The Vernal Equinox

The Sun oversteps the horizon,

traversing the imaginary boundary of winter’s dream.

Bow-like,

the sky rises over the newly human Sun,

now an Adam,

sweating drops of honey and of light.

Denuded,

today he crosses the threshold of his golden house,

contemplating,

on the equatorial line,

the universe at an angle.

He is with us.

Be it that he has descended in the dawn,

but over us it snows,

though it is impossible to say whether with holy water

or with mottled balls of newspaper.

’The Olive Tree’

Director Icíar Bollaín’s 2016 drama grabs your heart and shakes it by its frail shoulders.

Simply put, El Olívo’ is about a granddaughter’s love for her grandfather. It is a reminder that modern materialism keeps us in shackles,  and that we must try to get to the heart of the world’s magic by recalling our past, our history, our childhood. I whisper this to myself, when I can get away from the haze of busy city life and back into my childhood bed don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget.

I felt close to this film, as one does when one is accepted naturally and seemingly without cause into a family’s problems. Familial disputes, honest and bravely awkward, give one the impression of shadowy invisibility in the humble kitchen. The flashbacks are so well done that I believe anyone close to their grandparents would have difficulty avoiding that twinge.

This is an anti-materialistic film that does  not depend on fancy lighting, huge budgets; that doesn’t sell itself out by conforming to cliché (however desirable this may seem). Finally, finally something about what’s inside of our hearts and heads, instead of where we shop, what political parties we associate ourselves with, what we look like outside. It is a modern fairy-tale through the lens of arid snapshots: arid snapshots, it seems, there is no visual attempt to create something that is not there – the hoards of monsters, birds, and biblical trees lies underneath, awaiting for imagination to make what it will of them. Such undercurrents challenge the viewer: it doesn’t show us certain things but rather allows us to think about them, for example, that delicate olive branch growing at super-speed across millennia and ending up bigger, better, even more monstrous than its mother.

It is a film not only about what it means to have an heirloom, but about what it means to have honor. Watch it, you won’t forget it.

The Drunk Downstairs

‘Hello there darling’,

 her voice quivers. 

Tragic she may seem, 

floating half above us, 

her mind a balloon 

on the corner of the room. 

A decoupée angel, 

she is, on the wall, 

She promenades, 

goose-feather and willow wisp. 

Stuck, she is, 

all shimmer and no lights. 

Florida

It was me and my bicycle. Morning began on the road nearly undressed, barefoot. The wind passed over over my bare forehead, erasing with calm wisdom the fever of unbearable heat. The awakening of eternal vacation was lulling, so slow that this routine was the only thing to give life any sense of existence. Otherwise, days dripped into each other as pendulously as a sickly syrup, and one’s eyes had a small chance of even opening. Yes, it was me on my bicycle, and for once blood pulsed through the veins of life. I rode through my almost-secret way, an empty and flat road, assessed naked before the painfully blue eyes of the American sky. Straddling my be-spoked wings, I circled ancient trees that strangled themselves, like suicidal sculptures of Shiva. Their roots emerged violently from the earth, claws claiming their right to protest. Flowers floated around me in unimaginable shades, shocking in their carnal beauty – was it a fever dream, I wonder, or had someone snuck a piece of Paradise on Earth, unnoticed? 

It was only at eventide that I was joined by a familiar scent, who retained the slender arms of youth and who wore a single gold bangle. The fundamental harshness of beauty too intense was tempered not by the perfume of night, but by she who reflected the womb that is the moon, enigmatic and miraculous above. Together, Mama and I would ride in tropical quiet, shadows against street lamps, complicit against the dormant day and for a moment, suspended in the ether, sailing through the cosmos on two bicycles. 

The Siege of the Castle of Love

In an illuminated manuscript lies the fabric of a dream.

In this dream my eyes are cavern-black and my body lead-heavy,

buried under the weight of grave, metal-armoured centuries.

In this dream our love is medieval,

of swaying grass and of ancient stone,

of the harp’s twinge in the evening light.

In this dream I am a naked knight,

bare but for my persistence in love.

In this dream you whisper to me:

“If I forget,

you be the one to remind me”.

In this dream I kneel before you,

as the light pours in,

holy,

in seven thousand mirrors of light.

In this dream,

the maiden’s hair cascades,

river-heavy.

In this dream

I will be the one to remind you,

if you forget.

 

Vignette de La Cluj

Reîntoarcerea: pregnantă, anunțându-și importanța bine definită, de parcă cuvântul în sine ar fi fost subliniat de două ori cu stiloul. Dar deși se poate pipăi cuvântul, Clujul meu greu se lasă constrâns de marginile paginii. Incerc totuși să-l culeg din firimituri, de dragul reîntoarcerii (subliniată de două ori cu stiloul). 

Covorul din sufragerie este in mod indiscutabil același, multicolorat și țesut din toate experiențele noastre comune, de nu-știu-cât timp. Continui să adaug câte un fir de experiență marelui proiect genealogic de fiecare dată când vin la bunica, îmi pică din buzunare și le scutur din păr când umblu peste el.
După-masa se face absorbție de Vitamina D în bucătărie, în mod preferabil cu ochii închiși și creștetul încălzit de soarele care se alintă trecând prin perdelele de voal. Am putea numi-o grădina de iarnă, și să adăugăm un strop de tărie într-un păhărel de cristal prin care să treacă lumina.
În bibliotecă este o poză cu Tata în formă de copil, altul dar tot același. Nu departe de copilul Tata, Bunica stă pe fotoliul verde, lângă veioză și îmi amintesc cum aproape șoptea sfaturi de dragoste și de viață, când aveam nevoile de ele.
Ce înseamnă toate lucrurile astea?
Cum am spus, țesutul vieții, o dantelă foarte laborioasă și foarte fină…