My Persona

Terrified by appearance, I need to dig into myself. Those days when I watch a movie and I’m so thirsty to write something, those days when I wonder what’s wrong with the craziness. This pressurizing emoticon named countenance blurs me. How can I say something about art if I don’t possess the words? Jung would have told me that I’m an introvert. Am I?

I like playing chess on chesscube. What do I feel about that? I feel that my brain is like a bottle of liquor, you have to shake it before using it. Otherwise, the essence goes on the bottom of the bottle, and it’s kinda difficult to bring it back at the top again.

Philosophy of mind, consciousness..tough problems, maybe I’ll write something about that one day.

Politics-not a big deal. Nowadays politics…an issue that sucks.

Economy-that might be an option, although I find it pretty boring.

Parents-I don’t know them very well.

I’m a roller. Two days ago I really enjoyed my floating legs. I was like a rolling mosquito.

But we’ve discovered our inner world without any trouble. Maybe I’m not like Descartes (not that crazy), but the inner world is certainly real. You need time to “enlarge” it.

Giggling..nice word.

Becoming powerful…now. About Nietzsche: he was not the first pessimistic person. He was the first pessimistic rhetorical one.

Credo quia absurdum est

What did Tertulian try to say? That one believes in something, because that something is absurd. What is absurd? The feeling is absurd. The feeling is opposed to what is not absurd. Tertulian tried to say that he believes in the authenticity of feeling, of something that cannot be defined by any law of reason. I find this so great! To believe in something because it is impossible: what is impossible requires belief to be made possible!

Simple Words-a Synonim for Frustration

There are some people in this dominated-of-information world that are not able to express their own point of view-it may sound ridiculous or trivial, but it is so true. Is that so hard? Yes, for those who are afraid of being considered in one way or another. But most of them don’t care or they are too stupid. It is an international society with a lot of layers, with different attitudes towards life/people, most of the contemporary human beings don’t care about others, they are too occupied with themselves. And this would be good, if they were occupied in a right manner. But they only want to have money and to live like kings. I don’t say that it is not necessary. But it is not enough. I think that we forgot about ourselves (and Heidegger thought that too). We live in families, but we don’t really care about them. What does it mean to care about your family? Just to try to enable that mutual eternal respect. But it is an illusion, that’s why there are so many problems and people go crazy or live a fucking boring life. Popular psychology, whose features are well emphasized in popular movies, underlines this idea: problems come from your own family. Where there’s no feeling, there’s no healthy mind. I’ve read manifold books related to pseudo-mysticism. For instance, Osho is quite a writer. But he is not an authentic one. He just takes issues from traditional philosophy and offers them a simple form, so that everyone can understand them. He also plays like an actor, pretending that he has pathos, contradicting himself (saying that “those who don’t contradict themselves are idiots”). He can be considered very stupid-I don’t trust his intelligence.

For those who despise intellectuals-of course they do that! People prefer being manipulated, they prefer motion, dynamics, instead of coldness and pure intelligence (if something like that still exists nowadays)-again, I am talking about the majority. They don’t like to think. Why thinking, if life is so easy? Why “the other way”? Why trying to discover myself, my poetry, when there are so many materialistic possibilities?

There’s the other way:mock! Mock yourself, mock everything! And..what’s the result? You’re just a mocker, a funny clown. Girls like you, you’re funny. You have a lot of friends, you’re cool. But what can you tell me, seriously, about yourself. What are you? Who are you? How did you feel when she told you that she wanted to leave you? You’re laughing, you don’t know what to tell me about it. Thanks, you’re a cool guy.

And..what’s the real option of life? Hesse’s favorite topic is this shifting of life styles. In Siddharta (I guess this is the book) he speaks about a monk who cannot find his place in the world, he is permanently unsatisfied of the world in which he lives. He won’t find an answer…there’s no answer. Because there’s no question. It’s just a mood. It’s just the perfect image of human nature, whether we accept it or not. Satisfaction-dissatisfaction: our game, a Nintendo received as a gift since our own birth. So what? Life is really an option.

On What There Is

NOT! On what there is not..Quine, you’re dead. So what? I’m not mocking your brilliant title.

I read posts of “Romanian poets”. God, is so disgusting! This tentative that deals with “nonconformist kinds of desire” makes me sick. It’s so easy to be like that! That’s why is so disgusting! It is so banal to write like that! But they don’t know about this, and they’re proud to be like that. I won’t try to open their closed eyes. Their eyes are closed because they are dead…for me. I feel so bad that I have published three poems, I didn’t know that the on-line magazine that had to host my poetry belonged to a part of their “trust”, my friend who told me about publishing didn’t inform me.  Hell…vanity, pride, stupidity. That’s all there is..not!

Again Romania

I’ve just visited Dan Sociu’s blog named “Urbancolia”. My God, This Guy is a genius…ok, it’s a joke. He wishes! His poems are translated into four languages. His pride is translated also in four languages and multiplied by n , with n>4, n=his degree of superficiality. He wants to be promoted, he wants to be promoted…well, not he, but his poetry. Although I don’t know which one is more superficial. In “Cantece eXcesive” he tries to write like his fellows, i.e. members of the so-called 2000 Generation (G-spot dude!). Now he tries to be an adult, to imitate John Ashbery (yeah, that’s a funny one!). I don’t care about  publishing, but I cannot not care about the unawareness of one’s own limits, about the lack of modesty. “Even” Nietzsche knew that! Sunken in his own superficiality , Sociu is an authentic writer..see, now I try to be his thought, his desire to become a great poet, to “rest” in the history of Romanian literature. Awkwardly funny…sad singer, bad poet!

Tis mour

And is quite easy to suppose that near my window a sudden brush has painted my eyes with coloured pain.

I see besides creativity a need for losing any kind of communication. To travel inside your own language until you have the feeling that nobody could understand you. Language can stand steel, can become some sort of decoration, without any meaning. Taste the value of language as it is, without message. Decorations cannot possess meaning, they are…ok, it is about the objective side of what is beautiful. Beauty has one clear objective side. You can try it..language can become part of what is beauty, being beautiful as it is. Not poesia concreta, but those magical combinations that make you feel beautiful. For example: keys like sandwiches (positing an ambiguity) and sandwiches often jump over the fence in which we find our thoughts. It is not surrealism, it is built within the language. It is not banal, it requires you to feel the energy of words. My science..or not. 

What is Poetry?

From http://www.poetrymagic.co.uk/whatispoetry.html:

” The terms beg many questions, of course, but poetry today is commonly an amalgam of three distinct viewpoints. Traditionalist argue that a poem is an expression of a vision that is rendered in a form intelligible and pleasurable to others and so likely to arouse kindred emotions. For Modernists, a poem is an autonomous object that may or may not represent the real world but is created in language made distinctive by its complex web of references. Postmodernists look on on poems as collages of current idioms that are intriguing but self-contained — they employ, challenge and/or mock preconceptions, but refer to nothing beyond themselves.”

Ashbery has a poem “What is Poetry”, he questions there the relation between images and ideas in poetry. Images are related to memory, whereas ideas are the start point for interrogation. A critical aspect can be suggested only by using words that represent ideas, one cannot criticize through image. Ashbery points out that “we go back to them [ideas] as to a wife”, leaving “the mistress we desire”, i.e. the images. This is the dialectic image-idea. When you try to run from the idea, you are caught by it, even when you desire an image. This is poetry!

Postmodernist poetry…as it is said: “L#A#N#G#U#A#G#E poetry”. Why? Everything is socially determined, but is not determined in itself! It is this gap between the monster face of the meaning (signified) and the monster face of the physical presence (signifier) (as Blanchot would have put it). Bernstein-”the fact of wordness”; James Sherry-”words regarded as facts, as opposed to words as symbols”. Bruce Andrews-”author dies..writing begins”.

End Off Curse..POEtry ’s living somehow.

Ashbery

Meaningful Love by

John Ashbery

What the bad news was
became apparent too late
for us to do anything good about it.
I was offered no urgent dreaming,
didn’t need a name or anything.
Everything was taken care of.
In the medium-size city of my awareness
voles are building colossi.
The blue room is over there.
He put out no feelers.
The day was all as one to him.
Some days he never leaves his room
and those are the best days,
by far.
There were morose gardens farther down the slope,
anthills that looked like they belonged there.
The sausages were undercooked,
the wine too cold, the bread molten.
Who said to bring sweaters?
The climate’s not that dependable.
The Atlantic crawled slowly to the left
pinning a message on the unbound golden hair of sleeping maidens,
a ruse for next time,
where fire and water are rampant in the streets,
the gate closed—no visitors today
or any evident heartbeat.
I got rid of the book of fairy tales,
pawned my old car, bought a ticket to the funhouse,
found myself back here at six o’clock,
pondering “possible side effects.”
There was no harm in loving then,
no certain good either. But love was loving servants
or bosses. No straight road issuing from it.
Leaves around the door are penciled losses.
Twenty years to fix it.
Asters bloom one way or another.

Iubire cu sens

Ceea ce era veste proasta

a apărut prea târziu

pentru noi, ca să mai putem face ceva bun în legătură cu ea.

Nu mi s-a oferit nicio visare grabnică,

n-am avut nevoie de nume, de nimic.

Totul a fost luat în grijă.

În orașul mediu al conștientizării mele

șoarecii de câmp construiesc coloși.

Camera albastră este acolo.

Nu a scos nicio antenă.

Ziua a fost în întregime ca și cum ar fi fost una singură pentru el.

În unele zile nu-și părăsește deloc camera

și acele zile sunt de departe

cele mai bune

Grădini posomorâte erau departe sub versant,

mușuroaie ce arătau ca și cum locul lor ar fi fost acolo.

Cârnații nu erau suficient gătiți,

vinul prea rece, pâinea topită.

Cine a spus să se aducă pulovere?

Climatul nu este atât de loial.

Atlanticul se furișă încet spre stânga

țintuind un mesaj în părul despletit, de aur, al fecioarelor ce dormeau

un șiretlic pentru data viitoare,

unde focul și apa stau ridicate pe străzi

ușa s-a închis-niciun vizitator azi

și nicio bătaie evidentă a inimii.

Am scăpat de cartea cu basme,

mi-am amanetat vechea mașina, am cumpărat un bilet la casa de distracții,

m-am trezit înapoi la ora șase

cugetând la ”posibile efecte adverse”

N-a fost nicio pagubă iubindu-le,

și nici ceva bun n-a ieșit din asta. Iubirea însemna să iubești servitori

sau stăpâni. Niciun drum drept nu rezulta din ea.

Frunzele în jurul ușii sunt pierderi desenate cu creionul.

Douăzeci de ani să o repari.

Ierburile înfloresc într-un fel sau altul.