To childhood

1st of June is children's day in Romania so this days holds a special significance for me. This and 1st of December (Romania's national day) are two days when my parents - tough is sounded weird to me - greeted my brothers and I with "La mulţi ani" (literally translated: "To many more years" but is the equivalent of Happy Birthday). My parents tried to make a big deal out of children's day, but for some reason it seemed artificial to me.

And no, I did not believe that greedy greeting card companies forced this holiday on us to make a profit, I was 8 for God's sake. It was simply thinking that I am not more of a child on the 1s of June than I am on any other day. Why celebrate my childhood on that day? The birthday makes sense, I was born on THAT day, but children's day? Why then and why celebrate? I was a child and my celebration was continuous through my play.

I remember I used to try to do something special on that day, but it just seemed so fake because I didn't have to try to be a child, I was a child. My birthday was different, it was special because I was gaining one year and I was realizing (not consciously) that I am assuming a new role with each passing year, with changing grades etc.

So here comes the question: why did we create this holidays for children?

Today is 1st of June, children's day, and I am so happy I got to celebrate it by making mosaics and taking pictures of the pavement because I can no longer draw on it with coloured chalk. I'm almost 24 years old and I just now get it, why we have children's day. And to all the adults out there reading this... children don't need the holiday, but you do, so enjoy it!

Women's rights

The idea of this photo came to me from an episode of Sex and the City called a "A woman's right to shoes".

The main character's shoes are stolen at a baby-shower when the hostess asks her to leave them at the door because she has small children crawling about. The hostess refuses to pay back the money for the missing $485 shoes because she feels she shouldn't pay for her single friend's extravagant and irresponsible choices.

To prove a point the protagonist registers herself at Manolo Blahnik, in recognition of her just-announced marriage to herself. The mother now has to replace the shoes but at the store, the shop assistant asks the mother to either keep her children from toughing the shoes or leave them at the door.

It is the perfect example of that American way of challenging the "natural" order. And it is also a very interesting picture of the self sufficient career super-woman who not only chooses to be selfish but feels she should be rewarded it. I'm not saying all women should be mothers and house-makers, Simone de Beauvoir refused and challenged that role too, but she didn't dedicate her life to shoes either.

I therefore claim my right to boots.

A break from words

Sometimes there are no words. And this is not a metaphor. Sometimes I really don't have them, I can't think of any words.

I used to be good at this, but I'm out of practice. But not to worry, I learned something new and the words will come back to me eventually.

End zone

Every time I go shopping I feel like turning into a raging feminist.

But then I see some really cute sandals and it goes away.

I too am at fault here. We all break that f*ing dam.

The day

It was that day
That wonderful and magical day.
It was the day I would never forget
The day the dandelions went mad.

Flowers in the wind

My mother taught me about true friendship, about the love and devotion you can feel for someone.

My mother made me understand that when you have a true friend, you can share the most intimate of thoughts even after being many years apart. She showed me how, if you really have a connection with someone, you can reminisce and feel the same as you did in the early years of your friendship.

And all these memories you share with someone are not a way of living in the past, as some people may think, but glorified moments that you need to keep alive. And what better way of keeping memories alive than story telling?

Oh, those wonderful and magical stories about my mother's childhood and her teenage years... Those lively, digressing and colorful stories that I could tell by heart as if I had experienced them myself. How could one not fall in love, if not with the characters, but with the romance of it all?

I would like to dedicate this post to my mother and her beautiful and magical world.

On my mind

Outside my work I haven’t written a coherent thought in a while now. I do not find that surprising considering I’ve been more or less living like a plant. I don’t need to think much at work either, so the coherent thoughts I write down in my emails to customers or colleagues have sort of become more of a reflex than a real intellectual effort.

I haven’t even felt the need to transfer to the computer the photos I took the last two weekends. Not to mention process them in Photoshop. I guess it’s just a numb phase.

The good part is we made some friends and we had the chance to go round and about, see other things, other places. I had a feeling I’m rediscovering photography.

But it’s not that, I’m not rediscovering anything, I’m simply silently struggling laid back on the beach.