Despre ce sa scriu, despre ce sa scriu? E tare nasol cand vrei sa scrii si n-ai idee despre ce. Am primit doua idei in casca. Prima, "save the planet, kill yourself" si a doua "scrie despre lumina". Tinand cont ca vreau sa scriu o singura chestie, o sa le imbin cumva. Daca imi mai vine unu' cu vreo idee gen "porcusori roz care fac un ceai dansant pe turnul din Pisa" am pus-o. Dar cu doua idei ma descurc. Deci, sa vedem...[Punem o piesa care sa ajute la inspiratie...sa spunem Poets of the Fall - Sleep, aprindem tigara, sorbim din cafea si incepem...]

Vom incepe de aici:
http://www.webdesignersexperiments.net/terra_new.swf

Prima oara cand am vazut acest flash, m-am speriat. Adica stiam ca lumea e disproportionata, dar...
Lumea e formata din piramide. Si partea de sus a piramidei mereu e varful iar varful mereu e mic. E un triunghiulet pe o hartie care sub el are restul suprafetei. 80 la suta din oameni traiesc in saracie. Si ma intreb, de ce? Cand sunt altii care cumpara diamante de N milioane de dolari pentru muiere.
Era o filozofie despre care am citit intr-o carte de-a lui Orson Scott Card care era un fel de comunism, in sensul ca "aduni exact cat iti trebuie pentru a trai confortabil iar restul dai la comunitate." Ca multe alte filozofii, e ok in teorie. Problema apare atunci cand se ajunge la "ce e confortul pentru fiecare?" si mai ales cand se ajunge la lacomia atat de caracteristica speciei noastre. Cine nu-i lacom? Cine nu vrea mai mult? Mereu vrem mai mult, hai sa fim seriosi. Sunt unii care vor mai multi bani, unii care vor mai multa putere, unii care vor mai multe femei, unii care vor mai multa cunoastere...dar mereu vrem mai mult. Si sa nu credeti ca o lacomie e mai ieftina decat alta. Credeti ca stiinta se obtine usor? Carti, scoala, cursuri...toate costa. Ca un exemplu. Si ce, femeile nu costa? Ca deh, si ele is scumpe. Puterea nu costa? Totul costa. Si cui ii mai pasa de aia multi saraci cand avem fiecare "setile" noastre de care sa ne ocupam? Care magnat al petrolului se gandeste sa faca o fundatie prin care sa educe saracii, sa le vanda pastile anti-conceptionale si prezervative (pentru ca, hai sa fim seriosi, se fut ca iepurii), sa le creeze o baza pe care sa poata munci si trai, sa ii invete sa munceasca (pentru ca, din nou, da, o mare parte din saracie vine din lene) in loc sa-i ia pizde-sii care poate sa-i fie fiica un colier de 12 milioane de dolari? Cati oameni obscen de bogati fac o fundatie ca, de exemplu Bill Gates?
Poate va intrebati cum intra aici "save the planet, kill yourself" si lumina. Si, intre timp, am mai primit doua chestii, "flegma" si "otita la furnici" (bless fucked-up-in-the-head friends).
Simplu.
Lumea este supra-populata. Dar e tampit supra-populata. Adica bogatii fac maxim doi copii iar saracii o groaza. Asta unu. Acu, ori ne hotaram sa punem taxa pe copil, ca-n China, ori le dam o ocupatie la astia saraci cu care sa-si umple timpul. Ori ne mancam copiii, ca-n satira lui Jonathan Swift.
Doi...astia care citesc ce scriu, au calculator. Inseamna ca au o anume suma de bani. Au anume posibilitati. Look around, there's tones to do. In orasul nostru, sunt oameni care mor de foame, oameni care cersesc, copii care stau in conditii mizere in orfelinate, copii evitati de lume doar pentru ca au SIDA, batrani bolnavi, la fel de uitati. Iesiti afara. Se petrec atatea lucruri nasoale in jur incat nu e greu sa va luati de ceva si sa schimbati viata unui om. Hai sa nu zic sa schimbati viata, asta e extrem de greu. Dar puteti sa-i ridicati falcile intr-un zambet.
Acu am mai primit o idee care o s-o folosesc, foarte oportun primita: "efectul astfaltului asupra psihicului uman." Astia din oras is niste porci insensibili. Pe bune daca nu. De cate ori nu am trecut pe langa nebunul cu vioara de pe Copou, de cate ori nu am trecut prin pasajul din Piata Unirii sau pe platforma de la hala pe langa vreun pusti cu o chitara sau cu un flaut? De cate ori nu am trecut pe langa un batran cu o groaza de medalii in piept? Etcetera. Opriti-va din mers. Dati un buna ziua. Nu-i dati neaparat bani, poate sa-si ia bautura si nu prea ati rezolvat nimic. Dati-i binete, dati-i o paine. Noi tot mergem. Alergam. Alergam la scoala, la sala de jocuri, la intalnire cu prietenul, la un vin fiert. Opriti-va naibii o data. Poate dupa cinci minute de stat cu un om care are nevoie o sa va simtiti mai bine. Doar poate.
Deci you can save the planet by NOT killing yourself, daca faceti ceva cu norocul de peste voi. Norocul ca aveti un acoperis, caldura, apa, mancare, haine, vin fiert in Clubul Presei sau mai stiu eu unde, un gat molcom in care sa ma ingropati buzele. Noroc dragii mei, aveti noroc. Cum il folositi? Ca daca o sa stati toata ziua pe un cacat de scaun, cu ochii beliti intr-un monitor sau intr-un pahar de votca, intr-adevar va puteti la fel de bine sinucide. Pentru un copil orfan sunteti puternici doar pentru ca aveti o mama care sa va raga in creier sa va faceti ordine in camera. Ganditi-va la asta.
Asta ma aduce la flegma. Si la lumina.
Prea multi oameni inghit O2 si produc flegma si rahat. Lasa umbra si atat. Umbra pe atatea planuri.
1. Umbra produsa de soare. Umbra clasica.
2. Umbra ce sunt ei. Nu au substanta. Om bun, traiesti in oras, ai bani de maxi, mergi la un liceu, ai famelie, remuneratie. Biblioteca e langa. Ziarele sunt la colt. Pune mana pe o carte, fa un cornet, cum merge vorba tiganului. Fa-te substantial, creeaza o substanta din tine. Caci altfel te-ai nascut o foaie alba si vei fi mereu o foaie alba care se va ingalbeni, apoi in-cenusi si va muri. Exact cum a pornit. Poti sa aduni mult multe foi albe in viata. Foi albe patate de sperma, patate de sange virtual, patate de mizera scoala prin care ai trecut. Sau poti sa scrii pe ele. Nu toate cartile is publicate. Numai alea care is bune sunt publicate, recunoscute, criticate. Fa din viata ta o carte buna. Altfel, esti o umbra, un corp fara substanta.
3. Umbra adica intunecime. Creezi intuneric, opresti progresul, opresti lumina care ar trebui sa creasca pe suprafata planetei. Fiecare dintre noi e o furnica. [Cum dracu o sa bag io aici otita la furnici nu stiu, d-am sa ma stradui.] Revenind.
Din avion, daca ar fi sa vedem fiecare om ca o furnica si viata lui ca un punct, cate puncte ar emite lumina? Cate puncte ar avea un cerculet luminos in jur, cerculete creat de vietile influentate pozitiv? TU, cel care ma citesti, ai fi intunecat sau luminos? Viata ta ar fi utila? Ar plange cineva daca ai murit? Iti este cineva recunoscator? Te iubeste cineva nu din inertie, ci din multumire?
Ei si iata ca ajung la otita la furnici, mersi dragul meu Radu, pentru o tema atat de simplu de abordat.
Unul din preceptele budhismului spune ca "ignoranta creaza suferinta". Puteti alege sa fiti furnici cu otita, cu cataracta, adica sa nu vedeti, sa nu auziti, sa nu simtiti, sau sa fiti furnici luminoase, deschise.

Este o alegere. Is mai multe de fapt.
Cheia e la tine. Becks.

Treaba scrisa in martie anul asta, intr-una din multele nopti albe cu romana in fata (aveam prega a doua zi). E foarte eroica, brace yourselves.

Nu exista alt loc decat AICI. Nu exista alt timp decat ACUM.
Pentru oameni care au ceva in cap aceste doua propozitii ar trebui sa revertebreze mereu in cap'sor.
"Atunci" este doar pentru a invata ceva care sa se aplice "acum", acolo e doar pentru a sti cum este alt loc pentru a sti ce sa faci "aici".
Dar cati oameni care au ceva in cap au aceste doua propozitii pe sinapsele lor? Nenumarati oameni care m-au facut sa zic "what a waste". Inclusiv eu, intr-o perioada.
Ce bine ar fi daca coeficientul de inteligenta ar fi de ajuns. Omul este atat de complex incat asta e doar o mica variabila.
Cand te gandesti...probabilitatea ca un nou-nascut sa aiba o mutatie care sa-l faca retardat/paralizat/olog este cumplit de mare. Mai ales cu atati factori mutageni in mediu. Iar probabilitate ca acel nou-nascut sa aiba un creier cu potential e aproape infima. Iar probabilitatea ca acel om sa si-l foloseasca la capacitate mare tinde vertiginos spre zero.
Oare de ce?...
Nu ma voi referi la trecut. Din cate guri am auzit "pe vremea aia". De parca noi, cei care traim acum avem cum sa stim exact cum era "atunci". "Atunci" se poate aplica corect numai daca ai fost tu acolo si ai trait. Experienta, sufletul, complexitatea unei situatii nu se poate citi dintr-o carte de istorie. Deci voi vorbi de acum. Pentru oamenii de acum.
Parintii is ocupati. Si isi ascund sub acest pretext comoditatea de avea grija de plozii pe care i-au facut intr-un moment de nebunie/inconstienta/nepasare. Mass-media e poluata pana la dumnezeu. De la MTV pana la Stirile de la ora cinci pana la Candy si Undying copii sunt poluati cu exemple de frivolitate, violenta, ignoranta. Nimeni nu le zice "puneti mana pe o carte", "ascultati niste jazz". Mintea lor e tanara si cumplit de maleabila. Deci se duc pe pula, cum zice romanul. Se promoveaza idei ca "pot sa am bani si fara sa muncesc, deci hai sa fiu lenes, oricum e mai comod asa", "de ce sa ies sa ma joc cu mingea prin parc si sa ma surmenez cand pot sa stau lejer in saunu meu si sa fac niste frag-uri la counter" si alte aberatii care fac generatiile de acum sa fie foarte triste. Uitati-va in jur. baietii, care is mai influentabili cand vine vorba de calculatoare, de stat in cur (adica fetele macar mai danseaza, mai fac un fitness, ceva) sunt mai scunzi, mai flasti, mai fricosi, mai...fete. E unul din lucrurile care ma intristeaza cel mai tare. Poate pentru ca is la varsta cand hormonii is pe dealuri, dar sa vezi hibrizi din astia de baieti-fete e taaare trist.

Revenind. Stiu o groaza de oameni care nu-si folosesc creierul, care refuza sa si-l foloseasca. Care nu sunt obisnuiti sa faca asocieri, corelari, imagini etc. Eu imi folosesc creierul in fiecare secunda in care traiesc. Cu antrenament vine viteza. In momentul in care iti folosesti darul mintii si ti-l folosesti din ce in ce mai bine deja te poti considera un om care stie ca stie. Hehe, o definitie data de vreun om de stiinta orgolios ce e atat de rar aplicata in ziua de azi. Homo sapiens sapiens. Oamenii de acum nici macar NU STIU ce sa mai vorbim ca stiu ca stiu.
Cand m-am apucat sa invat pentru bac si ieseam din ce in ce mai rar in prea-mareata societate au fost de ajunsi care au comentat. Cum de lucrez, cum de fac, cum de dreg cand pot sa stau cu curu pe un scaun si sa joc ceva, sa beau o bere etc. Cum de mama dracului imi folsesc creierul. M-am uitat la ei cu mila si mi-am zis din nou fraza "what a waste" care deja devine un fel de tic mental pentru mine. Ai creier dar ti-l atrofiezi. ce patetic. Si mi-e mila pentru ca, in fond, nu e vina lor. Adica, normal, au si ei o mare parte din vina, ca nu au avut puterea sa "get up and get started" dar familia, teveul, prietenii, tendinta naturala a omului de a sta i-a tras in jos, intr-un fel de argila a unui creier ce putea fi beton armat. buturugi obosate in loc de sageti ascutite.

am auzit recent si scuza ca "universul oricum moare deci de ce sa fac io ceva cu viata mea"? era sa pic de pe scaun. tot ce conteaza e aici si acum. ce ma fute pe mine grija ca in un milion de miliard de ani o sa se prabuseasca totul? astia 50, 80 de ani cati ii am vreau sa mi-i traiesc bine, vreau sa mi-i traiesc in comformitate cu ceea ce mi-a dat mama natura (ca tot vorbeam de ea). nu stiu daca am intalnit scuza mai patetica ca asta. ce ma freaca grija? nu ma freaca grija nici daca este un cataclism nu stiu pe unde in lume, eu imi continui drumul. nu conteaza daca arde casa, moare familia, ma parasesc prietenii eu continui. aici si acum. mereu trebuie sa fie un aici si acum mai bune decat atunci si acolo-ul. mereu, mereu, trebuie sa lucram ca literele de pe aici si acum sa se mareasca, sa creasca, sa crestem. nu conteaza ce mana vine si aplatizeaza cele doua cuvinte, noi trebuie mereu sa le facem sa creasca. aici si acum sunt copii nostri, copii creierului nostru, al puterii, al vointei, perseverentei, onestitatii, ai sufletului, ai integritatii, ai personalitatii noastre. ce drept avem sa ne omoram proprii copii? ce drept avem sa lasam pe altii sa ni-i omoare? de ce alegem sa ne molestam progeniturile propiului sine?

Nu pot intelege care-i faza cu iarna. Lume care e surescitata ca vai, vine iarna. Lume care nu ma intelege cand spun ca urasc iarna in toate aspectele ei.
Un sofer de taxi mi-o zis recent ca iarna e frumoasa pentru ca vine craciunul si dai si primesti cadouri de la cei dragi. Ei, eu nu inteleg de ce trebuie sa asteptam un moment anume din an ca sa dam cadouri celor dragi. Toata lumea devine brusc "altcumva" de craciun. Si sincer nu cred ca la multi are ceva de-a face cu nasterea Mantuitorului. E craciun, se intra in "Sarbatori-mode". Eu cred ca lumea ar trebui sa se comporte ca de craciun tot anul. Cred ca poti sa dai cadouri celor dragi si cand nu e vreo ocazie "oficiala" si cred ca ai trebui sa fii apropiat de ei tot timpul.

Dupa care e problema zapezii. Nu stiu cine e atat de naiv incat sa-si imagineze ca zapada de la oras se apropie in vreun fel de pastelurile idilice ale lui Alecsandri. Uitati-va in jur urmatoarea data cand fulguieste. Zapada devine in foarte scurt timp un fel de mazga galben-gri, in afara de acoperisuri si tapasane unde e mai alba. Iar strazile si trotuarele sunt inghetate de-ti rupi gatul si masina cand mergi pe ele. Vrei zapada ca lumea, du-te la munte. In oras e un surogat patetic pentru numele de zapada. Si, apropos, de cativa ani, ninge complet anapoda. Momentan suntem in noiembrie si zilele is ba calduroase ba friguroase de nu mai stii ce haine sa-ti scoti din dulap. Iar zapada probabil c-o sa fie ca si anul trecut, doua zile, asa, sa nu zicem ca n-o nins.
Eu imi amintesc de iernile din copilarie cand ningea frate si puteam sa ma duc o luna zilnic pe partie. Dar acum nu. Acum ninsoarea este mult spus jalnica si chiar nu da motive de surescitatie.

Continuand multele aspecte negative ale iernii de oras...
E frig. Asta inseamna ca iesi din casa imbracat ca o ceapa si cand ajungi in vreo incapere incepi sa-ti scoti din bulendre si apoi cand pleci incepi sa pui bulendre. Ati fost vreodata la shopping iarna? Intri in magazin, mori de cald. Iesi afara, ti-o inghetat extremitatile. Ubercool. Arati ca omul de la michelin de la talie in sus si tot iti ingheata urechile. Nu vad unde e amuzamentul in toata treaba asta.

Si ca sa mai zic ceva vis a vis de imagini idilice ale iernii. Mai e o imagine cu un om cu o ceasca de ceva cald si o carte si afara totul inghetat si inzapezit. Chestie care, asa cum am explicat mai sus, nu se petrece. Deci si aceasta imagine se duce la cos.

Va rog sa-mi aratati aspectele pozitive ale iernii in oras. Pentru ca eu sincer nu le vad. Nu le vad si basta!

Fost acu cateva zile la morga. Ca sa vedem cum arata un om ne-formolizat. Eventual sa vedem o necropsie. In ziua respectiva nu erau necropsii. In schimb era pe masa un barbat tanar care murise suspect. Cutia toracica ii era deschisa. Parintii erau afara ca sa il ia sa-l duca la imbalsamare etc.
Eram vreo zece oameni in jurul lui. Eu am pus niste intrebari. La un moment dat se apuca unul sa rada pe tema omului, sa ii ia din organe, sa puna intrebari de genul "pot sa iau ficatu' acasa?" I-am zis sa nu atinga. O continuat. I-o mai zis si altii sa inceteze si el o continuat sa rada. Parintii erau afara.
Va dati seama ce tragedie este pentru un parinte sa-si ingroape copilul. Cred ca e cea mai mare tristete care se poate intampla unui om. Este impotriva legii firii ca generatia trecuta sa ingroape generatia viitoare. Iar peste tristetea care deja exista, parintele aude un cacat de copchil care rade pe tema copilului. Copilul tau, care a murit atat de tanar, care ti-a lasat un gol imens in inima, acum este ridiculizat de un mucos care, pe langa ca e nesimtit, pe langa ca e inuman, TRAIESTE.
Acesti oameni vor deveni medici. Ei nu au mentalitate de medic. Si teama mi-e ca scoala n-o sa ne invete cum trebuie sa gandeasca un medic. Teama mi-e ca o sa invatam despre lobii ficatului, despre Omohioidian, despre colateralele nervului axilar dar despre nobletea sufletului, despre respectul pentru corpul uman, respectul pentru viata nu vom invata.
Nu reparam calculatoare. Reparam oameni. Oameni! Cu viata, cu minte, cu suflet inauntru. Oameni care rad ca noi, care plang ca noi, care mor asa cum si noi vom muri. Ce fel de medic va deveni acela care rade de o viata umana pierduta? Este motiv de plans cand vezi ca viata ti se curma la 30 de ani. Este motiv de meditatie, de regret, dar in nici un caz de ras. Cum putem sa permitem ca un asemenea om sa ajunga medic?
De asta medicii iau bani. De aia pe medici ii doare-n pula. De aia medicina romaneasca pregateste oameni care [in cel mai bun caz] stiu carte, da-s niste tzarani nesimtiti si aroganti. Pentru ca de acum permitem ca astfel de oameni sa treaca prin faculta. Astia trebuie batuti cu primul obiect contondent gasit in cale. Batuti cu brutalitate. Si ma intreb, unde e educatia? Unde mama naibii au fost parintii care trebuiau sa le predea BUNUL SIMT acestor oameni?
Nu avem voie sa trecem cu vederea. Aceste creaturi trebuie taxate aspru. Sau viitorul nostru e in mainile unor monstri.

Note1: The names are not real.
Note2: This text is a very strong critique. It is MY point of view. You are free to disagree but my point of view shall remain the same.
Note3: I still have to continue, but I have already written a lot as it is.

1. Argument
I am writing this because I know there are a lot of people who believe America is the “promise land”. People from Eastern Europe, like me, people from Asia, India who come in almost herds in the US, expecting a free, capitalist, rich, beautiful etc. etc. country. So many people I’ve heard who praise America like it’s the ultimate country, the best (so fuck the rest), the dream, the alpha and omega. And, for a certain part, it’s just a big load of shit. It makes me sad that also so many believe these epithets and descriptions. So this is a warning or wake-up-call if you wish. It ain’t all that they say it is.

2. How I got there.
I was fed up with my life here. The school system sucked, the people sucked, we were filled with corruption and lies and hypocrites and uncivilized people, society sucked. Basically 80% of my daily life sucked. And, as any Romanian, I was stuffed with the “American dream”. Movies, music, stories, omnipresent appraisal of America, everything told me that America was just right for me. What could I want more then a country where I could be free, where democracy is at its height, where people are tolerant and civilized and where everyone gets their proverbial “happy-end”? So I looked for ways to escape from my god-forsaken country. And I found some sort of grant program. That’s what it seemed like when I read about it in the newspaper. You give this association 3500 dollars, the American state gives 40 thousand and you’re off to dreamland! So I gave the tests and got the highest score in my country, went to the interview and did very well and so I was good to go.

3. About the agency
So this agency was supposed to find a right place for me taking in account my letters, my CV and my requests. I had to right a letter describing myself and I wrote a 4-page letter, I had to fill out forms and forms so they can find me an appropriate home. They did NOTHING of that sort.
First of all, I was at the end of my 11th grade. Was it not natural to find a home where I would go to a school as a senior? Well, not really. It seems common sense don’t really apply to them. So they found a home where I was supposed to be enrolled in the 11th grade. So I was supposed to repeat a year. It wasn’t enough that I was going to Medicine and that’s 6 years, I was to lose another year. I wrote a letter explaining the situation. I asked them to tell me if they can’t find an appropriate placement for me and if that would be the case, I wouldn’t go. But that would have meant they lost 3500 bucks. As it turned out, the state didn’t pay diddly squat. All the money they got was those paid by us. The families were volunteers. And for those of you who do not understand why that particular word is in bold…by being a volunteer means that you can quit the program whenever you wish. Who gives a shit that that means you meddle with the life, hopes, dreams etc. of a kid? Anyway, they send me a letter with the info of a supposed “second placement”. And we supposed I were to be a senior. We found out later that they didn’t bother finding me a second placement and that I was enrolled as a junior (imagine the surprise, the joy and happiness when I found that out).
Secondly, I clearly stated that I am a smoker. If I said that it means that I wasn’t planning on quitting very soon. If I couldn’t go because of this (and being a minor) they should have said that. But they didn’t. More than that, they found a family where the mother loathed smoking and also was allergic to smoke. A perfect match, don’t you think?
Third of all, I wrote quite clearly that I am open-minded, independent, free-willed etc. The family only got one fourth of my letter. The family was one of the most conservative and narrow-minded I have ever seen. The mother being an Asian, you can understand why that happened. So you can see the family was just perfect for me. I wonder why it didn’t work out…So they made some mistakes. They didn’t even say they apologize, they don’t give a shit.
Another mistake, which they blamed on us. In the contract it was stated that I have to be on American grounds with 5 days maximum before school starts. School started on the 10th of august, so we got a plane ticket-the last plain ticked to Palm Beach - with great effort; it was for the 5th of august, late at night. So, 10 days before my departure we get an email from the family where they say that they’ll be in a vacation in Colorado until the 8th of august. Since we couldn’t change the ticket (we would have paid the huge tax to do that), my dad talked to a friend, who talked to his orthodox priest who talked with the priest from Palm Beach to pick me up from the airport and take me to a hotel. The agency (lol) said that we planned that. Like yeah, there’s nothing I want more in this world that to sit for 3 days in a hotel, placed in the middle of nowhere (everything is in the middle of nowhere there) in a total foreign country. So they did a lot of mistakes even before I got there. But the moment I talked, later on, to the NY agent, I understood why. He was totally incompetent and arrogant. Moreover, he was stuttering. He was talking to a freakin’ kid and he was stuttering. Not from being pissed, but from being afraid. Like I was to go in NY and kill him with an axe or something. Truly pathetic.

4. Behold…America!
From the customs in Detroit, I noticed that all Americans are “nice”. All the customs’ agents smile, heck, most people are constantly smiling, everyone has this glued pleased expression on their faces. On the plane from Detroit to Palm Beach I realized I landed in “Jesus Land.” I was sitting between these two ladies who were obsessed with God, Christ etc. and had a great pleasure in expressing their faith. Imagine me, an orthodox who became a catholic who became a non-practicing Catholic, openly disgusted by the Church and the people who blindly believe in this whole Christian hypocrite crap, squeezed between two fanatic Christians. Imagine how Florida, Jesus Land felt for me. Didn’t really expect it to be that way. But since if you are an accredited pastor and have an accredited church (a sect people, a sect) you don’t pay any taxes and since America is the cradle of all fanatics, it is easy to understand why Christ is so praised there. By the way, did you know that 26% of Americans believe Jesus will come on earth during their lifetime?

I got at the hotel. The priest was really nice and a man who showed at least to be less fanatic about god. Maybe it was because he was orthodox and not belonging to some sect. I owe a great deal to that priest. We had a wonderful conversation and he helped a lot. I shall thank him forever. He was one of the very few “truthful” Americans. Anyway, it was late, the hotel was in the middle of nowhere (everything is), it smelled like humidity and I was hungry. I checked in. The guy from the counter had a very strong Caribbean accent and I had to make him repeat twice most things he said. In the end I understood him more from signs then from the “common” language we spoke. I got accustomed to all accents soon enough, because in Florida live people of many, many nationalities. I crossed the ocean of a street and got to a gas station to buy some food. A very nice African American person served me through a shelf in the wall. We started talking and he invited me in because there were a lot of junkies at that time of night. That was the first African American I got into real contact with. I decided I shall not be racial when I went there but then I discovered I really didn’t need to. Black people are very cool, most of them are much better than Americans. And, why be racial, when everybody else was doing such a fine job? If you think Americans ain’t racial, think again. Forget about the movies, they are one of greatest lies America has ever produced. Americans are very racial. And, unlike us who do not like gypsies for very well defined reasons (most of them are beggars and thieves); Americans don’t like black people just because. I do not say that there are not exceptions, but your regular American will still think a “nigger” belongs on a tobacco plantation. That in the South can’t really say anything about the rest. I think that in the north things might be different. In school, white people avoided the corridor where black people stayed during lunch. One of them said (and he was serious) that black people scare him. And yes, it is quite uncommon to see a fat or unfit black person. They look…animal like, but in a very good way. I, for one, couldn’t stop looking of the slenderness of their forms. And yes, they get jobs, no one says they don’t like them, everyone is “politically correct”, but a neighborhood is “bad” only because black people live in it. Speaking of which…
My first school was a “magnet school.” The magnet program had the purpose to raise the quality of “bad” neighborhoods by bringing really good schools in them. Suncoast is the best school in Florida and the 4th in the country. And it was near a “bad” neighborhood. Yes, you have guessed indeed: it was near a black neighborhood. I found out that bad is something very different to me.
I was trying to get someone to buy me cigs at school. I could find a drug dealer in one of 50 students (it was a good school) but I couldn’t find someone who could buy me a damn pack of cigs. So when I finally got my hands on those cigs it was 14 days since I smoked and I was really desperate. I confess: I love smoking. I don’t just like it, I love it. It is one of my few addictions and the only one that’s bad for my health. So, in that desperate state, I said I will take a chance, the ultimate chance and go smoke my cig in the neighborhood. Everyone said that the people there are murderers, rapists, junkies, thieves. My god, it was hell on earth. But, being a reckless kid, I went there, asking for a light. And I actually found a light. And I found more than that: a person that knew more about my god-forsaken country than any American I’d spoken to. He not only knew where my country was (to most Americans there’s “America” and “The rest”; watch Eurotrip to get my point), he knew that we used to be a communist country, when the revolution was and all sort of things. I asked, amazed, where did he learn all that. School doesn’t teach you much there. He said he had history channel and the library right next door and he likes to know stuff. So I got out of the neighborhood un-raped, un-murdered, unharmed. Yes, indeed, everyone looked weirdly at me; it’s not everyday you see a white girl going into a black neighborhood. From that day I used to come every time I could. So let me tell ya what a “bad” neighborhood means. Yes, they did drugs. But white teens do drugs as well. They don’t talk about it, but they do. And, as oppose to school where I talked almost daily about parties and drugs and booze, in that “bad, bad place” only a guy asked me only once if I “burn” and I denied vehemently and that was it. They didn’t smoke in my presence; they did not talk about it in my presence. They were precautious? Maybe. Respectful? Maybe. Whatever the reason, I liked that. They drank, even during the day (omg omg) and not only beer (omg omg). But I can drink whenever and wherever and whatever I wish in my country so it was nothing surprising. They laughed and OH, GOD, they got laid. I’m looking now behind my shoulder because getting laid is tainted, un-pure, disgusting and very very taboo. It’s not like we’ve been doing it for some time now. Southern people, ahem, white southern people like to pretend they are somehow pure. So they don’t talk about sex, they don’t have sex, they don’t drink, they don’t pronounce obscene words, they don’t curse…to sum it up, they don’t. Live, that is. So the “bad” neighborhood was for me a breath of fresh air. I could curse, I could, unbelievable, people, truly unbelievable, talk about precious, god-given America and actually criticize it. I will get to that subject later. So, because I used to go there, the second family thought it was dangerous. And also they thought that I’m using the poor helpless African Americans to get cigarettes. Yes, they bought me cigs (right-minded people they were) but I gave money for them. I also went there because I liked them and nothing bad had ever happened to me. Black people are frank and direct. Sincerely, they are not sophisticated enough to be hypocrites and double-faced like white people are. They believe in god and such, but with much more moderation. They truly know what respect and tolerance is. And for that they are discriminated. Viva America.

School, another very interesting subject. I must say I was some sort of genius there. Yes, their classes are a bit more interesting than ours, teachers are trained to make them that way, but WHAT they study is, as plainly put as I can, retarded. I was the best of my twelve grade English class – that’s right people, I, from an Eastern country knew more English than the natives, their Advanced Placement 12th grade AB math was a quarter of what I did in the 11th grade and chemistry…I learned how to count significant digits (don’t get me started there) and how to transform from decimeters to meters. And I was not allowed to just do it mentally; I had to use their antique and truly retarded methods. More than that, 11th graders were using a calculator to do ten at the second times ten at the minus third! Truly appalling and sad. For me anyway. And that’s just school, “science”. You do not wish to ask an American anything of decent knowledge, like “where is France”, he will just give you a blanc stare. They do not have any information of what we consider basic knowledge. They only know procedures. “We don’t need no education, we know need no thoughts control. Teachers, leave them kids alone! All in all it’s just a brick in the wall!” they are trained from young age to be little robots. Everything they do, from eating, sleeping, family life, having fun, human relationships is mechanical. They are somehow “trained” to do those things. They get “life training”, like in the army or like a computer who has a code sequence to do something. It is quite scary. I finished my homework and class work in what they considered “record time”. Goddamn right it was record time, I was used to think! I used to explain different things to people, things they didn’t understand. Used to do other people’s homework ‘cause I had so much spare time and no fun stuff to use it with. After a while I felt like I’m becoming a veggie.

Oh yes, fun. This is indeed, a very difficult subject here. So most Americans consider shopping the most “fun” you can find. And this brings me to another interesting subject, shopping. They have these super-stores, like Target or Wal-Mart; where you can find anything (and I do mean anything) you want. It’s like a Disney Land of stuff. When I first went shopping in Target I got mesmerized by zounds of things. I am not a shopper, in fact shopping gets me really tired and bored and pissed. But the mirage of things got to me the first time. I, on the other hand, even with me typical Eastern-European awe, didn’t ever come close to what they do. As other people said, they are like locusts. In august sometime, the stuff for Halloween arrives, occupying three-four isles of a store. And immediately after Halloween, the Christmas things appear, occupying maybe half of every shop. Christmas is biiig. Not because of the birth of Jesus Christ. They are politically correct and they must respect all religions, so they’ve found the common focus point for everyone in America at Christmas time: shopping for presents. Friends of ours told us that the Church wasn’t even open on Christmas day because everyone had a vacation then. Including the Church!
Apart from Target they have Malls. A lot o’ ‘em. And so they shop. A lot. And that’s considered one of the most fun-giving things.
Another fun thing that we did was go out and eat. Another very itchy subject…food.
I gained 10 kilos (22 pounds) in America. I think the food there and its lack of anything (vitamins, proteins) made my hair so weak, so that it started falling in industrial amounts. Food there, of any sort, gets you fat. “Organic” food, the food I find here almost everywhere, is expensive and rare. Even if you cook at home you have a huge chance of gaining weight. I gained weight also because I didn’t smoke there that much. So I needed another activity to perform; so I drank water and ate Oreos. And got fat. More than that, I ate a lot. In quantities I mean. Here, a 500g lunch can hold me for 36 hours. There I ate maybe 4 times a day and I wasn’t full, I didn’t feel “the energy”. And fast food, oh boy, that’s just “bad”. In any possible way. McDonald’s is the worse, I reckon. Their food I think fits exactly the minimum requirements for it to be legal. I don’t know if they even put real meat in the burgers. Watch “Super-size Me” and you’ll understand better. It’s about a guy that goes through an experiment: eating for one month only from McDonald’s. After that month he gained weight, lost his very good health, became depressed and addicted to the food. So, as I said, eating out is “fun”. They once took me to a place where you just paid to get in and then you could eat whatever you wanted. I kinda liked it, but it does tell something about the way that they eat.
I’ve had quite a lot of surprises concerning food. Onions didn’t taste and were almost like apples. I once mixed the aspect of prunes with a peach. They didn’t have garlic, but only garlic powder (petrol based, all nutritious, obviously). And the list can go on.
Watching movies at home is “fun”. For more then a month every weekend the family’s kid would have friends over and we’d just watch movies. Most of them we’ve seen at least a couple times, but that didn’t matter. It was all about “socializing”. You can imagine this activity is very intense and it requires a lot of social skill and energy.
Another thing – and this to me was truly hilarious- that’s fun to do is a DDR party. What is DDR, you might wonder. It’s a game, where you have a foot-pad and on the screen you have arrows flowing. And you have to step on the arrows on your pad to match the ones going on the screen. It’s sorta like training to dance. They never actually danced, DDR was the closest thing to it. I have never been to a bar or a disco or wherever of the sort ‘cause you have an age limit in most of these establishments.
And, oh, yes, video games. Truly amazing how addictive some mindless video games can become. Take Counter Strike. You just shoot people. Barneby, the kid, told me a very complex theory about how video games enhance your reflexes and such but that’s just BS. I mean you can enhance your reflexes in hundreds of ways, sitting with your ass on a chair and hitting the mouse button not being the first of them. But then again “why should I have my fun outside, where it’s hot and I sweat and I’m uncomfortable when I can sit inside in the air conditioning and relax?” A truly great and smart opinion. I don’t know, maybe I’m an outdoors person, but I just do not see the fun in sitting all day between four walls.
Alright, so that was fun. Why haven’t I said anything about sports? Because they just do sports at school and most of them do it because they have nothing better to do. Since the distances are so great they cannot go to a high school’s basketball field and play, like we do. I have never been to a picnic, have never played just a leisure outdoors sport. Yes, we went once to some friends of theirs and did knee-boarding but that was pretty much it.
So that was fun for them. They almost never have variations in their life. My life here is extremely dynamic and what I do every day changes a lot. I almost never get bored. There, I entered a mind-killing monotony. Every day was the same: school, food, homework, reading, browsing the net.

And now I will reach maybe the most shocking subject for me: family life. One word, say it with me: “ar-ti-fi-cial”.
The OGs described themselves for the agency as loving. That was their basic quality: they had a lot of love for each other and they were a very “together” family. The family was made out of John, a very decent, quite typical American man, Lilly, the artist, the intellectual, obsessed by her grades (and they need to be like that, college is based almost only on grades), Barneby, the counter freak, a computer geek, sort of lazy at school, thank god for his mom who kept pushing him and, the great, the almighty Min-chu, the Korean tyrant mother. As you might have suspected, Min-chu had the pants in the family. She was full of pants. Anything she said had to be done; it didn’t matter if you wanted an explanation, if the thing she wanted you to seemed totally pointless or whatever. I shall give an example so you can understand. I was sitting in the kitchen with Lilly and Min-chu. Lilly was taking PSAT classes, as a preparation for the SAT classes. It cost 800 dollars. So I asked Lilly if these classes are any good. She said that they were boring and seemed pointless. So I ask min-chu why she pays so much to go to these classes when there were so many things that could have been done with the money. She said “because they are useful to my daughter”. I shut up. That was in the beginning, when I didn’t quite get how the wheels spin in that house and I think that was the thing that cursed me for ever in her eyes. Goddamn it, I actually had a mind of my own. All of Barneby’s and Lilly’s friends had to go through their mother’s filter. Take tom, for example. He was a really nice guy, sarcastic, funny, smart, but had a somewhat mind of his own. Min-chu didn’t approve of him until he got caught up in the house during a very strong hurricane and helped out and just then she realized what a trustworthy boy he really is.
Lilly, 16 of age, wasn’t allowed to have a boyfriend. She had to stay focused on school and anyway her mom didn’t approve of most guys gravitating around her. All the inter-human relationships were quiet and posh. Even among Lilly’s friends, all in Art school, I saw this distance. Like it was somewhat fake, like they somehow didn’t mean it, like they didn’t really grasp the concept of having a friend.
Moving on…Lilly used to erase her browser history. When I asked why, she said “because I don’t want my parents to find out where I’m browsing.” Don’t think porn. Oh no, my goodness no, Lilly was a truly common-sensed girl. She browsed cnn.com, deviantart.com (an art community), her mail, her school’s page and other sites related to school. There was nothing obscene, malefic, satanic. And her parents rarely came into her room, they really trusted her. But still, she was that paranoid that she erased her history. Another thing: she bought, with her OWN money, a T-shirt, somewhere close to her birthday. She told her mom she received it as a gift because her mother didn’t approve of buying so many clothes.
I was living in a prison. I remember the first days of school. One day tom brought me hone and on the second day, another guy brought me home. Min-chu implied that I am some sort of whore, who lures guys into her precious, god-given home and she told me, if I ever want another guy than tom (whom she trusted) to bring me home, he should leave me at the premises’ gates. As if I was building a harem and the guys would take turns to bring me home.
Going back a little bit to fun…They live in extremes. We have, on one hand, the OGs, who have pure, posh, quiet and utterly boring parties and we have, on the other hand, the cool kids at school (or most kids anyway) who gather in a weekend at someone’s house and get wasted by means of industrial quantities of alcohol and marihuana. When I told them about the cafés and the bars where we go whenever we want to and drink and smoke [regular cigs] and talk they stared at me in amazement. When I told them about the clubs and discos they said they would like to move in with me. All these restrictions destroy them, make them do foolish things when they, on rare occasions, escape. The chains of their laws are so strong that when they escape, are like a blind man seeing light for the very first time. They find joy in the most simple and…childish things. They try to escape but they have nothing to escape to.


---to be continued---

I love stories. I do not know where it started. Maybe it started with my grandmother reading stories to me, exhausting every book on the subject in the house. And then, after I'd known them all by heart, she had to invent them. Every night, until I fell asleep. Maybe it started in the bathtub, when I was very very young and my mother surrounded me with plastic books and I looked at the pictures. Maybe something then made a click in the back of my infant mind. Maybe it started when I was still in progress, inside my mother, and she talked to me constantly. Like some people talk to plants.

I really cannot place the finger on the moment or the time of the click. All I know is that it happened very early and it got really big.
When I was young I talked to objects. I still do, frank to say. I give them an identity, a personality, a soul. I give them life. But in the back of my head I guess I'm just giving myself life. In every plush toy, in every doll, in every wall I have put a bit of myself, unsconsciously.
Talking to innanimate objects was merely the dawn of my imagination. It has so many functions now that it almost resembles one of those kitchen robots which do virtually anything except masturbate you. But my imagination does masturbate me. Mentaly.
I walk the streets, alone, or with someone and I imagine. I imagine the road I am walking is not concrete, but grass, cotton grass, blue and fluffy. I imagine everyone dressed funny on the streets. I imagine, as I am in a tram, what could the people I see be. An old lady holding the hand of a child - maybe she has been a teacher, molding the life of hundreds. A teen dressed in baggy clothes - maybe he is a student and has two sisters that drive him mad. I tell stories to myself, and sometimes to others. And I constantly tell the story of myself.
I oftenly find myself looking at myself from the ceiling. There's her picking up a spoon. There's her thinking about what to pick from the fridge. There's her thinking about what to say to her mother. This happens sometimes when you're drunk, I've heard. This happens to me constantly. Following a decent logic, I'm usualy drunk. Or just a bit mad. But it's become such a habbit I couldn't shake it off even if I wanted to.

A lot of people would say that staying inside reality and achoring ourselves to it is what we are supposed to do. But reality is what we make it. There are millions of realities, each for every person. You just think you are down to earth, but your perception is always distorted. Each one of us sees things in a particular way. Why not be aware of this and make reality what you want it to be. Do not understand me wrongly. I am not saying we should all see butterflies instead of money, or baloons instead of walls. I am saying that reality becomes much more amusing when it's coated in a thin layer of imagination. When it is merely a story your ultimate goal is to make that story worth reading. And no one will remember you, but maybe they will remember the story. And maybe they will become amuzed and maybe they'll become wiser.
Instead of trying to have money, grow kids, have a great boyfriend, just try to live your story. No one can achieve happiness, it is the thing to which we aspire and never achieve, said wisely a friend of mine.

This is why stories appeared in the first place. To give us hope. If David fought Goliath, if Alexander cut the Gordian knot, if, if, if, we have hope. These are just legeds, but there are stories in our everyday lives which have the same purpose. They give us hope...and something more. They give us the wish. A wish. To become "something more", to do "something better". Do not underestimate the power of example.
And stories gave birth to something bigger: gods. I sincerely believe no one is a true atheist. Everyone believes in "something". You need to. You need to tend, to believe there is something greater, bigger, stronger than you because that gives you a purpose, that gives you something to achieve. If we are not in search of something, something to give us happiness, we are not humans. And thus we have created gods and stories to explain them, to give them a shape, a meaning, to bring them closer to us so we can believe we can reach them, at least with the tip of our fingertips.

Do not anchor yourself in reality. It is just what you create. You shape it the way you wish, if you wish hard enough. Idealistic? Maybe. I am just working with what I have in front of me. My eyes see, but my mind creates. A story. Which, maybe, people will remember.

"Butterfly Fucking" Facuta in tabara de foto. Am fugit oleaca dupa ei.


E bine sa ai bratari pentru ca din cand in cand le poti poza.


In spatele unei biserici, Budapesta.


Tot in Budapesta, un anticariat intr-un subsol.


In gradina din Schonbrun, Viena, este o crescatorie de porumbei.


Facuta in Grecia.


In Prater, dimineata, inainte sa se deschida.


Un amic din Reghin. O amica i-o pictat floricica cu markeru'

Varul meu, ganditorul de 3 ani.


"Fanel" - varul meu de 3 ani, o dulceata de copil care nu poate sta locului.


Experiment cu ochelarii tatei, intr-un restaurant din Grecia.


Aici eram in cel mai mare lac subteran din Europa, intr-o mina langa Viena. Poza nu e extrem de artistica, dar e 'frumoasa', cred.


O expozitie de sculpturi pe malul Dunarii, in Budapesta.


Alt experiment cu ochelarii tatii, pe la 2 dimineata, in Bucuresti. Nu aveam somn si luminita albastra de la hard mi s-o parut interesanta.

There was a clang as Detritus saluted.
'Were you proposing to shoot these people in cold blood, sergeant?'
'Nossir. Just a warning shot inna head, sir.'
*Detritus is a troll
(Terry Pratchett - Jingo)

Pseudo-fotografii din Sibiu. Vine si povestioara in curand, stay tuned.

Copilul si cladirea
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0079.jpg

Invingand cerul...
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0116.jpg

...si atingand vantul
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0111.jpg

"E o floare, omule, ce parere pot io sa am despre o floare?"
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0067.jpg

Aragaz
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0027.jpg

Asteptare incognito
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0154.jpg

Ascensiune
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0073.jpg

Una halca de fereastra
http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v239/liceriena/IMG_0031.jpg

Bac 2006...un examen, doua saptamani, 30% din media de admitere sau...vaaaaarzaaaa!!!

Duminica dinainte de proba la romana pe toate posturile Ministerul anunta sus si tare ca subiectele au fost trimise la centre in conditii de maxima securitate. In seara de duminica un reporter anunta ca tocmai cumparase variantele pentru proba de romana scris. In noaptea de duminica spre luni s-au facut noi subiecte. Si deci luni am stat in fata unui subiect III care zicea asa: "Drama intelectualului in societate la un autor canonic (Preda, Petrescu, Rebreanu)." Cand am vazut ce subiect o dat 1) am rasuflat usurata ca nu trebuie sa vorbesc despre tarani si 2) m-am gandit in prima instanta ce dumnezeu ar cauta Rebreanu si Preda cu drama intelectualului. Apoi m-am gandit ca Preda o scris si "Cel mai iubit dintre pamanteni" iar Rebreanu "Padurea Spanzuratilor". Dar, evident, m-am avantat asupra lui Petrescu, creatorul romanului roman modern si cel care bate campii in toata opera sa despre drama intelectualului...
Ca sa aflu ca o mare parte din elevii care au dat proba l-au considerat pe Ilie Moromete sau pe Ion al Glanetasului intelectuali si ca subiectul era o mare capcana in care au cazut nesperat de multi elevi.

Evenimentul zilei scrie:
"Ieri spre pranz, in fata Liceului „Spiru Haret” din Capitala, elevii ce ieseau de la BAC, cu bujori in obraji si foaia cu subiectele in mana, erau luati la rost de o doamna vehementa, profesoara de limba romana. „Ce-ai ales la eseu?” „Ilie Moromete”, raspundea tanarul.
„Esti tampit? De cand e asta intelectual?”, intreba justitiara si-l plesnea pe nefericit peste frunte."

Cum dumnezeu am ajuns in stadiul in care sa confundam un taran cu un intelectual? Adica un "adj., s.m. şi f. 1. Adj. Care aparţine intelectului, care se referă la activitatea minţii, la intelect. 2. S.m. şi f. Persoană care posedă o pregătire de specialitate temeinică şi lucrează în domeniul artei, al ştiinţei, tehnicii etc.; persoană care aparţine intelectualităţii. [Pr.: -tu-al] – Din fr. intellectuel, lat. intellectualis" CU "Persoană care locuieşte în mediul rural, având ca ocupaţie principală agricultura şi creşterea animalelor; persoană care face parte din ţărănime; sătean. – Ţară + suf. -an."?

Am auzit argumentele ilare cum ca Moromete era filozof. Uau. Apai bine oameni buni, da orice om cu un IQ, cu o INTELIGENTA mai mare de 90 de puncte poate filozofa. Ca scoate un panseu si ca citeste ziarul nu-l face pe Moromete intelectual. A fi intelectual inseamna sa ai o profesie ce implica intelectul, sa fii educat, sa ai o anume structura spirituala si morala. In primul rand, Moromete era impotriva scolirii fiului si acesta ar putea fi singurul argument care sa distruga toata demonstratia.

Iar despre Ion...„Intr-un fel, Ion poate fi considerat un intelectual pentru ca si-a planificat toate actiunile”. La acest ilustru citat am ras oleaca.

Ma sperie si ma intristeaza gradul de incultura care il are tineretul roman, grad de incultura care le-a permis la atat de multi sa faca o asemenea confuzie. Si incultura e "cultivata" de scoala, de mai-marii nostri dascali. Domnul Romel Moga, da, da, profesorul meu de romana, l-a tinut pe un anume coleg in zece doi ani de zile, coleg care ma indoiesc ca a citit "Capra cu trei iezi" si coleg care, la fel ca restul de idioti, a scris despre Moromete iar pe mine, bet om care am chiar nimerit intelectualul, m-a tinut numai in 7 si 8. Asa se face scoala. Aduci o plansa, dai un ban, lingi in cur oleaca si ajungi la BAC sa scrii ca "nenea ala dragut care o iubeste si pe florica si pe ana si pe pamant" e intelectual. Este infricosator ca elevii de azi insulta inconstient patura sociala care ar trebui sa insemne esenta tarii. Este infricosator ca aceste doua categorii antagonice se confunda si ne plaseaza pe noi, prin tineretul nostru, prin viitorul nostru, fix in comunism.

Astazi Ministerul si-a exprimat pozitia: nu se vor da punctaje pentru cei care au scris despre Moromete sau Ion. Eu sper sa se si aplice. Este vremea unui semnal de alarma. Scoala e "dusa cu vaca" de mult. Pana se ca schimba ceva va mai dura mult timp. Pana una alta medicii, avocatii, profesorii au mana libera sa pupe pamantul si sa stea pe balcon (prispa moderna a casei) si sa se frasuiasca vis-a-vis de cum sa mai obtina un pogon de pamant caci asta se pare ca fac intelectualii.

www.slopa.tk . Forumu' rokerilor ieseni. Infiintat in mai 2004 de catre un baiet distept care avea o initiativa, o idee. Si citez din domnu' fondator, Slopa: "Vreu sa zic ca am luat initiativa asta de a face forum din simplul motiv ca nu era. Alte orase gen Cluj, Constanta au site al rockotecii lor...si la noi..nada."
Eu am inceput sa scriu serios pe forum prin octombrie 2004. Sunt al 151-lea user. Acum avem peste 1500 de useri, dintre care aproximativ 200-300 activi.
Cand am intrat pe forum l-am privit strict ca o forma de amuzament. Credeam ca imi voi putea pastra anonimatul mult timp, ca voi fi doar o identitate virtuala in spatele unui monitor. Dar nu a fost sa fie asa. Pentru ca spre deosebire de alte forumuri pe care activam eu atunci, acesta era oleaca mai...intim. Este o comunitate virtuala constituita din oameni din acelasi oras care asculta un anume gen de muzica. Anonimatul nu putea fi pastrat prea mult timp. Era inevitabil sa cunosc oamenii fizic.
Comunitatea virtuala a fost doar un pretext pentru formarea (sau existenta) unei comunitati fizice, mai restranse, in care am intrat, pe care am cunoscut-o, o comunitate cu o istorie proprie, cu certuri, cu impacari, cu probleme. Pentru mine "forumul" inseamna oameni cu care am baut, cu care am ras, cu care am glumit si cu care m-am certat.
Forumul mi-a permis sa cunosc oameni speciali, oameni inteligenti, oameni cu care am avut ce vorbi. Mi-a permis sa-mi gasesc prieteni si sa apartin de un anume "ceva". Tin minte si acum o rokoteca in care Storm mi-a aratat diversi useri: "ala e cutare, ala e cutare", pe vremea cand stiam doar cativa oameni.
Pe net ne intalnim, discutam, ne certam, admonestam, ne informam, dar o parte din spatiul virtual trece la o masa, la un foc, la o bere si o tigara.
Exista bisericute. Unele care se potrivesc, "asa, in punctele esentiale", unele care is in total dezacord. Exista oameni care nu apartin de nici bisericuta, dar care posteaza intens si exista si "trecatori". Ca in orice comunitate reala, fizica.
Este frumos cand vezi "forumistii" adunati la o bere si este trist cand ii vezi cum se indeparteaza unii de altii.
Forumul, in doi ani, a devenit un fel de forta. Nu stiu vreun alt forum din Iasi cu un asemenea rasunet (sau poate nu-s eu informata). Este frumos sa vezi o idee cum se materializeaza. Evolutia mereu e ciclica. Sunt perioade "pasnice", in care nu izbucnesc certuri si sunt perioade pline de "tulburari" si este foarte fain sa le urmaresti, sa vezi cum oamenii interactioneaza.
Cu toate acestea forumul trebuie privit ca un spatiu virtual. In momentul in care te implici si uiti ca tastezi intervin problemele. Certurile personale ar trebui sa existe in spatiul "real", dar nu mereu se intampla acest lucru.
Nici nu stiu de ce am scris despre forum. In afara de cei care sunt pe forum nu stiu cati dintre cei care vor citi asta vor intelege despre ce vorbesc. Dar in doi ani din cauza oamenilor de pe forum viata mea oarecum s-a schimbat. Pentru ca am cunoscut foarte multi oameni noi si, odata cu extinderea listei de messenger s-au extins si relatiile mele.

Maretul si prea-incapatorul ciclu "Cu coaiele in pantalonii prietenei" se tot mareste pe zi ce trece. Tot vad prin jurul meu barbati (baieti, nah) care seamana cu gummy-bears sau cu Play-Doh in mainile prietenelor. De la o gagica care si-a pocnit pretenul pentru ca era prea beat ca sa-i faca poza si pana la excluderea oricaror altor intalniri in afara de cele cu prietena lista de manifestari ale acestui ciclu e lunga.
Oare e dragoste asta, in care sari prin cercuri si joci cum it zice fumei-ta? Inca nu am reusit sa inteleg care e voluptatea de a fi manipulat fara sa manipulezi la randul tau. Nu inteleg unde poate fi placerea intr-o asemenea ex-centrincitate relationala. Dar ma gandesc ca necesitatea de a fi manipulat vine dintr-o lipsa a capacitatii de decizie proprie sau dintr-o obisnuinta a lipsei libertatii. Evident, pot doar presupune, inca nu am gasit omul pe care sa pot sa-l intreb de ce dumnezeu este la dejtu mic al pretenei.
Nu inteleg cum te poate un sentiment trecator face sa strici o prietenie veche, sau o prietenie buna sau cum te poate tranforma intr-un sihastru. Lipsa libertatii, incorsetarea asta pentru mine ar fi ucigatoare. Sa nu pot sa ma vad cu cine vreau, eventual chiar singura, sa nu pot merge unde vreau, sa nu pot iesi cand vreau, sa trebuiasca sa dau un fel de raport continuu...ar fi masochism dus la extrem. Am facut asta o data, acum mai mult timp, dar m-am lecuit de sportul extrem al posesivitatii obsesive.
Manifestarile, evident, sunt jalnice. Si sa spunem ca la o femeie este oarecum scuzabil, femeia fiind obisnuita din trecut sa stea cu o cratita in mana si cu un pumn peste spate de la barbat. Dar chiar si la femei acum e cel putin bizar. Dar la barbati, la reprezentatii "sexului puternic", cei care se tot bat cu pumnul in piept ca-s lideri, ca-s "deasupra femeii", sa-i vezi deasupra numai in Misionar e de-a dreptul patetic. Si, evident, crunt de amuzant. Sa vezi o plastilina umblatoare face parte din amuzamentul cotidian. Si nu folosesc "cotidian" fara rost, caci ii vad aproape zilnic. Si, cu toate ca e amuzant, de la un punct devine trist. Iar un fapt care intra in categoria "trist". Sa vezi un fatalau amorf care nu vorbeste cu tine de frica muierii e trist. Atata lipsa de incredere intr-o persoana cu care esti de 6 luni, de un an este...trist. Repet acest cuvant pentru ca exprima cel mai bine cum vad e problema.
Dar, e generatia femeii. Girl power si toate cele. Asta probabil ar zice o femeie care tine sa aiba un catelus atasat de piciorul ei. Dar "girl power"-ul asta se manifesta nu numai la fete, ci si la baieti. De la "dudzii" emo care arata ca fete si pana la...creaturile astea care se numesc baieti numai dupa organ este, din nou, trist sa vezi fenomenul denumit de George Carlin "the pussification of the male".
Nu prea mai am ce zice; vedeti si voi ce se intampla, nu cred ca e un fenomen evident numai mie. Eu una, ca la multe alte lucruri, voi rade pe tema asta si voi incerca sa nu ma simt dezamagita de specia masculina careia ii creste un vagin din ce in ce mai proeminent.

Don't know about you, but I am rarely bored in my city. Yes, I want to see and explore new places, but if I'd be cursed to live in my city, or in any city, I wouldn't mind.
Every time I leave my home and walk different things make me ponder. That's the beaty of walking: you have time and space to think.

Near my flat, on the Hala Centrala platform there is a beggar. I keep seeing him since the beginning of the summer. He does not have any toes. He is dirty and his clothes are old and ragged and he smells of alcohol and filth. But I've never seen him beg. It's very weird. He's either sleeping or just standing there, looking at nothing. Last summer behind my flat there was an old lady. My grandfather knew her. I think he knows most beggars in our area. She had been thrown out of her house by her alcoholic, violent son. He gave a concussion of some sort and she had the brain of an eight year old. She loved reading stories so for most of the summer while I was in Romania, I brought her books with stories. She actually read them and always gave them back; except one which I wouldn’t take back.

Was standing today in the tram station. The tram took a while so I was able to study the people waiting with me. And right in front of me there was this young woman. She was dressed with a white top. She wore a black braw and its straps were visible, near the white straps of the top. It wasn't a fashion statement; I think she was one of those people who aren’t "educated" about how to wear clothes in the city. And this is not an insult. Anyway, she had this really short dress, clearly brought from the flea market and these very weird sandals, Chinese, with a very "plastichy" orthopedic heel. She didn't walk right on them. Her legs were firm and muscular and her shank was thick. Her nails were not painted and rather dirty, but she wore an ankle bracelet. She wore a bag which fitted nothing of her outfit, very bright and with round handles which were imitating bamboo. She had what we call a tractor driver's bronze. She turned and I could see her face. It was a peasant's face. A very beautiful face, but beautiful in a very raw and healthy way. She had freckles from the sun. She seemed determined but her eyes sparkled of the unease of the city. I was able to watch her as we both took the same tram. That spark in her eyes got "bigger" as we walked in that closed space. It was very interesting to watch her reactions.

Yesterday in the tram I was sitting in a window seat. Suddenly something bumps into me. A gypsy mother had just dropped her child on the seat next to me. The child's skin was stuck to mine and I remembered how much I love children. They are so soft; I feel I could put my hand right through them. And also, looking at that poor and dirty child remembered what poverty smelled like. It's heart-braking to see a child, innocent, unknowing, born with a star over his head, growing in such an environment. And as the child sat right next to me I smelled the same smell I fell in America, in the black neighborhood, next to those dirty, poor children. The smell of sweet children's food, with sweat, piss and tears. I saw on the face of that dark-skinned child the traces left by tears on dirt and again my heart broke. He wanted to grab the chair in front of him but he didn't reach it. His mother moved him a bit to help him reach. But she moved him without changing the fierce, animal look every poor man has in his eyes. I've seen it so many times and it still somewhat scares me. It's the look that says "I'm miserable but I'll bring you down if you dare pity me." At least that's what it tells me. I looked at her and I smiled and she smiled back, proud of her son, her little treasure. But the look changed and also the expression of the face came back to normal in a second. They left at the next station and I fell like a small bit of me went empty. The child was not there anymore, his innocent eyes were not staring into mine any more. I fell sorry that he will become a bitter adult, maybe a thief, maybe even a murdered....

And right after that two girls came in the tram. Their hair was perfect, cut to the latest fashion. Their bleached blue jeans sat relaxed on their firm behinds. Their tops were casual and their purses minuscule. Their jewelry attentively chosen and their make-up drawn to the finest detail. They radiated health and wealth and outermost "cool-ness". Oblivious to the world and concerned only about themselves they seemed. The difference was so striking I had to make myself not stare. I turned my eyes toward the window and I fell lucky. Truly lucky. To have a real roof over my head, food on my plate, a stable, loving family and even money to have fun and have almost any thing I want. I looked back at those girls and I wondered if I am as they seem. Egocentric, superficial, inattentive...I hope, I believe there is a difference.

I saw another child the other day. He was running. Have you noticed children mostly run? They almost never walk; they are always in a hurry, maybe even more than a New York businessman. And they are so happy to run, they always run with a smile on their faces. I stopped and I looked at the child. I think he had just passed the lesson of walking. The joy of being able to stand, to run to your mother's loving arms. I don't really remember the feeling (I was rather young:)) ) but I bet it's one of the most beautiful in the world. The pleasure of running, of galloping towards the thing you love.


My room is towards east. And every time I stay up the night I see the sunrise. And every time I stop from my work and I watch it. There are no two sunrises alike. There's a slightly different shade of purple, or pink, or red, or there's a cloud that makes a spectacular effect. And the rise of the sun is just like any big event in our lives. It takes a lot to prepare - it takes almost an hour for the sky to turn from black to, let's say, purple-orange - but the transformation of the sun from a small red line to blinding is very short. We prepare, we await all tings in life, but they pass in a blink. Heck, most of our lives we spend waiting and preparing. And every event is a new sunrise or sunset. Ending with our death. Now the sun's blinding me, like the effect of a grand success. It's early...or late...I feel poetic, don't sue me.

I like to see the city change. Well, not all changes are nice. For example, they killed the beautiful chestnut trees in front of my flat to build this concrete abomination. But it's nice to see a path in the Botanical Garden with new slabs on it, or a new wash on an old building or to see the weeds grow on the old market next to the Spiridon Hospital. It's nice to see new billboards appear or being changed, new shops, new supermarkets. And sometimes it's sad and disgusting to see old buildings being turned into new horrifying creations by idiots who just happen to have money. I would like the old parts of the city to be preserved and I wish we'd have better plans about how to change it. The most recent absurdity I've seen hyper-modern windows put on the Antique store on Lapusneanu. It just...doesn't fit. Not in this universe, not in any universe.

There's an organism. We are a small part of it, merely a cell. Another two cells of it spawned us. We work for it. It nurtures us, it molds us, it challenges us, it brakes us and it creates paths for us. It sometimes hates us and sometimes loves us. We create it, we can influence it, but we need it. We can choose whether we are an epithelial cell or a nerve cell, a neuron or a sperm cell, but we cannot be apart from it.
From the moment we leave our room, our cozy bed and our cozy space we slide into it. We either dive or crawl. It makes no difference.
This organism has limbs, like any body. Like you have hands and skin and a brain. And some limbs are subordinate to others and some are more important than others. You could live without a hand, but without your heart you'd be dead.
This organism has weaknesses and strengths. It has diseases, cancers polluting him. One little cell which goes berserk and triggers other cells to follow it. It has cells fighting as one against any threatening invaders. It has allergies to some "strangers" and some "strangers" it tolerates.

I'm talking about society, of course. I've been meaning to write about this, it's just I don't know exactly where to start.
I've been conscious of society since I was, let's say 13. Conscious meaning able to study it and react to it not out of instinct.

First of all, let's talk about the "biiiig" society. Then we will narrow it down. The "biiiig" society is a very large group of people. For example, our country. Aristotle said that a person that knows much about a certain thing can be a good judge of that thing and a person that knows much about things in general can be a good judge in general. So, how come for a bunch of years our leaders are chosen by people who do not know a lot of things. Our country (in my opinion of course, feel free to disagree) is basically rural. Whether in the actual countryside or in the cities, it is rural. Because most of today's urban population is made out of peasants brought by communists to the cities to work in industry. So it's basically rural. Now, I am not disregarding peasants, I respect them. After all, they feed me. But a peasant shall never have the intellect, education of knowledge of "urban" people, who have a constant access and maybe even interest to information. So these people choose our leaders. And not only in our country. But, democracy is said to be the most efficient and peaceful way of governing. By the way, I simply love the reflexive. "Is said", "It was done", "It broke" - phrases like these used to just play the little game called "pass it all around".

Returning. That's the first thing that has bothered me about society. Any society, no matter how big or how small. If you can't get yourself heard and approved you're dead. Society has made us approval-junkies. Watch "Revolver" by Guy Ritchie. There is a monologue about approval. The only reason why we get up and suffer all the "bloody piss" is because we need approval: the pat on the back, the "hip-hip-hoo-fucking-raah". I am an approval junky as well. If you have the "people" on your side, you have power. Fuck money, fuck information (although you need it to get the people's approval), what really gives a man power and joy is the people. Society. The masses. The majority. Call it as you wish. You need their love, their fear, even greater, their respect (what a very big word) but you reactions from them. A man that can get a reaction out of a large group of people is that cancer cell I was talking about. One little cell that starts bouncing around and gets other cells to bounce.

Moving on...there's another thing that's very interesting to watch. Trends. Not only now, but also in history. How trends go into circles. I'm expecting that in maybe 100, 200 years' time we will be as taboo and "shy" as the people in the 20s let's say, before the sexual revolution.
There are "massive" trends, which are followed by many people, for example the Hippies in the US or, more violent, the Nazis; and there are "local trends", for example those hideous bright colored fisherman's boots mall girls wore this winter. Trends are, again, something followed by more people. "Every person is unique". Bullshit. An unique person is a person who follows no trends, neither in clothing, neither in music, neither in thinking. An unique person is either a trend-setter, either a person who mixes together so many trends in so many areas that's impossible to tell where he fits. And this brings me to another lovable thing society does.

Don't know if you've noticed, but people are obsessed with order. People just love to categorize everything. Because, apart from the need of order, we just love to bring out the differences in things. We have maple wood, linden wood, birch wood, oak wood, willow wood...but it's just wood. But “each type of wood has its unique properties”. We have Caucasian, African American, Asian, Native-American and all the breeds between. But it's still people. But when it comes to people, weeell, we don't care as much about the "unique properties" each has, but of the large differences which we simply HATE. But, coming back. Everyone has to "fit". I almost hate the word. You have to fit in your class, in you school, in your work group, you have to fit everywhere. Either wise, you'll be considered either really eccentric, or weird or a paria. To most societies the phrase "when in doubt, kill" applies. Because most societies are made out of "normal" people. People with an average intellect, with an average (or low) education, with average dreams and desires and with predictable reactions. The masses. So these people will eliminate anything that seems out of place, anything faster, better, stronger, weirder. Which brings us to a paradox. All great leaders were not average men, did not have an average intellect, did not have average dreams and did not have predictable reactions. But they managed to bring to their side the masses. Think about that and let me know what you think the reason was for that.
So these mechanisms about fitting in have brought me to other thoughts. What does one do when one does not fit in? Either he becomes emo (now there's another beautiful trend) and believes, like any American teenager that "nobody understands me so let's see what dad's razor can do" either tries to find a society small enough to contain him. And the smarter, better, stronger one is, the tighter the society in which one will live.

Society is a very fucked up thing. Always has been. In a lifetime, if you actually live, you will enter and exit and just pass through many types of societies. Beggars, mall girls, poor and wealthy, casual and bussiness, school, friends. Each one is a system by itself, is a "limb" of the grand organism. But you will notice that very few of these "limbs" are different from the majority. All you really need to do, all what everyone does in some point is choose. Brain cell or skin cell?

Am avut si vom avea.

M-am nascut in 1927 in Sighet, in Maramures. Numele meu, Margineanu, nu inseamna "locuitor de margine", cum ai putea crede. Pe timpul lui Maria Tereza, adica prin secolul XVIII, Marginenii erau ceva in gen prima linie de aparare a Imperiului Austro-Ungar. Erau soldati cu pregatire para-militara raspanditi prin tot lantul carpatic, la granita. Familia mea de pe tata, stramosii lor adica, au facut parte din acest corp militar. Ei aparau imperiul pana se organiza armata. In primul rand erau oameni liberi, ceea ce era un mare lucru pe atunci. Aveau prviliegii - drept la educatie, la scoli, spitale, la functii - si aveau mosii si averi date de catre regina. In primul rand, pentru a-i tine loiali coroanei si in al doilea rand pentru ca meritau. Averile se administrau in comun. Fiecare barbat avea mosia lui, calul lui, armele si uniforma lui. Ei faceau serviciul de paza pentru granita. Erau ceva in gen razesii din moldova. Ei erau cei mai bine pregatiti militari. Familia noastra deci are radacinile in Maramures de cel putin 300, 400 de ani (eram aici si inainte sa fim numiti oficial "margineni") si familia noastra mereu a fost mereu compusa din preoti, profesori, medici, avocati. Cele mai mari doua familii de "margineni" din Maramures si Bucovina au fost Margineanu si Rosca. Bunica mea a fost Rosca. Bunicul, Marginean.
Tatal meu fusese primarul Sighetului. Era cel mai mare avocat din sighet. Si, ca sa-ti faci o idee, cand venea acasa la sfarsitul saptamanii, trebuia sa cantareasca bancnotele ca sa-si dea seama cat a castigat. Aveam casa, mosii, servitori, gradinari, cultivatori. Aveam.
In '38 a venit refugiul peste noi. Si nu am mai avut asa de mult. Adica am avut inspre deloc. Ne-am mutat la Iasi, unde eu am facut pana intr-a zecea scoala la Colegiul National. Ne-am mutat apoi la Fagaras si ultimul an din scoala l-am facut la Liceul Stefan cel Mare din Suceava.
Am facut trei ani de politehnica. Fratele meu era intr-o societate "subversiva", care lupta impotriva comunismului si care era in legatura cu serviciile de spionaj franceze. El era in conducere. Pe el l-au luat la securitate si a evadat. In timpul asta ma cautau si pe mine. Si ca sa vezi cum merge cu norocul, eu nu eram acasa atunci. Ei, vecinii mei s-au imprastiat pe strazile pe unde stiau ca pot aparea si m-au prevenit. Eu atunci am fugit intr-un sat langa Aroneanu. Acolo aveam niste rude venite din Bucovina. Nu le vazusem niciodata in viata mea. Dar m-au ascuns. Copilul lor de opt ani a fost batut pana la sange de securitate si nu a zis unde ma aflu, cand eu stateam in podul casei lor. Dupa trei zile m-am dus in gara din Cucuteni (aia din Iasi era pazita de securitate, pentru ca aveau un fugitiv si un om pe care inca nu-l arestasera) si am ajuns in Suceava, intr-un sat de langa unde noi aveam mosie, Stroiesti. Acolo ne-au arestat pe toti, pe mine, pe fratele meu, pe mama si pe tata si pe cativa vecini.
M-au dus la securitate. Acolo nu au putut sa-mi dea sentinta ca uneltisem impotriva regimului, ca nu facusem parte din organizatia fratelui meu. Dar m-au arestat pentru ceva gen "complice". Pe atunci si daca dadeai o tigara la un "uneltitor" te bagau la racoare. Initial mi-au mai dat o pedeapsa pentru port de arma (aveam semi-automate la noi) dar cum cam toti taranii aveau cate o arma, ne-au "iertat".
Am stat opt luni in cladirea securitatii, legat de un pat de fier. Acolo am slabit pana la os. Cand m-au mutat in inchisoare "normala", in copou, m-am oarecum bucurat. Ala de la securitate mi-o zis atunci sa nu ma bucur, ca dupa doi ani (sau cat aveam eu) de pedeapsa normala, urma o pedeapsa "administrativa", adica munca. Si asta era maxim de 60 de luni. Dar a sfarsitul alora 60 de luni iti mai puteau da 60 de luni. Nu stiu cati oameni si-o dat duhul asa.
Oricum, am ajuns in copou. Si aveam cica dreptul la un recurs. Pe vremea aia se stia clar ca cu pedeapsa data initial ramaneai. Pentru ca pe dosar astia de la securitate scriau o cifra care insemna numarul de ani. Dar tata mi-o zis sa fac recurs, sa vad totusi, sa sper. Bun, deci am facut recurs si apoi am asteptat.
Pe noi ne tot muta de la o inchisoare la alta. Si pe mine m-o mutat prima data la canalul Dunarea-Marea Neagra, unde era si tata. Eu cand am ajuns acolo eram...scheletic putin spus. Tata o aranjat sa fiu cu el. El avea 60 de ani, era cardiac, nu putea iesi la sapat si deci era la bucatarie. Acolo am inceput eu sa ma intremez.
Pe drumul spre canal, in masina, am intalnit un batran. Era bolnav si transpira. In inchisoare mai nimeni nu te ajuta daca nu stia ca ai relatii, deci el probabil ca urma sa moara in curand. Eu mai aveam niste medicamente cumparate si luate prin inchisoare si i-am dat si l-am oblojit cum am putut. La canal, el s-o tot dus, eu am ramas.
Ei, dupa canal, m-o mutat la Stadionul de la Constanta. Ciopleam pietre. Batranul ala pe care il ajutasem s-a dovedit a fi unul din cei mai mari arhitecti ai Romaniei (el o facut si palatul telefoanelor). M-o vazut si o aranjat sa lucrez la "materiale". Adica eu mergeam la fiecare sef de "sectie" si-l intrebam ce mai are nevoie si repartizam. M-o scos de la munca fizica.
La constanta am primit o carte postala care nu stiu cum o trecut de cenzura in care un var de-al meu din Iasi imi scria ca o primit raspunsul de la recurs. Mi-au redus pedeapsa la 11 luni. Eu deja facusem 2 ani. Deci m-am dus la colonia din peninsula si am vorbit cu securitatea sa-mi dea drumul. Ei, normal, m-au intrebat de unde sti ca am doar 11 luni si le-am zis ca am primit o carte postala si ca nu stiu de la cine.
Mi-au dat drumul dar mi-au zis (cu ura, evident) ca ma asteapta la pedeapsa administrativa.
Treaba o fost urmatoarea. Erau foarte multi care trebuiau sa faca pedeapsa asta administrativa si numai o comisie de evaluare. Deci, ca sa evalueze mai putini, nu i-au mai evaluat pe astia cu pedeapsa initiala sub doi ani. Eu pe hartie aveam 11 luni, deci am scapat.
Ei si dupa aia...

Facuta anul trecut.

Because I cannot express any recent thoughts (I have a grave lack of creativity these days) I've put an old beginning of a short story.

I have been afraid of Barbie dolls ever since I got my first one when I was six years old.
Toys were scarce when I was a child. It was just after breaking the boundaries set by communism. Most of my toys were Legos my mother brought from Poland or wooden cars my grandfather would make in solitude under the linden tree.
I was six when my aunt from France came to visit. Proudly, she presented me with a present, a box wrapped in her typical butterfly model paper. As I tore apart the paper, eager to find maybe a model car or a puzzle, the horror unraveled. A pink box and this hideous figure staring at me with these perfect sky-blue eyes. I looked at her, a grimace on my face. The worse was the smile. I heard it being described as “perfect” or “universal” or “welcoming” but all I could see was this ignorant, meaningless smirk. It frightened me more than the plastic unnatural blonde hair, more than her pink outfit, more than her innocent, stupid eyes. With trembling fingers, I took her out of the box. My aunt, as all adults, saw only surprise and glee on my face. I touched her, this stiff figure dressed in a hideous pink dress with hearts on it, with its straw-like hair, with the immobile limbs and that obsessive smirk. I cried “She can’t even stand what kind of a…thing is this?” and threw Miss Perfection in a corner, furious and disgusted, to the great disappointment of my aunt.
It would be years until I found out why I hated Barbie so much as a child.
As a child I kept myself away from these abominations. In the park I would play with the boys and totally ignore the quite large area of the park dominated by girls occupied with their barbies and kens and their pink furniture and pink clothing and pink cars and pink houses. I used to laugh, looking at that area of grass sparkling with pink plastic, but I never admitted my fear. Later on I would ignore them gracefully. When I would ran into a commercial of Mattel I would rapidly change the channel. When one of them would appear on a shop window or in the venerating hands of a little girl I would look the other way, with a slight grimace reminding me of the still mysterious fear from my childhood.
When I was 14 the first mall in my town opened and naturally I went to see what it is about. I was also looking for a present for my cousin, a lovable 5 year old, so I went in the toy department. I accidentally took a wrong turn and found myself in the middle of an aisle filled with barbies. Pink boxes everywhere and that smile, the horrifying smile, surrounded me. I was petrified in the middle of the shop. Mesmerized, I picked up one of those boxes. It showed a platinum blonde Barbie with a short denim skirt, a purple top and a denim jacket. She was also wearing a matching purple bag and purple sandals. I studied her, my mind racing to find the answer to my fear. I still, after all these years, can only suspect the origin of that instinct. After looking for 5 minutes at the box I raised my eyes and found myself looking at a flesh and bones copy of the doll. It was a young woman at the end of the aisle. Her hair was made in very tight, hair dressed curls. She was wearing a fuchsia top, white jeans, socks with stripes in pink and purple, white high heeled sandals and these huge pink glasses. That girl, with her perfect curls, and perfect lipstick pink smile and that perfect walk was so different than me, in my ragged jeans, torn t-shirt, boots, frizzled hair that I couldn’t help feeling like living in another dimension. And then it hit me.
Barbie is universal. Barbie can do anything. Barbie can cook, can clean, can look cool and trendy, can sing, can dance, can fight a war, can raise a child, can have a marvelous prince charming holding her arm, can hold a kingdom of fairies and ride a pony, all that and she still can keep that awesome perfect smile on her face. She is the outermost and most absurd manifest of feminists. But looking at her all I ever saw this stupid girl with her only skill being to look perfect. Barbies feed the dreams of innocent little girls who believe they can conquer everything, excell in everything and still look damn good while doing it. This is so untrue the whole Barbie concept becomes such a hilarious lie, an absurd joke, but a joke that has sold millions. As I’ve learned in life, platinum blonds on high heals and pink outfits get high places not using their brain but using their body. No intelligent woman would ever wear a hair that is the subject of so many jokes and a plastic shirt. No woman, no human being can posiibly do so many things. The universality of Barbie kills the concept of individuality.

Belfast. Da, da, terasa aia din buricul targului la care fiecare orice om, de la metalist la manelist se aseaza sa bea o bere. La zece jumatate baietii deja nu mai serveau. Bine, "serveau" este o crasa supra-apreciere. Ce fac ei acolo nu se cheama servire. Bauturile care vin peste juma de ora plus, chelnerii care vin la tine dupa ce faci semnale fumigene, care iti pun consumatia pe masa cu o scarba de te astepti sa-ti scuipe o flegma in pahar si o vorba de duh in fata, nu compun cuvantul "servire".
Belfast e un trend, e un brand. De acum 3, 4 ani de cand o aparut, cand servirea era chiar ok, pana in panarama de semi-bomba care e acuma (si macar in bombe din prima stii ca tre sa te duci la bar si sa cumperi) Belfastul a parcurs un drum lung. Dar totusi e in top. Totusi mereu cand trec prin fata gasesc cel putin un cunoscut in marea de oamen i care umplu crasma fie vara sau iarna. Vara se vede "plenitudinea" mai clar, pentru ca este si terasa pe care oamenii aproape se bat pentru scaune. Totusi, in ciuda penalitatii crasmei are un succes rasunator.
Si de ce nu ar avea? Este la confluenta tuturor rutelor de transport din iasi. Maxi-ul te lasa la 100 metri in stanga sau dreapta, tramvaiul la fel, autobuzul la fel ca maxi-ul, taxi-urile te lasa fix in fata. Vii de la orice universitate (afara de AC) si e aproape. Vii de la liceele (mari) si e aproape. E in centrul centrului. Are terasa. Cu umbrele (fara stalpi!). Au multe bauturi. Cine mai sta sa se uite la serviciu, curatenie, scaune si baie? Pai, clientii, da' aia oricum vin, da-i dreq de idioti ca-i avem la mana.
Iar inauntru se adauga: lipsa locurilor. Si acum ii vad pe UBP, Jihad, Ionica si alti piticoti prieteni de ai mei care faceau yoga ca sa-si potriveasca picioarele printre chichinetele de mese si bancute. Apropos, ati observat ca mesele si bancutele din inauntru nu sunt drepte? Daca puneti un pahar pe mijlocul mesei, aluneca. Picioarele trebuie proptite in podea astfel incat fundul sa nu alunece pe bancutele alea atat de confortabile.
Iar baia...Sunt trei baruri care utilizeaza aceasi baie. Baietii is norocosi, ca au doua bai si pisoare, dar fetele au o singura baie. Care e murdara, cu gandaci (nu fabulez aici), fara hartie igienica, fara sapun si cu cardul de fete care pe la pranz deja da afara din cladire, card care de obicei se poticneste intr-un mal girl a carei machiaj s-a deplasat cu o tusa.
Dar, cum spuneam, ce ne pasa? Oamenii oricum vin? Ii avem la mana, nu au alternativa. Alternativele sigur, exista. Exista terase, exista baruri cu preturi studentesti, dar noi suntem marele Belfast, prea-atotputernicul si prea-atotpotentul Belfast. Mai sus de belfast exista Cannabis, Aurora, Golfo di Napoli, Sage. Mai jos exista Clubul Presei, Arte, Pub-ul, cand exista. De baruri nu duce lipsa targusorul asta. Niciodata nu a dus lipsa (prin 1800 erau 100 de fantani si 300 de crasme, parca). Daaar totusi toata lumea se vede in Belfast. Si inca ma intreb, de ce oare nu sad si io pe o banca in parc sau pe o margine de zid in loc sa le dau bani unor oameni care, practic, ma santajeaza?

Ieri am avut ocazia sa stau oleaca pe scarile din fata Casei de cultura si sa ma uit la trecatori. Dupa cum stiti, daca sunteti din aist targusor si daca mai scoateti capul in lume, prin fata pe la Casa de cultura se plimba in mare parte tineri. Care vin in belfast, care merg pe copou, care se intalnesc, care stau in parc. Am vazut fustite mini si balonase de guma, am vazut scootere si podoabe capilare date cu atat gel incat ar putea fi folosite ca material de constructie. Dar nu despre astia discut pentru ca, surprinzator, mall-boii si mall-girl-urile nu erau majoritari prin fata pe la belfast.
In schimb am vazut un val de tenisi roz, de coai-furi negre, asimetrice, cu parul intr-un singur ochi, machiaj negru, fulare (sa reamintesc ca suntem in iunie si afara is vreo 30 de grade), mersuri cocarjate si priviri triste. Adevarul e ca aratau tristi. In ambele sensuri ale cuvantului. Vorbesc, in caz ca nu v-ati dat seama de copiii pseudo-emo si pseudo-punk, ca oricum arata cam la fel. Cu capul in pamant, cu privirea suparata dar totusi mandra de crezul absurd de pesimist, egoist si imbecil pe care il au, acesti copii au luat cu asalt trotuarele orasului in aceasta vara. Anul trecut nu i-am vazut. Anul asta da. Anul asta in america curentul emo a luat amploare si cum noi importam mai tot (de la rosii la Valentine's) am importat si asta.

Sa stiti ca pentru niste oameni care cel putin cred ca mai au mintile la cap cum eram noi trei care priveam ieri (eu, domnul T si donsoara L) era o imagine amuzanta si trista in acelasi timp. Pareau trasi la indigo, asta in primul rand. Dar oricum reprezentantii oricarui curent par trasi la indigo. E "uniforma" pe care fiecare adept al unui anumit curent muzical si-o doreste. Zic muzical pentru ca oricum alt tip de curent nu prea am vazut recent. MTV-ul ruleaza de vreo 20 de ani.
In al doilea rand pareau extrem de "uber-lame". Langa ei sunt boschetari care-s imbracati in zdrente, parinti care castiga 3 milioane pe luna, femei batute, violate, copii care invata pe podele mucegaite sperand la o sansa si ei considera ca viata lor e "nashpa" si ca ar trebui sa se sinucida. Cand le vad privirile suparate pe viata imi vine sa-i scutur si sa le zic sa se uite oleaca in jur. Dar este la moda sa fii supi-supi. Supararea apare ca o preocupare in lipsa unei preocupari reale. Eu sincer nu cred ca acesti oameni au vreo preocupare. M-as duce sa vorbesc cu vreo doi, sa aflu ce-i de capul lor. Traiesc cu o senzatie cel putin vaga ca-s genul de oameni care au ca prietem, confident si ajutor internetul, care citesc numai subtitrarile de la filme si litere in forma digitala, care scriu pe foi uitate de hartie (asa, ca poetii aia...cum ii cheama...aia din franta...), care isi aleg haiele timp de o ora numai ca sa-si compuna un "outfit" care sa para cat mai disonant, neconcordant, cu efectul "tocmai-m-am-trezit-si-nu am-avut-chef-sa-ies-ca-omu'-din-casa". Baietii arata ca fetele si nimeni nu arata ca un om normal, car se trezeste dimineata, munceste, isi duce traiul si apoi iese la o bere cu amicii. Ei par un fel de umbre care stau cocarjate pe o banca distrusta intr-un parc, asteptand urmatoarea petrecere unde spera ca vor face rost de niste marihuana ca sa uite de maretele lor probleme existentiale.

Iar in timp ce stateam pe terasa (pentru ca da, sunt capabila si doritoare sa am un scaun sub fund) ma gandeam de unde, de ce o rasarit atatia ratati pe fata. Si, in nimicnicia creirului meu, am gasit niste posibile motive.
1) Chiar nu au ce face. Intr-o epoca in care variantele prin care iti poti petrece vremea sunt infinite, de la laba in fata unui film porno pana la cursuri de dans irlandez, ei nu au ce face. Observati paradoxul ingrijorator. Ce spuneam si intr-un alt post, is oameni fara pasiuni. Asta vine de la parinti, de la scoala, de la mai multe. Nu detaliez. Imortant e efectul. Daca mall-people merg si-si cumpara haine si-si fac un cult din imaginea "roz" acesti oameni sunt exact la fel numai ca se cred filozofi, ganditori, "grim" pentru ca au un look "negru".
2) Nevoia de a iesi din anonimat, nevoia de a fi special. Ei nu impresioneaza prin ganduri, prin pareri, prin performanta scolara sau extra-scolara, ci printr-o atitudine, printr-un ambalaj grim, sad si stupid.
3)Influentele externe. Deschideti teveu si dati pe MTV2. Stati juma de ora si o sa vedeti ca 5 din 10 videoclipuri sunt cu emo people. Da, da, baieti cu freze anapoda si machiati a' la AB4. Ei, copii nostri vasnici de ieri ori s-au uitat la fietili woz cum dau din cur ori la emo kids cum dau din cap si si-o ales calea.

Si pentru ca acum is pe fuga...Too much time and nothing to do with is very baaad. [to be continued]

Do you remember those times when you couldn't breathe cause the air felt so fresh and so beautiful, almost material under the power of love? Do you remember those times when you felt like jumping, screaming and dancing under sheer joy and happiness? Success, a man by your side, things which make all mornings seem like spring. And do you remember those times when you clenched your fists under your pale face and all you saw before your eyes was the black blank of anger? Do you remember those times when under the burden of saddness, you colapsed and kneeled in your bed, sobbing or even crying silent tears? Do you remember those times when your whole body was shaking, broken of anger and saddness and hatred? Do you remember those times when you punched a wall or broken a glass just to let a lit bit of the force clenching your sternum out? In which of those times were you stronger? After the feeling was gone, after the happiness calmed down and the pain left you empty and calm, when were you stronger?
What feelings make us stronger?
On the rainy day when I left the US dissapointed, on the sunny sunday when I broke up, my mind was faster, stronger, clearer. Those so-called negative feelings accelerated every nerve cell. "When you're in love you can't be a bitch." You can't think clear and you believe success is one step away. But it never is. Love, happiness, joy put a pink veil on your eyes and you can't see reality no more. You become an absurd, exagerated version of the optimist. But pain, hatred, anger pierce the visual field, sharped every object, person and situation.
We're masochistic. We search for pain, we love pain. There's a reason. Pain makes us stronger. More determinate. We search for wellfare all our lives but it's pain we're really searching for. Because all happiness comes with a price and that price we want to pay. We know the price will make us better. We need failure to achieve greater success.
The animal wants to get out. It wants to bite and kick and scream. Anger brings it out. Whether it is the burning, unconstructive anger, whether it is the quiet, calculated anger which extends over time, space and people, t brings out the fierce part in us. We want to be fierce. Sosciety does not like pussies and love turns you into one. In the beginning anyway. In the beginning anyway. Because love is pain and pain is never late for a date. Second reason why we seek love.
People inflict pain. If we'd live in a world of objects, we probably wouldn't get pain. We need to respond to pain. It is called justice. An eye for an eye. But if we want to inflict pain we need to be strong enough for our fist to pierce through the skin, muscles and bone of the opponent. And the metaphorical muscles of our mind are trained through pain. Happines does not train anyting but the sappy bits of us.
When the saddness dies away, when the burning anger drains you are left with a cold determination which grows on the ashes of the "bad" feelings you felt. And you rise. And then you are happy again. And then you get beaten again and brought down. And you rise again.
"The only way to get smarter is playing a smarter opponent." (Revolver, Rules of Chess). Finding a smarter opponent always implies pain. You don't figure out that the dude is smarter until he has his foot in your mouth. It is a never ending cycle. There will always be someone better who you wll have or want to crush. Inflicting pain.
What people need to learn is how to chanelise these feelings. Usually it just burns you. Saddness, dissapointment are unconstructive feelings. They just leave you sobbing on the floor. Tranform these into cold anger and you're on the right track. But this is relatively easy. What do you do when all things in your life go well and you're in the grave danger of getting drunk with these feelings and forget that you still have things to learn and conquer? So many people, from humble to proud have fallen under the drunkness of power and success. How do you keep lucid? Find pain. Look inside of you, you'll find it. From the reserves of the past, from the deep abyses of your mind, you'll find it. Or wait just a little bit for that smarter opponent to come along. Fear not, he will come.
To not fear pain, embrace it. You need it. Use it. And rise.