Who would
have thought how many meanings may exist in a single letter, how many things begin
from it and reflect upon existence. But the secret is seeing when needed,
dreaming, wishing, not believing in coincidences...
Ludwig van Beethoven: “Don’t only practice your art, but force
your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.”
Brașov woke me up one morning with a
concept and an assiduous desire of seeing it fresh out of print, of feeling the
ink scent spread into black words over white pages. It did not offer me much,
but a small basic kitchen where I could hide away from any world, imagine and write.
I would walk its streets, looking for stories. And when they were no longer
enough to complete the memories of „home”, it recoiled upon me.
The concept
carried me on the alleys of an old Bucharest. Just to spite me. Because it was the
city I had never respected. But it, too, had stories to tell under green street
lamps in coffee houses that reminded of revolutions. And maybe I rebelled or
maybe not, but with every letter added to my words, the concept took shape.
And as the
shape would not let itself put in between lines, I headed to Sibiu. Now even „S” can be considered
a „B”, deformed by the times, the youth, ideas, Bacchus and who knows whom or what
else. Because the shape changes form. There, I always had a basic kitchen just
as inspiring, sacredly preserved, like a mystical shrine. And what a marvel,
cause there did my inspirations turn to life, in black and white.
Then came
the infernal blockage that every writer knows at least once during the persuasion of
his dream. But, for me, exists the city of artists of any kind, from any ages.
And it is there that the pen knows by itself what to write: Balchik. If someone were to ask me to
describe the feelings that surround me when I walk among the white stones, I
would answer that I am speechless. I would very much aware lie. As it is there
that the coffee with ice concluded its inspiring existence.
Oh... and afterwards
I felt an imperious need of absolute pragmatism. I had to contemplate the
entire concept from the outside, to understand my readers. It was then that I
discovered the street lamps. In Berlin. I am perfectly aware that there are
other street lamps as well, all over the world. But here they had something
that made me smile, made me finally understand what the obstinate light of
existence should mean. Sometime, a bit before a midnight.
In the
chaos that preceded the “writer’s” title, the paths took me after the stories
written. And each place confirmed once again the marvels put down by the pen.
Then the print did its humble duty, spreading first in Brasov the scent of fresh ink. And
afterwards my book recreated the entire way back of the inspirations. Leaving
me for a while at a loss for words, with no pen. Just me and her pages. In the metamorphosed
silence of street lamps going down at dead of night.
Recently, I
perused its pages in Bangalore. And it was then that I figured it
out: coincidence in its full meaning, remarkably explained for the present
days, seems to have taken shape, but without existing. I reckoned that the
letter had fully done its job, to guide me towards places tumultuous in significance.
Tonight
finds me in Berlin. I’m smiling. There is a street lamp at a corner distorted in the
moist mirror of the pavement below. It’s raining. Autumn-like. Incessantly. It
is still a warm kind of rain leaving room for various meanings. Hands in my
pockets I lean on it and gaze at the straight street. It brings me no war, I
see no falling walls. Just silence. Still ... the street lamp, mysteriously
lighting above me, lets the rain bring from afar a scent of jasmine flowers,
decadent, reflected in the world of I.
I would not
have ever thought that a single letter had so much power to change an existence,
irrevocably.
Berlin, September 11th, 2014
