Tag Archives: phylosophy

The way of the menhir

I have touched the silent menhirs in Carnac, Brittany several years ago and I left with more questions than I came with.

I needed to try my hand again, in Portugal, just outside the beautiful Evora, where the Almendres form one of the most interesting megalithic monuments on the Iberian Peninsula.

I rushed my pace to get to the stones, up the narrow, tormented path, until I thought I heard a whisper…

…ever so soft, almost as if someone was getting ready to say something.

There was no wind. But when I looked around, something fell into place, when my eyes began to delight in the details at the side of the road.

So I spent about one hour on a 15 minutes walk and remember every second…

That soft voice must have been a better self, trying to teach me… Where was I rushing to? The stones had been there for thousands of years, they were not going anywhere and their stories were outside themselves.

They just drew the stories strongly towards them, with their mysterious apparent silence.

But they are shouting for those who can hear: “on the way to the menhir, it is the road, not the destination.”


Instant perspective of heterotopias of time

Airports can be such a contrasting combinations. On one side, they are cold, characterless warehouses, with no soul – we never spend enough time there to leave too much of ourselves.

In the same time, they can be nests of spiritual gatherings, hosting such a diversity of humans with all the hopes they carry while inhabiting them.


And if you start paying attention at the people queuing at the security control, most of us are walking like in a trance, maybe even some kind of meditation. And when you start listening to some of the things people say, you might just get an instant perspective of the beauty of the human mind –

…it’s like putting your life back again,” says a man giving me a smile while he is gathering his belongings after passing through the security machine.
…we have to die so new little people can grow again, right mamy?” A small little girl says while pulling at a large briefcase towards the conveyor belt.

…if you are to choose only five words to define you, what would those be?” The dark-haired girl asks her boyfriend while he is taking his computer out of his bag to put it in the tray. He looks at her and asks her if she took out her toiletries bag. She smiles.


Are airports heterotopias of time? Can we connect better with each other if we rationalize that we are constantly in an airport?


Halloween thoughts and autumn feelings

At this time of year I always get asked the question: “Was Dracula real?”

questionGrowing up in Transylvania, in a small town in the mountains, where old traditions are still preserved and even today, people gather and play cards in the graveyards on Easter night, definition of real has so many meanings.

As a child, when my grandmother was telling me that if I don’t come back before dinner time, the ‘strigoi’ will get me. Did I ever see one? Of course, with my imagination’s eyes, I can describe it even now. Was he real? My grandmother said so even if she could not really remember if she ever saw one.

bonesAnd then, as I grew up, there was “Zburatorul,” a being that, if I was not careful enough, would come to torment me at night with the pain of longing, the torture of being away from the loved one…we all know some aspects of this kind of pain and it’s so very real when we feel it.

painBram Stoker deserves the credit for somehow putting all these (and many more) together in one man he named Dracula.

Is there any connection between the literary character and the Romanian voivode, Vlad The Impaler who managed to keep the Ottoman Empire at bay in the sixteenth century? Maybe. They are both very powerful men and Vlad is mentioned even now by people in Romania as a hero, whom we would welcome anytime to come back and put things right in the country.

red castleDuring his time, his reputation as a just and decisive leader was so strong, that public fountains had golden cups (no one would dare to steal them) and no honest person would starve or lack a roof over their head.

blue castleSome described him as “no common man;” “the bravest of sons from the land beyond the forest;” “a mighty brain and an iron resolution.”

dark castleDoes that make him a vampire? Does this make him real?

How do you know something or someone is really real?

magic castleI am looking forward to the talk this Saturday in Dublin, as part of the Bram Stoker Festival, where a variety of people will be trying to search for meanings into one of the most fascinating characters, which have inspired so many people and who, in my opinion, for that reason alone, is as real as one can be.

Note: If you find yourselves in Avignon, France, make sure to go and see the night show at the Pope’s Palace (some of the photos are taken there) … and ask yourselves what is reality?

How does it feel to be YOU?

I have left parts of myself in each corner of the world where I have travelled. The moment I stopped and fully realized I was THERE, a thin slice of my being got imprinted on that spot and in exchange, part of the energy that made that place unique, became part of me.

That’s how I became ‘me’ of today, from the multitude of vibrations I now carry, speaking to me of the places where my feet walked or my eyes admired.

If, one day, I could only photograph the images I carry in my heart of all these places, of all those faces, of my own soul smiling at the miracle of diversity that makes us all…





boat and glasses



An average dream

Could not even remember where exactly, but I saw this phrase: ‘average dream last only 20 minutes.’ And I could not help myself stop and stare at the screen, thinking of course, how did they manage to measure that? And started to attempt bringing back from my memories the various dreams I had…that I was going to be a doctor, then a journalists, then a media owner and then a perfumer….I even considered being a writer, I’m sure that dream did not last 20 minutes.


What happens with a dream after the 20 minutes have ended? Is there an automatic machine that sorts them according to the attention we give them?


The small, common and all-the-same, like a bag of freshly picked chestnuts pop up to the surface and blind us with their sense of security and comfort and we fill our palms with them, we smell them for a while and even though they don’t really bring back memories of the soul, we end up buying.


And the big dreams, the larger than life ones, usually end up in this small, recycled box and from the rainbow color they have when they are born, they turn this grey-translucent non-color and form the foundation of us-that-will-never-be.


How many of these dreams escape the sorting and sneak out, living in a sort of resistance in the deep seas of our soul, small ponds that long to touch the sea?

From there they come out disguised as a word a friend mentioned, or a phrase we read while we are running around carrying the small, average dreams on our shoulders, or a sound the wind makes while we have stopped and stared out the window. How many of them will ever recover their colors?



For is it the sunset we see in the sky after those long rainy days, or our dreams, escaping our memories and giving us another chance to look at what-we-could-have-been?


One must be extremely strong in mind and spirit to survive more than a year in Donegal. I don’t even know why I say that, it just came to me as I am listening to Mary, Martin and Michael playing in Teac Jack. There is Michael’s humor combined with Mary’s gentle but powerful fiddle and Martin’s quiet, melancholic pipes. And it’s Donegal in its essence, it captures you, it makes you feel you are the happiest being on earth and in the same time, its strength makes you suffer.
It’s the kind of suffering born from pure happiness, that “too much feeling”. You suddenly yearn for the banality of a city life, where you know you are being diminished and your spirit has left you and, you long for being back in Donegal again.
Mary continues to speak through her fiddle and I can’ believe I’m still in this fairy tale world. I can see and hear people from the “real world” around me, in the bar.
It’s funny because they seem to be so immune to the music, as if only a few of us can see and hear the musicians. As if two parallel worlds are being displayed in front of me.

And there are actually three parallel worlds, as musicians seem to be in that trance they go into, and we, the “privileged ones,” get to peep through the door.
But it’s too hard to get in.
One must be very strong to survive more than a year in Donegal. To cope with moments when people either go back to the real world, as their holiday is over, or others go into this trance, which is music, and it’s as if they are totally gone, leaving behind a sound, a smile and closed eyes.
Minutes later, both doors close suddenly and I’m not fast and good enough to dash through any of them.

Will I have enough spirit to wait until they open again?
From the haunting memory of a revived tune, by an old man living in the mountains to “I shot the sheriff” played on guitar and pipes, to hop gigs and rhythms… Why do I feel that life has just said hello and looked me straight in the eyes?



I don’t want to be buried.

I could not bear to listen to the pipes go quiet and the words, spoken and unspoken, grow farther and farther away. I could not bear feel closer and closer to that silence that only earth can offer.

Morning over MuckishI hear them talking about the beautiful day it was when I died and I remember how I used to take them for granted, how I never looked up to the sky long enough to see it, how I did not open my eyes to let all the light in, to fill me, so I can switch it on now, when I need it most.

That’s why I need the power of fire all around me, to feel I am one with the light. And seep slowly, with the rain, into the silence of the earth.

Road across foreverOn a beautiful sunny day in Donegal, pipes were heard on Cnoc Fola. They lifted the soul up, beyond Bloody Foreland, beyond Erigal and Muckish and beyond Tory Island.

Red skyI never met him, I did not even know his name, but my tears just burst out of me when I suddenly felt one with all those souls – the mourning and the mourned ones, in the same time.

They say we must befriend death. I say we must feel one with death to get a grasp of how much alive we are, how there is only one heart beating and it suffers, we know, even if we admit that or not.

Cold morning