pages de mon journal

the pink letter

I wrote you a letter. Seven years ago. I wrote you a letter. On a pink sheet. So you will know it is me before reading it. And to make sure no one else will open it. No one opens a pink sheet letter.

Today, it`s been exactly seven years, since I`ve wrote you that letter.

And you know me, I am no letter person. Nor text message, nor Email.  But I wrote you a letter. I would imagine you opened it, reading it and calling me. I had already prepared what I would tell to you.

But you didn`t call me. You never said a word to me.

You know it`s been years….but I am thinking at you. Probably because I am still inlove with you. Probably because I am sorry. I blame all the stupid love movies and Dostoyevsky’s of this world and Eliade`s and Hesse. I blame them all for this. For me.

I thought if I write to you that letter, we will be together. So simple. I would imagine us being together, how this might feel. I would imagine us eating together, or driving with the car through Italy, or Switzerland. Everytime I`ve been there, I thought about you.  

I have your voice in my mind, I know how it sounds, how it changed over the years.

I imagine you talking to me, but we don`t talk anymore. Once every year maybe.

You know, I`ve actually secretly been with you together every since we`ve met. In my mind, we already did all the things people do when they are for real together, in my mind we had fights, we got back together, you would brush my hair in the evening and I would fix your shirt before going out…it was always so simple. Even though at some point I have realized we are not really together. 

It`s like playing music.

With you it was always like with the music.

Everything was there, unsaid, but we could understand each other better than with words, gestures, nothing superficial was needed.

That is why I knew that if I would write to you that letter, you would forgive me. And we will be together.

You so often blamed me, and than I knew, that with this letter everything is going to change. I was so emotional about the whole thing, that I couldn`t post the letter by my own, so I had to ask my sister to get to the postal office. 

 You never answered. Things than became clear. I knew it is over. Whatever you might of thought when you read that letter, I knew - that`s it. That is why I have chosen not to speak to you anymore. That is why I have erased your number, never got back to you. I understood that it was over. 

Anyway. My sister told me last month that she never sent you that letter. She forgot. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJzGtzGydtQ

the job ( part 1 )

There is this moment before entering the stage, where everything is quiet. People do not cough anymore, not moving, expecting you to come out. You look at the tiny little door, through which not even my dresses always flawlessly fit, and you feel the quietness. You feel it as a pressure holding your body. Than you look at your fingers, you take your right hand and feel the pulse of the heart, raise your head and than you go through. 

That is where the problem begins.

What do you do there?

How do you do it?

What do you feel?

How do you feel it ?

Are you well prepared?

What says how well prepared you are?

Is it enough?

Art today is like taking your coffee in the morning (whoever drinks coffee, I prefer to stay bio-clean and eat only sugar with cream, leave the coffee away. Yes, I do this.). The same way everybody, or at least almost everybody drinks coffee in the morning, the same way everybody, or at least almost everybody calls themselves “artists”. Including me. In a way, I guess, if I wasn`t smart or tall enough to have a “real job” and a “real life”, the next best thing was to call myself an artist.

And anyway, who would notice if I am a real one?

Can you spot a fake artist from a genuine one?

Nope.

Believe me, you will think about it, you will say – “maybe you can`t spot one, darling, but I can”. But you can`t.  Because spotting one, means reporting it and have it banned. Has anyone reached success doing this?

Nope.

Through the years, experience and weather changes, I have learned a few things that helped me to spot the fake artist inside of me and have it banned. 

One of the most fatal errors which can be done, coming especially from parts of the eastern old school, is the idea that an artist is something neutral. Art has nothing to do with being played by a neutral persona/personality.

The whole struggle when you play something, from Bach to Rachmaninov, from Shakespeare to Ionescu, from playing Salieri in “Amadeus” (Fahrid Murray Abraham - one of the greatest interpretation of all times) to playing McLovin in “Superbad”, from A to Z, is finding the inner strength of not losing yourself while not losing the author.

While an airplane can fly with one engine, if the second one shuts down, art is not working this way.

Art has been and can only be perpetuated if one works on his own soul and personality. Concentrating on what he is, what he can do. Not on what he/she shouldn`t be and shouldn`t do.

There is a difference of approach between– “I shouldn`t do this” and asking yourself – what “can” I do.

While I understand the perception that more than anything, one has to respect the author`s writings, otherwise … go and write your own s+++, the idea of trying to be “neutral” as a sacrifice to the art and piece, is one of the most fatal mistakes and approaches of art.

When you are on the stage and prepare to begin, something happens in that moment. A short but sad moment of recognition, that no matter how hard you have worked, how hard you have tried to impose your thoughts, how much of you, you have given up for this piece, in the moment you start playing it, there is a certain blockage and you realize, that you actually, in a frightening way, do not exist. That is the moment where neutrality as a theory of space, time and physics, to serve art, applies. It is only in that moment that you can loose yourself and feel that you don`t exist.

This kind of “neutrality” is the ultimate sacrifice and honor an artist can bring to the author`s work and eventually to art.

One cannot force that moment. Mostly, one can`t have that moment of neutrality as a servant to art, if one has not consumed every part of his/her personality as a preparation for this moment.

For exemple - yesterday while playing Bach, I closed my eyes and just dreamed. I have imagined that I wear a dress made out of fluid liquid silver, which is surrounding me and floating, on a mountain. Suddenly my whole interpretation which sucked for two weeks on that piece, finally changed due to that image.

Those are things that belong to me. Things which make me have my contribution to what it has been written by the author. In my own way.

My own way.

Art cannot be forced.

If you can`t act, than sleeping with your love partner in the script, won`t make you a better Romeo, or Julia. Or both together. It will only make one a cheater. 

Things do not happen by force. It won`t make me a better actor, or musician, if I would copy things that I have seen on the street, heard on Radio, downloaded on Torrent.

It is easier maybe, but it won`t get anyone further.

I got lots of time this quote, especially in Germany, when I was younger and I was asked what I am doing. People would respond to me “Oh, but that`s not a real job. What do you really do?” .

Art is hard work and is not happening by snooping around at tables, having discussions about it, forcing to understand, or to reach something. That is not what art is. It is hard work, because no matter how much you practice, it is never enough, because no matter how confident you are, you are always insecure, because it implies your interior, and when you fail, you don`t fail professionally only, you fail as a person, as a human being. You feel your interior disrupted, you don`t know on what to hold, you don`t know quite a lot of things…

One might experience criticism, as I often did, one might be “misunderstood”, one might be failing with his own interior beyond, or….above the author`s writings, but they are two things to remember. First of all,  this is not a job. There are no strict rules, that is why everybody can apply for it.  And that is why some people fail, some people raise. 

Second of all - to believe in what you have created as a necessity to express art, is a process which combines a lot of things - practice, character, good heart, good will, faith, feelings, appreciation, obsession, failure, losses, documentation, observation, preservation, moral standards, expectation, aspiration, dreams and reality. 

Maybe only once in this life one will be able to reach this. But it will be enough. Because that`s art. We search for this moment of absolution and perfection. 

Now I gotta go do my job. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPleIjMOsCk

ingénue

World is determined by words. Words are determined by situations, and their genuinity. A word exists in his pure meaning if it`s ingénue.

Let`s take a situation. With words and meanings.

We tend to believe that we own sometimes words that are told to us. Little symbols between people expressing their interior to the out-world. Those are the genuine words. Like a saying expressing the feelings toward another person. Positive, or negative. You use a word, a genuine one, to express your love, or disgust toward someone else. You, by that, create a situation, which is in its state ingénue, at the same time genuine.

The system collapses when this state looses it`s base. The genuinity of the word.

The genuinity of a word exists only in a relationship to an object, a human being, as we are all unique. And as we are all relying on words.

When you discover the words, which have proven your inimitability in a situation, somewhere else, toward another person, even let`s say a little interjection, words which to others might not mean a thing, but for another person means a unique liaison between two people,then words, situation, people, world, they collapse,…bă.

So should you ever find a word that was told only to you, somewhere else, don`t panic. Really. Don`t. It only means it was not genuine.

Words may break trust, may break false reality, may even so often break reality more than a false one can be created, but no words, especially the “copy paste” ones, can break genuinity.

For my friend, A.

One of my dearest friends, a girl that one would die for, someone I can`t take my eyes off, everytime I see her, even through the blunt skype, she got dumped by her boyfriend, after a long time. For another girl. Another girl, which I must officially admit – I don`t get it. I simply don`t.

He apparently does get it more.

What`s interesting in this case, is the hypocrisy between people. Amazing, isn’t it, how people can suddenly find reasons you have never heard before, to justify their lack of emotions. She was telling me all those beaauuutiful things he used to tell her, even when they broke up. Things like “I will always love you”, “I will call you, I want to see you, I still want to take care of you”. And gone he was.

Everytime she speaks to him, it`s the same. I guess lying develops in time and depends on ones power of imagination, as well as we should be grateful for all the love movies and their perfect lines you can copy from google and than paste it down in a letter.

Well, this thing with the hypocrisy. It cannot cover for the lies. It`s like you have a big giant pimple on your face and you are trying to cover it with make up and powder and I bet they will bring on the market very soon a real photoshop application that you can simply put it on your face to erase all those aging spots I have to cover with toothpaste now. We all know how this looks. Bleah.

Women do the same. I am not saying there is a difference, I am a big voter for men and women are the same. Thank god I do not have a penis by the way ( especially in the sauna ).

I remember when I was about 17 years old and I really really liked a guy, he was my dream guy. But I simply was not inlove with him. I used to cry because I couldn`t love him, although I wished. When I told him I can`t be together with him, he asked my why. He wanted to know why. And it was then I realized, people want reasons not because they believe in them, but because it`s easy. It`s like lying. It makes everything so much easier. At least that is what we think.

There is a reason in not finding reasons why one would not love someone – it is called hypocrisy. And this hypocrisy not only it`s not covering for the feelings one does not have, but it also kills the other persons feelings and whatever one thought once that she, or he,  had. 

strop

Buze moi

Buze vii

Spune-mi oare

Tu mai vii

Te-a furat o stea căzătoare

Să mi te aducă aievea

Oare

Vei putea tu să îmi dai

culmea poalei ce din deal

S-a plecat la luna mirositoare

A plăceri, a vieți îmbietoare

Ce te-au scurs pe o lacrimă de râu

Și te-ai dus pârâu pârâu. 

surface

Don`t be surprised about the most horrible things you can do. Don`t be surprised about the good things either. Because payback day it`s everyday.

There is this weird thing going around that -  what comes around, goes around.  

Life it`s a weird “persona”. You know about her that it`s full of ugliness and unwelcome choices, but the weird thing about her is that life gets back to you. It`s like a ticking bitch with clear shots.

I learned my lesson that for every good and every bad thing I have done, I got punished. And I am sure this is only the beginning. There is no mercy, as one could ask from God. If one should ask God anything.

It`s fantastic how well organized life is. You do something bad – SNAP. You do something good – SNAP.

And than you go to bed, glad you could escape from her today, but she strikes back. Sometimes it takes years until she decides to pay her duties to you. Still, she is always faithful. 

At least she was useful once in her life, this life. I learned to wait. I learned to not forget. And not forgive. One cannot forget or forgive. Once something happens, there is no turning back. Why do we forget this all the time ?!

I learned to make sure I, myself, will get my turn to pay my duties to the others. The good ones, as well as the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

This surface we are scratching, it`s a small, thin one. Don`t ever think you can escape. The more I thought we can get away with something, even more regret came up at the end. 

There is no good, or right, there is no bad, or good. There is no Heaven or Hell that one should be afraid of. 

There is a karma. What comes around, goes around.

the house

speechless as he walks,

the man who never sees wonders

he told me about a house

he said:

it´s the house we used to pass by

when we loved

gratitude was in me

I have not seen the time passing

long time from now

this never last

and as I walked by I said :

it´s the house we used to pass by

when we loved

gratitude was in me

time has passed.

why did we. 

limba mea

Toți suntem străini pe oriunde ne ducem. Că e la piață, că e la masă în oraș, că e cu “prieteni”. Toți ne știm străini. Da ce e cel mai străin, culmea străinului adică, e să fii “străin”.

Sunt “exilată”de o viață întreagă aproape. Acum iar mă mut cică definitiv în alt continent. N-am casă, n-am patrie să zic că țin cu țara mea la meciul de fotbal sau gimnastică, nici măcar de pașaport nu-mi mai pasă. Daca nu găsesc unul, mai am altele. Mă pui să vorbesc, încep într-o limbă, termin în alta, nici măcar nu-mi dau seama.

Dar mă apucă câteodată un dor de limba mea. Nu de oameni. Nu de țară. Nu.

De limba mea.

Când ne-am obișnuit toți să gesticulăm, când ne e mai ușor să mințim că ăla n-o să înțeleagă ce spunem noi pe limba noastră, atunci îmi dau seama, că limba mea, așa cum o suna ea din mine, cu accent, cu poticneli, cu “idioato, ăla e condițional optativ, PE care am compus-o, DE PE masă, nu DUPĂ masă”, precum ar spune sora mea, dar așa cum pot vorbi eu, asta e limba mea. Urâtă, că să fim serioși, româna, acu că mai am și alte limbi adoptate sincer, și pot observa cu o ureche obiectivă puțin, româna e o limbă al naibii de urâtă. Iar când a trecut îndeajunsă vreme cât să nu-mi mai vină cuvintele natural, nu înțeleg gramatica. Nu o înțeleg. Dar e limba mea. Și îmi i dragă.

Pentru că mama mea îmi cânta în română când eram bebeluș, pentru că când (da, cacofonie, dar și ea e doar în română posibilă și vreau să mă bucur de ea) eram mică, mă curta un băiat, care îmi scria poezii în română, pe care eu le înțelegeam atunci când ele nu puteau fi traduse în altă limbă. Când aterizez în România, aud oameni la aeroport vorbind româna și mi se pare atât de ciudat. Și uit câteodată și mă apuc să spun lucruri necugetate uitând ca limba mea în România e vorbită și de alții.

Am fost atât de obișnuită cu acest statut de a fi “străin” că parcă mi-am însușit limba română, pentru că pe oriunde mă duc, doar eu o vorbesc. E limba….cezarianarică.lucicofrică. GEN ( DAAAAA! știu și de celebra expresie GEN. Nu o înțeleg, dar îmi place. Me gusta precum se spune la mine în familia sorală).

Îmi place că oamenii spun atât de des în România “în pula mea”. Pentru că înseamnă că pot spune “pula” tot timpul fără să mai fie nimic grav. Dar mă face să fiu tristă câteodată pentru că îmi dau seama că ca limba mea cu cacofonia ei de căcat, nu mai e nici o altă limbă. Să ma pot eu enerva. În limba mea. Să râdă sora mea de mine că după ce că m-a făcut Dumnezeu de un metru și o flegmă, mai am și păr roșu, mă înroșesc în obraji rău de tot și încep să zbier și să mă cert. Dar oricât aș zbiera, nu mă ia în serios. Pentru că sunt RRită. Adică grasiez. Că știu și acest cuvânt elocvent. Și râde de mine. De asta îmi e dor. Cine naiba observă în Franța, sau Germania, sau America, sau Elveția că e Cezara-Lucia Vlădescu rrită. PULA. Aici lumea mă ia în serios să știți atunci când mă enervez. Dar nu în România. Și îmi place. Îmi place să știu că numai în limba mea pot face asta.

Dar cel mi mult îmi place limba mea…pentru că Eliade trebuie citit în română. De aia sunt eu româncă. Pentru că Eminescu a scris “Cezara”. Pentru că Lucia e cu accentul pe LU, nu pe CIA, așa cum îmi zic toți când mă duc undeva prin alte țări. Pentru că nu există cred limbă cu mai multe înjurături și mai urâte ca în română; pentru că vreau să urlu prin fereastră la șoferul imbecil de azi să-i spun “te fut în gură” și să înțeleagă ce i-am zis.

Pentru că vreau să-i spun omului de lângă mine “mă prostule, te iubesc, mă ! te iubesc de mor” . Și el să știe ce înseamnă aia a iubi în limba mea. Să știe cum numai eu, în limba mea, știu ce înseamnă “te iubesc” .

so what

so you said when you leaved

“so what, so what, so what”

but it isn`t me that has forgot

to close the door behind.

oh you jealous little mind,

a hearts triumph it`s long before you will see

that a man who does not close the door behind

it`s the one you should forget.

(so what, so what, so what).

go ahead, don`t be so shy, no reason to remember

“so what, so what, so what”

it is best to forget what we have done

it`s how we live longer.

oh, so easy to regret, so easy to be sorry

you said a life is never to regret, no need to ever feel sorry

but here we are my friend, waiting at the same door,

I wonder who they`ll let in?

the one who has regrets, or the one who never had them?

on Valentine`s Day

Valentine`s Day it`s a repressing notion for me.

Right now it`s going through my head one of my favorite books, Narziß und Goldmund by Hesse. A wonderful book showing two different men and their choice of life and love; a story showing that life can be lived in so many ways, so many are the choices we can make, but so little can offer happiness, peace and a meaningful ending. 

I guess when it comes to life, we, indeed, are able to do more than what we think we are capable of doing. We can surprise ourselves finding out that we can control in a higher amount than what we think, what we can do, what we can achieve, what we want. This might be frightening to observe, but as you pass through life, you realize it is all about you. You being your own obstacle, you being the “decider”, you being the one who can change the pursuit of your life. You can be proud for any achievements you have reached by your own powers, because you have earned it, deserve it and life is rewarding you.  

Except when it comes to love.

Love is the gift life gives us, if we are lucky.

Love does not come because we want, or because we need. Not even because we deserve it. Love does not come on demand, on TiVo, or as a prize. Love is an untouchable value which shouldn`t be celebrated on one day. Those of you who have found love, should realize by every minute you look around you and see the one you love - be grateful for it. Be grateful for every moment that you get to spend together, for every tear of joy, for every good or sad moment you can share together and build up memories that will survive longer than you. Your soul will never be lost.

Cherish that “unimportant” walk in the park, that look in the morning when you wake  up together, that instinct of calling your beloved to share what happened, or that shortcut on your desktop, or the background on your phone that you are trying to hide everytime you take your phone out. Be lucky, that you can do that. It is a gift, luck, a “thing” in the air, that only you can breath.

On Valentine`s Day I am going to go ahead and “take a moment” as John Cage of Ally McBeal`s would do, for all those who aren`t that lucky.

For those who are still fighting this fight through life alone - those are the ones that we should dedicate this day to. We might earn prizes, wear nice dresses, nice suits, be in the news, be poor or rich, but at the end there is no life without sharing what you have with that someone you love.