Am ramas in urma cu scrisul. Si mai grav, am ramas in urma cu cititul; si cand citesc, nu mai comentez, (imi zic ca) o las pe mai tarziu. Si mai tarziul ala se transforma in zile/saptamani, apoi nu mai are rost sa comentez. Dar da, as avea de zis multe, imi place ce (apuc sa) citesc, ma gandesc la cele spuse de voi, as vrea sa empatizez sau sa vin cu exemplu' personal, numai ca...
Sper ca primavara care pare sa se apropie tot mai mult sa ma puna mai serios pe picioare. Dupa luni de stat in casa, cu cate-un varf de nas scos pe usa cu groaza, am avut trei zile de stat cu orele afara. Am inceput sapatul de straturi pentru bunatatile ce le-om manca pana la iarna. Azi am intrat intensiv in colonia de urzici dintr-o parte a curtii, unde vreau sa pun porumb de fiert :D Am relocat bulbi de narcise. Am fost in parc! Si, foarte important, am reusit sa ne izolam vizual (ma rog, cat de cat) de vecinu' psihopat (deocamdata fara acte).
M-am apucat de tae bo :D (asta, combinata cu muncile campului, tre' sa dea niste rezultate spectaculoase :P). Ora de azi am ratat-o totusi din motive de durere de masea post-vizita-la-dentist, dar recuperez maine. Si chiar am chef :)
The newborn infant, with his skin crying out for the ancient touch of smooth, warmth-radiating, living flesh, is wrapped in dry, lifeless cloth. He is put in a box where he is left, no matter how he weeps, in a limbo that is utterly motionless (for the first time in all his body’s experience, during the eons of its evolution or during its eternity of bliss in the womb). The only sounds he can hear are the wails of other victims of the same ineffable agony. The sound can mean nothing to him. He cries and cries; his lungs, new to air, are strained with the desperation in his heart. No one comes. Trusting in the rightness of life, as by nature he must, he does the only act he can, which is to cry on. Eventually, a timeless lifetime after, he falls asleep exhausted.
He awakes in a mindless terror of the silence, the motionlessness. He screams. He is afire from head to foot with want, with desire, with intolerable impatience. He gasps for breath and screams until his head is filled and throbbing with the sound. He screams until his chest aches, until his throat is sore. He can bear the pain no more and his sobs weaken and subside. He listens. He opens and closes his fists. He rolls his head from side to side. Nothing helps. It is unbearable. He begins to cry again, but it is too much for his strained throat; he soon stops. He stiffens his desire-racked body and there is a shadow of relief. He waves his hands and kicks his feet. He stops, able to suffer, unable to think, unable to hope. He listens. Then he falls asleep again.
When he awakens he wets his diaper and is distracted from his torment by the event. But the pleasant feeling of wetting and the warm, damp, flowing sensation around his lower body are quickly gone. The warmth is now immobile and turning cold and clammy. He kicks his legs. Stiffens his body. Sobs. Desperate with longing, his lifeless surroundings wet and uncomfortable, he screams through his misery until it is stilled by lonely sleep.
Someone comes and lifts him deliciously through the air. He is in life. He is carried a bit too gingerly for his taste, but there is motion. Then he is in his place. All the agony he has undergone is nonexistent. He rests in the enfolding arms, and though his skin is sending no message of relief from the cloth, no news of live flesh on his flesh, his hands and mouth are reporting normal. The positive pleasure of life, which is continuum normal, is almost complete. The taste and texture of the breast are there, the warm milk is flowing into his eager mouth, there is a heartbeat, which should have been his link, his reassurance of continuity from the womb, there is movement perceptible to his dim vision. The sound of the voice is right, too. There is only the cloth and the smell (his mother uses cologne) that leave something missing. He sucks and, when he feels full and rosy, dozes off.
Home is essentially indistinguishable from the maternity ward except for the chafing. The infant’s waking hours are passed in yearning, wanting, and interminable waiting for rightness to replace the silent void. For a few minutes a day, his longing is suspended and his terrible skin-crawling need to be touched, to be held and to be moved about, is relieved. His mother is one who, after much thought, has decided to allow him access to her breast. At first, it is hard to put him down after his feeding, especially because he cries so desperately when she does. But she is convinced that she must, for her mother has told her (and she must know) that if she gives in to him now he will be spoiled and cause trouble later. She wants to do everything right; she feels for a moment that the little life she holds in her arms is more important than anything else on earth.
Softly, she closes the door. She has declared war upon him. Her will must prevail over his. Through the door she hears what sounds like someone being tortured. Her continuum recognizes it as such. Nature does not make clear signals that someone is being tortured unless it is the case. It is precisely as serious as it sounds.
She hesitates, her heart pulled toward him, but resists and goes on her way. He has just been changed and fed. She is sure he does not really need anything, therefore, and she lets him weep until he is exhausted.
He awakens and cries again. His mother looks in at the door to ascertain that he is in his place; softly, as so not to awaken in him any false hope of attention, she shuts the door again. She hurries to the kitchen, where she is working, and leaves that door open so that she can hear the baby, in case “anything happens to him”.
De cand cu stirile despre Toyota, ma tot intreb daca primesc si eu scrisorica sa-mi duc Yaris-ul la revizie au ba. Desi n-a dat semne ca ar avea ceva cu acceleratia, merge foarte fain de doi ani jumate, de cand il am.
Problema mea-i cu cheia. Sau, ma rog, chestia aia patrata cu breloc Toyota, care incepe sa faca figuri. Cateodata dimineata se indura sa porneasca masina numai dupa ce-o tin la caldura intre maini, suflu in ea, ii fac farmece si-o descant. Azi am fost la dentist si dupa ce-am parcat am stat cinci minute chinuindu-ma sa-mi inchid masina :)) Si imediat ce am reusit, mi-am adus aminte ca daca apesi pe un butonas secret, iese adevarata cheie, cu care as fi putut inchide mecanic usa. Dar na, daca pana acum am inchis-o tot electronic... neuronul responsabil cu informatia asta o fi iesit intre timp la pensie.
Mi-a placut foarte mult ca puteam deschide/inchide si porni masina fara sa mai scot cheia din geanta/buzunar, insa acuma asta se cam intoarce impotriva mea. Pana la urma, cu deschisul/inchisul razbim cumva. Dar ce ma fac cu pornitul? Ca masina porneste numai din buton, n-ai unde sa bagi cheia clasica. Deci, daca se intampla sa-si dea cheia aia duhul cine stie pe unde, om m-am facut :D. Si atata am sucit-o pe toate partile, sa vad cam pe unde s-ar schimba bateria... Ma las pagubasa, cred ca tre' sa merg la reprezentanta si sa vad ce si cum. Sper numa' ca nu-i cazul sa schimb cheia cu tot cu masina :)).
Sa fie soare si cald afara. Daca n-ar trebui sa aduc lemne din cand in cand sau sa mai fac ceva cumparaturi, as putea linistita sa nu ies deloc iarna din casa. Mi-i frig, ma deprima flescaiala de pe jos, nu-mi place lumina de iarna (decat rareori), detest sa merg zgribulita si infrigurata, cu umerii stransi (oricat de bine m-as imbraca, tot ma ia cate-un fior).
Sa am din nou degetele intregi si curate, fara urme de cenusa si mai ales fara aschii. Parca-s magnet, pe cuvant. Cum pun mana pe un lemn, cum hop! o aschie la mine-n degete. Cea mai cea a fost una culeasa pe cand stergeam cu laveta o planseta de lemn pe care facusem pizza :(( Mi-a intrat in degetul mare pret de vreo 7 mm, m-a fulgerat o durere pana la cot si nici macar n-am putut s-o scot singura, asa bine era infipta :(( Cat despre cenusa, ati avut vreodata de va spalat pe maini dupa ce v-ati murdarit cu cenusa? Iese usor, cu peria de sarma :((
Sa pot iesi seara in oras fara grija focului de-acasa. Sa iesim, adica. Nu-i vorba, focul cu lemne e frumos, miroase bine, face caldura, pocneste de-a dreptul melodios (deci e absolut minunat, mai ales vara :D); singura problema e ca are nevoie de atentie neintrerupta. Asa ca de mult nu mai putem iesi seara fara grija (nu c-am avea unde, de altfel) daca vrem sa dormim noaptea la caldura :D Oricum diminetile sunt adevarate pietre de incercare. In dormitor nu coboara temperatura sub 15 grade, dar pe hol si in bucatarie sunt 7-10. Ca sa nu mai zic in baie. Eh, asa se caleste otelul... :P Punctul culminant a fost luni dimineata, cand ne-am intors acasa dupa o saptamana de absenta si am gasit in casa 2 (doua!) grade. Noroc ca pe Alla o lasasem la bunici, urma sa ajunga abia la pranz, pana atunci am reusit sa ajungem la o temperatura suportabila. Orisicat, somnul de pranz din ziua aia l-a facut in bucatarie, in scaunul de masina, ca-n dormitor nici vorba sa se poata dormi la ora aia.
Un laptop. Asa ne-am putea uita la filme in timp ce Alla doarme, cu ea in camera, ca sa nu mai fac o mie de ture spre dormitor, sa aud daca nu cumva s-a trezit si vrea pisu. Nu de alta, dar daca nu aud primele fosneli se pune pe plans :(. Teoretic stiu ca se trezeste cam la doua ore dupa ce adoarme, insa rareori prind exact momentul. Si cum deocamdata e exclus sa las usile la dormitor si la bucatarie deschise, sa aud... laptopul ar fi singura solutie :P Pe cuvant ca numa' de aia imi trebuie :D
Ar mai fi, dar las si pe data viitoare. Macar primele trei se implinesc indata, ca nu mai e mult (sper eu) pana la primavara :)