chambre/ room/

ca ața – prin zeci, poate sute de găuri de ac
indiferentă la tapetul dintr-o cameră sau alta
camerele inimi și peretele cardiac
asortate cu mobilă
de inspirație industrială

templul meu e trupul
la porțile căruia călugări buddhiști sparg semințe discutând
cu preoți catolici despre ultima
emisiune pe care-au văzut-o pe history channel;
deasupra lor se aud nu doar țipete de pescăruși
dar țipetele copiilor din alte ere

din dulapuri fermecate prin crăpăturile cărora
ies greieri și
cri cri cri-ul lor scârțâie
a preemptive strike
despre care s-a scris destul
pe când eu eram analfabetă

până și atunci când la desfacerea staniolului
din jurul bomboanei de ciocolată
credeam că în pliurile învelișului au intrat oameni
ca să mângâie și să dezmiardă miezul comestibil
(miezul care nu știe că e miez)

– întrerupem programul pentru o scurtă publicitate –
aud ca prin vis
și văd câteva degete transformate în
bețe uscate, căzute din copaci
întoarse către ceilalți;

iau pe rând câte unul și-l întorc înspre mine.

 chambre à Paris


chambre à Cracovie


chambre à Londres


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


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


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.


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


ça colle

i remember that morning like it was yesterday you slept for two hours maybe then i came into your room I was looking for that hug again longing for it craving for it knowing its all wrong but knowing its the only thing i need 

maybe you touched my left arm then you left for work and i knew i had to leave too

i remember that morning like it was yesterday 

the park was all green and fresh mixing up our alcohol breaths in the air going back to our homes with a strange question mark above our heads 

will i ever see that room again

   two weeks later i was back i remember that day

“you need to find a career didi that’s what you need” I can’t I belong to so many places so many things and so many times in history 

I belong to Bach’s rhythms forms and textures 

I belong to the hippie jeans of the 70s I belong to Warsaw after the war

I grieve 

for being small particles of dust spread all over the universe and the only thing that makes me feel like que ça colle it’s writing

#love series (5)

so wtf is love after all it’s like going back to school; the hibbie jibbies feeling; the under the covers when it’s dark and raining outside and there are fucking homless people out there and it’s like colouring a book outside the lines and from time to time thinking how lucky you are hibbie. 

going back just to smile at your clean scrubbed past like a blackboard wiped so many times jibbies. 

that’s just terrible isn’t it 


#love series -3

coffee has a different name every morning today I’m gonna call it butter&jam and who knows tomorrow / christmas cards pagan cookies the winter solstice. sun standing still for the shortest day of the year, standing still at the end of the 29th year on earth this Tuesday and then. 

and then.

coffee will take another name on Wednes-day of woden, day of Mercury.