Today I took the Internet out to lunch. Since we cannot hang out in my room anymore, we're meeting daily at the library, which is kinda cute because it reminds me of the days when I used to have an office and a schedule I needed to stick to. After four hours of bliss we were kicked out of the library, so we had to move to the pub. And finally, having taken care of all urgent matters, I give you Bucharest.
During the last days of my stay there, I understood what's so special about the city. Nothing. There's something special about us and the city. It's the perfect playground. Ever since college, we've been planning stuff, reading, writing about what we read, later on we started writing our own novels and short stories, and this whole time we felt there's still so many things to do, to discuss, to plan. We founded two magazines, one that died before we graduated and another one that's still alive and kicking and it pretty much resembles a display of our personal obsessions in terms of literature. Some of us got lost on the way, others are just temporarily unavailable, but something tells me in a few years we'll be back together, and something spectacular will come out of all our plans. There's no other explanation for the energy we have, for our power to reinvent ourselves and our world, to start over, fresh and enthusiastic. I used to think I need to take some time off and find inspiration in some faraway lands, when all it took was some time with my friends. In the city where it all began.
*
While Ana was trying to put together the last bits of a project, I was trying to put my passion for The Book and its author in a theoretical framework, reading stuff about Giddens, Calvino, intimacy and interpretation. Didn't draw the conclusions yet, however one thing's certain: this is a perfect example of over-interpretation, so maybe I should stop obsessing over it. Then again, it's probably a bit too late.
*
Before I left, she gave me the yet unpublished novel of a guy I vaguely knew, but from what I remember he was ok and so is the novel, too bad our publishing houses are acting strange and somehow seem to have an inclination for communism-related writings, so if you don't write about it you should be preapred to wait. A lot. So I got to thinking about my own book, about the options I have once I'm done writing. The good news is my book can be better defined as a salad at this stage, so there's still a lot of work before I seriously consider choosing a publisher.
*
And of course let's not forget the beers and the perfect lazy afternoon, on the roof of the National Theatre:
And the heat:
And the pile of stuff in our office, where I found a booklet that gave me a wonderful idea for a new column. And a few other ideas :)
During the last days of my stay there, I understood what's so special about the city. Nothing. There's something special about us and the city. It's the perfect playground. Ever since college, we've been planning stuff, reading, writing about what we read, later on we started writing our own novels and short stories, and this whole time we felt there's still so many things to do, to discuss, to plan. We founded two magazines, one that died before we graduated and another one that's still alive and kicking and it pretty much resembles a display of our personal obsessions in terms of literature. Some of us got lost on the way, others are just temporarily unavailable, but something tells me in a few years we'll be back together, and something spectacular will come out of all our plans. There's no other explanation for the energy we have, for our power to reinvent ourselves and our world, to start over, fresh and enthusiastic. I used to think I need to take some time off and find inspiration in some faraway lands, when all it took was some time with my friends. In the city where it all began.
*
While Ana was trying to put together the last bits of a project, I was trying to put my passion for The Book and its author in a theoretical framework, reading stuff about Giddens, Calvino, intimacy and interpretation. Didn't draw the conclusions yet, however one thing's certain: this is a perfect example of over-interpretation, so maybe I should stop obsessing over it. Then again, it's probably a bit too late.
*
Before I left, she gave me the yet unpublished novel of a guy I vaguely knew, but from what I remember he was ok and so is the novel, too bad our publishing houses are acting strange and somehow seem to have an inclination for communism-related writings, so if you don't write about it you should be preapred to wait. A lot. So I got to thinking about my own book, about the options I have once I'm done writing. The good news is my book can be better defined as a salad at this stage, so there's still a lot of work before I seriously consider choosing a publisher.
*
And of course let's not forget the beers and the perfect lazy afternoon, on the roof of the National Theatre:
And the heat:
And the pile of stuff in our office, where I found a booklet that gave me a wonderful idea for a new column. And a few other ideas :)
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