vineri, octombrie 11, 2013

gand

cand esti intr-un gand e ca si cum alergi prin toate vagoanele unui tren sa vezi ce e in fiecare. cand privesti din exterior, iti dai seama ca deja stii ce e in fiecare vagon si nu trebuie sa mai alergi. poti sa lasi gandul sa plece si sa astepti un alt tren, fara sa te urci in el.

luni, iulie 29, 2013

Painting

Paint on my love, my quiet walker,
paint with your feet soaked
in the colours of  my time,
with green steps of hope,
with blue hands of calm,
with red seeds of pain.
Just colour me, my single man,
as you walk by...
Paint the white clouds in my eye,
the leaves in my hair,
the shadows of my body,
the tremble of my hands,
the trace behind my steps.
Paint with your fingers, my forgotten one,
as you remember me...
with red seeds of pain.



tu-eu

O amintire in care eram atat de intimi, in care erai ca o alta respiratie a mea. Erai eu cel fara de cuvinte, sufletul meu mut, ascuns, cel pe care il ascundeam fara sa il inteleg. Erai cel mai profund eu. De aceea te iubeam, de aceea ma obsedai, caci langa tine eram profund constienta ca sunt acea inexplicabila fiinta. Cu care am invatat in cele din urma sa traiesc. Nici acum nu o inteleg si nu imi vorbeste. Insa traieste in mine. Mi-e dor de tine cand ma gandesc la mine. Si mai am inca nevoie de un alt tu-eu.

E atat de misterios si inexplicabil, e ceea ce nu ne-am putut zice. Am inteles greu ca tu eram eu. Cat de dor imi este de tine chiar si acum cand sunt eu.

marți, iunie 11, 2013

Inconstientul nu precede constientul si nici invers

La inceput este numai functionare, o fiinta biologica egala siesi, fara un simt cronologic, cu o pozitionare spatiala primitiva. La inceput sunt senzatii si senzatii potentiale, experiente nediferentiate, care nu pot fi identificate. Exista o memorie a corpului in care aceste experiente sunt engramate? Cel mai probabil, da. O memorie organica care retine dispozitia, miscarea, incordarea si relaxarea, dar care nu are un corespondent imagistic - formarea umei imagini senzoriale cu sens la nivel cortical.

Inconstientul nu precede constientul si nici invers. Ele sunt potentiale si se diferentiaza odata cu diferentierea experientelor si a senzatiilor, cu aparitia imaginilor senzoriale, pe care creierul invata sa le proceseze si interpreteze pe masura ce se dezvolta, pe masura ce are experiente. Reuseste sa diferentieze imagini din ce in ce mai subtil si mai complex. Ia nastere un "inconstient al simturilor si experientelor" cel mai probabil ancorat de structurile corpului are au dat nastere senzatiilor. Engramarea este globala, lipsita de cronologie si de sens psihologic. Se complica in timp o arhitectura a psihicului bazat pe spatialitate, pe proiectarea "iluzorie" in spatiu a senzatiilor, de cele mai multe ori strans legata de contractii musculare, de microcontractii, de micromiscari si senzatii viscerale, de proprioceptie, senzatii tactile si de echilibru.. etc. Reactia constienta este permanent prezenta, insa engramarea ei tine de o memorie biologica. Prezentul este mereu prezent pana se dezvolta o capacitate de a atribui consecutivitate, pe langa spatialitate.

In cele din urma se coaguleaza o cronologie personala cunoscuta ca ego si care devine un fel de inregistrare a constientei. Eul este un spatiu mental iluzoriu in care gandurile se aud pe ele insele si isi amintesc de ele insele.

sâmbătă, iunie 08, 2013

poveste

De la simplu la complex, gandurile mele, unul cate unul, pana intra intr-un vartej ce ma duce catre o alta lume. O lume in care lucrurile nu mai sunt ceea ce sunt, ci amprente mentale difuze, ce pot fuziona, se pot ciocni si retrage, se schimba si apoi se pierd. Atunci singurul loc in care pot reveni, singura idee care ramane este cea cu care am inceput. O lume pe care nu reusesc sa o pun pe hartie.

A fost odata ca niciodata o imparateasa
grasa.
Si avea atat de multi copii si facea cu fiecare-n parte
arte.
Cu totii erau priceputi si mai ales voiosi
numai unul morocanos.
Unul care nu avea astampar si era, bineinteles,
cel mai ales.
Cel mai de pret si cel mai mic dintre feciori...
care era din flori.
Rasaritul soarelui vroia sa il puna pe hartie in culori sa imbete,
insa ii ieseau doar niste pete.
Trilul ciocarliei sa il cante cu foc intr-o armonie-nebunie,
iesea o cacafonie.
Parfumul florilor alese ale gradinii sa il pastreze in hainele-i moi,
mirosea ca un gunoi.
Nu-i iesea nimic din tot ce-si propunea si din tot se alegea doar praful
si si p-asta il lua vantul.
Plangea si el si mama-sa plangea cu el, tot palatul suspina
si se-ngrozea.
Daca printu-avea sa fie intr-o zi mostenitor,
sa tina pe cap coroana strabunilor,
are sa se-aleaga praful din regatul lor
si are sa bata vantul prin ograzile oamenilor.
Dar mai era mult pana atunci si asa cum o sa vedeti,
numai daca o sa vreti,
printul mic din flori, dragalas, firav si curios, un prichindel,
nu era interesat de coroana de fel.
Nu sarise de doi coti cand si-a zis sa plece-n lume
sa-si gaseasca tatal fara nume.
Si, de-o avea noroc, poate-o afla si cine a facut pietrele
de unde rasare soarele,
cine a pus luna pe cer, de unde curg apele,
cum de miros florile,
de ce bate vantul si unde le duce el pe toatele
cate ia cu aripile,
cum de sunt
cele ce sunt.
Si doar cine sa stie toate astea, daca nu tatane-su, care
plecase in lume ratacind pe mare.
Dar n-vea habar de unde sa-l ia, pe care din coaste
il purtase valul marii-albastre.
Intinderea albastra parea far' de sfarsit,
fascinat de ape, printul s-a oprit.




Sta sa ploua. Si cand ploua, e ca un vis intrat in lume, ca o sete adapata... si mi-e bine. Vreau sa ploua zilnic si zilnic sa iasa soarele. Bucuresti, esti orasul ploilor mele.

joi, mai 30, 2013

o lacrima

Un punct in spatiu, un regret, o lacrima... am inteles. A fost!

duminică, mai 12, 2013

vise

Multe vise. Pe majoritatea nici nu le mai tin minte.
Oricum Hall spunea ca nu este important sa le interpretezi sau sa le intelegi, functia lor este reglatorie si astfel isi vor juca oricum acest rol.
Conduceam o masina, dar de pe scaunul din dreapta si era ceva neobisnuit in modul in care mergea. Nu prea puteam coti stanga dreapta in voie, avea un fel de intarziere in comenzi. Insa, ma descurcam binisor. Era ca un fel de cursa sau ca si cum aveam de facut niste comisioane. O sosea lata, o cladire in al carui parter am intrat si am incurcat iesirea. Trebuia sa iau usa din fata si am luat-o spre stanga, apoi am intors masina si am iesit ca dintr-o parcare mai jos de nivelul solului, dar nu subterana. Langa mine era el pe scaunul din stanga, al soferului si ma intrebam de ce nu conduce el, ca se pricepe mai bine.
Apoi eram de fapt pe o motocicleta si conduceam destul de rapid si sigur. Facusem se pare multi kilometrii prin oras si ma gandeam "daca pui si cativa kilometrii facuti mai demult cu masina..." Parea ca era seara si trecusera ore intregi de cand fusesem in masina.

Mai de mult, am visat ceva straniu: ma uitam la parul lui A. care mi-a parut atunci a fi al lui M.,  dupa care semana cu parul grizonat al tatei, care de fapt era al lui. O confuzie totala si un par grizonat, un sentiment de implacabilitate a trecerii timpului peste oameni. Trist.

Acum 2 nopti, eram la nunta mea. In Antalya, intr-un hotel mare. Totul fusese frumos si ne grabeam sa mergem spre camera, pe care o inchiriasem intr-un alt hotel mai ieftin, dar care ne placea. Am mers acolo si am vrut sa facem un dus amandoi, dar a curs peste noi apa sarata. Apoi eram in mare, parca in mijlocul marii, inotasem sau survolasem parca kilometrii intregi, peste un monument ca un templu la suprafata marii, apoi un mic orasel ca un resort din Tailanda, apoi asteptam in mijlocul marii un vapor de croaziera si am sarit imediat la bordul lui, direct in piscina unde era o petrecere. Si piscina avea tot apa sarata. Era noapte si erau lumini si muzica. Apoi, eram de fapt sau ajutam la planificarea nuntii altcuiva, vedeam albumul ales sau invitatiile ca  niste imagini alb negru, apoi in acelasi hotel nunta si le dadusera inclusa in pret camera in hotel pentru noaptea nuntii. Iar noi am pornint iar peste mare si peste stanci ciudate sau monumente iesite din apa, era si P. de data asta. Asteptam vaporul si atunci m-a bufnit rasul, pentru ca peste tot nu era decat apa sarata si imi aminteam ca pana si dusul era cu apa sarata. M-am trezit din somn razand si spunand "si dus am facut cu apa sarata". Si am ras mult :)


marți, aprilie 16, 2013

duminică, aprilie 14, 2013

vis

Am visat un vis foarte interesant, mai ales ca parea real. Insa nu imi aduc aminte decat un fragment. Era o sala mare, parca o galerie subterana, dar foarte bine luminata. Erau niste mese ale unor comercianti care vindeau tot felul de lucruri. Si cautam impreuna cu cineva niste materiale, niste suporti din plastic pentru acte, pareau. Apoi am intrebat barbatul care vindea cat costa. Si ma uitam la ele. Parea strain, dar nu stiam foarte bine, A zis 6000 una, parca, sau 6 lei. Un pret mare pentru noi. Am fost cam descumpanita ca nu puteam sa le luam, era prea scump. Apoi a venit o pustoaica frumoasa, dar ca o tigancusa, m-am gandit ca era fata lui. O fetita de pana in 12 ani. Cu un chip foarte frumos si batic pe cap asa cum poartaturcoaicele de la Marea Neagra. S-a uitat la noi si a zis "Birak, gitsin buradan." Eu am inteles ce a zis si ca sa vada ca stiam turca i-am zis, cred, "pleaca tu de-aici, nu noi". Si m-am gandit de ce nu i-oi fi spus in turca. :) Oricum cam atat imi amintesc. Pustoaica m-a impresionat, avea un chip foarte frumos si mai salbatic, ca de tigancusa. Unele turcoaice de la Kara Deniz au asa niste ochi albastri mari si un chip luminos si curat.

miercuri, ianuarie 30, 2013

THE HOUND OF HEAVEN

THE HOUND OF HEAVEN
Francis Thompson


I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
   I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
   Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
             Up vistaed hopes I sped;
             And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
   From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
             But with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbèd pace,
     Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             They beat—and a Voice beat
             More instant than the Feet—
     'All things betray thee, who betrayest Me'.              I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
   Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followed,
             Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
   The gust of His approach would clash it to:
   Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
   And troubled the gold gateway of the stars,
   Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;
             Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden—to Eve: Be soon;
   With thy young skiey blossom heap me over
             From this tremendous Lover—
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
   I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
   Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
   Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
          But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
     The long savannahs of the blue;
            Or, whether, Thunder-driven,
          They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:—
   Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
             Still with unhurrying chase,
             And unperturbed pace,
      Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
             Came on the following Feet,
             And a Voice above their beat—
'Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me.'
I sought no more after that which I strayed
          In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
          Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
         With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
Come then, ye other children, Nature's—share
With me’ (said I) 'your delicate fellowship;
          Let me greet you lip to lip,
          Let me twine with you caresses,
              Wantoning
          With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
             Banqueting
          With her in her wind-walled palace,
          Underneath her azured dais,
          Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
             From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.’
             So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one—
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
          I knew all the swift importings
          On the wilful face of skies;
           I knew how the clouds arise
          Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings;
             All that's born or dies
          Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful divine;
          With them joyed and was bereaven.
          I was heavy with the even,
          When she lit her glimmering tapers
          Round the day's dead sanctities.
          I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
          Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine:
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
          I laid my own to beat,
          And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
          These things and I; in sound I speak—
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
          Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
          The breasts o’ her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
             My thirsting mouth.
             Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
             With unperturbed pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
             And past those noisèd Feet
             A voice comes yet more fleet
         
'Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me.'
Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou has hewn from me,
             And smitten me to my knee;
          I am defenceless utterly.
          I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
          I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amidst the dust o' the mounded years
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
          Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
          Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amarinthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
          Ah! must
         
Designer infinite!
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
          From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
          Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
          But not ere him who summoneth
          I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
          Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
          Be dunged with rotten death?
             Now of that long pursuit
             Comes on at hand the bruit;
          That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
          'And is thy earth so marred,
          Shattered in shard on shard?
          Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!

          'Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught' (He said),
'And human love needs human meriting:
          How hast thou merited
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?
          Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
          Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
          Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
          All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
          Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'
   Halts by me that footfall:
   Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
   'Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
   I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.'
 

  http://www.ewtn.com/library/HUMANITY/HNDHVN.HTM

Provided Courtesy of:
Eternal Word Television Network
5817 Old Leeds Road
Irondale, AL 35210
www.ewtn.com

luni, ianuarie 14, 2013

war

The war must go on! Aceasta este intuitia mea.

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