Back home

I have a theory. It sounds something like this: When you must catch an early airplane and wake up at horrible hours only then do three human typologies step in. First are people that, although they haven’t slept, will wake up with a strong will of finishing whatever tasks there are to finish until the taxi arrives. Respect for those kind of people. Then there are people that haven’t slept and are so exhausted the moment the alarm goes on they want nothing but caffeine. These kinds of people will try to help, but only if others ask them to. Last there are people that although they haven’t slept, they have a natural energy to be envied for.

This morning all three of these typologies showed up while we woke up to wait for the taxi. I think you can guess who was what. Mom and Buni (grandma) where the first type and thanks to them we managed to arrive at the airport. Obviously I was the brilliant morning-person, so tired I could barely walk and Henri was the joyful, full of energy, type.

Then the taxi ride came. I could easily identify the third type in the driver’s mood. During the whole ride Henri talked. And talked. And talked again. I was annoyed and bewildered at the same time. My annoyance must have been visible due to the rather snappish remarks I made during the trip and mum muttering: “Grumpy teenager” under her breath, but my bewilderment didn’t show.  I was astonished by the power my brother had. Of the childish energy that tired the rest of us. It reminded me of myself.

Our trip gave us the chance to see England at night time. It is scary. The forests on one side, some fields on the other all pitch black. All silent. And there is us, intruders of this nocturn sanctuary. Only the sky above, a veil covered with diamonds, changes. The first ray of light, weakly breaking the darkness, then more rays and slowly the curtain of black clouds is lifted, replaced by a whiter copy of the original. Curtain after curtain lifted until there is a whitish blue, pierced this time by an orange bar of light. From inside the pocket of clouds, the world’s puppeteer brings out the sun. It rises slowly, pulled up by the thread of wind, spreading rays of light all over. The morning has come.

Este exact cum mi-am imaginat. Drumul la fel de prafuit cum mi-l aminteam, Maxi Taxi-ul la fel de nedorit si de incet cum mi-l aminteam, casele, cainii, cerul, casa mea. Tot este acolo. Numai gradina si casa goala- de curand insufletita- sunt dovezile timpului trecut. Momentan gradina este mai degraba padure luxurianta (mai lipseste Tarzan) plina la fiecare pas de fructe mari portocalii necunoscute (caise), obiecte mari verzi (mere) sau clepsidre suculente (pere). Dar sunt acasa si fiecare lucru imi umple inima de extaz. Festinul pregatit de tata este o copie moderna a festinului  cu care se ghiftuia Ion Creanga acum o suta si ceva de ani. 

Caisele prea coapte au cazut, cum cade de altfel tot ce e prea copt. Ridic una, o deschid. Inchid ochii. Parfumul caisei imi aminteste mereu de ceva oriental. Imi inspira pace. Incet deschid ochii si observ un viermisor croindu-si drum spre suprafata. Inainte privelistea m-ar fi oripilat. Acum zambesc : un amic de mult pierdut, acum regasit.


Poezia pe care am scris-o mai jos este o poezie inscrisa intr-un concur s, dar cred ca reflecta bine ce se intampla acum in Ucraina. Sunt trei haku-uri puse impreuna.

Plitch, Platch then Tum Dum


Plitch, Platch flowing tears

Plitch, Platch rising desire

Plitch, Platch here comes war!


Tum Dum the drums sing

Tum Dum nothing your ear hears

Tum Dum war killed you…


Plitch, Platch pain again

Tum Dum longing for power

Lesson forgotten.





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