Between angels and ephemerides

The angel kissed me on the cheek

And I felt the warmth of love,

Pam, pam, pam, pam…

I was sitting on the lake, on a bench, in the shade. I was watching the water and Fredonam. I will never heal this thing. I have a crow's voice, but I like music and I want to compose folk music texts with all my heart.

I like it? From all my soul?

I had avoided thinking about it, but there is a time for everything ...

Strange, but if I remember well, this bizarre story started with a song ... and in the same place.

The idea of composing a text about an ephemeride, who wants to live more than a day, to know that tomorrow's doom, had come to my mind. From all the song I had made up only the chorus, on an obsessive song:

What good would it be to exist tomorrow,

How good is there that dream ...

I had discussed with Mike -Mike Hăulete -because he, before taking prose, had composed texts for folk songs. He had been successful, so he was talking about the reason. He had looked at me with some amusement and had explained to me that I had attacked a very vast problem for a song. That the respective texts must propose what can be transmitted through a song and can be received by a spectator at a concert.

I cannot say that he was not right, but his justice had not delighted me. And I had thankful, and that chorus had continued to obsess me. So, when all this bizarre story started, I was sitting on the lake and trying to figure out what the hell could think of an ephemeride so I could compose my text. Because, despite Mike's observations, that chorus was shaking my head, leaving me for a moment.

And while I was tormenting my mind with poetic attempts doomed to failure, I felt a presence.

Sometimes it happened to me to feel close to someone not physically, but as an avalanche of thoughts, ideas and future projects. Very clear projects, as if I had read them from a sheet of paper.

I turned and saw a tall man, with a figure that mirrored an inner tremor of great intensity. Seemed to look for someone. He looked around, then sighed disappointed and returned. He left for the summer garden next to the pier.

Leaving a sudden impulse prey, I took after him.

As a matter of fact, the only free place was at the table that the individual had occupied. I asked for permission to sit down. He nodded, absent. She was staring at Halbei, as if she was waiting for her depths to rise who knows what, something that terrified him, but at the same time, wanted.

After I sipped the cold liquor-nothing better on the heat like a really cold beer, to troch your teeth-I relaxed and felt my plans again.

Or, rather, what his plans should have become. We practiced, if you want, a kind of clairvoyance, in which I did not perceive facts or events, but ideas. I knew what ideas, what intentions the individual will have over the years.

I discovered, with a pleasant surprise, that my neighbor's neighbor was a writer. Or, better said, he will be a writer. Even very big. In his future mind was an extraordinary novel, which had all the literary qualities of a work of value, but combined with an approach facility and an attractive subject. So he had every chance of immense success, both critical and public. I could not refrain from exclaiming:

- What an extraordinary novel you intend to write!

He jerked, suddenly turned his attention to me, and looked at me with hope.

- What novel do you mean?

– Leaf silence, I replied, with a tone as if he had to know what I had referred to.

The hope in his eyes died slowly, like the jar from a campfire over which no one throws.

- the one about a little psychopath, Alfred Phffull, who discovers that he is the last representative of a missing race ...

In the next ten minutes I told him the novel, the more details I could discover in his mind. I hadn't surprised my interlocutor's reaction. It was about something my discussion partner was going to do in the future, the idea, even if it existed somewhere, had not reached his conscious mind. The individual listened to me greedily, carefully not to escape any detail, after a minute he began to note on a patch of paper ...

Yes, it was an extraordinary book, which will bring the author -Benone Tănăsescu, I had read his name on the cover I had seen in the place from which I had collected the novel -a well -deserved celebrity.

-That's all, Mr. Tănăsescu, I concluded. So much I managed to perceive in your mind.

He jerked strongly when I said to him, he wanted to say something, then stopped, looked at me somewhat scared, but he saw that the desire to find out was much stronger than fear.

"Yes, my name is Tănăsescu," he said in the end. Who are you? How do you call yourself?

-Excuse me, I forgot to introduce myself: Adrian Banu. I am a bit of a writer, I published through quite obscure magazines: The journal of extraordinary events, the magazine of anticipation and Ukroni, strangeness ...

I signaled to the waiter to bring another row, I pulled a fierce shower and, leaving me in the will of reconciliation, fulfillment, what had encompassed me, I continued to cut, full of good will.

- What a strange fate I had, Mr. Tănăsescu! You have done everything to you, you did the school effortlessly, you had parents who have ensured an appropriate education-foreign languages, music, painting, etc. But I ... I was born in Cioflu Mic, a commune in Argeș county. Parents, poor peasants, without wealth and without perspectives, could not do much for me. So I attended the High School of Ebenics in Târgoviște, who was preparing trades for the workshops of the factory in Breaza-the largest in Southeast Europe regarding the furniture carved in expensive essences. The parents enrolled me at that high school, Mr. Tănăsescu, because I ensure my schooling and maintenance in the boarding school for free. Otherwise, they couldn't afford to give me to school. I worked in the factory for ten years, that both provided for the contract, after which I came to Bucharest, to try my luck in the literature. I had been part of the factory cenacle, I had published through different magazines, and when an acquaintance offered me a editor's position at Strangeness, I accepted immediately, even though the salary was half of the factory. But I turn around in the literates, and that matters ...

I was silent for a while, not only remarking the amazed figure of Tănăsescu, who was looking at me as if he did not know what to believe. I sipped from the beer that had begun to warm up, it had a bitter taste, like my joys always obtained with too much work ... And the plans of the one in front of me again. More from the desire to epitate him, to prove to him why I am in a state, I began to tell him other novels or stories that he was going to write. And he noted with a hopeless haste, eager to record every word. I was coming to tell him: stop, fool, are your ideas, even if you do not know them now, they will still spring from your mind, their future is certain, there is no doubt.

Later I was silent. My jaws ached, I had struggled, I was tired, I was bored. I signaled the waiter to come up with the payment note.

- What are you doing? Tănăsescu asked me.

- I'm going home. It was a pleasant conversation, although I only spoke and probably bored you more about the things you know, but tomorrow I have a hard day and I have to walk from morning till evening. I have to rest.

-Do you have nothing else to tell me? he exclaimed, with such a deep despair, that he impressed me.

- I have many more, but for today it arrives. I can't.

- When do we meet again?

After we faced the programs, we decided, in agreement, to see ourselves over two days, also in the carcass's garden, at the same time.

On the way home I thought of that Benone. An interesting individual, who, in a way, liked me. It was the first great talent I had known. Those with whom I had to deal with until then were either valuable authors, but who were addressed to a reduced segment of the literary world -so, implicitly, they had accepted the idea of a quasi -annoyed -or dozen writers, with successes of the moment and conjunction, which were to be forgotten as quickly as possible.

I saw my tasks, but at the set time, I presented myself to the established place. Benone Tănăsescu was waiting for me. He had reserved an isolated meal, where we could discuss at will, and had come armed with a stubborn block and a handful of cheap pens. He didn't ask me what I want to order. Neither did the last turn offered to pay my beer, which made me think he was scratchy and eager for bargains.

After I sipped from the cold beer, I started to tell him some of the ones I had done since I hadn't seen. My interlocutor listened to me not very carefully, as if he were weighing to keep in mind the anything I was serving, wondering, however, if those nothing have a meaning and escaped for the moment.

After I boiled it in my own juice, I reached the subject that interested him: the content of his future works. It became suddenly alert, noting at high speed all I was saying. I told about two hours, attracted by the beauty of those writings that were to see the light of the pattern once. But after a while I got bored. Why did you have to cut off without ceasing? I would have liked that the individual on the other side of the table also tells me something, to make friends, to discuss neutral things, without interest, just about the pleasure of the conversation.

So I stopped.

- Ready? he asked, disappointed.

-I'm a lot, but I'm tired. I have no desire.

- Please ... he tried to insist.

- In vain. I got tired and I don't like it anymore. I feel exploited. Why tell you all this? You will discover them alone, when the time comes. And if you really are interested, be more kind, honor with a beer, behave friendly. That I have no obligation to you.

-Do you have no obligation? he has grown. Stop saying! I knew your master is malicious and malicious, but an understanding remains an understanding! So fulfill your obligations and no longer make noses!

- What obligations? I got angry, in my turn. And what master? I have no master! I am free, like the birds of heaven.

-Look, I'll remind you, so you don't do the fool anymore! I ended with your master a pact. Which I signed with blood. I gave him what he wanted, and he made me the greatest writer in the world. He was going to send me the contents of the works with which I would earn my glory. The way of transmission was to be found. And he invented you. I must admit that it is a very bearable and accessible way. So don't get in your patch and do your job properly!

I was so surprised that we could only carry:

- I don't know what you're talking about! This is a talent of mine, which has manifested itself in other circumstances ... you can ask ...

He interrupted me, nervously:

-Leave me alone with these fools! You are a mere messenger. Don't exist! Transmit the message you wear, without beans!

- What do you mean I don't exist? I am here, I drink beer, I talk to you, I published some stories, I worked in a factory ...

- Don't exist, man, don't you understand? Consult any Atlas of Romania, you will not find any municipality called Cioflu Mic, not only in Argeș county, but not in the rest of the country! So there is no native place of yours. The high school of Ebenistic in Târgoviște is not real. Not to mention the great furniture factory carved in expensive essences in Breaza. Everything is just illusion. The one who sent you wanted to give a reality appearance and fully succeeded. If I hadn't started to give phones around the country yesterday, maybe I would accept your story. In fact, to tell you honestly, he added, with some gentleness, at first I suspected nothing. I just wanted to see who I was dealing with, to read one of your stories. I tried to buy a copy of the magazine you said you were working on. No one heard of Strangeness, not the most fierce fans. The same is true for the other magazines you mentioned. There is no, my dear! You are simply a literary creation, so to speak! Your creator is a great artist, I admit, gives an impression of realism as I have never mentioned! But that does not change the data of the problem. You are an image, an illusion meant to a goal. Meet your purpose and then leave me alone!

My first intention was to leave, let him puddle. I never liked crazy, and the individual is obviously delirious. On the other hand, the evil of his projects overwhelmed me, I had to get rid of it. Without making any comment, I started telling him, as fast as possible, everything that was going to create from now on. And he noted, he prayed for me to speak less rarely, to tell him how certain names were written ... I did not sting to answer them. I was in a hurry to empty my mind of that pressing, the burden of thoughts and ideas that could not find themselves in my mind.

I do not know how long it lasted, it was evening, my mouth had dried, I forgot about beer, I had forgotten everything, I just wanted to vomit that load of thoughts and to escape.

Finally, the pressure was reduced, only one project, a very wonderful one, a perfect masterpiece remained. I do not know why, maybe for envy, maybe from the rancor for the donkeys he had told me, I did not mention anything about that novel that would have represented the crown of his work.

It will remain only a vague haunting, a non-formulated regret, a suspicion that it could have created something ... but so vague, that it will manifest only as an unmotivated regret, as a feeling of dissatisfaction with non-fulfillment that will ruin the pleasure of success.

Then I got up and left through the dark, not knowing where to go.

Because, if he had been right, my role was over, and the one who had imagined me could abandon me at any time.

I stayed on a bench, in the shade, near the lake, looking at the small veil below the moon.

An ephemeride that wants to exist tomorrow.

At least to finish my song with the angel ...

And maybe the angel will kiss me and give me forgetfulness and tranquility ...

Actually, why am I scared? What has been waiting for me is death, like every man.

I have memories, I will die. So I lived. I am - I was - real.

Or, maybe, Benone Tănăsescu is only an illusion, and the reality is me, the one born in Cioflu Mic.

Or, maybe, we are both an illusion in a reality that I do not know ...

The reality of illusion or illusion of reality?

What distinguishes the reality of illusion? I no longer remember what a writer imagined a person who had continuous dreams-who started from the moment the previous dream was over-and who was moved, during sleep, to a completely different environment from the one in which he had slept. For such a person, reality was the world of dream, and true reality represented a dream. So we could characterize the reality through continuity and persistence, and the illusion as something passing, which disappears quickly, without leaving traces.

That is, reality is something that remains in memory, because it is something related to practical life, while the illusion is only an accident, which you can remember as a strangeness, or forget, without any consequences.

But the perception of reality is done through the senses. So a relative thing, knowing that the senses are relative. We know that a pathetic is red or green, because that's how we were taught, but no one guarantees that the color that I perceive as red is not identical to the one that someone else perceives as blue. And the Daltonists do not distinguish between red and green, so they cannot figure out whether or not a square is baked.

From this it results in two important things. The first: Knowing reality is done through training, by their own experience and by accepting the experience of others. The concept of reality is traditionalist, transmissible and social. Essentially, reality represents a convention that helps us to deal in everyday life, the criterion of judging the correctness of the perception of reality being pragmatism. It does not matter whether reality exists or, if it exists, corresponds to an objective reality, independent of our perception. It is important for that image of reality to use practically. The earth could be flat for thousands of years, without disturbing anyone. Only at the time of long distance navigation, the practice proved that it was, in fact, round. That the reality of a round land was more advantageous. So the reality can be modified according to the practical interest.

The second aspect of reality is directly linked to the perception of reality through the senses. If the senses will perceive something other than normally, because of some technical interventions, why would that reality be as valid? From here the term of virtual reality, which describes a reality that is not the one that we consider objective, but which has sufficient grounds of being considered reality (being perceived by senses).

But the senses are imperfect, they can be easily deceived. The hand is faster than the eyes, say the illusionists. A prestidigitator can offer us an artificial reality, with features strong enough to compete with the objective one.

Then how do we resist the temptation to confuse the two realities? Simple: because we know that certain things cannot exist. The scammy is only a show, not a reality, because our whole education threw us in our heads that a man cannot be cut into pieces without dying. We know this. As our great -grandparents knew that a harder device could not fly or there is no animal like a giraffe.

It is therefore obvious that the notion of reality changes without ceasing. A few hundred years ago, a radio or a gramophone would have been considered scammers. Now they are real. Teleportation, levitation, telepathy are, for the time being, dreams of SF authors or illusions tricks. Tomorrow may be real. Knowledge changes without ceasing and, along with them, our notion of reality.

We can therefore conclude, without a doubt, that the reality we accept is an convention, an illusion, an image of the moment, which mirrors our ignorance, the ignorance of the true reality. We live in this illusion of reality just because we have not discovered a better version of reality. Still.

But, since I accepted that reality is defined by tradition and learning, we accept, at the same time, that reality represents the sum of the information we accept as real. Let us not forget, however, that the 20th century is the century of manipulation. The information is tendentious, they aim to suggest things far from being real. Millions of people are convinced of the truth of ideas, implicitly by their reality and their practical application. Communism, Nazism, capitalism-are societies that have convinced their members of the reality stated by leaders. Only major seizures have put in doubt those realities in which they believed wide masses. But, in addition to the media - political or purely commercial manipulation - there is a cultural manipulation. Certain attitudes are suggested to man. He is suggested feelings and feelings. And the greatest illusion that results from this manipulation is love. We do not love a specific being, but We have the illusion that this is approaching the ideal generated by the own perception of the cultural model. As a result, we suggest adequate feelings to that cultural model, which everyone understands a function of intelligence and environment. Such an illusion is considered by all as the most objective reality. So, the illusion can become a reality, that a reality can obviously rely on the illusion.

We come to the conclusion that the man is in the bizarre position to face two types of reality. The first is a reality that it knows relatively, through imperfect senses and approximate knowledge. It's O Illusion of reality, because in mind there is a deep conviction that this is confused with the objective reality. The second reality has a more difficult form to define. It corresponds, in terms of the outside world, with the objective reality. But this reality is transfigured by the human psyche until the complete deformation. If we try to explain to a Romanian the fact that his country is not more beautiful than others and, with certainty, poorer than many others, will look at you amazed. He was told so many times, in school, then through the press and political speeches, that he has a beautiful and rich country, endowed with everything, that he will not be able to perceive the truth. The reality in which we live is the one in which the illusions become stronger than the objective reality. Illusions gain reality value. It's O reality of the illusion.

Which of the two realities is May THE REAL?

The illusion of reality is, however, an objective phenomenon. It is based on the weakness of our senses and knowledge. Is perfectable. May, over time, lead to a reality closer to the objective one.

The reality of illusion represents the pervert of human senses and feelings. It represents an intentional, programmatic deformation of the perception of reality. It is about the ability to self -operate human. Taking illusion as a reality means refusal to perceive reality.

Both forms are important to man. We are deceived by an illusion of reality from comfort and truffle that we know them all. It can only save us from this trap. We give the illusion character of reality from the desire to dream, from the impetus to the ideal. Then we no longer give importance to the details, we confuse the dream with reality, we believe the lies because WANT Let's believe them, hoping that the ideal has entered life. And from this trap we can escape all by doubt.

We can therefore conclude that the most appropriate dictum is: I doubt, so I think.