Ştii să scrii cu mână stângă?

      Tu ştii să scrii cu mână stângă?
           Ştiu, frate, te iese tot aşa, pe lângă.
      Şi cuvintele apar ciudate,
           Chiar şi dacă sunt legate...

Dar sensul lor -
         Acest miros, color,
Pe care-l transmit
         E tot acolo, potrivit.

                 Emoţiile sunt, astfel,
                         Ca şi dacă un cruel duel,
                         Atât de tare exprimate -
                 De cât în cât atât... că...
                         Nu se mai poate...
                 Dragul
                            meu
                                   frate!...

Te fac să plângi, să zâmbeşti,
-Tot aşa, măi! Dacă ştii să citeşti! -
Numai că, ca într-un vis
      (Âsta mi-a proful zis!...)

                                    Trebuie să fii mai atent,
                             Să descifrezi totul, lent
                     Ca să ajungi la sensul lor dosit,
              Ca să-nţelegi ce au povestit.

              Ş-atuncia când o reuşeşti,
                    - Şi eşti gata să zâmbeşti! -
      Mirosul său, tare - tare!
              Te loveşte parcă un ciocan:
       Gata eşti - tristul meu şobolan....

Psihologia mediului in theory and practice

(and somewhere in between...)

Have you ever had the impression you are living in a dream? From those ones that are so realistic that the only way you know it´s fake is… well, you don’t actually know. You´re fuckin stuck.

I think I am dreaming now. I can see in front of me the whoooole city centre: several beautiful cathedrals, illuminated by small, trim lights down the hill, huddled up between the other buildings around. I can see my street with the tram line and the market place. The small shop ¨Kosarom¨ and the containers… And the sky! As dark as ink… From time to time a losten car crosses the street direction downtown and the sound reverberates into my windows.

Pretty soon the first trams will go out. At 4.30, as far as I have noticed. Also my neighbors from the apartment above: their petite matinée starts at about 4.45h with the sound of the coffee machine and some rows. They like fighting, these dudes up there and they also like to share the moment with me.

I have to study for my exam. I am really not prepared. I really do care. I really can´t. The little cabbage with the knifes calmly dies next to me, consumed by some biodegrading bacterias, attracted by its helplessness. And the heat in the room. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want the heat. It came all alone and imposed itself, obliging me to support it day and night. Not that I don’t like her… On the contrary, it is pleasant to have it here with me… But it is sort of a job to her, you know… At the end, you have to pay for its services...

Next to the cabbage´s cadaver, there are dead apples (that part of the table is my personal cemetery). Next to them, a pile of plates is proudly occupying the space. On the top of it a box of sweets and some chocolate prepares to scuba-dive into the sink. Bad idea, guys! I don’t know who taught you to swim, but in there the mixture of grease, anti-grease and left-overs won’t help you survive! Not that if you stay up there chances are you´ll make it until tomorrow, but well…

And yes! They! My classes! In front of me, next to me, behind me… Everywhere. Clean, pretty, tidy… As if not at all part of this world… They are not even looking at me. I think they got bored of my attention. They prefer now to stay idle and look around, waiting for the exam to pass and be, if lucky I, arranged in a box somewhere in the apartment.

I feel helpless to re-convince them to play. Once I managed, they were pretty eager to let me tickle them with my marker. What is more, they seemed to enjoy the funny lines in different colours that I was painting on them. So happy they seemed, they even let me, without a lot of struggle, understand their messages, their codified romanian-written information.

Yes, it was all so good until darkness felt over the room and a special agent had to intervene in order to switch lights on. Actually several agents. Several times. Too much times… Too much attention, too much energy for and after them, no more emergency power-saver switches left. After all, when you need some sleep, no coffee nor chocolate can help you carry on…

So here we are, between dishes, vegetal carrion and suicidal left-overs… Here we are, listening to the morning row of the neighbors as the first tramway goes down the gut. Here we are looking out of the window at the city lights, wondering what stories are being happening now somewhere in between the buildings. Whether to kill or not to kill the scuba-divers... Here we are, laughing and crying about the future, this beautiful function of our dreams.

Honestly, I want to be dreaming now. In any sense. And I fear the consequences of my dreams…

And I hate chocolate!