Talking to Myself

I never completely understood what makes people think that others will find interesting to read all the thoughts they throw in a blog.  But then I never completely understood why people come and read an article you publish somewhere, over the net or in a newspaper. But then I seldom (very very seldom) read newspapers at all and I feel a full stadium is one of the places where people are lonelier than ever, lonelier than in the intimacy of their homes, at any rate.

A lot of forums and discussion lists have been replaced by blogs out there. But the forums and the discussion lists addressed somebody. That subscribers list ment a group of people you were writing to, while blogs give  this overwhelming feeling you’re talking alone on the street, and if someone is not very busy or not very hurried, might as well understand your mumbling giving you the odd feeling: he likes what I said, or he is interested by what I aid, or just wonders if I’m insane. It’s like playing a theatre text without a scene, without show tickets, all of a sudden in a city plaza. This happens at times, and personally I do enjoy it, but thinking from the producer’s perspective, I cannot help but think one needs a good paranoia dose to trust people will stop, see the show and applaud at the end forgetting for some hours all the places they need to go to, all the other people needing them.

Against all this, and all the most because I don’t believe in those providential crowds stopping by to hear you mumbling alone or howling Electra’s words in a public plaza, I’m going to use this blog as a general draft. There are phrases that haunt me, there are stories which I tell myself, always fragmentary of course.

My oldest dream was about flying. Of course there is nothing except my battered, mature common sense to tell me it was a dream, but at 45 it is hard to believe I was actually flying. Still right when I’m writing these words I feel guilty towards the truth of this assertion. I was 5.. or so I trust, in our large courtyard. It was autumn and a little cold, but the grass still green and the leaves alive, only the sky was gray and a wind was blowing. A wind coming from our large wood porch. That porch made a hundred years ago to allow a full wagon to enter the courtyard and which no nobody used anymore.

And I was going toward the large garden that seemed almost infinite to me at that time. Then I see myself opening my arms, running a little, and finding myself flying, not high, not dangerous, just some 20 inches from the ground. I know at my right the peach tree and the apricot tree that were raising from the same trunk, the deep fountain (inhabited by a dragon as I used to believe) lined in gray-green molden boulders, then the tall rectangular stone embraced by my grandfather’s most beloved rose bush. The same rose bush that years later he brought to the Bucharest cemetery and re-planted there. I know myself running to the tall pear tree under which in the summer thousands of bees came to gather the syrup of the fallen fruits.

There was no falling, there was no flying above the whole village and seeing people small as you see in movies. There was only a  deep, intense pleasure, the sense of secrecy too. Then I came back to the earth and the days followed calm and serene as if the 5 years old girl never met that wind.

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