Dar totul e anapoda, si asta intr-o masura in care nu poate fi reparat  cu apeluri, petitii online sau mesaje pe feisbuc.

In acelasi timp exista mereu o masa de oameni, manipulati sau autentic nedumeriti care sterg contururile oricarei actiuni si orice posibilitate de a mai demarca tabere, de a fi partizan sau de a fi reprezentat. O multime care in statistici probabil se numeste “zgomot”. Poate duce in nesemnificativ orice idee, orice miscare dar poate distorsiona orice idee si orice miscare pana la a crea un conflict atat de distantat de punctul de pornire incat impulsul firesc  – si pentru initiatori si pentru observatori, banuiesc - este de a se distanta.

Ce mi se pare grav – din nou, asa se vede doar de la mine – este ca populatia ordonata frumos in cladiri de la 9 la 5, care plateste impozite si cumpara produse si servicii dar nu se afla in strada, poate fi folosita in acelasi mod in care e folosita masa nedumerita sau rauvoitoare din strada: pentru a produce “zgomot” – chiar daca e liniste, pentru a duce in nesemnificativ idei si miscari, chiar daca au motive si legitimitate.

Pentru ca intr-un fel sau altul asta facem noi – dam legitimitate sistemului sustinandu-l si minimizam motivele si legitimitatea (asta nu stiu daca e posibil) celor din strada.

De ceva timp ma bate gandul ca ma potrivesc foarte bine unui cadru organizat, ca m-as obisnui foarte usor sa fac ce mi se spune si as excela chiar la asta. De unde vine gandul? De la panou. In momentul asta, pentru ca n-am alta optiune decat sa ma gandesc ce si cum sa schimb deci cum sa ma antrenez in continuare, sunt in bezna. Si as fi peste masura de recunoscatoare cuiva care nu numai ar aprinde lumina, dar ar umba cu o torta pe cararile intortocheate ale antenamentului si mi-ar spune pas cu pas ce sa fac. Am zis ca n-am experienta sa fac trasee si nici din imaginatie nu iese, dar e posibil doar sa am un cap mai potrivit sa asculte decat sa-si caute singur solutii. Sunt aproape fericita cand mi se spune ce si cum sa fac, cand am trasee si program, cand drumul din fata mea are harta si eu trebuie doar sa execut cat mai bine; la asta ma pricep. In conditii fixate, pot sa trag de mine oricat, dar sa stiu care-i tema. Am constatat asta si-n facultate – o lipsa totala de spirit autodidactic. Iar la chestii sportive e si mai evident.

Partea trista e ca, daca ar fi sa impart oamenii  – si asta e o idee veche, de prin clasa a 5-a – i-as imparti in leaders si followers. Mult timp am fost sincer nelamurita in ce gramada m-as incadra pe mine, apoi am sesizat un raspuns undev in spatele existentei mele constiente. Acum probabil e inevitabil sa recunosc: sunt un follower.

Deci stiu sigur ca as urma cu sfintenie indicatiile odata intrata de buna voie sub umbrela vreunei/ unui program/ religii/ doctrine. Sa vedem cat de demna sunt de porecla din copilarie – Calamity Jane. Undeva pe la 3-4 ani, venea Reni sa ma ia de la gradinita. Si ma gaseste rosie-grena la fata de efort si de furie si complet necooperanta la ideea de a pleca acasa. “trebuie sa mai fac odata …trebuie sa-l bat!” . “Nu mama, nu trebuie sa bati copiii, va jucati impreuna… hai acasa”.” NU, trebuie sa mai fug o data, sa-l bat pe Vlad”. Vlad avea vreo 6 ani si eu eram furioasa ca ma batuse la fugal. Mi se parea inacceptabil sa parasesc curtea gradinitei fara incerca din nou si din nou sa arat ca pot fugi mai repede decat el.

Desi ma apropii de 30 de ani nu cred ca s-a schimbat mare lucru in atitudinea mea. Nu-mi propun asta si nici nu-s mandra, doar constat. De cand m-am apucat de catarat am avut in preajma doar oameni mai buni, in mare parte baieti, mai nou si fete, care catara mai bine decat mine. Si probabil acelasi pitic competitiv imi tot da ghes sa incerc sa-i ajung, sa-i intrec… oricum ma raportez mai des decat ar fi cazul la ce fac ceilalti. Si trebuie sa pot la fel sau mai mult. Din fericire mai exista si proiecte personale, iar aici nu ma poate convinge nimeni sa fac altceva decat ce vreau, dar odata intrata sub umbrela unei competitii, ma regasesc in aceeasi stare ca-n curtea gradinitei: rosie de furie ca nu pot mai mult.

De unde indeea ca e bine ca nu mai exista pioneiri. Poate UTC pt varsta mea sau direct partid?… Nu de alta dar cred ca spiritul meu competitiv si oarecum obedient m-ar fi propulsat intr-o cariera stralucita de robotel al cauzei comuniste…

Toata treaba cu concursurile s-a intamplat complet diferit de cum ma asteptam. Ma asteptam la atmosfera aproape inveninata de la concursurile de pian; nu ca lipseste, dar e bine infasurata un munti de burete de saltea . Si la cat de aeriana sunt eu, totul pare happy si fair. Sunt sigura, sau mai bine zis imi spun ca astia nu-s supraoameni si sigur gandesc si ei la un moment dat ca isi doresc mai mult decat orice sa fie mai buni ca ceilalti … dar pana una-alta se dau impreuna pe trasee, se incurajaza… all happy and fair. Ma asteptam sa-mi diplaca profund, sa resimt ceva presiune sau emotii… n-au fost. Din momentul in care incepeam sa ma dau pe trasee – cu mici pauze la iesiri mai palpitante, eram destul de bucuroasa sa vad ca-mi ies miscari si trasee iar la sfarsit am fost de fiecare incantata de ce am reusit sa fac. Ceva a tras de mine 2 ore jumatate si am dat cam cat puteam… Alt aspect care-mi place e ca vazand oameni reusind trasee cumva devin si mai motivata sa le fac si eu. Ceva e in plus aici fata de antrenament, chiar daca e la lucru.

In alta ordine de idei, cu ce plec de la un concurs e mult mai concret decat indiciile de la stanca. Despre starea natiunii. Un traseu nereusit pune mult mai transant problema unei deficiente proprii decat o zi la stanca: miscari dinamice, incarcari pe picior… se vede totul clar, parca e dat cu substanta de care foloseau criminalistii in filme . Iau admonestarea cu mine la panou si incerc sa rezolv… Mi-e mult mai usor sa iau informatie de la trasee de concurs decat de la trasee de la stanca. Poate inca n-am invatat sa procesez prea bine ce se-ntampla la stanca sau poate nu fac legatura cu solutii la panou, dar de la concurs vin cu un caiet de teme cu greselile subliniate cu rosu. Si nu-i rau, dimpotriva.

Not much has changed… I didn’t get any younger, I rely on people to help me with my training or with my projects, I don’t climb with a number on my shirt but with a squirrel but… I’m competing.

One of the main reasons. I believe, was a hidden appetite for it – I am a very competitive (almost obsessively) person. I tried to ignore it for a while thinking how I would make a fool of myself  being left far behind by girls half my age.

Another reason was…evidence. People competing were climbing well, were training hard, were disciplined. In this respect, Miu, who acted as a coach from time to time, was a kind of model. It was a wonder to me how hard he could push himself, how he could plan all his moves and, in a way, carve reality with his willpower.

I thought it would help me to control my temper and give me some motivation during winter. I thought I’d take it as a bitter pill.

But now, after my second competition I can admit i enjoy it! Something made me push myself harder – after all the result was better now that in the first contest,  watching people do though moves and routes compelled me to at least try to earn my place there.

It’s a strange mix of things that makes this new goal of mine an enjoyable one.

My time window is closing to an end. The sun is weaker, you can look him in the face in the afternoon and he doesn’t hurt you anymore. All the beatiful colours will soon be a deathbed for snow and ice. A moment and all this warmth will be gone. I have to try. I have to see him once more before winter sets in. Any other visit payed to that place this winter would be an unexpected gift.

It came my way and it wasn’t what I expected so my discontent was all too obvious. Sicily, as a climbing destination. It looks good in brief tourist guides but as I tried to get used to the idea and searched for climbing info, the photos of the walls only increased my disappointment. They looked like an old man’s teeth: of an uncertain colour, rotten, full of cavities. Of all the pictures i saw before arriving, two had the gift of giving some hope. One was of a compact grey wall somewhere near Syracuse – the Metamorphosi crag. And the second was a picture of a woman reaching between two small holds on a polished, reddish wall – Journeyman. The name, the move, the wall entered my brain and never left.

We arrived and as soon as the airport doors slid open we entered a sauna in blinding light. Never in my life had I considered this combination of light, heat  and humidity anything other that a torture method of some extreme war conditions. On top of this the first crag we searched for was hidden somewhere behind the thistles. The second one – Metamorphosi – didn’t look bad but it wasn’t as impressive as in the pictures. Plus it was in the middle, or at the bottom of a necropolis, far away from camping sites – sleeping with the “residents” of the necropolis was not an option, and far from the sea.

So we decided to try San Vito, at the other end of the island. Here, among the first options was a north face – Cattedrale nel deserto. We found it was as beautiful as the name.

A truly impressive wall, all day in the shade (it was still hot, humid and blindingly sunny). The western corner, heavily battered by winds became our working place; how I came to appreciate the west wind for drying out all the holds! How I came to love the place for it was looking directly at the sea; watching the calm waters mirroring the clouds or the frothy waves hitting the shores. A few days passed before I gathered the courage to try Journeyman. It was an illusionist’s feat, for once I climbed higher the holds were uncovering like invisible ink and forming strange alliances. Small holds, half of a phalange, tore the skin apart creating small continents on the tips of my fingers.

The storm came – my hands gave thanks to the gods for that – and with it a rest day. I spent my evenings in an armchair by the “climbers’ corner” – yes, the camping featured such a thing, reading about the old mad who had gone for 84 days without catching fish and on the 85th day went far out at sea to change his luck… I was in the same position. I had spent and entire year struggling between one project and fearfully trying other routes, with no or little success, and now I was far out at sea, thinking I should climb as much as a could and feeling terrified of going home without climbing this one beautiful route. Would my luck change or, like the fisherman, would I bring home the skeleton of a big catch?

After the rest day, back on the route for the third day and fear came along. This long time companion who has plagued my climbing, keeping me from trying to find my limits was present as I tried the to link some moves… I gripped every hold with all my strength, got pumped quickly and believed the route to be harder than it actually was… There’s nothing vital in lead climbing a route, no distance was as big as to put me in some kind of danger and there’s no way he couldn’t catch me if I fell… still the same fear I know too well paralyzed me and I had to fight my own head to get up to the last bolts. Another rainy day sent us on the road, this time not a wanted break. For me time was running out and I would have climbed every minute to get more time on the route, to get to feel comfortable… If I could not climb at my limit, I simply had to get my climbing beyond the difficulties of the route so it would be within my limits…

MOst of the journey I hadn’t been aware of the date or how much time we had left. But as time ran out I knew I had four days left, then three… just like in “Seven days”: Would Sunday be too late?

On Saturday I went to place the quickdraws and linked the hard part… until the last tough move. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise. I was not even tired or pumped, I kept telling myself it was possible, that it was great to have linked so much of it while placing the quickdraws. But there was a storm in my head… My initial plan for that last move, the very move in the picture as I discovered, was to get my right foot up and reach with the left hand. Then I thought it was hard and tried the sequence in the picture, both feet on and reach with the right hand…it worked but not always…It was too late for another change. Then he sent the route in one perfect climb and I was left alone in my corner to go another round.

Again, everything went perfectly until that last hard move…I tried the sequence in the picture. One foothold too far, it didn’t fit. Plan B,  swapped feet and tried my initial plan… I couldn’t reach but I didn’t let go either. No plan… Only from my left foot, pulling hard with my right hand… I must have been closer to the rock, because the hold was closer than ever. The one move I had never tried before… I slipped my fingers into it and moved on  to the clip. At this point my feet were shaking so badly I thought they wouldn’t stay on the rock, but the holds were fairly big and somehow I reached the belay.

It’s still a wonder to me how I came to reach that two finger pocket, how I managed to climb the one route that I dreamed of since I saw the picture…It’s still a wonder how it’s never enough, not even this most pure form of joy. It seems I’m too small a person to give something back even when I’m happy, even when things that come my way are  not what I expected, but what I wanted with all my being. It’s not discontent now, it’s a hunger for more and the fear that my efforts won’t be enough; I’m too self absorbed to care for the people around me.

I’m back to the vast army of small and useless things that fill this grey area between week-ends, back to chasing the sun on Green Power, back to the bargaining on time and words and meanings. That perfect line , the perfectly calm sea mirroring the clouds, the impossible move that became real are all a distant memory, weighing less and less in the balance of time.

to make some things clear

this is the picture that started the obsession

Chiara Cianciolo su Journeyman 7c

the route – the tiny holds on the grey face

Journeyman

and… the perfect day

the day before the send

such a perfect day?!