by gheorghe Sârbu

I talked to the tree, to the air, to the earth, to the bird, to the wind, to the rain ( … ) why, have they asked, does man show incredible haughtiness as compared to what he can be? Initially, I answered: nothing. Later on, I answered that the living grow, but also shrink, and also that the measure is rarely accidental. Of course (…) and they brought arguments why these things into “there is” are in this way, and not otherwise.

dear Valeriu-Lucian Hetco,
I was telling you in the previous mail that I don’t want to get Corina involved, she has problems anyway, even with the sellers in the market – because she is my wife; I/ my philosophic credo, as you well know, am not/ is not taken for openness, because I/ it reflect(s) the truth and not the lie; or, yesterday, today – and for much longer, and into tomorrow, the lie represents well-being, which has nothing in common with logic, but is pro rata with the umbilicus. The excuse, how can I be otherwise, man, I have a wife, I have kids – is weak; lately, it is wives who sue for divorce; lately, it is the children who turn their backs on their parents; and then? Read carefully the essays published lately still, and you will notice that they all deal with how exceptional we are, but nobody says a word about how machiavellic we are, how coyotes we are, how frogs ( … ) and all these lies, polished by other lies, we are leaving to our successors, as the sacred book; Good for you! Bravo! Hurray! … art, science, they don’t even have to be forbidden; the erudite are taking them out of their sense, following the main line of the carpet from the thermoplastic door, and not the path in a spiral of the walnut wood; I am placing on a pedestal, as it may be seen, the character crushed by silence ( … ) that is, those who do not choose their way in life from the world of convenient ideas, as most of our contemporaries do – the source-drawers, according to their order, coma; there, I have spilled my anger in the water of sharp answers, so all I am left with is to giggle at neurons and hiccup.
have a day filled with accomplishments,
gheorghe

(I am lifting the grating of my irises only for one sky patch to get in, slipping among the branches of the fir trees – covering the entrance to the cave, in which the Good Lord has given me the idea of placing the modern/ coquette alchemical laboratory).

Let me note the moment: the year is 2005, the month is July, the day is 26 ( … ) I am unpacking the small present given by Corina on my birthday: a Buddha in miniature, slipped with delicacy in my rucksack, and my thoughts wander very many years ago, when she was a lass with green, vivid and vindictively wondering eyes.

I am at over 999 m above the sea level; I breathe in, I breathe out, while I am tenderly caressing Stan – a genuine 12-month cobra, on his head; we haven’t seen each other for 15 days.