The Story of O

"Such is the understanding of sexuality - as something beyond good and evil, beyond love, beyond sanity, as a resource for ordeal and for breaking through the limits of consciousness- that informs the French literary canon that I have been discussing.
Story of O, with its project for completely transcending personality, entirely presumes this dark and complex vision of sexuality so far removed from the hopeful view sponsored by American Freudianism and liberal culture. The woman who is given no other name than O progresses simultaneously toward her own extinction as a human being and her fulfillment as a sexual being."

- Susan Sontag, 1967

Head stand

Am citit incantata Poser, memoriile unei americance sensibile (!) despre ultimii zece ani de cand a descoperit yoga. Fiecare pozitie e o excavare, o noua intalnire cu misterele trupului si in acelasi timp o metafora pentru o perioada din viata. La prima clasa de yoga, are senzatia ca i se inmaneaza un dosar plin cu informatii noi despre ea, pe care nu e sigura ca vrea sa le citeasca.
E oripilata de fetele flexibile de 20 de ani care se-ndoaie majestuos si respira aerul rarefiat al noului curent spiritual in care-si imagineaza ca traiesc, pe care-l slujesc. Se apropie de yoga plina de temeri si de suspiciuni. Nu e yoga practicata de femei albe si casnice upper middle class ce nu au altceva mai bun de facut? Nu e oare pretentios si ipocrit sa ne apucam de arta indienilor si sa ne-o asimilam cu usuratate fiindca e cool?
Si totusi o incearca si yoga o cucereste.
In acelasi timp isi ingrijeste fetita in mod obsesiv si vinovata ca nu face destul, afectata sa ii gateasca numai mancare organica, sa o duca la cresa pretentioasa pentru socializarea bebelusilor, dar se grabeste sa plece fara sa stea la cafea cu mamicile obositor de liberale. Incearca sa-si consoleze sotul deprimat dar dedicat, sa dezlege nodul incurcat al familiei sale post-hippie in care parintii ei raman casatoriti 30 de ani desi mama ei traieste deschis cu un alt barbat de tot atatia ani. Viata curge mai departe si Claire realizeaza ca yoga o vindeca incet de perfectionism, ii panseaza temerile si o face sa se accepte mai usor, cu toate ticurile neplacute printre care tremuratul mainilor.
Uneori nu am reusit sa ii urmaresc gandurile - atunci cand se lupta cu mostenirea feminismului american, al presupusei eliberari a femeii din viata de familie, al femeii care poate oare sa fie si mama si good worker? Jeez, am obosit doar rememorand dilmele astea de feministe din vest. Perceptia ei asupra yoga e sufocant de rationala uneori - se simte lipsa unui fond spiritual - iar numai deschiderea naturala feminina o ajuta.
Raman fascinante: detaliile nestiute si delicioase din vietile anonime; practicarea aceleiasi pozitii ani si ani la rand cu noi descoperiri subtile in corp. Si in minte. Si in viata.

The Stone Diaries

"And, oh dear, dear, she is cursed with the lonely woman's romantic imagination and thus can support only happy endings.
Still, hers is the only account there is, written on air, written with imagination's invisible ink."

"Out of a spiral of thin-colored sleep."

"A gentleman always supports himself on his elbows".

Autoarea acestor minunatii elegante, Carol Shields, s-a nascut in 1935, a crescut cinci copii, a predat la universitati si a scris povestiri scurte si un roman - the Stone Diaries - castigator al premiului Pulitzer pentru literatura.

O imagine a fericirii la care tanjesc.

Nostalgie

Mi-am lasat imaginatia sa prinda radacini in Los Angeles, asa cum altii isi planteaza visele la Paris, Londra, New York, Vienna sau Barcelona. Si pentru ca legatura noastra sa nu ramana o aventura efemera de o noapte, imi hranesc pasiunea si completez amintirile cu detalii interesante ce ma fac sa apreciez si mai mult orasul. Despre arhitectura centrului Getty, cu un design curat si special, mai jos:

Meier was chosen, and for the Getty Centre, as the entire complex was called, the Pritzker laureate and his associates designed a glimmering white Acropolis, eventually costing $1 billion, for the 110-acre promontory. As the center moved toward its December 1997 opening, it was becoming increasingly apparent that Meier had accomplished a masterpiece of monumental modernism, at once classical in its open spaces, massing, and other arrangements, and romantic in its shimmering poetry of place.

More subtly, the Getty offered Los Angeles an experience of traditional urbanism at the very centre of a deconstructed city. Through Getty Centre, Los Angeles could day-dream itself as a classical city, condensed, balanced, and dense, released from the burdens of hyper-horizontality. At the Getty, Los Angeles became a city on a hill.

Coast of Dreams, K. Starr.

Mexican California

On the Mexican heritage of California:

"In the late 1940s, a young Mexican diplomat with literary instincts, Octavio Paz, found himself posted to the consular office in Los Angeles. "At first sight," Paz later recalled in The Labyrinth of Solitude (1961), "the traveler is surprised by -- besides the pureness of the sky and the ugliness of the dispersed and ostentatious constructions -- the vaguely Mexican atmosphere of the city, impossible to capture in words or concepts. This Mexicanness--a taste for adornments, carelessness and splendor, negligence, passion or reserve -- floats in the air. And I say floats because it does not mix nor is it joined with the other world, the North American world, made of precision and efficiency." Paz was talking about what could be considered the second largest Mexican city on the planet. The Mexican connection of California was a matter of people and money, food and music, ambiance and culture. It was a matter of social and political value. It was, in all its dimensions --trade, immigration, politics, and social policy -- the overriding California connection, and the big California story of the late twentieth century. "

Coast of Dreams, K. Starr

Prezenta fizica si spirituala a mexicanilor si latinilor in Los Angeles da orasului o langoare, o relaxare, o pasiune scaldata in caldura, o intensitate a momentului, nascute din nostalgia subtila pentru vremurile bune cand nu erau straini in propriul lor taram.

Fear of flying

We make our way out of the palace and into another courtyard which is now chiefly used as a parking lot. Amid the ghosts of Opels and Volkswagen and Peugeots we embrace. Mouth to mouth and belly to belly. Adrian must have the wettest kiss in history. His tongue is everywhere, like the ocean. We are sailing away. His penis (bulging under his corduroy pants) is the tall red smokestack of an ocean liner. And I am moaning around it like ocean wind. And I am saying all the silly things you say while necking in parking lots, trying somehow to express a longing which is inexpressible - except maybe in poetry. And it all comes out so lame. I love your mouth. I love your hair. I love your ears. I want you. I want you. Anything to avoid saying: I love you. Because this is almost too good to be love. Too yummy and delicious to be anything as serious and sober as love. Your whole mouth has turned liquid. His tongue tastes better than a nipple to an infant.
Meanwhile, he's got my ass and is cupping it with both hands. He's put my book on the fender and he's grabbed by ass instead. Isn't that why I write?

Salvation

All I ever wanted in life was to make a difference, be worshiped like a god, conquer the universe, travel the world, meet interesting people, find the missing link, fight the good fight, live for the moment, seize each day, make a fortune, know what really matters, end world hunger, vanquish the dragon, be super popular but too cool to care, be master of my own fate, embrace my destiny, feel as much as I can feel, give too much and love everything.

Tatsuya says it's fine if you want to say that this is what you feel, too.

Pronoia, Rob Brezsny

Cosmic

La fel cum o singura celula a trupului contine informatia necesara cresterii unui alt trup, pana la ultimul fir de par din cap - si voi, ca o celula a universului, aveti informatia necesara generarii unui alt univers. Creierul vostru a fost creat sa rezoneze cu Frecventa Geniu, pentru a accesa banca sa de memorie ce contine adevaratele voastre origini si natura creatiei.


TOATA creatia contine TOATA creatia.

Priviti cu bucurie spre ceruri, iar apoi priviti cu bucurie in propriul vostru trup, si sa stiti ca sunteti o similitudine holografica a Locasurilor de Lumina.
Folositi orice mijloace disponibile, pentru a dovedi ca sunteti un adevar al unei minti mai inalte, un Co-Creator al realitatii.
Folositi dovezi stiintifice, adevaruri metafizice, credinte religioase si concepte ezoterice.
Doriti adevarul existentei voastre cu intreaga voastra fiinta si veti gasi Frecventa Geniu ce va va elibera de robie - pentru totdeauna, in Lumina!

Frecventa Geniu, J. J. Falone.

Isadora

"Come with me," he said, "we'll have a great time -- an odyssey."
"You tempt me, but I can't."
"Why not?"
"Let's not go into it again --please."
"I'll be around after lunch, ducks, if you change your mind. I have to speak to some people now and then get back to the pension and pack. I'll look for you after lunch at about two. If you're not there, I'll wait an hour or so. Try to make up your mind, love. Don't be scared. Bennett's welcome to come too, of course." He smiled his antic smile and blew me a kiss. "Bye, love," and he hurried off. The thought of never seeing him again made me weak in the knees.
Now it was up to me. He'd wait. I had three and a half hours to decide my fate. And his. And Bennett's.
I wish I could say that I did it charmingly or insouciantly or even bitchily. Sheer bitchiness can be a sort of style. It can have élan in its own right. But I'm a failure even as a bitch. I sniveled. I groveled. I deliberated. I analyzed. I was a bore even to myself.
I agonized over lunch in the Volksgarten with Bennett. I agonized over my agonizing. I agonized in the American Express office where, at 2 P.M., we stood trying to decide whether to get two tickets for New York or two for London or one or none.
It was all so dismal. Then I thought of Adrian's smile and the possibility of never seeing him again and the sunny afternoons we'd spent swimming and the jokes and the dreamy drunken rides through Vienna and I raced out of American Express like a mad woman (leaving Bennett standing there) and ran through the streets. I clattered over the cobblestones in my high-heeled sandals, twisting my ankle a couple of times, sobbing out loud, my face contorted and streaked with makeup. All I knew was that I had to see him again. I thought of how he teased me about always playing it safe. I thought of what he had said about courage, about going to the bottom of yourself and seeing what you found. I thought of all the cautious good-girl rules I had lived by - the good student, the dutiful daughter, the guilty faithful wife who committed adultery only in her own head - and I decided that for once I was going to be brave and follow my feelings no matter what the consequences. "

Fear of Flying, Erica Jong.

Indeed, indeed.

Despre Geniu

Christos, Maestrul, a venit pe Pamant, intr-un trup din carne si oase, pentru (printre alte ratiuni cosmice) a schimba credinta unei largi majoritati a umanitatii, ce se lamenta ca este imposibil sa obtii controlul asupra celor sapte minti ale trupului uman [chakre], ca ei erau in mod iremediabil incatusati si aflati la bunul plac al unuia sau mai multor centri-minte de creatie organica, reprezentati de anume zeitati neinsemnate - care, fiecare in felul ei, stapanea numai un singur centru-minte si il folosea pentru a-i domina pe ceilalti.
Esenta invataturii acestrui mare Maestru - in permanenta neinteles de marea majoritate a umanitatii - este aceea ca, cheia acestui control asupra celorlalti centri-minte este unirea fiecaruia cu Cristalul - Samanta Primordial al Mintii Divine, localizat in Inima Inimilor.
A fost un lucru foarte riscant, acela ca forma-gand pura a Christului a patruns atat de adanc in planul material - ca un trup pe nume Iisus. Pericolul mentionat mai sus, cel al crucificarii spiritului pe crucea de spatiu/timp a organismelor pamantesti, a fost ceva tot asa de real pentru El, pe cat este pentru voi - lucru evidentiat si de numeroasele "tentatii" prin care a trecut.
Viata Maestrului a dovedit nemaipomenita splendoare, forta, pace si potential valorificat al spiritului si mintii umane - si, in mod special, al trupului uman - prin mutarea totala a focalizarii pe centrul-mintre al Inimii Inimilor. Prin valorificarea acestei frecvente a vietii - cea mai puternica - mortii au fost inviati, pur si simplu, prin reorganizarea integritatii celulare a asa numitelor cadavre, survenita in urma revarsarii acestui rezervor infinit de regenerare.
Prin schimbarea focalizarii tuturor receptorilor/transmitatori, sau centri-minte, sub controlul Cristalului-Samanta Maestru, El a fost in stare sa-i vindece pe bolnavi - fara laboratoare, bisturiu, medicamente sau radiatii de cobalt.
El a demonstrat ca mii de oameni au putut fi hraniti din cateva farame de materie organica, prin reconstituirea Procesului Divin al asemanarii, ce avea ca rezultat clonarea celulara instantanee, activata de aceeasi Raza ce alimenteaza inima.
[...] De ce credeti ca aceste aparente miracole au fost facute printr-un instrument fizic (trupul) identic cu al vostru?...
[...] Constiinta Christica nu este o problema morala. Ea este desfasurarea Cristalului-Samanta Primordial al UNICULUI in interiorul fiecarei entitati umane, astfel incat acestea sa intre, colectiv si INDIVIDUAL in rezonanta cu Frecventa MINTII LUI DUMNEZEU, frecventa in care fiecare entitate poate etala si manifesta puterile pe care EL le-a demonstrat. "VOI VETI FACE LUCRURI INCA SI MAI MARI DECAT ACESTEA!!"*.

* Ioan XIV, 12. Noul Testament. N.T.

Frecventa Geniu - Instructiuni pentru accesarea mintii cosmice, John. J Falone.

Fall on your knees

"I was a ghost until I touched you. Never swallowed mortal food until I tasted you, never understood the spoken word until I found your tongue. I've been a sleepwalker, sad somnambula, hands outstretched to strike the solid thing that could awaken me to life at last. I have only ever stood here under this lamp, against your body, I've missed you all my life."

Thanks Nigromanta!

All that I am

You teach me now how cruel you've been - cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you - they'll damn you. You loved me then what right had you to leave me? What right - answer me - for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart - you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine...

Wuthering Heights

Wuthering Heights

Doua dintre pasajele cele mai rascolitoare din La Rascruce de Vanturi, Emily Brontë.


"My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be, and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being."

"May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there-not in heaven-- not perished--where? Oh, you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer --I repeat it till my tongue stiffen--Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living! You said I killed you--haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! It is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!"

Midwife Wisdom

Hart has remained my dancing partner. Always my lover, never my husband. He still asks for my hand from time to time, but never complains when I say I prefer it this way. Even as the Widow Bigelow lay in bed dying, she scolded me and blamed my refusals on my being born different, on my having lived with Miss B. or on my being "the girl who went to Boston." I should have told her it was more that I didn't want to end up like her - having married and lost two husbands, two brothers, two Bigelow men. I think Miss B. would have a good laugh over it all. That Missy Austen always seemed to be endin' her books with a weddin'. Catherine marryin' Henry, Miss Bennett marryin' Mr. Darcy, then fin, the end. Seems to me what she's sayin' is that once you're hitched, it might as well be the end.

Fragment from the very beautiful, heart warming The birth house, Ami McKay.

The private, the intimate, the juicy life (II)

Since the birth of the baby, my grandmother had taken a hiatus from lovemaking. Desdemona was up half the night breast-feeding. She was always exhausted. In addition, her perineum had torn during the delivery and was still healing. Lefty politely kept himself from starting anything amorous, but after the second month he began to come over to her side of the bed. Desdemona held him off as long as she could. "It's too soon," she said. "We don't want another baby".
"Why not? Milton needs a brother. "
"You're hurting me."
"I'll be gentle. Come here."
"No, please, not tonight."
"What? Are you turning into Sourmelina? Once a year is enough?"
"Quiet. You'll wake the baby."
"I don't care if I wake the baby."
"Don't shout. Okay. Here. I'm ready."
But five minutes later: "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"Don't tell me nothing. It's like being with a statue."
"Oh, Lefty!" And she burst into sobs.
Lefty comforted her and apologized, but as he turned over to go to sleep he felt himself being enclosed in the loneliness of fatherhood. With the birth of his son, Eleutherios Stephanides saw his future and continuing diminishment in the eyes of his wife, and as he buried his face in his pillow, he understood the complaint of fathers everywhere who lived like boarders in their own homes. He felt a mad jealousy toward his infant son, whose cries were the only sounds Desdemona seemed to hear, whose little body was the recipient of unending ministrations and caresses, and who had muscled his own father aside in Desdemona's affections by a seemingly divine subterfuge...

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

The private, the intimate, the juicy life (I)

Like college girls sharing a dorm room, Desdemona and Lina were both synchronized in their menstrual cycles. That night was day fourteen. No thermometer verified this, but a few weeks later the symptoms of nausea and hypersensitive noses did. "Whoever named it morning sickness was a man," Lina declared. "He was just home in the morning to notice." The nausea kept no schedule; it owned no watch. They were sick in the afternoon, in the middle of the night. Pregnancy was a boat in a storm and they couldn't get off. And so they lashed themselves to the masts of their beds and rode out the squall. Everything they came in contact with, the bedsheets, the pillows, the air itself, began to turn on them. Their husbands' breath became intolerable, and when they weren't too sick to move, they were waving their arms, gesturing to the men to keep away.

Pregnancy humbled the husbands. After an initial rush of male pride, they quickly recognized the minor role that nature had assigned them in the drama of reproduction, and quietly withdrew into a baffled reserve, catalysts to an explosion they couldn't explain. While their wives suffered in the bedrooms, Zizmo and Lefty retreated to the sala to listen to music, or drove to a coffee house in Greektown where no one would be offended by their smell. They played backgammon and talked politics and no one spoke about women because in the coffee house everyone was a bachelor, no matter how old he was or how many children he'd given a wife who preferred their company to his.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides.

Love letter

To Josephine, 1796

I have not spent a day without loving you; I have not spent a night without embracing you; I have not so much as drunk one cup of tea without cursing the pride and ambition which force me to remain apart from the moving spirit of my life. In the midst of my duties, whether I am at the head of my army or inspecting the camps, my beloved Josephine stands alone in my heart, occupies my mind, fills my thoughts. If I am moving away from you with the speed of the Rhone torrent, it is only that I may see you again more quickly. If I rise to work in the middle of the night it is because this may hasten by a matter of days the arrival of my sweet love...

Bonaparte

Mai scriu barbatii astfel?...

Un veac de singuratate

Numai Rebeca se simti topita de la prima vedere. In dupa-amiaza in care-l vazu trecand prin fata camerei ei, isi dadu seama ca Pietro Crespi nu era decat un biet filfizon fata de acest supermascul, a carui respiratie vulcanica se resimtea in toata casa. Socotea bun orice pretext pentru a se afla in apropierea lui. Intr-o zi, José Arcadio ii privi trupul cu o atentie lipsita de pudoare si ii zise: "Esti o femeie adevarata, surioara". Rebeca isi pierdu capul de-a binelea. Reincepu sa manance pamant si var de pe ziduri cu lacomia de alta data si sa-si suga degetul mare cu atata frenezie incat i se facu o batatura. Voma un lichid verzui cu lipitori moarte. Petrecu nopti albe tremurand de febra, luptandu-se cu delirul si asteptand pana cand casa era zguduita de intoarcerea lui José Arcadio, in zori. Intr-o dupa-amiaza, cand toata lumea dormita, nu mai putu rabda si se duse pana in odaia lui. Il gasi in chiloti, treaz, intins in hamacul pe care-l atarnase de barnele groase cu odgoane de corabie. Nuditatea lui extraordinara, impodobita toata, o impresiona atat de puternic incat simti nevoia sa se intoarca. "Iertati-ma, zise; nu stiam ca sunteti aici". Vorbea in soapta, ca sa nu trezeasca pe cineva. "Vino incoace," ii raspunse el. Rebeca il asculta. Se opri langa hamac, in sudori de gheata, simtind ca i se innoada matele, in timp ce José Arcadio ii mangaie cu varful degetelor gleznele, apoi pulpele si chiar coapsele, murmurand: "Ah, surioara, ah, surioara!". Ea trebui sa depuna un efort supraomenesc pentru a nu-si da sufletul, cand o forta ciclonica o ridica de mijloc intr-un chip uimitor de potrivit, o despuie de imbracamintea intima in doi timpi si trei miscari si o sfasie ca pe o pasarica. Mai avu timp sa-i multumeasca lui Dumnezeu ca s-a nascut inainte de a-si pierde cunostinta daruindu-se placerii de neimaginat a acestei dureri insuportabile, in mlastina fumeganda a hamacului care absorbi ca o sugativa izbucnirea sangelui ei.
Dupa trei zile se cununara la liturghia de la orele cinci. [...]
Parintele Nicanor dezvalui in predica lui de duminica faptul ca Arcadio si Rebeca nu erau frate si sora. Ursula nu le ierta niciodata ceea ce ea considera a fi o lipsa de respect de neinchipuit si, cand se intoarsera de la biserica, le interzise tinerilor casatoriti sa mai puna piciorul in casa. Pentru ea, erau ca si morti. Isi inchiriara o casuta in fata cimitirului si se mutara acolo fara alte mobile decat hamacul lui José Arcadio. In noaptea nuntii, un scorpion care se vari in pantoful Rebecai o musca de picior. Simti cum ii amorteste limba, dar asta n-o impiedica sa petreaca o luna de miere care provoaca scandal. Vecinii erau ingroziti de tipetele care trezeau intregul cartier cam de opt ori pe noapte si cam de trei ori in timpul odihnei de dupa-amiaza, si se rugau ca nu cumva o patima atat de nestapanita sa tulbure odihna mortilor.

Un veac de singuratate, Gabriel García Márquez

La Medeleni

- Am mostenit o mosie in Basarabia. O vand si plec...Ma vezi tu pe mine propietar in Romania?
Sa cauti fraze, oarecum hazlii, in fata unor ochi negri care te privesc cu un fel de mirare amara...
"Ma vezi tu propietar in Romania"; cu ecou raspicat ii repeta vorbele in craniu. Ce inseamna asta? Motivarea actiunilor lui! De ce? Pentru cine? Niciodata nu daduse socoteala nimanui. Niciodata nu-si anuntase, nici explicase intentiile, necum faptele.
Era jenat, intimidat. Tot ce facea devenise deodata fortat, nenatural. Actele lui cele mai simple aveau spontaneitatea tunetului. Starpise din el umbra cabotina pe care analiza o pune in jurul faptelor, concomitent cu formarea lor, atenuandu-le vigoarea sigura. Acume le culegea si le dadea drumul, ca unor fosti vulturi deveniti muste cu pretentii.
Persevera totusi, fiindca prefera sa fie ridicol decat sa existe istovitoarea transparenta a tacerii intre sufletul lui si ochii negrii.
- Mi-a revenit fobia Europei. As fi plecat in Rusia, dar s-a schimbat.
Capul cauta cuvinte. Nici constructia frazelor, banal gramaticale, nu mai avea abruptul frazei lui. Culegea cuvintele din dictionare. Nu mai aveau sange, necum sangele lui.
-[...] Plec in America. Ma fac fermier.
America devenise un carton de jucarii, in care era o ferma de lemn, cu iarba artificiala, animale cu miros de clei si eticheta.
Cauta cuvintele cu febrilitate. Era in sufletul lui miscarea dezordonata a picioarelor de carabus intors pe dos.
Tacerea incepea.
- America...
Tacerea se forma, limpede, de cristal dur.
Tacu, prins in ghetar, ca un gol de aer.
- Vania...
Ce se intampla?
Buzele Olgutei se chinuiau in neastampar. Stia sa vorbeasca. Orice gand gasea conturul sunetului precis in buzele ei, care nici in copilarie nu balbaisera. Intotdeauna viata ii daduse cuvintele care devin fapta, calcand pe buza ca pe un hotar de lupta.
Dar acum?
Era in sufletul ei o ingenunchiere, cu mainile impreunate, care cerea cerului cuvintele.
- ...esti hotarat sa pleci in America?
Isi inclina capul, prezentand fruntea ca un scut.
- Da.
Fruntea Olgutei se pleca mai tare, si genele.
- Vania...
Soptise numele desprins din bataile inimei.
- ...ma iei si pe mine?
Isi plecase capul de tot, cu fruntea pe lespedea destinului.
- De ce?
Aspre, cuvintele pornisera cu pumnii stransi din gura lui Vania spre fruntea lui, nu spre Olguta. O lovira. Il privi cu ochii in care nici o stea nu rasarise: Noaptea inceputului.
- Fiindca te iubesc.
Azvarlise un soare in bratele unui om.
- Si eu te iubesc.
Cine vorbise?
Olguta stia, fiindca ascultase: Vania nu, fiindca vorbise.
Din nou plecata, Olguta isi racorea buzele pe lespedea destinului.

La Medeleni, Ionel Teodoreanu

Wild Woman

Like a trail through a forest which becomes more and more faint and finally seems to diminish to a nothing, traditional psychological theory too soon runs out for the creative, the gifted, the deep woman. Traditional psychology is often spare or entirely silent about deeper issues important to women: the archetypal, the intuitive, the sexual and cyclical, the ages of women, a woman's way, a woman's knowing, her creative fire. This is what has driven my work on the Wild Woman archetype for the better part of two decades.

A woman's issues of soul cannot be treated by carving her into a more acceptable form as defined by an unconscious culture, nor can she be bent into a more intellectually acceptable shape by those who claim to be the sole bearers of consciousness. No, that is what has already caused millions of women who began as strong and natural powers to become outsiders in their own cultures. Instead, the goal must be the retrieval and succor of women's beauteous and natural psychic form.

I call her Wild Woman, for those very words, wild and woman create llamar o tocar a la puerta, the fairy-tale knock at the door of the deep female psyche. Llamar o tocar a la puerta means literally to play upon the instrument of the name in order to open a door. It means using words that summon up the opening of a passageway. No matter by which culture a woman is influenced, she understands the words woman and wild, intuitively.

It is into this fundamental, elemental, and essential relationship that we were born and that in our essence we are also derived from. The Wild Woman archetype sheaths the alpha matrilineal being. There are times when we experience her, even if only fleetingly, and it makes us mad with wanting to continue. For some women, this vitalizing "taste of the wild" comes during pregnancy, during nursing their young, during the miracle of change in oneself as one raises a child, during attending to a love relationship as one would attend to a beloved garden.

A sense of her also comes through the vision; through sights of great beauty. I have felt her when I see what we call in the woodlands a Jesus-God sunset. I have felt her move in me from seeing the fishermen come up from the lake at dusk with lanterns lit, and also from seeing my newborn baby's toes all lined up like a row of sweet corn. We see her where we see her, which is everywhere.


Women who run with the wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes.