chef de proza

'We could begin that story.'
'But this is not the proper audience', she nodded.
He simply smiled, sensing the irony. 'Pride, my dear, is a very common failing I believe. By all that we have ever heard and read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it. It is true that vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. You agreed that a person may be proud without being vain. And why is that? Because we could present that story anyway. And why again? Because your pride relates more to your opinion about yourself, while vanity – vanity, my dear, is what you believe others will think of us.'

Eliza felt anxious when receiving the remark. Even though ironic, it was his words that always got to her, concluding by a session of endless arguments in her favor. He, on the other hand knew. He knew she will eventually understand and more than that, he knew that she will probably forget. There was the doubt that ever made him be reticent. After a moment of pause, they decided not to join the group laying besides the fire. The evening's purpose was for them to share thoughts, laughs, friendship. This changed of course after a couple of beers. Looking at them, they would see how everything about the two was the symbiosis of contradictions. They simply sat down as if nothing in the world would make more sense. Together, they looked like reason and dream, like spring and autumn, like black and white. Together they turned gray.

The facts at hand presumably speak for themselves, just a bit more open, to be suspected, than facts usually do. As a counterbalance, then, they began with the ever fresh and exciting odium: their own personal discussion. The one he had in mind was not only wordy and earnest beyond his wildest dreams but was, to boot, rather excruciatingly personal. Hers, with the right kind of setting, just grew before her eyes, being comparable in effect to a compulsory guided tour through her imagination - with herself, as guide.

to be continued...

Aproape de carnaval

cu plecare de la linia 2 vineri si intoarcere vinerea viitoare

Un fel de if only

Marea loveste digul pe care in seara aceea n-am avut curajul sa mergem pana la capat. Piatra uda aluneca si, la un pas de noi, era rupta. Daca eram neatenti ne puteam prabusi in apa ce fierbea dedesubt. Dar am fost atenti. Ca intotdeauna. Atat de atenti incat intr-o zi vom renunta sa mai patrundem pe dig. Ne vom multumi sa ne aducem aminte de el, apoi ne vom aduce aminde mai rar si apoi il vom uita in cele din urma, vom uita ca-ntr-o seara eram poate hotarati sa mergem la capat. Acum chiar daca as merge pe dig, nu mai pot s-o fac decat singura. Pot aluneca sau pot inainta curajos. E totuna. Si-as vrea sa uit in ce zi ma aflu, in ce an si unde, sa ascult marea lovindu-se intruna de dig, sa ma intreb cine sint, ce varsta am si ce caut aici.

De ce m-am oprit in fata acestui dig ca si cum l-as cunoaste?

Mersul pe bicicleta

Imi imaginez ca viata trebuie sa fie ca mersul pe bicicleta. Eu habar nu am cum sa merg pe bicicleta dar asa trebuie sa fie si viata, inconstienta de roti, ghidon sau reguli de circulatie. Mi-ar place sa stiu ca alea doua cercuri au destula forta ca sa ma care peste tot si practic oriunde. Nu cred ca bicicleta stie unde-i nordul sau sudul si practic nu asta conteaza. E nevoie de asfalt pentru un drum lin dar rotile plang dupa drumuri pavate cu piatra sau campuri arse de soare. Prea multe ploi n'or sa fie pentru ca nimanui nu-i trebuie rugina, daca e rugina incercam eventual o spalare cu spuma de mare. Stiu ca sunt momente in care rotile refuza sa se opreasca, se invart mereu intr-un 'perpetuum mobilae'. Acum ma intreb...de ce n-ar face asta?

Praise you

Cateodata totul se misca in relanti. I'm happy si-mi amintesc de prispa incalzita de soare infundata de iarba undeva la munte.

Elogiul hartiei

Eu propun sa ne purtam cu totii notitele in buzunare infinite si incapatoare. In prealabil pot fi spalate si reciclate dupa o lunga nefolosire. Au modestia de a-si sterge urma in cele mai imposibile spatii, iar atunci cand insista sa ramana in viata sunt doar mogaldetze de materie cartonata. Insa notitele isi manifesta intotdeauna importanta dupa caz. Nimeni nu le contesta prezenta incontestabila. De la un caz la altul ele supravietuiesc. Fiind aruncate la gunoi ele isi saluta surorile in groapa de la marginea orasului. In final, unii au mai multa incredere in puterea notitei decat vecinii lor de bloc. Eu ma pliez dupa caz - masina de spalat le face simtita prezenta.

Ochiul purtatorului

Umbra acopera ochiul purtatorului si lumina se zbate subtil intr-o cadere libera pe obrazul stang. Cu ramificatii albastre irisul cauta priviri indoielnice sau extaziate.
Avem de ales: un ochi caprui cazut in pamant, niste bucle blonde laminate de soare si privirile prietenoase ce absorb in nestire negrul lasand loc valurilor.
Ochiul purtatorului se insenineaza, obrazul surade: era covarsit de privire. Niste ochi verzi patrund in albastru intr-o revarsare a ploii. Ce avea sa faca acum ca totul era in contururi clare, precise? Ei bine, ochiul purtatorului radiaza, canta primavara, mereu orbit de caldura ce va sa vina, mereu uitand de literele ce-i dansau pe hartii deja scrise.