what a wonderful world

I wanted to start writing a story the other night. And I got a pencil and sheet of paper (I mean I got myself in the front of the computer but of course it much more inspiring to talk about pencil and paper) and start to think how to start it. The action was rather simple: dreams and occasionally nightmares.

What we dream in the classroom? This was the speciality of my sister. She will sit for the whole period looking on the window somewhere far, far away. The teacher had to change our places as it became obvious that Cristina was scarcely present. The thing is that I never really knew what she dreamt about. Of course this should not stop me inventing the dreams of my character but it blocks me.

But still, what really, really do I know about my love ones’ dreams? Some bits and pieces hence nothing that could allow me to assert that I know them (dreams of course as I do know my sister pretty well).

Than another question arises: aren’t these dreams the most personal thing, isn’t worth to be kept secret to one self. There are those moments when we can feel and live a moment of grace and change the conditions and the framework without regard to reality, physical laws, science or other rules.

Only a couple of days before Easter and it would be the first time in years that we are again together. Is one of those dreams that is, even if not fully, becoming real.

When child we used to go to the midnight mass and while singing “Cu moarte pe moarte calcand” (going beyond death through death) I was happy that I will see again my grandfather (the first person to die in my little universe). And I would sing (very out of tune) with all my heart as it was one of the best news of the year.

This year I will sing it again with my heart full of hope and happiness as it is the best news of the year that someday I will see again my grandparents and my mother. And I know that this not a dream.

I wish you all a wonderful Easter!

Enivrez-vous

I tried to remember tonight when I was as drunk as I am tonight....and I realised that each time I got drunk it was because of the feelings I had for a man.

The first time it was during a vacation at the seaside in Romania. I drank too much white wine (since, I cannot stand it anymore) and than some vodka. The second time it was in Scotland and the third time again in England and it were because of the same man. Only once, in Brighton I got so drunk that I started kissing a foreigner.... because he was a foreigner (interesting motivation).

Last time it was tonight and again it was because of a man. I mean being in love should get the best out of a person but when it is not shared (as it almost always happened to me) it gets the weakest in me.

Being drunk or as the French put it “grisée” is so comfortable. I am not an alcoholic so I take the liberty, once in a while, to feel liberated of all my barriers (cultural, educational and emotional) and just be that part, hidden and incontrollable of myself.

The only problem is that even when I am drunk I am still, somehow and at some extent, in control and still so self conscious that I ruin most of the time this feeling of, lets call it for the sake of the simplicity, liberty.

And than, Baudelaire once wrote:

« ENIVREZ-VOUS

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

(In Les petits poèmes en prose) »

Out of the blue

My perfect set: one and a half person leather armchair, woollen throw, glass of red wine, lots of noises outside, a book and a CD with Liszt.

Something happened today while walking on my way to the office when I arrived to Barbès-Rochechouart. Those of you familiar with Paris knows that it is quite a busy, clotted spot. I was listening on my mobile phone to the only radio that does not drive me crazy in the morning: France Musique.

While I was waiting to cross the street suddenly I realised that in front of me it was a very intriguing building called Luxor –Palais des Cinemas. Apparently the City Hall bought it to transform it in a cultural centre.

I cross the street every day in that very spot and it is the first time that I look at it. I can’t tell if something changed or not. I saw it for the first time.

Sometimes it happens like this in life. We cross the same persons, places, feelings and one day we become aware of them. It seems like out of blue.