As I was reading Alice Walker (best known for her book The Color Purple) collection of essays entitled Anything We Love Can Be Saved, I thought her ideas only represented me on an abstract – perhaps metaphorical level. I can relate to her situation only in certain aspects, others I can’t even begin to understand. In my opinion, she is rather centred around a purpose and she definitely has a leit-motif (the Goddess, for example), but, as I said, I don’t fully understand her situation, so I won’t be judging her for some linguistic clichés (I know I have mine, and I’m pretty sure each individual, social/enthic group or country has plenty as well!).
In any case, from the whole book, I chose an essay that I think is still very much current, even after fourteen years. It’s about Christmas and its sometimes empty, sometimes ideologically charged stories. First, the subtitle is quite interesting and very much poetic: “seed catalogs like paper flowers”. (more…)
With such a long and complicated (but cutely suggestive, right) title, you may wonder what I am on about right now. Well, I came up with the idea a couple of days ago when I was standing in a Costa drinking a green at 6 p.m. (don’t judge me!) and I was absorbed in writing something very sad and serious and, out of nowhere, I hear people talking in Romanian. Now this is not uncommon in London, especially in the area I live in, but when I do it’s often from all the wrong people (the ones I wouldn’t be too happy to go and say “Oh, you’re Romanian, too? Let’s talk about our culture and share our experiences of being Romanians in a quite hostile land – against us, I mean: I won’t get too much into it, but, what I can say, it’s no picnic being Romanian or Bulgarian in Europe at the moment).
Well, for a moment I was completely distracted and I got agitated for a (short) while. I knew I shouldn’t eavesdrop on a conversation that was more likely private (even more so when thinking nobody around understood them), but for a second there I just rejoiced hearing my mother tongue being spoken by normal and educated people in a Costa, in London. Yesterday had another not-so-similar experience. This time when I arrived home I was struck by the lack of education two strange men (that is that looked like thugs in leather jackets) that went in the hall right before me, but didn’t bother to hold the door for me. (more…)
Strong words relating to a vague, ethereal group that represents an unseen but really dangerous enemy – or so we are let to believe! – can identify a rhetoric or another for the connoisseur, but they are as liable to become a cigarette thrown into a tank at the gas station. Such words as “terrorists”, “nazis”, “activists”, “environmentalists”, nowadays “occupiers” (or as I keep hearing in a so-called democratic Romania words like “golani” – punks, “tineri” – youth or “studenti” – students used pejoratively as the ones who don’t work and are like leaches on the respectable workers and peasants who keep the country going, and so on). Using these words it’s quite easy to fall into the trap of generalized non-action and perhaps even opposition to change, unless change is imposed by the Man. Even terms of endearment can be dangerous when used in a work environment, for example in a place where all participants should be equal, but the majority is male and the women are addressed as “dear” or “darling”, or with terms otherwise reserved to the bedroom. Therefore, words are both positive and negative. They are positive if we know how to defend ourselves against them (even insults can be kept away with a shield!) and understand that a word can have countless meanings and we should use and interpret it according to a definite context and combination. They are negative if we don’t acknowledge these facts and only take words out of contexts and for what we think they mean. In any case… Is there a reason for why “word” and “world” are such close brothers (sisters, or siblings if we are to include all readers in the equation)?
It was cold… So cold. I was rushing to take the bus home through the crowds and dreaming about an ideal world in which I was the reincarnation of Bruce Lee and my kung fu was the strongest of ’em all.
As I was preparing to cross the street, I was about to step off the sidewalk when a bus almost hit me. I backed off as quick as I could and I started hearing my heartbeat. I rushed towards the station I wanted to catch the bus as soon as possible. The station was packed. Everybody was freezing and I as soon as I arrived, I calculated where I should sit to be among the first when the bus stops. You know… I have my favourite seat I absolutely need to occupy, otherwise… well, otherwise… I’m unhappy. And the ride is quite long for me, so I need to get comfortable, right?
Well, I did that. And I saw it. My bus. Parked close to the station, empty and with the lights turned off. Everybody was shaking, moving from one leg to the other, rubbing their palms together. There was this guy listening to music on his phone, he kept dancing with his eyes closed, sometimes smiling, other times timidly moving his lips to the lyrics. I couldn’t make out the song. At some point he sat down on the bench and went on doing his thing. A few seconds later, an old lady with a shopping trailer bag sat next to him. She was obviously unhappy with his silent musical antics. She kept shaking her head, whispering something that I thought was in the lines of “Youth these days…”.
Then, happiness. The driver arrived and started the bus off. Happiness for everyone, everybody was smiling – at least inside. I suddenly realized it wasn’t really cold any more, it was actually really hot. The bus arrived and stopped, the doors opened and the driver invited us to get in.
I don’t know how and when it happened, but when the bus started, there wasn’t anyone in it any more.
“One way trip, miss?” the driver suddenly asked me. Then I realized. I never made it to the station!
Well… I was walking near one of the canals in Tottenham Hale towards the twilight (not that twilight, ugh, I can’t even use this word without sparkly cheesy connotations any more, bless you whatever-is-your-name-woman-who-invented-sparkly-vampires-sensitive-to-the-humans’-emotions) and it just felt … umm… like poetry.
If you watched the video before reading this post, then, very good, if you didn’t please watch it. It’s basically a poem by Mihai Eminescu, something of a lullaby, but also describing nature going to sleep. I won’t go into interpretations (just search for “Somnoroase pasarele” – if you know Romanian – or “Drowsy birds” could be its English translation: find the poem here, in Romanian, English, Hungarian, Modern and Ancient Chinese). Here are the lyrics as translated in English (from that site – the version which is really nice, not the other one, *cough* Sleepy Birds… But it still can’t catch the nuances that it does in the Romanian language, it’s maybe why they say poetry can’t really be translated, it can be at most re-written, but its form and rhythm are built within the music of certain language and that language alone):
Well, anyway… While I was walking along the water – and feeling guilty that I forgot to take some treats with me again and all the birds were looking at me quite irritated – I felt like singing this song (because it was made a song by George Popescu) while I was watching everything natural and human going to sleep. At times like this I really wish I were a poet, but for some reason I can’t find words (that is poetic words that can describe an image or another), it feels really difficult to give shape to feelings – especially if they’re complex and include a whole pantheon of elements.
Well, I was thinking that Eminescu must have taken a walk like me, some 200 years ago. The only difference? He wrote a poem, which was given music, and which is now a part of the Romanian heritage. What did I do? A blog post. A conventional blog post, with a YouTube video link. It’s not that I want to point at myself and say “Sinner, heathen, stupid, whatever”… It’s just that I wish I could write a poem as simple and beautiful as that. Plus, if in the 1880s, if there had been such a thing as blogging, I guess he’d be blogging too. And most likely not the poems and nice stuff, but normal, opinionated, perhaps even politically incorrect posts.
But don’t let me destroy the dreamy feeling I have with silly assumptions. I’ll leave you with the drowsy birds and bid you a very good, peaceful night!
