Ossasepia

October 24, 2016

A Party Called My Party - by Elliot Rodger and his spellchecker

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 12:00 a.m.

Despite not only reading but actually counting all1 of the truly tragic2 sentences  that Elliot and his only-friend-who-still-betrayed-him, the spellchecker3, somehow managed to write (of sorts), it turns out upon closer investigation that Mircea Popescu might have still missed a few. Or a lot. Some. Sentences, I mean. Enfin, it must be the tall blonde ones4 who cruelly and unfairly rejected the exquisite gentleman called Elliot Rodgers:

I was approaching 20 and I felt nothing but dread. Putting myself out there every day at the classes and every evening in the streets of Isla Vista hadn't worked. Life is truly so, so unfair. I was still as lonely as ever and I had no girlfriend. Desperately, one night when Daniel came back with the vodka I had asked him to buy for me, I blurted out somehow that my teenager years are almost over and I have no girlfriend to call My Girlfriend. It was the sort of thing I wouldn't have told those hispanic brutes that lived in my flat before, but Daniel was more mature and we had shared already a few shots of my vodka. To my surprise, he seemed to listen sympathetically and then suggested I should give a party. I hated the idea of a party at which everyone could see that I have no girlfriend and girls don't like me. My social anxiety thing would also be on display and I hated that too. Boys would be all over the pretty girls and the prettiest girls would be all under the ugliest brutes and that was unbearable to even think about. But Daniel persuaded me that evening that a party *!!*I*!!* give will be entirely different. And that is right and proper as it should be, as it would be My Party.

The idea to give a party was my greatest idea really and the fact that it turned out so badly only goes to show how cruel and mean women are. I was still giving them a chance at that time though and so I set out once again to build my hopes up. I prepared for that party with all my energy as I felt it was my true and only chance to finally enjoy teenage sex. I had no idea how to actually give a party, but Daniel was very helpful with that. The only thing was that it seemed money was needed and even more than I had otherwise saved from the additional allocation that my parents were sending me since I moved to Isla Vista.

Determined to not let this opportunity pass, I called my mother and my father in turn and I begged them to give me free credit to throw my own party seeing how I was about to turn 20 anyway and I knew there would not be any full-blown party at home as Soumaya and father would be away. After much arguing and pleading they finally agreed.

Having obtained all the money I needed, I could in turn tell Daniel to go ahead with the gritty details of organizing the party, as I will pay for it. He suggested I should rent out a function room and I agreed as then I would be able to welcome my guests as a true master. I left the organizing work to Daniel as it wasn't in any way befitting for me to do it. It also made me feel already better about myself as I would just give him my orders every morning and sometimes at evening or during the day, he would listen attentively and then he would go and carry them out. Relieved thus from the lower-level chores, I focused instead on making sure that the party would truly be a success. I spent all my waking hours on imagining the success it would be, how the prettiest girls would finally give me their love since I was the host of such a magnificent party. How they would look at me in wonder and awe, how I would certainly have by the end of this party a girlfriend next to me. In my mind's eye I saw myself already at the top of the marble stairs I had instructed Daniel to find, welcoming my guests and being the object of envy of everyone. It was to be a truly exquisite party like no other and it would mark the end of my torture as a virgin teenager. I decided to call this party The Party of My Life as it was so fitting.

There weren't many days until I turned 20 and so I rushed Daniel on at all costs, since this was such an important matter. The evening of the party I got dressed in my most expensive jeans and shirt that clearly showed that I was the most superior gentleman there. And then I drove my BMW to the address Daniel had given me, aiming to arrive a bit late so that everyone would certainly notice my entrance and be in awe when they finally saw me. As I got out of my BMW, I saw the most beautiful tall blonde girl who was going in together with a group of friends and I took that to be a good sign, as there didn't seem to be any brutish boyfriend near her. As I walked into the building, I felt my anxiety rising and I almost stumbled, but I5 reminded myself that this was truly the day when all my worries will end and my happy real life will finally begin.

When I entered the function room of my party, I had to stop and let my eyes adjust as it was rather dark and full of smoke. Daniel came to me almost immediately and took me by the arm in a way that I found to be a bit unfitting seeing how I was the master and he was way below me, but I let it go at that time. I had more important things to focus on, as I was still searching for the marble stairs. I tried to ask Daniel where they were, but he probably did not hear me as the music was so loud and so I just followed him as he was dragging me towards a sort of stage around which everyone seemed to dance or move of sorts. He gave me a full glass too and waited for me while I drank it. I drank it quickly as alcohol had always helped me in social situations and he promptly found from somewhere another full glass to place in my hand. I also noticed that there was truly exquisite food on one side of the room: there was ham and salami and even sausages that looked as exceptional as I had ever seen. There wasn't time to taste them though, as Daniel then dragged me onto a small circular stage and pushed me forwards while shouting above the music and the noise "I give you our host!"

I felt my anxiety rising a notch as everyone looked at me, but I immediately felt better when they seemed to cheer and when I noticed that they actually looked up to me as the stage had risen significantly above the floor. Although it wasn't marble as I had instructed Daniel, I had to admit it wasn't a bad idea to have this raised stage thing. I drank what I still had in my glass and tried to guess which one of the beautiful, tall, blond girls would be My Girlfriend by the end of tonight. I literally had the world at my feet that night and that was how The Party of My Life was meant to be.

Then the music that had stopped for a second started again and everyone started dancing just like they were before. From my raised stage I could see everyone quite clearly, despite the smoke and the colored lights that jumped about like mad. And as I looked through the crowd, I suddenly saw this gorgeous tall blond girl who looked absolutely perfect. But she wasn't looking at me and so I had no choice than to keep looking as a brutish hispanic pig came and grabbed her tight under the pretense of a sort of dance, while she giggled. How could she not even notice the sight of a gentleman such as myself and giggle instead so stupidly at being dragged about in the crow6 by that brute! I was getting so enraged that I would have drenched them all in the alcohol in my glass, but I had drank it all already, I would have peed on them but I had an erection already and I would have run to kick them all but the stage had gotten so high by now that I saw no safe way to get down from it without breaking my legs.

Luckily, Daniel must have seen my hard rage and he came to me. He had two beautiful tall blond girls following him, as scantily clad as most others and I was about to get really angry with him, but he gave me another full glass and then he helped the girls climb up on the stage next to me. Just as they climbed, he introduced the girls to me as Candy and Sandy. The girls actually smiled at me with a happy look in their eyes as if they had forgotten him entirely and I felt truly vindicated and sure now that My Party was indeed the success I had always known it would be. But then, precisely then, at that highest point of my own party, I was once again betrayed by the cruel beasts that women are. For the two girls did a most horrible thing that I don't think I'll ever forget and surely not forgive. While one just took her blouse off with a sudden move that left her breasts quivering, the other one got down on her knees and did an unspeakable thing to me. At the same time, Daniel shouted again above the noise and the crowd: "I give you our host losing his virginity at nearly 20" and they cheered even louder than before.

To think I had thought both those girls (let alone just one of them) worthy of my love! And to have them so cruelly mistreat me again, doing all those horrible things to me while I was petrified up on the stage and with all my social anxiety on show for everyone to see. I felt rage building up inside me but my glass was again empty and I found I could not move as they were now both holding me quite strongly and throwing my Armani shirt, my expensive jeans and my Hugo Boss underwear to the cheering crowd below who soon started dancing again. I've never been so humiliated in my whole life. The Party of My Life was turning out to be yet another chance that the world was missing to put things right and give me the life of pleasure I had always deserved.

Poor, tragic Elliot. Spare a thought for him this Halloween, for I heard he ended up really badly at the hands of his own friend, James. Who might have been - or maybe not - the spellchecker himself!


  1. 6656! 

  2. From a semantic and occasionally grammatical point of view. 

  3. That fucking pig of a friend stabbed him in the metaphorical back as it made his own lunch - writing for instance "home" instead of "hope" and "afriend ship" instead of "a friendship" - of Elliot's last words. I mean: of his Last Words! 

  4. Not that they (or it) make(s) any difference in this cruel world of unfairness and doom. 

  5. Good God, are there enough "I" in there for Elliot prose? My own I feels exhausted already. 

  6. Pig, I tell you. 

September 17, 2016

Putul cu bufnite

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 10:25 p.m.

malay_fish_owl

Cand ma uit in jos vad doar un put plin cu bufnite nemiscate dar treze. Cad printre penele lor moi, in vreme ce din toate partile ma privesc ochi nemiscati si le aud pe rand dand semnal cu minima intarziere: bu-hu-huuuuuu inspre adancuri. Si tot ascult la bu-hu-hu. E bu-hu-hu de buf, buf, buf-nita.

Jos, drumul e lung si rasucit printre si prin copaci ori asa-mi pare. In sus daca ma uit vad ca bufnitele poarta fulgi portocalii pe sub penajul altminteri cuminte, bej-maroniu. De ciuda - ori doar de-un zvac ce-mi vine - o trag de coada pe bufnita cea mai de jos si raman cu un fulg portocaliu si lung in mana. Bufnita pur si simplu zboara cumva drept in sus ca eliberata din resort. Ma bate-un gand sa gadil alta bufnita cu fulgul ca o flacara, dar ori n-ajunge fulgul ori nu se sinchiseste pasaretul. Si nu ma mai chiar intereseaza de cand le stiu in fapt pestrite pe sub hainele maro.

Arcuiesc in schimb fulgul precum un bici si bat cu el in praful drumului care-mi starneste sete doar ce ma uit la el asa uscat, arid si galben-pal. Varful portocaliu se desface-n firisoare lungi ce lasa dare clare-n drum. Si dau si dau pana se imprafoseaza fulgul, pana se face drumul portocaliu murdar pe ici pe colo pe sub lovituri. Dau pana incepe suvita galben-portocalie de drum sa se miste ca o soparla pe care-o man din biciul fulgului din coada bufnitei de la adancul putului.

Miscarea e intai lina si inceata, de nu starneste nici praf nici vant nici ameteala ori altminteri nevoie anume de echilibrare cum stau asa infipta-n mijloc de carare. Apoi copacii trec deodata in vartej de verde-albastru, in stanga, in dreapta, pe sub ori pe deasupra mea. Si fulgul s-a albit de-atata praf si e fierbinte, mi se topeste-n mana si se scurge-n mijlocul drumului. Pe unde cade fulgul-bici-lichid, praful sfaraie o clipa multicolor. Apoi apare o despicatura iar drumul tot se sfasie de-a lungul ei intr-o clipita, ca o carpa veche din material aproape putred.

Cad prin despicatura de-un albastru racoros. Cad in liniste, fara bufnite, fara zgomot, fara panica. Fara graba chiar. Cad mai mult asa, ca o pauza de film rupt in doua. Ori ca un refuz, cu mainile la urechi, cu ochii inchisi, cu dintii inclestati. Cad si-mi numar doar respiratiile din interior, uimita cat sunt de egale.

Deschid ochii, desclestez dintii, desfac mainile din adancuri de urechi si ma asez turceste in albastrul golului. Ii simt ezitarea de-o secunda dar nu-i dau timp mai mult ci-l insfac de sub mine ca pe-o patura si ma infasor in el o data, de doua ori, de trei ori. Il tin strans sa nu se desfaca si ma fac ghem pentru impact. Salt ca o minge o data, de doua ori, de trei ori, dar impactul abia se simte ca prin vata prin cele trei straturi de intuneric acum zdrentuit si ca vai de el.

In lumina filtrata prin zdrentele de albastru, rontai cu pofta ce-a mai ramas din cele trei straturi de intuneric care mi-au amortizat caderea. Are gust un pic sarat ca lacrima asa, e satios si e crocant, e caramelizat si-mi place. Cand termin e deja lumina si soare, sunt acasa, totu-i la locul lui si-si vede de treaba. Timpul curge cu incetineala fericirii si toate capata un pic mai mult sens, un pic mai mult contur, un pic mai multa realitate.

Ceva mai tarziu, intr-o alta zi, pornesc iar si gasesc undeva un put adanc-adanc, plin cu bufnite. Bufnite nemiscate dar treze, privind fara expresie cu ochii lor mari plini - se zice - de intelepciune.

file2031291690266

(Poze preluate de pe Morguefile.)

July 19, 2016

Cetatea Neamtului

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 9:31 p.m.

Cetatea Neamtului is literally a fortress in Romania. Like any fortress worth the mention, it inevitably created stories, legends and the like. And since I've been recently reminded of one of the most heroic-style legends1 spawned by this particular fortress, I just had to note here for all to see, a quite different version of that same story. This is a poem called Cetatea Neamtului, written by George Cosbuc2 and translated by yours truly. If it's not the best translation, it's still the only one I found.

While both this story and the one linked are works of fiction, that's not to say there is no truth that one might learn from them. And although bravery, courage and all that are good and proper, things might just have been - here and there - slightly different, let's say. Perhaps more like this:

Sunt cu ceara picurate Words have long become all shapeless
Filele-n bucoavna mea, In this wax-stained tome3 of mine.
Dar citesc, cum pot, in ea. Still, I'm reading it quite fine.
Spune-acolo de-o cetate Says my book there was a fortress
Care Neamtul se numea Known as Neamtul in its time.
Si-au zidit-o, spune-n cronici, And its builders – there's discussion4 -
Nemti, germani sau teutonici. Might be Teutons, Germans, Prussians.
E ruina azi de veacuri. It's been ruined now for ages.
Unde-o fi? Vezi asta-i greu! Where is it? Well, that's a bother!
Cine credeti ca sunt eu It was something or the other -
Ca sa stiu atatea fleacuri! Why should I read all the pages?
Cui va sti, ii dau un leu. Do you know it all, my brother?
Zici ca afli-n carti de scoala? Think you'll find it in some books?
As! Ramai cu mana goala. Not a chance – you'll find but crooks.
Deci, in ceasul diminetii, So5, in the early morning hour
Cand pranzesc acei ce au, When those having food start eating
In cetate-aici erau, In the fortress – as befitting -
Langa comandantul pietii, The commander then in power
Toti strajerii si-asteptau, And his men were all there chatting,
Povestind si-ntinsi pe iarba, Lounged upon the grass and steady,
Chisalita sa le fiarba. Waiting 'till the broth6 be ready.
Dar, pe cand Guzgan rastoarna Alas, as Guzgan7 is taking
Mamaliga din ceaun, The polenta out of kettle8,
Din clopotnita Taun One Taun9 shows up his mettle -
Sun-afurisit din goarna. Pulls the bell-rope 'till it's breaking.
Unu-i striga: Esti nebun! Someone shouts at him: “You nettle!”
Altul: Ce-ai tu daca striga? But another: “Don't be rude!
I-o fi dor de mamaliga. He's just shouting for some food.”
Dar se-ntorc spre zid plaiesii; Still, they look beyond the walls:
Vad pe ses un nor de osti. Far below they see an army.
Mai Istrate, tu-i cunosti: Hey, Istrate, who's the barmy:
Turcii sunt? Ba, parca lesii, Are they Turks? Or, maybe Poles?
Vin incoace. Pai, sunt prosti? Coming here – heh, not barmy!
Bat si ei cel drum, ca manzul, They are moving on a hunch
Sa ne strice noua pranzul. Right on time to spoil our lunch.
Lesi erau. Sobiesky-voda They were Poles indeed. Precisely -
Ratacit p-aici prin vai, T'was Sobiesky – quite the bummer.
Caci pe-atunci era la moda As the custom was then nicely
Vara, cand plecau la bai, For the kings to go in summer
Regii mesteri in batai For a bath or for a hummer,
Sa-si ia drumul incotrova They all chose without a fail
Totdeauna prin Moldova. Through Moldova to prevail.
Si plecau fara merinde And they traveled without food
Caci asa era bonton As they wanted all for free -
Sa manance tot plocon, Eating what they found, with glee.
Ce puteau ici-colo prinde. Eating, that is, what they could.
Dar acest slavit Ion But this John10 so brave and shrewd
Isi avu-n desagi slanina. Had his bacon in his bag -
Si-i pierdu, sa-i bata vina! Then he lost it – what a snag!
Deci, cu osti, vestitul riga, Therefore, the King was going
Cum umbla pe-aici flamand Through the valleys, hungry feeling,
Si simti, prin vai trecand, When he suddenly went reeling -
Aburi calzi de mamaliga, Tasty scents the wind was blowing.
Stiu si eu ce-i dete-n gand, Quite so tasty he was squealing
Ca-si opri deodata pasul, And he froze there on the spot
Tot tragand in vant cu nasul. Sniffing food but eating nought.
E vrun praznic in cetate. “There's a feast up in the castle.
Stefan voda El mi-ar da! Must be Stefan King11 – he'd feed me!”
Cred ca nu, maria ta, “Sire, I doubt it that he'd give thee
Ca-i un drac si jumatate, Anything to eat – just hassle.
Nu prea da, ca-i el asa. He's like that, quite full of glee.”
Mie, nu? Sa-ncrunt spranceana! “That is nonsense! Not a dinner?
Eu ori el batu Vieana? In Vienna wasn't I the rightful winner?”
Domn ca mine cat traieste “Brave as me a King, so mighty,
Nu-i deprins sa-nghita-n sec. Has no habit food to want for.”
Iar un general zevzec, To which, one General – a bore -
Raspunzand pe latineste Talked in Latin quite the flighty:
Zise: Dobre ciolovec ! “Dobre chelovek”12 - he swore.
Si-ntinzand sub zid armata, So the army took position -
Iata-l ciolovecul gata. Quite a chelovek addition.
Si bum-bum apoi cu tunul, Boom and bang went guns all day,
Fire-ar ei de ras, poleci! Shame on them, those Poles out there!
Mai pe vine sa te pleci, Carlanas13, do walk with care!
Carlanas! Si da ceaunul And you, Berheci14, move away
Mai departe, tu, Berheci, Our kettle – there's no spare
Ca ni-l sparg cu-mpuscatura And they'll break it with their fire.
Mai Spancioc, mai tine-ti gura. Yo, Spancioc, shut up your ire.
Dar plaiesii din cetate But the soldiers in the castle
Raspundeau vartos si ei: Gave as good as they had gotten.
Comandantul Onofrei, Onofrei, all clad in cotton,
Cel cu pletele-ncurcate, With his hair tied in a tassle
Si cu straiu-ncins cu tei, And his belt a twig all rotten
Dand adanc zavorul portii, Blocked the gate with all he had
Se zbatea ca-n ceasul mortii. And he thrashed about like mad.
Si-au batut o saptamana For a week the Poles kept banging
Lesii-n zid; dar zidul, prost, At the walls; but walls were silly
Sta pe loc, pe cum a fost. And they didn't move – not really.
Insusi riga, intr-o mana In his armour clad and clanging
C-un pistol, din adapost, The King took his gun out charging
Da pe Stefan la toti dracii At the trees that were all level
Si-mpusca la rand copacii. As he cursed King Stefan – devil!
Deci, vazand ca nici nu-l lasa Seeing that there was no chance
Sa se duca-n treaba lui, To just leave and go away
Si nici pomeneala nu-i Or some food to get, let's say
De-a-l pofti la ei la masa, In the castle's own expanse,
Si flamand vai, ce mai spui King Sobieski hoped to sway
O lua mai pe departe, The defenders with his writing
Pe genunchi scriind o carte. As he had enough of fighting.
Hai si descuieti odata! “Please open that gate already
Si tovarasi sa va fim. And we'll be your friends all true.
Mandru cantec ce mai stim, We sang all the songs we knew
Mars francez, fara de plata. Even French ones15 and the heady.
Nu vi-e mila ca pierim? Won't you give us just some stew?
Poate-o ploaie sa ne-apuce We would leave but it might rain
Nu stim drumul, ca ne-am duce. And we might just walk in vain.”
Dupa ce-au citit pitacul, After reading such a letter
Onofrei iesi pe zid: Onofrei climbed on the wall:
Mai, poleci, eu va deschid, Poles, I'll open, but no brawl
Dar sa nu va puie dracul In my fortress and you'd better
Sa mintiti, ca va ucid! Keep your word or you'll all bawl.
Iar de marsuri mi-e cam scarba, As for French songs, I've no mood -
Trageti-mi mai bine-o sarba! Play some sarbas16, if you would.
Iata poarta se descuie. Look, they opened now the gate.
Lesii,-n vale, pe sub plopi, Poles just stare in disbelief.
Se crucesc, se cred miopi Onofrei comes first. Their chief
Ce vad ei? Din cetatuie Followed is by less than eight
Doi cu doi, vro zece schiopi, Funny looking men – good grief!
Onofrei ridica tonul: Onofrei shouts out of tune:
Un doi, un! Si stati, plutonul! “Right, left, right! At ease, platoon!”
Cu sprancenele-ncruntate Eyebrows knitting, rex17 is heartless:
Striga rex: Sto pojo boi? “Sto pojo boi?” asks him. And then counts to three:
Cine dracul sunteti voi? “Who the devil might you be?”
Noi? Plaiesii din cetate. “Us? Defenders from the fortress.
Zece-am fost, pierira doi. Ten we were, but as you see
Rex facu o mutra lunga, We are eight now.” Rex looked so gloom
De credeai ca vrea sa-mpunga. You'd have thought he found his doom.
Pentru voi a fost galceava? “Where's the nobles? Was it you to quarrel so?”
Dar boierii? Ce gandesti! “They're in Tirchilesti18, quite rightly.”
Noi sa stim? Prin Tirchilesti. Answered someone very brightly.
Domnul unde-i? E-n Suceava. “And the King?” “To Suceava19 he would go.”
Dar poporul? La Plaiesti. “And the people?” “At Plaiesti20, most likely.”
Drace, asta-i de poveste! “Darn, this story's weird and dour.
N-ati ascuns prin turn neveste? Are your wives all in the tower?”
Noi? Da ce, ni-e mintea slaba? “Ours? Do we seem that foolish?
Noi suntem crestini curati: We're all Christians – we don't mingle:
Astia nu sunt insurati, Those men here are all single.
Eu de zece ani n-am baba, My old hag is dead and ghoulish.
Voi dupa femei umblati? If it's maidens with a dimple
Zbarlea are-n Husi, saracul, You've been looking for, that's sad -
Dar urata, goala-dracul! Zbarlea's wife has long gone mad21.”
Dar comori ascunse-n oala “How about your treasures, plenty?
Si-ngropate! Oale, spui? Hid in old pots, buried deep.”
Le-am lasat sa faca pui. “Old pots you can have for cheap:
Una-i stirba, si-alta goala; One is crooked, the other empty.
Nici o pricopseala nu-i! There's is nothing they would keep.
De le vrei plocon ori prada If you want them for your glory,
Ia fugi, Zbarleo, si le ada! Zbarlea'll bring them, there's no worry.”
Rex atunci: Va tai gramada! Rex then shouted: “I will kill you.”
Dar a stat cu mana-n sus But his hand froze in mid-act
Caci aminte si-a adus For there was a niggling fact:
Ca-i e teaca fara spada: His sword was now with a Jew
In Liow zalog si-a pus In Lviv, as guarantee - an artifact
Spada cea cu steme duble Given in those times of troubles
Pentru-un pol si doua ruble! For a coin and some two roubles.
Dand din maini ca cel ce-alunga So he waved his hands instead
Ganduri rele: Eu sunt bun. As to perish such ill thought:
Apropo, ce-am vrut sa spun? “I am kind. You bravely fought.
Onofrei, te vad cu punga, By the way, Onofrei you said you had
Da-mi o mana de tutun. Some tobacco that you brought.
N-am fumat de-o saptamana, It's been weeks I last could smoke
Pune-l ici, te rog, in mana. Give me some, be a good bloke.”
Si-aprinzand chibritu-n pripa, As a hurried match he lit,
Multumit privea la fum. The king soon was sat and sizing
Onofrei, sa-mi spui acum, Bluish smoke as it was rising.
Si-apasa cu unghia-n pipa, He then asked, quite calmed a bit:
Cum mi-ai stat tu mie-n drum? “Onofrei, that's straight surprising
Nu stiai tu de-a mea faima How you in my way just stayed.
Ca sa stai nauc de spaima? Weren't you at least – afraid?”
Dar glumesc asa! ma iarta, “I'm just joking – please forgive me.
Esti erou, s-a hotarat, You're a hero, that's decided.
Desi porti pe dupa gat Though I see hanging lopsided
Traista hai, si nu-i desearta? That bag there by your knee.
O vazui numaidecat I think I am not misguided
Ai intr-insa plumbi, de toate. If I think there's food to spread -
Branza, cas si paine poate? Hard and soft cheese, maybe bread?”
Branza nu, dar am pogace “Just pogace22, cheese there's none.
Si-usturoi, maria-ta. There's some garlic though, my lord.”
Usturoi! Si-l poti manca? “Garlic! How'd you eat it by the horde?23
Dar la urma, cui i place You must like it, that's how's done.
Mon Dieu! Nu te supara: Mon Dieu! Still, as we put away the sword:
Tot facuram noi doi pacea: Would you mind if I just tried
Ia sa vad, cum e pogacea? That pogacea, even dried?”
Si apucand cu maini grabite, As he got his hands on food
Rupt de foame ca un lup, Rex could wait indeed no longer
Rupe rex, cu totii rup, As his hunger was quite stronger
Onofrei al meu, iubite, Than a wolf's24. He ate and chewed
Vin la neica sa te pup! Calling Onofrei from yonder:
Si-l pupa viteazul riga “Let me kiss you, my brave, dear” -
Si-ndopa la mamaliga. And he kissed him with great cheer.
Ce-a mai fost putin ne pasa. What was next we don't quite care for.
Au plecat polonii-n sus, The Poles left and went uphill
Iar plaiesii-n jos s-au dus While the others went downhill
La Neculcea drept acasa, To Neculcea's25 open store
Iar acesta-n carti i-a pus. Where he wrote this with his quill
Si din Dorna pana-n Tulcea, So from Dorna down to Tulcea26
Toti citesc ce-a scris Neculcea. All since read what wrote Neculcea.

  1. "Sobieski si romanii" by Costache Negruzzi. 

  2. Romanian teacher, translator and quite well-known poet (1866-1918).  

  3. In text: "bucoavna" - an old word meaning initially the very first letter books printed for Romanian language: those were essentially church books using the Cyrillic alphabet. 

  4. In chronicles, no less! 

  5. Starting every other sentence with "so" is one of the most common mistakes made by native speakers of Romanian as well as one of the main pet-hates of teachers of Romanian language all around the country. 

  6. In fact "chiselita" being both a sort of vegetarian broth as well as, more generically speaking, any mixture/porridge of no value whatsoever. 

  7. Rat. 

  8. Iron-cast kettle usually simply suspended above some open-fire for most cooking needs. 

  9. Gadfly. 

  10. John III Sobieski, King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania. 

  11. Stephen the Great of Moldavia, who ruled between 1457-1504. 

  12. Obviously, not Latin at all, but a Slavic language. Meaning "good man". 

  13. Diminutive of carlan, which means little lamb/kid that was weaned. 

  14. While close to "Berbeci" which would mean rams, I'm not so sure this is the intended meaning. Berheci is also a small river in Moldova. 

  15. French marches, more precisely. 

  16. Traditional Romanian group-dance with a rather rapid tempo. 

  17. While in Latin Rex means king, all around Romania Rex is a very common name for a dog. 

  18. Main yob neighbourhood of Bucharest in the 19th century. 

  19. Capital of Moldavia between 1388-1565 

  20. Possibly Ploiesti, a town 60km from Bucharest. Or Plaiesti, a village in Transylvannia. 

  21. Literally she's ugly as the naked devil. 

  22. Corn-flour pie baked in the oven or -more likely when not made in a home - directly in the ashes. 

  23. Literally: can you eat THAT? 

  24. That'd be the equivalent of "he could eat a horse". But since he was rex, so possibly a dog-relation of the wolf, the original Romanian idiom goes much better. 

  25. Ion Neculce, 1672-~1744, Moldavian army commander, statesman and writer of two well-known chronicles. 

  26. Dorna being in the North-West of Moldavia and Tulcea in the South-East, this means basically in all Moldavia. 

June 13, 2016

Trei copaci

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 8:19 p.m.

2016_06_13_tree_pencil_long_side  Trei copaci dadeau din craci. Pardon, din ramuri zic, pentru ca erau copaci bine-crescuti (fiind ei facuti de mine), ba chiar inalti, precum se vede. 2016_06_13_tree_pencil_long_side1

Cei trei copaci erau cam frati, cu totii intr-o seara desenati (sau mazgaliti, cum preferati). Aveau frunzis ca de tufis si trunchiul la baza mai gros sa le fie cu folos.

Doi dintre ei erau mai puternic trasati ori in tot cazul formati, mai bine infipti in hartie, chit ca aveau forma de maciulie. Al treilea copac avea forma de drac, dar era el mai sters, aruncat pe hartie din mers. Si tacea el chitic, nevrand sa zica nimic.

2016_06_13_tree_airbrush_side

Concluzia: cu trei copaci nu se face mana la desen, clar.

January 8, 2016

Copilul si pasaroii

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 11:30 p.m.

Pe tarmul rosiatic, patru pasaroi topaiau si chiraiau a caragata. Chiu-chiu, crau-crau, crau-chiu, chicrau si zbarr de pene fulguind in aer. La mica distanta, marea radea de ei cu spume si tresalta toata ritmic inspre tarm.

Din inaltul unei stanci, copilul facu palma ochean de imprumut si spiona galagia de sub el. Privi apoi in larg si iar la chir-chir-crau-zbarr. Pana la urma renunta la privit si incepu sa coboare cu salturi ascutite si precise ca de capra salbatica.

Pe tarmul rosiatic, patru pasaroi, un copil si o nuia lunga de mesteacan topaiau si chiraiau a caragata. Sfarrrr se invartea nuiaua si zbarrr saltau fulgii. Craaaau se jeleau pasaroii dand bezmetici din ciocurile lungi printre care se invartea baiatul ca sfarleaza. Trosc-clanc, clanc-trosc, rasuna nuiaua, cand infundat ca si cand ai da in perne, cand a fluier gol din os de zburatoare. Intr-un tarziu, se auzi fal-fal de aripi mari deschise anevoie si luptand spre inaltimi.

Jos, pe tarmul rosiatic, un baiat facuse mana streasina la ochi si privea curios o bila mata de culoarea nisipului. Intinse apoi mana sa o ridice, iar bila se rostogoli o idee mai departe, cu un simplu zurrr pe nisipul abraziv. Pfiuuu, fluiera copilul si se intinse iar sa o ridice. Si zurr si pfiuu si pfi-urrr or zuuuupfiu, se alergara de-a lungul plajei cat o palma de urias. Marea obosi sa rada si se molcomi a somn de dupa-amiaza.

Undeva la marginea plajei, copilul si bila obosisera si nu mai zurr-pfiau. Doar se priveau reciproc si ascultau linistea. Intr-un tarziu, baiatul inchise ochii si privi catre sine, iar la putin timp dupa, bila se deschise singura cu un parait usor, ca de ou copt la soare. Din ea iesi un copil mic cat trei fire de nisip si patru de margaritare, care se cuibari cald si strans langa cel mare. Atat de strans, incat in curand nici nu se mai vedea nicicum.

Pe tarmul rosiatic, un copil zambi atat de neasteptat in somn incat se facu lumina pe sub nori iar marea se fastaci atat de tare incat lua nisipul la cernut fir cu fir sa para ocupata.

Doar pasaroii se roteau cu aripi negre ca norii si ciocuri ascutite si lungi ca durerea, cautand motiv de caragata.

1360961963m117o

(Imagine preluata de pe Morguefile.)

January 3, 2016

Constantin (povestea Mosului)

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 9:18 p.m.

Nu stiu cum se face anume ca Mosul povesteste in asa fel de-mi rasar mereu in minte inca mai clar fatetele nespuse (ori macar de mine presupuse) ale povestilor lui. Si pentru claritatea de-mi e mie insami necesara, uneori n-am incotro si incerc deci sa pun lumina cumva pe fata asta nevazuta a povestilor lui. De-mi iese ori nu ori cat si in ce fel, n-as sti sa spun, dar cert e ca imi trebuie sa le scriu din ceva motiv. Asa ca le scriu, iata:

Se mutase intr-o seara de miercuri, tarziu in noapte, pentru ca doar atunci avea liber asa in scurt omul cu camionul. Oricum nu conta prea tare ziua ori ceasul - important era ca venise, iata, cu toate cele cateva piese de mobilier si nimicuri adunate la intamplare si puse in cutii de carton inchise atent cu banda adeziva gri. Omul le daduse jos din camion cu oarecare grija, dar plecase apoi in noapte grabit si fara intrebari. Ramasa singura printre cutii in scuarul dintre blocuri, avusese pentru cateva minute senzatia bizara ca e ea insasi venita tot asa intr-o cutie de carton poate doar un pic mai mare insa ermetic si definitiv sigilata cu o banda adeziva lata cat trupul si gri ca betoanele din jur. Dar oricum nu conta - isi spusese ea inca o data - important era ca venise. Si urcase apoi totul in apartamentul de la 4, unde-si dormise primul somn adanc si fara vise.

Venise sa uite, sa puna distanta, sa se trateze chiar cu o doza de cotidian lipsit de importanta. In apartamentul standard din blocul anonim si cu totul banal, cauta tihna ori chiar plictisul obisnuitului si al monotonului. N-o deranjau deloc cei 100 de ochi ai vecinilor care o urmareau in fiecare zi cu o curiozitate neostoita. Ba chiar ii dadeau o anumita pace prin monotonia si previzibilul concluziilor pe care le auzea soptite ori le simtea in cautaturile lor - mai piezise ale babelor, mai invidioase si suspicioase ale femeilor, mai pofticioase ale barbatilor. Si uneori reusea sa uite, sa se simta bizar de acasa printre blocurile acelea identice, printre judecatile acelea atat de cunoscute chiar inainte sa fie formulate. Pana si apelativul de i-l dadusera - Printesa - fusese previzibil si facil ca un joc de copii cu reguli simple si liniare: identificare precisa a diferentei si totodata impunsatura si luat peste picior intr-un amestec caracteristic de recunoastere si invidie. Dar cu toate astea era obisnuita si le luase deja in calcul, inca dinainte de a veni. Asa ca isi intrase in rol fara efort, imbracata mereu impecabil, din varful pantofilor cu toc inalt pana in crestetul aranjat cu flori de matase ori palariute mici prinse cu ace cu perla in capat.

Cateva luni mai tarziu, s-a surprins razand dintr-o data, asa cum n-o mai facuse de multa vreme - de atat de multa vreme incat intai nu-si recunoscuse sunetul propriului raset. Si apoi rasese inca si mai tare de sine insasi - un ras ca o descarcare electrica oferita de impamantarea aceea atat de reusita in concretul vietii in cutii de beton sigilate cu benzi largi de termopan odata albe, acum aproape gri si ele, de la praful orasului.

In ziua aceea cand rasese prima data, ceva se schimbase. Printre privirile pe care le simtea plimbandu-i-se pe trup de fiecare data cand era in apropierea blocului, remarcase dintr-o data una aparte, staruitoare si neobisnuita - protectoare mai degraba decat doritoare a-si lasa urma in carnea ei. Nu i-a fost greu sa-l identifice desigur pe barbatul singur care-i zambea -probabil fara sa-si dea seama- de dupa perdele in fiecare dimineata si seara nesmintit. Intre locatarii blocului, parea cumva nelalocul lui printr-o anume retinere si eleganta a gesturilor de care nici nu parea constient. Si nelinistea incepu iar sa o apese, ca o pala de aer rece in plin miez de vara.

Cateva zile mai tarziu, el o aborda oferindu-se pur si simplu sa-i duca sacosa de cumparaturi, dar inclinandu-se totodata cu o mana la piept intr-un gest atat de incongruent cu gropile din alee si mirosul de varza fiarta de la parterul blocului incat se trezise raspunzandu-i reflex “Desigur domnisorule!” Isi muscase apoi limba pana la sange ca sa fie sigura ca stie unde este, ca nu mai zice nimic atat de negandit. Si abia apoi remarcase cu mirare ca el nu rasese, nici nu raspunsese nimic anume ci doar luase sacosa si o urmase firesc si linistit de parca exact replica aceea o si asteptase, de parca ar fi fost cu totul potrivita si obisnuita. Tacerea si firescul neafectat al miscarilor lui i-au calmat nelinistea aceea ce se pornise in ziua cand rasese.

A aflat apoi ca-l cheama Constantin si ca sta singur in apartamentul la doua etaje sub al ei. Cu uimire crescanda, a aflat apoi din multele lor conversatii ca era in fapt singur chiar dincolo de cei patru pereti ai apartamentului. Nu mai avea nici un fel de rude, iar prieteni avea putini si mai mult de circumstanta, dupa cum spusese linistit chiar el, ca pe o simpla constatare lipsita de importanta. Singur si in preocuparile pe care nu le impartea cu nimeni, singur in curiozitatea cu care cerceta cerul noptii, studia stelele si citea despre Metrica Alcubierre si Tubul Krasnikov. Asadar foarte singur ori mai degraba singular dupa cum i-a spus ea odata in soapta, cand uitase iar de toate in caldura si familiarul aproprierii lui. Iar gandul ei a adaugat atunci nerostit “ca mine” si dupa aceea n-a mai fost mult pana cand si-au dezvelit sufletul intreg unul altuia.

In apropierea lui, a uitat -ori mai bine zis a renuntat- sa mai tina seama timpului care-si marca secunda cu secunda trecerea in osul ei. In acea renuntare mai degraba decat in concretul ori banalul zilelor din blocul de beton, a gasit tihna pentru care venise si a fost din nou ea insasi, cu neostoita curiozitate care o purta peste tot si rasete care-o prindeau in valuri si-o lasau aproape ostenita si fara de suflare. Uneori insa si mai ales cand ramanea singura seara in apartamentul de la 4, nici chiar oboseala fericirii nu era suficienta sa o adoarma degraba. Si atunci auzea iar tic-tacul timpului in maduva ei, iar frica si tristetea o muscau iar cu foamea celor nemancati de zile intregi, incat plangea in hohote si-n strigate de neputinta.

Intr-una din serile cand plangea asa, Constantin a venit la ea si a rugat-o sa-l lase sa o ajute. “Cum pot sa te ajut sa te intorci?” a intrebat el si surpriza a oprit-o din plans. “Sa ma intorc? Unde?” a intrebat ea cu ochii rotunzi de uimire iar el a zis ca pe un dat firesc “Inapoi la ai tai.” Ea atunci a ras si l-a sarutat lung si cu nesat pe gura si si-a incuiat a uitare gandurile toate intr-un sipet lung cat bratul lui cel drept care o sustinea din spate, ingust cat mana lui cea stanga care-o mangaia.

Si totusi, doar cativa ani mai tarziu, n-a mai avut incotro. Timpul insusi ticaia acum a graba si a inevitabil. Dupa acesti ani nesperati, s-ar fi dus pana la urma la intalnire linistita si fara frica, de n-ar fi fost sipetelul acela de ganduri pe care acum nu-l mai putea tine inchis nicicum: ce se va face Constantin si cum va reactiona anume? Cum sa-l lase iar nu doar singur si nici macar singular ci de-a dreptul singuratic de data asta in fata schimbarii ei neasteptate, neintelese si imposibil de explicat in fapt dincolo de procese chimice reci si fara inteles.

Asa ca a luat in schimb singura hotarare posibila, care-i dadea macar lui sansa unei continuari. Ca ultim cadou pentru sine insasi, si-a lasat frica sa zburde libera cand s-a dus la el si i-a spus doar ca trebuie sa plece. Iar daca l-a vazut luminat de zambetul sperantei, a reusit sa zambeasca si ea un pic in oglinda si i-a cerut doar sa o insoteasca pana sus pe deal. Apoi si-a luat ramas bun cat mai repede, cat mai adanc si s-a dus tot mai sus. Iar el a privit intai luminile aparute de niciunde, a privit de la distanta si a plecat apoi sa planga tot restul noptii. Dimineata a vrut sa spuna lumii intregi adevarul despre plecarea Printesei, dar spre surpriza lui, lumea avea deja propriul ei adevar. “Ai auzit ca a disparut Printesa? Cum a sosit, asa a plecat, invelita in noapte si in mister” susoteau unii. “Ai auzit ca a murit saraca? Offf, Doamneee, ce nenorocire!” se vaicareau altii.

Constantin i-a linistit pe toti si le-a povestit in amanunt cum a plecat Printesa la ai ei in stele, purtata prin Tubul Krasnikov si la adapostul tehnicii bazate pe Metrica Alcubierre. Ei doar au clatinat din cap si l-au luat in brate ori mangaiat pe spate ca pe un copil speriat. Apoi i-au aratat sicriul ca o cutie mare si lunga, sigilata cu banda lata si neagra a coroanelor de flori. El a ras de atata straduinta si atentie la detaliu - sicriu inchis (cum altfel, de vreme ce ea nu-i acolo?) ba chiar si coroane de flori! Si daca a vazut ca ei insista cu ale lor si nu-l aud nicicum, s-a intors Consantin linistit in apartamentul sau si a continuat pur si simplu sa citeasca din cartile sale, sa cerceteze cerul noptii si stelele din departare, sa studieze curios peste masura tot ce s-a scris ori spus despre Tubul Krasnikov si Metrica Alcubierre…

December 14, 2015

Visul orasului fantastic

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 10:16 p.m.

In penumbra camerei de la mansarda, avea uneori un vis despre orasul acela fantastic cu turle inalte pana la cer si oameni surazatori ca lumina. Trecea printre ei minunandu-se si-si simtea gura cum se destinde a suras din cel mai sincer- cel pe care nici nu-l simti cand ti s-a strecurat pe buze.

Insa in fiecare dimineata negresit el inchidea usa iesind in orasul pictat salbatic, cu turnuri greoaie abia desprinzandu-se din pamant si cu clipit agresiv din neoane. Isi facea drum zambind mai degraba timid printre lumea care curgea valuri-valuri de graba posomorata. Uneori, o voce mica il oprea o clipa:

-Nene, ia unul, nene, ia unul.

Nedumerit, se uita dupa voce si ca un facut se uita mereu prea sus. Abia un scuturat serios de poala hainei ii aducea privirea suficient de jos, ochi in ochi cu un pici murdar si alunecos, mustind de viata pe sub jeg:

- Nene, iei unul? Iei unul, nene?

Si lua unul, mereu unul, indiferent ce era, un buchet de ghiocei primavara, un kilogram de cirese vara, un pahar de mure spre toamna, un pumn de ghebe la inceput de iarna. Platea unul, il lua cu sine si simtea totusi cum i se strecoara pe buze intai sfios si apoi tot mai hotarat un suras din cel mai sincer si din cel mai puternic, asa ca viata aceea pe sub jegul neoanelor din orasul pictat salbatic si abia desprins din tina acum nici 50 de ani ori poate 100 - o viata de om, hai doua, nu mai mult.

Nu visa niciodata nimic dupa un pahar de mure, nici dupa ghebe. Nu visa - decat pe stomacul gol, uneori, dimineata devreme.

October 31, 2015

Piticul Zgribulici

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 9:33 p.m.

Am cam....1001 pitici, aproximativ 990 mai mari si poate 11 mai mici. Problema cu cei mari insa-i ca-s toti iviti ori crescuti de cei mici. Si printre atatia pitici nici nu stiu de mai e loc pe aici si sa fiu mai arici, cum sunt uneori la orele mici.

Primul din cei 11 pitici are nasul cam mare si ochii prea mici si imi place sa-l supar, sa-i zic Zgribulici. Poarta-n spinare o suba cat nasu-i de mare si-n crestet o cusma tare inalta, cam cat o poarta. Si-ar sta Zgribulici doar in apa incinsa de soare, pe nisip aromind a curmale. Ar mai sta Zgribulici si pe soba, incolacit rotund ca o toba ori citind poate-o carte intins pe o parte. Dar biet Zgribulici sta cu mine aici unde-i umed si frig, nici tu soare, curmale ori soba mocninda ori cald sa coboare aroma de fructe uscate din tinda.

Si rabda piticul si umezeala si frigul si lipsa de soare ori de curmale. Rabda o zi si rabda si doua ori poate chiar fix 99. Dar intr-o zi odata pufneste din nasu-i cat un cuvant spus in nemteste. Isi scoate si suba si cusma din cap, sare pe ele si-o porneste la trap.

- Zgribulici, un' te duci?

- Ma duc la caldura, langa soba si nuci! Ma duc sa rad la zapada cea alba cum sta ea afara si nu-mi ajunge in barba. Ma duc sa si plang de prea bine - de binele acela ce n-a fost pentru mine. Ma duc sa si rad ca mai pot inca sa-mi fac bine mai bun chiar, cum imi este pe plac...

file000205213077

(Imaginea e preluata de pe Morguefile.)

August 26, 2015

Relativ Iepure si Absolut Ridicol

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 11:43 p.m.

Ca o minge aruncata fara tinta, barbatul ricosa cu pasi nesiguri de la o usa la alta in coridorul al carui capat se pierdea in intuneric. Intr-un final, in fata unei usi de-un verde aprins si cu stelute aurii, ridica mana si apasa pe clanta cu atata forta incat ramase cu ea in mana in vreme ce usa aluneca silentios spre interior. Barbatul nici nu privi in interior, ci scutura clanta din mana si o rupse la fuga in zig-zag. Pasii lasau urme temporare pe mocheta moale si pufoasa a holului, dar el nu baga de seama, ori nu-i pasa. Intr-un final, barbatul-minge se opri iar, in fata unei usi albastre de data asta: albastru-cobalt, cu chenar auriu si maner bombat.

- Ridicol! Zise barbatul tare, poate chiar prea tare si ridica mana spre manerul usii, dar se opri la un milimetru deasupra ei, ezitand, ascultand ecoul.

Sunetul vocii lui ricosa un timp scurt din usa in usa, iar apoi disparu brusc, inghitit probabil de mocheta moale si pufoasa ca o pisica satisfacuta. Barbatul privi firele lungi si matasoase de pe podea si se incrunta:

- Ridicol.

De data asta mormaise cuvantul insa si poate de aceea nu se auzi nici un ecou. Barbatul isi lasa mana peste manerul bombat al usii albastru-cobalt si roti incetisor. Un cantec ca de cutie muzicala se auzi de undeva din interior si usa se deschise lin, iar barbatul privi inauntru si casca gura inainte sa-si dea seama exact ce spune:

- Absolut ridicol!

- Incantat, domnule Ridicol! Eu sunt Relativ Iepure, ii raspunse fara sa clipeasca iepurele urias si alb de pe canapeaua albastru-cobalt ca si usa.

In laba stanga, iepurele tinea o farfurioara de cobalt cu chenar auriu, iar in dreapta apucase gratios o ceasca de un alb imaculat. Dupa cateva secunde de liniste desavarsita, iepurele zambi si puse cu miscari masurate intai ceasca pe farfurioara si apoi farfurioara cu ceasca cu tot pe o masuta. Apoi se ridica si veni cu o laba intinsa si pasi curiosi, usor saltati pe cele doua picioare din spate. Ii stranse mana si o tinu asa zambind cald si aproape protector.

- Domnule Ridicol, poftiti, poftiti, nu va formalizati, veniti si luati loc, va servesc cu un ceai sau o cafea poate?

- Mhmmmmhmf. Mhmffff, zise barbatul urmand fara sa vrea iepurele spre canapea. Intr-un final, simtind realitatea de necontestat a canapelei, reusi totusi sa vorbeasca din nou:

- Cum asa Relativ Iepure?

- Gasiti ca nu mi se potriveste? Si iepurele – ori Relativ Iepure mai bine zis – isi apleca usor capul spre stanga privindu-l pe sub gene fix cum facea nevasta lui cand il intreba cum ii sta in rochia cea noua care nu se stie cum ajunsese totusi din magazin in sifonierul ei.

- Bbba da, sigur ca se potriveste, zise el pana sa isi dea seama, fix asa cum zicea intotdeauna.

- Ahhh, atunci e bine, m-ati linistit. Pentru o secunda ma speriasem de-a binelea. Vedeti, sunt si uituc uneori, uit unde-am pus pantofii, unde-am pus tigara, ori ceaiul ori brelocul ori cheia de la usa. Dar chiar sa-mi uit si numele, inca nu mi s-a intamplat si mi-era, stiti, pentru o clipa mi-era pur si simplu ca... am uitat, ba inca am uitat si c-am uitat, daca ma intelegeti. Si apoi ar fi fost chiar inadmisibil, adica sunt sigur ca intelegeti, v-ati fi suparat ingrozitor, un om atat de sigur ca dumneavoastra – nu, nu, nu negati, trebuie multa siguranta ca sa va numiti Absolut Ridicol, un nume atat de perfect, vi se potriveste de minune, de mi-nu-ne – dar nu, in nici un caz n-ati mai fi stat de vorba cu unul ca mine care-si uita si numele. Ah, dar intr-adevar, si uitam domnule Ridicol – ori imi permiteti poate dupa un ceai ori o cafea sa indraznesc – imi dati voie? Cu zahar? Nu? Sigur? Bine, poftiti – asadar sa indraznesc ziceam sa va spun pe nume, sa va spun adica Absolut? Nici nu stiti ce mare placere mi-ati face, ce onoare intr-adevar, nu doar placere ci onoare sa va pot spune domnule Ridicol chiar Absolut asa, direct, din prima, imediat practic, in nici trei minute – stati, o secunda, stati sa scot ceasul de aici din vesta, uitati, vedeti, 2 minute si 45 de secunde – asadar sa va pot spune nu doar formal Absolut Ridicol ci Absolut in fix 2 minute si 45 de secunde de cand ati intrat pe usa...

Cu o miscare brusca ce facu valuri in canapea si clatina in consecinta periculos ceasca din laba iepurelui, barbatul sari in picioare si fugi spre usa ca scapat din arc, ca fugarit de soacra-sa cu ceai de pelin, ca alergat de creditori, ca inghesuit din nou de gasca aceea de golani intr-o fundatura. Inchise usa in urma sa cu asa zgomot incat se sperie si mai tare si se propti in ea sa fie sigur ca-i inchisa, iar manerul rotund al usii ii intra in spinare ca un sfredel ascutit.

Se trezi urland de durere. Langa el, sotia se intoarse somnoroasa si usor ingrijorata:

- Iar ai visat urat?

Iar el mormai a raspuns, frecandu-si junghiul din spinare:

- Nu, nu urat. Doar... ridicol. Absolut ridicol.

Si se culca la loc. Surprinsa de raspuns, sotia se ridica sa-l priveasca. Apoi isi puse capotul alb cu marginea din blanita de iepure si se duse in fotoliul generos din capatul camerei, de unde-l privi o vreme pe sub gene in vreme ce-si bea ceaiul tinandu-l gratios in cescuta fina de-un albastru intens cu chenar auriu. Motanul imens si pufos, de Angora, veni in tacere si i se urca in poala torcand de acolo silentios si satisfacut, absorbind in torsul lui zgomotele si nelinistea noptii.

Undeva, intr-un culoar al carui capat se pierdea in intuneric, un barbat alerga cu pasi nesiguri si-n zig-zag de la o usa la alta, ca o minge trimisa fara tinta...

file000855094214

(Imaginea e preluata de pe Morguefile. Textul e oarecum inspirat de cel al Mosului. )

May 16, 2015

Patratul dromaderelor

Filed under: Word Therapy — Diana Coman @ 8:19 p.m.

IMG_1185

Un patrat se vedea camila cu patru cocoase pleostite si o a cincea cocoasa semeata, umflata si tare, mustind de apa. A cincea cocoasa era fix la mijloc, la intersectia diagonalelor patratului, intre celelalte patru cocoase cat patru laturi egale, paralele, perpendiculare si co-pleostite in acelasi plan. Tintuit astfel sub aceasta insuportabila a cincea cocoasa, patratul se tot smucea si se rotea fara tinta anume, ratacit in albul monoton si aparent infinit care se intindea in toate directiile pana la linia orizontului.

Undeva departe, prin intinderea aurie si monotona a desertului, o camila se simtea patrat si mergea in consecinta cumva dezarticulat si straniu, infigandu-si unghiile precum colturi ascutite in nisipul fin si indiferent. Ba chiar de atata mers patrat - ori poate de atata simtire divortata de realitatea imediata - forma camilei insesi incepuse in fapt sa mimeze unghiurile drepte si regularitatea formei geometrice: gatul se pliase cumva in sine reducand capul la inaltimea maxima a cocoaselor, iar acestea din urma se umflasera si sumetisera aliniat si compact ca sa umple spatiul si sa formeze in varf latura superioara perfect paralela pamantului. Ca un al cincilea picior, coada camilei se alipise celorlalte in mersul lor bizar dictat de forma. Si-n tot desertul monoton dar totusi neregulat, o camila patrata avansa ca o suma bizara de reguli arbitrare, carandu-si paralelismul si unghiurile de 90 de grade prin nisipul fin si indiferent.

Pe o foaie de hartie alb-aurie si monotona ca desertul insusi, patratul dromader precum si dromaderul la patrat se oprisera: de-o parte o forma neclara cu surplus de cocoase, istovita, resemnata si tintuita sub povara apei, iar de partea cealalta o forma clara cu minus de sens, istovita, resemnata si tintuita sub povara absurdului.

Cred ca totusi dromaderelor nu le prieste matematica.

Older Posts »

Theme and content by Diana Coman