My parents are insane - The Chronicles Chapter VII

PASSION

A great pop culture character, Angel, once said: “Passion is the source of our finest moment, the joy of love, the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace but we would be hollow. Without passion we’d be truly dead.”

I might have had a revelation today. Ok, I admit, I’m always having revelations but this one is a good one.

I always thought that my mother not being permissive enough had me develop only bad traits and for the majority is true. I have a bad temper because of her, I don’t really like mushy stuff because of her, I don’t really know how to say I love you and not feel fucking awkward. And by the by, the fact that I AM in fact telling some people that I love them is a huge fucking deal and I, most of the time, hold back from puking afterwards, so yes, be proud, you’ve earned it.

I was wrong about my mother; I actually have a lot to thank her for.

Let me tell you why.

I have a LOT of passions. I love music more than I loved any human being EVER, I love to hear the emotions that some other person felt when writing down some lyrics, or just playing around with their guitar. A freaking iconic song (which slips my mind at the moment ) was written when the guitarist of that band was playing around in the studio, it’s just fucking amazing how something so huge can come out of just jerking off in the coffee break. Freaking NIRVANA wrote the song that consecrated them based on a joke, when a chick said that Cobain “smelled like teen spirit”(which was a ladies perfume). That’s either brilliance or it’s faith and out of the two, I don’t know what I’d pick.

I LOVE drawing, I’d spend hours just doodling away. I don’t even care what it is, it could be potatoes with arms, it could be the next Starry Night as long as something comes out of my hands, I’m a happy camper. It’s true, I don’t do that anymore….now I play Candy Crush. I guess you can call that “creating something”, I’m creating a void in my head so I won’t think about the fact that I actually stopped creating shit.

I LOVE to read. For a “hater” like me reading is the best thing that could ever happen. It gets you out of this universe and then anything is possible. You get to go inside of another person’s mind without using black magic or science, you flip the page and there you are, reading their thoughts, feeling their moves, speaking their language, living their lives. You can even talk for two or three people at a time and sometimes the only one who can experience their grief, it’s you and that gives you a sense of power, you’re absolute. In slang terms you’re just too fucking awesome.

When I was little my mom was always smacking me for not writing the lesson down in class, I would, instead, just draw. I was listening to what the teachers were saying but all my notebooks would read the date, the title, a couple of lines and then just flowers and dresses and hands and attempts at portraits. So every time I would come home from school with such a page she’d just smack me around a little. “How can you do this? Look, your classmate, Georgica is writing everything down.” Despite the fact that he was writing everything down, Georgica was left behind a year so that wasn’t the best policy for passing your classes. HA! Take that, mum. Of course I had a little anarchy in me since I can remember so, naturally I was inclined to not even write the date anymore instead just draw some more.

 I had a pair of jeans that were ripped, at one point, I’ve just discovered punk and loved it because it was nothing like britney spears or n’sync (and yes, I’m just gonna write the names without capital letters because they don’t deserve it). I would wear them every day for about a year, summer, winter, -20 degrees; my knees would be just hanging out, breathing fresh air. So she gets mad at one point and throws away my noise making army boots, my leather jacket AND cuts my pants in half. I was so mad I wouldn’t come out of my room for a week that summer. She eventually smashed my mixed tape; that got me out of the house because I had to make a new one and of course listen even louder.

I was in eighth grade and just gotten my hands on Shakespeare, it was so intricate that I had to read Hamlet three times so I could truly understand what was going on. The fact is that Hamlet was not in the curriculum and I had to prepare for the last exam. Instead I was sitting in the middle of the bed, at 7 in the morning reading Shakespeare and my mother comes in, very upset saying things like “you should be getting dressed, you have to be at school in half an hour and you’re sitting here reading crap.” Crap, yes, she called Shakespeare “crap”.

I was never the child she wanted me to be. I was never perfect and I never did anything on time. I also never did, or said, or dressed like the norms of society dictates us and that killed her.  Maybe she just didn’t want me to suffer if I would be seen as an outcast or maybe she was jealous at my free spirited nature.  But by her denying me all those things I think she drove me to developing passions for amazingly beautiful thing and now they’re in there and there’s nothing she can do about.

I was talking too my workmate today and after I had a huge rant about a song I asked her “what passion drives you anyway?” and she answered “none.” And then I’ve waited, maybe it was something there, something buried deep, something that would make her want to cry or giggle at the thought of, but there was nothing and I felt so sad for her because she might never know what it means to go through and emotional rollercoaster every time you hear your favorite song or watch your favorite movie. She might never now the anger when you can’t draw the other eye or the joy when everything is perfect. She might never understand the itch in your fingers when you want to write something or draw something and you don’t have a pen nearby.

I asked her if anything was ever denied to her by her parents and she answered with “nothing.”

So in spite of mein mutter actually being mein furer she might have actually created in me the best trait that a human being can posses: PASSION. And for that, I thank you, mom.

Also there’s no point in this post and you’ve spent the last 10 minutes reading a crazy lady’s rant. I’ll just go buy some cats now.

A bien tot! 

My parents are insane. The chronicles Chapter VI

Dear friend,

I’m really tired talking to a machine all day long so I am going to start writing to you and pretend I have to go down to the post office and mail a letter every once in a while.

I’ve decided to talk to you about my parents who are completely mental.

I sometimes fantasize I leave to work in the morning, something really amazing happens and I just don’t come back home, ever.

Today is the 27^th of December, I had to stay home for the holydays which drove me completely insane. We stayed in because my mother decided to be mad, for no reason at all. She was mad at us, she barely spoke to me or my dad and sat in bed all day long watching TV.

I’ve gotten so used to keeping myself busy over the last three months that I came to a point of not being able to just lie in bed and watch movies and eat junk food like I used to. Which, incidentally makes me feel a lot happier than I used to be. These two days were the death of me. I was so bored I wanted to blow my brains out only so that I could scrape them off the wall and have something to do.

I made the insane mistake to remark as such in a loud voice, in the vicinity of my mother’s ears.

What came next, left me completely perplexed for at least an hour.

My mother started screaming at me “If you would’ve taken us to the mountains you wouldn’t be bored now.”

I said “Mom, why didn’t you say you wanted to go out?”  Especially since the day before I asked her if she wanted to go to the country and she refused with a barely mumbled “No.” that got me figured she was in one of her moods and just wanted to stay in.

As a response I got more yelling “Because you’re you and you would’ve said you don’t want to, or that you have stuff to do. You’re the one how should’ve said something.”

I really feel like I need to mention the fact that I’m not a mind reader. Of course if I had said something she wouldn’t have wanted to go because nothing was planned out from a day before.

So let’s see what we have until now, shall we? My mom wants everything to be perfectly planned out without her actually saying anything and when she does open her mouth is just so she can reproach to you that you didn’t do something you didn’t even know about.

Now what am I supposed to do with that new discovery except for actually blowing my brains out?

Love always,

Laura 

The pressure of the ticking clock

There are these stages in a normal girl’s life when she concentrates on certain things.

Of course the one thing her life revolves around is always going to be the opposite sex, no doubt about it. From 10 to 14 you want to be around guys so you’ll be the cool kid who’s playing football and learning how to spit. From 14 to 18 you can’t really thing about anything but guys because that’s what your hormones say. From 18 to 23 you’re having boyfriends because that’s the normal thing to do and after that RELATIONSHIPS, big scary word with a lot of intricate knots.

But what about the individual? The girl, the person?

I say 30 is the limit. The age you draw the line for drunken parties, the carefree lifestyle, the summer in Vama Veche, the art classes, the girls nights out. After that you’re just a lame old hag who wants to relive her golden days.

This is why I’ll make my friends promise they’ll never drag me to one of these shindigs after I turn 30 no matter how much I love the sea.

After 30 you climb up the social and professional ladder and start making something of yourself.

That’s how I see a modern woman.

I hate seeing twenty something girls dragging crying toddlers after them in the park when I’m there reading my book on the freshly cut grass and smoking my Lucky Strike’s blue. And I’m not saying “hate” in the sense that I pity them, but I hate their nagging glances, their judging glances or from time to time their “where did I go wrong” glances.

The judging glances come from their utter “proudness” of being a mother. Yes, kids are great. I plan of having a house full myself and I love the children at the kindergarten like they’re my own and I pain every time I skip a session cause I admire how their brains work, how creative they can be, how fear free. But gully gee, I can’t take care of myself at this age, how the hell could I take care of a kid?

Plus I’m afraid that at this stage I’d name my kids Sid and Nancy and put blue dye in their hair which would immediately end up with them in the foster system.

But is my thinking throwing me back or propelling me forward?

Every time I start up a conversation with one of my girls we end up talking about our jobs. We’re not making enough money, we’re not buying pretty things or go to cool places because we’re not making enough money, we’re not happy because we’re not buying pretty things and we turn up thinking of seeing shrinks because we’re not happy.

Shit! If I knew from the womb that the world and my own happiness will revolve around money I would’ve dropped hints to my mother to get me an Ivy fucking League education since I was 2 months old. I would’ve become a bad ass lawyer or a bank manager and all my dreams would come true.

And while we’re in the Mary-go-round our lives fly past us like they were never there.

Am I the only person in this whole God forsaken world who thinks money is not that important?

Put me in the Art Museum one day a week and I’m happy as a clam. 32. 32 fucking lei a month to be happy. Is that so hard to accomplish?

Sure, I enjoy the occasional movie, but that can be done with 0 money at home. Plus the 2 lei on the huge bag of popcorn from Kaufland that nobody can ever finish. And at home you have the advantage of talking and also not hearing the asshole next to you talking on his phone.

When did these people who think they need money to be happy just put on some Velvet Underground, lay on the floor and smoked a cigarette like is 1984?

I’m happy in the park. My God, I’m happy in the park. I like to roll down the hill in freshly cut grass or snow any time of the year.

The point is: we’re so preoccupied with living our lives in style that we forget to live our lives period.

I forget that sometimes as well and I’m sad. And I feel like I’m being rejected by society because I don’t have a grown up job, like advertising or economics, instead I play around in watercolors with kids and go to work in my ripped up jeans and my leather jacket and a book stuffed down my back pocket.

Let me tell you something about my book in my back pocket: I made a plan, with a friend who’s so obsessed with her work she sentb me home after waiting for her in the center for half a day. As I was walking back thru the park with my book and my jacket, so mad, that I have forgotten to put on my head phones, there were two kids behind me, “whispering” so loud the entire alley could hear them.

“Look at the boots, those are cool boots.” The boy said. “I like her hair.” Whispered the girl. “No you fool that’s how is in fashion these days. It’s her phone or her tablet.” Said the boy. And I understood that they were talking about the book in my back pocket. As I arrived to my favorite reading spot in the park I pulled out the item. “Awwww it’s a book, that’s cool.” The little girl exclaimed. After I sat down they passed in front of me so the boy said, as loud as he could “But she’s so beautiful.”

Yup.  That was a beautiful moment.

 And maybe I, in my own way, let my life fly past me for not getting an upstanding job or looking to get hitched but to me the little things are important and I have plenty of those. 

Do I feel pressured by the ticking clock? Yes I do, because society norms dictate that I should. Am I going to start freaking out? No I won't. 

My insomnia in too many words

I hate my brain! My brain is insane and doesn't let me sleep. I plant my head on the pillow and my arm starts itching, then my neck because I was too lazy to braid my hair so I get up and braid my fucking hair I flop around like a fish out of the water when suddenly my pillow gets too hard and bumpy. I fluff my pillow and turn around, when I turn I land on a fold in the blanket. I pull the blanket from under me and pull it on top of me but the blanket is too short and my feet are cold which means the fucking blanket is with the long part on the sides so I push it up with my legs and after a couple of minutes of tossing and turning I manage to make it right but from all that flopping around my hair gets loose and my pillow gets a case of the bumpies AGAIN!

My pillow gets a case.....case, pillow...pillow case...get it? Ha ha ha. Yeah it's 3:00 am, let me see you write a fucking coherent blog after 5 hours of not managing to go to sleep.
I fix the bloody pillow and the fucking hair. Finally...everything is in order but ooooh look the moon is soooo shiny I can see it through my drapes.
The moon...
It's not a full moon.
I love the full moon, is so mystical.
Mysticism...yeah, the best spells are performed under a full moon.
I tried to do a sell once, who the fuck didn't. It wasn't like in the movies, that much I can tell you.
Movie, movie, movie. The movie I've seen tonight was STU-PID! I love Sylvester Stallone but MY GOD he should really find another job. Jesus fucking Christ each and every one of his movies are alike.
Actually all the movies these days are alike.
The TV shows too. I mean I was watching Bones and realized Goddamn it's just like The Mentalist...and Castle, even the actresses look alike. I can never tell the difference between these girls, who the fuck is who?
I tell you I haven't seen an original episode since Regan was president.
Even Supernatural betrayed me and stole a concept from Doctor Who AND YOU THOUGHT WE WOULDN'T NOTICE! HA!
It was from the Matt Smith Doctor who.....Damn I miss David Tennant. They should make the Doctor find a way to regenerate with David's face.
Speaking of TV shows. Remember that episode from Supernatural when Sam wasn't able to sleep cause Lucifer was singing Ramble On in his head. God I wish I had Mark Pelegrino singing Ramble on, maybe I could get some sleep.
OOOOhhhh man how about the episode before that where Satan kept on talking to Sam but he wouldn't reply until he got clocked on the head. AY CARAMBA MI CABEZA! Now that was funny.
Speaking of witch: What the fuck happened to my Spanish. I distinctly remember I had a good grasp of the Mexican kind of Spanish when I was younger. Where did that go? Is there like a secret door with a super secret combination behind which you lock up all the stuff you learned and never used again?
Like in that test at that interview when I had to do math...let's just say I couldn't do math to save my life and I was pretty good in high school.
OH MY GOD! Do I remember the baggie pants I use to wear in high school? Jesus! What the fuck was I thinking? I thought I was cool...I wasn't. I was a huge giant nerd. If I were a geek in an american high school I would kick my own ass and take my lunch money.
And speaking of comic books which super power is better? Flying or invisibility? Giving the fact That I want to see the world flying seems better, but then again with the invisibility I could sneak on planes and go wherever the hell I want ON PLANES, I love planes.
I saw that documentary about my dad's uncle Paul Mitu what do you think those people thought when the plane was going down. Man I have a real life hero in my family and I never met him. That's a bummer.
Speaking of names Max Medina. Where do I know that name from and why did it pop into my head.
It's from a TV show but what TV show. Think Laura THINK!
I think it was Pretty Little Liars. Why the hell did I even watch that show.
WAIT ! NO! This Max character was a professor and the professor in Pretty Little Liars was called ...something else...that's not important. What's important right now is to sleep. UH OH! Max Medina was from Gilmore Girls.
Gilmore Girls is Dana's favorite show. What's Dana doing now? I miss her. On the other hand Sisi gets to stay in Romania so that's a good thing. Yeah, I'm happy about that.

And this goes on and on and on and on and on and ooooon and.....
until I kick the blanket off, go to the kitchen, smoke ten thousand and twenty one cigarettes, drink a bowl of coffee and start writing this blog.

My parents are insane - The Chronicles

Chapter IV - My father is insane

My dad has his bright spots. Mainly bright spots, but he's also possessing  the talent of bringing you down, hard, whenever he can and mostly when you're uber-excited about something. 

Last night I went to the Roger Waters concert, first one ever in Romania and definitely the most grandiose thing I have ever seen in my entire life, as short as it is. 

I graciously called my dad and asked him if he can come pick me up from Universitate once the show ended. He accepted, huffing and puffing, but he accepted none the less. 

I started telling him how obscenely big the whole thing was, how those people built a wall during the concert and how it came crumbling down at the end. How the puppets, huge, as huge as the stage, were so life like and how impressed I was, how I cried during a guitar solo, how the guitarist made his guitar sob and yell, like it was in pain, like it was crying for every living soul that was ever hurt by hatred and racism and all the crap that's going on, on this God forsaken planet of ours. 

How every minute of that show meant something to all of us. A moment of freedom, a moment of awe, a lifetime of misunderstanding taken away by a single note because everybody in that place was on the same wavelength as you and you realized you're not alone, you're not a freak for not wanting to fall in line. 

I started explaining all that with so much passion, with so much consideration for the people who worked at that whole damn show and all my dad could say was: „American idiocracy.”

My whole feeling of belonging, of feeling complete and contempt for the first time in my life came crashing down, just like that wall at the end of the show. I've built a an imposing, magnificent edifice during the show and after my father's words everything that was left of it, was a pile of cracked bricks and red dust. 

Parents, man, parents!

My parents are insane - The Chronicles

Chapter III

As you may have gotten used to it by now, my mother is insane.

Most recently, she found out that I was going to the sea with my friends.

As she is in her mid life crisis, the insane idea of dyeing without doing certain thing is seared into her brain. I tried to keep it a secret, God how I tried, but somehow it just came out and now she want to tag along. I should mention that the people I’m going with are two lovely girls, my age and we are planning to live in a tent for a week and feed ourselves with alcohol, like normal young, stupid people that we are.

Now, that I told her I’d rather not having her along, criticizing my every move she’s gone mental.

 “You didn’t even think about me! I tell you, that’s our punishment for taking you to the beach so many times when you were little. You went ahead and did this to me without even thinking  << she’s really suffering for not being able to see the sea this year>>” and so it went on, and on, and on, and….

Now I’m asking you: what 25 year old, in its right mind would take their mom at the beach, alongside their friends?

Is that a valid question? I’d say so.

She insisted I go to Greece with her in September. She fucking insisted, after I said NO so many times I was left without a breath.

Every time I wanted to go somewhere or do something and I didn’t have someone to do it with she’d say “Go alone.” That’s what I told her about Greece and then she went postal, again.

There’s no real reason to quote all the stupid things she said after I made that grave and regrettable mistake, except that now, she’s telling me that my dad didn’t want to go so I could go.

BULL HOKEY! My dad said he doesn’t want to go because there are too many old folk on that trip and he fucking hates them.

I want to be honest with y’all. My mother never liked me too much. She had no idea how to raise me.

Maybe because of the way things were back then, maybe she just practiced what she learned in her own family.

My mother never wanted to know what I want, what I’m capable of, what I can do with my own to hands. How talented I am or how athletic I used to be. All she wanted was an improved version of herself, disregarding the human being.

I think that now, my mother is seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and she realized that she never really listened to me, she never actually wanted me around and now she’s trying to make up for lost time.

I say TOO BLOODY LATE, MOM! This ship has ….. well, now sailed per se, but at least ripped up the rope that was holding it tied to the dock.

I hate being angry at my mom. I always feel guilty and then more angry.

I might’ve said too much.

Interrupting transmission …..

My parents are insane - The Chronicles

Foreword

There isn't one person in the whole wide world who didn't said at least once “my mother is insane”. My mother instead is especially insane, and to prove that I’ve decided to document every act of insanity that may come up along the road and part them into tinny tiny insane chapters. 

Let me tell you something about my mother.

She likes to shop. I mean Rachel Green, Miranda Priestly and that girl from The confessions of a Shopaholic have nothing on my mother –except that they wear nice, designer clothes and she just buys for the sake of spending money. My mother does volunteering work but not for the right reasons. When people do volunteering work, they do it so they can help other people or animals or simply out of passion. My mom does it because the uniform looks nice and they let her out of paying the mortgage on the house. 

My mother worked with her hands ever since she was in dippers. She believes that writing or drawing is not work and that her only child can do that AFTER she has kids and basically dies inside.

CHAPTER 1

I’m twenty somewhat years and I still can’t say “NO” to my parents. Last year I went to the beach with some friend for a week. I was positively sure that in September I’ll have to go back with my parents because we seem to be tied in some strange way all together and they simply can’t do anything without me. 

On my way back I used the air conditioning in my car, struck by heat and exhaustion a little cold invaded my body and the next day I was feeling like crap on a stick. I was having high fever, sore muscled, I was shivering like a leaf in the Canadian wind, my eyes were runny, my nose was runny, my throat hurt and I had a headache the size of Russia.  I asked my mother if she could go get me some medicine for my cold to which she replied: “You’re feeling bad? Really? Well imagine how bad I felt when you went to the beach without me! Go get your own medicine!”

Needless to say that I went, I got and I got back on all four . 

So that’s one chapter in the “My mom is insane - The chronicles” book.

How I work

I don't really know how other people's lives work but my shit life, that's another story.
There are four stages of life for me. The "sitting and waiting", the "doing shit i love for free", the "working" and last but not least the "everything goes south, crushing and burning". There are glimmers of hope when one more stage comes up and that is the "doing sports". This particular stage of life is temporary and most often seasonal but it cheers me up none the less.
Please observe that I do not have the "laying back and relaxing" stage because I always have a stick up my ass. And not in a good way.
Now I'll talk about each and every one cause I'm bored and I want to bore the crap out of you people as well:

-The sitting and waiting stage looks a lot like today. I sit at my computer, I look up shit to post on a Facebook page and wait for the divine to come down from the sky, lay his pervy hands on me and make me into a rock star. Or at least an assistant manager, we really can't afford to be picky here.

- The doing shit I love for free stage is when I'm drawing for the sheer pleasure of drawing, volunteering or watching a movie. Since I've never encountered someone who is payed to watch movies (rather than watch movies and write about them later) I am going to take the time and space on paper to express my anger towards the fact that no one is paying me for drawing (cause I'm stubborn and I don't want to learn computer graphics because I thing is impersonal and cold and lifeless) or for my volunteering, which by definition it's work without payment, except the moral and satisfactory kind. This stage has weed-like effects since while I'm working i feel free and happy and at the end I want to throw up cause I'm still broke and one day short on my way to immortality.

-The working stage is made of moral satisfaction as well since the money that I do earn can be up to, and including buttons or pumpkin seeds. Since I work at a kindergarten the kids saying "I love you" sometimes is just payment enough.

- I say sometimes because the  everything goes south, crushing and burning  stage is the most cruel and one can only sit back and watch things fall apart. This particular stage of life is that time of year when nothing works, everything brakes down, your bills come to pass, the car insurance expires, you have no more gas, the internet needs to be payed and even God puts on a pair of headphones and acts like a child, turning his back and humming, instead of listening. Of course I don't believe in God so all that shit comes poring down on me because I'm the only one who has the power to make thing better and that kinda overwhelms me.

- The periodical doing sports stage is active mostly in the winter and summer when I can go to the skating rink or the pool, depends on the weather conditions. Also the crushing and burning stage reappears because i don't quite have the material means to go to the skating rink and the swimming pool.

Life is funny, ain't it?

Prostimea noii generatii intre mit si realitate

Am avut neplacearea sa dau peste aceasta minunata fotografie, insotita de un cometariu la fel de minunat:

"Copii din ziua de azi au luat o razna... Si cand ma gandesc ca ei o sa mi plateasca mie pensia..Se duce tara asta de rapa..I au prostit internetul."

Asta zic si eu dar sa stii ca nu-i asa.
Generatia tanara intoteauna a avut merelei ei stricate doar ca nu au fost atat de publice. Acum ca avem postari pe FB si twitter, tot felul de poze traznite publicate pe "wall"-uri sunt acolo sa le vada o lume intreaba si d-aia avem impresia ca generatia tanara e prosta dar noi la randul nostru am fost judecati de cei mai mari decat noi pentru ca ne placea un anumit fel de muzica si o anumita vestimentatie, parintii nostii la randul lor au fost priviti cu acelasi ochi critic de parintii lor, hipiotii erau priviti drept niste drogati care nu aveau nici un scop in viata doar pentru ca cei care criticau nu stiau de unde vine miscarea si ce inseamna, punkerii erau vazuti ca niste infractori fara sa se ia in considerarea ceea ce insemna la baza anarhia.
Nu spun ca poza asta e o dovada de rebeluine care are la radacini o influenta sociala sau o miscare revolutionara viitoare dar pentru numele lui dumnezeu nu mai spuneti ca sunt prosti pentru ca o sa creada in chestia asta si o sa se resemneze. 
In loc sa ne vaitam ar trebui sa facem ceva pentru ei, sa ii invatam cum sa imbine minunata asta lume virtuala in care vrem nu vrem, ne aflam, cu cunostinte, cum sa exploateze internetul pentru a afla ce inseamna muzica buna, sa nu-i mai incurajam sa se dezmete in halul asta ...si vrei sa recunosti sau nu si in timpul nostru bluzele cu buricul gol si maneci foarte lungi erau la fel de constroversate cum este acum machiajul excesiv la fetite de 13 ani. Dar noi am crescut din asta, si multi dintre noi sunt acum pe o cale buna, multi stiu cine e tolstoi si kerouac, churchil, mousolini si familia romanov, mozart si metallica ...tot ce trebuie sa facem e ca noi, cei care suntem modelele lor sa incetam sa admiram mondenitati cum ar fi kim kardasian si paris hilton sau sa dam in plina zi la televizor videclipuri in care rihanna, o fetita de 24 de ani, apare in sanii goi, si trage K pe nas. 



 Nu e vina lor, e vina noastra

Arta pentru tehnologie

Si-am trecut pe la Muzeul de Arta unde in urma cu vreo trei-patru saptamani mi-am gasit locul. Puteam sa jur cu mana pe Sfanta Biblie ca acolo e locul de care apartin. Dupa trei ore de holbat la tablouri am iesit afara intr-un aer relativ curat, sub bataia calda a razelor unui soare de toamna si tot ce voiam era sa ma dezintegrez si sa ma imprastii in aerul din muzeu unde, sub forma de praf as fi putut sa ma asez pe picturi ca sa pot traii vesnic in mediul ala, in cladirea aia mai mult decat incredibila.

Si totusi, cu chiu cu vai, m-am urcat din nou pe bicicleta cu care venisem la muzeu si-am plecat. Tot drumul inapoi spre casa am avut in fata ochilor cabinetul de grafica, in special o lucrare de-un metru patrat , poate mai mare, pe care o sa evit sa o descriu pentru ca niste cuvinte adunate laolalta nu o sa-i faca dreptate sub nicio forma.

Am trecut peste starea mea de reverie, cel mai probabil nu definitiv, si mi-am continuat viata si activitatile zilnice.

In urma cu doar cateva zile m-a rugat mama sa-i duc niste bani la Apa Nova ( rugat sub forma “Du-mi niste bani la Apa Nova”). M-am conformat, am incalecat pe bicicleta si-am pedalat pana la Apa Nova care se afla in zona Sala Palatului.

Mare mi-a fost surpriza cand am trecut pe langa Muzeul de Arta si-am vazut niste panouri care intruchipau nu altceva decat ….(drum roll please)…. coduri QR! In spatele carora se aflau cel mai probabil niste lucrari artistice, n-am stat nici doua minute sa admir porcaria.

Norocul meu, zic eu, ca ma uitam o data la CSI-NY si au avut aia un caz in care au scanat un patratel d-ala cu telefonul, de unde mi-a ramas in cap ca trebuie scanat cu telefonul; asta era singura informatie pe care o aveam referitor la aceste minutnate coduri, dupa care am venit acasa, am cautat despre ce e vorba, am aflat ca sa numesc “coduri QR” si ca pot fi scanate cu telefon/tableta sau  PDA (whatever that shit is) si aplicatia care iti permite sa scanezi recte coduri este, fireste pentru android in consecinta “NO SMART-PHONE, NO ART!”   

In principiu am crezut ca ma enerveaza situatia aste pentru ca n-am eu parte de un smart-phone, apoi m-am uitat la aparatul care-si joaca rolul de telefon mobil din buzunarul meu si m-am gandit ca-i mai mult decat sufficient apoi mi-am dat seama ca problema nu-u la mine, problema e la restul lumii.

CUM sa-ti traiesti viata intr-un telefon? CUM sa renunti sa emotia pe care o ai atunci cand te uiti la un tablou pe viu doar ca sa il scanezi cu telefonul? Scanezi cu telefonul, ma jur, chestia asta devine din ce in ce mai ridicola pe masura ce-o repet. Si CUM un eveniment care se vrea cultural isi poate permite sa faca o astfel de discriminare in randul iubitorilor de arta? 

Poate ca m-am nascut in epoca gresita, cine stie. Ma simt indignata atunci cand mama nu stie sa salveze un numar in mobil pentru ca sunt lucruri care mi-au intrat in reflex. Daca stiu sa operez cat de cat tehnologia asta nu inseamna ca o imbratisez. As da orice sa scriu randurile astea pe o foaie de hartie, cu un creion hodorogit as da orice sa trec pe langa Muzeul de Arta si sa vad pe gard lucrari ale unor tineri artisti care n-au avut pana acum sansa sa se afirme. 

Avem locatii si avem posibilitati sa punem in ochiul public arta si alegem sa-o facem intr-un mod atat de discriminatoriu.

The powers of the universe don't want me to drink coffee in the morning

This is the second time I try to make coffee and everything goes to bloody hell.
The first time the equation was simple, no coffee in the coffee box, no coffee in my mug.
This time instead there was a lot of coffee in the coffee box and sugar and water but no gas and so my brain had the brilliant idea to microwave the damn coffee. I poured the composition from the kettle into a mug and shoved it into the microwave, I even put a small plate on top of the mug, for good measure and waited.
When I got it out all that water and coffee was just that, warm water and coffee, not the sweet nectar of love in the morning. So I shoved it's muggy ass back into the microwave and a few seconds later all hell broke loose.
My brilliant idea turned so very wrong, my precious nectar of life poured out of the mug and onto the microwave's plate.
I was sad for a short moment but when i saw that there still is some coffee in the mug I jumped up and down, took it out, cleaned the plate and transferred the liquid of awakeness into another mug, cleaned the first one and now I'm drinking microwaved coffee.
Of course, with my luck I'll get cancer from the microwaves but I don't care...COFFEE

In vis mi se indeplinesc visele

Am avut cel mai ciudat vis...eram pe langa un lac, era dimineata pt ca era racoare si un pic incetosat, dar soare. Eram impreuna c-o prietena mai mult ca sigur, desi nu-mi amintesc cine sau cum o chema dar aveam sentimantul ala de mailiaritate pe care-l ai cand esti pe langa prieteni.
La un momentdat, niste avioane de lupta brazdeaza cerul, erau in formatie, gata pentru o parada sau pentru un spectacol aviatic. Erau mai mult ca sigur de culoare alba insotita de-o alta culoare dar nu-mi amintesc, as spune rosu dar nu bag mana-n foc.
Unul din avinoane aterizeaza pe apa ... o abominatie desigur, avant in vedere da erau aviaoane de lupta dar treaca de la mine.
Ma arunc in apa spunand ca e singura mea ocazie sa pun mana pe-o astfel de masinarie, ma agat de aripa si ajungem amandoi la mal.
Acolo astepta nu altul decat....... Stephen Hawking!!!!! Care era si el la randul lui, foarte vesel sa vada avionul.
"Nu pot sa cred ca am pus mana pe-un avion d-asta!" am exclamat eu plina de entuziasm la care prietena mea m-a corectat spunand "Nu pot sa cred ca am atins acelasi avion pe care l-a atins si Stephen Hawking!"



Si m-am trezit!

Hook-Man in my closet.

Exista intamplari si intamplari pe care, fie ca vreau sau nu, le repet la nesfarsit, insa fara sa le scriu pe blog ori pentru ca uit, ori pentru ca sunt mediocre ori pentru ca sunt prea scurte dar cum intamplarea asta a fost momentul in care mi s-a orit inima pentru o secunda, si dupa cum veti citi in continuare, aparent si creierul, am zis ca e nevoie sa-o postez.

Intamplarea apare in dialogurile mele ori de cate ori e adus in discutie subiectul filme de groaza. Cine a vazut “I know what you did last summer” poate sa spuna ca e un “chick-flick with a twist”. Nimic serios, doar un criminal in serie pornit pe razbunare, al carui sport preferat este tachinarea victimelor sale.

Cum televiziunea noastra draga n-a mai dat un film nou de un deceniu, ci din contra, pare ca le reia la nesfarsit pe cele vechi, diferenta n-a facut nici antena 1 intr-o seara frumoasa de vara, cand a reluat acest film minunat.

Neavand alte optiuni am decis sa raman pe program asa ca am trecut cu curaj si indrazneala si de prima serie de reclame, apoi a doua serie de reclame si chiar si a treia, a patra serie de reclame a lasat filmul suspendat la partea in care criminalul se ascunde in dulapul lui Sarah Michelle Gellar, asteapta pana aceasta adoarme pentru ca mai apoi sa-i cioparteasca minunatul par si sa il decoreze cu coronita de “regina a balului” pe care aceasta o primise cu un an in urma la terminarea liceului, si pe care trebuia s-o poarte ziua urmatoare intr-o parada.

Am inchis curajoasa televizorul criticand personajul si gandindu-ma ca e absolut imposibil sa existe cineva la tine in dulap si sa nu-ti dai seama. Razand pe infundate si visand la “ce-ar fi daca…” m-a furat incetul cu incetul somnul si-am dormit.

Am dormit pana ce, in mijlocul noptii aud un “hodoronc – tronc” venind dispre dulap, o busitura teribila si terifianta.

Crezand ca inca mai dorm si ca ce-am auzit a fost un vis provocat de film am horatat sa ma intorc la somn. Si totusi sunetul pe care il auzisem nu-mi dadea pace, memoria si senzatia de groaza pe care o primisem atunci cand bufnitura cu pricina mi-a tulburat somnul nu ma lasa sa mi-l reiau asa ca am hotarat sa ma intorc cu fata la sifonier si “OROARE!” , usile erau intre deschise, doar atat incat sa vad o bezna de nedescris inauntru. Atunci, in momentul ala mi s-a oprit inima si-am facut analogia la filmul pe care tocmai il vazusem. Pentru un moment mi-a fost frica pentru viata mea, pentru viitorul pletelor mele si pentru posibilitatea de-a avea un criminal in serie ascuns in sifonier. Doar pentru un moment am trait dintr-un scenariu de film si pot sa spun ca n-a fost deloc placut.

Am hotarat sa-mi infrunt soarta , gestul meu constand in a-mi targe patura peste cap si sa a spera ca n-a observant ca m-am trezit si ca se va multumi doar cu a-mi taia parul si-am instala o coronita pe cap dar dupa cateva moment de gandire m-am horatat ca n-am sa dorm in aceeasi camera cu un criminal in serie chiar daca acesta se ascunde la mine in dulap asa ca m-am ridicat, am aprins in fuga lumina si m-am dus s-o trezesc pe mama.

Povestea culmineaza cu mama injurand pe jumatate adormita si deschizandu-mi usile de la sifonier doar ca sa ajung la concluzia ca bara tranzversala de care erau agatate toate umerasele, cedase intr-unul din capete iar gramada de haine, in cadere, a creeat o bula de aer care a impins usile sifonierului, usi care, fireste, nu erau incuiate.

Am incuiat usile, am multumit cerului, am injurat scenaristul si regizorul filmului si am dormit ca un bebelus pana a doua zi dimineata.

THE END