CANON IN AND WHITE (three shortstories) 2022 FELIX RIAN CONST

CANON IN D AND WHITE (three stories) (Personal google supervised translation, From National Romanian to International English)

Felix Constantinescu

CANON IN D AND WHITE

‫והלכו אליך שחוח בני מעניך והשתחוו על־כפות רגליך כל־מנאציך וקראו לך עיר יהוה‬ ‫“" ציון קדוש ישראל׃‬

‫‪ISAIAH 60:14‬‬

and Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume

"My soul sighs and longs ..." the old man said softly, looking at the tombstones of the old and small cemetery. It was a morning scorched by the yellow and red leaves of early autumn. Today the

maples and cherries in the cemetery courtyard were glowing, shining like stained glass or rather like old Russian purple icons.

"My soul sighs," the old man whispered softly, looking thoughtfully at the tombstones engraved with a Star of David engraved with the names of people as if from such distant or distant times, one could not decide, some friends. , almost unknown to others, the ones he remembered watching him walk on his cane while he played on the road in the dust of the 1930s. The air was still laden with the cords of some, stopping at the old man's white beard and long, gray perch, or clinging to the embroidered headdress. The sky was partly cloudy and partly clear with white clouds, some of which were a little dark, and a warm breeze was blowing around, which had begun to knock down some of the leaves.

The cemetery was deserted, only the old man was there, standing in his old age making him look solemn as if he had been commissioned to come and tell his brothers on earth that the time had come to wake up and see the Saint. Unique, the Holy One. - “… and longs…”

Yisra'el was old. He was 83 this fall, and he was as tired as the earth. He had just arrived from Israel, and the bus journey had exhausted him. Until he left for Israel, he did not think he would ever leave, but when he left, he knew that if he lived, he would return.

Miriam, his wife and the mother of his children, was buried in this small cemetery somewhere in Romania. She had died many years before she was able to leave for Eretz Israel, and that was why he refused to leave. He had loved her very much. And now he loved her. In a way, it was the same thing, because he thought Miriam had gone to Elohim, and Elohim is everywhere, right? So it's like Mary is right next to him. The difference is that now his love for Miriam meant a

lot of pain. He couldn't and wouldn't try to forget her; he had never forgotten her. Miri hadn't been the kind of woman you could forget.

- "I long for the courts of the Lord."

Miri had been beautiful, but that was not the point. Her beauty went beyond any human beauty. You felt that Miriam was beautiful even if you sat close to her with your eyes closed. Maybe because they were Hasidim. You didn't have to see Mary to know she was the most beautiful creature, just as you don't have to see a rose to feel beautiful, Yisra'el sometimes thought. Miriam's beauty, as well as the beauty of a flower, found its correspondent in the soul of man, the son of Adam. And that made it possible for us — mortals, as he liked to joke — to see that Miriam is as beautiful as a rose, be it white or pink or red. Miriam and the roses are beautiful because we are beautiful.

A dove flew nearby and landed on one of the tombstones. It was a gray dove with a blue tinge, the old man thought with a smile. Her beak was dark and her legs were red, and the pigeon cast a shadow on the tall plate on which it sat, next to a round stone-cut urn, turning a little and looking at Yisra'el. Yisra'el reached into his pocket to throw a piece of bread at her, but the pigeon got scared and flew away.

"Yes, yes, I forgot," said the old man to himself.

A large cloud began to cover the sun, with the wind blowing harder and getting a little colder. The old man wraps his coat around his chest, his beard and percussion fluttering a little. any trace of paint that was blackened by the weather. He sat down and took a piece of bread out of his pocket and began to eat.

- "After the courts of the Lord." said old Yisra'el Bliume, looking at the cemetery courtyard, which was covered here and there with fallen leaves, most of them yellow, some red. The yellow of

some had, although they fell to the ground, another shade of green. The iron fence of the cemetery was rusty and with traces of peeling paint, and some stones were covered at the base with a little gray-green moss.

- "My heart and my flesh cry out" He had a dream. He had dreamed that he was watching the sun shine through the leaves and that he wanted to go outside, but he kept hitting the window glass. As he tried to get out, he saw himself in the window shaded by the branches of the garden and saw that he was a dove. A poor frightened pigeon. And then he thought in a dream, "Yisra'el you are a rabbi, show that you have more mind!"

And then he stopped, stopped hitting the window, and turned to a man sitting in the room and said, "Sir, are you okay to open my window?"

And the man opened the window, and Yisra'el flew to the light, disappearing into the sky, noticing that as he ascended, the light grew stronger, gaining more and more substance, each ray of light shining like a sword, and above the angels held swords of flames in their hands, their incandescent wings surrounding Elohay's innocent and all-powerful gaze.

- "To the living God!" Yisra'el said softly, looking at the tombstone that read Miriam Bliume, geb. Hönig, 1925 - 1959. The same thing was written in Jewish letters, cut in stone as if by God's finger. A few years after Miriam's death, many Jews told her that she was not doing well in mourning so much, and told her that she should remarry.

But he didn't want to. For him to love and mourn now meant the same thing, until mourning Miriam turned into simply loving Miriam and loving the One Holy One, and all the people made by him, good or bad, smart or fools, knowledgeable or ignorant. He thought that was the only way to do this because he was loved by Shaday, the One Holy One, blessed be his Name.

"The living one," repeated the old man, as if absorbed in his thoughts. It had rained a little when he left the house and came to

the cemetery, but he did not return to take his umbrella. It was hard for him to carry his cane and umbrella with him. He was old, and now, more than in his youth, life had become for him what life really is: El Shaday Adonay. It was his turn now. Walking down the street, raindrops stopped on his face, splashing coldly on his neck. Passing his hand through his beard, he felt it wet as if covered with dewdrops. Also the headgear and hair. Then he remembered the words: “Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, the pure one! Because my head is full of dew, my curls are full of the drops of the night. " He knew that he was at the door of Shaday, the Almighty, and that he would one day open them and be with the One Holy One, blessed be his name and with Miriam forever. When he thought about it, he was as happy as a young man who had discovered love in his heart.

"The living one," Yisra'el said again.

He went to the synagogue in the morning. He had opened the door with a spasm of his soul. Shaday was there, and he could only tremble. "What does Eloah say about all the abandoned synagogues?" Isra'el thought then. Light entered through the few Romanesque arched windows, bathing the printed Bibles with Jewish letters in the morning rays and dew. Bibles, calendars, and prayer books were still sitting on the benches as if their owners had just left the synagogue and were about to return the next day for prayer.

"My soul sighs, too," Yisra'el said as he entered. He had rusted his lock and was afraid that the key would break and he would not be able to enter at all.

There was only one family left in the city, and they were the ones in charge of the synagogue. A family, that's all. The younger ones did not even know what it was like when the Jews lived here. And that child was really telling his mistakes with fear and ingenuity. He was a boy in his twenties, but for Yisra'el he was a child.

She no longer knew his name. He had a Latin name.

In the morning it burned transparently among the red maples in the courtyard flooded by the light of the cemetery. Yisra'el watched as a very warm yellow leaf fell off a branch and now fell to the ground. The old tombs were all covered with grass, and the cemetery gate was rusty. Yisra'el took the piece of bread in his hand and put it in his overcoat pocket. In the grass were dandelions with white globes of seedlings and tiny yellow popcorn and slightly larger blue flowers that looked like gentians. He grabbed the crumbs of bread that had clung to his knees with his palm and tossed them over an anthill.

"Longing," said old Bliume softly.

Miriam was not in the earth, but in the Holy One, and he will go not to the earth, but to the Holy One. That was all he knew.

Some would probably say that if he knew this, it meant he knew everything. Now the leaf was touching the ground. Bliume knew it took so much learning to get to the simplest things. You do not have to know from the outside everything that is written in the Mishnah about the Torah, word for word, but live from the outside the Torah, word for word.

And that baby. A Christian had apologized. Bliume She couldn't remember him, but of course she told him he was forgiven.

Then the boy said that every true Christian is a Hasid of Jesus.

"Interesting," said the old man. They had sat on a bench in the cobbled park next to the supermarket and talked so religiously that it was as if they were in the twin shadows of a cathedral and a synagogue somewhere in the Iberian Middle Ages. A flock of white pigeons flew over Yisra'el. All the pigeons were white, but he did not know how many he had seen. On the sidewalk in front of the cemetery, people were passing in a hurry, such as passers-by in small towns rather than large ones, and many cars were passing on the road. It was highway. The road

was very crowded, although only one side was being worked on, the other being occupied by the equipment of the workers pouring asphalt.

The boy told her he wanted to go to Yeshua. The old man looked at him and said to himself, "Unusually Christian," for the boy's hands and neck were covered with tattoos. Here, what did you say?

Could you repeat that, please? He said he wanted to go to Yeshua.

Positive waiver. Have you heard of positive resignation? Not. What do you think, is it really bad to really want to be with the Lord? One of the white pigeons came up to Bliume and grabbed a larger piece of bread that had fallen next to the anthill. Then he flew a little farther and began to eat it. He stood with one of his feet on the warm yellow of a fallen leaf, the red of his legs merging with the yellow of the leaf, mingling this bright morning like the liquid of watercolors on a sheet of paper.

What is your occupation? Yisra'el had asked. The young man's face was flooded with the rather bright light of an autumn morning. The child showed him the black camera he had hung around his neck and said: Construction and photography. The black plastic of the device was deeply engraved: Nikon. Probably the manufacturer's brand, the old man thought. It was a beautiful day full of light, endless light. People hurried out of the supermarket, and they sat there, soft and serious as two seekers of light. But, said the old man, the One Holy One, my Lord is so beautiful that you cannot photograph everything. Yes, said the boy.

I don't know the answer, old Bliume remembered how he had spoken to the young man, now sitting under the maples from which the wind had begun to knock down several leaves at once. I wonder if the land of our minds will ever find it. A German shepherd dog came running through the open gate of the cemetery, and after looking at him a little, he came straight to Yisra'el. As the dog smelled it, the old man wondered if he was afraid. Then. A middle-aged woman shouted at the dog, both of whom soon disappeared beyond the wall of the building next to the cemetery. Soldiers' dogs had been such a tough

thing. But he really didn't know if he was afraid. He didn't know anymore. He must have intentionally forgotten. Life is a beautiful rose with many fragrant petals and many sharp thorns, he sometimes thought.

And if it weren't for that, the rose wouldn't be as beautiful. He knew he had chosen to forget. He had not forgotten the important things. He knew how many Jews had died in the city before he was deported, and he knew how many Hasidim had died in wartime camps. But he had chosen to forget whether he was afraid of that soldier's dog or not. He had forgotten the color of the dog. He didn't know if it was all black or brown. or if his chest was dark yellow. That he had forgotten. Above him, sitting in the courtyard of the cemetery, the cloud-covered sky shone like the reflection of a face in love in a tall college window along with the clouds that shone in the sky like water lilies.

"I don't know what I should tell you," the old man had told the child. I should probably know the Torah much better so that I could answer you, said Yisra'el, who, although a rabbi, felt that he did not know the endless ocean of Shaday well enough. God, as the Romanians call it. Then they talked for a while. He had told the young man a story. It is an ancient Jewish history. Or Arabic. Or Christian. A great and wise king, Alfonso the Wise, wanted to build in Toledo a building that would be the clearest expression of the sublime, a temple in which God would live. There were many builders at his court, but only three were the most skilled: al-Yusuf, the Moor, Josephus, the Visigoth, and Yosef, the Jew. He called them and said to them, "Build me the beauty that is pure, the building that is so beautiful that God is in it and beautiful because God is in it." I listen and I obey, said the first master named al-Yusuf. I listen and I obey, said the second master, whose name was Josephus. I obey and obey, said the third master, whose name was Yosef. After passing the long sorority given to the craftsmen to build in the stone the mirror of pure beauty, al-Yusuf, Josephus, and Yosef all returned the same day to Alfonso the Wise, who was now old.

Where is the temple you built? Alfonso the Wise asked the first master. Al-Yusuf, the Moorish master, said: Exalted king, the

temple you desire cannot be built by any man because it already exists.

It is the sky, endless as the deserts of mankind, the heaven in which God dwells. I did not build anything because no mosque can surpass what God has done. Heaven is the temple, the expression of the sublime and the beauty, raised by God Himself, the merciful, merciful. Yes, the words of a book tell you the truth, said the wise Alfonso the Wise to the master.

Bend your forehead at the feet of the endless pillars of this temple.

Where is the temple you built? Alfonso asked the second master. Josephus, the Visigoth, answered: Exalted king, my lord; the temple you want cannot be built with stones and mortar because no cathedral can be bright enough. The temple of Christ is me and you, my master. We are the temple, the wise king and king. I myself am the temple, and nothing can be added or taken to what God is doing. All this time I prayed, read, fasted, and prayed that I would not defile this temple so that Christ would not leave. I have come to tell you that you can be the temple you desire, my wise king, my master. And now that the temple that I am and the temple that you are are in the same place in the name of Jesus, these temples become one and in them the presence descends. Yes, said Alfonso, a book warns you with my heart. Fight with our Lord and do not let him go.

Where is the temple you built? Alfonso X the Wise asked the third master. Yosef, the Jew, replied: Raised and learned emperor, what you want cannot be built in Castile.

The pearl of all beauty, the most holy place in which the One Saint blessed be his name - descends shining like a diamond larger than the universe, the temple built of stars built muche upon muche, the oak of Abraham, the light of Ytzhak's eyes, the faith of Yisra ' he - peace be upon them - cannot be lifted up on a foreign land. The most beautiful thing in the universe, the temple of the Jews, can only be built in the midst of the glorious city of peace. I couldn't build anything, my dear emperor. There must be a temple in the land of Judah. Yes, the king said

a book, and the word of God is true. Pray to God for the building of God's temple.

And then, as the day drew to a close, the craftsmen went to their homes, retreating before the emperor, each leaving a little wiser.

And the king, after meeting the three craftsmen, al-Yusuf, the Berber, Josephus, the Christian, and Joseph, the Jew, that day made him a little more submissive, cleaner, and patient. And so it was with Alfonso the Wise and the three craftsmen.

The sky had become almost clear, with the wind blowing lightly on Yisra'el's hair and beard. No one was walking on the sidewalk near the cemetery fence. The white pigeons were still among the tombstones, probably looking for insects in the grass and slowly coming closer and closer to the old man. He took the piece of bread out of his overcoat pocket and began to shred it and toss it to the pigeons, which at first moved away a little, then approached and nibbled on the bread, raising their heads from time to time and looking at Bliume with one eye. Who knows how I see myself, thought Yisra'el. Maybe I see myself in black and white, and like a man reflected in the lens of a convex mirror.

Yisra'el sat with the loaves of bread in his wrinkled hands and looked at the tombstones covered with a few yellow leaves, in the shade of the imperial yellow of ancient China. His eyes were so full as if the stream of a living meaning were within them, as if in Bliume's eyes was an endless river, with islands covered with waterlogged forests and baroque clouds reflected in the immateriality of its waves. Yisra'el's eyes were so bright and deep as if they were a whole galaxy, complex and simple at the same time, full of light, simple and infinite of the One Holy One. In these moments, Yisra'el's gaze expressed something impenetrable, as if his feelings — if they had been handwritten on paper — were a few pages of theology. True theology is written in the heart, he knew it.

The pigeons nibbled on the pieces of bread thrown by the old man into the grass, picking them up in their beaks and moving away a little, tearing them into even smaller pieces and swallowing them. They were very beautiful, with full white feathers and purple beaks and legs. Around Yisra'el and the dark maples, the light had become so bright that the old man's face, his deep, wrinkled eyes, his wrinkled face, his crooked nose, his long, twisted beard and perch, his wide coat, and his black trousers had materialized. boots covered with drops of water left by the rain that had just stopped and could paint in a dark blue to black on which shone like gold leaves, the gray stones covered with letters buried in the grass that was quite large and the incandescent pigeons, all surrounded by the light of serenity springing from the eyes of the Holy One, glorified be His Name, suddenly descended into the lost cemetery on the streets of the city, a place of silence and piety. Now in this light Yisra'el shone with Eloah before him, mirroring his gaze. He was so absorbed in meditation that he did not notice how a few golden leaves carried by the wind had stopped on the overcoat and then flew on, only one stopping at his chest. The wind caressed Yisra'el's forehead, and in his soul the wind shook the leaves of white gold and carried the ants, the memory blew, scattering the dandelions, and the wind merged with the ubiquitous light like mist or dew and the indigo of prayer. It was light. It was day. God was visible because he was present.

The boy had said several things that the boy did not fully understand. About his photos. Now the sun began to rise from the clouds, and the light on Bliume's face grew brighter and brighter, shining in the dark irises surrounded by wrinkled eyelids. 'I read some words written by a Japanese or a Chinese man, I don't remember exactly what it was, in which he said that for a Buddhist his soul is the whole universe. Probably a factor as to why they're doing so poorly. About this time Bliume had begun to regret asking the boy about his photographs. I thought how to translate the feeling; because the feeling is common, between my photos and some tanka poems from a thousand years ago.

You know, I think that if writing artistic pages isn't as candid and

passionate as writing a love letter, then that book isn't worth it. ' Yisra'el was a little bored, but politely nodded and coughed at the same time.

The sun was shining brightly now, and Yisra'el raised his forehead straight to the white-orange globe of the sun, as if warming his rheumatic body. He used to look straight at the sun to keep warm from his childhood. 'Jewish cemetery bathed in light / Stone tears engraved in icy diamonds / Square amber rocks in which alefuri shine / Tombstones carved in huge tears / Covered with Jewish tears… / You are born a Jew / You will know how to cry Far away… / For a long time now / And Jerusalem is built of tears. ', Said old Bliume slowly, with a smile. It was an old Yiddish song, who knows from what time. When he whispered softly to himself in the 1940s, those words made him cry.

Then, after a pause, the boy added: 'The Asian sees God in flowers or on the rocks, and because of this they become important to him. As a Christian, I see God's presence in man, and that's why man is so special to my photographs. When I make a portrait of a blessed man, I feel as if I have the pearl of the flame of a candle before me. In the soul, in the human psyche, God does extraordinary things, things of which we have no idea. ' "That's right," Bliume replied, "but maybe the best way is to see God's presence in God." 'I believe that God has placed in each of us a candlestick, the boy continues, a candlestick in which to burn the light of infinity which is God. And in those who come to God Jesus - I hope you do not mind my words - for the light, He puts in us, ignites in us that infinite light. That's all I want to photograph. Hearts on fire. ' The old man remembered nodding his head and thinking that he might not have understood half of what the child had said, but he had probably understood the boy at last. Now sitting on the old wooden bench set on some metal bars, he remembered that the boy had said that the European space had given only one really important painter, insofar as a painter could be important. Rembrandt. But what had the boy said? Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn. Conversation.

-"My soul…"

They were alive. They were all alive. They were standing on a high staircase leading up from the courtyard of the Auschwitz to the sky. They sat and watched Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume, who did not know how he got there. All of these people were starving, beaten, killed, shot, gassed, and burned alive. Farther on, Germanic sophistry cast in metal above the camp gate gleamed in the moonlight like the edge of a knife. "You must look, you must look, Yisra'el," as if the angel had said. And they shone like people don't usually shine on earth. They had taken the blue or yellow stars from their arms and now held them in wrapped hands like scrolls. They stood on the steps of the stairway lost in the heavens of the One Saint, blessed be His Name, and on the pieces of cloth embroidered with Maghen-David, unseen pens had written psalms. Yisra'el Bliume looked into the distance and saw that the brightness of a staircase could be seen from Birkenau, Meidanek, Dachau, Lublin, and Treblinka. Many, many stairs ascended to the sky from almost all of Europe, some being innumerable, some less, but all were there and shining like the starry sky, like stars like six million stars born of the blind light of the Shoah.

Sometimes darkness is preferred to light, because not all light is true light and not all darkness is darkness. The catacombs were plunged into darkness and silence, and there was too much light in Hiroshima, so much so that it blinded us all to this earth forever. Now they were indestructible, their foreheads shining as if they were diamonds. Now they could not be burned.

And Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume stood there with the Torah scroll in his hand and stared wide-eyed, looking at those on the stairs with their faces burned with brilliance and surrounded by night. He stood like little Shemuel in the darkness of YHWH's temple, blessed be He. Slowly he took off his boots and bowed to the ground surrounded by the fog that had begun to fade like mist, enveloping the entire field of

Oswiecim beyond the horizon. It was light, but it was not daylight, it was dry. "Every flower is a flame," added the angel who had spoken to Yisra'el. Every flame here is a water-lily, as the wise say, clothed in beauty and holiness. ' She took off her boots and threw them as far as she could behind him, then knelt down, leaning her forehead on the ground, and at that moment Miriam returned to sleep, covering her head with her delicate hand, and then Rabbi Yisra'el knew. in a dream he prays with his forehead propped up by his wife's womb.

yl Maryse

-I love you, Yisra'el!

Mary looked at him with a smile and patted his cheek.

-I love you!

They were in front of the synagogue where they had remained as always. After they locked up, they left for the house where they lived after they had to vacate their home in favor of a worker who had close ties to the Securitate, the new home being close to the boundary of a Sabbath road. Their house had once been seized during the legionary fascist regime, followed by Antonescu's military dictatorship. They passed through the city center next to the building that had once housed Lajos Kossuth and Mihai Eminescu a century and a half ago, on different dates. On the way, holding her arm, she told him a Jewish joke that had just appeared. Clara, the wife of the Jew Felix Gedächtnistein, who had owned the second-hand shop before the war and was now a storekeeper at the cannery, had told him.

-Listen! People who, to the best of their ability, think ninetynine percent and have one percent faith are the sick in the head. Instead, those who think one hundred percent and have ninety-nine faiths are the wise, the ones blessed by God. Then, people who think fifty percent of their ability and believe fifty percent are ordinary people. Those who think ninety-nine percent and believe fifty percent are geniuses, very intelligent people. Those who think fifty percent and believe ninety-nine percent are the saints of God. Those who think one percent and believe one percent are the ignorant. The people who think ninety-nine percent and believe ninety-nine percent are the thirty-six tadikim of each generation. Then the one who thinks zero percent and thinks zero percent is the working class, as the Bolshevik Revolution victory signs say. The one who thinks one hundred percent and believes one hundred percent is our Tattoo JV Stalin because he is the best of them all. It is said that this point was made by Osip Mandelstam. But I think this rumor came from above. It's as if you still know what's up with Mandelstam ...

-I love you too, Mary; said Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume as they entered their alley, which had been inhabited decades ago entirely by poor Jewish families in the city. Their love for each other and their

children filled their souls like strong antibodies against state terror over ideas. , of the idea of individuals and of the individual over states. The love that shone in their hearts made them immune to ideology, terror, and death. The almighty love of Shaday, prepared for every Jew and, in fact, for every man. Doesn't Tanach say that every people will come to the Holy Mountain to worship Meh-'lek Adonay tsaw-baw '?

How beautiful Mary was that day. It shone like the flame of a diamond. She held his arm and spoke with a smile, and her gaze seemed to be made of water lily petals. Mary was the beautiful woman beside him, and they were moving in the most wonderful and true dream of the earth. The One Saint was so good, God is a miracle in itself. Mary was like a flower you fall in love with. Saturday's light mingled in her hair and blended into her eyes, they walked past the houses taken as if from a painting by Marc Chagall, and the air was as yellow as if it were made of gold. Miriam's long hair was a little shaken by the wind, and the wind blew them coolly in their faces like the water of a mountain stream.

- "... longs ..."

Mary had once said that she would like to read a book that gave no answer to any of the problems of existence, as is the case in most books, but that the answers to anything were already known.

Miriam loved to read, but she considered many books in society to be second-rate or poor quality, and she literally hunted for good books to read. Yisra'el remembered asking her then, "What good would such a book be?" Miriam's response was, "That would be another thing that would not be answered in the pages of the book."

He was smiling, saying this. She always smiled, especially in situations like this, she liked riddles, she was a real Alice in Wonderland. But what would be the answer? he continued. Mary did not answer. He repeated his question: “What would be the answer to the usefulness of such a book? What good would it do her? ' After insisting a little on Yisra'el,

she said, "For the record." When was all this? ... Long ago, immediately after the war, when they were not married.

Their children loved Miriam very much. She was all their love. And it wasn't just the family that loved Miri as long as she lived. She was beautiful, she was like the swan princess of that Russian painter of the two centuries, Mikhail Vrubel. Bliume had in his office a color photograph of that picture he kept framed in a silver frame. "Swan Princess." So decided the Master, the Only One, by Miriam, very much like the character in Vrubel's painting, so that people who entered the rabbi's office with one thing or another sometimes expressed the assumption that the photograph was a painting for which Miriam herself had posed. "No, it's just a Russian painting," the rabbi used to say. Many kept this impression to themselves and remained with it even after they left Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume's office. Like the swan princess, Miriam was as delicate as if she were made entirely of light from her soul, and her eyes shone like dewdrops. Its infinity shone in her, and her soul enveloped her on all sides like white swan wings, and on her forehead shone diadems of petals. He was once visited by a student of Painting who needed a loan, and noticed Miriam's resemblance to the face in the painting, and then they talked a little about Vrubel's art. And that was in the early 1950's. The young man was a Russian student of Eastern Orthodox faith. It was unbelievable that he had been able to take painting classes at a university in the Roman People's Republic because he did not hide his faith. But it seems that he had an uncle somewhere high in the Soviet hierarchy in the USSR. This young man, Grişa, had given him a Christian vision of things related to this artist. He said that you could not do some of the work done by the talented Vrubel and that it would not destroy you. In addition to the wonderful picture of the swan princess, Vrubel had made a number of other paintings in which the characters were demons and had painted them as beautiful as angels; and in these few paintings he had painted them in the plastic space he had created, goodness. And that was it, said Grisha Stepanici, which destroyed him. You just can't do that. If you see evil as good automatically you will see good as evil. Evil will attack you because evil

always attacks and you will not trust the good because you will consider it evil. And evil will destroy you. But, the student concludes, the painting with the swan princess is wonderful, as are other paintings by the artist. Have you had the opportunity to see any reproduction with the "Complaint", the third variant? Or "Virgo and Baby." If Vrubel had remained in the art of good and lived his art, he would have been blessed. Of course, a materialist critic would not agree with anything I have told you, but what does it matter, Rabbi, if we know that what God says is true, the student concludes. Let the Master help us live the truth, Bliume remembered telling the student as he gave him the little money he could borrow and shook his hand. Now, after so many years, Bliume remembered that the student who had fled to the West in the 1960's had said that there was the art of good and the art of evil in the world, and that every artist had to make a choice. The art of ignorance is only the art of ignorance, it cannot access more because good means knowledge.

These Russians. He had sent her several views of Paris in the 1970s, one with the Louvre Museum and two with Our Lady.

Miriam's family had died almost entirely in pogroms or in Transnistria. She, who was the youngest in the family, had escaped because of a German friend of her older sister, Felice. This old friend of hers had learned that she had cancer and had then made false documents for her and Miriam, replacing the pictures and the date of birth. Miriam's family had tried to tell her not to do such a thing, but she didn't want to hear it either. He told them, "I'm going to die anyway, but this girl can live." Miriam lived with the girl's mother, who was moving down the Jewish street. Then, after Miriam's brothers were killed in a pogrom, the rest of the family was deported to Transnistria, from where they returned with only Felice and Hanne, her girlfriend, who died of cancer at the age of 55. Hanne used to say that God had rewarded them. .

Now they were on the pillared terrace of the house, and Miriam kissed him, her dark hair cooling her face like blue dove wings.

Miriam was so beautiful that she seemed to be hiding a mysterious source of light inside her. When you looked at her in the moments when she was silent, you almost expected her to raise a hand and simply start raining gingerbread. When she was quiet and sitting dreamily by the window, she looked like a fairy who had lost her headband. If you had seen her, you would probably have said, "Princess Miriam, Rabbi Bliume's wife." Miriam was an indigo-eyed girl whose gaze fused with the wind like wet watercolor paper. As Rubin Rabinovich, an unknown Jewish philosopher from a Transylvanian state, said, "Every man is a work of art." This maxim arose when the modest Rabinovich had been lodged with a close relative of Bliume's, and had to stay in the city for a time, having to take care of his brother, the shoemaker Rabinovich, who had been operated on. Then Rubin Rabinovich had met Bliume and his wife, and made this maxim, which he wrote together with others in a bundle, which, when he returned home, he threw into a crate. It was not at all time to publish any Jewish mystical pages. Marx's projected dialectical materialism had replaced God's laws of life, Lenin had replaced Moses, and Stalin was the Messiah forever and ever, forever. It seemed so, at least.

Felice had received the Lord's mercy and returned from Transnistria with Hanne, but some of it was lost forever. Although she could have worked as a drawing teacher, the thing she had prepared for before the Destruction, as she called the war period, she simply did not want. Apart from Miriam and Hanne, she was not interested in anyone or anything. He worked in a watch factory and lived with Hanne, whom he had set out to support and care for when he began to feel worse for the rest of his life. He had lost faith in anyone and everything. He had distanced himself from even the other Jews, and even when he paid a visit to Miriam, it was only a matter of coffee, after which he apologized. Felice was a tormented soul beyond all limits. Often when she was alone she would start talking to her mother and Miriam, their father, their siblings and their other sister, and Miriam would be very worried about her, and it seemed obvious to her that if she hadn't had her Taking care of Hanne, which he did so lovingly, Felice would have lost

touch with reality. When she stayed home with Hanne after she came home from work, Felice enjoyed writing poems that Miriam asked her to show her to see how her sister was doing, and she was glad to see that the poems were really good. they showed that her sister was wholeminded and the poems would have been good to appear in an Yiddish language magazine, but as things went on in Romania as the year 1947 passed, it seemed more and more obvious that in the forced and general joy that it covered the whole of Romania, it was not the time for any Jew to cry for anyone or anything. Sometimes even the dead had no right to be mourned. Like Rubin Rabinovich and Felice Hönig, small and insignificant people, the great and the giant, the gigantic and the incomprehensible, the great and the divine, the endless Stalin put his steel fist in their mouths. "You must be silent now! For an eternity. For my eternity! ” Under these conditions, when Sabina appeared in Felica's way, neither Miriam nor Bliume, the rabbi was not disturbed in any way that their sister befriended a Christian. Or at least they didn't go down without explaining themselves first . All they knew was that Felice needed something, someone. Felice needs to be saved one way or another. When they saw that the secluded and cynical Felice came out of her shell, in which she seemed to be locked up forever, and from where she stood firm against anything and everyone, Mary and Bliume breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, Felice befriended Sabina Wurmbrand, but she's alive. Live again. Before becoming friends with Sabina, Felice had made friends with people from all walks of life persecuted by the German Nazi and Romanian fascist regimes. Her problem was that she didn't try to think with her heart and that she wanted to feel with her mind at all costs. He engaged in some dubious friendships, and in others he was a kind of St. Francis of the Gypsy Quarter. But love is a platoon that always defends its people, so when he met Mrs. Sabina, the pastor's wife, Felice had already begun to learn something from the page of life, and some of her confidence was gained by the fact that Pastor Richard Wurmbrand had been considered undesirable and imprisoned during the legionaries. But the historian of conscience must note that love and charity for the Roman minority and for all other human categories persecuted by the Nazis would accompany her all her life. Yes, Rabbi

Bliume had a Christian sister, because Felice was his sister. And he wasn't sorry at all. He would rather know her so happy than look at her and see another victim of Destruction.

Felica's disappointment in the world remained with her for the rest of her life. Just as he had written in those early poems. "The Middle Ages are not over / The Middle Ages are not over / I look and see, I breathe and I am silent / The Middle Ages are not over.// If you put me on fire / I will know what to say / But I will cry and I will to be silent / For the Middle Ages are not over.// I must die and I must hope / If it is to cry you will not see / Because you only see the star on my chest / For the Middle Ages are not over ./ It's getting darker / We never had light / There were always stars, there were always flames / The dark age is not over.// It's not our light - yours is just the flame / Yours is the fire that my tears don't quench it / I don't cry anymore, look, I don't cry anymore / Because you can't burn only tears. ” But now he had something extra.

Something that Bliume wasn't interested in wholeheartedly, but something that - he had to admit - saved Felice.

He remembered Mary's sporadic doubts and theological discussions with her in the middle of the night about his older sister's conversion. "Mary, needless to say. Their Jesus is not our Masiach. Not." How many discussions over the years. Miriam had had her moments of doubt, but she had been a Hasidic Jew all her life. But sometimes, as he said, he had some doubts. "We have one Bible, Mary!"

He used to tell her. "We have one Bible, one God, and there is no other God but God." This time Miriam's doubts needless to say that she was not bothered by Sabina and Felica, but Rabbi Bliume was an understanding man. Maybe a little too understanding, as he himself sometimes found himself. Today's conversions were different from those of the past. He understood. Many remained Jews and struggled to remain Jews, striking both Christians who wanted to assimilate them and the other Jews who left them.

- "... longs ..."

Now they were on the pillared porch and staring at the sky covered with glowing clouds. Sometimes they liked to stop and just sit and watch. The leaves fluttering like armies of armies with paper helmets, the poplars on the street shaking in the wind, rustling like the song of the wind as it sets off, the light - so strong that it seems to have swallowed you, the light - this putty huge, enveloping the whole earth like the mother-of-pearl of waves. They were to enter their modest home and eat with the children of Chaim, Rachel, and Yehuda, who were now playing on the carpet under the care of a neighbor girl, Ana. "... a dream, of Miriam, which he dreamed at the age of 17.- (in 1943). He dreamed that it was a summer Sabbath, it was six o'clock in the evening, and he was walking through a very clean city, wanting to go to the synagogue. On the streets of the city, very elegant people wearing yellow stars were put on to wash the asphalt by people in military uniforms, and they were also very elegant people. Although it was dark during the day, it was a 12-hour eclipse that day. When he reached the synagogue, he saw that the synagogue was on fire and had all its windows broken. As he approached, he saw that there was prayer inside. Some were crying. Miriam also entered the women's box and began to pray. From time to time he looked at the burning synagogue and thought that it would be destroyed and that those inside would die, and two rows of tears began to flow down his cheeks. While the prayer was being said, a poor, hungry baby came in and walked around with his hand outstretched. But people were bent over and did not see him, only a tear in their eyes falling into his palm. She came to Miriam, too, and when she cried and was desperate, she gave him nothing, and only a tear fell from her eyes into the boy's hand. He walked over and took the candlestick off Hanukkah and placed it in the broken window. Then, instead of lighting it, she shed a tear of light into the candlestick, and seven large tears shone in the candlestick. Then the little boy looked at those in the synagogue whose flaming beams were beginning to collapse, and said, "The light of this candlestick will never go out." And then Miriam woke up. " These lines were written in a notebook with the

now yellowed pages that Yisra'el Bliume had in his overcoat chest pocket. In the same notebook, on other pages, it read: 'Chaim Bliume July 27, 1946, Rahel Bliume - May 3, 1947, Yehuda Bliume - November 30, 1949'.

What a wonderful day that day was in 1952. Mary was the beautiful woman next to him and they were moving in the most wonderful and true dream. Mary was the beautiful one. It was Mary.

Now they were on the pillared terrace of the house, and Miriam kissed his dark hair, cooling her face like blue dove wings. Miriam was a dove that stopped in her palm, a dove that, after taking flight, turned into an angel of Elohim. Why, why don't angels fly through this sky? Why can't we see the cherubim entering our soul? Mary was a dove, I - the rabbi am a dove sometimes; we all have wings. We all have wings.

He remembered the words Miriam had said to him on his deathbed in 1959. "If you forget Mary, don't forget her love." For him, Mary had been a manifestation of the peace of the One Holy One. To him, Mary had been a miracle. And probably for the whole universe.

Because beauty is a miracle. Wonderful. Sit and marvel and dream.

That's what the One Saint did for Mary. That's what Adonay did to Eva. True, theology tells us that women are not angels. But it follows from logic that their soul is not a terrestrial one. Women are real aliens. There are no aliens other than women, who conquer with love from their hearts like the armed warriors of the Tartars. Look at her. Look at her fragrant hair, look at her smile and know that when you set out to look into her eyes you will be a conquered city. And she just sat there with you staring at something indefinite and doing something indefinite. You'll never know, but maybe every time you looked at her, her soul thought of you.

And wisdom says that all cities are made to be conquered. Her first smile for you will be the first princely document to the defeated battlements. They are the real knights, the women are the ones who win.

But they use sublime and subtle means, so that the conqueror thinks he has done everything, he thinks he is him, but he does not know that in love she is the one who distributes the books. Listen to the words of

wisdom, don't be arrogant, don't think you're great. She noticed you before you saw her. That was his wonderful experience with Miriam.

She held his arm and smiled, and her gaze seemed to be made of water lily petals. Men have always been the proud and ignorant.

Remember, whenever you look at her, that wisdom is in her kiss. You should remember that, but too few people are looking for wisdom. Too few. But know that there is only wisdom in her kiss, if you look for something else to know that you will not find. You will think you are deceived and ask for satisfaction, and you will probably never know on this earth that the cheat was just your heart. In her beautiful kiss there is only wisdom, but wisdom contains so many things that wisdom encompasses everything, in her kiss is everything, but you must understand that what you will find there is the wisdom of the Holy One, otherwise your heart will steal all your aces. , and you will lose. Water lily petals. In fact, we cannot know what their gaze is. In fact, I'm not even interested in their looks. Just her gaze. What is there? Will I ever know? The look of the most beautiful girl is an ideogram composed of two characters. And that is why it is so beautiful, because that ideogram contains something that I will never be able to understand, something that I will only be able to love for eternity. The real philosophers are women. And they, like Jesus of Nazareth and Socrates, leave nothing written.

She was beautiful. I could introduce you to the most beautiful of girls, but what good would it do you? And me too - what good would it do you to introduce it to me? As if someone were introducing us to an angel. We are indeed heavenly creatures in our souls, but the earth draws us to dust and sand, to rocks and deserts.

Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume knew he was not good as a Talmudist, he was too romantic. You felt that Miriam was beautiful even if you sat close to her with your eyes closed. He had all these thoughts about love when he was young, when he met Mary, in the small town where he had come as a war refugee from Chernivtsi. She was like the swan princess in Vrubel's painting. Don't believe her when she doesn't look at you, but believe her

when she tells you that her love is you. At night her eyes shone like the starry, dark sky. He wasn't good as a Talmudist, but there are some women, like Mary, who conquer and defeat you. Bliume was a defeated man. Beauty had defeated him, decades ago, forever. Love overcomes you. You are defeated by what you love. If you love you are a defeated and happy man. The purpose of no man in the life created by Elohay is freedom. Freedom, as the layman understands it, means death. Man was created to be defeated. Of God, of man, of love. Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume was created by Adonay to be defeated by Mary.

Saturday's light mingled in her hair and blended into her eyes, they walked past the houses taken as if from a painting by Marc Chagall, and the air was as yellow as if it were made of gold.

-I love you, Yisra'el!

Love is what struggles. That is why the angel blessed Israel. Because everyone who fights loves it. Otherwise he couldn't do it.

That's why women are the best warriors. So many thoughts, Yisra'el sometimes thinks, that Mary's beauty is overshadowed by the statements of logic. What had actually happened that day? They had come from the synagogue and kissed on the porch before entering the house where Anna was with the children. Everything they had lived through together was fading away, like an old, timeless love movie. Mary was the great actress who appears in the movie of their lives, and he was the page of the princess, because all the great actresses came from the world of fairy tales. Indeed, everything is so close to beauty. When beauty is near you, everything is so present like a late summer electric wind and then…

-I love you.

Man is not a snowman. Although many try to be. Man is not a stone idol. Although many see it that way. Man is a creature of life.

With a beating heart, a brain full of chemicals, and a soul that partially connects to that restless heart and this biochemical computer that is the

human brain. Man is a living being. Man is a creature. Life is more than anyone could imagine. Man was made to love man. That is the law of life. So says the Lord, the One Holy One, the Blessed One. But the man is ignorant. The ignorant seek love in pleasure, while the one blessed by Adonay finds pleasure in love. You are not a rock, you are not a plant, you are not a pillar of salt, you are not an idol of ice, but you are a man.

There is life in you. There is something sublime in you. Every human being is a dirty child on the face. Remember. Remember the past. Are you that old? How old do you think you are? Do you think you're oldfashioned, do you think you know everything? Just a short time ago you were a clean baby, look at you now. Just a short time ago, you were just born, and you were like a little cat in the arms of a little girl. You're the one. Only a short time ago you were an embryo cooled by the rain that was God to you.

All this Bliume had learned by looking at Mary when she was under these heavens and then looking at her in his heart, in remembrance.

Mary looked at him with a smile and patted his cheek.

We really must be grateful to Elohay for the people we meet under heaven. Is it for everyone? Possible. Possible.

Thank Elohim Adonay YHWH for every man you have ever met. Because in man there is life, although in the hearts of many there is death. Look at the people as they were when they had wings, and you will thank the Master as you look at a butterfly, a dragonfly, or a flower. Because flowers have the most beautiful wings. Flowers of light.

That's why they're beautiful women. Because they are made of petals.

Because the fragrance they spread springs from under their tongues, as Scripture says.

Mary looked at him with a smile and patted his cheek.

- "My soul sighs and" Now they were on the pillared porch and looking at the sky covered with glowing clouds. Sometimes they liked to stop and just sit and watch. The leaves fluttering like armies of paper helmets, the poplars on the street shaking in the wind rustling like the song of the wind as it sets off, the light - so strong that it seems to have swallowed you ... Mary was so up close, like an infinite song. Miriam had died of an illness in 1959, but she was alive forever. The last thing he did was smile at her. She was lying on the bed, hugging Chaim, Rachel, and Yehudah on her chest, and with tears in Yisra'el's eyes. Mary was here because Adonay is here. Life does not die. Life has never died. Life cannot die. Mary was beside the rabbi, and her gaze was reflected in his deep eyes along with the reflection of Elohay's childish gaze.

III

Gd

-Daddy, why is God invisible?

What questions had the children asked him over the years?

Then the grandchildren when they came from Israel after 1990.

Dialectical questions. What could have been answered? Nothing, really, but you have to give the kids an answer. Children, those who have been off the train of eternity for a few hours and who are looking at you with eyes that, a few minutes before, were looking at the angels, you have to answer them, you have to tell them something, whatever you can make of your mind. It's probably normal for a three- or four-year-old to ask, "Daddy, why can't we see God?" It's probably perfectly normal.

Probably just days before, their huge eyes were on Elohim.

Children and the elderly are the creatures of eternity on earth.

In the heavenly smile of children, eternity is present in fade out, and in the elderly it is felt like a fade-in mix between the piano flaps moved by the raindrops and the wind carried by the ocean like a bottle bearing a letter to the other Eyes. Some imagine God as an Eye and others as a Triangle, but the Jew sees God in silence. God is the longest silence, God is the speaking silence, Elohim for the angels is a song and for man it is silence. You have to be silent for a long, long time to be able to hear God being silent, to be able to be able to hear God sitting right next to you and being silent for you. Silence is the creation of Elohim because the most beautiful and blessed things are said without words. Because the mouth is nothing, because the mind is too little, and because the heart is a man. Only the heart is a man.

- "... and longs ..."

-Daddy, daddy!

-Yes, what is the angel?

-Daddy, look! See? Look. Here's what I did.

-Miss Rahel Bliume, what are you buzzing about Daddy Yisra'el? Daddy has to pray that tomorrow is Saturday.

-Yes, mommy, yes ...

-?

-I did something and I want to show it to Dad. -And please what did you do? ... I only see two eugenic biscuits undone.

-They are Moses' paintings and I wrote the Torah on them.

"But you can't write, miss," said Miriam.

Miriam wanted to add something, but Yisra'el motioned for her to be silent. He took the little girl in his arms and stood so close to his forehead, they both prayed softly, Rachel looking reverently at the eugenic biscuits Torah had written and Yisra'el looking at the child as if he were Moses himself.

Autumn surrounded Bliume like a fire. It was as if his soul were buried in large yellow leaves that had fallen from the sky. He now had a more accurate perception of reality. Each leaf was a tongue of fire from the whirlwind that enveloped the entire planet like fire that did not burn from the desert of Horeb or like an atomic explosion that fills everything with yellow leaves and memories.

"... burned him, and put nothing in his heart." These words were written on Bliume's tombstone. Words written on paper by the prophet Isaiah so long ago, the last words that the rabbi wanted to say to them, for which he wanted to confess even after death. "... and put nothing in his heart." Yisra'el Bliume was the bearer of a message, and he wanted the message he had been bearing since he was a rabbi to be remembered as long as Bliume was remembered, and so he had ordered this inscription for the tombstone, which was a candlestick with seven arms of bronze, the letters surrounding the base of the candlestick. "... on fire" God was here. Like always. But it was precisely because he was present that the materialist could say that God was not. Because it was not the wind or the fire, or the water, or the giant stone, the materialist could say it was nothing. But there was nothing else that made Adonay visible. But man is ignorant, the ignorant are blind, and the blind can no longer weep. When you can no longer cry, your heart dies, and so man slowly becomes a robot with ice eyes and a nickelcovered forehead. God was here. Is here. Both Bliume and YHWH were talking. They said the same thing to each other, like two mirrors facing each other.

- "My soul sighs and longs ..."

He still remembered passages from the conversation with that boy on the bench next to the synagogue and the supermarket.

—You know… I sometimes think that maybe Rembrandt belongs to Christendom, that he painted the gospel, and not everything else is proof that everyone should come to Yeshua. This whole sinful earth. But he remembered that the boy had not said Yeshua. He said 'Jesus'. "As far as I can tell, you like Dutch painting," said Bliume. A little later the young man said, "God is like an infinite spherical ocean in the waves of which we all cried out." Our souls are screaming, because we are afraid that we will not be heard, that we will never be heard. We are always afraid. But

all this time our feet were bathed in dense, murky waves, and we were stuck in the shells of shells brought from eternity. The young man paused while the rabbi fell silent. - God is silent, as you are silent, or speaks, as I speak now; God sits and listens, sits and watches ... hears.

Always listen. Words spoken by billions of people, desperate whispers.

God hears all this. God knows the names of billions of people, He remembers billions of faces. - God is alive, merciful, merciful. God is not like us, he had said.

He had always known that he would be a rabbi, but during the Holocaust he had felt that Elohim was calling him. When almost everyone around her was fascinated to death, when the girls fell in love with the SS soldiers, the new people of the Third Empire in impeccable uniforms and insect ethic, spreading around the enlightenment of the religion of National Socialism, the executioner who was in the courtroom and of the innocent who were born guilty; the Nietzschean dogma of the guilt of the weak in the face of the strong and of the innocence of the strong towards history and towards God, towards the victims. Only in those moments could the demonic source of the philosophies of past ages be observed , philosophies that gradually turn into ideologies and then slowly and fanatically into religion. By the time the candles were extinguished in the dark, Bliume had heard Shadday's call in the midst of Destruction. But then Yisra'el had felt called to a temple full of light. And he had simply entered. What was around him?

He didn't know then, but all he saw outside was degeneration. Yes, when the beauty of life is lost, the fascination with death begins. As for the Romanians, even for those who did not despise the Jews, for them the earth hung heavier than Destruction. They accepted Iron Eagle's orders for a handful of land. "Dniester on your shore / The German horse grazes / And the Romanian's horse / The horse grazes and howls / Stalin cries and sighs / Shut up Stalin does not sigh / Bessarabia is not yours."

A song from the war. And many died, like poor Sancho in Don Quixote's armor. "From Odessa to the valley / A train with five wagons is coming / Loaded with soldiers / No hands without legs / And the most wounded / Shout in the big mouth / Mr. driver / Hand the train lighter / That the

strong wounds hurt me / And a big girl is coming / To light a candle for him / This is the death of a soldier / Let him die shot. ” War song. And they died without knowing that Sancho was the real hero of Cervantes' book. Quixote is just fascinated, drugged - he lives an illusion; while Sancho Panza, the peasant, is the one who loves Don Quixote. Sancho Panza is the one who loves and always the heroes of books and life are the ones who love. But, unfortunately, the National Socialist Quixotes to which the Roman Sanchos were subject were indeed taken by raft. And in 41, in 42, in 43, in 44 Quixote took Sancho to his death, and Sancho let himself go, and Sancho died and Quixote died. Stay in your yard, me, Sancho, take care of your vines and cherries, and keep your honey in the soldier's helmet they want to put on your forehead. And know that a Sancho who has Him, that Sancho is all that the old hidalgo Alonso Quijano tried to be. This is how old Bliume would have spoken to a Romanian if he had wanted to communicate something from his soul to the other's soul.

God was here. Like always. But it was precisely because he was present that the materialist could say that God was not.

Because it wasn't the wind or the fire, or the water, or the giant stone.

Although Elohim is the Rock. Only he is the Rock.

He remembered that the young man had said at one point, "Damage to the Jews should be paid for the Holocaust."

Yes, Elohim is the Rock, huge as faith. We humans do not see the Master until we encounter him, just as we encounter a protective rock at night and in the mountains, surrounded on all sides by storms and flames. The blow hurts a little, maybe a little harder, but this blow is what announces our salvation. In the shelter of this rock we can weep and we can be happy. We are all children after all, but we learn this in the end, for the childhood of the soul brings wisdom.

'Elohim is the Rock. You see her? Your heart is big with pointed waves, and the Rock is there at one end of it. You see her. But

first, do you see your heart? Let's get into it. Go up to the Rock on a camel that goes up and down the waves. And if you find the Rock, if you find it, take us to it. In this green and salty desert of the waves, let us all go with caravans of desert cattle to the foot of the Rock. Why? Because there is nothing in our souls. Maybe just the sea, or maybe just salt dunes, or maybe just sand. Sand.

These people you run into on the street are people with sandy souls. We are hit by sandstorms, making us almost dead every time. The seas in us hit our hearts, not our Rock, and that is why we suffer. We always suffer, even though we are successful people, even though we are the ones who make the books, even though they are no secret to us on earth, and the universe and the fireworks were made for our enjoyment. We all suffer because it is the blind hearts that suffer. ' He had heard these words distinctly in a vision in which he did not know whether he was awake or asleep, whether people would call him alive, or whether he had already passed away, a vision in which he was surrounded by the landscape of a painting whose elements were changing. from time to time. Now they were like waves painted by David Caspar Friedrich, and after a few moments they seemed to be in the middle of a huge, dead desert painted

by Salvador Dalí. But, unusually, the waves could be heard breaking on the rocks, and in the air the hurried cries of the seagulls could be heard, for it was just at the end of the desert, and the sea was farther on. He, Rabbi Yisra'el Bliume, was coming from the waves, walking through the very hot water, and he was looking at the desert in front of him, which stretched behind the long shadow of the rock. A caravan of camels was passing by, heading for the desert, and one of the men in the caravan, Yisra'el Bliume's brother, Baruch Bliume, who had died at Dachau, was speaking to him. Ruchi had become a man of the desert, what a strange vision, but Bliume knew that God was speaking to him. He could not understand anything with his mind, but God could not penetrate his mind anyway. The words spoken by God must listen to the ears of the soul, the heart is the one that can understand. He knew that. He knew it now. And Ruchi said to him: -Listen to the silence of the Rock ...

She remembered another story with Rachel when she was little. A friend of Mary's had once asked Rachel, saying, "What are you, are you a little girl?" And Rachel had replied, "No, I'm Jewish." Of course, Rachel knew she was a little girl, but the truth is that in those years — a few years after the Holocaust — there was much more emphasis on faith in the families of faithful Jews than ever before.

Rachel knew she was a little girl, but she was not reminded of this in the family every day as she was reminded that she was Jewish. It was their way of defending themselves. For decades, Jews have defended themselves with letters.

He felt that the end of his search had come. Elohim had spoken to him and then revealed himself to him in the form of a piece of black bread and a large metal cup with milk. Now he knew and the story was over. Now he had found what he was looking for and came into the light. Now he knew, but he also knew that those who know the truth are rejected by the ignorant and simple as the truth is rejected. He looked at the piece of bread and the cup of milk and saw a manifestation of God. Now he was sitting on the bench in the cemetery and had a vision; the black bread satisfies him, and the milk turns to wine. Yes, the end. The end of all things. The ship that suddenly hits the new earth, the new sky.

The ship hitting the sky. Bliume. Today he hit the sky. „... circumcised the eighth day, of the stock of Yisra'el, of the tribe of Binyamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; concerning the Torah, a Parush; concerning zeal, persecuting the assembly; concerning the righteousness which is in the Torah, found blameless. However, what things were gain to me, these have I counted loss for Messiah. Yes most certainly, and I count all things to be loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Messiah Yeshua, my Lord, for whom I suffered the loss of all things, and count them nothing but refuse, that I may gain Messiah and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own, that which is of the law, but that which is through faith in Messiah, the righteousness which is from God by faith; that I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, becoming conformed to his death; if

by any means I may attain to the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained, or am already made perfect; but I press on, if it is so that I may take hold of that for which also I was taken hold of by Messiah Yeshua. Brothers, I don't look at myself as yet having taken hold, but one thing I do. Forgetting the things which are behind, and stretching forward to the things which are before, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the high calling of God in Messiah Yeshua. ” Those were the words.

But what were the things he had said to that boy? 'Are you looking for the meaning of life? Is that what you're looking for? I won't live long in these shoes, but I can tell you if you want to know. ' The sun was shining brightly over the supermarket, like a huge Christmas ball.

People around were beautiful and different. Bliume remembered saying, 'Let me tell you something. You said that the only really important painter was Rembrandt. I want to tell you that of all the books written by man, most are unimportant. And many of them are declared great works of humanity, but in fact they are worthless. And when a man with an artist's soul is educated at the school of such books, he lives in an artificial paradise, in an alternative illusion… Alternative, but still, only an illusion. And then when this man with the soul of an artist collides with what is called reality on earth, he either opens his eyes or is destroyed in one way or another. Destruction can only be an atrophy of the soul, but what a terrible destruction it is. Open your eyes, boy. Open your eyes. ' Then, after a few moments of silence, Bliume continues: 'But that's only half of what you have to do, or maybe even less than half, who knows how much. The other half is God. Without God it is impossible for us to open our eyes. Do not let the world swallow you and do not let the evil in the world eat your soul. Anything around you is hopeful, because God is good. Jesus, what do you call him? ' One thing Bliume knew was that he had found what he and his people were looking for, but he did not understand how it was possible. Is this God's plan? Is that God's will? "Crushed and forsaken

by men, a man of sorrow and accustomed to suffering." The sky shone like an open flower. And the clouds, the clouds looked like Bliume had never seen them before, dark and bright. The sky looked like the sky of an alien planet from who knows what sci-fi trilogy in which dozens of people worked on the film. The sky was new today.

Once upon a time, in the early 1960's, Bliume wrote on one of the sheets of his notebook that he now had in his breast pocket: '21 February 1961 / Lugoj: I decided that, given that I would never remarry after Mary, to stop thinking about any woman. I want to be a closed book from now on. Today I imagined a vast lake whose edges are unknown, on the shores of which ferns grow, and in whose water are trout. Felice, Mary's sister, kept telling me in her scripture that if I drew near to Him, He would draw near to me. I want my eyes to be full of Elohim and I want my heart to be full of Elohim and not who knows what woman. I want to change my nature and when I look into my heart to see Elohay there and Elohay to see me whenever she looks at me. The real weapons are mine anyway. I'm not afraid of the Snow Maiden, the Wicked Witch, or the self-proclaimed queen of Narnia. Shaday, why can't we stay kids ?! Shaday! ' her miracle. The sheet was covered with ordinary-sized lines written in chemical pencil.

"Listen to the silence of the Rock," Ruchi had told him in a dream. Ruchi was a man of the deserts, and he was a child again.

And the sky shone like an open flower.

Ysra'el Bliume's words: -Do you know why you're here? he had asked me.

-No, I answered, probably looking at him with fear. But I didn't say anything; the bravest man is the one who keeps his mouth shut and does not say how much he is afraid, as the saying goes.

-You do not know? said the officer in front of me again.

I was silent.

-Speaks! he shouted, not too loudly. He looked at me intently like a legionary.

"I can't know, Comrade Officer," I said humbly.

He handed me a piece of paper on the table.

This one: ‫הרצים יצאו דחופים בדבר המלך והדת נתנה בשושן הבירה והמלך והמן ישבו לשתות‬ ‫“ והעיר שושן נבוכה׃‬

Гонцы отправились быстро с царским повелением. Объявлен был указ и в Сузах, престольном городе; и царь и Аман сидели и пили, а город Сузы [был] в смятении.

The runners left in a great hurry, by order of the emperor. The order was also announced in the capital Susa. And it came to pass, when the king and Haman were sitting and drinking, that the city of Susa was terrified.

The relays flew quickly at the king's command. The order also became known in the capital Suza. The king and Haman sat and drank, and the city of Susa was boiling. " -What do you say, remember?

-The feast of Purim? ... Since last week? ... I pronounced slowly, as if through a trance with ether.

-Did you say or did you not say these words at the synagogue on Maxim Gorky Street last week? The security officer told me, looking alert and incredibly bored.

I wanted to say something, but the security guard wouldn't listen to me anymore. He leaned forward in his chair, put his cheek in his right hand, and took the sheet in front of me, pulling it on the table.

-What did you mean, Rabbi? he told me dangerously politely.

I was silent. I confess I was annoyed.

-Do you know Russian? he asked me. You Jews still know Russian.

I nodded.

-What other languages do you know? he asked me again.

-German, I said hoarsely and barely heard.

-I don't think it was useful for you to know German.

Know that the Bear from the east is also your friend of the Jews. If it weren't for the holy Soviet Socialist Union, I don't know where you are now. Even you.

I was silent, noticing once again how annoyed I was.

"Okay, if you don't know Russian, we won't read the Russian version," he said.

He shifts his gaze down the page. There was a moment of silence. There was no one in the room, no secretary, no other officer.

It was a preparatory, unofficial interrogation. Outside the front door were probably the two guards who had brought me inside.

-Well, what did you say there at your party? The king and Haman are sitting ... drinking ... and the city is terrified? Or is it ... boiling?

I was silent, looking at him and he continued quickly as if he wanted to cut me off.

-You have nothing to choose from, Rabbi! Either way is bad. I don't even know which is worse. The problem is, we don't know what you actually said. You have read from the Hebrew text, which, of course, only you can read. So what did you say at the synagogue last week? If you cooperate, maybe we'll cut you a few more years.

I looked at the paper on the table, grabbed my beard in my palms, seeing obliquely related to me the words from the precious book of Esther from the writings of my heart's love. Next to the piece of paper was the officer's left hand and a pocket watch, the minute of which seemed to stop.

-What did you say?

I looked at him with tears in my eyes - not knowing why I was so excited - and silent.

"Sir," he told me in a repulsive tone. We communists are the ones who saved all the Jews from death. At least through our parts.

Didn't I deserve a little gratitude? I understand, Purim has been a holiday

since you escaped death. Now we have escaped with our brave Red Army. We don't deserve anything either. Why don't you celebrate the feast of October, too? It had softened now, but then it returned to its threatening tone. Hard years await you, boy. In this splendor of the popular world, do you say that the people are terrified? That the people are boiling? What do you want, bourgeoisie, revolution against revolution? But it's okay - we have exactly what you need. You will keep the next Purim at the Canal, if you still feel like celebrating!

I looked at him and thought I saw an educated beast, a beast that had learned enough to become an officer, a lieutenant, or perhaps a captain.

I explained to him that I had said neither 'terrified' nor 'boiling' that I did not use the Romanian Bibles. That I don't know Russian and that I can't be blamed for anything written there. I explained that what I had said was, "meh'-lek haw-mawn 'yaw-shab' shaw-thaw 'aw-yar' shoo-shan 'book." "Book", meaning perplexed. But I couldn't tell him that Purim meant nothing to us and a little hope and freedom, as long as you had the courage to make a home somewhere and be happy.

So I kept quiet.

Then he said something that seemed to hit me in the back of the head.

"You know, Rabbi, I believe in God, too."

Now he was silent.

-True? I asked.

-But I think God wants us to do justice on earth. Jesus failed to change people, so God sent Lenin. God sent me.

I think I was left speechless. Then the security guard continues.

- Rabbi… aa… what is your exact name? He opened my ID card and read: Isroel Bliume. Haraso, my brother! ... as I said… I have nothing to do. I have to send you. You were denounced, we read together what you said, you said what you said and… I'm sorry… Now he was talking about a fairly friendly waiter who is forced to tell some customers that he no longer has a meal free. If the brave Red Army hadn't come here, this officer would probably have been a kind waiter somewhere. The only good thing about him was that he had certainly never been a legionnaire, but when I looked at him in the line of duty I sometimes felt as if he were.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bliume."

For a sermon on Purim. For a verse from Purim.

- You know, we have bureaucracy too, a different kind of bureaucracy.

I thought this man in front of me was telling me I had no hope. The officer made a handwritten report on the interrogation that had just taken place.

The officer told me that I should write a statement in which I would report what I had said against the people's republic and the proletariat, and then give the names of the reactionary elements and the enemies of the people I knew. The images in front of me expanded, resembling a dream or a painting of modern art. I knew I would soon be beaten with boots.

The door rang and I expected everything. Another, older officer enters the room.

-What's going on here?

"An enemy of the people, Comrade Colonel," said the waiter, rising to his feet, handing him the sheet on which he had written the report.

The colonel bored the sheet without looking at it. Then he said: -Did you get the car ready?

"No, I didn't have time, you had to 'see'," the waiter said, pointing at me.

-And you couldn't send one of these stupid guards at the door to take care of the car? Do you know we had to leave in half an hour? I brought the rifles, I got my hunting clothes, my little boy is waiting downstairs. Everything is ready and you interrogate bearded. It `s Friday. I don't understand you. Do you want me to transfer you to Dorohoi? I don't understand, what do you want? Do you want to have problems? Couldn't fix the engine so far? And who is this, a gypsy?

Then, looking at me, he said to me: Are you a gypsy? Black hat, fullbodied, bearded… Are you a bully? Did he catch you with gold? You gypsies are not very good at Marxism.

-He's not a gypsy, he's…

The colonel no longer listened to him, he began to read the report.

-And that's why you didn't repair the car engine?

"I beg your pardon, Comrade Colonel," said the officer.

-Yes, baby! For a poor rabbi who no one but him knows what he said in a sermon that interests no one! You're so stupid you should be fired. Leave and get the other car ready. I promised my little one that I would take him to the mountains.

"But," said the officer who had questioned me.

-Put him in the beans! ... Leave him alone, I'll take care of this bearded man!

The 'waiter' stood still, respectfully silent and staring at something uncertain.

- Leave once! the colonel is furious.

After the 'waiter' came out hurriedly, the colonel sat down at the table where I was and said to me: - Rabbi, you are not from the Canal. At least not yet. You are probably sitting and wondering why the idiots are in charge of the security of our glorious republic. But I'll show you that you're wrong.

And I'll point out one thing you're wrong about. First of all, you are not from Canal. You'll get a good beating and then you'll go home. Write three or four lines on the report. As for this sheet, we will keep it in case the beasts like the one who worked with you will receive anything more about you. And then I have to tell you. Leave God once and for all. Read Marx, Engels Len Lenin. Please leave the captions. There is only one holy thing in this world: the socialist dialectic. Come to us and you will see that the party will welcome you with open arms. Come to the loving bosom of the party. Doesn't it hurt to fight for good? I'm telling you all this because I love you. Stop wandering with your Bible, your religion and mysticism, and your God of smuggling. Come to love, he told me with a smile, socialism is love!

Then he beat me with his boots, and after the 'waiter' told him that the other car was ready, the guards entered - young and merciless.

Then, when I was able to move, I got home.

Bliume's words are over.

"Listen to the silence of the Rock," Ruchi had told him in a dream. Ruchi was a man of the deserts, and he was a child again. And the sky shone like an open flower.

Words that Yisroel Bliume said to Mary when Mary was gone.

These are the words.

-Mary… Miri… I saw you. Excuse me, I'm so excited. You were so beautiful. You are so wonderful. Please excuse me for crying.

Wonderful… I saw you!… So distinct, and you were so wonderful…

Oh!… O… God… I just saw you. Let me tell you how you were! First and foremost, you had big wings, you could probably fly with them. I say 'probably' because I didn't see you flying. Mary, I can tell you you were as beautiful as an ideogram. You were the most beautiful. I was sitting and looking at the pebbles near the water bank and I was coming and you came, you hugged me, you took my forehead in your palms.

You were so close, you just took me in your arms and your wings shone white. And your wings were so beautiful Miri, they were so clean and white, Mi. You know, then I remembered that song written by Pachelbel that you loved to play on the piano so much, and I thought that seeing you so I see the materialization of the music, that you're a D-and-white Canon. You yourself are a counterpoint from God. That's when I realized what I hadn't understood my whole life. In order to decipher you, I had to write down my discoveries about you not in letters or words, but in musical notes, flats, gods, and sevenths. But all is not lost; I borrowed a guitar from Yehudah's Baruchi. You are a counterpoint, Mi, you are the most beautiful counterpoint. And you are so beautiful that I must admit

that your beauty hurts me. Sometimes I can't look at you. Who would have thought that beauty can hurt… That happiness can hurt…

Sometimes I can't look at you, even though you're here. And at night ... they surround your light with its light, and you look like a white or colored, blue star. And you were smiling and we were so close ... It was when we were both in the middle of a flock of lambs flying, looking at us with the wisdom painted by Marc Chagall. Or maybe they weren't looking at us. Clouds swirled like waves around us, and we watched as the clouds slowly receded across the field. Then it became clear and the sky above was clear and transparent like a clean spring that mirrors the shadow of falling leaves. You put your hand on my shoulder and I sat and watched the flock of lambs together, walking away until only a few white dots were visible on the horizon. You told me to go and get the herd. I walked and when I got next to her, the lambs were gone, there was only a herd of white lilies in the field around me.

And you covered my eyes with your wings and told me to guess who it was ... I wanted to tell you quickly, Mary, but I thought you might have a different name now. And we walked through the yellow air like a grape, laden with ropes and dandelions, and you showed me a flock of pigeons, scattering over our heads, all white pigeons. You stroked my cheek and showed me how the pigeons fly smoothly. Their wings resembled your wings and fluttered gently, looking like ink stains on a score. When I saw the pigeons sitting on the water, I asked you to go to the reed lake to see which pigeons could be the ones sitting on the water. You agreed, and when I came to that dark, calm water, I saw that the flock of pigeons had turned into a flock of white water lilies.

Then you hugged me and I flew to the sky passing through the moon and through the moon I passed and entered your heart and my heart. I saw white skies revolving around the White Petals, and then the skies turned into white clouds scattered across the sky, and I stared at the bright, clear sky like a spring covered with a few fallen

leaves. Then it was getting dark, and I saw water lilies appearing in the sky instead of stars, one by one. Water lily galaxies.

And you said to me, 'Look at the water lilies.' How beautiful it was, Mary ... How beautiful it was.

- “longs for” Isroel was small and happy then, in August 1930. They had all gone to the sea with Carmen Sylva or Eforie, who knows where else they all sat on the blanket. They were on an isthmus, which would then be swallowed up by the waters, and Isroel moved a little away from Mommy and walked on the sand swept by the dark waves that wet his feet. He was walking with his back to the twilight sun. Now, in October 2008, he could no longer remember what he had done on that walk, he might have sung a song, or he might have prayed to the One Saint, or he might have imagined that he had just come out of his soul from the sea.

He remembered looking at his shadow, which came straight ahead of him, leaning a little from side to side, and the waves rustled like seas of golden leaves falling in fairy-tale autumns, and there was so much happiness there. for the little Isroel Bliume as if the light were made of honey, and when he ran back and answered Mommy, just as he was getting ready to run to the blanket, Ruchi, who had been looking for beautiful chocolate-colored shells, came to him and said, ' -Ma'ea e ma'e, Yis'a'el. See Yis'a'el? It's ugly. Do you hear the waves? Ma'ea e bat'ana si ma'e. The whole earth hears it when you hear it. '

N “The Quiet Day”

- "My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God." All the leaves had melted. The cemetery was in the light and the light was in the old rabbi. The yellow leaves of the few cherries and maples shone like the gold of the armor of the choirs of angels.

Yisra'el had a sense of investor-like nobility in the rank of knight in the Romanesque Middle Ages, Yisra'el felt that he had received a sword and was no longer alone. Someone had gathered all his tears in his hands, watching his sins come out of his heart's birch, like the dead leaves in autumn, someone had taken all his tears and turned them into steel, mixing them with the leaves that fell on him today while he remembered Mi as you would remember a vision of the ocean crashing against gothic cliffs. From tears and leaves, from kisses and wings, Elohim had made a sword for Yisra'el, the Knight of the Lily Petal Star. On the golden handle of the sword was inlaid a large six-cornered diamond swallowed in the belly of a ruby fish, and the blade of the sword was made of yellow and reddish leaves welded with tears to each other and burning like hearts. "If you had wings, you could fly," the light seemed to tell him, looking at him. "If you opened them, you would have them," as Elohim, the One Saint, had blessed to say, blessed be His Name. And the sun shone brightly in white and yellow circular rays like the heart of a cherry.

Now the leaves rustled in the wind, and blue clouds began to gather in the bright sky. Yisra'el was sitting by Miriam's stone, and he felt as if he were standing by a mausoleum erected at the tomb of love. It was autumn now, and he was old, his heart had become as old as the earth, his heart had become earth.

The air was damp and bright, transparent as a teardrop, surrounding old Bliume like the wing of a morning or a glance. The air was a tear. Bliume was so close to eternity that he could already see her, he could touch her, or he could hold her close to his chest. With his feet in the mud and his heart in the sky, so was the old man, with his heart in Elohim's heart and his eyes covered with the large white feathers of

Mary's wings. The sky was gradually beginning to be covered with clouds as if made of blue lights with gray glitter and whitish mists, the clouds from the east reaching those from the west, as if the huge eye of the sky closed its eyelids. He had begun to feel a little cold, and his legs and hands ached from rheumatism for thirty years. For five years he could barely walk. Leaning his gaze, the old man noticed the yellow spot on the leaf that was hanging from the overcoat in the middle of his chest, in his chest like a yellow star.

Fog and low clouds clung to the nearby hills, and light fell on all sides as if in an underwater environment or a globe filled with water, liquefying and mixing with the unalloyed gold and copper alloy of the October leaves. . The light of the equinox shone like a man, the light had come alive. The autumn afternoon had enveloped, like onion leaves, the whole place where Bliume stood in shades of light from cold white to warm white; the light surrounded the rabbi on all sides, transformed into amber and leaves.

The old man sat on the bench in the Jewish cemetery and his eyes deep and torn by the beauty of Shaday, the One Saint, merciful and merciful, Elohim without beginning and without end, blessed be His Name, the eyes of Isroel Bliume saw what he may also have seen Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego with Elohim in the flowing steel flame of the Babylonian furnace. With his soul surrounded by darkness, Bliume saw the light and the light saw Bliume, and this fall was like a Holocaust of love, each fallen leaf setting fire to his heart so yellow and torn by the wind from the hair of eternity. Every fall burns our hearts and turns into a Holocaust of love and sadness.

The sky was boiling full of huge clouds and the sun whose rays of ruby and diamonds were long, liquid swords. The old man held in his hands the cross of the glow of liquid indescribability of a ray of sunshine. Bliume was the Knight of the Lily Petal Star, Bliume was a Jedi Knight of light who washed people's hearts and mountain streams, and love was a sword inlaid with devotion and feelings. Roads, slopes

and stones had been made in his heart of dust. Stunned angels had ascended to his heart, and there they had built a temple with a snowcovered floor, and on the west wall of which the righteousness and mercy of the living, gracious Elohim were reflected.

Many of the tombstones in the cemetery were so special, so full of Jewish spirituality, but looking at the stone Chaim had made for his mother's tomb in the 1990s, the rabbi could only think it was shining like a tear. It was a glass sculpture. Their eldest son was a sculpture teacher in Tel Aviv, and the stone he had made was truly wonderful. The monument was composed of three elements: a pedestal cast in glass and cut in facets like a huge diamond on which is a threedimensional Maghen-David also cast in glass consisting of two equilateral pyramids protruding from each other representing a star of David, but with a total of eight 3D corners. The third element was a copper plate fixed in marble in front of the glass diamond on which were written in Hebrew letters the name of Miri as well as the date of birth and death, and below were also written in Hebrew letters the words from Psalm 23: “… no I am afraid of evil, for you are with me. ” Nearby, under a cherry tree almost empty of leaves, is the stone that Chaim had made for his Christian aunt Felice. Given that they had lived in such a small town where most of the inhabitants, unless they hated each other, were in relationships if not friendly at least cordially and not even strangers are really indifferent to each other, and - also "Since Bliume was the rabbi , Felice had been buried with her people."

Although Chaim was a combination of Orthodox Jew and Hasid, he had made a sculpture for his tomb for his aunt, for like the other, it was a real sculpture, representing the soul of his aunt's spiritual explorer. Spiritual Explorer, that's what Felice had once called her, and she didn't like it very much, but she laughed a lot at that person, and in the end she told him it didn't matter if you were a spiritual explorer or not, as long as you ended up you are born again like a limp, little lamb in a flock. One of Felica's biggest regrets in life was that she hadn't laughed any more, that says what kind of man old Bliume was now thinking.

The tombstone was a sculpture depicting the crucifixion of Jesus Christ inscribed in a spherical plane - the head, hands and feet of Christ meeting and converging towards the same point - enclosing a globe of pigmented glass mostly with a white pigment which made it look like an incandescent mass. It was a beautiful sculpture, Chaim had loved his aunt very much. The words in the book of Isaiah were also written in Hebrew letters on a bronze plaque: “I am approaching righteousness; it will not be far off and My salvation will not be delayed. I will put salvation in Zion and my glory over Israel. ” Looking around, the rabbi noticed that it had begun to rain and felt cold drops of water splashing on his forehead and eyelids, and the bright autumn day made the rain look like a rain of light or candle flames, everything seemed to catch fire around him. Bliume is surrounded by a soft, liquid fire.

- "According to the living God." The old man felt like a birch in flames, he did not know how long he had to wait until it turned to coal and then to diamond. What all these people around him did not know was that Elohim had the magic secret, the philosopher's stone that turns people's souls into diamonds, that can turn any soul into a diamond. He remembered the sermon he had told the boy the day before. The boy had said, "I'm used to being treated like garbage, because that's who I am." I chose to be garbage and I became one. That's what punk means. I'm not worth as much as the trash can. ' He, the old man had replied: 'You are wrong. You are worth more than if your eyes were carved out of diamonds because the diamonds are blind. The gods of antiquity had hearts of gold, but what do you think the hearts of gold are proud to be of gold? They know, golden hearts, that the heart must be made of the soul in order to be able to beat. You are alive. Do you suffer, do you feel ashamed? Listen to me: the same people who bond with you on the street because you once

tattooed a swastika are probably exactly the same people who, in other political circumstances, would have hunted me down.

But you might not have hunted me. Maybe your God wouldn't let you. Maybe he told you not to bother old Yisra'el. Stop suffering, baby! The big mistake of young people is that they simply don't choose not to suffer anymore, and of the old people that they don't know that you can't just choose not to love anymore. The sin of humanism since its inception has been that it has made man close his eyes to the true face of man. Did anyone tell you that man is perfect? Or is it good by nature? Did anyone tell you that man made good? Or love?

Open your eyes and look. When you pass by the mirrors you will see yourself too, but maybe the Lord has put them in your way to see you and change you. We all need to change, excuse me, I don't remember your name. We all need to change. Isn't that what your prophet Jesus said? And with those who do not want to change what would you like to happen? The unvisited house collapses, the unseen water lily withers. As for you, now you know better, to be learned and forgiven. You were forgiven. Why don't you forgive too? Would you like all people to have Einstein's mind and understand some of what God has given us and we have called ethics? Well, I don't get it. And the foolish are the wicked.

And the bad guys are probably the bad guys. What would you like?

Commune? Perfect condition. The perfect society? Let your Jesus rule for a thousand years when God wills it, and you will forgive and live until then. And love the foolish. Love the wicked. Isn't that Christian teaching? And we are all stupid or bad at one time or another in our lives. That is why God puts mirrors before us. Then it would be really bad if God took back all the mirrors He puts on the earth. Then we would think that everything was fine with us, and I would believe, and you would believe, and where would we go? What would happen to us?

Without God. We all need forgiveness. That's the beautiful part of life.

Because forgiveness comes in tears. Only animals don't need it. The fact that every human being needs forgiveness is proof that God exists. If God did not exist, no one would need forgiveness. '

- "The living God." The boy had also said: "If Rembrandt had lived during the Holocaust, he would probably have made some wonderful engravings, which would have caught fire in the markets of the whole of Central Europe at that time." And Bliume had replied, more to himself, "For too long the soul of Yaakov's people has been a train of no return." And then one of them told a story. The prodigal son, after returning home, is received again as a son, but he is poor, he has nothing left. And the prodigal son says to the prodigal son's brother, 'Brother, I am poor and I have to work all day to support myself. You do not work out of necessity and you are master, and for you work is a pleasure because your work is as beautiful as the autumn harvest. You're to blame for not giving me what you have for me. You are a bad man because you have what I don't have, and I am a good man because I don't have what you have and I hate you. ' At which Bliume, glancing at the supermarket window, reflected on himself, he repeated to himself slowly, "For far too long the soul of Yaakov's people has been a train of no return."

Yisra'el kept his eyes open and watched. In front of it were many tombstones, granite, marble, basalt, or blunt stones made of crumbling rocks, on which were written the names of so many and so many people, and on which were engraved hexagonal stars. And Yisra'el sees how the stones are washed away by the rain until the letters on them blunt and fade away, and the stars fade away and the stones change and are no longer of different kinds but are made of the same kind of rock, and he sees how David, the first child of Rachel, who had died as a child, rose from the grass and laid one of the stones on top of the other, making the altar of the Temple of God, and then Bliume saw before him the Temple of God people, who too had risen from the grass, God's people. They were all dressed in linen, and Bliume was so carried away that he could not hear the music. Then he saw the baby again and saw that it was not David, his nephew, it was another David.

And they were all so happy looking at Elohim whose heart filled the Temple.

The boy had said to her: 'One thing I can't help but think about is that God is righteous and that He will punish people for the burnt blood of His children. Maybe another Holocaust awaits us all in front of us; Both the Tanach and the New Testament say that the earth will burn in the day of the Lord. Yisra'el replied, 'I don't know if you've ever heard what Rabbi Hillel, a great rabbi of old, said: Because you drowned a man, you drowned yourself, and in the end, the one who drowned you will, in turn, be drowned…! In spite of all, there is justice on this earth. ”He remembered when he had said these words in response to a question from Miriam. Miriam had once asked him in the 1950's, "Ysroel, did you read the story Kafka's Verdict?" 'No,' he replied, 'I just read An Artist of Hunger, The Penitentiary Colony and the Trial. "The trial," said Mary. The book has good points but it is not worth listing.

Franz Kafka himself said it was not good and that it would be better to burn it. Yes, Kafka even said that, Mary said with a smile to Yisra'el who looked at her in amazement. And the NSDAP really burned it. But Kafka said that it was not a matter of quality and that he did not recognize himself in it. And what ends it for me is all these Kafkaesque people who consider themselves so great connoisseurs of Kafka and talk about the Trial Up and the Trial Down, and I don't even know what Kafka's attitude was about his book. I was asking you about the Verdict. You didn't read it! ' 'Not.' 'I asked you if you read this story because I read it again a few days ago and I didn't understand what it was about and I wanted to talk to you but you were busy, and then I read it before and I had the same impression. Grammatically correct sentences, characters, events, storytelling but in the end I realized I didn't understand anything.

I said to myself: modern art… but still. I remember reading somewhere earlier that the Verdict was inspired by something like Franz's relationship with his father. But I don't know more than that. ' 'Mary, you said it right: modern art… Modern man does not seek to understand because he is convinced in his soul that there is nothing to understand.

And then it produces something, which can be something of quality, but

it is something in which the meaning as we understand it is either almost non-existent or hidden. In fact, I tend to think that Kafka's meaning is hidden. ' Mary had then told him the Verdict, and he had told her that perhaps part of the meaning of the text corresponded to the Talmudic text in which Rabbi Hillel's words were recorded. Later, Felice came to them and talked to her about Kafka, who was a writer that Felice liked very much, and she gave her own interpretation of Kafka's story that she had read. Georg Bendemann and his father are strangers to real life, which is reflected in the fact that they stay home on Sunday mornings, please don't feel offended, Felice told Mary and Yisra'el, and one writes letters and the other reads. , or pretends to read, the newspaper; so letters to this world and newspaper - like any newspaper - about this world.

And so, estranged and spiritually exhausted, the merchant Bendemann and his father collapse, which is also suggested by the fall of his father on the bed after saying the "verdict" and of Georg Bendemann, who descends the steps at high speed like an inclined plane. Then Georg dies and his father is most likely a man completely devastated. But he is a character, the only character who still has this story, who is neither alienated nor spiritually alienated, but who on the contrary knows real life. She's the maid. The maid. The one who goes up to work in the apartment where the Bendemann family lived, in other words to serve her and whom Georg Bendemann, chasing to death, throws her down the stairs, and she covers her face with her apron and says the most wonderful words in the universe. from eternity: "Holy Jesus!" Modern art? ' Felice had exclaimed with a smile at Bliume and Miri. Then he adds: 'I should write an essay entitled The Third Character in the Kafka Verdict .' Thoughtful Mary had said, "If your interpretation is correct, the most disturbing thing is that Franz Kafka was a Jew." And then they both fell silent drinking Chinese black tea.

-"…by…"

The rain stopped again, and Bliume saw the sky open like eyelids, and the Eye of Elohim could be seen, from which large, salty drops of tears flowed. Bliume saw the tears falling like a rain and

saw the tears falling on each other and breaking with each other, he saw them welding to each other and turning into the smoky outline of a large stone wall until blinking through the hot storm Bliume He reached out and slammed into the wall, slammed into a huge stone of the wall raised from Elohim's tears. He had the Wailing Wall in front of him and was surrounded on all sides by a storm of tears. He could see many folded pieces of paper tucked between the stones. Bliume began to speak to the wall, then tears began to flow down his face, which were washed away by the tears flowing from the Eye that was open in the sky, and Bliume prayed in Hebrew, raising his hands - higher, higher, and Elohim was so close, Elohim surrounded his soul on all sides, and looking at the Wailing Wall with salty prayers flowing from his eyes, Yisra'el felt that he could enter the wall like a sky.

Out on the street, a car seemed to be near the fence at the river end of the cemetery. A man came out and walked in front of the car, lifting the hood, probably checking the engine. There was a song through the open window of the car that Bliume recognized: “Oh don't let them roll again no no no again don't let them roll again -yeah-yeah to wash the trains endless night torture days trains of no return. ” The old man took a Kodak photo envelope from his coat pocket. On the envelope was written: "For the rabbi with friendship." He opened it and took out a photograph of the young man he had been talking to the day before. The photographer had called the image 'The Quiet Day' and it captured a moment of silence for Bliume in which, as today, he was silent and let the light surround him inside. In the photograph, the rabbi flickered like a calm flame, like a drop of dew slowly falling from a bright leaf like a stained glass window. The photographer had made Bliume keep the light, immanent, inside him - on the piece of paper. Looking at the photograph, the old man wondered if it was so, at least to a lesser degree, or if it was a sublime error. But Scripture, the Talmud, and philosophy told him that lying can never be sublime, and the sublime is a flower that can only be found in the wreath of truth. In the photo Bliume was flooded with light and he was not the light and his face was the face of a man who saw. He saw Elohim throw flags back into the

dust and set free other slaves, his people, twentieth-century slaves, priests of the Most High God, and sheep for cutting without fangs and claws to defend themselves. Sheep that win. Victims who win. “Don't let them grow again don't let them learn again don't let them roll again the trains of no return No No Don't let them roll again the trains of no return yeah yeah we need the rain…”

"The wonderful Haza offering," said old Bliume softly.

“Let Don't Let Them Grow Again Don't Let Them Burn Again Don't Let Them Roll Again The Trains Of No Return Don't Let Them Grow Again Don't Let Them Burn Again Don't Let Them Roll Again trains of no return ”, could be heard from the car parked near the cemetery fence before the man closed the hood above the engine, got behind the wheel again and left. And in the eyes of Yisra'el were huge cliffs and fallen mists, large, cold drops of water, and mountain streams struck by large, angular stones. It was cold. It was cold in the sight of the old man, and the Spirit of the Lord was moving over the mountain.

Yisra'el's heart was a mountain surrounded by mist and cool, foggy forests, and his eyes were two rocks polished by a swirling, cold stream.

Raindrops falling among the wet stones slammed into the still water of Bliume's soul, covering it with liquid circles. And above the rain and mists the sky was indescribable; whitish and bluish, and somewhere above, above the mist-clad slope, with a spot of light in which astonished Bliume finds that two letters written with light and clouds could be distinguished. The letters alef and omega were written in the sky above Yisra'el as it was printed on the camera lens. Looking at the color photograph he had received, Bliume felt as if he were surrounded by a thirty-foot-tall pine forest with wet black bark. And all around was so much silence that the silence turned into music, a music whose score was written with stones and water, rocks, earth and green ferns, gentians and junipers, light and large leaves brought by the wind. The soft sound of a piano whose keys were pressed by raindrops, large and pasty like drops of watercolors mixed with much color, mixed with leaves and

clouds, with rains and silences, with love and expectation, with memories and silence of Elohim right next to you.

- “God” Bliume's fondest memories were of Mary smiling or reading stories to the children, her dark brown hair strewn across the colorful pages of the book. Sometimes he would sit at the piano for hours and play or just sit with his fingers on the keys. Mi's piano was a great one, a custom-made English piano by Elias River & Son made for Princess Grete von Habsburg of Austria. No one knew how the piano got here and how it had changed the towns and owners in Transylvania. He loved to sing Winter, or the Sonata of the Moon, or the Canon in D composed by Pachelbel. And Mary sang so beautifully that the music was her and Mary was beautiful as a piano score, and she looked very much like the woman in Marc Chagall's painting Bella with a white collar, her eyes more beautiful than those of movie actresses, and she was more beautiful. than princesses in European castles or fairy tales.

Miriam was… Miriam was beautiful as snow, maybe that best described Mi. It was as if the snow was falling and it was white and everything around it was so white like a wedding dress adorned with lily petals. She remembered when they had been in Bucharest and Mary worked at the Royal Palace after the war, but when King Mihai was still in the country and her boss was once ill and she was given the task of dusting the royal crowns and Bliume had come to her at the end of the program. to go home together, and Miriam put on the crown that had once belonged to Queen Mary on her head, and she was so beautifully adorned that she looked like a Jewish bride. Miriam was beautiful. And it wasn't just that, Mary - Miss Hönig, and then Mrs. Bliume was an unusual woman, like a dove with petal-covered wings. Once, after the war, he had made Hanne a sandwich in which he had put Nutella paste, which had just appeared in Italy, and somehow she had also got three jars. he had left the Iron Curtain entirely, and had put more slices of salami in the sandwich.

Hanne ate the sandwich in its entirety and told Felice that this girl must

be a chosen soul like the characters of Hans Christian Andersen or like Andersen himself.

- “… cel…”

The soul of Yisra'el The soul speaks to the Lord the Lord. Master, come upon us, among us. Come on, we're waiting for you like the morning dew is waiting for the light. Only You are our light. We make mistakes so often and we disappoint you because our minds are made of clay. We disappoint you. Come among us and help us to see You. Oh Master, if I only looked at You, I would see You. Help me to see You, Elohim, My Master. Yisra'el's soul was silent because he felt the Lord Lord, Elohim, and Yisra'el's soul was silent.

- "Live."

WOMEN WITH REVELATION EYES

"For example, you are told to love, but you fail miserably when you try. ” Francisco Varela

1

Today in a hypermarket I saw a saleswoman. He was just lowering his blinds at the booth. I didn't see what he was selling. When I saw her, I thought about how much beauty there is on this earth. And she had exactly what she needed. The ones I was with took her first, but I stopped excitedly and shyly to look at her. In fact, I walked two booths pretending to be looking at some thirty Adidas white caps. The saleswoman stopped right at the booth where I was, and looking at her again I thought again of the same thing as before, I felt like I was beginning to get lost, as if I felt dizzy, though I was not really dizzy; My soul was dizzy when I looked at that very beautiful saleswoman. The girl was talking to the saleswoman at the clothes stand, and when I gathered my strength to hurry up and leave like a squirrel, without realizing what I was doing, I began to weigh her symmetry as a beautiful girl. symmetry that makes the beautiful shells of the Indian Ocean of shame, when I was surprised by a woman I knew and whose identity can not be revealed, a forbidden woman, but so beautiful and this, a beautiful and forbidden woman I I saw her open her eyes like two almond-shaped doors to me, wonderful eyes that opened in my eyes and seemed to take

me in large pearly lioness fangs. I carried on, of course, and caught up with the others.

Love is beautiful because it is real. Two touching lips are not about chemistry but about magic. At such a moment the human soul seems to wake up as in a different kind of boddhaity under the light of another Bodhi tree. Kisses can be a Buddha moment. That is why, because love is enlightenment, it can also become the opposite of everything that is in fact, it can become darkness from enlightenment, death from awakening. All these things belong to philosophy, but a great support can also be how the traces through the deserts of the Prophet lead us to the same source, the source of tears whose clear and seemingly three-dimensional waves start from the souls of men. Perhaps one of the most beautiful things is when a woman or girl - beautiful, of course - is, and you feel that she is, attracted to you not because you are great but simply because you are. Because you're a boy. Like the Arab and Western alchemists of the Middle Ages, girls unconsciously use chemistry to produce magic. To fill your soul with beauty like the honeycomb is filled with sweet and fragrant light like the girl you meet at the stall in the hypermarket. But the most important thing is love, pain, the man who loves feels happiness and pain at the same time, love is a combination of happiness and pain, a merciless and cruel combination like life itself. Love is truly beautiful like a blossoming rose, but it is a rose that grows in the heart of your heart, smelling and piercing you. Just as when you loved her, you dreamed in the middle of a mountain water, the swirling river and the huge green rocks filling you like the beautiful look of a woman. And the sky, the sky - metaphysically - is also a river.

I remember when I could say that I lived in a certain moment in a certain movie. In the movie La Vida Sigue Igual , there is a moment when Julio

tells the driver to stop the car and watches the beautiful operator coming out of the water. He looks at her and she looks at him, smiling at him.

She was a girl jogging with headphones on her ears on the street in a village, and when we passed it was an identical, beautiful, icy moment.

I once went to church and the minister, a profound philosopher, told a joke. That minister was kind of an American, so the anecdote was in English. „ A man was speaking with God and he said to God while he was loking at the woman:‚ God, why have You made women so beautiful? ' God answered: 'So she would marry you.' Then the man stood a while and thought and then said too God: 'But God why have You not made them so bright?' God Answered again and Said, 'So SHE Would marry you.' " Besides it's so humorous anecdote this is - at least so believe me - full of wisdom, anecdotes that could be carefree inserted in the texts of the Talmud, and the people would receive it as from a bearded, old, and wise rabbi. People may end up guiding their lives according to its indicator. If not, at least it can be a good way to annoy and tease a woman. The sages of past ages said that truth is not with us, wisdom is not with us, they said that truth is elsewhere, wisdom is elsewhere.

-I do not love you. I love everything about you, but I don't love you. My eyes are like a Canon camera, precisely, always capturing your beauty, from any angle, and every time I look at you or your eyes, the compositional axes of my gaze are on you, like those of a scale. My look is a look that weighs you, my look for you is math, it's whatever you want - but not love. I do not love you. I just love the fact that you're beautiful, I'm not too interested in your soul. And when you're not beautiful, I won't feel anything for you. Maybe at most we could stay friends, as you used to say. My love for you is a wild love, like a snow leopard; In my dreams I dreamed that we would both be holding on,

touching each other. Because I'm fickle like a big cat, and you'd like to give me a lot more than I'd like to receive from you, even though you're the prettiest girl in the neighborhood. My love is a young tiger, hunting.

But you see, love is so much more, and I have no love for you, I do not have that love that is needed so that our touch does not hurt us. I return to my image of the river; a flowing river is holy because a mountain river has never sinned. It's clean. People don't. I do not. And I'm not a river. And love is the opium of beauty, chemical love, an opium that transfigures and destroys. I'm just a snow leopard, who - according to your beauty - will find another tiger. Fear my love, just as I fear yours; take care of my love, just as I take care of yours. Love is more, love must be a miracle, I told you in a moment of sincerity looking at you with wide eyes.

In all the prayers of the humble believers they say 'Allahu akbar'. "God is strong." In all the mystical deserts and deserts of love, those who love can enchant 'love is strong.' We love so as not to lose our names and faces in depersonalization, so as not to lose our souls; we love because love is a path of knowledge, a teaching, an ethical path, an existential path, a path of life. We love and most of us are wrong or we are all wrong. Love can exile wisdom from the castle full of huge Gothic stained glass windows of the soul. Wisdom can also excommunicate love. Or, in the chosen ones, love can embrace wisdom and wisdom can fill love. Love and wisdom are not separate in themselves, they are a yin-yang, a contrast, but inextricably intertwined with each other like two ivory-cut arabesques intertwined with each other. That is why those without wisdom do not love, and that is why those who love — no matter how little — are not entirely without wisdom. Love is like a river full of charm and beauty of a young woman, because you are beautiful like a river glowing among the stones and because I am a stone full of the immanence of your beauty as a woman, a stone in your temple. Your amber hair is like water vibrating through stones at times when our foreheads are glued together in the liquid sanctuary of your hair of water

or wind, the amethyst sanctuary of your love, of the beauty that fills your body like wine and honey, and your breasts are full, full of honey. - Look at the twilight that raises the light to the sky dripping into the stars and sit by their light in your woman's bed and let yourself be touched by the kiss of loneliness, the only kiss I can give you, because I am not there next to you and you cry that you love a lama in orange-colored clothes and your lips. You cry, woman, until the pain passes; and I will weep, but not with you, not with you.

We have today, but we have it the same we had yesterday and love is beautiful but no one would love love for its beauty if love were aging in death. And the noble truth is that love grows old and lacks love, from the most beautiful thing it becomes the opposite of all that is.

Why should I love, why should I love what does not deserve to be loved, why should I love me? I can indeed give you my youth, but my youth is like a tear falling into a river — in a sacred river with Corinthian waves — scattering. In addition, there are so many people who choose something else, choose what is invisible, choose nothing - as Mrs. Mona said - along with loneliness and silence. What do those people really choose, what do those women choose that no one will ever see? What could I choose if I chose this one? If you are an intellectual, is there a way out of existentialism, and if there is, can you follow it? As for me, I see so many human beings offering each other animal love and arguing and fighting like monkeys; no, I can't love a woman with an animal heart, or that heart beats in the most supernatural body of a woman. And, as Theology says: the world is so ethically complex that it can only be the result of its work — it can only be made by a God, and man, too, is an ethical animal whose spiritual complexity does not it may only point like a magnet to a God who thought it was a good thing to make man.

And here in these places to the mountains, the so-called sages of old said that you

you get married, even if you don't get married, then you still regret it and you're sorry; and if you pass through the paths you are aware every day that you are living in sin. These are Felix's sayings to his brother, to his sister. Ethically, pleasure alone hardens, suffering with God improves.

Exclusive desire for pleasure turns man into an executioner, endurance in suffering teaches the martyr. Caresses are really deceptive, as Wisdom says, beauty is really vain, as the Empress says, but a kiss, what is a kiss?

Ella knows what love is. Poor Ella knows in her sweet 16 years what love is, the love that is so passionately denied to her by destiny or maybe only by people. If I had lived in St. In the 1930's, Louis, I would have told the beautiful Ella McShane that we who call ourselves human beings would reject the love of our own guardian angel if Christ entrusted him with the cross of epilepsy. Ella McShane, a lady, with Mary's soul in Mary's body. She. I don't know if she was ultimately loved by the love she loved so much. But all my love is your love, Ella, because beauty can only be loved. Aaron gave you a small, delicate cat, Stephanie; I don't think I can compete with something so beautiful, but I want to give you something too, I'm just 14 years old and I want to put my soul between your beaded fingers. I love you, Ella, said the man whose true love no one needed.

The words of the lover, the son of the invisible, man on earth.

Every truly beautiful woman is the most beautiful woman. Ronnie Spector was so beautiful, but my weakness is the third girl from Ronnetes, whose name few still know today. An angel with such dark hair and unspeakable olive skin, an angel of fire extinguished amber and night. Be My Baby ? One thing is certain, the year 19601 will come upon people as well - no matter how sophisticated they may be - they will also listen to the girls' song and sigh for their beauty, as I do now.

Ronnie, Estelle and the third girl, my weakness. If I had been the Mogul, I would have made her a Mogul.

To return to more serious matters, I, the lover of these words, am a son of the invisible, and because of this I have not been very successful in love, and - as much as I have had it - I have rejected it. Girls don't like the invisible or the children of the invisible. Most girls like a good kiss, or if not a good perfume, or - in another way - a good car, or - on another level - a good account. By no means do I want to convey that I recommend for the mother to be inactive. And this good invisible man almost caught me now, and that's how we get today. This invisible can turn your whole life upside down and wake you up in the sky during your lifetime. What is invisible is my woman, a woman more beautiful than any other woman, a woman who will never grow old. And - if you will - the woman of this lover is Wisdom, the daughter of God if wisdom can be one's wife. I'm not alone, maybe you're lonely than me.

The final reality. The ultimate reality is that if the puzzle of your dreams is a mermaid, don't be forced to live with a whale. And how long can you marry a mermaid to a whale? And then the whale in the dinosaur? The final reality is that in Snow White's fairy tale, Snow White and the old and evil witch are one and the same being. All the ladies when it comes time to harvest are full of grace as Snow White and then time passes and you find yourself holding the other hand. And besides, you have no idea that you became Frankenstein from Elvis. No one was spared the treacherous joke of the time, not even the most beautiful, like Sarah Bernhardt, not even those who fought with him, like Cher. The final reality says that there are people who go to monastic kibbutzim, because in their souls they are the most superficial people and the most fluffy girls. They want a happiness that no one can give, and then these people go before the covenant and say, '... I will marry

you, forever, because you will never hate yourself, you will never grow old, you will never you will never be foolish, you will never go mad, you will never be angry; I love you not because I am compelled to do so, but because I am perfect. ' A prayer that, apart from divinity, cannot be said to anyone in this unfortunate dust where the most beautiful beauties turn into a science-fiction movie.

A sense of purpose. Love should reach every being who has the courage to seek it. Even for the most beautiful and unhappy of us, like Ella McShane, Fran Kubelik, like me, like everyone who suffers, like poor Ciprian Nickel, like Keith, Gelsomina, Donald and Isabelle, Holden , the young and sick woman begging in the trolleybus station, Fran Glass and any other being unhappy enough to hope and still naive enough to seek love. And we, the people of unhappiness, if we are not afraid to love, will find healing in love, because love heals. A sense of purpose. A drunk reggae song calling the Zyprexa people in the light of love. Even if no one will ever love us, at least let us dream, just as Christ on the cross and in death dreamed of water, of life.

My soul flows in streams among the stones here in the mountains of loneliness where the twilight wind brings the night, here where there is love and where there is no one else, here where my love cries among the stones. God, can you hear the river? And this night that spreads like an indigo watercolor in water is like the great love I never met. And the most terrible thing is that these sketchy visions, these solipsistic hallucinations are lived by every man, are the dramas of all men; the best business card of the human species would be a troubled child, this image should be printed in platinum and silver and placed with piety in the space probes. As for God, those whose souls, in ancient times, saw his soul, they knew that the beauty of God is a

revelation, but they knew that the beauty of God is not a common, ordinary one. God is the most beautiful but his beauty, without being a cruel beauty, like the great gods of India for example, yet it is a divine, inhuman beauty. God's wonderful and beautiful eyes can look at us almost impassively for years as - for example - a paralyzed child is tormented every second. - Just as in the snow on the mountains it turns into fast mountain waters, so often love turns into suffering. Rachel Joy had a lot of love, the world instead, for her, had only huge suffering, as much suffering as it fits in a gun magazine. Now that we hear the river flowing all around us, all we know about Rachel is a book forgotten somewhere on a rock in the river, a sublime smile, a spiritual and theological beauty, a smile through which God himself promotes his image. Rachel, almost only Rachel is the supernatural woman I know. I look at her picture on the book and know that she is no longer with us, but on the other hand I feel her here, in this sky like a wet petal, in the pantheistic leaves by the water, in this river that surrounds me like a Tahiti, like a lyrical, liquid stained glass window, like an illusory and infinite music. Rachel is the archetype of the woman, of the woman who embraces heaven, of the heavenly woman. Rachel's beauty is that semitransparent beauty, a beauty carved in immanence transmuted into holiness, that beauty, that woman, that man, that being who has just descended from the cherubim to return almost immediately to each other again. And what could still be called sad is that Rachel, that almost demigod, knew what suffering and pain were. In this conflict between the world and Rachel, Rachel was the one who fought through compassion and forgiveness; and Rachel was the one who had every right to win against the world, and the world and the devil had every right to perish and disintegrate into death and eternity, but still — even though Rachel had a Christ in heaven — Rachel lost as you lose. a running race in kindergarten, and the world — this awful, monstrous world that we all love in our wandering — won, illusory speaking.

Where are you, Rachel? And where am I, where am I?

Words of Wisdom, this girl with indigo eyes: -The human soul is a phoenix. He dies, he dies burned by the flames of suffering and then - inexplicably - he rises. You are a human. Even if you die in this late hour of darkness, your dawn will rise, like snowdrops, like butterflies with semi-transparent glass petals.

These were the words of the girl to the man, to the man in the mountain, to the man one with the Mountain and to the Mountain who looks like the gods with a thousand eyes at a time, with the eyes of a thousand lakes, with the eyes of a thousand leaves and stones, with the eyes of a thousand people. The mountain, the giant whose breath is the Wind, this unseen angel with a myriad of invisible wings as wide as stardust clouds, sacred as sacred can only be the unseen. This mountain reflecting purple in the clouds at dusk was silent from the beginning of the earth and the bulls, speaking only the spirit of the Mountain, the River, this bubbling spirit, incomprehensible, of the mystery of water, of the mystery of stones, of water through stones, water passing through stones and stones passing through water, of water becoming one with stones, stones also becoming one with water, stones remaining distinct from water and water remaining distinct from stones, stones becoming one with stones, water becoming one with the stream of water, all being one, all being one one, but everything is distinct, like a yin and yang of water and stones, like a liquid mandala, like a prayer, all in this world where Job's wife says her few words, in a hoarse voice, in every man's ear, with every next day. But what did I say to him, what could I say to the One who spoke to me and what I said to the Mountain and what I answered to the bubbling River? All I could say was a lot of suffering - a grave full of suffering - and a little silence, the silence of the disciple in front of the teacher, an algebraic demonstration of the invisible, sitting here next to the flocks of countless birches.

-I am - indeed - one of the Lovers, but the Girl with Starry Sky Eyes is the only woman who offered me her hand as a beautiful woman, the only one I loved, the only one I liked.

These were the words of the River, my soul, the soul of the Mountain, the words of the Mountain, the words of the man in the Mountain, my words, the words of Adam when Eve was only a dream.

And the Girl Crowned with Stars says:

-Don't do what you want to do, do what you don't want to do. Because you don't really want to do what you want to do, and you really want to do what you don't want to do.

The mountain, carrying its halo of cold, holiness dripping like water on its green and wet branches, The mountain filling you like the green of a silence, like a silence that will fill the failures of your human soul, the nothingness that kisses you every morning when You wake up not letting go of her prostitute arms until late at night, when the dream deceives you into believing that she is releasing you like a heroin injection. The mountain that is silent, shrouded in holiness, is silent like God from the beginning of these pilgrimages, of the pilgrimages of these pages, is silent from the time of fear, bombing and poverty, is silent before the beginning of the legend of history, is silent before being cut off by the Giant Girl , The mountain, wild and holy, like the cedar throne inlaid with amethyst of the gods, of the God who suffers with three hearts, whose eyes are at the same time two, three and one. The mountain is silent because the stone is silent, but the mountain is visible because the sky is visible, the view of the mountain is a ubiquitous vision, when the river flowing from the mountain flows into the soul of

the mountain man, in strange moments when you become one with the mountain and a part of the mountain is you, Adam, and on the other side of the mountain are They, God.

Before Eve, before Revelation. The words of the river, the words of the river were written in the stream, the words of the river were these:

-Once you're finally human, Mensch , as Dr. Dreyfus says, you can do anything. I gave you the power, my voice of water in the streams gave you its power, the mountain gave you its power, the Gods who walk with steps from the Wind on the Mountain gave you the power, what else do you want? Go man and be a man. Only then will Eva come out of the River and lead you to her path.

In suffering, deliverance is not enough. In faith, virtue is not enough. No enlightenment can make you Buddha enough, and only suffering - this intro to death - can make you a little Christ - a little Christ, the size of a worm - because only she puts you on the cross for the rest of your life, and he kills you every day, killing you again after you rise again and again and again until death dies, if indeed your death will die. Gyatso is, of course, wiser than Plotinus, but. he saw, - it is the keystone not only of the created universe but of the whole existence, be it visible or invisible, the Eye that reflects both at the same time. Gyatso and all the sages of the primitive peoples can teach us their extraordinary common wisdom, so that later, someday, we may all learn the true divine and humble Christian folly. As for Eve, Eve was for Adam, in the heart of no John was there room for any Eve. Adam looked at himself, and John looked at himself, and each went his own way. In this new world in progressive dissolution, in which the family has also become a

nonfamily, it may be better to be John, if you have a heart for John. The world is not what we see in videos and romantic comedies, the world is what you see on the street: sin and suffering, ignorance and rebellion; the world is not what you see in the videos, the world is what you see in the mirror. I just have to get to shore, or realize that this salt water I'm drowning in is the sky, the tears of the gods.

EVERYONE IS ONE WAY

1 We the earth

Not to have a shot. He passed the shop in front of the intersection and when he reached the corner he turned right past the houses with Saxon gates lit by high electric lanterns in the sebeş sunk in a cosmic night, the city's electric sparks being reflections of the three-dimensional constellations in the universe . Not to have a shot. It was the beginning of November with a sky covered with icebergs that were breaking apart and mingling over the highway. If he had some money, he'd buy some eugenics, he thought, and a bottle of Wonderland, the best bottled water.

But that way he didn't even have money on the road. Just like a vagabond, he thought, or just like a Buddhist, he thought to himself, then wondered how Gautama himself would have told the drivers that he would stop to take him by car because he had no money. Boppo, an American boy, had told him that in America he would not have the courage to hitchhike, but how well the boy thought, that in Romania you can still stay on the occasion even if you don't have money. Now it stood on the edge of the Sibiu-Cluj-Deva intersection, in Sebeş; it was dark and the traffic lights were changing every two minutes. Many trucks passed by, but until now most of them turned right towards Cluj or came from Arad, there had been quite a few cars going in his direction until then and most of them were either full or too luxurious. Two jeeps had passed. Jeeps never stopped. Indeed, a true law of Murphy can be formulated in connection with hitchhiking. State law on occasion. The unpaved part between the road ditch and the highway was lined with freshly packed puddles, reflecting the scattered light of the streetlights along with the kinetic progression of light and shadows of the rather few cars passing Deva along with the cars coming from the opposite direction. more diffuse and weaker. When a large truck passed by, the puddles shone one by one in the light of the headlights like molten gold

puddles. Through the open window of a Land Rover heading toward the center you could hear: - "I can feel it in the air tonight / O, Lord / I've been waiting for this moment ..." , at the box office, the song composed by Phil Collins.

It was eight o'clock in the evening. It was half past four when he left Cluj, coming from Grigorescu, climbing the Turzii road, passing all those big houses on the right side of the street, passing the grocery store, then the Heroes' Cemetery where Romanian and Hungarian soldiers from the first war were buried. World War II, Soviet soldiers from World War II, revolutionaries from the December 1989 Revolution, and a little further on the Jewish cemetery, with old stones resembling sleeping stones in the closed eyes of the rivers. Only now had he reached Sebeş because no one had taken him for a long time. He had left home angry after an argument with his father and mother, he had left home from the block of flats in the Grigorescu neighborhood. He didn't want to remember all the talk and nerves in the family home, the two-room apartment full of books and inhabited by loneliness. Sometimes it was awful in their house how it must be in many houses, in many homes under the sky, as if a curse was above them, as if the shadow of a dark master bird fluttered its huge wings above their blankets; perhaps God had foretold, and it is no coincidence that the pattern on the lacquered wooden door at the entrance to the apartment was a inverted cross.

When he ordered the door, his father said he did not believe in superstitions and chose to put the door that way. In the end, the door may not matter as much as it did, but the atmosphere in the house had always been one full of conflict, syncopated, ugly. Outrageous were the moments when, like Kevin McCallister, he seemed to want to be no longer part of anyone's family. He had left angrily, he had crossed the whole of Cluj on foot from Grigorescu, passing by Someş until he reached Calea Turzii on occasion, and after almost an hour and a half on the side of the road he had managed to leave. And now he was in Sebeş, and Phil Collins's song could be heard in the street, and, God, what

could finally come in this life that belonged to a life? Looking through the half-open window, he saw a girl with big wings, white as a wedding dress filling the whole car, but she couldn't see very well. When I looked better, it was green and the car was already gone, past the traffic light, and the song grew fainter. Besides, nothing could be seen because of the dark windows of the big SUV. The city can be a good place to meditate.

He wished the Rover would stop, or turn around, or catch up with him and ask the angel what was going on in the air tonight and get him out of the way and see where he was. will he go, where could that miraculous car in which he most likely would not even have gotten into those huge wings that filled the whole car, wings covered with white feathers bigger than eagle feathers and, by the way? , and than the feathers of the largest eagles. In the sky, near the moon, in a crack in the clouds, the stars flickered like distant reflections of the electric lanterns and the city, the silver and gold headlights on the highway.

The cobbled sidewalks with cubic-cut basalt were deserted, and in front of the boy standing at one of the gates could be seen an obliquely raised fountain. The companion, carved in wood, made him wonder why the man did not make a fountain with a chain, because - as far as could be distinguished from the street - the houses were quite crowded, probably from the time when Sebeş was a poor market. , being almost built into each other. The Saxon house in the yard of the haystack was lime green, the house next to it was a shade of gray, and the house on the corner of the intersection had a gate on the other side. Beyond the grassy dirt ditch of the road were the golden puddles, the electricity poles with lighted lanterns, and one of the pillars was attached to a garbage can in which the boy had thrown since he had reached a packet of cappuccino powder which he had he had eaten while climbing the top of the hill on Calea Turzii, in Cluj, in the wonderful light of a thousand lanterns lit on the boulevards during the day for technical checks. It was one of the days in November, at eight o'clock in the evening, and now he was in Sebeş, and his anger seemed to have eased, as if it had passed, at least halfway through. The tiny number of trees on the side of the road, mostly on the other side of the street, smaller than the number of fingers

on one hand, seemed to humanize the place a little more, as in oriental prints, or as in Indian, Russian or Western miniatures or as in stories.

American Indians in which a tree is a reason to live on, in which a tree is a soul, your soul, invincible even knocked to the ground. As in those memories where a tree is a reason for an extra silence, for another answer without words, without language, in moments when to say your name, your real name, shut up.

A little further on the street, beyond the traffic light, on the left side of the Sebeş were the old churches of the city, he remembered the metal gate of one of them, a Lutheran or Calvinist church, with an old iron gate and almost rusty, with a plaque that read "NO MONTH TO VISIT," followed by a rather indecisive dog between chasing away visitors or receiving a sign of good understanding from them, such as a piece of bread or, better yet, a piece from a hamburger meatball. On the other side of the street, after the traffic light and beyond the bridge, were the blocks between which he would eat on a concrete cube with Buddha, a somewhat vagabond motorist rocker, on his way to Sighisoara, on a pilgrimage to ignorance or perhaps to enlightenment. a lighting mixed with a lack of piety and vodka. There was the concrete cube they hadn't stopped eating before, a rebellious punk and a motorcyclist without a motorcycle, the concrete cube that would probably survive him, the boy, when he was long ago transformed from something alive into dead earth. , will also be a concrete cube, the resting place of the pilgrims of the future, unchanged, at least compared to the length of his life as a bug, with an unseen end like the extinguishing of a candle on the side of the vineyards, in the Orthodox churches of childhood. Further on, on the right side, were the shops in the old houses, but all this didn't matter, in fact he hadn't seen them yet, now he was on his way waiting for someone to take him home. The Land Rover had gone past the traffic light, and now the song was getting louder and louder.

- "No, you don't fool me / Cause the hurt doesn't show / But the pain still grows ...", illuminated by the huge trucks coming from Sibiu.

And then he remembered what he had dreamed the night before, it had

really been a dream, a vision, something strong. He had dreamed that he was on a triage of tracks where countless lines were coming and going, a city of lines with twisted metal rails, and he was looking down at the rails. After a while of realizing that he did not know what he was thinking, he awoke from his trance, from the dream that had penetrated him as the sugar burns the rice pudding with milk, and looked along the rails seeing that two of them must have belonged to a mountain.

-Russian, because they climbed in loops, in hemispherical waters. No doubt they must have been like a very large roller coaster that could not see their end, as far as the horizon was concerned the railway did not end up going higher and higher, becoming higher and higher as the clouds floated under the rails. their curves. I don't know how many minutes or hours or how long he had waited because his soul had been stolen from his dream again, but when he woke up he saw a train approaching on that roller coaster. He didn't leave because he was curious what train was coming and where he could go with him if he got his ticket, although tickets are usually not taken from the triage. The train descended into the water, shining forward with a white headlight at the top of the locomotive's snout, and when it finally whistled seven times at the triage, the boy saw that the train was in fact made up only of diesel locomotives, and countless lines. triage rail, connected to each other, each with a large white light on the front. After the train stopped, she walked over to him, looking at him. The front locomotive was an ordinary diesel locomotive, only it had a very big, huge headlight.

Looking at him, it was as if the lighthouse was starting to grow, its light turning into a bright glass, and the boy walked towards the locomotive and entered the lighthouse. The lighthouse was much larger on the inside than on the outside, and - as he went inside and got used to the overwhelming light surrounding him on all sides - after a while he saw that there was someone else in that glowing star. She hadn't noticed it at first because it was even brighter than the surrounding light. The one he had seen there was him. In fact, it wasn't him, but he looked like him, you could say it was him, he was like him, only he wasn't human, he was an angel. He was like a man made entirely of light and with huge wings covered with feathers of light. She was his angel. He looked just like

him, as the Scriptures say, but he was much more beautiful and somehow wiser. He looked the way he had in childhood. The angel did not say anything except a few lines from "In The Air Tonight" : - „I've seen your face before, my friend, but I don't know if you know who I am / Well I was there and I saw what you did I saw it with my own two eyes / So you can wipe off that grin I know where you been / It's all been a pack of lies ... ” They must have played loud music in that damn bar next to the block. Then the headlight of the locomotive went out like a Buddha in nirvana and he woke up. He could remember the angel's sadness, an endless sadness, like the waves of a sea, like the sadness of a llama looking at a Colorado beetle in the middle of a poisoned field. In his dream, in his sleep, he had thought that he did not know if in Kafka's story he did not know if anyone had pity on the beetle Gregor Samsa, someone other than Gregor Samsa - and Franz Kafka had been a prophet of modernity, anyway. He was different from him, surrounded by pity on all sides as if he had always been in the huge white light, the Diesel headlight of his dream, the white headlight of the locomotive coming from the sky.

He was now a sophomore in musicology at the Gheorghe Dima Academy and lived in a ten-story dormitory full of young and ignorant people. Pride and suffering abounded in the home. The ten floors of the dormitory designed by the Communists each had twenty doors, the corridors looking somewhat intimidating like prison corridors, a place devoid of almost any compassion, and when he sat there he had no such compassion either; a bastard like everyone else. Once, when he was drunk, he looked through the wall-sized window and covered the latticework and called the twin home opposite - in English, the language of his meditations - he had called it for himself: 'house of the bad people', his spirit pronouncing with his soul burnt the drink, this drug, and dripping like rain. Yes, the home was mostly a resting place for bad people, and he was one of them. Now he was in Sebeş, in the center of

Romania, in the source of the triangle, in the nexus of the road, in the center, even in the center of the world, because wherever you are the center of the world can be, if there is a man kneeling in it. it can be a Mecca, it can be a Mecca. Besides, something around him must have been full of holiness, but he didn't know what it might be, maybe the churches, maybe the night, or maybe, who knows, even the road. As the Bird says, “Holiness is invisible. It can be anywhere. It's everywhere, like an eagle sleeping in an egg. It can be anywhere. Especially when the road is straight, as the soul follows through the sand full of shards broken by the shells of a prayer. ' There was something sacred somewhere, but probably no one knew what. Anyway, maybe it wasn't anything special, maybe just a stranger, say an old woman or a monk who had stayed at the place before he arrived, said a prayer, who knows why. That place, full of mud and puddles, lit by the headlights of passing cars, had become sacred, the sanctity of the said prayer floating in the night; in the surrounding electric night of the city, spreading and spreading like ink in the water. Everything was beautiful as a fairy tale and true as a neorealist film, or a montage of memories projected again and again in the cinema of the soul in the nostalgic light of regret after love.

The new day had just begun, the new day of a thousand years, and time stood, huge and undiscovered before, like a mythical river, with pearl-strewn sands and mud disturbed by the sleeps of the fishing rod in the green stones of the frog's silk on the bottom water. The new day had begun on this earth where no one knew how many more days had passed, the new day, or perhaps the new night, had begun, all going to the same place as the other nights, in the grave or perhaps in heaven. And tonight, on this mystical and mythical day, the intersection shone like a glass stand in an Irish pub or like a church full of lighted candles, a small little stone church full of all the candles ever lit on these lands from the beginning. , tallow and wax candles, yellow, white and red, so much light was there at the intersection that evening.

As for the family, no one's family remains the same, the family changes over time just as the color of the dials of certain mechanical watches changes with the temperature fluctuations in the air.

What old Carl Gustav Jung would have said about this, about how the family changes every time you look at it, like a river, like clouds evanescent - or like a human face, all in perpetual transformation like a dandelion blown into the air of a child, of him as a child, scattering in the wind, only the stem remaining in his hand, the dandelion's self, the root of its flight, its core, the seeds of its death and life. Something remains unchanged, the dandelion remaining in his hand, but the dandelion's seeds swayed in the Doric air, moving away from the waves and floating in a magical moment, in a buddha moment, in the glass bubble of a tear of heaven, a a drop of light, a burnt, charred wing of flight of which only the flight remained, in a smile destined for a beetle, in the stainless eternity of a childhood memory from the time when the family also looked like a Stonehenge. What would the Old Man have said if he had been asked, what would he have seen if he had looked at me? he thought. The headlights reflected like stars in each other, making the silver plaques on the muzzles of the cars shine brightly like living silver, like the metallic, white sky of the May afternoon. The family is not a social contract, but a Stonehenge.

At the same time, the family is a house, a home, but often it is a house without doors, or a house with almost all the windows built like ghettos. Or, if it has a door, it is often a locked and closed door, a deserted house, a house filled with loneliness like the scent of cakes taken out of the oven two days before Christmas; or, often, the family is a house that you see only from the inside, so you feel that you do not have and cannot make a valid image of what you live, like the house or the existence of a blind person. The stars are indeed a family, a stonehenge the size of the universe, a dandelion blown by the lips of God, this pure child, 14 billion light-years away, as the calculations say, its huge floating seeds scattering throughout the universe. , throughout the universe. Raindrops had begun to fall at the intersection, softly, like piano music, after a few minutes starting a little more often and

disturbing the puddles of rain between the road and the ditch of the road.

Now it was raining and now there was only one man in the rain like Mike Oldfield and the rain was beautiful, something beautiful, it was something beautiful to drip all the sky on you, to leak all the sky in your eyes. Many like the grills and the sun, others - probably much less - like the rains, these silences and the sky, this loneliness surrounded by electric flames and night. Our family is a seven-string guitar, he thought, gesturing to the hitchhiker of a non-stop Ford van, and the boy remained in the rain outside and in the starry sky of thoughts inside. The car drove quite fast on the straight highway leading out of Sebeş, the dark evening sky was covered with lumps of steam that shattered and mixed like dough. Although it was dark outside, the clouds could be seen in the sky, illuminated by the moon through a crack in the mass of steam floating in the atmosphere of this strange and living planet above the earth and humans. Their family was a song, the song of the notes and chords of that seven-string guitar, they were or at least could be a chord, a delicate seventh, a simple Dm7, they could at least be, if they weren't, at least most of the time. And now he felt like a broken string, like a missing string on this out-of-tune guitar that was their family. What could Hendrix, what could John Lee Hooker, what could Segovia have done with such a guitar, weird, out of tune and damaged; What could the Void have done to their family if he had been left behind? By the time he arrived, only a couple of people had crossed the street, probably people who had barely escaped work, perhaps from a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, people in Chinese hats, in gray clothes, empty-faced faces. No one can answer this question. As Thomas Mann's character says, in man, in most people, the body kills the soul. In addition, it can be said that humans are one man, just as an anthill is one ant, this is religion, one ant, one man.

Yah Weh; the one that can't be described anyway you would try to do it. Maybe as he can't be seen, maybe he can't even be heard even if he speaks. Spirit, spirit, notions that we cannot understand because we cannot process them; as something hidden we can say that he at least from our point of view - does not exist, and many say it, many

and live this blind truth. But there is, there is a problem and that is not the problem. The problem is, from his point of view, we exist. It can be hidden, we cannot hide, anyone who tries to do this and try to hide will see what these words say, the words of silence to the boy. How can he be when even a beetle that needs to cling to the grooves of your fingerprints to walk on your fingers is as complex as it can be, the one that no one has seen and that everyone's soul knows it in the yin-yang vortex of this inseparable paradox of life, like the black-and-white vortex of time, this turmoil. The night had cleared, and the rain now seemed rarer with smaller splashes, he could hardly feel them, feeling as if he were just dripping at the intersection full of lights in intersecting trips. He looked at the lighted intersection, lit by electric lanterns and car headlights, by the moon, by the incandescent mirrors of the puddles, but as if by another light, a hidden light, and - the thread of his thoughts reached here - he realized again the holiness he had found in that place, or that was waiting for him there, the holiness that flowed all around like honey filling everything like the hexagons of combs, filling houses, streets, cars, people, entering wherever he found an opening, like honey fills combs. He, too, was a honeycomb, and he had to be filled with faith.

Because the choice, the metaphysical choice - in that place where, not knowing anyone, not even the hitchhiker, the only man present then in distress if we ignore the people with half-closed eyes in the cars whose passage resembled ants on a twig covered with resin and knocked down, hundreds of years before, right where now was the middle of the SibiuCluj-Deva intersection on the outskirts of Sebeş, covered with dozens of layers of asphalt, had been the altar of a medieval Roman Catholic church, a place where time For hundreds of years, prayers have turned into unseen light - that choice that no one escapes, it is not a cross between pleasure and ethics, this choice that bears the trademark of the workshop of the Gods, the tearful choice is between sadness and honey, both metaphysical and real. Metaphysical, meaning eternal; real, that is, real. Drops of water falling around made the asphalt look dark black, reflecting the faded yellow lights of the square or round headlights in front of the cars on the highway. The sounds of various kinds of engines

could be heard, the big wheels of the trucks spinning jagged, splashing on the wet highway.

God. We humans tend to deny the Gods, just as the whole outer universe might deny the rain, which does not exist from its perspective, a reality for us, the earth; the rain falling like tears, what a feeling. For the ancients the rains were the tears of the air, of the empty space, of the sky, of our god of the sky, tears fallen from nothing, from emptiness, from no eye, from loneliness, from god. Thus the muffled cry of the rain is a communion, just as our tears of swallowed salt are the expression of defeat in the face of the desire for communion, the expression of the pain of the loneliness of a pair of eyes, of a soul, of a man.

Every man knows loneliness, loneliness reigns over the lands of every heart, every psyche, every human soul. We can call loneliness a sleep, if it is established that communion and communion are the awakening of that sleep. Loneliness is a sleep of the soul, an anesthetic trance, a coma of the soul stretching for a lifetime, when life itself can become a sleepwalking wandering between the eternal darkness and the eternal light, between day and night. In addition to the extent of man's loneliness, the universe is just a ray of harp music, even death is just a kiss from the angel of loneliness in whose transcendent eyes whose good and evil lose their meaning, spiritually, death does not begin at the end of life, death can start just as well the first time you finally open your eyes after the first kiss, hopeless as a last dose, when you open your eyes and see nothing. You don't see anything like the dead. Loneliness is that despotic Assyrian king who holds you in chains of brass, that master who will grow more and more as you finally become a beetle crushed by his feet, like Gregor Samsa, if you don't see anything - anything - when you open your eyes, if you do not see the world, you, God or anything else. Now the boy thought that maybe no one had taken him because he hadn't asked to be taken. Whenever he hitchhiked, no one would take him until he said a prayer, asking the gods of heaven to take him.

Looking mechanically at the passing cars, he began to pray. About two minutes passed when he was interrupted: -Give all the money you have! said someone who suddenly grabbed his hands, holding him tight.

Looking at him, he saw that the speaker was a young man, perhaps two or three years older than he, drunk. He had a jacket taken from the market, some new Turkish jeans, he had a little haircut in front of him, and he had some Pumas cloth sneakers taken from the market.

Leaning his head down, the boy compares his black Converse All Stars basketball shoes to the other's sneakers for a few seconds. He looked at himself and noticed that he was scared, but he wasn't really afraid to do what he asked. He was silent, doing nothing. If the other man hadn't held his hands and if he could, he would probably have run away instead of hitting him, as the other was probably expecting.

-Come on, slave! Give a hundred thousand, how much you have!

The boy fell silent, looked at him with the eyes of a trapped animal, fell silent, and looked down. He thought to himself, "What are Christians doing now, what are the Buddhists talking about, Sufi monks?" What is nonviolence? Did it work for Mohandas K. Gandhi, Martin Luther King, after all? Is it possible to live by nonviolence?

-Not...

-What you said?! The other young man says grimly, harshly like a child who imitates the tone of his parents when he beats or torments a child weaker than himself.

-Not.

The drunken young man grabbed his right shoulder with one hand and began to beat him, calmly. After a while he said: -Come on, sucker, give it to him too! Yes, my brother is a cop. Come on, drug addict, said the drunken young man, hitting him.

Come on, I'm beating you!

What are the words of Philosophy, what are the impulses of the instinct for survival, what does Wisdom say, what do the Gods say? Is there a God to save? Or do you just need your fists and feet to save you? There was a time when he did nothing and was only beaten away by that drunken young man. It wasn't that bad. What he could see was that he didn't feel any pain, and it was good that he was still standing. Like boxing, he thought with a smile. It was a bit worried about what might happen next but "The Lord is my shepherd" thought thinking what if all practice nonviolence and peace before conflicts outer life, why can not address the same internal conflicts within the family.

Why is he arguing with his parents, why can't he be a Sufi, a lama monk, a Christian at home too? The cars buzzed with their headlights on at night, with a beacon still flickering after taking the curve and entering the intersection, and then drove away with the taillights on their backs glowing in an electric purple.

It was quite hard, the boy did not know what he could do, and as if that were not hard enough, the drunken young man began to pull him, trying to lead him to the center of town, probably to his brother. He did not let himself be pulled, so after a while the individual gave up, and while holding him by the right shoulder, he began to punch him, especially in the ribs. If I were to tell anyone, the boy thought as he was being beaten, about how I was being coated, most likely that person would find everything quite comical, if not so serious. Many things that happen to man are both comic and tragic, their essence depending only on the perspective from which they are viewed. Probably deep down, every old clown is a tearful Lear like a sad, thoughtful child, like Kierkegaard, Jung, or sad children with the starving bodies of Africa.

As he was being beaten, the boy turned and looked at the sidewalk where the individual who had hit him calmly had come from and saw three young men approaching. The young men were three boys and a girl. Two of them, one of the boys and the girl were wearing cotton hats, the boy was wearing a baseball cap with an N and a Y from the New York Yankees, and the girl was with the Los Angeles Angels basketball team. The third boy had his head uncovered and his hair was cut to half an inch. The three of them were wearing slightly thicker autumn jackets, the girl's jacket was white, and the boy with the haircut and the girl was wearing wider jeans with slightly larger pockets, while the third boy in the NY hat was wearing blue Adidas sweatpants. with three green-yellow stripes. All three wore Adidas leather sneakers, and the girl wore a red-yellow-green bandana on her right arm.

"Neighborhood boys," the boy thought. The rappers had seen what had happened since they were a little farther away and probably thought there were two fighting, but now they could see that in fact only one was beating the other and the other was doing nothing to change his miserable condition. The eldest of the young men, the hairdresser, said: -Look at Păvăluc. What's up, co? he asked the hitchhiker.

"I don't know," the boy replied. Tell me I don't give him money.

Immediately the rappers came to them and suddenly the boy noticed that no one was holding his blouse and that he was no longer hit. Instead, the man who had beaten him fell to the ground with a few fists, making it difficult for him to get up due to drunkenness. As he tried to get up, he clung to the white jacket of the neighborhood girl, who held him in both hands and slowly helped him to his feet.

- "For some they are stories told with audacity / I don't listen to the story in my neighborhood / Some are well-bred, they come from the good world / They can't bear to listen to the boys who swear / It's outrageous, dangerous to talk like that / Stories What the street teaches you / The world talks a lot and does little / Nobody wonders why the life of some is a torment, ” said the girl singing or rather speaking, very quickly in a cheerful tone while helping the drunken young man to get up, caressing his cheek tenderly when he reached the third verse, as in an invaluable and irreplaceable - not even angelic - female contribution to this world springing from nothing.

When the man managed to get up with the help of the girl, the drunken young man struggled to look around, he saw the one he had beaten, he saw the two who had beaten him, he saw the girl who was still holding his hands and then, somehow undecided between falling again and standing, he found sufficient self-confidence, and - pulling his hands from his face - ran away with an angry expression on the side of the highway, heading for the city center. The girl shouted back some verses, probably the continuation of the song: - "I made a lot of mistakes / I don't want to repeat them / If I didn't win today / I don't want to lose tomorrow./" "He said he had a cop brother, I think he's going to come with him," the boy said.

"Come on," said the one in the NY hat. He's a poor alcoholic.

Then, suddenly, he stopped a car and the boy had to leave; All he could say to the three young men was, "Thank you!" The sages have always said that we cannot and do not know the ways of the Lord and His will. God had probably written in his book that he would take this beating without doing anything to attract it and without trying to get rid of that bad man, and God had also decided that he would get rid of

the one who beat him and his brother, without doing anything to escape, his liberation and freedom come free and undeservedly, like salvation.

Looking back, before opening the back door of the car, he saw that the three young men who had saved him were on the cobbled sidewalk again, with their backs to him and heading for the city. And he was going to turn his back on that place and the holiness of that place, to walk away like all the cars that had passed through the intersection before, but it had been pleasant and true to meditate in that blessed place sprinkled with dark puddles of wet mud. and starry with golden dots, a place where he had been defended from evil as a blind girl would once tell him in the future, one of the most masterful people he met, a poor beggar, a gypsy, a girl who could not see. who, like August Rush, can hear the music of the universe. As he looked at the three young men, he saw the girl pick up from the pavement a small or large tape recorder she had never seen before, pressed a button, and then saw her catch up with her last friends and all three surrounded. of words and music: - "Every day is a story / A new hope every day / The same neighborhood story / And you always wonder ..."

Then he turned and got into the car.

-Are you going to Simeria?

"Yes, Simeria ... and on," said a woman behind the wheel.

In the seat next to the driver was a man about the same age as her, both about forty years old. He closed the door and the car left, leaving behind the music, the youth, the memory and the sanctity of that hitchhiking spot, all the lights and the whole night around. Now he leaves and the night in Sebeş will not be the same as the night on the road or the night in Orăştie, the night of the rivers in the mountains is not the night of the lakes, the night of the sea is not the night of the forest. The earth changes and transmutes something as celestial and evanescent as night or dawn.

He had also got rid of Păvăluc and his brother.

The waves of the night covered the city, filling it with the sound of dark waves, the night covered the city, the young people crossing the street with the tape recorder behind them, the big yellow lights, the black or yellow puddles, the rain, Pavel, the plaque with “DO NOT VISIT MONDAY ”, Sebeş with its own alley, the clouds lit by the bright moon, the pools of molten gold and everything else could be. If he could have figured out what he was thinking he would have seen that he thinks you need to guard the earth, you need to be able to avoid so many things, as many say you have to keep your eyes open, you have to have an open mind and see like a disciple of the Way. To reach the other side of life he needed an invariable in the equation of his own existence. He would have seen that he was thinking light. Like the light from more than half a bottle of vodka that Matei Mărmăţoni put next to the bed at the fireplace after learning that he had just given up drinking, about two weeks before he told her that if she looked at him ironically, she would take him to the beat. He was a big guy, Mărmăţoni, a solid man, a green Romanian, a Romanian in the trunk, another man you have to beware of before you know him, another one who, like him, needs to be forgiven.

When he got here, the boy remembered and said a five-word prayer, then another seven-word prayer, while looking out the window on the right side of the car. Many years later he would see silence, he would see loneliness, he would see emptiness, green stones in a mountain river washed away by the flow of prayer and forgiveness, an icy stream coming from the springs of oblivion. A river in his soul flowing among the huge stones in the mountains, in a river of tears of happiness, a frozen river flowing to a hexagonal nirvana of the crucifixion in whose large waters fishy bellies with painted porcelain scales stand motionless four inches above the sand and shards of flint in the water. On the onedollar bill the Freemasons drew the open eye above the pyramid, an eye that being God's we can consider to be the source of the reflection that each of us is; in the future he would try, unconsciously, to close that eye, the reflection of that eye, to see at least a moment what is inside, what is the reflection inside, to see as little as possible for eternity the light from the other shore of yin-yang of the miniature on the portulan of his soul.

The car was advancing towards the exit from Sebeş through the darkness of the November evening. The rain had stopped and the crack from which the Moon was burning seemed to have widened. On the right side of the road in the direction he was looking, the Saxon gates lined one after the other, with large wooden gates enclosed in plastered brick frames. On the tape recorder in the car he had taken from the occasion, some manele could be heard, he was not very attentive and did not listen to what was happening outside, in fact - unconsciously - he was listening to his soul, something similar to a point with the doctor's gesture. to put the stethoscope on someone's bare chest. All he had distinguished at one point was just - probably a refrain from manea something that said: "... no place holier than the hill of Cluj ..." . The woman behind the wheel and the guy next to her were talking about something, relaxed, and he didn't understand what they were talking about; Large trucks were coming from the opposite direction, illuminating the entire dark interior of the car with their large, yellow headlights. The interior of the car was from time to time, with the passing of the trucks, illuminated like the soul of a Buddha; The woman opened the driver's window halfway, wishing to let the cigarette smoke out, and threw a packet of something out of the open window of the car, and when it was cold in the car, she turned the crank on the door with her left hand, closing the window again.

There were maybe a hundred yards of houses with lighted highways, and then they would leave town. The boy, now accustomed to the atmosphere in the car, looked around more closely; The first thing he saw was three small plastic icons placed on the sun visor above the driver, visible above the woman's red hairstyle behind the wheel. Now on the cassette player you could hear some manele as they used to do with the shrill sound of an electronic organ on a cybernetic rhythm, always the same, exactly, synthetic, without any mistakes. Suddenly the inside of the boy's car was lit by the headlights of a 17-foot-long shot that had come close to about three feet and something behind them, and now it was overtaking. It was as if the whole car they were in had filled to the brim, he would think much later. The woman behind the wheel

slowed down, letting the huge truck, a Volvo, pass. As the truck slowly overtook him, the boy saw large graffiti on the towel on the trailer.

Under letters printed industrial company company who owned the truck "Day & Night Circle Inc." lettering stumpy and thick like donuts, but quite different, spray yellow paint cars: "maybe he was born and he on the street" , and below the metallic structure of the shot as well as the respective cloth he wrote in calligraphic letters, smaller: "La Familia" , which made him remember the young men who had taken him out of the fight. Maybe what they were listening to was the same music. He did not know; He kind of confused them all, he liked the album with Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington in a concert recorded in 1961, when they were both quite old and, indeed, quite wise - he had the tape. The shot began to turn in front of them on the right, and now it was in front of them with the taillights shining rectangularly, carmine into the night. He looked around and saw that they were in the field. They had left town.

2 Buddha's words

The slightly muffled noise of the car that had taken him from Sebeş was the background of faded giggles. The world was covered with darkness, and people could only stare at it in the dark. And as the words of the human family say, the Raven came, the Man came, the brother of Gabriel came, the One Who Opened His Eyes came, came the Sage, came the Loneliness Who Heard, many others came but the world went on to stay in the dark. And someone, one of those who came, maybe one with dogs or maybe one covered with letters, said spitting - wanting to prove the truth - said that forgiveness can be a light in this lack of light.

He said that forgiveness will not bring light, but forgiveness can bring light, like a candle. And the myth of the people's family says that those who came said so. Forgiveness is the light that enters you, dark man, changing your face, from one chimpanzee with a demon soul to another.

The raven saw that the people of the family were evil, The man saw that the people of the family were evil, the brother of the Angel, the One Who Opened His Eyes, the Sage, the Loneliness Who Heard, the many and the others, those who sing the songs of healing , all saw and the architecture of the delicate and wounded body of Forgiveness took the place of the cold and frozen statue of the Marble Righteousness in this temple. That's how it was when the light came on. Now you have the light in your hands. Many times, in minutes of loneliness, he tried to exist. To exist for him - to try for him - was, spiritually, to exist like a large stone frozen in the middle of the river like a living stone that caught muscles on the flow of the go board, or like a samurai meditating in the middle of battle, surrounded by all the yin-yang parts, the two streams of nothingness and the anti-nothingness. To exist meant - once and for all - to be like a stone, his soul to be full like a stone. But for this the only method that had worked so far had been prayers; nothing compares to them. He had found something similar to what he was looking for in an episode of "Doctor in Alaska," given on ProTV years ago; Marilyn Whirlwind, the fat Indian girl; it was filled with existence,

melted and incandescent to the truth, so that it could be said to be like a corner flower growing high on the rocks of the mountains, or like a rock covered with wet, almost black moss, dripping with water the night before. it dissipates like a memory, existing from the beginning of history and before it. The two men in the car were talking in front of him, but the boy was not paying attention to what they were saying. He had told them he had no money, he had done the right thing, and now he was waiting to cross the fork to Cugir and then Orăştie and reach the intersection. He was silent and tried to silence his soul; or to pray, which is all the same. Somehow he was trying to light the soul of the woman from the blue plastic lighter with one thousand five hundred lei of the woman behind the wheel or from the cigarette butt thrown on the window, or from the curses of the man next to her. Outside, the car was plunged into darkness to the other end of the universe, the only lights being two light bulbs on board, the signals of a gray Dacia stopping in front of them and the moon outside, flickering faintly like the embers of a fading mountain fire. And in the few stars seen in the sky it is written that man is the most terrible animal when the light goes out, written that in the future the sun will become a dead sun - as the sun was dead five years above Auschwitz - like nine . When sorrow is crushed, sorrow begins, when sorrow is crucified and killed, life begins. And prayer, will prayer once begin in this life?

Beyond the car window could be seen only dark fields, illuminated by the moon and passing cars, or shaded, dark black, full of weeds on the side of the road, and for a distance of two kilometers the field and the road being separated by -a small wave of earth, raised in years by the throwing of dead weeds and turned into earth, like in their home garden. The woman hummed briskly to the loud music that was heard in the car, at the same time somehow with malice, with an expression of malice in her mouth that sang between her teeth: -Ta, rao, ta, rai, ta, ta, tai, ra, ta ...

While singing, he sometimes made a gesture that mimicked the cuts on his arms, a gesture typical of paragliders and country discos.

Returning to his meditations, the boy noted on the rough surface of the parchment of his soul that if man's wickedness could take shape, if he could have a face, then that face would be the very face of man, even his face. A blind man who is healed sees; and if he finds a mirror, he sees himself. After an ordinary life in this graveyard that is the world, faith makes you a prophet and you hate everyone, as Scripture says, and you hate yourself, as Christ says. But if you still hate, boss, you can't hate anymore. As it was in that old fairy tale with the Buddha and the Tempting One in which it is told how the Buddha wandered like a vagabond through the world, reaching at one point the place where the center of Lhasa is now. At that time, there was only a circular temple covered with Indian sculptures in those ancient times. All the sculptures depicted women without any clothing, and on the top of the temple dome was the goddess to whom the temple had been dedicated, an ancient goddess whose name had been forgotten. It was a temple called a temple of love. Those who had built the temple believed that the goddess was descending among them and the goddess was indeed descending, but she could never be seen except by the Buddha because of the fact that from the Awakening the Buddha had seen before. The goddess danced naked on the spherical hollow in the middle of the dome that covered the temple, and the temple was full of weak people, sick, lepers, boobies, agitated, unhappy, lame, all the bastards of those lands seeking healing in the love of the goddess she could not see or touch none. The goddess, dancing on the hollow of the temple dome, was white, dark, yellow, orange, and blue at the same time. Anyone who looked at her could tell she was thinking of only one thing. Her breasts were full, her belly was slightly protruding, and the other part of her body was a reflection of the first. She was the bitch goddess who danced above the globe of the temple full of wretched men desperately seeking help, the mistress of the lands who took her bloody part from every soul when man left his mantle. Through her spells she lifted the Awakened Buddha beside her on the hemispherical dome of the temple, both sitting in the air, the goddess dancing like Salome around him, touching him,

covering her open eyes with her velvety hands, speaking. and in a whisper, dripping honey from her lips, causing the whole temple to spin blindly like a mandala. Siddartha said nothing, just sat there, motionless, silent, his soul silent or praying - it's all the same.

-Why are you stupid?

Silent and with his eyes wide open with the closed eyes of the goddess, Siddartha's soul uttered one of the mantras of the Awakening: -I don't want to hold your breast in my hand Because your breast is full of worms No, I don't want to hold your breast in my hand Because my hand is full of worms At that moment the spells broke, the hallucination dissipated, and the temple was blown by the wind from the mountains like a crumbling sandcastle. The Buddha stood there on a large stone in meditation and prayer for seven periods, after which he got up and went on the road by the river, which was called Lhasa after the Buddha left him, a place where the devils lost as they say. the letters brought by the ocean. The music should be just as beautiful, even if you're not blind anymore. Like his soul, but not really his soul, but his memories, his memory. When he entered his memories he had the impression that his memories are a whole of Bucharest, full of wide streets with large buildings that can each be an autonomous universe of junk and flashes, with large lindens rustling from place to place, with statues of Eminescu and Sanitary heroes killed in World War I, streets for which you needed maps and which you had to walk through for days, like in Nineveh the city from which the robbery never stopped, streets on which you can get lost like a penny of silver in the dust of the streets of the childhood

village. The nerves of the giant ferns that were his memories were a maze, a huge natural maze organized by the cyclical passage of time like concentric circles in gradients in the trunks of trees.

In his small jeans pocket on the right was a tiny aluminum penny, a five-penny coin from 1975. It was very small, about a centimeter in diameter, and had the socialist coat of arms like a mortuary crown with a red star on top. one part and the letters "SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF ROMANIA" and the inscription "5 MONEY 1975" on the other; one of the money with which nothing could ever be bought, a memory in metal - degraded and covered with an oxide layer - of Romanian socialism. He reached into the fixed door handle on his side, his fingers pounding on the polymerized plastic drum, something like a melodic line from Phil Colins ' "In The Air Tonight" on a rhythmic line from "Why Are You Lying to Me?" , a piece of music signed by Nicolae Guţă, if that is possible. As for the communists, especially in Romania he knew those in Romania - they were, as scotty372 would once say on youtube, "people who oppress are weak ..." , "people who oppress are weak." In Romania, the communists claimed that they were reforming the whole society and that - for example - they were giving freedom to women oppressed in family servitude in patriarchal society, but in fact they only added one to another slavery. In communist society, women also went to work in the state, to a place with men, and in addition they had to do their old duties, as before, while the men drank beer all day and watched the match - people back. That was communism, it's good that they drilled a hole in that flag, those were smart people. But there were smart people in the old days, as was the anonymous Stalinist man who wrote on the beam above the private station at the Simand station: "I was stuttering in Stalin's mouth." When his grandmother told his child what he saw written there, his grandmother Stefan told him: "That was a smart man!" Another time, when Stalin IV died and people were gathered in the cultural center, saying - a political ploy, probably: -Friends, comrades ... Comrade Stalin, the father of the peoples, our friend has died ... said the activist sadly and solemnly like a

raven at the presidium table, not even daring to drink the glass of water in front of him.

His father told Stefan when he returned home that two or three old men were crying loudly, and Stefan said with a smile: -Me, they were crying for joy.

Looking in the diagonal of the car, he could see the one behind the wheel, a pretty beautiful blonde woman who looked just over thirty years old. She was indeed a manelist, but she was very sweet and at the same time made the impression of a very intelligent being. She was the kind of woman like an intense dark chocolate that can please both man and man's soul, like a shamanic song in which as you sing the song becomes deeper and deeper, more like songs without verses sung in childhood, running.

The car - with its wheels noisily splashing water from about two puddles - passed a parking lot with a few tables at night in which there were about eight stray dogs, five of them barking and chasing after them, while three were left with muzzles on the ground. Indeed, a beautiful woman thought, putting the white plastic cup back on the bottle, God, but that doesn't work for me. You must conquer a seeker of the desert, it does not work like all the hopeless of the earth. When I write a novel about the life of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy and win the Nobel Prize for Literature, or at least when I win a million dollars for it, then I'll think about it, right? I'm Andersen of this town, is there anyone else?

Especially since a despised artist, if he is also ridiculed, can only be arrogant. For to me, in the dental work of my mockery of today, the bronze of tomorrow will be built, when I will be dust again, for that is the destiny of all the Andersen, these wretches, but they all go together except the soul that goes elsewhere; but where? Where have all the souls gone so far? What is that mysterious place where no fierce man wants to go, that room 101 or that place, that flowery sky. You must conquer me,

Lord, if you want to have me; as I had to conquer you, God, when I wanted to have you, he thought.

Running in those times of sacred ignorance and happiness, times when he was playing with the guardian angel, times when Christ was coming to the end of the street - as in ancient Galilee - past H7, the gypsy block with the collapsed red plaster. Times when he had not descended from the tops of the mountains, and at every step Silence spoke to him, saying: -Be careful, baby, this is an abyss.

For it can be seen how childhood and heroin addiction have access to a purer state of consciousness, closer to reality, - whatever one may say - in which happiness, divinity and existence are one, are the content of the same spherical feeling of incandescent magma, like the roar of a mountain spring. Not knowing what she is looking for and calling that ignorance pleasure, watching her on her journey to the west, all drug addicts unconsciously seek this trinity of existence, dying once they reach the sunset, without even ever knowing - from our point of view - the knowledge of these things being left to the Talmudists and their brethren. As for childhood and childhood, it must be gradually reduced from our system like a powerful substance, otherwise its loss would destroy us, and as if that were not enough, a ball full of this wonderful drug of our childhood was injected by us. Supernatural forever in the heartbeat, because as they say in our world: generally drug addicts can not give up; we are forever children in a way, we whom Christ of flesh and spirit with the rest of the world outside our consciences and bodies call us happy. Being a disciple of the Way involves all this and involves being happier than a drug addict no matter what he injects, because religion in general is an addiction and Christ is the ultimate dose.

Suddenly she turned around looking for something in the back seat of the car and the boy and could I look at his face in the

headlights outside she could find that was beautiful, it was exactly like the girl from CC Catch, like in the video for "In The Backseat Of Your Cadillac ” . She was beautiful, manelist, and beautiful; There was probably something about that. She was dyed blonde and had long hair down to her neck, combed with a path on the left. She had white skin and was very beautiful, and in her ears were small gold earrings about two halves of a sphere, and her very thin lipstick covered some wonderfully attractive lips, so beautiful that they didn't even need to smile to be full of glue. The young lady at the wheel seemed to be imbued with femininity, with the expression on her face coming from the feminine side of life, with a face so young and smooth and with eyes like two kisses in which you no longer know who you are and who she is, everything he said smoking was just a fad and not a passion. The woman was wearing a black blouse made of 60% synthetic material, thinner, a blouse that went up to the neck and over her wore a jacket in a purple and pink blend with the zipper closed almost to the top. That was all he saw. As for beauty, he would once have an epiphany of beauty, a similar moment when he had felt his gaze somehow starry, but not starry, rhombic, like two blue-indigo-pastel rhombuses out of his eyes, like the eyes of jumpers, Harlequins and Colombine, but like jumpers preparing to go to heaven with their trucks. He wasn't so handsome, it was just an epiphany about beauty. But instead, when you look into the Eyes of God, your eyes become just as beautiful because they are the mirror of God's Eyes. And in those blessed moments you are also a god, as Scripture and Theology say in alternate verses, as the friends of angels among angels will be. Looking at this woman, the boy meditates that a woman may be a path that intersects with herself in a three-dimensional multitude of plans so that you no longer know where you are, man, thinking that maybe you were in heaven. but that you have no way of knowing because this path is a labyrinth like a tangle of tangled thread, as in the labyrinths of lines in children's magazines printed in Romania before 1989.

If it hadn't been so late and he could have looked in the rearview mirror on his side of the car and if he had been able to stand

out in it, the boy would have seen a Hamletian forehead, a pair of dark eyes like two twin leaves on a shoot in the night of the iels, two lips cut in marble, a rather large nose and a little flesh, in the wind, and a soy hair of a romantic poet. And if he could look inside his face hidden in the night, he would see the sepia-colored photograph of a memory, perhaps not so old by objective criteria, but from the subjectivity of the soul of a blessed time, from his childhood in which spring snowed. with petals, a time when he was a child and when he was more than he is now; now faith did make him a god, but then his purity and childhood had made him immortal, an immortal among immortals, like Duncan McCloeud, the Muntenian. A memory full of rays that puts the huge stone block of a sacred altar in your psyche, stabilizing you, a memory raised from the fountain of oblivion, like the fists full of water, in this night whose twilight he had caught as he passed the center of Aiud. He had come out at dusk in late June mirroring a Grundig TV broadcasting the Twilight Zone, and on the alleys in front of the block the light was short-circuited, the evening was like the core of a neon short-circuiting, on and off at the same time as when he met the other children and Luzio de Lothario, an Italian child, the boy of some neighbors about three years his senior, all became one platoon as the big and lonely ones can never understand.

They had talked and walked the alleys and the paved road between the blocks of flats and the river, Galbena, the dammed river that runs through the city. It was the time when Milli Vanilli and Jennifer Rush were on the radio, and life seemed quieter. The gypsies in H7 were singing songs from "The Tent Rises to Heaven , " Luzio and Grizli had not yet learned to speak like the Jamaicans, and the neighbors in the block were not so old. After a while the bats appeared outside, flying jerkily through the semi-darkness, and all the children outside were afraid of clinging to their hair.

-... I would go home, put hot water in the basin and put my hair in the water, and when the bat died it would release its claws and

untangle my hair, said the child, who had hair a little longer than he or the others who were Breton, as the children were cut at the time.

On the car the rain had fallen uniformly with the sound of drums, in the dark showing partly like glass maps - in the parts where the glass was not washed almost completely by the large and heavy drops of water falling from the sky, traversed by the trickles of water droplets looking like capillaries, or like branches of nerves, or like vegetal ribs in the green hologram of burdock leaves or ficus, or like rivers photographed by satellite telescopes. For about a kilometer and a half after they had left Sebeş, after which, after an intermediate period in which they halved in density, it ceased. Their children's dream had come true, they had stepped out of the rain. Then later, as they walked down the road near the block, it was a sacred moment that he could not understand or comprehend, but he could feel it, like the music hidden in the noise of the city. They were walking past the green area where no cars had been parked, probably not the garages between the blocks of flats at the time, but he couldn't remember that.

Beyond the road on which no Dacia passed, the River mumbled incomprehensibly: -I was and I saw the Sea Of Tears, I was and I got lost in it and then I was reborn from it. Once upon a time there was an unseen spirit with no beginning or end. This spirit made people out of the sand.

People were on the ground. After they were made, the people departed from the spirit. They didn't listen to his voice and didn't care what he had to say. The Spirit sat in heaven, filling it, and weeping — no man knows for sure. She was crying like a child whose toys run away, unable to reach them. And the tears of the spirit fell on the stones and sand until all the endless seas and huge oceans we see around us or inside us were made. I was and saw the Sea of Tears. I was and saw the Sea of Tears, I was and I got lost in it and then I was reborn from it. I was and saw the Sea of Tears. I was and saw the Sea Of Tears, said the incomprehensible flow of the dirty water of the River, in my mouth is the voice of the sea.

It was a tangled darkness in the big walnut tree in front of the block and in the poplars that were cut later, a darkness just before nightfall. He couldn't even see well, and he had even tripped in a pit, hitting his knees to the ground on the asphalt, and then when they had gone home Luzio had said as they entered the dark staircase that there had been no light bulbs for years during the communist era. after the Revolution, neither the two lanterns in front of the block worked. They were going upstairs, and Luzio had told them that when it got dark he could see ghosts, and even today he couldn't be sure if Luzio was serious or just playing. Then, as they walked into the dark stairwell, Luzio had said: -... and when I go down the steps, here - and he gestured to show in the dark the corner of the stairwell next to the always-locked door of the dryer - here I think it could be a ghost. There was a pause, after which Luzio said: but I'm not afraid, because I think he can't do more than kill me, and then I got rid of her, the child who was him then and maybe the other boys thinking As they climbed the lighted steps between the ground floor of the block and the first floor, how brave Luzio was, sharing their courage as well as the boys of the families who lived in the ancient caves gathered at dusk around their heroes.

Some magical times, in which he wondered why he had a body of living dust and why he did not have a body of gold and silver, of diamond and crystal, of light and rays, unconscious with his childish mind feeling the need of the body of glory promised by the Scriptures with the pages covered with letters; some magical times in a place full of sacredness where he still had no idea that his whole world was a wretched market full of towns and villages, and littered with townspeople, - on the contrary for him in those days the whitewashed blocks of his beloved Hate was a The Ka'abe mecca full of immanence, in which the River sang songs every hour of dusk or night under the stars, songs and prayers that you only had to understand and listen to,

something that took him decades to come. at least to discern at least something of the flowing water, but also a time of Marc Chagall's childhood painting when it was so easy, you just had to sit on the water's edge and hear the song of the River: -This is a prayer for guarding the mind, This is a prayer for guarding your mind. The human mind is not a rock, the human mind is not reinforced concrete; your mind is a spider's web, wet. The human mind is not a rock, the human mind is not reinforced concrete; your mind is a spider's web, wet with dew in the wind; the devils are the wind on earth, Christ is the Holy Wind. So bow your forehead in the mountains, So bow your forehead in the water, raise your hands in the Wind if you want, forehead your eyes and the huge indigo sleep from the Mureşul of the soul rise to the electric sky; ask for the care of your mind and ask for the care of your mind, ask for the care of your mind and ask for the care of your mind. This is a prayer for guarding the mind, this is a song for guarding your mind. Ask for the protection of your mind and ask for the protection of your mind, ask for the protection of your mind and demand the protection of your mind ... no wise man, not even one, all are like him, a fair in which wise is only the night, the silent night.

Unlike the present about which an old man of Pateric confessed that he sleeps in sin and wakes up in sin like the Prophet, his present and anyone's - anyone here at least, at least since Arsenie Boca died -; his childhood, like all childhood, had probably been a time full of sacredness, and after that there had been no more in which God was upon him like a talith as he knelt on the wall of prayer covered with two little child icons, one in color and the other entirely of metal, the one from the west, because the wall from the east was occupied entirely by furniture; - it was funny that as a child, sometime between '86 and '89, he had prayed to be with them in the east of the planet as in the west of the planet, as in the movies at the Telecinemateca. An age of life in which God this Stranger was Someone in the family, an age of life that he had always felt and always should never end as the text of a Scripture never ends.

Instead, any period of time, be it childhood and the sacred age of man in which every creature has access - subjectively of course has access to holiness, so that it never ends should enter a circular pattern, or concentric circles, spirals at most in which feelings, thoughts, hopes and disappointments are repeated, in about the same way or in the progression of variations. That is why the flowers resemble lightning and not sedimentary rock, and that is why pure water produces lightning and not calcareous shale. The fact that electricity and plants have the same pattern shows that there is a pattern of existence and that flowers in their entirety and not when cut and thrown away - are materialized lightning, and lightning is evanescent and unforgettable flowers, like any revelation. . His childhood had been a pure time that lasted as long as it lasted, a time when he - unlike the rest of his life - seemed unconditionally bounded, a time when, if he set out, he could even become a Buddha. why not, a child can do anything.

Beyond the windshield of the car it was no longer raining but the sky was still cloudy, even the moon was now looking at him in love through the veil of the Sulamite. The people in the car were silent now, as was he. The woman stopped singing, she couldn't see the man, but she could hear him counting the money, the rustling of the papers could be heard.

-How long has it been? the woman asked.

"One hundred," said the man next to her, stopping and then continuing to count, whispering and nodding at each bill. He probably wanted to buy a chainsaw, a car, or a tractor, the boy thought.

He couldn't approximate what, because he didn't know if the banknotes he heard rustling were a hundred thousand or a hundred dollars, if the portrait of Nicolae Grigorescu or Benjamin Franklin was printed on them. They passed some acacias submerged in the night, with their branches half-bald. He sat in silence in the car, watching the night outside and thinking; he thought he had been so ignorant and so happy as a child, now he was still ignorant, but now he was so unhappy in this

world that he must be unhappy, perhaps a little beetle that had just been thrown alive and fixed in an insectarium.

The few times he had tried to imagine what had happened that morning, he imagined it was night. It had been a case of maplraxis from his doctor in Cluj. The rescue car drove through the darkness of the night to a certain locality in his county, where a poor unhappy child nurtured the existentialist and erroneous belief that suicide, another form of euthanasia, is legitimate in the face of the pseudo-tragedies of life. to these worlds, in this case. And it was heartbreaking, and when you think about it, can a man do anything for himself and be useful to change his condition, can a man do something for himself other than pray? Even walking in the wilderness, meditating, or transcribing one's own soul on the birch bark of another soul are as useless as the Egyptian Patericus if that soul does not sing the song of a prayer; if not the soul is not the one who cries out to you, you will never make yourself heard whatever you do, if the soul is not the one who calls, you will never receive, whatever you do and you will not be received. So, to begin the prayers, he said to himself; let the happiness begin. The moon was now covered with clouds, clouds immaterially illuminated as in the paintings of El Greco, the Spanish mystic, the pictorial synthesis between East and West. A large yellow plastic dice hung in the rearview mirror, almost torn in two.

"All right," the woman said, pressing Eject, pulling out the tape. On the other side was Guta. Nowhere does the state of sensucht feel better than at a large mudslide with all the comrades near your soul, with a lot of vodka, women bellowing in their skirts and a pile of broken bottles in the heads of enemies.

The woman at the wheel is ringing her cell phone. Now she was talking to someone, often saying "no" and "yes, I know" and looking at her, surrounded by the electricity of the highway swept away by the night air and in that chiaroscuro of femininity, the woman seemed to change somehow before him, somehow all the women of the earth they came to fill her beauty, making her features shine like a new

constellation discerned in a dream, the woman looked as if the loving magnetism of her gaze was a starry and dark sky, her lips were as liquid as if were cut into wine. In her chromatic hair were strands of every woman's hair on earth and in time. Her mouth glued to her primitive cell phone, holding a conversation, emitted on a cello background the range of all the sounds that have ever beautified any woman's mouth in women's history, not even the hands holding the plastic steering wheel and the phone were full. blessed with estrogen, but with ivory light, as if the woman behind the wheel was Nefertiti. He was an archetype. Like anyone.

He tried again to pray, but his mind was tired and as if emptied of feelings, as a bluesman's purse is emptied of coins . He was in a state of dullness similar to the day he sat at Cristi's barracks, sitting at the tar-painted table mixed with tar and peeping into a puddle on the unpaved road resembling the island of the divided states of Haiti and the Dominican Republic. being of a vertical line produced by the reflection and refraction of light. Haiti reflected the vertical and horizontal lines of a rusty iron fence across the surface, with the lattice extending only halfway across the surface and the map of Haiti showing two-thirds of a tricolor of gratings and latticework, and the raindrops that had begun to fall. disturbed the pond almost fell into the film of his eyes, disturbing or clearing it, who knows?

Also in the reminiscences of childhood, the Cherubim kneeling by the Tomb, near the Cross, said impenetrable with his eyes closed like the Archimandrite's view of another world and his forehead full of rays, white of light: -A Mother, a Child and a Tomb. Autumn burning yellow.

There are golden leaves on the grave, there are Byzantine leaves in the child's hair, in Mother's eyes love and leaves mix with tears. And the mother tells the child to hold the candle and protect the light from the November wind. The child guards the flame as angels hold people in

their arms, defending their souls. And it's the Yellow Leaf Tomb now, the indescribable Mother and the Child meditating.

His wings of flame of white light fell to the ground, the double-edged sword held her on her knees, and He and the Tomb were one. There was light all around, the whole cemetery in the late twilight was full of burning wax candles, only at them at the Tomb the Angel was burning, at a moment when he was cold and dry-hearted, unable to feel anything, wearing a black Nike blouse he understood that humans will never be angels, no man will ever be an angel, he is not in the power of poor beasts with a soul, mammals will never be like Heralds, to be an Angel you have to be made for that, it's like basketball. People should be glad to be human, he told himself much later about the light sword of the Cherubim in the armor of sparks, with liquid steel locks and with eyes of flames, incandescent as the rolling mill once was in Hunedoara. And as blinded as he had been at the time of that vision, and how ashamed he was to look around at the people chattering by the November 1 lights near the graves — if he hadn't thought about what people would have said, he would have taken off his sneakers. he would stand on his knees beside the Knee, but even in the faintest visions he was frightened by the mouth of the world, how true this was. He just sat there until it got dark as if in a fade to black movie and came out of the cemetery in the light of the stars or maybe the candles, leaving the tree by the Tomb behind, locking its Journey behind, like the Stork descending into the night The sky that rises slowly and cosmically backwards until the incandescent Sky descends to it again, like a Stork drunk by Heaven, is it true that his soul is part of the Storks.

How to pray when in the hard and rare moments of loneliness when you try all you can do is beat the drum or beatbox?

Maybe the first step, the boy thought for many years after the road tonight, is to stop considering yourself important or whatever you do, not like that black musician who did a song with Alicia Keys full of a sense of importance. self, a wrong feeling; a rap song has to be a rap song, like all art it needs to be nothing inexplicable and unpretentious,

that 's why W is better than E , although maybe neither we nor the other art critics like it. Prayers - like the Greek temples - must be as simple as the Gentiles and impenetrable like them, that is why a proud heart cannot be earth for them and therefore - although it is earth - a proud psyche cannot be earth, it cannot be either.

On the tape of the tape, the music of the manea was interrupted, and after a few seconds of whistling, some French music began, in which a woman was singing and a man was speaking at the same time: - „... Still words always words the same words / I don't know how to tell you anymore / Nothing but words / But you are this beautiful love story that I will never stop reading / Easy words from fragile words it was too beautiful / You are from yesterday and tomorrow Always my only truth / Yes it is too beautiful ... ”the band started whistling again.

He had read somewhere in a book, he didn't know where, maybe in the book with Werther, or with Gregor Samsa, or in Virginia Woolf's diary or in Georg Trakl's posthumous, maybe in the addendum to Dreyer's film about Joan of Arc, he didn't know. where, however, it was an expressionist fairy tale, a German film of the 1920s whose subject was a sequel to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 's book "The Sufferings of Young Werther ." In the movie Werther, after committing suicide out of love, ends up in hell, but through the intervention of one of the angels, he is sent to purgatory, and for him purgatory has the form of a hospice. Because of his unshared love, he feels the need to die and is tied to the bed so that he does not throw himself out the window. In that bubble of suffering, of all the beauty and all the things he had had before, he had only an old Bible, and one of those who were to be healed in purgatory, a Zigeuner, read something from it, he had not asked him what read them. Even the Bible had brought Job into purgatory. And after the convict in purgatory had read them, Werther ate that Bible, and the heavy gate of purgatory opened, opened by the hands of the angels

who had helped him to step into the light outside. Yes, it was a film, a black and white German expressionist film, full of cinematic shadows and pictorial lights.

On the tape, after a few minutes of alternating whistles with notes of manele, the French song began again: - „... Me the tender words coated in sweetness land on my mouth but never on my heart / One more word / Word word word / Listen to me / Word word word / Please / Word word word / I swear to you / Word word word word word again words that you sow in the wind / That you are beautiful / Word word word / That you are beautiful / Word word word / That you are beautiful / Word word word / That you are beautiful / Word word word word word again words that you sow in the wind. ” Once upon a time, when all people were children, there was a tribe of children on earth who hunted every night in the Bear Forest of Heaven. The whole night sky was a starry grove on the paths of which huge bears with heavy paws with large, sharp claws like star shards and hexagonal eyes ran. And when they had pierced them, as if they had been stabbed, they dragged them through the sky, leaving them in the snow of heaven. They brought them to their river, the river here, but from here they could not carry them and drag them further to the Cave, to the cave which today is called Cioclovina, and so the mountains appeared through these parts coming from the west, and the frozen springs coming down from the mountains are the blood of the Bears, of the constellations in the heavens, the blood of the stars springing from the stings made by the Children, by the Ancestors. We are no longer the Children, we are the Elders and it took us a while to find out, but thank God that in our memories, in our memories we are Children, we are Ancestors and the Bears died for us to drink light. This was the ripple of the Boy's soul, the amber bleeding from the fir tree surrounded by the night and burned by the flames of suffering, was kneeling in his own heart, this sublime chapel transformed into a pigsty. This was his prayer,

dripping like resin from the scribbled bark of the fir tree, and nothing can be said but this silence that reaches to heaven, the silence of existence, the ontological silence of all who are.

They passed the intersection towards Vinţu de Jos, deserted at night. When, years later, they were standing and eating on that concrete cube between blocks of flats in Sebeş on their way to Sighisoara, he had asked him why he did not want to work and no longer have to sleep in warehouses and engine rooms in disused factories. to all the other Buddhas before him, saying at one point: -I want to be free!

Buddha Buddhism was an atheistic Buddhism with lots of cigarettes, less drinking, the memory of a Kawasaki Ninja speed motorcycle and the dream of another classic Honda, with various unrealized loves that materialized in a lasting friendship for one girl or another and many guitars. electric. Was the Buddha free after all?

Probably just as he can try his whole short life to be a Christ, so probably his friend at the time can even try to be free if he can't be a Buddha.

The woman leaned back in her chair, searching with her right hand for something in the back seat, and after a while said, -Purse! I looked at the restaurant in Sibiu.

The woman and the man turned the car around and told the boy that if he stayed here on the occasion, he would catch up more easily than at the intersection in Sebeş. He didn't want to go back there anyway. When he got off, he saw that there was a parking lot on the side of the highway next to a restaurant next to which there was also a truck parking lot. Apart from the warm lights of the nearby restaurant, no other light source was parked in the dark. Luckily, the moon had slowly begun to rise again.

3 Bread for the faithful

It was like that childhood memory that his friend Andrei was going to tell in the other dimension of a dream — in an oldfashioned way, as young people used to talk about only sometime in the early years of the new millennium, when they were doing it. even incunabula and when there were still old people, villages and trees - in the old age of a former schoolmate or college classmate who had met the boy in the early 80's in Hateg in primary school when he was Orthodox and wanted to give up to school to go to Alaska, to cross the Atlantic by raft and through the North or the Panama Canal or the Strait of Magellan to reach the edge of the earth where there are only ice and Indians and beyond which there are only heights and knees, to put hand on the mysterious edge of the world like a Peacock Walking as you stretch your hands in the middle of the river to touch the other end of the boulder you are standing on, through the futuristic water, the secret: -The icons filled our souls with gold. Already the minutes were turning into eternity when over us - in the cathedral of Holy Week it began to rain in the church with two big thunders and drops that seemed huge at first that were slowly thickening like beaks. Singers dressed in black and earthy robes said Easter prayers as if from somewhere in another dimension, from somewhere beyond a wall of silence, almost failing to penetrate the sound of the rain that now filled the huge church floor already sprinkled with large clean puddles reflecting the golden cross of the Crucifixion of the Savior from above the iconostasis, he said, as if we were in an Area full of stalkers and clandestine seekers . Looking at the singers' large clocks, he saw that they were full of raindrops, and even the priests gathered in a row before the altar had their hair and meditative foreheads full of water, and their precious garments sewn of metallic threads shone like a vision through the heavy rain. the Byzantine marble and mosaic floor covered with the letters XP ΑΩ and Jewish fish and Greek crosses. The rain surrounded us like salvation on all sides, like the voice 5 from Heruvic, at that time it seemed to me like the white noise of the concrete music of a universal resurrection, like the song or like the awakening from sleep or death.

In the parking lot on the right side of the highway, several trucks and slightly smaller trucks were stopped, all with dark cabins. In the sky, from the west, the vault began to rinse with clouds, being tossed by the targets of several stars of different sizes. Here the clouds were swirling in a bubble around the old, asymmetrical yellow of the square of the moon. No cars passed, the road was deserted and the wind was blowing a little, fluttering in the tarpaulins of the trucks and blowing into Eminescu's hair, making him look like a feathered American Indian helmet. While he was in the car he was still preoccupied with his quarrel with his own, arguing for nothing as he used to say, thinking of all the grievances and riots, but now he left all that behind. It felt like he was in an Aboriginal dream, a dream full of darkness, light, loneliness, and love, in which the Moon is amber inlaid with native gold bars tied with strings of leather woven around your neck. A dream in which he was nothing but a montage of psychic images, a dream dreamed of by this primitive who is God, in which the earth is light and the sky of sand dripping in tears of molten glass in pentagonal shapes grouped in constellations. The sky looked like Mureş, in the bubble shattering the stones, the clouds swirled in the sky above the parking lot like the rushing waters flowing from the huge rocks in the mountains.

The restaurant was a luxurious-looking building, quite large, painted in a lightly washable ultramarine, and to its left was the off-road truck parking lot where probably about ten large trucks were parked. If he had entered, he would have seen that the restaurant hall consisted of a single room suitable for the sea with rectangular concrete pillars among the black tables and chairs, on each table were salt and pepper shakers, oil bottles and menus in blue and black covers. . He would have seen those at the tables and the waitresses walking with food from the kitchen window to the customers. It was lit only from the inside, its electric yellow interior glowing out through the windows to the floor on the side of the highway and in front of the restaurant were parked about five or six cars, two VWs, a Solenza, a BMW that seemed

to be made in 1995 and a cherry Daewoo Cielo. The few cars crossing the highway were also coming from the opposite direction.

After getting out of the car and looking around, he sat down again in the parking lot on the right side of the road. Watching the slow rotation of the stellar dial in the western part of the sky, he remembered something he had been thinking about when he was on his way somewhere in Turda. Life is like a Rubik's cube. He couldn't explain exactly why, nor could he fully understand why, but he felt that way. And life is a Rubik's Cube because it can be solved just as a Rubik's Cube can be solved, but far too few have the strength to solve a mixed cube. It's simple, we all know, yellow has to be yellow, orange is orange, white is white, red to red and green to green, we all know theoretically what we have to do but only a few of us do the puzzle. As for his cube, it has remained unresolved for years - and seems to remain forever. He did not mean that the universe is that solvable mechanism, but that the existence which in its view is greater than the universe, existence is that mysterious cube far too mixed up. And, in addition, instead of the heart, each person carries a plastic cube of it, with colorful squares and incomprehensibly mixed. He had thought of that when he looked at the sky somewhere in Turda and thought of Rubik's cube in his house.

Moreover, it was not his mind, not the universe, but humans, humans are stars and galaxies of stars, each taken separately.

-The dust speaks to the beautiful silence like a woman's soul the dust speaks because You made her a mouth you that envelops me like a shroud on all sides like a holiness like the salt of an eternal cry for me I am I am my name is dust eyes scattered by the ashes my loneliness is a mirror for your endless face Your face Your face calling prayer like rain, said Silence with Seven Wings, said Prayer with Seven Wings.

The two cherries to the left of the restaurant were in a dark area, almost dark and half black, almost completely leafy. In a direction other than that of the restaurant, it was not easy to see even five steps

away. The large, plastered, semicircular arched windows of the restaurant projected their light outside, and oldies could hear music through the ajar door and a citizen at the table by the entrance shouting to the one behind the bar to bring him that bottle of wine. . Some of the muzzles of cars parked in front of the restaurant were dimly lit, with translucent windows in the dark. It was night around and he was there. It was night. Only when a car passed the Beckettian scene, which unfolded in a three-dimensional way as in a virtual computer game space all around it, was the passenger illuminated properly. in an elegiac and sad video with Jeniffer Rush, how the night sky is lit by a comet moving from one galaxy to another through the universe, moving like a tadpole through the darkness of the mud or like a sperm through the egg of the universe.

How material were those dreams in which he looked out the window of the block and saw Flora, the beautiful body, dressed in the fashion of the '80s but how maybe in those years only the women of Olympus dressed in a dress to the knees modeled in a dreamy body, yellow and hot with a belt tied twice around the middle making folds in the dress in two different places. Flora was a beautiful girl who looked like someone from another block, she looked like a beautiful, steady girl and it was Saturday night before dusk and Flora was going to a party across the river where she would be the queen of the night with the white petals of the soul open under the organ. of the lights of heaven, and those visions were pure beauty like a touch of the most beautiful of goddesses, like a consolation of eternity in his troubles. As for girls and Rubik's cubes, that's probably why some boys are more successful than others at their fruit basket, because the girls hope that those boys and not others will be able to help them solve a little, somehow, of the mysterious Rubik's cubes he carries in his soul. And he had always felt weak, though others said he had a strong soul like his mother. Once a yogi noticed that he had strong eyebrows and said he was strong, he had a lot of energy. He did not know what the truth was, but he believed that people with anesthetized and dumbfounded souls would never be able to fully understand the passions of an artist. What someone else would

have called an obsession with him, for example, was just another arrowhead he wanted as sharp as he could, an arrowhead that had to pierce both the heart of Cherubim and his own heart at the same time in this deceptive and seeming the endless night of Jacob, in this eternal morning of Israel. And Earth, what is it but a rotating Rubik's cube in rotation and revolution in the sky?

-Some day one day even Goethe won't say anything, that's why the best art is the supposedly incomprehensible one, like a obelisk covered in hieroglyphs, a huge cromleh, a Crucifixion with donors or a lightning printed on a photographic emulsion. he said to the silent Silence, saying: -It is the incandescent and throbbing core of a rose surrounded by the light of fragrant petals like thorn angels surround it like swords of holiness and flame on the rose are calligraphy arabesques of sacred letters even this tear is written in the petals of the rose rose light "The seven-winged Silence," said the Seven-Winged Prayer, "said the Seven-Winged Prayer," said the believers.

Also, can anyone understand the passion of a world championship if they have never seen an opening? No one who has not experienced those moments can understand. He can't understand how he felt sitting next to their TV - which in those days he didn't know if it was black and white or color - in Italy '90, when every game started with "Un estate italiana" and how beautiful, how that song seemed so modern to him at the time, just a few months after his release. A cold wind had slowly begun to sweep the clouds across the sky south of Ocna Sibiului, the liquid eyes of the stars looking at each other trembling as if under its breeze as the leaves that fall into the water in the black pond behind the house tremble.

He remembered the songs he had listened to as a child, given on the radio when he did not even understand their lyrics, and for them, for children, just listening to Western music was an act of true culture, at a

time when children and young people did not have much. and sometimes a song in English seemed to be wrapped in foil, songs listened to at Luzio's house or in Bujac's grandmother's house, or at the discos in the camps of childhood and early adolescence. It was as if from the camp in Eforie Nord or somewhere he remembered a song, he remembered the song that he would later find out was called "Toy Soldiers" , the song was a hit or a hit, as it was said, from July 1989, but on then he would know nothing about all this, just as he would not know who the woman who was singing or what she looked like. He didn't remember much, but he was so beautiful in those evenings when he now knew that he had listened to this song in the disco while playing the game of money, hidden in the back in one of his hands, the girl who could not guess which hand was the money to kiss. He also had emotions, fearing that he would not be at the level of the others, not knowing how to dance all the others, but in essence the world at that time was just a child's dream, a solipsistic universe of a toy soldier who had never fallen before. they were in the disco hall, near the seafront where the sea crashed like the nirvana of the stalls on the shore, the boy thought, and we were just in another reality of life, another reality, a universe of lights and feelings, attracted each other on DISCO music how the stars are probably attracted to each other, as if we there were some shipwrecked people waiting in the evening for the wind to return from the sea, a wind that has not come since we were born and each girl it was like a boundless sea full of salt and seaweed, with the sand mined by long waves of shards of shells and the beaches full of piles of shells, big, white, whole with the waves crashing against the rocks like archetypes in the late twilight while Platoons of border guards patrolled the beach slowly telling each other unknown things that would remain a secret until all things were discovered, seas that could hold you in other universes contained in the poems found in the bottles brought by shore waves from the other shores of existence. As for all these wonderful people with their eyes sometimes like stained glass and mammal souls sometimes whose sneakers bump into each other on their agnostic paths paved by road boys every year, - what roams the cities like ants in this land like a hill full of rubble - they didn't exist at the time and hadn't been

mentioned. There were also, at that time, dragons and scoundrels who did a lot of harm to the earth, but no one had seen the old man look at the newspaper and the banknote. If he had seen such a man, he would have drawn a pen on the golden parchment of the world's planigobe, placing below it a gold inscription in which he would have written in uncial Carolingian letters: the unknown monster . It was beautiful back then, and even teenagers in general tended to be happier and live longer.

-And yet there were people who saw him, the reality is here, enveloping the spheres of our eyes, really an imperceptible layer of truth. There were also blind people who saw Christ. uttered eternity is the day without beginning and without end reality is the number 1 its essence is the essence of the words tears and blood of every man music springs from it and returns to it is the happiness whose waves surround and wash the boulders of the universe everywhere as the ocean encompasses Easter Island even though my eyes see nothing That's why reality throbs around reality is the unseen brother name nameless silence in our hearts reality is the dance that spins the universe flowers that heal the earth the word made up of the letters of the three silences reality is a spherical and boundless reality has as its essence Christ an endless Christ present as a Presence reality is the enemy beyond the sea that feeds the tears the understanding that holds the barrier of desire death that changes into life the dream - the other false reality of our reality is the salty tear that fell into the waves closed or even locked in their closure reality is the invisible triangle of the temple reality is the light that does not bother us reality is the cry of the planet reality is that pain that never ceases reality is hidden here reality is love - inexplicable a handshake in desert or at night the sanctity of a Messiah's sermon the source of woman's beauty than a barbed wire fence the treasure of yellows that is buried under the real road such is beauty and pity reality is hidden reality is here and yet there were people who saw it reality is here enveloping our eyeballs really an imperceptible layer of truth there were also blind people who saw Christ reality is the dove with seven wings the water lily with edges without edges the angel who uttered eternity is the day without beginning and without end reality is the

number 1 its essence is the essence of the words tears and blood of every man music springs from it and returns to it is the happiness whose waves spin around the boulders of the universe as the ocean encompasses the Easter Island God is the lion that looks at us and silences for a long time the huge fish terribly silent below us in the water the claws are awful and the fangs all the more from our hearts reality is the dance that spins the universe the flowers that heal the earth the word made up of the letters of the three silences and reality is a spherical and boundless one but God is good but God is Being we are the miraculous robots of Being can disconnect us anytime he can disintegrate us we are lead soldiers little plasticine and reality is here reality is here forever we are not Christ the lion that looks at us and silences for a long time the huge fish terribly silent below us in the waters, said the boy of Silence, the reality is the enemy beyond the sea that feeds the tears the understanding that puts a stop to desire death our reality is the salty tear fallen in the waves music and the soul to eat God endless the reality has a name that everyone knows but in fact no one knows the reality is still hidden because no man today has seen it we humans today we are all we are all blind our souls are beetles struggling in the needle reality is the unseen triangle of the temple re reality is the light of which we are not tired hidden light like the day no one wants to be left alone in the night the reality is love an inexplicable handshake in the desert or in the night the sanctity of a sermon of the Messiah the source of the woman's beauty the old song -they saw the reality is here enveloping the spheres of the eyes of truth an imperceptible layer of truth were also blind who saw Christ the reality is a look a book with immanent letters a holiness stronger than a barbed wire fence the treasure of yellows what is buried under the road the reality is beauty and pity the reality is here but maybe you have to come to terms with the thought she sees you but you will not see until she will does she want to see her, will you want to love the groom you can't see? Reality is the pigeon with seven wings, the water lily with no borders, the angel who uttered eternity that pain that never ceases reality is where did God come from? where did he go? Reality is God Is God what you think of when you close your eyes, what is God? Reality is the unseen triangle of the temple, reality is the light of which we are not

tired. a holiness stronger than a barbed wire fence the treasure of yellows buried under the road reality is number 1 reality is that pain that never ceases as about us we are one when we are embryos we are all brothers reality is lack of loneliness reality is that pain What never ceases is the reality that it is you, he told Silence, holding a sea-shell in his mouth with the edge of his clasped hands sharp as a sword of a soul.

It was an endless moment like a personal train stop at a village train station, regardless of the time of day or the souls of the people, these crushed and fragrant rays. And, above all, it was a sad night to the bone, a night of no awakening, a night of sleep and death, a night of futility beneath the universe over your head, thought the boy, the sky - a pointillistic painting about that no one knows what it means or with which side it should be held up, that it seems to have forgotten our name that we never had, and we will never know. The starry sky was beginning to be freer above the field parking lots, the stars dripping as if drifting and soaring on the convex lens of the sky, for what are the stars but tears, we are the weeping stars for each of us and when we die one by one God wipes away a tear on his cheek. He was just a boy in the electric light of the stars in the fields where not too long ago there were forests full of gods and bison with the same stars probably reflected in the puddles of rain in the earth strewn with claws and hooves. It was night and it would not be long, but it was so that he would be buried forever in the waves of the unconscious like Victoria from Samothrace in the Great Nostrum. This cold night was of no awakening, and the reason could only be one - unknown. The road was deserted, only a fairly long caravan of camels with a single hump came from Sibiu, people with linen turbans or green slits pulling the camels of dârlogi from hemp strands woven with red threads or sitting high on the camel's hump. It was an endless moment like a personal train stop at a village train station, where at night there is a foreign woman who, if she kissed you, would kiss you in an unknown language. It was a cynical, Plotinian night, regardless of the time of day or the souls of the people, these crushed and fragrant rays. Long after no camel was seen towards Cugir, the boy remained in the parking lot on the right side of the road,

counting the stars in Carul Mare and spying on this sad night like a vestal kiss.

-The soul of the water lily is more beautiful than the water lily and the man is the fallen ox with his eyes in the dust killed with arrows and shouts and eyes as the Moon with huge amber eyes as the eyes of the Bear burning the hemispheres of the universe through these groves we are the ox we are the flesh of light whenever we discern our face, said the Seven-Winged Silence, said the Seven-Winged Prayer, said the Seven-Teared Prayer.

During the day the air was as cold as honey freezing in a jar, forgotten outside the pantry at the beginning of winter with frost, a transfiguration and a snowy light from the transparent bulb of water, this beginning, this spherical genesis, and at night the air was like cold sherbet darkened by the blue ink cast by a curious, awkward child. Far from the highway in the field, the tracks of the people were beaten by the tracks of sheep, the tracks of the sheep were beaten by the tracks of horses, which were beaten by the tracks of cows, over the tracks of cows there were traces of tigers, after the tracks of tigers there were tracks of wild boars. Beneath the Northern Bear was the call of the Dog, the howl of the new life under the heavens, the call of the faithful dog of God watched intently by a cat with eyes as big as the sky, far in the cities , under the sky like a star-spangled net in this endless ocean. And on the threshold of winter on the minor in the window of the temple of his eyes burned five lights: Father, Emi, Woman, Jesus and Mother, everyone was one way and the night was a Saturday night, the end of the Sabbath and the beginning of the resurrection and he was here in the lonely, dark parking lot thinking that every man is an Antarctic, unknown. As Chris had said on KBHR to a summer beetle who had entered through the window: -Money, friend, what are you doing, what are you thinking, what are you living for? Do you live like me wandering through the huge mounds of asphalt and concrete on this lonely hill

surrounded by night and deserts, what is your name, I mean what is your first name, Beetle, it is true that you do not know more than me , how can you know how to fly and not know more like me? What do you think about people, my friend, what do you think when you see me on the road? Chris had said.

As for him, an ignorant man, a child - with whom not even his parents spoke seriously - who at that time was just a bad enough being to never be boring, maybe even now he is the same. he said, waving at the few passing cars with their headlights on in the dark.

With adolescence comes pain, a pain that has only one relief. If the pain stops then the emptiness of the soul comes. Just like Martika's "Toy Soldiers" song: "Only emptiness remains / It replaces all, all the pain." "Only emptiness remains / It replaces all, all pain." And then on the road of existence, as the evil spirit mourns for her on the inverted sound of another later musician whose name will no longer be mentioned: "I left the shell / So sad" - a translated sentence comes: "I left the shell / So sad ” . After half a lifetime of emptiness, an eternity of sadness follows if no one intervenes, something incomprehensible and even more terrible than the hundred years of loneliness of comrade GG Márquez. This is the almost complete mapping of half of the yin-yang of existence, half composed of pain-naked-sadness; and before all this is nothing but ignorance, that cat with his eyes closed.

Every human being is an Antarctic, and the universe is a seven-tiered, seven-tiered mosaic floor, a light floor, a sky floor, a grass floor, a star floor, a floor with drawings of jivine and beasts, a floor with drawings of people, and a floor. with holy drawings; and this boundless and doric ziggurat is spherical, like the earth, and the universe is round, so that when you reach the last level, you tread it again on the steps to the first, so that after you reach the realm of pure life you tread again on the first scale. , the ladder to the first level, and the whole universe becomes pure for you. It was next to a large tarp-free truck with eight load-bearing poles on each side. It was probably a shot to carry tree trunks two or three times thicker than a man. Further on, on the

right, was the railroad with high-voltage wires for the locomotives on which the trains were running, flickering imperceptibly and metallically reflecting the moonlight clad on all sides in clouds like the baroque garment of St. Teresa carved in Bernini stone. The path Flora had taken must have been deserted in the darkness after the late autumn twilight, and only now did she realize that the same path led to the immanent rose of petals and thorns, that psychic mandala in the temple of her soul. The path, passing by the two large acacias, the thermal power plant - now disused and transformed into a shopping center - the complex of the five blocks, the vegetable and flower gardens now turned into grassy wasteland, the cobbled alley, the purple lilac trees most of which had then the big pine, the two cherries and the other pines and spruces whose resin the children of the block ate were cut, the spruces, most of which were cut, these places were like a photographic exhibition in the corridors of his soul. Then it would be night with the bright, icy windows like in the winter evenings of childhood, with the frozen and bright windows like in an old cartoon with Tom and Jerry on Christmas Eve. As a child, he went to the window on a dark December evening and saw behind the block the front of the window in the neighbor's garden below a bunch of beans, and around one of those bundles revolved some of the planets of the solar system. He recognized Jupiter and maybe Uranus.

However, not all planets were in the solar system. And the north pole of the planets was tied with a string to the top of the bean hair.

-Your commandments Sacred Soul are the failures of the heart and your unburned sky envelops me like a hug even though my soul does not know what is beyond the line of dusk and my bicyclic eyes - clay lenses - do not see you Holy Wind when my eyes are broken in play by the hand of the child of Death you will say another "TO BE" for a love you will see further and under your feet you will play in the clay Eternal Child, said the Silence with Seven Wings, said the Prayer with Seven Wings, said the Silence with Seven Silences.

What was all this earth around it but history and what is history but earth? Tens of generations before, the ancients called the Ancestors, born of the breath of the gods, all disintegrated and became earth and clay, the earth rising and rising like a loaf of bread over time.

All the people who were before - or mixed like clay kneaded for a grainkeeping heap, nobles and serfs, voivodes and princes and peasants, and as the Poet says - the water we drink is the blood of the Ancestors. And we will become earth under other layers of earth, in one place only with silence, for the earth is Man. How many snows did not gradually lose their luster on this road, how many carts, how many peasants in the chariot, how many postcards and mail carts did not pass on this road before it was any of us, before it was any of our times. Roman soldiers marched on this road, Greek merchants, Visigoths passed through its valleys, Western masters, Hungarian Catholic monks building late Romanesque parish churches or Gothic chapels, the great princes leading the processions on their way to the nearest town or castle, the disregarded Romanian princes, those with the soul of a peasant or with a sold soul, knights, gypsies fleeing enslavement from Wallachia and Moldova, vagabonds and merchants of the Middle Ages, Saxon craftsmen coming from Siebenburgen, Jewish street vendors traveling between Byzantium and Byzantium between Tsarigrad and Hungary, all armies passing through hundreds of years of fighting from Carol Robert de Anjou to Mihai Bravul and Romanian soldiers passing through the mountains in the First World War in times when people still believed in war, the same as he passes like a wandering student in thirteenth-century Europe, like a steam that the morning will dissipate. It was 9 PM and the world was dark. He remembered that passage from the beginning of Proust's Swann books , the passage about sleep and early bedtime.

Unlike the Proustian text, he seemed to want to prolong the little time he had been given all his life, wishing like Joshua Navi to prolong the day, staying the night as late as he could and trying to squeeze a little of what he had eaten from the peach of life until then. But now he felt completely different, and unlike Faust he would not want to try to dilate the moment of his life. He could hardly wait for this night to pass, and the next day he did not want to slow down in any way because now he

knew that time was the one blowing his sails towards the New World, a new world full of bulls. many fish and reflecting the large white wings of angels.

-He was a man of the earth, a man of the earth of these lands. His head was of the stones of the rivers of the south, his bones were of the bones of the earth; This man had a blue soul and the Black Bird envied him, foaming at the Black Bird. The Black Bird tormented the man of the earth, along with the Desert Bird and the Yellow Rat, and the man of the earth stood and did not flee. The Black Bird, the Yellow Rat, and the Desert Bird ate the soul of the blue man as the dragon eats the light at dusk. But the man of the earth did not die, but he had to travel through the three worlds, he was through the world of heaven, he was through the underworld he was in all the worlds, and when he returned, he returned to his village and now he could see the souls of the villagers. Some had big white snakes instead of a soul, others had horns on their foreheads, others had 6 dirty souls instead of a soul. It was ugly in the village, the spirits roared through the air, the wickedness was almost at every crossroads, and the people became more and more ugly like demons. And this made man pray to the one whose name no one knew, and it was a long time before the man of the earth was transformed into an expressionist cross that was slowly swallowed by the earth. And others called him happy, though no one knew why, Orion, the Man from Heaven, told him from the now clear cliffs and mountains of the starry night vault. We who live are the people of the earth. When it is night on earth we look at the sky and see the billions of stars. These are the people in heaven. The people in the sky are shining. This is the universe. In fact, the universe is a star village or maybe a city. If the universe had a name, it could be called Lancram or New York. We could probably tell him so we know where we are. We here on earth at night drown in the dark if we don't have liquid flames around us. It's not like that in heaven. The people in the sky are spreading light. That's why we call them stars. They are not afraid of the dark. When a man from heaven goes to see another man from heaven, he sees something like a streak through the labyrinth of incandescent sky. That's very nice. It's not

like the earth. People in heaven are not afraid of the dark. This is good.

Something like happiness. On holidays, people from heaven gather together. They eat, talk, drink wine and must and share, and then sing and sing. When they dance, they spin in circles and the Lancer spins. We say the universe is spinning. That's sublime. The sublime thing is when your mother buys you a very good and very big ice cream at the confectionery in the morning light and she smiles at you while you eat it.

And some people on earth are turning into people in heaven. This is what makes someone invisible like happiness. Similar to the sublime.

Like in the morning. And that's the best thing. From the first alpha wheel of the opera holds the harp of the salvation of the age to the last omega, unchanged, unknown, priceless, said the white incense lily and the fragrant oil of the North Star's tears.

When he returned, he saw that in the parking lot where he was sitting, there was a small truck in which a man was sitting with his head on his hands, leaning against the steering wheel. The truck was a machine of materials for water installations, with the tarpaulin printed on the tarpaulin - a white-and-blue tarpaulin with the old characters of a German company - the design of some of the products, hanko taps, Dutch, copper teats, tin radiators, porcelain sinks and shower sprinklers.

He walked to the man in the truck and knocked on the window, waking him. The man behind the wheel was a thirty-six-year-old man with a bald head and blond hair like the strands at the end of a corn-leaf; he was wearing a second-yellow yellow-gray blouse, and a silver necklace with a gold cross around his neck. The metallic Renault logo was on the steering wheel. Nothing else could be seen because it was dark in the truck. The driver lowered the window and the boy said, -Are you going to Simeria?

The driver smiled and said: -I'm sleeping now.

The boy apologized, the man in the truck raised the window again and went back to bed, and the young man walked back to where he had been before and waited for cars to pass, trying to pray and thinking about his past life until then, thinking: 'Young man, when Christ, I (i) above Christ is your friend, why are you looking for these friendships, people with radioactive souls, with the faces of disfigured souls and with wide eyes? Why do you do this over and over again, why do you tend to do this, why do you bind yourself and let yourself be disappointed by some spiritually disfigured and mentally mutilated people, why don't you have a little wisdom? ' Thinking about prayer and trying to meditate in the wind the devils are wind on earth Christ is the Holy Wind so go down your forehead in the mountain raise your hands in the wind your forehead eyes and the huge indigo sleep from the Mureş of your soul ascend to the electric sky. ' How he always tried to tell his soul, even now: -You have to take one hand of your soul and put the other and pray in this temple, he often tried to tell his soul, this sleeping child, this ignorant man.

Pray that every star is a loaf of bread in the hands of street children by students of Neo-Protestant and Orthodox Theology, and the sky is so starry because there are so many of us and every shadow of the goodness and mirror of angels is a loaf of bread for believers and the whole universe is bakery, a pie - what do you want - a pie where we sit at the table with the pueblo Indians, with Edge and Bono from U2, with Bob Marley and Luciano Pavarotti, with Angela Merkel and Nelson Mandela, with the Christians in Benelux, with Hunger and Poverty, with the Germans and the Gypsies, with George Michael and the poor blind man who died last month, with Gabriel García Márquez and Mother Teresa, with Paul, Andrei and Raul, with Look Back Angrily and the Glass Menagerie , with Francis of Assisi and Ghimpl-grandson, IRA and Salvation Army, Sister María Lúcia and James Joyce, Pretenders and Enemies, Pink Floyd and Pope John Paul II, Jorge Luis Borges and People's House, Church institutional and with

forces le UN, with July 4 and December 30, with Sunday and Good Friday, with Ion Vlasiu and Averescu, with Tweety and Metall'ca, with the Pain of Barlach and Torquemada, with merţanu 'and with Loganu', with Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon, the Gentleman and the Kruger, the Messiah and the Mahdi, Gavroche and God, Samuel Beckett and Imre Nagy, Martin Luther King and Gorbachev, Steve Biko and the Palestinians, Lev Tolstoy and Mahatma Gandhi , with Andresen and Kierkegaard, with masons and demolition workers, with Yosef Karduner and Yosef ben Israel, with Love and Routine , with Richard Wurmbrand and Radu Gyr, with Piet Mondrian and Christopher Columbus, with Felix Sima and his chest, with music reggae and Patericon with Kahlil Gibran and Voltaire Jean Calvin and Huckleberry Finn , with my teacher and Martin Buber, the Medes and Persians, Joseph Stalin and his brothers, Mecca and Dharamsala, water and ice, with Holden Cauldfield and Robert Burns, with Simina and Gabriela , with North and South, with USA and others i Mexico, with Israel and barred Israel, with Baptists and Pentecostals, with Jesus, Mary and Joseph, with Thomas Mann and the ancient world, with Jules Verne and the nuclear submarines, with Mihai Eminescu and Romica the Gypsy, with Imagine and Let It Be , with Spit Tributes and our nostalgics, with Canada and Europe, with Beauty and Sadness, with aurochs and politicians, with girls and with drink, with Ancient and Medieval History , with the Moon and the Strait, with Nuredinn and Bedredinn, with Sighisoara and vodka, memories , dreams and reflections , hitchhiking and the map of Europe, faith, hope and love, the people and digital television, the sacred and the profane , Dallas and C1, writing and silence , with planes and missiles, with Marilyn Monroe and the Harp of Grass, with stamp and stamps, with Miss Koch and Miss Olsen, with Brâncuşi and Anctartida, with guitar and drums, with Saint Germain and Hispaniola , with Felicia and Camelia, with Matisyahu and philosophy, with wisdom and Greek old, with Light and Stars, with the first pain and the last groan, with hedonism and AIDS, with comrades and King Michael I, with smiles and tears, with Talmud and beatbox, with Anton Pann and Mircea Dinescu, with AK47 and M16 , with the Australians and Aborigines, with ignorance and despair, with Ţuţea and Pravda , with the Storyteller

and the tape recorder, with nea Bulă and with the old Carl Gustav Jung, with the Power and Glory , with Che Guevara and Vladimir Bukovsky, with the cheerful young people in the neighborhood and with Christians sullen the streets, Maxi Jazz and faithful lama in Tibet, with parents and children, humbly and silently, brothers and sisters, with those from Kundun and those of the Godfather , with Christ Jesus and Saul of Tarsus and with our malnourished children in East Africa, with agape , with all - finally - we are all gathered in one place in the universe, this social canteen and this Christian center designed to help all or at least those who see the need for help, that's why you have to pray, he thought the boy's thoughts were imprinted on her like a newspaper printing press — as their threads unfolded — on large pages of gold, codex pages full of glassy lights of light.

The difference is that the sky looks like an astronomical telescope lens in the opposite direction. Looking at the dark night sky he saw in his glass iridescence the reflection of the Earth, he saw all the continents with the Ocean of the Milky Way between them and surrounding them with light and saw in the sky the lonely itineraries of the caravels of Christopher Columbus, of the ships of Bartolomeo Diaz, Vasco da Gama, Fernando Magellan, the itineraries of the Arab ships coming from India, the roads of the Viking drakkars to America, the quiet roads of silk followed by thousands of merchants, the voyages inside Asia and Africa, the march of the Roman armies to the heart of Arabia, saw in the sky the elbow of Brazil , everything was drawn in ink of different colors with the reed pen in the sky, the sky looking like an eccentric portulan, like a portulan of amethyst and pink and orange diamond of the gods and Pinta, Nina and Santa Maria, São Gabriel and São Raphael, Trinidad , San Antonio, Concepción, Victoria and Santiago were all constellations in the sky with angels on masts and sails in the wind and covered with Greek crosses you know of red embroidery in the sky full of wandering stars with the winged man on the bompres washed by the waves of light and haunted by sandstorms like loneliness and despair. Yes, the sky is a wonderful, raw place like a pottery painting in one of the ancient Greek cities depicting a tiger and a deer; run if you're

a deer, guard your claws if you're a tiger. Yes, the sky is a wonderful and cruel place like us who do not yet have a name and who will never be able to build ourselves from the depths of our souls, the universe whose stars are reflections of the heart of the Gods, the sky - this great tree , full of leaves and gnawed and eaten by the ant of humanity.

There are many stories from the life of the Awakened One, but I want to tell an old story from the life of a Buddha who was born in the tiger corner of India, the land of people of an age with the light of the dust. This unnamed Buddha was born in India, and from his birth the stars sang the heavy curse to him, saying that at the cruel age of two years an evil spirit would kidnap him to take him to the land of shadows. And when the evil spirit came after the child, his poor mother, poor Savitri, ran after him to the ends of the earth and to the ends of heaven, asking him to give her back the boy. Back then, perhaps as in India and elsewhere, people prayed to evil spirits as well as good spirits and the evil spirit took pity on the poor princess, the poor and beautiful Savitri, and this is probably India's thesis in the philosophical anthology of to the family of the people, that not even the demons - or even some of them - can remain indifferent to the pain of the man of the Indian land, this is what the Sanskrit texts say, but the truth is hidden - the truth is covered by letters. And then the child was resurrected, the resurrection filling him with light and making him a Buddha at the age of two, and then he became the poor Tsangyang Gyatso, the Sixth Dalai Lama in 1697.

-I met a man a long time ago, he would tell the boy the land, a man with a vase, a prince, a son of a voivode. He was a year older than you at the time, said the earth, telling the boy his name, he was a kind of Happy Prince, and he came out of his castle of perforated marble and ivory walking the streets of that kingdom. He saw what you all see when you look in the mirror, and then he went secretly to know the tormented life of a beggar, and to know what I cannot tell him, said the earth that night, which had become quite cold, and clear as a wallpaper with a glass castle with all the flakes clear. This was a tough

guy, a one-piece man in whom the soul was in a line like a gold mine in the mountains, said the earth from that place.

-I met a man a long time ago, the boy remembered as his father had told him several years ago during his adolescence when he saw him reading books on Indian philosophy. He was a hydrology student from Nepal, a prince of the Shakya family - from the Buda clan his name was Saki - a word meaning teacher - who came here to Brazi when I was a teacher there at the construction site. He lived in the colony, in the PFL barracks, and went up to the dam every morning. He was a prince, he was very smart, I talked to him a lot, I spoke in Romanian, in English, in French, but when you got out of the gypsies you couldn't get him out of them - and they were very similar; and especially among the gypsies, you wouldn't take him out anymore, his father would say, making the boy think that maybe someone who knows a descendant of Buddha's family goes begging in front of supermarkets, or goes for a ride in a Mercedes with black rear windows or go to work for the benefit of the community for social assistance somewhere in Ţara Haţegului.

On the highway, cars — most of them new and luxurious, from what ordinary people call ships — passed, changed the position of the headlights, blinding it, and then moved on. The starry sky was a handful of phosphorescent plankton thrown by someone. Indeed, the sky was a wave lit by plankton fireflies from which only a large fish would emerge sooner or later. The indigo clouds were shrouding in the west as in an Iberian mystical and baroque painting. Even the staff from Alba with the almost empty and lighted wagons went through the cold without stopping. He was sitting and looking at the parking lot with puddles in front of him and the somewhat lighted restaurant across the street, the other parking lot he didn't see was not in his view thinking that it was night like it can only be in Romania and yet he was alone as only a Romanian in his country can be a child in a former boarding school of the National College in the 90's. As for him, sometimes on the road it seemed to him that the Bauhaus vault of heaven was also a prison

ceiling for children and teenagers. He was on his way, unable to leave.

Besides, he was poor, not even the stars in the sky were his anymore in this endless journey in which everyone seen and unseen is one way.