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Ilinca Bernea – writing, photography, art works








On pigs and gods


The day when the pigs are sacrificed is a sacred one for folks like ours.
There is a whole ritual around the crime, the fact doesn’t happen arbitrarily.
The pig is sacrificed by men, in a big ceremony, in the name of God Man.

The pig is a sensible and intelligent animal.
He looks into your eyes, being sure that he understands you,
Convinced that he knows what you feel, what you want
He is positive he has all your benediction and nobleness on his side.

Men grow pigs for their flesh but the pigs believe in Man Kind
They think that man give them the everyday bread, from the bottom of their hearts…
Pigs have even more reasons to believe in Men
Than men have to believe in Gods:
Pigs see their Masters everyday: they feel really spoiled with all that attention and care
The masters give them even personal names, in their godly language
Everything goes on marvellously
Until the day when they get hungry.

The animal that looked into men’s eyes that put his faith in them and in their mercy
That loves them in such a way one can love only a truly divine being
Finds himself totally confused when seeing the knife
Probably, in the moment before death, all pigs turn into atheists.

The hunt is a natural ritual, it makes part of nature
The prey knows what happens, it is aware of being a prey
And sees in the hunter its deadly enemy
The hunt is not at all abominable
All species hunt each other someway
But animals grown for meat have a different fate.

The pig believe in the Man God
He is convinced of his privilege
Unlike the savage animals that are hunted
He is protected by humans, befriended
He is hosted by Man close to his home
He lives at the edge of the Human Paradise.

The pig piously believes he is the exquisite of Man
Like men believe themselves to be the exquisites of Gods.
In the day of the pigs’ sacrifice, the man’s transfiguration takes place.
In that particular day the pig is morally superior to the human being.

Men also live from the remains of the God’s repasts
At the edge of the heavenly paradise
 Full of piety and gratitude
Some of them kneel in front of the Beauty
Some other in front of the Justice or of the Truth.

“Tell me in what God you believe to tell you if you’ll die in pain or in revolt
Or if you will crush into distrust and nihilism”.
There might be some who believe in Freedom, they’re meant to die in a claustrophobic attack.

What else are our fabulous bursts and flames?
Our ardour, our passion, our wonderful fantasies
What else are our lives but food for Gods?

I believe in Music and only Music has powers upon me.
I know that one day the Music will turn against me, will assault me, will surround my heart.
It will fatten it with its perfume, like Men fatten the pigs.
Music will spread the love seed into my heart
And will make it grow like the sprout of a magic plant.

The plant will turn into giant, it will grow higher and higher, it will reach the sky
And like this, swilled with love, embalmed in music
Like a plumb pig
My heart will be served to the God on a tray
On the day of my sacrifice.




November








Landscape with mirrors


I look into the water, winds are moving the world
Somehow is springtime and someway is fine
The phantoms of the past leave us alone
I look into the water and see your face’s line
The yearning’s clock stopped beating in the sky
Somehow is autumn and someway is chill
We are stone-still, the ground is passing by


The Journey





The day was long and expected to be warm and bright although at dusk the fog was quite deep.
The road was large and the places absolutely stunning.
Everything that he came to see reverberated in his chest like an echo
“It will be a sunny journey”, he told himself.
“Sunny” replied the echo, like the refrain of a joyful song.
But the fog didn’t spread out. By the contrary, it became thicker and thicker.
“So what? It’s so beautiful here”, he thought, fascinated by the road and by the faces of other pilgrims.
“Here!” retorted the echo, on a small voice.
Here and there or at the crossroad he took another direction than the others.
At noon his path became narrower and the storm was up to burst.
“Maybe I will be spared by thunders and lightning!”
“Lightning” replied the echo, sounding somehow frightening.
“Maybe I should have followed the others”…
“The others” retorted the echo with disappointment.
The whirlwind calmed down, but the sky remained covered. However he felt less exposed.
“I’m safe now!” he thought.
“Safe” answered the echo with sadness.
The sunsets with gray sky are less disturbing, he meditated.
“In a short while it will be dark anyway”.
“Dark anyway” said the echo making him startle.
The long day suddenly seemed short.
He was the only one who reached the top of the mountain.
He was supposed to be happy. Or proud. Or fulfilled.
The other ones got lost, most probably.
“Only I came to get here, only I alone!”
“Alone!” replied the echo, sardonically.


A poor breath


I am but a poor breath, mister businessman
A wee thing
A mosquito, an insect, a bug
Or something even smaller, invisible: a bacteria
That’s me.
You don’t have to pay attention to me
I am somewhere somehow in the air that you breathe

You don’t have to panic when my mug appears in your nightmares
I have no power over you
You are in the head of the system
I’m just the raw material that you build your empire of
My misery is the substance that feeds the numberless proofs of your superiority
I’m a spunge, a nobody, a yob, a rambler
A poor breathe muttering nonsense
Babbling random lyrics
A retarded that had no idea how to invest
An idiot who waist a precious lifetime
On tropes and metaphors

Do not have mercy on me
Don’t feel sorry for me, mister businessman
It would be pointless
I never know how to sniff the opportunities
How to promptly answer to the challenges
I am a lounger
I deserve my fate
Even when you feed yourself from my flesh
Or from my right to sun and laziness
It’s purposeless tearing for me
Because I am nobody
I can live so well without you
Mister businessman
My raw material is my own dreaming
It would be ridiculous to cry for me
Anytime when you close your eyes I fly
You don’t see me fluttering over the heads of your species
you see just my smoked feet
my ragged hands
my drained body

anytime when you turn back
I sing

Don’t get worried for me
I know you feel me like a conjoined twin
Fatally stuck on every nerve of yours
An undesired brother
Whose lungs help you to breathe
A misfortune

There are no reasons to feel sorry for me
You should resent me
I am the fall for you, the sickness, the fear

Do not look at my chains
At my bleeding ankles
At my tormented words

Get it: it’s not me the slave
And calm down
Drink peacefully your black coffee
Count quietly your business accounts.

You cannot hurt me
You cannot strip me from my nothingness

Things have been divided equitably
Between us
You have all
I am free

Anytime when you fall asleep
I take on my uselessness as a decoration
And I start running through the blossomed field
To the horizon line and even further






The Sister Sadness

The sky descended from a painting in that foggy day
The sun was going down for the last time
And I was hibernating near by the Sister Sadness

I was in love with a tree grown in the valley of sorrow
And the moon was arising of our temples


The hunger

Give me another past, teach me how to live only here and now
Teach me how to get fed with a single life
Do something to appease my hunger
Nothing was enough for me

Help me to see you as if I’d meet you for the first time
Help me to pass through you like the light through an opened window
Help me to stop treating you as the terminal point of the world
As if you would be a rail road end
At the borderline of the void
Give me another past
Change my memories into baroque music
Release me from you revolt
Be so kind and help me to forget you
Help me to forget your scars, your lips, your tights, your gloves, your sadness, your ardour
Child of the fire
You burned all those ones that get close to you
Then you sculpted amulets from their ashes
With their strangled voice you have painted pagan icons
And I, daughter of the rain,
Of the rain that you are running from
I dream to give you thunders and lights to enforce your flame

You wished you could burn quietly between four walls
Like the flame of a fireplace from an empty room
To burn like the wing of an insect stuck on a light bulb in an urban jungle
To burn like a silk veil, like a wooden idol, to burn like a lonely plant under the sun of the desert
You turned into ashes everyone who dared to get closer to you
The fire was beneficent to you
It always hushed you
Like the rain that used to calm me
You don’t understand how comes that everyone is thirsty for water
And nobody for fire

You’re right
Your wonder is well grounded
Maybe it will be helpful for you to assist at least once
The scene when I get born from your music like Aphrodite from the sea foam
Or the decadent moment when your melancholy turns me into a woman at sunset
Come and look at me, how I rise from the magma of your voice
And I crumble into your music

Only once
Look into my eyes where the ghost of desire is struggling into
Before they take me and fetch me to the abattoir where all the dreamers are taken
To get cured





The lie


I told you I don’t like to fly so that you could teach me
I told you I’ve never been sad to let you be the master of melancholy
I told you I don’t know how it is to get drown or to hear the abyss whispering your name, sensually
I told you I haven’t known the scream or the grit of the heart strangled by fear
I never stayed stone still with the eyes fixing a ditch while huge vultures sniffed my bleeding mind
I never felt on my tongue the ashes of doubt, its rancid taste taking my words hostages
I told you I don’t give a damn about death
I see the old ages as a smooth body of water
Life without desire is spotless and bright like a snowfall bleaching everything
This is what I’ve said

I want silence,
I want to swim into a sea of warm sights
and to caress myself with what I find around: a piece of moon, a slice of wisdom hurled from the mouth of a contemporary saint turned by paparazzi into martyr

I also told you that I don’t need your love
“For me it’s enough to know you exist”

Well,
I have lied.

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