Mr. Ibis ii Thot

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her, wrote Mr Ibis in his perfect copper-plate handwriting.

That is the tale; the rest is detail.

There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to others’ pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it to.

Tonight, as you eat, reflect if you can: there are children starving in the world, starving in numbers larger than the mind can easily hold, up in the big numbers where an error of a million here, a million there, can be forgiven. It may be uncomfortable for you to reflect upon this or it may not, but still, you will eat.

There are accounts which, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply. Look — here is a good man, good by his own lights and the lights of his friends: he is faithful and true to his wife, he adores and lavishes attention on his little children, he cares about his country, he does his job punctiliously, as best he can. So, efficiently and good-naturedly, he exterminates Jews: he appreciates the music that plays in the background to pacify them; he advises the Jews not to forget their identification numbers as they go into the showers — many people, he tells them, forget their numbers, and take the wrong clothes, when they come out of the showers. This calms the Jews: there will be life, they assure themselves, after the showers. And they are wrong. Our man supervises the detail taking the bodies to the ovens; and if there is anything h fells bad about, it is that he still allows the gassing of vermin to affect him. Were he a truly good man, he knows, he would feel nothing but joy, as the earth is cleansed of its pests.

Leave him; he cuts too deep. He is too close to us and it hurts.

Women and men, the old and the young of them: there are so many of them, and so many of their stories are tragedies with griefs too deep to be contained, but holding here and there tiny joys, snatched from the darkness like flowers picked by the fallen traveler from the side of a cliff.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each other’s tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedy of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. We know the shape, and the shape does not change. There was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some means or other, died. there. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes — unique in detail, forming patterns we have seen before, but as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really looked at them? There’s not a chance you’d mistake one for another, after a minute’s close inspection.)

We need individual stories. Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, ‘casualties may rise to a million’. With individual stories, the statistics become people — but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child’s swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child. And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies’ own myriad squirming children?

We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearl-like, from our souls without real pain.

Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.

A life, which is, like any other, unlike any other.

And anyway, the simple truth is this: there was a girl and her uncle sold her.

Neil Gaiman, American Gods.

Prima zi din viata va veni

O trecut mai bine de un an de cand n-am mai scris in blog si probabil o sa treaca mult pana la urmatoarea postare, dar dupa parerea mea daca nu ii important n-are sens sa ma obosesc sa scriu.
Se face ca dupa 4 ani de hard labor m-am decis sa ma apuc iar de scoala...si asta am si facut...mi-am facut o gramada de analize acte si alte cele si intr-un final am mers sa-mi iau rezultatele de la sange si sa-mi transcrie tanti aia rezultatul pe un aviz medical tip A4...am plecat de acolo constatand ca este vineri, eu luni ma duc sa ma inscriu si avizul original pe care am avut si radiografia(care defapt nu trebuia) si stampila de la psihiatru l-am lasat la aia in cabinet.

In Timisoara am cautat un psihiartu mi-o pus stampila si fuga la facultate ca in 30 min se terminau inscrierile pe ziua respectuva...am ajuns la facultate am intrat ultimul la inscriere...am intrat la facultate la fara taxa si acuma ma gandesc la probleme existentiale...sa strang ceva bani pentru inceput...sa imi gasesc un loc unde sa locuiesc...sa-mi gasesc un job care sa-mi permita sa merg la scoala...si cum o sa traiesc pe cont propriu ca a mei nu ma vor ajuta cu mai nimic...poate mancare sa-mi trimita si ceva bunuri materiale.

Si-or cumparat a mei frigider si vor sa-si ieie si aragaz...in caz de nevoie imi gasesc ceva nemobilat si imi ajunge un aragaz, un frigider, un pat, o masa si un scaun...viata de student.
Varsta la care sa futi un an prin alte orase o cam trecut...tot o sa mai fie partyuri, dar mai rar si mai econom, viata de sclav pe linia de asamblare stiu cum e si n-o mai vreau pentru multa vreme si mai ii motivatia mare ca dupa ce o futut frate-mi-o un an in TM si le-am zis la a mei ca vreau sa ma duc la facultate mi-or zis sa ma duc si sa ma descurc de unu singur(proaspat iesit din liceu cum era sa ma descurc...habar n-aveam ce-i aia munca) asa ca voi face facultatea asta ca nu-i atat de grea si o sa le dau peste nas la a mei ca toata viata am trait in umbra fratelui...ca dara el ii ala care invata bine si alea alea.
1 Oct. ii prima zi din viata mea(poate o saptamana sau doua mai devreme).

Chef in Baie!

Se face ca am fost in Tm...dupa ce am ajuns in camera la 2MV am stat pe terasa la o bere cu Limpi Seb si Dex uitandu-ne la diverse persone cu posterioare mari incercand sa scape de ele prin alergare, atunci am constatat ca am ajuns din Hd pana in Tm si fiind deja la a 3-a bere, bugetul meu era mai mic cu 10 lei.
Dupa putina plimbare prin complex si prin Uniri singura chestie demna de mentionat pana a doua zi seara este ca Limpi traieste ca un adevarat celibatar si ca toata lumea care are tigaie o foloseste sa prepate oua.
Ajunsi a doua seara la Limpi pentru anumite nevoi fiziologice acesta o picat si de atunci nu l-am mai vazut treaz (one down one to go). Intalnit cu Chezu si Seb...luat taxi pana in Uniri....ascultat Baniciu la o sticla de aghiasma,aka palinca aka tuica aka otet aka trotil aka fun fuel. La Chezu sunand telefonul a facut cativa pasi distanta de noi si a incepus sa sara in sus si sa dea din maini sa va-l vada Dex unde este sa il aduca la noi, asta a durat vre-o 4 minute, adica cu vre-o 5 secunde mai mult de cat o durat sa vina Dex la noi si sa urle in telefon ca nu-l vede in timp ce noi ne uitam la el si radeam, trebuia filmat da nu o venit inspiratia la nimeni pana nu o fost prea tarziu.
Ajuns in Taineluat o bere, nimic interesant...luat a 2-a bere inceput sa dansam...luat a 3-a bere inceput fecioria unde am dansat cum nu mai dansasem de foarte mutlta vreme, l-am jucat pe Chezu pe Zdob si Zdub depa care fete aplaudand, ceea ce m-a facut sa realizez ca sunt foarte cool cand nu ma stie lumea, inceput chef in baie unde se mergea in baie cu oricine avea norocu sa-l scape asta intamplandu-se dupa ca s-o lasat o caldura imensa unde am fost nevoiti sa ne dezbracam, in concluzie burtosi transpirati si multi urmarindu-te in baie strigand "Chef in Baie" in timp ce tu vroiai sa mai faci loc de bere. Vrut sa ma imbrac, Tipe ce aplaudasera mai devreme nu ma lasau...iesit afara de vre-o 3-4 ori sa facem un tur de aghiasma.pierit chef de Taine mers in Papllion unde nu putea sa fie altceva decat inca un chef in baie dar mai domol. Mergand catre 2MV si dupa mancat pe bordura, asta intamplandu-se pe la 7 AM mi-am adus aminte ca Seb toata noaptea la Baniciu m-a impins cand imi era lumea mai draga, razbunarea a fost dulce dupa ce l-am impins in boscheti si i-am rupt pantalonii(all down none to go).
Ajuns acasa cu sageata.
The End