anditzu's daily musings

la xelomon pe blog am gasit urmatoarea fraza, care mi-a placut la nebunie: crestem asa repede si ne indepartam asa repede unii de altii.

se zice ca universul a plecat de la un punct. mic mic. care s-a facut din ce in ce mai greu pana cand a cedat sub propria greutate. dupa care toate particulele izvorate din el au inceput sa zboare in toate directiile, sa se indeparteze de punctul din care au plecat. dupa o vreme particulele au inceput sa se regrupeze, sa formeze conglomerate de praf si gaze, luand dupa o vreme forma planetelor si stelelor si a tot ce este intre ele. in jurul pamantului se forma luna. la inceput destul de aproape. in timp, luna se departeaza de pamant. incet, neobservabil intr-o viata de om. om care aparuse pe pamant, undeva in inima africii. om care pleca sa descopera lumi noi, limite noi, care cu fiecare pas spre nord se departa si mai mult de originea lui. la un moment dat omul si-a creat lumea lui, cu bune si rele. si cum pamantul era prea mic pentru el, omul a decis sa cucereasca spatiul. sa plece si mai departe.

forta primului punct ne arunca in fiecare zi mai departe. si totusi cumva tot cautam sa ne intoarcem. sa ne gasim particula de echilibru. sa fim din nou un punct.

He was a bit nervous. He knew that once he would put his hand on the door handle, there will be no turning back.

He came back a month ago, when his son decided he could no longer live alone. But there’s been 30 years since he left. Thirty years in which he only thought about his music. After Anna died he couldn’t even take care of his own son. His eyes…oh, those deep black eyes and those eyelashes…he even had the same smile as Anna’s!! … It was more than he could bare , and even knowing that his son might hate him for this, he left. He sent his son to Anna’s sister and every month he would send a considerable amount of money…but he could not go and see him. Only at his birthdays and on Christmas day he would go to stay with his son – and those days seamed more bitter than the day Anna died. Because Joseph, in spite of his father’s attitude, would not hate him. He was watching him with so much love and comprehension, that seemed almost impossible for a 5 year old boy…And then he would try to get close to Joseph, but when he met his eyes, he felt like Anna was looking at him, and when he jumped into his arms, he felt like she was holding him in her arms, like she used to…and he would run again…

He decided to make music his only purpose in life. He was appreciated as a composer and he had good reviews wherever he went, but he felt like he had more to give, that his best work hasn’t been yet conceived, that his music hasn’t made anyone’s soul vibrate with emotion, that his music hasn’t made anyone cry…

Thirty years he tried, and he had better reviews with each concert he gave…but no one cried. And he felt his music was being artificial and more unemotional, no matter how many applauds he might have received …So, he tried harder. He buried himself in symphonies and musical scores and forgot all about the outside world…until one day.

He received a letter from his son in which he was announced that due to medical advices he was going to move with his son in the old house. Now that Joseph was married, he could be cared for. “It’s no joke with these heart diseases!” said Joseph. So he had no alternative but to go back to his old house. He never thought of Anna all these years while he was away, but when he saw the house and felt the smell of the roses in the garden , he remembered…He wanted to go back, but it was too late. Joseph wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He looked at Joseph. He still had Anna’s eyes, but now his face was stronger and his features were a bit sad. He wanted to analyze his son a bit more, but Joseph took him to the room downstairs and told him that he would not be home most of the time, but his wife would and she would take of him. And then he left.

He found himself in a room which he hardly remembered. It was downstairs, on the same level with the kitchen and the living room, so he wouldn’t make an effort and go up and down the stairs every time he needed something. He was a bit relieved that they didn’t put him in the room where he and Anna stayed. It would have only been harder. But as days passed, he realized that every corner of the house had a memory about Anna. Even during the nights he though he heard her playing the violin…that red violin, with which she became famous around the world. Wherever she went people were stunned when they heard her playing that violin….oh, the memories were tearing him apart!

And now there was no turning back, as he opened the door and entered. The moon was lightening the room, so he didn’t turn on the lights.

Everything was like 30 years ago…their bed, the mirror, the shelves with hundreds of violin scores, her wardrobe and … the red violin! It was still there, on a small table. He felt his heart beating so fast , that he couldn’t breath anymore. So he sat on a chair to get back on his senses. He felt like in a dream. He could see Anna smiling, walking in the garden…he could hear her voice, her laughter….It was too much! He had to leave that place! So, he got up and turned , but then he saw the violin again. He took it and felt Anna’s skin, he touched the strings and heard her voice….so he started playing the violin. And he played that violin like never before in his life: he played about the time he met Anna, about the long walks they had in the garden, about her caresses and kisses, about the times they were happy, about their small differences, about their dreams, about the times they made love, about…Anna.

When he finished he felt like his heart could take no more and he sat down on the chair. Then it was when he saw Joseph and his wife in front of the door. They must have been standing there for a while…small tears were running down their cheeks and they couldn’t move.

He looked one more time at his son and smiled. He was happy now…he was with Anna…

Candva am fost muritor…Mergeam mereu printre chipuri cunoscute, dar care rareori isi intorceau privirea din drumul bine stabilit, de la care nu se abateau , pentru ca era drumul pe care il stiau cel mai bine, cel care-i ducea de dimineata la serviciu, iar seara inapoi acasa. Nici cea mai mica abatere nu era permisa. Daca totusi deviau catusi de putin de la drum, se tulburau, isi ridicau privirile incremenite din beton si priveau ispitele de pe langa drumul lor. De fiecare data erau altfel : ametitoare, infricosatoare … Unii innebuneau, altii se opreau si contemplau un moment, iar apoi cautau sa ajunga cat mai repede pe drumul bine stabilt. Iar daca vreuna dintre ispite se apropia prea mult de drumul lor, grabeau pasul ; daca acestea se aflau in drumul lor, un cuvant – doua – trei erau de ajuns si isi continuau drumul. Caci daca se opreau prea mult si intrau in dansul acestor tentatii, uitau de drumul lor si se gaseau apoi in mijlocul desertaciunilor, inconjurati de drumurile altora, fara cale de scapare. Si apoi incepeau sa isi caute drumul pierdut. Drumul spre casa. Acolo unde, de obicei, isi continuau drumul inceput la serviciu. Desi aici te intalnesti cu altii care si-au gasit acelasi drum, e periculos sa intri in vorba cu ei. Uiti de treburile importante, ce necesita gesturi fixe, bine stabilite si o privire la fel de fixa. O discutie cu ceilalti poate avea urmari teribile. In minte incep sa alerge idei, ce se lovesc una de alta, provocand intrebari ce te vor urmari ceva timp, avand consecinte grave asupra gesturilor,  ce nu vor mai fi fixe, ci fine, ca unduirea aerului printre corzile unei viori…Asa ca e mai bine sa vii acasa, sa faci ce ai facut si ieri, sa te gandesti ca si maine vei face la fel, si cel mai important, sa nu comunici cu ceilalti.

Candva am fost muritor…Dar intr-o seara am pierdut urma drumului. Era intuneric si nu o mai gaseam. Asa ca am pornit incet in directia pe care o credeam a fi cea buna. La un moment dat am obosit si am decis sa ma opresc un pic sa imi trag…nici nu stiu exact ce, parca ii spunea suflet. Ma asez si simt o atingere placuta si un parfum subtil, ce mirosea a vis. Eram inconjurata de flori. Desi era intuneric le puteam vedea. Aveau toate culorile si formele posibile si imi spuneau ceva, dar nu reuseam sa inteleg ce. M-am lasat pe spate si am inceput sa privesc cerul. Era atat de senin, nici macar un nor, desi se anuntase furtuna cu o zi in urma. Stelele sclipeau si formau figuri ciudate carora nu le puteam intelege sensul. La un moment dat, trei stele mici se miscara, lasand in urma lor un arc de foc. Atunci, ca printr-o intamplare ciudata, am inceput sa experimentez niste senzatii ciudate pe care aproape le uitasem. Curand vantul incepu sa adie, mangaindu-mi fata. Pentru prima oara am simtit ca sunt inconjurat de iubire. Atunci am inteles semnele stelelor si cantecul florilor. Imi spuneau: “Candva ai fost muritor..”

Lumina blanda a diminetii ii mangaia incet fata. Ii mangaia parul, ii mangaia nasul. Incepuse sa ii sopteasca incet cuvinte magice care-l trezisera fara sa isi dea seama. Se simti mult mai usor, parca cineva ii luase sufletul si il lasase fara greutatea sa. Isi intoarse incet capul spre masuta de langa oglinda si reflexia unei raze il izbi puternic in ochii negri, iscoditori, care cautau ceva , necunoscut si pentru el, in fiecare persoana pe care o intalnea. Incerca sa se ridice de pe canapea, dar avu senzatia ca lumina care-l izbise nu-l lasa. Adormise pe canapea. Ciudat, nu i se mai intamplase.

Cu greu se dadu jos si se indrepta spre baia din capatul holului. Usa era deschisa si albul puternic al faiantei il atragea ca un magnet. Ajunse in baie aproape instantaneu. Isi umplu cada cu apa foarte fierbinte, cum ii placea, si isi scufunda corpul greu in ea.

Lumina patrundea printr-un geam mic, rotund si facea ca faianta sa straluceasca intr-un mod dureros pentru ochii lui, facandu-i sa se indrepte spre apa din cada. Ii venea sa rada! Picioarele lui, corpul lui intreg parea ca un cadavru, sub apa aceea fierbinte. Prea fierbinte. Mai dadu drumul la apa rece. Era totusi prea fierbinte.

Ii lipsea ceva si nu stia ce. Un gand ii strafulgera mintea. Vroia sa spuna cuiva “te iubesc!”. Nu, nu era asta, e doar o impresie a mintii lui deja prea obosita. Isi inchise ochii si se scufunda mai mult in apa. Si totusi gandul nu-l parasea. Incerca sa-si aminteasca ceva, sa uite de ideea asta blestemata. Isi aduse aminte insa de cele doua iubiri ale sale. Pe prima o omorase. Cealalta il omorase pe el. Si tot nu reusea sa uite. Probabil ca mintea vroia sa il chinuie azi. La un moment dat se gandi ca daca nu se va mai impotrivi va fi iertat si isi lasa astfel gandurile libere.

“Ai grija cum conduci, iubire! Si nu uita sa treci pe la Angela mai tarziu. O sa trec si eu pe acolo. Te iubesc!” Erau ultimele cuvinte ale Georgiei pe care avea sa le auda. Pleca la serviciu, la blestematul ala de Dricar , care-i facea zile fripte numai pentru ca stia ca el este director si nu-l poate atinge nimeni. Se certa ca de obicei cu el pentru tot felul de nimicuri si pleca nervos pe la 5 spre Angela. Era ziua ei si Georgia vroia sa ii faca o surpriza. El trebuia sa o scoata pe Angela din casa pentru vreo ora-doua. Era simplu! O duce la cumparaturi si cel putin trei ore casa era libera. Insa nu-i iesea din cap discutia avuta cu Dricar. Il durea capul si asta nu-l ajuta cu nimic. Se enerva si mai rau. Simti deodata un puseu de durere in tot corpul. Instinctiv apasa pe acceleratie cand deodata un pieton ii sari in fata…

Deschise ochii brusc si lumina ii paru mai puternica. Simti cum ii aluneca o lacrima pe obraz, dar nu avu puterea sa se miste. Nu va uita niciodata capul acela blond, cu ochii negri ca ai lui , cum il privea cu durere din balta aceea imensa de sange. Georgia a murit pe loc, dar ochii ii erau deschisi si il priveau cu atata dragoste…Izbucni in plans si cu greu se opri. Niciodata nu se va fi iertat pentru ce a facut. A omorat doi ochi ce il iubisera ca nimeni altcineva. A omorat doua maini ce-l mangaiasera cand era trist. A omorat tot ce iubise. A omorat-o pe Georgia, pe Georgia, Georgia…

Gandul asta il chinuise cumplit in primul an si daca nu ar fi fost Angela poate chiar ar fi reusit sa se sinucida. Angela, prietena lui din copilarie, a stat langa el tot timpul si l-a ajutat sa renunte la ideea de a o urma pe Georgia. Nu stia exact cand a inceput sa tina la ea, dar stia cand a vrut sa ii spuna ca o iubeste. Ieri se implineau fix trei ani de cand murise Georgia si Angela venise sa il viziteze, ca in fiecare an, in acea zi. Era parca mai frumoasa ca niciodata. Parul blond ca al Georgiei, incadrau o fata aproape perfecta. Georgia era foarte frumoasa, dar Angela avea o figura elenica care o individualiza si ii dadea un aer aristrocratic. Rochia neagra de muselina ii venea perfect si chiar vroia sa ii spuna, dar ea i-o lua inainte si-i lauda barba pe care si-o lasase la dorinta ei. Se simti un pic emotionat de prezenta ei, dar incerca sa-si faca curaj sa-i spuna ce simte pentru ea. Iar nu reusi. Angela ii taie vorba. Probabil ca nimeni nu vorbea mai mult ca ea, dar de data asta cuvintele ei taiara adanc in sufletul lui: se casatorea peste o saptamana cu colegul ei de la editura, cu care ii facuse cunostiinta cu vreo trei luni inainte. Dar atunci nu parea sa fie nimic intre ei. Simtea ca aerul il apasa , ca vorbele Angelei devenea de plumb. Nu mai rezista si ii spuse ca trebuie sa plece la serviciu si oarecum o dadu afara din casa. Se prabusi in fotoliu si incerca sa isi dea seama ce i se intamplase. Oare intelesese gresit privirile ei, imbratisarile tandre? Nu! Nu se putea, stia ca ea simtea ceva pentru el. Nu putea fi asa de cruda sa se joace cu el. Oare se amagise singur? Chiar daca nu, acum stia ca a pierdut-o si pe ea. Acum e singur.

Pana seara s-a tot chinuit asa. Vroia sa creada ca o uraste, dar nu vroia sa se minta si acum. Ciudat, dar parca i se terminasera gandurile. Avusese dreptate. Daca le lasi, te lasa! Dar oare ce se imtamplase azi noapte? Nu reusea sa-si aminteasca oricat s-ar fi chinuit. Se hotara sa nu-si mai aduca aminte. Isi simtea sufletul mult prea gol ca sa-l chinuiasca si mai mult. O lumina puternica il lovi pe neasteptate. „Trebuie sa fi fost oglinda de vina. O sa o mut mai sus. Mai tarziu!” se gandi. Isi inchise ochii si se scufunda mai adanc. Se simtea atat de usor acum…

Soneria suna de trei ori pana sa raspunda Angela. Erau de la politie si venisera sa o anunte ca domnul Alan Smith fusese gasit mort in cada sa in aceasta seara si era rugata sa dea informatii cu privire la eventualele rude. „Ingrozitoare veste”, spuse Angela, „exact acum trei ani a murit sotia lui. Eu am ramas singura prietena pe care o mai avea.”

“i couldn’t sleep,so i told her <<take my hand!>> .. she took my hand and i fell asleep..” – la science des reves

last night i slept on your side of bed. actually we haven’t got a “my side” and “your side”, but i usually take the right side and you the left one. tonight your side of bed was empty and so was the left side of me. i needed you and i couldn’t touch you. i wanted you and i couldn’t have you. i longed for you and you were away. that’s why i hate the days when you are gone. all my being is restless and half complete.

last night i slept on your side of bed again. i closed my eyes and imagined you are next to me, holding me in your arms, as you do when we fall asleep. i tried to imagine a mexican beach, where we would be just the two of us. a very warm evening and a calm ocean breeze. we would make love, swim half the ocean and back and make love again (i know, i always want you again and again and… :) ). there would be no words. just our touches and the sound of the ocean. your smell would match perfectly the smell of the evening: a bit sweet, but fresh, always exciting. we would fall into eachother’s arms, exhausted, and as the moon would rise, we would fall into the deepest sleep. your hands holding mine, my body feeling yours.

this morning i woke up on my side of bed. before i opened my eyes, i could still feel the smell of the ocean and your warm body. as i opened my eyes, for a second, i could see you on your side of bed. sleeping peacefully as always. it was only a second, a year, a lifetime…

tonight i will be waiting by the beach again…

He would write every day. He would take the Poetry out of the lower drawer and write without breaks all day long. Why did he keep the Poetry in the lower drawer? There he had found it a few years ago, when looking through the drawers of a long forgotten locker in the attic; he found something small and dusty, but which changed his life completely. He took it, cleaned it, set some space for it in the drawer where he found it; he even brought the drawer in his room, to have it closer. In return, it would help him write. And still, something was missing. He wasn’t satisfied with what he wrote. He would get mad and tear everything he wrote, he would have fights with the Poetry, and then stuck it back in the drawer. And so, the time seemed too short, and he couldn’t finish anything.

He would write every day. Until one morning … The Poetry was gone. He just couldn’t find it in its drawer. He searched it everywhere, turned the house upside down…but still nothing. The Poetry would not appear. For three days he had wondered like mad around the town, looking for a trace of it. And still nothing! But one day he thought he saw something shinning in the flower pots on the edge of the sill. He approached, he looked carefully, but he saw nothing. Then he decided to ask the flowers if they knew something.

- We saw nobody around here lately, the flowers answered. We chat all morning with the Sunrise, maybe he knows something.

So he waited for the Sunrise to come. When he finally came, he asked him if he saw the Poetry.

- No, I didn’t see it, but every day I pass above the seas. Maybe they know something…

So he went to the sea and asked her too.

- I didn’t see anything, either, she answered. But every day the Sunset mirrors in my waters. Maybe he knows more.

He also waited for the Sunset. When he arrived he said:

- I haven’t seen the Poetry anywhere. But every day when I show up, people join together at home and laugh, telling their daily mishaps and experiences. Perhaps their Laughter knows more.

But the Laughter knew nothing.

- When people call me, I look in their eyes and every time I see something. Something shinny, something beautiful, which warms their soul. Maybe their eyes have seen something.

So he decided to go to his lover. He kind of neglected her lately and when he saw her again, he felt a warmth, which he almost forgot, taking over his body. And he looked in her eyes…and what did he see? There was where the Poetry was hiding. He then realized why he couldn’t finish anything. Because he kept looking for the Poetry in the drawer, instead of looking for it in the flowers, in the waters of the seas, in the sunshine, in the people around him, in his lover’s eyes, inside him….

nota: postul precedent m-a facut sa ma gandesc in mod serios daca sa fac (mai) publice placintelele mele. dar de ce nu? secret oricum nu sunt. placintelele sunt un fel de povestioare -nu pretind ca sunt ceva extraordinar- , multe nascute din visuri (eu visez foarte mult) sau din amintiri. desi scrisesem vreo 10-11 placintele, unele s-au pierdut prin negura timpului si haosul mutarii in germania de acum cativa ani. asa ca acum au ramas vreo 5. poate candva o sa ma apuc sa scriu din nou sau poate sa termin cele cateva incepute aici.