cristinaburduja's Blog

Last Wednesday

cristinaburduja — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 20:28:06 +0000

One day everything was gone…the shoes, the tea, the pills, the phone, the tobacco, the bed, the book, the floor, the smell…her smell, everything. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. He had no feet, he had no arms, he had no body, he had nothing. He was like a transparent void of air which floats from one room to another without changing the course of any kind of time passing activity. He felt empty, but he was not. He could remember everything.

Last time he remembered his feet being cold was on Friday, when he went outside in the middle of the night to get milk. She couldn’t drink tea without milk. The streets were empty. It was winter. It was one of those very cold winter nights, when everything is frozen as if under a spell. The trees were barely moving, slightly dancing by the lazy movement of the wind. The path was icy, he looked at his shoes…his house shoes, he forgot to take his outside shoes, he was in a hurry. She was very impatient. When he got to the first crossroad, the street lights were constantly changing, though there wasn’t any kind of car sound around. The deserted streets looked so peaceful. He stopped. He wanted to breath the air in. The air was heavy. He felt his lungs getting frozen and defrozen, as if taken from the freezer straight to the microwave and back. He had to move. She was waiting. He couldn’t feel his little toe. It was numb. His feet were cold.

Last time he cut his hair was last Thursday afternoon, after he drank three glasses of wine at his best friend’s pub. Great place, warm and cosy, full of men hiding from their wives and women hiding from their girlfriends. It smelled like old cheese and red wine, old red wine, the one you only drink because you respect its age and defiance of time. She always said this pub was Satan’s favourite place, when he was getting bored of tempting. His friend, best friend, invited him to show the new piano he bought from a poor guy who needed money to pay for his poker debts and didn’t want his wife to find out. That is why he was there, he was hiding. His friend offered to help the poor guy, though he bargained like a Morrocan. The piano was beautiful, Brazilian redwood, Steinway and Sons. His best friend recommended him a good hairdresser. He needed a haircut. She told him so. The seventy seven years old neighbour was a hairdresser all his life and could only do men, boys and dogs. Women were too complicated. He drank one more glass of wine and then went straight to get his hair cut.

Last time he danced was two years ago at a Halloween party. It was a bad party, he wasn’t drunk, but the woman he liked at that point was, so he went dancing. He was a bad dancer and his balls had nothing to do with it. The music was good, ’90s. He liked ’90s. Oh no, that is a complete lie, it was not at all the last time he danced. The last time he actually danced was on Thursday evening, in the park, on a bench, with her, for her, he danced.

Last time he had a headache was on Friday, after all that respectful wine. She was upset. Fridays were for going out. He slept almost the whole day. She gave him pills. They made it a tea night, black tea with milk and honey. The milk finished. It was shared with Bach, the cat. She insisted on him going to buy more. He still had the headache.

Last time he mentioned her to his mother was when Friday night turned into Saturday morning. He went to get milk, for her, at almost midnight, and his little toe almost died out of cold in his house shoes. The little toe was his mother’s toe, the only part of his body he took after her. That reminded him that it was his mother’s birthday, until less than seventy seconds ago, so he called to say happy birthday from him and, from her.

Last time he felt undecided was on Saturday morning. He was in a hurry. He needed to catch the train to his mother’s house before he went to work. He wanted to give her flowers for her birthday and apologise for his bad memory, lack of feelings and bad timing, which he all took after his father. He entered a flower shop called “Never too late”. He couldn’t remember his mother’s favourite flowers, but he knew hers. She liked orchids, white, with pink in the middle. They didn’t have orchids. He couldn’t decide on a different kind. He didn’t get any. He was undecided.

Last time he had to sign something was on Saturday afternoon, he went to a Book Shop called “Pathos”, after the flower shop, and bought a book for his mother, a cooking book. She liked to cook, that he knew. There was no time left to pass by his mother’s house so he decided to send it as a package wrapped in a gift paper, white paper with pink ribbons. He wrote a birthday card: “Happy Birthday, Mother”, signed: Your lost in time son.” He didn’t write anything about her. He didn’t think too much about it, he just signed.

Last time he made smoke circles was on Sunday. He said he can do it. She wanted to see. He rolled a cigarette from her tobacco. He didn’t roll for a while. He quit smoking years ago because of his lungs.The tobacco was dry, very dry. He dropped a lot on his pants. Black pants with red lines on the sides. His favourite pair. He took a puff, a very deep one. He felt his lungs screaming. He chocked. She laughed. He took another one, more gentle one and went slowly: Puff…Puff…Puff. Three perfectly round circles. He was proud. She laughed and tried to break with her Zeus finger every single circle: Bang…Bang…Bang.

Last time he made love was on Monday morning. She woke him up. She wanted to be loved. He wanted to love her. He did. It was slow and gentle. They breathed at the same time. She grabbed his hair, pulling it to the ceiling. He liked it. She came close to his ear and whispered “I’ll never forget this”. He smiled. He thought about the same thing. They came at the same time. They didn’t have sex, they made love.

Last time he ate cake was on Monday evening, at his neighbour’s birthday. He didn’t like him. He was not funny. She liked him. She thought he was strange. They drank cheap beer. She was dressed in white. He loved that dress. The room was full of people. He had some really exhausting conversations about politics and street dogs with some lawyers. He went to the toilette after each beer. It was a good excuse. She came with him. They loved to watch each other pee. At midnight everyone went to the roof to release Chinese wish balloons into the air. It was cold. He wasn’t drunk enough. She was happy. They had one balloon for two. They decided to make separate wishes. They made the same one. They knew. He was really glad to go back inside, his lungs were screaming. They had cake. It was the best cake.

Last time he finished reading a book was on Tuesday night, at almost midnight. He was reading Kundera. He loved Kundera, she did too. He read to her the last phrase. It was a tradition. They had to finish together. “The man spoke, all the others listened with interest, and their bare genitals stared stupidly and sadly at the yellow sand.” She screamed “Genius!” They looked at each other. There was one small second when there was nothing but pure silence in the room. And then, as if from a deep well, they burst into laughter, together, at the same time, in the same moment. They both collapsed on the floor, like two sacks full of potatoes, one on the top of the other, she on top of him. They couldn’t stop laughing. She pressed her delicate hands on her stomach and shouted “Read it again!” He did. “The man spoke, all the others listened with interest, and their bare genitals stared stupidly and sadly at the yellow sand.” She screamed “Fantastic!” They couldn’t stop laughing for more than an hour. The book was finished.

Last time he laughed out of his lungs for more than an hour was on Wednesday morning, after finishing reading a book. She was there. She was happy. He was happy. She laughed. He laughed.

Last time he heard his heart beating was on Wednesday evening. He was taking a bath. He was under the water. Holding his breath. Listening…Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. His heart. She was on the toilette, watching him. He knew that. He listened. Bum. Bum bum. Bum. Bum Bum. Bum. His heart, beating.

Last time he fell asleep was on Wednesday night. After he took a bath. After he listened to his heart beating, under the water. He was holding her in his arms. Her hair was tickling his nose. He was smiling. She smelled like home. He loved her. He could hear her breathing, slow and silent, almost dead like. He was happy. She was there. He fell asleep.

Lincoln green Monday

cristinaburduja — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 20:52:43 +0000

“Is there something else in there?” she asked.

There was a time when Rose thought of her daily life as a piece of paper she has to put colours on…so she did. She painted her life in red almost every Tuesday, Thursdays were for green and sometimes orange, she loved to watch the sun go down really really fast, Sunday was just another blue day, normal skies, no clouds to poke, no super birds to call by names, Fridays were for black, sometimes black is not enough to make everyone believe you’re more than just a dot, on Wednesdays she wore something between pink and velvet, she couldn’t really decide which one was more than the other, Saturday was not at all as white as everybody thought, underneath she had always hidden some dots of atomic tangerine and Mondays were something else. For Mondays she have made a lifetime list, what colour she would wear for each week of her life (she calculated she will live till 100, just to make sure), wrote them on small pieces of papers, folded as to hide a big secret, putted them in a fishbowl and picked one every Monday morning. That, my dear curious fellows, was not because she wanted to look predictable, but because there was nothing more exciting than to read something you wrote in advance and not to remember what was it exactly. So on her Monday’s list you could find all sort of colours, of which one could not even think of: android green, american rose, antique fuchsia, battleship grey, banana mania, brick red, bubble gum, Lincoln green, denim, dollar bill, granny Smith apple, international orange, light salmon pink, mordant red 19, neon carrot and much more…and all of this, even if you may not believe it, are real colours. They looked on her fantastically fit. No one would ever suspect that there was actually someone on the Lincoln if she decided to take a sunbathe on the top of her father’s Lincoln. It was not at all her favourite place, but she loved to be on a completely different hight level than others. Some would lay on benches, some on the ground, some in some bed, some in someone else’s bed, someone on a high building…but only her father owned a Lincoln, at it was great.

Today was her birthday. She was not alone and yet, the trees outside seemed to call her for a chat. Those old bastards are never getting tired of colourful conversations. It was Sunday and Rose was as blue as an endless sky with no clouds. The table was full of blue plates, on which you could see the marks of fingers that wanted to make sure there won’t be any blue cake left, a lot of dirty blue glasses, 100 broken blue candles and you could hear from the other room, as if from far away in the woods, some sounds of melancholic music, blues.

“No, there is nothing left. The bowl is empty.” he answered.
She smiled.

I am a live

cristinaburduja — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 15:08:08 +0000

Who are you? Yes, You! the person who’s reading this not knowing why the hell is he/she actually doing this. Are you alone? Why do you instantly think that I’m asking about the closest spacial proximity, how about the building, the city, the country, the world, life? Are you alive? How often? Are you a man? A real one? What do I mean? So you’re not…or maybe you’re a woman, which means 3 seconds ago you smiled. Are you happy? ok, let’s skip this one. Are you mad? about something or someone and you’re just wasting time around (reading this) thinking time will give you the answer? well, it does, every day and mostly every morning. Are you a morning person? if not, you’re not listening to the right music. Are you clean? As a whole? Are you complete? Are you simple? like nothing you can think of right now, but everything you can imagine? Are you a horse? What color?

When I was 6, I received a birthday present from my grandmother and my parents (I think), a counting mechanism, very colorful one (the red i remember the most), simple one, used in shops at the cash register long time ago, still used in my country and I still have no idea how it works. My gradmother asked me “are you happy?” I was, it was colourful. I hated math. I still do.
Are You happy? Sorry, I needed to get back to this.
Are you? throw a coin.

Are you a pervert? in your mind, dreams, bed? Are you close? to what you want. i’m sure there is something eatable close to you. Are you a dreamer? don’t wake up, don’t wake up, don’t wake up…crap! Are you aware of your soul? How? Are you aware of your ears? Do you hear? do you hear the world, YOUR world…Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen L i s t e n _ __ ____!
Did you know then when you write a word a lot of times it starts to seem wrongly spelt? Try it. I know you won’t. Are you fat? you must hate summer. I love it. Are you insane? Are you my friend? How often?

Are you YOU? really? i am amazed, no matter what the answer.
Are you still here? for how long? so you’re about to die. No, fool, i am not asking are you here on that chair/sofa/floor/bed/carpet/window. I am also on a chair, not a very good one, it’s from my kitchen and it’s uncomfortable like hell…yes, hell is uncomfortable, because it’s upside down. I am here X

Imagine the interview of your life:
-Hello.
-Hello.
-Take a sit.
-Thank you.
-Coffee?
-Tea.
-Sugar?
-No. I am very glad to be here.
-We don’t have “I’m very glad to be here” sugar.
(forced laugh, from you)
-Who are you?
-I’m sorry? (who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I? jduzguykgakweugfwugjbcMHBkjUGKJABSJJBZXJKBGKJUBDSJBJVKZJBSJBDKVJHBAJUGBV Ncsbzjhbjbvjkejvjbvzjs,j,j,jbszv,jheluycgauwgwlekbjlbvjaugwbacwjbvlugevlabwjevbliug……..)
-Who are you?
-aaaaa (msnbvdkjagwkugvekjbac,jblwekugvbjbalkvuzgjk) … well, I (stop there!).

We tend do feel insulted when someone, out of the blue or green or dark green, asks us “who are you”? Insulted = first you think “what do you mean who I am, can’t you see?” then you fast, very fast look for a smart answer, you think “this answer is important, it’s gonna define me, it’s what this asshole will remember of me…who am I? who am I? who am I? who am I?) ok, nothing comes to my mind…shit, I am nothing…I can’t say that. I am not nothing!…this guy thinks he’s smart…shit…why, after all (?), is he asking me this? who the hell is he? = Insulted.

I was asked twice in my life.
First time, it was a singer, good looking, not very good looking. Friend of a friend’s brother. True story. I wanted an autograf. He asked me holding a pen, my pen, “for whom? who are you?” “well, i don’t know, I am Cristina” I still have his autograf and above it “for Cristina, who doesn’t know who she is”. Oh, I felt insulted. I still have it.
Second time, few days ago, a guy who wanted to flirt with me, asked me crawling next to me like a cat “who are you?…I smiled (this smile said: you are not getting anything)…and I answered “I am Cristina” very convinced. Oh, I was disappointed. He wasn’t. He didn’t get my smile or my lack of imagination.
Do you know why we don’t really say the first thing that comes to our minds, because it’s funny, not stupid, funny…for others. We would love to shout it, scream it until we get hemoroids and then become “THAT, with hemoroids”…which is even funnier…for others. You know what’s the funiest part: the answer you actually give.

Who are you? Are you a smoker? Are you a dancer? always be! Are you black?…we all are inside our noses. Are you white? winter is taken. Are you fast? ok, you need more condoms. Are you a color? green is overrated. Are you hungry? I just went to kitchen. Got some cereals, milk, watermelon and sugar…all in one bowl. It’s 20.51. I’m hungry. Are you a fighter? Who’s the enemy? Are you my friend?

When I was in High School, a train hit me. I was shocked. Very. Everyone was fakely worried, because I knew that was funny as hell…yes, hell is funny, because it’s upside down. I started to cry. Like a small baby. My teacher, of religion, asked me “why are you crying? are you hurt?” “no, I am alive”.
I am a live. I am a dreamer. I am a dancer. I am a river. I am a map. I am a palm. I am a tree. I am a book. I am a scar. I am a cat. I am a window. I am a child. I am a melon. I am a wish. I am a dot. I am a miracle. I am a paradox. I am a frog. I am a plug. I am a calendar. I am a needle. I am a word. I am love. I am a piece.
I am a naked man on a bicycle. I am a bracelet. I am a song. I am a drug. I am skin. I am a tomato from your last night salad. I am a bird. I am a mirror. I am a nose, full of dust. I am a virus. I am a dark stain on a wedding dress. I am a cake. I am a violin. I am a lamp. I am a pocket. I am a superhero. I am the left foot. I am a blanket. I am a cup of tea, black with honey and milk. I am a monster, made of jelly. I am a clown, without a nose. I am a fish, on a wall. I am a star, somewhere. I am an open door of a room with no flowers. I am a belly button without a hole. I am a caramel candy. I am a beginner. I am a note, La. I am an astronaut, under water, in a bathtub. I am a field…endless. I am a red lip on a black and white party. I am a pen. I am a circle. I am a poker card, under the table, under a shoe, man shoe, size 44. I am an eye. Sometimes blue, sometimes green, sometimes. I am a seeker. I am a puzzle, of more then 10. 000 pieces. I am a joke. I am a world.
I am a question: who are you?

Banal conversations with Time

cristinaburduja — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 07:59:24 +0000

You don’t start to appreciate the true value of time, until you really want it to pass, fast…because then it doesn’t! Why should it? It has time. Can it acutally control himself, can it just order himself to stop? If not, who can? Maybe time are more…Slow time, Fast time, Boring time, Colourful time, Dinner time, Change time, Kissing time (I like this one), Dying time, Dark time, Gold time, Bad Time, Bed Time, Eating time, Pretending time, Waiting time (hate that one), Dancing time, Shit time, Good time, Almost perfect time, Perfect time (God bless people who are never late to come), Insane time, Sick time, In time, Waiting time (I know it was already, but I just hate this one), Weird time, Coffee time, Big time! Short time, …. time, …. time, ….time, …..
Does time like time? Do they meet? If time goes back, do they sit for a drink and chat about weather? or fashion? or death? Is time scared of the end of time? Does time need affection? or attention? I’m sorry. Why does time get shorter? Is it getting old? than why does everyone call it new? Does time suffer from Progeria? That means it should die in his mid’teens or early than twenties. Is he new enough?
How can you feel the spirit of time if it’s not dead?
Is time money? Really? That sounds stupid and looks even stupider. Who ever said that needed both desperately, though none cure stupidness. We kill time every day. 6 billion of people kill time every day. How? By doing nothing. No wonder we’re in chains.
Does time run out of time? Of course, otherwise where the lost time comes from?
Did time ever loved another time? or a human? or the air? or life? or mornings? I guess he didn’t, you lose track of time when you’re in love and time is not allowed to do that. Isn’t that sad? Mybe that’s the reason he gets crankier, he’s pissed at us…we can stop anytime, without wanting it, without anticipating it, we can lose ourselves any second.
Is time more into seconds or minutes? or weeks? or months? or seasons? or years? or eras? or nothing? Maybe just into coffee. I’m not.
Picture time, not a clock, not a watch, not a complicated mechanism, personalize it, take it for a walk in your thoughts, talk to it…what is your first question? Do you really need to ask?

A banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-Do you have a cigarette?
-I don’t smoke.
-Why?
-I heard it kills.

Another banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-How you’ve been lately?
-Bored.
-Why?
-No more good movies on TV.
-Television sucks.
-Well…”Time Wrap” is really cool.
-You’re too self centered.
-No, I’m just fast.

Here it is. Television can rewind time, Photography can pause time, Writers can reproduce time, Art can stop time. What is art? That is just not something I wish to get into. Time is enough, but there is not enough time. We need to stop it, more often.

Another banal conversation with Time:
-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-Can I touch you?
-When?
-Now.
-Where?
-Here.
-No.
-Why?
-I don’t like you.
-Why?
-You’re not big enough.
-Are you?
-I was.

Is time happy? Maybe just Happy time is happy, I don’t think Almost perfect time is happy since there is Perfect time. But Perfect isn’t happy either, he also knows about the other. A lot of expressions about time are stupid. For example: Time of my life, Time Out, Ahead of time, At all times, Behind the time, Time is up, Make time for something or someone, In time (is it cozy?), Too much time on my hands, Couple of times, Time heals, Never.

My last banal conversation with Time:

-Hey Time.
-Hey.
-If i’ll get big enough, can I touch you?
-No.
-Why?
-You are annoying.
-That’s why?
-No.
-Why?
-I’m incomplete.

Despre complexitatea gunoiului

cristinaburduja — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 07:38:38 +0000

Înainte ca soarele să apuce să răsara, străzile sunt deja pline de forfota gunoierilor de dimineaţă. Parcă se face curăţenie peste noapte, dar tot mizerie găseşti la fiecare colţ. Gunoierii de dimineaţă sunt alt fel de specie. Ei nu au maşini performante, care fac nişte zgomote de zici că reasfaltează străzile în fiecare noapte, şi scot aburi de zici că respiră o sută de boi înhămaţi la un jug teribil; ei nu au nici uniforme speciale, din acelea de le vezi de la un kilometru, de ţi se pare că au invadat extratereştrii străzile. Gunoierii de dimineaţă nu sunt cu nimic speciali, nu i-ai putea deosebi de restul oamenilor, dar atunci când restul oamenilor dorm, chiar şi extratereştrii, ei curăţă ce-a rămas, până şi cele mai uitate colţuri.
Printre ei cel mai cunoscut e unul zis Basarabeanul. Nu e tocmai cel mai vorbăreţ specimen. Nu l-a prea auzit nimeni vorbind. Singura şansă era atunci când la fiecare gunoi, fie el şi o jumătate de coajă de sămânţă sau o şosetă, care te intrebai cum naiba a ajuns acolo, în timp ce îl plasează cu atenţie în oala cu gunoi, îi şopteşte “Pentru Basarabia”. Nu-şi uită niciodată replica. E ca un fel de ritual. Ai impresia, că e nebun, că a uitat de sine şi nu mai ştie pe ce lume se află. Mulţi l-au cercetat. Curiozitatea nu e ca mândria, o găseşti pe toate rafturile, dar el nimenui nu i s-a spovedit.
Într-o zi găsise un călcâi de pâine coaptă, aruncat sub o tufă de trandafir, lăsat parca de cineva în acel loc, deloc secret, pentru zile negre. Basarabeanul îl luă cu grija, se uită bunghit în jur, apoi la călcâi, îl mirosi…încă mirosea a cuptor încins, a iz de ţară, a pumnii crăpaţi ce-au frământat aluatul, a bucuria grâului cosit…îl sărută, de parcă îşi cerea iertare celui ce a îndrăznit să-l lase acolo. Îl băgă în buzunarul secret al jachetei, uitându-se precaut în jur, parcă speriat să nu-l fi ajuns zilele negre pe uituc şi şopti abia repirând “Pentru Basarabia”. Munca gunoierilor, nu e chiar uşoară pe cât se pare, nici josnică pe cât se crede, ba chiar foarte captivantă. Cu gunoaiele nu e de glumit. Trebuie să ştii pe fiecare în ce oala îl bagi. Unele trebuie reciclate, altele ar fi bine să dispară de pe faţa pământului, altele ar trebui păstrate cu grijă, aruncate fiind din nesabuinţă, se pare.
Basarabeanul era grijuliu. Avea ritual. Boteza fiecare gunoi, de orice culoare, îl întorcea pe toate părţile să-i vadă şi dedesubturile…de departe multe par interesante, de aproape…le cam simţi mirosul. “Pentru Basarabia” însă le şoptea la toate.
Într-o noapte se stârni o furtună aprigă. De mult nu mai simţise colţul ăsta de lume o urgie atât de mare. Gunoaiele fuseseră împrăştiate peste tot, ajunseseră până şi în casele oamenilor, pe canapelele din sufragerie, pe după televizoare, pe rafturile cu cărţi, pe dupa icoanele cu sfinţi; în orice gospodărie puteai întrezari câte unul. Lumea parcă fusese îngropată sub mizerie şi praf. Grea muncă îi aştepta pe gunoierii de dimineaţă.
Basarabeanul fu primul la datorie. Avea ritual. Trecuseră deja ceilalţi gunoieri, cu maşinile lor performante; dar, după cum gândi Basarabeanul nostru “cu maşinării nu te bagi în sufletul omului”. Se uită în jur, vrând parcă să calculeze, oare cât le va lua gunoierilor de dimineaţă să cureţe ce-a mai rămas. Pământul parcă îşi schimbase faţa. Respiră adânc, de câteva ori. Apoi începu “Pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru Basarabia…pentru…..”. Cu cat curăţa mai mult, cu atât i se părea că nu se mai termină. Ştia el însă că de gunoi e greu să scapi, dar nu e imposibil. Unii oameni îl izgoneau, batjocurindu-l, alţii râdeau de el arătându-l cu degetul “Ia uite şi la ăsta, mare gospodar!”, alţii îl ignorau de parcă era şi el un gunoi mai mare, alţii îi zâmbeau cu milă, alţii vroiau să-l ajute…degeaba, nu-i lăsa nici pe unul, ce ştiau ei despre complexitatea gunoiului.
După ore grele de muncă, într-un moment când i se părea că nu mai are puteri să mai mişte, se aşeză pe iarbă să-şi tragă sufletul. Netezind firele de iarbă, dădu peste o bucată de hârtie mototolită, o desfăcu, se holbă în jur apoi…citi “Mamă, să o ia naiba de furtună, ne-a ajuns gunoiul până-n gât. Am plecat la votare. Să ne-ajute Dumnezeu!”. Zâmbi… îndoi hârtia cu grijă şi o băgă în buzunarul special, cel din dosul jachetei, pe partea stângă, apoi bătu cu palma peste de câteva ori, parcă vrând să simtă că e încă acolo, şoptind cu faţa spre soarele care începea timid să răsară “Pentru Basarabia”…şi o luă de la capat.

The wall in the clouds

cristinaburduja — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 08:49:59 +0000

I simply love the take-off. The plane stops at the beginning of the flight strip, I imagine instantly the multitude of buttons of different colours in the pilot’s cabin, which makes you think of a Star Trek episode (I saw only 2 of them in my life and only by accident), only this ones you really have to know well.
The sudden high speed sticks you to your seat and then you start asking yourself when?…now?…now?…now? I never guessed. We always took off at the moment when I started to focus more on the speed, or sound, or the natural peacefullness of the passanger next to me, in this case a cheerful german.
I start smiling. Have no idea why. I like the sensation, I have to admit, but I do aknowledge that this is not the reason. Maybe I got contaminated from my neighbour, or (I’m tempted to lie to myself), he did from me.
We estrange rapidly and apparently surely from the ground. My neighbour is picking his nose, making small balls and throwing them on the floor, between me and him, like he intends to build a german wall between us from his apparently very distubring snots, since the spacial proximity of my flowerish shoes and (let me take a look) his mountain boots was not taken into consideration.
Anyway, the man reads…so I have forgiven him, my shoes never. I stare discreetly. He is reading “Voodoo History”, my shoes become exponencially more interested.
Let’s get back to the take-off. I never succeed at identifying my house, building, district, car, streets (which name I never remember, because I am just not interested). The houses become tiny, that’s the moment when I realize why are the sky people so frightening – because they can see our smallness.
We reach the clouds. My german neighbour sleeps with his book in his hand, his cleaned nose is tempted second by second to invade the space of the historical art of voodoo. I ask myself, how come the book didn’t fall yet? Maybe it’s beceause of the coulds, they make it float.
We pass the clouds. The sun is appearing, enlightening exactly my window. I take it as a divine sign, “I’m a special person” I think and start smiling again. This time for a known reason. I am hot. My palms start to sweat, I wipe them off, not at all discreetly, over my balck pants…I guess we passed the discreet line at the foundation of the german wall.
You won’t believe this, he woke up! He starts reading again. Mostly trying than succeeding. A sort of a preparation for a really heavy sleep. I bet he will fall, hopefully, on the book and not on my shoulder which still hurts from my monster backpack.
I detected a polar bear in one cloud. I bet he’s happy. He is.
I dropped my book on the floor. Big mistake. My neighbour germanish manner smiled at me…oh, well, so the wall didn’t reach the mouth level, yet.
I don’t have a watch and on the plane I am not capable of aproximating time…I guess you could say that I spend my entire life in a plane if you knew me.
The clouds remind me of snow, the snow reminds me of cold, I better not look at them. Anyway they are too many to be counted up.
I’m hungry, I could eat anything, anything for free. I never understood why are the prices so high in the plane, to give you the impression that the food tastes better or because they want to prive you from your principles? I’m taking it too far, I’m sure the explanation is simple and stupid, but i can only reach it through complicated eliminations.
How much time is left? Should I ask my neighbour? I don’t think so, I’m too afraid to wake him up from reading. I look fugitively around, too many people that are going bald on this plane. If we would crash successfully, we would die suffocated by hair or snots. I would pick the snots, I use to eat them as a child. Many do. Yet, the sensation of the hair in your mouth…I’m sure the chinese used it as a torture and many betrayed their countries from it.
The stewardess has incredibly white teeth, a mouth like that can convince you of anything.
My neighbour woke up and is insisting on building the wall. If we crash successfully, I’m never getting out of here.
It’s an extremely dense fog outside (how strange “outside” sounds in here, it’s always an approximated one). It’s like we’re in the water. How would a flying submarine look like, or a plane diving? The submarine sounds more plausible, but boring. Maybe if there would really be one, it would be fascinating.
I wonder: how peaceful plane constructors sleep at night? In my opinnion these are the only people that can’t allow themselves to be lazy at work. They have to check a lot (I tried to find a number, but 10 is too small and one thousand is too big, I got lost in between, so I stick at “a lot”) of times to make sure everything is perfect. Here perfection must exist. I bet it’s really hard to be a wife of a plane constructor.
The sky is superb. Clouds of different shapes and sizes, at different hights, through a blue that makes you believe that you finally discovered the true blue colour. Throught the holes in upper clouds I see the inferior layer of clouds, which move to the opposite direction of the superior layer or the same direction as the plane; I wish there would be a supernatural explanation to it or some complicated physics explanation, but I presume it’s just an optical illusion. I shouldn’t look at them. Illusions don’t last long and I don’t want to be dissappointed. The imposibility of counting is enough for now.
I don’t want clouds anymore, I want food and an extra leg room, but both of them cost ten times more here, in the clouds. The constructor of the wall, my neighbour, is smiling. What did he do in Romania, I wonder. Doesn’t matter, I want to believe he’s happy and he loves his wife (he has a wedding ring) and she loves him and I hope they don’t have the same habbits.
The pilot is annoucing that we’re about to land. In a beaten black and blue English he gives us some local ground information and wishes us a “Happy Christmas!”. He sounds bored, I guess he’s not very passionate about the landing.
I have butterflies in my stomach. My palms are sweaty again and it has nothing to do with landing. It’s about the fact that I’m about to kiss…I missed so much the earthly stuff.
We’re landing. I always guess the “Now!”.

keep swimming or just take it!

cristinaburduja — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 16:16:15 +0000

I always thought life is more about guessing. You can’t really know anything for sure (take religion or prices at McDonalds). You can’t really define the strongest emotions (and those are very important), you can’t really know if you’re going to make it after all (even if in Highschool everybody thought you will) and you can’t really know when black turns white and vice versa. And it worked for me, until it didn’t. The change came when I realized that I know exactly what I want all the time but I’m a chicken (I don’t know why they use this bird for cowardness when it’s a monument for stupidity), meaning I can’t make decisions unless they aren forced, induced or even fed with caramel. Even if I always knew what I wanted and my parents always let me choose whatever I want to do, I somehow ended up going the “wrong” direction. If to the right is a coffee shop with nice colourful windows and at the left is a library with comfortable couches (and I do like sitting confortable on my ass), I will choose the middle path hoping some of those two very different institutions has a magnet for featherless chicken. Well, funny, and sometimes annoying thing, is that it always worked. The magnet was somewhere and, as I concluded later, it’s there mostly by accident. Accidents are signs for me. These are certain unexplicable marks of destiny. I take them as facts and they love me. So now, after I got into a “getting older” vibe, I started to become more cynical, meaning I have my certainties and they are not puffy. It’s not like I’m not guessing anymore, I do, but I know that I’m doing it. I guess what can happen next, but I don’t really make plans, so my “next” is just few seconds away. I know the planet is round and that my kitchen table is too high and I know that I’m not capable of organizing myself (but somehow I like it) and that my mother really believes in me no matter what and that my boyfriend doesn’t have a clue who I really am, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still need to guess. After all, we all become the people we don’t want and it’s not because we get married and we have to, it’s because we always guessed who we really were…even though we always knew it. And it’s good, otherwise the world will be full of firemen and prostitutes. Which doesn’t sound bad, but still…try and picture it! …Ok, Try again.

Long story short, for the men overboard, stop making assumptions, just take it! (as some of my friends would say)

guess, what?

cristinaburduja — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 21:41:57 +0000

Things change, and they change fast. You can’t stop them, moderate them or change their changing, all you can do is not guessing. If you guess two things can happen: one: you get fucked and second: you will get a surprise, but the problem is that you can’t really enjoy a surprise if you know exactly what you want. Yeah, you smile and everything, but in the back of your head you think about that something that you had on your stupid mind. I’m not calling you stupid, I’m just saying that your mind is stupid, because if it wasn’t your life will be known and planed and wow, you’re dead. That was my wow, you won’t have any wows because you just can’t let go…you just can’t stop guessing. I know, it’s pretty easy to say and hard to do, but guess what: yeah, you can guess now…so? No guessing? Oh c’mon…try! Yeah that’s the trick: when you have to, you just won’t do it. So pretend that there is a big ugly real animation bad character you are scared of and it makes you guess every time, everyday, every minute what’s going to happen next. Try it! You are going to a club, guess what’s going to happen…
-I will meet with friends. –aha… – we will drink something. – aha… –we will get wasted. –good…- and then…-yeah? -out of nowhere – yeah… –suddenly – yeah… – I will see – aha……. – a big piece of flying shit –very funny –it’s stupid! – I thought you wanted to help me write this story – I do, but I mean c’mon, who need you to tell them all the shit they already know and heard a lot of times – Some people do –Who? –What do you mean who? What kind of question is that? – a normal question, one of those annoying “w” questions – yeah, well cut it out, I need help here – Why? –are you starting again? – What? – using the “w questions – when? – fuck off – thanks God, let’s go get wasted and see that shit – I hope it’s flying because if it’s not it’s one of those two: you’re fucked!

Curiosity…of men

cristinaburduja — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 21:08:58 +0000

I was dying out of curiosity…was it really true that she came back, that she’s close to me again? After all, what does it matter if she was in town? She left me, I was alone, maybe she wasn’t, but I wish she was, ‘cause this way I won’t feel a complete loser, even if I felt so a lot of times after she left. But why didn’t she want to tell me that she was still here, so close to me when I was picturing her on a top of the mountain holding a pirate flag and pretending to smile in case someone actually sees her. I mean, I knew her so well, I knew her better than anyone, more than she knew herself, not that we are ever capable of knowing ourselves, anyway, how could she? Or did she? That was the big question. Or maybe the big question was: if she is here why didn’t she call me, or somehow let me know that she is in the range of my reach, so that I can see and hear her again. I don’t want to touch her, ‘cause if I touched her that would totally prove that she is actually there. My body felt numb, it was all psychological and stuff, but I just couldn’t feel my legs and my arms and my eyes were acting strangely, like they didn’t want to stop and focus, like they were afraid of getting caught in a trap, if they stop that meant that they decided not to move, and not to move meant to stop, forever. I know it doesn’t make sense, but at that point it all made, everything was completely logical, besides the fact that she may have returned. I mean why? Did she forget something, did she miss someone, besides me, whom? Or what? Did she miss something? No, she hated this place, this whole place, never cozy, never warm enough, never dirty enough to give you a reason to leave and too clean to give you an opposite reason to leave. Who thought that it would bother me so much? I mean, she left, I stayed, she wanted to leave, I didn’t, so we did what we wanted and didn’t what we should’ve done, but who can blame us for that? We always do the things that we want, but never the things we really want. I was born to be a loser, but I did care. I cared about her worries that something would go wrong, that our neighbor was rude to her and wanted to jump her in the elevator by pretending to have a heart attack or a stoke or something, something medical and serious. Anyway, he fell on her and she thought that he did that on purpose. I believed her, she was so convincing and yet, the guy died three days later, but that was just a coincidence, she said and I agreed. She could be very convincing. I should find out, if she is here, I can call her, I can talk to her, or just see her and not talk to her, what would I say: Hi, do you have a lighter ‘cause I just quit smoking and I have none. No, I can’t say the same thing I said the first time and hope it’s going to work again. She can’t think I’m stupidly cute two times over the same stupid thing. I need to say something else, like: hey, wanna get wasted and do it on the floor of a public something? No, it’s lame and she doesn’t like when I say things she knows I’m not gonna do ‘cause I’m too scared of getting in trouble. Yes, but I could say that I changed, no, lying to her twice wouldn’t make her laugh, will make her angry and if she’s angry she will definitely not do it with me afterwards. She had this belief that make-up sex is proving that girls don’t have any pride, even if they were the ones who initiated the fight. I know it’s not fair, but what is when it comes to her? I should just call. And say what? Why should I say something? She will know it’s me. I wasn’t very good at talking anyway, ever. Ok, all I need to know is why she came back? I’m calling…
Beep…beep…beep…(crap, three times, I should hang the phone, she is not answering)…beep…(what is wrong with me? Don’t answer, please)…beep…beep…(ok, one more and I hang)…beep…(Ok, one more)…(I’m so stupid, soooo stupid, soooo fucking stupid)…beep…(stupidly cute, what does that even mean? Did she mean I’m cute because I’m stupid or I’m stupid because I’m cute, are stupid people cute? All of them?)…beep…(damn, why didn’t she have instead of all these beeps a nice song, something I can dance on and pretend that I don’t give a crap)…beep…(who invented these phones? These annoying sounds? This whole waiting for an answer process? Who wants to wait for this?)…beep…(ok, answer, now! Or forever hold your phone in your damn purse like you always do and never hear it)…beep….
-”hello”…“hello”…“heeee-llo-ooo”…”ok, who is it?”…“is that you?”…”hey, answer me”…”ok, cough once if it’s you”
-(I cough)
-“So it’s you…I’m in town.”
-(I cough, differently)
-“Why? I had to come back.”
(Why didn’t they invent a sound for these pauses, you push a button and a melody starts, a very stupid melody that you hate, that everybody hates because the lyrics are stupid, the melody sucks but it just sticks in your head for the whole…a sticky melody is so much better than all this pressure)
-(I cough, trying to make the same sound as last time.)
-“Was that why? Well…I need something from you.”
(Or even better every number has a joke, you press a number, you hear a joke, the tension is out and you’re both laughing…just hope it’s not a baby joke…she starts crying at those)
-“I need you to forgive me.”
Hang!

supposed to not be proven

cristinaburduja — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 23:58:13 +0000

I can’t believe I’m still lying to myself that this is not how it’s supposed to be…I can’t change anything, just because I have no problem in accepting things the way they are and not trying to force myself to notice that they are not at all as I wanted them to be. It is not simple, nor complicated…it’s just real, it feels real, it acts real, it keeps me awake for real reasons, but the reasons are not even close to what real is. Sometimes you can change a story, but the characters will always remain identifiable. It’s one and another, having fears and dreams, drinking tea and chatting without saying anything, having all they want but refusing to admit it, because too good is never enough.
There is nothing that can be changed and yet, I’m speaking to myself pretending to ignore that I might just be wrong about it, about everything. What makes you certain of something? the end of the action or the purpose of it? If you want to win something you have to get in the game, and the game is not meant to be won or lost, but to be attractive enough so you can get the feeling that you know the rules. “The rules are made to be broken” they say, well…that’s just another rule, and knowing that makes it even more attractive. When it comes to the way of playing the game, it’s all about the input and the will to let go of everything you consider to be given as a fact. If you want to change something, start with ignoring the fact that only something that is broken can be fixed…cause usually the things that are good are even weaker because of the lack of attention. And yes, I know, weak doesn’t necessarily mean broken, but good doesn’t necessarily mean not broken.
I can’t believe I’m still lying to myself that this is not how it’s supposed to be… because if it’s supposed then somewhere in the middle I’ll get a hint that I just might change it by lying.

Long story short: If it’s supposed to be, try not to prove it!