Mi s-a intamplat si am izbucnit in ras copilaresc. Mi s-a intamplat o ghidusenie inexplicabila … Si stiu ca deseori ne strecuram in cotidianul monoton (ba chiar si sub plapuma, si in buzunarele altora, si in croissantul de dimineata sau in morcovul de seara) personaje haioase sau varii creatii fantasmagoreice si cream mici povesti cu ele, dar de data asta jur solemn ca n-am fost eu de vina. Aseara m-a izbit deodata in urechi un val de muzica ca de basm, ba nu, muzica de care ne imaginam ca se auzea din cutiutele muzicale antice si deseori pretexte amoroase ale idilelor din filmele vechi, cutiute cu o balerina care danseaza sau cu un carusel de circ invartindu-se intr-o frenezie amortita. Venea dinspre strada. N-am avut curiozitatea sa fac un pas si jumatate pan’ la fereastra, imaginandu-mi ca poate si-au schimbat dongul omuletii de la bisericuta de vizavi (nu de alta, dar ar fi si cazul de dragul durerilor de cap de duminica 10 o’clock sharp, sunt 10 metri intre fereastra mea si fereastra lor). Dar fiind sapte jumate seara, putin probabil … n-am mai rumegat ideea caci dupa cateva minute disparu. Am si uitat de ea si as fi uitat pe vecie daca azi la cam aceeasi ora nu s-ar fi intamplat … aceeasi ghidusenie. Hop sarit jos din pat, scos lupa de detectiv din sertarul de jos cu cheita, si pic pac pic palac la fereastra. E martie, e inca frig afara, alaltaieri, dupa o zi de soare, a plouat si a si nins apoi. Dar in fata cladirii mele era o masinuta clasica cu inghetata cu cea mai armonioasa piesa de muzica pe care o poti auzi vreodata. Nu masterpiece in sens digerabil sau dezirabil dupa standardele postmoderne, sau macar moderne … nu, era exact genul de combinatie de sunete care te scoate din transa si te invaluie in poveste chiar de ai fi ultimul supravietuitor intr-un oras mare si gri … si cu maimute ucigase urmarindu-te (franturi dintr-un horror semiclasic imi vin in minte, damn … am uitat titlul). Dar 7 jumate seara, frrrrrig afara, mijit de primavara abia, si icecream man oprind pe strada mea, stat 3 minute cu masina in suspensie, oprit muzica in timpul asta … dupa care pleaca, cu difuzoarele tot pe mut. 2 seri la rand. Pai sa nu te pufneasca rasul? Si sa crezi ca povestea ti-a scapat de sub control? Pai sa nu il intrebi tu acum pe Liviu ce-si imagineaza el ca ar fi povestea lui icecream man? Nu, nu vine sa ma vada pe mine in fiecare seara, altceva, Liviule, mai ingenios. Ia spune-ne tu:) Nu de alta, dar am scris postul asta pentru tine, ca am vazut ca ma ai acolo in lista ta de luni de zile, dar eu, ca un mic tradator al tehnologiei, m-am ascuns in propriul dulap in timpul asta:)
Pink screens and drag queens October 25, 2008
Talking about pink …
That’s all pink is worth! Gay film festivals and pink ribbon campaigns.
Pleeeeease, no more pink laptops!!
Tomnatic September 28, 2008
“A faint suggestion of turned in toes. A kind of of wiggly looseness below the knee prolonged to the end of each footfall. The ghost of a drag. Very infantile, infinitely meretricious.” …”I know it is madness to keep this journal but it gives me a strange thrill to do so; and only a loving wife could decipher my microscopic script. Let me state with a sob that day my L. was sun-bathing on the so-called “piazza”, but her mother and some other women women were around all the time.” …” Be true to your Dick. Do not let other fellows touch you. Do not talk to strangers. I hope you will love your baby. I hope it will be a boy. (…)I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immorality you and I may share, my Lolita.”
Cantaretii din Grand Place September 1, 2008
well … first we have the weird guy with a weird instrument doing funny faces while blowing his … little whistle
then … there is (most probably) the belgian 80 years old dude, with many many bling-blings gathered during his wild years from all over the world, with his 80-years old ass hanging from his pants, smiling with no theeth in his mouth, but still playing his mouth-organ (I know, you don’t like the word, let’s say then harmonica if it pleases the reader more)
and finally … no need for additional description …
Ads are breaking the wall between east and west…literraly! June 7, 2008
Well, it seems to me that Berlin Wall means much more things today than it did in the past. Really, despite the fact that its tourist attraction value…vanished into thin air, the area is completely empty..but…it does mean a lot of things nowadays!!!
It still means kiss & make up
In the broader frame of worldwide history…
It still inspires messages such as….the ones that are so popular in the miss contests in the last decades
While it also inspires more specific types of love
In the same time, some people even dare to think about…
While others…
There are always the skepticals….the world itself becomes a conspiracy…
But, eventually there is the common language bewteen the east and the west: the real common language is advertising! Long live the king!
Song to Layla (3) May 27, 2008
…
After noticing her strong reaction made him feel awkward about his revealed identity, she felt the need to appease the chafe she just roused. ‘What about your music? You have your sax everywhere you go. Why feel lonely and estranged even in strange places since you can rely on your faithful travel partner?’ she tried to cheer him up, opening his view on positive things, but in the same time trying to find a possible justification for her own destiny. ‘Touch it!’ he said, reaching for her hand so she could sense the tepidness of a still, inert metal object. My sax is cold and I am a forsaken wondering around the world. I ramble up and down these streets ransacking for something bright and meaningful in this spectacle of counterfeit and bemire enchantments. Like this neighborhood! Like you! Come home with me tonight!’
After hearing this she didn’t know what arouse her consternation first. Was he calling her a fake illusion? Did he invite her to spend the night? Did he really expect she’ll be convinced by his phony mask of a pitiful outcast? After all, a false name doesn’t make me false. You couldn’t know about that as you also couldn’t know about me leaving home, she was holding tight on her thoughts. ‘I certainly won’t go with you!’ she replied in a breath, stunned and offended by his baffling demands. Again, she didn’t find time to reveal her resentment as he already started revealing his own resentment: ‘I can’t understand why are you all pretentious harlots so compliant about opening your legs and so reluctant to the idea of just sleeping side by side to a man? All you hookers even feel insulted by the solely thought that a man could want you for just being human and not for your promiscuous services!’
Once again, she didn’t get the chance of expressing her astonishment. He just picked his sax from the floor and … he was gone, leaving her with these false allegations she couldn’t possibly imagine she would be confronted with in her life. I am not Layla. I am not Layla. she was thinking, moving her tearful eyes around her so she could finally clearly see she was indeed surrounded by splashy prostitutes, not just ordinary seductive women. This was their neighborhood and she was trespassing. I am not Layla. I am not a runaway. It’s time to go home.
Forty minutes later, a 21 years old girl with purple flowered vintage ripped dress was waiting for the train to Denver, the first train with a final fixed destination in the last 15 days and 4 hours. In the same time, a saxophonist was playing a blue ballad in the red light district of the town. ‘What are you playing there, sweet darling, all alone?’ a dark-haired voluptuous woman asked him. ‘It’s time to go home. This is the name of the song’ he replied sadly. So how about you will go home with me tonight? I live just around the corner?’ He didn’t even look into her eyes when he said ‘Let’s go!’
In two different parts of the city, two former strangers have become estranged again. While he was her redemption, she became his damnation.
End.
Dedicated to my Layla, Ana…
Song to Layla (2) May 22, 2008
…
She apologized, he replied politely by saying it’s nothing and after a discomfiting glance, she continued her walk. Just for a meter or two, though. Because the young saxophonist stopped her by grabbing her hand all of a sudden, and asked her if she would like to have a drink with him. Seven silent minutes later they were ordering a dirty martini (her) and a beer (him).
After observing him for two minutes, with his blushy cheeks and long feminine lashes shading hid brown shy eyes, not asking or saying anything, not even daring to look her in the eyes, she didn’t know what to expect. He seemed the type of man that only knew one kind of silence, the awkward sort, one kind of rain, the maudlin rain, and just one kind of music. The type of man who cared only about one kind of love, the peaceful one, and who could see just one kind of black. She couldn’t picture herself confining her for too long in a discussion with a ‘one kind of view’ man. This is why she decided to break the silence so she could finish earlier this inadvertent uncoloured meeting (she couldn’t even explain why she accepted it in the first place, she completely broke her routine from the last two weeks of traveling during which she managed to avoid any contact with any stranger; it probably was the coffee coloured sax, a poignant reminder of the two passions she used to share with her mother – coffee and love for jazz).
‘I’m Layla’, she suddenly said. At least I can be Layla tonight. It fits perfectly into the scenery – the provocative women sweeping this place and the naïve musician, she was amusingly thinking in order not to get blasé, although she knew she didn’t have the requisite energy to initiate this kind of play. ’Tim’, he promptly replied, almost frightening her with his unexpected immediate answer and deep baritonal voice. ‘I needed company tonight. And I don’t usually come here, actually I do but I’m not like the others. I’m just looking for inspiration’ he swiftly added. ‘It’s just me and my sax for a long time. And I … I miss Harlem and this place resembles so much with Harlem’, he continued at a slower and more clam pace but with the same need of justifying himself. ‘So, you’re not like the others. That’s a phrase I’ve never heard before’ she quickly answered with what it seemed to be an extremely kind smiling face, as a desperate attempt of making a joke and releasing the tension of the discussion, tension that has just imbued the air between them in a blink of an eye. In fact, the smile was just a smirk and her will of detracting the attention from a heart rending tonality to a more tongue-in-cheek tonality, even if it was a gaudy tongue-in-cheek, too cheap for her but maybe not for Layla, reflected just her urgent need not to see a vulnerable man in front of her. She detested when that happened.
She didn’t find time to continue her diversion because the recently chatty Tim wanted to justify himself even more: ‘I’m a runaway, you see. It’s 3 years now since I’ve been on the road and this place seemed so familiar to me right from the beginning. So I’ve been walking on these streets, only me and my sax, for a couple of months. I lost track a few weeks ago. That happens, you know, when you are a runaway’, he added in a wistful voice.
‘No, I don’t! I can’t possibly know what you are talking about! I’m not a runaway! I never was!’ she replied, with a strange miffed temper. It’s been exactly fifteen days and 2-3 hours since I decided to leave for good my Harlem. And hour by hour the time keeps on digging furrows on my hands, so no! I don’t lose track, she was thinking.
To be continued…
Paraplu's Weblog 