viata inseamna cunoastere/ 0,000001%

romanica- o tara deloc senzationala inecata in senzational. oamenii ei, putini senzationali, apeleaza la alti pentru a-si seduce pofta de senzational. daca spui ce crezi despre acest senzational esti cel putin al dracu de ciudat sau direct nebun, ca sa nu mai ocolim termeni… cunoasterea mi-e teama ca devine un conceput de necunoscut/de nerecunoscut. citatele tin locul cunoasterii, chiar o inlocuiesc in unele cazuri. descoperirea sensului acelor vorbe se face prin efectiva parcurgere a actiunilor care au determinat aparitia lor… nu prin vizualizarea lor:)) M-AM SATURAT de oameni care pretind ca le stiu pe toate, cand asta e cauza primara a miciunii in stare PURA. nu inteleg cum doar cei care nu au nimic DE SPUS sunt cei care spun tot pentru cea mai mare parte a poporului. ce rost are ca 100 de oameni sa isi dea seama de asta. inutil. la fel de inutil ca acestia sa creada ca pot trai in acelasi timp si spatiu cu ceilalti. de la geamul meu nu se poate asta. interes scazut pentru cultura, organizatii de acest gen, cinematografie, educatie,etc… nu am nervi sa le spun pe toate. cum se cere atat de mult oferind atat de putin???

p.s. as fi pus aici tot simetria mea e imperfectiune in orice monolog dar e o creatie prea frumoasa…enjoy

„visele smulg gratii”

acest post reprezinta scuzele mele fata de cineva care a incercat sa-mi spuna ca visele lui smulg gratii, dar eu vedeam o alta usa. visele smlug gratii deregleaza totul in tine doar daca mai e ceva la locul lui. daca esti deja nebun inseamna ca ai renuntat ori la vise ori la gratii. e un mare paradox muntele de impaturit hartie. e asimetric si de aceea e cu capul in jos. ba, in 13 sunt atatea adevaruri incat definirea lor prin adevar e ipocrita… inextricabil- te redirectioneaza clar de unde nu stiai ca te duceai… in seara asta si in toate ce vor urma ma bucur ca stiu sau cum spune el: „voi afla in timp”

Edgar Allan Poe – The Raven

Fiindca azi mi-a fluierat prin cap replica spusa de John Cusack: „Quoth the raven”, la care astepta un raspuns, care parea sa nu mai vina, intr-o noapte de betie stinsa in strada, va ofer raspunsul: „Nevermore”, si totodata integral poemul The Raven, publicat in 1845. Enjoy:)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of „Never-nevermore.”‘

Estetic Urban – G. Bacovia –

Oraşul seara…
Şantiere în repaos.
Şi firme scrise
Din becuri înstelate.

Oraşul seara…
Pe o piaţă
Cu sclipiri de fier
Claxon, armonic, a sunat.

Foburgul
Cu bachice dorinţi,
Şi cugetări
De opere văzute.

Oraşul, seara…
Din statica uitării, –
Destul frumos,
Destul departe.

P.S. „M-am nascut în zilele cele mai teribile…“ G. Bacovia – 1956