miercuri, 15 iulie 2015
I have always wanted to be an independent person. And now I find myself at the peak of my independence and yet miles away from it. I have believed that people should not be connected to places, objects and most of all, other people. And now I find myself in a foreign place where I am connected to nothing and yet I find no other bonds that draw me back to another place. I have always believed that the end of the world is a nice metaphor and I came to realize that it is actually a place, it is here and now. It is very real and far from any kind of mythology. It has been my very reality for the past months; it has been by connection to life, to earth, to people, to culture. The end of the world is this little remote place where life finds a completely new meaning, not right, nor wrong, just different. the end of the world is this place where I sit and ponder upon my life decisions at 3 am while the light comes through my window; it is the place where if I have a concern, I am the sole person in this world I can turn to; it is the single place that made me turn to myself. You would be surprised to see how many familiar faces can come up in your mind at 3am. And yet you come to look at them with the eyes of your mind and reckon that none is familiar at all. They are just faces lost on the path of time. Your personal non facebook-ian timeline. And now I am at the end of the world and I find no face to be familiar, no language to be my mother tongue and no friend to be by my side. If this is the independence I sought, I am not sure am longing for it any more. And yet I do not see myself crying over the grave of the past moments. I do not miss them nor want them to be repeated. I find my independence to be more of a cage than my dependence on other beings has been. And it scares me to see that the only connection I long for is the one with the surrounding nature, with the grand trees that imprison me, with the silence that my ears has gotten so used to. I seek silence and solitude. I came to seek the end of the world that is a mythical place for Europeans, it is an economical gold mine, it is the place of millions of lakes and saunas and blonde people. It is the unknown that cannot be described on a map. It is yet the here and now for so many independent incarcerated beings. We are all here up north living in our own independent bubble and we hear. And soon the rest of Europe becomes a mythical story that exists beyond the end of the world. And it all becomes distant and unknown. I feared many possibilities for my story before I came here, I feared various hypothetical endings. But not for one second have I feared that I mind find love that is deeper than the love I thought that can exist, deeper than the love for another being, deeper than the love for oneself. It took me to travel to the end of the world to find the love for life, in such a remote little place forgotten to be particularized by the maps. And now I see the rest of the world from my solitary bubble and I am confused. I look at myself from the outside and I see the big machine called life taking me, like a random object in a factory and throwing me back into my old environment, my old language, my old people. And I am sitting there in front of my new old known and I recognize nothing, bust most of all I do not recognize myself. Who have I come to become? What eyes are these that I am seeing the world through now? How can I live with everything that I have seen and experienced before it has been taken away from me, like a child that was not mine from the very start? And I think to myself that my skepticism combined with pessimism will kill me one day. And yet I will be just another broken toy in a forgotten factory. What happened to the entire not being connected to place, people, objects thing? Where did that idea drown? It must have floated away along with my most inner self on a boat at the end of the world, never to be seen again.
We live in some very developed times, don’t we? We live in a century where in theory we are all born equal, we all have the same rights and we get all the same start into this messed up world. Of course, some come to see sooner, some later, that this is just another lie invented by society in order to keep people lined up and supposedly happy inside their own little narrow mind and bubble. Some get to hit their head into this “equality” wall sooner, let’s say, Africans, Indians, people that are highly advertised in all kinds of media. We all know in theory about these little, poor people and we wipe our tears while we get into our rich European cars heading towards our awesome corporatist job.
And then there is the lie that gets a little closer to this continent. We all came to be part of this big great Babylon called the EU. I bet Orwell would be so damn proud of his accurate description of the dystopia that came to get hold of the world. And we all consider ourselves safe under the protective shield of this great empire. The Big Brother that is constantly helping us in every move, especially economically, right?
And we do our studies, we are the great citizens that society expects us to be, obedient and happy, right? Because in such an amazing environment which provides equality for all one cannot be sad. And then you hit the other wall that comes up next, the so called life. And the days begin. We make a hobby out of searching for underpaid jobs with nightmare bosses and no future possibilities. Economical crises they say all the time, reason for so many people out in the street, reason why teachers get to wash dishes after the big corporatist bosses in five star restaurants.
And then comes the day when you finally get out one way or another and you head towards the wild west the sun that shines over our dear Babylon each day. And they welcome you with open arms, you almost believe the lie hat you are about to experiment. Sure, come in please, take a seat, oh you poor immigrant coming from a country that does not even exist on our wisely contoured map. You are a tourist, you are a student, you are someone who comes here for a limited period of time while the dear white people of west can still fake the welcoming smile.
Oh but wait a second, you want to abuse our kindness young sir? We gave you six months in heaven, was that not enough? You want to find a job in the economically powerful countries? Sure man, there you go, be a fool and send in your resume. You know who you will compete with? There is this girl from let’s say Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Holland and the list can go on for a little while before it hits the East. You are lied to that you have the same opportunities as this person who did not have to work one day in her life to be able to finance her studies, a person who comes from a country where the minimum salary is as much as your entire family earns altogether, a person who studies at centers that actually exist on the map, centers where you, poor stupid immigrant could never study with a salary of 200 euro per month. You compete with a person who could afford to do volunteering because mom and dad pays for accommodation and food, because mom and dad paid for that little BMW in the garage and they can provide while this mythical creature finishes her studies, be it 5, 6, 7 years or even a damn eternity because we do not want to stress out a nice Western person.
You realize that sitting at that equally friendly table of interview, there is no such thing as equality. Best case scenario, these people could hire you to clean their nice Western toilets or wipe their rich Western asses, but at the end of the day, regardless what you do, you will still be that fool that tried to enter in the other side of Babylon and you come to see that you belong amongst the poor, amongst the people that actually strive to live from one day to another so that these nice rich countries can afford a great economical situation. We belong to a place that has been erased from the map because it does not please the eyes of the one who sees. We belong to a place where you can work your entire life your ass out and still not be able to afford a new piece of clothing.
And you say this fact to the nice people from west. You expect people do be able to switch perspective, you expect, that is your first basic mistake. And they laugh, oh no, you are a fool, you have all the opportunities ahead of you, you have all your life ahead of you, you are young and you can achieve whatever you want. That is the lie that they are taught, that is the lie that actually applies for the rich countries, that is the lie that you, poor immigrant from the east, will never get a chance to experience.
Therefore, thank you very much for you equality, is has been extremely useful so far in my life, and thank you very much for your sweets lies that turn bitter so easily for some. Thank you for not being able to see outside your bubble of perfection. Thank you for disconsidering me before even giving me a chance because of the fact that my location is not part of your map.
I came to see I live in a world that I no longer wish to be part of, I live amongst people, amongst bubbles. I live in a lie where equality will never be equal for everyone. So enjoy your personal equality while me, along with the rest of the population that you refuse to take into consideration, will strive to fight the world outside your bubble for a simple existence.
duminică, 24 mai 2015
- Hey there. What are you doing here at the bar all alone on such a friendly Friday evening?
I seize him in a quick glance; easy to read, just like all the other men; surely not a Ulysses of his species. Car keys in hand, must have a family at home, clothes clean and neat, you let your wife do your clothes so you can come and fuck around with other people, right? Starting the balding process, must be over 30, probably also has a kid or two and judging by the shoes you also have a dog. You little prick, you are living the white picket fence dream in some suburbia, that’s why you chose this backcountry pub to get wasted and get an easy fuck away from your dream that turned into a nightmare. In your head.- Just waiting to drown some sorrows. Not much really.- Such a pity for a young beautiful girl like you to stay here all alone. I am here with some friends (points at idiot group from the corner). Maybe you would like to join us.30 seconds, dozens of synapses, Matrix all over in my head. You are judges and sentenced.- Sure, I would like that, thanks.Here’s a smile for you, you little loser with a small dick complex. Oh and your friends seem extremely bright as well.- Sorry, I didn’t get your name.- Lysa. How about you?- George. Hahah just George will do. And my friends here, JD and Bob. We work for the same company, you know. So we started by being workmates and then we noticed we can also share a beer and such, you know, men talk about our own problems.- Interesting.- She was sitting at the bar alone so I got here to stay here with us, I am sure you don’t mind. Lysa, my friends, folks, Lysa.- Nice to meet you all.- Hey there. Long Friday for you too, I assume. Going through a week of work is exhausting.- Yes. I work for an international organized crime association. We had a lot of work this day. (Smile)- Hahaha you also have the sense of humor I see. That is good cuz’ we are also a bunch of funny people.Pretend to be drunk. Pretend to be blonde. Pretend to be easy and most of all pretend to be interested in the bollocks that comes out from their mouths. Pretend to know nothing of the surrounding world, environment, politics, philosophy and act like football and boobs are the best part of your life, and making sandwiches for you man after offering him a nice blowjob. Pretend you hate kids because they come with a commitment and we do not like that. Pretend you are not into long term relations because you always want to be free. Commitment scares the motherfuckers. We do not want that. Pretend that one night with this little baldhead with no hopes and dreams and a shitty brain is all you could ever want from life. Pretend you did not pour that Rophynol in the moron’s drink. Sleep motherfucker sleep.*- Wakey wakey dear, we do not have the entire night, you must get back to your pretty wifey, don’t you? The wife that gave her life away to make a meaningless prick like you happy, she made you a few kids that you do not give the least shit about and tries to remain a size 6 for the rest of her life so that she is still attractive for the man that no longer gives a fuck about his own looks. Oh but that is not enough, doesn’t she know? Lust comes in waves and at nights lust is killing you, but not for the same old used vagina. You crave for something new. You crave for the unknown that is sitting at the bar and is interested in your stupid smalltalk.Oh my, sorry for being so rude. This is my apartment, the place you wanted to end up this night, right? Well look dear, that wish just came true. Smile. Oh sorry you can’t because of the tape, but we would hate to have you screaming all around the place and waking neighbors wouldn’t be sugar? Oh and your hands might also hurt because of the cuffs but frankly I was afraid that you might oppose to some of the treatments that I want to try on you. So I hope you feel comfortable here.I was thinking what would be the most appropriate punishment for you. But then again dear, who am I to judge your actions. And who would I be to sentence you to one thing or another. I was just thinking that if you were my husband instead, your dick would be laying next to you on the floor while you would bleed to death. But it’s Friday and I feel generous today.Therefore, I will have my friends to come and take care of you. Remember I told you where I work and you found it funny? I guess truth is amusing and seems like a lie for those who are only used to feeding lies to others. But surprise, surprise. But you will make it out alive I can promise you that. You can thank me later dear. Oh and once they are done with you, you can be sure that you will be watched; every stupid little move of yours, every time your little dick wants to come out from your pants. We will know.Take him out of my house!
**Pretend to be a nice and decent housewife. Pretend to love your cheating husband with a little dick complex. Pretend not to know that he is fucking that stupid blonde bimbo next door. Pretend you love him just as much as you did years ago when you still believed in feelings and honesty. Innocence. Pretend you couldn’t wait to come home and see him watching the stupid TV after having spread his seed all over the cunt that is two sizes smaller than you. Pretend you care about the stupid football game and that you come home from a long day of work full of excitement to give him another blowjob. Perfect end for a perfect day. But oh dear soon you will know that I know and no innocence will save you.- Hey Beth. Thought you never come home today.- Hey honey. Just a long day at work. Quite tiring end of the week.- Oh you want something to eat dear? We have all the things in the fridge if you wanna cook something for us.CLose. Soon.
joi, 26 februarie 2015
Wondering sometimes whether I got to that moment when I can look at myself (in my mirror, however… not sure how much of myself is reflected there) and think “man I start to look pretty fancy, I could almost pass as a mature human being” and then I smirk. I reckon it is somehow funny how the more I see myself adding meaningless years to my life collection, the more resemblance I see with the so “simpatico” character of American Psycho. And of course, the bloody mirror shall never reflect my psycho thoughts. I assume one needs to enroll in a conversation in order to be truly scared of the nature that hides behind the so called image of maturity.
People will always put the blame on being too much of an individualist. Cut that crap already. We would all be bloody individualist if only given the chance. Some just have jobs, family, real lives. We, the ones from the so diplomatically put “developing” countries, we can bury our individualism easily under quotidian piles of deep shit. But that brave shield taken away what the hell is left if not individualism?
And then they call it violence and frustration. Bloody right it might as well be frustration, it is not like things would be going towards a very bright direction. But I somehow prefer the term individualism. Call it word fetishism if you please.
And I get to realize that it is not just my awkward nature (although I know I abound in that one too). It is not just my weird attempt of growing up while trying to refuse every law that maturity has ever created to keep people silent, to keep people “pleased”. It might not be just the struggle between no longer being a child, too old for being a teenager (although sometimes it could be a nice feeling to mingle in a crowd, conversations are just as meaningless, just the level of diplomacy differs) and somehow too young to give in for having a family life, a boring job that could pay the bills, a nice chemise every day to please the eyes that surround my being.
That’s a whole lot of a different story. This one is about just being one defined self, that individualism that people seem to hate so much nowadays (although it still looks good in media and why not advertise it if that’s what the poor TV watchers’ minds are pleased to hear; after all, we are here to please). But then an almost honest voice comes out of the crowd and goes like “individualism is a very important issue of the modern human. People spend way too much time trying to figure their own selves out instead of doing something productive”.
And after I hear something like this I sit and think getting to deepen my little self unconsciously in my stubborn idiot individualism. We live in a strange society, nothing to deny there, the other individualist morons (like Fitzgerald, Beckett, Rushdie and all those lonely souls) have pointed out. Too much free time they say, you might actually end up knowing yourself and that does not please us at the end of the day, does it.
Therefore, no ideas hidden in this one just plain overthinking at a late hour, because we tend to do that in this misunderstood postmodern pile of rubbish called society, that we live in. let’s call it food for thought for now (or whatever pleases you).
luni, 29 decembrie 2014
Lacrimile i se prelingeau pe obraji. Cuvintele treceau pe lângă urechile ei ca niște sulițe care nu mai puteau să o atingă. Nu e de parcă nu ar fi avut corpul plin de cicatrici lăsate de-a lungul timpului de armele cuvintelor. Oare dacă ar fi în mijlocul naturii în loc de această cameră de interogatoriu de unde ar veni vântul? I-ar sufla părul din spate ascunzându-i privirea plânsă sau i-ar șterge lacrimile din față lăsându-i ochii uscați si chipul dur? Clima te întărește, se zice, dacă e neprielnică, desigur. A avut nenorocul de a se naște într-un loc unde anotimpurile țineau totuși, în mare parte, cu oamenii, lăsându-i slabi, ca pe niște salcii în bătăile constante ale vântului și timpului.
”Nici măcar nu are decența de a ne asculta. Extraordinar. Mereu face așa. de parcă am sta aici să vorbim în gol. Nu pereții încercăm săi-i ajutăm, ci pe tine, ai putea măcar aprecia puțin prezența noastră aici, în loc să fim toți pe drumurile noastre și să ne facem treburile noi… ” Însă poate totuși dacă ar fi la munte… da, la munte ar fi o poveste complet diferită decât la câmpie, evident. La munte cui îi mai pasă de unde bate vântul? Să îți deschizi ochii și în loc să vezi drama, neplăcerea, nereușita, gândurile mereu confuze, oamenii mereu dezamăgiți, fețele îmbufnate și ochii ce se dau peste cap ca niște roller-coaster-uri, vezi vârfuri. Oricum societatea noastră tinde să asocieze acest cuvânt unor conotații pozitive. Deci a vedea vârfuri este ceva în regulă, însă dacă vorbim chiar făcând abstracție de posibilele metafore, vârfurile sunt mult mai plăcute. De ce i s-a dat oare mintea asta poetică? Adică, la urma urmei, sunt niște vârfuri, chiar dacă nu poate compune vreun eseu de zece pagini despre ele, fără a face greșeala de a spune, de fapt, ceva concret. Sunt aceleași și pentru ea și pentru cei ce nu au citit o carte în viața lor. Și totuși de ce le văd din puncte de vedere atât de diferite? Ea vede cuvinte, poezie, metafore, nici nu se poate uita la natură fără ca frazele interminabile să ia naștere în capul ei. O fi blestem sau mai degrabă vreun cadou de la, culmea ironiei, natură? Nu se poate decide, deși deja a trăit destui ani. Destui, cel puțin, ca lucrurile să fi luat o întorsătură mai puțin confuză în capul ei. Însă nu se întâmplă asta. Adică…
”Adică orice zicem nu ne bagă în seamă. Saluuut, scuză-mă, e ceva pe acel perete ce te poate intriga mai tare decât părerile noastre? Nu înțeleg, facem tot drumul acesta anevoios, de fiecare dată, să ajunge aici, să fim ignorați, să fim umiliți. Scuză-mă, poate nu realizezi însă nu ne ești deloc superioară, cum poate tăcerea ta ar vrea să implice. Poate cuvintele tale nu pot veni pentru niște oameni așa de simpli și cu mințile umplute de logică, cum sunt ale noastre. Poate…”
Deși hai să fim serioși. Vântul nu are aceeași adiere dacă sosește iarna. Totul se schimbă o dată cu climatul, și locul, de altfel. Deși, se zice că locul nu ar trebui să aibă niciodată o influență strictă asupra vreunei persoane. Și dacă se întâmplă să aibă, se poate deduce doar că personalitatea și mentalitatea acelei persoane nu sunt destul de clar și strict definite ca să poată sta drept în picioare fără să se clintească în fața unui detaliu minor cum ar fi locația. Ce poate spune asta despre noi? Desigur noi, am fost mereu și suntem constant influențați de locul în care ne odihnim picioarele. Chiar și acum, nu pot zice că e același lucru că mă uit pe geam și văd un soare arzător cum ar fi dacă m-aș uita și ar fi un peisaj distopic. Asta spune despre mine că nu sunt stabilă, că nu am simțurile destul de acut dezvoltate ca să poată face față unei asemenea provocări cum ar fi un soare?
”Uite că acum zâmbește. Extraordinar. E complet strigător la cer. Eu nu mai pot să stau aici în aceste condiții. Dacă totuși, se decide să vă adreseze vreun cuvânt, sunați-mă, însă această stare îmi depășește total capacitatea de înțelegere.”
”Hey, A, mai stai o clipă, știi și tu cum e. mintea ei e într-o lume complet paralelă cu a noastră. Probabil în majoritatea cazurilor nici nu realizează că suntem aici și încercăm să vorbim cu ea. Poate nici nu ne vede. Nu observi, nu se uită niciodată la noi ci vede mereu fix prin noi.”
”Nu realizează o sărăcie. Suntem mereu aici și mereu are câte o reacție la ce spunem, cu voce tare. Reacția poate fi una subtilă, evident, nu neg asta, însă pentru mine nu mai există această posibilitate în care ea nu realizează. Ba da o face. O face chiar foarte tare. Și acest teatru ieftin de care avem parte de fiecare dată a încetat să îmi mai încălzească conștiința în vreun fel, și de asemenea, că veni vorba, nici nu îmi plătește benzina pentru a ajunge aici. Și în fond, măcar de ar avea vreun scop. Însă scuză-mi impertinența de a întreba acest lucru vulgar, dar care este, mă rog frumos, scopul acestor vizite? Pe mine nu mă ajută, pe ea nu o interesează, pe tine te lasă lipsit de putere și energie, iar ceilalți au și încetat să mai vină. Noi suntem ultimii. Noi am rezistat cel mai mult. Nu ne poate reproșa nimeni nimic.”
”Dar nu a fost vorba niciodată de reproșuri...”
”Cumva mereu vorbim și totuși nu e vorba niciodată de nimic. Cum se face această minunăție?”
Își luă geanta și părăsi camera. Chiar și naratorul sună diferit în capul meu. Iar voi zâmbi și iar îi voi speria. Cine știe ce își imaginează că îmi penetrează gândurile de fiecare dată când apare vreo reacție fizică. Însă sincer vorbind, se răresc. Reacțiile, adică. Am ajuns să le controlez, cât de cât. Nu psihic, evident, psihic umblu mereu pe un câmp minat, dar fizic, zic. Înțelegi? Adică, chiar dacă în capul meu plouă și toate vârfurile s-au dus naibii (îți place cum tot insist asupra acestui cuvânt, bag de seamă) fizic fața mea e mereu o orizontală perfectă.
sâmbătă, 6 decembrie 2014
At first I thought
That it Is too late in the night already to start writing some crooked little lines that shall be swallowed by the dust of today before tomorrow
But then I met all the people who had met before the so called “purpose”
But my mind is no longer a place that could host the blues of the good old golden days that drowned in dry red wine
And only the orange hygiene keeper drink accompanies my contradictory thoughts
Maybe life is after all just a long path where we seed our contradictions that we give birth to throughout our experiences
Maybe this is the so called self becoming route that is no longer covered in dust because of the footsteps that paved the souls of the previous generations. But who is left to pave our personalities and offer the so much needs role model that we fail to accept as a necessity?
We seek our minds and souls through various methods
Modern era does not offer anything that could ease the seeking. Postmodernity instead of clarifying the previous enigmas that history planted comes and deepens the ambiguity of our twisted mentalities
And then again reading Kerouac has not the same effect, regardless of the road that we are on
Ginsberg’s words sound different when you are in the middle of the same action but the perspectives changed throughout time and you cannot be the same person that the same person as yourself would have been years ago in the same situation
Nothing is in itself what it seems to be in itself and it is all the creation of our magnificent ambiguous maleficent and sometimes marvelously creative brain
And yet we are left to wonder in the void of choices that are “choices” only through semantics
But in a world where nothing is in itself what it appears to be in itself and we select every opinion through a strainer specific entirely to our own unique points of view that have been moulded already by society and various other manipulators that are worthless to bring into conversation, what is left to chose when it comes to reaction? What could be the best reaction when the answer to action in itself is through a lack of reaction and instead of acting we are observing because the information provided is not enough to motivate and encourage anything else than inaction
duminică, 12 octombrie 2014
And then I said, regardless how perfect the quality of the photo might be, regardless how loyal it is to what it represents, it will never show what my inner eye sees.
And regardless how deep the paths in the nature might be, the same things will show up on my mental map.
Each footstep existing on the forest ground will lead me to think it might be yours
Each footstep that I hear behind my back makes me refuse to turn around so that I cannot be proven that they are not yours
Each bald head staring at the lakes creates shivers down my spine
Each sarcastic comment that travels through the air
And then I stop and think how authentic this solitude might be, since it is never entirely mine
They say self discipline leads to a better control of your mind and I know
I usually choose lead me further from myself
But then again how could it be any other way?
Because being close to nature does not implicitly mean that I am close to natural
That used to be so natural now seem a distant scream for a mental freedom that cannot be gathered in certain places.
Because it was natural. By all means it was what all the artists would crave for.
And artists are only children of their time’s art
Art is the child of history
And history is the creation of imagination combined with various other (historical) definitions.
“tell me” the pages scream for my pen, whereas the barer in my mind stops my hand from going any further.
It was so natural for us to do those things
It was so natural; laying in bed with your breath on my neck while you slip a finger inside my vagina in the heart of the night
So natural to buy theatre tickets and on the way out to tear my pantyhose giving in for desire
So natural to spend the nights thinking of old movie titles while having nick cave in the background (with a bottle of dry wine)
So natural to argue about religion and hypocrisy while practicing it at its best
Natural to pick me up from the toilet seat after heavy crying
Natural to forget about my birthday
Natural to bring me strawberries when unable to get out
Natural to read Faust while mentally creating criticism
Natural to keep company on the hospital bed when everyone else faded
So how could it be natural again to be alone with some thoughts that are not even authentically mine any more
Invaded with your presence and your pieces of mentality and broken ideas
They will come back, they said.
But we both know they won’t.
Sticking the pillar that tears our path apart; ignorance is strength
But my melancholy whore