For the love of searching

Tata Nitu

2010-12-06T22:52:00.000-06:00

Today I remember my grandfather. Not that I don't think about him often, but today it's his name's day. We celebrate St. Nickolas day today and today used to be his day. My grandfather was strong and kind, loving and straight forward. He was handsome and perfect in my eyes. I lived with my grandparents till I was about five. I wish i could remember every day from that time. I have images, I have stories, I have smells, but I wish for more. I wish for those years to have not have ended. I wish for my grandfather to have known my daughter. She carries his name. And I know he watches over her. And me. Mi-e dor de tine, tata Nitu.

Strange feelings

2010-09-07T21:57:00.000-05:00

I wish I could write everyday. I wish I could connect enough with myself and with the world and that connection would be coherent enough for me to be able to express it in words. Words have always fascinated me. It may be because if I was skilled enough I could hide behind them and nobody would know who I really was. Or it may be a real desire for creativity, a way to attempt connection. Any kind.

I had an energy medicine session last week and it left me rather raw and vulnerable. I am sort of enjoying this new feeling of being exposed to the world. I am a little scared of it, but it also feels like home in a strange way. I feel like a volcano. Is it still active? Is there lava under there, waiting to errupt? How does it feel to be the people in the village at the bottom of the volcano. You never know...

I am vulnerable to the world. I am starting to see who I am. I am battling with loads of generational baggage. I am in love with the lava.

What energizes me?

2010-05-19T23:00:00.000-05:00

When life throws me in a whirlpool, when things don't go my way or any way... When I feel lost and need comfort, when I need some extra energy...

I go outside and let the sunhine warm me inside and out
I marvel at the beauty of nature
I play with my girl
I blow bubbles
I read a good book
I paint
I drink ice cold water
I stop and observe the moment
I cry
I lament to a good friend
I get and give a hug
I love.

What to you do?

My Mondo Beyondo List

2010-05-17T20:30:00.000-05:00

- Be a writer
- Win the Nobel Prize for Literature
- Heal people
- Meet Bruce Springsteen
- Own a restaurant
- Own a bookshop for children with a huge arts and crafts area
- Live for awhile on each continent - two down :-)
- Help people in third world countries
- Find true love and throw myself in it full force

Some of these I have been dreaming since I was a kid. I am still dreaming...

The poem that seems to define the NOW

2010-03-23T21:58:00.000-05:00

The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

I'm back

2010-03-23T21:55:00.000-05:00

It has been awhile... Why such a long break, one may ask? I have started a journey, a journey for the soul. I am reclaiming myself, making myself known by ME. So far, my writing has been about a lot of repressed feelings, hiding behind metaphors. I hope for a more direct, sustained experience now. Here's to a new start...

The Tree

2009-05-24T23:22:00.000-05:00

A tree is growing from my heart. I thought I was dreaming. I woke up in the morning and felt a leaf tickling my throat. Hmmm... Did I eat leaves last night?? I went on living for awhile longer and one morning, I felt the leaf again. It really is a tree: beautiful, solid, with lots of roots. I can see it in the left side of my heart.

I guess it's time to give my heart a thorough inspection. I haven't spent too much time with it lately. It's a shame, really. It has so much to say, and it usually makes me feel like I am part of myself again. I see colors, I see wind, the sea is still there, salty and enormous. The flowers I once burried in there are still alive. How can that be? Thank you, my heart. Oh, yes. I can see the compartments too. I have built them so carefully, thick walls, no windows. Safe. Just in case I decide to look inside sometime. There are couple of holes in some of them, I'll have to fix them later. Heart, please send a note to my brain about this.

This is interesting: there's a window here. Did I put it there? I don't remember it. I can see so clearly through it. All of a sudden my compartments are not safe anymore. I can see my whole world in this window. I am vulnerable. I am afraid. I am hopeful. I am in love. I think I'll keep it.
Thank God for the tree growing in my heart!

Carnival

2009-05-24T23:15:00.000-05:00

Let's go to the carnival.
Let's watch the acrobats fly, let's imagine they are us.
Let's fly freely, with no fear of falling.

A rose? Sure, I will take one. I will wear it in my hair.
I am a gypsy. I come with the wind, I leave when the flowers bloom.
You want to ride the carousel?
Be careful. The world is spinning, the colors bleed and blend.
What color are you?

Yes, the clowns are here too.
They make me laugh... a little. I just know they are sad.
I know, I should ask them to fly.

Today, the clowns are acrobats, the acrobats are elephants,
and we are endless.

Broken?

2008-10-20T17:37:00.001-05:00

I knew it was broken when I touched it that day.
That roughness of the edge, the smooth sides and the change in color…
I asked my friends and they agreed
I took it outside to look at it in the sunlight.
Same.
It was broken.
I used to love the intense deepness and the clarity I would always see in it.
I spent hours gazing into its abyss, bathing in all the nuances,
running with it, flowing with it, swimming in it.
I missed that unbelievable blue. It used to reflect so nicely into my eyes…
Well…
Maybe I can fix it. I mean, surely, it’s not broken for good, right?
If I can just find that missing piece…
Maybe I can grow the missing piece.
I know, it won’t be the same, but it will be whole again.
I will be able to sink into it again.
Others will be able to enjoy it too.
Especially since theirs is probably broken too…
I know. I will hold it close, love it, wrap it in gentleness, collect colors from the rainbow and dip it in them, warm it up in the sunlight, sing to it, make it feel safe.
It will be whole again…
… my heart.

Letter to my mentor

2008-10-20T17:10:00.001-05:00

It was a dark day, it was a cold day
We were sitting in that old building, in a small apartment, the air smelling of moth balls
I was searching; you have done your search
I was young; you were at the end of your journey
Questions, comments, discussions, opinions, advice… I had it all
Not from you
You told me to search my soul
You told me to look outside
You told me to listen to my heart
You told me to tell everyone to shut-up
You told me to decide
and continue searching
I did
You are gone
I am here, still here, still searching, but happy with what I found so far
I can sit in an old building, in a small apartment and
I hope I will tell someone else to continue searching…

You First

2008-04-01T16:12:00.000-05:00

Rays of sunshine on my leaves.
I wake up and feel the dew running away from me.
I wake up first and wait for you.
Will you be late? I want you to caress my drops,
I save them all for you.
I know you are thirsty.
Hurry. You are the first to taste my love,
you are the first to wake up under my shadow,
you are the first to be green,
you are the first to shine,
you are the first to see the rays of sunshine on my leaves.

Poetry Month

2008-04-01T16:01:00.000-05:00

This is very cool. April is Poetry Month and there is a literary challenge out there: write one poem every day in April. That's awesome! I am still working on finishing the 50 days, 50 writings, so this is really exciting. So, the poems you will be seeing here are also part of the April challenge...

Choices

2008-03-02T22:43:00.001-06:00

People make choices every second. How tiring it is to watch them fight the flow of life. We get to crossroads and we feel we have to choose on of the roads. We could just close our eyes and feel our way through. But we don’t. We think and analyze, we take few steps one way, we think again, we go back to the crossroads, we talk to other people who are there in the same time with us. Sometimes, we create a committee. We can think more and analyze better like that. We will utilize all of our resources to think. We don’t feel. No, we want to make the best LOGICAL choice. People who allow themselves to feel are flakes. We are serious. We think.

We choose. We go on and it doesn’t feel right. So, instead of turning back and trying to get to the other road as soon as we can, while we still know the way back, we keep going. We keep going on the wrong road and we think. We think of all the way we can make this road be the good road. We also analyze our original thinking, so we can understand where the mistake was, so we can learn and never repeat it. Never. We look around and we ask our road companions: “How are you? Are you happy with your choice?” They lie and say: “Yes”. To recognize their mistake would make the look week. So you go on and think and rationalize yourself out of the pain of knowing you made a mistake.

When you get to another crossroad you are relieved and start the thinking process knowing that you have learned from your previous choice. Now we are not going to get it wrong. We’ve already been here. We are older and wiser, now we know to make choices. We still don’t feel, that’s still not smart! We think some more. By now we are tired, but we just know we have to make the right choice. A voice tells us: “This doesn’t FEEL good.” We run away in panic because we are not supposed to feel. Think. Think. Think.

This was a close one…

No Title?

2008-03-02T22:24:00.000-06:00

What should I write?
Blue on yellow. Trees in front of houses. The sound of a baby sleeping.

I write to feel. I write to live. Now I’ll write for titles…
The title of my perfect poem will be:
The man on the moon that never faded
Or
Flying through the sea of sorrow on my way to the end
Or
Blue and red on a yellow field, before anyone thought of green

Yes. I like that.
Too bad I haven’t written the poem yet…

Luck

2008-03-02T22:18:00.000-06:00

How do you define “luck” especially when you don’t know if it exists? If “luck” would be a stone, what shape would it have? What color? Would be small or big, shiny or rough? If “luck” would be a leaf, would be green, or red? Would be long and thin, or heavy and thick? What if “luck” can hear you? What would you say?

My “luck” is a horse. A beautiful, black stallion. He has a shiny, long mane, he lives in the mountains, and he talks. He only talks to me, of course, so please don’t try to talk to him. You probably won’t even see him anyway… He comes when I call him and he looks at me with those big, dark eyes. I lay on him and become one with the passion of the horse. He runs and the wind blows all over my face. He keeps me safe, he brings me up, he gives me strength and then, he brings me back. He jumps on his back legs, turns around and leaves. Till next time.

I go back home and dream of my lucky, black stallion. He is really not mine, is he?

Books

2008-03-02T22:08:00.000-06:00

I grew up amongst books. They were always alive for me. They helped me sleep, they helped cry and they helped me be. I remember my old town during cold, heavy winter nights… The town was asleep and I was reading stories out laud. It smelled like snow, tea and fresh bread. It smelled like the love of my grandparents and it felt incredibly safe in the cold house with thick stone walls. The darkness was surrounding us, but the snow was light… I was sitting by the stove reading “Alone in the world” by Hector Malot.

Remy, the hero of my childhood. The orphan boy who travelled France together with an artist ambulant. The orphan who lived a harder life than me, the boy who didn’t have the love I had, but who found his mother and a love that I didn’t know. I read that book at least 50 times. I cried and laughed and felt incredibly lucky. It could have been worse. I could have been Remy…

Then, there were “The three musketeers” by Alexandre Dumas. Oh, I remember I was in love with Athos. Everyone I knew loved d’Artagnan, but I was always Athos. The older one, the mature one, the serious and the sad, but the one that was always there. The unselfish one. The one that kept the pain hidden deep inside a smile, the one that kept feeling undeserving of happiness.

And then, there were hundreds of other books, poetry, fiction, biography, historical novel, and motivational books, books that cried with me, books that I kept hidden, books that I carried with me everywhere I went, serious books, and even few funny ones. I have always gone back to Remy and Athos, though. They are me…

Letter to the Moon

2008-02-24T20:54:00.001-06:00

Dear Moon,

I have been meaning to talk to you for awhile now, but was always busy, counting the starts that surround you. You do know there are many stars out there, don’t you?

Well, it is time now. Time for you to know about me. I have been watching you ever since I can remember, I have tried to talk to you, but I guess you haven’t heard me since you never answered. At one point in time, I thought you are just rude. I guess you are just far away. My daughter told me that you are very far. She knows, because she’s visited you. She told me how the man on the moon is really nice and that you two get along just fine. I’m glad, because I was worried about you. I would hate to know that you are there alone all the time and you can even hear us. That’s too lonely. Even for a Moon…

I’m here. You are there. I guess, somehow we are together although you don’t know me.
I am infatuated with you. I wish I could hold and caress you. I wish I could sing you lullabies and watch you sleep. I have to tell you now, I just can’t keep this as a secret anymore. I love you. There. I said it.

Yours truly,

The woman not on the Moon.

Utopia

2008-02-24T20:37:00.000-06:00

In my world there are no cars.
In my world there are no boxes.
In my world, there are no lines.
In my world, there are no tears.

In my world, live only hearts.
In my world, live only writers.
In my world, live only eyes.
In my world, live only smiles.

You are in my world. And you, and you, and you.
She is in my world too. And he, and you, and you.
She can only visit my world, though.
When the sun sets in my world, she has to go back into hers.

In my world there is no pain.
In my world there is no wait.
In my world there is no fence.
In my world there is no regret.

In my world, you are what you want to be.
In my world, you look up at the sky and smile.
In my world, you are loved.
In my world, you are you.

Resistance

2008-02-24T20:12:00.001-06:00

I step outside. Outside of my mind. I can see my heart pumping, resisting to letting go of feelings. My heart seems suffocated in the crowd of thoughts, feelings and rocks. I look around and try to figure out the magic words. I need magic words, right? I think I need to stop this overwhelming feeling of too much feeling.

The world around us resists to letting go. The night doesn’t want to let go of darkness. The moon lingers in the sky even when it is obvious that the sun is there. The leaves do not want to fall off the trees, the parents do not want to let their children grow. Who am I to decide that letting go is the thing to do?

My heart is still beating. That’s good, I think. I am inside my mind and I know I should leave. I need to live outside of my mind, my thoughts should be my companions not my rulers, my feelings should call before they show up… I’ve managed to grow a pretty spoiled bunch of feelings. They come and make themselves at home. Next thing I know they completely moved in.

I am here. I am sorting through my years. It’s spring cleaning. My first. I promise, there is no resistance this time. I will only keep what I need… It’s a beautiful, sunny day. I’ll keep this one.

Wishes of a tree

2008-02-14T17:40:00.000-06:00

Have you ever imagined being a tree? A tall, strong, straight up, serious tree. Or, a small tree with lots of branches in someone’s backyard. A mountain tree, or a prairie tree, or even a palm tree.

I was talking to this tree once, and he was telling me stories from a far away time. He remembered every second of his hundreds of years. He told me he doesn’t get to have conversations too often and he was happy I stopped by. I touched its trunk and he shivered. “Nobody touched me in a long time.” “Last I remember, this little girl came and hugged me, buried her face in my leaves and asked me to hold her.” A leaf fell on my shoulder. I picked it up and said “Thank you”. I looked up and the branches were dancing, I stopped and listened: the tree was singing. The sweetest lullaby…

The tree told me about his youth and his wishes. When he was growing up, he wished to be a huge, tall tree in the middle of a forest, the tallest tree around. Then, he grew, the trees around him grew in a forest and he was the tallest. People would come and admire him, the other trees where envious and stopped talking to him. He grew lonely and sad. He wished to be a small tree in someone’s backyard. He wished he had friends and that kids would climb up on him and decorate him at Christmas. He wished and he grew older and sadder as time went by. That’s where he was when I stopped and hugged him. We talked for a long time and he told me his last wish…

I turned to leave and he burst into flames. I watched that big tree crumble up until there was nothing but ashes and amber.

The tree lived… The tree was happy… The wish was granted…

Counting

2008-02-10T14:22:00.000-06:00

How many times have I heard: “you have to be first, coming in second doesn’t count”? I lost count. The first memory of my childhood is that of me as a child, in a crib, calling for someone to come. I could hear the voices outside my room, I was calling, but nobody came. I don’t know how old I was. I don’t remember anything else. It was just the fear of being alone. Was it the first time I felt alone, or the first time I felt fear? I don’t really know. It feels like the first time to me, so I guess, it was.

I would like second for awhile… What was my second memory as a child? I don’t know. The memories run together after the first one. I am infatuated with the notion of peace, with being able to let go of thoughts and feel compelled to just feel. I’m not counting anymore.

Expecting the unexpected

2008-02-07T21:56:00.000-06:00

I wait for the sky to open and for you to put it all back.
I wait for the wind to take away the pain of dryness and for you to cover me up.
I wait for the earth to change its movement and, at any time, for us to fall… upwards.
I wait for the eternity of your touch, for the safety of your arms.
I wait for the moments to swirl and for you to send me your thoughts.
I wait for all the craziness to end and for peace to start.
I wait for rainbows, for sunshine, for soft kisses and for flames.
I wait for everything that I think is reasonable…

The sky opens, you cover me up, we don’t fall, we still are.
The moments come and go, they bring tears and laughter.
The life comes and stays for awhile, we feel peace and then we fall.
The rainbows color the darkness and we get up, we still are.
What we thought is reasonable is no more, we still are.
The flames take us away, the waves quench us, we still are.
Sore, burned, happy, fulfilled, stronger, better, complete.
We still are.

Flame

2008-02-07T17:25:00.000-06:00

It’s getting dark outside. It’s that moment in between times: the sun looks tired, but still tries to give it its all. I look at the sky and wait. The colors change. It’s amber right now. Soft amber in the month of August. Flames in the sky. It’s interesting… it should get hot soon. I just want to stay here and watch the flames. It maybe just the fear of turning towards myself…

I have to warm up to my own flames now. It’s really dark and cold outside. I am a child, a serious, brown eyed girl who doesn’t smile too much. Everyone thinks I’m just quiet, they may think I’m cold. I am really busy inside, trying to sort out what’s ashes and amber and flames. When I finish, I’ll be old. I just hope I won’t be too old to care. Or too cold.

I miss your embraces. I miss feeling protected and safe. I miss being the happy, serious, brown eyed girl I have never been. I want to have been able to run out and jump in your arms and feel truly happy when you came. Instead, I always wondered if I was enough. Always trying to be more. So much trying, that I forgot to be.

I am not putting out my flames anymore. They will always burn.

Differences

2008-02-02T23:03:00.001-06:00

It’s going to be different this time.
The rain will still fall, but there will be new rain drops.
The sun will still shine, but its rays will touch your face differently
The night will come, but the sounds before it will be softer.
I will still love you, but my heart will beat faster.
The flowers will grow and some people will look at them and think
That they’ve seen them before…
No, they are different.

We look for what we want to see.
We dream of what we think we are allowed to dream of.
We love the way we were taught and get mad when it doesn’t fill us up.
We escape and become different.

Then, we start looking for what we want to see again.

Beginning

2008-02-02T22:54:00.000-06:00

This is lot harder than I thought. When I read this assignment, I thought… it’s a piece of cake. There are so many beginnings! Where do I begin?

I have enrolled in this writing class. 50 days, 50 assignments, 50 pages, 50 bucks. Why? Because I like to write, it keeps me sane, because Kim made me (for those of you who know Kim, you know that’s absolutely true), because I don’t have enough to do (right). It’s a beginning. I have started to think about me. I have started to care about what I like and what I don’t, about how I spend my time with myself and about what I do for myself.

I grew up in a strict, tight, gray environment. My parents loved me, my grandparents loved me, everyone loved me, but it was all loaded with responsibilities. I grew up fast and grew up tight. I kept withdrawing into this world of extreme imagination hosted inside my head and heart. I was happy there, but it felt that on the outside I wasn’t good enough. Why am I telling you all this? I was talking about doing something for myself. Yes, I started to do more of that. It’s still hard and I still have a lot of guilt associated with that, but it’s a start.

I feel fresh and powerful, full of unexpressed feelings and thoughts. I feel much older than I really am, but much more energetic than before. Before the beginning…

Playing with pain

2007-07-04T07:55:00.001-05:00

My thoughts seem to be running away today. I’m stretching my arm out and… let’s see… I got one.
It’s one of my thoughts. Sorry. You are going to stay with me for awhile longer.

Pain seems to sharpen with the passing of seconds.
Is it the time that hurts or just me?
I think it’s the most outer layer of me.
I’m good inside, I can still feel warm.

The pain returns and tries to penetrate deeper.
I stop it and throw it away. How rude!
It didn’t even ask if I’m willing to take it in.
Well, I’m not. Next time, it should ask.

I’m sending my heat on this trip. It’s a long journey,
but it will make it.
It needs to get to the outside and warm up my eyes.
Should be easy, I have faith in my heart.

Meanwhile, I’ll just sit here and wait…

Prayer

2007-04-17T16:08:00.001-05:00

Give me strength from your hands.
Give me a breath of air from your eyes.
Please, give me everything you had at the beginnings.
Then, turn me into stone
Turn me into a green rock,
and into a green woman.
Turn me into your tree, and take my leaves.
Uproot me, and build me up into a wall.
Water me. Water me with heavy rain,
with water heavier then the emptiness within.
Reborn me from the crumbles of green rock,
and leaves, and roots.
Then, I will be. Re-give me to you,
and I will be… a soul in the sun.
I will always whisper:
Love, you… you…

Life

2007-04-17T16:07:00.001-05:00

At the beginning there is pleasure,
and desire, love, passion and… two…
Then, there is a welcome scream
and curiosity, struggle, laugh and… one or … three…
Then, running, falling, rising, flying,
falling, running, searching, knowledge,
and… one…
It all becomes heart, love, knowledge again, pleasure,
and desire, love, and…two…
Then one… and another…
And another.
Slipping away and struggle, trying to hold on, and
Impossibility.
There is black or light. Pain or peace.
Who really knows what it is?
It could be passing on.
At the end, there is beginning.
At the beginning there is pleasure,
and desire, and…

Algebra

2007-03-12T10:27:00.000-05:00

I used to like to graph functions.
I liked the surprise I felt with each touch of the pencil on paper.
Straight lines climbing towards infinity.
Curved lines approaching that asymptotic line which seemed to appear
all of the sudden in the middle of the page.
I was fascinated with that reaching without actually touching.
Never actually achieving. How did the lines really feel?
There was great sadness too in those graphs…

Riding the ride

2007-03-12T10:26:00.000-05:00

I feel the tears of not being falling inside me.
I feel myself smashing against words and thoughts.
The vowels scratch me. They are so easy to say, but so difficult to caress…
Is it day or night? Is this light? Is it really me?
I turn around and I see myself looking at me.
I stretch my hand so I can get over memories.
I stop and realize that I am just a memory.
I am a forgotten page in a book with lots of pages.
People.

My thoughts hurt. My hidden thoughts, your unsaid thoughts,
buried in the deepness of other thoughts.
My mind embraces them, empties them of all meaning and feeling,
transforms them into black letters on a white wall and then,
into words more black and more empty.
I’m better, right? The words have passed…

Kneeling

2006-11-30T13:31:00.000-06:00

Desert lions, I miss you!
I miss your strength.
Pray for people and for their dried up roots!
I want to caress your fantastic mane with my leaves.
I want to hear your roar.
Speak for me, desert lions!
Pray for people, desert lions!
Sprinkle some of your eyes’ strength
in people’s souls.
These souls are so thirsty for love…
Kneel your power, desert lions and send us your prayer.

Questions

2006-11-30T13:30:00.000-06:00

There is Time. You are Time, rising towards nowhere.
You are Time stepping down towards somewhere else.
There is Time petrified in a light that could never be red.
Why isn’t ever enough Time?

There is Earth. You are Earth, black and heavy and full of rainbows.
You are Earth, from the world across,
You are the Earth of the eternal world among all of the worlds.
Why aren’t we one with the Earth?

There is a Moment. You are the Moment, born from the Time
rising towards nowhere.
You are the Moment, born from the black and heavy Earth,
full of rainbows.
Why can’t the Moment last forever?

You are everything. So, why is there this farewell
without face or laugh?
Why is there a tear and why this roundness of stones?
Why just stones?

Rising

2006-11-30T13:28:00.000-06:00

The sun rises once again.
Where did all the darkness go? It was here just a minute ago…
The night was all around me, I could feel its touch
The night surrounded me and I felt nothing afterwards.
I almost miss the finality of night.
I feel it seeping inside me and the fear of no light,
Slowly gives way to coolness.

The sun is back. You are the light. The light of my night?
No. It comes after darkness. IS it just my light?
And why should I share it with the world? Or do I?
Does everyone else see the light?
I see people walking in the dark.
I see people cold and empty.
How could they be empty when the sun is up?
They must not have seen it?
Should I tell them?
Hey! Stop! Can’t you see?

Flow

2006-11-02T14:14:00.000-06:00

I am a mountain spring. In the eyes of the mountain, I am small, but so vital. I run through forests, I search the valleys, I am cold and alive. I dream of a quiet lake, but I can’t be one. There’s too much motion, there’s too much purpose, there’s too much desire to conquer the world. The mountain would be empty without me, although the mountain gets tired of my constant flowing. It sets up rocks in my path; it uproots trees and throws them in my banks. I move around the rocks, I flow through the trees. My banks cannot contain me. I get to the dam and I focus on being. I am amazed at how free I feel, and how contained. I come and go, from one side to the other, I jump and flow and the dam is around me. I smile… I am free, but I am home. When I get tired, I can make… electricity.
I am a mountain spring. You are my dam.

Trial

2006-11-02T14:13:00.000-06:00

The nothingness did not change.
Holding my silence in my arms, in the middle of its darkness,
I looked up and watched the sky. I said:
I am a piece of this tree that… hurts.
My silence was only a bundle of darkness and transparency,
a drop from the world’s silence.

A piece of the sky was missing. Oh, that’s my silence!
A crumble from the sky.
And there was the sky full of holes. Terrible.
My fear was born.
What if I can’t put the sky back… inside me?
What if I’ll leave the world looking at a hole in the sky?

I was quiet, holding my silence close to me.
I was quiet till my silence deafened
And implored me to come back inside me.

Asking

2006-09-26T20:37:00.000-05:00

Don’t go.
I want to watch you some more!
I want to pick you up,
whisper by whisper,
light by light, sadness by sadness
in my eyes rising towards you!
Don’t go.
I thirst for your lonely lips,
those lips with perfumes
of white lilac.
I thirst for your eyes,
hiding the sky in each caress
with which I’m embraced…
Stay…

Broken shell

2006-09-26T20:33:00.000-05:00

“Love is an infinite giving of yourself.” Then why do I feel like I’m begging for love? Why this enormous sadness of wanting in and being left outside? Why the tears and the pain? Why the pain? Is there a final purpose? Is there a threshold we need to pass so finally, someone can say: ok, you’ve hurt enough?

I feel like a broken shell, wore out by the sea. I feel like I’ve lived for thousands of years and touched all that I can. I feel like I have thrown myself in the waves, trusted in their battle, believed in their deepness, but I’m nowhere. Nobody can find me, I hear myself crying for a touch, but nobody hears me. There is too much noise in the world, touches don’t have feelings, lives don’t have an end, hearts don’t have miracles.

I want everything to shut up. I want peace and silence, I want to feel that I’m not broken, whole again in the eyes of an innocent child. Pick me up, I’ll give you softness and love, colors and laugh, light from thousands years ago. Can you hear me?

On many roads

2006-09-26T20:19:00.000-05:00

On many roads, my traveling thought is looking for you.
Oh, that end of a day, covered in hurried rain drops!
In my garden, the flowers, wishing for other very high meadows,
are still calling for
your light without a trace.

Where you are today, I don’t know. None of the songs
found you. Today,
you are where you are. And I am here. The distance
has placed the Big Dipper between us,
the waters in valleys, the fire in the darkness on the hills,
and on the earth, it placed petals and pain
that don’t like daylight.
It closed as a gate. No sign can penetrate the emptiness,
the emptiness.

To you

2006-09-19T09:24:00.000-05:00

To you, who taught me how to live,
how to discover light and fruits, joy and bitter pain,
and colors: the bright red of a rose, the yellow of an old autumn,
and the green from everywhere.

To you, who opened my heart towards knowing, and
let me see the light of your brother son.
To you, son of eternity, I give you… me.

Moments

2006-09-19T09:22:00.000-05:00

Don’t ever say no to understanding. As long as you are in control of your mind and soul, don’t run away from understanding, because turning your back will only bring on the cry of a moment that has not been lived.
Do you know how hard the moments cry? They cry through us, but their voice comes from somewhere outside. The return of the moments within us… Unlived moments, moments left somewhere at the corner of a soul, left there because of too much indifference or too little courage and energy. There are moments left, thrown and deserted, constantly looking for a place where they can be loved.
Aren’t you afraid of the revolt of moments? You know, when the sky comes tumbling down on us, we will become moments and then, other people, like us, will throw us away, will leave us somewhere not wanting to live us.
Try to think how you would feel if you would not be lived. Constantly trying to find a place within a soul, looking for another moment to sit in its shadow and hope that you too will pass. Passed, not lived. Why not think and live life like you are the absolute moment, or maybe you are actually an hour, or a day?
You can be anything you want. You can be century; you can be someone’s unique moment. However, if you refuse understanding, if you don’t live your questions and don’t treasure your moments as they are your own absolute, you will remain just bitter and you won’t even be able to think of the happiness in the water from a rapid.

Dreaming?

2006-09-18T10:56:00.000-05:00

Today I was dreaming. I know, it’s not a surprise, it’s not even breaking news. So, what? It’s me. I felt soft and light, my whole body was shivering for a touch. An overwhelming ray pulled me to brightness. I woke up and I was angry. I kept saying to myself: “it’s not true, life is experience and as long as you live you cannot fail.” I realized I was mad at Sartre. He said once: “the story of every life is the story of failure.” Wrong. If he would still be alive we would have had to argue about it. Maybe I could have shown him the wide opened eyes of my soul and he could have believed…

Today’s motto is: “Nothing I can touch from horizons is ever enough. I want everything allover again.” I feel like the sea. Oh, that didn’t convince you? It’s not clear? Good. There’s nothing clear about the sea. There’s deepness and color, struggle and foam, screaming and softens, light, sadness, but always strength, always returns and perseverance.

I have all these quotes in my head. Maybe if I write them down, I’ll feel relieved. “Life is a continuous run towards death.” How sad is that? How much can someone hurt to find no hope? And what is death, anyway? Why is it scary? Why do we let ourselves live in fear? Fear of what?

Today it rained on me. The rain drops opened their arm and took me in. Cool, crisp and welcoming. It smelled like home. Like coming home. I needed to feel the joy of returns, that daring feeling of invincibility. I thought of the smells from the past. My high school days, spending nights at the Black Sea, playing bridge, listening to Pink Floyd. Feeling misunderstood. Looking inside and wanting out.

We part ways,
I take tears, dreams and optimism,
I place my childhood in my arms
And walk forward…
Then, I will wonder whispering
I miss… I miss… I miss

Wings

2006-09-14T17:58:00.000-05:00

I am a broken flight,
The undetermined music of two wings,
A naked step on a hot palm,
A smile lost in your laugh...
I am an open window ready for your dreams.

I wait for you on my white island,
wanting to lay my head in your hands.

You are the evening with teary eyes
crying for the clearness of the stars which tremble painfully inside me.
You are my whispers offered to you.
You are the spring with flowering hands, spreading apricot branches
in every window of my frightened eyes waiting for you.
You are the fiery breath of poppies in August, binding my storms
with so many sunrises for your love.
You are the open eye to the darkness of my soul.
Under your watch, my love,
the broken wings of my dreams are healed.

Light

2006-09-14T17:56:00.000-05:00

The light generates from your eyes.
The light is your eyes when they seem to be made of dark oceans.
This light warms my body and it transforms it
into the flame of the beginnings.

You are the love of a land I dreamt about and did not find,
and then, I forgot I tried to find it.
You are the passion of love from a world, other than the one I live in,
a world I tried to find and you’ve helped me reach.

You are the stream of life, from you and from me and from something
too much from the beginning to be able to name it without
burning my lips.

Don’t ever go walking in a forest as bright as you, because you will overwhelm it.
You will create lava which will burn my soul together with those trees
next to which you liked to think you were.
But if you do, send yourself towards me so your passion will brighten my night,
and your light will be flowers growing from your palms when your arms
protect me.

The light is flames and struggles. The light is you.
You are so much light that I finally understand,
that intensity means flames, tear means struggle, light means you,
and “you” means light.

Why?

2006-09-14T17:27:00.000-05:00

I don't really know... A good friend of mine said to me recently: "why don't you put this stuff on a blog?". "This stuff" is what's coming. It's a begining. It's exciting and somewhat challenging. It focuses energies. It shares. It creates. It's part of existing... oh, no, not existing, but experiencing.