Interactiuni

For the readers of this blog, I have two announcements to make. Please circulate the news among your friends and peers.

The first announcement concerns only CEU and Cornell graduate students. It is a new exchange program between the Central European University and the Cornell University initiated by the Telluride Association. Departments to which CEU candidates may apply are the Cornell programs in History, Medieval Studies, City and Regional Planning, and the Cornell Institute of Public Affairs. The deadline for CEU candidates is December 20, 2009. Further information on both legs of the exchange program, here.

The second announcement is a Call for Papers for a graduate student conference in European history, titled “Biography and Identity: Dilemmas and Opportunities,” to be held at the Central European University in Budapest, in May 2010. The Graduate Conference in European History (GRACEH) is the fourth in a series of conferences organized by the Central European University (Budapest) and the European University Institute (Florence). It is a forum for graduate students to share their research with students and scholars. There will be no registration fee and lunches and coffee will be provided. Funding for travel and accommodation may be available on an individual basis based on request. For further information, please see the GRACEH website.

make yourself a radioactive instant soup and look inside out

inside – a barrel of monkeys

outside – three beggars

hang yourself on a wall

small world

let go of a thought

it freezes

november

Am descoperit si eu, cu niscaiva intarziere,  filme romanesti vechi, colea – un exemplu ar fi Independenta Romaniei (Grigore Brezeanu, 1912). Altul, mai pe scurt, e desenul animat cu Haplea (Marin Iorda, 1927), Frosa si catelul Zdup. Drept e ca eu n-am crescut cu Haplea – tot ce a ajuns la mine a fost zicala “De ce esti Haplea?” Voi cum stati la capitolul Haplea, episod din copilarie?

I confess that at that time examining the movement of hands and arms was one of my daily default activities, running somewhere in the background of every conversation or metro ride. I wasn’t impressed with prominent veins, I wasn’t interested in the color of the polished nails, I wasn’t trying to find hypotheses for green finger tips. Why and how they looked didn’t touch me much. With those impressions in mind, I would then return home, look at the turn-of-the-century building from across the street, and imagine stories about each window that still had the light switched on late at night. My stories were a collection of hands and windows.

Budapest, last night.

She was walking down the boulevard, heading to Hősök tere. As she passed by, I couldn’t help but notice that her left arm was swinging in the air in the most bizarre fashion. Her right elbow was resting on the large green leather bag she kept somewhat up, placed on her hip. The left arm, though, was mysteriously attractive, gently moving back an forth, as if almost estranged from the rest of the body. Its appearance was that of an abstract shiny sculpture and its movement that of a flying fish in a gliding flight over the water. It truly seemed like the body did not form a whole. Its strange and enticing combination of qualities made me follow the flying fish arm at some distance. I can hardly remember any other detail of the woman with a green bag, but for some reason, it made me think of two fashion advertisements from a Romanian gazette, from the early 1900s. A modern woman holding a cigarette in her hand, sitting crossed legged in an arm chair, wearing trousers, and pointing to her magnified Viennese gum heels that “every woman had to wear,” as the ad imperatively recommended. In contrast, another woman, with a forme droite, rationnelle, representing the reshaping of the woman’s body into the new “S-bend” corseted silhouette. As compared to them, it was as if the undefined arm was performing a coming out of some sort. A seemingly free gesture, I thought and was delighted by its sheer movement. But as I lapsed back in time for this one second, my unusual synecdoche too slipped into a crowd of tourists on Andrássy út, and I was left alone with my musings.

And so I carried on. Late that night, when I reached the end of the Andrássy boulevard, it was already 1896. The yellow metro was silent, and the preparations for the Millennium celebrations were over.

Brassó 1893, black ink.

She blinked a couple of times in a row, as if trying to hurry her thoughts and get to the conclusion. It was past midnight. In the yellow light, she caressed her ear and a few grey locks, and then her hand grabbed the glass of water, holding it half-way to her mouth, while writing the last lines of the report. Her handwriting was calligraphic. She then put in order the eight pages written in black ink, and patiently went through the numbers again in pencil. After all, the budget for the girls’ boarding school and for the orphanage was the crucial point of the report. Added up, the yearly expenses amounted to roughly 4,500 fl. – a manageable sum, with some efforts and donations.

She spaced out for a second, re-evaluating her work. “The Romanian women’s association in Braşov,” she thought, “has an important mission. The truth is that the boarding school and the orphanage that we are running are tremendously useful for our people. We are bringing up little girls, who are either orphans or come from our middle class, and we give them a practical education, which they otherwise wouldn’t get. We have to increase the number of girls that we educate, to have a bigger impact. Organizing the ball will help us raise some funding for that…” Meanwhile, her long bony fingers lit a cigarette, and the ash fell on her long black dress without her noticing. On the carpet, the shadow of her hand moved and looked like a pair of pliers, always ready and useful. Shortly, she cracked the window open, and drew the curtains.

On the first floor of the same building, a small silhouette appeared at the window. The little girl pressed her forehead against the cold glass, and felt her temples throbbing. She was one of the girls from the boarding school. The place had been established a few years earlier, in 1886, but it was still financially fairly insecure, especially given the fact that the women’s association had been trying to link it to a more recent project, that of an orphanage. Managing both of them was challenging and it implied to some extent a fair amount of networking and lobbying. But the little girl didn’t know any of these things. Her days at the boarding school weren’t particularly exciting, and she had to obey a strict program for three years. During that time she learned how to take care of a household, of the kitchen, how to wash, iron, sew, and make clothes. She learned knitting and the art of embroidery. She was also exposed to some pedagogical principles insofar as they were applicable to bringing up children. To this curriculum, the women’s association committee further added the practice of hygiene, a few aspects of gardening, religion classes, Romanian language and literature, arithmetic, and household bookkeeping. It was the woman in black dress with bony fingers that moved like a pair of pliers who wrote this curriculum.

The thirteen year old took a breath of cold night air, closed the window with a shiver and rested her palm against the window again. She had always liked feeling the contour of her hand, the first few seconds of touching the cold glass, the burning warmth of her hand. She innocently looked at her dim reflection – she was calm now.

The building was completely silent and dark. I sank my hands into my pockets and went down the street, pleased with this peaceful night and its detours.

And then, before it all began again, there was a club. A Ping-Pong Club, as it was called, and it did not show up on Google (perhaps not until now, with reference to the H. city) and few locals actually knew where it was, but most of the young people had at least heard of it. The club, so that you know, is open only during summers, only on Wednesday nights, and only from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. And yes, the most important thing to mention is that the club is only for friends, and sometimes for friends of friends. The password that you need to know – “J. ist dorf” – may be useless, as the real trial is to get there, to find your way, not very far from the city center, but in a semi-industrial zone, where hundreds of metal gates make it difficult to recognize the right gate, to know which parking lot to enter. As you go in, the barbed wire above your head, you see trucks lined up, and a few dozen bikes around the corner in front of a shabby house – this is your club. If you ever imagined that when you grow older, you’d have your own publishing house, your own bookshop, and bar, and movie theater, and university (did I forget anything from our dreams? A kindergarten in the backyard perhaps?), then this ping-pong club is part of our alternative bohemian dreams. This is the kind of club where the familiar becomes unfamiliar. At the beginning, the new comer takes baby steps into a large and colorful living room, as if entering the strange story written by Poe (the one with the red mask), and finding there as bartender the little man from Lynch’s movie. After half an hour, holding green Jever bottles in their hands, the newly arrived group of friends closely sitting together looks around and wonders “What’s the catch?”. The toilet – with flower bouquets in front of the mirror and hand creams for everyone’s use – makes you feel as if you’re an intruder into someone’s house who’s been so kind to leave the door open for you, but who’s never going to introduce herself to the guests. She simply enjoys having friends and half-strangers in her home-club, playing the “who’s who” game from a distance. And what’s left of the last open night in the Ping-Pong Club? A refreshing and lingering feeling of in-between-ness of a different sort than the one experienced in airports, transvestite clubs, subways, and other city places. It’s as simple and mysterious as that.

Two ideas for our active citizens who are not afraid of engaging critically and creatively with social issues.

One is Mama Cash – the oldest international women’s fund, established in the Netherlands in 1983. She supports pioneering and innovative women’s initiatives around the world, because she believes that social change starts with women and girls. Her vision is that every woman and girl has the power and resources to participate fully and equally in creating a peaceful, just, and sustainable world. Mama Cash mobilises resources from individuals and institutions and makes grants to women and girls’ human rights organisations and initiatives. You’re not part of a group or you still don’t have an idea? You can learn more about the problems of your country and about human rights and contribute to social change.

The other idea is Prometheus Radio Project, a non-profit organization founded by a small group of radio activists in 1998. Prometheus builds, supports, and advocates for community radio stations which empower participatory community voices and movements for social change. To that end, Prometheus demystify technologies, the political process that governs access to our media system, and the effects of media on our lives and our communities.

Un anunt de casatorie din 1863, din Sacele.

Primele pagini dintr-un pasaport Austro-Ungar. NB: Scria in maghiara si in franceza.

Un anunt de inmormantare, scris in chirilice, asa cum era si potrivit in 1855.

“Lelea viteaza” facea parte din repertoriul laic al corului mitropolitan din Iasi. Cantecul l-am extras dintr-o culegere de 12 melodii nationale, culese, armonizate si aranjate pentru cor mixt si piano de Gavriil Musicescu. Culegerea a fost medaliata la expozitia universala de la Paris din 1889. Mai interesante mi s-au parut versurile destul de razboinice, din penultima poza: “Frunza verde palamida / Plina-i tara de omida / De omida ungureasca / si de gargara saseasca.”

Si un ultim document, din categoria celor “cool” si care n-au mare rost, dar sint ele tare frumoase!

(Toate documentele sint din fondul “Corespondenta comerciantilor romani,” cu exceptia partiturii care e pastrata in fondul “Societatea Progresul Fagaras” – A.N.BV.)

Fost-am in week-end la Sighisoara, dupa cum unii stiu, la festivalul medieval. Poate pun si o poza doua, dar deja stiti cum arata, cum e buluc de om in om intr-alt om. Refugiu bun doar pe stradute laturalnice unde se gaseste palinca. Buna si scumpa, de mere, pere si asa mai departe. Cetatea e pazita strasnic de n-ai cum evita plata unei sume de 10 RON pentru a intra si a iesi de mai multe ori, pe-aceasi bani. Doar – si zic – doar daca nu ai cumva prieteni care sa te scoata din necaz si sa zica usierilor ca noi stam colo, chiar acolo in casa aia din cetate, care se vede din poarta. O vezi? Ce legitimatie? Daca nu ne-a dat… Si-atunci merge ulciorul la moara… o data, de doua ori si cam atat. Despre festival nu se pot spune multe. Nu mai e cum era, imi spun unii nostalgici cantareti. Eu n-am de unde sti. Daca-i balamuc mare, eu il evit de zece ani incoace, de cand am ritualul cu cetatea si cimitirul. Fiecare boem in felul sau, cu (agora)fobii si auzenii. Ei, dar la Sighisoara daca stiti cum e, medieval si cu Dracula in protap, atunci poate ca la Brateiu nu stiti cum e. Acolo am mers la corturarii pe care i-ati vazut poate in cetate, unde isi vand ibricele de cafea si cazanele pentru tuica, facute din cupru chiar de ei. Am sa vi-i arat in poze. Eu zic sa cumparati de la ei, dar sa negociati bine, smechereste, asa cum m-au invatat. Daca nu faci o afacere mica, fie si de un leu, n-are nici un farmec. Si daca sinteti si mai curiosi, atunci mergeti la Brateiu, luati personalul ca numai el opreste la halta acolo, chiar la 5km de Medias, in mijlocul Transilvaniei si vedeti cum e. Pana atunci, de vedeti vreun corturar, cumparati un ibric, de-o fi in Italia sau in Medias, nu conteaza, schimbati o vorba. Asa cum vor face si unii maine la bere, in Iasi, la povesti.

Iaca si pozele cu explicatii:

Aici mai sus si mai jos am stat in prima noapte, in Sighisoara. Am negociat prost, iar neprevazutul se intampla. Bun simt va sa zica nu e, asa ca data viitoare trebuie puse toate intrebarile imaginabile (nu doar posibile) pentru a evita situatia urmatoare. Casa are doua camera, e in stil vagon si are o sfanta baie. In camera mai izolata, stau trei persoane, dintre care una insarcinata, si un caine. In camera in care trebuia sa stam noi, am fi fost trei. La numar sase, dar se mai adunara la baie peste noapte si dis-de-dimineata inca doua persoane care au dormit afara in fata ferestrei de mai sus, inca vreo sase-sapte oameni de la corturile din curte, niscaiva vecine, plus nea Nelu, proprietarul adica, si fiica-sa care au dormit in aceasi camera cu noi, fara sa ne fi spus. Prin urmare, ne-am luat talpasita dimineata si am plecat la Brateiu sa invatam arta negocierii. Iata mai jos si dovada de la ora 4 dimineata. Omul dormea in bucatarie, nu-i asa?

Pana sa ajungem la Brateiu, ne-am oprit putin in cetate unde am facut cunostinta cu cativa corturari care vindeau ibrice de cafea si cazane. Am incercat si eu, dar costumatia nu era potrivita. Am planuri sa mai incerc si la anul, cu fuste colorate si parul prins la spate.

Fost-am in week-end la Sighisoara, dupa cum unii stiu, la festivalul medieval. Poate pun si o poza doua, dar deja stiti cum arata, cum e buluc de om in om intr-alt om. Refugiu bun doar pe stradute laturalnice unde se gaseste palinca. Buna si scumpa, de mere, pere si asa mai departe. Cetatea e pazita strasnic de n-ai cum evita plata unei sume de 10 RON pentru a intra si a iesi de mai multe ori, pe-aceasi bani. Doar – si zic – doar daca nu ai cumva prieteni care sa te scoata din necaz si sa zica usierilor ca noi stam colo, chiar acolo in casa aia din cetate, care se vede din poarta. Si-atunci merge ulciorul la moara… o data, de doua ori si cam atat. Despre festival nu se pot spune multe. Nu mai e cum era, imi spun unii nostalgici. Eu n-am de unde sti. Daca-i balamuc mare, eu il evit de zece ani incoace, de cand am ritualul cu cetatea si cimitirul. Ei, dar la Sighisoara daca stiti cum e, medieval si cu Dracula in protap, atunci poate ca la Brateiu nu stiti cum e. Acolo am mers la corotorarii pe care i-ati vazut poate in cetate, unde isi vand ibricele de cafea si cazanele pentru tuica, facute din cupru chiar de ei. Am sa vi-i arat in poze. Eu zic sa cumparati de la ei, dar sa negociati bine, smechereste, asa cum m-au invatat. Daca nu faci o afacere mica, fie si de un leu, n-are nici un farmec. Si daca sinteti si mai curiosi, atunci mergeti la Brateiu, luati personalul ca numai el opreste la halta acolo, chiar la 5km de Medias, in mijlocul Transilvaniei si vedeti cum e. Pana atunci, de vedeti vreun cortorar, cumparati un ibric, de-o fi in Italia sau in Medias, nu conteaza, schimbati o vorba. Asa cum vor face si unii maine la bere, in Iasi, la povesti.

Lectia de geografie sau despre geografii simbolice sau despre estonieni. Cert e ca noi traim in lumea celor roz, dupa cum urmeaza:

Iata doua afise pe care le-am cules aseara in Piatra Neamt, dupa o plimbare cu binecunoscuta telegondola (de n-ati fost, ar fi bine caci sus pe Cozla va asteapta mici si bere intr-un fel de santier cu bodegi multe). Poate ca afisele nu surprind pe nimeni decat pe mine, dar macar pentru cei care-s mai departe si mai desprinsi, tot le-am dat spre reafisare pe blog. Altceva mai intersant prin oras n-am gasit decat niste seri de karaoke si anunturi de mica publicitate precum urmeaza: “Se angajeaza dame de companie si escorte pentru sauna relax Spania. Contact direct cu sauna.” Etc.

Consemnat succint de naivul si ingrijoratul dvs. prostoi