte si voi fi always happy.

Povestea nu se opreste aici. Odata cu tunsoarea, am primit si un tonus nou. Si am zbughit-o la MiniPrix, sa ma cadorisesc cu cei mai misto blugi ieftini si cel mai subliminal tricou cu mesaj ever, basca povestea cu WiFi de la McDo (YES, Dan, wireless IS fun!). Cumva, din toata treaba asta am iesit cu bonus de entuziasm asa cum de muuult timp nu mai eram in stare. (OK, Adi! Acum pricep si eu ce vrei sa zici.) Si iata ca azi am venit la birou intr-un suflet, zambind, m-am apucat de lucru in pasi de dans, iar soarta va fi buna si viata mai frumoasa inca vreo 3 zile. Dupa, nu stiu cum va fi, dar sper ca tot mai bine.

E fashionista la modul cel mai rebel cu putinta. Amesteca Hel-Looks cu Urban Clash si nu tine cont ca traieste in Romania. Are ochii mari migdalati si mereu incondeiati cu creion sidefat. E diafana ca un fulg si are mereu unghiile colorate in tonuri mate puternice. Picteaza si scrie, si canta, si fotografiaza, si bea cafea cu lapte (face un Latte fabulos!).

Traieste la etajul 5 intr-un bloc vechi de pe Rosetti colt cu Calderon, inconjurata de carti si… nu, NU pisici, ci cufere cu amintiri. Are un prieten destept cu care filozofeaza pe balconul lung si ingust de la care se vede Bucurestiul luminat pana departe, la Cercul Militar, si chiar Casa Poporului. In blocul vecin sta un pianist pe care l-a auzit cantand acum doua veri si de-atunci coboara pe banca in fiecare seara cand misteriosul incepe sa cante.

Geamana mea e fascinata de Bucurestiul interbelic, de sigle vechi si strazi ca Lipscani sau Selari. Bea ceai la Vasiliada, Metoc sau Cotroceni si face schimb de carti in Lucky 13. Are parul usor carliontat, prins neglijent in coc, astfel incat zulufii liberi ii incadreaza fata. Toamna sau iarna sta la caldura, in casa, in sosete groase si pulover XXL de lana moale. Iese seara la promenada si hoinareste pe strazi de brat cu prietenul ei inteligent si matur si glumet. Uneori ziua, cand merge spre metrou, trece prin Gradina Icoanei si-si rareste pasii. Zambeste, cu gandul la vechi amintiri, si trece mai departe…