Alice is watching television, then the screen goes dark and then the screen grows stars…

September 30th, 2007

 

Alice came home all sweaty from the office one day; stopped in front of the hallway mirror to take off her earrings and it suddenly hit her: she had made a promise about cutting that hair some time ago, and yet, she behaved like an amnesic with herself, loosing the thought every time one would admire it or caress it, loosing her eyes amongst the brownish-reddish locks which had surrounded her neck’s skin for almost a year. She had gotten so used to them that she’d fall asleep with one of them rolled around one finger, just as if she wanted to make sure that she wouldn’t leave the bed and run away from herself until morning. Alice knew exactly that the long hair was a precaution, just another thread that Alice could be pulled by…she knew this as sure as she knew that Alice had to be watched every single minute in order not to do anything stupid.

She remembers exactly that winter day in Budapest when Alice cried herself to sleep during daylight and woke up in the middle of the night with the wind blowing through the wide-open door of her house; Alice was then as scared as a mouse, she pulled on a pair of trousers and ran out of the house, not coming back till morning; walking the streets had always been much more homey for Alice than most things..

Alice thought of short hair as of a freedom manifest; a manifest against all those who spent time passing their fingers through it, against her own mother who loved pulling her by her hair in a playful manner every time Alice would misbehave, against her old and only self who felt surrounded by and hidden in it while sleeping; as long as the hair hang in there Alice could very well sleep naked or behave like a tray empty of thoughts; in her hair hang all her memories slipping down and climbing up to the roots, crawling back inside her head, changing the look on her face and her gaze, changing the way she’d open the window every morning, changing the taste of her coffee, switching the books she remembered reading and shuffling the impressions she felt on her skin.

Funny thing, Alice always thought the scissors which would one day do the shameful deed would come from somewhere inside her, her belly or her heart, where a sharp decision, thoroughly taken, would toss and squirm until it broke through, cutting through the other side into daylight, just like a new born crying out the first sounds of life. She had spent and prepared many moments of deep thought caressing this decision. She had played cards with Alice almost daily trying to foresee the future as a warm and soft bed cloth in which this decision would be born and sleep peacefully while re-organizing the rest of her life. How many games they’d play the right numbers never came up and one day the cards fell off her white hands. She did not try to put them in order, just passed her shoe once or twice through them, looking at the numbers held in the last hand: she could not find the right ones so she remained still at the table, staring in thin air. Alice didn’t bend to pick them up either. After all, the deck had never been hers and these card games, requiring too much algebra, always made her a bit fussy and nervous. She stood up from the table picking her dress and went away surrounded by the soft swish of expensive cloth and the mumble of her own disguised thoughts.

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Playing along

August 18th, 2007

Sometimes I think that people are just born impotent and there is simply no chance that they will ever become great warriors on the battlefield they’re placed on or the battlefield of their choosing, if there is no one there to teach them the art of cutting through, standing, looking ahead, breathing deep and looking high. People are little, just like any other rolls of flash and bones; basically one could have them as appetizers.  It’s never hard to put people down; if strength does manage it, people have so many other strings to be pulled by that is only a matter of time until the dead end or the bang of self-rupture rings for notice and a new puppet is born.

Lately, Alice has been having many episodes of deep sleep with dizzy dreams which pulled her through just like in a storm, and she found herself sliding downwards and crushing every time onto a different floor; any floor her mischievous mind would through her on. If this was truly an action driven by bad will or bad luck, Alice would never know.

Someone, maybe even herself, could have been drawing cards from the complete set that she once was, just as Alice had told her the first time she met her.

She had said:

“ - I am not afraid of you, you are nothing but a deck of cards.”

Alice thought of it as a kind and nice remark and loved Alice for it; she smiled and gave her a big hug. Later on, reconsidering, she knew that this had been no courtesy statement; were it to be the real truth, the danger was just close by. Alice was on the edge of re-shuffle almost any day. Further more, every time a card would drop out of the deck, like it used to happen every time when dreaming, Alice would crash together with the card upon a different floor and stand up with her knees bleeding. Every second day then, she would feel dizzy when waking up, a complete stranger to the real world (she would forget about the 9 o’clock metro and the last bus which was leaving for work at 9:30) and she would always bare scars.

Last night Alice had dreamt that she was in love with a boy with beautiful big blue eyes. It felt weird, just as if this boy was a mystery to himself (a closed, circular circuit of a dark mind), like he was lunatic and no-one would touch out of fear that he might scratch, bite or kill and then they would end up either in a coffin or baring the same poison. They had told Alice: “Simply stay away. Don’t let him come near, even if he wants to.” Alice dreamt of herself running around a house with many rooms, all coming out one of another, and desperately locking every door to keep the monster away. She remembers exactly how she was carefully thinking how strong the lock of the room should be, in order for her to sleep next door to him and hear his breath while sleeping. She badly needed to know that he would once come at peace with whatever illness was devouring him, and, strangely, she had a sick curiosity about observing how the illness would develop and she felt that she could love the character he would become at any stage of it.

This whole set of actions kept Alice in constant check; she imagined a table of chess on which she would be running across, stumbling in her hair, being afraid to look away, and always trying to find the right move, though his square had never changed. He would always remain the fool, right on spot, where he was placed from the beginning; only his eyes threw burning wires across the squares. It was a bit creepy being placed on the same table, in the same system of checkers, knowing that he could eat u up in two jumps if he wanted two, never knowing when he would move, never trusting he’d never do that. For once, geometry could not be trusted!

Alice got too tired and scared and decided to jump when she reached one edge. She ripped her dress a bit in the silver metal lock of the chess board and got a scratch on her finger, but as soon as she felt earth under her feet she could hear the sound of the door crashing just as she was pulling it towards her. Then she locked it safe and ran away with a key almost half her arm. It was a gloomy day, one in which you cannot notice either when the sun rises or it sets, things where all silent, the roads where all straight, she found her house number easily under a street lamp, and everything turned back to normal..

Months had passed, and Alice could not stand the noise of the traffic, neither the little sounds that people moving around her house were doing while making coffee in the kitchen or crashing the doors of the two bathrooms. She was tired waking up every morning in a world that was already awake; it made her feel out of pace, always in need to speed up, to catch up, unable to hold still, always with a prescription for every day …so that, in the end, there wouldn’t be any actual brand new days or pages to fill in. She was living a book of instructions that was already written, orders she couldn’t re-invent, just miss them out, and then loose at a game she did not even know by hard.

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Take a long jump with Alice

August 8th, 2007

 This morning, Alice’s biggest dilemma was ‘to go or not to go… jogging’. The enthusiastic sides of this acking balance silently disrupted as soon as she went downstairs for cigarettes. Morning coffee, TV news and a brand new pack is enough to shatter away any thought of harsh physical movement. Then, the guilt came, for not doing it; later on, the solutions for the guilt: “What if I don’t jog but don’t eat either? That ought to be enough..I’m not fat anyway..Well..fu*k it!”

A TV show presented emotional encounters on the airport between children and mothers who had left for work in amazing places like Italy, Spain; all the places that are usually a die for and worth leaving ur children behind. These children were quite lost, hadn’t seen their mothers for 4 years and could barely remember how they looked when they were three years old. A young blond prince, aged 7 was asked to describe his mother:

 

“- Well, she is a brunette, and she has her hair, …arrrgh,..up till.. here. And, she has no wrinkles! She has no wrinkles!”

“- What will you do when you see her?”

“- I’ll tell her that I’ll kiss her”

“- Will you kiss her for real as well, or just tell her that?”

“I’ll just tell her. I will kiss her too, later. Perhaps…”

 

Alice thought of the damn plane arriving from Milan as of combat air-force carrying an army of working mothers, all coming out of the plane dressed in blue overalls, wearing badges with the euro sign pinned on their chest which used to be a breast and now is screaming out in cents a different type of love.

Then she calmed down, remembering a moment of her childhood when her father came back from Syria one evening and she had innocently asked: “Who is this Mr.?” Later on he became world-wide/kindergarten-type known as the mister who had brought the blond hair doll which got decapitated a year later.

Even later, the same Mr screwed up her vocabulary, as she was just learning new words, by daring to come back from Pakistan in the company of a suitcase. Alice thought until the second grade in school that the true name of a suitcase is Pakistan and everyone else is deeply mistaken. Dummies!

 

Getting over the globalization drama Alice took a shower and got dressed; black all over! She was supposed to go to an interview similar to a funeral. How the f*ck are assistant managers supposed to look like? She thought a crow is better then a penguin and decided to leave the black shirt on.

 

They had told her:

 “Dress office tomorrow!”

 

And she thought:

 “Whaaat? Are u telling me I ought to leave a life of colored skirts and butterflies behind? Are u telling me that this winter in the metro I will not be wearing the knitted red cap I was dreaming of wearing when snowin’? Neither the red coat, nor the matching green gloves? I will never look like an elf again? I won’t get out of the metro in the University square to take a trolley and go to that academy I’ve been dreaming of all these years? Where will I go down? Victory Square? Well…victory my ass! Hell with all of u but,….aaaarrgh! I’ll submit!” Then she bowed her head, shaded a tear, touched with the tip of her tongue the midst of her palm to check if still salty and raised her eyes back, acting decided: “Will do!”

 

The phone rang violently and the interview got rescheduled for the next day. Alice had spent all her afternoon browsing the net and checking out different departments at notorious universities, viewing and reviewing images of what she could do or she could have done only if: not so many miles apart, not with such a sick mentality, less confused, open-minded parents, without teenage dramas about perspectives and with no so much care either for life or the people living it.

She wished she could have scrolled up and down among the thoughts her brain carried while breathing heavily, just as if it was ready to give birth any second now. Her brain had been almost ready for years. Water broke so many times, especially through the eyes…but in the end, all Alice had been left with was a pond in which she could admire herself with a gaze downwards, while waitin’ for her hair to grow long enough and for the tips to get wet. Only then, she thought, a certain connection or merge could take place, and, finally, she could have a good bath in the substance that had embraced the embryo of the real her, crawling back on her body upstairs, in a different house, in a different city, in a kitchen with a different scent…

She tried it in all possible ways until she got so angry with herself that she felt like biting her own fingers. She was constantly lookin’ in the mirror at a stranger brought by fate or bad luck or an ill-intentioned friend. This strange female copy of Chucky would always deceive her by tempting, by delaying, by whispering lies and thoughts about another registry of possibilities. This woman had no conscience and she drew chalk-limits back at Alice from inside the mirror. When Alice would raise her right hand she would use her left to put it down. When Alice wanted to raise voice she’d switch off and turn to mute. Catching her dressed up all in black one day, Alice thought that she’s in mourning, but no, the glass of champagne stood right by her side and her glorious laughing was shattering the walls in Alice’s brain. Alice raised a finger and got closer to the mirror. This woman had such a big nose that it was impossible to miss it! She managed to touch it but she could find no soap-bubbles! Nothing broke or blasted. The mirror felt watery and gluey. Alice barely managed to take back her finger and the image was back as a whole again. Her finger smelled of sweat and champagne and a very expensive perfume which she hated even if her mother had saved it up for her in a drawer for years. She always thought her daughter will love wearing it as a grown woman.

Alice looked at the finger and thought of giving it a taste. The smell was all there but the taste was empty. She couldn’t feel a thing. She tried licking, then biting; she ate the whole nail off; still nothing. Looked in the mirror with despair and saw the woman inside holding her belly while laughing out loud. She got a little dizzy, then a bit sick; she walked towards the bed and crashed in it covering herself with a thick blanket. The lights went out for Alice as she was slowly fainting into sleep.

In the mirror a neon light suddenly went on as the woman inside starting trying on business outfits, reading sites about multinational companies and answering important calls, scheduling hours…Alice’s nail grew right back on. The next day you couldn’t see a bite on it as she was putting on fresh nail polish, pulling up the zipper to a pair of brand new black pants, tying the shoe-laces of her black shoes and puffing perfume from an old bottle of Channel No 5.

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Teatru si Dez-ordine

July 30th, 2007

Ieri un amic de-al meu mi-a spus pe mess ca atunci cand aude cuvantul “modern” deja i se ridica parul in cap. M-am gandit cu groaza ce inseamna postmodernitatea pentru unii, care aspira la firul narativ…

In acest post voi scrie impresiile legate de un spectacol bizar pentru publicul romanesc, “Reflexiile lui Narcis” sau, altfel spus, ‘teatrul pe apa’ din parcul Tineretului de acum doua zile. Au fost destui care au mers la acest spectacol, din varii motive; publicul a fost cat se poate de divers si zgomotos. Langa mine, la un moment dat, o doamna s-a ridicat si a zis cu voce tare: “Eu plec, nu mai stau, astia sunt prea intelectuali!” :) ) Poate avea dreptate, poate nu; exista dreptate in privinta a ceea ce inseamna exagerare si superlativ in postmodernitate?

“Apa înseamnă reflexie şi reflecţie, oglindire şi proiecţie a sufletului. Actorii îşi pun întrebări asupra formării individualităţii şi aspiră la unicitate. Narcis, ferecat în el însuşi, steril şi fără urmaşi, reuşeşte să se multiplice în milioane de copii: povestea lui este povestea supremaţiei vizualului în lumea de azi. “

Gandul, 28.07.07

Ma gandesc acum daca asta au procesat-o astia de la Gandul sau e un fel de brief avansat de trupa. Cred ca a doua varianta, si in acest caz…

Toti prietenii mei care au fost la acest spectacol s-au simtit depasiti, a fost un acord colectiv in urma caruia s-a decis ca vizual spectacolul era o realizare extraordinara dar ca sens avea lacune imense.

Spectacolul a inceput cu tema de rasunet a narcisismului, dar dezvoltarea ulterioara a temei a parasit acest fagas director. Piesa s-a dezbinat in opinia mea, aproape de scindare. In prima parte, tema lui Narcis era clara, personajele erau neutre ca imagine, construite serial, aveau actiuni repetitive, toate in legatura cu spargerea si refacerea propriului profil. Scena arata mai mult cu o cautare disperata a unei identitatii originale, mulate pe un profil neutru. In sensul asta mi s-a parut foarte tare simbolistica carpelor izbite de apa si apoi stoarse. Ilustra exact un proces cumulativ, si apoi rezultatul care era simultan cu “disolutia” unui profil.

In a doua parte a spectacolului, imaginea lui Narcis a alunecat cumva sub apa ca sa zik asa. Tema directoare a fost visul, cu un pat imens impins in mijlocul lacului si o fata catarata in copac care era martora unei reuniuni identitare, intre personaje de data asta clar definite, incarcate cu detalii. Asaltul identitatii era clar, piesa a inceput sa aiba replici si un scurt moment de actiune, in care personajele se reuneau la o masa. Dizolvarea s-a repetat cu ajutorul personajelor neutre care au revenit si au rupt visul.

Finalul piesei: suprafata apei plina de profile transparente, oameni gomfabili din celofan care inlocuisera prezentele vii, efective. Nu stiu daca poate exista vreo interpretare decisiva. Daca structura narativa s-ar fi dovedit a fi o varianta plauzibila de interpretare a piesei, atunci interpretarea poate fi una negativa. Cautare, disperare, absurditate, idealuri stoarse de sens al caror rezultat reprezinta o mare pierdere, o alunecare in desertaciune, o frustrare imensa si un chip de sticla, pe care nici o expresie nu poate fi desenata. Poate rezultatul este oricum acesta si interpretarea balanseaza doar intre valoarea negativa sau pozitiva a sa.

In postmodernitate un chip de sticla nu este un obiect de vitrina. Idealul identitar parcurge doua etape, care au de-a face de fapt cu doua interpretari ale autenticitatii, ale imaginii de sine. Prima, care tzine de ambitia excentrica, de frizarea limitelor si de o ambitie disperata a originalitatii, care se manifesta prin imprumutarea detaliilor de dincolo de limita sau prin fuziunea unor registre imagistice intr-o alta incercare a inovatiei identitare, reprezinta doar o prima etapa, structurala.

A doua etapa, a profilului de sticla, a suprafetelor si formelor transparente, a jocurilor cu reflexii care incercuiesc un spatiu gol, tine de reinventarea unui ideal identitar, bazat pe un mister care nu mai poate fi decodat pentru ca nu mai intretine structura sau semnificatia. Persoana, care desi are un chip de sticla, are capacitate expresiva, nu mai este deghizata in propriul discurs, in detalii vitale sau in ilustratii recognoscibile. Acest tip de personaj reprezinta fuziunea unor registre, dar a unor registre goale, ale caror forme si detalii dispar odata cu acumularea si clash-ul provocat. Ce zace la baza unui astfel de personaj nu poate fi etichetata ca o ambitie disolutiva, mai degraba poate fi considerata o fascinatie a echivocului, a manechinului perfect, care poate suporta orice registru si detaliu, desi nici unul nu se lipeste de forma, si in ciuda acestui fapt, forma pastreaza viata si sens.

Detalii in legatura cu piesa:

* ce era foarte interesant e ca piesa avea un personaj pur functional, care intervenea in decor si coordona planurile: punea flori pe apa, planta oamenii transparenti. Ciudat, dar nu fara sclipire, acest personaj era unul de poveste, care statea sub un felinar. Era static, deci interventia era aproape anonima.

**in legatura cu singura parte pe care publicul a apreciat-o, desi fara a o intelege, - impactul vizual al piesei. Lipsa de semnificatie narativa, lipsa unei forme conclusive nu anuleaza un efect; nici imposibilitatea de a decoda o proprie impresie a carei forta totusi o simti. Aceasta companie de teatru functioneaza sub egida dezordinii, dar mie nu mi s-a parut ca sutura registrelor practicata in spectacol urmarea o valorificare cu sens a dezordinii. Nu credeti ca pot exista impresii fara referent? fara nume? Impactul dovedeste ca semnificatia se reinventeaza in lipsa simbolurilor, ca etichetele se sparg si efectele raman o masa amorfa, fluida, functionala.

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knitting hair-stories

June 20th, 2007

Alice had been flirting with the air for about two days or so; the laptop screen remained something insufficient and incomprehensible; nothing could have been eaten lightly out of the signs and images she viewed and reviewed.The green nailpolish had broke on her nails for some time and still..she did not see any point in removing; she watched her every nail as a different sequence out of what used to be a damn good series..

She passed her fingers softly upon black buttons, opening and opening, until a certain door crashed her thin digits. She turned pale. Went amazed about what she thought could have hidden behind that door, and still…charcoal leftovers all over her fingers. The wind blowing from inside smelled like burned pieces of her own hair. The haircut should have been done, so long ago. A hair is alive until one cuts it, once dead there’s nothing to kill.

She went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror; looking in the mirror saw Alice brushing her teeth; looking downwards in the sink saw locks of hair falling: brownish and reddish and dry…

Started squealing out of a sudden like a mouse trapped in something that she once thought a comfortable armchair; nothing was understandable, permissible, willing full or worth it anymore.

The white tiles could not respond and still hitting the head on them could not cover the sounds of what she wished could have been called crying. She slided downwards upon the marble, falling crippled on the floor. She had never been brave when it came to bathroom drama

Thinking of other places, she could feel her mind ripped apart. Alice cannot wear several pairs of glasses, it kills her view. But this time Alice chose: she wanted the ones to enhance her vision, she wanted the sunglasses too, she wanted the glasses that shown pictures switching, she wanted the glasses for the eclipse, the glasses with pink frames and all the other colours of the rainbow. Alice was happily enjoying herself the way kids usually do in candy shops, trying all different pairs.

Hidden backdoors, in what had probably been the dressing room, Alice got dizzy while watching her, even sick. Started throwing up all ugly things new born upon the burst of the moment. Alice thought herself in a coma for a while and was constantly hopping for the images to fade out and for a big embrace. All she thought she heard as the last sounds was Alice tapping on some stage somewhere, showin’ to the public an act with travesties, and then she heard her father’s voice on the phone, then she screamed and the rest was ashes…

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Speed up

June 20th, 2007

My statement for the day (leaving today. Cj and fasst-forward; mountains, Buc and seaside next weekend if the speed does not kill. Luv myself as guilty to be ‘innocent as can be’) :

base_image.jpg

“It’s all over the front page

U give me road rage

Racing through the best days”……..

(Catatonia; International Velevet; Road Rage; 1998)

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Monday to Tuesday; another walk with Alice

May 23rd, 2007

Last night Alice was falling fast asleep in the library, under the dim light of a desk lamp. Outside rain was hanging ready to break through the clouds and flow, while the place was stinking of an interminable tension.

She bought bread and cigarettes and got on the bus. In her mind the 50 pages she still had to write out of a thesis of 50 were ringing as an emergency call.

At home, with her hair wet, she took one more glance in the mirror…No, that head is not yet shaved, but will be,..someday, when Alice will have gained her strength. Until then, she’s used to it: 15 minutes de-tangling after every bath; weird animal habit..

Cooking a meal for two and listening to the noisy thoughts that were torturing Alice, the sleep somehow faded off..

    Why are those girls so keen on being girlish while they hate their boobs but love their vaginas? Why are they violent? Why do they talk to each-other as if talking in a mirror on a stage and get angry when all of them see the same guy leaning on a wall in the corner of the mirror? Why do they love each-other with passion, hate what usually lies underneath pants, but still wear them? Why, why, why..will they all become head-aching housewives hiding the dark secrets of their troubled youth from their children? Why does fury put an end to all these marvellous dreams of liberation?

 

Alice had no answers and she kept staring innocently in thin air..

Everything will fade away eventually Alice, everything usually does.. Especially the big questions. A hug drives away noisy thoughts, and three years will probably have changed everything we could even recall about our old selves:

    Why was I dead-worried about what thesis? What was Alice wearing? Grey pants? What were the names of the girls Alice was talking about and from where did she know them? And again, how could Alice have known what she was talking about? How, in turn, did Alice know those girls? Did Alice ever fall asleep that night? Was it truly hot in the room? Was it perhaps all the time just Alice herself loony-talking to her broken mirror? Who knows..who will know…in three years time.

 

Alice continued her dinner quietly, then Alice left the dishes for herself to do in the morning ‘cause Alice had cooked.

She woke up almost racing with sunlight; in fact she had been racing and troubling all the night through..with the heat, with the thesis, with a very annoying mosquito and with Alice who was simply splashed on the bed and couldn’t be moved, not even with the noise of hammers! The morning light was licking sweetly all windows as if sugar-coated..and Alice thought: this is gonna be another fuckin’ day in an oven but, nevermind, the coffee is good.

By 10:30 she had already done al the things all people who wish they were normal (as Alice always did) do in a normal day: drink coffee, take a shower, talk to friends, read news, listen to the radio, work on a thesis, answer emails, eat breakfast. And a few other things too (except walking a dog…Alice must buy a wagging tail soon, very soon, before Alice has the chance to buy a cat!).

Realizing this came as such a miracle to Alice, she realised she always loved ppl wakin up early in the morning and loved herself for doing it every day. The amazement turned into amusement and Alice hugged herself. Soon the room became heavy with laughter; Alice was smiling and glancing and laughing out loud and she felt like every two seconds the giggling ran around the room, banged on walls and returned back, electrifying, in her own person. Alice was contempt while looking at Alice; and Alice asked:

Are you falling asleep?

No, do you have Alice with you? Read me a page please.

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Alice

May 21st, 2007

Alice has made me extremely happy. I was dreaming about makin ppl trip and brake their necks, switching elbows and pining tires. Alice calmed me down. She kissed me and told me:

‘Now you are with me’

“ I am not afraid of you, u are nothing but a deck of cards..”,

‘Dear Alice’.

 

Alice didn’t wanna’ sit on the chair I sat her on the first day; Alice is not all that into the American dream, she’d rather go for cheaper flavours and queer their ass out.

Alice is so fuckin funny; she smiles every morning as she wakes up and moans, gathers her hands around her, placing one very close to the heart. Alice keeps forgetting, as if every day is a new thread of memory after a brainwash; Alice doesn’t wanna’ keep on believing, she deeply refuses to. So the rule is settled: every day is brand new; no accumulation, no patterns, no fuckin memory and deposits. I’m tired of all that dusty shit!

Stepping out of the bed, she takes a glance in the mirror on her way to the kitchen…every day as if everything changed just yesterday and she asks herself: who’s this girl? When did her hair grow that long? Tomorrow I will shave it; I wanna’ new girl by the day after tomorrow;  wanna trip somewhere in between these three days and erase it all; I want to have a new coffee on Tuesday, the coffee I would probably have in two or three years time, but I want it now.

I wanna loose that hand from my hair, I don’t want it tickling the back of my head while kissing. I don’t want my lips to taste anything alike any morning from now on; I have to look deeper into Alice; I am sure there’s so much more in there.

 

Alice has no summer plans. Since the last missing interview Alice has decided: from now on no worries; after all every day is a breadcrumb, no matter what u mix it with. Today it may be hazelnut spread, tomorrow just milk and so it can go on forever.

 

Alie was such a great gift and Alice knows: as the deck of cards will start shuffling faster and faster she‘s gonna make so many ppl unhappy. Alice will never listen to the King or stand by the Jack, she’d rather jump squares with 2, 3,4..

Alice wishes she could blow every day onto the world as in a pile of flower, and the only thing left untouched would be her parents. She imagines great possible worlds coming out of her sneeze afterwards, when all white dust is high up in the air.

 

Alice was wearing a black tie yesterday, and as she was trying to loosen it up and see patches of skin she imagined how would it be to have shorter hair and mix it with wax, and how would it be to stand underneath that white shirt and for her boobs not to stick out. Alice hates the simple thought of some hairdos not suiting her. I mean wadda’ fuck; if I wish to, anything should suit me just nicely enough. After all, I am all alike in this world; never ever saw anything too weird….

 

Alice is going back to political neutrality now and workin out that unencumbered self issue as if it were a solution for humankind; yet in another corner Alice is probably browsing the net, talking on mess and dreaming crazy as a fruitcake about dilated bodies….Alice is into all these schemes; and for all this consuming dispersion Alice is not gonna’ sleep tonight, as she slept for the last who knows how many nights before..

 

 

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The book I stumble in..

March 5th, 2007

Ha! This is gonna make Catalin fall in love with me for sure (well.at least proud he surely will be!). He advertised this book quiz(what book characterizes u) and I took it. Here is the A-M-A-Z-I-N-G result:

“You’re The Fellowship of the Ring!
by J.R.R. Tolkien
Facing great adversity, you have decided that your only choice is to unite with your friends and neighbors. You have been subject to a ton of squabbling and ultimately decided that someone humble is your best candidate for a dangerous mission. You’re quite good with languages and convinced that not all who wander are lost. If you see anyone in black robes on horseback, just run. That’s just common sense.”

Well..actually, I took the test like three more times afterwards, changin the answers I wasn’t sure about. But this was the first, intuitive shot at it….WEIRD. Believe me, I ain’t no Frodo!

 

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en-fin

March 2nd, 2007

Din pakate nu imi place sa scriu despre sfarsituri.si deja simt pe sira spinarii ca asta nu e doar sfarsitul unei zile lungi, precedata de o noapte nedormita, sau sfarsitul unui examen odios…e un sfarsit trist, de zi de primavara care plange a toamna, un sfarsit jilav asa cum eram si eu aproape in fiecare zi a vacantei de iarna..soaking teary wet!

Oamenii sunt fraieri deseori..dar asta nu implika o slabiciune absoluta care sta infipta cutit-siringa intr-un caracter, afectand vibrant circulatia sangelui si spilcuiala neuronilor. Iubirea e ca o depresie..un delir, asa cum frumos zicea o dama psiholoaga din cj. E un delir din care vei iesi. Nimeni nu garanteaza ca nu te vei mai intoarce, nimeni nu garanteaza ca fraza cu “sweep u off ur feet” nu e literalmente concreta, ca atunci cand cazi..nu e un dulce picaj halucinogen, intre pereti unsi cu miere care atenueaza frecarea, atunci se poate foarte bine sa te prabusesti, sa nu pici in genunchi, ci cu genunchi la piept, sa icnesti, sa tipi, sa iti dai palme…sa urasti toate oglinzile din casa in care tzipi: Revino-ti!

Am petrecut luni de zile mangaind niste ganduri cu grija, asa cum ar fi, banuiesc, sa tzii celule in congelator sperand sa clonezi un organism viu intr-o zi. Asta faceam si eu..inghetam amintirile, sperand sa nu pierd un cod genetic al unei povesti miraculoase. De ce lumea pretuieste dezastrele? De ce tot ce pierzi in virtutea lor e de o mie de ori mai pretios decat ce dai din mana ta de bunavoie? Un singur raspuns: neprevazutul! Nu ai nici un timp sa faci un calcul cost-benefit inainte, nu ai timp sa pui in ordine optiunile, nu iti pui nici makar problema alegerii. Si nu..nu e pt ca nu ai schimba nimik. Asta e o minciuna; probabil ca daca ar fi dupa fiecare dintre noi am schimba intr-un stil haotik orice are legatura cu persoana iubita: ziua in care ne-am intalnit, prima replika, primul sarut, efectele iritante ale caracterului, capacitatea intelectuala si preferintele…cu sigurantza am interveni acid si nemilos in toata aceasta vassta iluzie. Asta as fi facut si eu. trei luni de zile as fi schimbat aproape orice. Si cu toate astea..cand am pierdut, creierul meu nu a fost o banca destul de trusty ca sa mentina toate amintirile, ca sa aranjeze tranzactiile. A clacat, a clacat amiabil sub presiunea absurditatii care nu e compatibila cu nici o specie de ratiune umana!

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