Disappointment… or not?

It’s been more than 25 years since the revolution has happened in Romania. A revolution that was supposed to open-minds, free-spirits and bring-hope… a revolution that would end communi…

Source: Disappointment

Ok, so I saw this and couldn’t help myself… Otilia beautifully writes here the average concerns of maybe a lot of romanians, but as I read the blog, I found that some arguments and ideas do not work for me. I also felt that the article’s mood regressed towards the end.

I think there are a lot of things to fuel our hopes, and this comes from a person who spends most of the time exclusively alone, who doesn’t watch/read the news and takes almost no notice of national/international politics. Maybe sometimes all we need to do is just distance ourselves from something and try to see things objectively. Sure there are a lot of prejudiced twats, in fact most of us are this way (more or less) and that is none of our fault. If we look at history, we can see why we are this way. There is no shame nor pride in who we are. We just are.

Although things did not change immediately after the revolution (which was to be expected), it seems that we are beginning to make progress now, and by that I’m saying that it should, by now be obvious. Every change in history happens over a long period and it takes into account so many circumstances. For example, most of my generation was influenced very early by american culture through television, books and especially music (which explains why we use so much english). But even an ignorant such as me, happens to come across the need for self knowledge at some point. And in that need one also stumbles into the roots of culture, that fragile and beautiful thing that got battered so many hundreds of years from every side and still holds itself upright and proud. It may lack self esteem, but a part of it’s unconscious accepts the fact that those scars are the ones that make it so beautiful.

I am not a patriot; never was, never will be. Like so many humanitarians across history, I feel that my place is where I choose to be and my duty is always towards humanity as a whole. But as I got a bit wiser over the years, as the american dream faded away in a morning in college, I accepted the reality that Romania is a beautiful country with beautiful people. I accepted the fact that I may as well live here.
I remember when I used to write punk songs that were actually a mixture between black, thrash and alternative metal. That attitude, was in a way just like the rants on facebook, vlogs, blogs or television. It was my way of saying that this country sucks and that I can’t wait to jump unto the shoulder of fame and leave this shithole. Maybe most of us think this way deep down, but that is just another perspective, no more true or false than any other.

We could still create a country the way we want it; it won’t be easy but it’s also not impossible. Instead of bashing our heads against the walls of this labyrinth, we could use our reason to find a way out. Everyone has a role in society, a place where one fits perfectly by being authentic (even if, like me, that person requires “A Room of One’s own”). I have hope that now, after all these years, more and more people will see that reforms are needed on every aspect of society. In our country everything is old because those who care, can’t and/or don’t know how; those who can, don’t know how and/or don’t care and so on… But as everything that is known to mankind can be changed, so can society-all we have to do is find a way to combine the:

I care;

-I know how;

-I can.

Sincerely, t.R. Atom!

Tír fo Thuinn

“I feel the call and only a distant part of me fights it. I feel the voices, all of them, seducing me with sweet promises. The song comes from beneath the water, muffled melodies that give a will of their own to my limbs. The wind is quiet! The trees are asleep!

Oh sweet drink of culture, your waters pour once more from the great depths of the mountain. I drink as though I’ve never drank before! Great gulps-the essence falling through my empty, parched throat. I look around. The trees are asleep! The wind is gone!

The sun shines on the horizon and up in front, the land is green and the ice has melted. The song comes from the water! I think I discern a pattern in the song, it gives me the impulse to look back. I give in to it. The beautiful wood is silent in its sleep, but not the roots of the trees-they ache and throb inside the black moist earth. I raise my head to smell the wind. It’s only a mild scent of pine-a bit tingly but still comfortable.

My heart rushes as I see the view above the lake. I think I spot a siren hiding behind the rock over there! The song, it enthralls me; my body moves above the ice. The voices are now distinct, each instrument-a distinct perspective. I try to listen to each at its time. There’s no sight of the trees and to the wind I give no thought.

The nimph comes out from behind the rock and starts singing. Her voice is a little shrewd; not enough to scare me while trying to ascertain a small authority in the exchange. She moves towards me; slowly, steadily. The words are in an other language, but the tone… the melody… The same wind that brings her song to me, plunges in and out of her orange hair. Her dark eyes stare directly into mine-I think she doesn’t see the trees behind me.

I’m still moving towards her-bare feet sliding; her tail sliding on the uncertain ice. We touch our hands; lock our eyes and engage in the dance. I never knew I could dance, it’s been so long… I barely notice the wind and neither of us even suspects the crawling roots.

The dance becomes intense but then we stop, unsure of the next step. We look ahead for a a few long seconds. We are so close to coming clear of the ice… I think she sees the roots coming from behind me. Now the wind pushes me back from her and in it I can hear her whisper: Come with me!”

So this is a dream I had the night before and I’m a bit glad that I woke up before the terror could fully take hold of me. I shall try not to think of it…

Yours truly, Oliver!

Oh Persephona, the spring will come again…-and maybe next winter will be beautiful

Hello Atom’s! I have wanted to tell you about a song I heard one of these days and since Oliver is not around, I might as well do it.

First, I suppose I should tell you how the song came to be. To be honest, we (here at theRandomAtom) have given ourselves the challenge of writing a story (not per week as the challenge said initially but) in two weeks or as long as it takes. And the first theme in this challenge is the story of a scar, be it physical or emotional. We thought for a while of a scar worth the bother and found none, but last Sunday as I walked through the park with Oliver, a gust of wind stuck to us and when I took notice of it, I focused my mind to the present to observe. It had a sound of its own, an entire symphony at times. That’s when I knew it was Euterpe, daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne, playfully hiding among the falling snowflakes. And then, maybe because she is a nimph from Ancient Greece, I thought of how Oliver would sing that story the gust of wind spoke of. He loved to listen to the bards when he was little, and most of them sang about the glorious ancient days. Of romantic tales and tragedies that gods took part in. He had always been this way, Oliver…

So I told him what I saw and since we’re such good friends, he didn’t even think I’m crazy-which I may as well be… Instead we talked for a while of how winters were in our youth, and how nostalgic it was now to see everything so gray and cold. There was some snow but we thought of it as only a small remnant of the vast welcoming white we missed so much. Then we went to his home and I watched him as he wrote the song. I’ve listened to it, quite a few times-and I love it. He played what seemed to be the tale of goddess Demeter and how she wept for her daughter when Persephona was kidnapped by Hades. How she still ravages the land in winter when Persephona is bound to return to Hades. After all these years, would the betrayal that she felt still be a part of her nature? But what drives her?! Is it hope, for only hope can take one so far into madness…

But Oliver does not think this way. He did not break the pattern of the song to study it. He immersed himself into it completely. Carried by the wave of life that the nimph gave him, he threw himself into that Narnia and he came back taking it as it were-just another ordinary experience.

The story (a small part of it) that Oliver sang, began with the first departure between Persephona and Demeter after the kidnapping. Listening to the song I imagined the goddess of nature wave her hand looking into the distance, where the paling image of her daughter still remains. Then as she turns her head in anguish, leaves start to fall from her hair; as she walks, a carpet is forming behind her with the color of ripe oranges. And such is her sorrow that nature itself changes with her. Trees seem to lose their vigor and grow older, slimmer and shrivel. All gentle creatures run or fly towards safety-which is in front of the goddess; she would cry and with her head bowed ignore everything except the memory of her beautiful daughter. And as that image, that memory grows stronger and more nuanced in her mind,  a feeling of warmth and comfort settles in. Hope and love now overbearing, break the tears falling from her face, shattering them in mid air to form millions of snowflakes that will numb the suffering she left behind in her rage. O, how she raged when the sun told her of the cruel deed, but Zeus had heard her plead and given Persephona back to her. So it will be again in 4 months when she will greet her beloved in her arms. She will weep again but with joy, and all living things will come out from their hiding. Birds will sing and flowers will gently, ever so cautiously show their pretty faces again. But there were still 4 months to wait…

Oliver was now exhausted, he got drunk on that joy of promise Demeter had created for herself-so powerful was the song of the nimph. If he would have perhaps only tasted it instead of throwing himself in, perhaps he would have seen the state of decay which loomed over nature… But once he got drunk, the illusion took hold of him. Maybe the gods do not exist, or maybe Demeter got more bitter as hope left her gradually: for now it was dark outside, and except the wind and the barely falling snowflakes, these past few years were devoid of that comforting touch of mature winter. Maybe as the image of her daughter grew weaker in her mind, Demeter could never again summon the goodness in her to paint the pain in white.

The song Oliver wrote is his story, a story of hope and the angst of waiting for a loved one. This short lament is mine and maybe this is the scar I’ve been searching for-or rather an irritating blister that one pokes at even though one knows that’s a bad thing to do…

Have a wonderful new year, Gerald!