THE EMOTIONAL SERPICO

I've seen corruption. 

Soul train wrecks. Tears made out of alchohol when hearts were dry as a martini. I've been fooled and stripped naked of my own bones. My rizorius muscle crept paralized on my face, like a spider shot in all of his legs.

I smelled the skin of another woman and I felt like a crocodile waiting to turn into a Gucci purse. Got rid of verbs to make room for the light. What I got was light as opposed to heavy, significant and worthwhile. My trip to the moon turned to a stroll to the grocery store.

Don't sell me a Greek tragedy when all I want is the popcorn that goes hand in hand with a fine romcom to be seen on a mild Sunday afternoon. Don't shout at me for I am a lips reader and some of the lips have been just so thin that cut me like a razorblade.

And then I pleaded.

I tried my esperanto on people who weren't ready to leave the caves. I commited soul robberies but found no gold. Just pieces of haikus that ended in me, me, me. 

I was lost like the last piece of a puzzle that fell from the table, got stuck on a shoe, was carried outside, fell in a puddle, got swallowed by a straydog who was shot seconds later by an angry mobster.

And as I write I realize that writing is such a foolish deed. Blogging? A succedaneum for life.

Live, boyo.

Try yahoo messenger.

And then She walked majestically, like a beautifully crafted sentence that left me mouth agape with desire for more.

To be continued ?

ARE YOU GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE MAN WHO'S GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU?

Do you feel lucky?

Do you think you're beautiful enough to make heads turn? 

Is that beauty rich enough to save some layers for my eyes only?

Are you smart? Not book smart, not street smart, not emotionally smart nor mathematician type of smart, but the smart that fits my smart ass punkish smile?

Do you know how to steal a car? I mean, I might be suffering from porphyria and one night when we come back from a bar, I might have to dig my fangs in your neck and some stupid ass vigilantes might take me for a vampire and chase me and wish they could pierce my beautiful white wide chest with some spike and I might have to flee, so a car might be needed. So. Do you?

Do you make love? Not as in "parental advisory" kind'o'programme, nor Barry White on pinkish silkish sheets, but as in creating. Can you really surround me with loving energy that make seeds grow and babies stop crying?

Do you laugh? Not at stupid comedies or my mystiphying jokes turned to blunders, but when the whole world is at stake and the apocalypse lies in wait.

Do you love yourself? Just as much as I would if you were the woman I hoped you would be and I guessed you would become?

Are you somewhere between an angel and a whore, being neither of them, but resembling both well enough to make me ask the above question?

Do you love lying naked in my consciousness, stripped of your defense mechanisms and still feeling on the top of your game?

Do you?

PS:

All the "NO"-s, you can go to hell and stop wasting my time.

All the "YES"-es, you can go to hell and stop wasting my time.

The position has been filled.

And the successful candidate is getting a raise as we speak.

PARANOIA COCKTAIL

Every sunrise I wake up with the sheer feeling that that would be the day when everything stops: when ideas would cease to creep into my skull, when figures of speech would dull myself to death, when facial palsy would contort my face with anger and my hand would lie down like a dying penis.

Just the same, everyday I wake up imagining that that would be the day when my penis won't move - just like my already dead hand, when my eyelids would stop flopping, when my smile would freeze like a skinmade tattoo, when my tongue would be buried in my gluey saliva and never rise again to feel the air that it used to breathe.

Every night the filthiest of the filthiest diseases rot my skin, my teeth and gums, my lungs my brains, they rot my hope and dreams.

I lie down in the smelly brothels of my imagination and sleep with the sluttiest whores one could ever hope for. Our offsprings are nothing but mere degenerates - human derelicts.

My breath smells like deah. Hell, my death smells better than myself. 

I sweat blood, I spit cum, I bleed piss and I cum limonade. I'm the surogate of the man I could have been if only I hadn't had my head filled with paranoid cyber punk nightmares that mock my reality and fuck up my visions.

I don't want to be your boyfriend so that we could walk hand in hand till we get cramps, watch romcoms I would hate and action movies you'd despise. 

Don't take it personally but I think some of your friends, most of your friends, all of your friends are smug assholes with egos bigger than their IQ's. But look at the bright side: their IQ's are bigger than their dicks.

I don't want to make plans for the future not because I'm being pesimistic, not commited, not visionary or an apocalypse-freak, but I just don't know if I'm still in love with you once I have finished writing this post.

Sorry babe, I didn't come with a warranty.

I don't want to be your husband, not because I don't want to have little you-and-me with you, bearing your looks and my smartass smile, your arrogance and my discipline, your glance and my glance (you remember that night don't you?) but because I don't want to enter a paradigm the benchmarks of which are notions such as cheating, divorce, prenup, custody. 

I dont want to have to but I want to want to.

I don't want to be your soul mate in an over-romanticized world where people say what they feel by quoting lines from Casablanca and even then not very accurately.

We'll always have Barcelona and Amsterdam and Prague - you dont need Paris. You don't have to be Ilsa and I've always been so un-Rick-y.

I'm not your god.

You're not my muse.

We're not names carved in an old sequoia about to be chainsawed by time and cheap intrigues.

I don't want you to fall in love with me. Rape the words and rise in love. But not with me. I'm a mere reflection of yourself, so do it accordingly.

Don't ask me nothin'.

I got no answers.

Don't tell me nothin'.

I got no questions.

And the beauty of it is that we both know all there is to know.

 

  

THE BELIEFS OF AN EX-ADVERTISING MAN

No to advertising. Yes to making children laugh. Yes to making housewives chic. No to buying products. Yes to sharing experiences. No to fake blondes. Yes to dyed hair. No to expensive cars. Yes to cars that match your desire. No to slow motion. No to golden retrievers. No to inhumanly beautiful people. Yes to a limping bulldog. Yes to words. Yes to spaces. Yes to silence. No to full stops. Yes to well shaped bodies. No to hours spent in the gym. Yes to love. No to talking about it. Yes to Jesus. No to The Passion of the Christ. Yes to wasted nights. No to wasted talent. Yes to her. Yes to you. Yes to me. No to everybody. Yes to faith. No to arrogance. Yes to movies. Yes to books. No to post-modern bullshit. Yes to trees. No to chainsaws. Yes to Marilyn. No to Pam. Yes to giving a chance. Yes to giving a second chance. No to political correctness. Yes to fresh breath. No to taking showers after making love. Yes to comfy Sunday afternoons. No to laziness. Yes to exploring. No to invading. Yes to friendship. No to networking. Yes to working. No to coming to work. Yes to drugs. No to OD-ing. Yes to glances. No to staring. Yes to yes. No to no. Yes to playing piano drunk in a hotel in Marocco. No to being a joker. Yes to the original The Italian Job. No to stupid puns. Yes to lateral thinking. No to thinking about lateral thinking. Yes to ponies. No to horse races. Yes to memories. No to obsessions. Yes to loving mums. No to Oedipus. Yes to very short songs. No to jingles. Yes to flowers. No to bouquets. Yes to crying. No to lamenting. Yes to improvising. No to lying. No to calling in the middle of the night. Yes to sending short messages. Yes to short copy. No to long copy. Yes to writing long copy that reads like a short one.

WELCOME TO BUDAPEST

I'm the poster boy for numb.

I get a phone call from my potential employer. What about meeting this week she says. 

And I stare at the phone. It's black and old. It used to be reliable but not anymore. I can't hear the people I'm talking to anymore. Maybe it loves me. It knows that there's no point in listening to all these people so it sabotages me. 

White noise. Dark humour. Grey life.

Same ol' same ol'.

Well? she goes. I still dont know what to say. Friday? This Friday? This week? By the way... are you talking to me? How do you know I'm not some guy living in another dimension who pretends to be me but he's not? Same smile, same words and even the same silence.

The Capgras syndrome bitch. Choke on it. Google it, you fucking ignorant.

I'm staring at a white graffiti drawn on a white wall.

I know it's there, I almost feel its originators, but it's impossible to see it. 

Just like my love for the girl I used to love.

Don't be fooled. I nod and smile and fuck your ass like a horde of Moors. Your kids will bear my faulty features and look like zebras.

Half past midnight and I get pulled over by the pigs. Licence and registration one of them goes blankly. I give it to him, even blankier.

You should have had your technical revision done, he goes. A year ago. I'll suspend your registration and give you 9 to 20 points.

I stare at him and he stares back at me, making me see my own stare in his eyes. Sure, okay, I go. 

You don't understand what I'm saying, do you? the copper says.

I smile dumbly I presume. Not really, I say.

And he was right.

I don't have a clue what the fuck is going on.

CRASH COURSE ON INTERCOURSE

I've never dated.

I'm 30 and I've never dated. I mean taking a girl to a sweetshop, buying her icecream, making small talk, cuddling and Co.

I've never taken a girl to the movies, walked hand in hand on the beach, watched a polluted sunset,  driven her to the top of the hill and admired the city, the stars, the Universe and everything.

Never prior to sex that is.

No siree, not on my watch.

I'm old fashioned I suppose.

Caveman old fashioned. I most identify myself with the times when men would just club their women in the head, drag them to their respective caves and have sex like monkeys.

If they were really lucky they would discover fire and Barry White and the intercourse would be romantically improved, otherwise they'd just do it in the dark.

That's Darwinism.

Yippie Kai Yay Motherfucker.

What am I missing here?

All the steps that lead to a legitimate intercourse? All the boxes that must be ticked, all the reasons to be validated, all the  insecurities that must be erased??

Why would I think my sex over? How can one rationalize what should never be rationalized? Attraction? Lust? Craving? I'd rather let my skin cells and my nostrils do the thinking.

Sure, sure... humans are social animals, which means that they must play by the rules. The social rules that is. So, I guess you come with your rules I come with mine. You wanna play by my rules, I win. You don't, I lose. 

If I were to be a drama queen and beg for sympathy I'd say I lost most of the times. But that's not true. 

Besides, it's not about winning or losing. It's about wasting time and life. Cuz the best part comes after sex.

At least, that's what I've been told. 

MY VIRTUAL FEMALES

Perfecte. Ca un nor in forma de ying yang Escherian. Miros ca zeitele si ca praful de stele. Au degetele de la picioare de forma inexistent - ademenitoare. Si, vai, imi stiu calcaiul lui Ahile - fetisul meu pentru degetele picioarelor.

Imi respecta tacerile. Si zambesc semnificativ. Ne intelegem din virgule. Iubim impreuna Tom Waits in acelasi timp, in acelasi spatiu. Sunt ca umbrele care-ti anticipeaza miscarile. Sunt ca blues-ul vechi: simple dar suficiente.

Fiecare dintre ele e mult mai perfecta - sfidand gramatica oricarei limbi existente - decat varianta ei reala.

Nu are angoase. Nu zgarie geamul cu unghiile. Nu poarta niciodata bluza aia in care transpira ca intr-un test Rorschach. Nu plange sud-american cu suspine presarate de ineptii patetice. Nu are trecut. Deci nici pacate.

Nu are ciclu. Sau daca are, e un curcubeu fosforescent care vibreaza pe muzica trance si iti maseaza venele placut ca un ceai chinezesc in care indulcitorul e cocaina. Te musca de ADN si-ti saruta organele interne.

Femeile mele virtuale sunt copiii fotografiillor, ai amintirilor, ai descrierilor, ai imaginatiei mele. Nu exista loc de greseala. Totul este rodul unui mecanism organic imaginar-oniric al carui unic scop e perfectiunea. 

Nu exista limite epidermice. Olfactive. Nu exista divergente. Inclestari de falci si spart de farfurii. Nu exista gelozie, pentru ca nu exista concurenta. Eu dirijez traficul existential din mintea mea.

There is no spoon. 

But there is no spooning either.

EP. 2 - PIESA DE TEATRU VIA EMAIL

Deviza agentiei de publicitate Gruppefruit are un caracter mobilizator si in acelasi timp este usor de retinut: Munca Te Face Liber. La fel ca majoritatea angajatilor, F. era un fidel adept al intelepciunii corporatiste, precum si un mare iubitor al libertatii - insa nu astfel conditionata. 

Exersa libertatea de mai bine de doua saptamini pe plaja virgina de la Vama Veche si avea intentia s-o prelungeasca, cu atit mai mult cu cit de aceasta data ea avea un chip si un nume: Marga, o incintatoare bruneta cu ochii ingustati spre timple, pe care-o cunoscuse in perioada convalescentei de dupa ultima operatie de inlaturare a unor lobi hepatici cirozati, la Spitalul 9. Povestea cu inlocuirea tiglelor era ticluita de la un capat la altul, nimic altceva decit o gogoasa pe care naivul Dacian avea s-o inghita nemestecata, cu toata garnitura ei de nuanta feldgrau. Prevazind succesul intrigii isi freca palmele, apoi se intoarse pe spate, clipind catre o pereche de pescarusi care se imperecheau in zbor.

Raportul de dimineata se tinea la Grapefruit intr-o fosta debara de dimensiuni minuscule, fara aerisire, imbibata de fumul tigarilor de foi pe care Dacian il expulza cu o cadenta de locomotiva Malaxa. 

Alura sa de fost atlet in retragere il obliga sa adopte o pozitie de contorsionist, cu care reusea sa umple trei patrimi din spatiu, restul raminind la dispozitia interlocutorului precum si a unei mumii in marime naturala a fondatorului agentiei, primita in dar de la New York. De aceasta data respiratia sefului combina un puternic accent de Prozac, ceea ce de regula marturisea dorinta acestuia de a mari productivitatea in departament, folosind metoda exemplului dat de cel mai inalt in grad. 

Astfel stimulat il intimpina pe kapowriterul M. (Maiorica) asociat la conducerea departamentului, care dupa prima inspiratie simti efectul nemilos al gazelor toxice din incapere, manifestindu-se sub forma senzatiei de moarte iminenta. - Am primit chiar acum un mesaj de la F. prin care cere prelungirea concediului, mai are nevoie de o saptamina pentru a-si supraetaja vila, zise D. E o pretentie neobisnuita, dar atita vreme cit nu vrea o marire de salar, zic sa-i facem pe plac...

Kapowriterul M. stråmba din nas- ceea ce era o performanta, avand in vedere ca era mignon. Ce e, måna mea dreapta? intreba Dacian intre doua puternice junghiuri miocardice. Nu-mi miroase a bine, raspunse M. E normal, m-am basit, raspunse Dacian cu un zambet complice. Aseara am mancat linte. M-am certat cu nevasta-mea si m-a lasat nemancat, asa ca a trebuit sa comand o ciorba de linte de pe Amazon Dot Com. Hmm, raspunse M. caruia nu-i placeau veleitatile naratoricesti ale lui Dacian. Nu...eu ziceam de F. Cred ca iar pregateste un bluff. Ce vrei sa spui? intreba Marele Dacian, pe fundalul Carminei Burana care incepuse subit sa se auda din peretii claustralei mitingrum. M. se ridica in picioare. Statura lui capata accente dramatice iar vocea baritonala si sexy spuse un singur cuvant: Nu stiu.

M. se sui in jeepul sau Daimler - Mahler si demara in tromba cu 3 km/h. Gandurile i se buluceau in minte cu o furie subatomica, lucru tradus la nivelul soselei prin repetate incalcari ale benzii continue. 

Seara, Centrul de Statistica a Populatiei avea sa constate cu indurerare micsorarea numarului de pensionari cu 3 exemplare. Dar M. era prea preocupat... Futu-l sa-l fut pe acest F. isi spuse el stergandu-si spumele furiei de pe camasa Janine. Intai mi-a furat ideea de Nobel, apoi biroul, parcela aia de pamant de la Snagov si acuma isi bate joc de mine? Isi mai face un etaj la casa? Da' a uitat bou' ca si-a mai facut inca 17 de un an incoace? Te pomenesti ca-si face un zgarie nori si vrea sa-si deschida un imperiu mediatic! 

Nu, nu, nu nega M. din cap si odata cu negatul se misca soseaua - cand la stanga cand la dreapta. Ma duc dupa el, isi mai spuse el, insurubandu-si piciorul in pedala acceleratiei, neobservand o turista evreica batrana care hranea porumbeii in mijlocul soselei.  Buf. Deh..

Dar nu apuca sa parcurga bulevardul Eroii Filatelisti pana la capat, ca se trezi urmarit de sirenele sacaitoare ale unui echipaj de politie. M. incetini cu ajutorul unui stalp de electricitate. Politistul se dadu jos si se apropie de masina lui M. Vru sa-si duca doua degete la chipiu, dar si-l uitase la masina, asa ca se intoarse, isi lua chipiul si-l puse pe cap, se duse din nou la masina lui M., isi duse doua degete la chipiu, dar M. i-o lua inainte: Ce vrei bai pula? 

Politistul se mira pret de cateva secunde, pana isi dadu seama ca-l ustura pielea de pe frunte: ’Traiti, permiteti sa va importunez. Tocmai ce ati comis o contraventie. Adica? zise M. nerabdator. Adica ati calcat o batrana evreica si daca va dau in gat, Asociatia Evreilor Ucisi si Meckan Erik & Son imi vor da o recompensa de 10.000 de dolari. M. pufni dispretuitor, scuipandu-l absolut fortuit pe politist. 10.000, pula? se reasigura el. Exact, raspunse politistul caruia deja incepusera sa-i amorteasca degetele lipite de chipiu. M. se scotoci in buzunarul Dolce & Gabbana. Scoase o punga de un leu plina cu bani. Ia pula de-aici 100.000 si du-te sanatos. Politistul rosi ca o virgina proaspat sedusa, insfaca banii si se duse. 

M. zambi subtire, ca un vechi descendent al Familiei Paleologu, ce era: Nataraul...daca ar sti el ca i-am dat tolari (n.a. moneda nationala slovena) si nu dolari...
Deja incepuse sa se cracaneze de ziua, asa ca M. isi infipse inca o data piciorul in acceleratie, motivat de gandurile vindicative adresate lui F.

- va urma - 

UN FEL DE TEATRU RADIOFONIC GENERAT VIA EMAIL CU EX-COLEGUL G.

“... La sfirsitul anului 1938, Fuhrerul Germaniei Adolf Hitler l-a convocat pe arhitectul sau Albert Speer pentru a-i incredinta o lucrare urgenta, un edificiu cu sali si saloane de dimensiuni enorme: noua Cancelarie a Reichului. "Trebuie sa mearga foarte repede si totusi sa iasa ceva solid. De cit timp ai nevoie?" Dupa citeva minute de gindire arhitectul a raspuns: "La-nceputul anului viitor, mein Fuhrer, va voi anunta incheierea lucrarilor".

Cheltuielile au fost estimate la 6 miliarde Reichsmarks, iar ca sa se poata respecta termenul foarte strins au fost angajati 4.500 de lucratori cu un regim de munca in doua schimburi.

La 15 martie 1939, in cladirea de curind terminata, presedintele cehoslovac Hacha semna supunerea tarii sale...


Draga Dacian,

Chiar daca nici prin volum, si nici prin cheltuieli, eforturile la care m-am inhamat in concediul asta nu ating anvergura celor investite la ridicarea Cancelariei - caci zugravirea casei, schimbarea acoperisului, repararea gardului si vopsirea timplariei nu sunt decit niste banale lucrari de intretinere - exista totusi o dimensiune pe care mi-e teama ca ajung s-o depasesc: durata.

Raspunzatori de aceasta, in ordine alfabetica: mesterii Sawetzky Karol si Hajdu Ferencz cu echipele lor, oameni calificati dar care, in dosul meritelor profesionale, ascund un singur - totusi mare - defect: nu sunt membri ai partidului nazist. Acesta, cred, este motivul pentru care ei nu-mi vor putea anunta, batind din calcaie, incheierea lucrarilor in ziua de 2 august, asa cum convenisem. Aceasta mi-ar fi permis sa fiu prezent la Groupfruit luni, 4 august, dupa cum deja am convenit.

Adaugat acestei probleme de ritm acuz si vremea extrem de schimbatoare: chiar in acest moment o furtuna a silit oamenii sa intrerupa munca si sa se adaposteasca in garaj - se pare ca si aceasta zi de lucru e compromisa.

Lucrarile sunt pe trei sferturi gata dar sefii de echipa imi cer citeva zile in plus... ceea ce inseamna ca finalizarea se amina pentru mijlocul saptamanii viitoare. Nu cred ca e bine sa intrerup lucrarile, asa ca, daca e posibil (si doar daca prin aceasta absenta nu aduc prejudicii agentiei) te rog sa aprobi prelungirea concediului meu cu inca o saptamina.

Eu am sa iau legatura cu Clitoria cit de curind, telefonic, pentru a sti ce ai hotarit si ce am de facut.

Multumesc,
F.”

F. parcurse cu un ochi de corector cele tocmai scrise: nu descoperi nici o greseala. Adauga, dupa un scurt dar intens moment de gindire, o virgula, apoi apasa cu degetul pe tasta Send: mesajul disparu fulgerator de pe ecranul laptopului si se angaja cu viteza pe caile intortocheate ale retelei electronice.

- va urma - 

PUBLICAT IN DILEMA ACU VREO 2 ANI...

Pe KM patrat.


8200 de bucuresteni pe kilometru patrat. Canicula, praf, noxe, måncare regurgitata, 8200 de nasuri care-si trag mucii, galagie, injuraturi, mii de du-te-n ma-ta pe zi, mii de mame provinciale sau indigene atinse de balacareala nesimtitilor. Bitum incalzit, 8200 de preputuri lubrice care asteapta lasarea serii sau poate 16.400 de ovare care incearca sa-si indeplineasca functiile fiziologice conform unui ritual imuabil – cel al vietii.

Stiri cu copii violati, incendii devoratoare, inundatii hulpave si 16.400 de ochi care privesc cu aviditate, care traiesc din voma pe care o vad, care respira dejectiile pe care le aud la stirile de la ora la care altadata se lua ceaiul. 8200 de creiere pe kilometru patrat, majoritatea dintre ele gåndindu-se la cum sa faca bani, cum sa-si faca tavan fals, sa-si puna spoturi luminoase, cum sa ia un leasing, cum sa fenteze apocalipsa.

Sute de mii de idile in tot orasul, deceptii, adultere, incesturi, atingeri intamplatoare, o glezna, un sfårc, sau direct, o måna pe cur. De fapt, mii de måini ale tot atåtor mii de homo cavernis – moronicus care il fac pe Darwin sa-i fie rusine de teoria lui. Mii de adolescente pe kilometru patrat care viseaza la dragoste adevarata, la un bemveu bot de rechin, la un pictorial intr-o revista, la mai putina celulita - mii de kilograme de celulita colectata de pe zeci de mii de picioare, burti si coapse, care vor putina celebritate - macar cele 15 minute promise de miile de filme americane.

Ziua moare si se lasa noaptea incerta cu miile ei de intromisiuni pe kilometru patrat. Mii de femei care gem, barbati care gem, fluide care se scurg ca intr-un Beckett deprimant, neerotic, nevrotic si ticsit. Canalele colcaie de deziluzii si de incercari nereusite. Paradisul tåntarilor si al paienjenilor care violeaza sute de mii de epiderme prea alienate sa mai produca anticorpi. Respiratii, milioane, care trag cu nesat de burta ozonului care se estropiaza pe zi ce trece, precum o vaca sfånta uitata la mama dracului.

Cåndva, intre 3 si 4 dimineata, kilometrul patrat se destinde. Isi mai trage si el sufletul. Se gåndeste la zorii unei noi zile, la perioada interbelica, sau de dinainte. Poate se gåndeste la Malaxa, la halvaua de altadata, la bataile cu flori de la sosea. La sarete, la calutii care tropaiau cu potcoavele piatra cubica de pe bulevarde. La Capsa. La Majestic. Dar ceasul biologic ticaie ca o bomba care-ti sopteste atingåndu-ti lobul urechii si apoi hapaind-o pe de-a intregul: TIC ,TAC, TIC...
Gata. A trecut.

Ziua se tåråie ca o curva batuta si violata de salbatici si marile companii se trezesc la ceea ce generic este numit “viata`”. Mii de gulere albe, de costume apaca, butoni lucitori, telefoane, indici, grafice, power pointuri, slide-uri, proiectii, teorii, research, råsete, strånsete de måini. Litri de transpiratie pasati de la unul la altul prin strångeri cordiale de måini, luaturi prietenesti de gåt.
Altundeva oamenii mor, altii sunt dezhumati, altii putrezesc intr-o casa vagon in care nimeni nu mai cauta si-n ultima camera. Ciocli pamåntii la fata (mimetism profesional) sapa apatici groapa dupa groapa, långa groapa, peste groapa. Mortii stau cuminti, ca intr-o parcare subterana. La suprafata jocul continua: OK, SUPER, TE PUP...mii si mii in fiecare secunda. Sunt pupat si raspupat, transpupat si metapupat. Nici nu mai exist, ingropat intre atåtia oameni, idei, atingeri, organe, urari, lovituri, masini, cåini, reclame, etc., Intre atåtia etcetera.

Si e mai bine ca nu ma mai regasesc. Probabil ca m-as enerva.

DREAMS

My friend and I drank a bottle of Smirnoff. and one of wine. and maybe something else - i can't remember.

afterwards i had three dreams all of them happening almost simultaneously. all of them really simple:

a. MORPHINE sounds like MORE FUN.

b. I have my own advertising agency called BROTHERS. the logo is two shades breaking an orange square.

c. a blank page.

that's all for now.

JOBS

in cautarea mea de joburi prin londra, m-am lovit de cateva care merita mentionate: fie ele in sine, fie modul in care sunt vandute bietului somer: 

a. guillotine operator.

calau adica? se cerea experienta de minim doi ani. si aveau spor de periculozitate.

b. tea blogger: trebuia sa bei foarte mult ceai si sa ai talent la scris. o combinatie destul de sincretica.

c. receptionist. meserie normala in sine. secretara. dar se spunea cum ca vei fi "punctul nodal al acestei mari corporatii, punctul de intrare si de interactiune cu alte entitati corporatiste..."

- va urma - 

JIUJITSU PENTRU COPII

am vazut un film despre copiii care au probleme in a-si controla agresivitatea. mari. atat de mari incat un pusti de 8 ani ii zicea unei doamne educatoare mai mari cu 50 de ani si 100 de kilograme: Im gonna kick you in the cunt, you motherfuckin' cow. si apoi micutul o improsca cu flegmele lui infantile si o lovea cu pumnii lui mici dar infrigurati de adrenalina.

educatorii bineinteles ca nu puteau recurge la argumente fizice tipic romanesti (actiunea se petrece in UK) gen sut in derriere, palma obraz stang/palma obraz drept si atunci dezvoltasera un gen de arta noncombat de imobilizare. un fel de jiujitsu pentru copii. mititelul in cauza era imobilizat cu mainile pe piept si cu un genunchi in spate si era lasat sa ocarasca pana nu mai putea. to boil in his own juice, cum ar veni. in cele din urma, dupa ce isi epuiza micul vocabular de injuraturi, dupa ce scuipa pana se dezhidrata, dupa ce se dadea cu capul de tot ce gasea pana ii inflorea fruntea de hematoame, deci dupa toate astea, copilul se calma prin epuizare.

singura intrebare care mi-a venit era daca un educator de la scoala cu pricina care e supertrainuit in jiujitsu pentru copii ar putea sa faca fata unui adult. sau practic l-ar imobiliza numai de la brau in jos (cam pe masura staturii unui copil) si restul - adica de la brau in sus - ar fi descoperit? pentru ca daca e asa, nu e bine. jiujitsu pentru copii nu e o arta martiala infailibila. 

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bucurestiul e ca o piesa rammstein.

gri, greu, incarcat de ura, cu mult metal, fum, zgura, noxe care te musca de esofag, masini ca niste rechini, bemveuri care ti-ar indoi cu placere tibia daca n-ar fi paralizate in mocirla de fier si cauciuc.

e ca o piesa rammstein ca nu inteleg nimic din ce zice, dar imi dau seama ca ma ameninta, ca e nasol, ca fetele flirteaza pragmatic, ca in toate privirile se strecoara o unda de injunghiat in spate. 

si tot ca rammstein e repetitiv si continuu ca o fraza fara virgule si puncte, ca un cocktail de kerosen si pucioasa, monocrom si sulfurat. 

si din cand in cand mai intalnesti cate un om, transpus, ca din alta lume, cu zambet si conversi rosii care asculta muzica si nu se uita la televizor, care nu-ti tzipa in ureche, scuipa in ochi, loveste in coaste, zgaraie pe creier ca unghia pe tabla, si iti spui cu un rictus dispretuitor: bah, asta e nebun.

asta e orasul meu. locul unde vreau sa ma intorc desi nu-mi place, unde vreau sa traiesc desi il urasc, singurul loc in care m-am indragostit vreodata. a ca sherbetul de trandafiri din care de fiecare data cand luam o lingurita imi venea sa borasc, dar niciodata nu ma puteam opri. atunci aveam scuza ca eram copil si nu stiam. acum am scuza ca sunt adult si pun totul la indoiala.