Things of Life

Potecile puțin umblate se acoperă cu frunze si flori pana când nu le mai vezi. Dar eu tot mai calc pe ele, ca sa nu se piarda chiar toate urmele...                                                                         * Pământurile acestea se schimba mereu, ca o piesa de lut in perpetua facere...

I-am răspuns chemarii ca o zâna desprinsa de dincolo, si venită printre pământeni. Era o ploaie de mai, verde si roz. Nu știi ce te așteaptă, nu știi, mi-a spus in șoapte. Era timpul, era timpul, o simțeam in străfundurile ființei... 

Something was always missing. That lack of closeness, empathy, touch of each other's soul... Which seems odd for persons living in such proximity. A wound was there, without my awareness at the time. Maybe because the wound was like a hollow space that I was trying to fill up with different things. Can a hollow area hurt...? It does. It even sings sometimes in a strange way. Then the wound appears familiar and hard to leave. A bizarre attachment to pain... As I was growing up, I was learning about wounds too. They reverberate in time and eventually explain things... Things of life...

At one point, I've invited in black and yellow--    kind of the opposites of the spectrum.    Because life is made of them, nevertheless... 

  Mergeam într-o zi prin deșert-- O bucata fără fir de viața, o constelație de crăpături...  Gândurile se sparg, visele se rup.  Crăpăturile s-au reflectat in cerul meu.  Ceva nu se leagă, piese gata sa cada...  E doar o părere, îmi spun... deși... 

She's dying. Slowly, without the big fanfare. She, herself, told me a while ago, as a physician's observation, that when people are nearing death, they detach themselves from the world. Now, it's her turn; I can sense it. She does not react normally to casual mentions about the now, the world, even her own. She has lost curiosity even for things she used to have interest in. And the confusion... She is somewhere else, far... Then, she reverted to a form of childhood. She wants to play, in a silly way... Coming down to her is not easy, as if death is to me a stranger, and I am immortal...

In cea mai mare parte, viata mi se scurge intre 2 locuri: bucătăria si atelierul. Nu chiar compatibile, deși sunt culori in amândouă, si ambele au de-a face cu o foame. Bine ca nu sunt așa departe unul de celălalt, ca într-o zi mă plimb ca o minge de colo-colo. Si intre ele sunt totdeauna tăvițele cu săpun, puse cu intenție. Consum o cantitate considerabilă de săpun. Așa îmi dau seama ca timpul trece: s-a mai dus încă unul. Altul pe tăviță! Si in ultima vreme nu mai uit, in sfârșit, sa cumpar săpun...