25

It takes nine months most of the times

Seven or eight, the casual exceptions

It took me longer to become a baby –

25 years past my baptism, to be more precise

The blow of candles every late February

Was actually a sigh.

Before I was born,

I was taught how to spell

My first word was sorry,

The second was please

Along came techniques in seducing my mother to stay

Such as good grades

As opposed to my nullity few inches away

My bad math worthy of bad echoes on my face.

Throughout your discontent with me

I grew a couple of mimetic ears

Which later came to name me Magdalene

And Forrest Gump, only with balder tits.

Too close to my angles to grasp what they add

The simple right dress concept

Me, a shape no language could ever define,

A shape every language would rather side-step

With utmost contempt.

You pinned a pair of invisible needles

In each end of my lips

So they could fake laughter whenever they itched

For all those whom you knew or not –

My scars, the price of it.

25 is a long, lonely time

When all you can pull is you

Purity lost in a divided sight,

My heritage –

Divorces in and out.

But as I buy myself a BlueAir ticket

You lure me to prattle and do the bear

While handing me tea and ruby earrings...

Cancer has now become a sign of affection

Virgo,

Pisces,

And Sagittarius, as well

All four of them chipping in for amnesia.

25 is a respectable fraction

A quarter century from left to right

Dismissed, and then back in line

Late virgin goes lousy lay

Lapsed Christian, lapsed suicidal,

Lapsed beautiful

Lapsed would-be-s, too

Misdiagnosed by turned on shrinks

Constantly trading love for its misconceptions

Devising a cycle of steps in and out of insomnia

And failing at everything just to confirm first impressions –

It only took the irreparable for you to awake.

Now that the check writes 25 years,

And 2-pennies change,

Not to mention hopeless disgust in milk,

I am the apple of your eye

The sweetest baby in the world, at last.

Beige

They live in a room of macramé and china

Grandmother's knitting cashmere and fates

Her eyes lighten air with a pretense of wisdom

Her agelessness hypnotizes each atom of dust

Lulling them into slumber…

Her wrinkles fracture her face in uneven segments of flesh

Slices that drain on the shirt she's preparing

For gentlemen-callers as old as the fairies

Whom she had taught the little one manners for

The manner of fear, the pearl in her dowry…

Her lovely ballerina, so well-behaved,

Always sitting on the side of an armchair

Thinking some beau with a tweed hat

And a fat bouquet in his left arm

Would love her for that…

The air is cluttered with cupboards that smell

Like wood in its terminal phase

Moths fret around, a little limp now

Never turned into butterflies

Ignorant of the test they failed

In respect of a natural course of becoming.

The room is obscured by the beige paint on its windows

The walls are damp and the velvet is shriveled

But she's still keeping her hands polite on her knees

Trying to hear a knock on the door,

A knock her grandmother had always prepared her for

The man with the hat and the white sheet;

She sits on her armchair, toying with china

Fearing the door and strangling the sparks

Not knowing the fact that their house has no backyard,

Its synonymies failing to sprawl in a world that derides them,

But it's placed instead in the town's pile of trash

Where everyone throws their holed socks.

Go to sleep, my beautiful lily

The grandmother mumbles serenely,

And so she obliges, at peace with her pillows,

She falls into slumber, time she elopes;

Salt slips from the ceiling and covers her gently:

Dormant she lies afraid of that knock

Unwitting she failed to arrive on her date.

1/2

I hear you vaguely as I glide

Down the steep memory lane

Which turns your sayings into postcards

I am succombing once again

To all the people that I was

To every I and eye that mark the length

Between me and here

You say your shoulder touches both my cheeks

But will I ever see you truly

Amid this plea yesterday stubbornly bleeds

On my renewal?

I stroll inside this black and white by Goya

Trying to strip my face from rats and burns

Hoping your touch will meet a skin more even

When I emerge from the dark ages

Within our two inches apart.

There is a red mark on my forehead

Going down

Going straight

Slitting the run that gives my spread

A sense of marriage.

I love you

The words are as real as the sound they make

However you're too close to seem anything but

The evidence of your presence.

I try to touch the perfect circles on your face

From elsewhere divided.

But will I ever see you wholly

With a sight torn to tenses?

  

Nimeni nu se pricepe sa fie eu la fel de bine ca mine

So... I have a confession. M-am purtat intr-un mod lipsit de fair-play in niste contexte ale sfertului de secol pe care l-am trait si am avut mustrarile mele de constiinta chinuitoare. Un motiv important in a ma tortura cu remuscari a fost nu atat abaterea de la corectitudinea morala, cat vanitatea. Nu suportam ideea de a fi deviat de la postura sublima a nobletii sufletesti, marketata cu fervoare si imbratisata majoritar. Nu e vorba despre cum apari in ochii celorlalti, ci despre ochii celorlalti adanc inradacinati in tine si care-ti dirijeaza conduita si modul cum te raportezi la propria fiinta. Cand am fost catea, am avut motivele mele, si totusi, e drept, ele nu-mi justifica abuzul asupra unor majuscule precum binele, altruismul, loialitatea, prietenia, you name it. Si nici durerea pe care le-am provocat-o unor oameni care poate au avut incredere in mine, dar care ma ranisera la randul lor, desi intr-o maniera prea subtila pentru a le putea fi reprosat ceva. La bilant ramaneau, implacabil, lucruri marete pe care ei le facusera intru bunastarea mea, in sensul strict material al cuvantului, bifari in caietul cu fapte bune cotidiene. Cine nu este mandru ori de cate ori are prilejul sa fie bun si, mai mult, pe cine nu incanta certitudinea de a se fi achitat constiincios de astfel de indatoriri apolinice? Cine nu se simte ca ultima scursura cand constata sau cand i se aduce la cunostinta ca in cutare situatie s-a purtat la polul opus propriilor aspiratii morale? Pentru a nu fi perceput, in timpul actelor rusinoase cu pricina, greutatea lor si rolul ingrat in care ele il plaseaza?

Sunt relatii in care ai lovit stiind – si refuland –, de la bun inceput, ca nu erai cu adevarat iubit. Altfel, ti s-ar fi permis sa te justifici la capatul adunarii. Binele pe care-l facem nu este niciodata gratuit. Raul, cu atat mai putin. Dar bilanturile sunt de cele mai multe ori filme alb/negru in care se retin gesturile mari si contrapunctele ignobile. Rareori curentii subterani chicotelor oficiale, nuante care scapa privirii populare. Cei care nici macar nu ti-au dat sansa sa le ceri iertare si sa-i condamni la randul tau nu ti-au fost prieteni adevarati. Afectiunea lor nu avea o sustinere mai profunda decat simpla circumstanta.

Am fost fixata in memoria unor persoane drept un "soi rau", cand raul pe care l-am facut a pornit din meschina frustrare de a nu primi iubirea lor sau iubirea de care ei se bucurau. Dezordonata, penibila, neglijenta, patetica, lipsita de onoare si valoare umana. Dar partea interesanta este ca versiunea despre tine in care ei s-au cramponat si pe care probabil o pun in circulatie nu face decat sa le dovedeasca propria limitare. Pentru ca o parte absolut fascinanta a existentei individuale este fluiditatea ei. Curajul de a pasi in afara perceptiei lor convertite in barfa sociala apropo de cine esti tu cu adevarat in raport cu cine ai fost tu in momentul X. Libertatea launtrica de a continua sa te iubesti si sa crezi in tine, de a nu lasa zvonistica defaimatoare si sentimentul de vina anex sa-ti curbeze evolutia spirituala.

Eu nu sunt momentul acela sau celalalt, ci o suma haotica de momente. In anumite contexte am fost… "buna", in altele… "rea". Iar judecand dintr-o perspectiva contabiliceasca, sunt mult mai numerosi oamenii care au gasit in persoana mea sprijin si confort emotional. Probabil a contat foarte mult in asta si faptul ca m-am incapatanat sa cred ca totusi exista in mine un fond bun si ca pot fi, deci, un prieten de nadejde. "Om cu doua fete"… Metafora facila. Cine nu este un astfel de om? Un om static si banal pesemne, care nu parcurge transformari profunde. Si, in definitiv, traducerile contradictorii ale persoanei mele ma flateaza. Ele nu sunt decat o marturie a complexitatii asidue.