McDreamy

I missed this. I missed me in this position. The one of the storyteller. The writing therapy. The soft smile that comes out of an unspoken thought.
To say the truth the past months have been like a montagne russe. Less the ups and more the downs. And today, it all got fixed. I mean not completely fixed but compensated. By what?

Snow...

Last Christmas was the worst of my life. I remember reading Fowles's Collector, and I remember feeling worst than Miranda, at the same time desperately wanting her company. The shared desire for culture, beauty and family were only a few things that bonded us throughout my reading trip.
This Christmas is going to be different. I have snow and not only. And snow fixes everything and everyone. This seems very superficial and naive but it does. Same as I truly believe in Santa Clause. I mean I know there isn't actually a chubby individual dressed in red that comes down the chimney every year in December, however I do believe that everything changes for those 2 days. Everyone slows down and even for one second they have a good thought for someone else. Imagine the whole world having good thoughts about others at approximately the same time. It can't get closer to heaven really...
Today I quit my job. And I left there all the bad things that have happened. I usually don't run away from trouble but this time, I have to. The funny thing is that all the compassion comes out in the end. You never hear good things until you leave. And people always leave. I love everyone in that shop. Even the the Tiger Woods and Entrapment kind of Sean Connery. I'm going to miss all that drama.
The only way to get rid of old drama is to replace it with new drama. Now I have to find a new job, sort all my university workload out and try and balance things out. It's a good plan that has no proper foundation that would probably change in the next 5 minutes. But all good things come out of spur of the moment situations so I am intrigued and hopeful.
Right now Canterbury reminds me of Alecsandri's Winter (Vasile to be more specific). I remember learning that poem by heart back when I was 7 years old. I wish I had inherited my grandfathers' writing skills so that I can translate it, but I didn't.

So google it!!!!

1 % part of Crista

THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE.

{Monthly Story.)

He was in the fourth elementary class. He was a
graceful Florentine lad of twelve, with black hair and
a white face, the eldest son of an employee on the rail-
way, who, having a large family and but small pa}', lived
in straitened circumstances. His father loved him and
was tolerably kind and indulgent to him — indulgent in
everything except in that which referred to school : on
this point he required a great deal, and showed himself
severe, because his son was obliged to attain such a
rank as would enable him to soon obtain a place and
help his family ; and in order to accomplish anything
quickly, it was necessary that he should work a great
deal in a very short time. And although the lad stud-
ied, his father was always exhorting him to study more.

His father was advanced in years, and too much toil
had aged him before his time. Nevertheless, in order
to provide for the necessities of his family, in addition
to the toil which his occupation imposed upon him, he
obtained special work here and there as a copyist, and
passed a good part of the night at his writing-table.
Lately, he had undertaken, in behalf of a house which
published journals and books in parts, to write upon
the parcels the names and addresses of their subscrib-
ers, and he earned three lire l for every five hundred
of these paper wrappers, written in large and regular
characters. But this work wearied him, and he often
complained of it to his family at dinner.

"My eyes are giving out," he said ; " this night work
is killing me." One day his soil said to him, " Let me
work instead of you, papa ; you know that I can write
like you, and fairly well." But the father answered : —

"No, my son, you must study; your school is a
much more important thing than my wrappers ; I feel
remorse at robbing you of a single hour ; I thank you,
but I will not have it ; do not mention it to me again."

The son knew that it was useless to insist on such a
matter with his father, and he did not persist ; but this
is what he did. He knew that exactly at midnight his
father stopped writing, and quitted his workroom to go
to his bedroom ; he had heard him several times : as
soon as the twelve strokes of the clock had sounded, he
had heard the sound of a chair drawn back, and the
slow step of his father. One night he waited until the
latter was in bed, then dressed himself very, very
softly, and felt his way to the little workroom, lighted
the petroleum lamp again, seated himself at the writing-
table, where lay a pile of white wrappers and the list of
addresses, and began to write, imitating exactly his
father's handwriting. And he wrote with a will, gladly,
a little in fear, and the wrappers piled up, and from
time to time he dropped the pen to rub his hands, and
then began again with increased alacrity, listening and
smiling. He wrote a hundred and sixty — one Ural
Then he stopped, placed the pen where he had found it,
extinguished the light, and went back to bed on tiptoe.

At noon that day his father sat down to the table in
a good humor. He had perceived nothing. He per-
formed the work mechanically, measuring it by the
hour, and thinking of something else, and only counted
the wrappers he had written on the following day. He
seated himself at the table in a fine humor, and slapping
his son on one shoulder, he said to him : —

" Eh, Giulio ! Your father is even a better workman
than you thought. In two hours I did a good third
more work than usual last night. M3 7 hand is still
nimble, and my eyes still do their duty." And Giulio,
silent but content, said to himself, "Poor daddy,
besides the money, I am o-ivmg him some satisfaction
in the thought that he has grown young again. Well,
courage ! "

Encouraged by these good results, when night came
and twelve o'clock struck, he rose once more, and set
to work. And this he did for several nights. And his
father noticed nothing ; only once, at supper, he uttered
this exclamation, "It is strange how much oil has been
used in this house lately ! " This was a shock to
Giulio ; but the conversation ceased there, and the
nocturnal labor proceeded.

However, by dint of thus breaking his sleep every
night, Giulio did not get sufficient rest : he rose in the
morning fatigued, and when he was doing his school
work in the evening, he had difficulty in keeping his
eyes open. One evening, for the first time in his life,
he fell asleep over his copy-book.

" Courage ! courage ! " cried his father, clapping his
hands ; " to work ! "

He shook himself and set to work again. But the
next evening, and on the days following, the same thing
occurred, and worse : he dozed over his books, he rose
later than usual, he studied his lessons in a languid
wav, he seemed disgusted with study. His father
began to observe him, then to reflect seriously, and at
last to reprove him. He should never have done it !

" Giulio," he said to him one morning, " you put me
quite beside myself ; you are no longer as you used to
be. I don't like it. Take care ; all the hopes of } T our
family rest on you. I am dissatisfied ; do you under-
stand?"

At this reproof, the first severe one, in truth, which
he had ever received, the boy grew troubled.

" Yes," he said to himself, " it is true ; it cannot go
on so ; this deceit must come to an end."

But at dinner, on the evening of that very same day,
his father said with much cheerfulness, " Do you know
that this month I have earned thirty-two lire more at
addressing those wrappers than last month ! " and so
saying, he drew from under the table a paper package
of sweets which he had bought, that he might celebrate
with his children this extraordinary profit, and they all
hailed it with clapping of hands. Then Giulio took
heart again, courage again, and said in his heart, " No,
poor papa, I will not cease to deceive you ; I will make
greater efforts to work during the day, but I shall con-
tinue to work at night for you and for the rest." And
his father added, " Thirtv-two lire more ! I am satis-
fied. But that boy there," pointing at Giulio, " is the
one who displeases me." And Giulio received the
reprimand in silence, forcing back two tears which tried
to flow ; but at the same time he felt a great pleasure
in his heart.
And he continued to work by main force ; but fatigue
added to fatigue rendered it ever more difficult for him
to resist. Thus things went on for two months. The
father continued to reproach his son, and to gaze at
him with eyes which grew constantly more wrathful.
One day he went to make inquiries of the teacher, and
the teacher said to him : " Yes, he gets along, he gets
along, because he is intelligent ; but he no longer has
the good will which he had at first. He is drowsy, he
yawns, his mind is distracted. He writes short compo-
sitions, scribbled down in all haste, in bad chirography.
Oh, he could do a great deal, a great deal more."

That evening the father took the son aside, and
.spoke to him words which were graver than any the
latter had ever heard. " Giulio, you see how I toil,
how I am wearing out my life, for the family. You do
not second my efforts. You have no heart for me, nor
for your brothers, nor for your mother ! "

"Ah no! don't sav that, father!" cried the son,
bursting into tears, and opening his mouth to confess
all. But his father interrupted him, saying : —

" You are aware of the condition of the family ; } r ou
know that good will and sacrifices on the part of all
are necessarv. I mvself, as vou see, have had to
double my work. I counted on a gift of a hundred lire
from the railway company this month, and this morning
I have learned that I shall receive nothing ! "

At this information, Giulio repressed the confession
which was on the point of escaping from his soul, and
repeated resolutely to himself : " No, papa, I shall tell
you nothing ; I shall guard my secret for the sake of
being able to work for you ; I will recompense you in
another way for the sorrow which I occasion you ; I
will study enough at school to win promotion ; the im-
portant point is to help you to earn our living, and to
relieve you of the fatigue which is killing you."

And so he went on, and two months more passed, of
labor by night and weakness by da} 7 , of desperate
efforts on the part of the son, and of bitter reproaches
on the part of the father. But the worst of it was,
that the latter grew gradually colder towards the boy,
only addressed him rarely, as though he had been a
recreant son, of whom there was nothing any longer to
be expected, and almost avoided meeting his glance.
And Giulio perceived this and suffered from it, and
when his father's back was turned, he threw him a fur-
tive kiss, stretching forth his face with a sentiment of
sad and dutiful tenderness ; and between sorrow and
fatigue, he grew thin and pale, and he was constrained
to still further neglect his studies. And he understood
well that there must be an end to it some day, and
every evening he said to himself, "I will not get up
to-night"; but when the clock struck twelve, at the
moment when he should have vigorously reaffirmed his
resolution, he felt remorse : it seemed to him, that by
remaining in bed he should be failing in a duty, and
robbing his father and the family of a lira. And he
rose, thinking; that some night his father would wake
up and discover him, or that he would discover the
deception b}' accident, by counting the wrappers twice ;
and then all would come to a natural end, without any
act of his will, which he did not feel the courage to
exert. And thus he went on.

But one evening at dinner his father spoke a word
which was decisive so far as he was concerned. His
mother looked at him, and as it seemed to her that he
was more ill and weak than usual, she said to him,
" Giulio, you are ill." And then, turning to his father,
with anxiety: " Giulio is ill. See how pale be is 1
Giulio, my dear, how do you feel? "

His father gave a hasty glance, and said : " It is his
bad conscience that produces his bad health. He was
not thus when he was a studious scholar and a loving
son."

" But he is ill ! " exclaimed the mother.

" I don't care anything about him an}* longer ! *'
replied the father.

This remark was like a stab in the heart to the poor
bov. Ah ! he cared nothing anv more. His father, who
once trembled at the mere sound of a cough from him !
He no longer loved him ; there was no longer any doubt ;
he was dead in his father's heart. "Ah, no ! my father,"
said the boy to himself, his heart oppressed with anguish,
- ' now all is over indeed ; I cannot live without your
affection ; I must have it all back. I will tell you all ;
I will deceive you no longer. I will study as of old,
come what will, if you will only love me once more,
my poor father ! Oh, this time I am quite sure of my
resolution ! "

Nevertheless he rose that night again, by force of
habit more than anything else ; and when he was once
up, he wanted to go and salute and see once more, for
the last time, in the quiet of the night, that little
chamber where he toiled so much in secret with his
heart full of satisfaction and tenderness. And when he
beheld again that little table with the lamp lighted and
those white wrappers on which he was never more to
write those names of towns and persons, which he had
come to know by heart, he was seized with a great
sadness, and with an impetuous movement he grasped
the pen to recommence his accustomed toil. But in
reaching out his hand he struck a book, and the book
fell. The blood rushed to his heart. What if his father
had waked ! Certainly he would not have discovered
him in the commission of a bad deed : he had himself
decided to tell him all, and vet — the sound of that
step approaching in the darkness, — the discovery at
that hour, in that silence, — his mother, who would be
awakened and alarmed, — and the thought, which had
occurred to him for the first time, that his father might
feel humiliated in his presence on thus discovering
all; — all this terrified him almost. He bent his ear,
with suspended breath. He heard no sound. He
laid his ear to the lock of the door behind him — •
nothing. The whole house was asleep. His father
had not heard. He recovered his composure, and he
set himself again to his writing, and wrapper was piled
on wrapper. He heard the regular tread of the police-
man below in the deserted street ; then the rumble of a
carriage which gradually died away ; then, after an
interval, the rattle of a file of carts, which passed
slowly by ; then a profound silence, broken from time
to time by the distant barking of a dog. And he wrote
on and on : and meanwhile his father was behind him.
He had risen on hearing the fall of the book, and had
remained waiting for a long time : the rattle of the
carts had drowned the noise of his footsteps and the
creaking of the door-casing ; and he was there, with his
white head bent over Giulio's little black head, and he
had seen the pen frying over the wrappers, and in an
instant he had divined all, remembered all, understood
all, and a despairing penitence, but at the same time an
immense tenderness, had taken possession of his mind
and had held him nailed to the spot suffocating behind
his child. Suddenly Giulio uttered a piercing shriek.'
two arms had pressed his head convulsively.
"Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive rne ! " he
cried, recognizing his parent by his weeping.

" Do you forgive me ! " replied his father, sobbing,
and covering his brow with kisses. "I have under-
stood all, I know all ; it is I, it is I who ask your
pardon, my blessed little creature ; come, come with
me ! " and he pushed or rather carried him to the bed-
side of his mother, who was awake, and throwing him
into her arms, he said : —

" Kiss this little angel of a son, who has not slept
for three months, but has been toiling for me, while I
was saddening his heart, and he was earning our
bread ! " The mother pressed him to her breast and
held him there, without the power to speak ; at last
she said : " Go to sleep at once, m}' baby, go to sleep
and rest. — Carry him to bed."

The father took him from her arms, carried him to
his room, and laid him in his bed, still breathing hard
and caressing him, and arranged his pillows and cov-
erlets for him.

"Thanks, papa," the child kept repeating ; "thanks ;
but go to bed }'ourself now ; I am content ; go to bed,
papa."

But his father wanted to see him fall asleep ; so he
sat down beside the bed, took his hand, and said to
him, " Sleep, sleep, nrv little son ! " and Giulio, being
weak, fell asleep at last, and slumbered many hours,
enjoying, for the first time in many months, a tranquil
sleep, enlivened by pleasant dreams ; and as he opened
his eyes, when the sun had already been shining for a
tolerably long time, he first felt, and then saw, close
to his breast, and resting upon the edge of the little
bed, the white head of his father, who had passed the
night thus, and who was still asleep, with his brow
against his son's heart.

Edmondo de Amicis

Thanks for making my childhood meaningful.

goooooooooool

Nici nu stiu daca sunt in stare sa mai scriu. Am inteles mai multe in ultimele trei luni decat am inteles in 19 ani. Superficialitatea si "dezmatul" guverneaza lumea si sinceritatea si profunzimea sunt depasite. Pleci de acasa la 18 ani de unde mamica iti facea ceiutul de dimineata si de duceai la liceu...cu o ora intarziere si o pauza prelungita si te urci in tren si zici: Plec frate! Plec! Ca sa mai vad si eu alta lume, alti ochi, alte iluzii. Si te trezesti asa...parza izbindu-te cu capul de pietre, ca mamica nu mai e acolo sa ti mai faca ceiutz. Si intri intr o lume in care...sa lasam deoparte ca esti pe cont propriu dar lumea de langa tine mai e si murdara, dar asa...murdara pana in ultima celula. E un soi de inocenta cu care am crescut, si o viziune care chiar si acum mie m-i se pare fireasca. Insa ma pierd in remarci stupide, machiaje fortate, fuste scurte, si personalitati in degradare. Si ma intreb....Unde sunt eu? Unde ma aflu si unde ma duc? De ce sunt inconjurata de umbre?Si daca ma voi trezi vreodata? Ma simt faramitata in 1000 de bucati. Cine le aduna?

cucu

sniff...sniff

E foarte greu sa descriu senzatia asta....pe care o simt acuma...
OK...
o sa incerc!!!!

De cand eram micuta primvara avea un miros aparte. Si nu vorbesc numai de parfumul copacilor sau de mirosul proaspat al copacilor din fata blocului. Imi aduc aminte cand mergeam pe langa gradinita si apoi pe langa strandul din cartier si in fiecare vara....simteam acel parfum. Apoi mai e mirosul de cladiri vechi. Prin clasa a 7-a faceam pian pe langa Cismigiu intr-o casa veche veche cu o studenta in anul 3 la Conservator. Avea un pian mare intr-o casa gen casa avarului Costache...iar eu ma simteam ca Otilia. Numai ca eram mai visatoare ca ea. Ei...si casele vechi din centrul orasului intotdeauna imi fac pielea de gaina....cred ca are ceva legatura cu istoria pe care fiecare dintre ele o detine si nu e numai vorba de miros propriu zis. Insa are un efect de "drog" asupra mea.

Acum mai e mirosul de ploaie si pamant umed. Nu cred ca e alt miros pe pamantul asta care sa ma rastalmaceasca precum (am evitat cuvantul "ca" din motive stilistice) mirosul de ploaie. Pacat ca e umeda ploaia asta....altfel m-as muta in ploaie!

Sau....sau mirosul de miezul noptii....si nu zic de Bucuresti...desi zona in care stateam eu in Bucuresti era destul de curata. Mirosul ala de aer proaspat si curat si dens care e noaptea tarziu pe strada care e total diferit de mirosul de aer de la 6 dimineata.

Si mirosul de paine scoasa din cuptor....
sau mirosul de mare...

Cam atat am vrut sa spun. Nu e ca si cum ma concentrez numai pe simturile olfactive insa cateodata .....valoreaza mai mult pentru mine decat orice alta imagine vizuala sau auditiva.

Si sa nu ma luati cu miresme gen Coco Chanel acetona sau pasta corectoare .....pentru ca eu incercam sa fiu ceva mai profunda in entry-ul asta.


Ma duc sa sniffai ploaia

Crista

Today's anecdote

Location: The Ghetto

Actors: old man, the customer in a good mood and of course...the lovely lovely cashier...

Preface:.after 4 hours of work.

Suddenly the cashier realizes that the product that she was scanning...had a code that wasn't really legible and since there wasn't anyone near her to help her overcome the situation, she excuses herself and runs towards the aisle in question.

Old man: I want THAT ham! That one!!!!(pointing toward the bar-codeless product on the till).

Cashier: Sure. Just let me get another one and I promise you will have the one you want with the right price.

Old man (moaning to the next person next him): Where is she going?urgh!!!

And as the cashier ran to get the impossible ham, she notices an empty box...where all the products where supposed to be. Slightly irritated by the lack of empathy the customer was showing, the cashier returned to the till informing the now-reddish customer that his ham....was nowhere to be found.

Seeing the over-the-top angly customer, the cashier decided to call the manager, and eventually the conflict was resolved.

Cashier: (to the next customer) Hello, would you like some bags?....scanning....(no answer). Utterly surprised by his behavior, and slightly frightened by the growing queue she silently continued scanning.

Customer in a good mood 1: Hello, love! How are you today?

Cashier (with a touch of irony): Smashing!!! How are YOU today?

Customer in a good mood 1: well I heard, that since you kept as all waiting for you that we will get a discount. Well?

Cashier: Umnnn....well I don't know about the discount. (Suddently with big eyes and childish grin on her face) But I can give you the shiniest coins in my till as your change?Would that work?

Customer in a good mood 1: (laughing) Well that's new...Okay.

as he was exiting the store....I could swear he said.....'shiny coins' again


:)
The End

de la scutece...incoace

Sunt unele momente care nu o sa le uit niciodata.

Insa le uit. Apoi imi aduc aminte de ele. Si zambesc.

Imi aduc aminte cum mirosea aerul in prima zi de scoala. Aveam 6 ani. Cu cateva zile inainte imi cumparase mama caiete si creioane si Maria ma invatase sa-mi liniez caietele. Cu doua linii pe margine (era mai elegant). Imi aduc aminte povestile si cantecele de pe pick-up, si-mi aduc aminte cum acul care muncea neincetat necesita din cand in cand dezvelirea stratului de praf ce se acumula de pe discuri. Imi aduc aminte cum simteam in clasa a 6-a ca nu-mi mai pot sta in pielea mea, la fel de bine cum imi aduc aminte eseul pe care l-am conceput pentru concursul Star Wars de la PRO fm, unde am scos tot cartierul la "Attack of the Clones" la Hollywood Multiplex. Imi aduc aminte cum in clasa I mama imi tinea mana in mana ei si ma ajuta sa scriu seara, cand ajungea de la servici, si cand eu eram mult prea obosita sau somnoroasa ca sa mai scriu de bunavoie. Imi aduc aminte cum in clasa a 2-a toti colegii mei primisera cadou de la parinti "tamagotchi" si mi-amintesc ca am strans cei 50.000 azi 5 RON timp de vreo 2 luni in coperta rosie a carnetului meu de elev, si mi-amintesc chipul vanzatoarei din Titan care mi-a oferit jucaria din vitrina. Trebuie sa marturisesc ca dinozaurul respectiv a crescut...a mancat...si in vreo 2 saptamani a murit..fiind inlocuit de cine stie ce alta jucarie care imi captase atentia in momentul respectiv. Imi amintesc prima zi in care am inceput sa citesc Harry Potter la indemnul Marei. Eram pe canapea in sufragerie si tata se uita la Edward-omul foarfeca. Imi amintesc jocurile de carti Razboi cu Buni si plimbarile din Herastrau. Nu o sa uit niciodata mirosul bucatariei de la gradinita si nici mirosul primaverii in IOR. Nu o sa uit nici primul sarut, la 13 ani, la parterul scolii generale in plina pauza, cand ma ridicasem pe varful degetelor ca sa ajung la destinatie, si unde incercam...pe cat posibil sa fiu cat mai priceputa in timp ce ma simteam....extraordinar de nepriceputa. Nu o sa uit cum am tipat la profesoara de geografie in clasa a 8-a pentru ca nu am stiut sa arat Oltul pe harta...si in mod evident nu o sa uit moaca mea in albumul de sfarsit de generala...unde plansesem pentru ca invatatoarea mea din clasele 1-4 ma certase pentru ca tipasem la profesoara de geografie. Nu o sa uit primul battle din clubul Nemo in primii ani de S.B. unde am simtit ca plutesc prin miscari si nu o sa uit golul din stomac cauzat de aceasta senzatie. Nu o sa uit cat de mult mi-a placut sa tren-uiesc Bucuresti-Cluj timp de 2 ani si nu o sa uit caprioara din Turda. In final...nu o sa uit patinele mele cu rotile si nu o sa uit orele de atletism impreuna cu M. si D. de la Lia Manoliu. Si in niciun caz nu o sa uit sa-mi amintesc.

C.

Chiar nu vreau sa fie un entry kilometric, pentru ca stiu ca sunt plictisitoare, insa voiam sa povestesc despre viata, despre scoala despre munca si despre dor. Anul trecut pe 22 august am plecat de acasa, ca un fluturas, cu zambetul pe buze cu speranta in minte si cu un usor gol in stomac (care era cauzat de nerabdare nu de altceva). Primele luni in Anglia au fost o calatorie. Acum cand ma gandesc nu cred ca eram foarte constienta in ce ma bagasem. Abia acum incep sa inteleg. Nu vreau sa fiu siropoasa, sau sa creez un mare "tam-tam" din ceva care nu este dar eu de felul meu sunt mai aventuroasa si plecarea mea a fost foarte spontana din punct de vedere psihologic. Si ajunsa eu pe meleaguri necunoscute, incet incet am iesit din "postcard-ul" pe care il avusesem eu in minte, si am ajuns sa inteleg ce inseamna cu adevarat libertatea. In ceea ce priveste scoala nu credeam ca o sa mai trec prin tensiunea "bac-ului" dupa clasa a 12-a. Am gresit!!! Fiecare cuvintel spus de profesori e citat dintr-o carte, care e citata in alta carte...si tot asa. Felul in care este structurata materia si felul in care iti este cerut sa te pregatesti pentru examene si esee cere sa citesti....sa citesti...si sa tot citesti. Marturisesc ca in generala nu mi am manifestat un interes avid pentru "cunostinta". Imi placea sa citesc insa rareori gaseam ceva care sa-mi starneasca interesul cu adevarat. In liceu (aflandu-ma intr-un mediu care era usor mai degradat din punct de vedere educational) am simtit nevoia de mai mult. Mi-a placut ce faceam la scoala, mi-au placut profesorii, activitatile extra-scolare, excursiile, studiile de caz, orele de psihologie si de E.T.G (educatie de tehnologie generala). Si asa am invatat ca scoala nu e numai mate-geogra-istorie si romana. Pentru mine BAC-ul a fost cel mai bun lucru care l-am invatat in liceu. In clasa a 10-a incepusem sa castig bani. Faceam babysitting la o familie de englezi si aveam grija de fetita lor care atunci avea 9 ani. O luam de la scoala, gateam ceva, o ajutam la teme, mai ieseam in parc...in fine....castigam niste banuti. In clasa a 11-a am dat si meditatii la engleza. O data cu venirea BAC-ului fusesem sfatuita din toate partile sa renunt la babysitting ca sa fac fata la cerintele examenului. Drept sa spun nu am facut asta. Imi intrasem deja intr-un ritm liceu-babysitting-casa care ma tinea intr-o forma destul de buna si sincer banutii pe care ii luam ma ajutau sa-mi satisfac unele capricii. Inca mai simt mirosul IOR-ului la 5 dimineata in ultimele luni dinaintea bacului dupa ce recapitulam capitole intregi de teorie. Pentru mine era minunat!!! Imi descoperisem capacitatile de memorare si eram cu adevarat fericita ca invatam! Colegii mei erau unii tensionati...altii inconstienti...si eu..ma bucuram ca invatam. O data cu venirea diminetii ma culcam si urma sa ma trezesc in cateva ore ca sa ajung la vreo ora de recapitulare la liceu (unde sigur intarziam). Nu intru in detalii despre cum a fost BAC-ul ca examen in sine. O sa ma abtin de la comentarii despre un sistem de invatamant care s-a devalorizat treptat. Am sa nuantez ce am invatat eu din experienta asta. Am invatat ca noptile de studiu nu sunt pierdute ci satisfacatoare, ca mirosul de zori e incredibil de revigorant si cel mai important am inteles ce pot sa fac.

Primele luni cand am ajuns in facultate in CCCU am apreciat conditiile de studiu. Imensitatea bibleotecii, amfiteatrele cu scaune pufoase, CCCU Student Union unde gasesti mereu cafea proaspata si in general luxul universitar. Profesorii m-i se pareau grabiti. Grabiti sa ofere informatii si eu ametita incercand sa le prind. Am avut impresia ca temele sunt usoare. Ei spuneti voi eseu de 1000 de cuvinte???"Piece of cake"...la vremea aia. In jurul Craciunului am realizat ca un eseu bun inseamna o cercerare de cel putin 10 carti citite cap-coada (per concept). Si cum eseele in general sunt prezentate ca un complex de concepte...eheheeeeei. Facultatea mea are o ideologie. In luna martie se dau teme (assignments-uri) si toate materiile dau cate 1 sau poate chiar 2 teme. Esee in general 2500 de cuvinte, studii de caz, analize pe diferite domenii. Si motivul pentru care luna martie este asa de plina este pentru ca profesorii asa pot analiza capacitatile studentilor de a lucra sub stress si asa pot vedea felul in care studentii fac fata acestei perioade. Am colegi care au renuntat deja la scoala. 3200 lire duse pe apa sambetei. Ei bine, luna martie anul asta a fost un al doilea BAC. Invatam noaptea, citeam si scriam scriam scriaaaaam la esee, dupa care taiam si iar scriam si iar citeam. La ora 5 dimineata realizam ca nu mai are sens sa mai dorm. Trebuia sa fiu la munca la 8. La servici lucram, si in jurul orei 5-6 seara imi puneam problema serios daca eu sunt Crista....daca exist cu adevarat, si pe cuvantul meu de onoare ca vedeam in punctulete. Pavel Stratan descria senzatia asta legata de bautura "Ma las de toate, ma duc acolo, ma intorc inapoi, ma iau si pe mine" .Ochii mei actionau ca o camera de filmat care inregistra totul insa nu prea mai procesa. Asta timp de o luna. Nu cred ca am dormit mai mult de 2 ore pe noapte in luna aia. Managerii la servici imi ziceau "zombie" sau "coffee" asta pentru ca tot timpul aveam lipita de mana un "grande latte" care ma ajuta sa ma regasesc pe mine....in mine. Insa mi-a placut!!! Imi place educatia dusa la extrem! Si nu e ca si cum as lasa totul pentru ultima secunda pentru ca nu e asa! Am lucrat "in trepte" insa sistemul englezesc cere o continua perfectionare. Si ceea ce e cu adevarat frumos....un eseu despre turism....nu e numai despre turism....poate fi despre orice. Daca ai inteligenta sa creezi anumite legaturi cu psihologia cu istoria cu sociologia....ba chiar si cu matematica, astfel incat sa ajungi bineinteles la o concluzie valida in privinta subiectului poti sa te declari fericit! Asa am invatat valoarea cuvintelor si legaturile dintre ideologii. Pe cuvant e minunat!!! Pe mine starea de tensiune gen"sesiune" ma ajuta sa ma redepasesc continuu. Si imi place "de mor" (Georgeta,2004) ca sa folosesc si Harvard referencing. Acum sunt in vacanta. Ma gandeam sa ma apuc de voluntariat in Londra. Am cautat zilele trecute pe internet voluntariate legate de olimpiada din 2012- dezvoltare catre turism. Vreau sa fac atat de multe....pacat ca ziua are doar 24 de ore.

Altfel spus....mi-e dor de casa. Vreau sa vad Bucurestiul primavara. Intotdeauna mi-a placut tranzitia iarna-primavara cu Martisor si 1 aprilie si toate cele....

Pana una alta....pinguinii nu zboara...insa BBC ne-a pacalit pe toti.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9dfWzp7rYR4