learning to fly

 

When I first fell in love with the Pink Floyd it was through Wish you were here. Highly curious and instantly attracted by the playful notes, in the adolescent era of rage and rejection (my top 3 were Metallica, Marilyn Manson and a Romanian indie band called OCS) the little song reached my softer side (I also liked folk) and I knew I wanted more.

The second time I fell in love with Pink Floyd was when I bought The dark side of the moon. I was 18.

Year after year their music, whether made by one or all of them, grew on me. Funny thing, it was never in my head, on my mind but let itself listened to when I most needed it.

Third time I fell in love with the Pink Floyd I was 21 and a half and just discovered the Division Bell. I found myself in a situation that suited perfectly every song of the album and I was obsessively playing it.

Eventually over time I got to discover all the other albums and singles and films and tours but now it’s all about Learning to fly. Today, 13 years later.

It was about damn time.

 

*photos taken at the Pink Floyd exhibition: Their mortal remains, @ Victoria&Albert Museum, London

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a joke

I’m not perfect.

No one is, as a matter of fact. Sometimes, I find it hard to come back to myself and sometimes – I have no recollection of what happened yesterday. Like today, for example.

I woke up from another life, having no idea whatsoever about where I’ve been or what have I been doing yesterday. I was probably trying to escape Timberlake’s river but whatever I did, it was still there; so I let it all out. I let it out on the tube, and afterwards stepping outside into an early evening, in the quietness of the City. I let it out on the street and then alongside Thames, listening to buskers, I let it out as the sun set on Southbank. I let it out on the way back home and brought it back into the room. I took it in bed with me and let it out while falling asleep.

I feel now as if it never happened.

I feel like it was all a joke. It was a joke, right? That didn’t happen and it will never happen.

But then I checked my camera and apparently, in my unconscious state of justin timberlake I took a lot of pictures.

31 and reading (#bookdate)

IMG_0752

oh how I love a good bookshop! you know you’re in the right place (and the right moment) when you accidentally stumble upon one of the two novels that J.K Toole has written in a past lifetime.

John Kennedy Toole was 31 when he died.

I feel like there’s no better time to re-read A Confederacy of Dunces – that reached publication in the 80’s, eleven years after his death – and dive into The neon Bible, something that he’s written at age 16 for a literary contest.

I’ve only read The Confederacy in French, and at that time (like 7 years ago) it was part of a course on l’idiotie. I almost remember, having to read Dostoievski in French was not fun at all. But I was overwhelmed with joy to meet J.K. Toole’s genius and it changed me for-eveeer. I wish he’d written loads more.

“I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no one.”
John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

 

un ǵüveç de primăvară

the Failed Diaries

Colaj de versuri la întâmplare

Priveam dinafară fereastra
final de secol
din neguri, râsete de crocodil
– elle m’avait enfin retrouvé sans m’avoir cherché –
april is the cruellest month, breeding
cu cei șase-opt mii de ani ai mei,
sânt o pictură umedă – mă zvânt la soare
voi ieși din oglinzi ca să țip și să spun
cuvântul „tăcere” este mantra poeziei 

(am decupat din: Iulia Cibișescu - Ascunzișuri de măști, Maria Jorj - Esența uitării, Mihaela Handrea - Stau la masă cu îngerii mei, Jean-Luc Lagarce - Juste la fin du monde, T.S.Eliot - The waste land and other poems, Dora Pavel - Creier intermediar, Mircea Dinescu - Moartea citește ziarul, Vasile Macoviciuc - versuri pentru caii sălbatici, Jacques Jouet - Poeme de metrou)

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V. Wolf once said that words are echoes of memories

words belong to each other like people belong to books not like we used to
belong to each other in a past lifetime

I like to think of books as objects that smell of stale chocolate and a bit of dust. Like an old box of biscuits that’s now used to store
lost&found buttons, needles, pins, ribbons, broken crayons, chalk

perhaps

an invisible collection of fantasias and sonatas from the 17th century
but that would be too much, wouldn’t it?

painbody

If my pain-body were a book, it would be a dictionary explaining
words like “heartbreak” “promise” “little princess” “love” because there are no dictionaries to explain them
there’s only silence and sounds in between

until you surrender: you are no longer your mind

and if it were that dictionary the gaps between the words would be coloured
by the unmanifested unwritten feelings of their “heartbreak” “promise” “little princess” “love”
you see
my pain-body is still here making itself comfortable he doesn’t mind the gaps he never did although I shout at him with silence
and splashes of yellow blue pink purple cover the pages
it is still here, unborn like a fetus
unborn forever
so I will have eventually to abort

what a relief, stillness within

I exist.

#therapy

Not going to write too much about it, because I’ve just started it, but what’s funny is that I can already blame it on communism. It was in those days that I was born, and because of the communism, my mom had to go back to work when I was only 3 months old. And when I say had to – it was mandatory. She was working 6 days a week. The mother – child bonding was interrupted when it was mostly needed, leaving me with this lack of attention and care that now gives me no option but to learn how to parent myself.

Give yourself love, you need it. No one else is going to be your parent, stop thinking it should be your partner. No partner, no problem. This journey’s going to be easy peasy! It’s not going to be a selfish one, but it is going to bring me back to myself.

Love to all of you out there looking for it!

J.L. Borges said it better, anyway:

“After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong
And you really do have worth…
And you learn and learn…
With every good-bye you learn.”
Jorge Luis Borges