Memoirs

This year has presented itself like a wall On which to hit my head repeatedly Until I start to see differently Until I hear  a different frequency  For the music of the falling leaves Paying tribute through their death To the falling winter. Their dance started in sweetness  Only to turn into an angry small tornado Trying to clean the streets of settling dust Which makes it so hard to swallow the present. Luckily blue bird and jays still sing the same Youthful  song and want to be heard Through summer and winter Thus letting their joy flow through the cracks Like light breaking the soul free From its newly acknowledged prison 

Everything is bright and blue  and nothing dares to wrinkle the perfect surface of these waters here in heaven We try to not look down it hard to see through murky waters anyways, who care what happens in the depths of hell when we live up  to our potential here in heaven we are all busy greeting angels gentle to also greet us and hope one day they'll open doors for us us marching triumphantly as we glide  above the superficial waters and we look up to higher heavens we look so high we can't be bothered to acknowledge our need for cleaning and renewing  we dismiss the very plain existence of pain,  the needs for listening to those we do not hold in favors we dismiss if we can hear at all theirs messages as well as the muddy signal from our depths there are no mistakes, we do not tolerate them in our heavens

I had learned the secret of beautiful women as a child, from a grown up man and he shared it with me in return  for me  sharing a poem He said that beautiful women forget they do not bear past wounds on their chest, they move forwards past storms And they emerge clean and tall. He too shared his thought  in a poem, that i have mostly forgotten although i have pursued that kind of beauty but rather the richness of memories in all colors and flavors. sometimes memory burdens with the depths of its truths of unforgivable but forgettable acts justified or not by the quality of possible futures sometimes you crave that kind of bare chested beauty the cleaner mind, the youthful body  untouched, unmarked by scars and the weight of predictions then you bring it out when it helps you to make the decision to break with the past and if you listen there is an almost audible sound of a heart breaking. mine sounded like ice it was cracking for days and when the piece tha...

The color of friendship is chestnut, and it sounds like crumbling leaves, under the fast wheels or roller skates. I feel the feeling of friendship best during the month of September. I remember her moving to our neighborhood, maybe because our soccer games became suddenly more intense due to her athleticism alone.  We play together  with the boys, and nobody tells us no.  We make a club, where we meet and share stories and sweets. We alternate between these activities and hide and seek.   At other times we gather chestnuts on Sundays for our schools from the yard of the academy of sciences, which happens to be close to the neighborhood where we live. We cary the heavy bags on Monday to school and wonder what is the purpose.  One time she is being a little to brave and climbs the trees in the yard of the academy of economic studies - to gather more chestnuts for school and she falls, she breaks and arm. This marks the end of a season.  Then high-school ...

  White is the color of the skate rink. My father and I take the tram and we go there once or twice a week for figure skating lessons. I feel cold and clumsy and I skate carefully in the beginning as my dad is watching - from the sides. He does not know how to skate but he will try anything. And he wants me to try. I discover the joy of moving fast, almost effortlessly. I am still clumsy probably but I have figured out most of the tricky balance moves I was supposed to learn, and I like skating backwards. Mostly I like moving perpendicular to the long dimension from wall to wall , to use all the space that our team is allowed to use. We are many teams, and the whole rink space only opens wide to all of us at the end of the lessons. We swarm in a big circle, around the rink. The hockey kids skate faster and one of them always comes close, too close at some point, touching my skates as he passes ahead. I am afraid of falling and think that if I fall I should keep my hands under me, o...

  Silver is the color of resistance, at least for me. I was baptized in a silver and copper cauldron in the house where i was born. A 150 year old house standing strong, the house where my grandmother and her sister grew up for the most part. The house their grandfather had bought from his father, who could not figure out how to divide a 3 room house to his 9 children. The house that their grandfather had expanded to 6 rooms, and where 6 families used to live during a certain period of communist times. They were all sharing one bathroom, which apparently what the communist regimen demanded from the rich bourgeois family that owned 6 rooms - to share their riches that is. The house that we were now sharing, two families with kids, plus my grandmother and her sister. We were all there and not in church, maybe because Bucharest was too cold in winter, or more likely because at least one of the family members could not be seen in church, or would loose a job that involved a position wi...