Soundtrack

"Wake up! Wake up! Wake UUUP!!!"
"Damn alarm!" I was starting to regret my alarm tone choice.
After hitting the snooze button for what felt like the hundredth time I crawled out of bed. I felt tired. Very tired. I'd gotten in late, and stayed up most of the night with an English assignment. I didn't dislike it. I enjoyed writing, just not on a schedule.
A quick shower and shave later I was examining myself in the mirror. I always had had a small bit of narcicism in me. I liked looking good, but it never took priority over who I was. Still, looking back, things could have gone differently. Then again, that is probably true for everyone.
My once athletic body had become fatter with some small love handles as well. Several tatoos decorated my upper back, arms and legs. Also I had a small one behind my left ear of a screaming demon. "To remind me of the demons screaming at the back of my head," I had told a rather beautiful tatoo artist. Now I actualy felt like I knew what it felt to have doubt hounding my every step. My shaved head was still alien to me. It was my way to show mourning. I ran a quick hand over my head and tore myself away from the mirror. That was a memory I didn't want to go through at that moment, even if it had defined my present. Also, I didn't have the time.
I rushed into the kitchen, threw some coffee on the stove and hurried into my bedroom. Quickly I found all my necesaries (I had made it a habit to keep them in specific places after I got to school late for weeks on end). I pulled on a pair of baggy black jeans and a white t-shirt that had that logo of a club (where I incidentaly worked).
Five minutes later I was in front of my building with a faded green hoody pulled over the t-shirt and my bag slung over my left shoulder. Coffee in hand (I had poured it in a bottle), a ciggarette lodged between my lips and headphones blaring I started towards the subway station.
"City of Angels" by Red Hot Chilli Peppers. Not a bad way to start the day.
The subway mouth opened up in a sidewalk between concrete giants. Buildings that reminded of an earlier regime. I had lived in a different country for ten months when I was 15, where I realized that I loved that grimy sight. I stubbed the smoke and went in. Ten minutes later I was on the train, and I had gotten a seat. It wasn't a great acomplishment, but I'd learned to appreciate the small gifts. Sometimes (mostly) that's all one gets.
"Duck Down!" by The Roots. Not a particularly fitting track, but loud enough to cover the din made by the train rushing through the tunnel. In the train car all kind of different people. Young, old, middle-aged, men, women. Different and yet the same. Tired, exhausted realy. Thankless jobs with no opportunity. I admired their strength and wondered if I could ever be capable of anything like it. I was only 18 and already felt as if my knees were collapsing. And it had nothing to do with the injury that had kept me from playing basketball for the last two years.
"Back 2 the Way it Was" by Xzibit. I ran my hand over my head and, as they had for the last year, the memories came back. This track did fit. I realy wanted things to go back the the way they once were... I'd met her four months after my injury. I was checking in for a physical and she was there as a trainee. She was in her first year in medical school, and had applied to become a nurse for experience. After she did an MRI and some physical exercises (under the doctor's supervision) she came and delivered the report. It was old news. I could walk, but I could not play basketball untill after surgery, and even that wasn't certain. She was very beautiful and when I had come in the next month I asked her out. She was stable, with a clear plan while I was a dreamer grabbing at straws. In retrospective, I think we liked in the other what we couldn't find in us. After we had been dating for several months I met her parents when I was dropping her of at her home. They didn't seem to think much of me, but I wasn't concerned. Nobody realy did, apart from her. Three weeks later the mother called and told me that she had died in a car accident. They asked me not to attend the funeral. I guessed that they blamed me in some manner. I accepted. There was no need to cause more pain by arguing. So the hair went.
My train pulled into the right station. I was starting to feel the pull of addiction so I lit a ciggarette when I got up to street level.
"REIGN" by Unkle. Great song. I didn't know what it was about that song that made it so good, but I loved it. It was not a happy song, by far, but the lyrics felt good leaving my lips.
Through alleys that led away from Roman Square (one of the most popular areas in the city) I walked slowly. By then I had learned that that time was the best of the day. Smoke curling from my nostrils, music in my ears, the morning chill biting at my hands. All my addictions were satisfied. In school, there was no music, no smokes and the chill wasn't the natural breeze of morning. The cold of social status reigned.
At the gates, waiting for me, my only true friend, Michael was waiting. He blew out a puff of smoke and extended his right hand.
"Morning," he grumbled.
"Morning." We didn't stand on ceremony. After knowing each other long enough and being at each other's sides, we didn't need to. "Morning" and a handshake was our way of telling each other a lot in very little.
We stubbed our ciggarettes and walked silently into the courtyard and up the stairs. Once inside the corridors we exchanged small talk and friendly banter. We were something of a fenomenon in the school. Best friends from different backgrounds, that looked and dressed differently.
We split up at a stairwell. I turned upwards while he headed downwards.
"Take care uppie!" he said as we parted.
I chuckled. We were both in our last year, but in different classes. Some rooms were on the higher floors and some were in the basement. "Uppie" was a term for those who studied on the higher floors. It had the same connotations as "richboy" in school. But both of us were pretty much in the same monetary situation, getting by. And it realy made no difference. People were just as clueless, no matter where they studied.
In the classroom I slung my bag on the last desk and considered plugging in my headphones. I decided against it as I was trying to save up, and buying new ones or bribing the guy who guarded confiscated items would have put a dent in those ideas. Even if my addiction to music was rather powerful, I managed. When I did have music in my ears, it freed my mind. But without that, or something stimulating such as good conversation my mind would get bogged.
"Hey Skin!" I had picked up that nickname when I shaved my head, even though I was not in the slightest a racist. It was Diana, a classmate of mine.
"Hi Di," I replied as we kissed each other on the cheek.
"Still in the same old hoody?" she asked with the traces of a smile.
I shot her an annoyed glance. She knew it got on my nerves when people asked about my hoody or my bag. True, they were old, but in good shape. And for me they carried memories.
When she saw my face she chuckled. She was very pretty in general, but especialy so when she smiled. Also there was something different about her that day. I couldn't put my finger on it though.
"How are you?"
"Oh, ok..." she replied. I had always thought that people always had more going on in their minds, they just never talked about it because they couldn't understand it. I had been doing the same thing for a year. The "I'm ok" answer had become a reflex. "Oh damn, here comes the warden," Diana said with a small smile and rushed to her desk.
"Every Day is Exactly the Same" by Nine Inch Nails. It wasn't playing but it should have been the entire day. "I believe I can see the future, because every day is the same." Very fitting for the way school went. Different teachers, faces, haircuts, clothes. Same routine. Half on hour writing on the board, another half-hour of criticism. It did not matter that not one kid in our class understood anything. All that matered was that it was our fault. That we were ungrateful of the teachers. Perhaps, but we still had no idea what was on the board.
"This is exam year. You don't care. You waste time. If you want to go to X you don't take the buss to Y."
In my mind I was completely lost a long time before the buss came into the discussion. It seemed that my confusion was shared by the rest of my class.
"Maybe Tomorrow" by Stereophonics. I liked the track. Maybe I heard a bit of myself in the lyrics. I did hope that the next day I could find a way be happier. But I needed to concentrate on my set that night. It paid the rent.
The club whose logo I had on my t-shirt was close to the school. So after school I went with Michael for a bite and then headed on foot. Michael never came to my sets. I understood that, he didn't like the atmosphere of clubs. I couldn't hold it against him. It felt good to have a friend that I was willing to make room for. It felt as if I belonged somewhere.
When I got to the club, ten minutes after I left Michael I went to the bar, got a drink, a pack of smokes and an ashtray. I DJ'd there, and I always smoked when I spinned. Everything went good for most of my set, which lasted an hour and a half untill I cued in the last track. It carried some pain, but it was a great track. It had also been the nurse's favorite song. I unhooked my monitor from the turntables and turned to leave when, in the crowd I caught a glimpse of her face. I turned, and there she was. Right by the stage, her eyes locked onto mine.
I ran. Smoke in hand, monitors still around my neck, the cord trailing behind. I crashed through the back area and back through the waiter's door onto the dance floor. I couldn't see her.
"Goodnight" by Mos Def. The lyrics were tantalizing me. "No goodbyes to you." I made my way through to the stage as fast as possible, cursing myself for getting the crowd so energized (the next DJ hadn't changed my song yet). She wasn't there. "So close, but yet so far. So close, but no cigar." I started towards the hallway. When I got there it was empty. I looked around desperately, but I couldn't see anyone.
"Anthony?"
It couldn't be. I knew that voice. It had played in my head every night for the last year. Could I dare? Slowly, I turned without blinking.
White. I was staring at the wall in my living room. I had fallen asleep over my English assignment. I put my face in my hands and I cried. For the first time in ages I cried. I then dragged myself to the couch and slept, defeated.
In the morning I woke up, and the routine started. But something felt different. I didn't feel happy. I did feel almost at peace though, content. The pain was still there, but not as a weight as much as a lesson.
I was never very religious, but I decided to to stop by the church that morning. I felt out of place. I hadn't been to church in ages, and the few people there stared at me continuosly. I bought one candle. I lit it and placed it for the dead. I didn't pray, but it did feel good to have more than a shaved head to give my respects.
As I left the churchyard I enjoyed the feeling of contentment. So, ciggarette in mouth, coffee in hand and headphones in ears I made for the subway stop.
"Everything will be alright" by Faithless.

cultura, sau lipsa de. ziceti voi.

maine, sau mai bine zis in cateva ore am la scoala un asa numit "Cultural Day". o zi in care ne aducem una in alta culturile noastre. negri, albi, maroni si galbeni. avem optiunea sa venim in costume traditionale in loc de uniforma nenorocita si sa aducem mancare traditionala.

de cand a devenit cultura un lucru legat de traditie? daca ma duc in blugi si un tricou si le spun ca e cultura urbana ce? e o cultura. daca merge cineva cu un tricou metallica si spune cultura rock ce?

avem de invatat din traditie, adevarat. dar de ce invatamantul face sa para de parca nu avem ceva de invatat din progres? de la tineret? de la minti inca nesculptate dupa acelasi generic obosit?

nu generalizez ca totii cei ce lucreaza in invatamant sunt asa. dimpotriva, vad din ce in ce mai multi profesori deschisi la idei noi, si ma face sa ma simt bine ca totusi apare o noua usita pentru omenire, deoarece suntem suma experientelor, si ce invatam la scoala e foarte important (nu vorbesc neaparat de materii). dar din pacate cei ce scriu curiculumurile (habar nam cum se zice corect, imi cer scuze pentru lipsul meu lexic) par sa nu fie de acord cu progresul.

in fine, e 1 noaptea, sunt obosit, posibil sa ma uit maine si sa zic ce tampenie am scris. daca nu e asa, voi reveni cu rezultatul blugi si tricou maine. buna dimineata.

cat e de usor...

ce usor e sa spunem cum neam confrunta cu diferite alegeri, situatii si circumstante. ce usor e sa ne asiguram pe noi insine cat si pe cei din jur ca putem fi mai buni, ca putem fi curajosi, ca putem ajunge undeva.

cand te uiti la un film si personajul principal este aruncat intro situatie dificila si alege o cale pe care o urmeaza pana la sfarsitul filmului de multe ori ajungi sa zici, "eu as fi facut asa, si asa." "uite ce prost a facut" s.a.m.d. dar stim cu siguranta ca neam fi aruncat in fata pericolului si a durerii nestiind sfarsitul? in general, nu cred. e foarte usor sa fi curajos de la o distanta sigura.

fericirea

fericirea este un mister, asadar sa nu fie rationalizata.

vrabii

Anonim ma rugat sa inserez acest text al lui Catalin Matei publicat in B-24 Fun pe blog. Asa ca frumusel mam pus si l-am citit, si mia placut mult. As dori sa il felicit pe domnul Matei pentru un text concis si foarte placut de citit.

"In Bucuresti si in imprejurimi, dupa calculele mele, exista cam 800 de milioane de vrabii
Dintre aceste 800 de milioane de vrabii generice, cam 550 de milioane sunt femele, daca nu cumva chiar mai mult. Din cate m-a invatat viata, diferenta dintre vrabia mascul si vrabia femela se vede la cap si pe piept. Mai precis, masculul are ceva mai mult negru. Nu e un studiu zoologic complicat, ci mai degraba unul de bun simt, imaginandu-mi ca vrabia mascul e normal sa fie mai neagra sub cioc pt ca asa arata barba lor, vrabioii neavand par.Este cea mai populara pasare din Romania. Tipetele ei seci si nemuzicale ne penetreaza subconstientul inca din pruncie, altminteri ne-am lua campii la cate sunt. Nu cunosc pe nimeni care sa se fi plans ca nu putea sa doarma din cauza cantecelor vrabiilor. Mi s-a intamplat de multe ori sa ma culc odata cu luna si bipurile sterile ale acestei pasari sterse sa-mi treaca neobservate, ba chiar sa-mi ofere o senzatie de siguranta somnolenta, ideala pt atipit. Atunci cand vrabiile canta, am senzatia ca lucrurile isi urmeaza cu naturalete cursul. Ca sa explic mai bine, sunetul produs de ele este antonimul sunetului busirii intre doua masini, precedat de scartaitul de frana. Cea mai importanta caracteristica a lor este ca sunt nemuritoare. Cu totii ne ducem, chiar si elefantii, numai vrabiile nu. Eu nu am vazut niciodata o vrabie moarta natural pe jos. Fie vrabiile se inalta antigravitational spre stratosfera dupa ce-si dau ortul, formand o centura de vrabii moarte in jurul pamantului, asemanatoare cu inelul din cataroaie al planetei Saturn. Fie traiesc vesnic, asa cum intuiam mai devreme. Doar ele stiu." Catalin Matei, publicat in B-24 Fun.

poveste

Un vanator si ucenicul lui intra in padure pentru prima vanatoare a ucenicului. Dupa cateva ore vad o caprioara si incep sa o urmareasca. Ii urmeaza miscarile timp de cateva ore, dupa care vanatorul ii scoate din padure, zicand:
-E timpul sa ne intoarcem in sat.
Cand cei doi ajung la marginea padurii vanatorul zice:
-A fost o vanatoare buna.
-Ce vrei sa zici? raspunde ucenicul. Nam prins nimic!
-Cand vei intelege asta, vei fi un vanator adevarat. Vanatorul trebuie sa ucida pentru a se hrani si a se imbraca, dar iubeste vanatoarea mai mult decat ucisul.

masti

neavand inspiratie de scris de o lunga vreme am cautat prin vorbele altora o scanteie care sa ma aprinda. am gasit un citat al unui anumit domn Jean Paul Richter care a zis "nimeni nu este mai trist decat cel ce rade in continuu."

rasul, leac pentru orice durere a devenit o masca? nu cred ca a devenit, dar ca orice abuz, a fost din totdeauna un rau. poate ca rau e un cuvant prea puternic. un val sa zicem, cu care oamenii isi pot ascunde chipul. pentru cel ce cauta sasi ascunda sentimentele rasul este probabil cea mai puternica arma din arsenal. in spatele mastii teatrale unui om ce rade in continuu, ce intotdeauna are un zambet de dat, care poate starnii un zambet celui mai trist din oameni intotdeauna se gaseste ceva mai mult decat clovnul grupului. in general cineva care sufera de depresie din cauza ca oricat rade, si oricat face pe ceilalti sa zambeasca, nu poate sa se faca a zambii singur. nimeni nu poate. dar masca aceasta il face acceptat. si fara acceptare nu poate supravietuii, asa ca e sclav propriei tristeti.

fiecare din noi poarta masti. se stie demult, au ziso psihologii, inteleptii am ziso si eu. dar nimeni nu isi da seama cat de greu e sa renunti la aceste masti. spunem ca daca suntem onesti, daca nu ne ascundem adevarul ne va elibera. catre ce?

Citat faimos, o mica anectoda (cred ca e anectoda, corectatima va rog)

"Ei se imbata cu apa rece. Ei bine miemi trebe vin" S.Z. Bogos

Adevarat, lumea sa imbatat cu apa rece. Iluzii false, reci. Poze intrun mic album rosu sau albastru, eventual cu un design floral. Amintirile altora, reconstruite in viziunea noastra.
Si cei care vor vinul, cei care au nevoie de calitate, nu de cantitate, cauta. Si nu prea gasesc. Cat loc mai e in ziua de azi de ceva nou, de ceva mai bun decat copie dupa copie a aceiasi reclama.
Un film putin diferit, de nevazut intrun cinema. O melodie mai diferita, de negasit in magazinele de muzica. O ideologie mai diferita, neatinsa de nici un manual, de nici o curicula.

In rest. Eu tot pe acelasi Brad Pitt il vad cu aceiasi Angelina Jolie in filme. Daca nu ei copii, negre albe maronii si portocalii. In casti tot negrii opresati din ghetou, sau un disperat care urla la microfon, sau copilu de pe coperta revistei pe care la lasat prietena pentru a 20-a oara si acuma plange la chitara/lama de ras/alt retardat (mai retardat de fel, cal si asculta cum ii spune aceiasi poveste a 20-a oara). In carte tot pe Livingston, Shakespeare, Caragiale ii studiez (nu ii critic pe ei. ii critic pe nenorocitii care ma facut sai urasc bine vreo 3 ani).

''-buna, ce faci?''
''-buna. beau apa, tu?''
''-imi astept vinul."

evolutia unui concept, gandirea libera, creatia in grup

munca creativa in grup e o tampenie. orice creatie artistica este un produs al solitudinii.
intotdeauna se gaseste un nenorocit intro munca de grup sa gandeasca si sa faca. eventual sa puna pe altu sa scrie. frumoasa lume in care traim. cel ce munceste e folosit. si prostul ramane tot prost pentru ca nu incearca sa gandeasca. nu zic sa creeam sute de genii care sa munceasca la scoala si asa mai departe. la fel de inteligent ca un om cu scoala poate fi un om care nu a pasit in viata lui intro asa zisa "institutie educationala". deseori mai destept. sau macar mai onest, mai deschis, mai intelept. din pacate acesti oameni nu prea folosesc blogurile, asa ca trebuie sa ii cunosti in persoana. probabil de aceasta sunt cu atat mai interesanti.

blogul, un concept relativ nou, la inceputuri era o forma de ati informa prietenii cu ultimele cacaturi irelevante ce ti sau mai intamplat in viata pe retelele de networking. un fel de jurnal secret care nu mai e secret. "ma durut ce mia zis. azi am mancat inghetata cu tibi si era cu banane si mia placut mult si dupa am mers acasa si am sarit prin casa ca tampitu si care eu aparent nu a auzit de propozitii. ma simt diferit. nu stiu cum si ce." blah blah blah.
dar acum, evoluat si am luat conceptul de blog si lam aplicat unui grup de oameni. aparent la nimereala. dar nu chiar. multi dintre scriitorii de blog au asemanari bune. de la faptul ca nu suntem chiar mainstream, dar in general nici aruncati in afara din viata sociala. o inteligenta care nu prea se conforma cu acele cerute de diferite curiculumuri educationale. si in special, necesitatea sa intrebam si sa ne intrebam. nevoia sa comentam. puterea sa nu fim de acord, si sa o spunem. poate aceasta libertate neo asumam pentru ca nu trebuie sa ne vorbim gandurile, le putem scrie. dar sa fim drepti. cati dintre noi nu ar fi considerati nebuni daca nu am scrie, si am vorbii?
intorcanduma la ce am zis la inceput, ca munca creativa in grup e o tampenie. aparent, nu intotdeauna, cat timp grupul nu vede decat produsul final. suntem un grup. muncim intrun fel similar. vedem aceleasi dureri si probleme. totusi, fiecare din noi are ceva diferit pe blogul lui. atingerea lui personala care il face similar si totusi unic. parerea mea, e pentru ca inca avem curajul sa ne contrazicem fara sa avem pe minte grijile ca "vai, sa nu zic ceva, ca dupa nu mai suntem prieteni, sau impreuna."

dragi colegi, camarazi de tastaturi, sa ne contrazicem pana la dracu. cu respecte tuturor scriitorilor de bloage.