I should maybe start by explaining what a monster is. Or maybe better by explaining what a morning is.
A morning is of course that part of the day when you wake up. There is no other way to identify a morning but this. Any other criteria is well.. convention. I dunno which recent French writer was proposing months and years be banned. That only days exist in a normal, light, unbiased succession. Well i think that’s a great idea! Would spare us that sense of despair we experience when faced with the passage of years. Oh no, another year gone by! Oh no, already ten years since my kindergarten graduation! And other prescious insight such as: Time flies fast, or Time waits for noone which usually lead to existential panic and ultimately to the very profound We only got one life, live it well and it’s variant Carpe diem, which I used to have inscripted on a long-sleeve t-shirt when I was about 13-14… So basically it seems the division of time such as months and years puts us in a continuous time-awareness. No, no, no good. Also puts us in a sort of fabricated expectation: next year will be this and that, next year I will change, next year I’ll do better in school, next year I’ll get a better job, better girfriend, next year, next year, next year will be basically be… better. As if there is ANY actual difference between 31 st December 2008 and 1st January 2009. Ask it to anyone and they will all say well of course, it’s the new year.
But anyway, coming back to explaining what a morning is, I said it’s the moment of the day you wake up. Not always the same. During school this moment happened around the time of that daily sunrise. I loathed it. My room faced east so, free of any symbolical meaning (or any other meaning for that matter), I was basically looking east every time I looked out the window. In the morning, this usually brought along a big red sun bouncing off a distant hillside. Jeez, I would tell myself, one day it will bounce right back where it came from. One day (which day?! because there wouldn’t be one anymore in that case) but anyway, one day (as I cannot find any other way of expressing this 4th cyclic dimenssion we live in) it won’t show up anymore! Soaked in darkness we, the east-lookers will be the first to notice something is wrong. Hey guys, the red bouncing thing is not there today! Is it still day then? is it still today? or is it yesterday? Do we still have to go to school? Or do we first wait for it to be back? So you see every morning I woke up to these thoughts. Thus I loathed getting up. So I’d quickly jump out of bed, before I got to the “Everything is random in the universe and this daily bouncing-sun game that has no motivation proves it” and washed away all this in a much-needed, meticulous session of teeth brushing. By the time I got to brushing my hair I was already out of it and probably thinking of the math homework I hadn’t done.
I perch into this words’ world bribing it with these visual guardians.
Michelangelo left his later works unfinished.
I live alone and miserable, trapped as marrow under the bark of the tree. My voice is like a wasp caught in a bag of skin and bones. My teeth shake and rattle like the keys of a musical instrument. My face is a scarecrow. My ears never cease to buzz. In one of them, a spider weaves its web, in the other one, a cricket sings all night long. My rattling catarrh won’t let me sleep. This is the state where art has led me, after granting me glory. Poor, old, beaten, I will be reduced to nothing, if death does not come swiftly to my rescue. Pains have quartered me, torn me, broken me and death is the only inn awaiting me.
Sometimes and some of these times I wish I were living in a huge, perfectly isolated sea-shell where Bach harp were playing in loops.
Those who ask what do I mean with that will now fuck off from my life.
Eight million Shinto deities travel secretly through the Earth.
Artists are these sneaky bastards who escape the system’s hands like sand flows through your fingers. Can you see the great fist in the sky leaking artists? I bet they are well aware of the ‘leak’ up there and they are sending out plumbers to fix it.
You see, I’m fascinated by the idea that Van Gogh presumably cut of his ear because it didn’t fit in his painting. No clue if it’s true fact or fiction. To be honest I couldn’t care less. To start wondering about it would actually mean you didn’t understand shit.
Mr. Vincent Van Gogh, may I call you Vincent?
I have one of your drawings hanging on my wall. It drives me insane, you know… I’ve rarely seen such torment. Maybe only in Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Oh, the two of you would have got it on, I bet. Too bad almost a hundred years separated you. But, yeah, that’s just life I guess. Face to face with it you just feel you should grab an army knife and cut off its ear. Cuz it doesn’t fit. Cuz it sucks. Or in this case cut off its years, I do realize. But you know, in a way someone right now IS cutting off its (y)ear. That’s me, Mr. Van Gogh. Ive my laptop hurling the sonata in a loop and I’m starring at your drawing.
But you see, Mr. Van Gogh (I know I said I’d call you Vincent, but I can’t bring myself around to do it) there is something I don’t understand. You see, in your picture there, the one with Gauguin’s chair, you show your friend’s preference for introspection and painting from memory. Whilst you yourself have always preferred painting from live sceneries. Painting what is brought forward to you by nature’s means. So you sought nature. But you were always at war with it, weren’t you? Weren’t you?? Else why would you cut off your ear? You see, Mr Van Gogh, I need to understand that…
Beethoven himself didn’t cut off his ear, but he went deaf. So he also created from memory, Mr Van Gogh. Just like you were best friends with Gauguin, I bet you would have loved Beethoven. It’s this creating from inside out that’s so attiring to you, ain’t it? Ain’t it?? Oh you’re such a paradox… Vincent.
Note! The first painting is called Gauguin’s Chair. The second is called Van Gogh’s Chair.
Aceste coincidente care facura sa mi se para ca viata e un film de Iñarritu sau Almodovar. O povestire de Garcia Marquez. Aceste momente cand vrui sa imbratisez aerul care curge nestiutor in juru-mi. Aceste clipe cand totul avu sens pentru ca brusc mi se dezvaluira lucruri infime dar o! fara de care nimic nu e. Aletheia. Ceea ce se dezvaluie, ceea ce se dez-valuie. Domnule Heidegger, dumneavoastra vorbeati de opera de arta ca dez-valuire, de felul in care, printr-o opera de arta se ajunge intr-un anumit moment din timp la o intelegere, la a vedea ceea ce era inainte ascuns sau vazut altfel. Domnule Heidegger mereu am iubit acest fel de a explica ‘adevarul’. S-ar spune ca atunci cand exista intelegere, exista adevar. Si opera de arta e o astfel de intelegere, a ceva ce e dat, ceva ce trebuie dez-valuit.
Dar in aceste infime momente pe care le traiesc uneori, oare nu exista aceeasi dez-valuire? Oare nu transpare ceva, o scanteie dintr-un foc imens, ucigas care sta ascuns dupa un nesfarsit perete de plumb?
Daca asculti cu toata fiinta, oare nu auzi cum in spatele plumbului se face lumea?
***
Am privit-o indelung desenand litere grecesti pe foaia caietului meu cu notite. ἀλήθεια a scris la sfarsit. Si apoi a pronuntat cadentat: A-Le-The-Ia. A accentuat a doua silaba si cat timp a durat cuvantul a privit intai in caiet si apoi apasat in ochii mei. Apoi a ras. Apoi am ras. Si-am ridicat ceasca de cafea si ceasca avea o picatura neagra pe buza. Am inchis ochii si m-am simtit in inima Istanbulului, desi nu fusesem niciodata acolo.
Mai tarziu, mult dupa ce cafeaua se sfarsise si eu imi spusesem adio-ul, intr-un tramvai care se indrepta fara indoiala spre nord, caci in frunte avea scris Gara de Nord, in acel tramvai in care doi barbati cu ochi negri vorbeau in portugheza, sufland aproape in ceafa-mi, doua fete au pronuntat raspicat cuvantul care sta scris in litere grecesti, cu cerneala neagra, in caietul pe care il duceam la piept. Am inchis ochii si m-am simtit in inima Istanbulului.
Tramvaiul se oprise si cele doua voci care imi suflasera in ceafa cuvantul pe care doar eu il stiam au disparut. Inainte ca eu sa fi apucat sa cer orice explicatie. Aletheia.
N-am povestit nimic inca despre aventurile cu ghitara.
Pentru cine nu stie despre ce e vorba, de ceva timp, din motive de nedezvaluit, in casa exista nici mai mult nici mai putin decat o ghitara. E neagra si raspunde la numele de ‘Albina Beata’. Prenumele e Albina, numele de familie e Beata. Si, ca oricine pe lumea asta, n-are nici o vina pt numele pe care l-a primit. Vina apartine in totalitate parintilor. Niste dusi cu sorcova, plecati cu pluta, fara o doaga, intr-o ureche, le zbarnie o coarda etc, v-ati prins.
Bun. Albina noastra e destul de grasuta, da’ tare nene! Adica am niste dungi vinete pe coapse de n-ati vazut (si nici n-o sa vedeti, ca pan’ la nunta Alinei imi trec). Pentru ca da, n-am putut sa-mi tin labutele deoparte si m-am apucat si eu sa ‘invat sa cant la ghitara’, visandu-ma cu parul nepieptanat valvoi, cantand cu ochii inchisi “where did you sleep last night” in extaz. Imi facusem calculele ca asa cam intr-o luna poate. Realitatea insa e ca dupa o saptamana de la prima lectie…. am reinceput sa-mi simt buricele degetelor. Dupa doua saptamani am realizat ca nu-i chiar asa rau sa-ti tai unghiile o data la doua zile, iar acum sunt in faza: ‘ai innebunit?? imi mai tre cativa centimetri de deget ca s-ajung la coarda aia’.
Aa, iar numele si l-a capatat pentru ca oricum incerc in C, D sau G (ca atata stiu), coarda nr 2 iese un fel de Bzzzzzzzzz si apoi surd Zzzzzzzz. Alta transcriere mai fonetica nu gasesc. Oricum, daca ar fi sa aproximam sunetul pe care ar trebui sa-l faca cu un “tra-la-la”, atunci da, la mine iese un Bzzz-zzzz-zzzz, deci ati inteles, nu tre sa mai explic.
G insa are o ureche muzicala fenomenala, sunt verde de invidie. Noroc ca-i lenes, ceea ce imi da mie prilejul de a substitui prin harnicie =))) Si acum stiu ca ati ras (de mine) da’ si eu o sa rad cand o sa va fac in ciuda nonsalanta cu ghitara pe umar. Ma duc sa-mi ciufulesc parul.
A, si ca sa ilustram lipsa de degete cand vine vorba de instrumente muzicale, ia uitati-va la astia:
Astazi m-am gandit mult la ce inseamna sa ai curaj in viata. Sa-ti privesti optiunile in fata. Sa vezi cu claritate ce e rezonabil sa realizezi si ce nu e deloc rezonabil. Sa ai curajul sa pui degetul cu precizie si trufie exact pe ce e cel mai putin rezonabil.
E ca si cand, pentru a ajunge pe acoperisul unui zgarie-nori, in loc sa iei liftul si sa privesti din spatele geamurilor de siguranta, te-ai hotari sa te cateri de unul singur prin exteriorul cladirii de sticla doar pt ca astfel ai putea avea sansa de a ajunge si mai sus decat unde se opreste liftul, nu sub acoperis ci pe acoperis. Aiurea, nebunie curata, si de altfel, de ce si-ar dori cineva asa ceva??? Exact. Total nerezonabil, nu?
Dar daca va reusi, frumosul nostru nebun nerezonabil va fi aplaudat si admirat frenetic de toti cei care credeau ca ce a vrut sa faca era absurd si stupid. Si-l vor dori alaturi, il vor aprecia si il vor lauda. Vor invata de la el. Il vor imita. Il vor idolatriza. Dar el, frumosul stie prea bine. El stie. El a fost singur la piciorul cladirii cand toti s-au urcat in lift. El a fost singur in timpul urcusului anevoios. Dar a fost de asemeni singur in varful varfului, unde vantul a batut doar pentru el si soarele a stralucit in cinstea lui.
Insael stie la fel de bine ca totul a fost o sansa. Ca la fel de bine s-ar fi putut dezechilibra, ar fi putut aluneca si cadea in gol inainte chiar de mijlocul drumului, si totul ar fi fost pierdut. El stie ca de fapt, asta era cel mai rezonabil lucru care se putea intampla. Dar, la fiecare pas pe care l-a facut in sus, cu un picior se agata de crapaturile din zid, iar cu celalat dadea un sut in fund rezonabilului…
Celui care mi-a provocat acest sir de ganduri astazi, ii dedic acest articol care mi-a picat din intamplare sub ochi tot astazi. Pentru ca asa se intampla lucrurile, din intamplare cu sens:
Curaj! Continua sa-i dai suturi in fund si sper ca ne vom intalni intregi undeva acolo pe acoperis…
PS. Cand eram copil tata imi punea la pickup Secunda lui Mircea Baniciu. E un anume cantec pe albumul ala, si imi amintesc cum tata imi spunea sa fiu atenta la versuri, ca trebuie, mai presus de orice, sa inteleg asta…
PPS: Pentru cine e interesat, exista un documentar minunat foarte aproape de tema asta (si la propriu si la figurat), despre Phillipe Petit, funambulul. Se cheama Man On Wire.
In timp ce scriu asta, de alaturi se aud sunetele de acordeon ale Louisei.
E duminica si Louise e vecina mea. Cand am vazut-o prima data iesea imbufnata din apartamentul de vizavi, iar eu tocmai vizitam mansarda care urma sa-mi devina locuinta temporara. De fapt
A fost asa
Eu, inca pe scara, incercam sa intru pe usa intredeschisa a mansardei, care dintr-un motiv sau altul nu se deschidea complet, si trebuia sa ma tarsaiesc intre usa si perete. Cand faceam tocmai asta, s-a deschis usa de alaturi si a iesit ea. In momentul ala, proprietarul mansardei, vrand sa-mi dea o mana de ajutor, a impins usa naiba stie de ce si m-a strivit intre usa si perete. Louise, la un cot de mine, se uita cu cheile in mana. Am scos un ggghhh si cred ca mi-am muscat limba, in timp ce am dat cu capu de tocul de lemn albastru (ocazie de a observa si retine ca usa era vopsita in albastru).
Ai cantat intr-o formatie rock, nu-i asa?
Am auzit-o ciripind de foarte aproape. Am intors capul recent izbit, intre timp proprietarul se scuza intens. Ce naiba mai e si asta.
“Ce?” murmur
“Pai, vad ca te pricepi sa izbesti cu capul”.
Am ras putin.
“O sa te muti aici?”
“Ehm, probabil, posibil. Defapt, nu stiu exact.” (inca nu vazusem mansarda, era prima vizita pe care o faceam)
“Bine”, zice. “Dar sa nu dai cu capul in perete prea des. E din lemn si se aude tot…”
Cat pe ce sa ma apuc sa-i explic ca eu nu dau cu capul in pereti, ci a fost o intamplare pentru ca vezi, proprietarul incercand sa deschida… Dar m-am razgandit pentru ca ea a inceput sa rada.
“Am inteles”, am raspuns. “Voi da cu capul pe saturate in autobuz, inainte de a ajunge acasa. E mai sigur asa.”
Acum a ras ea putin.
“Ah, dansa e vecina”,
a intervenit stangaci proprietarul care tocmai ma pocnise cu usa. Nu pricepuse gluma.
Poftiti inauntru!
Si a deschis (de data asta) larg usa. Am facut un semn de la revedere cu sprancenele catre Louise, ea cobora deja pe scari si mi-a facut un semn cu mana.
(to be continued)
*Nota! Este fictiune, nu va speriati, n-am dat cu capu de nici o usa albastra.
Am inceput cautarea activa de nou apartament. Cum nu mai vreau sa vad picior de tren (sau roata in cazul asta) pentru o lunga perioada de timp, noul apart o sa fie in Bruxelles, cat mai aproape de ULB.
Dupa aproape o saptamana de pandit anunturi, ieri am vizitat doua apartamente. Unul era mititel, intr-o cladire foarte veche dar bine intretinuta. Ce mi-a placut erau podeaua de lemn (nu parchet, podea ca in pod) si panorama frumoasa (era la etajul 3, iar strada insasi un pic mai sus fata de oras). Nu era nici prea scump, dar prea mic. N-are a face, dar tipul care locuia acum acolo citea carti despre crocodili.
Al doilea apart era intr-o zona ok, dar pe o strada mica si cam intunecoasa, la parter. Umed si intr-o stare nu prea buna. Avea o curte privata in spate, ceea ce e cool, dar in rest cam nasol si nu facea banii. Si m-a enervat agentul imobiliar care mi-a zis “aa, la pretu asta asa bun, tre sa va hotarati repede ca se da, se da”. Idiot! Insa tipul care locuia avea un iepuras intr-o cusca. Alb cu urechi roz si tot tzopaia pe-acolo, probabil il intimidam cu aaaaaa, tieeeens! un petit lapiiiiiiiiiin!!!! *deget in cusca.
Buon. Cautarea continua.
ps. ca sa vezi, ca sa vezi: crocodil, iepure… sunt curioasa ce apare data viitoare.
Behind the blue curtain she stood. Fine silk curtain it was and all she could do was bite her left hand’s thumb nail.
“Holy shit!”, a rush of sweat suddenly covered her front-head and chills went down her spine as her face probably went white.
“Have I forgotten to shave it?”, her hand quickly going down and under the skirt, as she still held some hope. But no luck this time, it was all still there.
“Idiot! What are you going to do now?” she thought, her hand still feeling somewhere under the skirt, as if to make sure what she felt was real. But the evidence was there and quite a fluffy evidence it was, as she remarked in awe. “It’s almost time. I could maybe still make it to the bathroom. Yeah, right and how are you going to pull that, you’ve got nothing in your bag!!! You total idiot! Really, what were you thinking?!”
In the bathroom there were two other ladies waiting so she had to wait before a cabin was free. But when the much-awaited moment came, she rushed in, hung her bag on the door handle, stripped off her skirt and whatever else was in the way, sat on the toilet cap and … well…
“Shit, this hurts”, she thought in despair as involuntary tears were running down her cheeks and onto the toilet floor, where they remained unnoticed, awaiting for the first chlorine mop to restore them to nature’s water cycle and thus set them at peace with themselves and the world around them.
When she went out of the cabin, besides the fore-mentioned tears, on the floor one could also see what one would assimilate to bits of little black pilus. But all was forgotten now, as while she washed her hands in the sink, she felt this tremendous relief she had rarely experienced before. So by the time she was drying her hands, a smile of pride and self-satisfaction was largely visible on her face.
The date went well, one would suppose, so the only thing one is left wondering about is “What ever happened to the little black pilus?!” Well, one can only assume the next person to have entered that particular toilet cabin – precisely myself – could have imagined a whole lot of things when seeing it. I made up the part about the tears though.
Oh, and before I forget, I got this great song this morning, thought I’d share it.
