Tactica si strategie – Mario Benedetti
Tactica mea este sa te privesc,
Sa invat cum esti,
Sa te iubesc cum esti.
Tactica mea este sa iti vorbesc
Si sa te ascult,
Sa construiesc din cuvinte
O punte indestructibila.
Tactica mea este sa raman in amintirea ta,
Nu stiu cum
Si nici sub ce pretext
Dar sa raman in tine.
Tactica mea este sa fiu sincer
Si sa stiu ca esti sincera
Si ca nu ne vindem unul altuia iluzii,
Pentru ca intre noi doi sa nu fie perdea, nici abis.
Strategia mea, in schimb,
Este mai profunda si mai simpla:
Strategia mea este ca, intr-o zi oarecare,
Nu stiu cum,
Nici sub ce pretext
Sa ai, in sfarsit, nevoie de mine.
sâmbătă, 17 martie 2012
marți, 13 martie 2012
Gand despre dragoste...
Dragostea care rasare in suflet si nu infloreste, nu are timp sa te dezamageasca. Motiv pentru care ii vei purta bobocul florii in suflet vesnic…
White flag...
White flag...
joi, 8 martie 2012
8 Martie 2012
Inca o data. Inca un an. Ziua in care se constientizeaza Mamele, Femeile. In rest, ele exista. Dar astazi...
Multumiri, ganduri, zambete. Ale mele pentru ele, ale lor pentru mine. Ale noastre pentru El, ca ne-a intalnit pe unii cu ceilalti, ca lumea are mersul pe care il are.
Dorinte de pace in suflet, de fericire sau macar de momente de fericire si de sanatate pentru vesmintele astea efemere si perisabile carora le zicem trupuri.
Si spectacol. Astazi cel mai mult, in afara de frumusetea zilei, imi place sa observ barbatii. Sau pe unii din ei. Respectiv pe cei care daruiesc flori. Astazi toti par sa redevina acei copii de la mamele lor de acasa, usor stanjeniti de florile alea multe, abia asteptand sa scape desi as tinde sa am convingerea ca o fac cu drag (cred ca au ales fiecare floare gandindu-se la fiecare femeie careia ii va reveni), stangaci cand le daruiesc si isi pierd cuvintele, si atat de fericiti cand vad si pe altii in situatia lor. Sunt adorabili, sunt admirabili.
La multi ani, Femeie! In mainile tale gingase sta caminul Lumii. Cu ele mangai, cu ele certi. Cu ele rupi si tot cu ele carpesti la loc. In ele stau fericirea si tristetea in acelasi timp, de ele depinde insasi Viata. Cu mainile tale te joci si tot cu ele muncesti. Mainile iti sunt sarutate de copil si cavaler cu acelasi respect si devotament, cu multumire si fericire ca au avut norocul sa fie ocrotiti de ele.
La multi ani, Mama!
Multumiri, ganduri, zambete. Ale mele pentru ele, ale lor pentru mine. Ale noastre pentru El, ca ne-a intalnit pe unii cu ceilalti, ca lumea are mersul pe care il are.
Dorinte de pace in suflet, de fericire sau macar de momente de fericire si de sanatate pentru vesmintele astea efemere si perisabile carora le zicem trupuri.
Si spectacol. Astazi cel mai mult, in afara de frumusetea zilei, imi place sa observ barbatii. Sau pe unii din ei. Respectiv pe cei care daruiesc flori. Astazi toti par sa redevina acei copii de la mamele lor de acasa, usor stanjeniti de florile alea multe, abia asteptand sa scape desi as tinde sa am convingerea ca o fac cu drag (cred ca au ales fiecare floare gandindu-se la fiecare femeie careia ii va reveni), stangaci cand le daruiesc si isi pierd cuvintele, si atat de fericiti cand vad si pe altii in situatia lor. Sunt adorabili, sunt admirabili.
La multi ani, Femeie! In mainile tale gingase sta caminul Lumii. Cu ele mangai, cu ele certi. Cu ele rupi si tot cu ele carpesti la loc. In ele stau fericirea si tristetea in acelasi timp, de ele depinde insasi Viata. Cu mainile tale te joci si tot cu ele muncesti. Mainile iti sunt sarutate de copil si cavaler cu acelasi respect si devotament, cu multumire si fericire ca au avut norocul sa fie ocrotiti de ele.
La multi ani, Mama!
sâmbătă, 25 februarie 2012
„Traieste-ma pe mine! Traieste-ma pe mine!”
Totul in viata este arbitrar. Toata viata oamenii te vor ruga, te vor implora sa fii slab. Dar ce isi doresc cu adevarat este sa fii puternic. Nu pentru ca se gandesc la tine si ca ti-e tie de folos in viata, ci pentru ca se gandesc la ei si la nevoia lor de ocrotire si de siguranta. Sa simta ca pot gresi linistiti, cineva, acolo, ii va corecta. Ca pot cadea linistiti si cat de rau posibil, cineva, acolo, ii va ridica. Pot plange daca vor, cineva, acolo, le va da un umar sa se sprijine, sa se descarce. Nimeni nu se asteapta sa fii slab. Nimeni nu se asteapta sa clachezi, sa cazi. Toti vor cu disperare sa fii mai puternic, sa fii acolo in caz de nevoie.
„Oamenii care renunta la dragoste un merita sa fie iubiti”…. O vorba dintr-un film fain pe TVR1 vineri seara de februarie, 24. Cine renunta la dragoste? Cine nu o recunoaste atunci cand sta asezata langa. Deci nu consider ca sunt de condamnat cei ce renunta (?). Nici macar nu cred ca utilizarea verbului „a renunta” este corecta. Nici nu e vina lor. Asa sunt ei. Tu il condamni pe cel care renunta pentru ca a fugit de dragostea ta dar el nu simte ca a gresit in vreun fel. Si daca fuge de dragostea ta asa cum il acuzi nu inseamna ca va fugi mereu. Va recunoaste si el dragostea la randul lui. In altcineva.
Fiecare isi are momentele lui in viata. Fiecare isi numara victoriile si pierderile si sunt subiective. Si de necriticat. E usor sa crezi ce vrei, ce vezi. Pentru ca nu cunosti. Si daca crezi ca ai vreo idee gandeste-te doar ca vezi doar varful icebergului din ceea ce este un Om. Cateodata nici atat, doar il intuiesti. Oamenii sunt niste ecuatii tare complexe si complicate. Si atunci cand crezi ca ai gasit macar un fir spre descoperirea solutiei nu realizezi decat ca te incurci si mai tare, ca si mai multe necunoscute rasar cu fiecare situatie noua cu care se confrunta.
Viata nu este teoria matematica aplicata. Ca-n problemele de la scoala. Nimic nu te pregateste pentru Maine. Pentru ce va fi. Astazi poti sa regreti un Ieri – crezi ca-ti permiti regrete dar e cea mai mare greseala pe care o poti face, pierzand un timp pe care nu il ai si daca crezi ca il ai, nu e al tau decat pentru o perioada limitata – si sa zici ca puteai face mai bine daca ai fi stiut. Si asa, intre un Maine care nu e Astazi si un Ieri deja trecut ne petrecem prin viata fara sa ne uitam la acest ASTAZI! Un Astazi care sare ca magarul din Shrek si tipa „Pick me! Pick me!” sau altfel spus, in alte cuvinte „Traieste-ma pe mine! Traieste-ma pe mine!” Fara sa-l traim gandindu-ne ca e poate ultimul, ca poate Maine nu mai vine cu un alt Astazi.
Moartea e o Entitate foarte ocupata, asa am auzit, citit. Dar intotdeauna isi va face timp si pentru tine. Esti pe lista ei si te va taia la un momentdat. Nu iti da preaviz decat rar si atunci nu pentru ca vrea, ci pentru ca ii scapi printre degetele ei fine, lungi si reci. Dar isi spune in barba, linistita, „Data viitoare nu mai scapi, norocos nenorocit!” Si o spune cu toata dragostea din lume pentru ca „nu e razbunatoare, nici violenta. E doar un efect” - „Hotul de carti” de Markus Zusak. Nu cred ca asteapta discursuri. Nici nu cred ca asteapta macar. Ceva. Orice. Ea … se intampla. Se spune ca ne nastem pentru a ne pregati sa murim. Dar cati din noi traiesc pregatindu-se pentru Moarte? Pare deprimant dar in fond... Mai stai de vorba – daca ai noroc sa ii intalnesti, cu oameni care, ne place sa credem si sa spunem, ca au pacalit-o. In realitate, ea si-a aratat, poate doar asa, o glezna ca fata mare si rusinoasa – nici rusinea nu are nimic a face cu ea, e doar o notiune a carnii omului. Dar cei care „i-au vazut glezna” se recunosc, daca ai ochi de vazut, cateodata urechi de auzit si sa stai sa ii asculti. Sunt calmi, niciodata grabiti si intotdeauna cu o vorba buna in repertoriu. Nu am rememorat niciodata pana in momentul asta toate zilele de naveta la Oncologie Fundeni. Acolo eram – in vizita, intr-una din „salile de asteptare” ale celei generic intitulate Moartea. Acolo Maine era o notiune abstracta. Acolo Astazi era mai bun decat orice alta notiune si mai palpabil decat orice moneda. Acolo oamenii nu pareau sa aiba timp de pierdut, mai ales oamenii tineri. Si erau multi tineri in „sala de asteptare” pe care ii puteai simti atat de puternic... Raluca.... 32 de ani in 2004. Era frumoasa, avea niste ochi extraordinar de albastri, o peruca lunga, frumoasa, roscata. Cancer limfatic sau ceva din categoria. Ii placea sa impleteasca si imi aduc aminte ca impletea ceva albastru deschis, un pulover pentru baietelul ei. Povestea despre fericire si dragostea dintre ea si sotul ei, cum s-au intalnit, cum s-au casatorit si cum iubeste baietelul lui ca si cum ar fi al ei… Si ulterior in „sala” s-a mai eliberat un „scaun”. Maine-le ei nu a mai venit.
Cum se traieste Astazi? Cum se profita de bucuria lui? De frumusetea lui? De plenitudinea lui? Tu, care crezi ca ai raspuns la aceasta intrebare, taci. Bucura-te ca nu e printre intrebarile Vietii tale. Esti fericit.
Daca Moartea si-ar spune povestile mai raspicat cred ca am asculta mai atenti. Am TRAI mai plin, am iubi mai mult, am visa mai mult, ne-am bucura de fiecare inspiratie mai mult. Dar … Pana una alta Viata urla in celule… Poate de aceea nu auzim povestile… E bine…?
„Oamenii care renunta la dragoste un merita sa fie iubiti”…. O vorba dintr-un film fain pe TVR1 vineri seara de februarie, 24. Cine renunta la dragoste? Cine nu o recunoaste atunci cand sta asezata langa. Deci nu consider ca sunt de condamnat cei ce renunta (?). Nici macar nu cred ca utilizarea verbului „a renunta” este corecta. Nici nu e vina lor. Asa sunt ei. Tu il condamni pe cel care renunta pentru ca a fugit de dragostea ta dar el nu simte ca a gresit in vreun fel. Si daca fuge de dragostea ta asa cum il acuzi nu inseamna ca va fugi mereu. Va recunoaste si el dragostea la randul lui. In altcineva.
Fiecare isi are momentele lui in viata. Fiecare isi numara victoriile si pierderile si sunt subiective. Si de necriticat. E usor sa crezi ce vrei, ce vezi. Pentru ca nu cunosti. Si daca crezi ca ai vreo idee gandeste-te doar ca vezi doar varful icebergului din ceea ce este un Om. Cateodata nici atat, doar il intuiesti. Oamenii sunt niste ecuatii tare complexe si complicate. Si atunci cand crezi ca ai gasit macar un fir spre descoperirea solutiei nu realizezi decat ca te incurci si mai tare, ca si mai multe necunoscute rasar cu fiecare situatie noua cu care se confrunta.
Viata nu este teoria matematica aplicata. Ca-n problemele de la scoala. Nimic nu te pregateste pentru Maine. Pentru ce va fi. Astazi poti sa regreti un Ieri – crezi ca-ti permiti regrete dar e cea mai mare greseala pe care o poti face, pierzand un timp pe care nu il ai si daca crezi ca il ai, nu e al tau decat pentru o perioada limitata – si sa zici ca puteai face mai bine daca ai fi stiut. Si asa, intre un Maine care nu e Astazi si un Ieri deja trecut ne petrecem prin viata fara sa ne uitam la acest ASTAZI! Un Astazi care sare ca magarul din Shrek si tipa „Pick me! Pick me!” sau altfel spus, in alte cuvinte „Traieste-ma pe mine! Traieste-ma pe mine!” Fara sa-l traim gandindu-ne ca e poate ultimul, ca poate Maine nu mai vine cu un alt Astazi.
Moartea e o Entitate foarte ocupata, asa am auzit, citit. Dar intotdeauna isi va face timp si pentru tine. Esti pe lista ei si te va taia la un momentdat. Nu iti da preaviz decat rar si atunci nu pentru ca vrea, ci pentru ca ii scapi printre degetele ei fine, lungi si reci. Dar isi spune in barba, linistita, „Data viitoare nu mai scapi, norocos nenorocit!” Si o spune cu toata dragostea din lume pentru ca „nu e razbunatoare, nici violenta. E doar un efect” - „Hotul de carti” de Markus Zusak. Nu cred ca asteapta discursuri. Nici nu cred ca asteapta macar. Ceva. Orice. Ea … se intampla. Se spune ca ne nastem pentru a ne pregati sa murim. Dar cati din noi traiesc pregatindu-se pentru Moarte? Pare deprimant dar in fond... Mai stai de vorba – daca ai noroc sa ii intalnesti, cu oameni care, ne place sa credem si sa spunem, ca au pacalit-o. In realitate, ea si-a aratat, poate doar asa, o glezna ca fata mare si rusinoasa – nici rusinea nu are nimic a face cu ea, e doar o notiune a carnii omului. Dar cei care „i-au vazut glezna” se recunosc, daca ai ochi de vazut, cateodata urechi de auzit si sa stai sa ii asculti. Sunt calmi, niciodata grabiti si intotdeauna cu o vorba buna in repertoriu. Nu am rememorat niciodata pana in momentul asta toate zilele de naveta la Oncologie Fundeni. Acolo eram – in vizita, intr-una din „salile de asteptare” ale celei generic intitulate Moartea. Acolo Maine era o notiune abstracta. Acolo Astazi era mai bun decat orice alta notiune si mai palpabil decat orice moneda. Acolo oamenii nu pareau sa aiba timp de pierdut, mai ales oamenii tineri. Si erau multi tineri in „sala de asteptare” pe care ii puteai simti atat de puternic... Raluca.... 32 de ani in 2004. Era frumoasa, avea niste ochi extraordinar de albastri, o peruca lunga, frumoasa, roscata. Cancer limfatic sau ceva din categoria. Ii placea sa impleteasca si imi aduc aminte ca impletea ceva albastru deschis, un pulover pentru baietelul ei. Povestea despre fericire si dragostea dintre ea si sotul ei, cum s-au intalnit, cum s-au casatorit si cum iubeste baietelul lui ca si cum ar fi al ei… Si ulterior in „sala” s-a mai eliberat un „scaun”. Maine-le ei nu a mai venit.
Cum se traieste Astazi? Cum se profita de bucuria lui? De frumusetea lui? De plenitudinea lui? Tu, care crezi ca ai raspuns la aceasta intrebare, taci. Bucura-te ca nu e printre intrebarile Vietii tale. Esti fericit.
Daca Moartea si-ar spune povestile mai raspicat cred ca am asculta mai atenti. Am TRAI mai plin, am iubi mai mult, am visa mai mult, ne-am bucura de fiecare inspiratie mai mult. Dar … Pana una alta Viata urla in celule… Poate de aceea nu auzim povestile… E bine…?
marți, 7 februarie 2012
A rocking chair from a chilly room of an old mansion ...
Weird day today. Started in the morning with an old, beautiful song sang by a God-gone singer… Afterwards … Well, as the stars said the word for today, I made an impression. On someone. Another one. Again. “High-frequency buzz can be overwhelming to someone else”…
And some wisdom gathered from people who lived enough to know and can tell that life is worth every breath, every second, every sight and that every beautiful image should be absorbed like air. They were on the edge. Maybe they saw beyond and lived to tell that we should not take life for granted…
She got... home tired, lost, frozen. The weather got worst than she ever seen. In this country only for few weeks and she already hates it. Her beloved joys on this freezing cold are hot stuff: hot teas, hot chocolate, hot wine with cinnamon (the landlord offered her a mug of that tasty liquor in the first freezing night, it was the first time she drank such thing) and long-hot showers. Another hot stuff that came into her mind was a man but she dropped that though; too heavy, too expensive, too complicated and too simple at once. Right now loneliness was a great companion. She had her thoughts; she escapes in her dreams where happiness is a perpetual state of spirit. And her long hot showers. She rushed from work sooner than usual, yesterday she couldn’t find bread and she eat butter on fingers. This evening she had great plans: get home, hot shower, warm bathrobe, hot tea, toasted bread with butter and honey, her thick blanket and the greatest book – a story told by Death it self – “When Death says a story you must listen”. And there she is, having her great time.
She got to the stairs, trying not to make noise. He heard her. He always hears her. Her steps are so firm. He opened the door and invited her over a big cup of wine with cinnamon. She had to turn down his offer, her tea was more tempting.
She got … home. No one but the cool air and semi-darkness waiting for her. She had no intention of turning on the lights but … she had to. Without wasting time taking her shoes off she went straight to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. She knew she had to wait at least ten minutes to get the hot water running. She found a bite of the dark chocolate on the kitchen table. She left it there in the morning exactly for this moment. Took of her clothes… but while taking her coat off she saw his eyes. In there, out there, in the semi-darkness. And he was taking her clothes of… He loves the way her coat smells. No particular perfume, it just smells … like her. There goes the thick sweater, thrown on the rocking chair. The silky red blouse was unbuttoned and the skirt’s zipper was unzipped. The winter boots freed her feet, she sat down and quickly, gently massaged her toes. The sound of water running was so tempting. The pink, thick bathrobe was hugging her. The bathroom was steamy and warm. And the water was hot and desired. His eyes ware still there, accompanying her every step, watching her every move, feeling her every thought and hearing her every breath. And enjoying her smile. The water was now caressing her every inch of skin, calming down every thread of her dark soft hair and running down the closed dark eyes. Her thoughts were wild like the blow of the wind outside. He was watching her in the shower, she felt his look and called him under the water. He said no and she continued enjoying her time under the hot steams. She knows her self inch-by-inch but yet discovers every time the softness of her skin. Her hands are looking for something and yet nothing, just wondering around, filled with foam smelling like musk and Damask rose. She arches her back in the sexiest movement, just for his eyes, letting the hot water washing away the aromatic foam while her elbows are touching the cold blue wall tile. Letting her head on the back, water runs free like wild mustangs on her neck, down her chest, caressing her breasts, washing the arms that embrace and hold, her thighs, her legs…Drops of water like million kisses and she loves it all. She puts her arms around her in an embrace and she sees the whirlpool on the drain. She sees there all her troubles and sadness and misfortune, going down the drain, never to rise again. She closes her eyes and smiles. His eyes are still there watching…With both hands above her head like in surrender, she looks opened like a flower in bloom. And she is wet and hot… from to much thoughts and hot water and his eyes… The foot on the cold floor tile brings her to reality. She remembers there is boiling water waiting for her to make the tea and she hurries to the kitchen, grabbing her pink thick bathrobe on wet skin.
Outside the wind stopped from intensity. Inside, she is all nestled in her rocking chair, covered by the light blue blanket, with her hot lavender tea in the hands and the book held close to the chest. Her mind is far-far away, out on the window and off to his eyes. Those eyes that looked at her as to a marvel of God, wondering where have they seen her before? In what life? In what circumstances? Those eyes that connected a face to the words said and felt in love like for the first time. Worst than the first time, different and more powerful than ever …And she felt asleep, rocked like in a baby cradle, thinking about those eyes …Alone, in a rocking chair from a chilly room of an old mansion in a country never visited before and from where she can’t wait to leave…
And some wisdom gathered from people who lived enough to know and can tell that life is worth every breath, every second, every sight and that every beautiful image should be absorbed like air. They were on the edge. Maybe they saw beyond and lived to tell that we should not take life for granted…
She got... home tired, lost, frozen. The weather got worst than she ever seen. In this country only for few weeks and she already hates it. Her beloved joys on this freezing cold are hot stuff: hot teas, hot chocolate, hot wine with cinnamon (the landlord offered her a mug of that tasty liquor in the first freezing night, it was the first time she drank such thing) and long-hot showers. Another hot stuff that came into her mind was a man but she dropped that though; too heavy, too expensive, too complicated and too simple at once. Right now loneliness was a great companion. She had her thoughts; she escapes in her dreams where happiness is a perpetual state of spirit. And her long hot showers. She rushed from work sooner than usual, yesterday she couldn’t find bread and she eat butter on fingers. This evening she had great plans: get home, hot shower, warm bathrobe, hot tea, toasted bread with butter and honey, her thick blanket and the greatest book – a story told by Death it self – “When Death says a story you must listen”. And there she is, having her great time.
She got to the stairs, trying not to make noise. He heard her. He always hears her. Her steps are so firm. He opened the door and invited her over a big cup of wine with cinnamon. She had to turn down his offer, her tea was more tempting.
She got … home. No one but the cool air and semi-darkness waiting for her. She had no intention of turning on the lights but … she had to. Without wasting time taking her shoes off she went straight to the bathroom and turned on the hot water. She knew she had to wait at least ten minutes to get the hot water running. She found a bite of the dark chocolate on the kitchen table. She left it there in the morning exactly for this moment. Took of her clothes… but while taking her coat off she saw his eyes. In there, out there, in the semi-darkness. And he was taking her clothes of… He loves the way her coat smells. No particular perfume, it just smells … like her. There goes the thick sweater, thrown on the rocking chair. The silky red blouse was unbuttoned and the skirt’s zipper was unzipped. The winter boots freed her feet, she sat down and quickly, gently massaged her toes. The sound of water running was so tempting. The pink, thick bathrobe was hugging her. The bathroom was steamy and warm. And the water was hot and desired. His eyes ware still there, accompanying her every step, watching her every move, feeling her every thought and hearing her every breath. And enjoying her smile. The water was now caressing her every inch of skin, calming down every thread of her dark soft hair and running down the closed dark eyes. Her thoughts were wild like the blow of the wind outside. He was watching her in the shower, she felt his look and called him under the water. He said no and she continued enjoying her time under the hot steams. She knows her self inch-by-inch but yet discovers every time the softness of her skin. Her hands are looking for something and yet nothing, just wondering around, filled with foam smelling like musk and Damask rose. She arches her back in the sexiest movement, just for his eyes, letting the hot water washing away the aromatic foam while her elbows are touching the cold blue wall tile. Letting her head on the back, water runs free like wild mustangs on her neck, down her chest, caressing her breasts, washing the arms that embrace and hold, her thighs, her legs…Drops of water like million kisses and she loves it all. She puts her arms around her in an embrace and she sees the whirlpool on the drain. She sees there all her troubles and sadness and misfortune, going down the drain, never to rise again. She closes her eyes and smiles. His eyes are still there watching…With both hands above her head like in surrender, she looks opened like a flower in bloom. And she is wet and hot… from to much thoughts and hot water and his eyes… The foot on the cold floor tile brings her to reality. She remembers there is boiling water waiting for her to make the tea and she hurries to the kitchen, grabbing her pink thick bathrobe on wet skin.
Outside the wind stopped from intensity. Inside, she is all nestled in her rocking chair, covered by the light blue blanket, with her hot lavender tea in the hands and the book held close to the chest. Her mind is far-far away, out on the window and off to his eyes. Those eyes that looked at her as to a marvel of God, wondering where have they seen her before? In what life? In what circumstances? Those eyes that connected a face to the words said and felt in love like for the first time. Worst than the first time, different and more powerful than ever …And she felt asleep, rocked like in a baby cradle, thinking about those eyes …Alone, in a rocking chair from a chilly room of an old mansion in a country never visited before and from where she can’t wait to leave…
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