by Cristina DOROBAT
by Cristina DOROBAT
&
Michael MAINZ
Romanian version by Cristina DOROBAT: Pasager/28
She says: about what?
She says:
He says: you start ill finsh
She says: about a little girl who was afraid of her own shadow?
He says: you start ill finish
She says: there was a little girl who lived with her grandparents
She says: because her parents were too busy with something
She says: she never quite understood what "parents" meant
She says: but she knew there were some people
She says: there was a little home
She says: her grandparents home
She says: it was green
She says: and on top of a hill
She says: and had purple and orange flowers flowers covering the front of the house
She says: and the windows
She says: she was not scared of anything
She says: she wa slittle
She says: but she seemed to understand things like she knew them forever
She says: she chased butterflies
She says: she liked the dark - she could be herself
She says: but days go on
She says: and people around kept telling - don't go back to the house at night
She says: you should be afraid
She says: don't do this - be afraid
She says: don't do the other, be afraid
She says: she never understood, but it seemed that being afraid was the right thing to do
She says: and one day she tryed to jump the cord, and fell
She says: she tryed again and fell again
She says: and day by day she kept
She says: stumbling
She says: and felt ashamed and started to be afraid to go out and play with kids
She says: because she never was able to play the kids games and people around her
She says: kept telling, be afraid, be afraid
She says: so she stayed in house, and looked at toys
She says: but not playing with them
She says: just looked and learned how to be afraid
She says: that she could broke 'em
She says: and days go on
She says: and she got better and better on being afraid
She says: so when first day of school came she was afraid of her own shadow
She says: following her ...
She says: your turn
He says: the wee girl would run and run
He says: but no matter how hard she ran jumped
He says: did anything to get away from the shadow it followed
He says: she would go home each night afraid and to shy to tell her grandparents
He says: and once again at night the shadow was not
He says: there so she would sneek up to the house on the hill to be with herself
He says: until one night she got to the house
He says: there was a little light from the window
He says: she crept up wondering why there was a light
He says: quietly she slipped through the door
He says: and at that moment there was a CRASH
He says: she quickly looked round
He says: and it was her shadow
He says: in terror she tried to escape but the door jammed and she could not get
He says: out
He says: so in total fear she asked the shadow "why are you trying to scare me by following me"
He says: there has no answer
She says:
He says: again she asked the qusetion
He says: still no reply
He says: she moved to wards the little light that elluminated the room and the shadow got bigger and more scary#
He says: in panic she hid in a cupboard hoping and praying the shadow would go
He says: but every time she came out it was there.
She says: and, and?
He says: the time was getting on and realising her grand parents would be worried she bravely came out of the cupboard
He says: she confronted the shadow
He says: what have i done to you ....and put out her hand
He says: and so the shadow
He says: did the same
He says: she put out both hands and the shadow did the same
He says: then she thought the shadow was as afraid of her
He says: but the opposite
He says: the shadow whispered i dont like the dark i like the light
He says: the little replied i dont like the light i like
He says: the shadow asked why not
He says: the little girl did not have the answer
He says: the little girl asked the shadow why dont you like the dark
He says: the shadow said..... then i have no one to play with
He says: the both realised that they had something in common they were on their own with no one to play with
He says: the shadow whispered again ill play with you at school if you play with me at night up here
He says: the two were inseprable the rest of thier lives
He says: the end
by Cristina DOROBAT
Each day I receive and, now, I wait and want my one-line-daily-e-mail. And I remembered. How, for all these years, I kept waiting for some e-mail. From a friend living in London, petrified after just getting out of one of the exploding buses. E-mail from a boss, or a lover. I was waiting for them, receiving them, enjoying them. Little lines, small things, daily stuff, friendships. And my answer always had to have a �pearl of wisdom� Especially for lovers. And, each time, my memories from uni came back haunting me. Back then � 3 weeks a year I had to work down to state archives, holding letters in m hands �
I remeber every time this experience when I unclutter my inbox. Every phase of my life finishes with a spasm of my index � click! And my correspondence vanishes along with an entire universe of emotions, hesitations, courage and dare, cowardness and nothingness �and no-one will ever hold my �letters� in his hands�
... and I remember the voyeuristic pleasure, almost pronographic, which I had during uni practice � reading and copying � by hand � letters written by great romanian personalities pf literature and culture: Sadoveanu, Maiorescu and others which I forgot about.
I think we all carry this virtual dialogue from a newly found pleasure of an old art: the epistolar style. I was reading in those letters about theirs trips to baths, their illnesses or those of their wives, or about putting a word for a job for a �studious� nephew. I was mesmerized by the �normal� dimension of those people which I perceived only as a-social, absolute, as artists and personalities �.great men, they were all great men �no doubt about it!
We were supposed to decipher the hand-written letters, copy and classify them. How I landed this task, beats me! As I have a handwriting that scares even the most patient one. Mum nagged me incessively when I was a child, about it. She keeps on nagging me even in my mid-thirties, and now, when we are friends and talk about everything. At least 100 miles between us are a must, though. My handwriting isn�t ugly. Not even hard to decipher. And I don�t miss it. The writing.
I write as a doctor who landed a wrong career, and I stumble deeply in the pen�s curves on paper. I like writing e-mails. I find there a dimension which cannot be found face to face the paced sound of the keyboard � like Strauss� Radetski March �
All I write by hand these days is my diary. Quarters of thougts machine-gunned on fast forward in a �to do� list. With little squares for checking a victorious �V� in when task completed�I don�t write by hand anymore, but, what I do : �buy potatoes�, �pay the gas�, �say I love you� � hygienically keeps in one piece my sanity.