Searching for divinity

For many years as a kid, I was upset with God. It was something in the way the priest gripped my cheeks each time he would come to bless our home after Christmas or Easter. It was something in the smell of incense that choked my throat when I entered the church. And, although my grandmother tried to build a halo of legends around God with whispered bed-time stories, the continuous gossip of old ladies in the church halls made my skin crawl. I was the constant target of this blabber, as I didn’t use to cover my head and as my 8-year old clothes were ridiculously regarded as too voluptuous. But most of all, I was upset with God because of the war in Yugoslavia. I used to spend several hours looking outside the window at night and imagining fires and violence, until I would eventually fall asleep, tickled by a childish despair and by the smell of dry rags. It was hard for me to believe God had his ways. I blamed Him for indifference and sometimes even for inexistence.

Then, a strange event occurred, that would change my view of divinity forever. As a child, I had many dreams. Some were as insignificant as building a snow castle each December, or gathering dandelions, while others were close to impossible. My most eccentric dream haunted me each time I turned on the old television in my parents’ room. The former communist regime was not yet forgotten, and mass media were still a luxury. As a consequence, my childhood was intoxicated with TV channels aired directly from Britain, and most importantly, with British commercials of shiny, oversized plastic toys that could move and talk. There was this particular Barbie horse that could walk by itself when you pushed its tail that really caught my attention.Most of my dolls were dead rags that hardly resembled anything and that had buttons instead of eyes, so I was surprised that a toy could be so beautiful and seem so alive. I sometimes wondered why one couldn’t find toys like that on the Romanian market and at times I felt that I should have been born in Britain – I found it all a divine plot against me, as if at birth I had been catapulted into the wrong context. It was quite common for guests to see me suddenly drop on the floor and burst into tears, even if two minutes before I had been standing quietly in front of the TV, munching some cookies. It was a pretty weird scene, as I never demanded my parents to buy me the horse when crying, but rather ordered them to move to Britain. My poor mother had to temper me each time I started those inevitable cries. And one of her best methods to make me stop was to warn me that Santa and the Easter bunny wouldn’t bring me presents anymore, because I scare them away.

That particular day, my parents were out shopping, and I was left to share my burning emigration desire with the blank walls. The burdening solitude echoed a divine presence in my mind and, for the first time in my life, I felt the sudden impulse of sitting on the floor and talking to God. It was not a prayer, I felt. It was just as talking face to face to a person in a café, over a steamy coffee. I explained to Him why I wanted that toy horse so much and, with every spoken word, I realized that I could overcome my desire. I concluded with the certainty that if I were to see and touch that toy, I would surely lose my interest in it. As if God had agreed upon the deal, a shimmering light hit the nearest roof outside and reflected inside the narrow hallway where I was sitting, filling it with a still grace.

My father used to repair televisions for extra money. Most of the time, he would take me along, knowing how much I liked to discover the intricate contraptions behind the overwhelming screen of the TV.That afternoon, after my discussion with God, we went to visit a rich family whose children had most of the toys I saw on TV. And in a quiet corner, the horse was waiting for me, with a glowing stare. I picked it up and its silky hair made my hands shiver. I examined its small nostrils and the beautiful curve of its neck and then I gently pressed its tail. Exactly like in the commercial, it obeyed, and started moving across the room, bumping into every chair or object in its way. The sound of each step it made covered my echoing heartbeats. For a second, it was as if that horse generated my every breath and thought. Then it suddenly stopped and I came to realize that there was no difference between my imitations of toys and this Barbie horse. In fact, they were more human and close to my heart, as this horse almost looked alien in its still grace. From that moment on, it meant nothing to me.

I cannot doubt the existence of God since then. He became, in my eyes, sensible towards the small details that round up one’s life, even towards the superficial dreams of a little girl that watches too many commercials.

Money

Motto: Money,

so they say

Is the root of all evil

Today

…If only I had a penny for every wet money dream I witness in people’s eyes. I myself would be filthy rich by now. And utterly poor in spirit I might say. I wish I could bathe in pennies till I become one with the metal pennies are made of. Then I would walk down the filthy streets, delicately screeching the pavement with my precious nature. And hookers and beggars would look up to my shiny indifference, shyily whispering: save us. And I would put on a glassy glare and say:NO.

I’d shower the streets with gold, until everyone drowns into a golden silence. Businessmen and low-lives alike, with their hand in their pants, would savor a golden vigor mortis. Thirsty ladies would pluck out the precious diamonds in their eyes. And by seven o’clock the streets would be cleansed, just as the aisles lay in silence after all automated consumers have drained them of their lollypops. Like locusts. I put a coin into Rosie’s sweet mouth. I tell her to chew, and see if she can swallow. She’s mad with money and she sure can’t resist this raw temptation. But teeth keep falling on the floor like tears.

Sorry Rosie… today isn’t a good day for business, lav.

My Venice

On my first trip to Italy, I wanted to greet Venice as a holy place. I somehow saw myself as a profane being, ready to plunge into the secrets of a city I could not understand, whose name only reminded me of an overwhelming culture and Renaissance busts. The floating city of Venice was, in my imagination, the same with the ancient city of Atlantis and I expected to see Venice too sink under the seas the very moment I would get to its lands. At the same time, my Venice was full of Romeos and Juliets cuddling all throughout the city, in the gondolas and on every narrow bridge. I was quite sure their tears of joy actually added up to the water that would eventually sink the city. That is why, when I got the chance to approach Venice, I was grateful to the fact that I managed to see it before it totally disappeared.

But I soon got to find out that my personal myths concerning Venice were far from reality. I imagined I would enter the city alone, on one small raft or boat, accompanied by a mute dark gondolier and that my trip by sea would be close to crossing the Styx, a sort of experience of initiation. On the contrary, I got stuck on a two story boat where all tourists were psyched of taking Kodak moments while approaching the shore. As soon as the boat hit the San Marco Square they poured out like insects, making me feel like a hungry bird trapped in an aviary. And my feeling of unsafety was greatly increased by the pigeons diseasing every granite tile of the plaza. They were demons describing a brownian movement, only tempered by the crumbs of bread tourists chose to spread around the plaza. Some tourists, more daring than others, let the pigeons eat from their very hands and that’s when all the birds usually went mad and attacked the person’s head and limbs.

For me, the real Venice was close to a wetter Hell- each tourist slaughtered by the pigeons was a metaphorical sacrifice to the myth of the demigod Prometheus, whose liver was meant to be eaten by the eagles for eternity, just because he offered the secret of fire to the human species. And the stench that was rising from the canals reminded me of rotten pomegranate and old lipstick. Everything in the city was consumed, dusted. The city itself was an old courtesan that no one could love anymore. Under the glittery shops, whose counters were full of carnivalesque masks, laid a tired stillness. And water invaded everything, you could feel its dampness in your lungs. It was also troubling to see the old dwellings of rich Renaissance families bearing their washed coat of arms being eaten up by the mercury-like water. At the balconies of many of these imposing houses draperies were left blowing in the wind, as if waiting for their ethereal owners to return.

Two hours in Venice and I already felt the mould forming on my soul. I feared looking down in the canal, I had the feeling that other tourists were paying for their sins down there, as if struggling to get out of a tar pit. You could see no vegetation in Venice, the only spots of green were twisted vines trying to suffocate whole balconies, all in vain. As the night came down, the city itself started to boil, as if animated by the cursed waters beneath it. The turmoil made people’s faces fade away and the jazzy tunes jingling from the nearby restaurants seemed almost ritualistic. What really struck me at night was the emptiness of the San Marco Square- with all the pigeons gone to sleep, people seemed feeble and bored, awaiting other forms of punishment. I was lost in a labyrinth of strangers, feeling even lonelier because of the constant noise. Another thing just as surprising about Venice was the fact that although the city was surrounded by water, there were actually few fountains in the city where you could chase away your thirst. That was another proof that the water of the city was somehow tainted… I refused to eat or drink anything belonging to that sad place.

I left Venice during the evening, dazzled by the fact that it resembled nothing in the colorful postcards. Not even the warm sunset or the dreamy gondolier. It was just a city of masks and faces, a city of strangers and glass.

Short meditation upon reality

As a very determined video game player (call me a gamer, if you must), I’ve many times wondered if I’m not crossing the border between real and unreal too often at some point. What I mean is, am I trying to compensate for a sort of insufficient reality? Am I better off as a very voluptuous Lara Croft, or as a sensual assassin wreaking havoc in the Italian countryside? Or as an evil mastermind building cities and rushing against my opponent? Are video games my drugs? Giving me a sense I sometimes miss in my own life?

What really startles me is not the nature of my virtual reality. But the nature of reality itself. I read a couple of days ago, while doing the daily research on my BA project, that “society is a kind of fiction too”. I honestly forgot who said that, I tend to remember ideas, but not their bearers. Anyway, my point then is: how is society, the present human reality, any better than the reality of video games? I think we have the gift of turning virtualities into real things, just through the power of mind. You may not think of the games you play for fun as your future universe, but give it a thought. I think man invented society to shield himself from nature, which was in the past the true reality.

Now, nature is just an idea and society IS reality. But a manufactured one, one interwoven with the very human interests. And we’re slowly heading towards an over-reality, the cyber-reality which will soon overwhelm our minds and overload them. It’s interesting that, between the three states of material, information and soul, the human being tends to embrace the informational one. Is it the mirage of consciously wielding an infinite potentiality? Is the passivity of the soul the one that scares us away from the spiritual path? And can information be the way, another way to dissolution into eternity?

Queer (in the non-sexual way)

Just when I thought I’m on the right track my other selves had to come and twist me up again a bit. Some of the old symptoms are back:

• I’m drink-bullshitting again, as if the multitude of lying sinning selves just can’t play with each other anymore and they need to take it out on innocent people
•  I got scared of a semi-squished Rafaello candy as it resembled a sort of a dead animal at first to me
•  I’m having panic attacks when I hear the sound of my heart beats again
•  My hearing is worse than ever, as if I can’t concentrate on reality anymore
•  I’ve dreamed someone was trying to steal my soul, three times in a row, the same night. At least he didn’t succeed in doing it, but I did get up already wasted

I do hope it’s the cold I’ve caught. I pray it to be the cold.  This hyper reality, this under reality, they’re splicing my blood cells.

Meditation

MOTTO: I love the love you bring

It takes more than ten years of our petty infant life to realize that we were born alone. From this moment on, the search is vivid. We dodge dicks and pussies, we dodge hookers and freebies, we dodge the dreams and desires of others, we dodge the snow and the rain, the storm of emotions for that one thing that makes us human. Our desire to be left alone with that one person that makes a difference in our loneliness. The person in whose soul “I love you”s never dig up the void, but rather make it of a creamy consistent flavour, so  that you can eat the void with a soup spoon. That someone that ripples our sinapses and makes silence confortable.

We see people come and go, all fearing the same loneliness, desperately trying to swallow a moment of eachother’s time, to swallow an act, not a feeling, to swallow facts and not ideas, hoping that the flow of everyday events will eventually lead to their dissolvation into a higher sense of beloning. We see the same people hating eachother when they should only hate their expectations, their tendency to beautify and objectify a thing that’s never been more than a sacred concept: love. So next time you hold a hand in its grace, and next time you glance over a curly and ethereal sleeping body, fearing the flicker of time, just give love some thought. It’s easier to keep feelings categorised on a shelf, drowned in clichees and safe spots, advertised by glowing neon sighs and endless hallucinations. And it’s much easier to accept the cross of loneliness in a world of crowded madmen and arbitrary encounters, when the search for the truth and the perfect blend of feathers and doom is never nothing else but an endless rickety labyrinth into your own, demonic, self.