Mi-am facut rezervare la mine-avion


Inspirata din povesti cu hartie igienica






      your-dirty-mind3                                                           Ascult manele si ma pregatesc sa decolez. Ma mananca undeva sa zbor peste tomberoane si de acolo sa arunc cu (b)ani…” de la mine pentru tine, fara numar, fara numar…”. O declaratie de dragoste pentru cea ma iubita fiinta ce ma priveste gales de langa gunoaie.  Nu stiu daca vei fi fermecata de zborul meu gratios, cu sanii atarnand in gol si cu picioarele tinute strans sa nu izbesc mustele din aer. Dar eu perseverez, fiindca miroase a pasiune putreda, din aia care te face sa te arunci cu capul direct intre cutiile de plastic manjite cu fasole batuta, intre conservele de peste expirat, intre sticle de votca in care s-a scuipat dupa betie…ce minune este aceea care te face sa lingi resturile toate, fiindca ti-e pofta de ea, asa cum sta, frumoasa, rezemata de tomberon si cu un chistoc sexy in coltul gurii, luat delicat si asta de pe o bucata incalcita de prezervativ, ca de pe o petala?

        Ma simt excitata, mai ales acum, cand o gazulita perversa mi-a intrat in nara dreapta si ma sufoc…am cea mai tare femeie…au…cu parfum de lalele…hai, lai , lai, la…”o femeie unicata”…

        Ma simt smechera…te iubesc, ma auzi? Aud de aici cum te lingi pe gingii, nebuno, ai mancat fara mine prajitura aia de visine din tomberonul cel mare? Nu-i nimic, sunt in aer si nu vad bine, aerul asta tare imi pune val peste privire.

         Auch, stai asa, te rog! Te-am ochit cu irisul drept intre picioare, ca un laser. Te bucuri? Te simti bine? Te cred si eu, esti vizitata  intr-o oaza de putrefactie de o Zburatoare. Ce poate fi mai frumos decat sa visezi ca ajungi instant la reciclare? Dansezi acum printre tampoane, servetele, chiloti rupti, unghii taiate, par pubian tuns in oglinda, zoaie, si eu te vad salubra,”dintr-o mie de femei n-au niciuna ochii tai”, esti frumoasa, nebuno, de aici totul mi se pare anormal de bine.

    Am poza ta in buzunarul de la capot si am noroc in zbor, nicio pasare nu s-a gainatat pe buzele mele dornice de sarutari cu aroma de vin statut. Nicio gaza nu mi-a ajuns in stomac sau in plamani, niciun semn de ploaie, cerul este sacru si limpede ca apa ce se rupe la femeia gravida. Sunt fericita ca ai aparut in viata mea, „si ai intrat la inimioara mea.”

    De la chioscul nonstop de pe un nor ti-am cumparat o ata pentru dinti, stiu cat de mult ti-ai dorit asta, fiindca in momentele noastre de intimitate te rusinai mereu de resturile de mancare ce iti umbreau sclipirea oaselor din gura. Si eu iti spuneam ca asta  este farmecul tau cand zambesti…”haide la dans, misca-te pe balans/ ai mare talent si haz/ eu ma jur ca nu te las.”

    Cobor…vreau sa te simt mai aproape, sa-ti alung mustele din jurul capului, sa car in causul palmei cateva gunoaie si sa iti fac loc langa radacina tomberonului. Sa stam aproape una langa alta si sa ne atingem tandru, foarte tandru…si sa ne povestim cate in mine, cate in tine, sunt atatea pe care nu le-am aflat! Ce ciudat cum simti tu atat de repede putoarea aerului din care cobor! De aceea te iubesc, fiindca nu simti niciodata cat pute in jurul tau, dar ai nasul fin pentru tot ce se indeparteaza de tomberoanele care iti pun in valoare exotismul! Esti un amestec provocator de nesimtire si carcoteala! Numai cei care nu au inima in forma de vata pe bat nu te pot iubi…si, Doamne, cati sunt dintr-astia!

      Vreau sa ne casatorim. Merg pana la capat! Si imi spui mereu ca sunt o „balaurita deosebita”, ca nu are cerul loc pentru coada mea de foc…vai, ce frumos! Eu te vad de foarte de sus, tu ma complimentezi de foarte de jos. Este clar, ne potrivim, tu chiar nu vezi?!


     Vulturii adevarati ne dau tarcoale din inaltul cerului si ne pandesc ca pe cadavre. Din cand in cand, o femeie isterica arunca un coltuc de paine la tomberon si te nimereste in cap. Pisicile mor de foame prin beciuri fiindca le-ai ocupat singurul loc in care se puteau hrani noaptea in voie. Haita de caini te-a luat drept Omega si pasarile drept sperietoare. Iar eu inghit musca dupa musca, dupa ce ziua intreaga si-au umplut burtile cu resturi de cacat.





A Sleepless Night


I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else

left to read

there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

(Adrienne Rich, From an Atlas of the Difficult World)


sadness1The night hasn’t ended yet. I’m alone in my room. Of all the nights that have found me awake this night is the longest and the deepest. It’s my first night of love. I didn’t tell you that from the beginning because I didn’t want you to be nervous or embarrassed.


Though we’ve known each other for such a short time, we made love so wildly in that hotel room like we had been lovers for ages. I held you in my arms and you told me how you got to Canada, the entire odyssey of your failed attempts to settle down in France and your desperate job-hunting in Montreal. You also mentioned your relationship with D. and how she got injured during the Revolution in 1989 and how your love gradually turned into a sort of twinning till you both decided to leave the country, only that D. subsequently married and that’s where your lives branched off. I would have asked you more because I was eager to know how you could still be friends with a former lover, but you went on talking and talking so passionately that I hated to interrupt you. You also told me that you chose to hide your homosexuality from your parents and that you didn’t think of ever telling them about it. You even wept a little, your face in my lap. It was a fit of melancholy that gradually dissolved in our common pleasure.


Then you drove me home. Before we left the hotel I looked in the mirror and for the first time in my life I thought of myself as beautiful. My face was radiant.


Now I’m alone in my room and the night hasn’t ended yet. I could go to sleep, but that would mean putting a still and sad end to this wonderful night, admitting the fact that we don’t have a place for ourselves, that we must wake up alone.


Instead, I keep thinking of the words that have been uttered this night; there are things we couldn’t have written us because they need our breaths to blow them about, they are otherwise so perishable. I also think about all the sentences we left unfinished in our conversation and I suddenly feel the compelling need to open up with you, to talk to you about things I haven’t acknowledged even to myself. I need time and patience to turn certain feelings and moods into words. Writing is supposed to be an enlightening process, it puts our thoughts in order and whatever fails to be expressed must have been too insignificant to deserve it. Words can be sometimes ridiculous and impotent before life. But they can also be very powerful. For you they seem to be only an indifferent instrument. I know you appreciate such straightforward utterances like ’’I love you’’, ’’I don’t want this or that’’ etc. and mistrust any playing with the ambiguity of language. But for me writing can also be like making love. That needs an explanation, of course, and you’ll get it further on. Now just think that I might steal some of the words you’ve said and mix them up with my own. It would be like mixing up the juices of our bodies, a great fantasy of intimacy.


So, I’ll spend the rest of the night writing to you. Till dawn you’ll get a text. A texture, a tissue of my own body. Another sort of nakedness, a body of words you’ll be able to keep or burn, as you please.


When I first set out to make some sense of my life I feared I would slide over into magnification and distortion. And as a matter of fact I did. I had used what I thought it was the most direct and effective way of laying bare my obsessions and nurturing them at the same time. I had kept that diary for two years or so. The last time I laid hands on it I tried to read it as if it were someone else’s story. The name of J. appears almost on every page.


Have I mentioned J. to you? I must have, because I find speaking about one’s love history with a new lover very important. Then you must remember I told you only such exterior facts: that we met when I was seventeen and she fifteen, that I had a crush on her and yet we never became lovers in the physical sense, and that our romance lasted two years and a half, till J. left me without an explanation. That would be apparently all one needs to know about our affair. That would have been written in a police report as well, if our story had become a ’’case’’. I remember my mother was terrified I could be subject of a scandal in school, especially because J. was the daughter of my English teacher, and kept asking me questions about what we did or didn’t do. 


I’ve often thought how people usually mind only the events of a life, its acts and rarely pay any attention to the written words. Since my friendship with J. ceased to exist I haven’t written a line. I just couldn’t find the strength. It was as if I had ceased to exist myself. I had been writing only for her; the stories I used to make up then were meant to please her or, I should say perhaps, to gratify her in an almost sensual sense. It was the only possible way of making love to her, since she didn’t allow me to touch her body. Therefore I decided to let J. lead the way. She had started to write those fanciful texts about the Italian castratos while she was still in high-school. She was obsessed with baroque opera and its sexual ambiguities. She, on the other hand, regarded herself as sexless. Indeed she had that strangely chaste behaviour, a sort of noli me tangere, in everything she did. She looked like those singing angels in the chapels of the Counter Reformation. Her androgynous charm was combined with an almost old-fashioned elegance. Her beauty was of a special kind, indiscernible at first sight. I must admit I considered her rather ugly at the beginning. Only later did I come to notice her bright blue eyes, piercing from behind the glasses. Her face, covered by teenage acne and framed by black curls had such a dignified air about it that almost every teacher regarded her as the best pupil in school. An impression which was not entirely accurate, of course.


Don’t ask me how I came to love her so deeply. To a certain extent I was only following the general enthusiasm of teachers and classmates. I have always believed there are people who are simply born to be adored and who don’t need to make any effort to attract the admiration of others. J. is an incarnate example of what I mean. So, no one was surprised when we became so close; they found it only natural that such a wonder child should socialize with elder students. Besides, everybody knew I had my nose stuck in books myself, so we made a perfect couple. I can’t say exactly when I began to feel different about her. At that stage in my life, sex had never had anything to do with anyone but myself. It was nothing more than a secret activity I had discovered very early and which brought me a fleeting but intense pleasure I thought no one else had ever experienced. That I was often haunted and prompted to this ’’magical ritual’’ by the sight of a pair of breasts in a movie was in my opinion a rather marginal fact. I could only stick my eyes on details. For instance, I remember going once to the nudists’ area on the beach, a place I usually avoided out of bashfulness. Not wishing to be seen, I kept my slips on while trying not to look the other women in the eyes. As I trod carefully my way to the sea, I caught a glimpse of a dark tuft of pubic hair in strong contrast to the exquisitely white skin surrounding it. The mixture of dazzlement and exaltation I felt at that moment would always associate in my mind with the greenish waves and the salty smell of the sea. When I looked up I saw that the girl had long curled hair covering her shoulders, just like J. had.


Actually, I never masturbated while thinking of J. At least not during the period we spent together. My fantasies about her body came later, as a sad substitute for her real presence. While we were both in high-school, we were thought of as a sort of twins. It was precisely the time I began to hate phrases like “soul mate” or “bosom friend”, because they could not describe appropriately what I felt for J. At a time when her mere voice on the phone gave me almost physical sensations, I realized that my friendship for her had to be total and transgressive. I understood then that I enjoyed our encounters for reasons which had little to do with intellectual companionship. If I could see her, hold her hand, smell the musky scent of her hair and listen to her telling me a dream she had, I was perfectly happy.


And still, the truth is that I was in love with her mind. I had fits of enthusiasm verging on orgasm reading her stories about castratos and imagining I could fathom the depths of her soul. If there is really an eroticism of the text, that was entirely the case with our writings. As far as I’m concerned, I took great delight in writing stories that could give her pleasure and, at the same time, reveal the woman in her. I sought love and tenderness, the kisses and caresses of a woman; my desire was most common, but even more difficult to attain. I wanted what for others seemed to be the unthinkable. Meanwhile, J. kept nurturing her dream of a “marriage of true minds” in an ageless realm of gender confusion. The woman I loved was an angel – and I use the word in its most complex meaning. I just couldn’t conceive of her being something else.


Perhaps I should add that I was very reserved about my feelings. Actually I think I haven’t changed much in that respect, you must have realized it yourself. So, when I finally confessed my love to J., we had already been together for two years. I look at the entry in my diary. The words are cold as was that day of late February. J. wanted to embrace me for an answer, but I stepped back. I could discern the pity in her eyes and I would have preferred a thousand times the most terrible punishment instead. I’d rather she yelled at me, made me kneel before her and declare me her slave than concede me that distant, sympathetic gaze. My mind went completely astray. I think that’s when I realized that J. was only a woman who might just feel attracted to men and that our situation was by no means so extraordinary as I had thought. I felt so sorry for my dream of the sexless angel in a woman’s body, that I regretted ever opening my mouth to talk to her about my “unholy” feelings. I went home with a deep pain in my heart.


After a few days I got another reply from her. She wrote a little poem that might seem strange to other eyes, but which was very clear to me. She spoke about a tree she had planted before her window and looked for with the utmost care until it grew too high and obstructed her sight, so she was forced to fell it down.


You know the rest of the story, I won’ t repeat it. Dawn is drawing near, so I’ll make this short. I’m not sure if you realize how much this text has to do with you, to what extent it has been influenced by you. After all, language unceasingly affirms love and protects it from depreciation. I might have lost the real J., but the stories I wrote for her continue to speak about love.


Don’t think I intend to compare you to J. That would be absurd. One love succeeds another and one shouldn’t be ashamed of it. You just happened to be there when I was craving for the touch of another flesh, at a time when love and  sex finally fused in my life.


If I call up now my amorous history is because I’ve met you who give me the strength to do it.


You might think that writing is a sign of unfulfilled desire and you wouldn’t be too wrong. If I were now in your arms I could whisper this story in your ear, you could feel the warmth of my breath and would encourage me to lead you through the meanderings of my unnamed fantasies. It would be a moment of utter fulfillment.        



Russian story


              3036988935_085af7f7091                                                                                                                                                                                            So, after I finished a prominent high-school in Moscow, my rich parents sent me to Berlin to study. There I began to enjoy my student’s life. Nothing can be more attractive. This sense of absolute freedom, living on your own in a community of young and idealistic people, striking parties which never end before dawn, talking passionately about life and death, about art and the mysteries of the human soul. Reading desperately in your room and forgetting about the world outside or wandering all day long through the city jungle, watching people go their ways, trying to make out their stories, lonely in a sea of strangers…Yes, I was lonely most of the time, in spite of the parties I went to and the clubs I joined…Oh, the clubs. Whenever I felt the inner turmoil was ready to overwhelm me, I would go to some gay night club and let me dazzled and purged by the violent music. I never danced, I just sat at the bar and watched the overheated bodies twist on the dancing floor in a mad unceasing search, desperate to find in other bodies what one body had already provided. This world could not be monogamous, it would thirst for love and find only lust. For me it was like a descent into hell, but paradoxically it was a very welcome one. The men touched each other in a tender, unthinkable way. Some were macho, others extremely feminine, there were always some drag queens around…the women came in groups and were generally older than me and very masculine, exceeding physical strength…I was impressed. On the whole, the atmosphere was very cozy and I felt secure and enjoyed the fact that the men only had eyes for each other. I would stay at the bar till I could only perceive the beats of the drums. It was like meditation or prayer. At a certain point I would reach some sort of ecstasy. Then I would steal out of the club and walk home, feeling the light breath of the sleeping city. And carrying that deep longing within me that I could not admit and not even understand.


                            It happened in my favourite club, the Oranienbar…it’s a dark and not very stylish place, but I like it because it’s so old, its walls could tell stories…I was sitting in my usual corner watching the people gather. The crowd was loud and merry. I was melancholy and restless as if I waited for my destiny to fulfill its promise. The music had lost its sedative effects on me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to leave or rather to dance and throw myself in the arms of the first person I met. While I was pondering I saw a group of young men and women approaching me. One of the boys asked me directly if I wanted to join them for a night swim. “We are going right now, make up your mind quickly”. I was hesitating, searching for an excuse when I saw HER. She was not speaking, just waiting for me to make a decision. She had a black dress and an ironic smile. She looked away, not paying any attention to me. Now I should be able to return in time and relive everything again and again in order to find out why she made me change my mind and accept the invitation. But maybe I’ll never understand. It was not my need of adventure because I initially wanted to say no. And it was not love at first sight. I don’t believe in such things. It was neither this nor that, it was something in-between. We’ll never know exactly what. Never mind. While we were walking through the dark streets I suddenly looked at her and caught her eyes staring at me. I had a sudden insight, like a flash from a forgotten dream. I knew that face, I had seen it long ago in a dream. It was a mirror of my soul, the incarnation of my better half. But I should not anticipate. We eventually came to the pool. Everything was silent. I saw the moon, red and full like a witch’s eye. Day can deceive but at night no one is safe from revelations. You can no longer postpone your life indefinitely, that’s what I felt standing by that swimming pool and watching the group of strangers undress and bathe under the eye of the moon. Their shadowy figures gathering and separating and me trying to avoid any intimacy…all the while she was only a seed in my mind but I was to watch this seed grow into a flower. It soon became clear to me what the night swim was actually about. All are ensnared in a magic circle, fumbling, craving, touching each other and measuring each other’s physical beauty, everyone dissolved in a sexless mass. I think I am alone with my shame. But no. I see her soft shadow vibrating in the darkness. She comes towards me, yes she does, she ignores everything around…she comes out of the water like a nymph, she leans amorously towards me, she smiles, she takes my hand. We swim away from the group and I think I understand what eternity means. I must have been far away for a few minutes. When I recovered she was no longer there. A guy was grabbing me and blubbering uncontrollably. I think he was drunk. I feel sick and run away. I fall into her arms and her eyes shower me with their tenderness.


                            The time we spent in the tower was like a slow fall from heaven. It must have been a long time because otherwise my family wouldn’t have asked the police to look for me. Anyway, for me it’s timeless, just an eternal moment, I could say. They all lie who say she kidnapped me. I was in a trap but I loved it. We talked passionately hours on end searching doors to each other’s minds. While she kissed and caressed me there was nothing else  between us but love, huge and simple. Alas, I know she is a metamorphic creature whose love has multiple indeterminate faces. She says things like: “You should love people regardless of their sex” or “I love them all, why should love be exclusive?” Is she another side of myself? Could I really be like her and love more than one human being in my life? Could I love someone else beside her? I torment my mind with these questions. There is no answer. She is who she is and our meeting has a meaning that goes beyond our lives. “Love is stronger than death”, she also said that. “My angel with sadist eyes”, I read this phrase in a book and it is surely about her.


                        If she hadn’t made that fatal mistake I wouldn’t have taken the poison. And if I hadn’t taken the poison they wouldn’t have found us. Never mind. I lie in bed and talk impersonally to family and doctors. There is no point in denying love even if they say you are crazy and explain to you a thousand things about that woman who is a cheater and a whore and a pimp. They want to talk me into sensibility. Let them talk. My beloved is mine and I am hers. She sends me a line: “Take good care of the girl who makes my heart beat. You are the one. I’ll take you with me. Soon”. I send her a reply: “Don’t worry, my love. Wait for me. Injure me, betray me, but make me sure of your love.”. I’m waiting for the right moment to steal out of hospital.


“I myself cannot construct my love story to the end; the end, like my own death, belongs to others. It is up to them to write the fiction, the external, mythic narrative”. (Roland Barthes, “A Lover’s Discourse”)








                 Doua femei tinere, la o masa mai izolata, se privesc intens în ochi. Pe terasa însorita lumea vorbeste, râde, gesticuleaza si pare ca nici nu le observa. Nemiscate, ca doua statui, ele continua sa se priveasca. Frumoasa simetrie a chipurilor vibreaza nelinistitor, aproape crud, în aer. Doua umbre zvelte ajung pâna aproape de masa mea; culcate în albul orbitor al dalelor de piatra, mi se pare ca le vad atingându-se. Întorc brusc capul. Nu s-au miscat din loc. Le privesc: iata ca formam deja un triunghi magic al înflacararilor insesizabile, o alianta a tacerii într-un vârtej de locvacitate. Stiu ca de pe buzele lor pecetluite de mister nu a plecat nici un cuvânt si ca orice discurs posibil s-a dizolvat în doua umbre oglindindu-se una în cealalta.

          Halucinez. Cuvintele altora întaresc prezenta extraordinara a acestei taceri. Citindu-le cândva, stiam, printr-o stranie presimtire, ca mie mi se adreseaza, talmacindu-mi anticipat scena pe care o am acum în fata ochilor.

Adesea, când în sala Cazinoului, doua fete se doreau, se producea ca un fenomen luminos, un fel de dâra fosforescenta care mergea de la una la alta.
(Marcel Proust).

Si astfel se afla ca Moromete era odata la vie si ca i s-a facut sete si s-a dus mai încolo la o coverga sa ceara apa celui dinauntru si când colo a dat peste doua fete care nu se stie ce faceau acolo împreuna, dezvelite si una cu trupul peste cealalta.
(Marin Preda)

Parca o vad pe mândra Geraldine din poemul lui Coleridge devorând-o cu privirea (Ah! What a stricken look was hers!) pe Christabel, cea blonda si sfioasa. Sa fie oare acestea licariri singulare ale unui instinct nemaiîntâlnit?

Lesbos, tarâm de calde sfârseli si voluptate,
Pe unde, cu ochi vineti, fecioarele-si privesc

Molaticele trupuri nubile, minunate,

A’ caror roade-n pârga le-alinta si-ndragesc;

Lesbos, tarâm de calde sfârseli si voluptate.

(Charles Baudelaire)

Însa daca totul s-ar reduce la o exaltare a trupului, ceea ce simt eu acum ar fi doar o nalucire absurda, lipsita de substanta. Iar vedenia de adineauri s-ar destrama ca valul mayei. Numai ca…

Iubirea pentru Tereza a crescut la loc. Eu am obligat-o sa creasca si trebuia sa ma feresc […] A trebuit sa-mi leg mâinile. Ele vroiau sa-i scrie Terezei, ca eu tot ma mai vad în minte împreuna cu ea. Ca frigul pe care îl simt în mine rascoala o iubire împotriva ratiunii.
(Herta Müller)

Ma scutur de aceste reverii livresti si îmi întorc din nou ochii spre masa retrasa. Cele doua femei s-au predat una în bratele celeilalte. Sunt convinsa ca tremurul usor al trupurilor este semnul celei mai adânci fericiri.