Squirrel and the City

They call me the wild rose

2010-07-08T21:24:00.001+02:00

In the same "communication" chapter. I thought about flowers and the type of relationships they represent. I know there's a whole women's magazines theory about what flowers mean, and it's nothing new, but what the heck. Everything has been said before, so I'm not worried about being unoriginal.

So here we have it, the case of the orchid. I considered the orchid a very pretentious and hard to maintain flower. Needs special earth, looks uptight, totally uninteresting when it stops blooming.
Then I started owning one. So beyond that pretentious snotty looking bunch of flowers, it's a very non-commital and low maintenance plant. You just have to dip it in water every 2 weeks, keep it away from direct sunlight and change the soil once a year. And the soil comes in big amounts and is quite cheap.
Owning an orchid is like owning cactus in a prettier outfit, and without the sting. It's like having a long-distance relationship, without the fuss of deep implication.

The orchid relationship looks complicated, difficult and unsatisfactory at the first look. In reality, it's the ideal recipe for busy people. Looks classy enough not to go as a consolation relationship, it's highly decorative and socially presentable, but completely non-involving. You can exchange calls rarely, it doesn't need too much implication, and still give you the satisfaction of not being alone when you need it. There's not much to trim about it, since it mostly takes care of itsself.
The orchid type relationship is like the little plant itsself. It blooms a helluva long time, and you only have to look at it to feel like you have something there. It's quite straightforward if you try to understand it: it's there, but it's living its own rhythm, which you are not part of. If you're too needy and try to badger it too much, it will just die. But you can always count on it if you're in the need of a quick fix. Just don't take it too much in direct view (or sunlight) because it will wither. Orchids like their little semi-dark corners and their privacy.

Now I'm not much of an orchid person. I'm needy, moody, I complicate things and I expect my demands to be satisfied. I also get nasty when they're not. And I need a lot of attention and care to be kept happy. So I think my next aquisition will be a pot of roses that can be grown inside.
I'll try to keep the two in separate corners and compare. Now the rose will definitely be more spectacular, the particular bush that grows in my yard way back home blooms from May to first frost if properly taken care of. It requires attention, a lot of warmth and sunlight, much trimming and fixing, but it's worth the time. It's intoxicating, it's always blooming and it never dissapointed me.
It hurts sometimes, but it gives a lot back.

A rose is something not everyone can handle. It stays directly in the sunlight, if let to itsself it will outgrow any other flower in its proximity, it stings you if you don't know how to handle it and withers and dies if not properly taken care of or cut and put in a vase. It takes time, trimming, planning and patience to make it look beautiful, but when it blooms, you'll know it's worth it.

I'll start the rose vs orchid experiment as soon as i find a satisfactory rose (and a pot to go with it). My bet goes for the rose, since my heart lies there. I wonder if its human counterpart exists. Until then, I keep lifting my eyes and looking at the orchid. I'll keep my hands away from the temptation of watering it. I'd hate to kill such a pretty thing with my neediness.

Lost in translation

2010-07-06T21:29:00.003+02:00

Well, since blosone is not able to keep up my fabulous blog with its fabulous settings and its fabulous posts, I'll start posting in this one again.

So, new title, hopefully a new beginning as well. It's obvious what I have been watching lately, and under the shallow wagging of butts dressed in Dior, the strutting in Manolo Blahniks and the waving of Fendis, the curly chick there posed some real questions.

We seem to fail to understand eachother. We fail to see the meaning beneath eachother's words, and fail to see someone's true colour. I would say that it's only me, but if it was only me, why are there so many (mostly) females relating to it?

I don't believe in the Mars/Venus popular self-help book type of theory. It's just another piece of bullshit written by a man to tell women to shut the F up and be submissive. But some truth still stands: with both genders, discovering eachother is a long and bumpy road, and you can't help but ask yourself sometimes: is it worth the ride?

The moment a word leaps out of our mouth or from our keyboard, we are trying to show something. If it is expressing feelings, telling a story or asking something, there is always something that remains lost in translation for our partner. For the other, the message, no matter how we try to express it in a clear way, is received from a completely different perspective. We are knocking a wave of information against a wall of personal convictions, life experiences and views on the world mostly unknown and foreign to us. The person we are talking to is so different from us that it's amazing that we get anything through.

I am not feeling particularly coherent today. But I suppose that it all sums up to the question I keep asking myself recently: when being adressed by someone, what is the stuff that truth is made of? Will we ever see beyond and underneath the words we hear or read and discover their true meaning? Will we ever be able to decipher one's nature just by hearing their words, or is the Other lost in translation?

On the precipice

2009-05-04T19:12:00.002+02:00

I don't advise
And I don't criticise...

It's all a matter of choice. To do, not to do... There's really no way in between. You sit on the brink and you look down and you feel you need to jump. The deep fall gives you the irresistable urge to take the plunge. It's calling you and practically drawing you in.

Strange though the way temptation works. You discover desires you never thought you had and they're drawing you into their abysses... And you're not ready for them. You may be ready for smaller temptations, but not for the ones that require the plunge. You may think it won't happen to you, you may think you know how to handle it...but you really don't.

You stand there, alone with that one terrible urge to dive, to fall into the void. Ever calling, ever tempting you. Your feet are at the very brink, on the sheer face of a cliff and you're looking down. Beneath, a fall so deep that your head starts spinning...

I return. After almost taking the fatal step into a chasm there's no coming out of, I take to the road again. People along the way are standing at the very brink, as I have, looking longingly down. I know what's calling them there... It's their greatest fear and their great desire. Stretching out its arms that lead only into the void of regret and sorrow, after short-lived bliss. There they stand on the edge of a fall, being given the choice: dive or turn your back.

I walk behind them, looking, trying to understand them through the eyes that gazed down the precipice. The pain of walking away from that plunge is so intense that you feel the need to run back and jump headfirst if the call is sounded again. It tears you apart until you're breathless and you can't think of anything else.

But once you walk away, the call is not being spoken again. Once you turn your back, the outstreching arms of that void that promised a second of bliss are retracted. Then you feel the need to crawl back and ask for forgiveness and promise to jump. But then it's too late, for your choice has been made: it was NO.
The way is shut now. Your only choice is to take to the road again and follow it on the track that's been laid for you.

Taking a turn of the road, I watch them falter at the brink of the abyss. I have made my choice. I almost plunged. Almost. I look at them and wonder: what will they say? Will I see one take a step and then be no more?

I can't go to them. Touching their shoulder to say "it's allright, I've been here, it's not so bad" may accidentally push them over.

The road turns. The abyss is out of sight, yet I feel lighter and more elated. I haven't taken the plunge.

2009-01-27T20:04:00.002+01:00

Dupa multa vreme...

Suntem niste fiinte ciudate. Imi vin in minte o gramada de vorbe "nu da (nume de pasare) din mana pentru (nume de pasare) de pe gard"...

Cand avem optiunea A si optiunea B, si B evident nu e buna, de ce ne-o mai dorim? De ce ne dorim totusi cioara aia de pe gard, cand tinem o privighetoare in mana?
De ce aruncam lucrurile frumoase pe care le avem pentru un ideal? Si cand idealul ala cade, de ce ne mai agatam de el?

Suntem atat de interesanti... "nu sta cu fundul in doua luntri". Si totusi stam. Desi stim ca nu poate dura vesnic, si rezultatul e totdeauna inecul, totusi o facem. Ne hranim cu iluzia ca poate la noi se poate. Ca poate noi, mari alesi ai Fortunei, putem face ceva ce nu se poate face. Si prelungim agonia, calcand in fiecare luntre si miscand-o. Ne dezechilibram...stam sa ne inecam. Si totusi, incercam...

Cand pasarea de pe gard are o mana care o tine? Cand stii ca mana aia nu iti apartine? Si nici pasarea nu iti poate apartine? De ce o mai doresti? De ce iti pare mai frumoasa decat este?

Prelungim constient o agonie a carei sfarsit il stim si nu ne place. Ne pierdem in cuvinte, in vise, in planuri care nu se vor indeplini...si totusi continuam.

Cand pasarea de pe gard te cheama? Te uiti la pasarea din mana ta si te intrebi, oare, cum ar fi daca ar chema si ea alta mana? Nu.... Cantecul altei pasari te face sa uiti. Sa uiti ca ai si tu o pasare in mana, sa uiti ca si ea e tinuta de alta mana.

Cand toate semnele iti spun ca trebuie sa scapi, sa stai intr-o luntre, cand echilibrul ti se scutura, de ce nu-l asculti? Cand semne mici, pe care le observi doar prea tarziu sau pe care inca nu le-ai inteles iti spun "pleaca", de ce nu asculti?

Suntem oare prea obisnuiti sa vedem raftul plin de bunatati si sa ne alegem cate una din fiecare, incat sa nu ne dam seama ca in realitate nu putem face la fel? Avem toata viata raftul in fata, dar intelegem ca doar un lucru de pe raftul ala este al nostru, si ce vedem noi sunt toate lucrurile pe care le vor alege si altii? Credem, oare, ca suntem scutiti de alegerea acelui lucru care este doar al nostru?

Astazi vorbeam cu un "fellow junkie" al drogului meu. Imi spunea ca toti suntem animale, "diferenta e de ratiune". Te contrazic, fellow sinner. Suntem niste animale. Vrem sa devoram tot ce vedem. Daca am fi fiintele rationale care spui ca suntem, am tine privighetoarea din mana si am intoarce spatele pasarii tinute de alta mana, care ne canta pe gard.

Surioaro, suntem niste masochiste...si niste masochisti. Si ne place.
Hai sa ne inecam....

2008-12-18T18:36:00.002+01:00

http://www.adevarul.ro/articole/baiatul-cu-auz-absolut-la-primul-sau-concert.html

Teodor Rădulescu va împărţi scena cu nume mari ale muzicii româneşti. Deşi are doar şase ani şi este nevăzător, copilul are auzul extrem de dezvoltat şi interpretează la perfecţie orice notă sau combinaţie de note.

Mda...copilul minune. Intamplator il stii, si mi-ai dat linkul catre articol. Prima reactie " wow, ce tare, la 6 ani pe scena la Opera"...si apoi da, mi-ai amintit. Copilul-clovn. Copilul folosit sa distreze anturajul.

N-am ajuns aici, dar sunt convinsa ca nici nu-mi doream. Tot clampanitul ala a devenit o placere doar tarziu. Pana atunci, erau zile in care statea cineva langa mine, cu eternul "exerseaza! De ce nu exersezi?". Era oroarea cand ma apropiam de instrumentul ala maro si monstruos, stiind ca iarasi pun partiturile pe el, iarasi ma pozitionez pe scaun, iara tin mainile "ca si cum as tine o minge de tenis", si iarasi balbai o insiruire de note care la un moment dat ar trebui sa dea muzica.

Apoi, interpretarea: "Canta Fur Elise....Canta Randunica...Canta Ave Maria...Canta Balada (oh, oroarea ororilor! Balade Pour Adeline!)". Eternele si repetitivele teme... N-aveai sanse cu Sonata lunii (e plictisitoare), sau cu un vals de Chopin (mai bine canta Fur Elise) sau cu vreo ciudatenie de sonatina/sonata necunoscuta. Nu...nu erau melodiile romantioase si celebre de pe gramezile de casete cu Clayderman (alt copil-minune care a ajuns sa izbeasca in saracele piane, fara pic de simt).

Am ajuns sa blestem gusturile formate pe dulcegariile romantioase ale lui Iglesias, Dean Martin, Boney M, Abba si ce alte cretinatati mai ascultau pe cand eram copil.

Schema clasica: musafiri, mancare...la sfarsit, incercam sa fug. "Nu ne canti ceva?" (in gandul meu: "Nu! By God, nu!"). Ridicat de la masa...pus scaunul in fata pianului: Balada, Fur Elise, Ave Maria, Randunica...dupa ele, "canta altceva"... am incercat, serios: Sonata Lunii, un vals de Chopin...nu...nimic. "Aplauze" de politete. "Mai canta odata Fur Elise".

So? Run while you can? Nu...nu poti. Nici macar 3-4-5 scene repetate in fata musafirilor, de genul "NU AM CHEF!" nu merg...Nu e fun, cand fun-ul devine obligatie.

***

Cand m-am lasat? in 2005 cred. De atunci m-am mutat in camera mai mare, unde si era pianul. Cica sa pot canta fara sa ma auda nimeni. Aiurea...Haven't touched the damned thing since. Sta frumos, aranjat in coltul din spatele usii. Pe el, 3 suporturi de lumanari, o poza, din cand in cand o vaza, eternul macrameu...si un scaun in fata. Atat. O mobila. Cand ma asez in fata ei, nu mai vad nimic. Doar "canta Fur Elise...etc".
Va mai curge multa apa pe Bega pana acel instrument va inceta sa devina o simpla mobila si va fi, poate, din nou, fun.
Dar atunci, fara musafiri, fara "canta Fur Elise", fara dedicatii (nu sunt Europa FM, ce dracu), fara public, doar eu cu mobila. Atunci se va putea sta de vorba cu mobila. Si atunci mobila va spune doar ce vreau eu.

Arhiva

2008-12-18T17:35:00.003+01:00

Wow...first entry.

Probabil inca o chestie de care ma apuc, ma pun sa scriu, si ma las de ea dupa vreo doua saptamani pentru ca nu mai e fun si devine obligatie. Ca si caietele din pod.

Cica acu e momentul pentru cuvintele alea mari, de inceput, de o motivare a existentei unui colt de net pe care ma exprim. Pe naiba. Habar n-am ce discurs sa scriu.

Si nu, nu incep cu prezentari de genul: sunt X, am tz ani, locuiesc in....irelevant, cum ar zice un mare jucator in viata.

Probabil loc bun pentru a vorbi singur, pentru a fi "in rand cu lumea" (moama, uite am si io blog!), sau o pasiune de moment. Da, stiu. Am "imprumutat" mania asta de a pastra toate discutiile, de a arhiva tot ce imi trece prin fata (de data asta, si prin cap), de la cineva... Hai sa punem in cutiuta, punem capacul, inchidem lacatelul si punem bine la pastrare. Pentru ca altfel uitam. Da...arhiva de poze, arhiva de messenger, arhiva de mesaje, arhive peste arhive de discutii si evenimente peste care nu voi mai trece cu privirea niciodata. Dar e bine sa le stiu "acolo". Ca stau bine, si ca inca exista.

Da, de aia. Arhiva. Ca sa nu uit. Pentru ca nu-i asa...parafrazez un mare cliseu existent "uit, dar nu iert". Dap. Uit. Dar e bine sa stiu ca mai e pe undeva o arhiva, ca sa-mi amintesc.

O data, niste litere, frumos, pe raft. Well, let's get going.