fuzzy pixels

People miss you more when you’re away

when you leave the pack to stray and exit-stage right through the curtains.

They really do! Useful machines help people today, to see

familiar distorted faces, a bunch of friendly pixels that they know.

You people are nuts! You talk to machines! I shout at them from my garden of dreams.

A filed sprinkled with haystacks, far from the scams of nowadays.

But a strong wind blew my hay and ruined my garden so I had to pay the man;

to buy a machine, to buy my friendly familiar pixels.

People miss you more when the wind blows you away

When you’re faded image is cleared with double clicks

Ghostly appearances, blue faces glow in the dark

Fade out, fade in, fade out, fade in until

You get the skill to handle the machine.

But what’s the point of all of this when you can’t hug the screen

And thus you start to miss them more and more when

You shut the window down and goggle in the dark;

At dancing flash spots forming familiar leprechaun mobs

Calling you back in case you missed the call!

People miss you more, digitally wrapped.

undefined trajectories

a black scarf wrapped around a white graceful neck was found on the street

by a homeless person.

kissed the scarf with trembling lips and slimy hands stuffed the fabric

under his multicolored rag.

another classic;

a lost and found ordinary story

which anyone can see on the afternoon news

 zapping through life, a broken remote control

get close to the TV-set, see what’s on.

another scarf, another bum, another road, another story

to tell the kids, to tell posterity.

falling bread crumbs from rich tables, in content;

cockroaches crawling under, to take part at the feast.

zapping again and again, anxiously waiting for  new reality shows

on which he can fit in.

but when the night comes, the red button is pressed

and it all stops for a couple of hours in a surrealistic image

and it never ceases to surprise him for that he never sleeps

while searching for a world where he can safely dive.

heavy steps on the stairs outside his nutshell

the feelings hide behind ignorant curtains

and fills his mind with purple mist.

he runs to find another story although

he didn’t sort the present out.

dwarfs roam around the crippled mind

dark corners waiting for the lights

nothingness is timed using their scale

tired of his vice he calls in sick

of life.

progress is spinning like a dice

numbered steps decide his trajectory under a cloudy sky; no planes fly

in a matter of years it all ends

the mother that cries, modified genes, desired femmes and all

the beams that hold the barns.

everything collapsed on an afternoon broadcast

live and for real, he leaves his nutshell in search for the same things

a repetitive surprising journey, where he knows that he knows

but he forgets to remember.

Keeping my enthusiasm

What I know now is that the pack of cigarettes is empty. I press it with my index finger and realize the problem that occurred during my morning coffee. Then I sit on the coach thinking about the present and try to sort out this incident. Furthermore I take a sip from the cup and the black liquid goes down my throat cold as ice. I don’t remember how much time passed since the sound of boiling water stopped. It all went away too fast. The cigarettes, my cup of coffee, days, weeks, this year, all together rolled in one big smoking paper that burned in a blink.

Should I look back now and analyze my past? Should I use a magnifier and reflect on everything that happened throughout this year in Denmark?  What’s the use of all of this when I survived without the people I love and miss? I’ve found new people now. Some of them went directly to my heart some of them went with me in bars and pubs, some smoked my words and sang my songs and some ignored my sayings. But I don’t blame anyone. This year I was the foreigner, the udlænding. Sometimes it felt weird being the only one that doesn’t know what the fuck is the conversation about. But as time passed I’ve learned to tolerate it and then actually to understand 30-40%. We learn.

Now I sit here on the fjord and listen to Danish bands and eat Danish food and drink Danish beer. I’ve adapted. In my first six-seven months even though I haven’t showed it, I was missing my Stejar, my ăîâșț, my Bucharest, my Roman, my Romania, the mountains, the Black Sea, my life. But I’ve learned not to miss anymore. I blocked the images from the past that were coming in the most depressing moments. Substitutes were required in the beginning. I saw my friends in people that I’ve meet. On the verge of collapsing in motionless afternoons and crying moods, I stepped outside of my apartment. And there it was the sky. The beautiful Danish sky saved me.           

Don’t get me wrong I miss all of them. All the people I cared for but it’s hard to miss someone continuously. That’s why I have a special place for them. It’s like a treasure chest waiting to be opened on my return home.

One year has passed and I’m still here. Almost one year of changing moods like socks. Danish weather suited my spirit. As it rained I sat down by the window with my cigarettes and my coffee. I ate some cake also. Yes, now I eat sweets sometimes. I walk through parks when the sun warms my body and relaxes my spirit. I’ve learned to enjoy the simple things. I don’t have that feeling of “I don’t have time” anymore. When I was in Bucharest I was in a hurry. Didn’t smell the roses as I supposed to, didn’t have time. But now I have it. And it’s the same time only with a different fragrance.

The summer came around the place unnoticed. One day Mihai arrived. He was on foot. The first friend to visit me and he walked from England doing that. At first I was quiet. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. The memories of a hot summer in Bucharest popped in my head. 2 liters Stejar and discussions in the late night, Argentin, Răzvan with his wounded knee, all gushed in my mind. Everything was so real, so real that for a couple of weeks I floated between past and present. Sometimes I stopped to touch reality with my trembling fingers just to make sure that it wasn’t a dream. We were here, me and Mihai. We danced, we laughed and we sang beautiful songs.  I knew then that it will end. That he had to go and I had to stay. June ended with my arms around people. June ended with my arms stuck in an embrace. For that I’m used to hug pillows lately, not people. I remained like that until now. With my arms opened for another friend’s embrace.

One day he walked away, continuing his journey on theworld photo tour. I thought I’ll never see him for a couple of years. But I did. Then it started to rain again.

The following weeks nature taught me a lesson. As I woke up in the morning rain poured down on the empty streets. I ride my bike daily at five O’clock. I felt frustrated at first. But as the day continued the weather got better until a beautiful sunset took place over the heavy grey clouds. I said to myself that this is life. It’s hard in the beginning, cloudy and rainy but until the end sun will shine. And then my father’s words popped from the back of my head. Keep the enthusiasm. Whatever happens try to be enthusiastic. It’s hard to do this on an empty stomach, an empty pack of cigarettes and cold coffee. Hard but not impossible. So I try to smile, even though my face is washed by rain drops and my clothes are wet and my mind is drifting for a couple of minutes to sunny Romania. I smile. I smile for my father; I smile because I know everyone I love is safely kept inside my soul and mind.

I hear stories about people back home. Some of them seem unrealistic. Some of them got married; some of them found a meaning to their existence. But should I believe it? That’s why I prefer to know nothing about no one. My imagination is my ally and my enemy. That’s why I prefer to know nothing.

I enjoy reality. And this is my reality now. I am an exile on a foreign land because I wanted that. I ran without looking back from all of the dirt that surrounded me in the mighty capital of Romania. I ran from fake and corrupt politicians, I ran from the rotten system. A lot of people judged. As if I betrayed my country. Regardless to what they say I had to keep my sanity. I still love Romania but Romania still loves me? Pointless to ask.

Starting my days in the morning.

When I turned right, my eyes were hit by the morning bloody sky. Riding on two wheels I was caching with my human camera the light and the color of the moment. My thoughts were waving in the blow of the wicked wind. I was also feeling very wicked, man…

And suddenly I got lost in the music coming from the headphones and all the green hills around me. Mesmerized I cycled, for a little bit, thorough the recent past.  A lot of faces then rolled on the front wheel, many memories compressed in archive files. Stored somewhere in a closet, someday they will be rediscovered. All will be funny like hell then. With this in my mind I cycled further.

Until I reached the top of the hill and factories were spreading smoke in the morning sky. It was beautiful like that time when girls were running barefoot in the winter morning.  Drunk that is. People were wondering why and they also judged using decadent phrases at their address. Nice girls with bad habits. Who am I to judge when I drink my morning coffee with beer.

It is a perfect illusion created by the sunrise. The sun man, the sun is to blame. The morning sun acts like a catalyst for all the actions that could happen in the day. Ja man! This is the sun that some love and some hate. It is the bringer of destruction and construction.

When I turned left, my eyes were hit by the morning clouds. They slowly sat down by the river and washed my mind with pouring rain.

But who’s to blame?

morning transgressions

And he watched the bird fly two times over his head before leaving the lake. The wind was blowing leafs in his burning cigarette. He watched as his brain was trying to light up some memories. Once the fire started he could see all those lakes from the past where he used to swim and dream under willow trees. And birds were flying high and low. And they had this specific chant that he never heard before. Those days were covered in gravy and colored in pale gold as the grapes that were standing proud over the hills.

He left the lake without looking back and in ashes he kept his past, in labeled jars. The days were his acceptance of this world. Of the present he lived. The hours were the minutes of the past. Yes, time was moving in a fast pace but he, as an individual, as flesh and bones and all other related human components, he had a slow timing. He was happy in the future for the good things in the past. Thus he couldn’t clear his head of the mist that conquered his sense of present.

Before bed he stares at the dark lip of the night with red eyes and sour mouth with no one around. But there are another approximately 7 billion people in this world. So solitude is only a desire, a choice that some go for.  Sleeping alone with the human race can be quite demanding.

The mornings are excuses to overdose on coffees and cigarettes. He lights up 5-7 in a row and pours the black liquid into the mug he got as a gift from the bank. It’s said that some people out there are equipped with this super power of guessing in the coffee grounds. He stares at the dirty mug. There’s no more coffee left and the pack of Pall Mall is almost empty. He thinks about faces, gestures, people, a black cat, sores, infidelity and hard to get drugs. About doughnuts and other delights. He stares at the mug and tries to see the future.

Poor, poor boy he doesn’t know that future is already created by his present actions. The rain drops on his shoulders are not to blame for his misfortune. He’s the one that acted without a plan/waited in vain/ for all that remains are unfinished journeys and drained lakes.

Tired eyes seek a body that departed; slow hands couldn’t grab in time a soul that dissolved into a memory. He grabs the beer with both hands and away the liquid flows throughout the system. And then the brain stops for some time in a numb state. In this time of thoughtless atmosphere the heart appears and jumps and kicks the brain. With pain the next day he wakes up to find himself alone with 7 billion people.

Poor, poor boy he loses people through the night in vast and empty spaces after his brain created crooked mazes. The problem stands in too much thinking. He strives for simple love igniting nights with smokes and drinks. This theme is suitable for the trembling hands and crippled heart. He is a burning match that fades in the dark.  On fjord seagulls pair in the rising sun and he’s satisfied with the image. Sunbeams embrace him warmly in the cool air of a 6 A.M. This keeps him awake, accepting another day.  

blabbering around

When you feel the soft embrace of tolerance, dance around the opportunities. Take them by the hand and push things forward. Accelerate the process if it’s necessary to get it faster. Images tend to take form when you truly desire something. And when something fails to happen you blame it on others. Everything collapses at the point when you realize the illusion of the walls that separate your worlds. Your confusion born from shattered words and images. Mystifying your space blinds your eyes and you can’t see the naked truth that lies on the brass bed.

                Turn the tap on and let the stream amaze you. Put your hands in the stream. Watch the process. Call it off. Bang your head against the tap until blood gushes and fills your sink. Do you feel it now?

                On the way to the hospital, yell at the nurse, call her a whore… Reality is dressed in white. Reality saves you from the evil you’ve created. Bloody paintings hang on the corridors walls. Jump from the medical stretcher and dance with yourself. Check the wall if it’s there. Or maybe the door through which you exit on the porch. It’s late and you play the harmonica like Sonny Boy Williamson. The Sun says goodbye and calls it a day. You sit in the rocking chair with your whiskey on white dust and the feeling of being another one among the others.

lost humans under sheets

lights in the sky, blessed is the eye

which encounters such a surrealistic sight

under the sheet, night habits hide

from ignorant judgments

but sometimes it ends in a cry

when under, there’s another human

sent to allure the spirit,

disguised in endless skin deserts and round sand dunes

a fake gold, a Fata Morgana which disappeared, leaving you

alone, with your feet in the air, smoked whiskey and wine

and fine cigars,

nothing joyful, products of a mere passing existence

you wonder, where are you now

knowing that maybe under the sheets you die

alone in time.