They say...

They say the tradition is the bridge to the past, and we must keep the tradition to keep the past. I carry the past like a backpack, unseen on my shoulders, unfelt on my skin and I walk: out of a sudden the wind blows through the trees and their leaves rustle, like tiny birds rubbing their tiny wings. In front of me the path is all meshed up by the sun's sharp spears piercing the thick canopies, making them bleed with afternoon gold, warm and soft. Right then, right there I know for sure my ancestors and their ancestors and their ancestors saw what I've been seeing, heard what I've been hearing...

They say the universe started with a particle. They now look into the particle in the lab, and they see myriads of particles. Universes of particles. Nowhere to end up, nowhere to end down. We're actually not closer to the truth than our kin, the cavemen were. At least those believed in some gods who took care of the inexplicable...

My people say that if you do not have old people you have to invent them. And then you have to listen to them because they know better. I always listened to those older than me, not because they knew better, but because my mom taught me to respect them, no matter what. She also taught me to trust anybody else but me. Every year passing by I see less people older than me. At some point I'll have to trust myself as I'm going to be among the few old people I'll know...

Eseu Frânt: Soldat

Orice eseu se naște ca un prunc diform de proză fără calitate. Iar fiecare bucată de eseu începe cu un cuvânt sau cu o frază mică, firavă.

Apoi o alegere, sau mai multe. Ăsta e blestemul omului: orice face, orice drege devine alegere, o bifurcare în drum. A fork in the road.

Apoi carul limbii plin ochi cu sacii grei ai cuvintelor din care eseistul scoate opintindu-se uneori, pentru ca vorbele atârnă,  concepte pure sau impure, opinii proaspete sau subțiate de folosință, idei pitice, idei voinice pe care le pune pe hârtie ca daruri mici la o sărbătoare continuă. Celebrarea bucuriei de a-ți scoate gândurile și inima la vedere, ca rufele albe întinse pe sârma amintirilor, alintate de boarea caldă a vântului de vară.

Ieri de dimineață, era exact ora 7:07, pentru că m-am uitat la ceasul vechi de pe noptieră, și am privit pe fereastră, și ploua, și apoi am luat o bucată de hârtie pe care am scris patru cuvinte: “I am a soldier.” Apoi le-am șters și le-am înlocuit cu trei cuvinte, într-o altă limbă. „Sunt un soldat”, am scris, și mi s-a părut că sună mai bine. Apoi am continuat: Sunt un soldat intr-o armată economică, în care generalii sunt negustorii de succes, cu bancnote uzate, fojgăitoare cusute pe piept ca epoleți lipsiți de glorie, în timp ce noi, proștii, carnea de tun,  suntem plătiți cu câțiva  dolari pe oră, sau pe zi, sau pe viață, cărora ei le găsesc uneori termeni frumoși, cu penaj multicolor, ca de pildă rata minimă pe economie. Minimum wage rate. Salariul minim. Am zis “ei”? Who the fuck are they? They, the laws, the lies, our doom.

Detest detaliile astea tehnice, care sună ca loviturile unui ciocan în șoldul rece al unei căzi de fontă! Mă simt smuls din letargia meditației de forța brută, metalică, a cuvântului rostit fără sunet în graiul mut al gândurilor. Propriile gânduri. Încă le simt ale mele, numai ale mele. It’s just a matter of time till they’re going to confiscate our thoughts. În câțiva ani vei fi obligat să îți declari gândurile ca marfa pe care o treci prin vamă. Boarea caldă a bucuriei de a scrie devine un vânt tăios care-mi îngheață fața… Cuvintele ies acum din sac ca moliile aruncate in ger, zbătându-se fără noroc ca să supraviețuiască, alunecând în abisul timpului tăiat scurt.

Sunt un soldat care nu poate să conteste ordinele venite de sus, chiar dacă cei care le dau habar nu au despre ce vorbesc. Și de obicei nu au. Sunt un soldat care are numai dreptul să execute fără să întrebe și să fie executat fără să i se spună. Sunt un soldat printre alți soldați care sunt condamnați încă de la naștere la sentința capitală: predă-te, depune-ți viața la picioare, împinge-o încet către noi, și te vom lăsa sa trăiești pentru noi. Viața ta nu iți aparține. Avem noi grijă de ea, o ținem ascunsă, sub cheie, să nu îți vină vreun gând cu ea. Viața ta gazolină ieftină pentru miliardele de roți ale sistemului. Cheap gas for the voracious engine. Your life belongs to those who barely pay to keep you barely live. Your bosses. The monsters of your destiny. The masters of your failures. The almighty gods walking in squeaky shoes expensive suits in your little workplace. Your fucking life warrantors. Care iți arată ușa. Care te  îmbrâncesc afară. Care te împing intr-un minut în abisul demnității pierdute, în hăul viitorului sfârtecat. Englezescul „booted out” sună mai bine decât „concediat” in românește, prinde realitatea ca intr-o oglinda retrovizoare: o cizmă mare, neagră, lucioasă, înfiptă bine in spatele tău, care sângerează de la carâmbul ascuțit.

Sunt un soldat aruncat afară din saloon-ul popular ca un cowboy recalcitrant, care n-are bani sa plătească și mai are și tupeul să îi agraveze cu păreri proprii pe comesenii care vor doar să se simtă bine. To have a good time. While the big gorilla behind the bar howls threatening, his veins popped out, hie eyes injected with hatred, his gun coming out: Take your damn gear and get the fuck out of here, you dumb ass! You despicable life form! Asta sună cu adevărat bine. Poți sa pui atâta câinoșenie in limba romană? Poți, dar nu sună veridic. Nu e în caracterul nostru. Noi suntem agresivi cu vorba, în timp ce pumnul ne e moale.

Albul foii de hârtie goală de cuvinte mă orbește. Nu văd nimic pe ea decât trei cuvinte. Nici un paragraf, nici măcar o frază. Eseul s-a născut și a murit în mintea mea. Scriu peste ce am șters înainte: “I am a soldier.” I am a soldier? Sunt un soldat? A fork in the road...

Aleg varianta în românește pentru ca sună bărbătește, puternic, ca un strigăt în luptă. Ca încleștarea unui soldat care omoară ca să se sustragă morții. Să păstreze ceasul vieții în cel victorios, alimentat cu orele furate de la cel răpus. Tic-tac. Tic-tac. Soldat rimează cu „sacadat.”

Și scriu: “Viețile noastre sunt grav rănite, se târăsc slăbite, sângerânde, prin tranșeele duhnind a moarte ale unui prezent marcat de militarizarea silită a gândurilor, a opiniilor, a alegerilor personale. Suntem intr-un marș nebun, în ritm de trâmbițe propagandistice, de surle patriotarde, de minciuni poleite in termeni luxoși. Bum-bum-bum. Un marș forțat, către nicăieri.”

That’s all. Ăsta e eseul meu.

  

Falling in Love

I didn’t love you
when I first met you,
I was just obsessed with your body,
covered by the elusive shadows
of the perverse joys,
enchanted by your long legs,
dazzled by your hair, black, long, shinny
blowing on my cheeks like a forest kissed by the wind,
I craved your thick lips,
tasty like the sweet juice of the freshly harvested grapes,
I filled my eyes with the sight of your breasts
made by a genius angel skilled at sculpting painful beauties
with his bare hands,
and night after night I was chained by an insatiable lovemaking
which asked for more lovemaking
in an endless, contagious ritual


I started to love you
when I let myself out
from my self-imposed cell,
from the sweet prison of carnal desire,
and I realized
that your sweat leaves a heavy odor when your body works hard,
and your skin gets drier and gets crinkly,
and your breath is heavy with the sour scent
left by the night’s constant wrestling
with the dreams’ dragons
in the zigzagged corridors of the sleep,
and your hair is a mess
when you wake up in the morning beside me
and you ask without words
to be caressed
and want me to tell you without words
that I need you,
that love you,
while your stomach growls like a hungry beast


I started to love you when I noticed
that you talk in your sleep,
that you let a belch out loud when nobody’s around,
that you puke with a grunt when you’re sick,
that you swear when you drive,
that you confront your nightmares without fear,
struggling,
fighting,
screaming,
that you become a bitch
when the hormones take over your judgment,
in the monthly ritual of renewal,
that you laugh with a shrill and you cry with a grudge,
that you’re scared of snakes, of ghosts, of owls,
that you could cheat on me,
or sell me,
or hate me,
or hit me,
or say no to me and everything I am,
but in any case
you wouldn’t hurt me


I totally fell in love with you
the moment I discovered
that both of us walk together on the same stone path,
made from the crumbling marble of the day,
jumping from year to year,
towards our own pre-designed destruction,
that we share the same space,
the same flight in the deep sky,
two travelers through the quiet tempests of space,
on a ship called Earth,
that we felt the same thirst,
the same strong desire
to be protected, lucky, loved,
the same chance to sin or be sinned against,
the same odds to be weak, or sly, or helpless,
the same doubt that there’s life after death,
the same certainty that there’s young and then old,
there’s life and then death


I loved you deeply
when I realized
that you are like me,
so much like me that I can look at you
and see the perfect replica of myself
in a mirror

Forever Young

Someone pulled out my son
from the child he was,
the cute, cherubic boy,
with curled, blond hair,
the eyes of a playful squirrel,
and the laugh
that made the anger sound 
like a bad joke

Someone reeled him out ,
stretched him out
into a man,
who smells like a man,
walks like a man,
talks like a man,
laughs like a man,
is boring and strong,
like a man

That someone,
or someone else
forgot about me,
left me the same,
young and frail and vain,
a prisoner of the youth’s 
4 “i”-repressibles:
impressible,
irresponsible,
irreconcilable,
irreverent

Looking at people
and seeing no one,
looking at things
and seeing too many,
deaf to the past, blind to the future,
drowned in the present

And here I’m walking the stone path
in the green, lush park
of my paternity,
with my son beside me
his hand in my hand,
not paying attention to his questions,
because they are so many,
so childishly complicated,
“daddy, why is the sky blue then black then blue again?”
“daddy, why are the trees green? I like more yellow trees, or blue!”
“daddy, where do the people go after they die?”
and
wishing I could tell him something else than
“no clue” or “don’t know” or “uh-hmm”
and think something else than
“give me a break, kiddo”
but I am so young,
and so full of my inner voice,
listening to it only,
so full of my own portrait,
looking at it only,
the rest of the world crammed in me,
stashed in the corridors unoccupied by me,
still having enough space
to host
the rest of the universe.

And that’s okay,
it feels good,
to be young, and have a young child,
cut through the young forest
of trees of life
still in bud,
step on its carpet of moss
made of dreams unconsumed,
drink in the morning dew of the lake,
inhale the breathe
of the day ahead,
ignore my son’s questions,
because l have enough time
to answer his serious questions

Which will never come,
because my son has grown too quickly
into a man
and he’s not hanging of my hand,
he’s not even near in sight

Nobody pulled me out from my own self
to reel me out,
to stretch me into the old man
I should be,
okay,
I have wrinkles
and my hair receded
and my belly is flabby and my teeth are yellow,
and my nails are cracked and my ideas are outdated,
my tastes out-fashioned,
and my back hurts,
and my eyes are losing their shine,
and my memory gets fade
while I say that it plays tricks to me
and laugh like of a good joke,
but other than that
there’s nothing else
worth to mention

Hey, you,
whoever you are,
wherever you are,
whatever you do,
be a god or a creator or just a lame saltimbanco,
or all of these
together,
you forgot about me
you left me young
and careless to my child’s needs,
oblivious to his questions,
he’s now a grown-up man
and the way the things move
someday he’s going to be older than I am
and I don’t find that
quite normal