Emotions of a maître-de-café

2010-11-13T03:00:00.001-08:00

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Emotions of a maître-de-café - Justice (V)

2010-10-31T10:39:00.000-07:00

We'll be the passenger
We'll ride through the city tonight
We'll see the city's ripped backsides
We'll see the bright and hollow sky
We'll see the stars that shine so bright
Stars made for us tonight

Oh, the passenger.

(Iggy Pop - The Passenger)

Waking up next to someone I don't know is not something unusual for me. I have a rare disease, permanent memory loss, although doctors won't acknowledge it. They say I am perfectly healthy. But I am the only one who can see inside my own mind and I am certain: there are things that need to be forgotten.

You see, it takes a change of personality to dress up in a short red skirt and high heels and to walk into a bar knowing that all eyes will be on you. Knowing that you have exposed yourself, just as you are: human. Vibrant. Vulnerable. You lean in and take that extra step towards the stranger who will never know your real name.

And then, I open my eyes. Frankfurt International Airport. I turn up the volume on my mp3 player, just as a Japanese business man sitting next to me crosses his legs, showing off his striped socks. I feel safe here, in the transit zone. I finally have something in common with all the people waiting here: I am away from home. There is this sense of passing, and yet of immovable distance. I close my eyes.

And there you are again. In the dark, nobody can see your soul. The warmth, the hunger for closeness, the feeling of feeling. I want to share myself, to divide myself, to break a part of my own being. I want to change. I want you to change me. Just like dancing, I have the choice to accept being lead, and I usually do. Just like dancing, we need to adjust to each other, to balance each other out, to tame each other. It's easy, and you don't even have to know the steps.

Flight 306, Frankfurt-Cluj Napoca-Bucharest. 18:20. The Japanese business man is gone and so are his socks. Instead, there is this loud woman sitting next to me, talking on the phone in broken German. A thin guy carrying his guitar is looking for his girlfriend, who had walked by a few minutes ago. In a while, they will find each other and head towards the exit, hand in hand. At home, he will realize he forgot his luggage on the seat to my right. All this while Madonna is moaning in my headphones. Wanting. Needing. Waiting. For you to

Justify my love.

Waking up in a place I don't know is not something unusual for me. I have a rare disease, permanent memory loss, although doctors won't acknowledge it. They say I am perfectly healthy. But I am the only one who can see inside my own mind and I am certain: there are things that need to be left behind.

Interlude (V)

2010-10-22T13:41:00.000-07:00

La vida es sueño, y los sueños, sueños son. (Pedro Calderon de la Barca)

All you get is the present; nothing that belongs to you is really yours. A bus full of strangers in a city of permanent fog: some of them crossed oceans to be there, while you could only spare a few hours to board a plane. A few seconds too late and you lose your connection, but why would it really matter when there is no warmth in your hotel room at night?

You disappoint the people you respect and despise the ones who make you feel wanted. La vida es sueño, even if there is nothing more real than the cranky look of the woman sitting next to you in that crowded morning bus. You want to capture the few seconds you spend living, but you're always too concerned to recognize them. The big picture, you say in your mind, never forget the big picture. Life is a carnival, a carnage, a mixture of emotion, blood, bones and dust, a long ride on a short road. You can see this, even in that cold metal box that embraces a bunch of strangers you will probably never see again.

I vaguely remember the journeys of my life and I've almost forgotten the names of people I used to call friends. This is what happens when your past becomes a story, retold, and not only by yourself. Yes, the others know my story too; they only tell it differently, cutting it to their own size. But I don't mind. Because I know: all you get is the present. Nothing that belongs to you is really yours.

Interlude (IV)

2010-09-25T07:32:00.001-07:00

Like a car crash I can see but I just can't avoid.

Like a plane I've been told I never should board.
Like a film that's so bad but I've gotta stay til the end.

Let me tell you now,
It's lucky for you that we're friends.

Fast succession of events: life, love, ambition, freedom, change. Youth in its essence. I love the way it smelled in that dark basement, the hallucinating music, the people dancing close and closer. I love it every time. People watching from their tables, absorbing the smoke, the energy, the rhythm. You almost recognize a familiar face, just to be pushed away in the next second by a wave of newcomers, screaming their way in. You become part of the mass, part of the procession. You practise your anonymity by becoming just another face in the crowd.

Sleepless, I toss and turn in my bed, unable to forget. My life, I have a soundtrack to it, something between melancholic autumn jazz and the cold inflections of an English vocalist. My life is a movie and I guess I will never get to read its ending credits. I lie in my bed when it's still, when my house sleeps and you can touch the silence in the dark. And I wonder. All these nights of my existence, I would sweep them under the carpet, but I can't. I can only make out glimpses of passed moments in the haze that remained, trying to find patterns, to give meaning.

But all this has got no meaning.

I admire you, sometimes, because life took a shape for you. Because you directed your ambitions towards something you could measure. In inches, in centimeters. And now you can weigh your world and count it just like Dickens counted every single word of his interminable descriptions, stroking his beard.

There's a girl in the grass looking at the sky and she wonders about all these people staring, sharing her simple moment, in a simple life. People from all over the world coming back to see her, even though she's nothing special in this grand universe. You change planes with her image in mind, like she's the only thing you cannot count just yet.

I lie in my bed and I wonder. About crowds and people and the smallest gestures that bring insomnia. We talked about it, long time ago, about unique encounters and farewell and the lack of finality. And yet the universe seems to rotate like a wheel and you find yourself returning, set out on a new start. Until you see a painting of a girl in the grass waiting for you.

And then you stop. And I think you're acting silly, I laugh and I turn away.

Interlude (III)

2010-09-16T10:10:00.000-07:00

–noun

1. the act or fact of persisting.

2. the quality of being persistent.

3.continued existence or occurrence.

4.the continuance of an effect after its cause is removed.

My way to work is paved with autumn leaves and words resounding like an echo in my mind. I cannot help but recollect the smell of a room, the taste of something spicy, the scent of sandalwood. The world is a cruel place for the ones who have never felt this way: bittersweet memories of times you will never get back, of people you sometimes touch in your dreams and awaken just to realize you might never touch them again. The world is a cruel place for the ones that have never known the beauty of loss.

Mon amour, I have seen the marks that my tears left on my face, and they were deep. I have seen them on my morning paper, in my coffee cup, on my ironed shirt. I have put them through the ordeal of becoming words, poems, songs. I have sung my misery while people were cheering, unknowingly. Romantic is what they call me, but I will be blunt: the term is deceitful. I'm unclean, a libertine, and I have never been particularly kind. I haven't cherished anything I've been given, I've never felt grateful or content and I have never really cared about others.

Yet the world has been kind to me. The way to work is always the hardest, always the easiest. Every day is a new beginning they say, and yet we get older and older. I feel youthful and ancient, as I walk at the pace of the seconds that bring me closer and closer to death. My love, I've been teaching myself patience, I've learned it by heart and can recite it at all times, I promise. And still, there is urgency, there is need, there is hunger. And yearning. There is a hint of warmth I can still feel on my cheek, there is a whispered word I still have to hear, and a kind of completeness I have not forgotten yet.

Oh, baby, if you only knew how much you meant in this humble mosaic I made of my life. And if I only knew how much I meant in yours. Your own self is not even of importance anymore: it is the mere idea of you that I kept - and that kept me - somewhat complete. Somewhat enriched. Somewhat transcending.

Because I know the love I have is spreading out like a disease, contaminating the past, the present, the future. I know this kind of passionate, yet patient, longing reaches out beyond my meager being, beyond my malice and mistakes, beyond my self. And isn't it wonderful, my love, to know that we don't matter anymore in the face of timeless feeling? Of a feeling so small that time and space do not affect it. So microscopical that it remains undetected by the naked eye. And yet persistent.

And isn't this what we all want, in the end. Persistence.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Justice (IV)

2010-09-12T07:07:00.000-07:00

Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. (Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus)

At first, it was just a bright red light that she saw, that slowly turned into moving silhouettes. She heard the voice of a man, a calming voice of a stranger who had come just in time to rescue her poor soul. She knew he'd come, as soon as she would cry for help he'd come and his white coat would become her weekly Sunday washing task. His hands would become her support, his voice her wake up call.

"We need to make sure there is someone by her bedside when she wakes up". Let it be you, she thought, let it be you for the rest of my days. It's not as if they had just met.

Oh no, they'd been married for years now, how many, is it two, three, four?... After a certain point you lose count. You surrender to your daily tasks and habits and they slowly become what defines you, what makes you certain of yourself, of your stability, of your future.

She remembered - because now she could afford to remember - the last summer before university. Long before his white coat appeared, she had been a lively young thing, carefree, naive, enthusiastic. Her good old friends in the neighborhood, her parents, her cat, her room: they all reflected her personality. She could find herself in her books, her perfume, her shoes and her toes, in her boyfriend, her lipstick, her favorite cocktail. Her choices were permeated with her own being. They were original, fulfilling, as if they were defining something that she could not grasp yet: herself, beyond her body, beyond time, beyond transition.

This is what originated her infinite greed for life, her desperate need, her addiction for discovering herself in all the things she owned. Every new little earring would show yet another facet of her complex being, every extravagant hat would become a surprise she would make for herself.

Oh yes, even this was a surprise, if you think about it. What else can you give to yourself when you've got everything you ever wanted? This ultimate act was like signing the deal with herself. She had made all the choices in her life, including this last one. And it was perfect.

"We should keep a close eye on her, for a few days", she heard the white coat man say, and knew she had forgotten one precious gift. This man, this voice drenched in her own blood, would bring her back, restore her to herself. One day, she knew, she would have to give him back to the world, she would fly off from a foreign country to another, she would find herself and lose herself and vanish into thin air. And one day she would be back here in this dream, this memory of her young self sitting in a coffee shop talking to a stranger about all the deadly sins. Her timeless being. Her greed for life would be stronger, this time, than the numbing feeling in her toes.

Interlude (II)

2010-09-04T09:12:00.000-07:00

The smell of burnt paint will always remind me of autumn. That's because the paint of the radiators starts smelling when they are heated up. And that ultimately brings me to last winter, when I was reading a particularly thick book, a horror story that I had to dissect using more than one thousand words.

And that, in return, takes me back to those high school days, when an undernourished, naive little girl used to translate the poems of mad expressionsts and read Schiller's Joan of Arc in one sitting. Those were lonely times, days that got shorter without lending meaning to any of the nights. Later on, Schiller's voice was replaced by some clumsy boy's romantic fabulations, late night drinks and smoke-filled coffee houses, umbrellas left under some stranger's table. Autumn has always been the unofficial season of love. At least for me.

I remember rain and the smell of decay, of beautiful death and of peace. Life in its decline, without anger or despair, slowly coming to an end. I remember being in love, and what could love mean for me back then - an exotic kind of pastime, a permanent glow that had the magical ability of making every day seem even shorter. Love is a waiting game, and the leaves came tumbling down, remember...

But my memories were outnumbered by all the things I forgot. The peaceful silence at home, the passionless passing of time, uneventful growing up. I forgot the balance of my own self, and how my voice sounds in my head. I forgot how to bear the weight of my own company. The things I forgot are so many.

And I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more, just to be... It's way too fast for me, I could barely keep up with the rhythm. But I could try something else. A white woman's black voice, a funeral song more in tune with my melancholy than Chopin's tubercular musings, going like this: He-e-e left no time to re-greh-t, kept his well, let's just say everybody is entitled to keep their personal belongings wherever they find fit.

As for me, I find that this autumn will be very Schilleresque indeed. And after all the Sturm und Drang melodrama I will probably retreat into the dark sphere of poetry, that corner of the literary madmen, where I may find my temporary (always temporary) peace. The fewer the words, I find, the more acute the madness, and you end up talking to yourself, repeating the same words over and over and over again, as if to imprint them on your brain.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben...

The smell of burnt paint will always remind me of endings.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Justice (III)

2010-09-02T11:27:00.000-07:00

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. (William Blake – The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

She was like a cloud of smoke. She would never truly materialize. Her silhouette was fluid, her smile always pale, her eyes obscure. I guess that’s what made her the center of attention there, in London, in that little apartment we all shared. She was the oldest one, 30, maybe 32, but her smooth skin and her innate grace would never disclose her true age. Only when you heard her speak would you realize that her words were marking her history, her factual existence, the solid trace she left in this world.

We used to hang around the apartment on weekends and so did most of the young people in our neighborhood. After all, they knew where to find the best stuff. I shared the room with this shady black guy who I always thought had a fake French accent, but later found out he was actually an inborn Parisian. He used to provide the best weed and we used to forget about his share of the rent in return. Friday night parties were always the best: after a few beers and puffs, the air would become thick and time would slow down. Just long enough to observe the universe as it truly was: grand. Wondrous. Expanding.

Our poorly lit, small and crowded place would turn into a magic room, a labyrinth of interwoven destinies and stories waiting to be told. The rooms would become expandable, stretching out over past, present and future as our clumsy words tried to portray the circumstances of our becoming. Needless to say, her stories were always the most captivating.

Once, she told us about the one time she met the Devil. She was only 5 years old when he came to her and showed her the future. “He was not at all the way you would imagine The Lord of the Flies. He had the air and attitude of a storyteller. Of a really good one.” And so he told her about a journey to the end of the world, through Venice and London and other great cities of light. He told her about her beauty and luxurious life, her love, her jealousy and fall. And, like any game of Heaven and Hell, he also arrived at the very end of her life. But, as endings usually go, its description would have been too abstract, too obscure for the mind of a five-year-old. So what he did was to tell her the story of the maître-de-café.

“But I’ll leave that one for next time”, she said, with that wrinkled and yet luminous smile that would make us all surrender to her will immediately. She had a way with words that I believe must have been an ancestral gift, the primal art of chanting, of enchanting. And as the boundaries between objects became more and more uncertain, as our senses heightened and our minds slowed down, we all felt as if we had become, for the first time, the true observers of the world. The Universe with its chaotic order and its statistically improbable emergence was laid out before us, because we were ready to see, hear, feel, taste and smell it. We were the ones it had appeared for in the first place.

In this slow story of our life in London, we were closer than ever to the Truth. We had tasted the apple and were starting to tell right from wrong. Everything began to open up to us. Until she left. The day she disappeared, a veil was lifted and reality struck us like a hammer. We felt hurt by the true weight of the objects surrounding us and the light that had come in unexpectedly was making our arms and legs shake. We had lost our gift and were returning to the limitations of a pointless existence. Many of us chose to die, others ventured into the wide world in search of that glimpse of truth we saw in the corner of our eye. The black French guy had also disappeared with her and was never heard of again.

Yes, she left and took the spell with her. She left without telling us the story. The Story. Of a maître-de-café.

Interlude

2010-08-25T14:23:00.000-07:00

What I remember quite vividly is a hot summer day, stone buildings almost melting under the reign of a tyrannical sun and the headache I had been fighting all day. What I remember is the test I took somewhere, a translation I would read so many times again until I would memorize every sentence. It was something about the Hindu Kush.

Life is a box of chocolates, they say, although sometimes it seems like the whole world is just a giant omelette, scrambled eggs in a hot pan. And hot is what that day was like. That day left a trace in my mind as if it had changed something irrevocably. And maybe it did.

At first, it was hardly noticeable, a buzzing sound, persistent and irritating. Slowly it became the noise that would accompany every single one of the moments that are running through my mind like a slide show. It sounds so good when people talk about beer you can get by the meter and if it's unfiltered even the most trivial drinking game becomes a memory you will tell your friends about with that nostalgic smile of someone who has seen it all.

But you can feel the chill of autumn creeping up after midnight and you decide to go home before you forget your place in the world. And then there comes the time when you become a witness of nature's graceful decay, and between cabs you realize these are the times you will never forget. Rushing to a place to visit, someone asking you about brothers and sisters and what they do for a living, you discover how you can paint your own self portrait.

Soon after that, as the days become shorter and there are dark patches showing up on your street, the only refuge you can take is hot wine. You drink it on Halloween and let it become your laughing mask, as you realize that your own wishes have become obscure. Fascinated, frightened and intrigued, you decide to venture into the hollow of a cold, long winter.

And so it goes, as days go by and there are more and more songs you can sing by heart, a feeling of persistent loneliness fills up the silence in the room that you never leave. Books and poems and the obsessive noise you cannot shake since November.

But belle, je ne comprends pas francais, so you'll have to speak to me some other way. Sometimes you're humming while changing for work, brushing your teeth, putting on your stockings. Sometimes you're waiting. Sometimes there are little, but necessary wrongs you build your happiness on.

And you always knew the old saying of what goes around comes around. Spring comes with sickness and apathy and even the kindest of gifts is left in a dusty corner. Reality hasn't been able to beat imagination in no beauty contest so far, but imperfection makes your knees weak still. You're different now and you know there will never be another hot summer day like that one, the first one, the last one. You say good-bye and in an instant it becomes a distant dream, almost like a movie you saw or a book you read. Something that never really contained you.

You become your own person, your friend, your partner at lunch. You eat your veggies, read your papers, take your showers and occasionally find yourself humming a song you once heard. You become someone else, more bitter and suspicious, you laugh less and drink more, but you know there will be moments when even the most insignificant smell or taste or sound will bring you back to those times.

To that day I remember quite vividly.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Justice (II)

2010-07-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul. (Oscar Wilde – The Picture of Dorian Gray)

Ah, vanity. The original sin. The wellspring of all evil. Its beauty lies in its own emergence: once you have cleansed yourself from all the other sins of the world, this seemingly harmless feeling, this humble contentment, begins to grow, little by little, until you become your own world. Until you start tailoring reality using your own measure. Artists are the vainest creatures on earth.

So what does that little girl have to do with all this, would the avid reader have asked by now. To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I am but a humble narrator of this story, this strange dream of the future, this enchanting gift right before death. Humans have always liked to play with fire. They’ve always enjoyed to step into the darkness, to get a glimpse, or a mere taste of the great unknown, the chaos, the beautiful destruction of their orderly, measured, limited life. As long as there are people in this world, there will be sin.

Vain little girl, she dreamt she could be her own master. She woke up one morning and realized she has been granted the ephemeral privilege of beauty and the spirit and grace to wear it in the world. Some people discover their gift early and use it wisely to obtain what they want, but they never aspire for everything. This foolish thing wanted everything. Luxury as the source of her lavishness, the attention of all men, lust, passion, exuberance: the world folding around her like a cocoon, her own self reflected in an infinity of mirrors that they call reality.

Mademoiselle thought the world works like that. But she was wrong. The world had a tiny flaw: it had a very intricate way of teaching people like her lessons.

And it all started like this:

One fine day the princess woke up in her castle. The light shone through the curtains, the air was fresh and smelled of spring, the birds were chirping outside. But something was different. There was a strange taste in her mouth.

And then she remembered.

She had left Venice with her husband, but she could not shake the feeling that something was between them now. There was a stain on their marriage, one what could never be erased or forgotten, one that would always be disturbing to the eye, hard as one might try to overlook it.
Moreover, she had felt betrayed. She was hurt in her own pride.

And what does one do when one is hurt?

One takes a step back.

And turns around.

To darkness.

The strange taste in her mouth persisted. She opened her eyes. And saw him next to her. She tried remembering his name but then she realized: they had never spoken a word.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Justice (I)

2010-05-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly loves!
(William Shakespeare - Othello)

"Call me Iago", he says. I take it as a joke. I read Othello in school, not too long ago, and it just seems like he is taking me for a fool. But I guess that's what men do when they buy you drinks. I laugh and it comes out all nervous and high pitched. He can see that. In fact, I think he can see right through me. "Like the one in the play?" "Exactly. You're very perceptive." I nod. "Do you know what Iago was very good at?" The ball's in my court now. "Lying?" I smile, I have the upper hand again. "Yeah, something like that. But I would call it: storytelling." We take a sip at the same time. His voice has already become familiar now and it resounds harmoniously. The blue light has changed into a dark green. As I put down my glass, my vision blurs up and everything becomes a green haze.

And suddenly, I'm elsewhere. A terrace, a beautiful Venetian landscape, a summer evening. A brisk wind. My boyish clothes have been replaced with a long dark red nightgown. Oh, yes, I remember now. Venice, the future. The party I attended with my husband. High society, European lavishness, fascinating artists and wealthy patrons of the arts. Those were the words he used when he tried to lure me into this journey. But he forgot to mention something.

Beautiful women.

"Ciao, bella". I turn around and, of course, it's Iago. "Are you enjoying yourself?" "Of course not. What is this place?" "Oh dear, I think you know better than me. I didn't choose this place, you did. Or, better yet, you will. Ha ha." His smartass attitude is starting to bug me. "Get me back to that coffee shop." "Not yet, bella, you still have to remember what's so special about this particular night. And meanwhile, I'm gonna go grab some of that Italian wine." He blows me a kiss and disappears into the crowd. I decide to go inside and look for my husband.

A huge ballroom. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, an absurd amount of candles, sparkling jewelry on every woman in the room. I try to make my way through the crowd. And then I see them, not too far away. My husband and a strange woman. They're dancing. Her hand is resting on his shoulder in this strangely natural and familiar way, like it's been there forever. He's holding her tight and looking straight into her eyes. I've seen that look before, long time ago, shortly after we met. I can tell from here that he's talking to her in a low voice, saying things that are only meant for her, whispering words that will never reach me. There is a silent acceptance from her part in this perfect moment they share.

Yes, I remember now. This glimpse was enough to change my view forever. Helplessness, anger, jealousy, revenge. Our life was never the same after that. And then it happened.

"Bella!" I snap out of it. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? As much as I enjoy this gathering of snobbish drunkards, I don't think we're welcome here anymore. Alright, sweetheart?"

Before I can say anything, the green haze takes over and I'm back in the coffee shop. But this time, Iago's gone. I look around. And then I see her, sitting at the bar. Only this time I recognize her. The woman who looks like a loony countess. Wearing the same dress she wore when they danced.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - The Devil

2010-05-01T08:13:00.000-07:00

The Devil is in the details. (German proverb)

People like to believe that their pain will eventually be rewarded. That there will be a time of happiness, fulfillment and grace. That their tears were there for a reason. That they have gained strength, wisdom or confidence through all these hardships.

I tend to disagree.

You see, I have always been an admirer of beauty. A person who savors life's pleasures, the arts, food and drink, love, passion, adventure. An artist. Now get up and open that new bottle of wine, cause I'm about to tell you something important and I don't like a tiffed audience.

I've been around for a while and I can tell you this: life can be so dull if you always play by the rules. It's like language. If you always follow the grammar, you'll never get improvement, evolution. You'll never have diversity. What am I getting at? Take another sip and listen.

There's this girl in a coffee shop, an adorable little demoiselle wearing a baseball cap and drinking way too much vodka, way past her bedtime. Of course, she is purely fictional and her only purpose is to serve as an example. At the same table, a shady character, a guy in a suit is about to order another drink for them both. Classic scene, is it not? But there is something strange going on. Suddenly, the girl remembers something. She has seen him before. She doesn't know why, or how, but he was there in her mind all along, in some obscure corner, waiting to materialize. She was 12 when she first saw him. He was 10 years older and had just moved into their building. She remembers it so vividly.

There was this one time when she had a fight with her parents and she ran outside, crying. She sat down on the cold stairs in front of their building, sobbing. Out of the blue, this new neighbor showed up next to her, as if he was waiting for this all along. "Hey little girl", he said, "stop crying. Only weak people cry. Strong people are always happy. You want to be strong, don't you?" "Yes, but..." "I know, your mom is so terribly unfair. And life is unfair. And it sucks to be 12. I know. But listen, if you focus on making yourself happy, you'll always be happy. Life's too short to be sad. Never let anyone tell you otherwise, okay?"

That was the most they had ever spoken with each other. He moved out shortly after that. But his words had left an imprint in her mind.

And now here he was, Rolex and suit, a stranger in a bar, ordering drinks for a girl he doesn't know. As she looked at him she wondered if he was still making himself happy. Or maybe he had given up on that youthful enthusiasm. Or maybe he just has a different idea about happiness altogether.

And then she remembered something else. A beautiful living room. Music in the background, expensive furniture, high ceiling, silver chandelier. She looked down and realized she was wearing a silk dress with golden embroideries. And then she looked in the mirror. Herself, older. 30, 32 maybe. She strangely recognized everything around. Yes, this was her house. Her beautiful, expensive designer dress. Her future self. Oh yes, and there was her husband. Her future husband, whom she had met at the hospital, on a particularly rainy day, when she had just turned 27. Their first date, moving in together, their wedding. It all came back to her now. The happy days they had spent traveling, the dinner parties, the easy life. The beauty of the world.

She took a deep breath. Yes, this was her future life. Her life how it should have been. Her fate as it should have looked like. If only she hadn't gone to that coffee shop late at night. If only she hadn't met him. If only he hadn't shown her the truth.

She opened her eyes. He was still in front of her, sipping his vodka, his eyes having a strange glow. He put his glass down, smiling. "Hey, little girl", he said. "I bet you have no idea what this place really is." "It's a coffee shop, of course." "Right. How long have you been here?" Odd question to ask, she thought. "I'm not sure." "Are you feeling a little timeless? Ha ha. Must be the vodka. Have some more."

You look a bit puzzled. I admit, I might not be the best narrator ever. Some things might not be too clear to you. Like the purpose of this story. But then again, you had quite a lot of wine. Life is short, right?

Emotions of a maître-de-café - The Lovers

2010-04-10T11:01:00.000-07:00

Sie gingen ins kleinste Cafe am Ort (Erich Kästner - Sachliche Romanze)

As we sat down at our table, I could hear Bono's unmistakable voice in the background. It was just her and me, as usual, but something seemed different. We'd never been here before and the blueish light, the secluded table, the look in her eyes made me feel uneasy, nervous, as if something was about to happen. And something did happen.

I could see us on a stage, dressed up in Elizabethan clothes, acting out our parts as if we'd said the words a thousand times before. As if we really meant them. I could see her on the balcony, her beautiful brown hair hanging on her shoulders, her proud posture, her grace. Her words expressing my very thoughts, her voice becoming a bridge between us. Yes, and all I can say is: Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

But no. That was not it. We are not torn between our young love and the duty to obey our families. We both look at each other in silence. The scene changes.

We're in the middle of a lively party. I'm wearing a very expensive looking suit, while conversing with a group of young people, drunk and cheerful. I get that long forgotten feeling that only obvious flattery can induce. I can see her across the room, dancing with some man. Disturbing as their closeness might be, she seems happy, content. The 1920s haircut suits her, showing her delicate neckline. Fashion is like history repeated. Can't repeat the past?…Why of course you can!

And still. As our eyes meet, I can tell this is not real either. We're not actually here and I'm not throwing this party to impress her or to bring back memories. And all those people vanish into thin air and we are left alone again, just to wander off to our next destination.

Darkness. I'm walking and breathing, constantly telling myself that I'm alive despite of this thick darkness, this surreal silence. I can almost feel her presence, although she's not making any sound. She walks like a shadow behind me, like the mere surface of her own being. I try to fight the temptation to turn around and to take her in my arms, to make her palpable again. But I know I don't need to turn and look. I know she's there.

I can picture her right in front of me, sitting at the same table. As I reach for her hand, I can hear a song in the background, I recognize it and I sing along, although I've never heard it before. She was my ground, my favorite sound, my country road, my city street, my sky above, my only love, and the ground beneath my feet.

I am happy now. I know she's there. In this strange cafe, far away from the rest of the world, I'm holding her hand again.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Jane Avril

2010-03-28T04:28:00.001-07:00

She was like one walking in the Underworld, where the shades throng intelligibly but have no connection with one. (D. H. Lawrence - The Rainbow)

All my life, I have met the wrong people. People who would seize the day, people who would take all they wanted from life, successful people. Sitting at this bar, sipping cosmopolitan from a dirty glass, looking at the strangers around me, I realized how exposed we are to all the wrong kinds of people. Like that girl over there with the baseball cap, talking to a strange man. I've wasted so much time on strange men.

The green light coming from nowhere, the darkness in this forgotten place, the wrinkled hands holding my glass - and I can't stop thinking about that boy. Long time ago, when the idea of death was still something outside of myself, I used to take everything for granted: the smell of spring, days without back pain, smooth skin. I used to eat when I was hungry, drink when I was thirsty and sleep when I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. And I was honest. We spent almost everyday together, talking about everything and anything, not a care in the world. And we never said what we felt for each other until he left.

This is starting to sound like a boring story told by your grandma on Christmas, when you have to listen because she brought you presents. I'm not like that. I don't like to burden people with my stories. They've never met him, they've never seen me when I was 20, they don't know how I felt. The best they can do is sympathize, maybe recall a similar experience. But it's not the same. No experience is like the other.

All I can think of while drinking cheap cosmopolitan in some suburban bar is this one honest memory. Nothing really happened back then and maybe that's what makes it memorable. There was this attraction like thin dust in the air whenever we met. He was almost always on my mind, and life seemed so much happier all of a sudden.

Drifting off again. If I had learned to do whatever crossed my mind, I'd get up, go straight to that girl and tell her to run. To mind her own business. To go and spend her time with people who deserve her attention. But I'm not like that. I've never been a kind person. I'm sure they already think I am a bit crazy. They probably don't even believe that I used to be an actress. But it's true. I could play any role, for anybody. All I needed were a few minutes of conversation and I could fit into any role, into any fantasy, at any time. Women were pleased, men were enchanted and I was constantly practicing this wonderful art of deception. Mostly self-deception, as I later realized.

And now here I am, a strange appearance, tired of all my roles, dated and alone. That's the fate of all the Jane Avrils of this world. But, look at that, the glass is empty again. I better order another one.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Coffee

2010-03-20T12:49:00.000-07:00

Unsere Welt ist die beste aller möglichen Welten. (Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz)

The energizing effect of the coffee bean plant was very likely discovered and recognized in Ethiopia, before the 9th century AD. Coffee beans were first roasted and brewed in the 15th century in Arabia. Approximately a hundred years later, coffee spread to Europe, where it was initially banned and believed to be the drink of the devil.

This was until one learned man of faith, Pope Clement VIII had his first cup (or was it some other recipient?) of coffee on one beautiful morning in 1600. He liked it so much that he just could not believe such a taste would be anything but divine. So, the ban was lifted and coffee became popular.

Soon, people recognized the social effect of this fashionable drink and the first coffee houses appeared in Europe. Men from all walks of life could sit and talk, and sometimes it so happened that they talked about physics. And Isaac Newton. In French.

One of those men was François-Marie Arouet, better known by his pen name, Voltaire, an enthusiastic writer, philosopher and essayist of the Enlightenment. His circle of friends was made up of other illustrious bourgeois members of the French Academy of Sciences. One of those friends was Pierre-Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, a French mathematician and philosopher.

On a windy autumn day, as one would imagine, they sat at a table in Gradot’s coffee house, sipping their usual café au lait and talking about, you’ve guessed it, Newton. They were so caught up in their conversation, that they did not notice the extremely odd looking youngster who just entered. Being one of the usual customers, he strategically chose a table in a dark corner of the room, from where he could observe the two scholars.

Voltaire, who had the habit of becoming very loud when contradicted, was gesticulating furiously, when the young man stood up from his seat and almost imperceptibly joined them at their table. “I think”, said the stranger with a weak, yet determined voice, “I think you’re wasting your time talking about Newton.” The two philosophers were muted with amazement. “Who are you to question our judgement, you fool?” Voltaire shouted, obviously in French. The young man smiled candidly. “I think Leibniz was right when he said that this is the best of all possible worlds.” “What?!” Voltaire started laughing. “You actually believe you can explain physical phenomena through metaphysical speculations?! The best of all possible worlds, that is just hilarious.” The two men were laughing ostentatiously, but that did not seem to bother the young stranger, who was still smiling gracefully.

“You know, if it weren’t for Pope Clement VIII, I believe we would never have met”, he said, looking at the cup of coffee in front of him. This silenced the two yet again. “So what...?” asked Voltaire. “I could have been just as happy without meeting you.” “We’ll see about that”, smiled the stranger, glancing over to Maupertuis. “Au revoir, Messieurs.” And so he left. That’s when Maupertuis realized why the young man seemed so familiar. “Voltaire, my friend, I believe that was one of my students.” “What an impertinent fool”, said Voltaire, arms crossed. His friend started laughing. “More impertinent than you might think!” “Why?” “My student’s name is Émilie.” Voltaire remained speechless.

A few weeks later, a new rumor was spreading like fire in Paris. Apparently, the highly respectable writer and philosopher of the Enlightenment, better known by his pen name Voltaire, was seen at the opera in the company of a married woman, Madame Émilie du Châtelet, who was already notorious for dressing up as a man to be allowed to set foot in coffee shops. The two would have a stormy relationship for 16 years, during which they would often fight about Newton and Leibniz. This would lead eventually to a break-up.

Still, after the death of his beloved Émilie, Voltaire is said to have admitted that this truly is the best of all possible worlds.

Emotions of a maître-de-café - Michelle

2010-03-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

Well, well, well you just can't tell
Well, well, well my Michelle.

(Guns N' Roses - "My Michelle")

My second glass of vodka and I can't get enough of the stuff. To be honest, I didn't think they would sell it to me, but I guess I look older than I am. When I left, I could hear him breathe. I had to be extra careful not to wake him up when I got dressed. I don't even know why I left in the middle of the night. And why I'm not planning to go back. He was good to me, after all. Man, this stuff is strong. It's really burning, exactly what I needed tonight. I like the dizziness that follows, the strange feeling of moving in reverse, the haze embracing everything around. I'm thinking too much, again. My dad used to say I'm a dreamer. I'm just a dreamer, I dream my life away. He he. My dad, the eternal hippie. My mom, the eternal housewife. Me?

Another vodka, please. Yeah, on the rocks, no lemon, thank you. Well. People wonder why I'm always on the run. What am I running from? Nothing in particular. Just boredom. I can't stand to be bored. Can't stand to feel time running by without doing something, anything. Like walking, always walking.

This cafe is strange. Hm. I probably walked by the sign outside a thousand times, but I never really noticed it before. I wonder who these people are. Probably regular customers, most of 'em. The lady at the bar, all dressed up, looking like a countess or something. I bet she's a bit loony. Some thin younger guy, he looks like Keith Richards from behind. And a man in a suit. He's been staring at me since I came in. He keeps his hand on the glass and I can see his silver Rolex from underneath the sleeve. I won't keep eye contact. I know his type too well. Mister Bigshot. He'll probably come over here soon with some cheesy line.

Oh yes, here he comes. Shit, I really don't need to attract any more attention. And here he is, drink in hand, all suited up. Silence. A light smell of smoke, blueish haze, the last vodka in my glass. Yeah, you can join me, why not. I'll have what you have. Yeah, on the rocks, all right.

Me? I'm Michelle.

Emotions - Prologue

2010-02-21T23:59:00.001-08:00

O chansons foregoing
You were a seven days' wonder. (Ezra Pound - Epilogue)

When you work in a Café, you see all kinds of things, meet all kinds of people. They all seem to come here to escape from their usual lives. I guess the night looks different when you’re sitting behind a glass of wine, listening to some lady singing in a foreign language. Like that guy over there, in the dark blue suit. He works nearby, comes in late and always orders the same drink. “On the rocks”, he says, and I can tell he thinks I don’t remember him. But I do, I never forget a face. He’s usually alone, and he leaves pretty late at night. And there he is again, Mister On-the-Rocks. Of course, I don’t know his real name, but that’s not important anyway. I’m not good with names. As I look around the room, I can see the usual customers: that young student who lives in this building, right up there in the attic, very skinny kid, very quiet. I call him Bob, that’s how much he stands out. At the bar, leaning over a glass of vodka, Miss Jane Avril, former actress, if I were to believe what she says. But I know by the wrinkles on her face that she’s been lying about her age too. I have to admit, she’s the most elegant customer here, always impeccably dressed, as if she were going to a banquet or something.

Strangely, there seems to be somebody I overlooked at the first glance. Someone new. See that girl with the baseball cap? She looks awfully young. I should ask her for her ID card. But later. Eh, let her have a drink, what the hell. One drink never hurt anyone. You see, when you’re working in my business, you have to care for people, understand them, give them what they need and send them home when they’ve had too much. Ha, ha. A little bit of music, some alcohol, nice company, nice people around. A pleasant memory. I guess that’s all we have to offer them here. A break from their usual lives, maybe. You see, time doesn’t affect this place. They come here to escape from their lives and the laws of physics, their troubles and the lack of a parking space, heartbreaks and the first signs of growing old. Those things don’t matter here. Nobody knows them here, nobody knows their names, their problems, their skeletons in the closet. You see, here they can be somebody else. I don’t mind, as long as they don’t cause any trouble. They come and go. And sometimes, they come back.

The Poetry Behind a Maître-de-Café

2010-02-15T11:56:00.000-08:00

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. (T.S.Eliot)
It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things. (S.Mallarme)

Perhaps one of the passions of my high-school years was most certainly poetry. It probably didn't start with the Romantic, highly appreciated and abundantly cited national poet, but with the Modernists, the minimalists and lyrical cubists of the age. It started with synaesthesia, haiku, a few brushstrokes that concealed a new form of rendering reality. Poetry at its best.

When talking to people and mentioning poetry, I often get this confused and slightly uncomfortable look as a response, followed by nodding. Yes, poetry is hard to understand. More difficult than prose? I wouldn't think so. It's just different.

Poems are meant to appeal to other areas of the readers' minds. And as clearly suggested by T.S.Eliot, they don't even need to be fully understood. What I learned from one of the most precious experiences of my life - the translation of a book of poems - is that the aim is not to interpret, dissect and thereby deprive a poem of its delicate beauty, but rather to make that literary pact and indulge in the fleeting pleasure of the first read. There is no need for symbols, metaphors, allegories and intertextuality. Imagination is everything and a good poem should drop hints in such a way, that the reader can recognize them. If after you finish reading the poem you feel like it has been written for you specifically, you better hold on to it, because it must be a very good one.

Speaking your mind in just a few words: that seems to be the imperative of my life and writing. No other literary form has experimented with this as much as poetry. By suggesting rather than describing, by giving up logic in favor of imagination, by keeping silent in a world of eternal noise poetry will always remain that outcast of literature, that necessary evil.

And although they say you cannot translate poetry, it is my firm belief that a good translator will always add something substantial to the poem he translates. That is why I decided to include a short poem written by my favorite Romanian poet and translated into English. If you read this, try to imagine everything, and you'll see what I mean.

Sentimental story

Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.

From the book "Bas-Relief with Heroes"
written by Nichita Stanescu
english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru

Happy Tunes, Sad Tunes

2010-02-12T09:30:00.000-08:00

Some songs stick to the mind, some might even make you dance, and some very special ones will always remain a part of what constitutes a person. But there is also a very interesting category of tunes that can change the mood of someone. They may not be award-winning songs, the lyrics may not even express poetic value and the band could not even stand out. But their impact might be, nevertheless, immense.

I have a list of songs that make me happy, as well as a list of songs that make me sad. Whenever I happen to hear them, they bring a slight change in mood, even if only temporary. With that, I think they achieve something pretty rare in contemporary pop music.

The absolute number one feel-good song for me is She Drives Me Crazy by Fine Young Cannibals. I don't know if it's the easily recognizable voice of the singer or the general rhythm of the song, but it can sometimes magically turn my mood around. Exactly like 500 Miles by The Proclaimers. I think the Canadian accent of the lead singer helps a lot with that one. By the way, I'd love to sing these songs at karaoke some day.

Very special for me is Roxette's Joyride because it's one of those songs that will always remind me of childhood.

There are, of course, a lot of songs that achieve the opposite effect: sad melodies and lyrics that speak of heartbreaks and tragic stories. The best example that comes to mind is Nothing Compares 2 You by Sinead O'Connor (and I think many people would agree with me on that). If you've also seen the video, you definitely know what I'm talking about. I also keep on this same list songs like The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice, who ingeniously places the entire weight of the song on the last, whispered, and almost inaudible line. Eric Clapton's (original) version of Layla and Too Late by M 83 complete this highly subjective list. So if you really want to see me cry some day, you know what compilation to make. The same if you want to see me laugh. But that is much easier.

A Tribute to Lady Lazarus

2010-01-24T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have to admit that, like every young, modern woman, I am smitten with interesting personalities like Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath, partly because of the movies dedicated to their life and work, partly because of their increasing popularity in the literary world.

That is how I got to discover Sylvia Plath, whose contribution to literature cannot be judged without knowing her biography. What I most admire about her is the vulnerability she manages to convey in her writing. Yes, she is the victim in most of her poems, and yet her strength arises particularly through this blunt disclosure of her weakness.

I tend to treat writers I like in the same manner I would do with people I like: mere coincidences appear as proof of karmic connections. Take, for instance, her poem Bluebeard, a symbolic figure reminding me of my favorite childhood fairytale:

Bluebeard

I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study;
because he would make love to me
I am sending back the key;
in his eye's darkroom I can see
my X-rayed heart, dissected body :
I am sending back the key
that let me into bluebeard's study.

Notice the female sensitivity and at the same time the lucidity brought forth through a relatively small number of lines. She does not need elaborate metaphors or extravagant imagery to convey the most intimate of feelings.

One of her best poems, called Daddy, brings her work to a whole new level of understanding. Not only do tone and rhythm, as well as the obvious Nazi references remind me of Celan's Todesfuge, but the voice of the victim does not seem to be marked by romantic lament, but by utter hate. Her poems stick to the mind of the reader, like haunting chants. Her somewhat morbid references, along with the constant emotional exposure give her the shape of a true Lady Lazarus:

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

Some day maybe I will be ready for her famous autobiographical book, The Bell Jar, but until then I will read and wonder at the exceptional combination between the lyrical predisposition and the literary skillfulness of this highly talented poetess.

First Words

2010-01-21T11:30:00.000-08:00

Call me Ishmael. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. The Opera ghost really existed. I am an invisible man.

The first line determines the destiny of a story. It is the author reaching out for his reader and hopefully pulling him into his world. That is why an opening line has to be good. It has to be brilliant, in fact. The first words have to stick out, they can't be vague or clumsy.

Because I have a special talent for beginning stories but never for ending them, I have gathered a few opening lines. Maybe some really deserve a continuation. You decide.

So, here we go:

All the lights went out at 7.

As the bus hit her, causing the inner bleeding and the multiple fractures which would eventually lead to her death, XY couldn't help but wonder about the chain of events that had pulled her out of her usual routine.

He knew the rules of the game: he had to walk blindfolded through the city.

Death never seems to have lost its importance.

Children playing hopscotch.

I create a reality for myself: a conversation, let's say, in a coffee shop.

I'm starting to write because I have no other choice.

Imagine waking up every morning in a different bed, in a different city and not having any clue how you got there.

By the way, the last one has a follow-up.

What Happens At Night

2010-01-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

Such places open secret entries into darkness in the interval between midnight and the time the sky grows light. None of our principles has any effect there. No one can predict when or where such abysses will swallow people, or when or where they will spit them out.

When I was in school I read a Sci-Fi short story that appeared in an almanac during late communist times, called The Planet of the Two Suns. The narrative followed a man's fantastic journey to a planet inhabited by strange creatures, who would lead peaceful, quiet lives during daytime, and become wild and vicious at night. The idea seems intriguing and surely possesses a lot of literary potential. Haruki Murakami based his novel After Dark precisely on this interplay between the nocturnal and the diurnal, between sleep and wake. The narrative unfolds in the time span of a few hours, but occasional bizarre interludes seem to take us out of the usual temporality.

Surprisingly enough, Murakami's book is not about a city in Japan. It's about a generic city and a number of characters whose lives intersect in the course of a night. The people seem almost stereotypical: there are the two antinomic sisters, there is the bohemian musician talking about his rough childhood, there is the Chinese prostitute and of course the emotionally challenged businessman. Each of them has a story and we certainly get a glimpse of their lives. But what seems to be more important is the collective nocturnal consciousness, the nothingness they all appear to share.

The story focuses alternatively on Mari, the younger, more introverted but well-read sister, the outsider figure seeking constant wakefulness, and on Eri, the model, who has fallen into a deep sleep months ago. The strange occurrences happening in Eri's room at night, when she is transported by a masked phantomatic man into the TV disrupt the normal flow of the plot. Still, what I focused on more than the actual interpretation of these scenes was the audacious style of the narrative voice. Just to give you an example: Our point of view, as an imaginary camera, picks up and lingers over things like this in the room. We are invisible, anonymous intruders. We look. We listen. We note odours. But we are not physically present in the place, and we leave behind no traces. This daring narrative twist not only underlines the obscure nature of nocturnal occurrences, but also attributes a role to the reader. We are included in the story with the clear mission of observing. A major implication can be inferred by this: the characters have a life of their own and do not need us to exist. A highly postmodern point of view, I'd say.

Murakami's obvious interest in jazz music reveals the origin of the title: Curtis Fuller's song "Five Spot After Dark". Each of the five main characters gets to contribute to the collective nocturnal blues. Even the brutal businessman, the exact replica of American Psycho in a highly automatized, capitalistic environment who beat up a Chinese prostitute in a love hotel establishes a human, yet unconscious and subtle connection with the sleeping Eri.

Not randomly selected is also the name of the hotel, Alphaville, an allusion to Jean-Luc Godard's mystery Sci-Fi. The movie focuses on the adventures of an American on a strange planet, whose ruler prohibits love and emotional expression. Like the name suggests, most characters in After Dark show this apparent inability to connect on an affective level. Still, at night, they manage to escape their own selves and to interact, even if only to part ways at the break of dawn.

Yes, this is a book about loneliness. But still, in the late hours of the night, the close contact with obscurity and the subconscious workings of the mind brings strangers together for a brief moment until light, reality and reason diffuse the nocturnal fog.

Modernism vs Postmodernism

2009-12-30T06:10:00.000-08:00

A lot of people find themselves wondering if a literary piece is rather modern or postmodern. Usually, opening some big book about literary tendencies of the 20th century leaves readers even more confused.

That's why I decided to write this short theoretical article, with the aid of what I remember from one of the best books on this, Five Faces of Modernity by Romanian writer Matei Calinescu, Professor at the University of Indiana, USA.

The first substantial difference between the two is, obviously, time related. Modernism precedes Postmodernism as a timely reference. Unfortunately, this criterion proves itself, more often than not, pretty useless because of a certain overlap between the two tendencies and because of the multiple meanings of the word modernism.

When trying to decide if a book is predominantly modern or postmodern, one should also consider the targeted audience. To be brief, modernists could be considered elitist pigs (pardon my French). Let's consider two examples. Compare Joyce's Ulysses to Rushdie's Haroun and the Sea of Stories. The first one is without a doubt practically incomprehensible to people that lack a certain kind of literary/cultural knowledge, as well as the patience to read a book not written for the common reader. The second one has the advantage of being constructed on multiple levels, offering a wide range of interpretations. It can even be read as a children's book. Postmodernism does present a certain fascination towards consumerism, which is why artists try to appeal to the masses, often appealing to kitsch.

Another basic distinction between the two notions is offered by looking at the work itself. Modernist works are par excellence serious books treating serious subject matters: the lonesome individual lost in a world he does not understand (Kafka), fleeting time and the multiple faces of the individual (V. Woolf), subjectivity and memory (Proust), new aesthetic values such as the ugly and the repulsive (Baudelaire), war and traumatic experiences (German expressionism), the absurd (everything from Camus to Théâtre de l'Absurde). This is somewhat understandable due to the social and political events modern writers had to deal with: two world wars, poverty, and, most of all, the death of God. The last concept, introduced by Nietzsche's nihilistic attitude, changed the way people look at the world forever.

But coming back to our discussion: Postmodernism is nothing like that. The wars being over, postmodern writers realized they had to cope with a problem of their own: everything worth writing has already been written. In the face of this new dilemma, authors found a new, original way out: interreferentiality. It's a fancy word describing something very simple. Authors started adopting characters found in other books, quoting from them, or re-writing popular stories in a different way. But they also went beyond that. They realized that fiction as such is no different from reality and that the real itself can be fiction. That's why authors like Milan Kundera (in Immortality) or Julian Barnes (in Flaubert's Parrot) wrote pseudo-biographical accounts with the basic aim of showing how much of what we know about famous personalities is basically fiction. I'd also like to mention here the turn that appeared in Latin American Literature. Most people have heard about Marquez' notorious magical realism, which is, again, a pretentious and apparently contradictory term for something simple. The characters in Marquez' novels appear to be very surprised about normal, mundane events; nevertheless, they do seem to take all supernatural or magical things that happen (like the existence of ghosts) as something very natural. A Hundred Years of Solitude is the classic (and oh so postmodern) example for this.

Of course, the distinction between Modernism and Postmodernism is not always obvious. But the most important aspect when making the distinction is, as I see it, the close examination of the intent of the author and his world view. Is he a whiny, pretentious, traumatized or disappointed individual? The world seems never to agree with him? Then he must be a modernist. Is he playful, ironic, smart and yet casual with his readers? Does he like to play tricks on his audience or does he end his books with a pun? Then I'm sure he's a follower of Postmodernism. Hope this helps some of you.

About Parallelism and Vanity Fair

2009-12-20T08:32:00.000-08:00

Hello, dear bloggers. Today I thought about one of the most exciting literary techniques ever invented: parallel stories that take place in different centuries. The respect I have for this interesting method is nurtured by one key factor that I am aware of: it's damn hard writing a novel like that. Not only must the author know a whole lot about the centuries of his choice, but he has to link the two stories in a consistent way and make this connection meaningful.

At the moment only two books constructed with the aid of this technique come to mind: a novel written by Tracy Chevalier, Virgin Blue and The Hours by Michael Cunningham. The former follows the lives of two women, one living in the 16th century, the other one in the 21st. The latter book focuses on three women living in different times, all linked by Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway.

I always find it extremely exciting to talk about peculiar methods of writing that authors choose. I'm sure this discussion can be extended to classic novels as well, because they might have a rigid structure and plot, but some interesting aspect might still appear. Like, for instance, Thackeray's preface to Vanity Fair that stands as a premonition signaling the death of the omniscient narrator caused by his shameless artificiality.

I have a feeling that this is not the only post about narrative techniques ever to appear on my blog. So please, feel free to comment and add any other such aspects that would be nice to discuss.

Until then, read on.

Of Being Alone

2009-12-05T00:46:00.000-08:00

When being home alone, the house itself seems more alive. There is a certain motion of silence, a certain undeniable presence felt by the one person who can witness it.

Often I have thought about the classic paradox of the falling apple. If there is an apple falling from a tree in a forest and there is nobody to perceive the sound it makes, does it still make a sound?

When it comes to a house, there is one key figure that has to be present. Me. The observer. Because it all comes down to the same old question: what would life be without people to experience it? What would be the use of an elaborately constructed Universe, of the greatest of all creations, without me, the witness, the consciousness that recognizes and appreciates its greatness?

In an empty house, loneliness would seem a burden, but it's not. We are surrounded by people all the time. And even when they are not physically present, we see them on TV, hear them on the radio or chat with them online. Not often are we granted the privilege of being alone, of being excluded, even just for a few moments, from the ever-present stream of life.

Yes, there are two blessed moments of loneliness in life: being alone in an empty house and falling asleep.

Of Great Disappointments

2009-11-14T06:47:00.000-08:00

Bonjour, friends and strangers. The beginning is always difficult, even if the first step has been made. I had a striking revelation today, so that I finally have a pretext of starting an imaginary blogger-to-bloggee dialogue.

What absolutely shook my world in its very core was the idea that our biggest fear - my biggest fear - is being disappointed. The path to happiness is a tricky one and Man had to learn it the hard way.

Imagine this: you wake up one morning after one year of marriage and you realize, to your surprise, that this is not what you wanted. That this will never be what you wanted. The disappointment is unbearable, you start questioning every conviction you ever had and even your own reflection in the mirror starts fading away. That's the very moment you get a glimpse of the ironic and existentially sad truth that you never acknowledged before: the only obstacle standing in your way to happiness is yourself. No, happiness is neither the destination, nor the journey. It's what you allow it to be, it's that no man's land in your mind that needs to remain unquestioned in order to function.

Disappointment: the irreversible change of perspective, the loss of innocence, naivety and belief. Of course, it's not always triggered in the mind. But it takes so little to unleash this force, that even an autumn leaf can cause a tornado in my system of beliefs.

But there is an upside to disappointment, namely the search for more, for something else, for something new. Of course everything is destined to become old at one point or another, yet the idea is to keep on going. As Rilke once said, "Who talks of victory? To survive is all that matters." Maybe the aim in life is not happiness, but life itself. The exquisite pleasure of disappointment.

Reviving the Blog

2009-10-31T00:07:00.000-07:00

Hello y'all! Long time no blog but that was for a good reason. Graduation. And holidays. And all the other stuff that happened in my life since we last spoke.

So I decided that Facebook is not really the proper place to write all my new thoughts down. Instead, I'm trying to revive this old blog, but I'm going to make it more accessible to everybody, given my growing international audience.

So I hope you're all ready for the incredible overflow of information coming soon!

But now I'm going back to bed.

It's Saturday.

Self Portrait Part I

2009-04-16T10:53:00.000-07:00

I am 22 years old. I have no idea what my purpose is on earth. I don't know what's going to happen after I die. There are some things that make me comfortable: books, coffee cups, post its, closeness, love, cake. There are some things that make me uncomfortable: silence, elevators, news, closeness, tents. There are many things I do not understand. Some of those are nice, most of them are people.
My room is a closed space. The only window is my internet connection. And music. I am 22 years old and I have no idea what I'm doing. I'd like to dress up and go to the theater. There, everybody gets a mask, although it's an invisible one. Everybody can be someone else.
I'd like to write it all down, make a movie out of it. I'd like to write poetry, as square as possible. I'd like to paint a story. A simple one.

Before You Say Anything

2009-02-05T07:29:00.000-08:00

She is one of those people who might understand, because she is aware of the world. Not necessarily by plunging into the "stream of life", but by intuitively seeking something beyond reality. We live in a world of shades, of an acute lack of substance. She is blind too, but she knows that she's lacking sight.

The world around can be a hollow place. It is filled with trivial things, with shallowness and minor ambitions. But her mind offers a promise for more. There is something out there, larger than all the plans one might make, more insightful and supreme to everything else. There is a necessity for meaning. A necessity for destiny. Not the master plan of some force that cannot be grasped by the human spirit, but a net of lives that interact to create a piece of reality. She talks to people and they will be changed forever. They talk to her and she discovers something new in herself, a new door to be opened, a new world to explore. This is how destiny is born. The smallest gestures, the most interesting people, all this insignificance generating life. She will never be the same again.

So be careful what you say.