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[intretimp]

Prezent

                E frig. Cerul e mov prin geamul de la bucătărie. Au trecut doi ani de când ai murit, mergem pe al treilea, oficial rulăm una mică, o lasăm să ardă pe mormânt, înlocuim pachetul de ţigări din cuţiuţa pentru lumânări, Pall Mall negru, cum îţi plăceau. O rutină neașteptată pentru cineva care ar fi trebuit să împlinească 25 anul ăsta. Eu o să fac douăzeci, dar tu? Blocat în timp.

                Relativ, ne-ai crescut, fratele mai mare de care nu știam că am nevoie. Prima ţigară, prima povaţă, câteva meduze. Au trecut cinci ani de atunci. Am aflat recent că ar fi trebuit să fiu cea din mijloc. Mijlocia. Mama a ales să fim doi. Tu și el aţi fi avut aceeași zi de naștere, oare ne știm dintr-o altă viaţă? Poate e energie karmică, tu m-ai făcut să cred în ea, oricum. Ce iese, se întoarce, pula în cur și bani de drum. Empatia poate exista, o dată cu cruzimea. Un fel de cale de mijloc pentru cei saraci cu duhul.

                Miroase a iarbă. Tomis nord s-a mutat în Tomis 3. Ȋmi aduc aminte de paragina de fotoliu din Tomis 2 pe care nu mai are nimeni curaj să stea acum. Era locul tău, un fel de antiteză a lui Hans Andersen, fiecare cu poveștile lui. Un joint lung în loc de pipă, miros de iarbă în loc de cireșe. Mituri și legende în loc de basme și povești. Practic, ambele erau fantastice. Golani pe post de zmei, și fete cu interese drept prinţese. Aceleași teme, personaje diferite.

                Basmul popular este transmis prin viu grai. O gură de aer și amintiri. Acele amintiri povestite au fost acum trăite de copiii care le-au ascultat. Am devenit vagabonţi și prinţese, iar apoi am devenit oameni reali care transmit mai departe basmele.

                Trag ușor din ţigară și devin balaur, fumul se răspândește. Cerul e aproape negru pe geamul de la bucătărie, nucul care probabil există dinaintea erei mele e gol. Un schelet rămas în paragină cam la fel ca acel fotoliu. Diferenţa e că până o să suflu în a douăzecea lumânare, o să fie ca nou. Ca și cum nimic nu s-ar fi întâmplat. Fotoliu tot gol va rămâne, iar cheia fără broască. Hans Andersen și-a terminat programul, și-a luat cartea de povești, iar copiii au crescut.

                Generaţia următoare mă sperie, îi am în faţă acum. Ei fumează Kent Albastru,de opt. Eu tot la Dunhill am rămas. Acum e mov, ca și cerul. Ȋnconjuraţi de fum, glasul viu împrăștie poveţele populare. Mie nu-mi ies poveștile, par mai mult niște doine triste. Ce a fost, ce a rămas. Asta nu m-ai învăţat, așa că le voi reproduce cum știu.

                Oare și noi eram la fel în ochii tăi? Doar niște copii, fără probleme, neexpuși la cruzimea și răutatea lumii. Creduli, totul e bun, toată lumea ne iubește, iar noi pe ei. Parcă nu aș vrea eu să fiu cea care îi expune la vitriolul lumii. Ce ipocrită par. Au văzut-o deja. Acum vor sfaturi. Noi eram mai mici. Ei au deja câteva cărămizi pe casă, poate curentul tras deja. Noi eram doar niște șantiere în construcţie.

                Noi nu aveam întrebări, doar câteva protopovești. Ei au deja întâmplări. Ei nu au avut un frate mai mare împrumutat. Amuzant, acum eu sunt sora mi mare împrumutată. Poate ești mândru, ca atunci când am comparat acele meduze cu firea umană. Vezi totul prin ele, și totuși nimic.

                Am nevoie de aer. Mai trag un fum din ţigară, și ei trag, împreună devenim balaurii despre care ar fi trebuit să îi învăţ. Nu-mi place să fumez iarbă, nu pot să fiu ca tine. Straniu cum am făcut schimb de locuri, dar esența nu mai e aceeași. Colţarul din bucătăria lui buni se metamorfozează în fotoliul din Tomis 2. Fumul tot ne înconjoară, ideile proaste tot se pun în practică.

                Ei au ofuri. Nu-s încă formaţi. Aflu că mulți nu au coloană, nimic nou. Așa că devin povestitor. Pentru mine, ce a fost a revenit, le pasez lor povestea. Un pachet gol de Kent e aruncat la gunoi. Cerul e negru acum, negru ca un pachet de Pall Mall. Fumul adie în aer, un ocean de tabac. Tot gri, pe baze de albastru deschis. Unul din ei îmi povestește despre prima dragoste. Eu nu am uitat-o pe a mea, aș vrea să o fac, chiar și pe a doua. Mai ții minte când m-ai certat pentru a doua? La revedere și rămas bun Raluca, două camere in care se întâmplau lucruri diferite. Un mort în cada în loc de coșciug care se ofilea lângă un uriaș într-o camera. In cealaltă, doi oameni care punea primul picior in groapă. Povața? Ȋn fiecare cameră era cineva care se folosea de cealaltă persoană.

Cum am mai spus, doine triste, nu povești epice. Pentru următoarea generație, au devenit povești cu zâne, ce a rămas. Le pasez ce am învăţat eu din ea. Poate de data asta nimeni nu se va mai pierde prin nămeți. Totuși, iarna e un constant. Cine știe, eu doar împrăștii povestea mai departe.

                Ultimul fum e tras din ţigară. Oceanul se retrage, cartea de povești se închide. Zăvorul e tras, dar broasca mea încă are cheie. Când am crescut? Cu ultimul iz de tabac în aer înainte să închid geamul de bucătărie, mai privesc o dată colţarul. Fotoliul s-a metamorfozat, iar poveștile cu zâne sunt realitate. Cine ar fi crezut, am crescut să fiu ce-ai fost.

                Oare ar trebuii deja să îmi scriu elogiul? Mă doare capul, îmi fac o cană de ceai de cireșe, îmi ard limba cu ea. Oceanul s-a retras, șantierul e complet. Mai am doi ani până atunci. Practic, o eternitate, e mult prea devreme să mă gândesc la asta. Tot ce pot sa sper e ca o sa fie cineva sa îmi aducă un pachet de Dunhill Mov și pe lumea cealaltă.

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And it’s late, hours of the night,

Through life, not enough miles,

Reverberating through my mind,

Face of the moon, another fright,

just give me a sign

Damaged,

where is my mind?

I tried to resign,

But i just got the mark of Cain

When have i relapsed,

A struggle of time,

Built it up for it to collapse.

And it’s late at night

No peace for the mind,

Still got something to find,

Hour of the witch, midnight.

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Belated Birthdays

   Something has been misplaced. Better said someone has moved places. Yesterday was your birthday, yet to some of our shame, we forgot. So weird how once someone is out of sight, we tend to forget the important dates. Happy belated birthday, the one you never managed to reach.

    I have never understood how when someone dies, somehow, their death day becomes their new birthday. As if their final exit becomes their new entry in our lives. Such a weird concept to wrap your mind around. It happened when he died, now it’s happening to you. It’s weird how on birthdays, we remember all the stuff people do, their proudest moments and the lesser ones, same we do on their death days. We remember the drunk nights and write messages based on them, wishes for the best that have now become eulogies and tributes, maybe a little slide show of photos enhanced with their essence. Like the funeral, it wasn’t the eulogy that hit me the hardest, far from it, I was numb to it, it was the slide show of photos. All those memories in my living room, all the photos I have ever taken were there. That’s what broke me. All those happy moments that will only remain a part of the past.

   For the moment, the only comparison I found between the two has to be the remembering. All the good and the bad. I don’t remember any bad from you. I guess that’s what you’ve been our lives, something light that never disappointed when you came through the door. Such a shame you will never again come through that door in any of your many costumes, everything ranging from Oogie Boogie to Britney Spears. And we will never again share fairy tales about the people in our lives on bench that become part of the domain of the many pigeons of Jc. We will never share anything again, rather than the grief between the ones that are left here.

   I remember  my last birthday in Romania. He organised the surprise, you know? I hope he did the same for you yesterday. Rolled one up for the sake of it and showed you the jellyfish. I know you weren’t alone and I’m happy you still had someone to celebrate with. Maybe he shared some fairytales about me, I hope they made you laugh. I know down here we aren’t really laughing on your birthday anymore, but we remember. Share a some cake and a joint for the sake of it, because you know, the dead have to eat too, right? Today, my mom made pumpkin pie for you and I bought a bag of Semechki specifically for the occasion. Someone else let a joint out. Little things with so much meaning now. Such small things have gained such a deeper meaning.

   Will we wish you again happy birthday next year when May comes, or when August does? May has become fresher in our minds than August? Time will tell. In a twisted and perverted way, now you got two birthdays, in diffrent astral planes.

Happy belated twentieth birthday Oleg. You should have been here. I hope you’re good.

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Myths and legends

What happened to you? What happened to us? Weren’t we all just little kids yesterday? When did we grow to be like this?

               How did a seemingly happy boy go on to become a barely functioning addict? Or has he always been a functioning one that managed to hide till he hit the breaking point? Was it the death of his brother? Was that the damn that broke and flooded the entire village, our little dysfunctional village? When I asked him this question, he wasn’t sure, he said he had always been drowning, he couldn’t remember a time when his head hasn’t been underwater. The worst part to his unfortune was that he managed to pull us all under as we tried to help him. He wanted to drown and there wasn’t anything more to be done about it. In the beginning he tried out some laps in a bottle, burning his throat, as his mind numbed. I still beat you to it, I took the first shot and looked everyone in the eyes expecting more. My first terrible choice in long line of more. Still, not my story yet, now it’s about you, about all of us. You wanted to prove something more than us, you could finally prove it to him that you weren’t just a clueless little boy anymore, you were all grown up, old enough to mingle with everything that came in existence through his stories. People looked at you and saw a carbon copy of him, so that’s what you tried to become. The myth and the legend, the creation of words. No longer a meagre little boy, but a legend in the making. No longer human, but the Frankenstein of stories and expectations.

But what happens to the creation when the scientist dies? What happens to a person when the first human to show him love and care perishes? It becomes a perversion of dishonest expectations. A monsters of wants, who doesn’t know its core needs anymore.

You lost yourself and while on the search to help you refind yourself, we lost ourselves. When he died, it wasn’t just you that got lost through the myths and the legends, it was all of us. We all tried to emulate his legend, all the monsters of Frankenstein in one room sharing a pack of cigarettes. You started skiing , someone disappeared behind a canvas, while me and someone else discovered that our bodies could bring us more validation than our parents did. All the monsters of Frankenstein and their vices. We managed to find a vice in each other, we both knew the expectations of the other, so we assumed that was the person we were loving. It wasn’t. We loved the idea of each other, of not being alone, of someone that could see the ugliness underneath the white fence we created, and maybe, love it. At a second thought, a second creation of myths and legends.

Still, you broke the cycle first. You went so down that you discovered there was nothing more. Someone tried to pull you out, but you ended up pulling him in more. A brother is a brother, be it blood or shared drunken nights. When you returned back in our astral plane, the first thing you told the boys was: can I smoke a cigarette with Saint Peter now? Fortunately, not your time yet. That’s when we started healing. When you left, we all remained alone, no longer talking to each other afraid that we might follow soon. The lack of the others became a moment to flourish, the fear shaking our cores so strongly that we started to realise we had to heal. All the monsters of Frankenstein dispersed, no longer little kids, but adults that needed to live. No longer a sum of legends and myths, now we had been put face to face with ourselves. We lost the coat of expectations and ideas, a ratty coat that had barely managed to keep us warm through the long winter, through the piles of snow and vices.

Months later, years mentally, we finally got to meet each other. Funny how what we used to call a normal outing, became the first moment when we all truly met each other. We met the people behind the monsters. No longer the myths and legends, but the meagre humans. I was calmer, no longer trying to fill the emptiness of the quiet, happy to simply exist at the same time as others. You opened bottles of water and cigarettes in front us. Someone introduced us to his boyfriend, while another made us laugh when we used to think he was mute. Everyone was so different from the legend we first met. Seven people we thought we knew, in reality, were just strangers that finally got introduced. We healed.

The monsters of Frankenstein, the myths and the legends, underneath one roof sharing their last pack of cigarettes. I guess some vices stick more than others. Now, after the years, we finally said goodbye and wished the best to the people we thought were forever. Maybe that’s what we needed, the distance to finally know each other. The distance to allow one another to finally heal.

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Observations on life

Life is far from static. It’s always in continuous movement. That’s the best part about it. Everything moves and so do we, so do we.

               I live for the peaceful afternoons where I can just sit with my music and reminiscence through their words the moments I loved. Only eighteen, yet it feels like a life time, of what? Hell if I know, I just know I lived. I lived, I trusted, I loved. Everything and anything. I feel like I have lived a life, yet I’m so young. So many people have passed through my life in these years, years that at first felt like eternities and have slowly, slowly become shorter. They have looked at themselves through my mirror, left their essence in my being.

               7 months later

               Life is far from static. In the meantime I turned nineteen. I don’t feel like I changed, frankly, I have felt the same ever since I turned sixteen, but that’s a story for another day. Even after your death, life continues. I have been slowly approaching adulthood and somehow the idea that they never pass the age of twenty three is slowly cementing itself in my mind. He was twenty two when he died, you were nineteen. I have yet to know someone our age, someone I held dear and close to my heart that managed to surpass it. Will we ever?

So much has happened, yet it’s only been a few months.

His younger brother was close to joining him, now he opens water bottles and packs of cigarettes in front of us, shies away from interactions with people he used to see the sun rising with. You chose to join him, still.  How strange, we shared stories about the people in our lives, yet I never made the connection like you did for me with your fairy tale friends. I hope he lived up to the expectations. One of your friends told me you actually smoked cigarettes together one night, when you met him up there, did you share a cigarette? Maybe a joint? I can attest, no one rolled like him. So strange how our lives moved on.

A few days before you died, I attended a wedding. I witnessed two people swearing to love each other until one was would eventually join you. They even had matching jackets, till death do us apart. When I saw them, I thought it was beautiful, now when I look at the pictures I feel nostalgic. Till death do us apart. It’s more than just a promise of eternal love, it’s more, it’s a promise of eternity. Even in your death, I will still love your being and existence, even after it comes to an end. Friends, lovers, family. Until death will do us apart, I will carry you in my heart, remember the little moments and cherish them.

Then you died. So strange. When I first learned it, it didn’t feel real. I hope you can forgive my shame, that at first, when I saw the missed calls and the message call me immediately from my brother, I didn’t think of you. My mom, my grandma, my father, they passed my mind first, please do forgive me for that, compared to them you seemed eternal, a light that couldn’t perish so quickly. Yet, it was you, so weird and unexpected. We are taught that young people are not supposed to die, they’re supposed to live and achieve more, then settle in their little homes, with wrinkled faces and white hair, and wait for death to come while making her a cup of coffee. Did you wait for her with a cup of coffee? I know you had the music ready, at least you let her know that you cherished life, she probably had the same tears in her eyes as us when we learned, the same hurt in her core when she opened the door and showed you out of it one last time.

At the end of May, my little cousin celebrated two years of life. I experienced the cycle of life in one month. Love, death, birth. So strange. I first started writing this at the beginning of January, now it’s July. So much has happened, a whole lifetime some may say, yet it’s only been a few short months. So much life has happened in only a few months. Life is far from static, always evolving and moving, like it or, it continues, no matter who joins it or leaves it.