Lumea ca un cacat (un alt roman care nu se va scrie niciodata)

Capitolul 3 - Cacatul si orasul

Am auzit undeva ca in Imperiul Roman, cacatii se scurgeau efectiv pe strada. Cica si bordura ar fi inventat-o tot romanii, nu ca sa margineasca strada, ci ca ai mai instariti sa aiba pe unde merge fara sa-si manjeasca togile. Inventivi baietii. De inventivi ce erau, la un moment dat - poate dupa ce au cucerit si demolat Cartagina? barbarii ar fi avut bude in case, cum avem noi acu - le-a dat prin cap sa acopere zona prin care trece cacatul si au inventat proto-canalizarea. Ma rog, odata cu barbarimea venita si pusa pe jaf si mutilat statui o parte din stiinta asta s-a uitat, drept pentru care pana si-n secolul 18 aveai toate sansele sa mergi prin Paris si cineva, fara intentie, sa-ti arunce continutul unei oale de noapte in cap. Pana foarte tarziu, cu pauze lungi, nu stiu daca si dese, cacatii s-au prelins liber prin orase. Si nimanui nu-i pasa. Cacatul facea parte din peisaj.

Uitam adesea ca desi articulam cuvinte la origine suntem animale. Iar animalele n-au nicio problema in a se caca si a manca in acelasi loc. Animalele se recunosc unele pe altele mirosindu-si cacatul, stiu cand e rost de futai mirosindu-si curul, iar toate astea, atavic, se gasesc si in noi. Doar simulacrul de civilizatie pe care ne-am scremut sa-l facem in ultimele 2-3 mii de ani ne-a facut sa impingem, superficial, in spate, animalismul din noi. Altfel, oricat ar stramba unii din nas, suntem cat se poate de relaxati sa vedem cacati pe strada sau sa mirosim baligi de vaci si de cai, sa dam cu sutul la cacareze intarite de capra sau de iepure, ne ferim doar sa calcam in ele, pentru ca le reactivam duhoarea si o taram dupa noi.

Orasele noastre au canalizari, prin care curg rauri, rauri de cacat. Devenim brusc constienti de asta cand apare vreun blocaj, vine vidanja, ridica niste capace, si brusc tot cartierul pute a cacat, precum Budapesta sambata trecuta. Orasele noastre plutesc efectiv pe valuri de cacat, si asta inainte de a se invarti, odata cu pamantul, in jurul propriei axe si-n jurul soarelui. Sub noi, in lumea subterana, printre scheleti, sobolani, colcaie rahati si viermi, un intreg ecosistem deversat din matele noastre, un Iad, chiar aici, creat literalmente de noi, plin cu mal bolborosind, rostogolindu-se spre alte zari cu cosmarele noastre ingropate.

Orasul si cacatul traiesc intr-un armistitiu, fragil, dar constant. In centrul spatios al Vienei balega de cal e la ea acasa, mai ceva decat turistul strain si austriacul instarit. Peste tot simti miasma acelor bulgari verzi, si odata cu ea, simti parfumul inceputului de secol, te simti romantic, in trecutul glorios al ultimilor ani ai Habsburgilor, totul ti se pare fenomenal de frumos, doar pentru ca inspiri adanc pe nas emanatia unui cacat. Si cat de armonios se pupa acea emanatie cu zgomotul metalic si molcom al potcoavelor pe macadam. Nu la fel de prietenoasa este Viena cu cacatul lasat de cainii plimbati in lesa prin parcuri, desi autoritatile au incercat sa trateze situatia cu ironie. Placute cu un caine, un rahatel si mesajul: Sind dein Wurst? (Sunt carnatii tai?) se afla la tot pasul, pacat ca niciunul din patrupedele respective nu stie sa citeasca. Ele tot se caca pe unde le vine, doar ca acum stapanii trebuie sa le adune dejectiile calde si aburinde si sa le arunce-n cos, ca sa evite o amenda. Ce-au ajuns bietii oameni - din nevoia de companie si singuratate isi spala acum si cainii la cur!

Romantica e balega si la tara. Si nu doar pentru cei care-au copilarit acolo, in fan, staule si cer albastru, nu intre betoane, asfalt si conducte ca mine. Nu, nu doar pentru cei care au inspirat impreuna cu bunica parfumul livezii si pe cel al grajdurilor, ci si pentru cei care au tras pe nas doar gaz de esapament si praf de poluare. Plictisiti de sticla, otel si substante septice: pentru maini, pentru parchet, pentru baie, pentru toaleta, pentru masina, pentru copil, pentru ma-sa, tot mai multi se retrag in zonele salbatice si uitate de lume, fara semnal si electricitate, fara centrala termica si fara pui mariti cu steroizi, ca sa-si aduca aminte ca sunt oameni. Si cum sa-ti aduci aminte mai bine decat intorcandu-te la primar, la originar, la animalic, la simturi? Te caci in curte, intr-o groapa mare in care s-au mai cacat si altii, sau in padure, unde dupa fiecare copac s-a cacat altcineva, marcand, temporar teritoriul, iti lasi curul gadilat de iarba si bazait de muste, te intorci intr-o parte si-n alta speriat sa nu vina cineva sau sa nu te ciupeasca vreo goanga, tragi pe nari cand treci prin curte, mangai calul si vaca si razi uitandu-te la porci, nici ca-ti pasa de gainatul de pe jos, e cacat, e cacat pretutindeni, chiar si-n chirpiciul casei in care stai, esti efectiv inconjurat de cacat, mai moale sau mai uscat, dar nu-ti pasa, caci esti eliberat de cacaturile zilnice, fara griji. In natura nu ne sinchisim de cacat. Dimpotriva...

Inapoi in oras insa, e altceva. Remarcam orice carnat incolacit si motat, lasat pe la colturile ascunse ale cladirilor, strambam din nas la vederea unui caine chircit pe picioarele din spate care-si screme portia de biscuiti de ieri, o fosta prietena d-ale mele imi spunea: Ai remarcat? Cartierul asta e plin de cacati de caine. Si frate-mi mi-a zis. Nu remarcasem. Ma rog, am o oaresce atentie sa nu calc in vreun noroc mai vechi sau mai proaspat, dar nu-s chitit pe numarat si identificat cacati. In District 13 ma uit mai degraba inainte, sau in sus, la fatadele cladirilor germanice superbe din jur, printre care poti intrezari Dunarea, decat sa ma uit in jos. Inainte, sau in sus, nu in jos. Spre apa si cer, nu inspre pamant, nu inspre cacatul de pe el, din el, de sub el.

Da, este o simbioza intre oras si cacat. Orasele sunt insule artificiale de beton plutind pe lava de scarna, care se mai revarsa, precum vulcanii noroiosi. Punem asfalt, si mai mult asfalt si dam amenzi, ca sa-l pitim, sa nu-l mai vedem, dar il cautam ca disperatii cand facem turism. De ce? Pentru ca e natural. Cacatul e originar. E animalic. E real. Si daca e real, e semn ca inca esti viu.

Lumea ca un cacat (un alt roman care nu se va scrie niciodata

Capitolul 2 - Si fetele se caca. Lectia 1

Si fetele se caca. In caz ca nu stiati sau n-ati vazut videoclipul "Curvelor Reformate" sau amandoua. Se caca si se caca bine. Ca si in cazul sexului, se bucura de placerea golirii pe cale anala mai ceva decat barbatii. Sunt atat de obsedate de nasterea batonului maroniu incat jumate din iaurturi si reclamele la iaurturi le sunt adresate exclusiv. Ca si o tona de pastile, ceaiuri sau alte produse cu efect laxativ, dar vom reveni asupra astora intr-un alt capitol. Ideea de baza ramane una, un singur cacat se tine inauntru pentru noua luni, dar nu este cacatul despre care este vorba aici...

S-a intamplat pe lumea asta sa fiu indragostit. De mai multe ori, insa cu intensitati diferite. Locatii diferite, persoane diferite, intensitati diferite. Banuiesc ca are logica. Oricum, la un moment dat eram extrem de indragostit de o fata. Totul despre ea era altfel, incepand cu ochii aia albastrii, despre care imi imaginam ca sunt facuti expres de Dumnezeu, pentru ca evolutia speciei umane n-avea cum sa atinga un asemenea grad de perfectiune. Ma rog, genul de cacaturi si exagerari care-ti trec prin cap cand esti mort dupa curul uneia...

In fazele incipiente ale relatiei noastre, cand lucrurile nu puteau fi mai roz bonbon si mai dulci, ne faceam de cap in apartamentul sora-sii, care era plecata in state. Ne uitam la filme vechi de Woody Allen, descopeream cam cat de erotic era de fapt Dracula lui Coppola, ne mozoleam ca disperatii pe canapea si mancam pe sponci feliute subtiri de sunca si cascaval cumparate de la non-stopul din coltul blocului. Apoi cand nu mai stiam ce sa facem, ea de uda, eu de intarit, ne decideam sa mergem in pat, cu o halta prin dus.

Ca un gentalman ce ma aflam, am lasat-o pe ea prima. I-a luat undeva la 15-20 de minute sa iasa, dar imediat ce am intrat in baie am realizat ca nu dusul fusese motivul intarzierii. Baia duhnea infiorator a cacat. O putoare de ne-evitat, statuta, care combinata cu aburii dusului proaspat incheiat iti facea ochii sa lacrimeze. Ma simteam mai nasol decat un 100 de evrei intr-un dus cu zyklon B, pentru ca macar aia nu erau indragostiti de SS-istii care bagau acolo si n-aveau nici un fel de asteptari, nu pozitive cel putin. Pestilenta te izbea din toate partile si atat de tare incat, in ciuda dimensiunilor generoase ale baii, incepeam sa devin claustrofob.Mi se uscasera mucii in nas si nici incercarea de respirat pe gura nu ma ajuta prea tare pentru ca puteam sa simt miasma aia pe papilele gustative ale limbii. Eram intr-o stare de stupoare vecina cu tampenia: Cum e oare posibil ca dintr-o fiinta atat de dragalasa, de frumoasa, sa iasa un asemenea cacat cu un asemenea miros?!

Pizda ii era dulce insa. Pielea ii era fina. Iar sudoarea-i lunecoasa avea un iz de trandafir. Am uitat repede experienta prin care am trecut in Auschwitzul ala in miniatura, ironia cea mai mare fiind aceea ca apartamentul sora-sii apartinea logodnicului ei, care era ... evreu. Revenind insa la firul povestii, da, am trecut peste cosmarul revelatiei ca pana la urma femeia nu e decat un sac de mate si scarna, lucru pe care calugarii medievali il stiau foarte bine, si m-am intors la iluziile mele ca am in fata o zeita diafana si pura. N-ar fi trebuit.

Doua luni de zile mai tarziu, dupa ce ma plimbasem dupa ea ca un caine comunitar ca sa-i tin de urat si-ncurajare la ultimul examen de masterat, aceeasi femeie imi dadea papucii la un colt de strada, plangandu-si lacrimile si scuzele pentru o juma de ora, in frig, imbratisandu-ma si sarutandu-ma fierbinte, mestecand cuvinte si lasandu-ma in aceeasi stupoare pe care o traisem mirosindu-i cacatul in baia sora-sii. Dupa care, fara sa mai astepte sa zic ceva, nu ca as fi avut ceva de zis, s-a urcat in masina si-a plecat, lasandu-ma la propriu ca pe un cacat in ploaie. S-a urcat, a plecat si m-a uitat, in alte cuvinte, a tras apa dupa mine, lucru care mie mi-a luat luni de zile.

Si fetele se caca. Si asta e in regula. Aflam acest cumplit adevar mai devreme sau mai tarziu, prin experiente mai mult sau mai putin traumatizante. Insa intelegerea acestui aspect, cat se poate de normal si natural de altfel, ascunde o lectie mult mai importanta. O lectie pe care o ignoram adesea. Lectia pe care mi-o preda cacatul ei, prin prezenta lui fantomatica si olfactiva era aceea a aparentelor inselatoare, faptul ca pana si cel mai frumos si angelic lucru la exterior, poate sa fie putred si infect la interior.

Lumea ca un cacat (un alt roman care nu se va scrie niciodata)

Capitolul 1

Ne tragem din organe excretoare si de organe excretoare suntem atrasi si obsedati intreaga viata, fie ca sunt ale noastre sau ale altora. Dupa organele excretoare ne alegem partenerii, in functie de forma, dimensiunea, mirosul, aspectul si performanta acestora. In epocile preistorice, cand inca umblam in patru labe, ne multumeam sa ne mirosim cururile unul, altuia in cautarea unui loc caldut in care sa ne depozitam samanta. Crapatura unui cur si parfumul ei a mentinut vie specia umana. Si o mentine si acum, cand, pana sa le mirosim, le studiem pe strada, le apreciem fermitatea, fie ca e vorba de femei sau barbati.

Nu e de mirare ca este asa, caci dupa nasterea noastra dureroasa si odioasa, pentru toate simturile, nu doar cel olfactiv, am crescut efectiv in bratele mamei sau in cacat. Ne-am delectat in golirea voluntara si fara responsabilitati a matelor, ne-am bucurat de caldura pastei verzi ce ni se scurgea pe cur si am urlat cand se racea, intarea si incepea sa ne zgarie. Am descoperit rapid ca cei din jur ne observa si zambeam sagalnic in timp ce ei stiau ca ne cacam, sau chiar radeau cu zgomot si faceau filmulete cand dezlantuiam o tirada de basini.

Am dat din pumni cand eram schimbati, ne-am bagat mana in scutece si apoi in gura, ne-am simtit propriul gust al deseurilor precum mai tarziu urma sa ne cunoastem si alte proprii gusturi. Uneori ne cacam atat de mult si-atat de tare, ca produsul ne ajungea pana-n buric, manjindu-ne hainele si provocand sunete de lehamite sau amuzament din partea celor insarcinati sa ne schimbe. Ne-am imbaiat in propriul rahat, inmuiat de apa calduta din copaie si curatatul asta de cacat a devenit o rutina zilnica si un ritual de nelipsit, precum o slujba catolica duminicala, pentru cei care ne-au dat viata.

E minunat sa te caci pe tine si sa fii constant si cu regularitate mirosit! Te face sa te simti important, iubit, apreciat, in mod cert cineva iti acorda atentie. Sunt momente pe care le pretuiesti toata viata pentru ca ulterior, ca adult, tot ce-ti vei dori va fi ca un altul sa-si bage capu intre cracii tai si sa-ti dezmierde, macar un piculet, gaoaza, daca nu cu buzele si limba, atunci cu ochii, nasul si rasuflarea. De obsesia degetului infipt in cacat si probat nu vei scapa niciodata si, chiar daca cel mai des iti vei scapa un deget in cur doar din cauza unei hartii igienice de proasta calitate, cu siguranta un deget varat in curul altei creaturi - una pe care o iubesti si te iubeste, nu-i asa - iti va crea placeri nebanuite. Toate pentru ca demult, candva, aveai cacat sub unghie si nu era nicio problema.

Primii ani ai copilariei sunt dedicati in intregime cacatului. Odata cu copilul, cacatul intra permanent si-n viata parintilor, care vor deveni, vrand-nevrand, experti in subiect. In timp ce tu iti descoperi placeri proto-orgasmice defecand, cei din jur vor studia cu atentie tot ce-ti iese din cur: ce culoare are, cat e de apos, daca pute (semn clar ca nu mai bei de la san), ba chiar vor scormoni in el dupa viermi. Vederea cacatului tau nu le va intoarce stomacul pe dos. Dimpotriva, fiecare scutec, oricat de incarcat, de puturos, indiferent de locatie - ca e acasa sau un restaurant  de cinci stele sau o tentativa de seara romantica - va fi studiat, macar cu privirea, si venerat mai ceva ca niste moaste. Caci dejectiile unui copil sunt la fel de importante ca niste sfinte moaste, daca nu chiar mai importante, pentru ca anunta ceva viu, nu sfant, mort si plicticos. Si pana sa fie studiat pe interior, fiecare scutec va fi adulmecat dupa fiecare masa, in cautarea unui semn ca da, un alt download a avut loc, iar materialul nu s-a invechit in asa hal incat sa provoace strigate de isterie si nervi inutili.

Oh, si sa nu uitam cea mai importanta lectie a primilor ani, centrata tot in jurul unui ajun de cacat: intai anuntul fecalelor pe cale sa tasneasca si ulterior invatatul facutului la oala. Atat de importanta e lectia cacarii independente si mai ales fara urme ulterioare pe haine in cultura umana incat scaunul ala de plastic sau vasul de portelan au fost denumite regeste, tron. Esti efectiv un imperator daca ai unde sa te caci si stii s-o faci sezand! Nu vei fi capabil inca de la inceput sa iti si stergi sau speli curul de unul singur, dar d-aia esti imparat, ca sa ai slugi. Se va gasi cineva care sa te ridice si cu gesturi usoare, repetitive sa-ti manjeasca tot anusul cu rahat si sa-l imprastie in jur pana cand pe hartie nu mai apar urme, chiar daca prin diferite unghiuri ale sfinterelor tale se vor mai gasi urme maroni. Cu siguranta mirosul va ramane acolo, ca nu cumva sa fie vreun dubiu. Nu e de condamnat, e un gest de iubire, demn de exploatat. Am un var pe care bunica-sa l-a sters la cur pana la 10 ani, cand i-a aparut primul floc si-a inceput sa-i fie rusine...

Cacaciosi si diaper-snifferii, la asta se reduce inceputul vietii pe pamant. Si-odata ce incepi sa mergi, fie si taras, pe afara, exista toate sansele ca pe langa propriul cacat sa-l probezi si p-al altora - oameni sau animale - lucru neacceptabil daca te iei dupa parintii si rudele care fac cu schimbul sa te pazeasca in parc, pe strada sau la groapa cu nisip. E incredibil cum, dupa atata deliciu anal, se da dovada de atata pudibonderie cand esti in public. Iar pudibonderia se transforma in rusine si depresie cand, ajuns batran si decrepit, te lasi iar prada cacatului pe sine.

Ciclul vietii isi are originea intr-un anus si podusul lui. Insa incepi sa traiesti cu adevarat si incepi sa mori cu adevarat doar cat timp esti (respectiv nu mai esti) capabil sa te caci si sa te stergi singur la cur.

Lumea ca un cacat (un alt roman care nu se va scrie niciodata)

Inceputul si Sfarsitul

Ne nastem cu totii intre pisat si fecale, zice Sfantu Nu-Stiu-Care. Daca e sfant, banuiesc ca stia despre ce vorbeste, mai ales ca faptul in sine este unul evident, chiar daca multora le convine sa nu se gandeasca la asta. Prea-luminatul cu pricina incerca sa-si convinga auditorii de conditia si mai ales originea lor "umila: la urma urmelor am iesiti cu totii acoperiti in mazga si sange de pizda baloasa, un orificiu puturos intre alte doua orificii puturoase. Si imediat ce am iesit, ne-a luat unu la palme pana am inceput sa zbieram, sa mancam si sa ne cacam. Cu pauze de somn.

Da, sfantu are dreptate. Viata ne serveste o prima lectie, una pe care la acel moment nu avem cum s-o intelegem. Si chiar daca am inteles-o, sau intuit-o, nu ne-o mai amintim. E posibil ca disparitia amintirii in sine sa aiba un rost, pentru ca nu e bine sa te prinzi de anumite lucruri inainte de vreme, inainte ca treaba in sine sa se imputa. Dar sa nu anticipam. Sa ne intoarcem un pic la iesirea alunecoasa care ne-a adus pe lume, in zbiaretele muierii care agoniza intre durerea ruperii pizdii si sentimentul orgasmic ca si-a indeplinit menirea, ca e in sfarsit implinita, taman acum, cand e golita si eliberata de 9 luni de constipare. Ai mai ghinionisti dintre noi nu au venit doar pe toboganul de carne cu iz de peste ci, datorita unei scafarlii prea mari sau a unei dilatatii incomplete, am tras dupa noi si un damf de cacat, blagoslovindu-ne nascatoarea de proaspat dumnezeu personal cu o cuzda sau un pizdur, pe care doctrorii s-au grabit apoi sa le separe, pentru ca femeia nu e gaina sa se multumeasca cu un singur orificiu vagio-anal.

Ne-am rostogolit cu icnete si efort prin tunelul acela alunecos si am ramas cu nostalgia originii, nu a burtii umflate si rotunde, in care ni se spune ca era bine, desi pe toti fetusii pare mai degraba sa-i stranga, judecand dupa suturile si picioarele date in ultimele luni de sarcina, ci a pizdei mamii noastre. Ne-a marcat intreaga experienta, de expulzare violenta, moliciunea si umezeala calda, sangele ce ni se intarea pe spate, umorile ce se revarsau odata cu noua viata, mirosurile de urina si fecale din jurul nostru, de manusi chirurgicale, parfum ieftin si colonie, damful de lacrimi si eliberare. Ca baieti am ramas in cautare de miros de pizda si cacat, iar ca femei ne mandrim cu sau ne ferim de ele. Cu totii insa le-am inteles valoarea, atat sentimentala cat si financiara. Nasterea ne-a marcat existenta nu doar facandu-ne reali, fara sa fi vrut, dar impregnandu-ne coordonatele GPS viitoarei noastre vieti: a doua gaura, da aia din mijloc, ala e singurul sens al existentei. Sau aia mai imputita, pentru cei cu nevoi mai speciale si/sau cu capul mare.

Si uite asa, ca prin miracol, din scarna apare o noua masinarie de scarna, mentinand viu si activ, ciclul scarnei in natura. Caci fiecare din noi produce tone de cacat si pisat de-alungul vietii, deversam litrii de sperma, de sange, de umori, de scuipati si flegme, umplem aerul cu respiratia si transpiratia noastra, si numim intervalul dintre ele viata. Si cu cat ne reproducem mai mult, ne cacam mai mult si adaugam si mai multe straturi de cacat peste cele existente, deja intarite, inaltand suprafata terestra tot mai aproape de cer, dandu-le mai mult de lucru arheologilor si celor care mai cauta petrol, apropiindu-ne cu fiecare golire de mate, de moarte si, in cazul celor credinciosi, de mantuire.

Pana si-n moarte ne vom scalda in propriile produse interne, care ni se vor scurge incetisor pe cur, pe nas, pe gura si pe alte orificii, impreuna cu viermisorii care vor ecluza si ne vor transforma intr-un deseu bun doar de fertilizator, cu efecte similare celor produse de balegar. Motivul pentru care ne refugiem cadavrele in cimitire este nu cel de cinstire si amintire, ci acela de protectie si uitare a unei lectii crunte pe care ne-o serveste natura: In ceea ce priveste pamantul pe care calcam, in final nu valoram mai mult decat un cacat de vaca...

Si fiecare din noi are o viata - numai una - la dispozitie ca sa demonstreze asta...

What Women (and Men) Are

I remember one joke that said: Men don't understand women. But even if they did, they still wouldn't believe it. The joke, as funny and witty as it is, is meant to emphasize two things: first, the obvious, that women are extremely different from men; second, that this difference is caused actually by the fact that they are so complex and mysterious. Are they though?

There is nothing mysterious about women. Each of them will tell you that "all" they want is to feel loved, to feel protected, to feel appreciated, to feel beautiful, to feel smart, usually they will use the word "feel" a lot, just to make it seem they are concerned about feelings, when in fact it is about everything else than that. And i mean "everything" literally: money, power, glory, sex, etc.

WOMEN ARE WANTERS. Professional wanters. And wanting is only part of the story, cause women don't settle for what they want and get. No! The more they have, the more they want. More men, more money, a bigger car, a bigger house, a bigger salary, a bigger cock, a bigger diamond. With women, it's never enough. Whatever they have, they can't settle for it. Some other female will have a better position, will brag about better sex, about new furniture, about some expensive vacation, about her boyfriend's abs, and will make them realize they need to have those as well. More precisely, they need to have exactly those. Settling is perceived as a step back, as a defeat. So they treat settling as a strategic halt: we stay here where we're comfortable until we identify the opportunity to move on. Cause they do move on. That's what they do. That's the actual part that men do not understand.

And in between, they will tell you that story about feelings...

PS: Men, on the other side, are perceived as providers. They always were: hunt and get food, fight and ensure protection, food, security, shelter is what women wanted and men gave. For that there used to be a sort of quid pro quo. Men were driven by their sexual needs, and women were there to ensure that those needs are satisfied. As another recent joke says, covering the ugly truth in humor, "for marriage women pay with sex". But do they really?

In the current age of feminism, women have actually put a hold on the quid pro quo. They've managed to impose a blockade on sex, while still asking men to be providers. Just that this time, the nature of services and responsibilities placed on men is even more varied. In the prehistoric age, when men were risking their lives daily to provide the necessary means of survival, it is likely to assume that once they were home the women were ready to cook the pray and didn't talk much of being tired or having a headache when men desired some physical relief. They took care of the offspring and didn't expect men to do it for them. Most likely, back then, punching a woman in the head for being a bitch was natural and totally acceptable. The physical ramification of her actions made a woman more aware and more responsible.

However, all of that is gone now. Men finally became responsible for everything. Although nowadays there are vacuum cleaners, washing machines and dishwashers and disposable diapers, women complain men don't help much in the house.  Men cook and were told that it's because men are the best chefs. Men need to give women orgasms now, no matter what, it is their job. Need to look and smell good. Need to sit and talk and most of all, listen. Need to buy stuff, spoil their woman, otherwise they're jerks. And must understand and accept any pathetic excuse for lack of sexual payment. And most of them do, cause women have finally succeeded to avoid consequences of their actions (hitting a woman is unacceptable), to impose a harsh legal treatment of those men who would want to escape a toxic relationship (whatever happens half of your stuff is hers), and most of all to  change the men's mindset into thinking only from the perspective of women. Men, became PROVIDERS ONLY. And, somehow, learned to take pride in that...

And in between, they will tell you that story about feelings...

Things money can't buy

A hug. One can buy sex. At some point in time people could buy people. But one cannot really buy a hug. An honest physical contact with another human being.  

Love. It is also hard to buy. Real love i mean. Of course one can fascinate you with their looks, money, power or glory. But in the absence of your own feelings, in the absence of reciprocity, honest recipeocity, no money in the world can give you that.

Loyalty. Loyalty is earned they say. Or it is simply given. I don't know where it's coming from. Most likely it's a personal trait. Some have it, very few, some do not. Buying it is illusory and exceptional (like in the case of Caesare Borgia and Michelleto in the HBO show). In reality it comes only for free. If it comes. And i'd call it one of the rarest luxury commodities out there. One should graps it well and cherish it, for it is more valuable than love.

Friendship. Now of course, money can buy freiends. It only depends on what kind of definition you give to friendship. According to me no money in the world would buy you a friend. Main reasons is the fact that a true friend would also be loyal. And that's already twice as difficult.

Happiness. A joke says that although money can't buy it, they can maintain or support it. I agree. Problem is to find it first.

Honesty. I have used this word a few times in this post. And some of its synonyms. Honesty can't be bought. Most likely because lying is human nature. We even divided lies into acceptable and unacceptable. Can't explain why. Obviously we came up with many reasons. We are very slillful in making up excuses. In coming up with justifications. Somehow though, we get upset when others lie to us as we get upset when some people tell the truth straight to our faces. So maybe it's good that this one is not even available on the market...

One Minute Story: Just a Regular Day

The man woke up at 7.40 in the morning. Just like any other morning. He washed his face with peeling gel, brushed his teeth thoroughly and gargled some mouthwash. He peed long and moaned while doing it. He then took a shower and stayed naked to dry. He contemplated his aging face in the huge bathroom mirror. Counted the wrinkles and covered them with revitalizing cream. Threw a look at his abdomen and sighed. It was never going to look like he wanted. Just as his cock will never grow bigger than it was. Not that any of it mattered.

He then prepared himself a big strong black coffee and a gluten-, lactose- free breakfast. Squashed some oranges and drank their fresh juice for energy. While eating he watched one of his favorite daily tv-shows. Afterwards he attended his physical needs, enhanced by the coffee. Picked some cloths, threw some books in the backpack and left for work.

The metro ride was the same as always. Same people not paying attention to anything else but their books, phones or tablets. Here and there some in-love girl kissing and caressing her lucky boyfriend. At least he thought they were lucky. No one seemed to look or treat or love him like that. He wasn't sad or envious though. Not anymore. In the past he used to indulge the idea of having someone in his life, maybe a thin girl like that on his right, or a blue eyed one with beautiful smile like the one sitting in front of him, or the cheerful one gazing at her boyfriend standing on the isle... But he had spent so much time alone that he wasn't even sure if he was still able to put up or appreciate such behavior if it was to happen to him. Now he was just observing, quick mental notes, before he returned to the music in his earphones and wandering thoughts.

At work his attention and interest varied with the topic of his research or the daily task. As for anyone else some of his working days were good, some were better, some just were. Usually after lunch he was already counting the remaining time before he could leave. At 5 he was always ready to go. Not home but to the nearby gym for a light training or a short, 4-5 k run. He enjoyed the void in his head while engaged in some physical activity. And the fact that he kept a reasonable shape compared to the one he used to have some years ago. It was after all his greatest physical achievement. Something he was ridiculously proud of for years now.

At 6.30, as any other day, he was going for a fresh salad with chicken or turkey. Low fat protein. Evenings he enjoyed easy meals although they weren't always possible. On the way home he was already making a mental plan for the tv show and the daily 1-2 h read. When he arrived he decided to do some push ups before taking a shower. And after the push ups, as he saw his naked, sweaty body, he felt something similar to an erection coming. There were more than three weeks since he last had an orgasm so masturbation seemed like a good idea. He jerked off quickly in the shower. After all he wasn't enjoying the activity, just releasing tension, so the sooner, the better. Washed him-self and returned in front of the screen. As the shows were loading, he checked the emails, answered one or two, read the sports headlines and felt a bit down.

At 10 the show was done and he started reading, a bit absent minded. At 12 he put down the book, went to pee and brush his teeth, drank some water, switched off the lights and went to bed. Two hours later his heart stopped. He died with a sigh, releasing a final breath as if he regretted leaving so soon and living such a pointless life. When they found him, 2 days later, his body was already decomposing. The same rush that characterized his life seemed to follow up in death too. They buried him with a small ceremony since he didn't have many friends and most of them didn't even know he died. Nobody bothered to check his laptop in due course to notice his written wish to be cremated. When they did, they were shocked only by the large number of digital comics and the weird porn flick they've found.

Few months later he was already forgotten. 

Scattered thoughts (2)

The greatest sin in life is to be poor.

Broken heart? Your heart is not broken. Because you don't have any.

Me? What do i have yo offer to the world?! Nothing. Who am i to the world? No one. Life just is, just happens, it's beautiful because you get to have it. Enjoying it is just a side dish. A bonus. 

Women are all murderers. By givin us life they've sentenced all of us to death.

That moment you realize who you are and what the mirror spits back at you have nothing in common. Despite growing up in the presence of mirrors and pictures and videos, what is depicted shocks us. We are not really used, not really aware of the way we are perceived by others. Our own voice deceives us. Otherwise how do you explain the shock of hearing it on a recording device: is THAT how i sound? We are built with denial. The denial of ourselves.

Life does not have a meaning or a purpose unless given one by each of us. There is no masterplan nor is there an afterplan or plan B. This is the only true lesson i would teach my son: life just is! Being young and free is all that matters. Take as much as you can from these years, commit to no one, experience everything and make sure that at my age you don't end up with as many regrets and frustrations as your old man. Travel, read, know people. That way you'll be enjoying your memories instead of being tormented by your failures. Not too much to pass on I'm afraid. 

It's better to regret the things you did, than those you didn't.

- I am awful today. Stressed, nervous. U don't need me.

- Actually, i just need you, not your perfect self. Having a bad day is ok, it's human. If you'd only allow me to be there for you.

No reply.

Love (3)

I was raised with love. Raised, educated and formed to seek it as the ultimate purpose of being. All books, all movies, all music seemed to transmit this one idea: that love is out-there. For everybody. "Liebe ist fur alle da." "They say the world was built for two." For a very, very long time i've given in to such illusion. Then, after turning 30, i've finally grown up.

I used to believe that love resides in a look. That one can say if someone is in love from the way they look at the other person. And of course, something is definitely shown there, in the eyes (mirror of the soul, isn't that what they say?). But  it has nothing to do with love. Lust, desire, admiration, maybe simply wonder, but love?! 

Let me take a step back now and clarify one thing. When i talk about love i don't talk about the love of parents for their half dna's, for the expulsions of their penises and vaginas, for the byproduct of their unprotected coital activities. That is not love unless we agree that love is also an animal feeling. No, real love is the one you have for someone with whom you do not share any prior connection or dna. Real love is the one you have for a completely alien being. Why? Because you are not bound by any rules or laws or moral constraints to do so or to feel anything for that person. You don't owe it to it. Yet you give it. That's real love. And here's where everybody told me that real love, in the sense defined above, is just a dream, a nice one, but just a dream. 

Obviously allowing a total alien in poses a big danger. Shields down, total vulnerability. A huge amount of trust and reciprocity is needed. You anihilate your inner being to create room for that alien. You fill yourself with the other person, while the other person fills itself with you. You create and share yourselves not your inner fluids. You create a third being which has little if not nothing to do with procreation. You become eachother's world. That's real love. And you won't find any trace of it in the world.

The real revelation though was not the above, but the fact that while creating room for that alien, i've totally eliminated space for myself, that I've spent so much time preparing to love an other that in the end i've ended up not loving...me. 

As i said i am now fully aware of my naivety. That i've been a detective looking for a clue that doesn't exist, to unravel a crime that was never committed. A failed Sherlock for more than half of my life, that's what i've been. A don Quijote seeking some windmills to fight in vain, a Sisif rolling a stone in search of a hill. The search for love waisted years of my life, drained me on the inside, turned me into a misfit human being, with unreasonable expectations. Instead of becoming one with the void of normality, i've became one with the void of loneliness, where only the same old printed pages, the same musical clichés manage to shake me and give me the feelin that i am still alive. 

The search became nostalgia. The epiphany turned into regret. The absence turned into frustration. Each failure turned into anger. Each joke turned into bitterness. I'm like an alchemist who's finally aware that making gold is impossible but misses the thrill of the try. However, any further attempt becomes as ridiculous as it is futile. 

Real love's not dead because real love never existed. But there'll always be Coldplay or Lana del Rey songs.

Letting Go

(Post written at 3.30 in the morning under that influence that makes everything seem clearer...)

In the beginning i kept the void. The hope. Then just the memory...

To give someone your whole heart and have it returned because it's too big. Because allegedly it didn't fit...

To call your entire love life "a short history of abandonment"...

To have someone to help you sleep. Embrace and regular breathing being the only two requirements...

To go from green lights everywhere to red lights or no lights at all. To feel all roads closed...

To be always an option never a priority. To be expandable...

Sole/Best Facebook advice: never allow yourself to become the above...

To hang not on others love for you but on your love for others. To never cease being disappointed...

3 years ago i was surrounded by 30 people at my b-day. 2 showed up 1 year ago. None this year. Still they're the ones who got upset for removing them from my life...

To have a loved one sending you an invitation to an iPhone app which allows them to store your birth day. To have that person's birth day engraved on your heart...

The only search that should never stop is not for friends or soul mates but for ourselves... I finally know i was conducting the wrong search...

The hardest thing in life is acceptance. Of failure, of circumstances, of yourself...

To keep a memory of someone who sleeps happily in the arms of another. To keep a memory of someone for whom you're not even a memory...

Letting go is not about letting go to an absent other. Letting go is about letting go to yourself. Erasure of who you were. Not of your memories but of the meaning you gave to those memories...

Acceptance. Moving on. Finally getting free...

Freedom

Freedom starts when and where you take love out of the equation...

It's the moment where physical relations becomes 'just sex', free of any kind of pressure. An activity or a need that gets satisfied. No guilt. Fun. Normal.

It's the moment when all expectations in a relationship disappear. No expectation, no suffering. And though absence of suffering does not necessarily mean pleasure it is still much better the the torment caused by 'love'. You start behaving like a person, not a madman...

Just imagine. No jealousy. No frustration. No false hopes. You just get what you get and you're more than happy with that because there were no plans, no feelings involved. When they decide to go there's no wallowing. And you might even be able to remain friends and keep in touch instead of avoiding each other for the rest of your lives. None of you will feel let down, tricked or disappointed. Fair trade.

And last but not least is good for yourself. We're raised with this stupid idea that we need love. That we need to love and, most especially, that we need to be loved. Thus we suffer in its absence, we develop phobias and all sorts of disorders which only keep the shrinks happy. Or we seek it permanently, make a big fuzz when we realize that we weren't or aren't loved. The same or as much or at all. And that fucks up our world. We end up thinking we're not good enough or unlucky to meet only creeps and/or bitches. We end up feeling betrayed by others and displeased with ourselves. But that's a false problem... With a simple solution.

In order to prove how ridicule football is someone suggested to remove the ball from the picture. You'll end up having 22 idiots running around, chaotically, on a green field. Our love centered lives, this constant 'search' is that football game.

Remove 'love' from your mind, vocabulary and actions and you shall be free! Not only free, but happy! Enjoying any opportunity, developing real relationships which have a chance to survive the test of time. Take a step out of this socially constructed border, better said limitation, and you shall finally experience life...

I'm doing it and i'm finally able to look forward to the future, liberated... I'm finally starting to find peace of mind.

Women

We're born between piss and shit said an ancient saint. And we come out covered in blood and slime. Shouting to cover our mother's shouting. Results of a sticky sour substance meant to survive in the wet darkness of a female interior, released with a grunt and a scream. This time a manly, animal one. All the above is true but takes all the miracle and the pleasure out if it, doesn't it? Well, that's the whole purpose.

In order to prevent themselves from nasty thoughts medieval monks were encouraged to see the woman for what she was: a bag of skin filled with slimy organs, blood and filth. "Is this what you would like to lose your soul and eternal life for?" was the general question asked. No, of course not. They were hoping for much more. As we all do. Thus the question is more whether women can really satisfy those expectations that are worth risking a man's soul.

In " The Name of the Rose" a young monk loses his virginity to a woman who was satisfying monks for food. A prostitute. She doesn't charge him anything cause he's young, innocent and good looking, unlike the old fat perverts she was used to. The monk's master clearly states these reasons for which he was gratified with free service. It is implied here that a woman is providing either for her interests, either for physical attraction. There is no mention of love or any other feeling than self-preservation and animal instinct. This might not be so flattery to women, but it's most likely true...

In a world where men used to carry the weapons and handle the money women learned to survive, adapt and manipulate them. In the world of gender equality, women have learned to control and humiliate men. When the scale of the balance will turn to the female side, what will happen to men? 

I read once a joke which said that if men would be able one day to understand women they wouldn't be able to believe it anyway. I'm not laughing anymore...

I come from a world of ideals. Probably spent too much time with books instead of people, thus reality proved to be more shocking and too different from what i've expected. But the fact remains that i got served enough disappointments to question the female honesty, feelings and reasons. Enough to shake any a priori trust or expectations. I look now at women with the same concern and susceptibility that the medieval man had. They were scared of the fact that they couldn't understand her anatomy and sexuality. Things are more complicated now when we do understand these issues. The result is all the same.

The saddest thing of all is that the majority of men and women are brought together by mere sexual need, reproduction or economic reasons. It's an opportunistic pact which leaves out a higher degree of loyalty than the one required by a modern time contract. The good faith principle is resumed in a simple rule: don't get caught! Should one be surprised that the fashion of pre-nup contracts has reached Europe and found way in modern Civil Codes?! Legislators and civil institutions tell us clearly, by law, that if we are to expect anything good from a marriage then we should get a God damn good lawyer!

The Roman world was very different than ours. Had rules, hierarchy. And also no false impressions. Free women - matronas - had one single purpose: make sure that the offspring belonged to the husband. That was their duty given the fact that Roman lawyers came quick to realize that mater certa, pater incertus. They had no illusions though. Beside this loyalty was not to be expected. One famous matrona actually expressed publicly the way she did it so that she was enjoying her life while still in line with her duty: "i only take passengers on board when the ship is already full". Got to admit that metaphor says it all...

5 days in London

Might be the damn weather, the crowds you encounter daily, the fact that you're on an island, the fact that not even two persona have the same ethnicity but this city doesn't look or feel like Europe. Not anymore at least.

It's the perfect city to get lost. The perfect city for one like me. There are so many people and so big distances from one place to another that you feel as you really are in this life:anonymous, insignificant, utterly alone. Luckily this feeling suits me perfectly and i enjoy it. 

My mother has been trying to find me other Romanians to talk to an get in touch to but i don't need it. I enjoy my silence, my non-existence to others. I am and i am not in the same time.

I live in a Jewish neighborhood. But inhabited by blacks, Turks, and plenty of Punjabis. But the Jews are really fascinating. All wear those black orthodox uniforms and those black hats, have long beards and curled whiskers. Even a sort of religious white apron. It's like in a movie just that now it's real. I see their children coming to the private school in chauffeur driven cars. They speak an unintelligible language. And they seem happy.

A Jewish cemetery, 400 years old, lies in the middle of the university's main campus. Kinda of a sinister view from the library's window. Even more sinister is to know that the library itself together with 3 other buildings and the students park were actually build on the cemetery itself. 30 years ago, according to the plates, the university purchased the cemetery to expand. What is left was left as a courtesy to the Portuguese Jewish community. All those buried in the preserved part have Portuguese names...

Gravestones are granite or marble, clear letters, pure English writing. Amazing that the language was already completed so ling ago. 

Students pass by undisturbed, unafraid of all the troubled spirits unable to retrace their old bones or named stones (how are they to remember who they were without that last, engraved, ID?). I wonder what happened to them when they dug for the foundations...

Without a care the sun rests a ray or two on the remaining graves in this late summer day. He's in no hurry. Neither am i... A squirrel jumps from one grave to another on its way to another tree.

What is really noticeable is the oriental look of this city. Zounds of Muslim female Nas'Ghuls wonder the streets with their brown skinned kids. Sikhs with Turbans appear at any corner. Terrorist like Arabs, in white robes and long beards spit their words everywhere. Out of the people you meet 90% at least are immigrants. Non-europeans, non christian. Makes you feel like home - you can't be a foreigner among foreigners - but also makes you realize that something got lost. This is not an English city anymore. 

And some of them, even manage to speak good English, not the one massacred with Indian accent. No. While waiting for my registration i've heard the sweetest voice explaining stuff in the clearest British accent. When turning towards the employ to whom it belonged i saw a woman with her head covered in a black veil. The awareness came as a sentence: Muslim Arab Woman. A bitter smile crossed my face...

For those of you wanting to take a walk on the Thames river bank please avoid the weekend. Tourists and most likely thieves are crawling over the place. You can't even take a step without being bumped into or pushed around or interrupted from your own thoughts...

On the stairs of the National Gallery, with a coffee and a book, admiring the column of Trafalgar, the big blue cock and the big ben. Ignoring the crowd. Enjoying life.

Today, after a very long time i took an hour to sit on a bench and read over a take away coffee. In Russell Square Park.  There were people on all benches. Youngsters on the grass. Most of them were reading, like me. I felt i belonged. I didn't feel alone anymore. I felt home...

Exiting the Institute for Advanced Legal Studies, a 4 store legal library, huge and nice and quiet i had a sort of epiphany that i would like to do this: travel, study, research, write, share, teach. If only i had the money, the time, the job and the resources for that... 

Bits and pieces:

That false politeness...

Where are the Britons?...

Today in the park that accent spoke  English made me think it was French...

Rush hour at the metro...

The metro-station 175 stairs bellow, the equivalent of a 13 stores building... 

Everything goes for women here: broken dirty shoes or blouses, unshaved armpits...

The smart phone obsessed nation....

People in their 50's playing videogames on their phones. Everyone walking with them in their hands. Buttoning, buttoning, buttoning... 

London, baby!