Pe cuvant

Gata, iar decembrie, cea mai plina de magie luna din an. In sensul ca vin sarbatorile. Agitatie maxima prin magazine, vanatoarea de cadouri ideale, jucat bingo cu nimeritul cadourilor, dat chix, sau mers la tinta, irelevant, atmosfera e cea care conteaza.

Unu la mana, decembrie are acel ceva pe care nicio alta luna nu il are. De la frigul ce-ti pisca fatza, pana la seara de Ajun si noaptea de Revelion, toate-s chestii unice in felul lor.
Doi la mana, se pune punct unui an si se incepe altul, de obicei cu speranta de mai bine.
Trei la mana, e vacanta. Decembrie = sarbatori, cadouri, vacanta.
Patru la mana, decembrie = familie.As putea sa zic ca din punctul asta de vedere simt ca-i iunie, nicidecum decembrie.

Azi am avut o prezentare la Property, un modul pe care-l fac eu la scoala. A fost minunat. Not. Bine ca a trecut. Am disecat teoria unui domn numit Wesley Newcomb Hohfeld si m-am scremut sa o explic cat mai "in my own words'. Ca daca nu e my own words, m-am dus la dracu` si ma acuza astia de plagiarism. El sustine ca nu exista "rigts", ci ca treaba-i mult mai complicata. Un om are un "bundle of rights", in care sunt incluse si right-urile, pe langa liberties, powers and immunities. Extraordinar de fascinant, n-am ce spune... Nu va dau detalii pt ca nu vreau sa nutriti pt mine sentimentele pe care le nutresc eu fata de acest minunat domn Hohfeld. Noroc ca a crapat, ca altfel ma ofeream eu cu draga inima sa-i fac felul.
Luni am examen. La drept contitutional, o preafrumoasa materie la care inca nu am invatat nimic.
Week end-ul trecut am avut de scris o lucrare magnifica la modulul The Law of Obligations (Contract), o materie la care din principiu nu se dau note mai mari decat 60%. Poti sa stai in cap, ca tot acolo esti.
Pana la vacanta nu mai este mult, mai e o saptamana, dar de la mine si-au luat la revedere deja puterile. Cred ca s-au dus in vacanta. In Romania, unde probabil luna decembrie are mai mult farmec decat aici. Sper sa supravietuiesc cumva fara ele, ma gandesc sa pun inertia la treaba, ca altfel nu ma vad bine.
Are sens sa spun ca mi-e dor de Cluj si de casa? De familie si prieteni? De un somn zdravan fara intreruperi? De zapada, nu de ploaie amestecata cu ceva fleoasca urata? De alb, nu de gri? De a day off, in care sa stau si sa ma uit la tavan?...

Pe cuvant ca vreau o vacanta.

No time

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love, but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.

Busy

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.

Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

Relax. This won't last long.
Or if it does, or if the lines
make you sleepy or bored,
give in to sleep, turn on
the T.V., deal the cards.
This poem is built to withstand
such things. Its feelings
cannot be hurt. They exist
somewhere in the poet,
and I am far away.
Pick it up anytime. Start it
in the middle if you wish.
It is as approachable as melodrama,
and can offer you violence
if it is violence you like. Look,
there's a man on a sidewalk;
the way his leg is quivering
he'll never be the same again.
This is your poem
and I know you're busy at the office
or the kids are into your last nerve.
Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.
Well, they lie together
like the party's unbuttoned coats,
slumped on the bed
waiting for drunken arms to move them.
I don't think you want me to go on;
everyone has his expectations, but this
is a poem for the entire family.
Right now, Budweiser
is dripping from a waterfall,
deodorants are hissing into armpits
of people you resemble,
and the two lovers are dressing now,
saying farewell.
I don't know what music this poem
can come up with, but clearly
it's needed. For it's apparent
they will never see each other again
and we need music for this
because there was never music when he or she
left you standing on the corner.
You see, I want this poem to be nicer
than life. I want you to look at it
when anxiety zigzags your stomach
and the last tranquilizer is gone
and you need someone to tell you
I'll be here when you want me
like the sound inside a shell.
The poem is saying that to you now.
But don't give anything for this poem.
It doesn't expect much. It will never say more
than listening can explain.
Just keep it in your attache case
or in your house. And if you're not asleep
by now, or bored beyond sense,
the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at
yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.
Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.
There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,
You're beautiful for as long as you live.