Eu iubesc

Eu iubesc multe lucruri si multi oameni.

Lucruri la care nu am in permanenta acces si persoane pe care uneori nici nu stiu cum le cheama, dar pe toate astea le iubesc pentru ca apartin dimensiunii mele si se asezoneaza cu lumea mea. Vibreaza si respira acelasi aer ca si mine. Facem parte din aceiasi lume, incercam sa lasam trecutul in trecut pentru a lasa viitorul curat, neintinat si nescris, fiind astfel plin de o multitudine de posibilitati infinite neafectate de sabloane comportamentale. Suntem transformabili si intr-un continuu proces evolutiv. Suntem vii pe cat de vii a vrut sa ne faca bunul D-zeu si ne bucuram de viata orice ne-ar oferi ea, pentru ca de asta ne-am nascut.

Eu iubesc mirosul proaspat al pamantului dupa ploaie, baloanele colorate, focurile de artificii, lumanarile parfumate, copiii, cafeaua servita in portelan fin, norii pufosi pe cerul senin, dulceata de visine tolanita in farfuriute de cristal, iarba de un verde crud impodobita cu bobite de roua, mirosul curat de asternuturi proaspat spalate, luna plina reflectata in mare.

Imi iubesc parintii pentru ca mi-au dat viata, pentru ca desi nu seman absolut deloc cu ei si nici nu m-au inteles pe deplin niciodata, m-au iubit mereu dezinteresat si m-au lasat sa fiu eu. Ii iubesc pentru ca m-au invatat tot ceea ce stiu ei si au facut eforturi demne de apreciat pentru a ma dezvolta pe toate planurile. Tata mi-a fost mereu alaturi intr-un fel discret, fiind un punct de sprijin permanent si invizibil, m-a initiat in jocul a o groaza de sporturi, invatandu-ma de fapt sa am incredere in mine si sa cred ca pot invata absolut orice. Mama m-a invatat ca este in regula sa fiu mandra de mine si sa imi vad de drumul meu indiferent ce spun ceilalti. Cel mai mult iubesc la ei felul simplu in care ei au inteles sa formeze un cuplu, ei care sunt atat de diferiti au fost mereu incredibil de uniti incat eu nu am reusit niciodata sa ii dezbin si sa ii manipulez. Indiferent cate eforturi am depus in acest sens, nu am gasit nici o fisura in zidul lor.

Imi iubesc orasul in care m-am nascut si in care traiesc in ciuda murdariei sale. Il iubesc pentru ca ma ascunde in intestinele sale, facandu-ma sa ma simt protejata datorita imensitatii de posibilitati pe care mi le ofera. Iubesc zona dintre Piata Romana si Piata Victoriei, unde in copilarie mi-am petrecut departe de familia mea cateva saptamani intr-o vila la o matusa prin alianta. O matusa destul de instarita, cu sange asa-zis albastru si gene amestecate de macedoneni si evrei, care ma purta in vizite pe la alte babe scapatate si unde am invatat ca o cafea buna se bea in portelanuri de Rosenthal, dulceata se serveste in farfuriute plamadite din cristal de Bohemia, iar apa rece ca gheata se serveste obligatoriu pe o tavita din argint cu un mileu apretat dedesubt, toate astea intr-un living mobilat stil Biedermeier. Imaginile noastre desuete, parca desprinse dintr-un film alb negru, erau reflectate in oglinzile cu sticla de Murrano, fiind urmarite totodata de chipuri pictate in ulei, de mult uitate, din rame prafuite, ce vag se disting de pe peretii crapati de cutremurul din 1977.

Inca am limpede in minte ca la capatul cerceilor de aur filigranat innegrit de vreme se balansa lenes o bobita de topaz sau de safir, iar manusile de macrameu crosetat asteptau deformate si cuminti in hol la intrare pe masute de perete (cu picioare lungi si delicate ca ale unei caprioare) ca sa isi reia forma plina odata ce vor fi reintroduse pe mana. Inca stiu gustul primei inghetate servite pe bulevard la restaurantul de lux de la parterul unui hotel de 5 stele, gust pe care l-am reintalnit spre surprinderea mea doar la Ciragan Palace Kempinski Hotel pe malul Bosforului.

Dar toate astea nu se pot compara cu galagia din apartamentul semi-decomandat de 2 camere (max. 45 mp) situat la marginea cartierului Pantelimon, plin de igrasie, imediat langa scoala unde am facut primele 4 clase. De acolo de la etajul 9, eu il asistam pe fratele meu mai mare cum arunca cu rosii in pietoni si tot de acolo urlam pe balcon la norii ce alergau furtunos catre noi vestind ploile de august. De la acelasi balcon, in timpul orelor de sport in aer liber, mama imi facea galerie la cursele de atletism si de acolo imi catapulta, ca sa scutesc urcatul pe scari, cele mai bune sandwich-uri cu unt si branza pe care le-am mancat vreodata. Acolo ma jucam in copilarie cu fetele „de-a mama si de-a tata”, tavaleam bietele papusi prin nisip pretinzand ca le facem baie si le dadeam sa manance pietricele pe post de cartofi. Acolo imi juleam genunchii sarind gardurile mai bine decat orice alt baiat, dorind sa il impresionez pe fratele meu. Acolo m-am indragostit de mirosul de legume fierte care anticipau supa de pui grozava pe care o face doar mama mea. Acolo la etajul 9, am invatat ca a gusta supa de pui este echivalent cu a gusta conceptul de mama, indiferent de calitatea portelanului din care e servita. Acolo am invatat sa urlu de bucurie cand ploua vara si sa imi umplu sufletul de lumina cand soarele apune, convinsa fiind ca intensitatea luminii se diminueaza la crepuscul pentru ca imi face mie cu ochiul, luandu-si la revedere.

Imi iubesc fiul. A alege sa il pastrez a fost cea mai buna si importanta alegere pe care am facut-o cu viata mea, dar a-l iubi nu a fost o obtiune. Pur si simplu il iubesc. Fara nicio explicatie si fara nicio logica. Este o fiinta minunata care ca si mine nu seamana cu nimeni altcineva, este doar „Luca”, iar simplele lui gesturi de tandrete ma arunca pe culmi nebanuite de extaz. Momentele de sambata dupa-amiaza cand incerc sa il adorm iar el se joaca in parul meu, si pe jumatate adormit imi spune: „Mami, sa nu te misti, ca am construit un castel din parul tau si mi-am ascuns degetele in el” ma cutremura de fericire pana la lacrimi. Si as vrea sa ma intorc brusc si sa il sarut violent si sa il strang tare in brate, dar nu o fac pentru ca as distruge castelul.

Iubirea, daca e sa dam crezare grecilor, imbraca mai multe forme: eros, philia, agape si storge (ar mai fi alte cateva), adica iubirea ludica, carnala, prietenia, respectul, iubirea pragmatica, iubirea ideala, dezinteresata, iubirea parinteasca etc.

Eu nu sunt capabila sa definesc cum iubesc. Iubesc si gata. In toate felurile si in nici unul. Pur si simplu. Iubirea asta a mea mi se pare atat de simpla si totodata atat de greu de explicat de parca i-as cere unui filozof sa imi explice semnificatia unei scrijelituri pe un perete, unde scrie cu litere de-o schioapa

ROXANA IUBESTE

Cum sa explici asa ceva?

Cum sa explic eu de ce imi plac norii?

Sau de ce mor de placere cand fi-miu construieste castele din parul meu, sau cand miroase a supa? E la fel. E chiar la fel ... Nici nu pot cere norilor sa ma iubeasca inapoi, nici supei ... Dar ce magica e clipa cand ajungi sa constientizezi ca frunzele alea ruginii, pe care calci in graba pe aleea din parc cand alergi spre munca, te iubesc inapoi. Eu nu iubesc pentru a fi iubita inapoi, dar cand asta se intampla traiesc niste experiente nepamantesti.

Gasesc totul atat de familiar la lucrurile/fiintele pe care le iubesc si totodata atat de enigmatic precum toate de mai sus: familia mea, orasul meu, fiul meu, apusul de soare ... pe toate cred ca le cunosc atat de bine, dar ele chiar si asa familiare ma surprind de fiecare data. Este atat de sigur ca soarele apune in fiecare seara, dar de fiecare data apusul e diferit. Iubesc cum se iubeste si totusi diferit. Toate astea nu intruchipezi in mintea mea nici ideea de tata, nici aceea de copil, nici de soare, nici de casa. Ele sunt ce sunt si nu sunt ceea ce nu sunt si nu pot sa inteleg cum de au ajuns in dimensiunea mea, pe frecventa mea. Nu imi lasa alta varinata decat aceea de a le iubi. Doar sunt pe acelasi nivel cu mine.

Nu pot explica asta, dar pentru mine asa e. Apa ingheata la zero grade si fierbe la 100. Dar eu una, nu stiu de ce.

Eu iubesc.

I love

I love a lot of things and a lot of people.

Things at which I do not have constantly access and persons that sometimes I do not even know their name, but I love them all because they belong to my dimension and we get along, they match with my world. They are vibrating the same rhythm and they are breathing the same air that I do. We are part of the same world, we try to leave the past in the past where it belongs, for letting the future clean, unspoiled and unwritten, being full of a multitude of infinite possibilities untouched by patterns of behavior. We are transformable and continuously into an endless evolving process. We are as alive as God created us to be, and we enjoy the life no matter what life is offering to us, because that is why we are born for.

I love the fresh smell of the earth after rain, the colorful balloons, the fireworks, the scented candles, the children, the coffee served in fine china, the puffy clouds on the blue clear sky, the sour cherry preserves laid down in crystal small plates, the cruel green grass, the smell of the clean linen just washed, the full moon reflected in the sea.

I love my parents because they gave me life and because despite the fact that I am totally different from them and they never completely understood me, they always loved me interest free and they let me be me. I love them because they taught me everything they know and they made efforts that should be acknowledged for developing my potential. My father always stood by me in a very discreet way, being a constantly and invisible support, he taught me a lot of sports teaching me practically to trust myself and to believe that I can learn anything. From my mum I learned that it is ok to be proud of myself and to follow my own road no matter what others might believe. But what I love the most at them is the simple way in which they understood to make a couple, they who are so different one from another they have always been so united, so close one to another that I never succeeded to manipulate them. No matter how many efforts I made I could not find a break into their wall.

I love the city in which I have been born and where I live despite its misery. I love it because it is hiding me inside of its intestines, making me feel protected due to the immensity of possibilities that it is offering to me. I love the area between Romana Square and Victoriei Square, where in childhood I spend away from my family a few weeks in a villa belonging to a far aunt. An aunt quite wealthy, with a so called blue blood and mixed genes of Macedonians and Jews, who was carrying me after her in visits to other rich oldies and where I learned that a good coffee is served in Rosenthal china, the sour cherry sweet preserves is served in Bohemian crystal small plates, the glass with ice cold water is compulsory served on a silver platter with an milieu under, all these served in a living stile Biedermeier. Our desuetude images like depicted from a black white old movie were reflected in the Murrano glass mirrors, being in the same time watched by the oil painted figures out of the dusted frames, which vaguely were distinguished themselves from the 1977 earthquake fissured walls.

I still have clearly in mind that at the edge of the golden ear-rings blacken by the time it was swinging a lazy beam of topaz or sapphire, and the gloves ... were waiting ... and quiet into the lobby at the entrance on the wall small table (with long and delicate legs like the ones of a dear) for taking back the initial shape. I still know the taste of the first ice cream I served on the boulevard at the luxury restaurant from the ground of a 5 stars hotel, taste that to my surprise I could rediscover only at Ciragan Palace Kempinski Hotel on the shore of the Bosfore.

But all of these cannot be compared with the noise existing in the one bedroom apartment from the Pantelimon district, full of humidity, close to the school where I made my first four grades. From the 9th floor I was watching how my brother is throwing with tomatoes in the people passing by, and from the same floor together we were screaming at the clouds that were running tempestuous towards us announcing the August rains. From that balcony, while I was having my sport classes, my mum was my special cheer leader for the my athletics, and from the same balcony for spearing me to come up all those floors, she was catapulting me down the best sandwiches with butter and cheese I ever eat. There I spent my childhood playing with the girls “mum and dad”, pulling throw the dust the poor dolls pretending that we make them a bath and we were feeding them with small stones pretending they are potatoes. There I destroyed the skin of my knees climbing the high fences better than any other boy willing to impress my older brother. There I fall in love with the smell of boiled vegetables who were announcing a chicken soup than only my mom is able to make. There at the ninth floor I learned that tasting a chicken soup is equivalent with tasting the concept of “being mother”, of “mom” no matter the quality of the china in which the soup is served.

I love my son. Choosing to keep him was the best and the most important choice I ever made with my life, but loving him was not an option. I just love him. Without any explanation and without any logic. He is a wonderful human being and just like me he is not alike anyone else, he is just Luca, and his simple gesture of tenderness throws me on unexpected realms of joy. The moments from Saturday afternoon when I am trying to put him asleep while he’s playing with my hair and half asleep he is saying: “Mom, don’t you move. I built a castle from your hair and I hide my fingers inside.” He shakes my inner world to tears. And I would like to turn suddenly to kiss him violently and to hug him tight, but I am not doing it because otherwise I would destroy the castle.

The love, if we should believe the Greeks, has many shapes: eros, philia, agape and storge (and a few more), meaning lust, fleshy love, friendship, respect, pragmatic love, ideal love, uninterested love, parental love etc.

I am not able to define how I love. I love and this is it. In all the ways and in none. Just like this. My love seems to me so simple and so hard to explain to someone like I would ask to a philosopher to explain the significance of a scratch on a wall, where it is written with huge letters

ROXANA LOVES

How can someone explain something like this?

How can I explain why I like the clouds?

Or why do I die of pleasure when my son builds castled out of my hair, or when I feel the smell of soup? It is the same. It is exactly the same. ... On the other hand I cannot pretend the clouds to love me back, nor to the soup ... Although think about the magic of moment when you realize that those rusty leafs you walk upon in the park alley while going at work, think that you love them because they are like giggling your feet, they love you back. I do not love for being loved back, but when this happened I live some out of this world experiences.

I found everything so familiar about the things/people I love and in the same time so enigmatic like all the above mentioned: my family, my city, my son, the sun set … all of these are so known by me, but even so they still surprise me. It is so sure that the sun goes down every evening but every time it does it differently. I love like I am supposed to love them and different in the same time. They are not taking into my head the shape of a father figure, of a child, of the sun, or of a home. They are what they are and they are not what they aren’t and I cannot understand how they get into my dimension, on my frequency. They let me no choice but to love them. They are on my level after all, isn’t it?

I cannot explain this, but for me it is like this. The water freezes at zero degrees and boils at 100. But I do not know why.

I love.

Women’s Day

It is well known that 8th of March is the International Day of all the Women.


Because my son attends the kindergarten in a village 175 km away from the city where I drag my existence, I decided to be present (as a good mom should) and listen live the poem he will dedicate me at the festivity they will keep there.


Well, I do have a son and, yes, I am a woman and a mom, but I do not have a car (for the reasons mentioned in a previous blog short-story) and this 8th of March happened to be in the middle of the week, so I could not ask to anyone to join me in that country zone. Actually, I could not dare to ask anyone, because during this endless winter all the roads there are impracticable and destroyed almost completely, so any reasonable car would suffer serious damages.


What to do? Let’s shoot two (instead of one) of my annual leave days and be there on 7th of March afternoon just to be fresh on the morning of 8th.


Said and done.


I left the city in glory and I managed to get there without any particular events. On the contrary, all the buses were half empty (we were during the work week after all) and I was in the mood of reading (and finishing) a book I recently bought: “I’ll kill myself some other time”/ ”Ma sinucid alta data” by Kerstin Gier. Despite the title, it is a hilarious book and it succeeded to change my mind who lately was obstinately flirting with these sinful and baseless ideas.


So, I came down from the last bus shiny and happy, heading for my final destination: the isolated house from the forest, dancing on the ice, diving into the snow, swimming throw the mud and finally meeting my son … Kisses and hugs, hugs and kisses.


He told me with incredible speed all the wishes he has on his waiting list:


1. A dinosaur cosplay costume (a Spinosaurus, the one with a sail-like structure, you know) that he is sure it exists because this type of dino stands on his back feet and uses the front ones as hands, so it should be ok. And it is a huge one bigger than Tyrannosaurus rex and Giganotosaurus and it is carnivorous.
2. A car that should listen to his verbal commands and take him wherever he orders. For this, we have to go together by plane to Japan, at TOYOTA factory, and I should speak with those people, because I can speak Japanese (he believes so) and he will only listen to us negotiating and eventually he will only pick the color.
3. A baby little sister whose name will have be Alexia. He knows that this will take me some time but I could at least start to make some phone calls to some guys who are living on their own, without other girls or any children, and this should do the work. And I could also invite one of them to start living with us and he will help me with everything I need, especially with taking care of the baby girl while I’ll be at work making money.
4. Four wishes-stars. For this, we have to wait for a clear blue sky during the night and find these super-lucky stars. One is not enough. He has to find four because he has four wishes to fulfill. I did not dare to ask which one is the fourth wish because even the third one was beyond impossible for me compared with the second one. Most probably he inserted the wish itself of finding the lucky stars into the list itself. Such an honest kid. And modest. I wonder from who he took this?!?


Well, debating the above mentioned issues, watching cartoons and reading comics took us to the bed time.

As expected, due to the excitement (his mom came to town) he continued to speak form now and then in the sleep. I have to mention that I’ve been blessed with an extremely sensible sleep (a quality that in my family belongs to me only) and even a ticking from a clock is enough to wake me up. My kid’s jabbering was nothing compared with my dad snoring and my mom’s productive coughing. At these ingredients let’s add my frequent going out to the toilet (it happened to be in those days of the month) and my dad going out, not for the same reason (daaah!), but for taking woods to nourish the stove.

While going out I couldn’t avoid noticing how many stars were on the sky that night and how incredible clear it was. Maybe it has to do something with being in an unpolluted isolated area and in a glacial nippy night. I wondered if some lucky stars were among them but the extremely low temperature (lower than minus 10 degree Celsius) pushed me back in the house not allowing me to find any.


At 3.30 a.m. when my head was covered with all the possible pillows from the house and killing & suicidal ideas became more appealing than ever, my dad entered into the room switching on the blinding lights (while I was thinking: “For your sake, I hope it’s a good one this time!”) screaming: “I guess the goat gave birth, cause I can hear some noises out there!!!“.


OMG.


That was sure a very long phrase coming from my father who barely talks and definitely it was a good one. That night itself the lady goat became a mom and it was the perfect reason not to sleep. Both my parents rushed outside with flashlights and brought back inside two goat lings. They were twin baby girls and they were almost frozen. We rubbed them with some towels and put them in a carton near the stove. Even Luka woke up and watched live the whole event not believing his eyes.


Just before the crack of dawn everybody felt asleep deeply, twins included.


At the kindergarten I had to attend kind of a parents-meeting like session kept with all the present parents of all the kids from that institution (up to the 8th grade) and listened to their potential problems (alcohol, drugs, sex, so on and so forth) and half sleeping (thanks God) I could not properly replay to all the well intended moms that were encouraging me (knowing that I am a single mom): “It will be so tough for you! Just wait and see! It will be so incredible difficult! I just know!” I was able only to smile in a sleepy manner and say with half mouth (the other half was smiling): “Well, we’ll see about that! I just have to reach the future, isn’t it? I’ll see then, huh?!?”


Luka’s poem was flawless and touching and the paper flower he hand-made for me was truly unique. Both of us were shamelessly happy despite the problems everybody else happened to see except us. It also shocked me the teachers and children inclination for sad and tragic poems and songs. They seemed to me like they are really enjoying the victim image and were genuinely proud of it. And I wanted to kill myself for being unreasonably happy.


We (me and Luka) left the building gloriously hurrying back home to take the lunch and I prepared myself for leaving. There was still plenty of time until my one-day-only-bus was passing by heading to the closest main village. My mom offered me a tiny glass of red wine which I accepted preparing myself for the chilling trip back to town.


Big mistake! Cause I put my head on a pillow and fall asleep, missing by 3 minutes the long awaited bus. So, I had to walk by feet at least 5 km, until my dad coughed me and gave me a lift.
While walking in the middle of nowhere at the low temperature I was thinking with a frozen smile on my frozen face, watching the frozen landscape: “Life is surely unexpected but definitely worth on living it just out of curiosity, to see what is out there for you to come. Hey, I should be happy: today is my day! I am a woman and a mom.” True: a frozen one. :)


P.S.


Just before entering my block I check my mobile phone for any missing calls. Among others which I returned there was one from a guy I used to droll after, who probably intended to call me out of courtesy to wish me Happy Women’s Day. He is that kind of guy, who does things just because they look good on him. So after a couple of long minutes I decided to return this last missed call just out of courtesy. But the call left me a bitter taste … after the first 30 seconds of pure courtesy conversation he underlined the fact that he IS eating.
Ups, sorry! Ma mistake, man! … For returning the call!

Is it all about the context?

One of these evenings, while coming back from work and thinking about the turning points of my life, I released that most of them happened by hazard. They were as predictable as meeting a black swan in the subway.
For example: why did I decide to study Law? Because the admittance exam was the simplest back then as far as I was concerned (Grammar and History)… and also because my family faced some nasty legal issues and due to their lack of knowledge they struggled to cope them more than the average people would have done. So, it seemed to me the most convenient one, not to mention than not attending a faculty was not an option.
Was it my choice? Apparently not ... I was swimming in a context whose current lead me to go straight to Law Faculty.
Why do I work where I work now? Because I wanted to quit no matter what my previous place of work and here they needed somebody with my profile. Was it really my choice? Not quite.

I did not choose the family where I have been born, the country, the language, the culture, the mentality of the people around me, the clime and the education … and much, much more. I am not so sure if I’ve chosen on my own my partner, or to became pregnant, but now I choose to take responsibility for all of these.

I can choose between loving what I have or hating the whole kit. I know I’ve chosen to have a baby and I’ve also chosen to change my civil status. I choose to love my profession and to be ready for anything new. I choose to love my parents, the educations they gave me and everyone/everything around me. I can love my country but this does not mean the other countries have nothing else to offer. On the contrary. I inherited a language, but nobody is stopping me from learning others.

Maybe we can’t control so much the context, but once we are in the middle of it there is always a moment where you can make a choice: to stay and to treasure it or to leave and forget it. Maybe we do not have a lot of freedom upon what is going on around us but nobody and nothing can stop us from choosing the way we feel about everything.

So, is it all about the context?

Hell YES, and thanks God NO.

Porco Rosso - Miyazaki

1992. Kurenai no Buta a.k.a. Porco Rosso - 093 minute


The wife of Sir Miyazaki has to be a very happy woman.

I do not think it is a coincidence, but in his movies constantly appears the idea that the women makes the world go round.

Although the plot of the movie takes place in a men’s world, of flying devices, air pilots and so on, the appearance of the female figure is always saving the day, starting from the very begging while the air pirates kidnapped the girls swimming team.

The main contribution is brought by Miss Fio Piccolo a young lady of 17 years old, who is the person behind the revival of Porco Rosso’s plane, making it alive again like Phoenix from the flames.
A whole bunch of other women (of all the ages) also help with everything they can starting with tinsmithing, painting, repairing and finishing with cooking, arranging the table, administrative issues and even spying … while the male (the pork) character who gives the title of the movie watches the rush sitting and swinging a pink baby cot, where eventually it sleeps a baby girl.

Gina is the light and somehow omnipresent female behind the scene who fills with even more feminist feeling the movie. Everybody loves her and she spreads love everywhere.

How and where is for you to discover!

Spirited Away - Miyazaki

2001. Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi a.k.a. Spirited Away - 124 minutes

First movie of Sir Miyazaki I ever watched and the cause of my addiction to the gender … despite the fact that not being used with the style it seemed to me a little bit too frightening and crowded in weird characters for a cartoon.
But this is not a cartoon we are talking about here. It’s an anime movie, a real, classical anime. And as far as I am concerned: a great one.
It reminds me somehow of the plot from another classic: Alice in Wonderland.

A standard Japanese teenager (Ten-Ager) Chihiro, who has the standard feeling that she does not belong, or that she does not fit in, due to some irrelevant turn of events gets to be lured in a totally non-standard, magical, mystical world of the spirits, and after spending an unknown period of time in there as Sen … will get out mature, grateful and in love.
She passes throw a transformation … from a caterpillar into a lovely butterfly.

Who is the White Rabbit that guides and protects her? Remember that we are not in the old good England …
A White Dragon! Who else?

Haku does not reveal to us as a dragon from the beginning, but as a candid, lovely boy who even now (after I’ve watched the whole list of Sir Miyazaki’s movies and tons of others anime) is still in top five of my favorite anime male characters.
He is not just cute, but also hard working, serious, fearless, and he will do everything it takes to help his friend taking her name back and lifting the spell put upon her parents in order to go back to the real world.
The parallelism with Alice’s story might continue with other characters as well: the two witches sisters resemble with the two Queens and No Face with The Grinning Cheshire Cat.

Yubaba, the main antagonist, is definitely similar with The Red Queen (The Queen of Hearts) having the same XXL head and type of behavior.

If the Red Queen favorite phrase was “Off with his/her Head” we meet here a kind of “Off with his/her Name” or “Off with his/her Kanji”, our lady preferring to cut off a Kanji character from the victims’ name in order to change it and to cancel their past. This was helping her to control them and use them in her service. More pragmatic then the English version (Alice) I would say and a very intelligent move also.

If somebody has no past, unless he isn’t an above average type of person, it will be very difficult for him to have a future, being blocked in an undefined present.
Smart psychological move Yubaba!

Zeniba, Yubaba’s sister, might be considered The White Queen (The Queen of Chess), helping eventually our main teenagers to make it out.

The movie is yours to enjoy offering something interesting for any type of viewer: drama, adventure, mystery, panoply of Nippon mythology, delicate problems of the contemporary world such as consumerism, over-eating or environment protection.
The message that is send out there is complex and the work of the team who produced this movie must have been huge.

But despite all above mentioned issues what remained in my heart was the genuine love between Sen & Haku, although they came from different worlds.

Love really conquers all, isn’t it?

Why I don’t have a car? Inside City

Why I don’t have a car? - Inside of the City

or … why do I love the public transportation system …

Quite often in the last period I am constantly asked why I am not buying a car…The answer is so simple: because I do not want to! It is not related with money, it is also related with other costs, with my freedom, my comfort, privacy and egocentrism. Not having my own car still allows me to get wherever I want, not quite in the same time but with the lowest cost, without leaving traces and in a complete anonymity.

Buses:
The R.A.T.B. lines in Bucharest are covered 98% by the latest Mercedes-Benz Diesel buses with air-conditioner, LCD screens which are enchanting your eyes with images screen-saver type and various infos, and hypnotic music is played all the time for relaxing the passengers.
The frequency is pretty decent.

The subways:
The subway has a direct link between the only two high-ways Romania has (A2 Constanta and A1Pitesti) and practically is crossing the city from the east side to the west side in just 25 minutes; and this is not all.

There is always plenty of space and enough spare seats. It is time for lecture, reading and meditating in the “Bombardier” which has the nick-name “silver bullet”. All the stations have suspended LSDs with funny & interesting news or just short information about what’s up in the city. They are also providing 2 free newspapers in case somebody is forgetting the current on-going book to be read. The subway underground world is a different world: with its own TV channel, typical commercial, its own newspapers, small shops: from pharmacy, cosmetics, flowers shops to bags, fashion boutiques, books and food.
There is actually a McDonalds’ in the underground! At Unirea 2!
Here, under, you can see the latest models of All Star or Converse shoes close to Sarah Karen or Zia Pia high heels shoes, the city office prêt-a-porte sitting next to the street fashion.

Bags, dresses, tights, colors, ear-rings, watches, shoes, mobile phones, books, make-ups, accessories, hair styles … you name it.
All in the same place.
All free of charge.
It is like window shopping with the difference that you do not move … the models are …
And all together moving with high speed inside of the same figurative bullet.

Seating next to each other on similar blue chairs.
You can seat and look at them discreetly without even knowing them.

Without hellos and without good-byes.
You just travel together with them and they are travelling together with you.
Everybody with their own life, their own mobile phone, texting their own messages’, having their own ways, their own styles, books and targets … sharing a piece of this with you inside of the same space for a couple of minutes while slicing the city in two.
Some of them are laughing, talking, some smiling, listening to music at iPod, some are faceless, void, some preoccupied and sometimes some have tears in their eyes … It happened to me also, but u can easily hide it out or u realize that it does not matter anyhow … they will never ask u why …(…)

Moral of the story:

I would not like to miss all of this in exchange of driving a car alone for half an hour or more.

The moments while driving a car long distance should be shared.
I prefer to “share” this time with unknown persons instead of not sharing them at all.
And for short distance there are always plenty of alternatives.

It is like with the relationships. If you are ok on your own why would you get involved in a long term relationship just because everybody else is? It is not logic. And it is not logic for me to be like everybody else …