variations

The Wonder Years

A random memory: having snowed heavier than usual, we got a few days off school. some friends who lived in the same apartment block and I went exploring. i was six years old at the time. they were a couple of years older than me and, although I felt like a sheep, I was delighted to tag along. we walked along a dubious little street, a path we had never been down, and after some time arrived at a kindergarten. we hid behind the bushes near the fence. i felt weird. then the kindergarten bell ran, presumably for a break, and one of the boys suggested we all get stones and throw it at the kids as they come out. I felt ill at the idea, because 1. that’s not nice and as someone recently out of kindergarten I wouldn’t want that happen to me, 2. I tend to exaggerate all my visuals in my head and I could see my rock hitting the forehead of some poor three year old girl making her bleed and forcing me to go to jail, never to see my parents again. by the time I looked back at them they all had a few rocks in each hand and were telling me to hurry up. I was six and wanted to fit in. I grabbed two next to my feet, and inhaled deeply. am I even allowed to say no? all of a sudden the kindy kids started running out and one of the boys counted, “1, 2… 3!” at that point, I saw the other rocks fly across the fence, I panicked and thought the easiest way out of this was to throw… badly. I threw a little to my left and it landed only two meters away, not even over the fence. as it landed pathetically I heard the boys moan in disgust, but in unison we all turned around and started sprinting, I could hear a few kids exclaim to a teacher some people were throwing rocks, followed by a teacher running to the fence and yelling at us nuisances, oh I hope those kids don’t grow up and end up like us. I felt so scared, my heart was thumping, wanting to leave. maybe the kindy teacher will be a really slow runner, and can never catch up? we ran and ran till the kindergarten became out of sight. we sat down by the benches in front of our apartment block, all breathing heavily, the boys laughed, and made fun of my throw. I pretended to be embarrassed, but really I was happy that I didn’t hit anyone and wouldn’t go to jail. I don’t remember hanging out with them again after, and spent the rest of the break watching some drama about two sisters who can turn into snakes.

because you smell like a warm croissant in the morning

"Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.

A mature person does not fall in love, he or she rises in love. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. Now they cannot manage and they cannot stand. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have the integrity to stand alone.

A mature person has the integrity to stand alone. And when a mature person gives love, he or she gives without any strings attached to it. When two mature persons are in love, one of the great paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone. They are together so much that they are almost one. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. Only freedom and love."

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Osho

we're getting really good at distracting ourselves

Girls and the boys to whom they cling.
Girls and the hands they hold.
Girls and the legs they cross.
Girls and the words they understand and don't.
Girls and their freckled noses.
Girls and the unexplainable noises they make.
Girls and their own girls.
Girls and the food they will only smell.
Girls and their unspoken needs and deeds.
Girls and the cigarettes they either smoke or detest with the same intensity.
Girls and the souls they'd want to edit in photoshop.
Girls and the polyester lining of their favorite dresses.
Girls and the mascara which either clumps or runs.
Girls and the beds they sleep in.
Girls and the beds they dream in.
Girls and the pictures they take of their cats.
Girls and their bubble baths and cupcakes.
Girls and their thighs, always too big.
Girls and the ears they refuse to whisper in.
Girls and the tears they shed on the inside.
Girls and their ability to feel the most when they are most lost.
Girls and their little contraceptive pills.
Girls and the words that undress them.
Girls and their need to be free, while longing to be captive.
Girls and the courage and vulnerability they are cordially invited to express at the same time. 
Girls and the pieces of life they leave behind everywhere they go.

(photo: Jacques Henri Lartigue)

in the space between yes and no, there's a lifetime.

Happiness is lounging around in my room with red wine, listening to The Doors and Creedence, reading JG Ballard’s Cocaine Nights and eating gummy bears until my tongue gets all chewy and disgustingly sweet. It’s all I want sometimes. There’s plum incense burning and also some hyacinth oil that makes the air so thick it’s almost irrespirable. Sometimes I laugh at it and imagine myself a heavily bosomed spinster, who writes letters incessantly, letters that smell of perfume and old whiskey. They’re full of such delicious thoughts, my nights.

The scars on my knees, the leftover food in the refrigerator (dried up pineapple it is), the bad singing from the apartment next to mine, the pain caused by my last wisdom tooth piercing away the flesh, the impossibility of keeping my tongue out of the way, the exacerbation, the silly laughter that comes afterwards, the sweet nothingness which flutters from the TV’s screen, always on AXN, always some shitty crime series airing, a half complete cigarette, diet coke which fizzles on my tongue (I know, a blasphemy to the red wine mentioned beforehand), the rainbow sprinkles from excessive rubbing of the eyes, the package received in the mail the other day, the sound of wind escaping through a small gap in the window, the dampness in my hair, the chipped red varnish, the hurried glimpse at the vintage musical box, unplayed, untouched for so long, the black high-heeled shoes that always stay near the bed, though they’re never ever worn, the pictures on the wall, thinking of what to do with my hands, the blowing of kisses into thin air, my t-shirt with 9 sheep, 8 white and one black, in the middle, overdosing on painkillers, talking to the painkiller bottle, telling it it’s nothing, I’m ok, just allergic to the universe tonight, thinking of solving that mathematical problem that nobody solved yet, winning the very much undeserved success and recognition, gazing out of the window, deciphering shadows in the darkness, the smudged mascara, the late night coffee (I know, I know, another blasphemy), dreaming of a bagel or a donut to go with it, then the silence, the dozing off, the semi-awake nightmares about not recycling enough and ruined trees and photosynthesis and, and… 

că nu își dă seama cînd se trezește ventuză pe sufletul lor.

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up, after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

the invitation, Oriah Mountain Dreamer

i'll write you a postcard i'll send you the news

1. i might actually look like i have gotten a life after not touching this blog for some time. but that is not true. mainly because i had a life before that and i have a life now, i'm life-full like that. during my disappearance i managed to:
a) exacerbate some of my silly short time obsessions for girls with short hair, hi-tops, korean dramas and oddly shaped pancakes.
b) sing kelis' milkshake, the revised edition:
my whipped ice dairy drink brings the attention of males to my residence and/or employment,

and it far surpasses that of yours
absolutely, it surpasses yours
i can convey to you the recipe, but i have to demand compensation

c) find the truest most honest definition of a relationship: "being in a relationship is like swimming because like sometimes is fun and perfect but sometimes you hit your head on rocks and your corpse washes up six weeks later in a different hemisphere". since I don't even know how to swim, I have to be even more careful. i have to watch myself like a hawk. 

2. i stayed in bed a lot, like two entire days in a row, which is very unusual for me. but charles bukowski told me it's ok: "The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day, with covers pulled up to my chin. it was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing." yeah, distraction does favor all the overrated.

3. i drew, apart from pretty girls and the occasional cat, my plans for the summer. i want it to be extraordinary, unlike soup, which is very ordinary.

4. i discovered i suffer from a condition called l'esprit de l'escalier: that feeling you get when you leave a conversation and think about all the things you should have said. i totally have that. you tell me the difference and i'll tell you the same.

5. i fell in love and/or awe with Andre De Dienes, Bill Henson, Maurizion Marcato, Cesar Santos, Chadwick Tyler and Christopher Micaud. oh, and Egon Schiele. 

6. the most important thing though, i got shot through the heart and it was amazing. could the world make any more sense?

i write notes but don't pass them around

much of life is trying to make sense of life. we do that through attempting to express our experiences and then evaluating it to see whether they ring true. we normally need another person to hear our attempt so that we can hear it ourselves. often we don't ask for a problem solver, because we need a listener, one who lets the other friend tell the story, and have the imagination to be with them in it.

oh, and yeah, don't expect people to actually be like the above description all the time. expectations are like limitations (no, that was not supposed to rhyme). they limit you to this notion of having to reach or exceed a certain point, they limit you to thinking that's the next step, that's how you should be thinking or that's how people should be when they're in relation to you, interacting and stuff. all you need to do is better yourself, not other people's thoughts, or lack of.

ok, that did not make any sense in writing and i sound like i'm trying to be philosophical, i will go eat now. or something. 

i usually solve problems by letting them devour me

I keep waking up in the middle of the night not having a clue where i am, but then I leave the house and apparently my name is ‘mate’ and I know where I am.

i'm gonna pick up the pieces and build a lego house

frozen branches in the sunlight. baby martin scorseze pretending to smoke a pipe. finding a beautiful place and getting lost. the fact is, you make me feel a lot more than you know. mimetical metaphor. margarita georgiadis. big wait for it chocolate. skinny jeans. the following preview will retell the entire movie and probably spoil the whole experience. tiny tattoos. woody allen complete prose. mucking around. someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness it took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift. drawing catsornothing. my biggest pet peeve is bad grammar is this the life i hoped i'd have. looks like some butter woke up at the wrong side of the bread. see. if you died, i would go through hell to bring you back, that would be easy, i'm not sure how to deal with us just drifting apart. moleskines diaries. laurie lipton. waking up. destricted. sleeping in. making eye contact with stranger, imagining life together. my dad the metahipster. paper cuts. laughing out loud. running around. waiting for friday.

halviță sau halva?

Contrar opiniei generale, lumea merge la vot din ce în ce mai mult. Suntem în criză globală așa că alegem, pentru a ne liniști, cel mai bun sportiv, personalitatea anului, un nou logo pentru lătratul cățelului, cea mai sexy domnișoară, cea mai stilată mașină... Și tinerii își fac, mai nou, datoriile electorale. Votează în masă pentru cîntăreții pe care îi vor uita de îndată ce le-au asigurat succesul, sau pentru toți necunoscuții care visează să devină celebri.

Să mai fie vreo zi din an în care nu ni se solicită un vot, două? Erau vremuri cînd chestia asta era serioasă, avea ca scop schimbarea destinului unei țări sau transformarea unei duminici plictoase într-una amuzantă, însuflețită (era de ajuns să lansezi o dezbatere despre următoarele alegeri și gata, spectacolul era asigurat). Azi actul s-a banalizat, deplasîndu-se de la urne la tastatura calculatoarelor sau telefoanelor noastre mobile. Și iată-ne transformați în alegători ai cotidianului, obligați să ne dăm cu părerea despre tot și să tranșăm tot, tot timpul și, mai presus de toate, cît mai repede.

Nici nu am terminat bine de digerat (prost!) ultima bucățică de prăjitură pe anul 2011, că marile mărci agroalimentare ne cer să alegem biscuiții anului... 2012, dacă-s ăia cu cremă roz sau ăia dați prin nucă de cocos. Mai mult, poți deveni fan pe Facebook al mărcii preferate de brînzeturi sau al fabricii de piulițe unde ți-a fost asamblată bicicleta.

Primul pas timid către militantismul de azi? În loc să lipești afișe duminica dimineața, ți se va cere cel mult să lipești un timbru pe spatele unei scrisori-răspuns, în care ai spus negru pe alb dacă susții tradiționalismul, pentru că nu vrei să se schimbe cu nimic rețeta ancestrală, sau progresul, care dictează adăugarea constantă a unui ingredient nou, inovator. Tipii de la marketing nu au reușit să se pună de acord: paprika sau ierburi aromate? Nereușind să ajungă la un compromis acceptabil, rămîne în mîinile consumatorului-alegător să le departajeze. Trebuie să-ți faci datoria, altfel nu iese vegeta bună.

Și, ce-i drept, îți ia mai puțin timp să-ți dai cu părerea despre subiecte pe cît de diverse, pe atît de futile (Îți place ploaia? Dar soarele? Seychelles sau Ibiza?) decît în cadrul unui referendum european. Pentru că asta-i, de fapt, problema. Nu mai avem timp de nimic, doar de nimicuri. 

we're just strangers, again and again

case study one, last sunday i was in the subway, and sitting opposite me was this girl, red hair, fair freckled skin, with a printed tee with oh my god they killed kenny on, and she was applying make up. i was listening to music on my ipod and it's my own cheating heart that makes me cry by glasvegas was on and so I didn't take too much notice since that's the song that usually puts me in this weird but oh so pleasantly haunting trance. yesterday, after finishing my meal, I was going back to the office, head down to protect my nose from turning into something that would have made even rudolph jealous, and i saw her walk past me again, just randomly on the street, because i noticed she had really worn out boots and lifted my head like the curious basket case that I am. i happen to have seen her twice and remembered. moving on.

case study two, after passing that girl again yesterday on the street and finishing my day's work, i began my journey home, and as i was getting on the subway train, i noticed for the first time this guy who looks like kevjumba, and started laughing like a maniac for minutes on end. fast forward till this morning, i was on the subway platform, reading bitter moon, since i'm all over with V., it messed with my head pretty much a lot. the train arrived and while on it i ended up passing this other station he just happened to have been waiting at. and i noticed because i was looking out the window playing eye spy. re-reading bitter moon doesn't seem to keep me as focused as i'd have hoped. and also facebook recommends me to befriend my former boyfriend's old and new girlfriend. we're just such strangers, dancing in the snow. the &. 

to sleep in a crowd

(how i wish my bedroom looked like. yes, those hello kitty calendars included.)

I was actually quite cynical before finally accepting that this is what I want in my room. due to melancholy or some other excuse I convinced myself about, I thought I wanted my room to be minimal, quasi empty, just a mattress in a corner, books scattered on the floor, a lamp somewhere and a clothes stand. to whomever I described my dream bedroom as such, apparently I was lying. I want the red light to burn my nocturnal epiphanies, I want my walls full of pictures of cats and pretty faces and maybe a donkey or a dolphin, or a sea urchin. I want that french style bed, those christmas tree light bulbs and those many pillows. After a single night spent in such scenery, I'm sure I'll start thinking to myself, what a wonderful world, the colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky...

veșnicia s-a născut la sat.

Am un amic născut în Valea Cufundoasă, pe undeva prin nord, unde se agață harta’n cui. Nu-ți alegi întotdeauna amicii. Ai zice însă că a crescut dintotdeauna la oraș, atît de bine a reușit să-și șteargă originile răzeșe din ADN. Literat fin, extrem de cultivat, e un veritabil dandy. Vorbește cinci limbi străine și-și punctează toate discuțiile cu citate exuberante din latină. Ai zice că are totul, că e ființa perfectă. 

Și totuși, pînă acum vreo două săptămîni, mi se plîngea constant de ghinion într-ale amorului. Nu că n-ar fi fost înconjurat de domnișoare, că era și este, dar ce nu-i convenea lui era lipsa pasiunii brute, carnale, ce caracteriza mai toate rendez-vous-urile sale. Eu îi replicam bătrînește că ce semeni aia culegi, pun definitely intended, dar ofta a jale mai mult sau mai puțin intelectualizată, spunîndu-mi printre replici de film că odată și-odată își va lua o maramureșancă de-a lui din Valea Cufundoasă, care să-i coacă castane (a ținut să-mi precizeze că încălcarea bunului simț gramatical e voită) și să-i crească prunci grăsuni.

Dar, după cum menționam, asta pînă acum două săptămîni. Revoluția a avut, cum altfel, tulpină cinematografică. Mi-a mărturisit la o cafea și-un corn că omul care i-a schimbat viața a fost... Dany Boon. Nu, nici Kant, nici Spinoza. Ci Dany Boon. Împresurați de căldura confortabilă a cafenelei cochete în care el se simte de-al casei, ne-am uitat unul la altul în tăcere. Eu, încercînd să scormonesc prin minte după numele respectivei entități filmești, pe care n-o puteam lua de niciunde, el, explicîndu-mi în ce fel i-a fost revoluționată viața amoroasă de Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis.

Se pare că-n film e vorba despre un poștaș care face nefăcute și e transferat, drept pedeapsă, într-un sătuc din nord, unde descoperă frumusețea nostalgică a vieții la țară, revenirea la glie, comuniunea cu neanthertalul din fiecare. Ce-a înțeles amicul meu din această istorioară comico-idilică este că nu mai e cazul să-și renege rădăcinile cufundoase, ci, dimpotrivă, să și le îmbrățișeze cu onestitate.

Înainte de a lua la cunoștință de aventurile sărmanului poștaș, amicul meu nu frecventa decît tipe timide, cu ochelari și kierkegaard în poșetuțe, ele fiind, de altfel, singurele care găseau șarmantă seducția lui cu tentă filozofică. Problema era că întîlnirile lor se lăsau cu debriefing-uri post-coitum despre sensul vieții, cînd el, în toată sinceritatea lui mărturisită, nu-și dorea decît să le propună tinerelor intelectuale să lase vorbăraia și să-ncerce ceva bdsm.

”Filmul ăsta m-a învățat să-mi asum dorințele și să le pun pe masă ca pe o halcă de caș. Femeilor le place atitudinea asta, sinceritatea extremă, țărănismul asumat. E ca și cum ai zice ok, sunt un intelectual rafinat, dar îmi accept și latura cealaltă, care-mi spune să înjur, să mănînc brînză cu ceapă și să te dau cu capul de pereți, erotic vorbind”, îmi explică el pe ton școlăresc.

Mi-a dat și un exemplu. La două zile după ce a văzut filmul, aflîndu-se într-o cafenea, înconjurat de mai multe tipe care, presimțea el, îl considerau un pic lugubru, se prea poate să fi fost de la recitarea unui întreg sonet de Byron, nu știe sigur, a dat-o pe ardeleneasca de origine. Din fericire, cum am menționat mai sus, tipul e dotat la capitolul limbi străine. Și cum știe să recite Tolstoi în rusă, și-a putut aminti cu ușurință de dialectul deprins în bucătăria bunicii, unde multă vreme și-a petrecut vacanțele de vară. Așa că a turuit pe ardelenește, cu tot cu accent, pentru prima dată în viața lui.

Ca prin magie, rîsete au izvorît din gîtlejurile fine ale fetelor. A văzut stele în ochii lor. Intelectualele (f)rigide s-au transformat în porno staruri toride și vînătoarea lui s-a lăsat brusc cu mult mai multă pradă. Avocate, contabile, studente la literatură comparată, toate i-au sărit în brațe simpaticului intelectual transformat în băiat de țară ce sparge lemne cu același braț cu care te strînge cu pasiune în brațe. Cînd le invită la el acasă, le gătește bulz și jumări și le convinge să spele totul cu un pahar de lapte proaspăt. Ele rîd, el le privește pieziș, în timp ce bate smîntîna, și gata, afacerea e sigilată.

Și totul grație unei comedii de calități relative. Extrem de cititul și incredibil de cultivatul meu amic, care pînă nu demult se zbătea să se dea încă și mai intelectual decît era, acum face invers. Spune cu zîmbetul pe buze că nu a auzit niciodată de Spinoza, dar că ocupația lui favorită este privitul oilor cum pasc. Discursul fiind, evident, îmbrăcat în straie de vocabular regionalistic.  Na comedie. 

she would like a japanese to english translator

*portrait of my night sweater, edited to look worse than in reality.

*sentences that stuck to my mind today:
1. "Don't think of it as us breaking up, think of it as us being happy again."
2. "If only I could google translate your signals. At least thus I'd know why I'm getting such mixed messages from you."
3. "My horniness is so much classier when you're around."

*the reason I want a japanese translator is so they can read me Murakami's 1Q84.

hello winter madness (and other things that go through my mind)

1. When people tell me they're sad, I advise them to think of life as a bowl of ice cream. Or, even better, to just think of a bowl of ice cream. Works like a charm.

2. I have heard that beautiful people are lonely, because everyone is too intimidated to talk to them. I bet that happens with big spiders, too.

3. Sometimes when two people love each other... it's really unfortunate. Especially if their need for each other exceeds their love for each other.

4. Do you ever wonder what the person you will eventually marry is doing right this second?

5. If anybody asks me who taught me almost everything I know about life, I would say Jerry Seinfeld. Sorry, mom, he had me at:

6. "One day this pain will make sense to you". "Yeah, when summer finally arrives".

7.  chemicals over calories for me, thanks.

i like my clothes tumblr dried

 my tumblr

when you're sad you should stop being sad and be awesome instead.

a couple of summers back, i was hanging out with my lover and we decided to get pizza for dinner. we were bohemian like that sometimes. i wanted to eat it on the sidewalk, in front of the Metropolitan Library, but he didn't want to, cause it was somewhat cold for june and he hated the cold, i knew that. i said i really wanted to, so he smiled his smile and agreed. we decided to attack the first pizza place we saw, because we had walked a lot that day and didn't want to walk much further. the man at the pizza parlor said hi and we said hello. he asked us what we wanted and my lover turned to me with questioning eyes. i like my pizzas crazy hot and with not too many toppings, but i knew he had a special bond with pineapple on a pizza (which I would never ever understand), so I picked tropical, since he had agreed to fight the cold in front of the library to eat it with me. the man said we kids looked like good kids and that he was going to give us a special treat. i laughed my laugh and commented he must have been having a good day. he looked at me in perplexed awe and waved his arms into the air. "everyday is a good day. you make it beautiful." i smiled. I thought of my lover, because we hadn't been having too many good days then. the man continued. "even if other people upset you, at the end of the day it is yours and you make it beautiful, okay?" i nodded as if knowing that was the greatest truth of all truths. and it is.

cele mai proaste statusuri de Facebook

1. ”Private Joke.” Pe ideea, ”cine știe, știe”, se aruncă la întîmplare o frază voit incomprehensibilă restului muritorilor, cu excepția celor trei, patru prieteni cu care tocmai ai petrecut un week-end de mare destrăbălare, tradusă mai apoi prin mult prea multe glume... pentru inițiați. De-a dreptul exasperant.
Exemplu: ”Bărbosule, aveai dreptate, nu e nimic, dar nimic acolo!!”

2. ”Please help me, I need attention.” Evaziv, neliniștitor și vag misterios, acest status îi semnalează comunității că nu o duci bine, că ai o problemă. Dar, ce ciudat!, nu spui despre ce e vorba mai exact. Penibil. Poate eventual să declanșeze empatia acelor cîțiva prieteni ai tăi mai ”lêche-culs”, care te bombardează cu comentarii drăguțe, de genul, ”Baby, o să fie bine, acuși venim la tine cu o sticlă de vin” sau ”Curaj, știi că ești strong!”.
Exemplu: ”is sad.”

3. ”I have the coolest of lives.” Unul dintre cele mai detestabile. Constă în general din a enumera destinațiile pe care tu le judeci prestigioase, cu majuscule și fără comentarii adiacente. Nu mai încape loc de îndoială- ăsta e și scopul pînă la urmă- se va găsi cel puțin un naiv care să te admire: ”Vai, dar bine îți mai merge, bravo!”
Exemplu: ”PARIS>IBIZA>ST.TROP'>BALI>L.A.>VEGAS BABY!”

4. ”Radio România Actualități.” Ești la curent cu tot ce se întîmplă în lume, dar mai ales în lumea Facebook-ului, și-ți spui părerea, mai mult sau mai puțin pertinentă, adesea indignată, sprijinită de convingerea că analiza ta are oareșce valoare, despre orice. Adesea nu reușești decît să închizi uși care erau deschise sau să emiți comentarii spirituale, dar total pe lîngă subiect.
Exemplu: ”Nu e vorba de cine are dreptate sau nu, e vorba de ce simte fiecare în suflet, pentru că adevărul e unu, și universal valabil.”

5. ”Zero informații.” Mai apropiat de un act nevrotic decît de dorința de a transmite un mesaj, acest tip de status ne face să ne îngrijorăm în ceea ce privește sănătatea ta mentală. De ce spui asta și, mai ales, pentru cine? Cu ce scop? Michel Audiard spunea la un moment dat: "C'est pas parce-ce qu'on a rien a dire qu'il faut fermer sa gueule." Ba cam da.
Exemplu: ”are poftă de paste cu sos pesto.” sau ”s-a săturat de ploaie.”

6. ”Twitter Style.” Destul de asemănător, prin interesul pe care îl suscită, cu precedentul. Ne dă informații despre derularea vieții tale cotidiene în aspectele ei cele mai banale, îți permite să-ți scenarizezi existența, ca și cum, în viață, totul ar fi interesant. Adesea uzitat de cei care, de exemplu, atunci cînd sunt la birou, țin să comenteze cu voce tare tot ce fac.
Exemplu: ”merge pe stradă.” sau ”bea un pahar de vin cu colegii.”

7. ”Filozofico-poetic.” Adesea o frază în engleză, scoasă dintr-o melodie sau dintr-o poezie, și care e menită să-i ilumineze pe cei care care o citesc cu unul dintre adevărurile misterioase ale universului. Complet stupid, acest tip de status scoate la iveală o personalitate destul de pretențioasă, înfășurată într-o alură de profunzime, dar care adesea nu reușește decît să plictisească.
Exemplu: ”My soul is a virgin's shadow.”

8. ”Priviți-mă cum muncesc.” Proiecte profesionale de care nu ne pasă, ora la care ai plecat de la birou, mulțumiri oamenilor care ți-au întins o mînă de ajutor, autopromovare a unor proiecte personale... Gata! Facebook-ul nu e intranetul tău de la serviciu. Lasă-ne și pe noi să ne citim liniștiți news feed-ul.
Exemplu: ”21.30. singur în open space. grrr...”

in a daze amongst the first winter haze

(above, what Hamlet would have uttered in a deep philosophical voice, had he lived in our times)

(bellow, an essay on what was once achievable, now a distant childhood dream)

when I was younger- I mean like nine years old, I wanted to be a painter. I'm not sure if this was the sad part, but I think I wanted to be a painter because of the escapism. when I drew it was like I could be anyone, the canvas could turn into anything. I believed all the cliched lines about being an artist and what it involved. I felt pretty invincible. then I turned twelve and realized I couldn't draw for shit. the end.

when i woke up this morning

i think i got too distracted by the snow falling this morning (it's so fairytale it can make one almost sick) and over indulged in chocolate cookies, coffee and the poetry of clemence & rupert. i thought it was only the snow finally gracing us with its presence, but no, it's this entire day, so fairytale it makes me sick to my stomach. that is just... too good.