luni, 26 octombrie 2009

Cautand in trecut
















Am gasit pozele acestea intr-o arhiva veche a unor exercitii facute de mine cu aparatul de fotografiat. Nu stiu daca am mai spus asta dar fotografia este unul dintre hobby-urile mele. Sper sa va placa deoarece le-am ales pe cele mai frumoase. De obicei cand pur si simplu sunt stresat consider pozele, ca o sursa de evadare, ca un portal ce ma duce ,,pe aripile vantului" in cele mai frumoase locuri in care am fost vreodata. Amintindu-mi de momentele placute, fara de griji petrecute doar de mine, aparatul meu de fotogafiat si natura, stresul pleaca si in adancul sufletului retraiesc momentul acela placut in care apas pe buton...

joi, 22 octombrie 2009

Aerials

,,Life is a waterfall,
We're one in the river,
And one again after the fall.

Swimming through the void
We hear the word,
We lose ourselves,
But we find it all...

Cause we are the ones that want to play,
Always want to go,
But you never want to stay.

And we are the ones that want to choose,
Always want to play,
But you never want to lose.

Aerials, in the sky,
When you lose small mind,
You free your life.

Life is a waterfall,
We drink from the river,
Then we turn around and put up our walls.

Swimming through the void,
We hear the word,
We lose ourselves,
But we find it all...

Cause we are the ones that want to play,
Always want to go,
But you never want to stay.

And we are the ones that want to choose,
Always want to play,
But you never want to lose, ooooo.

Aerials, in the sky,
When you lose small mind,
You free your life.

Aerials, so up high,
When you free your eyes,
Eternal prize.

Aerials, in the sky,
When you lose small mind,
You free your life.

Aerials,so up high,
When you free your eyes,
Eternal prize.."

What can I say? This is one of my favorite songs. System of a Down is a very good band. You should listen the song.

miercuri, 21 octombrie 2009

Sa ii spunem ,,D-l Goe..." 2?

Astazi, in drum spre casa, de la scoala eram in autobuz. In spate, erau doua tiganci si un copil presupun ca era al uneia dintre ele. Vestimentatia celor doua era foarte sclipitoare. Cea mai invarsta, care din discutia lor rezulta ca ea era mama baiatului, avea o fusta lunga cu multe flori si o geaca neagra sclipitoare. Cea mai tanara avea blugi albi, chiar incredibil de albi si tot o geaca neagra numai ca nu era sclipitoare. Bineinteles, pentru cineva ca mine, aspectul lor era strigator la cer. In fine... in timpul discutiei lor am observat ceva foarte interesant: baiatul care nu avea mai mult de 4 ani vorbea cu tiganca mai tanara in cuvinte grele, aruncandu-i numai jigniri, semne obscene. ,,In gluma" pentru cei doi deoarece si ea facea acelasi lucru, gandindu-se probabil ca ii da o buna educatie si crestere copilului. Mama acestuia, radea, il batea cu palma peste gura, dar, din punctul meu de vedere nu avea niciun sens sau rost- cum vreti sa ii spuneti.
Mie mi se pare brutal. Un mod brutal si total eronat de a-ti creste copilul. Din punctul meu de vedere acela era un copil distrus, care, atunci cand va fi mare va ajunge ceva gresit, rau, urat, mizerabil....si de ce? ma intreb. Datorita PROSTIEI SI INDIFERENTEI PARINTILOR LUI.
De ce, si iarasi, de ce?......

sâmbătă, 17 octombrie 2009

De profundis by Oscar Wilde

,, ...Suffering is one very long moment. We can't divide it by seasons. We can only record it's moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one center of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutes detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change (...)
For us there is only one season, the season of sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the fight that creeps down through thickly-muffed glass of small iron-bared window beneath which one sits is grey and niggard. It is always twilight in one's heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion, is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again to-morrow. Remember this, and you will be able to understand a little of why I am writting, and in this manner writing...
A week later,I am transferred here. Tree more months go over and my mother dies. No one knew how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame. She and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as nation. I had disgraced that name eternally. I had made it a low by-word among low people. I had dragged it through the very mire. I had given it to brutes that might take it brutal, and to fools that they might turn into a synonym for folly.
What I suffered then, and still suffer, is not for pen to write or paper to record.
Three months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell door, with my name and sentence written upon it, tells me taht it is May...
Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things.
Where there is sorrow there is holy ground. Some day people will realise what that means. They will know nothing of life do, - and natures like his can realise it.
When I was brought down from my prison, (...) between two policemen, - waited in the long dreary corridor that, before the whole crowd, whom an action so sweet and simple hushed into silence, he might gravely raise his hat to me, as, handcuffed and with bowed head, I passed him by. men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that.
It was in this spirit, and with his mode of love, that the saints knelt down to wash the feet of the poor, (...) i have never said one single word to him about what he did. I do not know to the present moment whether he is aware that I was even conscious of his action. It is not a thing for which one can render formal thanks in formal words. I store it in the treasure house of my heart. I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay. (...) When people are able to understand, not merely how beautiful -'s action was, but why it meant so much to me, and always will mean so much, then, perhaps, they will realise how and in what spirit they should approach me...
The poor are wise, more kind, more sensitive than we are. In their eyes prison is a tragedy in a man's life, a misfortune, a casuality, something that calls for sympathy in others. They speak of one who is in prison as of one who is 'in trouble' simply. It is the phrase they always use, and the expression has the perfect wisdom of love in it..."


...incredible mark of love...

sâmbătă, 10 octombrie 2009

Atrox Consilium...

Afara e innorat...o zi mohorata de octombrie....soarele nu reuseste sa strapunga straturile norilor, ingramaditi asa...ca la un spectacol pe cer. Ei reflecta starea mea de spirit...trist...cu cat mai multa indiferenta in lume...cu atat mai trist ma simt. Vantul matura usor frunzele, cel putin el ca femeile de servici stau, rad si mananca seminte. ,,Bineinteles, se putea altceva?"...mai merg un pic si trebuie sa trec strada, una ca oricare alta: gri, murdara si nu prea circulata. Dar, deodata trece o masina, asa, in viteza...soferul aratandu-i un deget unui batran care se oprise, el nu vazand prea bine...plus ca soferul a mai aruncat o injuratura de zile mari la adresa batranului...trecand peste, merg mai departe doua blocuri, si vad un cos de gunoi. Bineinteles, cosul era rupt de atasamentul sau de pe stalp, si era plin pana la refuz cu gunoi, capacul nefiind prezent. Si pe cos, scria ,,primaria sectorului 5" foarte reprezentativ....Imi continui excursia. Vad ceva foarte palpitant. Un ,,sarman" care tocmai se ridicase de la cersit intra intr-un magazin. Am asteptat sa vad ce se intampla. Dar a inceput sa ma doara piciorul. Ma aplec si vad o bucata rupta de ziar pe jos cu titlul ,,Bucuresti de bun-simt" apoi zambesc, defapt, in mine, s-a dezvoltat un raset puternic, sarcastic, in spatele caruia se ascundeau multe, multe sperante pentru o viata mai buna intr-o Romanie uitata....Revenind la ,,sarman", acesta a iesit in sfarsit din magazin. In loc de ,,paine cea de toate zilele" avea in mana tigara cea de toate zilele... Foarte urat, chiar si el fura ,,pentru ca ii e foame".....sigur sigur... Off Doamne.. Merg mai departe. Cam acelasi peisaj dezolant, ca intr-o imagine inaintea revolutiei franceze: mizerie pe jos, oameni rai, cersetori cersind de la saraci. De data asta ceva pentru secolul 21: un baiat, imbracat la tol cu un telefon care urla cu manele, bineinteles poluand fonic cu versurile alea dezolante. Privindu-l scarbit incerc sa nu aud. In fine, mai trebuia sa ajung acasa nu ? La ducere pe jos, insa m-am intors cu autobuzul. In autobuz erau altii care ascultau manele tare, se injurau, se scuipau intr-un fel imi pare rau pentru ei ca erau in halul ala de prosti...bineinteles din autobuz lipseau 3 geamuri ( dinauntru ). Ajung in sfarsit in statie, acolo o florareasa arunca apa mizerabila de la flori in strada...pe urma trec pe langa un om care a scuipat, intr-un hal asa, parca din suflet... Mai merg ce merg si ajung in sfarsit in fata usii casei mele intru si spun ,,Casa, ooo dulce casa!"




,,Pugna, non tibi dede!"...