Musical Soap Opera

I had a very musical weekend. I had wished it would be more like a literature weekend: lots of reading if not even more writing than the usual. Instead, I ended up listening to all sorts of songs I hadn't heard in years. On Saturday was Madonna's birthday. I think it all stems from my dad with me: he's a math teacher and all that was passed on to me was a good memory with numbers and dates.

So, with it being Madonna's birthday, it was natural that VH1 aired … Michael Jackson all weekend…

I was ans still think I am the biggest MJ fan ever. I would still be if he were still around… in both ways (as an artist and as a person. And no, I am not sorry he didn't die young like Elvis. At least I know the world got the best of him. At least he gave as much of his genius as he could. And listening to the songs I used to hum when I was 8 was a thrilling experience (if you'll allow my choice of words!).

I used to take pride in my collection of whatever you can think of related to him.

But if there is something I will always be grateful for, it is that I developed a passion for the English language, old black music and literature thanks to his music. It's such a complex experience, such a complex education process that I induced upon myself that it is almost impossible to describe it. I remember how difficult it was for me to find music and the books I wanted. I remember how I saved all the money my parents gave me to buy food at school and I would buy tapes and magazines sometimes only for one photo or an article with his name in it. Then again, who didn't do that when they were fans?

I remember I would strive to understand his lyrics and I would focus so hard that I would end up crying out of spite and anger that I didn't understand anything. That's how it started at least. Little by little, I deciphered the language and everything was less of a mystery.

What I find conveniently wonderful is that it would take someone at least 5 or 6 days to listen to all of his songs once. I get bored easily, so I chose the right artist to be a fan of ;-) Although there is only one song that sticks with me after this weekend: who's loving you? So, who IS loving you, Mr. Jackson?

 

On another note… I watched this very interesting documentary of the best 50 tracks of the 90's. Why I found it so fascinating? Because it not only mentioned 50 of the best songs of my teenage life, but it also showed the artists now and told the story of their lives AFTER the successes they had. So, I feel ashamed to admit I had no idea Mr. Foo Fighter himself was part of Nirvana back when I was 12 and listened to their unplugged album. I had no idea Vanilla Ice 'grew up' to be a notable rock star … Salt and Pepa have their own reality show… and a comeback; Mc Hammer became a reverend… East 17 went bankrupt; Hanson became family guys…

And you think life is dull… I wonder who the script writers are and how many thousands of episodes they can come up with …

As long as the soundtrack plays, I know I'll be enjoying every second of it. And I will know the ticket is worth it.

Telling Stories

Much as I hate clichés, there is one I learned a lot about lately: it's a wonderful world. It's a terribly different, varied, colorful world. Travelling around Europe was the amplest thing I have ever done, and I didn't even realize it until I was back. I remember my previous trips to different countries of Europe when I was younger. And I remember how I felt when I came back: every time there was this newly-found enthusiasm within myself, I perceived the world around me differently; through the perspective of a cosmopolite individual. I would tell the stories of the places I had visited as if they had been heroic legends in ancient books and my friends would listen as if the places I had visited didn't even exist on this planet. The people I had met in my journeys were these queer creatures who brimmed over with happiness and kindness. Not like the people you know here, I would say. People would smile at me in the street.

The experience I had now, as an (almost) adult, wasn't very different. A guy stopped me in the middle of the street in Paris and told me how 'jolie' I was. Not very different from what I get in my own country, but the feeling was different. I wasn't afraid to look him in the eye and say 'merci'. To spend one week and two days away from one's microuniverse can be awfully disconcerting. But I adapted incredibly fast. It was like I had always lived wherever we decided to spend the night. I found the German language not as impossible as I had thought. I even understood everything a waiter told me; especially after the weissbier I had that night. I discovered that sometimes speaking French is like swimming: you never forget how to do it, but if you don't practice it, you get tired easily. To my surprise, I found myself speaking Italian more fluently than French. Although I wouldn't categorize Italy as the perfect destination for a young, well brought up Romanian, unfortunately. In a time when racism is barely an issue in most countries of Europe, Italians bring it to life again.

"Prejudice – wrote a song about it – wanna hear it?" this was 1992.

I felt as if I were stepping on broken glass with every inch we traveled in Italy. I have never been so scared and appalled by a place and the people around me in my life. And the 500 km that separated us from Romania seemed a longer distance than all the 4500 km we had driven until then. Tracy could sing about a revolution there… she is right about one thing, though:

There is fiction in the space between
You and everybody

It's all a matter of perception and labels. And people are fear driven, no matter what their IQ is. I am sure the Italians were more scared of me than I was of them.

And I remember someone asked me once if I was a gypsy…

And then, I got back to my home country. Now, I could try and explain this syndrome for (p)ages, but I am not sure I'll get around to doing it right. When one gets back to Romania, from any western country, there is a period of a couple of days, depending on how much one spends abroad, when there is a feeling of… hypnosis, hallucination… when you think the people in Romania could be different, they could be nice, and smile at you in the street and unpromptedly offer to help; you think you could change minds and preconceptions, and the direction of a whole generation. And you think: if they can, why can't we? Why can't I?

And then I woke up to the reality of my microcosm.

 

To be continued…

Stars are blind

And it's the stars that lie to you. It's the stars that shine the same on the planet. You think you share the same sky with the rest of billions of people on the planet. And you don't feel all that lonely all of a sudden.

But you could share more than the stars with someone and still feel galaxies away. Is it promiscuity to feel the need to be appreciated? Is it his lack of attention that directs her away?
I have learned something quite interesting these days. After I got married, some people asked me why I got married. I love my husband more than ever. I didn't think marriage would change anything. And it hasn't, generally speaking. Except my name ...
So, why marry in the first place? Inertia? Boredom? Assurance? Acknowledgment?
What I have learned is this: "We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... What does one's life really mean, how much does it matter? In a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'."
How much does that apply to me? And to the other married couples I know? Are we that scared of loneliness? Am I that scared?

And here is a song I recently discovered. No matter how many times I listen to it, I find it hard to grasp the meaning of the lyrics. It's what happens when alternative rock bands write crappy lyrics. The image is strong and the music is great, though.
Stone Sour - Through the Glass.

p.s. Awkwardly enough, I found this song in my parents' computer and no one knew how it got there. For my parents don't listen to alternative rock, obviously, and no one else has access to the PC. Except my cat... ?

p.s.2: I heard that line in a movie, it's true. Unfortunately the movie was so bad that it doesn't even deserve mentioning. I ranked it 4 on IMDB.

And I am looking at my fingers and I think about all the times they had a life of their own and went on typing the words my mind wouldn't have wanted to type. And I think they could be the fingers of a piano player or a painter.
I am looking at them in the dark and can only perceive their shape, but not their texture. I only see two dimensions. Two colors. Dark gray and black. And they are reaching next to me, as I lie in my bed. And my hands stretch and stretch until they touch the warm skin lying next to my body. And they stop, then lovingly start to touch and feel this alien body.

They go up and down and gently touch the skin's surface. And stir reactions in the person next to me, although he is asleep. And they infiltrate in his dreams and take over his mind.

And I remember the first time they touched this body. I remember how my whole body quivered from just the tip of these long fingers to the heart. These fingers that have betrayed me so many times, that spited me and cheated on me.

The hands whom people have admired and dedicated poems to; with tentacles that entrap hearts and hide the darkest secrets.

And I find myself hypnotized by their power. I become a victim of their touch.