1000 de cuvinte

Cuvinte. Totul in jurul nostru e format din cuvinte. Miliarde de cuvinte care umbla prin lume, sar, alearga, se plimba, trimit ganduri, doruri, vise, tristeti si bucurii. Uneori poti sa le simti alunecand pe langa tine, furisandu-se prin aer. Chiar si tacerile sunt formate din cuvinte si spun mai mult decat pare la prima vedere.
Exista o poveste care incepe cam asa: "unele lucruri se nasc mari, altele mici; insa si cel mai mic lucru poate schimba lumea".  Cuvintele sunt mici. Atat de mici incat uneori nu le vedem si ne impiedicam de ele sau le aruncam fara sa ne dam seama. Pot insa schimba totul.
Sunt atat de mici incat nu le dam importanta. Ne calculam viata in zile, luni, ani, timpul este cel de care ne agatam mereu si il punem in prim plan cand, in realitate, ar trebui sa masuram in cuvinte. Un singur cuvant poate construi sau darama. Un singur cuvant poate crea imagini, senzatii, parfumuri, gusturi.
Daca am masura totul in cuvinte rostite, am descoperi ca in fiecare zi folosim mii de vorbe inutile, insa aproape niciodata nu le rostim pe cele care cu adevarat merita sa fie spuse.
Ce ai spune daca ai mai avea doar 1000 de cuvinte si cand ele s-ar termina ai pleca din aceasta lume? Cum le-ai dramui? Avem atat de multe incat nu ne dam seama ca le irosim.
Doar 1000 de cuvinte. Pe care le-ai alege? Ai continua sa arunci cu ele in stanga si in dreapta fara sa iti pese, sau ai incerca sa descoperi ce trebuie sa spui?
Imprastiem cuvintele si uitam ca ele raman undeva in suflete si, la fel cum pot face bine, pot face si cumplit de mult rau. Spunem "buna dimineata" si "noapte buna" fara sa ne gandim nici o clipa ca ar putea sa fie ultima oara cand o facem. Spunem "la revedere" fara sa realizam ca s-ar putea sa fie cu adevarat "la revedere", pentru totdeauna.
Daca ne-am gandi la asta, atunci cuvintele noastre ar fi altele. Nu stiu cat de important este sa ii spui cuiva "buna dimineata", stiu insa sigur ca este extraordinar de important sa spui "te iubesc", "multumesc", "te rog", "iarta-ma" si, cele mai importante cuvinte, cele care pot face diferenta dintre echilibru si haos, "am iertat".
Nu avem nevoie de 1000 de cuvinte ca sa traim printre oameni si sa ca comunicam ceea ce avem de spus. Ne ajung doar cele pe care le-am enumerat mai sus. Restul sunt doar maruntisuri.
Alegeti-va cu grija cuvintele. Ganditi-va de doua ori inainte sa spuneti ceva. Nu uitati sa spuneti lucrurile cu adevarat importante. E posibil ca intr-o zi sa vreti sa le spuneti si sa fie mult prea tarziu. E posibil ca intr-o zi sa nu mai aveti decat un cuvant, dureros de inutil: "regret".

E complicat

Vad din ce in ce mai des pe diverse retele sociale, inclusiv Facebook, mentiunea "e complicat" atunci cand vine vorba de statusul relatiei. Ma intreb, cum poate fi  "complicat"? Ori esti intr-o relatie, ori nu esti. Jumatati de relatie nu exista. Chiar daca, sa zicem, esti destul de inconstient/a incat sa alegi ca partener de viata un om care este impreuna cu altcineva, tot nu e "complicat", tot ai o relatie. Una complet haotica, ciudata si (parerea mea) inutila, dar relatie. Daca te-ai apucat sa semnalezi asta in mod public, atunci asuma-ti alegerea. Mi se pare mult mai corect fata de toata lumea.
Nu e nimic complicat. Tu complici. Povestile cu "nu il/o mai iubesc, nu mai avem nimic in comun, dar..." sunt doar scuze puerile pentru a ascunde propria teama de singuratate, nou inceput sau schimbare. Povestile cu "il/o iubesc dar..." fac parte din seria

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Ramuri de vis

Sunt momente in viata cand sufletul tau se transforma in piese de puzzle. Vin intotdeauna pe neasteptate si crezi ca nu le vei supravietui. Durerea e atat de vie incat o simti  fizic. Te sufoca, te inghionteste in fiecare fibra a mintii si trupului, arunca ace ascutite si toarna rauri de foc peste tine. Esti convins ca nu va trece niciodata. Lumea ta, construita aproape perfect, ridicata pas cu pas, caramida de caramida, se darama. Privesti dezastrul si te intrebi, ca apostolul din poveste, "quo vadis?". Nu vezi nimic inainte, iar inapoi

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Hoax

Dictionar:
1.SPAM - spamming (sau spam) este procesul de expediere a mesajelor electronice nesolicitate(...).Spam-ul se distinge prin caracterul agresiv, repetat şi prin privarea de dreptul la opţiune.(sursa Wikipedia )
2.HOAX - incercarea deliberata de a insela sau pacali o alta persoana, facand-o sa accepte sau sa creada un lucru despre care hoaxer-ul stie cu certitudine ca este fals (sursa Wikipedia)
3.MASS-MESSAGE -  "Send Instant Message to All in Group" este o functie oferita de Yahoo Messenger (si multe alte programe de chat) care permite trimiterea instantanee a aceluiasi mesaj intregii liste(grup) de contacte.Aceste mesaje variaza de la cereri de bani in scopuri "umanitare", pana la  faimoasele "sunt online, cine vrea sa vb ku mine ?".( sursa Antimass)


Cele mai populare HOAX-uri:

Yahoo si AOL au incheiat un contract cu nea Ghita din Cucuietii de Deal, in urma caruia respectivul personaj primeste o suma oarecare pentru fiecare mesaj de tipul "Sunt nea Ghita si am cancer, va rog sa ma ajutati" care se trimite pe mail/mesenger.
Puneti-va nitel neuronii aia la lucru si ganditi logic. In primul rand, chiar credeti voi ca sta Yahoo! sa contorizeze cate mesaje de acest tip au fost trimise pe messenger? Chiar credeti ca, daca vor sa se implice in strangerea de fonduri  intr-o cauza umanitara (si o fac, de foarte multe ori), nu au alte metode?In al doilea rand, unde sunt link-urile catre campania organizata de cele doua companii?Unde sunt datele de contact ale persoanei bolnave, unde sunt fisele medicale care intotdeauna in asemenea cazuri sunt puse la dispozitia publicului pentru a dovedi ca nu este un banc. In al treilea rand, acest hoax exista de mult timp, e la fel de popular ca cel cu baietelul numit Rares care de 10 ani e tot nou-nascut si sufera de cancer.

Bill Gates isi imparte averea
O, da. Ca alta treaba nu are. Din nou, un hoax care circula de pe la sfarsitul anilor '90, e aproape la fel de batran ca Yahoo!. Informatia a fost dezmintita in repetate randuri de BG personal. O simpla cautare pe Google este edificatoare privind acest mesaj absolut tembel.

Yahoo Alert: Yahoo is shutting down on August 17,2003(2005, 2007, 2009, etc) because they are running outta space and all the names are getting took up, so pass this around if you don't want your name to be deleted from Yahoo. If you don't pass this on, then your Yahoo will be shut down for good. Those that don't send, your name will be deleted August 17,2003, thanks, Yahoo Board Leader, Tom Buslowski 
 Interesant. Staff-ul Yahoo foloseste exprimari gen "outta" in coresponenta oficiala si omite "!" din numele aplicatiei (pentru cei care nu stiu, brand-ul nu este "Yahoo" ci "Yahoo!"). Pe tema lipsei de spatiu de pe servere nici macar nu am sa comentez, pentru ca este hilar. Idem pentru imposibilitatea de a crea nume noi de utilizator.


Incepand cu luna August, noaptea, planeta Marte va fi cel mai luminos punct pe cer. Chiar si cu ochiul liber, Marte se va vedea cat o luna plina in aceasta perioada. Pe 27August, planeta Marte se va afla la 34.65 milioane de mile de Pamant si va fi ziua in care Marte se va vedea cel mai bine. In noaptea de 27 August, la ora 00:30 urmariti cerul. Pe cer se va vedea ca si cum Terra are doua luni. 
Cred ca primesc acest mesaj de 8 ani, incepand de pe la finalul lunii aprilie. Fara alte comentarii, o sa va spun doar ca evenimentul a avut loc in data de 27 august 2003, ca urmatorul perigeu (apropierea maxima posibila) al planetei Marte va fi peste vreo cel putin 40.000 de ani  si ca oricum nu s-a vazut atat de mare, ci pur si simplu era ceva mai usor de observat decat in mod obisnuit. Prin telescop. In nici un caz cu ochiul liber (distanta Pamant-Marte a fost, la data respectiva, de 56.000.000 km; Luna se afla la doar 405.500 km cand e la apogeu).

The Sound of Summer Running

Probabil pentru prima si sigur pentru ultima oara, visul pe care vi-l vand astazi nu imi apartine si tot pentru prima si ultima oara este scris integral in engleza, pentru ca nu am gasit o traducere pe net si nu are rost sa ma apuc eu sa fac una, a fost tradus extrem de frumos deja. Daca sunteti curiosi cred ca puteti gasi cartea prin anticariate.
Este visul unui om care a calatorit cu gandul printre stele, a zburat impreuna cu rachetele si a plutit pe raurile rosii ale lui Marte, a vanat tigri imaginari pe planete care stiau sa fie frumoase doar pentru acei ce le respectau viata si, mai ales, desi nu a stiut-o niciodata, a fost primul vis nascut in sufletul unei fetite care multa vreme dupa ce a citit "Aici sunt tigri" si-a dorit sa devina cosmonaut.
Printre oamenii carora le voi multumi mereu pentru ceea ce sunt, ceea ce simt, ceea ce visez, se numara si Ray Bradbury. A fost cel dintai care a aprins in mine dragostea pentru Pamant, pentru stele, pentru extraordinarele lucruri pe care mintea umana le poate naste. Si tot datorita lui am avut primul "motto", care m-a calauzit ani intregi si care m-a facut sa cred ca totul este posibil. "Stelele sunt ale voastre, daca aveti mintea, inima si mainile necesare ca sa le cuceriti."
Cu povestirea care urmeaza mai jos a inceput calatoria mea printre carti si printre vise, acum mai mult de 30 de ani. Imi amintesc de ea in fiecare primavara cand las cizmele si bcoancii sa doarma si pun in picioare prima pereche de tenisi. De fiecare data simt acelasi lucru: ca daca intind mana spre stele si imi doresc destul de mult sa le ating, voi incepe sa zbor.

The Sound of Summer Running by Ray Bradbury
Late that night, going home from the show with his mother and father and his brother Tom, Douglas saw the tennis shoes in the bright store window. He glanced quickly away, but his ankles were seized, his feet suspended, then rushed. The earth spun; the shop awnings slammed their canvas wings overhead with the thrust of his body running. His mother and father and brother walked quietly on both sides of him. Douglas walked backward, watching the tennis shoes in the midnight window left behind. “It was a nice movie,” said Mother. Douglas murmured, “It was. . . .” It was June and long past time for buying the special shoes that were quiet as a summer rain falling on the walks. June and the earth full of raw power and everything everywhere in motion. The grass was still pouring in from the country, surrounding the sidewalks, stranding the houses. Any moment the town would capsize, go down and leave not a stir in the clover and weeds. And here Douglas stood, trapped on the dead cement and the red-brick streets, hardly able to move. “Dad!” He blurted it out. “Back there in that window, those Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Shoes . . .” His father didn’t even turn. “Suppose you tell me why you need a new pair of sneakers. Can you do that?” “Well . . .” It was because they felt the way it feels every summer when you take off your shoes for the first time and run in the grass. They felt like it feels sticking your feet out of the hot covers in wintertime to let the cold wind from the open window blow on them suddenly and you let them stay out a long time until you pull them back in under the covers again to feel them, like packed snow. The tennis shoes felt like it always feels the first time every year wading in the slow waters of the creek and seeing your feet below, half an inch further downstream, with refraction than the real part of you above water. “Dad,” said Douglas, “it’s hard to explain.” Somehow the people who made tennis shoes knew what boys needed and wanted. They put marshmallows and coiled springs in the soles and they wove the rest out of grasses bleached and fired in the wilderness. Somewhere deep in the soft loam of the shoes the thin hard sinews of the buck deer were hidden. The people that made the shoes must have watched a lot of winds blow the trees and a lot of rivers going down to the lakes. Whatever it was, it was in the shoes, and it was summer. Douglas tried to get all this in words. “Yes,” said Father, “but what’s wrong with last year’s sneakers? Why can’t you dig them out of the closet?” Well, he felt sorry for boys who lived in California where they wore tennis shoes all year and never knew what it was to get winter off your feet, peel off the iron leather shoes all full of snow and rain and run barefoot for a day and then lace on the first new tennis shoes of the season, which was better than barefoot. The magic was always in the new pair of shoes. The magic might die by the first of September, but now in late June there was still plenty of magic, and shoes like these could jump you over trees and rivers 1 and houses. And if you wanted, they could jump you over fences and sidewalks and dogs. “Don’t you see?” said Douglas. “I just can’t use last year’s pair.” For last year’s pair were dead inside. They had been fine when he started them out, last year. But by the end of summer, every year, you always found out, you always knew, you couldn’t really jump over rivers and trees and houses in them, and they were dead. But this was a new year, and he felt that this time, with this new pair of shoes, he could do anything, anything at all. They walked up on the steps to their house. “Save your money,” said Dad. “In five or six weeks—” “Summer’ll be over!” Lights out, with Tom asleep, Douglas lay watching his feet, far away down there at the end of the bed in the moonlight, free of the heavy iron shoes, the big chunks of winter fallen away from them. “Reasons. I’ve got to think of reasons for the shoes.” Well, as anyone knew, the hills around town were wild with friends putting cows to riot, playing barometer to the atmospheric changes, taking sun, peeling like calendars each day to take more sun. To catch those friends, you must run much faster than foxes or squirrels. As for the town, it streamed with enemies grown irritable with heat, so remembering every winter argument and insult. Find friends, ditch enemies! That was the Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot motto. Does the world run too fast? Want to be alert, stay alert? Litefoot, then! Litefoot! He held his coin bank up and heard the faint small tinkling, the airy weight of money there. Whatever you want, he thought, you got to make your own way. During the night now, let’s find that path through the forest. . . . Downtown, the store lights went out, one by one. A wind blew in the window. It was like a river going downstream and his feet wanting to go with it. In his dreams he heard a rabbit running running running in the deep warm grass. Old Mr. Sanderson moved through his shoe store as the proprietor of a pet shop must move through his shop where are kenneled animals from everywhere in the world, touching each one briefly along the way. Mr. Sanderson brushed his hands over the shoes in the window, and some of they were like cats to him and some were like dogs; he touched each pair with concern, adjusting laces, fixing tongues. Then he stood in the exact center of the carpet and looked around, nodding. There was a sound of growing thunder. One moment, the door to Sanderson’s Shoe Emporium was empty. The next, Douglas Spaulding stood clumsily there, staring down at his leather shoes as if these heavy things could not be pulled up out of the cement. The thunder had stopped when his shoes stopped. Now, with painful slowness, daring to look only at the money in his cupped hand, Douglas moved out of the bright sunlight of Saturday noon. He made careful stacks of nickels, dimes, and quarters on the counter, like someone playing chess and worried if the next move carried him out into sun or deep into shadow. “Don’t say a word!” said Mr. Sanderson. Douglas froze. “First, I know just what you want to buy,” said Mr. Sanderson. “Second, I see you every afternoon at my window; you think I don’t see? You’re wrong. Third, to give it its full name, you want the Royal Crown Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Tennis Shoes: ‘LIKE MENTHOL ON YOUR FEET!’ Fourth, you want credit.” “No!” cried Douglas, breathing hard, as if he’d run all night in his dreams. “I got something better than credit to offer!” he gasped. “Before I tell, Mr. Sanderson, you got to do me one small favor. Can you remember when was the last time you yourself wore a pair of Litefoot sneakers, sir?” Mr. Sanderson’s face darkened. “Oh, ten, twenty, say, thirty years ago. Why. . . ?” “Mr. Sanderson, don’t you think you owe it to your customers, sir, to at least try the tennis shoes you sell, for just one minute, so you know how they feel? People forget if they don’t keep testing things. United Cigar Store man smokes cigars, don’t he? Candy-store man samples his own stuff, I should think. So . . . .” “You may have noticed,” said the old man, “I’m wearing shoes.” “But not sneakers, sir! How you going to sell sneakers unless you can rave about them and how you going to rave about them unless you know them?” Mr. Sanderson backed off a little distance from the boy’s fever, one hand to his chin. “Well . . . .” “Mr. Sanderson,” said Douglas, “you sell me something and I’ll sell you something just as valuable.” “It is absolutely necessary to the sale that I put on a pair of the sneakers, boy?” said the old man. “I sure wish you could, sir!” The old man sighed. A minute later, seated panting quietly, he laced the tennis shoes to his long narrow feet. They looked detached and alien down there next to the dark cuffs of his business suit. Mr. Sanderson stood up. “How do they feel?” asked the boy. “How do they feel, he asks; they feel fine.” He started to sit down. “Please!” Douglas held out his hand. “Mr. Sanderson, now could you kind of rock back and forth a little, sponge around, bounce kind of, while I tell you the rest? It’s this: I give you my money, you give me the shoes, I owe you a dollar. But, Mr. Sanderson, but—soon as I get those shoes on, you know what happens?” “What?” “Bang! I deliver your packages, pick up packages, bring you coffee, burn your trash, run to the post office, telegraph office, library! You’ll see twelve of me in and out, in and out, every minute. Feel those shoes, Mr. Sanderson, feel how fast they’d take me? All those springs inside? Feel all the running inside? Feel how they kind of grab hold and can’t let you alone and don’t like you just standing there? Feel how quick I’d be doing the things you’d rather not bother with? You stay in the nice cool store while I’m jumping all around town! But it’s not me really, it’s the shoes. They’re going like mad down alleys, cutting corners, and back! There they go!” Mr. Sanderson stood amazed with the rush of words. When the words got going the flow carried him; he began to sink deep in the shoes, to flex his toes, limber his arches, test his ankles. He rocked softly, secretly, back and forth in a small breeze from the open door. The tennis shoes silently hushed themselves deep in the carpet, sank as in a jungle grass, in loam and resilient clay. He gave one solemn bounce of his heels in the yeasty dough, in the yielding and welcoming earth. Emotions hurried over his face as if many colored lights had been switched on and off. His mouth hung slightly open. Slowly he gentled and rocked himself to a halt, and the boy’s voice faded and they stood there looking at each other in a tremendous and natural silence. A few people drifted by on the sidewalk outside, in the hot sun. Still the man and boy stood there, the boy glowing, the man with revelation in his face. “Boy,” said the old man at last, “in five years, how would you like a job selling shoes in this emporium?” “Gosh, thanks, Mr. Sanderson, but I don’t know what I’m going to be yet.” “Anything you want to be, son,” said the old man, “you’ll be. No one will ever stop you.” The old man walked lightly across the store to the wall of ten thousand boxes, came back with some shoes for the boy, and wrote up a list on some paper while the boy was lacing the shoes on his feet and then standing there, waiting. The old man held out his list. “A dozen things you got to do for me this afternoon. Finish them, we’re even Stephen, and you’re fired.” “Thanks, Mr. Sanderson!” Douglas bounded away. “Stop!” cried the old man. Douglas pulled up and turned. Mr. Sanderson leaned forward. “How do they feel?” The boy looked down at his feet deep in the rivers, in the fields of wheat, in the wind that already was rushing him out of the town. He looked up at the old man, his eyes burning, his mouth moving, but no sound came out. “Antelopes?” said the old man, looking from the boy’s face to his shoes. “Gazelles?” The boy thought about it, hesitated, and nodded a quick nod. Almost immediately he vanished. He just spun about with a whisper and went off. The door stood empty. The sound of the tennis shoes faded in the jungle heat. Mr. Sanderson stood in the sun-blazed door, listening. From a long time ago, when he dreamed as a boy, he remembered the sound. Beautiful creatures leaping under the sky, gone through brush, under trees, away, and only the soft echo their running left behind. “Antelopes,” said Mr. Sanderson. “Gazelles.” He bent to pick up the boy’s abandoned winter shoes, heavy with forgotten rains and long-melted snows. Moving out of the blazing sun, walking softly, lightly, slowly, he headed back toward civilization . . . 4

Peisaj urban

Masinile se inghiontesc pe la semafoare cu mieunat de claxoane si scartait nervos de roti. Pe langa mine trec un el si o ea. Cred. Nu incerc sa imi dau seama sub care strat de fond de ten si fard de pleoape se ascunde el. Moda, deh, de gustibus et coloribus non disputandum. Mi-e dor totusi de moda masculina de pe vremea reclamelor la Marlboro si Camel. Un nene foarte dezorientat incearca sa isi aminteasca daca voia sa coboare la metrou sau sa mearga la autobuz. E doar 8.30 dimineata, sau e deja 8.30 dimineata pentru el? Parca se inchideau pe la 5 carciumile, dar mai stii? In statia de autobuz stau statui. Priviri plecate in pamant, ochi din care a disparut orice lumina, chipuri cenusii.  Pe scarile de la metrou coboara furnicile corporatiste. Identice. Aceleasi haine, acelasi pas, aceeasi frunte pe care daca o privesti ai impresia ca sub ea se naste formula panaceului universal menit sa creeze o planeta fara oameni bolnavi. Nici un zambet. O domnisoara confunda geamul trenului cu oglinda de acasa. Isi aranjeaza bretonul. Trage in toate partile de tivul bluzei, ridica bluza si trage in toate partile si de marginea pantalonilor. Isi mai aranjeaza o data bretonul. Si inca o data.
O bunicuta foarte moderna si cocheta susoteste impreuna cu nepotica ei. Ii povesteste ceva ca sa o tina cuminte pe scaun. Copila gangureste cu stoluri de gugustiuci in glas. Tine in maini o umbrela mica si sigur comestibila. Rontaie din ea si rade fericita.  Nu ii va mai folosi ca sa o apere de ploaie cu atatea urme de dintisori, dar tare-i buna judecand dupa cat de decisa este sa o pape cu tot cu maner. Vede ca o privesc si imi zambeste deschis, limpede, sincer. Cu soare in par si cer in ochi, cu mutrita de copil fericit si iubit, este singura fiinta vie din toata marea de oameni.
Zambesc si eu si cobor la treburile mele, cu sufletul pornit hai-hui pe cararile Medelenilor, alaturi de o versiune in miniatura a Monicai.
Am pastrat in mine zambetul blond. Doar un zambet mic, datorita caruia am zambit si eu o zi intreaga.
La multi ani, copilarie.