The Unsendable Email

I'm writing this mail more for me than for you, so I can read it again in case I forget. Although I can't imagine why I wouldn't want to forget a night that got me in love and in tears, the following morning. My life, which seemed decently satisfactory the night before, pales, withers and dies in the light of this dream. I... I would give my life to go back.

I dreamt about you last night. All night. You lived in Beograd. You owned a small handmade things shop, with things handmade by you. There was a little girl looking for a bright coloured pair of earrings, she was about four and couldn't reach for the shelf, so I picked her up and she found what she wanted.

On the glass door, there was a small blackboard plate for you to write your schedule on, but it had nothing written on it - you always came in and went out as you chose. The shop was dark and full of minute jewelry, watches, all the unneccessary wonders of the world. The furniture was minimal - old, dusty glass shelves and your enormous armchair, probably the most comfortable armchair in the world. You could fit a little household in it. You had a gas stove. Old and dirty, you used it only for coffee.

It smelled like that sweet clay you can sniff on old books. The music playing was always almost inaudible, but it managed wonderfully to give you a trip back in the 1910's Havana. You were a bit tired, lying back in the armchair, head rested on the seat back, looking to the ceiling. I pressed my face against your chest, then went up to your neck, inhaling your scent and getting increasingly dizzy. I bit your lower lip, then you started nibbling mine, we kissed and whispered poisonous nothings, I felt like flying and you were silently happy.

Then you gave me a bunch of keys and I had to go to your home and get something. First, I mistakenly went to an enormously elegant and luxurious hotel, all gold, china and marble, Persia carpets, Damascus roses. I apologized and went out.

It was the next door - a dwelling place so wonderous I thought it could only exist in Beograd. It was like a block of flats, but underground. If you lived on the, say, 5th floor, it meant the 5th level under the ground. I'm not sure which floor was you, but I found your place: it had no walls. It was a space, among other spaces, its limits market by rope, but not the thick, red rope you see in museums: it was mostly thin and white, knotted with other types of rope, surrounding the place.

The other flats had walls, only yours was without. Well, without three of the four - the back wall was there. You had about three beds, an armchair, a fridge - I don't know, the comfortable usual. And a dog. It might have been something between a white Labrador and a Carpathian Shepherd dog. You were there also, and I did not find it strange at the moment - after all, I was in a dream and I knew it. I saw the dog didn't have any food left, so I offered to go buy some, but you told me that he was fine, no need to worry. You didn't have a TV or a computer, but a cinema picture projector, you projected films on the only wall. And there was a film on, I can't say you were watching it, but it was playing nonetheless, it might have been The Dreamers.

And I suddenly felt very, very sleepy, because it was dark and comfortable, so I crawled in one of your beds - the big one, by the rope. I knew that what I was living was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I was so deeply and definitively happy: this was it - all the trouble, doubt, despair, embarassingness, pain, search, failure were over and replaced by certainty, truth, joy, beauty and love, for ever. I was like a portal through which all the beauties of the soul were flowing continuously. So I immersed in the lazy warmness, feeling like I couldn't be luckier, waiting for you to come along, falling, again, in love and asleep.

Letter in B flat

Dear reader,

I've fallen in love with a purple pair of shoes. I call them the Ulysses shoes because, like the book, you have to make an effort to comprehend them, but once you do, you will worship their perfect craft for the rest of your life. As a matter of fact, they're not shoes, they're poetry in the shape of a pair of shoes. They're of the most decadent purple, ridiculously high-heeled, theatrical, dramatical, witchical, bitchical, whimsical, statemential, demential, todieformential.

Another thing that's been on my mind recently is that I am surprisingly discovering that i love confort, after all. My friend lives an amish life, and so do I, while i live at her place. And since I'm back home for a couple of days, I cannot not indulge in hot baths with chocolate foam while it's raining outside, reading some erotic novel, then covering myself all clean and wet haired in fluffy blankets writing an email and a short poem on my laptop while downloading La Fille Sur le Pont and Romance&Cigarettes, putting extra ice in my Pepsi turning the central heating on wearing a high school logo tshirt and union jack stockings, thinking anxiously about going for a run in the morning up in the forest and then a steamy shower and a hearty breakfast mamma's style.

And thinking about mamma, maybe I can steal her perfume for the interviews I hope to go to, mine sends the wrong message...

I've always feared that there's a huge difference between the flesh and bones me and the words-writing me. I'm terribly sorry if that difference is upsetting. Face to face it seems that I'm constantly trying to tell a story, take peolpe to different places that I picture, describe more worlds per time unit than they are willing to imagine. I'm pushy and tiring but I can't stop. But the green grass from my dream the other night was so soft and real, and I'm so sorry you weren't there to run madly up the mountain side without feeling tired at all, and then trying to stop in front of the sudden abyss, and jumping on that tree as an instinctual sollution; the freedom of it all was breath-taking. Or next to me in that warm cab i've taken in a dream two weeks ago, in the middle of the most horrible winter, when the sky was so purple and so close and the snow was so rich and so bright that the light was coming from underneath making you feel that heavens and purgatory have reversed and the air had the texture of velvet and i was leaning my head against the frozen taxi window holding a kitten knotted in my woolen scarf and I felt warm and happy in a guilty manner, 'look at me i'm up so late at night in such an unusual situation and it's so dangerous outside and so beautiful and i have a kitten in my arms'. The seat next to me was empty and the driver was kind of absent so it's such a shame you weren't there, roaming around anywhere, piles of snow making all the roads look like a nonsensical maze, but hey, nonsensical is charming when you're happy.

Write back and wear a scarf. Yours most sleepy,

Flavia, the low swinger.

Deep autumn

I remember one autumn evening when the weather was so dreadful that I thought nature was out to kill and Transylvania was having a nervous breakdown. I was in an old car, and my friend was listening to viking metal as we were gliding over the hills, heading home. It was too early in the autumn to snow; nonetheless, snow was there and we could hardly see anything but grey-striped black 100m ahead. I nestled deeper in the seat and started making out ghosts, trees, haunted castles and dragons in the dark spots between the flakes which had landed on the windows. I was warm and sleepy, too sleepy to say anything about the happiness that was making my cheeks blush, about the obscure fascination I had for dangerous weather, the kind that could destroy. So I closed my eyes and started praying for the journey to continue forever. To be trapped forever between the hills around my home town, out in the storm, driving aimlessly through the cold and the dark, but knowing for sure that mom is baking butter biscuits and boiling wine with pieces of fruit and cinnamon sticks, waiting for me to knock on her door.

Demonii sunt rugaţi să părăsească incinta

Astăzi, la ora 20:02, părăseam sediul firmei la care lucrez, încuind poarta după mine şi vârându-mi căştile în urechi. Ca niciodată, am deschis radioul (şi nu playerul) şi mare mi-a fost greşeala: la radio Guerilla cânta Bad Company - Feel Like Making Love. Mulţi dintre voi nu ştiţi despre ce vorbesc, iar şi cei care ştiu piesa se vor întreba 'so the fuck what'.

Ei bine, mi-ar plăcea foarte tare să mă aflu în oricare dintre aceste două categorii, aşa că rog:

Cercetătorii,
Vrăjitorii,
Geniile,
Copiii mici cu laboratoare de chimie de jucărie acasă,
Farmaciştii,
Ghicitoarele,
Domnul profesor Mircea Nistor,
Neurologii,
Astologii,
Psihiatrii,
Olimpicii la fizică,
Sataniştii,
Ăia de la Discovery Science,
Membrii MISA,
Spiritul lui Bogdan Petriceicu Haşdeu
(sau al Iuliei)
Angajaţii NASA,
Studenţii de la Hogwarts şi MIT

să inventeze naibii odată maşina aia de uitat suferinţa, ca-n Eternal Sunshine.


Mulţumesc.

Pentru Ivo

Oamenii nu mai cântă, mă gândeam privind noaptea din stânga, răsăritul din dreapta şi fredonând un cântecel numit Sunrise. Stăteam aplecată pe geam şi nu-l dibuisem încă pe vecinul meu, cel mai timid om din lume, ascuns după obloane şi, cel mai probabil, zâmbind.

Zecile de ferestre încă negre de peste drum ascundeau perne moi şi freamăte de pleoape. Apoi, rând pe rând, ferestrele deveneau galbene, dezvăluind cearcăne, periuţe de dinţi frecânde şi cafele în clocot. Electrocasnice şi lume trezită, căutând ştecherul minţii, la rându-i, ca să o bage şi pe ea în priză.

Şi, pe măsură ce televizoarele arătau ştiri, emisiuni cu prezentatori hiperactivi sau videoclipuri în culori violente, m-a surprins o tristeţe neobişnuită:

Deşi există mai multe albume pe tarabe ca niciodată, în lume nu se mai cântă. Ţin minte orele de muzică din liceu, când se făcea mişto sau se chiulea, pur şi simplu. E ruşine. E neserios. E nefiresc. E de râs. Dintr-un motiv ce-mi scapă, fredonatul acela uman, bazal, strămoşesc, adevărat, real, pământesc nu mai merge.

Femeile nu mai amestecă în tigăi murmurând romanţe şi mişcându-şi, lent, şoldurile. Bărbaţii nu mai conduc tractoare cu câte un fir de iarbă între dinţi, fluierând doine. În Piaţa Operei din Timişoara, studenţii nu mai cântă coveruri folk la reghinuri blonde.

Mama nu-mi mai şopteşte, adormindu-mă, cântece de leagăn.

ink burnt in ripe flesh

black holes and revelations

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Laz: bă cum mă trezesc fără telefon
Laz: cum pula mea mă trezesc
Me: nu mă fă să vin la tine, te rog
Laz: bă nu mă trezesc fără alarmă
Me: tu acuma vrei să te culci sau mai stai
Laz: m-aş culca, dar oricum nu mă trezesc
Me: plm, atunci chiar nu vin, că dacă vin, vin să stau trează, şi nu îmi place să stau trează cu oameni dormind around
Laz: bă cum pula mea mă trezesc
Me: mă gândesc. uite poţi lăsa apa deschisă la bucătărie, şi estimez că în 4-5 ore îţi ajunge apa la nas, taman când trebuie să te trezeşti
Me: nu recomand though
Me: sau poţi lăsa un bilet pe uşă
Me: "vă rog să bateţi violent în uşă pe 30 mai la ora 9:00, ofer recompensă"
Me: e risky though
Me: stai într-o zonă nepopulată
Me: şi oricum oamenii îs răi

.................................................................

Me: cum pula mea te trezeşti mâine
Me: BĂ EŞTI NEBUN TRE SĂ FIE PE NET ALARME
Laz: deci ce?
Me: PE NET CEVA PE NET STAI STAI
Me: CE IDIOŢI SUNTEM BĂ
Me: http://onlineclock.net/
Me: I AM A FUCKING GENIUS
Me: MERGE
Me: MERGE
Me: MERGE
Me: MERGE
Me: pune-l peste un minut să vezi
Laz: cum sună?
Me: chiorăie ca un animal călcat
Me: alegi acolo din listuţele alea ora 9:00, laşi tabu' deschis, boxele la maximum lângă cap, pac pac!
Me: [atâ:t]



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