luciabordeianu

life keeps amusing me,

is often surprising, especially when I am bored

or sad.

life is my pill,

my therapist,

my personal trainer.

and is not doing things for free.

yesterday afternoon,

life popped up a picture on that social media web site,

that I’m using since 2010.

a guy was smoking in his profile photo

and seemed standing in snow or rain.

nice…

mine was took in the kitchen and I am wearing an old sport t shirt.

I don’t even remember

from when is in my possession.

the only effort was to braid my hair in two tails.

(is how I imagine myself as a gipsy)

SO, the man was there, the system proposed me to connect.

I dove into his wall for a while.

I was very tired, laisy, not in the mood,

but he is a poet, reason why I looked twice.

then life said to me:

do you remember the night when you drank

a tea in that bar, down town?

hell, yeah! so long ago… was 2017 or 18.

well, you were sick or something,

that’ s why the tea.

at one large table next to you,

a group of writers, poets or some kind of artists

were drinking beers, talking, laughing so loud!

aham. I don’ t remember exactly what they were talking about.

most of the time they were gossiping about others, town’s artists

who were missing at the table.

yep! and they were also advertising for their own creations.

didn’t I react somehow? I think I did.

you were soft. you only drank tea…

what a pity!
tell me, why is that relevant now?

the smoker is one of them.

oh, boy! I smiled and smiled and smiled,

while sending an add request.

now I am friend with a poet.

we are practically bound.

when I post something, I wonder if he can see

and if he can, does he understand?

I get the feeling he is not with me, on this shore .

anyway, maybe his life is surprising him too,

from time to time.

they always said, in so many different ways,

that I scare them, digging into their fears

with my dark eyes.

that I am too demanding,

a dreamer, a runner, a fighter.

a fucker.

that I am too small or too far away.

that my hair is too short,

or my long curls and my midline

don’t make me Madonna.

that I am too quiet and slow.

they never wanted me from the start,

but after all those ends,

they keep see me in their minds:

a ghost from past.

they always said I am not too pretty

or too smart.

they said I am stuborn and dumb

they said I am selfish, unconsciousness or gelous

for no reason.

they asked me how I feel, sometimes,

not waiting for my answer.

they kept me for a while for themselves,

in the way we all keep ordinary things on our desks.

they got annoyed of my voice.

they never understood my choises.

they didn’t like me because I was a town girl,

a south east country side girl , a romanian one,

an east european, a christian,

unmarried, without a big purpose in life,

with no specific financial and professional plan,

they rejected me for missing bachelor’ s degree,

for being too old or too young.

for not being hungarian.

for having no money or rich family,

for moving from town to town,

for not wearing modern clothes,

for not answering at their phone calls.

they told me I would look better as a blonde,

with bigger brests and red long nails,

in skirts, dresses, on heels.

they never understood my writings,

my losts, my thoughts, my words,

my swords, my shelters, my hidings,

my red lips, my glass of wine,

my drawings, my touches, my tears,

my laughs, my screams, my cigarettes.

so I wonder how comes that I am so fine

for you, even without green eyes?

how am I not imperfect, as I have learned that
I am?

Sigur nu toți copiii mici sunt mofturoși în fața unei farfurii cu mâncare. Mai mult, sunt atâția copii care mor de foame sau care dacă nu mor, sunt chinuiți de ea. Unii se află la mii de kilometri distanță, alții la zece minute de mers pe jos, de aici, de la mine.

Dar noi eram. Eu si sora-mea, cu aproape doi ani mai mică. Amintirile îmi arată că mai mult ea ajunsese vedeta meselor și poate aș fi refuzat și eu mai multe alimente, dacă as fi avut loc de gura ei.

-Mmvvvuuuuumm avionul zzzbooaaaarră!

Avionul se rotește în aer! O dată, de două ori șiiii…

– De tlei oli!

– De trei și încă o dată, de patru ori! Dar trebuie să aterizeze imediat! Pilotul a rămas fără combustibil. Unde sa aterizeze?

-Unde?!

-Deschide gurița! Ca pe aeroport, așaaa. Mmm, ce bine! Pilotul a scăpat!

-E bun!

-Mai zburăm o tură cu avionul?

-DAAA!

Tata transforma lingurele si furculițele în avioane (cu motor), mașini bbrrraaam, brraam, in trăsura pădurarului, la care era prins Mișu, un cal bătrân, sur, trenuri cu multe vagoane de marfă ciuuuu! ciuuuu! Sau vapoare.

Era o întreagă logistică pe masa noastră din bucătărie și, la final, cu depozitele pline, fugeam la joacă.

I propose let’s meet halfway’s alley,

narrow water channel,

on that country road.

I promised you dry lovage and borsch,

so I’ll bring.

‘cause I know, I know how much you miss

bitter tastes of home.

in exchange, I’ll ask one more tell,

‘cause I love, I love how you remember

those times of yours.

whenever you come with a story,

I hope for a switch inside my brain,

‘cause I can’t, I can’t feel where I came from.

for such a long time,

I don’t belong here or there,

I am a nomad.

am nimerit într-o lume albă.

când ieșeam în stradă,

din scara unu, până oriunde,

pe hainele mele albe doar urme

de stropi negri din apa de ploaie!

țâșneau liberi prin aer,

de fiecare dată când tălpile,

închise în pantofi, apăsau,

hotărâte,

in baltă.

mama a înțeles, încă de pe atunci,

că sunt fără speranță,

mai mult încăpățânată decât neatentă și,

începând cu nu știu exact ce zi,

nu m-a mai împuns cu vârful umbrelei

în spate.

și vezi, deși lumea noastră este prea albă,

și se spune să nu uiți niciodată de unde vii,

tu știi că prefer mai mult

verdele ăsta al ierbii,

ce ne ține prinși

de gleznele goale și mâini.

și macii sălbatici, ca noi,

și caii negri, sub cerul gri, deasupra.

sau soarele,

chiar dacă încă

se ascunde.

și toate culorile toamnei,

pe chipul tău,

vara.