Funeral of weddings. Wedding of funerals.

There was a game we used to play! History repeats itself. Me and every time one different player. Sometimes an old player comes back for one more game. It's only me that always stays in the game. My cards on the table. My thoughts down inside. (My) childish dreams cried out loud.

It is so simple when it comes to asking what brings two people together. It's so simple when it comes to asking what breaks them apart. It's so wingless when it's about you. It's so intense when it's about me.

Everybody laughs out joy when one new person is born. Everybody cries when one person closes its eyes forever. The beginning of one love always celebrated. Its end eternally grieved.

My beginnings always reach their ends, ends followed by new beginnings, beginnings followed by the same old ends, ends followed by other new beginnings, beginnings followed by their ends........

This is the game. Every round is different. Am I winning? Every round ends. I could believe the game itself would end, hopeful like a child, when my player would stay, and never raise up from the chair he is never to sit on again. Until then the game stays alive.

This fucking game: the need of someone.the loss of someone.

Team Operation 4

Learning to LET GO.

It's amazing how sometimes a handtouch can give them angel wings.

It's amazing how two people can think one of each other at the same time, listening to the same album of manu chao.

It's amazing how one can feel when the other one thinks of him.

It's amazing how a simple look in the other's eyes can bring up on his lips the more sincere smile.

It's not amazing though how people abandon their deepest true feelings deceiving purity of their soul, buying certainty and common while selling hopes, emotions, freedom, love.

It's amazing how silly one could be thinking that these angel wings don't fly away as soon as they they start to fly. It's amazing how much I see this as a weakness. It's amazing how weak someone should be to say I LOVE YOU out of commodity. Now,

let go of these hands, braveheart.

Happy endings are just stories that haven't finished yet

Soundtrack: Tori Amos, Siren. Recommended volume 29. Final cutout. Retro...perspective: start movie, play movie, pause, rewind, climax, one more character, end movie, rewind, fast forward, stop play, burn, send.

It is a state of fact clearly certified that there is a certain reiteration in the experiences that form altogether the life of a human being. Similitude in meanings, the same things we might find in them...the shape of their smile, her cat walk and the same disguised get-to-know-and-conquer game, the same passion, uttering, different masks. States we feel, things we do all and over again in different ways, in different circumstances, with different others.

It would be far from truth not to acknowledge the desire to re-live some of the things we do or to continue some of the things started, in the hope that the intensity of the way they happened for the first time, might repeat itself in a future encounter. But this should be considered rather a weakness of ours, one of the ones most hard to overcome. I certainly cannot deny the possibility that one more opportunity to continue same games could be fruitful on same levels, but most probably these are exceptions, surely belonging to strong players. The need for extreme emotion and adrenaline cries out in each of us, more or less visible depending on the individual self, and sometimes the desperate way of fulfilling it, is establishing the next meeting with the one/ones whose presence near you made possible the explosion of crazy butterflies in your stomach. Still, there is no doubt about the weak percent of that to happen. Just like a bet, with tough stakes. However nature seems to be quite helpful, for time and space don't always offer second chances, or at least help in reducing the possibility for them to happen. Second chances described as the mere illusions of naive people that a feeling could be lived over and over again.

I didn't ask his name, because that wouldn't have mattered. Probably it would have been no more than a social practice to associate the person with a superficial identity offered by his name. I didn't ask for his phone number or other contact details, so that to ensure the impossibility to continue a story that has consumed itself at an unimaginable level of pleasure, risk and vulnerability. Long stories reduce intensity; intensity unfortunately underestimated by most. It is as if you make the second part of a movie with great raking. Most of the time, it is banal, ordinary, resuming the same content in unworthy forms. Obviously, anyone bright would reckon that what it happens is soon forgotten if the way it happens is not catchy enough.

Living a life is so much similar to making a movie. Finding a great circumstance, the best characters, build a story, editing, randerize, watch back what you've done, recall it for a few moments, burn the cd with the movie and store it somewhere in a dust drawer in the back of your mind. Then move along, instead of building part 2, find a new idea, a new context, a new character and build something new.

Just 'vama veche', on 5th July.

End track.

Tribute pour nous tous

C'est toi pour moi et moi pour toi dans la vie.

Rien de rien. Je ne regrette rien.

C'est paye, balaye, oublie. Je me fous du passe.

Balayees les amours et tous tremolos.

Exploiting a climax of freedom, N.

Though i should start her story from the scratch, I am somehow in the impossibility to do it(hard word, still), for I only met N. in august 2007, while I was taking part in an international media training in Muenster, Germany. My beloved N. is a teenage girl, almost a becoming lady, aged no more than 17. When I first met her, she was having medium-long black hair, with her front head uncovered and a metal piercing in her tongue. Lady N. is Israelis, but it seems that her parents' efforts to raise her in the Hebrew religious spirit collapsed one day I could not precisely name. I imagine the gang, the 'cool' and the non-conformism of the age celebrated the triumph over the traditional dogma that is even currently dominating the country and its people at all possible levels. Of course, I do not deny the possibility in which she was wise enough to realize that if indeed a God existed, the belief in Him shouldn't be constrained and limited to rules and musts or a pretended religious rigidity. Some would call it rebellious attitude or even mutiny. However, there were only rare times which brought along such naturalness springing from only one being.

Despite her siblings, she replaces some words of her vocabulary with others- more expressive, i guess. Lady N. was not afraid to eat meat and cheese at the same time(Hebrew forbids it rigorously), as well as she had no uneasiness to scream out loud how much she liked...some particular parts of the Israelis guys. I have to admit i was somehow astonished by the way she was able to make a clear distinction between these parts, bringing, more or less, some kind of praise to their notorious practice of circumscription. She shared no shamelessly to dress up as a bitch(so, this way we were two) to the bad taste party or to admit sexual instincts as a natural part of the game.

This summer, she is supposed to come in Romania for another training. I can't help but wonder if she would still like that cute friend of our of who we would gladly think of as gay....

I guess I just I love her.

Arthritis endless love

Love is when grandma had arthritis and couldn't do her nails and grandpa was doing them for her, although he had arthritis too.

But is it? Would it be true, that in this world of ours, there is a shallow hunting among us, making us insanely losing our minds in our quest in reaching for it?! Shouldn't this be called madness? Consenting the existence of the ultimate force of a feeling we all desire, but which only a few pretend to have reached it, classifying all the others as "unreal love". It seems to me that the general criteria of establishing the pedigree of love is time. If you love forever and are at the same time loved forever(obviously by the same person), then most probably you could be congratulated as the one(of those few) who was lucky enough(or just naive enough) to have lived the beauty of love. Easy, though, to see the flimsiness which most people prove when unraveling the meaning of time. It's rather difficult, I guess, to see beyond the temporal of a second. Who is to decide that if I love you for one night, and only for one night, my love for you shall not find place into eternity? Why isn't the love which lasts one second as real as the one of a lifetime?

And then, there would be one other thing that could arise a certain amount of interest. What makes long duration better than passion for most ? It's the same as wondering why time should be a 'must' of real love instead of intensity. It is pretty confusing to see that almost all of the best versions of love that have consumed themselves at an unimaginable level of passion, desire and utter pleasure, in which beyond those two there was only a glamorous galaxy, is rather considered childish, superficial, and definitely 'not that love'. Not that love that should last a lifetime, in which you(sooner or later) completely lose yourself, only to become a slave of habitude and finally unbearable loneliness. A loneliness which probably most deny or refuse to see, for their own inner peace, since discovering that after a 15-year marriage in which you believed in your love, the man next to you isn't necessarily the one who should have made you happy forever, is wors e than a rock banging your head from the seventh floor.

Still, with all these, it is so justified, everybody is so entitled to judge and condemn those who are fortunate enough to fall in love 3 times a month, living their maximum happiness each time it happens. So easy to classify as unable to feel real love all those who can say-today i love you for eternity, but i don't know about tomorrow. I would say that maybe these people here are so condemned because they are so much envied by everyone else around, but i think i would be somehow mistaking or maybe overestimating the capacity of 'everybody else around' to understand the elements in which an elevating love lies in. A true love which isn't measured in days, months or years.

They say that when in love, you don't necessarily need air or light or food, for it is so strong, so deep, so genuine that it provides you with all the energy you could desire. Thus, I cannot deny the existence of such possibility. Possibility in which some of us might some day meet that one who could take their breath for their entire life then after and forever. The possibility in which I could say I love you for eternity today to a man, and the next day saying no lie if I'd repeat it again to the same man. A true real love that isn't dehydrated by the chlorine produced by the time flow.

I doubt however that all the people who commit themsel ves are my arthritis grandfather.

Le danger en rose

Je te dirai du mon fin de film prefere 6:14 PM

Jeux d'enfants!Tu as besoin d'une jolie boite et une jolie amie.

Aimes moi si tu oses!Du bonheur à l’état pur. C’est mieux que tout. Le jeu. Pas dangerous si tu es un bon joueur. Si tu as la plus formidable masque de tous.

Cap ou non? Ce sont mots que tu ne les dis pas, mais ils existent entre vous. Car tu sais que la prochaine fois existe. Tu sais que j'adore ta masque et tu doutes que j'aimerais l'homme derriere. Tu m'aimes folement car tu sais que tu peux connaitre seulement ce que je veux te montrer. Sans erreurs. Chaque fois, je suis differente. Chaque fois, tu dois me fasciner. Une nuit, ca suffit. On l'accepte. Pour la prochaine fois. Pas plus. L'attraction des poles differentes. Si nous serions plus proche, tu me rejeter. Moi aussi.

Le jeu va continuer, car c'est mieux, mieux que la drogue, la coke, le crack, le joint, cannabis, LSD, ecstasy…Mieux que le sexe, fellation, pantouze, 69, kamasutra. Mieux que le Nutella au beunne de cacahuète! Mieux que Lucas, que la fîn de 2001, que le déhanché de Marilyn et de la Schtroumpfette. Mieux que Lara Croft. Mieux que Jimmy Hendrix, que Armstrong, que la norde du père Noël! Mieux que Bill Gates, les transes du Dalai-Lama. Mieux que le collagène dans les lèvres de Pamela Anderson. Mieux que la défonce de Rimbaud, Morrison. Mieux que la liberté. Mieux que l'amour! Mieux que la vie!

Donc tu as besoin d'une jolie boite et une jolie amie.

L'absurde derriere.His dancing days are gone.

Il l'a demande si elle voulait se marrier avec lui l'annee prochaine. Sans doute elle lui a repondu-Oui. Meme si elle est non plus que 21 ans. Magnifique perspective. Deux semaines d'avant il pensait serieusement de casser cette relation d'amour sans peche. Il a voulu se demenager, d'habiter avec moi. Comment on l'a dit? Amoureux de moi. Il pouvait me dire 'je t'aime" sans problemes, il me telephonait sans cesse, toute la journee. Mais il a ete totalement mange par la astucieuse culpabilite: 'elle est une jolie copine, nous avons un relation normal, nous n'avons pas de discussions.' Quelle blague. Finalement il a eu un moment de courage. Il est venu me rencontrer. Il a ete si heureux. Dupe!

2 jours plus tard il se sentait trop miserable. Une brute ordinaire, sans moralite, sans sentiments. Il a triche sa copine. Il ne pouvait pas donner un coup de pied a tout ce malheureusement. La seule chose qui pouvait faire l'insuportable culpabilite disparaitre etait....le mariage. Il l'a propose. Il a compense.

Il se sentait trop coupable. Sans doute, elle croit, comme lui, biensur, qu'ils aiment.