043. End of July

Ce e drăguț, e faptul că în grădina de vară unde stau acum încercând să mă pocnească, eventual, inspirația de a scrie proza de care îmi este, cu toată sinceritatea, dor, se aude o vioară din zona abundentă de oameni. Sună ca la școala de muzică, înaintea serbării de Crăciun, în clasa a 6-a, sau a 7-a, sau poate a 5-a. Nu încearcă niște valsuri izolate și nu se poate spune că vioara are o viteză anume. Dar se aude. Iar asta e superb: să reduci lumea la tăcere, măcar pe metrul pe care îl ochi cu vioara ta, să le obligi gândurile să-și autoimpună lacăte sau să se deschidă în flori. Asta se întâmplă după ce un cățel alb, pui, s-a jucat cu o boabă de strugure alb. Iar dacă ăsta e sfârșitul și acestui iulie, din nou trist și cu miros de sare din mare în aer și bronz, măcar mă bucur că se încheie printre felinare cu mid-lights, stropitori ce mai scapă câțiva stropi pe mâini și picioare, cu încercări joviale de Strauss și știind că un cățel s-a jucat cu boaba de strugure.

042. The blinds are slowly cracking

I’m at the seaside for eleven days or even more, enjoying this bitter sun, expecting for annoying children to pop up on every lonely corner, running at 5:30 a.m on empty streets along the sea, drinking my nescafe on the beach at an early 8 a.m. and blue margaritas at a Turkish restaurant. I’m thinking about writing. I must, I must, I will, I can’t, fuck you damn you why must I, why will I, why can’t I? Innumerable and too much, I waste my breath on empty cups of coffee and white sheets that smell like coconut and my mental health on trashy novels and random music, I needed something and I found it. After hopelessly deep wounds of everything that made my feel pathetic and extremely low for eight months, I got my Blackfield back. And my summers.

” Love me as the summer gone
When eyes were closed and days were long, so long
I burned a torch for you but all the while
Somewhere in the haze you lost your smile

Love me as the winter comes
Don’t cast your shadow on my soul, please don’t
Don’t let me sink, don’t let the darkness in
Let your perfect fingers touch my skin

Heart needs a home
It’s a dark and empty road when you’re alone

Love me as the springtime comes
Let your song drift down the stairs to me
Waiting here along the way to blue
Remembering the days I spent with you

Heart needs a home
It’s a dark and empty road when you’re alone. “

Lemn cu spirala de culoarea scoicii si minunea din floare se cerne in lemn dar lemnul apune si scoica din lemn se sfarma si-i cad pistruii pe flori.

041. What packing is all about…

I need the beach, ice-coffee and good or trashy novels.

040. Carnage

039. Când plouă la unu și șaisprezece minute noaptea.

Say little rain outside, little kitties inside, inside it’s always warm and you feel lost when outside, but not inside, when you want to
hear the rain and she’d want to hear you too, she’d cry out loud, for your words, for the choice between the feet that can’t stand the sand or rocks or cubes of sugar mixed with the kitties’ favourite chocolate and the vanilla the sky holds between clouds and the cinnamon that fell on the ground and the sugar underneath the earth. It’s always raining on this side of bed, outside the window, behind the locker, above the metal, beyond any fear and doubt.

038. The Ballad

E o diferență între paharele fumurii din fabrică și cele fumurii din cauza schimbării de temperatură. Mettons que paharele de fabrică sunt albe, celelalte albastre. Pe un material fumuriu din fabrică, urmele de buze se remarcă la o privire atentă. Cu un ruj aplicat, se văd și mai bine. Mai ales cu puțin sidef. Fumuriul fumuriu din cauza unui pahar cald in care s-a turnat apă rece păstrează buzele ca amprentă. Un ochi neatent, fugar, trist,  supărat, nervos, mânios, vesel, fericit le observă; paharul s-a mulat în jurul semicercurilor ce descriu cute de silabe, de mare cu soare si mare cu sare, de soare prea tare, de becuri pocnite și oglinzi sparte, de cerneală pe deget atinsă în treacăt. Mă rog.

037. Cam așa…

…arată ora 5 p.m. Îmi place când e înnorat, dar foarte cald. E prea cald și ascult Zmeul, suddenly, după nu știu câtă vreme. Și îmi imaginez plaja pe la ora 8 p.m. Când încă e foarte cald, dar e umbră pe plajă. Și e doar o dâră de soare pe plajă. Și rămâne marea (eternul clișeu al artiștilor) singură. Văd plaja de undeva de sus, stau pe iarbă, e cald dar începe să bată vântul și soarele să se retragă. Dar mai e soare. Un pic. Foarte puțin. Summers never looked the same. Indeed. They never looked like this…

036. At early AMs and late PMs

Exitmusic – The Sea

It’s been a while since I’ve been up at this hour writing. Well I’m always up at this hour, but not writing. I think there’ve been months or maybe two years since I’ve been up writing at early a.ms. I’m thinking about dresses. Dresses and scalpels, scalpels singing chansons on dry skins, on shy skins, on afraid ones, drawing lines, curling lines, drawing other anxious scalpels, playfully decorating wrists and twists and ankles and ribbons on laces of blood vessels underneath the dry, shy, afraid skin. There are beautiful dresses. With or without lace, but lace makes them beautiful. Just the way skin makes blood so beautiful. And so blue.

Review: Death Cab for Cutie – Codes and Keys (May 2011)

It can’t actually be said that the new album of Death Cab for Cutie is a new-wave of the band, but more a continuity for the fans who agree with and appreciate the pretty rectilinear indie style of Death Cab for Cutie.

It then follows, as up to expectations, that half of the tracks remind us of previous albums: Home is a Fire, Doors Unlocked and Open, You are a Tourist, Monday Morning and Underneath the Sycamore. However, Codes and Keys provides something new, a more playful sound, followed by Some Boys, definitely the hit of the 2011.

Unobstructed Views, acoustic and sad, has the fluorescent kind of melody: this means that when you close your eyes, imminent waves of an ocean are seen, and you are floating into a sweet oblivion. A wonderful song, remarkable in a restrained context, not so closely followed by St.Paul’s Cathedral. The piano rhythm of Portable Television somehow strangely seems to recall Chuck Berry in his golden ‘50s and ‘60s, whereas Stay Young Go Dancing adopted a pleasant, folkish rhythmic.

Even though Codes and Keys is not that much of a surprise and a musical reform for Death Cab for Cutie, it doesn’t take an optimist to find this album relaxing for an open state of mind.

035. Low key, fatal tune

Morning remote recalls of The Little Prince. This is sudden. I can’t say I was quite artistically thrilled when I first read it, at about 12 years old. It was only later that it became dear. I still use it as a constant point at which I can return whenever I feel I’m missing out or not reaching too high. I’ve always wanted to write something like The Little Prince, something which would possess the same naivete and vanished colours. However, things come and go. I got to the classic French literature, departed to Russian, had something about the Argentinian, tried out the English and American, didn’t quite enjoy the Italian. So I forgot about the little prince and  the way he used to knock in my pillow, late at night, believing it was some sort of door through which I would hear him out. He stopped praising the red flower, stopped watering the carpet in my room. At some point he was actually hiding under the carpet he was watering. I guess it was cool, when outside was summer just like now. He also stopped hanging from the lamp on the nightstand, a beautiful lamp coloured in autumn shades, depicting a lake at an orange sunset and lots of great grey birds flying around. It was such a romantic lamp, and it didn’t quit being so, not even the day it was broken. It was a fine lamp. I think he liked it too.

Washed Out – You and I

But now I fall asleep at 2 a.ms, I drink coffee, I read The Satanic Verses. I listen to this song, ‘Under unnatural circumstances/ I forget about your vain pretenses / But if you want to recreate the sea, another sky for me, I got you’. I write about birds. I wear large jeans and big bracelets. I have a necklace with a half-sun. I write about birds… And I spend my mornings by making things go away. Then I can start my day. I use all sort of music to make things go away. And it works:

Earlimart – Unintentional Tape Manipulations

034. ‘Cause it’s not here

 

Woke up at 7 a.m, couldn’t keep my eyes open at 8:12 a.m, went to bed at 8:27 a.m, woke up at 8:45. On my nightstand there’s still this white plate with round, curly frames of blue, orange and yellow flowers, with some light-green leafs. They seem kind of cute. It smells like fruit, the way my summer always seemed to smell. And so, driven by this scent, I learn that there are two pieces of sour-cherry cake and three apricots. Always loved those colours. The nuance of baked cake with steamy magenta fruits inside, almost unnoticeable through the cinnamon crust. The apricots smell so nice. And this song is so nice.

Jem – Flying High

Yet, the song switches and the music I currently listen to doesn’t seem to fit. Not with summer, not with the heat outside, not with the blocked sun on my window. It doesn’t fit with anything. The only quantum that makes it a bit alike something in particular, is the outcome of a few memories coming to life again and again, while hopelessly trying to reprimand, to retrograde them, to keep them dead and buried underneath the ground, at a 4m depth. Stay there. And shut up. And so, these strings, this brutal harmony kills the butterflies in my atmosphere. And yes: “There’s a bullet in my pocket burning a hole [...]“.

The Dead Weather – So Far from your Weapon

033. Well enough alone

There are things I don’t understand. Things that bother but go away briefly the moment I realise how vague they are for what I actually care about. But there are things gathering in webs. In networks. As if they are building up to a mass-distruction weapon that would automatically work as a suture for your broken world. Funny how things work though: you soon figure out that the mass-distruction weapon is meant to target you. To break you. To squash you. To kill you. And then it seems as if everyone knew. Everyone else but you. They all knew and it is just in that moment that you understand their look and all the hope for a sort of superiority and fairplay on behalf of the almighty deity vanishes, for you know, from that moment on, how alone you are on this fucking world and how even the most colourless stranger seems to know a hell of a lot more about yourself than you do. And even the most hopeless dying bird out there is luckier than you and your hopes for a better world or, from a more selfish and self-centered point of view, better for you. Well there you are. Funny, isn’t it? Apparently all the mass of wisdom is not better. The elite rules from the shadow of doubt, from lack of everything that would ever make a great person. Do I find it funny as well? Of course not. And you know why? Because it’s me that they’re laughing at right now. And it shouldn’t be this way. And what do I do about it? Nothing at all. I’m waiting for my own weapon of mass-destruction (and now, to make it even more melodramatic and tragic: God save you all).