Despre complexitatea gunoiului

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

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!

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?

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

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

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!

to eat or not to think?

-Stop! take a deep breath and just stop…stop thinking…does it hurt? do you feel useless? are your feet getting numb? do you feel a small pain in your brain? are there butterflies all over your stomach? do you feel like running, again and again, from the same mistakes they did, he did, she did, we did…you did, knowing that you can’t go back? do you feel like running from happiness just because you can’t take it, because it hurts too much to live in fear? do you feel hunger..for passion, suffering, pity, shrimps? do you feel like getting high and catch a cold just because you forgot that your feet are attached to you? do you feel like taking a shower or brush your teeth or pee…right now? do you feel that you need more time, even if it doesn’t come in dozes? do you feel like smelling her hair…just to remember when everything else will smell like shit? do you still want to take that trip, where everyone goes just because everyone goes? do you still need to prove your parents that they know nothing of you, when you know nothing of them? do you still believe in God, just because you heard it helps? do you feel the need to decide your future, even if you know for sure that you can die anytime? do you feel like crying, even if no one will know about it? do you want kids, even if they’re going to hate you for wanting what’s best for them? do you want to scream, just because you need attention? do you feel like yourself, after all this years of doing nothing? do you need to fake it, because you feel pity? do you? do you? can you?
-Can I what? what?
-Stop?
-What?
-Stop!
-I can’t!
-Why?
-I can’t!
-Why?
-I don’t want to.
-Why?
-I can’t!
-Why?
-Stop!
-What?
-Making me think!
-Why?
-Because it hurts………………jvbab”ia4ug#oiu!0bl(cjb>OU……………..I’m hungry.