miercuri, 8 octombrie 2014

Lectie de la bunicul meu



Cand ma inscrisese mama la gradinita, nu aveam mai mult de trei ani. Imi aduc aminte ca ma speria gramada aia ce copii guralivi si energici. Eu eram “puiul bunicii”, o femeie trecuta de cincizeci de ani, obisnuita sa respecte regulile sociale si sa le incalce flagrant pe cele familiale, strecurandu-mi prajituri intre mese si luandu-ma la ea ca sa scap de somnul de dupa-amiaza. Eu eram ursuletul ei de plus, iar viata mea toata se invartea in jurul ei. Ea ma ducea la gradinita, intr-un autobuz cu nazuri, care scartaia si se poticnea la fiecare intorsatura de roata. Ba odata, mi-am spart buza in bara de care ma tineam cu atata inversunare, ca sa nu fiu aruncata din scaun. Tot ea, bunica, ma lua de la gradinita, zambitoare ca de obicei. Si punctuala. Foarte important, asa, pentru “gradinitzari” care, odata ce incepe sa se goleasca clasa, incep a avea previziuni apocaliptice despre cum au fost abandonati de parinti. Dar parintii ajung mereu, asa ca visul lor cel mai urat se fasaie ca un balon intepat si tzancii, uitand pedata spaima prin care au trecut, incep sa povesteasca de zor ce au mancat “azi la pranz”.

Cum spuneam, eu si bunica aveam o legatura speciala. Daca n-as fi stiut mai bine, as fi spus ca ne-am nascut impreuna. Poate tocmai de aceea imi era foarte greu sa ii dau drumul la mana dimineata, cand ma lasa in clasa. Plangeam, nu vroiam sa mananc, nu vroiam sa ma joc. Vroiam doar sa se intoarca bunica. Si cu toate ca stiam ca “buni trebuie sa mearga la serviciu”, mintea mea necoapta, treaza in lume de numai trei ani, credea ca daca bunicii i se va face mila la lacrimile mele, va anunta la birou ca nu poate sa mai vina si va sta cu mine la gradinita, sa ne jucam impreuna cu papusile, cuburile si piesele de constructii. Asta, va imaginati, nu s-a intamplat niciodata. Dar eu nu ma dadeam batuta. In fiecare zi, cand venea momentul despartirii, ma agatam strans de maneca ei, de geanta ei, ba daca as fi avut mai multe maini le-as fi considerat o binecuvantare, pentru ca le-as fi folosit pe toate! 

Intr-una din zile, in timpul unei excursii “mana de mana” prin oras, ajunsesem la “serviciul lu’ buni”, un combinat a carui poarta as fi recunoscut-o si-n vis. Greseala majora a educatoarei a fost ca, din gingasia inimii ei, sa imi faca un “cadou” si s-o cheme pe buni la poarta. Atat mi-a trebuit! M-am agatat de zabrelele portii de fier ca un mic macac nervos si-am inceput sa bocesc de l-as fi speriat si pe Noe dupa potop, cum ca eu “vreau la buni”. 

Dar buni trebuia sa se intoarca la birou. Asa ca, vrand-nevrand, m-am dezlipit de gard, cu bocind si pufaind de-ti era mai mare mila! Mergeam si plangeam. La un moment dat am simtit un deget batandu-mi pe umar. Era bunicul! Ce surpriza! Bunicul nu iesea pe strada in timpul serviciului, deci asta chiar era o coincidenta mare! Nu-mi aduc aminte ce mi-a spus, ce m-a intrebat, ce i-am raspuns. Dar stiu ca m-a luat de mana si a fost destul cat sa imi linisteasca haosul si indarjirea cu care vroiam sa schimb lucrurile dupa bunul meu plac. Pur si simplu, abandonasem propriile mele planuri si dorinte in favoarea ordinii universale. Dintr-odata, era in regula ca bunica lucra iar eu nu puteam fi langa ea, ca eram in randul unor copii de varsta mea care mergeau aliniati, doi cate doi, pe strada, intr-o excursie citadina, ba era in regula si faptul ca trebuia sa imi iau la revedere de la bunicul si sa imi vad mai departe de programul meu.  


Au trecut aproape trei decenii de atunci. Cati ani! Cate dorinte realizate, cate altele uitate! Cata vreme sa m-ambitionez sa cuceresc lucruri de necucerit, sa esuez si sa o iau de la capat, sa accept ca unele lucruri nu trebuie cucerite si ca asta este in regula. Mana bunicului meu, aparuta ca prin minune in mijlocul unei zile de lucru, in timpul unei excursii prin oras, m-a invatat una dintre cele mai statornice lectii: cateodata este nevoie sa dai drumul, ca sa te bucuri sa observi ca poti sta pe propriile picioare.

sâmbătă, 16 august 2014

I wanted to forget we shared the same city



I wanted to get away, to know him far away from me, far enough that even the thought of him wouldn’t reach me. When I decided to push him out of my life, I knew I was going to carry him inside me for a while. But I wasn’t expecting my lungs to burn when I breathe, or to wish to kill a part of me. I didn’t know anybody who had died until that moment. I never mourned for anyone. And now I was carrying around with me a dead body that nobody was seeing, nobody was in mourning for. Just me. Not surprisingly, I had become confused: who actually died?

Then, time learned to pass by. I let myself be taught how to stay put and let it pass over me. I was always thinking about him though, sometimes with anger, other times wondering how I was capable of such submission. Never with nostalgia. Because I was afraid to miss him. Then I forgot how it is to carry him around. I forgot how missing him felt like. I regained my boring freedom. 

It’s been four years. I talked about him as my great love tragedy. Somewhere, deeply rooted in my mind, was blossoming the idea that I would never again love a man with such determination.
Now, I’m standing here like struck by lightning! The crown of my head seems to be opening, making room for an angry tornado of memories and predictions. So staggering, that I feel my right leg moving away from my left one and deciding on its own to create an arbitrary trajectory to keep me grounded. I hear the heel landing on the ground like a bomb. Billions of electrical chills are discharging along my spine, as if an old wound would lose its stitches, unveiling the flesh.

I know what’s coming, now, that he is standing in front of me. I will stay nailed to where I’m standing, without escape, expecting an uncontrollable wave of terror to hit me from behind with all its power. My lips will become numb and my eyes will raise a fog curtain over them to prevent a possible tear storm. I’ll eventually open my mouth and let a “Hello!” slip, releasing straps that will wrap around my chest and will squeeze until I won’t be able to breathe anymore. Every blink of his will be like a hand full of dirt thrown carelessly over the desperate beatings of my heart. If I won’t have a panic attack, I’ll faint!

I wish I could become nothing, I wish I would vanish! I wish I would be just a hallucination! Apparitions can’t feel fear. I wish I would become air! The shiny cold blade of fear will rip through my flesh any minute now.

He comes closer and my right shoe stays... How come it doesn’t retract?... What a silly question to disrupt my panic… “Kiss him!” “What?” “Kiss him!” “Why?” “To see if there’s a chance he would come back to you!” My right shoe started moving slowly. First, the ankle had a twitch, then it carefully pulled the whole leg. My mind is already creating the image of a future where he is holding my hand while we are crossing an ordinary street. It’s the comfort that I have imagined all my life, the peak of our love’s steadiness… How come my heart isn’t anywhere on this street? It’s not in his pocket, not in mine… I’m searching for it on the wheels of the cars driving by, in the minds of the people crossing the ordinary street, behind the clouds, in the sun… I’m looking for it in the wrong place and I know it already.

A pleasant sound broke the silence. It was of rubber touching granite. My shoe had found its place. My ankles are now aligned. And I was still standing, waiting for a wave of panic that, I finally understood, was never to come. 

He said “Hello” back and I noticed I had a warm, calm smile on my face. “I don’t want to know whether there’s still a change.” The following seconds turned me into air, replacing my nervous silhouette that filled the space before, with the smell of perfume and some shoe traces. And the dead I had been carrying with me for so long. 

I was walking so lightly now. And I was stunned how easily a soul can move if you release it from fear. 

It started raining and in my bag I could hear the phone ringing, but the caller is now a stranger to me. 

duminică, 27 iulie 2014

Am vrut sa uit ca impart orasul cu el...



... Am vrut sa plec, sa-l stiu departe, suficient de departe cat sa nu ma ajunga nici gandul de el.  Cand am hotarat sa ma rup de el, sa-l imping sa plece, stiam ca am sa-l port in mine o vreme dupa aceea. Nu ma asteptam sa ma arda plamanii cand respir si sa imi doresc sa omor o parte din mine. Nu mai stiam pe nimeni care sa fi murit. Nu mai tinusem niciodata doliu. Si acum purtam cu mine peste tot un mort pe care nimeni nu il vedea, nimeni nu il jelea. Numai eu. Nu e de mirare ca ajunsesem confuza: cine a murit, de fapt?

Apoi, timpul a invatat sa treaca. Eu m-am lasat invatata sa stau locului si sa-l las sa treaca. M-am gandit mereu la el, uneori cu furie, alteori cu mirare ca am fost capabila de atata supunere.  Niciodata cu dor. Pentru ca mi-era frica sa imi fie dor. Apoi am uitat cum e sa am sentimentul de el. Si am uitat cum ar putea fi sa-mi fie dor. Mi-am recapatat plictisitoarea libertate.

Au trecut patru ani. Am povestit despre el ca despre marea mea tragedie amoroasa. Undeva, ascuns foarte dibace in mintea mea, rodea ideea ca niciodata nu voi mai iubi un alt barbat cu atata determinare.

Acum, stau ca lovita de traznet! Crestetul capului parca mi se casca, facand loc unei tornade furioase de amintiri si predictii. Atat de ametitoare incat piciorul drept mi s-a dezlipit din inertie de cel stang si s-a infipt zdravan in podea. Miliarde de fiori mi se descarca de-a lungul coloanei, de parca mi s-ar desprinde copcile unei rani vechi, dezvelindu-mi carnea.

Stiam ce va urma, acum, ca el statea in fata mea. Aveam sa stau pironita, fara scapare, urmarind cum un val de spaima necontrolata ma va lovi cu toata puterea din spate. Buzele imi vor amorti si ochii vor ridica o perdea de ceata, probabil ca sa opreasca o posibila furtuna de lacrimi. Voi prinde curajul sa ii spun “Buna”, eliberand o ploaie de chingi care, despletite, mi se vor infasura in jurul pieptului si vor strange pana voi ramane fara suflare. Fiecare clipire a lui va fi o mana de tarana aruncata neglijent peste bataile disperate ale inimii mele. Daca nu voi avea un atac de panica, voi lesina.

As vrea sa devin nimic, sa ma evapor, sa fiu doar o halucinatie! Nalucile nu pot simti frica. As vrea sa devin aer! In orice moment ma va secera taisul lucios si rece al panicii.

Se apropie de mine iar pantoful meu ramane pe loc… Cum de nu se retrage?... Ce intrebare lipsita de sens mi-a perturbat frica… “Saruta-l!” “Ce?” “Saruta-l!” “De ce?” “Sa vezi daca exista vreo sansa sa se intoarca la tine!” Pantoful meu a inceput sa se miste incet. Intai, glezna a avut o zvacnire, apoi a tras dupa ea, cu grija, piciorul. Mintea-mi creeaza deja imaginea unui viitor in care el ma tine de mana in timp ce traversam o strada oarecare. E confortul pe care mi-l imaginasem, apogeul cuminteniei iubirii noastre… Cum de inima mea nu se gaseste nicaieri pe strada asta? Nici la el in buzunar, nici la mine. Am cautat-o sub zebra, pe rotile masinilor care treceau, in mintea pietonilor si soferilor, in jurul norilor, in soare. Degeaba o caut, stiu deja ca nu e aici.

S-a auzit un zgomot placut, de cauciuc lipindu-se de granit. Pantoful meu isi gasise locul. Imi aliniase gleznele. Iar eu stateam inca in picioare, intelegand ca astept un val de spaima ce nu avea sa mai vina.

El mi-a raspuns la salut, iar eu m-am trezind zambind calm. “Nu vreau sa aflu daca mai exista o sansa”. Urmatoarele secunde m-au transformat in aer, lasand in locul siluetei nervoase de mai-nainte un parfum si cateva urme de pantofi.  Si mortul pe care il purtasem cu mine atata vreme. Paseam cu o usurinta uluitoare. Si ma minunam, zambind, cat de usor poate se poate misca un suflet pe care-l dezlegi de temeri.

A inceput sa ploua, iar in geanta probabil ca imi suna telefonul, dar pe cel care ma suna nu-l mai cunosc demult.

duminică, 17 noiembrie 2013

Someone...



I couldn’t see it coming, some say… But I did. I saw it coming. And I stood my ground, ready to take on what was approaching. It went right through me and left me to pieces. I instantly forgot I ever had legs to stand on. Sounds, colors, thoughts – it all vanished. The world melted chaotically and my brain didn’t have matter to process anything with anymore. 




I hit the ground at one point. I think I did. No breath. No blink. I lost myself in a coma that took me so deep into myself that I would not reach the surface and live a pain I wouldn’t have been able to survive. I don’t know who found me, what they did to me, for how long. Something was reassembling me. There was no point to it, anyway, I was thinking between blackouts. I couldn’t feel where I was beginning from and where I was ending. No point at all…

When I was finally able to open my eyes I wanted to roar. I was nothing of what I’ve known before. I was never going to be. And I became enraged, without the possibility of screaming it out. I wanted to die, come back as new. The sky was crushing me with too much light. I was nothing.

One day, I blinked. So natural! I didn’t have to relearn that. I sat there wondering how my eyes knew how to do that, without being retaught to do it. I was still struggling to breathe. There was an emptiness where my body was supposed to be. I wished I would have been able to check if it was there.

It was. Someone was caring for my wounds. Wound. I was one sole wound from beginning to end.  He was coming, changing my bandages, feeding me, checking my vital signs. He never said anything. But I knew that when he was leaving the room, he would still be keeping an eye on me. That brought me comfort. If I were to die, someone would know…

Someone…

I laid there for a long time. Years passed by. Someone was thrilled to see that I was beginning to regain consciousness, raise my head and being curious about what was happening around me. In time, I began standing. Feet are for standing. Straight up. It was hard to stand and I fell many, many times. And I got scared. I laid in bed for days, paralyzed by fear, which took my will to keep trying.
Someone thinks one day I will hunt again. He didn’t say it out loud. But I was hearing, nonetheless.
Years passed by… Someone noticed that I was starting to move almost naturally, a sign that I was healed. He thought the space I was being kept in was too little for me now. So he left the door open. I began circling the room that had been my home for over four years and I hit the door with my tail twice. Then, a trance-like curiosity pushed me out. One step at a time.

Someone is still watching over me.

I’ve been back into the wild long enough to find out that I can feed myself and take care of myself.  There’s always someone watching me. Recently, I’ve been hurt again. A small wound, someone would say. But I got scared. I relived the stun of the explosion and the terror of the agony that followed. I screamed. I ran. I hit things in my way. I hid. I thought I was going to die again. Until I heard someone say: “It’s a superficial wound. She’ll be fine. She’s more scared than anything else.” Someone didn’t use words. But I heard him.