http://scrapsofmara.wordpress.com

Si va dura ceva pana omul se va obisnui cu libertatea sa proaspat gasita.
Asta-i profetia.


*pic via http://kayceeus.deviantart.com/art/Moving-Out-26863975

The green parrots of Barcelona.

it strikes me as peculiar how I found it more natural to see them in a cage than flying around freely, as they should. Felt like a two year old, mouth open in amazement, arms outstreched, fingers pointing at the green figures zooming through the branches.

I quite liked the green parrots of Barcelona, their freedom so startling that I pondered about my own, their presence midair so unexpected that I thought maybe, just maybe, someone set them free just to see my reaction, like you let out a pair of white doves to send signs from the gods to some puny, naïve mortals.

somewhere in the open sea a pirate has a cold shoulder, and feels deprived of his echo, while in a small apartment in Rome, near the Vatican, a Philipine boy of five is crying in front of his wide open, empty cage, clutching the bag of crackers and mumbling a silly name he gave one Christmas morning to his prisoner-gift.

and nobody seems as amazed as I am, to hear them chirp, or crow, or whatever it is they call the sound green parrots make.

The pigeons are lying chest down in the sand, the ducks fighting with the seagulls in the fountain for the remains of some bread crumbs.

No intruder spotted, camouflage perfect in the trees above.

and I wish I was one myself.

green with envy at their green freedom, green with envy at their loneliness, or joint loneliness.

to be alone and together and not feel insane, to be uncomplicated in a complicated world of cages…

I wish to be.
with and without, in or out, locked or set loose in this world.
I´ll miss my youth just as much as I miss the green parrots of Barcelona.

*pic via http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3182/2808825715_1a54a0547b.jpg

Train rides..

Sometimes I wonder what it is that makes long walks so empowering. Why I feel taller with every footstep and why I start walking fast, even the times when I have to get to precise targets.

Maybe it’s just the freedom of being able to carry your body to various places.

Perhaps it’s the sun that occasionally shines on the top of your head, heating your sadness until it evaporates, cares and all.

But trains are different. They make you feel dependent, make you feel tied to time, trapped until the end of the journey comes. Of course you could get off at any station...but damn it, you already paid for the ticket!

They turn the heating up when you need it the least. This way it attacks your entire body and your questions and never solved problems turn into sweat and become even more tangible. You don’t need to touch them, they touch you, they get trapped into your clothes and then, if the wind blows, they cut through your open pores and make them tremble.

I guess I must have forgotten how to enjoy these. I guess there is a million things I could do while I'm in this cell. However, we usually need to postpone what we have to do, what we already wrote on the lists. Why? Well, to break our own rules and feel like the rebels our age dictates we should be. To feel free, to make our world and to break it.

When it’s dark outside and all you see are feeble shimmering lights that die in the speed and remain in your retina’s nostalgic memory...you feel as if you’re going in circles.

And tomorrow? Ah, the day that never comes, that we talk so much about and plan and rewrite. Ah, the day for which we’ve been preparing our whole lives only to find out (a tad disappointed) that it just passed us while we weren’t looking (or living?).

Tomorrow the list continues, it cuts itself, cuts the tiny, defenseless chores from its white pallor until we need to tattoo it again.

Tomorrow the train pulls to a halt and we get off, dried up sweat and all, our self and our luggage hand in hand.

*pic via http://madscroach.deviantart.com/art/train-ride-56091387

In fiecare an sarbatorile devin mai diluate. Pentru mine, nu zic ca pentru noi toti.
Asa se vede de la fereastra vietii mele: Craciunul isi pierde din colinde, colindele isi pierd din farmencul naiv, timpul omoara cu viteza sa tot ce era special in fiecare mica sarbatoare.

ieri a fost Ziua mamei...sau ziua tuturor femeilor. Am apucat sa imi sun mama, mi-a multumit grabita. Cred ca si pentru ea e la fel: sarbatoarea nu face altceva decat sa iti aminteasca de trecerea brusca si sectionata a timpului.

Duminica trecuta incepuse luna martie, vanzatorii de martisoare se napusteau asupra buzunarelor trecatorilor, oferind sa le goleasca in schimbul unor fire de zapada si sange, legate frumos de cele mai variate nimicuri. Am incercat sa ofer nimicuri facute de mine. Asa macar dai un pic din suflet si nu din buzunar. Am primit cinci martisoare.

Dar...am uitat de babe. Nu stiu cum imi va merge anul. Tre sa il dirijez eu cu grija. Oare mi-as fi ales ziua de ieri? Sper ca nu, caci mi-a nins pe umbrela si mi-a nins si-n ochi cu ganduri si-mi doresc doar soare, soare si liniste si sarbatori personale.

In locul sa imi aleg o baba, am cunoscut o batranica in timp ce asteptam sa vina un autobuz. M-a ales ea pe mine.
Rasnov-Brasov. Am asteptat mai mult de jumatate de ora sa vina autobuzul- duminica vine mai rar . Nu se stie niciodata ora exacta la care tre sa stai la panda si sa sari in el.
In ultimle zece minute de asteptare a aparut langa mine o batranica cu o umbrela inflorata. Era o batranica verde, asa mi-a ramas in minte, caci avea un palton lung si verde ca brazii, si un par alb alb care se vedea de sub un batic. Mi-a spus ca ingheata si ca spera sa vina in curand masina. I-am spus ca si eu inghet.
Mi-a spus ca " maica, cica-i ziua femeii si m-au chemat copiii sa-i vad si m-au pus pe drum."
I-am urat la multi ani. Mi-a zis " si tie, draguta".
In cinci minute a aparut si autobuzul si am incercat sa o ajut sa urce. S-a asezat pe un scaun in fata mea si i-a sunat telefonul mobil. Dupa 2 minute de cautari in geanta fara sfarsit, a reusit sa apese si pe butonul bun si sa vorbeasca (cu ceva decibeli prea tare) cu fiul(?) care o suna.
"Da mama, da da, da, sunt in autobuz, cum mi-ai spus matale. Vin, mama, vin."

In autogara m-a rugat sa ii apas eu pe butoane la telefon sa sun. Mi-a zis sa apas pe trei , ca asa e trecut fiul. Speed dial, nu-i tocmai rau, m-am gandit.
A inceput sa sune, Cornel nou raspunde si eu ii lipesc telefonul de ureche.

Cum adica maica sa vin singura? Dar nu mi-ai zis sa cobor la autogara si sa te astept? (...) Da, stiu sa vin, cum sa nu. Vin, de acu ce sa mai fac? Ca doar am venit pana aici pentru voi.(...) Da, pai sunt tanara, nu? 77 de ani doar, sunt in floarea varstei.

Din telefon se aude Cornel nou cum inca vorbeste in timp ce ea isi indeasa mobilul in geanta, fara sa stie cum sa opreasca apelul. Cornel se aude din ce in ce mai infundat pana cand, in cele din urma, tace de tot, ingropat in geanta fara sfarsit.

Imi multumeste si zambeste cu buzele ei subtiri, sub care nu se mai ascund prea multi dinti. Ma ia de obraji si ma pupa si porneste incet spre Cornel.

Imi ia ceva timp sa ma dezmeticesc si sa-mi dau seama ca a plecat fara umbrela. Si-a lasat-o in autobuz, probabil. Dar pe batranica mea verde nu o mai vad nicaieri.
ma cuprinde o tristete tacuta.