martie 14, 2020

Making breakfast for child, for dog, for myself, wash big plates, desert plates, tea mugs, wine glasses, forks, spoons, tea-spoons, knives, blender, choping boards, fry pan, boiling pan and the dog’s pan. Dishes. Calling them one name helps getting the job done. Swipe the floor in the kitchen, in the corridor, lounge, study. Clear negligently forgotten instruments of consumption from big table and coffee table. Wash these up. Clear the rack off dried up accessories of consumption and make space for wet ones. Make space in the fridge to replace perrisable items left on random kitchen places. No, I’m not a house wife, I’m a domestic man working from home havin a day off.


martie 27, 2016


Easter Sunday

Uneven ground

aprilie 28, 2015

Monday, 27 Apr ’15

Two days ago I started to build some steps in the garden. After last year’s leveling work it ended up with a higher patch of ground which needed easier access. The stones I’ve been collecting since November will now get used. Five piles of hand picked stones betrayed some presence during the cold months. There are still plenty of stones lying around waiting to be picked. (Is there a better way to remove stones from a garden?) I regret I did not sort them from the beginning. By shape would have made this job easier. 

I’m standing on the edge of the land. A portion of it started to wear off but it doesn’t bother me. It kind of gives way to nature’s contribution, revealing an enclosure for a little bench. I took my boots off, and my work trousers.  The remoteness  discarded all inhibition.  The dry crumbled ground quickly absorbs the sweat from my feet. The sun feels good. An earthly wind reminds me of the last snow which melted only weeks ago. It’s Monday morning and.. I’m here.

Making steps in the garden

Tuesday, 28th Body aches from digging and shoveling ground from one place to another. It started to rain. Writing.




solar-eclipse-poland-310:30am – 11:00am (Gmt+1) ,Southern Poland

Partial solar eclipse observed in Poland through magnetic tape of a computer disk.

8 Martie

martie 8, 2015


Probing the subjects

martie 3, 2015

Today I felt like taking pictures and when I say that, I mean I felt like I have the balls to stop in the middle of the road, point the camera at the faces close to me and shoot. Some kind of urge of reckless behavior that doesn’t visit me too often .

Tuesdays are busy days in our little town. It’s market day and people of all calibers fill up quietly the quiet stage. The winter shook its coats once again today, entering the postlude of a capricious winter. So no mood for roaming unfettered between stands.

As I walked towards the market I got the camera out from my bag and I was ready for action. In the distance I saw something which could be of interest so I devised my plan. A few seconds later I posted myself close to a bus stop full of people, I pointed the camera and I took a shot. No reaction. I arranged the zoom for a wider angle and  I took another picture. It felt good. The whole action lasted less than five seconds and I was on my way again.


With swell confidence I proceeded to the market place and I took a few random pictures on the way, just to warm up.






netcurtains-maintaining-the-privacyMaintaining the privacy


I got to a stand with nicely stacked bread and I took a shot of it with the two guys selling it in the background. One of them objected and asked me to delete the picture. I refused. He got annoyed and came next to me and from what I understood he threatened(?) to call the police because I am not allowed to take pictures of anyone’s face without permission. Fair point. (Or is it!?) I invited him, in my broken polish (sorry about my English too) to call the police which should be able to tell me whether I am allowed or not to take pictures of people in a public place such as the local market. I continued my stroll around the market waiting for the police to arrive when I see The Baker and a market security man walking toward me. We got into a conversation but couldn’t establish whether I am entitled to keep or not the picture containing The Baker’s face. (The picture had not yet been used in any way!)

While they were discussing I changed my mind. The picture didn’t have much value anyway and, to settle the argument, I decided to delete the picture. Why? Police would not arrest me for this. In worst case they’d ask me to show my identification which I did not carry with me, not when going to buy potatoes. I still want to go to this market without any grudge against me. So I showed the guy I deleted his picture and tried to explain how I see it. Business is public, your product is public, the street is a public place. The market couldn’t be more public. Your thoughts and actions may not be public but your face, is. Otherwise,  zostać w domu!


A few other men stopped. They were not carry shopping bags. Puzzled looks. I assume they were trying to understand what was going on. Stern faces – perhaps sellers from other stands in the market were not entirely accepting my arguments, all the same curious about the verdict. Can their faces along with their products be photographed by.. Nobody? Another younger merchant seeing that I offered to delete the baker’s picture he asked me to also delete the picture of his lorry packed with  bags of carrots and potatoes. Why did I took that picture? To probe the subjects of my little town. His face was not in the picture. I deleted it anyway.

I still wanted to find out whether I am or not allowed to take pictures of the market and the people in it so the security guy took me (invited me? obliged me? Hard to tell.) to their office to talk to his superior. We are in Poland. Writing these words two hours later, my moving from the market to the security office does not seem so voluntary anymore and I don’t know why. And this post seems more like a declaration. Nevertheless it helps me remember the details of the event.

The superior explained, as I was kind of expecting it, that I can take pictures as long as the faces of people are not in them. Fine.

What really bothers me now is that they asked me to show what other pictures I took and if I have any identification with me. I do not remember whether out of a genuine desire to add to my personal photographic collection I offered them to show what I have in my camera or they asked me to do that. The fact that I do not speak very well their language makes it difficult to recall this important aspect. And, even more annoyingly important, are they entitled to ask me to give them my name and address? With nothing to hide of course I gave it. But, do security men have the authority to ask for identification? I know they have been put there to solve conflict in the market and protect commerce but shouldn’t my identity, on this instance be treated as private since The Baker got his picture deleted from my camera and didn’t press charges? I mean, how short is the road from taking street pictures to being questioned for it?


With five polish apples in my bag, I took one more picture of a national polish costume and I left the market. Today I gave some people something to talk about. Shame it’s only a few.

I’m sitting at my desk looking outside… For a few minutes large snowflakes frolicked in the air… Should I expect a visit?

On my way home other stories awaited to be packed in a few millions pixels. A film camera might have got me in trouble. And, when I was convinced there’s nothing left for me in this little town to take pictures of, a whole new world opens up.






I was considering myself a photographer or rather and observer of life. Today I learned that life photography ain’t only about split moments, lines, shapes and shadows. Perhaps a degree in journalistics would have instructed me to respect the faces on the street and ask for permission before shooting. Would I really want that? The lesson here is: discretion. But I’m not sure I always want that either.


Update 04.03.2015: On the same car park where the Tuesday market takes place  I was surprised to see on a Saturday morning two or three weeks ago this small group of not sure what to call them… pseudo-soldiers?


Update 23.03.2015: The answer came later keeping an eye on the news:


Un oraş neterminat

februarie 16, 2015

Lucrurile urmau un curs al lor de care nu prea mai păsa nimănui. „Asta e” înlocuiese oftatul ancestral. Pe dealuri, distantele dintre copaci mărturiseau spațiul dintre generații.

Citi un titlu în presa locală în care sforarii comunitari îsi puneau problema dacă „avem un oraş sexy”. Cunoştea bine aşezarea iar întrebarea i se păru ridicolă. Narcisismul ei trăda complexul instaurat în urma unui proces evolutiv defavorizat. Considerați o linie dreaptă, fie ea şi subțire, sexy? Înspăimântați de posibilitatea destul de accentuată a unei concluzii negative, răspunsul va fi hotărât prin sufrágiu universal. Dar cine sunt aceia care-şi vor da votul? În ce măsură vor reuşi ei să nu-şi deschidă prohabul în fața unui asemenea cuvânt alunecos. Cum vor decide ei sex-appeal-ul aşezării? În momentul de față rezultatul poll-ului indică o competiție echilibrată sau strânsă (de coaie în acest caz) cum se mai zice, comparabilă cu alegerile congresului american, adică fifty – fifty. Jumătate din „votangii”, cum ar spune dl. Puric, au spus Da, iar cealaltă jumătate au recunoscut. Din câte voturi? Din două.
Alții nu ştiu ce să răspundă. Îi încurcă întrebarea sau mai degrabă cuvântul cu x. O fi cuvântu’ sexy, sexy!? Analogiile nu-şi prea mai au locul într-o lume care tinde spre concret.
Mulți, poate cei mai mulți, se abțin. Din lipsă de timp sau înclinație pentru asemenea lucruri puerile. Sau ceva lăuntric le spune, ca şi sforarilor, că oraşul lor nu numai că nu este sexy dar pare un oraş neterminat. În încercarea lor de a-şi da răspunsul li se făcu dor de fațadele cochete, de balcoane la care fierul forjat nu face decât spirale, de geamuri cu obloane din lemn de trandafir, de trotuare cu unică destinație, de străzi de piatră al căror labirint te plimbă şi te întoarce pe nesimțite acolo de unde ai plecat.
Se născuseră pietoni ai unui drum drept; în schimb, îşi redobândiseră imaginația mulțumită unei întrebări tâmpite.


decembrie 21, 2014

Grăbi pasul. Ceața criogenică care începea să înfunde oraşul îi reaminti de pactul cu diavolul. Nu trebuia să se îmbolnăvească. Refuza de câțiva ani controalele medicale ce nu făceau decât gaură în economiile agonisite cu sacrificii care uneori i se păreau prosteşti. Trecuse singur prin câteva gripe fără a ceda ispitei de a merge la control. Descoperise că odihna şi regimul dădeau rezultate fără însă riscul efectelor secundare. În orăşelul în care trăia numărase peste patruzeci de farmacii şi-l obseda gândul că populația ar putea fi deja împărțită în doctori şi pacienți. Cu toate riscurile nu se mai dorea pacient căci în cealaltă tabără nici nu-i trecuse prin gând să ajungă vreodată.

Asigurare îi stârnea repulsie. Nimic nu-l mai asigura de nimic. Avea încredere doar în muncă şi economiile pe care şi le făcea. Plata în avans pentru nişte servicii de care nu era sigur că va avea nevoie i se părea o escrocherie. Probabil de aia se şi numesc asigurări, adică plăți pentru ceva nesigur…asigur; asta pentru că omul, din obişnuință, pune răul înainte. Altfel, dincolo de neliniştile provocate de instinctul de conservare se simțea netulburat ca un abis.

Dintr-o neglijență se trezi într-o dimineață cu obrazul căzut. Îl simtea la locul lui dar pleoapa nu se mai închidea şi nu-şi mai putea țuguia buzele. Gestul de a face cu ochiul nu i-a plăcut niciodată dar ar fi vrut să poată fluiera. Vorbea uşor stâlcit iar gura i se aduna într-o parte, ca lui Rocky când o striga din ring pe Adrianne. După cinci zile în care nu prea s-a arătat la față, a cedat insistențelor familiei de a merge la un control pe fondul temerilor vreunui accident vascular. În urmă cu exact două luni îşi trase o cracă uscată de păr în cap.

Cetățean străin cu asigurare europeană de stat, număra acum orele pe holul de la Urgențe. În cele patru ore de aşteptare observă că bătrânii cu insuficiență de orişicare, unii cu diafragma inflamată zguduiți zdravăn de sughițuri, gravidele şi adolescenți cu membre rupte aveau întâietate. Nu-l putea acuza de nimic pe medicul de gardă care stabilea prioritățile după criterii care-i scăpau. Doar de rasism. Poate nu aveau specialist la acea oră.. Se simțea  vinovat înăfțişâdu-se la urgențe pentru a evita un control care i-ar fi lichidat subzistenta pentru două săptămâni. Aproape convins că era doar un curent, îşi luă inima în dinți şi plecă.