Saturday, 18 December 2010

December ritual

My mother phones me and carefully tells me: ‘Don’t do any laundry tomorrow; it is the day your grandfather died’. 
She remembers all these things, important dates and certain facts. Unlike me, she knows something about sacrifice.
So I plan not to do any laundry, not to violate her beliefs as there is something immensely beautiful in the way she 
makes the request, in the way she remembers dates and performs old rituals. Although quite disobeying by nature, 
I agree to her call of duty.
I don’t want to know the date, I actually don’t know it, I refuse to memorize it, although my memory reminds me that
 it was winter when it happened, it was December and I was away, in another country, surrounded by others, shielded 
from grief and rituals. I was told after the funeral, days later, when my parents considered it was the time. 
That’s why I don’t know the date and I refuse to ask or to remember. 
It is like it didn't even happen.



  1. si eu eram intr-o alta tara cand a murit bunica mea, si m-am bucurat ca a fost asa, si ceva vreme m-am simtit vinovata pentru acea bucurie amara. dar ea ar fi vrut, mai presus de orice, sa ma stie protejata, si ea ar fi inteles...

    si acum ma bucur, tacut si sfasiat de durere in acelasi timp, ca ai postat asta...

  2. Dear Cris,
    It is the first post of this kind: when words could do without image. Perhaps because they were composed by you. I would like to comment on them, but I refrain from doing it... this is the territory 'where Angels fear to tread', as it were.
    So I'll turn to the image, a gorgeous one, in the colours I like most: greyish green and putrid gold. Overused objects stained with old age, telling stories of utter decay. And this space, the epitome of death, secured by the futile chain of a mismanaged rope. Locked into death as if in a century-old barn. Trapped and discarded like old things. Are you claustrophobic? The ladder can help;so full of light and bent like Christ's cross on his shoulders when He was on His way to Golgotha. Or is it only a shadow on the walls, as decrepit and insubstantial as Plato's allegory?

  3. Când tata a murit. Eram departe, atât de departe, încât nici dacă aş fi vrut să vin nu aş fi putut. Şi, da. Nu l-am văzut acolo, străin de propriul lui trup. Nu l-am văzut gol de viaţă.

    Ce povesteşti este adevărul sufletului care ştie că moartea nu există, dar preferă să nu-i vadă faţa.

    Răscolitor ceea ce ai scris. Prin simplitate şi curajul de a sonda tabu-ul morţii.

  4. Merry Christmas and a Happy and Joyous New Year to you all!
    God bless you, Cris!

  5. Dear All,

    I will be back on the 27th with a new post and replies to your comments.
    Thank you for being here, all of you.
    Dead Anonymous Woman, thank you!

    Have a great Christmastime.


  6. It is the 28th and I am waiting and I am curious.

  7. my dear ones,

    I am ashamed I couldn't post on time.

    Christmas = hectic days

    And I do not want to rush into my next post.

    Please, bear with me.

    C. :-)

  8. Cette photographie est vraiment superbe ! J'adore ces couleurs...

  9. Merci, Jeff, tu est très généreux


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