May, 2017
One perfect rose / Un trandafir perfect
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian May 27, 2017
One perfect roseA single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.I knew the language of the floweret;
‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
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Un trandafir perfectDe cand ne stim o floare mi-a trimis;
Un tandru mesager fara defect,
Pur, parfumat, de roua inc-atins,
Un trandafir perfect.Limbajul florii scris ca filigranul,
“Eu iti aduc inima lui direct”.
Iubirea si-alesese talismanul :
un trandafir perfect.De ce n-am bafta sa primesc si eu
O masina perfecta, chiar discret ?
Nu, soarta-mi este sa primesc mereu
Un trandafir perfect.Romanian version, Maria Magdalena Biela
One Art / O arta
POSTED IN classic poetry, translated English-Romanian May 26, 2017
One artThe art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.Elizabeth Bishop
…………………………….. ……………
O arta
Arta de-a pierde nu-i greu a deprinde;
atatea lucruri par a fi menite
a disparea, incat nu mai surprinde.Sa pierzi zilnic ceva spre-a te destinde,
chei de la usa, ore ostenite.
Arta de-a pierde nu-i greu a deprinde.Apoi arta de-a pierde ti-o extinde:
locuri si nume sa le faci pierite;
Nimic nu-i un dezastru, doar depinde.Pierdui al mamei ceas si, far-a vinde,
doua din trei din casele iubite.
Arta de-a pierde nu-i greu a deprinde.Pierdui orase dragi, si cat cuprinde
un continent, tari, rauri mostenite.
Imi lipsesc insa drama nu s-aprinde.Te pierdui chiar pe tine (vocea cu ras, un gest
iubit) . N-ar trebui sa mint. Toate-s vadite.
Arta de-a pierde nu-i greu a deprinde
desi pare-a fi (Scrie!) ce pretinde.Romanian version Maria Magdalena Biela
Dust if you must
POSTED IN contemporary poetry, translated English-Romanian May 23, 2017
Dust If You MustDust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.Dust if you must, but the world’s out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.Rose Milligan
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Sterge praful de vrei
Sterge praful de vrei, insa n-ar fi mai bine
Sa pictezi ori sa scrii cuiva despre tine,
Sa faci un tort, sa plantezi o samanta ;
Intre « vreau » si « trebuie » sa faci diferenta.Sterge praful de vrei, insa nu sunt ani multi,
In rauri sa-noti, sa te cateri pe munti;
Muzica sa asculti si carti sa citesti ;
Sa-ti faci prieteni, viata s-o traiesti.Sterge praful de vrei, insa lumea ti-e cantul
Cu soarele-n ochi si prin plete cu vantul ;
Un zbor de fulgi, o ploaie de vara,
Asta zi nu mai vine iara si iara.Sterge praful de vrei insa tine minte
Batranetea vine si nu-i prea cuminte.
Iar cand tu vei pleca ( si aici n-ai de-ales)
In urma-ti ramane doar praf, s-a-nteles..Romanian version, Bielka
Neuron’s lover / Amanta lu’ Neuron
POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 16, 2017
Neuron’s loverIn the last 20 years an entire field of literature (could I call it literature?) appears to be dedicated to “relationships”.
Either fictional or so-called scientific books, novels, materials (you name them!) attacked the market with their remedies and recipes on “how to make a relationship perfect” in two or three, because now also the lovers appeared to make the bovarism complete.
Libraries and book-stores are filled with these titles, “10 ways to find a good man”, “Starting over yet again”, “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus”, “Getting past your breakup”, “Love hurts, you don’t have to”, “How to heal a broken heart in 30 days” (that’s quite a joke!!), “The mornings of lovers”, “The nights of lovers”, “The divorces of lovers”( aaaand we are waiting eventually for the baptism, funerals of lovers), “The philosophy of sex” ( I barely can stop laughing!), “How do men love”.
Shall I say more?
People, especially women buy these materials. Many women who lost a lover at some point of their life will buy a book like that.
My question is: WHY? What do we expect to happen after reading such a book? To get wiser? Smarter? More experienced? More attractive?
Do we realize that those books are written by a bunch of women who call themselves “experts” in human feelings and try to put on paper all kind of traumas that in the end are proved to be their own ghosts, dark sides, bruised egos?
These “women authors” make a lot of money from this industry of “feelings-subject” and they have the most twisted minds, they are mostly lonely, depressed, addicted, obsessed and the only therapy that could help them is to write down all their problems.
And other women, perhaps way much “normal” than these “experts”, go out, after a breakup, and buy these miracle-books, hoping that their life will be miraculously improved.
But, after reading those books, life does not suddenly become a better place. Life is still dark for them, sad, hopeless and they think: “what if I start writing about how I feel? About what I experienced?.
And a new book, a new author, a new rich lonely woman comes to town.
This, my friends, is what I call a vicious circle.
Why do men not buy these kind of books? Why do men not start writing a book based on their recent breakups (well some men do unfortunately)?
As a woman I have some thoughts and I apologize beforehand to my fellow women for what I am about to say.For men relationships and life are, in general, simple: black and white. For women on the other hand, it is never only black and white. It is a whole spectrum of colours, but most of all there is “the grey area”. And there is the danger, in THE GREY.
That is what men ask themselves for ages: “what does a woman want?”.
We, women, we have the power to make a man the happiest soul on earth or to bring him down to the deepest sides of Hell.
We are the ones who can bring light everywhere and suddenly cut the power without the slightest warning. I talk about “Women” with capital W. There are women and Women as well as there are men and Men.
A man and a woman could never be friends, unless one of them or both are in love with somebody else, or they are really very intelligent, strong character, faithful to the need of having a friend. Otherwise, this is just the biggest lie ever to cover up feelings which are bubbling like champagne underneath the so called friendship.
And this is cheap, devious, and always ends up by hurting someone.
A young friend of mine, a young man, asked me once: “what shall I do when she is in a bad mood and I would like to comfort her, but it seems that whatever I try, I fail and I anger her more?”.
I wanted to say, loud and clear: “don’t do anything, until she is coming to her senses and understands that she is the one who should apologize for being moody”.
But, what I really told my young friend was: “give her a bit space and try later, carefully, to behave like nothing happened”.
It works, I know it does, but I should not have said that. This is how one treats a dog who is barking and it might bite.
I should have said the truth: “Young man, run away! Until you’ll be wise enough to understand us, run! We are sometimes neurotic, we are sometimes too hormonal, we lose control and we still want to appear we have it, we don’t know sometimes what we want and we make the man we love unhappy just because we are thinking too much. We want always to be right, perfect, loved, idolized, even when we don’t deserve it”.
I am every woman. Not the women from Sandra Brown novels, or “Bold and beautiful” never ending serial. I am the everyday average real life woman and I say: we women are evil and angel but we are a necessary badness in a man’s life!
This is the “grey area” in a couple’s life, the truth about who we really are.
We act because we are afraid that if the man we love sees us for what we really are, he will run away.
But what if the man we love stays even if we reveal our true self? How is that for a start?
Women instinctively want to come to the rescue if a man appears to be troubled, to protect the man they love. It is in our DNA.
The first question flying out of our mouth is: “would you like to talk about it?”
Also out of instinct women need to feel secure, to make sure that the beloved belongs to them, indefinitely, and there is no thought or desire which cannot be shared. We need to be needed and irreplaceable. Why? Because we know that we can do and undo everything.
Men answer differently to these “feminine needs” ( which are normal, if you ask me!). Some men walk side by side with our thoughts, questions, with us entirely.
Some of them, many of them, more and more think:
“Talk, talk, talk… feelings, sharing, forever, “where does this go”…I want that! Do you want it too?” raising an eyebrow.
What about the SILENCE for a change? Sharing the silence? Wouldn’t that be comfortable, peaceful, cosy? Next to each other, sharing the silence, learning to understand each other’s needs without words, doing things on our own terms.
Would that be such a bad idea?
Why are we afraid of saying: “I love you and if you don’t love me, too bad, because I will stick around, you will not get rid of me so easily, and by the end of one blessed day you will see that you like me back”.
Do we have to play the dance of lies by pretending to be friends when all we want is to be together as a couple?
The grey area can melt away between black and white and life could be really beautiful in two, the terrible two.
All we have to do is to be honest to ourselves first and then to our beloved.
Do we really need these sort of “writings” to tell us what to feel, what to do , whom to love? These people make loads of money by abusing our naiveté and they are not better than us.
A woman should preserve her femininity, her fragile side, her silence, her mystery. In the end all our power lies beneath the mystery of our eyes, our smile, our hands, our voice.
Remember Mona Lisa? I wonder sometimes: did she have a grey area, because her smile offers beyond Time a wonderful rainbow.
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Amanta lu’ Neuron
In ultimii 20 de ani un soi de literatura ( sa indraznesc a folosi cuvantul?) pare a fi dedicata “legaturilor sufletesti”.
Beletristice ori pseudo-stiintifice cartulii, romane, pamflete, bloguri (si lista ramane deschisa) ataca piata literara cu leacurile si retetele lor despre “cum sa ai o relatie perfecta” in doi si, mai nou, in trei, caci acum a parut si AMANTUL, spre a fi bovarismul complet.
Librariile sunt pline cu titluri de genul: “10 moduri de a gasi un barbat bun”, “De la capat inca o data”, “Dragostea raneste destul, n-o mai fa si tu”, “Barbatii vin de pe Marte, femeile de pe Venus”, “Cum sa vindeci o inima franta?” (asta-i jenanta), “Diminetile amantilor”, “Noptile amantilor”, “Divorturile amantilor” (si asteptam eventual botezuri, funeralii de-ale amantilor si si d-ale carnavalului), « Filosofia sexului » (abia ma abtin sa nu rad), « Cum iubesc barbatii ».
Mai este nevoie de cuvinte ?Oamenii, in special femei, cumpara aceste “materiale”. Multe femei care au pierdut un iubit intr-un moment al vietii vor cumpara o astfel de maculatura.
Intrebarea mea este: DE CE?
Ce speram ca se va intampla dupa lecturarea unei astfel de cartulii? Devenim mai intelepte? Mai destepte? Mai experimentate? Mai atractive? Pricepem noi oare ca aceste carti au fost produse de un esantion feminin care se autointituleaza “experte” in sufletul uman si care pun pe hartie tot soiul de traume ce in final se dovedesc a fi propriile lor fantasme, intunecimi, egouri invinetite?
Aceste femei-autor capata averi exploatand industria subiectelor sentimentale si tocmai ele au cele mai murdare minti, fiind de regula singure, depresive, dependente, obsedate. Unica terapie care le-ar putea ajuta cat de cat este scrisul.
Sa-si puna pe hartie propriile scranteli, obsesii.
Si alte femei, poate cu mult mai normale decat asa-zisele experte, isi aduna sufletul mutilat de o despartire recenta si cumpara aceste carti-minune, sperand ca viata lor se va schimba in mai bine peste noapte.
Insa, la sfarsitul lecturii, viata lor e aceeasi, intunecata, trista, fara sperante.
Atunci se isca gandul: “ce-ar fi daca eu as scrie despre ceea ce-am patimit? Propria mea experienta?”
Si astfel o noua carte, o noua experta, o noua femeie bogata si singura apare in oras.
Dragii mei, asta numesc eu un cerc vicios.
De ce oare barbatii nu se grabesc sa cumpere sau sa scrie memorii dupa o despartire recenta? (blogarasii sunt exclusi din categoria barbatilor, ei fiind un gen nedefinit despre care nu pot gandi decat in hohote!).
Fiind eu insami o femeie imi cer scuze cu anticipatie in fata tuturor femeilor pentru ceea ce voi scrie in continuare.
Nu ma exclud.
Pentru barbati, in general, modul de a percepe viata si viata in doi este simplu: alb si negru.
Pentru femei insa nu este nicicum doar alb si negru, ci un intreg spectru de culori. Insa, mai presus de toate, este “zona gri”. Ei, aici sta pericolul: in gri.
Noi, femeile, avem puterea de a face un barbat cel mai fericit suflet pe pamant sau sa-l ducem in adancimile Iadului.
Noi suntem purtatoarele Luminii pe oriunde trecem si tot noi putem taia curentul deodata, fara cea mai mica avertizare.
Vorbesc despre femeile cu F.
Exista femei si Femei asa cum exista barbati si Barbati.
Un barbat si o femeie nu pot fi nicicand doar amici. Doar daca unul dintre ei sau amandoi sunt indragostiti de altcineva sau ambii sunt cu adevarat inteligenti, au un caracter puternic si respecta adanc ideea si nevoia de amicitie fara a pune in pericol sentimentele partenerului de viata.
In orice alta situatie “amicitia” dintre un barbat si o femeie este in fapt o minciuna care incearca sa acopere dorintele ce se agita precum o sampanie gata sa izbucneasca.
Acest truc este ieftin, rautacios si mereu sfarseste prin a rani un suflet.
Un tanar prieten m-a intrebat odata: ” ce sa fac atunci cand e mofturoasa, nervoasa, iara eu as vrea sa o linistesc, insa orice as incerca pare sa o intarate si mai tare?”.
As fi vrut sa-i spun sus si tare: “nu fa nimic pana cand nu isi revine ea insasi, sa priceapa ca ea este cea care ar trebui sa-si ceara scuze pentru modul in care se comporta”.
Ceea ce i-am spus insa prietenului meu a sunat astfel: “las-o putin in pace si incearca sa o impaci mai tarziu, ca si cum nimic nu s-ar fi intamplat”.
Merge, stiu ca metoda asta functioneaza insa nu ar fi trebuit sa dau un astfel de sfat. In modul asta te comporti cu un catel care latra si e posibil sa te si muste.
Ar fi trebuit sa spun adevarul: ” Tinere, fugi! Pana inveti sa ne intelegi, fugi! Suntem deseori neurotice fara motiv, mofturoase, alintate, ne pierdem controlul insa vrem sa parem ca inca suntem in control, deseori nu stim ce vrem si nefericim barbatul pe care-l iubim doar pentru ca gandim prea mult. Vrem sa avem mereu dreptate, sa fim perfecte, iubite, adorate chiar si atunci cand suntem confuze”.
Eu sunt “femeia”. Cea de fiece zi, femeia fara nimic senzational, femeia reala si realistica. Nu femeia din cartuliile Sandrei Brown or nesfarsitul serial “Tanar si nelinistit”. Sunt femeia fara trucuri si spun: noi suntem inger si demon, un dulce rau necesar in viata unui barbat.
Asta-i “zona gri” a vietii in doi, adevarul despre cine suntem noi.
Jucam teatru deoarece ne este teama ca, daca barbatul iubit ne vede asa cum suntem cu adevarat, far’ de masca, fuge mancand pamantul.
Dara, daca barbatul iubit STA chiar si atunci cand dam masca jos, cand suntem mofturoase, neurotice, alintate, plangacioase fara rezon?
Ce-ar fi sa incepem cu acest pas?
Femeile, din instinct, vor sa protejeze barbatul iubit, sa-l ajute cand pare ingandurat. Prima intrebare ce ne zboara din gurita este: ” ai vrea sa vorbim despre asta?”.
Tot din instinct femeile au nevoie sa simta ca omul iubit le apartine total, pe termen nedefinit, ca nu exista gand neimpartasit, dorinta neverbalizata.
Au nevoie sa se simta necesare si de neinlocuit. De ce? Pentru ca stim ca sta in puterea noastra sa facem si sa desfacem totul.
Barbatii raspund diferit acestor “nevoi feminine” (firesti, din punctul meu de vedere). Unii merg natural alaturi de noi, de gandurile noastre, intrebarile noastre.
Altii, multii, din ce in ce mai multii, ofteaza ridicand spranceana:
“Vorbit, vorbit, vorbit…despre sentimente…despre “incotro merge relatia noastra”…despre “eu vreau asa? Tu vrei?”…”
Ce spuneti despre TACERE? A impartasi tacerea? Nu ar fi linistitor, familiar? Unul langa altul, impartasind tacerea, invatand sa ne cunoastem fara cuvinte, fara sonor.
Suna ca o idee rea?
De ce ne temem sa spunem: “te iubesc si daca tu nu ma iubesti inca, e problema ta, caci am de gand sa ma invart primprejurul tau pentru multa vreme, nu vei scapa asa usor de mine si, poate intr-o binecuvantata zi vei intelege cat de draga si necesara iti sunt”.
Chiar trebuie sa ne rotim in dansul ipocriziei, prefacandu-ne ca suntem amici, cand tot ceea ce dorim amandoi este sa fim un cuplu?
Zona gri se poate topi intre alb si negru si viata poate fi chiar frumoasa in doi, teribilul doi.
Tot ceea ce trebuie facut este sa fim cinstiti cu noi insine mai intai si apoi cu cel iubit.
Chiar avem nevoie de aceasta maculatura spre a ne spune ce sa simtim, ce sa facem, pe cine sa iubim? Acesti oameni care “scriu” despre intimitatea cuplului se imbogatesc abuzand naivitatea noastra, si va asigur ca ei nu sunt mai breji, mai stiutori decat noi. Ceea ce ei scriu se numeste “vrajeala de popa de tara”.
O femeie trebuie sa-si pastreze feminitatea, ideea de fragilitate, tacerea, misterul.
In final toata puterea noastra sta in misterul ochilor, al zambetului, al mainilor, in misterul vocii nostru.
Va amintiti de Mona Lisa?
Ma intreb deseori: o fi avut si ea o “zona gri”, caci zambetul ei daruieste peste vreme un minunat curcubeu.
Bielka
Almost a poem
POSTED IN contemporary poetry May 7, 2017
Almost a poemHe loved me. A six-O kind of love: He looooooved me. But he didn’t love me, me. He loved a girl who doesn’t exist. I was pretending, the way I often did, pretending to have a personality. I can’t help it, it’s what I’ve always done: the way some women change fashion regularly, I change personalities. What persona feels good, what’s coveted, what’s au courant? I think most people do this, they just don’t admit it, or else they settle on one persona because they’re too lazy or stupid to pull off a switch.
That date I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like him wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they?
She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.
Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl.
For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: “You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them”.
I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: “The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much” – no one loves chili dogs that much!
And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: they’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be.
Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics.
There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fu..ing thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain.
(How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point f..k someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’).
I waited patiently – years – for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, “Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy”.
But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed – she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you.
But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met him, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good old boy.
He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool Girl – I couldn’t have been Cool Girl with anyone else. I wouldn’t have wanted to. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it: I ate a MoonPie, I walked barefoot, I stopped worrying. I watched dumb movies and ate chemically laced foods. I didn’t think past the first step of anything, that was the key. I drank a Coke and didn’t worry about how to recycle the can or about the acid puddling in my belly, acid so powerful it could strip clean a penny. We went to a dumb movie and I didn’t worry about the offensive sexism or the lack of minorities in meaningful roles. I didn’t even worry whether the movie made sense. I didn’t worry about anything that came next. Nothing had consequence, I was living in the moment, and I could feel myself getting shallower and dumber. But also happy.
Until him, I’d never really felt like a person, because I was always me. Amazing ME has to be brilliant, creative, kind, thoughtful, witty, and happy. We just want you to be happy.
So many lessons and opportunities and advantages, and I have never been taught how to be happy.
I remember always being baffled by other children. I would be at a birthday party and watch the other kids giggling and making faces, and I would try to do that, too, but I wouldn’t understand why. I would sit there with the tight elastic thread of the birthday hat parting the pudge of my underchin, with the grainy frosting of the cake bluing my teeth, and I would try to figure out why it was fun.
With him, I understood finally. Because he was so much fun. It was like dating a sea otter. He was the first naturally happy person I met who was my equal. He was brilliant and gorgeous and funny and charming and charmed. People liked him. Women loved him. I thought we would be the most perfect union: the happiest couple around. Not that love is a competition. But I don’t understand the point of being together if you’re not the happiest.
I was probably happier for those few years – pretending to be someone else – than I ever have been before or after. I can’t decide what that means.
But then it had to stop, because it wasn’t real, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me, baby! I thought you knew. I thought it was a bit of a game. I thought we had a wink-wink, don’t ask, don’t tell thing going. I tried so hard to be easy. But it was unsustainable. It turned out he couldn’t sustain his side either: the witty banter, the clever games, the romance, and the wooing. It all started collapsing on itself.
I hated him for being surprised when I became me. I hated him for not knowing it had to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied.
He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me. He couldn’t believe I didn’t love wax-stripping my personality raw and loving him on request. That I did mind when he didn’t show up for drinks with my friends. Again, I don’t get it: if you let a man cancel plans or decline to do things for you, you lose. You don’t get what you want. It’s pretty clear. Sure, he may be happy, he may say you’re the coolest girl ever, but he’s saying it because he got his way. He’s calling you a Cool Girl to fool you!
That’s what men do: they try to make it sound like you are the cool girl so you will bow to their wishes. Like a car salesman saying, “how much do you want to pay for this beauty?” when you didn’t agree to buy it yet.
That awful phrase men use: ‘I mean, I know you wouldn’t mind if I …’ Yes, I do mind. Just say it. Don’t lose, you dumb little twat.
So it had to stop. Committing to him, feeling safe with him, being happy with him, made me realize that there was a Real Me in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Me.
He wanted Cool Me anyway. Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?
So that’s how the hating first began. I’ve thought about this a lot, and that’s where it started, I think.
Gone girl
