Zombies, zombies everywhere! Do you buy zombies? Cheap zombies, guaranteed quality. Expensive zombies, you can return them to the seller…Oh, but it’s not FAIR.

I shall tell you another story, this time in English, though I vowed to stop writing or translating into English for personal reasons. Last year, when I was very tired i was visited by my psychiatric nurse with her daughter. They seem to be very kind and good-hearted women and the young one has a little daughter. They seemed to help me and my mother and got under my mother’s skin. The little granddaughter came to my mother’s yard last summer and watered the roses herself with a garden hose. This year at my birthday, on February 16, her very young mother came to me and bought a cheap and non-edible birthday cake and I said thanks of course. But I was amazed by that young mother’s slip of the mind. The young woman paused as if thinking and said that her daughter is now one year and a half ! Now you can understand my puzzlement especially while remembering what happened last year…

As I told you, the two women came to me when I was very tired, in order to bring me psychiatric pills. The truth is that when I opened the entrance door to my apartment, alongside with them came inside a horrible smell of corpses. It was as if they smelled like that. I was puzzled and disappointed and sad. They were belated with an hour or so, saying that they were caught in a traffic jam. What puzzled me more is that their moves were like those of some rusty robots who needed oil or sacred ointment from a priest. My impulse was to help them, to show them my concern and love for human race whatever comes. Their fingers, adorned with veritable gold and ruby rings, with long and painted fingernails were clasped and very rigid. I touched their hands and opened their fingers and they seemed to be moved again. Another trouble is that in the same moment someone entered in my mind in Romanian with the thought: we cannot accept a country of zombies. Another one in English led me into temptation to touch their hands because I was very tired, otherwise I am not influenced by foreign thoughts. After their departure i had to open the window to refresh the air in my room and the smell went away. It is true that I forgot to check the entrance floor in front of my apartment, in order to derive correct conclusions. It is true that the neighbors above me have children that change or don’t grow older in all these 11 years since I am here. The neighbors upstairs tried to make me think that they poison me with toxic gas in the bathroom, because when I moved here another neighbor with the old woman living below me forbid me to maintain the bathroom vent closed, he opened it (although it was closed) in spite of my demands and my money paid to him, although the old woman below, his friend, has that opening closed. In the psychiatric hospital years ago i met an old patient who said that among other things she was poisoned by her neighbors with toxic gas. She was a English teacher. In the past 10 years these neighbors let flowing something that made different noises for hours late at night, at any night hour and sometimes at daytime in order to torture me with noises like gas flowing, not like water on the pipeline. They stopped only this year. Of course I cannot say for sure what that thing was. The neighbor below, who welcomed me when I bought the apartment from an Italian who had “trust” in her, told me then that she was over 70, I forgot her age back then.. This old woman asked me to sell her my own inherited place in the graveyard, which fact was somehow illegal, but I had back luck although I refused her, because my mother sold that place above my will (which was illegal too, because I was the direct heir) to a crooked lawyer and what remains for me if I die is to be buried in a common grave with my uncle and my father altogether. I forgot to tell another detail: the eyes of those women with corpse smell were fantastically bright from time to time, more exactly the young one’s eyes. By chance, the name of her child is Evelyn. The one who made me have an abdominal echography that is maybe lying about the dimensions of my “good” kidney stone was the psychiatric nurse. The medics lied many times about me, I can still remember that. I don’t remember precisely the dimension of my kidney stone, but I only vaguely remember that it was not 3.5mm as it is written and my family doctor to whom I complained for 8 years or so about different symptoms all around my abdomen and in my back and did not recommend any investigation, read it aloud in her cabinet as 1.5mm. My mother paid 100 lei (which is costly for us) and the medic gave me only the picture of the gall bladder with stones with only written things about the rest. My nurse too suffers as she says from bile ducts trouble and stays at home with perfusion from time to time, though she had her gallbladder being removed, as the echography medic recommended to me. You can see the pictures and her diagnostic below. Another fact is that my psychiatric nurse and the psychiatrist forbid me to go to a social center for psychiatric patients by refusing to sign a paper certifying that I was in their evidence and treatment and by refusing to give me a copy of my clinical observations papers from the psychiatric hospital. I explained them that i was still young and complete isolation is very painful – I have absolutely no one to talk to except for my mother. The same psychiatric nurse made me have a pension of less than 400 lei for psychiatric illness, although years ago they refused to let me work or to have a pension. Of course this legal pension is too small and can pay only the rent but not other expenses. I shall make a request in the future to have it cut off. I cannot accept this. Absolutely certain I asked for human rights since I was 13, already 33 years since 1884 and it is a certain fact that i was able to work legally but they refused me. They refused my right to have a child or family or other social rights although I never had psychiatric symptoms and spit over me horrible psychological or psychiatric inventions about my “conditions” although I was perfect and I had a perfect character and I think that I even deserved to be a student in the University, which right they too denied, only because I was poor. I was intelligent and wise an good and full of forgiveness towards people. I deserved life and they kill me. They treat me as If I were not human though I had no mistakes at all my whole life. Maybe some of you know that psychiatric illnesses are only lies, but I was very good as an individual and deserved to have a child, although i was a slave my whole life. Of course I shall commit suicide if my requests are not met, I waited 33 years, as they said, deprived of life. They continuously entered my mind in Romanian after I moved in this apartment with the idea that they have to isolate me and to destroy all the evidence and cover it up, exactly what they did.

If you wonder about me – I never had sparkling eyes, that’s for sure. But my own mother had such eyes from time to time last year and she became like this only lately.

The title of my confession is a bitter satire. And my final statement which I had proves for, is that I was really poisoned, not only by psychiatric drugs, but by other things.

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poison alway does

For so many years the headaches from my neighbors’ poison…I will tell the truth again: I did nothing wrong, my life and my character were perfect. I was continuously tortured since 1984 when I was 13. In my first years in this city, Bucharest, I was not poisoned. Since the years 2000 – poisoned exactly the way I already told. I could not finish the story of my imprisoned and tortured life and probably they won’t let me do this. After my father’s death it was worse and my mother too was worse towards me. I was always gentle and kind and I did nothing wrong and I don’t have sins. Since 2006, after moving in my own apartment, I noticed that my neighbors above let flowing some kind of gas – by the noise they do in my bathroom, a noise that isn’t water flow for certain sometimes – for hours at night or day, they have different kinds of such noises. I did not believe that it was poison just because I met once in the psychiatric hospital a woman who was imprisoned there and forced to tell the truth that she was poisoned with gas by her neighbors. But I did not question her sanity back then , I never made mistakes of any kind my whole life, like I told you. In my first years I did not believe that I was poisoned. Anyway, my smell was accommodated and I could not make the difference. I was not aloud to cover the hole towards the common bathroom “chimney”, though I asked for this and the neighbor below me, who tortures me with politics on TV, took care with another neighbor – a house painter – that my hole was left open in spite of me paying money and asking for letting it covered. Nevertheless my neighbor below has that opening closed in her apartment. I did not believe though it was a very strange noise. I went to my mother’s place where the air is ok and only in the past 2 years I recovered my smell and I observed that the air in my apartment is horrible! Indeed horrible. I could not have stayed with my mother because of her, not only because she harasses me. I repeat the air is horrible to breathe and it is for certain the cause of many nausea feelings and headaches and circulatory troubles. And peripheral neuropathy, etc. Of course I cannot blame the neighbors above for sure. Anyway in the past years they took my things and photos and tortured me with noises continuously and put dirt in my rooms and greasiness on my doors inside and false official acts in my drawers. Anyway none of them respects me and today a beggar, who apparently owns more money than me, mocked me with coarse appellation and said that I promised him 2 lei, which fact is not true. In all these years since 2006 my neighbors did not get older and their kids are not looking as if they were 16-17, but the same as in the beginning. And outdoors the neighborhood is wild each time I go out – thousands of cars and people staring and mocking me and below my apartments since March until November they come here and yell vulgar words every year, etc.

As for my suicide – forget it…months ago I realized that i won’t do this, my life was perfect, I cannot do this. My respect for goodness and beauty was immense all my life. Though you all deserted me and left me alone and totally isolated for so many years, without the slightest guilt or insanity from my part (I still can tell and I still remember everything). No one wants me and everyone pushed me to commit suicide. I am not Narcissus to commit suicide eventually and I am not Oedipus to destroy my sight (that is illusory like any other human sense) and I am not Socrates to commit ritual suicide (because that was not trial or condemnation of philosophy as a matter of fact) . I might have been all of them because others or the circumstances prearranged all of these….I was all of them but none. I deeply think that life is something very good and beautiful and necessary and my respect stayed the same through the years and whenever I was pushed to the limit I asked myself the same question — do I hurt life or existence of things by killing myself? I will not commit suicide — first of all in order to protect whatever may be connected with the link between my body and my spirit or with the dissolution of this link — if that will happen sometime because of the necessity of the whole. If I were someone else (it does not matter whom) I would not have killed a woman like I am and like I always was. Paradoxically, my too deep maternal instinct — the cause of my brightest happiness and of my deepest pain — demands me to avoid by all means committing suicide. (It is true that I disliked being poisoned — and that was true, or tortured by any means, and I disliked the stealing of my humble belongings (old or new)….but this will pass…someday).

Scattered Thoughts

The texts I add this evening here on this blog are older texts, I just needed to gather them here rather than on my Chequered Hat blog.

 

I think it’s not true that only curious people find the most interesting things … From my experience I can say that I found the best things in life (different peaceful feelings or knowledge facts), only when I was released from the constraints of curiosity, from my attempts to find something at any cost. It ‘s like abandoning the desire to reach the top of a mountain. The ability to give back to the river the precious stones that you just picked. Rivers know their own purpose better than the analytical mind of a human being.
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I begin to be convinced that I am guilty of a sort of self-cannibalism as a poet or in other writings of mine, devouring my own treasure of past and present thoughts … what will remain of me?
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I remember that in my youth I read the Book of Blockade in difficult times for me. I believe that it was there where I found the shocking image of a mother who feeds her hungry baby with her own blood. The book was published again in Russia in recent years. They made a film of it. Some people, among whom I counted myself, have a tendency to accept their own suffering easier when they read about things infinitely more serious, such as war consequences. It is a certain kind of catharsis, a half-identification with the plagued characters, overcoming your own pain by acquiring a larger heart. One that can be fit for more pain. The same thing happened to me reading the Decameron, where the storytellers face the black death sharing their merry or not so merry stories.
But there’s also the saying ” my God do not give to man as much as he can bear.” In a later stage of his prolonged misery, such tricks cannot help the unfortunate one. He can try to observe his own misery with a detached eye, as if he would rise above the roof, above the house, the city he lives in, his country and finally the whole planet, a planet that is haunted by so many spiritual or material plagues over time. Above his Self. This is no more catharsis, it is a kind of cleavage of his consciousness, the reasoning self is lost and rediscovered in another dimension, in another setting. It can be found where it belongs, in his humble home with his daily difficulties he has to cope with, but wearing another armor against desperate feelings. Looking back his troubles seem so small and life is the only possible blissful experience. He is stronger, he can face everything. But if this man is reunited with the whole of his suffering, with all his bitter conclusions about life, this time nothing can facilitate his rebirth, because the umbilical cord is like a noose, tightened around his throat. He falls from grace once again, he relives the past and sees only the obstacles, he is forever hopeless.
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Yet I believe that the human mind is not driven by the thirst for knowledge, but by the need for self-control and self-fulfillment. By self-fulfillment I certainly understand the need to harmonize one’s self with the environment, a more advanced stage of self control, involving a mature consciousness.
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When the night is so starry, the obligation to face this cold winter of sheer loneliness burns in my heart.

I shall commit suicide another time

The texts I add this evening here on this blog are older texts, I just needed to gather them here rather than on my Chequered Hat blog.

Can you guess when I first thought of suicide? When I spotted the central tower of the main cathedral in the center of Cluj. Daring construction, I said to myself. Back then I knew nothing neither about the centuries taken to build up large cathedrals, nor about the angels at Chartres, nor about the fight that Gaudi undertook in his work. And that very moment a man looked me right in the eyes, persistently, and it was as if someone said don’t do this…otherwise no one seemed to say something in my intimate life. He was one of those interesting men about whom you ask yourself if he is really taking a walk or he is about to meet another interesting person. The same as the lonely men reading the newspaper in the park, under blossoming trees. These men usually wear hats. Today I feel I always was a boring person and no man could have invited me in his sangrila with an old fashioned piano and tea steaming in glassware. Vintage atmosphere over the green green grass of home, that was my life. Like martini with pepper instead of lemon. Not only that my background was poor but I was also fond of hats and of Barbey D’Aurevilly’s writings. After wandering through the city of Cluj in search of a free organ concerto, I entered a bookstore and bought me a Bible. I was so happy that I glued on the inside of the cover a few stamps with Raphael’s virgins.

When a suicidal person doesn’t want to bear her cross any longer, the gravediggers ring the bells, the mothers hit their children and almost everyone, bad or good, poor or high in spirit, make a fuss about it. It is already known that some are too preoccupied to hit the nail right into the coffin. For me life seemed sometimes locked in a box (a too vulgar comparison for an evolved intellect), but a transparent one. A kind of translucent wooden structure, not a glassy one. Not even a magician box. Therefore I found myself knocking on wood, even after my bedtime prayer. I never prayed for my enemies because I never believed to have enemies. But I admit the taste of life was still very tender when I used to say “forgive them Lord for they don’t know what they do”. It is written that angels don’t uplift suicides in heaven, I dare to be heretical and say that it isn’t so. Sometimes they raise them, other times they don’t. It depends on how much earth did the person carry on her back. An earthen sticky cross that growth like the moon on the back of a heavy loaded elephant. People don’t cry for suicides because they don’t forgive themselves. And I also dare to say: eppur non si muove. Why on earth did they proclaim the revolution of our wretched solar system? And from whom did Galileo took the ransom?

Just take me to the Cinematheque to relive the adventures of Cousteaud and his ship Calypso, to sail again with Onedin or with any other ark, anything but the Ship of fools or the Titanic. Don’t take me to the theater, because my inhibited histrionic spirit refuses to accept himself. And if I shall die don’t stick a stamp on my front, not even one with a virgin.