Meditation

Each meditation is a mediation. It is something which mediates between the inner world and the outer “reality” (a word which puzzled so many philosophers…I wonder why: we certainly know what it means…banal answer: not everything we think we know is as sure as we might be tempted to believe). I would feel less indoubted than my memory if I had to forget whatever happens to be a meditation. Outset of a meditation: is there any need for this blog? I was pretty tied to the idea of “virtual reader” without being aware of his actualization. However, I hope I’m not wasting my voice all alone. One day someone will write something about me and I will be famous. Isn’t this the reason we spend so much of our time writing and writing? It is probably so…

Lars von Trier’s oeuvre “Dogville” has a lot to say about meditation: the narrator of the story is the one to reflect upon the meaning of the story. Anyway, the story is the world exposed to the spectators. I’ve once read on the Internet that Brecht’s idea of “chalking” the stage was also used by von Trier. As good as it gets! There won’t be any extras involved in this movie. The budget of the movie has been limited to three or four cents…for the chalk, right! And thousands of pounds for the idea, right!! von Trier’s movies really have some intellectual muscles. It is why I saluted “Breaking the Waves”, “The Idiots”, “Dancer in the Dark”. I would also like to watch the “Antichrist”.

Beyond the Moon

Beyond the Moon I listened to a Pregnant Female. She wispered nothing, I didn’t feel like repeating those sorrowful words or sounds, can’t remember what they sounded like.

I realize there’s something beyond any literary technique. I’m sure spiritual wanderings are not enough. One could be captured by the pitfalls of banality as easy as a frog…it’s the reason why I wouldn’t bound myself to an euphemistically assessed word-countability. I…listen to me! And I study. Life is a treacherous banality, some kind of inspiration coming from cloudy fruits. I’m just learning how to feel, how to feel thinking. Why on loneliness? Why did I spend my money on loneliness??? “I’ll never know”, said my weeping loneliness, caught into my mouth.

Well…

I feel so embarrassed…my English sucked, my English still sucks. I didn’t pay attention to grammar, full of hatred, me!

And alone…nothing but me…No more poets, no more friends! I’m in a nutshell, all alone. I care about my own ideas, idiotic me!

Having read my earlier posts, I realized how pitiful I was. Maybe I didn’t diserve all these egocentric impulses.

I will be teaching in Bucharest. Philosophy. The mirror of nature? Where the hell is my enthusiasm? Enthusiasm is a dog from Hell, Ch. B. God dammit! All these illusions…I’m not smart if I paraphrase!  

Perhaps my virtual reader is asking itself why am I writing this…My blog should be interesting, it should comprise promo materials, not my bloody thoughts. You know what? Maybe my virtual reader is right. But I’m not going to swallow my meditation just to make it happy! Alas, I’m hearing myself! My stupid self, Rimbaud would have added.

Ella!

“You’ll never know it/ But Buddy I’m a kind of poet/ and I’ve got a lot of thiiings to say”…Fitzgerald!

Incomes…

This traditional morning when I look like a typist who contemplates himself in a mirror situated near the computer’s display. Laid down, anti-depressed, subservient to myself. Here I stand, as M. Luther once said. Here! In this corner on the edge of the world filled with wood straws. I’m reading Ezra Pound’s life. I finished Ginsberg’s first diary, which I bought from Thessaloniki, 25 Euro. Amazing soul! Deeply impressed by his spiritual inhalations, a poet who sought to cultivate the seeds of truth in others. Yes, I was astonished!

Visiting…

Alba-Iulia and Sighisoara, citadels and ruins. I suddenly felt myself as a ruin, I didn’t know how juxtapose this feeling with travelling. I wanted to ensure my virtual reader that nothing can be felt more intensely than decadence. Maybe I was influenced by Nietzsche’s jewelry.

To offer pleasure, to be beautiful…there’s something beyond the words attached to senses.

I wanted to separate myself from both friends and poets. I want to live my own life without excluding realistic debates (Yeah, I know I shared my train space with gipsies from Arad talking about money, that is, jabbering and mumbling, leaving no place for my sleep). I want to gain what differentiates me from any other human being (not authenticity, just a clear-cut non-essentialist infinite way of looking at the things, of understanding people). I know I’m a victim of “postmodern” schizophrenia” and I’m astonished by the conceptual lungs that people live with. My left lung is banal, as it includes a realistic fashion of depicting life experiences. My right lung is fabulous, I can hardly wait to breath. I haven’t found my nostrils, though I have so much written about and with them.

Simeria! Where have thou placed me? In time there’s no time, each second counts as much as a brick in a cosmological wall stubbed at ease with artificial, i.e. mental, violence. I succumb to Bajenaru’s “Cismigiu and Co.” as I find it as attractive as a Henryjamesian novel. My left lung…and my right lung inspiring Nabokov. Two lungs communicated with my heart: my virtual reader. Should I say I’m near you?

My thought was like a swan kept in a flight. My thought was reversed: it would see my past filled with hugs and memoirs lost in angelic palms. Who’d embrace me as a pillow? My mother (the one who wisely educated me to contemplate mirrors), aged 82, died when I was 15 years old. She let me smiling in front of her coffin. I took a coin and span it until they inhumed her. I thought a storm would cover her grave and force a tree to spring out from the greasy dust. I discovered my past when it was too late, realizing she wouldn’t come back. I was Oedipus’ wreck, so happy to devise a poetical mechanism that would save me from madness.

Longing to eat raisins…raising along the markets, on the top of any commercial purpose. Listen to me, Cristine! Kiss me when I sip the juice of these solid bubbles. I should hug you with my right lung and never leave you…you’re so lengthy in your pajamas, so sober when you hair touches mine. I wish my love interfered with your fingers and twisted in your eyes. I wish love had the ubiquitous form of a snail. I wish you’d be a letter, a blank space between my footprints to caress you all day long. I wish you wished the same.

In a Way

your cunt is so fresh ah love it last night it gazed at me and my dick stared at your stained breasts nuzzling in your throat like an insuperable cigar dashing dashing pushing my tree in your gloomy mouth ooh and start sneezing like a torment whose fish dies in a canoe like an image whose Christ disappears in the tomb of your chest then crumbs then again trees tossed out from my poisoning fucking sky waiting to rattle in front of a Cathedral opposite to my Faith in your muscles imbued with violence cut off the footprint and jump at the cliffs at the cuffs of the cliffs where nobody can see your cunt thereby struggling to assume some raspberries that would flow from your canny cheeks and snatch a snail with your tongue as a scholar ah so big is the world of my fingers so tacky and devoid of materials of preparedness and liaisons deprived of liaison lions killing the spots in me blooded brooded corpse of swords clashing in vain in veins in a similar vein whores and doolittles what you get is what you see and trees are coloured with shadow I resemble an I you recall your films made in the movie pastiched by the cranes who live next door to Alina she is the beloved mother of Nazi children please rescue me and put me on your shoulders under your beautiful cunt I will love you like a beggar please rescue me my beloved chicken my fundamentalist ass rescue me!

 

wellllllllllll….that is so fruitful! a wolf coming out of virginia woolf!

 

Dear text, let me introduce you to my…Readers…I can smell your cunt…from the distance!  

 

Or maybe I am a madman, though I do not want it.

New…

My attitude is counterproductive…I should give up complaining about Romanian poets, poetry, blabla. I’ll just cut the crap and strive to do something.  Homo faber (see Henri Bergson & Max Frisch) is the right formula for happiness.

“Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal”

T. S. Eliot quoting. The original: Picasso. Irony?  Well…indeed! I disagree with him: stealing entails moral issues! The Romanian perrots (not parrots, of course) imitate and steal at the same time. And that’s just awsome! They’re not moral at all! That would be the end of a good quality: the lack of morality.

Un Min-ut

Fug pe un nimb of  i  GURA ta de Paste spun La MultiaNI pe atelajul ciupercii spun iar fug fUG si UGer in GER cop er ta e spar-ta si fug nodurile IerbiI se ocolESC fug armaturile pacii din pace pe pace pe bu NE re LE ME le sau neVEstELe din carne in CAR NE am mai sssspus am mai fuuuugit cu pliiinul meu stom ac in ac in ac in drac pe tabloidul inimii PA ste fericit PA x ori y.