calatorii si destinatii

Primii ani sunt in fuga. Este perioada in care singurul tau tel este destinatia. Calatoria nu conteaza deloc, ai da orice sa poti sa inchizi ochii si sa te trezesti direct la destinatie.

O data ajuns la destinatie, o bifezi si gata. Gandesti deja care va fi urmatoarea destinatie si cum faci sa ajungi mai repede acolo. Toata viata devine o insiruire de destinatii.

Dupa o vreme insa, cand te uiti in spate incepi sa iti dai seama ca nu ai nici o idee cum de ai ajuns unde ai ajuns si nici experienta sa poti fi sigur pe tine ca ai sa alegi bine urmatorul drum.

Atunci este momentul in care incepi sa intelegi ca nu destinatia este cel mai important lucru. Destinatia este doar un punct pe o harta. Ales sau nu la intamplare.

Calatorind singur, calatoresti repede. Fara a putea impartasi experienta cu cineva, vei fi mereu prins intre calatorie si destinatie. Experienta castigata va fi fragmentata. Bucatele adunate la un loc pe care speri ca vei fi in stare sa le asezi cumva intr-un mod care-ti va folosi in viitor sau intr-o amintire.

Trairile cand calatoresti singur vor fi mereu estompate. Vei fi singurul care le poate intelege cu adevarat. Vei fi singurul care le poate sa le revada, sa le retraiasca.

Iti dai seama ca totul este intr-un album undeva in mintea ta si oricat ai incerca, nimeni nu o sa poata sa-l vada vreodata asa cum il vezi tu.

Calatorind impreuna, trairile sunt mai intense, amintirile mai bogate. Poti vedea lucrurile si dintr-o alta perspectiva, care uneori te poate surprinde. Dupa un timp devin un fel de caleidoscop. Le mai agiti un pic si o sa ai o alta imagine in albumul de amintiri.

Calatoriile impreuna sunt precum o cafea la pat intr-o dimineata ploioasa.

If you want to go fast, go alone.

If you want to go far, go together.


Treaba asta cu scrisul e dubioasa.

Trebuie sa ai starea aia care sa te ajute sa fii inspirat, sa scrii ce trebuie. Ba sa fii nasolit rau sa scrii ceva mai trist, ba nervos sa scrii ceva sarcastic sau bucuros sa bagi ceva cu umor; asa cam cum zic englezii: “you need to be in the right mood”.

Ideile principale se aduna ba cand mergi aiurea cu masina, ba in tramvai, ba prin troleu, ba prin metrou.

Noroc cu tehnologia asta ca poti sa-ti iei notite oricand, oriunde. Acum studiez intens ideea de a folosi telefonul pe post de dictafon, ca asa cu scris pe telefon imi pierd gandurile/ideile ca scriu incet si cum Murphy nu doarme niciodata, imi vin ideile cand am nevoie sa fiu concentrat si la altceva important, ca de exemplu condusul sau vreo intalnire din asta la care trebuie sa contribui.

Ma trezesc in cele mai ciudate locuri cand imi vin idei de scris. Si bineinteles ca imi zic in cap “aha, sa tin minte asta pana ajung acasa” si instant uit ce trebuia sa tin minte.

Oare cum o fi sa poti sa pui pauza la timpul celor din jur si sa fii doar tu activ? Sa ai timp sa iti pui gandurile in ordine, sa notezi ideile, sa le inregistrezi, sa nu mai uiti nicioada. Si dupa aia sa dai iar play la timp ca si cand nimic nu s-ar fi intamplat. Sau poate tocmai atunci uiti despre ce ce era vorba in timpul real :))

Ca tot zic de scris, am de prin noiembrie la dospit corporatia (3), dar pana acum n-am mai ars-o prin corporatii sa imi aduc aminte cum e pe acolo. Cred ca trebuie sa ma duc pe la niste interviuri corporatiste sa-i intreb pe aia de la HR chestii sa-mi termin si io textul.

the giver

the giver

Pretty meh: oamenii rai au facut totul alb si negru, au eliminat emotiile si uite asa nu se mai supara nimeni pe nimeni, toti sunt multumiti si well, totul e frumos. Si apare unul care vrea sa redea oamenilor emotiile si restul de trairi.

Parerea mea ca puteau sa-l faca mult, mult mai bine.

shakespeare in love

shakespeare in love

My story starts at sea… a perilous voyage to an unknown land… a shipwreck… The wild waters roar and heave… The brave vessel is dashed all to pieces, and all the helpless souls within her drowned… all save one… a lady… whose soul is greater than the ocean… and her spirit stronger than the sea’s embrace… Not for her a watery end, but a new life beginning on a stranger shore. It will be a love story… for she will be my heroine for all time. And her name will be… Viola.


Cookies – by Douglas Adams (luat copy/paste din feed-ul de pe Facebook)

This actually did happen to a real person, and the real person was me. I had gone to catch a train. This was April 1976, in Cambridge, U.K. I was a bit early for the train. I’d gotten the time of the train wrong. I went to get myself a newspaper to do the crossword, and a cup of coffee and a packet of cookies. I went and sat at a table. I want you to picture the scene. It’s very important that you get this very clear in your mind. Here’s the table, newspaper, cup of coffee, packet of cookies.

There’s a guy sitting opposite me, perfectly ordinary-looking guy wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase. It didn’t look like he was going to do anything weird. What he did was this: he suddenly leaned across, picked up the packet of cookies, tore it open, took one out, and ate it. Now this, I have to say, is the sort of thing the British are very bad at dealing with. There’s nothing in our background, upbringing, or education that teaches you how to deal with someone who in broad daylight has just stolen your cookies.

You know what would happen if this had been South Central Los Angeles. There would have very quickly been gunfire, helicopters coming in, CNN, you know. . . But in the end, I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do: I ignored it. And I stared at the newspaper, took a sip of coffee, tried to do a clue in the newspaper, couldn’t do anything, and thought, what am I going to do? In the end I thought, Nothing for it, I’ll just have to go for it, and I tried very hard not to notice the fact that the packet was already mysteriously opened.

I took out a cookie for myself. I thought, That settled him. But it hadn’t because a moment or two later he did it again. He took another cookie. Having not mentioned it the first time, it was somehow even harder to raise the subject the second time around. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice . . .” I mean, it doesn’t really work. We went through the whole packet like this. When I say the whole packet, I mean there were only about eight cookies, but it felt like a lifetime. He took one, I took one, he took one, I took one. Finally, when we got to the end, he stood up and walked away.

Well, we exchanged meaningful looks, then he walked away, and I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back. A moment or two later the train was coming in, so I tossed back the rest of my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper were my cookies. The thing I like particularly about this story is the sensation that somewhere in England there has been wandering around for the last quarter-century a perfectly ordinary guy who’s had the same exact story, only he doesn’t have the punch line.