Silent outrage towards love and desire

Pursuing my recent fucking studies on human fucking motivation, the freedom of fucking  choice and the basis understandings on people’s ability to create the fucking life they want to live, I found myself at a fucking crossroad where I got stuck.

I went deep into the fucking  Buddhist and Christian approach toward life and happiness in order to unravel the fucking mysteries that put the human beings in the state of bliss and happiness they long for.

The one fucking thing that outraged me is the fucking paradox in the following principles that I’m about to  expose. 

On one hand Christianity gives the answer to God in LOVE.

Let’s talk about that.

LOVE.

Fucking LOVE.

What the hell is love if not DESIRE? There is no love for dirt as there is no desire for dirt. There is no love for cruelty as there is no desire for cruelty. There is no love for atrocity as there is no desire for atrocity. YET these undesirable things still fucking exist even though nobody fucking desires them.

DESIRE.

Fucking DESIRE.

It is said that all suffering lies in desire. So  if  love is desire and all suffering lies in desire, then all suffering lies in love. So there goes right out the fucking window the Christian answer to God and joy.

Joy doesn’t equal suffering.

And one can easily make the difference between the times he was celebrating and dancing and the times when he was trying to whipe off his tears while getting up off the fucking floor.

On the other hand, the fucking Buddhists have the approach of no attachment towards life related things. 

No attachment equals the non-existence of love.

It is quite simple: if you don’t desire anything then you don’t love anything and you don’t suffer.

But isn’t this no-love of anything the trait of depression?

In medical terms, the lack of love and desire for anything is translated in deep depression which is considered as a serious illness and should be taken care of seriously.  My arguments are valid and practical, as it is impossible to live a desireless life: it would mean that any creation of God in this world is not good enough in order to rise desire.

I’m outraged.

The Buddhists are fucking stupid. Fuck the Buddhists!

The Christians are fucking stupid. Fuck the Christians!

Basically fuck everybody.

Fuck love. And fuck desire.

YET… there is another principle which says: the starting point of all achievement is DESIRE.

So basically we’re doomed to head nowhere but on the road of inevitable suffering if we dare to desire anything.

And we will.

Take a look at the visions in your mind. How many of them do you think you will accomplish? And in what time? Rest assured my friend that you will change your mind a lot of times before you will accomplish them, you will rearrange your plans and never finish most of the goals you set for yourself.

I’m still searching for fucking answers and so far nobody has provided anything worth taking into account.

4th of July - final part. Sting.

Skip...skip...skip to that rainy evening.

I could have writen some long, heartfelt story here, a story to melt even the most frozen souls, but there's no point.

We stopped the car in front of your folks house and I said: "Let' s stay here for 5 more minutes before we go upstairs."

It was raining.

The sea was a few feet away.

And then you said: "Here, listen to this song."

You turned on the player and put Practical Arrangement by Sting.

I didn't know the song.

I was blowing the smoke outside and watched the rain drops on the windshield while listening to the lyrics.

I wish with all my heart I could feel anything.

But I didn't.

You know I didn't.

And you didn't either.

How I know this? 

Easy.

I turned over and looked at you, but you were looking outside the window.

I had the feeling this was not the first time you played this song for someone.

I felt it.

Women feel stuff, mr. Love Doctor.

Women feel. You can't fake it.

If it were anything true, you would have looked in my eyes.

Many times.

Many, many times.

But you didn't.

I asked you: "Honey, are you ok?" 

"Yeah, you said, I'm just a bit melancholic from the wine" still looking away.

That was your answer.

I wish with all my heart I would have felt anything. But I didn't.

Something inside of me was whispering how the future would turn out, and that "something" was right.

As I said, I would never have the courage to say any of it to your face, so read closely the next lines: the only time I felt totally calm and at peace with us was the night I took you to my place because you forgot your keys in the mall.

You fell asleep right away in the small bed in my room.

I let you sleep there because I knew how exhausting can be to work long hours with the public and I went to bed in my sister's room.

When I got into the bathroom to take my makeup off was the ONLY time I could breath at ease because I knew you were in the safest place on Earth, in my room.

I can't describe the silence, the bliss and the peace I felt that evening.

However I wished you would wake up and come next to me.

But you didn't.

The next morning was the last day of summer and the last time I ever saw you.

So... how could I have allowed myself to feel anything when IT'S REALLY SO IMPLAUSIBLE?

Please try wining the women who will pass through your life with other songs.
Be creative.

I wish you well.

I will miss you.

4th of July - part 2

My hands were cold and sweaty and the idea of meeting the lady who brought to this world a part of my life was overwhelming even for someone who seems confident at all times.

There they were.
She was standing at the table tall and proud like a queen. She had that glow in her eyes when she saw you.

She LOVES you.
She loves you so much and that love makes her the strong woman that she is. Powerful. With that sharp look in her eyes.

I was making an effort to keep my back straight in the presence of such love and force.

Luckily enough the amazing man she is sharing her life with is a smoker too so I could drown my insecurity in chain-smoking next to him.
I am feeling thankful for all the public speaking courses and events presentations I've been through where I had to talk in front of a cold audience. It paid off, because somehow I could unswallow my tongue and carry on a decent conversation, while trying not to embarass myself or you for that matter.

Actually, if I think about it, I'm better at this than you.
Sorry, babe, that's the truth.
I'm better at it. Because I listen more than I talk.
You're just gonna have to work on that.
There, I said it :)

I remember instantly falling in love with the white furry bundle of joy that my fellow smoker showed me on his phone while you were talking to her. I can relate to animal lovers as I find a counterpoint in their care and affection for a speechless living being.
They are human.
And they love.
And more than that, they need to GIVE love.
That's the thing.
They had me.

I gotta admit that maybe the mentioning of the word "cakes" had to do something with it too, but if I were to be honest about it, I would forever be known as the girl who can be bought with cakes.
Oh, what the hell? Just bring out the chocolate and I promise I'll behave.

With the promise of a later meeting at home, we left the restaurant and you took my hand into yours as we...

TO BE CONTINUED

4th of July

"George Orwell wrote a book which  is probably his least known one but it's possibly his best book and it's called "Why I write". And he describes why he writes but he also says he thinks it applies to the majority of writers.There are four reasons he gives, and the most important and the most comprehensive one is: sheer egotism.Sheer Egotism.
The other reasons are imortality, getting back at people who put you down and trying to make the world a better place.
Samuel Johnson would not have agreed with him, he is famous for having said: "No man, but a blockhead ever wrote, but for MONEY."

Julian Friedmann - The mystery of storytelling

TedX

Since I was NEVER paid to write, that's probably the reason why I think THIS is what I do best and LOVE the most. As I see it, storytelling is my only way to see the world as a better place.

So here it goes, but before I take you on a roadtrip to the seaside, keep in mind that you're dealing with a dreamer, an idealist, a sensitive introvert who will never have the courage to look you in the eyes and say any of it to your face. The fact that my day job involves working with a lot of people and being super-extra sociable is part of my "getting out of the comfort zone" principle. I do it because I haven't yet found the way to make a living out of writing, reading and cooking in a lake house in the forest, away from the city.
I keep the picture of a lakehouse in my phone and look at it daily, hoping that one day I'll live there...


4th of July

It was the day I've been waiting for weeks.
I know you know the feeling of thrilling expectation towards a trip, a party or a date with a beautiful girl.
The thing is that I haven't had that for a while because circumstances were in such a way that I couldn't rely on anybody to plan anything so everything that happened just came along unexpectedly and I went with the flow. Yes it's fun and wild to let yourself surprised by circumstances but life isn't all sugar and daily surprises and once in a while it's reassuring to know you have control over your happiness and plan something that you know it will stop the time even for a few days or hours.

Man it was an awful weather that day... terrible.
It was the most rainy weekend the whole summer and that's when I dressed up in white, pulled the car in front of your house and waited for you to come down.
I lit up a cigarette and checked the weather: rain, rain, rain everywhere.

God damn.

When you came down you were all dressed up in white too. Sunglasses and all.
I couldn't help but laugh as outside was pouring yet you had your aviators on the nose.

What the hell, we said, let's do it anyway.
So we headed to the highway and left the grey, cold city for the seaside.

You know I love to drive. You know I love to sing. You know I love the highway and the sea and the sky.

One week before, as I was visualising exactly that: driving to the seaside with you by my side, I said to myself: "If it becomes real, I will call mom and dad, my sister and my best friend to let them know I love them." Joy and happiness are meant to be shared and what time is the best time if not when you are LIVING a dream you made a wish upon.

Damn, that was a fine drive...
The sky was turning from grey to blue above the yellow surrounded highway and we were listening to motivational speeches on youtube. It was very hipsterish but by that time all I was thinking was: "Jesus, hon, can you put some music on? I'm fuckin' falling asleep over here". Thinking about it now I smile to myself remembering the soundtrack from Conan and other old stuff you used to play while I held the wheel.

When I pulled the car in the parking lot my knees were shaking. Driving through the storm in a test-drive car from work while praying not to fuck it up isn't exactly what I had in mind when we left Bucharest.
I needed to smoke a cigarette before we went in the restaurant.

Your folks were expecting us.
Yup. It was that meeting.
As I threw the end of the cigarette on the ground and exhaled the last smoke I could actually hear the pulse in my ears.
My hands were cold and sweaty and...

TO BE CONTINUED.

Momeala

Întâmplarea următoare mi-a fost povestită de ai mei, întrucât a avut loc cu mult timp înainte ca eu să fiu în plan.

La noi în casă a fost întotdeauna un căţel: înaintea actualului patruped a fost Kid. Şi ca orice căţel de bloc era plimbat de cel puţin 3 ori pe zi: dimineaţa îl scotea mama înainte de serviciu, la prânz sor-mea când se întorcea de la şcoală iar seara tata, ca orice bărbat care înfruntă întunericul.

Prin anii ‘80 becuri pe străzi: mai rar.

Soarta face ca tata să fie nevoit să plece în delegaţie câteva zile, aşa că plimbarea de seară a câinelui revine în cârca mamei.

În noiembrie a acelui an se pripăşise prin cartier un obsedat care ataca femeile la lăsarea întunericului, prinzându-le pe străzile neluminate, în scările de bloc sau la lift.

Marga, vecina de scară şi prietena alor mei de familie avusese ghinionul să se întoarcă acasă târziu de la lucru, iar nenorocitul a prins-o în scară cu gânduri necurate. Din fericire, Marga n-a păţit nimic grav, însă a fost suficient ca frica să se instaleze în locuitorii din cartier.

Pe scurt: ora 9-10 seara, întuneric beznă pe alee. Mama iese cu Kid la ultima plimbare din zi şi singurul felinar aprins era la unul din colţurile blocului.

Pe alee pustiu.

Din întuneric apare o siluetă de femeie, mai corpolentă aşa, mai înaltă, cu o geantă pe braţ, cu tocuri şi o căciulă pe cap.

Însă mama nu îi vedea faţa.

Kid nu reacţionează de niciun fel, şi menţionez acest lucru pentru că avea obiceiul să se zburlească la orice străin dubios şi cu potenţial de rău-făcător. Ei, fiind vorba de o femeie, Kid a trecut liniştit mai departe.

În capul mamei era un semn de întrebare destul de mare: ce dracu’ căuta o femeie la ora aia, hai-hui pe străzi, la plimbare în pas agale mai ales în condiţiile ultimelor întâmplări.

Mai face doi paşi şi femeia i se adresează mamei cu o voce foarte masculină şi foarte cunoscută:

- Sărumâna, dragă! Bună Kid!

Era Vladimir, soţul Margăi, ieşit să prindă infractorul care îi atacase nevasta, într-un outfit "ademenitor".

Nu ştiu de unde făcuse rost de tocuri pentru picior de inginer, mărimea 46...

Foto: Ady Wert Photography

Incaltatorul de pantofi

(Inainte sa incep, trebuie sa mentionez ca nu am facut neaparat un pleonasm scriind ,,Incaltator de pantofi'' in titlu. Dati search pe Google ,,incaltator'' si sa nu va mirati cand o sa va apara ,,incaltator de ciorap'' si chiar ,,incaltator scarpinator''. Asadar, ca sa fie clar: e vorba de un incaltator de pantofi!)

Intr-o dupa-amiaza de mai ies ies cu bicicleta pe strazi.
Si dai si dai si dai...si dai la pedale pana la Herastrau, pe pista de biciclete din jurul parcului, pe Kiseleff.

Cu excesul de energie pe care il aveam in ultima vreme, bagasem in viteza a sasea si dadeam la pedale ca nebuna, cu muzica la maxim in casti, cand, vad ca ma apropii de una din stradutele care ies dinspre Muzeul Satului, de unde mai ies masini, de obicei.

Frana brusca! Si simt cu roata din fata mi se blocheaza si ditai bicicleta vine toata peste mine, din spate. Sar de pe sha, iau tot cadrul de fier intre picioare, simt ca vad stele verzi, ma zgarii cu pedalele si trantesc bicicleta pe jos.

Cu picioarele stranse de durere, muscandu-mi buzele sa nu urlu langa bicicleta lesinata langa mine, aud ca ma intreaba o fata: ,,Te-ai lovit? Ai patit ceva?''
Eu: ,,Nu, nu stai linistita... Sunt ok. Mi s-a blocat roata din fata, nu stiu de ce''
Las privirea in jos si ma uit la bicicleta, cand vad langa ea un incaltator de pantofi din metal.

Am uitat si de durere si de tot.

Ma aplec, il ridic, ma uit la el cu neincredere si ii zic fetei care oprise cu bicicleta langa mine: ,,Asta e un incaltator de pantofi? In mijlocul Kiseleffului?''
Ea rade si zice: ,,Aaaa, probabil de asta te-ai impiedicat. Arunca-l la gunoi sa nu se mai impiedice si altii''

Privesc cu ura incaltatorul din cauza caruia era sa-mi rup gatul si jap! in primul cos de gunoi cu el.

Ma scutur, imi ridic bicicleta, pornesc muzica si continui in acelasi stil vreo 2 ore, pana ajung acasa.

Acasa, in bucatarie, stateam cu mama de vorba la masa, cu televizorul pornit.
Deodata, il aud pe tata ca aprinde lumina pe holul de la intrare, si aud labele lui Ron lipaind pe jos, dandu-i tarcoale lui tata ca sa-l scoata afara, la plimbare.
Tata se aseaza pe cuier, sa-si puna pantofii, ca de obicei, cand, deodata il aud de pe hol: ,,Unde-i incaltatorul?''
Pauza.

Eu si mama ne oprim din vorbit. Brusc imi aduc aminte faza cu bicicleta si ma buseste rasul.
Tata vine in bucatarie si, printre sughituri de ras ii zic... ,, Em... Pai... Incalatorul e intr-un cos de gunoi pe Kiseleff''
Tata se uita la mine perplex si zice: ,,...Unde???''

Eu: ,,Intr-un cos de gunoi pe Kiseleff''

El: ,,...De ce?''

Eu:,, Pai stii... ma dadeam cu bicla... si am pus frana... si mi s-a blocat roata... si era sa-mi rup gatul, si m-am uitat pe jos si am vazut un incaltator, si din cauza lui era sa cad... si l-am aruncat la gunoi''

El: ,,Dar era incaltatorul meu!''

Eu: ,,Cum dracu' a ajuns acolo, mai tata?''

El: ,,L-am agatat sub şa! Ca il iau mai usor de acolo cand ma incalt... daca iti lasi bicicleta pe hol, e exact in fata mea.''



Nu cred ca mai e nevoie de explicatii...

La colega!

Fază veche.
De prin 2012-2013...

Marţi dimineaţă.
Pe la 7. Cred...
Îmi bâzâie pe noptieră telefonul, făcând să zdrăngăne toate mărunţişurile aruncate pe ea, fix lângă capul meu.
Mă trezesc cu palpitaţii şi ocheanele cât cepele, mă uit la ecran şi mă panichez: trebuia să rezolv urgent nuş' ce chestie importantă....din nou urgent..... să sun când mă trezesc...nu înţelegeam nimic... şi adorm!

Nu ştiu la cât mă culcasem cu o seară în urmă, probabil la o oră din aia pe care nu o recunoşti colegilor de la birou niciodată.

Vreo oră mai târziu începe să urle telefonul ălălalt, din nou zdrăngăne toată noptiera, iar palpitaţii, iar panică, iar ochii roşii.
Opresc alarma şi mă scurg din pat.
Mi-amintesc că trebuia să fac ceva urgent, să sun undeva.
Încerc să funcţionez.

Sun.

''te-ai trezit? tre' să te duci la judecătorie...acolo la sectorul 5...mai întâi la cec, apoi la poştă...timbru...să iei nu ştiu ce...treci pe la birou...am trimis pe mail, vezi acolo... repede-repede că se închide...fuuuuugi, fuuuugi!''

N-am înţeles nimic.

Decât că trebuia să fug de acasă repede-repede că se închide la judecătorie.

Am tulit-o urgent la birou, arătam ca scoasă din sac, chiaună şi bulversată.
Am luat nu ştiu ce hârtii de acolo şi am plecat cu indicaţii clare spre CEC, apoi la poştă, apoi la judecătorie.

În mod normal, tot traseul ar fi durat vreo 10-20 de minute, dar undeva pe la Spitalul Militar m-am pierdut pe străzile alea cu nume de doctori,  de i-am înjurat şi blagoslovit pân' s-a dus dracu' toată medicina undeva între ora 10 şi 11, marţi.

Ajung la judecătorie şi parchez pizdiş în ghereta unui paznic, trântesc un ''vin în 10 min'' pe spatele unui bon de benzină şi-l proptesc în geam.

Înăuntrul judecătoriei n-am fost în viaţa mea, aşa că după uşile alea mari de lemn putea fi orice.
Nici nu mi-era clar ce tre' să iau şi de unde. Vorba poveştii din cartea cu basme ruseşti: ''Du-te acolo nu-ştiu-unde, adu-mi aia nu-ştiu-ce''. Da' repede!

Înăuntru ca-n aeroport. Cu tot cu porţile alea de bipăie la brăţări şi nasturii de la blugi, cu tot cu trecut geanta la scanat, să vadă ăia pe monitor că n-am vreo mitralieră-n poşetă.

Îl întreb pe primu' paznic de unde pot să iau certificatul ăla de-mi trebuia mie. Vorba vine, că mie nu-mi trebuia nimic. Poate un sandwich.
- Păi la ce sector?
Em....
- Staţi să v-arăt.
Şi scot din geanta-mi mitralieră-free hârtiile şi i le pun sub nas.
- A, sectorul 5 domnişoară! Păi o luaţi dvs pe hol înainte, apoi la stânga şi iar la stânga şi iar la stânga şi coborâţi la subsol.

No bun, la subsol am nimerit din pur noroc şi instinct de gps incorporat la biroul care trebuia. Birou, în sensul de încăpere, cameră, că mese de birou (birouri!) erau mai multe înăuntru.
Adică vreo 5.
5 birouri  6 muieri.

Mă duc la prima de lângă uşă.
-Fiţi amabilă, un certificat d-ăsta (de care-mi trebuia mie), de unde pot să iau?
Cucoana se uită la mine de parcă o înjuram de mamă şi de tată şi de neamuri şi îi mai şi uram să-i moară câinele în chinuri şi îmi trânteşte un
- La colega...

Mă uit în jur: numa' colege!

O colegă zdravănă, de vreo 100 de kile, cu nasu-n foi bolboreseşte un ''...da' poate închideţi şi uşa că-i curent...''
Taci că asta vorbeşte cu mine!
Ea tre' să fie colega.
Închid veselă uşa şi mă duc la ea.
-Fiţi amabilă, un certificat d-ăsta (de care-mi trebuia mie), de la dvs?

Tot cu nasu-n foi, zice:
- La colega...

Mă duc la al treilea birou, unde DOUĂ colege îşi împărtăşeau cu patos secretele omenirii, întrucât pe mine mă ignorau cu desăvârşire.
Una din ele se îndură şi mă întreabă ce doresc.
Nu mă lasă inima să îi spun că îmi doresc un sandwich şi o porţie de cartofi prăjiţi lângă, să-mi vopsesc maşina şi să mai dorm vreo 4-5 ore, aşa că îi spun şi ei de certificatu' vieţii.
Şi mă întreabă:

- La ce dosar?

Aş fi vrut să-i zic ''Depinde. Ce culori aveţi?'' De unde pana mea să ştiu ce dosar?????
Îi arăt hârtiile şi-mi zice:

- Aaaaa... mergeţi la colega!

Creierii-mi fierbeau, venele mi se zbăteau...

- Doamnă, sunteţi numai colege aici. Dacă mai fac turul biroului încă odată, pe cuvânt că ameţesc şi stau prost cu glicemia în dimineaţa asta. CARE colegă?
- La colega!
Şi-mi indică o duduie care vorbea peste masă cu alt amărât care după figură părea că făcuse şi el turul biroului.
- Fiţi amabilă, un certificat d-ăsta (de care-mi trebuia mie), de la dvs?
- De la asociaţii?
- ...da...cred...da...

- Da, la mine. Aşteptaţi afară.

În creieri aveam furtună, din inimă-mi curgea venin....

Nu mă mai duc la judecătorie în viaţa mea!
A, stai.
Că după ce depun cererea tre' să vin şi chiar să iau certificatu'.

Fuck. That. Shit.