Well… It’s complicated!

Ladies and gentlemen, but especially ladies, welcome to the teenage years! Not yours, as you’re, already, a responsible adult, who’s got everything together (as if!), but worse. Welcome to your daughter’s teenage years!

I know, from my not so far away experience as a teenage girl, that nothing (and I really mean nothing) has prepared me and my mother for that kind of trip. Nothing. So now I’ve decided to write an article with everything I wish my mother knew back then, with everything I’ve needed, but I didn’t know I need or, worse, I didn’t know how to ask for.

Lower your expectations.

You might be in your 30s, or even your 40s when your young one arrives on The Totally Drama Island. Which is fine. What is not that fine, however, is to treat her like she would also be in her 20s at least. She’s not. She is somewhere between 13 and 19 years old, and she thinks, acts, and feels like it. Learn to respect her and adjust yourself according to that. If we’d think in our teenage years the same way we think in our late 20s, or even in our 30s, no one would ever take a bad decision. Ever. Somehow, we don’t, so we have to act like we understand this.

Bond with her.

Yes, I know, she’s your precious little daughter, and you’d like to protect her from any possible harm. I guess all the mothers think the same. But you can’t. Your daughter will make mistakes, will trust the wrong people, and will end up disappointed and heartbroken, more often than not. You can not protect her from all the mess that comes with the passport to ConfusedLand. But you can, and that’s crucial for tour future relationship, bond with her. Remember how you felt when you were her age. All the insecurities, the peer pressure and, oh, all the drama and the secrets. All the oh, my day is ruined, look at this hair, and the make-up is not the best, either! and Those girls are so cool, I’d like so much to get closer to them! What would they say if I’d ask them to get out for a coffee and a chit-chat? problems that rule the teenage universe. Yes, in your 30s or 40s they certainly sound like a foolish game, nothing important, but can you remember how important they used to be when you were her age?

Tell her your story, show her how was that period back then, when you were in her footsteps- how you used to have fun, what having style meant back then, who were the cool kids of your generation. Tell her about your young and insecure self, and about all the drama you used to care about. And allow yourself to see her blooming and telling you the updated version of the story. Build up some personal routines to help you tighten your relationship- maybe you will have a boardgames night, or get out for brunch on Saturdays and talk about how your week went, or you teach her some homemade beauty tricks, it doesn’t matter that much what it is. You can even get her friends involved, as well, if it feels right for both of you! The whole point is to make sense for the two of you, and help you know each other. Be her confident, rather than the never-content general.

Guide her.

This means, once again, to talk to her. To let her know that you’re there, ready to listen, without judging her. Don’t forget that this is the time of her life when she learns the most about herself. She knows for a fact that she’s not a child anymore, but she’s not a woman yet, either. And that is one of the most confusing situations a girl can see herself in. Don’t expect her to know how to handle this by herself, she’s only human, after all.

Of course, when you’ve met her for the very first time, you’ve pictured in your mind the kind of woman you’d want her to be. Don’t hold on to that image. Let her learn, and understand that she will be her very own type of woman, not the one you’ve desired to be, not the one you or your mother are. Be by her side when she discovers the kind of woman she wants to become, encourage her to take action in that direction, and listen when she tells you about her struggles.

Talk to her about the important topics of her time. Let her know about feminism, about sexuality, about the relationship with her body, about social media and bullying. Teach her the rights and obligations she has, and support her if she wants to get socially involved, as a volunteer or however she feels like. Find out about the women which inspire her, and what is she finding inspiring about them. Teach her about solidarity with other women, about the ways she can build other women up, instead of tearing them apart and about mental health and how it changes her life course. Most important, teach her that it’s fine to ask for help when she needs it. Even if she will ask it from you, the school counselor, or whatever reliable source that she feels could be helpful, the point is to ask for it, not to bottle things up inside her.

I know, some of these are uncomfortable topics, but the thought that your daughter will find out about them from questionable sources it’s causing more discomfort, I think, than talking with her.

Be aware of the pressure.

Now, more than ever, the pressure put on young girls is exhausting. They’re expected to be good friends, good students, to know what they are going to do with their lives in the long term, look nice, be popular… All the struggles you’ve had, as a teenager, too, but with some extra peer-pressure from social media. They will constantly be exposed to fake perfection, and they will be told that, if they work hard enough, they will reach it too- they will have the perfect social life, the perfect body, relationship, and prizes at scholar competitions, some volunteering too, perhaps. All at once, without getting tired or sick of it.

It is your duty, as a parent, to let her know that she’s doing her best and that what she’s seeing on social media is rarely the truth. The most important thing my mom told me when I was a teenager was I am proud of you, you’re doing great. I trust you that you will find a way to change the things you think you could do better so that you will be happy with the final result. But I am proud of you for being my girl and I love you either way. That easy. She knew I wasn’t happy about the way my life was, and she was aware that the whole situation made me insecure and anxious, so she thought like it would be a good moment to remind me that I am capable, worthy and loved. And her intuition was right at that time, as it was many times after that one, too.

It might be tempting to fall into the old trap of You’re not doing enough! Your best friend does this, and that, and she’s not complaining that much! I’ve made so many sacrifices for you, and you’re disappointing me with every chance! I can’t believe you are my daughter… but don’t. Please, don’t. Maybe you’re just angry, you have a bad period, you’re under pressure, it’s understandable. But she will not dig that deep into it. Do you want to know what will stick to her? I’m not enough. My best will never be enough, whatever my best will be. I’m a disappointment, and that’s it. I will never be good enough for her…

Don’t kill her self-esteem like that. She is, before everything else, your daughter. The person you love most. Don’t cut her wings with your anger, they will never grow back. And no material gift will make up for the things you told her when you had a bad period. Never.

The not good enough is, as you already know, a hard to bear weight, so why put it on your child’s shoulders? Not always easy is good. Mostly, it isn’t.

Admit when you’re wrong.

You might be her parent, but you’re only human, after all. And that means you’ll make mistakes when it comes to your relationship, as many as her. Be the better person in the story, and show her the right way of doing things, by apologizing when you’re wrong. Maybe it proves that she was right about something, or that she knew better. Tell her. This will only make you grow in her eyes, as not that many parents admit their wrongs in front of their children. If you want her to admit her mistakes, the easiest way is to show that you’re making mistakes too, that you’re an older human, not a god who’s always knowing the best about everything and anything.

Allow her to make mistakes.

When we’re young, we all make mistakes, this is how we learn. But if you’re making at 40 the mistakes typical for a teenager or a young adult, it only proves that you haven’t learned a thing, my mom used to tell me. And she was right. We rarely learn from our close one’s mistakes and this usually happens only after we have our fair share of personal bad decisions. It’s only natural to happen this way. If you see that someone is not fitting into her social circle, or that a boy is not a good fit for her personality, do your job and tell her. But don’t go to forbidding her to see/communicate to that person. Of course, you’ve probably seen that movie countless times before, but keep in mind that it’s her first one, so don’t spoil the ending for her.

Somehow, if you know that she’s slipping on a dangerous slope, be the grown-up of the story and stop her as you still can. But when we talk about the typical teenage misfittings, let her do her thing, and just make sure that she knows she can count on you whenever things go south. Let her know that the family will always be her safe space, even if she was wrong. That will make so much more for your teenage than a long list of interdictions- by the way, do you remember how much you used to hate whenever the grown-ups were busting into your life and not respecting your limits? Great. Don’t do it, until it’s really needed, in this case. Otherwise, she’ll never learn.

Be your most authentical self.

Yeah, the common narrative tells you that you should always be responsible, severe, and the one who knows best. Somehow, the teenagers have some secret sensor for fakeness, especially when it comes to their close ones. So be who you are. Share with her your real opinions about the hot topics- music, fashion, pop culture, hobbies, whatever little things make her tick. Show her what makes you tick, as well- maybe she will like ABBA as well if you showed her their music! Don’t try to be the picture-perfect role model, who always has her life together. Try to remain curious, though: learn about the things that matter for her generation and ask her why.

Keep always in a corner of your mind that you are the teacher of the most important lesson, which is the way she should treat herself. You are teaching her this chapter since forever, by the way you act, talk, walk and dress, but now there came the moment of a new paragraph: the one about setting up the boundaries for other people. Be honest with her and yourself about how you managed to learn this skill, and let her know it is fine to say no. Even if this means she will tell you no sometimes as well.

It’s okay to admit that you don’t understand some of those things, but the key is to show real interest to them. This will build a stronger bridge between the two of you.

Pay attention to the little things.

The teenage years are a tricky period when the way we see ourselves changes as the days go by. This means that you have to pay some extra attention to the details of your teenager’s life. Be careful with the way she talks about herself, her sleep, eating, and social patterns. If any of those are changing in a noticeable way, you two should talk. Make sure that she doesn’t have some unknown emotional struggles that might affect her. Emotional suffering can be translated into modified sleep, eating, and social patterns. If she’s sleeping too much, or maybe she’s got insomnia, if she eats too much, or is always on a diet, if her scholar results are poor and she is giving signs that she can’t focus on her homework the way she used to, if she goes out almost always, or maybe not at all, even though she used to love going out with her friends, you should talk to her. Not to read her diary, not to talk to her teachers or her friends, but with her. Tell her that you’ve noticed the changes and that you worry about her, remind her that she’s worthy, loved, and you will help her manage whatever it is that is stressing her out.

I cannot tell how important this is. Not when so many teenage girls struggle with depression, social anxiety, and eating disorders. Not when so many teenage girls hate their bodies, feel unworthy, and are even harming themselves. In this context, being your girl’s safety space can make a huge difference. Maybe even between life and death.

The teenage years are hard to put into words. I still battle some ghosts from mine, even if mom was a huge support figure of mine. It is understandable that no book, workshop, or coach could prepare you for those years and their challenges. Somehow, being human and remembering that you used to be a teenager too might be a good start, even if it will be still a rough one. These are the most important things I could possibly think about. Of course, I’m not a parent, but I’m not that far from a teenager’s point of view, as I am still young. And their perspectives should matter to you more than any outsider’s word. Just take a look inside yourself and you will see that the knowledge about how to behave properly during this time of your lives has always been there. Just open up and enjoy the ride!

Frumos, frumos!

Frumusețea ar fi, se crede, în ochii celui care privește. Dar ce te faci atunci când privitorul e miop? E un scenariu comun deja, și asta de destul timp.
Ți se spune că ești frumoasă. O vreme, și tu crezi. Sau, oricum, nu-ți prea pasă. Dar timpul trece și vine pubertatea. Și începi să te uiți mai atentă în jurul tău.
Să vezi cum nu ai sânii destul de mari, buzele destul de pline, fundul destul de rotund, talia destul de mică. Să vezi cum colegele tale sunt mai trendy, mai înalte, mai slabe sau, din contră, mai cu forme. Cum pui kilogramele oriunde, numai unde trebuie nu. Cum nu ești destul. Încep să apară nesiguranțele. Căutarea de sine. De refugii. De validare.
Dar drumul e destul de complicat încât să te facă să îți spui că renunți de câteva ori pe zi. Nu ești frumoasă, nu știi să te machiezi ca în reviste, nu știi să mergi pe tocuri și n-ai destui bani ca să te-mbraci la modă. Așa că încerci să compensezi. Citești, te implici în comunitate. Experimentezi cu stiluri, muzici, culori, hobby-uri. Înveți. Descoperi.
Ești luată la mișto, că ce faci tu nu-i la modă și nici util. “La ce bune toate astea?”, “A, dar stai, că tu oricum n-ai viață. Mdaa…” și alte replici…..binevoitoare. Și vezi timpul cum trece. Și te mai uiți puțin în jurul tău.
Vezi că pe social media toată lumea e perfectă. Au camera perfectă, casa perfectă, viața perfectă, corpul perfect. Te uiți la ele, apoi te uiți la tine. Viața ta nu e perfectă. Nici casa, camera sau garderoba. De corp…nu mai vorbim. Nimic din ce vezi la tine nu seamănă cu ce-i al lor, al modelelor spre care aspiri. Dar apoi vine o zi când îți dai seama că nici ele nu seamănă cu ele.
Că viețile, casele, corpurile pe care le vezi etalate ostentativ nu sunt ale lor. Sunt gândite, planificate, regizate. Și, mai ales, sunt editate. Straturi întregi de filtre și Photoshop care ascund realitatea. Nici corpurile lor nu-s perfecte.
Și în goana după a fi frumoasă, când te oprești pentru un pic, bagi de seamă. Vezi că nu ești frumoasă, sau nu destul cât să te vadă societatea că ești, dar până atunci deja s-a dus pojghița de respingătoare.
Poate nu ai sânii ca în reviste, dar îți sclipesc ochii. Poate nu ai talia de copilă, dar știi să aduni oamenii în jurul unei mese. Poate ești scundă, dar nimeni nu mai remarcă atunci când vorbești despre ce te pasionează. Poate că nu ești frumoasă ca ei, dar ești frumoasă ca tine.
Și brusc se schimbă perspectiva. Nu-ți mai faci poze cu gândul să le postezi undeva, ci le faci pentru tine. Începi să descoperi trăsături care îți plac la tine. Să primești mai deschis complimentele, indiferent de cât de sincere sau nu sunt. Începi să îți apreciezi ipostaze ale corpului pe care le evitai în trecut.

Nu îți mai detești fața pe care o ai dimineața, și nici felul în care arăți dezbrăcată.
E drept, drumul până aici a fost lung. Te-a trecut printr-un început de anorexie, multe zile de depresie, prin bully-ing, prin stimă de sine scăzută. A fost perioada când încercai orice dietă doar ca să te simți frumoasă. Să te simți…adecvată. Când căutai validarea, doar ca să sfârșești prin a-ți însuși tipare toxice emoțional. Când evitai orice oglindă sau context care te punea să te vezi. Să te privești. Azi nu-ți mai e frică. Nici scârbă, nici rușine.

Azi, după mult timp, te vezi dezbrăcată și îți zâmbești. Poate nu ești de revistă, dar ești tu. Și azi e de ajuns atât.
Perioada aia, nu atât de indepărtată de azi, nu a fost chiar perioada de care ești cea mai mândră. Dar a fost, e parte din istoria ta, cu tot tabloul ei de emoții și toate descoperirile făcute. Și a fost necesară. Poate urâtă, poate dureroasă, dar necesară.
Cum altfel ai fi putut învăța despre tine, dacă nu explorând de zor tot felul de zone? Și cum altfel ai fi știut acum cine ești și ce ți se potrivește?
E drept, poate ești drăguță, nu frumoasă. Dar ești drăguță ca tine, cu tot ce îți e ție particular, și e bine. În sfârșit nu mai alergi după o frumusețe pe care n-o poți atinge. Azi ești tu, așa cum vrei și cum poți fi mai bine, și îți e destul.
Chiar dacă asta, aparent atât de puțin, te-a costat atâția ani, atâtea bombăneli și-atâtea lacrimi. Și, deși mai ai nesiguranțe uneori, știi că tu, ca ființă, ești mai mult decât arată oglinda, cântarul sau numărul de complimente primite. Că ai adunate atâtea lucruri de oferit, încât ce se vede e doar o parte. Una de care îți place să ai grijă, să fie plăcută, dar e, totuși, o parte. Și nici măcar una definitorie pentru întreg.

Bypass cu miros de izma


  Am palmele ude si reci. Iar. Nu stiu cand a inceput sa fie asa, cu atat mai putin de ce. La inceput, mi-am zis ca-s sarit, dar nu..de fapt, eu am ramas singurul normal. Ma dedublez constant, e parte a rutinei cotidiene. Nu te teme si nu-ti fa procese de constiinta, aievea, nu esti tu cauza. Tu esti, cel mult, parte din efect.

Restul…restul sunt soapte afumate de alcov. Eu sunt Eric, de ma mai tii tu minte.

 Statea in fata mea ca un stalp, asa cum nu-l cunoscusem niciodata. Eric pe care mi-l aminteam eu, eu care ma simt acum atat de batrana cand il revad, era..altfel. Era viu, jovial, vesnic un zambet si un adevarat cuceritor. Azi e tot in fata mea, dar nu ca atunci, cand noi, Eric si Vera eram, parca, fetele unei monezi, nu. Nu ma mai priveste ca pe o gluma din eter, nu mai rade de mine, nu il mai smulg din relatia-i aparte avuta cu fereastra.

Acum nu ma mai misca la el nimic. E ars de soare, ridat si trist. I-a palit zambetul pe care i-l invatasem pe de rost si, in general, a disparut cu totul. Acum are probleme cu el insusi. Se dedubleaza constant, e un scut, o tehnica nitel cam dubioasa de supravietuire, tre’ s-o admit.      

 Ne-am revazut, intamplator, pe strada. Noroc chior, s-a intamplat sa ma recunoasca pe strada din atata lume, intr-o seara cetoasa.

-Vera? Tu esti?

M-am intors instantaneu, recunoscand parca dintr-o mie acea voce ragusita de la mult prea multe tigari innodate la miezul noptii, in timp ce rumega cine stie ce teorie abstractionist-fantasmagorica, privind in contemplare cand tavanul, cand usa, cand geamul, cand negrul paclos din camera.

  Poate ca, asa cum imi spuse acum, mi-au sticlit ochii cand i-am auzit glasul in spatele meu. Poate ca, pe undeva, am sperat sa recuperez macar unu la suta din feeria lui “Altadata”, mai stii? Chiar daca nu mai sunt aceeasi, sau poate ca tocmai de-aia, iti spun tare si raspicat, ca nu trebuie sa iei oamenii pe seama. Niciodata! Pe nimeni! Iar pe tine, cu atat mai putin. Indiferent de circumstante.

-Stii, nu mai sunt Vera. Ma vezi, am mai crescut. Acum fac si eu filosofie, ca tine in zilele geroase cand ne incuiam in mansarda ostentativ, complex, inimitabil.

-Observ. Si, crede-ma, nu stiu daca e bine c-ai devenit..alta.

  Ma privea, dar nu ma vedea. Nici pe ei, pe oamenii de la ferestre si care tot treceau prin scara unde intraseram sa mai vorbim. Altadata, ar fi vazut si retinut tot- fiecare rictus, fiecare expresie, fiecare detaliu.

-Sa-ti spun ca ai fost de ajutor cand ai plecat?

-Cum? ma intreba el brusc, cu pupilele dilatate si un tremur bizar in glas. Acum semana cu o parodie kitschoasa a lui, dar incepeam, cat de cat, sa-l recunosc.

-Pai, n-as fi plecat. N-as fi parasit rue d’Allemagne, n-as fi trait cu samanii, si cu siguranta nu deveneam chirurg. Si cu atat mai putin psihiatru. Deci, multumesc.

-Psihiatru? Chirurg? Tu? Singura parte pe care o cred e aia cu samanii, stiu cat iti placeau primitivii.

-Inca-mi mai plac, acum mai mult decat atunci, fiindca-i inteleg si ii cunosc mai bine. Am avut noroc.

-Dar chirurgii sunt..


-Cei mai sinistri oameni. Criminalii in serie dirijati de societate sa faca bine. Stiu, nu puteam nici macar sa vad un om in cosciug, dar sa am de-a face cu moartea asa, sa fie mereu langa mine, “partenerul meu de afaceri”, cum imi place sa-i spun la un pahar de gin. Da, dar vezi tu, vremea trece, oamenii se schimba, iar fericirea nu dureaza mai mult decat o face un balon de sapun. Si, pana la urma, nici tu nu te dedublai cand nu te-am mai gasit.

-Sincer? E ceva relativ recent. Nu stiu daca esti in masura sa ma judeci. Uite.

  Se opri, isi scoase manusile din piele neagra pe care le purta, si scoase din buzunar  ceva ce semana cu o tabachera, din argint, ornamentat discret. Nu era, era o oglinda. M-am uitat atent la mine, prima oara dupa multa vreme. Parul meu era acum mult mai scurt, saten inchis, ca pamantul pe care dormisem atata vreme, afland cum ariciul a tesut pamantul si ce se poate face cu izma de pe santurile noastre natale, de pe fiecare maidan.

-Iti place de tine?

 N-am zis nimic, ma pusese in incurcatura dupa multa vreme si pe mine cineva. Zambea si-mi intinse cu un gest larg o fotografie veche. Era rupta la colturi, decolorata, dar o recunosteam. Era facuta de batranul nostru amic de pe alee. Era expresia materiala a intalnirii clandestine dintre trecut, inocenta si fericire. Ma uit la el, la mine, la poza.

Nici nu-mi vine sa cred ca aia eram noi. Ca a fost un timp cand eu radeam cu-o gura pana la urechi, purtam jeansi rupti si tricouri cu mesaje anarhiste. Si, cumva, doare.

  Dar nu doar c-a fost candva o asa perioada, cat doare ca..am sters-o din mine. Definitiv si cu totul. Azi port tocuri, haine “cu schepsis”, de birou, cu pretentii, haine de om mare.

-Da, o recunosti. Si te intrebi ce s-a intamplat cu acei Eric si Vera. Stiu eu. Au murit. Eu am plecat, tu m-ai ars pe rug si-am murit. Si-apoi, apoi ai plecat si tu.

  L-am luat de mana si l-am scos in graba din casa scarii de bloc unde statusem pe scari atata timp. Se uita ciudat la mine, dar s-a lasat, o data in plus, pe mana mea. Am luat-o la fuga pe tocurile mele de 15, in gang. Gangul pe care-l treceam in fiecare zi, cu lumina lui ciudata si localurile micute, in contrast cu arcada-i larga si caldaramul de piatra cubica. Era pustiu. Pustiu gangul, pustie strada, parca tot orasul murise ca sa le faca loc lor, originarilor.

-Vrei sa-ti spun ceva? Dupa plecarea ta, am gasit o tigara. Am fumat-o, am ars scrisoarea si, de fapt, am ars tot- mansarda, blocul, copacul cel batran. Nu m-a oprit nimeni, asa ca am privit totul, tot spectacolul de la inceput pana la final. De asta ce mai zici?

  S-a asezat pe caldaramul jilav si s-a uitat la mine. Nu putea sa ma creada, parea ca traieste un cosmar, sau un hibrid bizar intre cosmar, halucinatie si o idila mutilata, in parte vie si pasionala, in parte moarta si-ngropata.

-Da. Nu mai aveau rost fara tine. Batranii plecasera si ei. Unde stai tu acum, a fost copacul ala mare, care strajuia aleea si pe care-mi placea atat de mult sa-l imbratisez. Dar nu regret, nici povestea “noastra”, nici distrugerea postuma. Mai bine hai cu mine. Mai e doar un pic.

  L-am dus spre hotelul numit chiar asa, Rue d’Allemagne. Era, inca, nauc, sub cine stie ce vraja. A fost, insa, cooperant. Am mers la subsolul hotelului, unde aranjasem o versiune mai intunecata si indraznesc sa spun, chiar mai rece, mai ostila a mansardei. Doar asa au avut cum sa construiasca noul oras, pe sacrificiul celui vechi si cu voia unei zeite derutate.


   Reeditam trecutul cu fiecare haina ce cadea in uitare, cu fiecare sunet scos, primele sunete sincere, cu adevarat sincere din toata seara aia magico-ciudata.

Mie, mi-a placut. Uitasem cum e sa ii zgarii spatele, sa-l musc de gat si sa urlu de placere fara pic de pudism sau cenzura. El parea ca se naste iar din lut, faina si praf de stele. Un animal eliberat de restrictiile unei societati perfide, care-l tinea de ani de zile la dieta, pe antidepresive, tranchilizante si minciuni.

Da, reeditam trecutul. Pacatuiam iar, intr-un mod flagrant, nepermis. Tribul meu din Australia, caci pe-acolo am seninat incercand sa uit de el, m-ar fi linsat fara dileme. Pacatul originar, mi-a spus batranul saman, trebuie ocolit cu fiecare ocazie si cu orice sacrificii ar presupune asta. O data repetat, esti terminat tu, ca esenta. Mor, te evapori, nu mai e loc de intors.

-Nu credeam ca, desi te-am uitat, iti mai stiu trupul pe de rost. Sincer.

-Eu eram convins. N-avea cum sa fie altfel. Ritmul meu e parte din muzica ta, dar esti egoista si-l renegi, crezand ca e mai bine asa. Ei bine, nu e. Stii cum ma simt? De parca m-ai supus unui bypass.

-Da, sigur. Unul cu miros de izma, sau ce?

-Nu. Unul cu miros de tu. Parca-ti duceam dorul asa, cumva.

     Si dadu sa-si striveasca buzele de-ale mele, dar nu. Am plecat. De data asta eu, Vera. De data asta definitiv. Pentru ca, desi i-am lasat un ravas si-o ramurica de izma, nu puteam ramane. Desi am lacrimat un pic. Desi mi-ar fi placut sa raman. Dar nu.

  Ravasul e o sarada, ca stiu prea bine ca dedublarea a fost o problema temporara. Cand il va descifra, ne vom revedea. Zice asa:

De unde stii ca nu sunt o carte veche, ramasa

intr-un anticariat pustiit? Arde intreaga lume la festivalul ciresilor pentru un calator sub umbrela si-un cocor cu pene albastre.

 Poate, candva…Ramane de ghicit in praful de stele picurat in desert, la intamplare, stii.. La intamplare, asa cum ai arunca cu praf de aur intr-o papusa. N-ai de unde sti ce iese pana nu e terminata.