Wednesday.

Tradare? Poate. "It depends", cum zice un bun prieten al meu.
Descopar, cu oarecare surprindere - stupoare ar fi un cuvant prea puternic - ca nu esti orasul in care te-ai nascut. Nu esti oamenii din el. Nu esti locurile lui. Esti doar intamplarile lui. Iar intamplarile sunt in tine.

Spun asta pentru ca orasul meu nu mai este orasul meu. Orasul meu e orasul in care mergeam cu bunicul cu Pelicanul, pe Bega. Orasul meu e orasul in care bunicul m-a dus la cinema Arta sa vad Ultimul Imparat. Orasul meu e orasul in care bunicul saluta, macar dintr-un gest al capului, multi oameni care treceau pe langa el, iar ei faceau la fel. L-am intrebat odata daca ii cunoaste pe toti oamenii aia. Mi-a raspuns: "Din vedere. Dar toti suntem vechi timisoreni." Orasul meu e orasul in care stateam cu nasul lipit de geamul sufrageriei si numaram masinile care treceau pe strada. Acum nu le mai pot numara. Orasul meu e orasul in care era Fabrica de Paine, unde mama ma trimitea sa iau paine proaspata si calda, careia ii rupeam colturile si le mancam pe toate pana ajungeam cu painea acasa.

Orasul meu s-a schimbat mult. Intr-un fel, acum nu mai e orasul meu. Doar intamplarile pe care le-am trait in el mi-au ramas; doar mie, in amintirea mea. Acum e orasul multor oameni carora nu le pasa de istoria lui. A devenit o metropola, e un centru universitar, e o posibilitate de angajare intr-un post bine platit.

Asa ca mi-am cautat un alt oras care sa poata fi al meu. Un oras in care daca cineva nu iti da o factura, iti spune ca poti returna acel produs, pentru ca el va sti ca l-ai cumparat din magazinul lui. E un oras in care inca se mai respecta cuvantul dat. In care, daca ai stabilit ceva, asa ramane. E un oras in care daca tu ai gaini, si celalalt are o vaca, dai niste oua pentru niste lapte. E un oras in care atunci cand construiesti, nu ti se iau banii pentru o lucrare de mantuiala. E un oras in care ti se dau sfaturi despre cum ar trebui sa construiesti, chiar daca nu e spre profitul constructorului. E un oras cu oameni linistiti, cu barbati care deschid mereu usile astfel ca femeile sa intre sau sa iasa primele. E un oras in care ti se spune "Sarut-mana", pentru ca respectul fata de femei nu s-a pierdut. E un oras cu barbati veseli si femei puternice, care inca mai coc paine in cuptorul de paine de langa casa. Imi pare bine ca te-am gasit, oras cu nume de zi a saptamanii. Esti tot ce mi-am dorit.

enough.

M-am săturat de huruitul continuu de peste zi. M-am săturat să mă cert pentru locuri de parcare. M-am săturat să caut si să sper că există un om bun si pentru mine. M-am trezit din povestile cu zane acum multi ani. Totusi mă intreb, nu se poate să trăiesc intr-o lume in care oamenii nu se mint, in care nu esti inselat, in care oamenii au sira spinării? Nu se poate să intalnesc un bărbat care e mai bărbat decat mine? E chiar jenant uneori cand iti dai seama că un bărbat se vaită de chestii de care tie nici nu ti-ar trece prin cap să te lamentezi. Sau că la 30 de ani spune despre el insusi: "Sunt un băiat".
Nu cred că suntem 'diamante neslefuite' (trăiască cine a inventat expresia). Suntem asa cum suntem, dar.. e rău asa cum suntem. Cică "căsătoria e un contract economic". Asta-i ultima găselnită a psihologilor. Băi, frate, atunci povestiti-ne de mici povesti cu cifre, cu contracte, cu de-astea. Nu ne mai aburiti cu feti-frumosi si cu finaluri fericite, cu printi care se indrăgostesc de cenusărese. Repetăm copiilor nostri aceleasi povesti asa-zise "clasice", la nesfarsit, fără să ne dăm seama cat rau le facem. Ce traumă e aia cand iti dai seama că nu, printul nu se va insura cu tine, ci cu una de rangul lui, chiar dacă n-o iubeste! Cand iti dai seama că nu, dacă ai rămas insărcinată, asta nu inseamnă că vă veti căsători si veti avea o viată ca in povesti. Cand iti dai seama că oricate degete mari de la picior si oricate călcaie ti-ai tăia, nu, nu de asta depinde ca printul să se insoare cu tine. Problema e că femeile nu le cer bărbatilor nimic, si bărbatilor le convine de minune. Femeile au ajuns niste carpe, niste..mai rău decat "la cratită". Ati vrut emancipare? Na, emancipare: acum nu mai stati la cratită, mirosind a mancare, ci atarnate de o tejghea de bar, duhnind a litrul de parfum ieftin turnat pe voi, asteptand să fiti agătate pentru o noapte sau poate două, de un ratat, burtos sau nu, de peste 35 de ani, care nu se insoară din principiu, "că nu vreau să-mi impart averea". Care era, deci, jobul mai nobil? Think again.
Cum poti sa-i citesti copilului tău povesti ireale? Ce-l inveti din ele? Să spere, fără rost, la un final fericit? Citeste-i povesti din care poate invăta ceva util, din care poate invăta cum să fie un om bun. Invată-l să ajute, invată-l să creadă, invată-l să nu ii fie teamă, invată-l să-si tină promisiunile. Si mai ales, nu-l minti. Copiii nu uită nimic, si nici nu iartă. Da, trec peste, dar nu uită niciodată. Chiar vrei tu sa fii cel care a contribuit la intinarea celei mai stralucitoare foi albe de hartie, care este un copil? Cred ca ati innebunit cu totii, in alergatura asta dupa bani si dupa faima, si ati uitat ce conteaza cu adevarat. Cum poti sa nu-ti dai seama ca nu, nu e OK sa-i tii ziua la McDonald's? Cum poti sa inventezi ca e prea scump altundeva? Dar dragul meu parinte, inainte sa existe McDonald's, copiii oare unde isi tineau zilele de nastere? Imi vine sa urlu de ignoranta si prostia voastra! Ca sa nu incepem discutia cu "totusi, ce fel de mancare e la McDonald's?"...
Ti-ai pus problema in ce fel de lume traiesti, daca trebuie sa iti inveti copilul autoaparare? In ce fel de lume traiesti, daca trebuie sa-l inveti sa se fereasca de minciunile celor din jurul lui?
Nici nu stiu daca are rost sa zic treziti-va pana nu e prea tarziu..pentru ca deja e prea tarziu. Asa cum am avea nevoie de 125 de generatii "neotravite" cu aditivii pe care ii mancam, ca sa ne regeneram complet la rezistenta si capacitatile noastre de dinainte, cred ca avem nevoie tot de atatea generatii de oameni neotraviti psihic.
Trist.

Happy birthday.

Today of all days, because it is your birthday, and I still remember it even after almost 6 years, I miss you like I'd miss a body part if it were cut off.
Today of all days, I wonder where you are, what you're doing, if you're happy.
Today of all days, I miss your smile.
Today of all days, my heart cries because of my cowardice to stay with you.
Today of all days, it's raining.
Today of all days, I believe that my child should have been your child.
Today of all days, I wonder what my life - what our life - could have become.
Today of all days, I wish I had stayed.

Happy birthday, Baz.

I always will.

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

Traducerea aproximativa:

Desi nimic nu-mi poate-aduce inapoi
Splendoarea-n iarba, traita de noi doi,
Nu vom jeli a florii maretie,
Putere vom gasi in amintirea-i vie.

- William Wordsworth



Final scene:

Parting is such sweet sorrow

"I'm not afraid anymore. I've run all my life and i'm finished running. This is where I belong. With you - with whatever's left of my family. I didn't know it before, but I know it now. I made the mistake of leaving once, but I'm home now."  - My One and Only (2009)

I've been called crazy for more than once in my life. I think I never took it as anything else than flattery. It was usually "No wayy, you're crazy, did you really do that?!" I guess this kind of makes me a not-so-good girl. Because I have done all those "did you really do that?!"-things. But I do feel like I have been running all my life and not finding my way. Now, although it's a little much to take in, and it's happening pretty fast, it all kind of clicks into place.

Mother thinks I'm not having a hard time saying goodbye to all this. It's my town. "No matter where you're from, You know you're from right here", I've grown up being proud of it. I've tried so hard to learn its history, and I've stood up for it, talked about it to strangers, and loved it ever since I can remember. I've made love here for the first time, I've had people die on me here, and along with every other experience, as a place, it has helped me become everything I stand for today. Show me a picture of a wall anywhere in my town, and I will name the street. I'll probably even know exactly which building it is. But it's become suffocating. I've wanted to leave here ever since I was 14 or 15. First, it was Tibet. I was saving up money to go live there and be a nun in a Buddhist monastery. But then I found out that they didn't take women in, (now they do, but hey, it's kinda late now..) and that Tibet was in a sensitive political situation with China (so Nepal would have been a better choice, but who knew).

So I'm almost 30, I'm getting grey hair, and I can't be made to wish for an executive job. I just cannot fathom being a corporate...anything. I have wanted to pack up my shit and just go wherever the road may take me for as long as I can think back - ever since I started reading Eliade, perhaps. He may have something to do with that. And I have. I have packed a backpack and left. I was looking. I still am. 

I can't imagine why Mother would say that it's a tough job to keep a household. Dude, I don't have a man who expects me to wash and clean and cook. Even if I did, he would be invited to do his own shit or to help me with something else in return. That being said, I remember a guy who once complained that women nowadays, when they meet a man for the first time, they don't offer their hand, back of the hand up, for the man to kiss it. Instead, my amigo complained, women shake hands like a man, and as strongly, too. 

I have this to reply: Dear Gentleman, how the fuck should I know that you are the one in about 400,000 men that I have met until now, who actually kisses a woman's hand? I was told it was old-fashioned, that men don't do this anymore, and that I should probably stop extending my hand - when I was about 13, for Christ's sake. 

Not that I've ever been feminine much, but my father died when I was finishing high-school, and having to tend to business that would, under normal circumstances, not be of a woman's resort - like changing the oil in the car, or the brake pads, or even pouring windshield cleaner in the jar, and deal with workers, and plumbers, and salesmen; I have learned that one can not at all times have an impeccable manicure, that one can, sadly, not always look one's best, and that one must shake a man's hand like a man, or one (i.e. a woman) will be taken for a fool. 

A woman's strong, manly handshake can spare her from a lot of things, from rude remarks to being taken for a fool. So yes, gentlemen - the few of you left out there - I do shake hands like a man, and I am at least equally as capable as any man I know; and I work and raise a child and a dog on my own. And I am damn proud of it. Physical strength may be the only thing you have an advantage over. But - not endurance.

About goodbyes - a kick in the butt is a step forward. I am so detached. And for once in my life, I am not locking away my feelings. I just am detached. Non-attachment, as Master Buddha would say it. All life is suffering. Suffering ends when the wish for non-permanent things ceases. I've come a long way. I'd say I'm proud, but I'm not. I'm just wondering, if this is the way I'm supposed to be, then what the hell happened to get me so low to begin with?

I know that if the future is in the cards for us, lest some gruesome and sudden Apocalypse show itself, I will be able to provide good education for my daughter, and see her become whatever she will want to become. And meanwhile, I will be able to show her how to live, how to truly live off the land, and close to nature; how to grow your own vegetables, and how to feed the hens and collect the eggs. How to walk freely in the woods and how to love every living thing that is around you. 

Yes, I'll admit that the responsibility is huge, and I need a little encouragement. A little more confidence on my Mother's part would be nice. Of course, if I was a better shot with a firearm it would also help my confidence a bit, with us moving into the wild and all...almost. Once we move to this new place I will have to be the protector of my family, the one who wears the pants (I wear pants anyway, either way :) ). But...you see, I am that already. So there's nothing that will change, really. It will all work out in the end, you'll see. I know it's stupid to be optimistic; one has to be realistic. What bugs me is that I won't be "one of them", in this new place. I won't know every corner of every street. I won't be able to find my way home from anywhere without a map of the city. They will know, by my accent, by my license plate, and by the way that I dress - that I am not one of them. 

But maybe - and it's worth this long shot, because I don't dream of a future here in my hometown and I don't see myself doing the same thing I am doing now, at all, for any number of years - so, maybe this is my chance to put the pieces of me back together and be close to my child and to nature. It's not the end, or an end. It's just different. It is the beginning of our new life, of my child's new life and of a new stage. Maybe it's what I have been looking for. Maybe you don't have to be rich to be insane, but you have to be insane to have a chance at a new life.

Then that, my friend, is what I am.


" Two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference."  - Robert Frost