Adriana Carcu







A Visitation


After the tempest has rushed through my mind penetrating its most hidden recesses and sweeping them clean of thought or sense, I move through the house in a trance, wondering, like always, what it was. I can hear my grandma, “Girl, you spend too much time with those books; they have never brought anyone any good. The Bible is enough”.

It always starts with the so-called ‘over-sensitivity to beauty’. Reciting poems out loud or crying to music – a touch of crimson, a laugh in a dream. Then it moves on to scenes from the past I am able to re-enact into the tiniest detail, and to experience with the same acuteness. A moment of grace, like a day in summer, the sun caressing my face, words that I don’t need to invent because they are already there, and express exactly what I feel; sounds that go directly to my soul and need no understanding.

Then everything gains a new significance, is being reconsidered and re-interpreted. A new world emerges. Dreams follow me the whole day. Now the rain brings disaster with it, words all mean the same thing, and the sounds render messages only I understand. The parallel world becomes real. Reality implodes and I start moving on its narrow edge. Actually, I’m running. I never quite leave that margin, it is always at an arm’s length, but I start bending and twisting it. And this is when the pain sets in. I suffer because of the rain; words and sounds hurt me. Their absence too. Their beauty is restrictive; it becomes autonomous.  These things keep on living without me because they are absolute in their beauty. I am not. I need them to become beautiful.

The little universe I am left with starts contorting, and while it happens I keep trying to reconnect to the source but the waves made by my movements only propel me farther away. This is the dangerous phase. This is when I start bending the reality, because I want to grasp it. Only, the reality is not there. I have left it three paragraphs ago.

The process paralyses me. I write without muse, I don’t understand what I read. Words are like broken twigs. Music is noise. Colors turn to dirty smudges. The dreams, all nightmares. My mind is spinning lurid tangles of thought, stray grooves leading into unnamed bushes. This is the apex. The capsule closes and I am at its center. I can see outside but nobody can see me. I am left alone with my mind and my mind is no good company. I start fighting it.

My instincts awake and I know I can trust them, so I follow. I disentangle myself from the thorny bushes, take a step back and look at myself from there. I am all covered with scratches but still standing. I touch the translucent wall and it expands under my hands. The room grows with every touch and with every touch the pain subsides. Now I know that I am going to make it. A few more steps and I walk into light again.

It is morning. I wake up after a long sleep. The sun is shining through the blinds and, as I watch the radiant slits on the white wall, I reverberate like a shell tossed on the shore.






She looks at the smooth surface with concern and some sort of obscure anticipation. On the humming field in front of her, no shadows is falling, and there are no arrows. The way can take you anywhere or it can remain a dot.


A dot that could develop out of its own substance becoming a perimeter, a circle, and then, gradually, a sphere. That is the space she wishes to enter creating it like a spider, spinning its own gluey thread.


A road that would fade like the waters of a pastel, and would let the white come to the surface again, begetting new untrodden paths. A way that would generate consensus in the fluidity of the form, in the blue arches created by questions, and the dream.


A confluence of vectors which would unfurl like the luxurious waves of the medusa, undulating luminously, to leave in the world, like in the submerse sand, its imprint of beauty and poison.


A world scintillating with its own complexity, ramified in linearities wrapped around the concentric circles of the self-renewing meaning. A world abiding in the depths of water, in the heights of the flight, pierced by the rays that replenish the thought, in a universe adorned with familiar planets, where the facts become real only when recounted, and all that can be imagined is real.









Adriana Carcu is an international freelance journalist and author with a long publishing experience. She has published two books, signs a column in Orizont, the magazine of the Romanian Writers’ Association, and contributes with interviews and reviews to the sites All About JazzJazz and various other cultural sites and magazines.


In the summer of 2012 Adriana published in the volume Cronica Sentimentala (Sentimental Chronicle) travel notes, reviews, essays and stories summing up her life and writing experience covering the time span of five years. In 2013 the volume was shortlisted as The Best Book of the Year by the Gala for Editorial Excellence Bun de Tipar.


In 2009 she published a volume of narrative interviews titled Povestea zilelor noastre (The Story of Our Days), containing the life stories of 12 representative Romanian artists living in exile. The book is the result of two years of travel and research, and has been acclaimed as “Personality interviews, made with aplomb but also with love; a consistent study matter for those who wish to specialize in performance journalism”. The interview with artist Valeriu Sepi was awarded “Best interview of year 2007” by the Romanian literary magazine Catavencu. In 2010 the German edition was launched at the Frankfurt Book Fair with the title Die Geschichte Unserer Tage.


Between 2007 and 2010 Adriana has been the Executive Editor of the on-line entertainment magazine No Strings Attached E-News, where she has created and edited the section Europe Reloaded.
Adriana Carcu has started her activity as a translator in the pages of the Orizont literary magazine in the eighties, when she has introduced to the Romanian readers less known authors like Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski and Anais Nin. In 1999 she translated the volume Think Young, Be Young by Elsye Birkinshaw. Today she translates, authors like Kenneth Patchen, Roberto Bolano or Karl Ove Knausgaard. For the enzine No Strings Attached E-News, Adriana has translated from Romanian classical and contemporary authors like Alexandru Macedonski, Lucian Blaga, Nichita Stănescu, Mircea Mihăieș and Adrian Sângerozan.




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