by Rajdeep D

The first time I saw her was at a computer lab in the university. I was trying to get a free computer to sit at and finish my oh-so-important English assignment. I am sure that I was gaping at her with my mouth open when she walked in with her friend. Somehow, I did manage to close my mouth when she looked my way. “Smooth move player!”, I said to myself rolling my eyes towards the heavens.

Yes, there were times I wanted to go up to her and say “Hi!” or something along that line. I mean, I do have the courage to do that but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. Why? We will come to that later.

The next time I saw her was a week after my gaping incident. I remember she was in the Cafeteria and I was sitting at the table beside hers with my friends. I couldn’t help but look at her. I know, I know, I sound like a teenager. But well, as I said before, I couldn’t help it. A really weird idea came to my head. What if I paid one of the mamas in the Cafeteria and sent a drink (Obviously Mountain Dew or Coke or something. What were you expecting?) to her?

But alas, I couldn’t bring myself to do that either!

Why? I’ll tell you why.

It is not the fear of rejection that bugged me. It is the fear of what she might think of me that bothered me. Let’s face it; we live in a conservative society. She might just think that I am a pervert or worse a “bokhate”. I wouldn’t want that now, would I? We learn what the society teaches us. But, we end being a bunch of hypocrites behind a veil of niceness. We still can’t express how we feel about each other. We are close, yet so far.

I would be happy just being friends with her. Not everything in the world is about scoring a girlfriend or a boyfriend. I do believe that platonic relationships do occur in the real world.

I didn’t see my beautiful stranger ever again after that day. Now I am writing this dismal article expressing my regret.

You know what? If you like someone let them know it. Go to the town !!

Sometimes, it is better to be sorry than safe.

Niciodata nu mi`au placut asiaticii. Nu mi`au facut nimic saracii oameni da nu imi plac de nicio culoare. Sa fie din cauza faptului ca atunci cand ma duc acasa si merg sa fac cumparaturi cu ai mei in jur de ora 6 juma vad numa asiatici? Sa fie vorba ca m`am saturat ca oamenii sa spuna ca noi am avut comunismul chinezesc cand de fapt am avut modelul rusesc? Orice asociere cu asiaticii, nu conteaza ce tara din partea aia, pur si simplu imi starneste niste batai dure in stomac.

Si azi cautand ceva noutati pe net, prin presa, am dat peste stirea asta: “Supa de fetus uman, delicatesa pentru bogatanii chinezi”. Stirea mi`a fost procurata de cei ce au facut ca stirile de la ora 5 sa fie atat de faimoase.

AVIZ CELOR CU CU INIMI SLABE! Pun poza:

Am ramas cu ochii cat cepele, mi`am tras suflul si am dat click pe imagini. Primele imagini nu mi`au starnit cine stie ce greata sau revolta, ca deh am mai vazut pe net avorturi si stiu cum arata un fetus. Dar ultimele trei poze m`au facut sa ma intreb cine permite asa ceva. E totusi o forma de canibalism. Deci sa inteleg ca Fish si Chikatilo au fost condamnati degeaba? Pe nedrept?

Albert Fish a fost bolnav mintal si a ajuns sa comita canibalism de placere. El a fost prins datorita unei scrisori trimise catre familia unei fetite ce a ajuns sa fie victima lui. Acea scrisoare continea: “Grace sat in my lap and kissed me. I made up my mind to eat her, on the pretexte of taking her to a party. You said yes, she could go. I took her into an empty house in Weschester. I told her to reamin outside. She picked wild flowers. I went upstairs and striped all my clothes off. I knew if I did not, I will get her blood on them. When all was ready I went to the window and called her. Then I hid in the closet untill she was in the room. When she saw me naked she began to cry and tried to run downstairs. I grabbed her and she said she would tell her mama.First, I striped her naked. How she did kick, bite and scratch. I choked her to death. Then cut her in small pieces, so I could take my meat into my rooms, cook and eat it. How sweet and tender her ass was roasted in the oven. It took me 9 days to her entire body. I did not fuck her. Thou I could have, have I wished. She died a virgin.”

Andrei Chikatilo a trait o viata grea. Te trezeai dimineata si mergeai pe strada si vedeai parti umane in gurile cainilor, vedeai la vecinul in farfurie degete umane, te intrebari de unde le procura. O copilarie destul de traumatizanta. El a ajuns sa omoare si sa consume partile genitale, sa mutileze victimele inspre a`si oferi placere.

Dar, acest articol nu are ca tema criminalii in serie ce au pasit pragul canibalismului, ci are ca tema canibalismul modern, curat. Ne`am obisnuit cum asiaticii au la baza mancaruri pe baza de caini, gandaci, maimute, sobolani. Dar sa ajunga sa deguste fetusi, e prea de tot.

Mi`e teama sa ma gandesc la ce stiri va aduce ziua de maine.

Dupa ceva ore bune petrecute in fata unui ecran ce transmite radiatii din cauza unor proiecte ce cu greu le`am dat de cap (tind sa multumesc: unei persoane in mod direct si alteia in mod indirect), observ ca se face ora 3 si ceva noaptea. Nefiind adormita dar totusi avand nevoie de ceva ore de somn, am zis sa ma bag in pat si sa`mi incerc norocul cu ceva filme date la teve. Neavand program am inceput sa butonez.

Si norocul o tinut cu mine: am dat peste imparatul mustelor. Nu am prins vr`o 20 de minute din inceput, dar asta nu conta. Auzisem multe vorbe de bine despre acest film (1990). Nu vazusem nici filmul, si nici cartea n`o citisem. Da, mare pacat, stiu!

Sa zic totusi despre ce e vorba: 12 copchii, cu varste pana in 12 ani, au ramas naufragiati pe o insula cu (,) capitanul lor, care acesta intr`un final moare de mana lor, din frica mai mult. Tipologia si ierarhia umana sunt bine definite. Odata cu moartea capitanului lor, grupul compact si bine organizat de baieti, devine din ce in ce mai subred, pana la urma divizandu`se in doo: un grup bine organizat, rational condus de Ralph, si un grup ce e fuarte aproape de primitivism condus de Jack. Acest din urma grup, prins in euforia vanatorii de mistreti si dornici de a fi ei cei cu ultimul cuvant de spus, ajung sa nu mai simta compasiune si remuscare chiar si atunci cand anumiti baieti mor de mana lor.

Trebuie sa recunosc ca am tresarit si am ramas socata de anumite secvente, nu cum ca efectele erau bune sau nu mai vazusem creeri imprastiati, ci pur si simplu prin simplul fapt ca acei copchii erau capabili de asa cruditate.

Finalul insa m`a lasat cu ochii mari ca cepele. Ralph ajunge sa fie ‘vanat’ de Jack si restul baietilor. Ralph incercand sa`si salveze viata fugind, ajunge pe plaja unde da nas in nas cu salvatorii pe care ii asteptau de atat vreme. Acest fapt l`a facut sa planga, iar pe vantori i`a facut sa ramana inmarmurati.

Un final brusc.

Totusi povestea nu este incheiata, si comportamentul ‘vanatorilor’ este regasit in ziua de azi in majoritatea oamenilor din jur (numa refer la capacitatea de a comite crime, desi nici acest comportament nu e de neglijat).

Nu pot sa spun decat ca, iar, mi`am pus intrebari despre societatea din ziua de azi, si m`a facut sa realizez, inca odata, cum oamenii sunt prizonierii statutului social.

Nici nu am cuvinte cum sa descriu ce sentimente mi`a starnit acest film. Intr`un fel mi`e rusine de mine ca nu am vazut acest film mai devreme, ca sa nu mai spun de faptul ca nu am citit cartea. Dar sa spun totusi saru`mana ca l`am vazut si acuma. “Niciodata nu e prea tarziu”, nu?

One day, surfing the newspapers on the net, I saw a headline that captured my attention: ‘Desperate, Romanians have began begging online’. I laughed for a few minutes, with tears in my eyes, not knowing, not even now, if it`s a laughing or a crying matter. And with this article I saw two links to some sites that were created just for a give-and-take bargain. After I surfed those links I thought to myself: ‘Now, after years and years of evolution, we have began to evolve and have access to information that in the past required time, a lot of time, now with a simple click we have almost everything that we wanted. And now, we begin to beg on the net?’ That`s hilarious and at the same time degrading.

In the article this bargain was printed like this: ‘With all this, there is a form of commerce on these sites: swop (barter). A leather jacket in exchange for some silver jewelry.’

I can`t wonder, but should we blame the world economic crises for this too?

I can`t help to abduce this discussion to some landscapes I saw a few days ago in Bulgaria: fields covered with crop. And when I went a week or so in Bucharest, the landscapes on the way to Bucharest were just plain fields, nothingness, like I was in the middle of nowhere, like Courage.

The other day I was surfing the net to get more information about scholarships abroad, and I passed an information in which Norway gives Romania almost 100 mil. euros, non-refundable funds, for 70 projects. And all of them will be eco. Now, this is good and bad in the same time. Why? Well it`s good that someone thought of putting windmills in Romanians most windy area, and it`s bad that Romanians didn`t done this from the beginning . It`s degrading for a country with potential, that it`s inhabitants don`t explore this potential at full.

But form where I started and where I ended up…

And a question rises with the beginning of these sites: will this form of ‘commerce’ is going to have an ending or an evolution? And if it is going to evolve, then: in what will it evolve?

And I, as a curious cat that has only 3 lives left, wonders on, unsatisfied with curiosity…

Ca deh, sunt io nebuna si tot ce zic io e o tampenie…

Nu inteleg de ce tre in fiece zi sa vad, ori in ziar, ori la tele, ori pe net (cautand eventuri) tzatze si posterioare. Chiar asa am ajuns? Parca si vad ca maine poimaine o sa ma intalnesc cu tipi cu urma de sperma pe pantaloni si fete care nu stiu cum sa`si mai arate ce au. Ah, da stai..la fete deja se aplica ce spun…baietii au de recuperat.

Oare nu sunt de ajuns FHM, Playboy si alte cele, si pornurile? Am ajuns in asa hal incat tre sa vedem tzatzele vecinei de la doi? Io, cum eram de acceptam mai tot, am ajuns sa nu mai suport asemenea expozitii. Si nu ca nu mi`ar placea, da deja cand vezi de prea multe ori aceleasi forme, parca le piere si farmecul si ti se mai si acreste. Nu`i de mirare de ce o araboaica si`a dat in judecata sotul pentru ca a vrut sa`i vada chipul in somn. Deh, religia nu le permite asta barbatilor. Da saracu, e un mister pentru el, si ce sa mai spun de faptul ca misterele ne fascineaza din plin?

Si amu sa dau mirificul exemplu care m`a dus la capat: nu avatarele unor neni din lista de mess, nu ziarele de scandal sau ultima pagina din mai toate revistele, ci reclama pe net facuta catre “missy fight club”. Ca deh, barbatu cu cohones, ala macho si de cele mai multe ori fara creer, lu` ala ii place “fight club”, iar cucoanele, ce sa mai, e nush ce actor ce joaca. Si ca sa fie ca un bonus pentru partea masculine da`i frate cu fete la bataie. Ca deh, alora ce le place fight clubu, nu ar vrea sa se vada o fumeie cum se bate cu un nene, ca deh, nici nu e indoiala care castiga, si pe de alta parte, nici nu e siecsi. Si deh, noi vrem ca “partenerii nostri de fuflet” sa se joace cu mititelu in timp ce se uita la cucoanele alea cum se bat acolo. Ah, am mentionat cum? Cu tzatzele la vedere, ofcors. Ma mir cum de nu le cer sa`s idea jos si pantalonii, atunci ‘domnii’ nu ar mai avea nevoie de noi, astea ce stam in bucatarie, avem grija de copchii, mergem la munci. Ce sa mai, deja cand apare o tzatza, parca are un magnet ceva, ca ochi si urechi acolo is cu totii.

Si nush cum se face cum de io am intalnit numa tipi care nu`mi sustin idea de a ma duce si a`mi expune si io cumva, undeva corpul pentru cateva ore…gen animatoare mai mult. Si cum sa nu te enervezi la asemenea chestie?

Da nah, cum tot zic, asta e alt pitic pe creer…

Citind pe un alt blog un “post pentru anti-fumatori” mi`a fost aprins un beculet sus in capsor. O ruginit saracu, s`o si ars de cateva ori, amu sa vad de o sa faca poc! sau nu. )

Se face ca:
“De cate ori ies cu cineva in oras, cu o persoana sau un grup intreg, daca exista un singur fumator printre noi (chiar daca sunt 10 nefumatori), cu totii trebuie sa mergem la sectiunea unde se fumeaza, pentru ca acel unu sa se simta bine. In timp ce noi, ceilalti 10, ne expunem la fumatul pasiv, despre care se zice chiar ca e mai periculos decat cel activ. Daca am fi vrut sa fumam, ne-am fi apucat de fumat (sunt plina de truisme azi).”

Si eu ca o musca nesimtita, ma bag in seama si raspund: “E de`a dreptul amuzanta toata propaganda asta. nu se face atata zarva pe seama alcoolului, care el chiar ucide cand un dobitot beut se urca la volan si pe langa viata lui o mai ia si pe a altor oameni; si se face pentru fumat, care…suntem noi chiar asa de siguri ca ucide? Totusi, mai repede te`ar baga in spital un ghiveci cazut in cap de o cucoana care deschide un geam, decat o tigara. A naibii fumatorii astia! Moarte lor! Huooo! (urale pe fundal)”.

Dar raspuns: “Uita-te la orice tara civilizata. De ce crezi ca e interzis fumatul in locurile publice? Pentru ca asa e normal. Numai la noi sar toti fumatorii in sus ca sunt “arsi pe rug”. Sa fim seriosi, voi momentan aveti mai multe facilitati decat noi. Salile de mese pentru fumatori sunt mai mari decat pentru nefumatori. Mie nu mi se pare nici corect, nici normal.”

Si am raspuns cat am putut de frumos: “Sa`mi fie cu iertare, da unde locuiesc io mesele de fumatori nu prea mai exista, si nu prea mai existau de cand s`a bagat legea cu “fumatul in locurile publice interzis”. acum sunt doo tipuri de locuri: localuri pt fumatori si alea pt nefumatori. Io aleg orice local in functie de chef. pot sta fara tigara o masa sau un seara ca nu mor, nu? ) Desi recunosc ca un cico merge cu un fum. [...] Te inteleg ca nu iti place sa simti fumul in jurul tau. Dar ce poti face decat sa comunici cu cei care te deranjeaza? Sa fortezi o lume intreaga sa faca ce nu iti place tie e ca si cand ai cere ca soferii sa nu mai conduca deoarece elimina co2 si duce la topirea ghetarilor and so on.”

Si raman complexata de faptul ca inca mai exista oameni ce fara sa se gandeasca cer altor oameni sa renunte la ceva ce au facut aproape toata viata lor. E ca si cu Doom`ul ala, sa scriem altfel de cum am scris o viata intreaga. Si e ca si cu Lei`i. Leu nou si Leu vechi. Cata lume oare s`a obisnuit cu leul nou? Sau cata lume scrie cum e in Doom? Deci cati oameni vor renunta la fumat? Numai daca ar face pachetul 100 ron si tot s`ar gasi un cumparator.

Si ma leg si de vechea mea problema. Beutoare cum fusasi, acum curata ca lacrima cu “apa cu lamaie” in fata, spun: de ce nu se scumpeste alcoolul? Care ucide prin inconstienta? Sa dam vina atunci si pe fumatori ca sunt inconstienti. Cum se face ca io si cei din orasul meu nu au avut contact cu fumatul decat in clasele 5-8, dar cu alcoolul de fiecare data cand se duceau cu tatii la sifoneria din piata, de unde sorbeau spuma de la berea data de tatici? Cati beutori sunt si cati fumatori sunt? Sunt sigura ca si Biserica si`ar dori asemena adepti (Oh vai, ce necurat vorbesc!) Si totusi, drinking is good, smoking is bad? I say ney!

Dar deh, ce pot face io, o bucata din pleaba, impotriva a sutelor de mii de costume bine aranjate?

Familia si vecinii nu ti`i alegi!

Si nici nu`ti trebuie mai mult ca viata ta sa se duca de rapa!

Citind un articol despre cruditatea fata de animale mi`am adus aminte de cateva animale tinute de mine la bloc. Ce`i drept nu animale de rasa, ci gasite pe strada. Mereu mi`au placut animalele si am avut tot soiul de animale: caini, pisici, gugustiuci, pesti, hamsteri, papagali, mai de toate ce poate avea un om in locuinta sa. Bine nu am avut animale exotice gen serpi si crocodili, tarantule si alte d`astea, desi mereu mi`am dorit sa am un srape sau o taratula. Dar nu despre asta am sa scriu io aci, ci despre ce fel de oameni sunt cei ce pot locui si langa tine.

La bloc am niste vecini care au un sange mai rece decat serpii.

Sa va dau ceva exemple.

Cand eram mica era un catelus asa dragut in fata blocului. Asa dragut ca mi s`a pus pata pe el si l`am luat in casa. I`am dat de mancare, l`am ingrijit, l`am salvat si de la hinghieri odata:

-Ce faci cu cainele ala?

-Poi e al meu!

-Si unde ii e zgarda?

-I`am lasat`o acasa! Ca doar cat era sa`l plimb pe afara?

Evident ca niste hinghieri nu aveau de gand sa`si bata capul cu o copchila mica care poa sa tipe a naibii de tare.

Si intr`o zi, eu am plecat la scoala si am lasat cainele afara, cum faceam de obicei. Cand m`am intors nu era nici urma de caine. Sa aflu peste cateva luni ca vecinii mei mult iubiti si dragi, vecini care au functii destul de importante, au luat cainele si `au dus la ei la tara.Am uitat sa mentionez ca acestia erau vecinii care faceau scandal cand urcam cainele 3 etaje ca sa`l duc in casa:

-Locul unui caine e afara, nu in casa! Nu vezi ca are purici si capuse! Nu destul ca o sa fii tu plina de purici da o sa mai dai si copiilor nostri! Da lasa ca vorbesc io cu parintii tai sa le spun ce fata neascultatoare esti tu!

Evident ca parintii ma sustineau, si nu acordau atentie vecinilor. Si nici purici sau capuse nu am luat, se pare ca nu am sangele bun.

Asta fiind primul meu esec cu animalele.

Cand am intrat la liceu, am gasit o pisica neagra frumoasa foc ce dadea tarcoale blocului. Nimeni nu`i dadea de mancare, asa ca am luat`o eu in casa. Era o pisica faina foc, neagra din cap pana`n coada. Era cuminte, nu se urca pe masa nici daca era carne acolo, avea program de masa bine stabilit. Ce sa mai deja devenise pisica de apartament. Ii mai dadea drumul pe afara, ba cate o noapte, ba numa pe zi.

Dar intr`o zi a trebuit sa ma duc la o aniversare, iar parintii mei trebuiau sa plece cateva zile de acasa. Asa ca am lasat`o afara. Cand m`am intors nu am mai gasit`o asteptandu`ma, cum facea de obicei, pe treptele blocului. Sa o gasesc peste cateva zile moarta in parcare, capul strivit, batuta. Se facea ca sunt doi vecini iubitori de animale, si restu care nu au nici in clin nici in maneca. Iar din cei iubitori de animale, unul iubea pisicile altul cainii, dar niciodata invers. Si vezi, mai draga, ca ei doi au avut o cearta cu cateva zile, si mi`au gasit pisica frumos pe afara, si evident ca stransi laolalta au facut ce i`au facut pisicii. Dar nah, fiind ca vecinii au functii importante dom`le, nu am putut face nimic.

De gugustiuci ce sa mai zic? Mama a gasit doi pui mici cazuti din cuib, abia iesiti din ou, gata-gata sa fie pranzul pentru pisici. Asa ca i`a luat in casa. Am avut grija de ei, ii hraneam, i`am invatat sa zboare. Asa se facu ca ei au inceput sa zboare pe copacul din fata balconului nostru si se mai plimbau prin zona, dar veneau inapoi sa manance si sa doarma. Geamul de la balcon ramea mereu deschis, asa ca aveau toata libertatea ce si`o doreau.

Am plecat fiecare membru al familiei in treaba lui, gugustiucii in treaba lor. Seara cand ne`am intors, gugustiucii nu mai erau, ei care erau primii veniti acasa. Si asa mi`am dat io seama ca prastiile ce le faceau tatii, vecinii nostri, pentru copchii lor, nu erau folositi numai de pusti, ci si de ei. Si ca sa fie claie peste gramada, cata cruzime din partea unor oameni, ne`am trezit in acea seara cu un vecin la usa ca ne invita la o ciulama.

Sper numai ca atunci cand imi voi lua eu apartamentul meu sa nu dau peste asemenea oameni, in speranta ca poate as putea sa am si io un animalut cu mine, fara sa i se intample ceva daca il las pe afara.

E vineri. Iau microbuzu spre Constanta. Destinatia finala fiind Bucuresti. Am zis sa iau trenul. Cine stie ce oameni or mai fi prin tren. Odata ajunsa in Constanta ma duc la gara sa vad de bilet, dar chestie ciudata: “ne pare rau, nu mai avem locuri pentru trenul de la 15:44. Daca doriti va dau bilet fara loc sau puteti astepta trenul de la 17:45″. Mi`am zis “asta e fato, ti`ai gasit belea”. Dar slava domnului pentru masini. Am lasat trenul sa plece. Calatori cu si fara loc. Treaba lor cum o sa ajunga in Bucuresti. Am mers sa prind autocarul. Speram sa fie simpa sau gsm, da s`a nimerit sa fie un sir. Am zis asta e, tre sa gasesc loc. Si am gasit. Ultimul loc disponibil. Cam pe la mijlocul autocarului. M`am asezat frumos, am scos cartea si am inceput sa citesc. Nici bine nu am iesit din Constanta ca o doamna la un scaun distanta de mine avand nepotica la ea in brate decide ca scaunul nu era comfortabil si spatiul dintre scaunul dansei si cel din fata nu e destul de mare pentru ea si nepoata ei. Asa ca doamna a decis sa`si dea putin scaunu pe spate. Putin mai mult. Eh, atata i`a trebuit. Ce`i drept o cauta cu lumanarea. Doamna din spatele ei a inceput:
-Doamna, va rog frumos, ridicati scaunul. Nu am loc aici in spate.
-Poi ce sa fac doamna daca nu e loc pentru mine si copila? Cum vreti sa stau cu fetita in brate?
-Tebuia sa`i fi luat un scaun separat daca vroiati sa aveti spatiu. Credeti ca noi ceilalti avem destul loc?
Doamna “pagubita” sa`i spunem, era destul de corpolenta.
-Poi cum, doamna? Nu vedeti ca toate scaunele au aceeasi distanta intre ele?
-Ah, nu doamna, va inselati!
-Haideti ca acum chiar sunteti nesimtita!
-Eu, doamna? Pardon! Duneavoastra sunteti cea nesimtita! Auzi la ea, eu nesimtita!
Evident ca barbatul de langa batrana si nepoata a incercat sa`i explice doamnei “fara spatiu” ca intre scaune nu prea era loc. Dar evident ca doamna nu pricepea nici neam.
Dupa rasete ascunse din partea celorlalti calatori, inclusiv a mea, aceasta zarva se potoleste.
Dupa o ora si ceva de trafic intens, bara la bara si altele, ajungem la popas. Slava domnului pentru pauzele de genul, numa bune pentru fumatori!
Pauza ca pauza si pornim spre A2. Liniste si pace pentru cateva momente. Incepe filmul in autocar si nici ca trec 5 minute ca nepotica si`a gasit o partenera de joaca. O fetita ce statea cuminte, pana atunci, cu mamica ei fix in spatele meu. Atat mi`a trebuit! Copchii!
Joaca ca joaca, cine are copchii sau a avut de`a face cu copchii rasfatati, stie cat de “dragalasi” sunt acestia. Aveau cartile alea cartonate de la adevaru: mica sirena, doamna si vagabondul si ce altceva mai aveau. Au inceput sa imite, domn`le, personagiile. Au inceput sa necheze, sa rada, sa urle pe acolo de parca tot autocaru era numa al lor. Saracii oameni ce erau obositi pe acolo, numa de glasciorul lor nu aveau ei chef. O tanara, presupun ca era studenta la actorie, sau vroia sa dea la actorie – ce ulterior si`a pierdut stickul, dar o sa revin asupra acestui fapt-, a incercat sa atraga atentia celor doo doamne:
-Va rog frumos, intelegem ca sunt doar doi copii, dar ne obosesc si pe noi.
-Dar ce vreti sa le facem? Nu putem sa le facem nimic, replica batranei evident.
In gandul meu “de educatie stiti ceva sau tre sa ne crestem toti copchii in puf?” Dar am zis sa nu ma pun rau cu baba, ca cine stie cum mi`o pun in cap. Si chiar nu aveam chef sa`i mai aud vocea. Vocea copchiilor, d`apoi a ei.
Revenind la tanara actrita. Poate oi fi io mai cu mot, da nici nu avea nasul carn ca sa explic atitudinea ei. Cum si`a pierdut ea stickul? Ei bine, plictiseala mare, mon amie! Si pe langa cele doo pagini pe care le`a rasfoit intr`o carte de actorie si cele doo reviste “la moda” citite, si`o scos, mai draga, laptopul ca sa faca…mai nimic. A bagat un stick (frumos ce`i drept) si o inceput sa se uite la poze. Habar n`am ce poze avea, nici n`am vrut sa ma uit. As presupune dupa bronzul ei, ca erau de la mare. Ajungem in Bucuresti, si ea grabita, dom`le, se ridica la Vitan isi ia bagaju si o tuleste precum Schumacher pe pista. Si astfel, dragutei noastre blonde, ii scapa stickul, cine stie de unde. Si eu, de la Timpuri Noi pana la Unirii, destinatia mea finala, m`am tot gandit daca sa`l iau sau nu. Si am zis mai bine nu. Ca deh, al mic si negru din mine o zis ca poate fatuca o sa`si dea seama ca si`o pierdut stickul si va da de urma autocarului si`si va recupera “memoria” pierduta. Dar cine stie, poate unul opus mie, l`o luat si amu se amuza sau se uimeste de pozele ce is pe acolo.
Ce lume!
Ce oameni!
Ce caracter!

Departue: Cluj-Napoca

Arrival: Sibiu

I went to the train station, got a ticket and got on board. I went into the right compartment and sat down and starting playing with some crosswords. I was alone in the compartment. A few stations after Cluj, a family got on board and came into the compartment I was in. They sat down. The mother opened a magazine and the father took out from a bag a crossword magazine. Their child, a daughter, made me curious about their family. But all the way I didn`t say a word.

This child, I would have said 14-15 tops, was dressed in black, a funny looking haircut, and a pair of converse-wannabe of many colours. She had black nails and black make`up. I wandered what else was black…

From the beginning I said to myself “this one is a meanie” and laughed inside and what hard efforts I have made to not laugh in her face…because of the parents of course.

Another stations passed and she puts on her earphones and turns up the volume and I hear something happy, rock. I guess it was Green Day, and after a few minutes I realized indeed it was Green Day.

She takes out her earphones and puts them on to her mother. And her mother wanted the volume turned up a bit more. And she was bouncing in her seat. After a few moments her mother asks who are the ones that sang. The child responded that they were Green Day. Even though that wasn`t a great shock- I didn`t know what to do, I just sat and stared at them- her mother asked where were Tokio Hotel. That blew me off. I could just hear windows breaking around me, and I could imagine my jaw touching the floor while my eye balls were bouncing on the floor.

I could barely hold myself together, and not drop a cackle. But my road was over, they went on. I only wished I could have stayed a bit longer to see what was going to happen next. But then again…maybe not.

More detritus from my dissertation. Here’s a passage discussing the Paris Commune and its impact in the United States.

Originally written by Brace in 1872, The Dangerous Classes of New York and Twenty Years Among Them argues that the most dangerous of all classes are “the ignorant, destitute, untrained, and abandoned youth: the outcast street-children grown up to be voters, to be the implements of demagogues, the ‘feeders’ of the criminals, and the sources of domestic outbreaks and violations of law” (26). Published only a year after the 2nd Orange Riot and the “terrible Communistic outbreak in Paris” of 1871, The Dangerous Classes warns American upper and middle classes that without some effort to reform social conditions New York itself might detonate into class war, a civic chaos “which might leave [the] city in ashes and blood” (29).5 Brace underscores the probability of such general mayhem by reminding his readers of the 1863 Draft Riots, when “the better streets were filled with a ruffianly and desperate multitude” of underclass brutes, “creatures who seemed to have crept from their burrows and dens to join in the plunder” (30). Fifty years later in Gangs of New York, Herbert Asbury would embroider upon such animalizing, subterranean rhetoric: “the human sweepings of European cities” deposited in New York and left to fester in its slums, formed mobs who in the summer 1863 came “swarming from their holes at the first indication of trouble” (Gangs 111).

Of particular horror to Brace, surely thinking of the mythical petroleuses said to have firebombed the houses of the bourgeoisie, was the fact of “how much women figured in these horrible scenes” of destruction during both events, an inversion of patriarchal gender hierarchies more disturbing and subversive than any lumpenproletarian insurrection. And while Brace, like many of his contemporaries, rightly included attacks on Black New Yorkers as among the most vicious manifestations of the earlier revolt, he failed to account for them or indeed to see how the “Orange riot” and the Draft Riots differed at all. From his perspective as a bourgeois reformer he could understand the Paris uprising only as an irrational spasm– the European counterpart of the confused violence that a decade earlier racked New York– and as a likely doom. An event that was for his contemporary Karl Marx both “a thoroughly expansive political form” and evidence of “the constant anarchy and periodic convulsions which are the fatality of capitalist production” appeared to Brace the fate of a sickening society (Marx 61). According to this view two discrete historical events were roughly equal, and their equivalence was a portent, a forecast, a probable destiny. Yet more important for Brace were those who would be the vanguard of this potential catastrophe: the young. The Parisian communards Marx hailed in Miltonian terms as an army “storming heaven” were for Brace the “riotous and ruffianly masses” of 1863 displaced onto the boulevards of Paris, and in the end all of these ragged insurgents were “simply neglected and street-wandering children who have come to early manhood” (Brace 30).

Yet, his statement, despite its oversimplification, was true; youth, children and young adults alike, participated in both upheavals. After several days of rioting had passed, the New York Times claimed that “three-fourths of those who have been actively engaged in violence have been boys and young men under twenty years of age, and not all subject to Conscription” (quoted in Asbury 109) while according to eyewitness accounts at Monmartre in the moment General Lecomte was to give the National Guard the order to fire upon communards a “crowd of women and children massed at the entrance of Rue Muller…. threw themselves in front of the infantrymen shouting, ‘Don’t fire!’” (Communards 64).

The young not only played a practical role in each of these historic events; their significance was interpreted by radical intellectuals and bourgeois journalists in terms of youth itself as an abstract characteristic. For its Social-Democratic critics, the spontaneity of the Commune indicated its prematurity as a revolutionary moment, even as the American press, reflecting respectable fears of popular revolt, demonized communards by ejecting them from the sphere of western modernity altogether, accusing them in one instance of “an ignominy so colossal that future generations will be compelled to ransack the records of Mohammedan fanaticism for [any] parallel.” Premature revolutionaries or alien primitives motivated by an inscrutable creed: in both cases the Communards were thrust into a temporality out of synch with present realities.

The presence of women and children in the ostensibly masculine, adult business of armed struggle motivated many of these responses by abrogating traditional notions of modernity’s proper political subjects. The uncorroborated story of 12 year old Robert Lowe, described in the Times as an “enfant terrible” whose “fierce and bloody opposition to the entry of the French troops into Paris” resulted in their “slaughter”, is a case in point. Lowe’s resistance to Thiers’s soldiers is colored as treacherous, even monstrous, by virtue of his extreme youth. Eight years earlier the Times had professed its shock that during the burning and looting of New York City’s Colored Orphans Asylum “able-bodied laborers broke in the doors and stood guard, while the women and boys carried off the carpets and furniture and other valuables.” The putative criminality of such events seemed to depend less on the actions themselves than the perception that the identities of their agents violated gender and age-related norms.

As Samuel Bernstein notes, in the early weeks of the Commune “American newspapers and periodicals aligned themselves with Versailles against Paris” (171). This loyalty to the Thiers government produced “four main conclusions” regarding the Commune, including the ideas that the working classes and petty bourgeois of France were incapable of self-governance; socialism itself was a violent phenomenon; all Communards were communists in the service of foreign interests; and that “their ruthless suppression should be welcomed for the commune might happen” in the United States (172). These condemnations of the Commune were expressed in forceful language, a rhetoric of political demonology notable for its lurid and paranoid style. The Cincinnati Daily Gazette deemed Paris a “’den of wild beasts’” (171) while the New York Times described the Communards variously as a “’savage mob’”, “’fanatical ruffians’”, and “’political bohemians’” (172). Emmeline Raymond, a stringer for Harper’s Weekly, denigrated the Commune’s leaders as cannibals, dwarves and brutes. (quoted in Katz 45). Even the New National Era, Frederick Douglass’s publication, “accused the Communards of mobocracy, vandalism and terrorism” and likened its events to to the worst excesses of the Reign of Terror in 1792 (171).

As the Commune crumbled and “Bloody Week” commenced, reports of civilian massacres and summary executions gave American newspaper editors, with some notable exceptions, little pause. “The beast has been conquered,’” Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune exulted. As over 25,000 Parisians were murdered and many more thousands condemned to prison and transportation, the majority of the bourgeois press clamored for punishment. The New York Standard called for a “terrible purgation” of Paris (quoted in Bernstein 175). The Star wrote that the Communards “’must not hope for mercy’” (176). The Times, in a poetic excess of political astrology, argued that the defeat of the Commune was part of “a history of retribution, as plain as if it were written on the midnight sky in miracle letters of fire.’”

Several years later, in Strikers, Communists, Tramps and Detectives, strike-breaker and security industry pioneer Allan Pinkerton echoed such claims, remarking that the “lesson” of the Commune “is not one for Paris, or even France alone. It is one for the entire civilized world” (78). A Scottish cooper who had taken up the Chartist cause in the 1830s, Pinkerton was forced to flee to the United States as a young man when a warrant was issued for his arrest. In the years that followed his immigration, Pinkerton’s views on social justice seemed to capsize, and his famous detective agency, its reputation enhanced by apparent early successes such as the neutralization of a plot to assassinate President Lincoln and the prosecution of the Reno Case, became famous as a potent weapon in the defense of extant property relations. Though the House of Representatives concluded that no such plot on the president’s life in fact existed, the private detective agency’s fame for ruthlessness and efficiency– and a series of ghostwritten novels telling of Pinkerton’s exploits– lifted the firm into national prominence and valorized the figure of the professional detective who employed scientific methods of investigation in the service of the modern social order. Like Brace, Pinkerton saw in the French uprising of 1871 a clear historical analogy with the current antagonisms threatening to disintegrate American society. “Looking back over the great strikes of ’77,” he writes

the recklessness and desperation [of the communards] are everywhere visible. The same inveterate hatred of society was shown in the spirits and actions of American Communists. Fire, pillage, murder were their object and aim…. That the horrors of the Paris Commune were not repeated here is only because the pestilential spirit was not so deeply rooted as there. Give it time and let it alone, and it will lift its red hand with all the savage ferocity with which it struck Paris (79).

In From Appomattox to Monmartre, Philip M. Katz notes the “probably apocryphal” story of a young boy taken prisoner with the defeated Communards and facing immediate execution (78). The anecdote relates that just as the boy is to be shot he begs an officer of the Versailles army to allow him to return a borrowed pocket watch and promises that he will come back. Already inclined to spare one so young from death, the officer sends him away. Incredibly, the boy dispenses with his task and returns. Touched by his integrity the officer lets the boy go free.

Such a narrative bears the marks of didacticism and easily converts into fable. The stalwart purity of the character, his boyish honor, evokes similar figures, such as the young hero of Whitman’s poem “O Captain! My Captain!” who valiantly goes down with the burning ship or even the myth of the precocious Spartan child who would not cry out as the fox he concealed under his cloak disemboweled him. Parallel tales of the bravery of children abound. As for this particular iteration, Katz traces its origin to Le Figaro from which it was copied by an American journalist and sent to the United States via the trans-Atlantic cable where it appeared and was quickly reprinted in periodicals such as Harper’s Weekly and Appleton’s Journal. From these newspaper accounts poems were written, and in due course the story was incorporated into dime novels and popular histories.

A still photo from Peter Watkin’s remarkable “documentary” of the Paris Commune, La Commune.

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There’s tyranny in the way we enter
Rooms and conversations.
We wear all issues of attention
And worry,
Like a kind of satchel
Made of cured skin, and
Woven in wide pinches
With our knotted braids.

We allow
Everything to reveal it’s ultimate
Tragedy,
As if the thing,
Held only in the hand to examine
Shape and function,
Could have only acheived
The senseless deformity
Of our schedules,
Anyways.

We’re only capesble of ourselves.
We cannot defeat the world
Or any other assumed mechanism.
But I can defeat myself.
I can devour
This hollow frame
And stuff the marrow-empty causeways
With a stronger kind of filling.
I could look so strong
Across the window where you work;
Just a coincidence I was around…
But I could be seen,
And longed for,
And lifted into the gaping chasm
Where irregularities
Perish amung the draping mushrooms.

– Post From My iPhone

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