prose

For Stephanie Jane


Here is the link to Stephanie’s blog, writing about my poems:

http://litflits.blogspot.com/2019/02/the-scent-of-blue-ink-by-cristina.html

Thank you very much, Stephanie, for your comment and appreciation of my ebook. I wrote poems since the end of 2006 so I waited for a dialogue with a reader or an opinion about my poems for 12 years. And your answer came just after my 48th birthday. I will tell you the story of my literary errands in brief. I knew since I was a child and even better while growing up that I was not gifted for poetry, but I was compelled to write poems on the net for two main reasons. First, I was totally alone for too many years except for my relationship with my mother and I had to try to communicate at least in a few words with other people. I noticed since my first year on the internet, that is 2010, that it was very fashionable to be a “poet” on various poetry sites. Maybe it is more like a plague because these many sites on the net don’t have aesthetic criteria for their acceptance or prizes or boosting the poems (except for paying members of course). Instead, all they ask the members is to write in the most explanatory and meaningful way possible, more like a military parade lyrics – just like saying for example “I love you so much and my heart aches and I bleed sadness like a willow swayed by a strong wind, letting go of my tears like autumn leaves falling into the river of my life etc.” The members just want to talk to each other under the form of so-called poetry. I quickly understood that all those too many poetry sites for the plebeian poets wanted only rant or clear-cut messages, as if poetry were a skype or facebook messenger, while in the same time they founded their official attitude on the principle expressed by Archibald MacLeish that “a poem should not mean but be”.
https://mumbaimirror.indiatimes.com/opinion/columnists/eunice-de-souza/a-poem-should-not-mean-but-be/articleshow/21515059.cms

So, the first reason for writing was absolute solitude, imposed by the rest of the society, because of a truly unjust psychiatric diagnostic while I had all the proofs in the world that my forced isolation and imprisonment were unjust and incorrect, a clear cut medical error. I know that by writing this here you will say that of course, I failed writing good poems, because I was insane, but if you will really need me to explain to you the truth you can write to me and ask whatever you want. The Italians were right 40 years ago by adopting their law to reduce to a very strict minimum the number of psychiatrists and psychologists. I studied both sciences and I achieved good grades and I understood for certain that I had no mistakes or delusions or psychiatric trouble at all and they only lied because of the very poor background where I was raised. It is still reported by WHO (or was reported not too long ago as I read) that suicide’s main cause is poverty/lack of job etc. so it is not linked/ correlated to psychiatric forced admission. So they talk too much illogically about suicide in the next article, but you can see in table 2 that Italians have less than 3 psychologists for mental health care/100.000 population, while in France you can find almost 50 such professionals per 100.000 people. I understood there (who knows?) that the suicide rate stayed almost the same in Italy over the last 40 years. O tempora, o mores… Maybe you know that it is historically reported that educated slaves were better treated in ancient Imperial Rome – who knows? – but anyway we still have the letters written by Seneca for Lucilius.

https://ijmhs.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s13033-018-0223-1

I studied for 23 years in state schools and Universities. I was denied basic human rights and that’s why some of my poems – possibly in other ebooks – are about solitude and poverty, their “message” is clear. On social poetry sites, I was rejected for the same reason that made you give me 1 of 5 stars for my “work” – they said that my poems don’t convey a clear message, although theirs were not doing that for sure, but were only less intellectualized than mines. Theirs were full of confusions, but they had what’s called social support. I did not understand your critique of my poems – you say:
“the problem is that Moldoveanu alludes to many varied traditions and stories but each poem identifying its subject or theme.” This sentence is not logically clear and I don’t understand what you meant by that. Anyway, it is clear that your assessment of my poems is based on the fact that you did not understand them, and that’s why you consider them bad poems. I learned in school that the greater part of good poetry, whatever the school or movement was, was not understood by people and anyway poetry consumers are a very small group of people, usually unfortunate and rejected youngsters. The second reason for me to write poems was that I was very much in love with nature and life and people and I forgave them, whatever they did to me and I felt only love and bliss for being a human being and my old wheelbarrow filled with roses was so loaded with beauty, that I felt the need to write down a part of it, to give something good to the poor for free, because anyway I could not hope to sell my books in order to have food or clothes, while they rejected my right to work, and I couldn’t afford to have the necessary PayPal account. I failed to give beauty to others as if it was that quote from the Bible:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pearls_before_swine

“Do not give what is holy to the dogs; nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces.”
I silently waited alone for decades, asking to work and to have the right to study from time to time, in vain. I entered a poetry contest in my country also because I was alone and I won the first prize and they published for me a thin book with some of my poems, that is my only real published book. Otherwise, no one wanted me or my translation skills for other poets too, or whatever I could have worked or written for any magazine or printing house. The Romanian internet poets rejected me entirely, though my published book was given at no cost in a book fair. In my country, they did not even answer with rejection to my poems, whilst the USA literary journals either accepted my poems sometimes ago, or they answered with a polite rejection.
That’s all I wanted to answer to you and many thanks again for your honest opinion. I give you the link to my present time Romanian blog, where I have poems and prose in English too and other links for my literary endeavors.
https://muzelealbe.wordpress.com/

And, if you want to know how more about my way of writing in English – prose or poetry – you can visit my Goodreads blog in English, where one member was very kind to rate my ebooks as 3 stars from 5, but only because I explicitly asked him to write a review for me if he could:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8093553.Cristina_Monica_Moldoveanu/blog

Of course, my philosophical texts are meaningful too, but you can imagine what the psychologists say about me and I can easily refute:
that I don’t have organized and meaningful thinking at all!

I can show you official papers where they tell that hideous thing, while the opposite was obviously true and it was also true that I was almost totally alone (since 1984, when I was 13, and my family was small and very poor), forcefully, so they had no proof whatsoever that I could not normally communicate or work or think. Not only that I never had psychiatric symptoms, but I was a perfect person – with a very beautiful soul, all the virtues of good characters, no mistakes, no sins at all. exactly 2-3 apparent mistakes in almost 50 years of age, but those things were not my fault, but theirs, or I was simply framed. Apparently, smoking – which everyone knows that does not bring pleasure was my only mistake, but in reality I was almost totally alone, being a perfectly normal individual. I quit smoking for two years in spite of everything, but they did even more hideous things to me, even stealing my photos or minor objects. I restarted to smoke and each time I tried to quit they doubled the pressures and tortures. I resisted to almost 35 years of tortures of different kinds and poison was one of them, not psychiatric intoxication, but other things that I could have proven, but no one wanted to see my proofs. It is obvious that an intelligent person cannot be wrong, cannot do wrong, cannot invent nonsensical things, like poison for example, which is a perfect example of concrete, objective reality, testable reality and not at all interpretation or imagination or delusion. It cannot be. I told about it only in later years, just like I told about my perfection, which they think that it is a kind of illusion of grandeur, while in reality perfect people do exist and I was one of them, with my own numerous specific traits of personality. I knew well myself and I did not express that in my early complaints. I went everywhere I could go in search of freedom and justice and human rights. My last psychiatrist, for example, lied even about my past psychiatric admissions and refused to give me a copy of my clinical reports in order to be admitted at a social center for psychiatric patients. They rejected me everywhere while I was still able to do some work and I was a perfectly reliable individual and I had perfect mobility too until last year when suddenly my osseous system broke down. It is true that I have an amputated leg because of a suicide attempt 20 years ago and that was not what the psychiatrists said, because they always lie, just like psychologists do. I was thin and I did not smoke but I became obese because of poisons and poverty and hideous hunger symptoms, like thirst. The other doctors refused to treat me although I had specific serious symptoms of gastric, or cardiac disease, they all were like Javert hunting the innocent Jean Valjean, instead of accepting him in the society.  Last year for example, amid many other problems, it was proved by echography that my kidneys did not form urine, but a very little amount of it and all the water that I normally drank went into my tissues for two weeks and it was serious oliguria for three days (100 ml) and the doctor advised me to go to the psychiatric hospital, because this so-called metabolic malfunction may be from psychic reasons! For many years I complained of drinking 10 liters of water each day and they did not help me, not even when I had swollen legs, and tens of other serious symptoms, including peripheral neuropathy and stomach burns and pain and powerful cholics. When my blood analysis revealed, for example, a huge Prolactin amount, they said that they cannot give me an antidote because it may be from the psychiatric drugs that I must take, but they cannot be certain that it is because of those drugs. They are apparently stupid because many times I could have proven that it was poison in my life from other sources but they want to give the impression (maybe, that’s why some fools say) that it was because of psychiatric abuse, and that’s why they lie to conceal the truth. I was not condemned to be euthanized, because I was trustworthy and I had no mistakes, as I said. Sometimes it was hard to write poems while having a heart attack, a thing that they refused to treat for many years and only 2 years ago they gave me 4 different heart and blood vessels drugs, with no proper diagnosis. Etc. I was always above the intelligence level which separates good and virtuous people from bad people, those bad people who are not guilty of being evil only because they are poor in spirit. And how can you accuse of something wrong a poor and always lonely woman like I was? Exactly like in my poems, I was modest and I was never driven by sensuous pleasure in my conduct, but I was very much attracted by intellectual work, because that’s how I was educated and how my natural propensions were. Meantime I enjoyed very much physical work, because I was raised in the countryside and used with toil and minutious work. Otherwise, I had no other minor defects or mistakes and I did the best I could every day. Here even the garbage collectors have luxurious mobile phones from a time ago, while I cannot afford iphone or smartphone to browse the net without back spine pain, people are rich and well dressed and well fed and shoed compared to me even in the suburbs and they don’t have pity like I always had and I asked in vain for 1 leu (our currency) begging on the street, which is not a shameful thing, like many others consider, because suicide is normal in their opinion. I wrote poems about this too. Anyway, I was dressed in rags or cheap cloth and had my haircut by my grandma ever since I was a child. That’s why they don’t respect me – people say that job recruiters consider what kind of phone do wear first or what kind of social connections do you have. They cannot understand for example that I can adapt to the situation of delighted ballet spectator (my favorite show) in the opera hall just as well as to the situation of Heidegger reader or commentator, just as well as to the job of a cleaning woman, like a psychologist asked me once and I said yes, of course, explaining to her that I am totally alone and very poor. She could not help me find any kind of job for 4-5 years while being in their social integration programme. Etc. Of course, the very few people who talked with me, in spoken or written words on the internet, treat me as if I were an idiot child, but they do this a priori, without any real knowledge about me, it is not me who inspire them this attitude.

Moreover, my literary style changed in later years, but I was even more outcasted than before, when I used too many cultural allusions maybe, as you pointed out, and it is a certain fact that historical sciences and data change over time, (maybe those who are young don’t know this), because of different cultural opposite or divergent perspectives. True poetry should stick with the Universals, the facts and the ideas that don’t change over night.

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Categories: prose, Uncategorized | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

Thoughts


It is absolutely obvious that Prometheus was punished by Gods before fire was brought to humans, eventually by him.
In the same order of ideas it is obvious that poverty and isolation are not sins at all and that the progress of human civilization cannot be stopped, at least until human brains exist.
It is obvious and even a child knows : first the punishment, then the deed.
I never wondered why and how stars die, but I am still confused why they should be created and where. Or until when. And I know for sure that I will never try to find out the truth about this. I was only a humble and innocent woman.
I think that pure knowledge does not exist for humans or humane-like creatures, all that exists is a seed planted somewhere. If you don’t cuddle it, it does not grow. Only God knows. I also think that there is a fine line between gnoseology and ontology.
The Past came too close to my thoughts, the Future cannot hold my words. Someone stole Jacob’s ladder from my ear.
I open my arms as if I were a clock holding time. And I can’t, I feel rusty.
I started to grow old the moment I began to dream.

(hence the differences between gnoseology and epistemology, but regarding this my mind is a little bit confused now, because my body betrays me and spell-check on the net accepts only the first of these two)
signed — just me, known&unknown by everybody

between known and unknown you can find either sunset or sunrise
between useless and beneficial you can find either death or life
between me and you can find either nothing or everything
between all the things that I told you can find either truth or lies
between good and bad you can find all the above
postscriptum — words are meaningless unless God wants to fulfill them

post-postscriptum — anyone can use another word or another name instead of God, I prefer God
Someone entered my thoughts saying that such a thing is unacceptable — what?! Reality or my humble existence? I accept everything and I think that very few things are unacceptable only for some people and I am not guilty that I told the truth. My fate is in God’s hands.

Categories: Memories, prose | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Memini Meminisse


That day I entered the corpse’s room. As it is customary, the mirror was covered. But I thought to myself: here are so many other yet uncovered mirrors, the eyes of those staying at wake are opened and in each eye you can find the neighbors’ eyes mirrored. Sometimes a teardrop mirrors in itself the image of funeral candles. Mirrors are endless, they grow one within the other, like deep wells inside other wells. Other things have precise borders in space, I can see there is an edge of the rain, an edge of my voice or an edge of the hearing of those who listen to me. If those people wanted to hide all mirrors in the room they should have entered there blindfolded.

And what is time? Does it have a border like all the rest? How much does it take until the light reaches the mirror and comes back to my eye? Do I see my future or my past? Do I really exist or I exist only as far as my senses are processed in some amount of time by my brain’s utilities? People break mirrors or they break up time in tiny pieces that resonate like the clock ticking in their ears or eventually like objects through the touch sense for the deaf. Did you know that hearing is considered to be the last sense lost before parting from this world? But the dead one, once he had lost all his senses, does he live now only in the living memory? Could it be true that our life is only memini meminisse? And is it memory itself a mere mirror? In our brain there is an area named Ammon’s Horn, with significance for the consolidation of human memory. Its name is a reminder of the sun god Amun-Ra, identified subsequently with Zeus for the Greeks, an antique source for a partly monotheist vision of the universe. Since we appear in this world we are prisoners of centennial memories, because the human embryo evolves through different stages, similar to some characteristics found in different other adult beings, from amphibians to primates.

Meanwhile, people gather round the coffin, touching each other and singing the song of the eternal peace and remembrance. It is the circle of senses of those alive close to the departed one, the circle of hearts pumping warm blood, the circle that is still pulsating and alive. I believe that eternity exists, and the moment is only an illusion.

Categories: My Poems in 2015, prose, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

Socrates and the number 30


Reading Plato’s Phaedo in the light of the Apology, I was struck by the relationship between perceived fate and perceived wisdom. One of the things that captured my thoughts was the symbolism of the number 30. Was that fate, only fate, or was that a more accurate knowledge, the attribute of the sophos? It is related to oracles and dreams and daimones of course and maybe goes beyond these simple facts.

When the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power Socrates almost died, because he opposed unrighteousness and followed the higher moral code of behavior;
In 399 B.C. Socrates is found guilty by a vote of 280 to 220/or 221 (? according to different sources) and he is impressed by the fact that he needed “thirty votes gone over to the other side” in order to have been acquitted;
In his proposal for his own sentence he asks to be fined thirty coins, with his friends being the sureties;
In Xenophon’s Apology (Mem., IV, 8, 2, cf. Phaidon edited in 1994 in my country) the ship sent for the annual pilgrimage (theōria) to Delos took thirty days to return. It was a gift to Apollo. The ship re-enacted Theseus’s mythical voyage.
Socrates obeys to a recurrent dream which always gave him the same advice and first he composes a hymn in honor of the god of the festival. (Apollo’s name does not appear in that fragment). My conclusion is that the number 30 is somehow related to the synodic month, by chance the length of the lunar cycle as seen from Earth. And this is also a kind of theōria/ initiatic travel. Am I right?

Right now, continuing my study, I found that the Theseus’ ship had thirty oars (Plutarch, Thes, XXIII) a thing that was known to Athenians in Plato’s times. I think this is also an important example in this context. Nowadays Christians, whose religion is also based on ancient rituals in its beginnings, know well that Jesus was sold for thirty pieces of silver…

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The Portrait of a Traveler


The ashtray of my great aunt P was silver-plated alike the old mirror sitting on the shelf under the window; it was an ashtray with a nude fisherwoman hauling a net for stubs and ashes with her strong arms, and, who knows, perhaps a goldfish would have appeared there to fulfill three essential wishes in everyone’s life.

Aunt P gave up smoking a long time ago. She used to smoke the finest Romanian cigarettes available in her youth. But she was a poor woman all her life, as well as the great majority of my relatives. Then she grew old, going through some interesting transformations for a single woman in the city: her large dark brown face warts went discolored, her legs became hairless, her hair became brilliant white with a tint of blue-violet gentian tincture used by many old ladies, her nails got curved and thickened, even though she still used her precious manicure tools, because in fact my aunt did not forget the way of life she adopted in the hair salon where she had worked. In the last ten years of her life, my aunt gradually lost her sight, but she was still able to wash herself under the shower alone, even though she did not quit for 15 years her room strangely built with six walls instead of four.

Times were spinning around my aunt’s house like a toy globe in a child’s hand, meridian after meridian. In the 60s her third husband died, leaving her to care for the three elder relatives. Her husband had roots among White noble Russians (he was a white émigré), and he found refuge with modest financial means in Romania. Coincidentally, my aunt’s brother was a different kind of adventurer, a former worker in the construction industry and traveler in the Arab countries, who had spent several years in a concentration camp in Russia, because he was a prisoner in the Second World War. Aunt P too had traveled in her youth around the world, as a stage dancer, together with a friend. She had pictures with her in beautiful ballerina white dresses. In addition to the hair salon, she worked as a public servant in a state institution. In the ‘70s the trolley wires circled my aunt’s home, and then they disappeared. In the ‘80s my aunt often walked around the city to visit her sisters and brothers and in the suburbs area too, to take a breath of fresh air and stretch her pretty legs on a lounger in the sunlight. She loved very much herbs of all kinds, to refresh her blood, but she was a perfect hostess for her younger relatives when they congregated around her round and small table for a card game named Ace of Spades, staking on very low value coins. In her later years she began to stitch and make superb needlework and to decorate cushions according to her Hungarian origins traditions, with incredible craftsmanship for the hand of an apprentice.

In the ‘90s, my aunt, aged almost 80, had traveled with some fear on a plane over the ocean in the U.S.A. to attend a wedding of one of her nieces from an elder sister. She was always the same lady with impeccable manners and a small head standing with her curled hair and her pink lipstick on her mouth over her thin and quite tall body, more and more fragile. My aunt’s house was neighboring the government’s building, and on the ground floor they set up kiosks for petty merchandise. Only the framed pictures of my aunt were the same: her husband, brothers and sisters, and relatives from afar.

I visited her from time to time and she joked that she was the doyenne of age in our family. I still have a few old books received from her. In her youth she loved rumors about celebrities, in her old age she listened to the radio sitting on her bedside. When I was young she said about me that I was like Lapusneanu, a Romanian ruler, who said “if you don’t want me, I still want you” and I could not agree to that. I loved my family with all my heart. Before she died, she synthesized the wisdom of life in a few words: “It’s better on the ground floor than in the basement, that’s what I think, and while my Lord still left a living time to me, it should be lived”. This woman was shrouded in a fragrance of mystery, but in reality she was simple like jar pickles. She kept the flavor of times gone by, but she was spiced with herbs and resistant, yet open minded. She has given me a few things before she died, but I only preserved her simple, cheap Romanian coffee cups and saucers. Yes, she had liked coffee and she died on New Year’s Eve, probably as a result of the aggravation of her aorta aneurysm and other age-related illnesses. Because the staircase to her apartment (which she no longer could descend for a long time), was twisted to a maximum, they came down first with the coffin and then with her in a blanket. I thought that’s exactly what her life was: twisted like ivy around some men, twisted, but fragile, rambling on devious paths in mysterious ways, where not all people sleep between four walls. And at the end of her journey my aunt offered once again a proof her proverbial capacity of adaptation. At the graveyard gate it was snowing, it was a very peaceful and thin snowfall, gracious like her ballerina days…

There are many other stories about aunt P which I regret I did not write in time before forgetting them. There are stories about her adventures with unknown men in cheap motels, whose advances she had surely rejected and the memory of her own youth in photos with Greta Garbo looks.

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