The Curiosity of Life

I’m deadly curious.

Where does the color of the smile come from? How comes that a tear is a rainbow? What does love smell like? Why can’t I eat sky’s yolk? Does every beginning smell of coffee? Why doesn’t everything smell of coffee? Why can’t we feel every birth? Why do universes die? How many constellations does a person contain? Do I shine brightly? Can I taste souls? How? How can I open somebody’s eyes and drink out of them? What do memories look like? Are dreams touchable? Or eatable? How heavy is a worry? How much does a life weight? Why don’t people live? How much does a hug cost? At what time does sky open? What do I have to do so as to be allowed to move stars and suns? How expensive is a call to God? Can I fly? If yes, what is the top limit of the height? What is the color of night? Of sex? Who a friend is? Are you my friend? Am I allowed to draw happiness? Where can I buy paint for this? When will people accept the beauty of life’s reasonlessness? Why is breath tickling? How are proximities put on fire? Where does the butterfly hold its lessons about how to establish chaos? Where is the second sock? How cold is a closed door, according to Celsius? Where can I find tickets for excursions inside brains? Where can I buy the tools to transform my eyes into a camera? Are emotions planning to hold a concert? What is the moon’s secret of keeping secrets?

Mugure

…Și tot ce vreau, înmugurind,

E primăvar-atemporală

a gurii tale -

Ghiocel impertinent

în iarna-ți din priviri.

Neîmpărtășită

Mi-e frig de-atîta

iubire udă.

 

Mi se revarsă prin ochi,

Pe gură,

Din creieri.

 

Sînt udă

în mijlocul unei băltoci

de iubire.

 

Bate vîntul,

Și mi-e frig de-atîta

iubire udă.

 

Vîscoasă și udă,

N-am soare s-o usuc,

s-o evapor.

 

Un pește

nu în apele sale,

Cu muci

de iubire.

 

Sînt țurțure

De-atîta iubire udă.

Cenușă

Îmi arde sufletul

ca trecutul îngălbenit

al depărtărilor de hîrtie.

 

Arde în focul

privirii spre viitor.

 

Arde, aprins

de chiar inima-mi

Pe care o descoperi,

privindu-te-n oglindă.

 

Mă fac cenușă.

Și mă risipesc în aerul

pe care nu-l respiri,

de vîntul zîmbetului tău

departe.

Fotoaparat

Mi-as face ochii -

Fotoaparat.

 

As arde creierii,

pelicula dupa pelicula,

Pentru-imortalizari

colore.

 

Atunci v-as arata

niste nuante

colorate :

 

Tot spectrul de culori

alb-negre

ale orasului somnambul.

 

Mi-as sparge obiectivul

Prin curcubeul de iubiri

Si asteptari prea colorate.

 

Ori acuarela dizolvata

a unui zimbet

ratacit.

 

As face zoom la inimi,

Batind cromatic,

suspendate.

 

Inregistrind,

printr-o clipire,

Sorii din lacrimi

si baltoci,

As colora peretii

mintilor decolorate.

 

As lumina,

cu flash-ul dintre gene,

Intreaga gama de visari,

scotindu-le din asteptat,

in numar mare

d-exemplare,

Facindu-mi ochii -

Fotoaparat.

A drop

[...]He’s getting hot next to your burning desire. There is a stream of sweat on him. A drop. A salty drop, made up of his particles. A salty drop, just as his uncertainties. Which had finally come out of him. Originated from his temple, getting out directly from his thoughts on fire, the drop is oriented down. It flows heavily, enjoying your eyes on it. It cuddles his edgy cheek, his unshaved cheek, his ignorant cheek. It cuddles your idea of flowing like this. You see your face reflected on it and transfigure yourself emphatically. Now it’s you who touch his skin. So slowly, as if it were your life-long trip. A round-off turn, careful as the entrance in an old museum, and you touch the dreamed neck. You humidify it, taking on its scent of virility and surprising sensitiveness. You’re soft and sluggish, as if you were the last, undecided snow in spring, laying supple on the virgin land. You want so bad to be absorbed by him, but you’re out. You’re on. You repeat each his curve and love taking his shape. You’re a salty drop, made up of his particles.

When the stream reaches his collar-bone, you lick it. The drop, which printed his shape, is forever in you.

 

tremurind

 

una dintre marile mele inspiratii

Furtuna

Tușește grav cerul

orfan

de visele noastre.

Autobiografica

 

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with piggy eyes. Through them, she saw only a little part of the world. The sun was still smiley, but point-like. The sky was still dreamy, but cloud-like. The grass was still vivacious, but wire-like. So she used to imagine. She drew sun-eggs, sky-beds and grass-canvases. The world enlarged inside her filling her to limits. Sun, sky and grass mixed into rains and springs. The life drained inside the little girl through her pitiful piggy eyes, taking a very own shape, the one of her mind. She loved her creature, she hated her creature. Because the life inside her was imagined. Because she has never seen the end of the sky and he beginning of sun. And she has never seen herself. The little girl never looked in a mirror. From all the world’s curtailed, there was a single thing she has never wanted to see wholly – herself. Piggy eyes, ugly eyes. Ugly girl. Incomplete girl !

And there were 3 things she didn’t trust in : God, love and herself. God was for her “a mandala, a symmetrical angel” (Jim Morrison) painted on other people’s mind skies. Love was for her a market, an excuse, laziness to call things with their names : desire, fear of loneliness, sex, hunger, need of money, of food-in-time, of somebody to wash your socks, “I make you feel good so please do me the same”.  And finally She was for her the main cause for never finding out what world was really like. Those bloody piggy eyes !!

Once, during her mind travels through the dotted-lined wholes, she has met a tear. “A tear in its chute on the planet’s cheek”. Through Him (it was a full He), the whole world has transcended. He captured the entire earth, reflecting it kaleidoscopically. Crystalline pure, he was filled with any sorrow and happiness a tear may content. And he irradiated. Unconditionally and powerfully. Little girl’s piggy eyes have never seen such a righteous beauty. And at that moment, she saw it completely. The first whole in her life. The first absoluteness in her life. So she licked in the saltiness of it. Of Him.

Through the taste of him, she started discovering entireness. Because the limpidness of the tear enclosed the reflected everything. While the flavor straddled her interior, her eyes distended under the arising drops of hope and belief. Piggy eyes became wet.  Smiley. Dreamy. Vivacious. Her eyes became the world. And she firstly saw herself. Reflected in the tear of Him. An incorporated belief.

***

The little girl still doesn’t believe in God. She still hasn’t seen the end of the sky and the beginning of sun. She keeps on imagining. And she still doesn’t know what world is really like. But she doesn’t have piggy eyes anymore. Now, she has pristine salty drops of neverendingness. She has found out completeness. Through the He-tear of life. Of love.

During a concert

[...]The heavy press of piano on my inner keyboard and the airy smelling sound of flute wander around a bizarre clot inside me. So, here we are. You inside me, and still so unreachable far. Yes, unreachable !

Word by word, sound by sound, I form an intricate bobbin. The thread that constitutes it, lays over countries, over ages, over people. But just as one of the favorite toys of my childhood – the so-called “phone” made from 2 matches boxes and a thread – it unites only two people, two people attaching closely to each of the side boxes. I gather this thread coming to me, rolling it on my finger and storing it on a large shelf inside my chest. It brings a lot of unknown. It brings a lot of news. But the unknown prevails.  Lovable !

I know nothing about you, my firend. And still, when I bring my right hand to the left side of my chest, above my heart, I feel as if I seized the little dense thread ball with all its undiscovered, as well as everything acknowledged. I don’t know your life. But I have it all inside me – since the former fusion of gametes till the inverted image of this letter on your retina. Under the skin suggesting where heart should be. Under the skin where I’m gonna have a tattoo. A word. A mark. A symbol.  Of my formation. Of the gift of love. Of me. Just me. And everything except me. “Parenthesis”.