September 22, 2010

speak well of death

I woke up on Sunday very early, as I do nowadays. I'm probably old by now, I just haven't realized it. Old people do this sort of thing. I went into the kitchen for my coffee, but when I got there, I froze. Baby was obviously ill, barely standing on his tiny feet.

I never cried so hard in my life, not even when my dad died.

Baby is a blue parrot. And I usually don't pay that much thought to him. In the mornings, we talk a bit while I wait for my coffee to boil, and over the years, I often suspected him of forgetting who I was from one day to the next. At some point, I was angry with him for beating up the smaller birds. I pointed my finger at him in warning. He stopped hurting the others, but he was upset with me for weeks and he pretended not to see me when I greeted him in the morning. He doesn't know my name, but he knows what "don't!" means.

He's smaller than my fist, and I have really small hands. And I don't really care for him, he's my mom's bird. He's just... there.

About a month ago, his girlfriend died. Suddenly. I was shocked. I didn't see it coming, and I see everything. I blamed my mom for being selfish and careless. I cried, then I cried some more, reminded of my own possible death. Then I moved on. Just like everyone. She was green.

Then my mom wanted to buy a new one, because Baby was lonely and depressed. I became involved again, urging her not to buy an identical one to the one that died. It seemed ungracious and plain sick to replace her like that. And then she bought two, very young ones, and I spent a week angry at her for being cheap, and selfish.

and then the new girl died about a week ago, despite my taking her to the doctor and putting my faith in him; the treatment didn't work. and I started having nightmares about being dead too, with tiny, skinny, birds legs. and my mom wouldn't really care about my wishes, just like she does in real life, I thought.

But now Baby is dying and I can't stand it. When the hell did I start caring for this little guy? 3 years is a long time, but he's just there. what do I care?

I spent this whole Sunday away from home, terrified of coming back and finding him dead, like I found the other ones. Maybe 3 in a row is too much. Maybe his being a rebel touched a cord inside of me and we became alike. Maybe it's because he's blue, or maybe because I'm afraid of dying myself. Or maybe it's because I was too young to mourn my father, and I was never aloud to cry over him - cos I'm expected to be perfect and strong. and now I cry for all of them, me included.

and I wish I was angry at the two doctors that don't seem to know what they're doing. Or angry at my mom, for whatever. Anger makes you feel strong, and mighty. But all I feel is dread.
Maybe I am identified with the poor bird. We're both blue, we're both helpless, we both don't understand what the heck is going on.

and there are moments when I can't stand the tension anymore. I want him to die already! He's gonna die anyway, right? why wait. he's having a miserable life. he can't eat the stuff he likes; I terrify him to death 3 times a day when I have to catch him and shove disgusting medicine down his throat. and the damned thing's not working. and he's getting worse. and I'm a horrible person for wanting him to die faster, die on my own terms, so I could only cry once. not 3 times a day, for a week.

and maybe I brought this on. I've been reading this book - about death, and dying, and the primal anxiety that we all feel about it. as I read through, I felt superior in my understanding. such arrogance! yeah, so what if all problems start here? the man who can't chose one woman, the friend who can't be alone, the other who throws himself in pointless, numerous affairs, even my mom who won't let me grow up, and my refusing any sort of responsibility or commitment - we're all terrified of running out of endless possibilities, afraid that the voice inside is just waiting for a chance to whisper: you're going to die too!

but who cares?

and we don't speak of death. we never speak of it.
we speak of sex, and politics, and football. about our hopes and dreams, and our stupid, shallow ambitions. but we never speak of Death.
nobody wanted to talk about what I feel these days. I tell them my parrot died today. And they're pretending not to hear. I'm heartbroken. My whole world collapsed in a second bc some stupid bird that doesn't even know who I am is dying. you hear? I'm dying inside.

and I'm terrified.

and I went straight to bargaining on Sunday morning. as if my worthless life could actually be a bargaining chip. as if god would actually manifest itself at my will. as if he/she couldn't see right through my selfish offer.
I wasn't really trying to save him. I was only trying to save my sorry ass from living through losing him. and god knows this, as he saw the same stupid movies as I did. sacrifice must be honest to work my ass. that's a fairytale. you can't negotiate your way around death. it knows every trick in the book.

and I know all about death. I know about grief. and anger. I watched my 80 years old grandmother die in my arms, and I didn't even blink. I know that all things come to an end at some point, and I get it why it must be so. but this is personal. this is my death somehow - it belongs to me. and all the knowledge in the world won't help me - I need to control this.
not him. I won't have it. I won't let him go. I'll shove all that yellow stuff down his throat, I'll go to every damned doctor in this country, someone's got to know how to fight this, how to stop this. this must stop. now.I couldn't save the other two, but I will save him. this time, I won't lose. I can't! I can't...

but the crazy part?
it's that all this is about me.
Not even his death belongs to him. I stepped in and I made it personal. It belongs to me now, it's between me and my god. and god doesn't seem to care about what I want. god minds his own business.

and Baby will die, regardless

September 08, 2010

Sa-mi plang de mila...

am fost la mare, o zi si un pic.
o dorinta nerostita, indeplinita pe neasteptate.

m-am simtit ingrozitor de singura, atat de singura ca intr-un moment de disperare, mi-am facut si bagajul, hotarata sa infrunt 2 autobuze si un tren sa ajung ACUM! inapoi acasa.

apoi a rasarit soarele, norii s-au imprastiat, m-am mutat din camera aia portocalie si odioasa, pe plaja, si m-am linistit. mi-am cumparat niste foi si am inceput sa vorbesc cu mine. nu stiu de ce, dar propria mea voce ma linisteste - cand vorbesc suficient de lent ca sa ma ascult, si mana, lenta saraca, imi permite asta.

am luptat in secret cu un sentiment de rusine care ma prindea pe la colturi, cand ii vedeam pe ceilalti cum se uitau la mine. o femeie singura pare intotdeauna penibila, cumva, nu? de parca e defecta. daca mai si scrie de zor, parca prea cauta sa se dea interesanta. saraca. doar-doar, o baga-o si pe cineva in seama...

cand a fost sa pun cortul pe plaja, am gandit indelung unde sa-l pun. cat de aproape de celelalte, putine? aproape de cine? n-as vrea ca baietii aia sa creada ca mi-o caut cu lumanarea daca ma pun langa ei.
am ales instant sa-l pun la apus, ca sa nu bat la ochi. noua fauna de vama a ratacit pe drum vechile reguli de conduita. vamaiotu postmodern nu se simte libercugetator decat daca urla noaptea la 3 in capul muritorilor de rand care dorm in prostia lor. n-aveam chef de glume.

daca nu stau pe plaja parca n-am fost la mare. oricum comfortul unui dus in tara asta se imbina gretos cu lucrurile ieftine si de prost gust cu care sunt placate camerele 'de hotel', invariabil portocalii! (de ce? de ce? de ce?) Am devenit mai sensibila, mai mofturoasa. Uratul imi face rau fizic. O noapte in camera aia si m-am trezit cu greata. Am dormit ghemuita in sacul meu, cu teama de a ma apropia de cearsafurile alea mirosind a portocaliu ieftin.

Pe plaja, ritmul marii ma linisteste. Am dormit bustean, in ciuda idiotului care punea muzica in Stuff cu bassul la maxim si boxe de calculator. la 6, am deschis vag un ochi interior cand am auzit iar bolero-ul. excelent, mi-am zis, inca fac asta. n-am avut putere sa vad rasaritul, mi-am inchis la loc ochiul si m-am culcusit in cei doi saci de dormit pe care-i mixasem: e si mai frig cand esti singur. n-am dormit de mult asa bine.

dimineata, o vreme absolut superba m-a facut sa ma indoiesc de amintirile recente cu ploaie si frig. bine,... dincolo de spatiul gol pe plaja care o lumineaza, vama e deprimanta cand vezi toate gheretele si barurile alea parasite, distruse. mancare proasta, pt ca n-am indraznit sa mananc singura la un restaurant. poate sunt eu de moda veche, dar si in bucuresti se uita lumea la mine ca la circ daca ma asez singura la o masa. nu pot sa mananc in tensiune, sunt si eu om.

aveam bani in plus (aia pe care nu i-am mai dat camerei portocalii), asa ca mi-a luat rapid o carte si niste magneti de frigider. sunt un monstru de egoism, stiu: n-am luat nimic, nimanui. doar mie. ultimii ani au adunat in mine multa nemultumire si tristete: ma simt extrem de neapreciata, si folosita, si nevalidata. asa ca nu mai pot da, nimic, nimanui. nu mai am de unde.

stiu, tre sa invat sa cer; dar in ciuda a ce stiu despre injonctiuni, as prefera mai degraba oameni care ofera alora care doar iau. asa sunt eu, naiva. problema e ca nu stiu de unde sa-i iau. fac io ce fac si toate relatiile mele se denatureaza rapid. par prea sfanta, prea perfecta, prea critica, prea naiba-sa-ma-ia-ca-zau-nu-sunt. fiecare vede ce-i convine. sunt ca o oglinda in care se reflecta Frica. De ce, nu stiu. Poate mi-am decis eu, la un moment dat, sa-i tin pe toti la distanta. oare de ce? ptr ca erau superficiali si energofagi nerecunoscatori? ar fi o idee.

imi vine sa urlu. la mine, sa ma trezesc.
la cer, sa ma scuteasca o data!
e funny cum calitatile se transforma miraculos in defecte cand nu primesti ceea ce vrei.

e al naibii de usor sa-mi reprosezi ca sunt "prea" orice. n-as putea fi 'calduta' nici daca as vrea. e posibil sa dispretuesc asta pt ca nu pot fi. asta e singurul lucru care a ramas constant in viata mea, inca de cand eram in scoala primara: vreau sa fiu si eu ca ceilalti. sa blend Vocea care intervine si zice: nu fii proasta!
as vrea eu!

cand eram printr-a 5-a, era o gasca al naibii de cool. visam sa fiu de-a lor. imi imaginam tot felul de chestii cool pe care le faceau, si cum aveam eu sa-i cuceresc cu eforturi supraomenesti prin care sa ma dau drept cool. printr-a 8-a, nu mai stiu cum, m-am trezit printre ei. am aflat ca ei ma credeau pe mine cool, ca le-a fost frica tot timpul ala sa vorbeasca cu mine sa nu le dau flit, si ca erau ingrozitor de boring. bine, faptul ca ma credeau pe mine speciala e de'ajuns sa-i descalifice, I know. si sunt realista, nu modesta.

ceea ce vreau eu e sa nu mai gandesc. deloc. ok, sa stiu cat rest am de primit la paine, ca sa nu ma mai uit tamp la femeia aia cand imi cauta aprobarea din priviri. da, asta ar fi grozav: sa ma pot concentra pe paine. capul meu de mate saracu :-))) d'aia n-am facut eu liceul de arta, sa nu se piarda geniul lu taicamiu. HA! ce oameni prosti (mama si profu de mate). ce oameni prosti. uita-te la mine: cat naiba face 5x8?

MOR de plictiseala. nici asta nu s-a schimbat. cand eram foarte mica si ma pocnea plistiseala, ma puneam in cap. si stateam asa ore intregi. ciudat, dar si acum gasesc pozitia xtrem de relaxanta. poate putin prea ... sexuala, perversa, dar whatever. proiectez :-))

ce frumos era la mare. ce caut io aici, in lumea asta gri in care nu-mi gasesc deloc locul?

nu vreau sa zic lma niciunei marii. nu vreau! sunt deja prea multe complezente. n-a mai ramas urma de 'verde', numa' plastic cat vezi cu ochii. nu vreau, frate. nu vreau sa ma "integrez". nici lu' mama nu-i zic. asa de puternica e credinta mea :-) dc as avea si nitica ambitie, ce frumoasa ar fi viata...

un nene, pe plaja, vine si-mi aduce o carte. "v-am vazut scriind mai devreme". zic 'da' cu inima stransa. sunt extrem de nesociabila. n-am chef niciodata sa dau explicatii, mai ales cand mi se aplica etichete pe frunte.
cartea n-a fost, cum ma temeam, ceva care sa ma aduca pe calea cea buna si sfanta. ci niste dialoguri, purtate de oameni necunoscuti mie, despre chestii care de altfel ma intereseaza. dumnezeu, viata, logica lor, bine si rau... d'astea. nimic, dar absolut nimic nou.
am citit, dezamagita, la intamplare, intrebandu-ma de ce trebuia sa ajunga la mine cartea aia. de ce atunci. cat de nedrept ca suferisem o zi intreaga singura, si azi aveam deja doua carti!

abia dupa ce omu si-a recuperat cartea si m-a amenintat "pe dupa-amiaza!", abia atunci am inteles: nu era nimic nou in carte, dar in mine, Vocea nu se auzise nicio secunda. niciun comentariu. nicio rautate. nici pic de dispret. doar dezamagire, ca asa e ea, pretentioasa. ii plac surprizele.
dar mesajul dintre randuri era "ai dreptate".

nu, nu era bucata despre genii; n-am de gand sa ma las complexata de unu ca Leonardo daVinci. nici faza despre Dumnezeu ca dublare energetica a orice. stim si noi cate ceva. Nici bucata despre Liberul Arbitru, ca necesitate in a invata singuri despre Bine si Rau ca optiuni interioare, nu obligatii exterioare. ok, oamenii aia nu ziceau chiar asa, dar eu nu retin cuvinte si nu pot cita. erau de acord cu mine, si asta e tot ce conteaza.
dar a fost un detaliu, aproape trecut cu vederea, cum ca Voltaire l-a criticat pe Dumnezeu ca e prea tolerant cu oamenii. Nu stiu mai nimic despre Voltaire-omu, nu stiu cum a sfarsit-o, dar sper ca si-a invatat lectia. Ceea ce mi-o doresc si mie de altfel, cu indoiala de rigoare.

Acum vreau sa stiu daca Dumnezeu s-a suparat pe el, sau dimpotriva, a fost intelegator...