Friday, July 29, 2016
Four Two - 42nd STREET!: Four Two - 42nd STREET!: Homecoming: Lilia Rusu I did not miss my country, and my country missed me even less. Nevertheless, I had to return one more time. To Moldova. My grandm...
I did not miss my country, and my country missed me even less.
Nevertheless, I had to return one more time. To Moldova. My grandmother had already postponed her last day of life several times, and I knew that I had to see her before it was too late.
Going back would not be pretty. After all, I was still a “mixed-blood” and viewed as a “mongrel” by Moldovans, a threat to nationalist society with my “Russian sympathies.” I knew that the government would be interested in talking to me after my having written numbers of ardent letters “undermining” its leadership. And I knew that those “interviews” would not be friendly ones.
I also knew that my status as a protected asylee finally living safely in the United States was in grave danger if I returned. When granted the status, I was reminded that the US government would only protect me on U.S. soil. If I were to go to Moldova for any stupid reason, I would lose the privilege of protection. See, only carefully “selected” people are granted asylum in the US, and I was lucky to be one of them. After years of background checks, meticulously investigated evidence reviewed by an expert of Moldovan conditions, and psychological evaluations which confirmed my PTSD, I— along with the hard work of my immigration Attorney—“won my case.” I had been told very clearly what was expected of me and that I should, under any circumstances, go back. “The US government is not able to protect you if you return to…” These words rang like fire alarms in my head. I knew they couldn’t protect me; no one could.
My life would soon be in great danger again, I knew. But I had to see her. Had to see my grandmother—one last time. As I clicked to buy my round trip ticket to Moldova with a layover in Russia, I prayed to every god I’d ever heard of that I would actually be able to use the return portion. If I was seized and detained while in Moldova, a very real possibility, I might never, ever again return to the US, I knew. I had to take precautions. For any chance of exit, I would have to take very special precautions. For example, I had to avoid going directly through the Moldovan airport because I was certain that my name would sit squarely on the infamous “red flag” list, the one on which the word “Nedorita” or “Unwelcome” is boldly stamped. Moldova, sandwiched between Romania and Ukraine, allowed entrance via two other options: I could travel through Romania, for which I did not have a visa, or through Ukraine, which was—itself—currently volatile and war-torn. My only option was Ukraine. It was better, I knew, to travel through war, than it was through my home country’s own airport.
I am at the airport waiting for my flight now. I am numb and sick, but I am thinking of my grandma, of her soft and gentle touch and her kind and loving heart- the way she used to cook my favorite meals for me. She made the best rabbit stew with traditional mamaliga—a corn mush, similar to Italian polenta. My thoughts of her food are interrupted by the news I scroll through on my phone, absently: “Today, July 17 2014, Malaysian Airways flight MH17, a Boeing 777 loaded with almost 300 passengers and crew, was on a routine flight from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur when it was struck by a surface-to-air missile over eastern Ukraine. Everyone aboard was killed.”
I am a zombie boarding this plane, one which is headed straight for where 300 innocent civilians were just struck from the air. I already feel dead, unfeeling. I have opted to fly and travel through this war zone—where civilians were just shot from the sky—simply because my own country views me as a traitor; this war-zone is the safer choice. If I fall into the hands of the Moldovan authorities, I risk getting detained; if I travel through Ukraine, I risk my life. I weigh options once more…I still choose Ukraine.
I try to read, but my book seems more focused on me than I am on it.
It seemed that my mother could not find a better time or place to bring me into this world.
I remember my third or fourth winter in the former Soviet Union. I was dressed in a little blue faux fur coat with a fluffy hood that I inherited from an older cousin. With my warm red scarf bundled up around my neck and matching hat perched atop my head, I must have looked like a little smurf. The grey mittens my grandmother had knitted for me, jutted out from my coat sleeves, looking like tiny mice. They jumped up and down as I walked. My grandmother, always ten steps ahead, had sewn the mittens onto rubber strings inside my coat. She had to be sure my little mice accompanied me everywhere I went; there was no way I could misplace them, or even try to make excuses if they were lost.
My grandmother knew me well, knew I might lose what we couldn’t afford to lose. She’d knitted those mittens for me, but the unprocessed wool pinched and scratched my skin, and they smelled like a sheep skin—like faint blood and dairy, a scent I despised.
I did not know then, what a privilege it was to have mittens. I did not know then, that a few years later my grandmother would unknit my mittens, and re-use the wool to knit a new pair, one a few sizes bigger, and later, an even bigger pair after that. It seemed that she always had a plan. She was wise; she was always…ten steps ahead. I suppose she had to be.
That winter’s day in the USSR, my mother and I stood in a never-ending line at the grocery store, waiting for our turn to buy a toy. It was a day I had been anticipating; I could not wait to finally have a “Red Riding Hood” doll. I had dreamed of the ways I would brush her soft blonde hair, and share my little secrets and dreams with her. My mother had taken me with her so I could hold a place in one line while she stood in another. This would increase our chances of getting bread, salt, soap, and maybe even this toy. There were no other children waiting to get toys and that meant that I was the luckiest child, I thought. I was overjoyed, certain that stores did not sell toys to adults who did not bring children with them.
The people in that long and tormenting line were grey, as unfriendly and harsh as my little mittens. The sky was painted in that same shade of grey. It seemed that my washed out blue coat was the most colorful thing around.
That day, my grandmother had stuck two hot potatoes in my pockets, and I held them tightly in my little hands. She knew it was too cold for me to be out, but she also knew I couldn’t be stopped from tagging along. I would withstand any kind of weather to get my new “Red Riding Hood” doll. So, when people told me I would turn into an icicle if I did not go home, I brushed them off. I had my grandma’s mittens, her warm potatoes, and I was getting my doll.
When my mother returned from her line—matches, salt, and soap in hand—I looked at her with the hope that she would wave to me with my doll, but instead her olive green eyes looked sad. “There were no dolls left, so I could not buy you one,” she told me.
There were no dolls at the end of my line either, I soon found out. I heard from behind the counter: “All dolls are sold out,” words that have remained like an indelible footprint in my memory. When our turn came, my mother bought two loaves of bread, and then boldly asked for a third. “It’s for two separate households,” she explained, trying to convince the woman to give her more bread than the allowed amount. The cashier, overweight and angry, yelled that two was the limit. My mother did not insist.
I looked at every netted bag that came out of the store. Not one person emerged with a doll. Who had bought them all?
Outside the shop, my mother tore chunks of bread from the fresh loaf and gave me a generous piece. I held it with two hands, greedily devouring it as fat, salty tears rolled down my cheeks and soaked into the crust. It was the best bread I had ever tasted.
My mother always told me that if I ate bread, I would grow up faster; she said the same thing about afternoon naps. There was a whole set of things I had to do in order to grow, I guess. I listened cause I guess I was looking forward to adulthood. If this was what my childhood was going to be, then maybe I did not want to be a child.
I continued going with my mother to the store every Sunday, hoping that one day it would be my lucky day, but it never was. A doll was never inside any of the bags filled with bread, soap, salt, and cooking oil that we carried home with us. I learned not to ask anymore. And I certainly did not cry.
Later on, on my fifth birthday, the great day finally arrived. My mother came home excited and placed in my hands a doll that looked exactly like the one I saw in my dreams every night and a stuffed brown bear -- both of which every child in my neighborhood had acquired a long time before me.
I never played with that doll or the bear. I kept them like treasures behind glass in the china cabinet, like trophies awarded for my patience and endurance. But I was happy to finally get them, even just to look at them, and to be no worse off than any of the other children on my block.
Later, I would come understand that I really was worse off than them. My father was not Moldovan and that closed many doors for me. Because he was Russian, and—in turn—I was not pure Moldovan, we were deemed “mongrels,” Russian occupants; we were enemies. I didn’t understand why. Moldova was my home. I knew no other loyalties. I couldn’t help that the blood that surged through my veins half belonged to an ethnicity from a country less than two thousand miles away.
Over the years, I worked extra hard to be accepted, but I never was. When I was denied admittance to a state university because of my ethnic background, my father took me to a private university. He tried his best to make up for the “traitor” blood he had “cursed” me with.
While my mother was abroad in Europe making money to pay for my education, my grandmother and father became my whole support. My grandmother, knitting on her veranda surrounded by a forest of continually and shamelessly blooming red geraniums, would peer at me through her glasses and give me only one piece of advice. “Lilia, fii inteleapta” She would say. “Lilia, be wise.” I would look at her wrinkles and grey hair, and I would think to myself “A-si dori eu sa stiu cum sa fiu inteleapta”… “I wish I was wise.”
When I finally did enroll in the private school I was vivid; I was blunt. I was no longer a crying girl. I was—like my grandmother had instructed me—finally becoming “wise.” I wanted more than stuffed bears or dolls now. I wanted equality, and I would not wait on line anymore—only to never get it.
In the very first months of my student years I joined the Liberal-Democratic Party. By the time I was arrested for the third time by Moldovan police and everything that followed from there, I realized that my life was in danger. I had to flee.
On the day I left “the land of my birth,” my heart was heavy, and I felt deeply hurt. I said good-bye to my friends, my parents, and my grandmother. I promised to return when things changed a little, but I was lying; I was almost certain I would not return. I was exhausted from fighting for my place in this rotten society. I was tired of proving I was not a Russian occupant, a “Russian pig.” I was overfilled with hate, and I deeply, wholeheartedly, despised the Communists who were responsible for my suffering, those who were responsible for separating me from my country, my grandmother. They had deprived me of my rights, my freedom, my peace, and now my family, too. That day was the first time I ever saw my father cry. It was also the last time I saw him alive.
I land safely in Russia and go immediately to the train station to begin the twelve-hour train ride to Moldova through the war-torn Ukraine. The train seems more ancient than my ninety-two-year-old grandmother; it certainly seems to move slower. Several times, I jump before faking a relaxed smile when asked to present my documents at the borders.
When I finally make it home, I feel like a stranger. Everyone asks me questions about New York, my life as a student in the US, my personal life—over and over and over. After only twenty times, I just want to hide away somewhere where no one would find me, something I’ve become used to now as an asylee.
I head to visit my grandmother right away. She can not see me; neither can she believe that I have really come. Nothing in her face shows any sign of happiness, but she still looks kind. And wise. She always looked wise, my grandmother, and I wonder then, if she is proud of me. Proud of me for leaving, for standing up for myself, for fighting. I wonder if she is happy that she taught me to be strong, to always be ten steps ahead—like her—to be wise.
She touches my head and winds her bony fingers through my hair until she reaches the ends. She smiles a little. She always liked that I kept my hair long. I turn my face away from her while she continues touching me; I do not want her to touch my face, that which is washed in a stream of tears. I do not want her to know how guilty I feel. How guilty I feel…for hating it here.
I am home for a week, but it feels like an eternity. The nights are stinking; they are hot, humid— no need for wool these days. Our house is invaded by flies and, like the thoughts that invade my head, they keep me awake.
I find myself remembering that rumors spread quickly in this place. My heart beats fast and I startle at any knock on the door, any sound outside— fearful that authorities might have gotten wind that I am here. That they will call for me. And then…
On the day before my departure this call comes. I am issued a summons from the police, dropped directly into my hand. Someone has told, I know. But, suddenly, I am not scared anymore. I feel nothing. That the police have been informed of my presence, leaves me somehow feeling … …greatly honored. I am wise now, I know.
My grandmother’s red geranium still sits comfortably planted in its pot on the same windowsill where I left it. It shows off its huge fluffy, bloody flowers, “the color of communism” I think, as I stare at it, knowing that I will never be back at this house again, will never see my grandmother again, will never get a summons again. I am happy that I came, but I know that it was not the wise choice, and I will never be able to choose it again. I know my grandmother will understand.
I say goodbye to her that day. I thank her in my heart for all she has given me, all that she has taught me—to be wise, always ten steps ahead. It is time now, I know, time for me to get ahead again. I have to leave before my summons, and so I do, quickly and quietly.
My grandmother will die on Thanksgiving Day that following fall. And shortly after Christmas, her red geraniums go on to die, too.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
It seemed that my mother could not find a better “place and time” to bring me to this world. The thought of former Soviet Union makes me startle until today as it was a horrifying nightmare. It was my third or fourth winter. I was dressed in a little blue artificial fur coat with a hood, which I inherited from my older cousin. A red scarf bundled up around my neck and a rhat from the same category made me look like a little smurf. My knitted mittens were sewed on a rubber string and looked a lot like two grey hung rats, sticking out of my sleeves; and they jumped up and down as I walked. My grandmother always thought few steps ahead, and she made sure my little rats accompanied me everywhere; also she hung them like that so I would never misplace them, or even try to make excuses if they went lost. My grandmother knew me well. She knitted those mittens for me, but the unprocessed wool was pinching and rubbing into my skin, and it smelled like a sheep skin. I did not know then, what a privilege it was to have such mittens. I did not know yet, that few years later my grandmother would unknit my mittens, and would knit a new pair few sizes bigger. That winter day, back in USSR, my mother and I stayed in a never-ending line at the grocery store and waited our turn to come to get “toys.” My mother took me with her so I could hold one place in line while she would stay in another line for something else. There were no other children waiting to get toys and that meant that I was the luckiest child. I could not be happier than that. I was certain that stores did not sell toys to adults who did not bring children with them. The people in that long and tormenting line were grey; they were unfriendly and harsh as my little mittens. The sky was painted in the same shade of grey. It seemed that my washed out blue coat was the most colorful thing around. That day, I kept my mittens on, and my grandmother stuck two hot potatoes into my pockets and I was holding them tight in my little hands. I was determined to withstand any kind of weather so I could get my new “Red Riding Hood” doll, and I proudly told everyone that I was getting a new doll when they told me that I would turn into a Popsicle if I didn’t go home. My mother returned with matches, salt and soap from her line. She told me that there were no dolls left so she was not able to buy one. There were no dolls at the end of my line either. I saw my mother winked to the cashier. And then I heard from behind the counter “all dolls are sold out”, that remained like a footprint in my memory. When our turn came, my mother bought two loafs of bread. I heard her ask for a third loaf. She told the cashier that it was for two separate households. The overweight angry woman at the counter yelled that two was the limit. My mother did not insist. I looked at every netted bag that came out of the store. I did not see anyone coming out with dolls. Who bought them all? My mother tore the fresh bread up and gave me a generous piece. I held it with two hands. I greedily ate soaking it with my huge salted tears that rolled down my cheeks. It was the best bread I ever had. My mother told me if I would eat bread, I would grow up faster; she said the same thing about the afternoon naps. There was a whole set of things I had to do in order to grow. I continued going with my mother to the store, hoping that someday it would be my lucky day. We always returned home with anything one can think of but no toys or dolls. On my fifth birthday I got a doll along with a stuffed brown bear, which every child in my neighborhood had a long time before me. I never played with that doll; neither did I play with the bear. Today, twenty-five years passed by, and I miss those times. Days when my parents received their salary were rare but it was always a celebration in our house. I learned to enjoy little things in life. We secretly spoke Russian when nobody could hear us, and secretly attended church in neighboring villages. I learned to keep a secret. The cutest dresses I ever had were those designed and sewed by my grandmother. I learned what meant love and care. Our goods were common goods and that taught me that sharing with others was a good thing. I learned to be compassionate. To have patience. I learned to dream. I had dreams and those dreams come true. I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could still fit into that little blue coat. I miss my little grey mittens and those endless lines at the grocery store.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Sunt un vant….. sunt schimbator ca vantul…. Sunt tot atat de neastamparat… alerg… zbor… pana cad , cad , ma disolv fara urma, dispar…. Apar atunci cand nu ma astepti, te iau prin surprindere…. Te alin cu o adiere usoara…. Ma joc cu frunzele in toamna care cad alene la pamant, le arunc in sus, le las iarasi sa cada…. Si cand cred ele ca au ajuns la destinatie le ridic usurel, sau daca am mai multa forta le arunc spre nori…. Dansam impreuna dansul frunzelor din toamna.... dansam…. Eu suier usurel…. Las ramurelele copacilor sa ma ajute sa cant… ele fosnesc si scrancena…. E muzica… tu admiri dansul si melodia…. Admiri dansul fulgilor….. imi admiri adierile usoare intr-o zi insorita cand te sufoci lucrand pe campuri…. Eu iti sterg vaporii de sudoare de pe tine…. Iti misc camasa usurel ca sa te te simti mai bine, iti dau puteri si viata….. Sunt vantul usurel de primavara, cant impreuna cu apa…. Zapada topita face zgomot…. Curge usurel la vale, spala pietrele intalnite in cale… eu tot suier… asta stiu sa fac cu maiestrie…. Cantam impreuna, pasarile ne ajuta…. Multa forfota e pe dealuri…. Oamenii nu prea au timp sa se opreasca sa n e admire cantarea…. Alearga si ei zbuciumati, lucreaza pamantul… melodia noastra se pierde…. In zgomotul de masini si tractoare…. Si cand vreau totusi sa-I opresc pe toti din ceea ce fac, cand vreau sa fiu auzit, aduc ploi… aduc ploi puternice, atunci lumea se potoleste putin, se bucura si-l multumeste pe dumnezeu ca a adus ploaia…. Si eu cant cu ploaia…. Suntem vesnici…. Traim… suntem viata!!! Ii bucuram pe cei muritori, cei ce doar ce sunt adusi temporar , si pleaca atunci cand le expira termenul… pleaca fara urma… le aducem zambetul pe buze, sau tristete…. Ii inspir si le dam putere de viata… pentru un moment ii luminam… dar ei oricum pleaca… Sunt un vant puternic, revoltator, distrugator…. Aduc furtuni… mai smulg cate un copac care abia se mai clatina putin, care si-a depus toata putinta sa aduca roade pe parcursul deceniilor…. A subt sucurile din adincurile pamintului…. Ne-a bucurat cu umbrisul intro zi arida de vara…. Il smulg… il distrug…. Un nou nascut ii v-a ocupa locul…. O sa aduca si mai multe roade… si fructul ii v-a fi si mai dulce si mai succulent… eu l-a rindul meu , vant fiind…. Voi incerca sa-l evit cand imi domina caracterul zbuciumat si destrugator, si poate ii voi smulge cate un mar sau doua si le voi arunca la pamant ca sa-I usurez putin crengutele fragile, san u se rupa sub presiunea fructelor care se alimenteaza din inima pomului si devin mari si grele…. Devin o povara grea pentru copacelul micut… Sunt curios…. Bat la usi…. Le deschid, intru ….. cateodata le smulcesc cu putere…. Sunt insistent…. Daca nu e o usa… gasesc o crapatura… ma fac micut …. Intru …. Fara a fi invitat sau binevenit…. Intru oricum… Sunt incapatinat…. Sunt devotat…. Alerg si ma zbucium pana nu mai am puteri….. pana ma disolv si dispar…. Atunci folosesc timpul ca sa ma reconstruiesc din nou…. Atunci sunt clipele cand ma acufund in adancul oceanului…. Stau acolo la racoare si-mi caut un nou vis,imi place sa visez inaltimi,cerul si stelele,luna si soarele, universul…. Ma gandesc ce voi face cand ma v-oi naste din nou… imi vine un gandulet… mai stau putin asa linistit si gandul dispare…. Dar deja au aparut o mie de alte ganduri care i-au luat locul…. Idei…. Planuri… se contrazic, se lovesc cu capul, se lupta pana ramane doar unul singur, doar un singur “vis invingator”…. El imi da puteri, ma ridica de la fundul apei sau din gropile cele mai adanci si intunerici ale pamantului…. Ma arunca spre ceruri…. Iarasi am capatat aripi, iarasi zbor!!!... imi place sa ma gasesc la innaltimi mari… ating virfurile muntilor… ii netezesc si slefuiesc piatra … zbor… ating norii cu aripile…. Ma cobor pe pamant…. Sarut tsarina ca ea ma nascut si mi-a dat puteri….si iarasi o apuc cu cutreieratul….. sunt schimbator, am caracter diferit, am miros si colorit diferit imi schimb dispozitia foarte des…. Sunt capricios…. Rascolesc si aleg ce e bun din ce e mai bun, nu vreau resturi si ramasite…. Rastorn pietre daca e nevoie sau ma….ma stercor prin cele mai mici crapaturi si gaurele…. Ma simt bine ajuns acolo unde mi-a fost gandul…. Sunt ratacit… am avut un ascunzis…. Unde eram asteptat intotdeauna…. Am fost iubit si admirat… simteam ca parca aveam un pripon…. Alergam si cutreieram doar la lungimea lantului si tot acolo ma intorceam…. am lasat tot, am zburat pe partea opusa a globului, sunt departe,gindu-mi zboara si cutreiera cararile si drumurile unde am crescut, unde am devenit Eu, unde am lasat totul, am sperat ca voi gasi totul cum am lasat, gandul imi raspunde: “Nu!”.. Cel ce te-a indrumat, cel ce te-a protejat si aparat , care te-a iubit pana la ultima rasuflare nu mai e acolo…o sa mai reinvie asa cum o fac eu- vantul? Nu, nu mai are puteri , nici macar pentru o rasuflare nici macar pentru o bataie a inimii, el mi-a dat viata…. El nu mai exista, nu exista? Ba da !!!! il am in inima mea, ii port gandul intotdeauna, ma admira de sus, ma sustine in clipele grele… el imi zice sa zbor spre stele, el imi zice sa raman Eu si sa nu ma las schimbata de lumea asta corupta, lipsita de moravuri,principii, valori, credinta, el e icoana sufletului si steaua polara care ma dirijeaza si indica drumul atunci cand ma ratacesc,ma acufund cu capul in bezdna, nu ma pot regasi… ma uit spre cer, imi apare imaginea lui blinda in fata ochilor si el imi sopteste incetisor e sa fac, el imi reinprospateaza memoria daca uit sa fiu cine m-a invatat el sa fiu…. Nu visam la inaltimi mari atunci…. Invatam sa zbor si cai noi pentru a infrunta greutatile vietii…. Am rasfoit carti atunci…. Ma faceam intelept…. Mancam carti mai tarziu…. Mdaaa imi era pofta atunci, stiam ca raspunsul la multe intrebari e ascuns acolo undeva… pe la mijlocul urmatoarei carti?! Sau pe la sfarsit….. rasfoiam nerabdator…. Ma sufocam in dorinta de a invata… am cercetat…. Doream sa ma coving sis a fiu sigur ca sursa precedenta nu a fost una din scrierele la comanda care are drept scop tulbularea mintilor si a realitatii …. Am fost si sunt confuz si acum…. Tot mai caut drumul inca…. Doream clartate si transparenta…. Am invatat si de la oameni… am avut profesori buni…. Ii port pe toti cu mine: cant, dansez, desenez( imi place mult sa desenez pe nisip… si dupa aia le matur cu aripile din nou … ), alerg- fac sport, fac calcule, inventez, legile lui Newton si arhimede…. Pitagora…. Toti ei ma urmaresc…. Vorbesc…. Limba vantului e posibilitatea de a vorbi cu toti…limba toturor…. Vorbesc cu fiecare in limba lui: vorbesc engleza, romana, rusa…. Mai scap cate o vorba in spaniola si ukraineana….. geografia o aplic in practica… biologia la fel… chimia… aoleu.. chimie de dimineata si pana seara…. Ii gasesc intrebuintarea in toate…de cine am mai uitat….? Psihologie… da folosesc … am nevoie sa-I inteleg pe oameni…. Fiinte programate… ma contrazice cineva? E firesc… cunoscand psihologia le poti prezice comportamentul ca si prognoza meteo… aici ma starneste un ras puternic, rad fiinca inteleg ca prognoza e in mare masura ceea ce fac eu… atuc ploi….sau furtuni, sau apar in forma unei brize, sau vant rece sau fierbinte…. Arunc cu pietre sau starnesc valuri…. Nu stiu nici eu ce fac…. Ma las dus asa cateodata…. Ma lovesc cu capul de copaci…. Ma lovesc de multe in calea mea…. Invat…. Invat ceva nou in fiecare zi…. Da, e o placere, admir lucruri si locuri noi… ma dezamagesc cateodata, cele mai dese ori ma dezamagesc in oameni…. Sa-I pedepsesc? Sau sa-I lass a realizeze ei singuri?... de cele mai multe ori ii las… prostia omeneasca nu se trateaza cu pedeapsa… ah si iarasi ah…. Istoria… am nevoie si de ea, sa pot evita unele greseli in viitor… fac filosofie…. Folosesc logica… Sunt nerabdator… nu pot sa stau locului…. Ma framant… sunt in cautarea, nu stiu inc ace caut, nu stiu exact ce imi doresc… caut fericirea, ca sa-I invat si e cei din jur sa savureze din placere…. Materialul-nu reprezinta nici o valoare , vantul admira frumosul si tainicul necunoscut…. Sunt singuratic…. Da nu prea gasesc un vant care s-ar indrepta spre acelasi punct ca si mine….unele se intersecteaza si pleaca in cautarea infinita a norocului sau a viitorului… altele care imi sulfa in fata- formam furtuna, luptam, devenim agresivi…. Cand ne desclestam nu mai avem pofta san e vedem candva… am avut de suferit ambii… plecam in directii opuse, sin e facem nevazuti atunci cand intamplator drumurile noastre se intersecteaza… nul gasesc pe acel care ar perge alaturi… in aceiasi directie… suntem vanturatici… unde-i el? Acel care ar merge cu mine pana la urma, sau sa-mi sufle din spate dindu-mi forta si mai multa sa ajung unde mi-am dorit, sau un vant care m-ar lasa sa-l urmez… sai urmez visul… aceasta mi-o doresc cu adevarat? Hmmm nu, cred…. Vreau libertate, si acuma dispun de aceasta libertate, sunt independent… caut, invat, cercetez, ma acomodez…imi place singuratatea… suna egoist? La ora actuala… nu mi-o doresc dar imi sacrific minutele pretioase spre realizarea visului, depunindu-mi ultimele forte , fiind atat de vulnerabil… lipsit de stabilitate, foarte si foarte schimbator ar fi o adevarata incercare, poate chiar tortura pentru acel cineva care mi-ar alina sufletul singuratic ca sa-mi fie aproape… si fara nici o speranta ca ii voi mai fi alaturi si maine… maine poate sunt fortata sa rastorn munti? Sa ma bag ca un sfredel in adancul pamantului, sa dispar, sa zbor, san u ma mai intorc…. De ce sa ma simt atasata de cineva acum cand nu m-am stabilit, cand nu stiu unde imi voi tine calea maine… sau azi, poate in urmatoarea clipa…. Iubesc frumosul, il admir… atipesc in zori de zi cand vad soarele parasind culcusul sau , padurea deasa… sau din adincurile oceanului… lasand culorile curcubeului sa joace in apa… stropii de apa adusi de valuri si aruncari spre pietrele de la litoral sund niste diamante sclipitoare ce te orbesc, eu netezesc usurel atunci crestele valurilor, dar sunt linistit de tot… admir frumosul…. Devin romantic, incep a visa… vreau sa zbor sa ating soarele…. Dar ma tem sa nu-l sperii sis a-l fac sa se ascunda dupa norii intunecosi…. Care aduc ploi… deci stau linistit si imi rasfoiesc gandurile… si incep si eu sa ma joc , sa misc cate o frunza usurel, pieptan firele lungi si matasoase de iarba… netezesc usurel oglinda apei…. O increstez putin, formez valuri usurele… sunt o adiere usoara…. Devin o parte a frumosului… creez si eu , incerc sa contribui cum pot….
Thursday, July 18, 2013
.... 29 decembrie 2009, ajunul Revelionului 4:30 a.m e prea devreme pentru a judeca rational, dar intuitia nu doarme... ceva imi spune ca v-a fi o zi de memorat!!! ma pregatesc repejor si fuga la servici, daca puteam sa evit acest pas, l-asi fi evitat cu mare placere si cu o satisfactie inca si mai mare!!! Insa, viata in America nu iti da libertatea despre care se stirnesc "vorbe." Asa vrind- nevrind masina nu prea avea dorinta sa mi se subordoneze, insa intr-un final am convins-o in schimbul unei aventuri ce ne astepta in weekendul apropiat... Motivare "maxima" la servici de a (termina lucrul)de a vedea ca e ora 12..... si sa pot sa dau Fugaaaaa acasa!!! Acasa mai aveam careva pregatiri de facut..... Lucrind repede repejor, ca chiar credeam pe atunci inca ca daca "misc din (bucushoare)picioare" mai repede, mai repede o sa vie ora 12... N-a fost sa fie asa... in fine dupa ce mi-am eliberat excesul de energie emotiva, am decis sa incerc alt truc, si a mers bine!!! M-am imbolnavit brusc,gata eram- pe moarte nu alta!!! si m-au crezut... nu stiu cum m-au crezut ca nu aratam nici cel mai mic semn de boala de dimineata, si pin la un moment dat, intr-o secunda mi s-a facut fooooarte rau. Boala mea, si neputinta a durat exact pina am iesit dupa usaincaperii care se numea "my job".... Am simtit ca m-a asteapta o aventura indata ce am discutat cu un cineva, care a urcat special in virful muntelui sa-mi dea un telefon cu directiile si adresa, atunci am inteles ca cea mai mica neatentie din partea mea e practic egal cu a fi "misplaced" pe harta Statelor fara nici o legatura cu cei care deja erau ajunsi acolo si care mai puteau sa ma ajute cu directiile... "care-i adresa inca odata?" il bateam pe un careva Sergiu la cap, pe care nici nu il cunosteam pina atunci... in fine... "Da mai trimitemi si un text message cu adresa , da nu tii greu.... da mai spune-mi si pe litere.... " Cred ca el in gindul lui zicea: "Buna podoaba.... extrem de "down"... el nu a zis aceasta, dar asa am crezut eu ca i s-a creat impresia...Nah.. nici macar internet nu aveau acei din munti, mi s-a parut si adresa care mi-au dat-o stranie, dar in fine... nu era nici vorba de schimbare de planuri!!! hainele, laptopul, gps-ul niste nimicuri necesare pru calatorie au urcat cu mine in masina si , Plecareaaaaaaa..... uhaaaaa Ma regasesc undeva prin Philadelphia, si intr-un trafic de nestrapuns... nu puteam sa trec prin acest moment fara ca sa-l mentionez, deoarece si acest trafic e o parte din aventura-mi... Asa relaxata in trafic, fara nici un stress, raspundeam la 100 de milioane de telefoane si le raspundeam standard la toti ca "Nu, multumesc mult de invitatia sa sarbatoresc cu voi, dar eu deja sunt pe drum inspre muntele Pocono, din PA, si voi sarbatori intr-o companie de Moldoveni only, Patrioata nu alta.... De mindrie nu-mi gaseam locul... Si.... asa vorbind cu o a sutedemiilea persoana... BABATS... am facut una buna, care practic insemna sfirsitul caii mele!!! Accident rutier, eu l-am provocat, In trafic, cu viteza 5mph... UJASSSSS... gata , stiam ca daca vine politia, care in mod normal ar fi trebuit sa vie cu elicopterul caci traseul era de nestrabatut!!! Priehali, cum sar spune... sa-mi trag palme!!!! Ne oprim din mers... nu se miscau nici pina atunci niciunul (inafara de mine "gura casca")si imi iese un baietan in cale.... Accent , accent Rusesc.... eu prind la curaj, ii promit repoaratia masinei, i-am permis sa faca poze la asigurarea mea, id-ul meu, iam dat si numar de telefon si adresa de acasa... si poza mea eram gata sa-i dau, numai sa mergem undeva si sa nu dormim pe highway in ajun de sarbatoare.... El, de fapt a zis ca e doar o zgirietura si ar fi fost fine, dar ma rog a avut o mofturoasa linga dinsul care stia ca in America sunt legi si se respecta, nah... ma rog, ce sa-i faci cu naivitatea divina a bovinelor.... Vad muntiii, ii aud, ii simt... Ma vad aproape ajunsa... GPS-ul cind mai mergea cind nu mai avea semnal, telefonul era (mort in papusoi) de o haba buna de vreme... dupa cite vazuse-m mai aveam 5 minute si ajung.... Frig, ger , zapada, drumuri aiuratice prin munti.... care in 5 minute exact m-au adus "nowhere". Imi parea mai mult ca un lot de parcare, putina lumina... si zapada se asternea mai mult si mai mult fara nici o grija.....Am iesit din masina, ca acolo daca il credeam pe navigatorul meu imi era destinatia.... Ies din masina si ma duc sa investighez prinprejurime.... Nah... disperata ma apuc a batea la ferestre, nici nu se merita sa mentionez ca oamenii practic ma intilneau cu pusca indreptata in ochiu-mi.... dar s-a gasit si unul mai destept care stia unde trebuie sa ajung. Asa am crezut eu, ca stia fiindca mi s-a parut cea mai scurta cale in comparatie cu cei lalti adviseri care imi ziceau ca in general ma gasesc in regiunea gresita... ma decid sa-l cred pe asta cu directiile din apropiere, ca Gps-UL era pe moarte si nu puteam sa-l reincarc in masina, ca avea mofturi masina mea.... Merg putin si prima dreapa, ma adus direct, pe un ulicioara de aceia spiralizata... direct la marginea unei prapastii... si daca mi se mai luneca masina inca un centimetru... ajungeam direct in riu.... Nah... M-am oprit... am rasuflat... acum trebuie sa gasesc o modalitate sa ies de acolo.... drumul la vale era foarte abrupt... Am zis amin si "v posledij raz kupayusi".... ca de dat in reversa pe ghetus si pe drum spiralat trebuie sa fie dotat bine sa o faci.... Imi iau inima in dinti, si depun primul efort... am ajuns cu mare greu la mijlocul caii, miros de cauciuc care se topea de atita fortare... la mijloc era putin mai maricica distanta... am intors masina mai cu fata un pic la deal, ca sa nu mai dau in reversa... insa intoarsa asa intrucit blocam drumul la mijloc , intoarsa nici in sus nici in jos, masina a mai scos citeva zgomote urite care mau facut sa inteleg ca trebuie sa o las in pace, ori exploadeaza.... Am iesit la o plimbare, ce-mi mai raminea? am sperat ca sunt aproape de locul destinatiei mele... si merging asa ajung la o a doua dreapta, si intru acolo... Happiness de nedescris cind am vazut masini cu placute din "Illinois"(care nu stie, aceasta e statul unde Moldovenii primesc Drivers License American), aste imi erau molovenii, eram convinsa.... doream sa sarut masinutele alea atit de dragute de acolo.... si nu imi mai raminea nici macar un dubiu cind ia-m vazut pe vreo 14 persoane alerging la vale din virful muntelui.... cu chicite, si risete, si fel de fel de sunete "moldovenesti"... tipic... Mau scos de acolo , ca moldovenii is priceputi, si fortsosi.... Dar eu m-am ales cu o aventura pe viata, si memorii de neuitat!!!!