Tag: life

Freedom and power. Fuel in my journey

Freedom has always been extremely important to me. I remember my childhood, full of restrictions and frustrations and my incapacity to understand why they were being placed on me, since most of them seemed improper, irrational and unfair. Not being allowed to stay outside after 9 pm, getting punished for coming home wet after playing in the snow, not being allowed to play with other children from the neighboring houses when I was visiting my father’s parents, being forced to eat food I resented, not being allowed to cross the one way street in front of our block of flats until a certain age, not being allowed to leave the house for a week when my father was upset with me.

“I can’t wait to come of age and leave home”, I remember telling my best friend in childhood. I must’ve been under the age of ten. We were taking a walk through the gardens surrounding some neighboring blocks of flats in our street. Independence street.

And so I did. I came of age and I left home. Packed my bags, put everything in my father’s old red Audi 80, took my boyfriend with me and had my father drive us to the capital city, where I was starting my university studies. We made a stop on the way to do some shopping for my new home – a rented studio not far from the city center, that belonged to my high school desk mate.

I can still feel that heaviness in my heart when I remember my mother’s eyes, trying to hold back her tears as she was kissing me goodbye before getting into the car and driving back to our home town. I was finally free.

A few days later, when my boyfriend had to return to our home town to his job and I was left totally alone for the very first time in my life, I was crying my heart out in my empty studio and made the decision to walk to university and back home every day so that I had less time on my hands to feel alone. A period of long walks and intense study started. Then friends and parties and beers and laughter. And freedom paid off.

“When I am not in a relationship, I am free to do whatever I want, with whoever I want”, my cancer boy tells me rolling on his belly and hiding his eyes, his cheeks red and a tremble in the tough muscles of his arms giving him away.

And all of a sudden I remember my long marriage and all my affairs and all the lies and all the loneliness and all the unhappiness and the desire for freedom. Had I given up on my freedom? Had I made my ex husband give up on his? Is this what I do? Am I so possessive and insecure that I take away people’s freedom?

And I also remember sitting on a park bench with a former lover and friend and giving a speech about how wonderful it is to feel so free as to have sex with anyone you find attractive and not form attachments, but keep free and affectionate at the same time. And I remember the violent storm that burst out in my lover’s chest and how the pulling of strings from my heart felt so painful. And my guilt. And the strong and clear feeling that I broke something precious and rare and ever so sensitive. Something that I can never put back together again, no matter how hard I might try.

“No”, I reply. “I am free and you are free. We are both free people. I am not willing to give up on my freedom. And I don’t want you to give up on yours. A relationship is not about losing your freedom. It is about being free to choose to be with one person. And this is a choice you don’t only make once, but every day for as long as you are in that relationship. In my freedom, I choose to be with you. And if you need to have sex with other people too, you don’t ignore your need and don’t give up on your freedom. You find a partner who can accept that. You are always free.”

2016 has been the year of my freedom. And in this freedom my personal power could grow more than ever before. And from my increased personal power has come even more freedom. And love. Unconditional love. This is the fuel in my life journey and the purpose and the destination. Love is my motivation. It is unconditional love that I wish to stabilize and serve with my great personal strength. Inshallah.

I’m curious if I still have it in me

I take my running nose out for a run tonight. I love my town again. I feel I live in this small town on an island in the city center, where we form this cosy community, in which everyone knows everyone. We all shook together in the earthquake three nights ago and no one talks about that. We just send compassionate looks to the cracked walls of our houses and distant, encouraging hugs to everyone we meet in the streets. I’m in this countryside part of the city and I love it. I might even start growing my own tomatoes again, who knows.

The hookers and their pimps, all wearing black tonight, are cracking seeds, spitting their shells on the asphalt around their feet and stepping on them with their black shoes, in their dance around a black car where music is coming from and a driver is checking his phone. It’s still early.

And there is hope. I feel it sprouting underground, all covered up in black soil and dead leaves. The gnomes are keeping it warm and molding it into a diamond. It shall sprout in spring. And in our community of hope spring can come anytime.

PS The earthquake helped release some burdens, so it’s goodbye time again:

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpDLelAnecE&w=560&h=315]

2.11 am

I’m in my bed in Bucharest, checking flights to Konya. Just as the search produces results, the room starts shaking. Ok, I say to myself, it’s an earthquake, it’s an earthquake, just breathe. And I don’t move, I just witness the tension of the earth releasing and my own building up. The earth stopped shaking 9 minutes ago and I haven’t.

For a moment there, I thought the walls might give in (I live in this very old house), so my mind started reciting a prayer. Numerous layers of thought and feeling simultaneously active. There’s the prayer level, the fear level, the anger level, the regret level, the gratefulness level, the stupid level, the practical, what-to-do level, the ‘other people’ level, the love-of-my-life level, the what-the-fuck-am-I-still-doing-here level, the passive level and others I have no record of.

I watched “The lake house” tonight, it finished about 40 minutes before the earthquake. I was crying for half of it. And as the earthquake’s unfolding (How long did it last, anyway? How many minutes? How many years?), my loneliness surfaces again just like this wave from deep within the earth is surfacing now. I could die here. Or anywhere, for that matter. Have I died already? Am I still waiting to meet you (again)? Are you still out there?

Later update:

Since I was looking into travelling to Konya, I thought consulting Rumi on the current issue might be interesting, so here’s what he says:

“Who makes these changes?
I shoot an arrow right.
It lands left.
I run after a deer and find myself
chased by a hog.
I plot to get what I want
and end up in prison.
I dig pits to trap others
and fall in.
I should be suspicious
of what I want.”

(Rumi, Selected poems, Penguin Classics, London, 2004, opened radomly at page 110)

We, the nightshoppers

Some of us still wearing our office clothes, others just baggy pants and t-shirts, others bathrobes and slippers (yes!), squinting at the shelves in that tiring, artificial light that makes your skin pale, your brain foggy and suddenly so needy. Getting single beer bottles and the smallest pack of peanuts there is and then just walking among shelves looking for salvation.

I remember a night in Pnom Penh, Cambodia, when I went out and walked around and then just before returning to my hotel, I got into this shop and walked among the shelves and stopped in front of the beer fridge. And this short guy, in his late twenties or early thirties stopped next to me and opened the fridge door only to find we were both reaching for the same bottle. I don’t remember the brand, something local. We turned to one another and smiled and, with a short gesture of his hand, he let me have it and then reached for another one. I wanted to ask him if he cared to join me and have that beer in a park nearby, but before I got to the cash register he was already gone. I had no intention to pick him up and lure him into my den, I was just craving for conversation and companionship. At least we smiled and had a moment of connection there.

Here, in Bucharest, the fauna in the supermarket at night is much wilder. We never smile. If we see someone interesting, we just stare. Repeatedly. We lack the courage to smile, smile back (if an alien does smile to us) or say anything. If asked “Shall I wait for you?” we would probably collapse or just die through implosion. Such things are unheard of. In our autism, we simply move around like headless pawns in an electronic game of chess played by a slow computer on its own, in a demo version. And when we are out of the game, we cease to exist.

Not writing because everything has already been said

Then what if after the first autumn the season would have simply canceled itself? Because in no other year could it repeat the extraordinary display of color and the whole autumn paraphernalia.

And then after the first love story we would have simply stopped falling in love and writing poems and books and making movies about it. No one would ever have to repeat lines like “Do you have the time?”, “Do you want to go out tonight?” or “Will you have dinner with me?” or the ever so used “Hi. How are you?” No one would ever strive to come up with a more original first line like “Sorry, do you know which way the river flows?” And the cute couple in party clothes would not be kissing at the corner tonight. We would not develop gastritis, either.

And what about living? People have been living since forever and everything has already been lived. Yes, it has. Then, after the first human being, everything would have simply stopped. Because a human being has already lived, felt, experimented etc. And so I would not be writing things like “I want you to feel my breath in your hair” or “my mouth in the palm of your hand” and no one would say ” I’m a good cook, but remember I never eat meat”. Or “you are insane”.

Then Florence Foster Jenkins would not have existed. Or if she had, she would definitely not have sung. And what a waste that would have been.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6ubiUIxbWE&w=560&h=315]

“People may say I can’t sing, but no one can ever say I didn’t sing.” (Florence Foster Jenkins)

the time of the butterflies is gone

I have this little demon in my stomach
eating from within
hungry for fears
for mistakes
for wishes
and dreams
and weaknesses
it swallows my secrets
it has a huge mouth
and all the food I eat it swallows
and asks for more
it’s growing fast
it’s even got me to eat a huge portion of failure fear today
fooled me into believing that even exists
got me to swallow my own words for fear they might be misread
gets me to swallow air
and sweat
and dust as I go running
makes my fingers tremble
my legs so anxious I get sore muscles while sitting
or trying to, at least
I tried to exorcise it and it’s got even stronger and angrier
I’ll try my luck and love it tonight

 

Foray into the bank

I’m standing in a long queue at the bank as the branch manager comes out of his office, talking on the phone. When he sees me, he stops in front of me for a moment, looks into my eyes as he keeps talking and then pauses to say hello. I answer him. He goes into another office and then comes out again after a short while, walks past the queue and into his office again, leaving the door open. A few seconds later, he comes out again.

“Is everyone here for cash operations?” he inquires.

The people standing in line say yes and he’s looking at me as I nod.

“Can I help you with anything?” he insists addressing the queue and then approaches the man standing in front of me, who looks rather sick and has difficulty standing, and asks him what he is there for. The man wants to make a payment, so the guy shows him how to do it himself, using the self-banking robo (whatever its name is).

“If you are here for anything other than cash operations, please come into my office or go to my colleagues’ offices over there, who are counselors and can help you. So that you don’t spend too much time in our bank.”

He keeps looking at me and smiling while addressing the queue, so I smile back. Only for a few seconds do his blue eyes slide like melting ice from my eyes down to my neck, collar bones and cleavage.

Toamna vine mai întâi în cuvinte

Pe nesimțite, încetăm să mai pronunțăm cuvinte care ne fac să ne azvârlim hainele de pe noi, cuvinte pe care le-am îngropa în nisip, cuvinte care ni se înroșesc pe vârful limbii ca cireșele la soare, cuvinte care ne fac să bem limonadă cu gheață sau să ne întindem pielea la uscat după o zi de scaldă. Nu mai rostim cuvinte care zboară ca puful de păpădie odată ce ne părăsesc buzele. Toamna vine când cuvintele noastre se domolesc și adesea uită să mai zboare și iernează undeva sub cerul gurii, în spatele dinților după care se chircesc ascunzându-se de vânt.  Pentru că încep să găsească de mâncare acolo și mușcă din limbile noastre amorțite, doar-doar le-or trezi.

Abia pe urmă încep să ruginească și copacii, când nu-i mai pot ține cuvintele verzi.

 

I never forget to say thank you

I go jogging late tonight and, before leaving the hotel, I ask the receptionist, placing my room key on the reception desk, whether the party in the restaurant is gonna last long.

“Till morning”, she says, smiling while looking straight into my eyes.
“So… How do you suppose the other people in the hotel can sleep tonight?” I ask her, smiling back.
“Well… I am sorry… What floor are you on? Oh, the first… Yes… You see, I would change your room, but we are fully booked, I am sorry. It is not up to me…”

Then she adds something about some of the guests having to leave the country tomorrow and the party having been postponed from daytime to nighttime in the nick of time and other stuff I choose to ignore as I’m smiling and nodding.

I thank her and go out. And I am so tired and just want to go to bed but the least I can do is spend my time in a useful way if the noise is too loud to sleep. So I run. My legs hurt, my arms hurt and I yawn from time to time. But at least it’s quiet as I am moving further away from the hotel and I can listen to the crickets and the leaves rustling under my feet and I can see the full moon above, lighting up the sky like the sun at night up in the north.

I force myself to go all the way and, when I start running back, on the other side of the road, I stop from time to time to collect feathers from the ground, as I need them for the creative writing workshop I am teaching this week. So I end up running with this small bunch of black feathers closely tucked in my right hand. Listening to them whizzing as I am running, I make the decision to start working on my book in September and finish it before the end of the year. I have all it takes.

So I get back to the hotel, holding my small bunch of black feathers. The party is loud and quite a lot of people are dancing on the terrace or chatting in the parking lot. As I make my way to the entrance, three men standing in front of the main door, holding their drinks, sticking out their bellies and waving huge, imaginary dicks in my face, are quietly staring at my legs. I pretend not to notice and raise my chin, sticking out my chest as I walk past them and into the lobby. The receptionist hands me my key without a word. I say thank you and go upstairs.

pene

your favourite

yourfav

 

I wore amber today.
Did you know it’s our second summer apart?
I still find it difficult to write about.
so I make everything rhyme
and sound beautiful like a chime
the second night I dream I’m in your arms
the warmth, the safety, the comfort that charms
and still your best gift was letting me go
so now there’s nothing either of us should owe

“What shall I get you?”
Massimo, the Italian restaurant owner comes to take my order.
“I’ll start with summer, please. The second. With a touch of amber.”
“Coming right up!”
And I make an exception and stay for dessert,
Which means I get a whole hour to run.
I notice the dead leaves fallen at my feet as I’m running tonight –
Her Majesty’s most loyal subjects.
Meanwhile, my lines have lost their reason to rhyme.
I get back to my purple hotel room,
Take off my running clothes –
A snake shedding her skin –
Light my pink candle and an incense stick,
Befriend my new heart and
Sit down and write
While up there, quietly, the moon is filling up again.

 

PS Did I tell you I now go jogging every night? To think I used to believe it’s so boring…