Just checking to see if this works. If so, this afternoon's mood tunes. I can't dance on my feet, atm, so I shall dance while sitting.😸

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=0AU4xE3hG6M&si=xTCPxwUpqVXmhbOA

Friday's MLB Game of Choice.

Can't say how much of tonight's game I'll be able to catch, we may have a busy afternoon / evening today followed by an early start tomorrow morning. But surely I'll be able to manage a few innings at least. My Texas Rangers will be traveling to Target Field in Minneapolis to play the Minnesota Twins. The game is scheduled to start at 7:10 PM CDT. As usual I'll be following the game's scores and stats in real time via MLB's Gameday Service where we can also find links to the radio-call of the game provided by announcers of either team we choose.

And the adventure continues.

Cauchemar Je me suis levée. Ma princesse dort. On a eu du mal à s'endormir. Ma chérie est occidentale, elle a davantage de mal à gérer le deuil. Nous on est éduquées à tout supporter, comme des mules Pour une fois c’est moi qui la console. J’ai réalisé que de 6 à 12 ans forcée, puis plus tard volontairement sous la conduite de mon sensei, j'ai reçu un entraînement mental qui me permet aujourd'hui sans doute de tenir. Ça n'est pas le chagrin qui me dévaste c’est une colère folle une rage qui bouillonne, comme celle qui m’habitait lorsque je suis sortie de la secte et que j'ai exprimée ici dans mes premiers posts tous perdus aujourd'hui. Ma première instance ça devait être en 2005 a disparu.

Je vais boire un peu puis me recoucher. Il est minuit ½ je me lève dans 5 heures j'ai des cours à assurer demain. Pardonnez mes absences, par moments je n'ai vraiment pas envie d'écrire là, je cherche à effacer ce cauchemar d'impuissance et d'injustice qui m'a réveillée, écrire m'aide.

J’essayerai d'être en forme demain pour vous

#shieko

Aiesha's gets Caught

#nsfw #Aiesha

Aiesha was driving naked in traffic with the windows down, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was chanting to herself to make it normal, determined to reprogram decades of backward thinking in one night. As she took the long way home and some of the less-traveled back roads, she thought about all her life choices that got her here.

The gravity of her situation is that she’s about to become a middle-aged woman with very abnormal habits...habits so opposite of the mainstream that she’ll be fundamentally incompatible with anyone else when this is all over.

A full year of constant porn consumption had already made things permanent. She’d adapted to single living, accepted the consequences of low funds and old age, but refused to pair off just for the sake of sharing resources without love. So while she had good health and a few more years ahead of her, she’d chosen this path. She had silently accepted the consequences.

Her free hand played with her left nipple as she kept the wheel steady with her right. The only thing she really needed to get used to was operating the pedals barefoot. It wasn't as effortless as driving with shoes on. She was going to normalize barefoot driving too. She didn't want to be a 'nudist.' She honestly didn't give a shit about the wholesome values that shunned sex like it was something humans don't do. She wanted to be naked in the clothed world without apology. She wanted to be an exhibitionist.

As her thoughts and memories came into focus in her mind, she didn't have any regrets to what she had done. No regrets relapsing into porn addiction. No regrets into roaming around naked in public places and masturbating. And now she was going to keep escalating and getting worse. Obliterating her traditions has been a liberating experience.

The idea of tying her orgasms to being naked in public started to really turn her on. The thought of only cumming outside electrified her. There would be no closed doors anymore. Just days of edging until she had to go out naked again for her next release.

The nipple play became a little more aggressive as she drove naked through town. She started pinching her nipple which in turn electrified her clit. Even though she had a hard orgasm while naked in public just a few minutes ago, she was already getting turned on again. Her promise to only cum in public might be an actual reality already.

She was only a few minutes away from her apartment and knew just the right place to park—where she could cum and remain unseen. She planned to leave all her clothes in the car and walk back to her apartment naked.

“I really am going to do this here,” she thought. She really didn't have a reason not to.

She glided into the parking lot, found her special spot, and opened the door as though it were ordinary. No hesitation, no anxious glances. Just moving as if she were fully clothed. It was nerve-wracking, but she was resolute in her quest to make her nakedness feel normal in public. She picked up her phone and her lanyard with the key around her neck, and for the second time that night, she left her car naked—shielded only by her hands and her resolve.

Aiesha made her way to a common area with a gazebo that was across from the back entrance of her building. Without hesitation, she sat down, spread her legs, started to masturbate in the night as she took in all the nighttime sounds at 2 a.m. Her apartment wasn’t near the city center, so not many younger people lived here. Not many people stayed out late. But there was still risk. She loved the thrill, so she kept playing with her pussy.

“I'm just like the porn I watch,” she thought to herself as another wave of arousal bloomed through her legs. She didn't think she'd be doing this outside her apartment on her first outing, but here she was. Escalating her perverted lifestyle to the extreme—quickly. She loved it.

She tried to savor the moment, but the need to cum in public was rising faster than her ability to hold back. She let it build, and she had a satisfying release, her pussy leaking onto the bench and slow dribbles trickling down the wood by her feet. She felt good about her life choices that led her here.

Aiesha gathered her things, and just like before, she forced herself to act normal, not checking her surroundings. She wanted to be the resident porn-addicted, naked recluse. It felt right to own this identity.

She walked to the entrance and opened the door. As she looked at the mailboxes, she decided to test her luck and check the mail. She already checked earlier, but she was just prolonging her exposure.

“I really have turned into an exhibitionist because of my porn addiction.” She thought to herself. Once again, her hand drifted between her legs. She was having a serious problem controlling herself now. She was fully nude, far from her clothes, barefoot, and now she was risking everything by exposing herself in her apartment. She couldn't help it. Eventually, a small voice of reason grabbed hold of her, nudging her to get back inside, albeit reluctantly.

She walked naked to the elevator, rode up to the 3rd floor and casually padded her way to her apartment, none the wiser.

Once inside, Aiesha turned on her screens, started her porn playlists, and began preparing for her shower. Her legs were still sticky, her feet dirty—but she didn’t mind. It was an honor to wash off some of the nighttime grime and grit from being out naked in public. A reminder of her having an amazing time.

She was just about to step into the shower when she heard a faint knock on the door, barely audible over the sound of the water, but her heart dropped. She didn't want her intuition to be right, but she decided to go through with it. She turned off the water, rubbed some of the grime off her body quickly, turned off her screens, muted everything, and grabbed her robe from the front door. She looked through the peephole to see one of her neighbors—a younger Black woman in her late 20s, standing there with her head down. She knew she lived on this floor, but never knew her name. She was just as reclusive as she was, only seeing her in passing as she went to and from work. Nothing more.

Slowly, Aiesha opened the door until the security bolt caught. The younger black woman looked very nervous, as if something had happened. Aiesha acted concerned, holding her robe shut; but she knew what this was all about.

“Did something happen? Are you alright?”

The woman at her doorstep was so shy. Aiesha unbolted the door and invited her in and asked her to take a seat on her guest chair (the one she never gooned on)

The woman still didn't make eye contact with Aiesha, looking at her shoes instead sitting uncomfortably. The silence was eerie.

“What's your name?” Aiesha asked, trying to break the tension. “Sonya,” the young woman said, still looking down, barely audible. “Are you ok, should I call the police?” Still silence. Aiesha still played coy, but she knew the reason why this quiet shy woman was in her apartment.

Sonya to a slow breath and spoke.

“I saw you outside. I just got off work scrolling on my phone, and then I saw you get out of your car and walk to the gazebo. And then stand at the mailboxes...” Sonya's voice as quivering, like she had gotten in trouble.

Aiesha's heart was pounding in her chest, blood rushing through her ears. She knew she would be seen eventually, but not on her first night out. She was only getting started.

Aiesha took a deep breath. She was caught and found out. She decided to own it.

“Yes Sonya, I was outside naked. You caught me. It's something I wanted to try tonight.” Aiesha stood there holding her robe closed. Sonya didn't look up from her shoes.

The timid woman slowly looked up, still not making eye contact kind of looking off to the side, but said something Aiesha wasn't expecting. “I want to try that too.”

Aiesha blinked. This woman, while her neighbor, practically a stranger just confessed she wants to do the same thing Aiesha is doing. She wanted to go naked in public. Aiesha decided to take charge of the conversation, she pulled up a chair and sat next to Sonya.

“Baby, I'm not gonna bite,” Aiesha said, calling on her mentoring skills. “But you don't have to be ashamed for what you saw or what you just said. If you really want this, we gotta get you more comfortable. You haven't done anything wrong or seen anything wrong.” Sonya took it literally and started taking off all her clothes—quickly and eagerly.

“I want to get comfortable,” Sonya said softly.

Aiesha didn't stop her; she just watched this woman bare everything in front of her. Then, Sonya finally made direct eye contact with Aiesha, still visibly nervous, yet with a faint look of resolve and conviction. Sonya opened her mouth to speak again.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend today. My boss always yells at me. I'm always broke. My parents say I'm a failure because I have not bought a house yet. My life is miserable. I was crying all day from the stress. Watching you get out and walk across the parking lot naked, masturbating, and then waking into our building was the hottest thing I've ever seen. I'm getting turned on again thinking about it. I want to change something in my life. I can't afford to go anywhere or take a vacation. What you're doing looks so exciting. I need something in my life that's exciting. I'm nervous as fuck. I know this looks crazy but I want to be naked like you. I've never done any of this, but the way my life is going, I want to know why you do this. I don't care if I sound like a crazy person; I just want to do something in my life that makes me happy. So yeah I'm naked right now, but its better than whatever I have been feeling today.”

Sonya's eyes filled with tears and she started to weep. Her confession pulled something out of her. Drained her. Broke her. “Please?” she sobbed.

Aiesha walked over and hugged the naked woman, letting her robe fall open. She's seen mental breakdowns at her job more than once in her career, but nothing like this. She gave the naked woman a hug and patted the back of her head, letting the young woman's face rest against her bare chest.

“It's going to be okay, sweetie. I got you,” Aiesha cooed. Sonya shuddered at the warmth and care of this stranger. Someone who could have been her older sister. Someone who said something kind. This woman was doing something she never received from her parents: approval of simply existing.

Sonya let out an ugly cry. Tears soaked Aiesha's chest and robe. The young woman let out years of hurt all at once in front of this naked stranger.

Instinctively, Aiesha rocked Sonya back and forth as her sobs subsided. Aiesha let the robe fall off her body completely, clumping in pile next to Sonya's clothing. It's been so long since Aiesha embraced anyone naked. The skin on skin contact was very comforting to her despite the circumstances. She took in the scent of coconut and body spray, taking in the subtle cues of holding a woman. This was the first time she's ever done this. Secretly she wanted to get used to this.

Eventually, Sonya pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes and looked at Aiesha from head to toe. “You are so beautiful. I like your body.”

Aiehsa smiled as she looked at Sonya's naked body in kind. Taking a good look at her.

Sonya had a slender, graceful frame that suggested both poise and a quiet intensity. Her skin was smooth and warm-toned, reflecting the soft light of the dimly lit apartment, and her high cheekbones added to her subtle natural beauty. Her dark hair, tied back in a loose bun like Aiehsa's, framed a delicate face with a downward gaze that betrayed her nervousness. Her lips were slightly parted, hinting at a mix of hesitation and curiosity.

She had large areolas that framed her nipples perfectly. As Aiehsa's gaze drifted down her body, she noticed a tuft of hair below her belly button that flowed into a well-trimmed bush. Sonya had a beautiful thigh gap, and the dim light from Aiehsa's apartment shone through her legs.

In short, Sonya was a stunning woman resembling the porn goddesses she gooned to daily.

“Sonya, you are beautiful. First, I need to take a shower. You can either wait here for me, or we can exchange numbers and talk about this tomorrow—your choice.”

Sonya stood nude and pondered for a moment. She gracefully squatted down, grabbed her keys and phone, then stood back up, looking up at Aiesha again.

“I need to take a shower too. Let's exchange numbers.”

Aiesha stood there nude, calling out her cell phone number. Sonya saved it, did a test call, and picked up her purse.

“Thanks, Aiesha. I'll text you when I get out of the shower if you're not sleeping,” Without hesitation, Sonya grabbed the door, stepped outside nude as if it was the day she was born, walking down the hallway to her apartment. The rest of her clothes were still piled up on Aiesha's floor.

“Wait, aren't you…?” Sonya turned with a devilish grin, looking back at Aiesha. “I don't need clothes. You've proven that to me.”

Aiesha watched the naked woman walk down the hallway, nude and barefoot as if it was perfectly normal, put her key in the lock, open the door, and step inside with a smile and wave.

Aiesha blinked again, wondering what she had awakened in Sonya.

Publicat la 17 aprilie 2016

Vânătorii de zmeie – Khaled Hosseini Editura Niculescu

Este o carte excepțională! Dacă la început am mai lăsat-o din mână, părând a fi o lectură ușoară, cu o acțiune lejeră, la un moment dat totul a luat o întorsătură la fel de bruscă precum evenimentele ultimilor patruzeci de ani din istoria Afganistanului!

Sunt multe de spus despre carte, dar orice aș fi scris nu ar fi putut reprezenta o recenzie care să se ridice la înălțimea cărții, așa că m-am abținut.

Totuși, nu recomand filmul înaintea cărții! O sută și ceva de minute de film nu pot surprinde drama unei persoane și, cu atât mai puțin, drama unei societăți.

Aș spune că fiecărei națiuni i-ar trebui câte un scriitor de talia lui Khaled Hosseini!

Aștept cu nerăbdare să treacă pauza recomandată de circa șase luni de „sedimentare”, înainte de a continua lectura cu A Thousand Splendid Suns (Cetatea celor o mie de sori)!

Iată câteva dintre fragmentele pe care le-am notat în timp ce citeam:

Trecutul își face drum spre lumină cu ghearele. [pag. 5]

Când omori un om, furi o viață. Îi furi soției lui dreptul de a avea un soț și copiilor – dreptul de a avea un tată. Când spui o minciună, furi cuiva dreptul la adevăr. Când înșeli, furi acelui om dreptul la corectitudine. [pag. 23]

Asta e treaba cu cei care spun numai ce cred. Își închipuie că și ceilalți fac la fel. [pag. 64]

Eram doar eu și Homaira împotriva lumii întregi. Și să-ți spun ceva, Amir Jan: În cele din urmă lumea câștigă. Așa stau lucrurile. [pag. 112]

Ceai, Politică și Scandaluri – ingredientele unei duminici afgane la talcioc. [pag. 154]

Poate că e nedrept, dar ce se întâmplă în câteva zile, uneori într-una singură, poate schimba cursul unei vieți. [pag. 158]

Există o cale să redevii bun. [pag. 211]

„Pentru tine, de încă o mie de ori!”

Nu există decât ceea ce faci și ceea ce nu faci. [pag. 221]

Întotdeauna e mai dureros să ai și să pierzi, decât să nu fi avut deloc. [pag. 233]

Dar timpul poate fi atât de lacom – uneori îți fură toate detaliile și le ține numai pentru el. [pag. 235]

Eu încă mai bâjbâiam în căutarea cuvintelor potrivite și, dintre noi doi, eu eram scriitorul. [pag. 242]

Tăcerea înseamnă serenitate, pace, înseamnă să dai încet butonul VOLUM din viața cuiva. Liniștea înseamnă să apeși butonul de ÎNCHIDERE. Să închizi sistemul. Cu totul. [pag. 393]


no more chips

Between me and the writing is always something, whether friend or foe. It happened this afternoon to be both. Between me and my scrawling in this tiny pad was my hoping self, drawn up to a desk, with a handful of freshly opened gourmet potato crisps, which I had loosed into a pristine white porcelain bowl, against which every salted fold and expertly burnt crisp edge was scandalously undressed. My salivating intensified tenfold. And beyond that porcelain bowl of crisps lay a copy of Henry Miller on Writing and the intention for it to catapult me into a writing frenzy. A wary man without choice, I devoured the whole bowl of crisps as if I were going at Sex itself. Collect yourself. I pushed back the chair, pressing my greasy fingertips against the desk for stability, and picked up the bowl ringed with salt and crumbs, and strode to the kitchen. Emptying the remainder of the crisps packet into the bowl was swift work. There was markedly less in the bowl than that first helping, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t look almost pristine again. Returning to the table, I methodically placed the bowl back in its position. I took in what was before me. Which is to say that I checked to reassure myself that writing in this pad was exactly as far away as when I had set upon the first bowl of crisps. Then I wolfed down that second helping with the same measure of vigour. No more chips. Having thought myself better off for vanquishing this foe, I stretched my arms wide and smiled supremely. The late summer sunshine had been pouring through the window by the desk. So while I had been feasting on my two bowls of crisps, I too was bathed in sunlight. And so I rose and came across my flat to this second shadowy desk. With my newfound solar strength I read straight through the first eight pages of the Miller. And, seized in its thralls, I immediately penned this down as I had always intended.

Publicat la 17 noiembrie 2015

Cu o mică excepție (postarea anterioară), am constatat că nu am mai scris pe acest blog de la sfârșitul lunii august. După câteva încercări în care nu am adăugat nici măcar un cuvânt, nici la titlu, nici în corpul textului, m-am hotărât să preiau aici un comentariu pe care l-am scris în data de 6 noiembrie, ca reacție la evenimentele tragice de la „Colectiv”.

Iată-l în continuare.

Eu nu am scris Ulysses! Eu nu am ieșit acum în stradă! Eu ascult rock! Zilele astea am (tot) ascultat Days of Rage (Iced Earth)! Am mai spus-o!

Mai demult am ieșit în stradă! Mai demult ascultam tot rock! Mai demult am mers la vot! Am fost la fiecare tur de scrutin. Odată am fost chiar primul votant! Astăzi am donat sânge! Pentru „Colectiv”? m-a întrebat doamna asistentă… Da, pentru „Colectiv”. Pentru victimele de la „Colectiv”. Voi mai merge la vot! Voi asculta tot rock și de acum înainte! Voi ce faceți? Nu-mi răspundeți! Asta vă privește doar pe voi, nu pe mine! Vă privește doar pe voi atât timp cât libertatea voastră nu-mi îngrădește libertatea mea!

Știați că în istoria rockului au mai existat evenimente asemănătoare cu tragicul eveniment de la „Colectiv”, nu-i așa? Poate vă amintiți sau poate că ați uitat de Smoke on the Water (and Fire in the Sky), a celor de la Deep Purple.

Mi-aș dori să aflu că toți cei ce mai sunt acum în spital se vor întoarce sănătoși acasă! Fie ca cei ce nu mai sunt printre noi să se odihnească în pace! În memoria lor, piesa Watching Over Me (am început cu Iced Earth, închei tot cu Iced Earth).

This morning I lap a leisure pace. I've really no spare time to be doing so, and yet here I lie, wistfully poking at my phone. It is not uncommon. I shall likely procrastinate as long as I draw breath. I will casually glance at the time and calculate whether I still have enough remaining to do all I need. I'm pushing it this morning while debating necessity and ego. A danger when living alone, perhaps. “Danger” is surely the wrong word.

I'm hungry, but haven't quite planned that into my procrastination. So much for languishing in bed. Definitely the wrong word there, but I love the sound of it. Why must it be a negative? Languish. Stretch out. Succumb. Relish the reduction of a demanding go. There is a grand satisfaction in taking a moment to feel the body's recline.

I got busy after writing that. Then, while clearly not paying the attention I should have been, I sliced a box cutter through my heel while breaking down boxes. Not what I needed today. I've rinsed it, waterproof bandayed it, and put a light bandage on my heel to hold everything in place. (Yes, yes. Not a word. Whatever. It should be.)

It's about 1.5 inches long and not quite a quarter inch deep at a diagonal. It's at the top right area of the meaty portion, so I'm good as long as I keep infection away. I'll change my weekend plans to give it scabbing over opportunity. I didn't want to put shoes on anyway. A weekend of studies and paperwork it is. I'm so excited.

Time to start the ice maker up and make like a gargoyle looking for a dopamine hit. crunchcrunchcrunch.

Oh! Oh! Perhaps this universe has just delivered me a demanding stay. Shall I acquiesce? I think I shall. After I finish what I was doing. It's beginning to get its sting on. I'm alive!

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Publicat la 9 noiembrie 2015

Cine sapă groapa altuia, cade singur în ea.

Există o excepție: groparii!

Place: A bench facing southeast on the Flour Dock, Peel Basin, Tiohtià:ke Date: 2026-09-25, 08:05 EDT Conditions: 10ºC and sunny. Clear skies reflecting off the calm water. A crisp autumn breeze.

I woke up early again today. I facilitated a post-screening panel for Club Sexu and the National Film Board of Canada last night, and it felt good. I felt in my element, and crashed shortly after getting home. I crawled out of bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, then slid my bomber jacket over the restlessness that has pressed on my shoulders for months. Wandering sleepily down Sainte-Catherine in the morning light, I, of course, find barely anything open. I ended up, as I often do when I’m downtown this early, at Café Olimpico.

The place was full, as always, and there was just one barista at that hour. Today, a group of cyclists in matching spandex and white helmets crowded around the edge of the bar, right by the door. I could only assume they were European, since they took their coffees standing at the bar despite the room having absolutely no space for it. In town for the UCI Road World Championship, I surmised. The already cramped space was more perilous with their presence, my backpack and my eyes dodging unintentional elbows and sideways glances. I’m used to it in this city, in this body.

I ordered an oat latte and a chocolatine to go, tipped with a smile, and snaked my way out the door. By this time, those same cyclists were crowding the sidewalk. I brushed my way past, not even sure where I was going until I saw the 35 idling at the corner of Union and Maisonneuve. The Transit app says it leaves at 07:35, so I meander on board and grab a seat.

The sun had been out the whole time, though you could hardly tell. The towers block its light from the street at this time of day, leaving only the wind. Sharpening the breeze into something that cuts. I glanced out the right-hand window and saw an ad on a neighbouring bus: Encourager le français, ça donne du courage. It’s meant to encourage francophones to be patient with business owners who are still learning the language. A plea for empathy from a campaign that now feels as if it’s from another time.

These days, politicians have been talking differently about language. The structures that facilitated inclusion have been defunded by austerity’s thousand cuts, sharp like the autumn breeze, and those who were already struggling to get by are left in the dark. Painted to be the problem for society’s ills. Scapegoated. Marginalized. I felt the tension rise in my body, so I took a photo and turned my attention to the other window as the bus wandered down Côte-du-Beaver-Hall, Saint-Jacques, and McGill. The bikers from the café, in an even larger, even more spandex-clad group made their way past us on the protected path by our side. They eventually make their way past the bus and we don’t see them again. Returned to the current of a city sleepily coming to life.

---

I’ve been exploring this same route for days now, largely without meaning to, and I don’t think that’s coincidental. When I first moved here, I used to call this area “Little Toronto.” There was something about the tightly packed condo towers, the chain storefronts, the suspicious absence of parks. The corner of Peel and Wellington, where I got off the bus with a quick merci to the bus driver, makes the case on its own. The traffic lights here have a bright yellow border, which is common in Toronto, but much less so here. There’s a protected left turn that gets priority over pedestrians. The cycle stays red on all sides for just a beat too long, daring anyone to run it. These structures have already decided who they’re for and who gets the luxury of moving through them unencumbered. That knowledge too settles onto my shoulders and folds into my route toward the water.

The buildings have been hiding the sun’s warmth since Sainte-Catherine. That is, until I get to the rail underpass just past the corner of Peel and Smith. It breaks free for a glorious moment, bathing my skin and the Farine Five Roses sign in its warm, morning glow. Wind threads my coat, brushing my neck, and for a heartbeat, the world holds. I take it in with a profound inhale before moving toward that bench facing southeast on the Flour Dock that’s been calling my name.

---

photo © @Ambulocetus@pixey.org

Publicat la 2 august 2015

Unul dintre bunicii mei a fost dentist. Tehnician dentar. La un moment dat a avut o problemă la o măsea, dar, ca orice meseriaș care se respectă, nu s-a îngrijit de propria-i problemă. A așteptat să-i treacă, dar problema, dimpotrivă, s-a agravat. Și asta atât de mult, încât a ajuns la maxilo-facială la Timișoara, unde și-a lăsat o bucată de maxilar! Povestea asta nu o spun ca să mergeți din când în când la stomatolog, deși e recomandat. De fapt, nu e o poveste, ci un fapt petrecut în urmă cu mai bine de 30, ba chiar 35 de ani. Pe vremea aceea eu eram elev și nu aveam un domn învățător, ci un „tovarăș” învățător.

Altă dată, în aceleași vremuri, într-un tramvai, o tânără a făcut atent un milițian că ocupa un loc pe scaun în timp ce o bătrână stătea în picioare. I s-a adresat cu „tovarășe milițian”. Am admirat curajul tinerei de a înfrunta autoritatea!

Cam tot pe atunci, o profesoară respectabilă de limba engleză (aici este vorba de istoria dramatică a unei fiice de boieri, care a fost nevoită să supraviețuiască așa cum a putut într-un regim comunist care nu a „suportat” nicio altă clasă decât a proletariatului și a nomenclaturii de partid) mi-a oferit spre lecturare cartea Iacobinii și Girondinii, scrisă de Alexandre Dumas. În acele vremuri ale tinerei Republici Franceze, apelativul folosit de către iacobini era cel de „cetățean”. Aceea a fost cea mai veche carte pe care am citit-o. Era tipărită în 1855. Ceea ce m-a frapat la acea vreme a fost faptul că era tipărită atât cu litere chirilice, cât și cu caractere latine. Nu, nu cuvinte întregi de un fel sau de altul, ci cuvintele erau combinații întâmplătoare din cele două feluri de litere. Ca și când tipografii nu mai aveau suficiente litere chirilice și au fost nevoiți să apeleze la cele latine. Și a mai fost ceva interesant: la mijlocul secolului al XIX-lea se scria cu „â”, nu cu „î”, așa cum ne învăța pe noi tovarășul învățător, iar eu făceam exerciții în gând cum ar suna cu acel î pe care îl știam eu, dar citindu-l mai degrabă ca pe un ă, decât ca pe un â! Eram un copil care se juca cu o nouă literă, sau mai bine zis cu o literă atât de rară încât nu o întâlneam decât în numele țării sau al „cetățenilor” ei. Și uitați-vă acum de câte ori am folosit-o doar în fraza anterioară! Și, ca să termin ideea cu â și î, mi s-a părut prea simplistă regula de utilizare a literei â în interiorul cuvântului. De ce? Pentru că ea ar trebui să ducă cu gândul la originea cuvântului din care face parte. Fără să am pretenții de lingvist (căci nu am!) sau de cunoscător al limbii latine (căci nu sunt!) mai mult decât am studiat-o în clasa a VIII-a, m-am gândit la două cuvinte de origine latină care ar trebui scrise cu î, nu cu â: râu, din latinescul rivus, și râs, în sensul de a râde, din latinescul risus — ridendo castigat mores! Așadar, consider că, dacă tot există excepții ale limbii române, atunci când s-a hotărât trecerea de la î la â pentru a marca ruptura de comunism (eu așa am perceput-o în anii ’90), ar fi trebuit să se stabilească și excepțiile. Deși am privit cu bucurie această revenire, o perioadă bună de timp nu am făcut trecerea la noua grafie, tocmai pentru că regula mi se părea prea simplistă. Am făcut o paranteză cam lungă, dar nu m-am putut abține!

Revin la copilărie. Așadar, era vremea tovarășilor. Bunicul meu, după ce și-a rezolvat problema de sănătate, a trimis o scrisoare de mulțumire doctorului (folosesc denumirea populară utilizată pentru medici). Țin minte că am remarcat că pentru destinatar a utilizat formula „domnului dr.”, nu „tovarășului dr.”. Evident că m-am autosesizat și l-am întrebat de ce a utilizat acel apelativ. Răspunsul lui a fost simplu: ei doi nu puteau fi „tovarăși”. Atunci am înțeles sensul acelui cuvânt denaturat, alterat, demonetizat prin utilizarea excesivă de către partidul aflat la putere. În decembrie 1989 (sau să fi fost deja începutul lui 1990?) am aflat că decretul cu utilizarea acestui apelativ a fost abrogat. Deci fusese și legiferată utilizarea lui în acest sens… De atunci lucrurile s-au schimbat și „domn” sau „doamnă” este echivalentul „tovarășului” sau „tovărășei” din vremea copilăriei și adolescenței mele…

O parte (căci restul sunt paranteze) din rândurile de mai sus le-am scris auzind de câteva ori niște persoane salutând foarte pompos: „vă salut, domnilor!” sau „bună ziua, domnilor!”.

„Nu pot fi eu tovarăș cu domnul doctor!”, spunea bunicul meu…

Our Father Who art in Heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil

Amen

Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!

Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!

“Greenland will be a policeman, and it will extend to Iqaluit.”

— jtw

The Arrow, Painted

To the North And policy of neighbours This is the sight we knew Failed landings by the yardhouse And a hijack of esteem We were very aware, just- A friend And in the swill Of the colleagues we share Man will have a plan of time And to be shoring now A difficult way in And subservients of war And there will be no money Nor peace- even if we liked our reach But then reviled- The rightist fight It is only my country And it is a landgrab No benediction Beauty bereft And the tides of another,- will do us in And to speak of the arousal The ancient high One can live with anxiety But this operand is here The living and paid little The worst work in the world- which is to live under the United States Plain in sight There are plaintiffs And there is will And to the first of mind We were errant to the South But Denmark sold us As mercury would And seven times the Dutch In a river of years

And mercy howled For honest endeavour And we were chains on a cross The living avoidant And this river Would it stay the same

And the Earth ate the salt And there was no plan But the United States and money

Fresh as going alone There is errant ground And convolutions of wicca For the Sun has a plan,- so they thought But I was hoping- To be eating peace for dinner And now there is none.

Anderson and Ora Lee Harris' home in Hale County, Alabama

People and Place Matter

“ The professional challenge, whether one is an architect in the rural American South or elsewhere in the world, is how to avoid being so stunned by the power of modern technology and economic affluence that one does not lose sight of the fact that people and place matter.

For me, drawing and painting are the initial influences for the making of architecture. The sketch is always out front. It sees ahead and deeper into what is already on the paper.

*The initial sketch is always an emotion, not a concept. In the beginning, it is important to allow the imagination to move freely without any influence from a preconceived form. It’s a mark that suggests the possibility of an idea. For me, it’s the act of drawing that allows the hand to come into accord with the heart. When that happens, there comes a moment when the marks of the sketch — it can be a pen mark or a computer mark — utter the first deeper knowledge of what will come later.* “ – Sambo Mockbee

I got to spend a week working with Professor Sambo Mockbee at Auburn’s Rural Studio. Made in part from scrap materials, the Butterfly House, as it came to be known, shows what is possible when it comes to affordable housing. Rooted in place, not commodity-driven, beyond codes: home. I have not continued what Mockbee showed us, nor have others. Truth be told, none of us under his influence have equaled his level of work. Nor have the professors who followed him. Good work has certainly been done at Auburn. Sambo reached into the spirit of the people and the place—rural Alabama—and somehow those dreams, myths, and layered history expressed themselves in form. The thing I remember most about Sambo is that his dreams were bigger than our shared reality. What made him different was that he made them reality. Three decades later I find myself faced with an opportunity and still hear Sambo’s words in my head:

” Everyone, rich or poor, deserves a shelter for the soul. “

Beulahland ... what does it want to be. I will dream and follow Mockbee’s process.

To learn more about Sambo Mockbee visit his family’s web site. View the documentary Citizen Architect

All images courtesy of the Mockbee family.