Adnana

human touch

2012-01-26T02:14:00.001-08:00

He holds me when I'm happy. He holds me when I'm sad. He holds me when I'm mad (even when it's at him). He holds me when I'm sick. He holds me when I'm feeling good. He holds me when I'm on cloud nine. He holds me when my head is in the clouds. He holds me when nothing seems to be going my way. He holds me when it seems like nothing can go wrong. No matter my emotion, to him I'm just me.

time is love

2011-12-31T01:59:00.000-08:00

Now. I want you in the humid soil before the man-made lake, to know your dampness, that soft domain, indolent, of grass and flower, of shirt and thigh. I want your sigh seen as ghosts rising, your teeth unconsciously bare in desire, your eyes full of the stars beyond my back. I want to know your gravity and shiver warm and cold, warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that seduction known to finger and glove. There is here life, this fullness, this rush, this fit. This crashing of you into me, my world, our world as changed as the man upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, to smell of your bloom flowering my shoulder, your lust in the tremor of calf and the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose, to reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. It is here, this last freedom released, unbound before fruit and flower, intoxicated in the way of poets with verbs and architects with nouns. But above all, I want not your soul nor your willing flesh sinuous and shimmering. I want what can never be taken, never be replaced. I want you, as you have never been, as you will never be again. I want dissolution. I want abject capitulation. The melding of our coin into new currency. I want it this stilt moment. I want it forever more.

As the hour draws near, my desire surges for soil, that alluvial stain, this indolent night of sweet grass and bowed flower, of pleated shirt and willful hands. I need this place of ghostly sighs rising from your parted lips, of teeth bare before nature and eyes scarred of fallen stars. I ache to know your tidal gravity, to shiver warm and cold with celsius pleasure, that snug seduction known to finger and glove. This fit, this fullness, this silty rush of life, this crashing of you into me, our world as changed as the man upon the breast. I want muddy earth between my fingers, the pungent flowering of my shoulder, lust in the tremor of calf, the impaling of nails, this seeking of blood, to rip open, to expose and reveal to the heavens what heretofore has been hidden. I need this last freedom released, unbound and given flight. I want not your soul nor your flesh sinuous and shimmering. It is not in the hour, or minute nor second that I seek, but this eternal imprint of memory stained in the act of dissolution, abject capitulation, the melding of coin into new currency.

normality

2011-12-30T11:29:00.000-08:00

It's only harsh to those who have not walked in my shoes. There is a reason soldiers do not talk to non-soldiers about the things they have seen, have experienced. The experience of war, of most things, creates a unique language, a language of sights and sounds and smells and tastes but also a unique language of mood, emotion, anger, fear, contempt, horror and I could go on and on but the language is known not by words. You see, words only point and when one with the experience is talking to one without, then it quickly becomes known one is pointing at ghosts, pointing at nothing for the words mean nothing. Do you understand? The words don't mean nothing. The words are code. The words point. And if you don't have the code, if you don't have the language embedded in your own experiences, well, . . .

Imagine standing outside on a beautiful day. Inside, your head, your chest, a storm is raging, raging with a ferocity that takes every ounce of your energy to keep from tearing you apart, apart from the inside out. So you just stand there, looking into the clear blue sky, feeling the perfect breeze, listening to the most gorgeous songbird, the air fragrant the ways bees know the world and yet, inside, you feel shattered, pieces, one by one, falling away, until there is nothing left but an odd hollowness, a sense that if you looked into a mirror, there would be nothing there or at least nothing you could recognize as you. And all you want to do is curse the hand that put you, whatever you is, in motion, whatever sick magical force took nothing and made something, something they labeled with your name and then kicked you out into the void, cold, alone, naked into the thorns.

"How do you manage to stay positive?"

2011-12-26T02:59:00.000-08:00

"I have no right whatsoever to convey my sad thoughts onto others".

Woman. 87 years old. Romanian.

...

2011-12-16T07:32:00.000-08:00

...contrary to common belief, contemplation is a practical attitude and does not preclude action. The contemplative doesn't act out of impatience and desire, like the so-called "active" people do, and also not out of boredom, like all the anxious people react, overwhelmed and overwhelming with unnecessary things, so wasteful of time and life. No action is more prompt and safer than the intervention of a contemplative should a decisive moment prevail. Trouble with being a contemplative is that he turns out to be an actor of some sort of value, in order to be "ok"-ed amongst common people.

what's the difference?

2011-12-09T08:53:00.001-08:00

Adnana: A man knows, a dick asks....

siege

2011-11-16T02:36:00.001-08:00

People are at war, with no visible enemy.

latte

2011-07-31T03:59:00.001-07:00

I sat alone in the cafe as I always did. My choice. A token of integrity I told myself since no one who ever sat with me understood and I no longer had the energy to pretend that we spoke the same language. Yes, it was just one night, but it was how they said it, one night, as if in the saying they could slap or shame me into their reality. As if one thousand nights or ten thousand nights could plumb the depth of love deeper. But it didn't. I saw their fate, the facades, living made-to-order lives, timeline like a train, railed, rutted. I saw the token kisses and the perfunctory hugs, two branches of a tree grown apart; and I saw the effort to keep appearances where the only thing that was real came at the bottom of a bottle. So, I sat alone. Drank my coffee. And I remembered what it was like to live, even for just one night, without fetters.

gone

2011-07-31T03:58:00.000-07:00

Gone. Define that for me.
When you leave my bed and take a bath, are you gone? When all I have is the warmth of your impression. Your scent. The spoor of the hunt. My hair combed of your fingers natural in the shine of morning light. Do I not hold you then in the cup of my anticipation? And now, do I not remember your words, in the snow, that frosted promissory, breath of an angel, you'd prepare the way and wait, however long, you'd wait. To the bath or to the heavens, tell me, what is gone when my cup is full.

sigh

2011-07-31T03:52:00.000-07:00

I have found it easier to identify with the characters who verge upon hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really.

Tennessee Williams

beauty

2011-07-31T03:46:00.001-07:00

Beauty comes within seconds, just like rainbow, just like rage, a tear or a smile. Beauty is not here to stay, but to pass and come again, to those who wish to look at it and see themselves in a mirror. As frail and fast as beauty is, beauty has its strength. One never forgets the smile of a new-born, a certain peaceful look in a lover's eyes, or bliss. Hard to get, impossible to keep and quick to lose. This is beauty.

orice altceva decat sa scriu

2011-07-31T03:31:00.001-07:00

Să cânt la vioară o furtună de vară, să pictez vraful de imagini care-mi bântuie mintea, să mă mişc pe Sari Gelin, să privesc firul de nisip din deşert cum se plimbă prin vânt în loc să se aşeze la Soare şi să se transforme în sticlă, să-mi aduc aminte cum obişnuiam să zâmbesc magnoliilor proapăt înflorite în aprilie, să mă ascund în cărţi necitite, să mă uit la nori şi să vreau să fie ploaie, să beau apă şi să vreau un măr roşu, să pricep că-i primăvară doar când mirosul ierbii mă trage mai aproape de gardul bisericii albe şi mă îmbată, să pipăi piatra lină a râului de munte, să dresez zâmbind valurile Pacificului, să stau în JumadeLuna, să număr urmele pe plajă şi scoicile dintre ele să le las cadou altora neștiutori, să-mi deschid toate ferestrele și să pun lanțul pe ușă...

Primăvara asta... În fiecare an mă uimea cu seninătatea ei. Anul ăsta nici nu o bag în seamă. Ar fi trebuit să fie ea "şi mai şi" decât sunt eu ca să-mi mai spună ceva.

... încep cu "ar fi trebuit"... no, sunt prea multe "ar fi trebuit"-uri ca să-mi neliniştesc neliniştea şi mai mult.

Te-am mai întrebat, suflete, când ţi-e ţie linişte?

Aproape un an mai tarziu: cand gasesc toate anotimpurile, toate formele, toate spectrele si gamele muzicale, cand stiu toate limbile pamantului si inteleg teoria stringurilor. Atunci cand sunt eu, perfect aliniata intre minte, corp, simtire. Na, te ajuta cu ceva cand nimeni nu dispune de auzul tau perfect si te zgarie bemolurile sau diezii care nu fac armonie cu tine? Nup. Perfect pitch: un dar însingurător.

sunset

2011-07-31T03:22:00.001-07:00

Soare. E cald. E vară. E tihnă. E bucurie şi e chef de viaţă. Şi mulţi copii ce n-au grija valurilor şi câţiva pescăruşi ce n-au grija copiilor de pe malul mării. Malul meu.

Mă duc repede pân' la ei să-i văd cum caută curioşi scoici şi melci dintr-ăia mici şi maronii. Le-am dat lor bucuriile astea. Mie nu-mi mai trebuiau. Le văd în fiecare zi din an, iar pe copii îi văd doar când e vară...

S-o iau pe val, pe valul ăsta... nu! Am să-l iau pe următorul, căci se va sparge la mal şi va atinge în joacă degetele mici ale puilor de om care abia azi fac cunoştinţă cu mine. Ce fericită sunt! Abia îmi mai dezmorţesc şi eu curenţii şi algele vechi de-un anotimp. Auzi tu, să vadă şi să nu creadă... "marea vine tip-tip-tiptil şi te udă la degete, cu apă caldă şi apoi tot ea fuge înapoi în larg! Ce şugubeaţă mai e şi marea asta!" Ce-am mai râs de ei...

Dar gata, m-am jucat destul cu copiii şi surprinderea din ţipetele lor. Acum vreau să mă retrag un pic pe lângă stânca aceea îndepărtată de mal. E o bucată mare de piatră, mutată de valurile mele de-astă iarnă, cele mai puternice din an! Mă duc să stau acolo, să îmi admir lumea şi să mă bucur de Soare. Frumos e Soarele când vine pe la mine...

Nu, nu, nu! E cineva acolo. Un băiat. Stă singur pe stânca mea şi parcă ascultă ceva. Pe mine? Nu prea... parcă o muzică ce se-aude numai în urechile lui. Stă cu ochii pironiţi în apă şi nu mişcă. De ce-o sta acolo singur, cu braţele înfăşurate pe trup şi cu ochii pierduţi în adânc?! Deja l-a zvântat Soarele. De cât timp o sta acolo? Şi cum l-o chema? Îmi place de el. Are ochi mari şi calzi, trupul mic, dar puternic. Degajă siguranţă şi încredere în sine. Ce mi-ar plăcea să stau de vorbă cu gândurile lui... Ia uite ce degete mici are la picioare! E delicat... O fi cineva care să iubească o făptură aşa desăvârşită? L-am atins pe degetul mic şi n-a clintit. Mă face să zâmbesc. Să-l mai ating o dată. Nu mişcă... ce buze frumoase are! Mi-a zâmbit... Uite, am văzut cum... Soare, tu ai mai văzut un zâmbet aşa de frumos pe lumea asta? Nu? Nici tu?! Hmm.

- Cum te cheamă? Ce cauţi în adâncurile mele? Ce ai? Eşti trist. Ce vrei să dăruieşti parcă din prea-plinul tău? Iubire???? Ţi-e inima neîncăpătoare pentru câtă iubire izvorăşte din ea?! Ahaaaa... înţeleg. Dar n-ai iubită? Da? Şi ea ce face? Te iubeşte. Cum o cheamă? Adnana... Ea unde-i? Mă duc pân' la ea s-o văd. Am fost: citea şi când m-am apropiat de ea, mi-a zâmbit, mi-a spus "Hello" şi nu m-a mai băgat în seamă. Te căuta pe tine cu privirea. Şi ce priviri albastre are! Soare, tu ai mai văzut priviri aşa de-albastre ca ale ei? Nu? Nici tu?! Prietene, a prins vântul în zbor un "Te iubesc" de la fata-cu-cartea-în-mână, dar... vântul pe'aici nu-i destul de puternic şi mesajul a căzut în valurile mele... Cred că era prea greu de dus până şi pentru el. Şi uite, nici valul meu nu-l poate urni. Nu vrei, rogu-te, să te scufunzi, să iei tu greutatea asta din valurile mele? Mă cam încurcă. Şi nici măcar nu-i pentru mine.

tryst

2011-07-31T03:17:00.001-07:00

His clothes were on the floor, on top of hers. Thrown, not folded. Thrown in a way you remember not the throwing, thrown in the way a tree throws autumn leaves to the wind, abandoned you could say, tossed without haste, without care, a testament, or perhaps an evidence. His shirt fell first, empty sleeves now at the bottom of the scrum. Then pants still belted, heavy denim, male heft, the smell of him as wood and sweat, of a certain sweet musk neither dirty nor clean, neither child nor parent, not even of soil or sky. He smelled this way. Not so much intoxicating as otherworldly, but not so much as otherworldly as someplace secret, like a hidden cave or an undiscovered lake upon the mountain, of air not breathed before, of skin warm and supple, slightly sweaty, a mixture of salt to the tongue and of eyes drinking, thirsty as if sight itself in the dim light could quench a parch not known of lip or finger, neck or thigh, breast or nipple.

This was before and the night was still and silent. The sheets warm of body. His breathing steady in peaceful sleep. The clothes, too, looked peaceful in the moonlight, looked in their tangle as canvas discarded and she thought of painting, of the painting that happens before the canvas, implied with brush and stroke, but still she wondered, what is a painting, what would it look like without the canvas. Can it be seen, this canvas-less painting. Can it be known, to stand before the medium of cloth and to know what is seen is but a mirage, a mirror, only a finger, pointing to something else, as if the painter were mute, the artist speaking with sweet oil a language not of sight or touch or any sense. It was like that, this sitting, in the quiet, looking upon their clothes.