Words, just lots of them. Which ones stay? Are they the truest ones? Are they the loudest, the fiercest, the scariest of them? Are they the ones you spit in anger and desperation, or in the bluntest moments of rapture? Are they the ones you trust your life to or those that rub your future with soap and let it slide into that knot – made to measure, especially fitting for your pretty neck? The words that you may never hear after it snaps?
I’m not the biggest fan of them. They’re so singular, incomplete and clumsy. There are much more times than I’d like to admit, that I forget a certain word and stop in the middle of a sentence to look it up in the curly meadows of my uncontrollably random brain. I would like to cut the top of my skull in a perfect circle, take it out and touch that pink spongy matter, see if I can get an idea out of it just like I pick up threads of suffering half-dark, half-decolored hair from my lunch. I wish it was that easy, really. I haven’t watched a horror movie in more than five years, because I don’t think that images such as that which I can’t get rid of – a woman taking out a piece of her cortex with a tad more composed figure than mine, when I find a bug in my hair – are of any use to me right now. I do watch TV-shows though, which are equally disturbing. Ideas, I also do not have anymore, now that I’ve become friendly with words. So friendly, that I can never have coffee without them, or have them without coffee or beer, either way. I tap that keyword without looking at it. I scroll through endless newsfeeds and dashboards and homepages and articles and then, I switch to my beloved google docs and start typing at once. I’ve made a bad habit out of searching the pretty words, the words that convince or stir up some curiosity, the words that sell and enlighten, the right words. But when I’m elsewhere, and I like being elsewhere, there are no right words to say. I chase the shit out of them, hunt the fuckers down the edge of an online dictionary, in a page I manage to steal before bedtime, like children do when they put their hands on a book ‘for grown-ups’, in a thought that walks about serenely or less so, while I have my late night cigarette in the back yard, in a song that I only very rarely give the honors of dragging me out of my mild anesthesia, and they always drain between my skinny fingers and leave me with thin air and a kink in my throat. Fucking words. Where are they when you need them?
But then the magic happens, and let me tell you that I’ve come to believe in magic just as magical things have started to come across my cringing hateful grin. They’ve lightened that grin and it turned into something more of a smile. They’ve unleashed the beast that would otherwise only be fed with dirt and scorn and a much more rabid loathing than that which would normally be expected of a 24 year-old on 5 inch heels (you’d think that narcissism is too busy cultivating itself, but there’s always a side dish to it, isn’t there) – and the beast started to trust the good around as well. The best glimpses upon these surroundings render any words redundant. I can start to stop caring about how others use words wrongly, and at some point I hope I will be able to apply this looseness to my self. How they say ‘yes’ when they mean ‘no’ is an appetizer. How they shit opinions before and after each meal ranges from annoying to potentially dangerous for the integrity of anyone unlucky enough to be around. How they ask things and tell stories of themselves using the wrong words, always the wrong words. They make you go crazy, all that denial, that stupid bubble they live in, how can you make it burst already. What would happen from there on is less important than how you will always be remembered or secretly buried there, in the annals of their duplicitous subconscious, as the person who initiated that burst.
I’m tired by and of all kinds of words. I still use them, they’re like air to me. I try to choose if to poison or sweeten it, a little bit. I don’t “write”, I’ve never been, never will be a “writer”, and I promise to vigorously refrain myself from strangling anyone who uses the word “artist” in their 6-words presentation of self. I (ab)use words to their different outcomes – whether it is to earn a living or put an end to my pain and let it out, to cast a certain light where the power’s been out for a while now, to pack a stereotype in something easier to digest or tear it of its clothes and surrender it for caricature, I try to do these things, and if I haven’t yet found another, better way of doing it, this is what I have to do. There was a man who loved to paint but had to make a lot of candles, for a long time, and as that process of hand-making candles can be very repetitive and consuming, for a person who tries to have a different day each day, those candles tore him apart and made him question everything. In the end, he began to see something which is obviously unknown to everyone who’s learned about his story, but something we all hope to see at a point in life, and then he gave up on the candles, because there was something else he really had to do, finally. ‘Liviu’s candles’. I used to call my life thus. I don’t know if I’m out of the range of his candles, probably not, but I do sense I’m about to. Of course, I still have issues with a shitload of things, but I ruminate them between these dear four walls of mine. Walls of mine. Mine. Then, there are the times when I only have to listen. I know it’s not exactly easy, I know I don’t exactly shut down, I’m not a hundred percent there, but if I’m caught in a particular moment, by a particular person, with a particular story, I dive into it completely and forget about any words that I could get out of it. Just the sound of words different than mine, living words, bursting words, makes me trust that this is not such a bad place to be in, after all.
* I had beer with Ana and she brought her stories along (and camera!), for which I am thankful and very very glad.
- Visual tales of NY fashion week / fall 2014 / first impressions
- The bridge