I am not a green radical, by any means. I am relaxed about the fate of the Earth and hardly concerned about the fate of human society. The former is far beyond our comprehension and the latter is far beneath my common interest. If you add consciousness and intentionality to a flu virus, and scale the organism it invades to the size of our planet, I think you get a good picture of what we are. The likely difference is that a flu virus with consciousness might turn vegetarian. We won’t. So, while we are likely to last but a week in Earth’s time, before we are extinct and it moves on, starts dating again – we are really not a society whose fate is worth a second thought.

That being said, I would like to motivate firstly my current state of pessimistic anger by the results of the Copenhagen meeting last week and secondly my title – by the fact that I sincerely believe that if at some point our society will end, it will owe it to colonialism.

Just like Troy. But reversed.

Let me elaborate on that, with a little logic: there are two basic ways in which humans can expand – the Colony and the Horde.

The Colony means that certain people, who exceed the population limit in terms of space or food are sent out to seek and establish a new society, in a new place. They are the bottom ranking citizens, the homeless, the ones who start out with the premises that they cannot achieve any better in the homeland. Sometimes, they are the criminals or otherwise the outcast.

The Horde means that certain people, including the old and the crippled, or the small children – are left behind to tend to the homeland, while the best people ride to establish new civilization in new lands, often by converting or eradicating the locals.

At first glance, there are good things and bad things to both approaches. At second glance, for some reasons, the first approach seems to have been a constant plague on humans, for as long as we can remember. The reasons might be psychological: the outcasts walk away with spite and ambition. Given a marvelous load of opportunity, with fresh resources and new sense of freedom, that spite and ambition turns on the former homeland, in an attempt to surpass it and often to annex it. So, as soon as they overcome the initial hardships of colonization, their goals are rarely peaceful. Not a single forceful hegemony comes to mind, in human politics, where the world leader was not a form of colony-based society. Greece, Rome, the USA would be my first examples. I might also note, slightly amused, that the societies with horde origins, such as France or Germany have also kept their habits, trying to invade everyone when opportunity arises.

But let us get back to the radiography of our diagnosed disease. Colonialism. We owe it the extinction of a few dozens of antic societies. We owe it the political form of government called “democracy with the exception of slaves”. We owe it the atomic bomb. We probably owe it the extinction of our race.

The essential difference between the Colony and the Horde is how they relate to the rest of the world. The colonist is scorn by his kind. He leaves because he craves respect. He strives to obtain resources, to build up power, to obtain respect. If he succeeds, he returns the same treatment he was originally paid. To everyone. The Horde is made of the best warriors, precisely because it respects the others, it acknowledges their strength – therefore, in either defeat or victory, it will continue to do so.

Coming back to Copenhagen – I feel cheated straight to my face. By an imbecile. Imagine you go to the market and buy a bag of oranges. You pay the amount as requested then the guy behind the counter takes the next customer before handing you the oranges. Normally, you would point out the abnormality and he would laugh, embarrassed of his own clumsiness and hand you the oranges. Except this time he shrugs and says he’s never seen you. Then he winks visibly at the other customer and asks him if he had seen you, and he also says no, with a mocking smile. You see, an educated person would usually decide to just walk away, because the price of a bag of oranges is not worth an argument with the low lives. But at Copenhagen the low lives are the ones who dominate the world, which means you don’t get to argue.

Seriously, at some point the dialogue might end up with: “-Cut off your pollution! -Or what?”

The Horde is visionary. It doesn’t form out of the distress or hunger of each individual, it is formed out of the potential distress or hunger of the whole society in the years to come, therefore it does not have the concerns of today and tomorrow. The Colony does – and inherently it lacks vision. So, while the Horde utilizes strength to grow extraordinary people, for something that is about to happen in a century, the Colony utilizes strength to purchase or attract extraordinary people for the “now” purposes, without necessarily knowing what to do with them, in general.

With the right technology, though, the president can come out with a grin on his face and announce that the conference went really, really well. The Colonial Dream can go on, undisturbed. Their mommies will sing them each night to sleep and chase away the Ice Age monster from beneath the bed.

Night 2 – another fine night for a driver. It was raining hard and it didn’t seem to stop. Three men got in the car near the passageway under the Aumonja Square. They were dressed almost the same, in dark overcoats, nearly dry, with gray hats and fine glasses, white ties and white gloves. They crowded in the back – left the front seat unoccupied. They just stood still there for awhile and then I asked “So… where to? … … Sir?” I looked at the one in the middle and he answered: “My name is Miny Kynes-Sephire. I am afraid I am not the one who decided this trip, so you will need to ask my brothers, Sir.” At that point, with a smile, I asked myself what would a normal cabby do. But I decided to play along. “Very well – you Sir? Can you tell me your destination?” And he answered just as promptly and politely: “My name is Meeny Kynes-Sephire. Our destination is Glasgow, Queen’s Park 1926, September 2nd, before sundown.” With a reflex raised eyebrow, I replied – “Could you elaborate on that, Sir?”

Visibly uneasy, the man started to give me the long answer: “Well, allegedly, Zino Francescatti and Maurice Ravel gave a performance there, which was not part of their official tour. More over, this is not a recorded performance, because they played in the park, alone; they played two pieces that have never been heard after that, for the subtle, but rather Universal reason that they both composed and performed those pieces in order to gain the favors and charms of a certain Scottish Lady, whom they had met about a month earlier in London. Having quarreled strongly on this subject, they separated their paths at this point and only met briskly afterwords, in a rather cold atmosphere. This however is story that was not told by any of the main characters, which is why I decided to go there, ascertain the details of this encounter and record the two pieces, granting them due consecration.”
“That’s all well Sir, but I am afraid I am still at a loss concerning the necessary directions to get there” “Oh, all right – that is something which you should be asking my youngest brother here” “Um, Sir? … ” “Ah yes, my name is Eeny Kynes-Sephire. As my brother pointed out, I have made the plan for this trip, figuring out the shortest route and the costs. Unfortunately, I have already met with a little predicament, which will burden my budget as of the start of the trip and may I tell you, Sir that this is very, very unpleasant!!” “Um… could you elaborate, Sir?”- you see, I figured that worked earlier. “Well, a certain revolving door at the Hilton will be out of position when we return, which is about two hours ago from now – that will make it very hard for you to recollect us and take us back home and we will need another taxi, thus paying a supplementary fare.” “… two hours ago?” “Yes, indeed. Oh my… Your curiosity will cost us a full fare with the rabbit hole finder, because it will be noon there and we will need to ask him to postpone his lunch break. He hates that. Please, do hurry, Sir. I promise we will leave you a hefty tip if you do!” “But Sir, you still haven’t given me any sensible directions, if I may say so…” “Oh yes indeed. We need to get to the West Railway Station and collect our sister, Moe. From there, we need to find a shovel, possibly at the nearest hardware store, a pot of vitamins or some carrot jam for the rabbits – this should be available at a drugstore, four black tall hats, to look like normal people in Glasgow, this is common I suppose, at least one umbrella and some 50 pounds sterling, 1920 issue or older – the National Bank might have some.” “Your sister, huh? …” “Yes…” “Alright, I can’t wait to meet that one. Off we go.” (to be continued)

I took a night job as a taxi driver lately. A combination between money, insomnia and curiosity, with a drop of unearthly passion for darkness – or you can choose any other motivation if need be.

On my first night, a guy came in and gave me torn piece of paper with an address. It was only half legible so I told him I’d drop him off at the corner of the street and wait awhile till he gets to the right door. Then he started to talk to me with a bit of an odd smile. He said: “I need to tell you this, hell, I need to tell someone. I mean, we won’t meet again so this cannot affect you. And you have no idea who I am. Now truth be told, I have no idea who I am either – I’m hoping that address might help.

“Fact is – he continued – I woke up with a bit a commotion, gasping for air, in an apartment, seventh floor, where you picked me up. There was this woman near me trying to help me up. She said something like – are you okay? do you want me to get you something? But I was quite okay really, except I couldn’t remember even how I had got there. So I said I was okay, just a bit tired – and sat down on the bed. You see, at that point, I was still trying to scrape a few memories of the back of my mind, like a name, a date, a place. But no luck. I was completely clueless; and out of a certain sense of politeness I didn’t want to alert her to my condition, of which I didn’t even know too much. I started to search for common information instead of memories, and I was quite relieved to actually find a lot of them: Beethoven, J.F.Kennedy, differential calculus, the Capricorn, and so on, they just came immediately, with no effort.
Then she sat down near me and seemed to continue a discussion we had had earlier. Or rather end it: she said – so that is that; no need to be upset I think, we both know it wouldn’t have worked out in the end. I looked up with a half surprised, half amused glance – apparently she had been my girlfriend and, although she wasn’t exactly what I would have called a stunning beauty and seemed rather plain in speech and attitude, her decision to break apart with me was likely the cause of a very strong emotion on my side, leading to a severe loss of memory. The recollection of a quote from Marcel Proust makes me smile “out loud” – Men who fall in love with beautiful women lack imagination. So, I have imagination. As these deductions were filling in on me, she was becoming less and less comfortable because my reactions were obviously completely out of place. I must confess that the situation was becoming slightly amusing on my side and after another kind of awkward glance at her, I stood up, put my hands in my pockets and said in the most playful voice I could make: – okay, that settles it then. be seeing you! And I just walked out the door, thinking – yup, I’ll be seeing her as soon as I figure out which one of the mobile phone contacts she is. And then a though made me really (and finally) burst into laughter: -what if I just walked out of my own apartment??! Still, as funny as that would’ve been, I don’t think it is the case. She had that pose of ownership in that apartment, she treated me kind of like a guest. So, that’s it – here I am.”

I dropped him off at the corner of the street and waited… (to be continued )

the bruise on my belly
is turning reddish with delight -
a lavish mood, with tea and jelly
that used to be the sea last night.

it is a memory
of something never born
a worn and comfortable theory
of my left breast and you – a tiny, infinitely lusting thorn.

that small bruise, with an air
of Gypsy wound, while fighting for a wife,
still gives me life and since it has been there
a morning’s second hasn’t passed unloved.

and for each other second of my way
i have my cosmic wide umbrella
to mimic all and to confuse the fray
about the bruise on my belly.

I am on a tram, at night. There are few people around – I take a seat in front of a middle aged man, wearing a suit and worn briefcase. I see that he looks at me intensely and I avoid his stare as best I can. Then he offers me a plastic water bottle with a few sips left at the bottom. He says it is ambrosia, the drink of gods. He says he knows I find it hard to believe, it was passed on to him also, a few hours ago. He drank and he felt it was way too powerful for him. In fact, he was so afraid, that he cowered under a bench in the park and staid there until it wore off. Of course, there is a chance the man is crazy and there is a chance the whole thing is a prank or even worse – I think to myself. Then all of sudden I realize that I am on a dream, so I relax and drink the ambrosia. And then I wake up abruptly. It wouldn’t be such a special dream, but something happened the other day. I felt I was in a dream also, but I was not. It was the same kind of certitude, the same relaxed refusal of reality. I must train my mind to resist this temptation, to be moral and responsible even in a dream, because real life is made of irreversible changes. And then I asked myself: what happens in a dream – is that reversible? Will not a dream change my life permanently, just as well?

I am in Amsterdam, walking by the Red Light District at night, between two endless rows of dim lit red neon lights, above windows where the prostitutes show off. I wear a light fabric dark blue suit, a striped shirt and a black hat with a ribbon. I am freshly shaved and my body smells slightly of expensive perfume. I walk into one of the sliding windows, without asking any questions. I pull the curtains closed – then I take off my hat, I take the prostitute’s hand I kiss it. I say my name and present my respects. She smiles, understanding what I am and bows in a cheerful yet elegant manner, in acknowledgment of my secret. I take off my clothes and arrange them neatly, while she prepares a small cup of oily tincture, with mint leaves, alcohol, strong smelling spice and the burned ashes of some unknown herbs. She dips her fingers in the mixture and touches me, whispering in my ear – on the eyebrows “…that you want to keep your eyes shut”; on the lips “…that you want my lips on yours always”; and on my chest, in a straight line from the neck down “…that your heart beats faster, faster”. She takes some more and touches herself on the back in two places, then puts my hands there “…that you want to hold me like this”. And I feel making love as a force of gravity, with my eyes closed, my lips entwined with hers and my hands radiating a burning sensation from her back. Then I feel I am breaking apart, in minuscule parts with odd shapes engulfed in light, immensely bright and warm.
When the light dims out, I am on a prison corridor, walking slowly. Inmates on both sides make noise, cheer and quarrel – “Best damn death I’ve ever seen”, “Dying in bed sucks, man!”, “Do the heartbeat trick again, dude!”

The merry Mr. Twister
And his hairy, though quite short companion
Have returned
To these lands, yearning for a winter -

With hot steps rushing through the snow
And icy water, all aglow
With frost where there is sand and rock
With locks of light around your nose
With cosmic sights to watch and hold
And fold around your tail at night
To make a bit of darkness white.

Thus had to say the white and brown
Lick, the Jack, the sidekick Russel
Who made love such a hassle
Since he declared it waf!, illegal.

Yes, they returned, the two, the peers,
The weary world saw them once more
With sore eyes and a tiny heart.

And, though apart from all their dear,
They rushed to her embrace again!
And then the world, in her wide place
Just by the sun, or slightly to the left
Decided it is time to go.

And now, in her place, on the pedestal
There’s a half lime, beside a pot of tea
With Mr. Twister seated by
And Lick, who does what he knows best.

We’ve no idea if you have seen the world of late (or just awhile ago), atop the lean and crafty ways of mommy galaxy. We miss her with a splinter in our hearts and have decided to call off the winter without her.
Soon, Mr. Twister will be dreaming, and his sidekick, Lick, will drink the tea and be as happy as they both can be. Or they will bear the slings and arrows of the evil lime, until somebody, in his rhyme, will ask: to be? or not to be?

rose petals, never! oh never!, three D, dearly beloved we are gathered here, today, one year from now, the tallest building, the longest hour, twins, dog breathing over sleeping beauty, his master’s voice, oranges, water, sky curved to the right, above the rocks surrounding the small bay with brightly colored umbrellas, engine sound at 6000 RPM, rage, tears, wish you were dead, wish I was five days late, wish you a Merry Christmas, wish you a happy birthday, on a pillow, with silver and gold from a thousand and one nights, the wind that night, windows reflecting the stars, eyes shut, mouth open, mouth leaving the world, mouth feeling the Grand Soul, the mother and the father of unborn children, the beginning, the omega, tongue counting the heartbeat, streaming blood with pictures on the wall, bed sheets and screams when nobody is home, white and red, whiskey, here I am with a ball and a chain yeah!, Puccini, don’t wake up! please, don’t wake up!, summer: point in the Universe where there are trees, flowers and orgasms, wine, memory erased, avatars of winters passed, resurrection, candles, I think I’m pregnant, salsa in the Galaxy, dwarfs awoken in the middle of the night, whisper and kiss my ear, there, one year ago, another way to leave me behind, make you stay, make you mine, make the world yours, make you my world, transform everything, I don’t want you to change, I’ll change for you, blue satin, blue garters, blue ribbon in my hair, this is your gift, are you sure you want this? yes… try to go easy, he’s gone, I can’t think about anything else, I can’t just leave you, I can’t leave the cat all alone, we’ll take her with us, hey, Sir, where is this train going? because you just look so beautiful together, it is snowing and we kiss, this is for you, open it, will you? will I? how do you do, we have met before, my name means the sound of lips around your left foot thumb, it’s Apache, but we are far from our lands, where there are fields with flowers and we die making love and the earth takes our bodies and makes trees of them because trees are made of two halves becoming complete, I completely forgot, don’t be upset honey, well I remember, it was cloudy and you said…, time will heal, will bring new life, beauty will never be the same, you said I was a miracle, a feeling and a promise, that’s what you said.

Oh, what a parrot I turned out to be,
And you – another parrot, with me, all along.

A mirror for my self reflecting words
To help you wind your self projecting mind.

And how I wept for, ‘how I dreamed of
Your wretched feathers made of blue and lime
Sublime under the morning dew
And five feet under – this ol’ stone adorning.

Oh, dear, dear, what a parrot!
How subtly blunt were all my gestures
And utterances of love and hanging-

The wide horizon that’s presenting
A cool glass with a friendly poison!

A crystal tree
In clear water
To make a nest for wonder bird
And stop those dreams that sought her.

(found among the intimate records of Lady Mittenice, after a long and devilishly inciting search)

A silver cat made her way in
My bed sheets filled with restless sleep -
As deep and lank as she could creep
To reach the world, under my skin.

And for each moment in her grip
The world itself went rushing by
And, though so far, it seemed to lie
As close as but a single leap.

My lips went numb and in their nest,
A scent of oranges and rum
Slipped lean under my tongue, a drum
To fill the longing in my breast.

And for a second, perhaps a bit longer than most other seconds in my life, I was -

The Cosmos, in her habitat,
With nothing but a silver cat.

And I laughed. I woke shivering with fear, of what I had just experienced – but I was laughing. I was nude and the mere understanding of my cosmic nudity that separated me from the rest of the elements in the Universe made me barbarically happy.

• Maxim Vengerov
• David Garett
• Itzhak Perlman

Intre doua “degustari”, va puteti clati urechile cu perle nemuritoare ale clasicului american – – pentru neutralizare deplina a timpanului.

Why was invented by No. Then it was thrown away, as a failed experiment, and just as it hit the ground, in that fatal instant, No realized he had made a devastating mistake. Why was never supposed to break, because it was unbounded – an infinitely repeatable, unbounded, complex utterance. Almost, No commented later – a truth in its own.

Why had only one answer in the beginning, but as it split into more Why-s than our mind can conceive – the answers began to exhaust, gradually, our words, languages, gestures, question marks and even our ability to ignore them.

Eventually, we surrendered and made Why a noble among us, Sir Why, of the Fractals. We gave Why a part of our lives, our mathematics and a corner of nature to play with. One would comment that we had done the same with No and here’s what happened. But No was not unbounded, like Why. You square No and add another No – you get negation and a bad mood. You do the same with Why …

… and you link your mind with the Universe, to the brink of sinking in your pillow, with the night screaming in your hand and the land shaking and the lake freezing outside the window and your eyes aglow and your eyes shut and a gut feeling that eveything’s right and white electrons rushing through your spine, and red wine and warm skin and all the words within.

And every Why is identical to that initial Why invented by No. Can you believe that? What a lucky bastard…

Leftenent Wanderson, Neverland Yard: Do you mind if I take notes on this interview, Madam?
Lady Mittenice: Not at all, dearie. Where did you say you came from, again?
LW: The Capital, Madam. I’ve recently become a Leftenent of the N’land Yard. As I’ve told you, we are investigating a fairy person we have called Miss Dreamy.
LM: Is that her nickname?
LW: It is a given name to a certain extent, as several unrelated witnesses called her that – but we are at this point unsure wether or not she has introduced herself to any of them, in any form.
LM: I couldn’t help but notice that you are quite far from home, dearie. Is it your habit at the Yard to chase your suspects this far?
LW: Like hounds, Madam. But in al fairness, Miss Dreamy is not exactly a suspect, mainly because there is no crime committed.
LM: Then what is the nature of your interest in her?
LW: Um… you may want to regard the N’land Yard less as an agency of law enforcement and more as an organization of historians. Dreams are constructed from memories and the latter need order, fairness and peace. Miss Dreamy has been a constant source of disturbance, chaos and a cause of war for many dreamers lately- which may not constitute a crime of course, but certainly a reason for a thorough investigation. We are not meant to arrest someone though, merely to memorize the events which took place, in their right order.
LM: I understand. I’ll have to accompany you to my study, Leftenent dearie. There are certain items you need to see.

(a few minutes later)
LM: Take a look at this blue ribbon. It’s a bit torn across and it has smoke on a side. It was once sawn on a night gown – as a historian, perhaps this story may be of some value to you.
LW: Certainly, Madam. Would you mind if I collected this piece of evidence at some point and kept it for our records?
LM: I’m afraid that is impossible, dearie. None of the items that I am about to show you may leave this estate and my proximity. There is … a bond between us. Separating us would result in a chain of events with no conceivable end, no end in Dreamland, anyway.
LW: Very well, Madam – please continue with the story.
LM: Yes… I am also afraid to say you will need to figure much of this story on your own, because I do not entirely know it. All I know are certain bits and pieces, recollections connected to these items. I have no knowledge of their physical origins, nor of the nature of their bond to my own mind. I have but the memory of certain perceptions. This ribbon, for instance…
LW: … are you alright, Madam?
LM: … … yes, dearie. This is what I recall. The images. – I am a gift, dressed in a blue night gown. I offer myself, as life substance, the healing and the ambrosia. And it feels like I am outside my body, a fluid filling the dark. I flow restelessly. I touch walls, then a frozen window. I shiver and stir. Then I touch silky bed sheets. I touch the blue night gown and then I touch a man’s shoulder, with a rushing heartbeat. I fill his lungs and he frowns like a wild beast. Then I hold still for one second, to remember everything just like that – and his hand moves, at the speed of one millionth of an atom revolving, and he rips off this ribbon and then everyting goes dark. The next thing I feel is hot air and freezing air, smoke and sparks jumping around. The smell of burnt dog hair. I float around a wolf running. The blue ribbon is caught around his neck. Two charred sparks glow on it, like gems. He runs through a burning forrest, in the snow, at night. The light is immense, behind him. Then the ribbon falls loose and I am thrown back. The world slows down again, and I move freely, like a wisp. The wolf is far now, frozen just in the middle of a jump over a burning, fallen tree. The flames are solid and bright, like Christmas ornaments. I go to sleep on the ribbon. I remember nothing else.
LW: Madam…?
LM: I know what you are going to ask, dearie. Bear with me and you will soon note the connection to your Miss Dreamy.
LW: Ah, thank you Madam. Please, do continue…
LM: This wrinkled piece of paper. It’s heavy, here – hold it. There is a bit of ink on it. A few drops. That … is what was left of me, the closest thing to dying I have experienced. You remember I told you I made a gift to a man… He decided to return it, or what he had left of it. This is the last drop of it. I am alive in there, just barely, at the brink of a precipice. Such a farse of this miracle we call “dream”, really – to make one more alive then ever, just at the edge of life ending. To give one the smell of freedom, the taste of snow in the blizzard, after misery and longing. When the spot of black ink dried, I couldn’t see anything, it was dark. I could hear myself pump blood, because I was a heart. I couldn’t perceive any choice but to keep beating. I felt cold, like snow, somewhere on a distant limb connected to me somehow. Kneeling. Snow. I felt warm, wet drops. Crying. And I thought there was one thing I could do. I could create. Hope. And I did my best. This paper is part of it.
LW: I think… Wait, let me check something. Ah, yes, here it is – 14:34 East Dreamland Time, January, date not specified – there is a witness identifying Miss Dreamy in a man’s heart, in plain daylight. Very unusual, I thought at the time, but the N’land Yard decided not to keep this as evidence because the chap who testified was considered a bit off and up there…
LM: … but truthful in his account, dearie. Yes, this is indeed what I meant to tell you. These recollections – they belong to your Miss Dreamy. And to me. I … well, do you believe a part of you can just drift away at some point and go into the world and be happy and free, without you? Just – leaving behind bits and pieces?
LW: Are you saying that…
LM: I don’t know, dearie. I am just an old lady with a cat and a miracle hidden well from the world. I never could really understand it. There is one more item though that I would like you to see. A sword. Very thin, made of gold. It is as light as a feather. If a jeweler took a golden ring and melted it in the shape of longsword, this must be what he got. I do not know how to use a sword, and I wouldn’t probably, even if I knew. But in my memory, this sword is hidden well in some locked drawer, because I must have wielded it sometime. You mentioned wars, where Miss Dreamy was present. Could you… ?
LW: There is nothing in our records about a golden sword. But I know a Theodore Bear who might bring light to this. He has mentioned something about a wicked material called condensed fairy dust…
LM: I know of it. But this sword is not made of it. It is just gold. The tip is made of a crystal, a daimon.
LW: You mean, a diamond?
LM: No, a daimon. A soul. One which … I am so afraid of.
LW: … I am sorry if this conversation troubled you Madam. I would really hate myself if I made you sad or weary.
LM: Dearie, each time I touch these items, my troubles go away. It is like I cross that bridge again…

Discutia incepe cu profesorul Hari Seldon si psihoistoria. Inainte de toate, as vrea sa fie clar ca eu admit posibilitatea ca o persoana sa ghiceasca viitorul. Insa cu toata incapatanarea pretind ca termenul corect trebuie sa fie (si sa ramana) “a ghici”. Sa presupunem ca ii propun cuiva urmatorul experiment: “In fiecare zi la ora 12 eu dau cu banul; din momentul in care amandoi am vazut daca a iesit cap sau coada, ai 24 de ore sa-mi spui ce va iesi maine.” Distributia normala de probabilitate este desigur 50% rata de succes la ghicire. Cu toate acestea, as pune pariu ca ea e in majoritatea cazurilor neuniforma – in speta ca sunt oameni mai ghinionisti si altii mai norocosi; sau oameni mai clarvazatori dupa ora 8, sau altii care gresesc mereu daca sunt nemancati. Nu stiu care sunt factorii, insa ce stiu cu siguranta e ca foarte putine fenomene din natura au distributii de probabilitate uniforme. Prin urmare, si in cazul ghicirii unei succesiuni de evenimente oarecare, e mereu posibil sa existe noroc chior si, pe masura, ghinion.

Dar nu orice succesiune de evenimente poate fi demonstrata si cu alte cuvinte cunoscuta inainte de a se intampla. In fapt, exista o infinitate de succesiuni de evenimente care nu pot fi evaluate cu precizie, si doar un numar limitat de succesiuni de evenimente demonstrabile (in speta suma celor pe care fiecare dintre noi le cunoaste cu o acuratete satisfacatoare).

Ca atare, pentru a putea obtine vreun oarecare succes in demersul psihoistoriei, profesorul Seldon ar fi trebuit sa aleaga una din doua cai matematic fezabile. Sa le denumim, in context, Metoda Constrangerilor Minime de Certitudine si Metoda Analizei Statistice.
In primul caz, el ar fi trebuit sa demonstreze mai intai urmatoarea teorema:

Fie o multime de entitati E si o multime de evenimente posibile V. Fie t₀ momentul prezent, intr-o oarecare multime ordonata de masurare a timpului (de exemplu multimea numerelor reale) – si fie functia citeste_viitorul, definita astfel:
citeste_viitorul:Ex[t₀,inf)->V, citeste_viitorul(e,t)=v,
unde v este evenimentul ce urmeaza a se produce asupra entitatii e la momentul t.
Teorema: Pentru orice t din [t₀, inf), exista un epsilon>0 si o submultime finita V_t inclusa in V, pentru care functia citeste_viitorul:(t-epsilon,t+epsilon)->V_t este bine definita si injectiva.

Cu alte cuvinte, in orice moment din timp, exista o vecinatate nenula (o durata) pentru care numarul de evenimente posibile este finit. Ar fi suficient de exemplu sa demonstrezi ca acest numar de evenimente este practic finit - ceea ce ar duce la partea cea mai interesanta a Metodei Constrangerilor Minime:
Fie functia estimeaza_viitorul:ExVx[t₀,inf)->[0,1], definita ca
estimeaza_viitorul(e,v,t)=p, unde p reprezinta probabilitatea ca evenimentul v sa se produca la momentul t asupra entitatii e. Suma tuturor probabilitatilor este 1.
Teorema: Oricare ar fi evenimentul e, timpul t si pmax in intervalul (0,1), exista o multime finita V_t inclusa in V pentru care suma valorilor p=estimeaza_viitorul(e,v,t) unde v apartine lui V_t este egala cu pmax.

Mai exact, putem estima cu o probabilitate oricat de mare o multime finita de posibile evenimente ce se pot intampla la un moment dat asupra unei entitati.

Metoda Analizei Statistice s-ar baza pe un concept mult mai simplu (si in mare masura empiric) – anume ponderea statistica a unui eveniment intr-un domeniu de timp suficient de larg.
Aceasta Metoda face anumite presupuneri. In primul rand, entitatea interesanta (al carei viitor dorim sa-l prezicem) este un sistem prevazut cu autoreglare. Sub incidenta unui numar suficient de mare de evenimente, sistemul se adapteaza si revine la o anumita stare “normala” a sa. Mai mult, sistemul este capabil sa-si defineasca o astfel de stare de fiecare data cand sub incidenta unui eveniment este scos in mod ireversibil din aceasta stare. De asemenea, analiza nu isi propune sa prezica starile tranzitorii ale entitatii, ci doar pe cele “normale”.
A doua presupunere este autoprevizibilitatea – un concept al naibii de ciudat. In speta, el spune ca entitatea nu va intreprinde sau provoca din proprie initiativa un eveniment la care ea insasi nu se astepta. Din acest punct de vedere, de exemplu, un om nu este o entitate interesanta, pentru ca el poate foarte bine calca cu toata increderea intr-o groapa, rupandu-si in mod total imprevizibil piciorul. Umanitatea, in schimb, poate fi, cu anumite rezerve, fi asociata unei entitati autoprevizibile. Problema e ca rezervele la care ma refer nu sunt doar ipotetice, in sensul ca suntem neindoielnic o rasa predispusa la accidente (e adevarat, nu intotdeauna buclucuri). Adica, nu am avut niciodata vreo sansa sa anticipam Batalia de la Thermopile, Teoria Relativitatii sau pe Gauguin. Si, foarte probabil, in eventualitatea ca vreuna nu ar fi survenit, diverse aspecte ar fi fost diferite astazi, poate am vorbi un dialect persan, sau am suferi mai multi de cataracta, pentru ca nu s-ar fi inventat fenomenul LASER.
Esential in cazul accidentelor este ca ele sunt in general evitabile. In cazul celor mai multe, de la orice nivel ai privi problema, nu e doar o problema de timp, cu alte cuvinte, nu toti oamenii de stiinta au o probabilitatea de a descoperi semiconductorul, si pana la urma unul se prinde. Semiconductorul, ca si flogistonul, ar putea foarte bine ramane un simplu subiect de amuzament in istoria stiintei.
Mai mult, accidentele sunt evitabile in orice context mai mult sau mai putin discursiv. “Imperiile se ridica si se prabusesc” suna o maxima stereotipa; o alta zice: “istoria se repeta”. Realitatea e ca istoria nu se repeta, ea este perfect asimetrica si ireversibila. Anumite evenimente sunt previzibile, desigur (si probabil sunt si prevazute in gura mare), dar majoritatea, si in special “accidentele” nu pot face obiectul unei analize statistice, pentru ca … pur si simplu nu sunt statistice, sunt singulare, nu au o probabilitate de aparitie asociata. A spune ca imperiile se ridica si se prabusesc te ajuta la fel de mult in fenomenul clarviziunii ca si a spune ca oamenii se nasc si mor. Stim toti asta, e o tautologie. La fel sunt si alte “conexiuni” – mereu va exista un “cel mai puternic imperiu”, iar acesta se va afla mereu oarecum “la rasarit” de oricine, pentru ca traim pe un glob; cu siguranta acesta isi va dori putere si bogatie, pentru ca daca si-ar dori umilinta si saracie s-ar numi mai degraba “cel mai slab imperiu”, sau Albania.
Important (in mod banal) nu e sa ajungi la concluzia ca omul in cele din urma moare, ci cand si de ce se va intampla acest lucru. Nu, Hari Seldon cu siguranta nu a mers pe calea Analizei Statistice, pentru ca pur si simplu ar fi fost dintre aceia care demonstreaza sambata de ce o sa bata cu siguranta Steaua duminica, iar apoi luni demonstreaza de ce a mancat bataie.

Raman cu intrebarea daca poate fi demonstrata teorema Constrangerilor Minime.

a deviant, delirious discourse on paths and randomness, or how to listen to the certain sound a mitten does on the frosty window of the balcony, in 1902

Glory, the grinding history amended
By a rope and a mouse in memory!

- there, she uttered, falling.

And the air raged by
Like the atmosphere around the storm.

She shrieked her victory
Sleepless and worn,
Her torn face matching
The wounds on her world.

Glory, for each rock
The wretch felt warm on her harmed feet!
Each atom in the sand,
The heavy fluid of her essence,
The taste of life inside her, on my tongue.

Her eyes shut deep in memory blue.
1902 came by and went-
The spent time of a drop of scent
Blushed in the wake of coming true.

Ieri la radio, o discutie comuna cu ascultatorii. La un moment dat, unul dintre comentatori a afirmat, intr-un mod cat se poate de stereotip – si de altfel aprobat calduros de toti ceilalti participanti la discutie – ca nu se poate pune un pret pentru salvarea unui om, cu alte cuvinte ca trebuie facut absolut orice pentru acel scop.

Mie mi-a atras atentia aceasta afirmatie, desi o mai auzisem inainte – in ideea ca ceva mi se parea ca nu se potriveste. Desigur, e o initiativa (sau o fraza) nobila. Cu care insa, dupa o scurta prelucrare, am constatat ca nu pot fi de acord.

In realitate, pretul salvarii unui om anume este egal cu cel mai mic pret ce trebuie platit pentru a salva oricare dintre oamenii ce au nevoie sa fie salvati.

Pare cinica analiza aceasta, pentru ca ea spune de fapt “pentru a te salva pe tine trebuie sa platesc un pret cu care as putea salva alti trei, deci nu te voi salva, te voi sacrifica pentru a-i salva pe ceilalti.” Lucru care, evident, nu se traduce neaparat in bani – ci in orice reprezinta o alegere bazata pe resurse limitate. Poate bunaoara sa reprezinte paradigma unui comandant de pompieri care are 10 oameni si 5 minute la dispozitie sa salveze 30 de victime aflate in locuri diferite ale unei cladiri in flacari. Nu-i poate salva pe toti, asa ca ii va alege pe cei mai apropiati, pentru ca astfel va salva mai multi.

Ca o remarca totusi, chiar si atunci cand avem posibilitatea sa facem aceasta alegere, ea se aplica strict contributiei noastre la salvarea unui om, pentru ca, dincolo de determinismul sau nedeterminismul acestei contributii, e bine de tinut seama ca resursele noastre sunt mereu limitate, in timp ce ale lui Dumnezeu sunt mereu nelimitate. Daca as fi medic, de exemplu, as tine cont cu strictete de acest lucru, pentru a-mi pastra obiectivitatea si a ma impiedica sa-mi pun necontenit intrebarea “ce s-ar fi intamplat daca as fi ales altfel?”

Voi starni un cuib de viespi fara doar si poate, insa se poate spune ca ma mananca pielea, mai ales pentru o paruiala intelectuala de curtea scolii, ori de coltul strazii, primavara – in speta vremea cand inca nu se instalasera tabu-urile si plictiseala (mai degraba decat teama) de a le desfiinta.

Tema discutiei este pacatul, sau mai exact ce te face sa ajungi in Rai si ce te face sa ajungi in Iad. Sunt desigur subiectiv, crestin fiind (si in general vom incerca sa ramanem in aceasta arie dogmatica), insa nu voi refuza sub nici o forma un argument ce tine de alte religii sau coduri morale – si ma astept la aceeasi atitudine de la interlocutori.

Ca sa mai ingustez putin domeniul discutiei, voi incepe prin a pune cateva intrebari si a mentiona si care este pozitia mea.

Unu. Pacatul este un concept relativ sau absolut?
In speta, daca este absolut, atunci se defineste in referinta la un cod religios (un set de porunci sau de invataturi, echivalent cu justitia unui stat). Astfel, inocenta sau vinovatia unui potential pacatos sunt clar definite, dar exista o mica problema: religia nu presupune existenta unui contract social, asa cum presupune justitia unui stat – cu alte cuvinte, chiar daca nu esti de acord cu ceea ce religia considera a fi “pacat”, sau mai important daca nu ai habar de acest lucru (pentru ca de exemplu te-ai nascut in sanul altei religii sau fara aceasta notiune prin preajma) – esti in continuare pasibil de judecata prin prisma dogmei religioase. De unde eterna intrebare: in afara de crestini, restul lumii se duce in Iad si asta e?
Daca pe de alta parte pacatul este relativ, atunci se defineste in constiinta fiecarui om in parte, lasand in grija puterii lui de intelegere si judecata sa decida cand a pacatuit si cand nu. Desigur, se poate obiecta ca un om poate faptui cele mai oribile crime si isi poate pastra in acelasi timp o constiinta curata, in virtutea unei filosofii construite exact pentru acest scop, sau a unei boli psihice. Dar, la urma urmei, lupul este o fiinta rea si iepurele e o fiinta buna, din cauza preferintelor lor culinare? Probabil nu. In plus, multe din filosofiile construite pentru a faptui cele mai oribile crime au fost construite chiar pe considerente religioase.
Eu sustin varianta pacatului relativ.

Doi. Pacatul este arhetipal sau decurge din circumstante?
Daca e arhetipal, inseamna acelasi lucru in orice timp si in orice loc din lume. A ucide, de pilda, este in mod egal un pacat fie ca e vorba de o crima din gelozie sau de batalia de la Agincourt. Oricat de justificata e de scopul sau de cursul evenimentelor ce au adus acolo, uciderea ramane un pacat.
Daca pacatul este circumstantial, pe de o parte acest lucru permite religiei, sau mai degraba reprezentantilor ei sa defineasca existenta si gravitatea pacatelor in functie de realitatea sociala, culturala etc. din timpul si spatiul in care traiesc. Pe de alta parte, permite constiintei fiecaruia o maleabilitate crescuta, de asa natura incat sa justifice existenta unor “pacate tolerate”, in principal ca urmare a frecventei savarsirii lor intr-un anumit context social / cultural.
Eu sustin varianta pacatului arhetipal.

Trei. Care este (totusi ) opusul pacatului?
Ma refer la paradigma lui Kierkegaard – ‘Opusul pacatului nu este virtutea, este credinta’. Varianta lui Steinhardt – ‘Opusul pacatului este libertatea’. Pur religios vorbind, credinta te mantuieste. Dar este oare un leac absolut? Poti trai in pacat toata viata, planuind sa incepi sa crezi candva la batranete, voltairian, pentru a ajunge totusi in Rai? – Sigur, nu poti planui sa nu mori pana atunci, dar chiar si asumandu-ti acest risc, este valida aceasta logica? Exemplele biblice ne arata ca credinta se manifesta in instante, in stari de iluminare. Libertatea pe de alta parte se manifesta in mod continuu, permanent, este un element intrinsec al fiintei umane – sau, tot in mod intrinsec, nu este.
Eu sustin varianta lui Steinhardt. As mentiona ca o consider o extindere, nu o contrazicere a variantei lui Kierkegaard

Patru. Exista o motivatie de sine, independenta, pentru a nu pacatui?
E o intrebare deopotriva de dogmatica religioasa si de filosofie socratica. Eu urmez astfel un cod moral pentru ca altfel ajung in Iad dupa moarte, singura mea motivatie fiind prin urmare pe lumea cealalta? Daca este asa, ma vad pus in imposibilitatea de a convinge (cu argumente pur logice) un ateu sa urmeze acest cod. Dar Iadul sau Raiul nu sunt motivatii de sine, sunt externe (si in mare masura abstracte). Credinta insasi este o motivatie externa, pentru ca eu, ca si om, nu ar trebui sa fiu fortat de o autoritate oarecare, morala sau concreta, sa fiu bun – tocmai ca urmare a faptului ca pot discerne ce este bun si ce este rau. Ar trebui sa fiu mai fericit si mai impacat fiind bun decat fiind rau, in virtutea acelui discernamant.
Pe de alta parte, se poate ca si fericirea sa fie subiectul unui discernamant similar cu binele si raul, insa ne-relationate in vreun fel. Si atunci, indiferent de rezultatele individuale ale acestor doua discernaminte, nu va exista niciodata in mod necesar o motivatie independenta pentru a nu pacatui, noi toti fiind egalizati de motivatia externa, fie ea de sorginte divina sau pamanteasca – dar in ambele cazuri coercitiva.
Eu sustin varianta existentei unei motivatii independente.i

Note: please treat this as a natural, albeit late extension of the D-Paladin Doctrine. There are few such simple and elegant principles, who many times govern our lives and make them spectacular, even if as many as one or two people get to observe it and even those so rarely understand what lies beneath.

The Infinity principle – Life, as the sequence of events between birth and passing, is infinite.

Notes: This does not refer to time, space, or any other measurable asset that can be associated with the common notion of life. We do not whish to bind physical phenomena which we are at best unsure about. The meaning of this principle is that life is not a discrete sequence, a numerable set of events (either own or inflicted upon it). More to the point, at the very instant I am writing these principle, I am unaware of even the raw proportion of events that act upon my life and influence it in some way, be those related to a wrist watch malfunctioning in Hong Kong, causing the lovely miss Jin not to call me as agreed, half across the globe – or just as well to an asteroid on the other side of the Sun, causing a freak nuclear reaction and thus an unexpectedly warm day and several happy bugs in the grass.

Definition: Rapture - An event of such nature that affects all future event threads in at least one life.
Previous empirical note: Inspiration – an event causing you a chance to change other people’s lives. Error – an event causing you a chance to change your own life.

The Rapture Doctrine: There is no natural limit to the number of raptures that can occur in life. Moreover, except for the naturally irreversible events, such as birth and passing, there is also no natural limit to the number of raptures of any particular kind.

Notes: All ‘de facto’ limits are either conventional, educated or self-imposed. This means reversible. There is no limit to how many times one can change, can love, can win or lose, can learn or forget crucial elements of life. A single lifespan can hold an infinity of raptures. As a practical corolary, a chain of events ends only with a naturally irreversible event, not before that. Not surprisingly, like nature itself, we humans are capable of this complexity and endowed with the consciousness needed to perceive it. We sometimes convince ourselves of our own limitedness, for the purpose of withstanding “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”, that we define as final raptures. But they are not.

Fairy Policewoman Wanderson: Time of examination 37:03, full moon, January, chapter 5, East Dreamland Time. The defendant’s lawyer is present and acknowledges all legal conditions to have been met, so as to be able to proceed …
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Huh? Oh yes, yes… No, wait!
FPW: Yes, Mr. Horatio?
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Um… are you sure my client is of enough height to be held legally responsible?
FPW: Your client is a dwarf, Mr. Horatio – and his height was considered sufficient to serve in the army, as his record shows.
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Right. Still: are you absolutely sure – I mean, being short should present a considerable legal advantage … ?
Mungo: You’re fired.

FPW: Excuse me, Sir?
Mungo: The bleedin’ Englishman’s fired for all I’m concerned. Nobody makes cracks on me height. Especially not a long-shangs with a parrot for a hat like this ‘ere!
FPW: I’m afraid you’ll need to stick with this one for the examination, Sir – we’ll be able to produce a substitute solicitor by the time of your preliminary hearing, if you should want that. Besides, Sir, you’re not paying for your lawayer, it is assigned from the public office. This means you cannot actually fire him.
Mungo: Aye, but he’s still not me lawyer.
FPW: Sir, according to our examination rulebook, I can proceed with the examination if the solicitor was in agreement with you at the beginning of the session – which he was. At this point, I can only warn you that we will take note of all your answers just as if Mr. Horatio here was your lawyer. The difference is that we will no longer make official note of his interventions.
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Oh… So I might as well leave already?
FPW: Certainly, Mr. Horatio – if you insist on getting fired for real, from the public office. To presently avoid that situation, I suggest you stay and make yourself useful, or otherwise conspicuous.
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Huh… alright…
FPW: Good. Now, to procee….
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: ’scuse me, Miss Wanderson – what do you suppose I could do to help … errr…. my ex-client, from eh… my position now ?
FPW: … …. We would both appreciate a sandwitch and some tea. … Would you sit down, Mr. Horatio!!!… You will do just as if Mr. Mungo were still your client – which, technically, he is – while trying to make yourself sufferable.
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Oh, okay…
FPW: Good. Having settled that, all conditions are met to start the examination. Would you state your name and binding, Sir?
Mungo: Me name’s Mungo and me binding’s been suspended, and ye darn well know that.
FPW: Sir, there are serious acusations against you – you have been brought in for this examination, on charges of luvstruck fighting, waltz toe-stepping and injurious grumbling at husky puppies – of the latter two I presume our suspicions are all but confirmed, from the first glance almost – and mind you, it has nothing to do with your size. Now please state the name of your former binding.
Mungo: Ivan.
FPW: Thank you. May I ask what are the circumstances under which you have acquired that binding?
Mungo: That bucket o’ grass ridin’ sunrise decided to fall in love.
FPW: … And?
Mungo: Tha’ssit – blast, woman: I’m an evil dwarf, for the sake of Lake Kuns and MacTavish! I’m supposed to fight luvstruck sissies, step on toes and grumble at puppies!!! I’s me bleedin’ job!
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: … err… I’d like to remind you Mr. Dwar… Mungo that everything you say is…
Mungo: Aye, ye’re going straight for a smacked face!
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Sorry…
Mungo: Cork it!
FPW: Who was Ivan in love with?
Mungo: Oh, the lad still is in love – the Lovely Miss Dreamy, he called her.
FPW: Well, Mr. Mungo – your suspension could have occured in two possible situations – one is overstepping the duties specified in your charter, the second is the completion or obsoletion of said duties. Being taken in and brought to the NLand Yard would tend to suggest the first option.
Mungo: Nay, the lad beat me fair and square. Made ‘im flatten a few toes for that and I may have pissed off a few well placed dogs in the process, but I didn’t do any “oversteppin’”. Chances are he doesn’t even hold me a grudge.
FPW: How about her?
Mungo: Hah! She better darn well not hold ol’ Wolfie grudges!
FPW: And why would that be?
Mungo: Because the tougher the dwarf, the stronger the luv is, luv! Everybody knows that… Except you city sissies, as I’ve taken note.
FPW: … Well thank you for the lesson on medieval thinking, Mr. Mungo. May I remind you though that we are a civilized Dreamland?
Mungo: Bah, civilization – we dwarves invented it! Finally ye discover it – and all of a sudden ye’re teachin’ everyone lessons.
FPW: … Right… Well, regardless – the reason you have been brought to the NLand Yard and not to a regular bedtime precinct for hillbillies, is that we are conducting an investigation on Miss Dreamy, Ivan’s sweetheart. And we need more information.
Mungo: Well, I’ve seen ‘er twice. On one occasion, I flew with her over some blue treetops, in the Highlands – I must admit I was so speechless, seeing my homeland and all, that I was utterly unable to perform any wickedness. On the second occasion though, I’ really outdone meself. Made ‘er cry, too.
FPW: Do tell…
Mungo: Tha’s a trade secret, lass. And there’s also the matter of confidentiality between client and evil dwarf.
FPW: Do tell or else… ?
Solicitor Horatio M.U. Clyde-Kevary: Is that a er…. threat?
Mungo: Ten mugs o’ale says I break ‘im five teeth in one swing.
FPW: That will need to wait till his next nightmare, I’m afraid. And I’m inclined to take you up on that, but only on condition that I witness it.
Mungo: Darn certain, lass! Alright, I be tellin’ ye: ye see, Miss Dreamy has a different atomic distribution than most ladies from dreams. Modern physics are only partially able to explain that. Ye see, lass, a dream can have four (cardinal) orientations – storm versus clear and warm versus cold. Depending on these orientations, the world revolves around them and they react to it. The stability and instability of a certain dream is essentially a function of these reactions, and that at atomic level. As such, it is relatively easy (or at least possible) to anticipate the conception and path of a dream. But not Miss Dreamy. She has a touch of chaos about ‘er – in the strictly moral and clear minded way. Knowing that, I waited for the right instant where ‘er orientation was towards a cold storm, a blizzard – and I had me Ivan duck for cover and wait for it to pass. The catch, lass, is that when she’s in that particular orientation, Miss Dreamy needs to be hugged and she needs to be told luvnicks and sweetnips – which was precisely what me Ivan was not doing. So, I saw that through until I made ‘er cry and then I was brought in – and that’s the extent of my knowledge.
FPW: Can you document this peculiarity of Miss Dreamy, for our record?
Mungo: Aye, lass.
FPW: Would you like to know the rest of the story?
Mungo: Well, lass, it’s not really me number one pain right now, ye understand – because one way or another I’ve botched this one. So ye see, now it’s just like sitting out on a brawl – when I could’ve been shovin’ skulls up arses and…
FPW: Yes, I think we got the idea. Very well, you and your Englishman may consider this examination concluded. Please report to the front desk, for directions on where to pay the due fines for the charges brough against you.
Mungo: Aye, ye jar of crocodile lard – come outside, I’ve got a trusty nail board, no taller and no shorter than I am, just itching to find yer English soft places!

Ce face o groapa “great”? Ce o face sa fie o groapa intre gropi, un model si o inspiratie pentru celelalte gropi? Miss Groapa, President Groapa, Za One, Zi Only, I give you MR. GROAPAAAA! Ce face o groapa sa ajunga la Tonight’s Show sau macar la Stirile de la ora 5? (Pentru inceput, va asigur ca nu astea erau intrebarile pe care mi le puneam ieri, dupa ce trecusem plin de fiori “Neil Armstrong” printr-un crater de pe soseaua Pantelimon si incepusem sa simt cum volanul trage dreapta).

Ei bine nu: erau intrebari ontologice, existentiale, incarcate de sensibilitate si inocenta, despre metafizica, nirvana si muie.

Pe langa acestea, mai aveam una bucata intalnire fulger, in juma de ora, un coleg care se uita trist la cauciucul din stanga fata – si pe dansul, cauciucul, care se uita cam dezumflat la noi. La propriu.

Pentru a rezuma partea neimportanta – facut rost de alta masina, ajuns cu o ora intarziere, constatat ca e bine, pentru ca oricum nici ceilalti nu venisera si chiar daca ar fi venit, ar fi venit degeaba. Dar spre deosebire de noi, nu au venit. Dupa care – intors la locul cu fass, impachetat coleg + trimis la dracu, impreuna cu masina, suflecat maneci, scuipat in maini, scarpinat in cap. De ce scarpinat in cap? Pentru ca una din activitatile la care inca eram virgin, era schimbatul cauciucului. La masina, desigur.

Ca orice masina nemteasca, avea toate sculele plus manual de folosire “pentru Tontzi”, impachetate si puse sub roata de rezerva. In germana, fara poze. Asa ca am petrecut 10 minute studiind cricul, inca 10 ridicand masina cu ajutorul unei manivele ostentativ de mici, si inca 10 lasand masina la loc jos pentru ca nu scosesem inca busoanele de la roata – si mi-era jena de cele 800kg ale masini sa o hatzan cu levierul in stare de suspendare.

Abia in acest moment mi-am pus cu un zambet usor fortat intrebarea “cat de greu poate fi?” Dupa ce m-am sters de transpiratie, privind cu usoara tristete palmele, mi-am dat seama ca acum mutra mea este vopsita in culorile razboiului. Si, asezat resemnat langa balta de pe marginea drumului, pe husa de la scule, am inceput sa scot busoanele de la roata. Intai cu degetele si cu o vorba buna, apoi cu toti muschii de pe mine si de pe camasa – apoi cu picioarele si aia mamii lor – dupa care in sfarsit locatarii de pe soseaua Pantelimon au putut asista, probabil cu un oarecare amuzament la un stand-up (and jumping) comedy, cu un ins, sarind pe un levier, cu un repertoriu larg (desi in mare masura neinteligibil, din fericire) de injuraturi, in genul “‘zgu-#%$-shimo-%&^-asii-$%-ula-#%$$-pash-#$#-au!-4%GAMIA-#$”. Si, desigur, nu erau mai putin de patru. Busoanele.

Dar au iesit in cele din urma. La pachet cu cate un smoc de par alb de la mine (probabil la subrat). De-aici e floare la ureche, zic – 10 minute ridicat masina pe cric, iau roata de rezerva, o asez o insurubez si … cucu, roata de rezerva nu se potriveste. Ea, saraca, arata a roata de Opel, in sensul ca nu era de lemn si nu avea spite de bicicleta. La o examinare mai atenta, era chiar de cauciuc + tabla si relativ de aceeasi dimensiune. La o examinare si mai atenta, constat existenta inopinata a unui inel de plastic pe tambur. Si memoria ma fulgera – e de la jantele noi, e prins acolo ca sa se potriveasca exact. Si e prins bine, nici o nadejde.

Acum, pentru a putea relata sclipirea de geniu care urmeaza, trebuie sa introduc un scurt intermezzo, de la ultimul Gabriel (si Mihail) sarbatorit impreuna cu ex-girlfriend de la data cu pricina. Mai precis, dulcele moment al cadoului. Cand dansa mi-a prezentat cu toata tandretea de care era capabila un joc (>8 ani) de descoperit fosile cu ajutorul unor scule de arheolog in toata legea – ce mai, kitul micului naturalist in devenire. Mi-a susurat dulce in ureche cum ca s-a gandit fix la mine cand l-a vazut in raft la magazin si a stiut in clipa aia ca e exact cadoul potrivit. Eu de colo – hihihi uau! e genial, e super, exact ce-mi doream (huh… quoi? /:) ) si ce tare imi place etc. Si obiectul a zacut in port bagaj de atunci practic neatins.

Pana ieri, cand, cu cauciucul in brate, in plina suferinta, mi-a picat fisa – unde as putea eu gasi un obiect ascutit in forma de dalta si un ciocanel, plus un despartitor cu alura de ranga, doar ca in miniatura?? In kitul micului naturalist, desigur. Au mers ca unse sculele de arheozaur, jur! Geniala, ex-girlfriend-a mea.

In sfarsit, roata s-a potrivit, am strans busoanele cat am putut, dupa care ramasitele pamantesti din jur si am plecat in tromba. Cu 20kmph si morcovul in poponetz, fiindca eu montasem roata si surubarisem la ea, ceea ce imi dadea cam la fel de multa incredere ca un crocodil sub pat. (Si chiar am unul, desenat artistic pe o camache “chemise la coste” originala si originara din Tunisia – insa aceasta este o alta poveste).

Si astfel memoriile si suferintele urbane ale unui cauciuc bagat in groapa si la propriu si la figurat, au sfarsit la vulcanizare. Unde erau 2 tipi, dintre care unul sef. Evident. Conversatia cu el a fost scurta, insa revigoranta: “-Asteptati un sfert de ora sa termine baiatul de mancat. Baiatul are de facut inca alea 2 masini si e mai bine. – Ce e mai bine? – Sa asteptati un sfert de ora sa termine de mancat … Cat poa’ sa manance? – Asa, si timpul total de asteptat ar fi? – Un sfert de ora, ce nu-ntelegi? – Pai mi-ati spus ca mai are baiatul de terminat inca 2 masini – Nu, ala e alt baiat…”

“Baiatul” a primit bacsis din doua motive: unul – pentru ca a luat intai un cauciuc “nou” si l-a studiat pe toate partile si i s-a parut ceva in neregula ca atare sef’su i-a zis cam din toti dintii sa ia altul. Care chiar era nou. Si al doilea motiv – pentru ca timp de 20 de minute a dat tarcoale un meshter cu ochelari de soare, cu un Audi parcat asa de bine ca abia mai trecea tramvaiul de el: ca cica sa-i verifice si lui cineva presiunea. Like, acum! Si “baiatul” nu numai ca si-a facut treaba mai departe, deloc impresionat, dar (cireasa de pe tort) a mai umflat si mingiuca unei fetite sub nasul meshterului. Asta a fost prea mult. A plecat batos meshterul. Si “baiatul” a primit bacsis.

Just you wait, Mr. Twister, just you wait!
-she said, like fate, one bitter day, in anger.

And Mr. Twister waited long, long time,
Creating letters, after x and y
But just before the fatal z.

With red and scarlet variations -
Sweet letters “why” and “sex”
And decks of cards and rhye
To walk through, when the summer’s ripe,
And berries grow from her sweet hands.

And then, one merry day
His Russel sidekick, Lick
Found Universal truth
While shaving, in the mirror of a lake.

“For Goodness sake”, he said
To his good Master
“We must make haste,
And turn this truth into a gift!”

And Mr. Twister took the truth
And carved of it a little wonder
With fizz and fuzz and mittens,
A drop of wine, a tad of grass
A sound of mass, a short white line
To shine when set on the horizon.

He wrapped the wonder up in blue
And glued it with forgotten lipstick;
He flowered it and made it small
To fit inside a Russel chest.

Then off he went, the happy Lick
The sidekick carrying the miracle.

It resembled the Universe so closely, that it held within a verse and a treasure for each measure of his love. It held the ocean’s waves, that her ocean eyes might turn green; it had the sunrise, that her warm hair might turn red; it had the fields of rhye, that her intoxicating body might lie down and be caressed like never before; and it had the essence of life, that she might live forever. Such a human word – forever…