r a i n: Simona, Mona, Si

oricine mă cunoște știe cît iubesc ploaia. în toate formele, mirosurile, gusturile și culorile ei. 

ploaia cea dătătoare de viață și de moarte. 

ploaia cea aducătoare de mine, tine, noi. 

ploaia cea din străfundurile ființei mele. 

ploaia scurtă, caldă și efemeră ca o îmbrățișare. 

ploaia grea, care cade ca o cortină de catifea peste mine, tine, noi.

prin urmare, oriunde mă duc și în orice citesc caut ploaia. 

oricine-mi citește blogul știe cît iubesc ploaia. ploaia există pe dealul meu cu dor la fel de puternic ca dorul. 

        in octombrie 2010 scriam: imi e dor de o ploaie calda. imi e dor de o mine mai calda. si de una mai portocalie. da, o ploaie calda si calma. o mine mai calma. 

       in octombrie 2012 scriam că nicăieri nu mă simt mai bine ca în toamnă și fotografiam toamna din Iași și din mine: 

Vreau sa aud ploaia batindu-mi hotarit in geam; chemindu-ma afara. Vreau sa o simt alinindu-mi chipul. 

Vreau sa imi simt amintirile alinindu-mi sufletul; chemindu-ma afara. 

Vreau sa mai zburd cu sor-mea prin ploile ispititoare si primitoare de vara. 

Vreau sa mai simt mirosul acela imbietor si ocrotitor al mamei mele. Vreau sa simt mirosul prajiturilor cu smintina si nuca pe care le face mereu de ziua mea. 

Mi-as vrea si tatal inapoi. Pe-acela neinfricat, puternic. Eroul copilariei mele...  

Imi vreau tomnaticele plimbari prin Botanica. Si inseratele intoarceri acasa (marti seara, pe la 8) pe sub bolta de ciori de la Universitate, dupa un seminar urit.

Imi vreau cartile si visurile inapoi. Puloverul portocaliu, 3in1-ul, tigara mentolata si prietenii. Toate pe bancile portocalii din Copou.

Le vreau pe toate pentru ca nicaieri nu ma simt mai bine ca in toamna.

        in 2016 simțeam:

I am the rain.
the cold autumn rain.
I am the cold.

        in 2017 simțeam: imi e dor de ploaie ca de mine insami.Iar în 2018 notam - every august smells of autumn. every autumn smells of myself, rain, and new beginnings and promises. every august i can't wait for autumn to commence. for me to commence anew. for me to commence anew the same old october me.

       recent m-am bucurat de 4321 a lui Paul Auster. a fost o întîmplare, dar m-am bucurat de fiecare pagină, de fiecare Archie Ferguson, de fiecare cerc concentric și de fiecare eu. cartea asta m-a îmbogățit și alinat. și alintat, iar unul dintre pasajele cu care am rămas este, evident, legat de ploaie. ploaia ca început și sfîrșit. ca centru al universului și al ființei: 

The rain was superb. Once Ferguson crossed the threshold and stepped out onto the round,  he realized that no rain had ever fallen harder, that the drops of this rain were thicker and  traveling faster than any other drops he had known, that they were rushing down from the sky with the force of lead pellets and were heavy enough to bruise his skin and perhaps even dent his skull. A magnificent rain, an all-powerful rain, but in order to savor it to the fullest, he figured he should run to the cluster of oaks that stood about twenty yards in front of him, for the leaves and branches would protect his body from those falling bullets, and so Ferguson made a break for it, dashing across the soggy, slippery ground toward the trees, splashing through ankle-deep puddles as thunder boomed above him and around him and bolts of lightning shot down within yards of his feet. He was thoroughly soaked by the time he got there, but it felt good to be soaked, it was the best of all good feelings to be soaked like that, and Ferguson felt happy, happier than he had been at any time that summer or any other summer or any other time of his life, for surely this was the greatest thing he had ever done. 

There was little or no wind. The storm wasn’t a hurricane or a typhoon, it was a raging downpour with thunder to stir up his bones and lightning to dazzle his eyes, and Ferguson wasn’t the least bit afraid of that lightning, since he was wearing sneakers and had no metal objects with him, not even a wristwatch or a belt with a silver buckle, and therefore he felt safe and exultant under the shelter of the trees, looking out at the gray wall of water that stood between him and the cabin, watching the dim, almost entirely obscured figure of his counselor Bill, who was standing in the open doorway and seemed to be shouting to him, or shouting at him as he gestured for Ferguson to come back to the cabin, but Ferguson couldn’t hear a word he was saying, not with the noise of the rain and the thunder, and especially not when Ferguson himself began to howl, no longer George on his mission to save Lennie but simply Ferguson himself, a thirteen-year-old boy wailing in exaltation at the thought of being alive in such a world as the one he had been given that morning, and even when a shaft of lightning struck the top branch of one of the trees, Ferguson paid no attention to it, for he knew he was safe, and then he saw that Bill had left the cabin and was running toward him, why in the world would he do that, Ferguson asked himself, but before he could answer the question, the branch had broken off from the tree and was falling toward Ferguson’s head. He felt the impact, felt the wood crack down on him as if someone had clubbed him from behind, and then he felt nothing, nothing at all or ever again, and as his inert body lay on the water-soaked ground, the rain continued to pour down on him and the thunder continued to crack, and from one end of the earth to the other, the gods were silent.