Fear

My fears are not fears,
they are more like people.
And coffee mugs.
Stains on a wall
that grow up the ceiling,
through to the clouds.
A tree stuck in the smoke-room
of some busy airport -
planes flying over,
ash setting in.
My fears, my dogs,
they bite you,
they scrape my neck,
they come in hordes,
sit on command -
always loyal,
never mine.

How to soup up your hot docs

It's been a while. I'll blog soon about the reason why.
In the meantime: HotDocs is in town again...

I love docs. I love docs so much I wanna do docs. Oy, that is another post.. sorry.

Um.. anyhew...
So, I usually see a few films at the festival, mostly at the rush line, cause I realized it's always hit and miss, so why bother.
This year, they brought in a Romanian documentary I really wanted to see: "The world according to Ion B." - a doc about a Romanian artist, who used to be a tramp on the streets of Bucharest, and is now compared to likes of Andy Warhol.

So I spread the word and got two of my friends to join me. Did not "rush" to buy tickets, but then some other friends mentioned tickets are sold out for the first show on Friday night. I looked it up online - yup, no more tickets for Innis Hall on Friday, but some tix for the same doc on Sunday. All good, ordered online, went to pick them up (btw, box office in Yorkville mall, why, people, why?).
I knew that our screening was Sunday at 1:45. Innis Hall was a place where I usually saw Romanian films within the festival organized by TORO Arts Group, so I knew where to go, life was good, I told the girls to meet up at 1:20, that should give us plenty of time.

Sunday comes. 1:20PM. I was at St. George station (5 mins away from the theatre). Girls call me. Desperate that they don't have their tickets. People from the "Rush line" were being let in.
I started running.My friends were at the door. I pulled out our tickets, we all barged through, the HotDocs volunteers made room for us. "ticket holders, straight to the door!" Then someone hurriedly tore off our tickets.

The theatre was already dark, full of people. We were being led in with a flashlight. Images started being projected on the screen. I apologized to my friends for being late, I thought it was at 1:45; they confirmed the hour, but were also confused as to why it had changed. People were getting annoyed so we had to sit down and start watching.

Um, except the images had nothing to do with Ion B. Or Romania. Or anything we had expected. The film started with a monk, praying, in dead silence. My friend said: "is this Ion B?" I said, "no, but I assume it's coming up." See, I presumed this was some kind of short that was showing prior to our movie. We couldn't really talk, this movie was really not using a lot of sound... so we all sat there, me waiting for the short to be over, my friends waiting for me to elucidate the matter. I was certain our show was coming right after, perhaps that's why the mixed-up starting time. Now this here doc was about the life of monks who took the vow of silence, couldn't have been longer than 10 minutes or so, I thought..
Indeed, after perhaps 10-12 minutes, the images faded to black, and a quote from the Bible pops up on the screen. I thought it marvelous, a piece of genious! Unparalleled insight into the life of silent monastic life! I almost started clapping!
Oh, wait, there's more... Same monk who continues praying; and walk along the monastery's walls, and wash his hands, and eat fruit, and read. Ok... I was starting to doubt Ion B was gonna play after all, this was starting to get long...

My friend pulls out her Iphone and looks up the HotDocs Schedule.
Surprise! Our show was playing at the Cumberland!
In the silence of the monastery we started laughing and slouching in our chairs, trying to grasp our breath.
It was too late to do anything about it. Might as well enjoy this film, how much longer could one go on about silent monks? Not long, you'd think, right?
We sat there for over 2 hours! The film went on and on. With the silent praying. And reading. And silent night, and the seasons that went by, and the monastery that stayed there IN SILENCE.
My back was killing me, my friends were ready to kill me as well. So we left. Must be the second time ever in my entire movie going experience that I leave the theatre before the show is over.
I couldn't help feeling like the biggest scatterbrain ever. I couldn't quite understand how my friends hadn't figured it out before we walked in. How no one looked at our tickets that were for a different show, different time, different theatre! I guess it's something you ought to try: use your tickets to get into a show that's already sold out! ;)
Haha, at least we learned what the world looks like according to French/Swedish monks.

Transylvanian humour

I get a lot of spam from friends who think it's a great idea to send around powerpoints with naked women to spread the word on cancer prevention, or to forward pictures of Santa Maria de la Croce del Ponte Azul con las Lagrimas Rosadas in order to make your life better....

Once in a while, if you rummage through the annoying list of jokey emails, you get to enjoy some small gems. Like the one I received today. Well, actually a couple of gems - really darn good Romanian jokes...
So, of course, I decided to translate and share.

The jokes are about people from Transylvania. That's where I'm from. Over there, people are very calm, they take their time doing things, nothing can move them, nothing is ever a disaster for them, they don't like to talk a lot, it's very hard to get them to say something, they like to think things out before they speak, and mostly they just prefer not to speak at all. At least that's what the jokes are made of....

__________________________________________________________________

A Transylvanian on the train... Next to him, a huge bag is blocking the pass-way.
The ticket control constable comes by and tells him:
- listen buddy, take this bag and put it on the luggage rack, stop blocking traffic!
- For sure, sir, I will...
After a while, the constable walks by again:
- My friend, haven't I told you to put your bag in the proper place?
- For sure, I will move it...
- Don't you play games with me, I'll give you a fine you won't be able to carry!
After a while, the constable comes by again:
- what? you still haven't put this away? ok then, I'll teach you a lesson!
and he gives the man a huge fine.
The Transylvanian pays, the constable goes on his way.
Another traveller who witnessed it all cannot retain his amazement:
- Sir, you actually paid that fine? How hard could it be to put the bag where he told you?
The poor Transylvanian says:
- well, how was I supposed to move it, it's not my bag!
________________________________

Why do Transylvanians put bread crumbs in their soup?
- Any idea?
- So that they don't have to open their mouth twice.
________________________________

A Transylvanian walks into a bar and asks for a beer can. The bartender hands him one, the Transylvanian pulls out his pocket-knife and starts cutting away at the lid.
The bartender sees him:
- My friend, just pull on the ring, no need to bother with a knife.
The Transylvanian answers him:
- For sure, my dear sir, the ring is for those who don't have a pocket-knife.

________________________________

A Transylvanian walks into a bar in New York. The bartender tells him straight up that the place only gives drinks to people willing to take a dare. So he dares the Transylvanian to drink a bottle of whiskey in 30 minutes.
The transylvanian apologises, walks out of the bar, and comes back in about 10 minutes. Puts his money on the bar, and takes the dare.
The bartender hands him a bottle of whiskey. The Transylvanian drinks it up in less than 10 minutes.
The bartender is dumbfounded: - oh my god, I didn't think that was possible. I've never seen that happening in my whole life!
The Transylvanian:
- well, my friend, I didn't think it was possible either, but I went to the bar next door and I tried one to see if I can...

Care. In a package.

So Christmas is gone.
I was complaining I did not receive too many gifts this year, so I ended up buying some (quite expensive ones) for myself.
But Santa must've done his rounds and then ended up with another box that had my name on it. It is coming from afar. It is a care package from home. From my home. From my mom and dad.

My parents tend to do this care-package thing once a year, whether it's Christmas or Easter... The box usually contains cards from everyone at home, a couple of clothes that I will probably never wear, a pair or two of shoes that are too tight, and some Romanian-made cosmetics (we don't trust North Americans to take care of our skin, ok?)
Despite my efforts over the years to explain that I have plenty of clothes, and that it is probably cheaper to buy them at ClubMonaco than to have them shipped to me from Romania, my parents do not want to hear about it.

This time, my box, beside the extremely large pair of pants, a church-appropriate skirt, and uncomfortable boots, also has two bottles of cherry (sour-cherry liquor) and some really emotional notes from my dad. He actually went through the attic and found an old magazine where I published some of my poems back in high-school...

I'm drinking the cherry as I translate his touching thoughts:
"I think we die a little bit as of the day we are born (we do, after all, owe life a death), and we die even more as of the day our children leave us!"

And here's one of my published poems:
(English to follow)

Tarie

Am invatat sa merg
cu picioarele rupte,
ce mai conteaza daca voi invata
sa zbor cu aripile frante?
stiu sa vorbesc fara cuvinte,
voi invata sa cant
si fara muzica.
Citesc fara sa vad,
voi asculta fara sa aud.
Simt si fara inima,
voi plange si fara lacrimi.

Strength

I've learned how to walk
with broken legs,
does it matter if I learn
to fly with shattered wings?
I know how to talk with no words,
I will learn how to sing
without the music.
I read without seeing,
I will listen without hearing.
I feel without my heart,
I will cry without tears.



Ok, fine, and here's another. (Oouch, these boots are killing me!):


Pe zi ce trece

Pe zi ce trece mi-e mai greu
sa rasar.
Pe noapte ce vine -
tot mai greu sa apun.
Nu mai am putere sa nasc
lumina in zori,
desi mi-e atat de dor
de culoarea amurgului.

De-as avea care o mama
sa ma nasca
la fiecare sfarsit de noapte
si sa-mi astearna giulgiu
inainte s-adorm,
mi-ar fi mai usor
la amiazi
cand ma vei parasi
in intuneric de grota
si n-ar mai trebui
sa fug
de pe Golgota.

As days go by

As days go by it gets harder
to rise.
As nights keep coming -
harder to set.
I fail to deliver
the light of the dawn,
although I yearn
for the colours of dusk.

I wish I had a mother
for every passing night
to give me birth
and cover me in shrouds
before sleep;
it would be easier
at noon
when you'll leave me alone
in my dark cave
and so I won't have
to run away from Calvary.




Ok, shut up, I was 16, ok? :)

My love affair... with a book

(or... What doesn't kill you, makes you better)


It must have been about three years ago... I walked into the Librairie Champlain, with the uncertain walk of a street-sweeper going into a Channel boutique...
Having moved to Toronto from Romania four years earlier, I had my eyes out for anything that even remotely represented European culture. For a homesick girl like myself, a French bookstore in Toronto qualified as the runner-up to a Bucharest-bound plane ticket...
My anxiety doubled at the realization that I would have to address the bookstore staff in French (duh), an exercise I hadn't practiced much outside of the classroom - pretty shameful for a self-declared Francophone like myself...

I knew of Champlain from my university French professor, and was hoping to find here a book I read a while back, during high-school in Romania - a time when I took pride in my fluency in French. It didn't take me long to recognize the "Livre de Poche" label, and to find "Bonjour tristesse!" by Francoise Sagan. But now that I was here, surrounded by Europe's classics, I was going to take my time wondering around the shelves...

Oh, I wanted to buy many of those wonderful books.. but for some reason I picked up one of the thickest novels I have ever heard of: Lev Tolstoi's Anna Karenina. You'll probably judge me for having fallen for the cover - but you should take a look at this cover before you speak... I don't know who the painting is actually supposed to represent (there is no reference to the author or title), but there she was: Anna - ravishing, fierce, a bit spiteful, with dark eyes of profound sadness and so proud in her posture and coquetterie, bundled up in her winter fur coat, leather gloves and bracelets, stylish hat with feather and bow, in her carriage, on her way to the theatre perhaps...
I knew her story, I had, of course, seen the movie(s)... but I thought: "I should read this book in French, since I can't read it in Russian; it's a love story and reading it in French will make it even more Romantic".
Actually, I think I already felt an affinity with that woman in the painting, with Anna in fact, and I wanted to know her thoughts on that winter day, in that carriage, on her way to see her lover.. or to run away from him...

In the following days I went through a few pages from the book... my reading was progressing slowly... I was really impatient, I wanted to get to that page where she gets dressed and she gets onto that carriage, that page where her thoughts are all written down, that page where her most secret passion is expressed in words, that page where she finally gets to share her love with Vronski, that page... that page...
But pages came so slow, as Tolstoi switched from one tableau to another, to include both his main characters (Anna and Levine), and there were so many other things happening before we could get to hear Anna, really hear her...
And then my own life got hectic, and school readings started piling up, and projects began to be overdue, and my book was put on a shelf to wait...

I picked it up again in the spring of 2009. I had a hard time putting the pieces back together. There were all of a sudden all these people with long names and nicknames I had forgotten about. But there was also Anna, and Vronski, and Kitty, and Dolly... and so I continued...
This time I couldn't put it aside! The book has traveled with me to Romania and to Hawaii this year, it's been with me to work in my purse every day. I have tried my best to make time for it during my subway ride, lunch break, coffee break, and thesis-writing break.
It wasn't just my eagerness to read, there was also a change of style in Tolstoi's writing (a thing that he himself confessed to); it's as if he finally got to figure out who Anna is, who everybody is in the story. Things are happening so quickly - important things, challenges, death, social mores, illness, children, love, duty, attempted suicide, confessions, implacability...
My heart melted with every page, I felt like I really really understood Anna, and I just couldn't stand how no one else was able to understand her... how Vronski distances himself, how she slowly grows lonelier and sadder despite all the love that she is carrying inside.

I brought up the fact that I was reading Anna over dinner with friends a few weeks ago. I was so surprised by my friend's blunt comment: "I didn't like that book. I didn't understand it. How someone can betray her husband is beyond me". Although I fully appreciate my dear friend's point of view, and I don't necessarily condone Tolstoi's treatment of his heroine, I must take my hat off to him. His novel portrays a gripping drama, a profound story of unexpected love, a terrifying struggle that shakes Anna's soul to its innermost core. I may be biased, I sympathize with her so much sometimes I feel that the only difference between myself and Anna is that I haven't killed myself ('yet' - as another dear friend of mine would say).

Talk about that... there's one more thing... I am now unable to finish up this book... I have just a few more pages left, but I have put it again aside for more than two weeks now... See, I know how it ends, and I don't want it to end.. I somehow want Anna to continue loving, to be that beautiful lady in that carriage on her way to the opera, to defy them all... I want this love story to be fixed, I want it to be patched up, have everybody happy, I want a Hollywood ending goddamit!

Yes, I know what you're thinking, I'm too sentimental... AND I'm wrongfully judging beautiful literature, ain't I?
Well, I will try to get myself together and accompany Anna all the way through.
I will miss carrying her around with me everywhere. My bag will be so much lighter now. And Champlain is no longer there to help me replace her with another beautiful love story published in French...

My translating addiction

Ok, folks, here goes:
My name is Petronela. And I'm a translateohoolic.

I know, this makes no sense if your mother tongue is English and the only translating exercise you ever had to do was for Spanish101 or driving in Quebec and trying to figure out those ARRET signs.

But, see, I'm kinda permanently stuck between two languages, sometimes even three or four - no, I'm not part of a secret sect or anything... However, Romanian is my native language, while English has slowly but surely adopted and taken hold of me (in Romanian: "m-a acaparat"; in French: "m'a accaparée"), and, as you can see, French assiduously competes for a third place.

It would be one thing if my translating problems would start and end with the common, every-day things, as in using proper English constructions instead of the innate, habitual Romanian colloquial syntagms (saying "makes sense" instead of a Romanian construction that would ask for "has sense", etc, etc.)
No, see, for this to be an addiction, it would have to be something that uses up a lot of my resources, time, energy, potentially endangering my physical and psychological well-being. And I quote: 'The term "addiction" is used in many contexts to describe an obsession, compulsion, or excessive psychological dependence' (source: Google definitions- thanks!).
Oh, yes, indeed, translating is something I do simply because I Can't Help It!
I have all these great Romanian (also French and sometimes Italian or even German) songs and poems and quotes in my head, and I just HAVE to, Have to find the perfect English translation for them!
My best friends on the internet are Merriam-webster.com, dictionare.com (Ro-Eng-Ro Dictionary), dexonline.ro (Romanian dictionary), and LeGrandDictionnaireTerminologique (French dictionary).

I spend hours upon hours (usually while at work, hence endangering my physical well-being, cause I could get fired over this) trying to get that perfect word that describes exactly the emotion that the poet was trying to convey, or getting that verse perfectly matched with the tune, so that you can ACTUALLY SING it in English if you wanted to.... like, who cares, right? well, I do, and here's a few of my best translations:

Romanian rock band "Conexiuni" = 'Connexion' - as opposed to 'Connections' :P
Song: "Mai ramai putin" = 'Won't you stay a while' - as opposed to 'Stay a little longer'
Listen on youtube

You came back. How so?
You forgot a thing or is it
That you’ll tell me what for
You so early rushed to exit.
All the things that we shared...
Now lie dead and there is no way
To postpone a farewell
That will chill you to the bone.
Have a seat, it’s still yours
Until midnight there is still time
For us both to enjoy
Do you want us to skip over
All the fake smiles and tears
Or maybe you just want to forget
that you’ll have to leave tonight, too soon
Won’t you stay a while, my love
We can have one night together
Disappearing like a cloud
Let us just enjoy its magic
Let my hand caress your hair...
Let it fill my heart with treasures
Flight of dreams that never lie
High above with angels’ wings
Oh, just stay one more day
I still want you today
Like a blizzard of white diamonds
To fall down on my skin
And then silence to take over
I will drown in your deep blue eyes ...
And falling stars I’ll catch
with my hand, When we are apart
They will console my heart.
Don’t you say a thing
There is no need for long phrases
Won’t you sleep for a bit
I’ll remember this for ever
It is now far too late for you to leave
And then, your train is now gone
Unfulfilled will stay
Its destiny today.
_________________________________________________________

Romanian singer: Nicu Alifantis
Song: "Apa marii" - 'Seawater'
Listen on youtube

mare-albastru giuvaer, a suras in departare...
dinti de spuma alba-n soare, buze umede de cer...
tu ce vinzi, tulburatoare, tanara cu sanii-n vant?
apa marilor straine, domn, eu vreau sa o vand...

The sea, this deep-blue diamond, smiles at us from far away...
its froth teeth the sun admires, its lips moistened by the sky.
'what do you have for sale, charming siren, wrapped in breeze?'
T'is the traveling seawater, mister, that today I have to give'

_________________________________________________________________

After having attempted a short translation for Maria Tanase's folk song "Mi-am pus busuioc in par" = "I put basil in my hair, dear", my friend Mihai Colceriu came up with a huge challenge: to translate "Mocirita cu trifoi" .. which would be something like... "Little meadow full of clover". That will be a post on its own... Or.. You can learn Romanian instead, and help me keep my job!

A few notes on old people

The subway car was full. People were tired, on their way home. Rushing to grab a seat as soon as one emptied, they sat down, closing their eyes, or pulling out something to read –oblivious to what was around them.

The two walked in slowly, almost as if the door chimes were not invented for them – they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Hurrying had long been erased from their list of priorities – replaced perhaps by long exercises of trying to remember which stop to get off at. The automated door mechanism didn’t know respect, so it closed quickly, almost clipping the back of his white short-sleeve. She carefully pulled him in by the hand, trying to advance to a safer spot. The people in the door stepped aside in slow-mo, a bit annoyed by the new passengers attempting to pass by. Eventually, a woman noticed their white hair and got up. The lady next to her pretended not to realize both of them needed a seat, and continued her lecture.

Although at first sight the woman seemed to be the most frail of the two, it was her who stepped aside and allowed him to sit. You would realize only after seeing his face that his sense of space and time had been lost, and that her firm handgrip was the only thing that kept him connected to this world. She only let go of his hand as he leaned on the side panel, and started to breathe easily, hunched in his seat. She then put her hand on his straw hat, fixing it on his head – a gesture of complete tenderness and intimacy. No, he didn’t complain for being treated like a child – his gaze was floating around, measuring the air in between things. She planted herself in-between his seat and the woman who wouldn’t get up, making sure that he was well protected from all sides. It was probably not what she had signed up for, years and years ago – the role of vigilant watchdog. He was for sure not the same guy she had put her signature next to after having been asked if they willingly agree to wed. But here they were, in this Toronto subway car, crammed with all these strangers, making their way to their grandchildren’s place, or the doctor’s or the nursing home. And as her wrinkled eyes slid from the wall map to his helpless grimace, she smiled at the memory of their younger selves, whispering to him: “honey, we’re getting off at the next stop!”