Santorini, Greece, 2016 (Kamari beach)
condensed, consciousness, cosmos, Deepak Chopra, human race, humanity, humbling, inside, light, light speed, organized, outside, overimposed, paradox, pattern, quantum, simultaneously, soul, space, subatomic, travel, Universe, waves
Isn’t music the thing that saves our soul, every time?
It always saves mine.
Varianta în română: https://soulpatterns.wordpress.com/2013/07/20/just-air-just-echos/
If you can paint/write/sing about it, then it seems easier to handle, doesn’t it?
I wrote seven pages. Great, now the joy of transcribing them!
Fed up with the term “motivation”? Don’t worry, I was just camouflaging the real adjective that characterises my writing habit, which is very close to the word “obsession”.
If I told you I’m sitting here, hungry as hell, with a plate of quiche Lorraine and salad in front of me, but I’m still writing on my “Douceur de l’ecriture/Papier velouté”, yes a much too expensive – for a Romanian – lined notebook, which reminds me of how frustrated I was for not finding Rhodias anymore, you can grasp the concept. I mean, I am a foodie. But the attraction force of catching in writing what just came to me is much stronger in this moment.
Just begun blogging a few days ago and I’m still getting used to the idea and feeling of it. Should have started years ago, but it’s always a struggle for me to choose what to do next.
Stopping at one thing, in one form of expression, is both excruciatingly beautiful and miraculously painful.
I have to choose from painting my moods, drawing all kinds of shapes, singing, dancing, cooking, experimenting with textile fibers, digital art, and taking photos of everything, documenting small worlds, of things that just happen to be in the same shot; and, of course, writing.
I write from the age of seven or eight. That’s when I first thought it would be a good idea.
I probably already had inner conflicts which needed resolving. Not sure I’ve gotten to bottom of them yet, twenty-five years later, but I’m getting there.
I burnt in a metal bucket my first diary, because I thought my mother, who found it (although I hid it in the floor :), yeah I know), had red it. I thought “well, it’s not a diary anymore; diaries were supposed to be secret; so it must disappear, it has lost its purpose”. The thing could not exist outside (my) reasoning.
I later found out that she didn’t read it, but what was done could not be undone, unless I also possessed a time machine, next to my fiery, teenage announcing moods. Yes, I’ve had a problem in allowing myself to hope, or trust for that matter, from a young age :).
Took me a while to be overwhelmed again by my need to write, to start a new one.
And I kept filling many agendas, notebooks, diaries, digital drafts and documents, with all the blurry or clear thoughts that happen to pass by my intricate brain, and all the other filters inbuilt in one’s being.
OK, now I’ll take a few bites out of this quiche.
Ah! the miracle of dill over anything savory!
So, where was I?
Beautiful day in Bucharest, trees are leafless still, and grey; terrace umbrellas are still folded, yet the sun makes even the dullest, most depressing scenery look poetic.
So I write. I record my states to the last nuance, I let it out, then edit out.
I write in the middle of anything, at the beginning, at the end of it.
Besides the obvious computer desk or kitchen table, bed and bathroom sitting-ware, I’ve written sitting on the floor, on the bus, train, airplane, in a coffee shop, restaurant, even on a cashier receipt; even while walking. At times, the magic symbols that make up the words make their way onto my paintings. I’ve missed my bus stop a few times, went to bed two hours later because of it, but with no regrets.
It’s like I’m underwater. It’s just me and the warm or cold pressure of the blue-green, semitransparent waves. The sounds are only inside my brain now, the ripples of the moment pass through me, and the best way to enjoy it is to go with the flow. I see the sand beneath, changing in motion. The light from above becomes alive, in a liquid dance.
I write on single sheets of paper and stick them on the walls of my room or my kitchen. I take them down after a while and put new ones.
I write both in Romanian and English. I think in both languages. My friends and colleagues often ask me why I also talk that way :).
I don’t have the right answer, its just the way it is.
You probably think that, as a consequence, I should be able to post daily on here. Apart from having a daily job, the thought of presenting all my (digital) “ink recordings” to the world paralyses me, as it would any human being – I heard that’s a good sign; so I’ll take the middle path. I will try to keep a constant flow, of a couple of posts a week, and hopefully build on that.
I sense that adrenaline again, time will tell if that’s good or bad.