Rope's perspective

(Can be read as continuation to ‘Earth’s sweet embrace’)

To want to save someone so badly that you surrender yourself to their darkness.

The depth of this well is not enough for her to find what she’s been looking for. How many more piles of dirt will she embrace before realizing they’re never going to suffice? Looking at her beautifully unhopeful companion, the rope shrugs. Salvation is not something you can convince one into. However, it is a job as useless as any other.

If peace is what she seeks, why not pursue it on the peak of a mountain? And if it’s solitude she aches for, why the lows and not the heights? Poor soul, peaceful and lonely you can be up there too. The delicate kiss of light and the shuddering bite of darkness are equally mortal. If only she’d let my body against hers, I’d gently convince her to accept my tremble.

Minutes became hours to only turn into days and then months. She came to trust me, letting me spend nights resting on her neck. Her body was mine and yet it was the soul I wanted her to yield. Why does she resist it? Could she have guessed the words of love I whispered in her ear were just a wish? All I want is for her smile to stop being sad. She has manipulated me into believing I could make her happy. However, all my efforts have been in vain. Her sad smile I have only succeeded in turning wry, at times even flippant. What does she want of me, crawl on my knees asking for forgiveness for who I am or whom I’m never going to be? Why seek my company at all then? I told her the image of mine she saw was not truthful. Yet, she insisted on telling me her secrets, letting me glimpse into the hidden places of her being. She told me power was important to her and that’s what I believed, she wanted the power over me. ‘That’s what I’ll never give you’, I told her. ‘But you didn’t let me finish, I meant…’, she continued. Silently waiting for her words to materialize, I let her gaze drown into mine. ‘Never mind’, she said looking away.

Special is what she thinks of herself. The thoughts, the suffering, the loneliness, like they’re all for her to feel only. I’ve been there a thousand times. Years I have over her and no flippant smiles would belittle who I know I am. Handfuls of necks like hers have begged me to release them into eternity. I look at her, resting, skin against damp walls.

Suddenly, I see her moving towards me. Her icy hands touch I feel. Embracing me, I sense her body tremble against mine. She has given in. I have persuaded her into abandoning the darkness of her well. Up she takes us. One steady move after another, the light comes closer. Jumping onto the ground, I see her eyes are still closed. Letting me lay next to my other half, she sighs and plunges back into darkness. Perhaps that’s what is best for both of us.

Hunger, Dust and Soups

Photo by: Pavel Gorczyca

Time has come to write a cheerful post.

With my headphones on, I take a sip of San Pellegrino enhanced with some slices of lemon. The pretentious sparkling water is part of the rewarding myself plan which I’ve conjured some hours ago, while doing groceries. And the lemon? Well, it is supposed to make me feel better about my disastrous eating regimen lately.

Looking through the window, I see a sunny Bucharest. The city is packed these days. All these people running here and there to desperately check off items on their Easter shopping lists…  I’d much rather stay at home, which I’ve been partly successful at doing. I say ‘partly’ because the very first days after my returning from the Europeans in Rhodes were crazy. All those people congratulating me, an interview here, an interview there, my phone buzzing all the time- it was dizzying.

Now that the dust has settled a bit, I can finally process everything. Looking around, I see that the dust has settled on my working desk too; on the trophies which lie around, mostly on the floor, dreaming of a nice shelf; on the tiles my steps are taking me to on trips from one room to another… I’d better do some cleaning soon. Perhaps it was smarter doing it before attempting to do the same with my thoughts and feelings. One step at a time though. Today I’m content with cooking for myself for the first time since I’ve returned. It was nothing fancy, just a soup, which was enjoyable but not particularly satiating. My stomach is already demanding food again. It can wait. Afterall, we eat to live, not the other way around they say. Hm, a stew would still be nice.

Back to the thoughts and feelings department now. This medal which has fallen upon me is the first individual continental one in my life. To quote the press, it is the biggest achievement of my career so far. Despite them getting wrong various, at times even most of the details about me, this one- they got right. They all expected me to be filled over the top with joy, inspiration and pride. I even almost felt those things at times, almost. However, it is only hunger that possesses me, in all senses. Even my cat throws worried glances at me. I guess my stomach must be on some violent protest. God bless these headphones! I can cold-bloodedly ignore the protests of masses in a similar fashion to the one ruling parties do in too many parts of the world these days. Interesting, what types of headphones do they use?

Now that we’re past these parentheses, let’s recalibrate our focus on what’s important here- thoughts. Or was it feelings? They seem to have merged lately. Anyhow, it is time to get to the bottom of them. Let’s pick it from that hunger feeling. The idea is that I felt happy for maybe ten minutes and then, there was nothing. I imagined it to be different. Of course, I don’t claim that the attention I was given by the press and officials, multiplied by my friends’ and family’s eyes sparkling with joy and pride left me cold. It was enjoyable, but unsatiating, just like my soup. At least my stomach knows what it wants- a second course, maybe even some dessert. And I, what more could I possibly want?

Earth's sweet embrace

Looking up towards the sky, I see a wary ray of sunshine. It seems to be a universe away. My eyes might be deceiving me after centuries spent in darkness, skin against damp walls. To be alive yet feel like death has scrawled into the deepest parts of your being.

I plant my fingers deep into the mud and wonder if burying myself alive would make me reconsider the indifference to which I’ve been treating my miserably hopeful companion. Leaning against the other side of the wall, a rope looks at me serenely. Mortality is something we share and immortality’s the thing neither of us will ever attain. Yet, we couldn’t be more different to one another. The darkness she chose to accompany me to is just one end. The other’s up there, basking in sunlight. Duality’s nothing but another thing I hated about the World above. Hence, I’ve never felt the slightest temptation of climbing back.

One handful of dirt after another, the hole grows deeper. So does my desire to comfortably lay in a tomb. I don’t know what happiness might be, but laying here, half foot into the ground, I almost feel life’s pain gone. Closing my eyes, I enjoy the warm stillness. With each breath, truth seems to be closer. Yet, this perfect numbness is disturbed by a presence. My companion. There’s a vibration of hope given perhaps by the promise of her reuniting with its other half. Why hasn’t she given up on it? It’s been centuries since they last met. Why doesn’t she just pull the other into darkness? Is the mere possibility of being back together under the sun worth what could be an eternity of damnation? I must either accept her limitations or help her out. There are no other ways of stopping these thoughts. If after all the time spent in this damp silence, she’s still not ready to renounce on worldly things... I could perhaps do one last thing for her. Slowly taking upon the task, handfuls of dirt start piling up next to me once again. I’m not doing it for myself. It’s not an excuse to feel the sun caress my skin. Out of earth’s sweet embrace, I start shivering. Is it the cold or the anticipation?

I am ready for this mission. One last effort and then, I’ll be able to plunge into an undisturbed solitude. Taking the rope into my hands, I unhurriedly start climbing. She feels tight against my touch, trembling at times. With each step, my eyes’ struggle to stay open increases. I remember another thing I hated about this World- its dazzling lights. Nevertheless, the determination to complete the mission pushes me to steadily work my way up- eyes closed. The effort, or the sun, what is it that makes my skin burn? Does it matter? Soon it will be over. Getting to the edge of the well, I jump to the ground. Not daring to open my eyes, I take a full breath of air. Then- one more. This smell- the smell of life makes my lungs hurt. I hurriedly pull out the rope of the well. It no longer feels tight against my skin. The burdens of darkness, silence and loneliness must be gone. Opening my eyes, an image starts shaping in front of me. Two identical and yet so different sides of the rope laying next to each other.

Looking one last time at my companion, I sigh and plunge back into darkness. The balance is restored.

The Ice Cream Booth

“When everything has gone to hell, there’s nothing to do but to play idiotic games.”

This quote is from Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Mandarins”, which I have recently taken on reading. It unravels an interesting world, one which I sometimes fantasize about when imagining myself living a more bohemian life. More bohemian than the one of a chess player? Dinners and late-night parties with artists, writers and thinkers of all ages and nationalities heated by music, dancing and debates on philosophical, social, political and ideological matters- that’s something I can neither access nor allow as a sports person these days. Chess has changed.

Back in my teens, this side of the profession appealed to me a lot. I knew stories from my coach when grandmasters would gather and spend their evenings during tournaments in similar fashion. That was still a thing in those days when I started traveling to tournaments, though one I could only peer at from aside due to my young age and, if not reason enough, the watchful eye of my mother. I remember thinking that if I would train hard enough and become one of the strongest players of the country, I would be attending prestigious events, meeting brilliant people who would invite me to their exclusive circles. A silly fantasy of a young girl one might think.

I caught a taste of that fantasy, even if briefly. During the last twenty years or so, since my career has been developing, chess has changed a lot given the impact of technology. If before one could easily find a lot of similarities between chess and arts, nowadays- chess is above all a sport, where endurance, discipline and stamina play a decisive role. Due to the quantity of information and easiness with which anyone can access it, the amount of work a professional must put in doesn’t easily forgive those breaking the rules. The exclusive circles have suffered a blow too. Time doesn’t dilate, one can’t lose nights for parties or days for reading non chess related stuff in a world where 14-year-old grandmasters have become a normality rather than a phenomenon. These days, I hear parents saying that if their children are not to become GMs by 15 y.o., they will not encourage them to go pro. They have a point. Chess becoming younger has both pluses and minuses. On one hand, a shorter span of career means more time to freely develop and discover other things after retiring, assuming one has reached heights enough for enjoying the privileges of being a world-famous sports person. On the other hand, one’s personality doesn’t benefit from the early touches of those different spheres of life- you look at them through the already formed habits, in a rather rigid manner.

Thinking about my last classical tournament, the famous Tata Steel Chess of Wijk aan Zee, I can’t help mentioning that I was the second oldest participant of the Challengers group at the age of 31. There are quite some funny stories to it too. Let’s start with one and see how that goes.

On one of the days before the start of the tournament, I went out for lunch with a friend who also took upon the task of showing me around Wijk. While walking along the dunes, we passed by the main hotel, where most of the participants of the Masters group were accommodated, to reach our destination- a pub with a lot of seating by wide windows available. We were guided to a table and handed over menus. While carefully analysing our options, my friend told me that it was surprising not to see the piano where a chess board was majestically overlooking the place. However, we noticed a wide screen where a football match was streamed. Later, I was to discover that once the tournament started, the chess broadcast was to overtake, so that all the guests could follow and discuss the ongoing games. A cheerful waiter approached asking if we made our choices. While we ordered kimchi burgers, the young man explained to us that the piano was gone as the owner of the place changed and they decided to make more seating available instead- a practical decision, fitting the times we live. While enjoying the food, my friend continued by saying that the pub was a favourite among players as one could always find place, despite the huge flux of hungry chess professionals and amateurs.

I was later to find out that all the cafes, bars and restaurants in Wijk had chess sets and boards available to borrow. One evening, while preparing to leave the favourite pub after a tasty but what felt to be an undeservedly enjoyable dinner, preceded by yet another loss, I noticed a group of people sitting at the table next to mine. They were looking at me empathetically. While trying to understand if I knew them and should say ‘hi’, I noticed that the position on the board in front of them looked painfully familiar. They were analysing the game I played earlier that day. We smiled at each other, and I rushed out.

Back to the first day lunch. After finishing our meals, we went on walking to the main town square. Passing by cafes and restaurants, my friend stopped in front of an ice cream place. ‘It used to be the best bar in town! Players were gathering here for drinks, and we had so many fun nights… They kept open until the last customer. I have so many nice memories linked to this place! It had this obscure lighting and bunker vibe. It closed some years ago, such a pity. It is so bright and colourful now- an ice cream place it has become.’, said my friend melancholically. ‘Well, look at the players’ age this year- an ice cream place was perhaps a wise choice indeed.’, I replied jokingly.

I can easily picture most of my opponents there going in for a few scoops of vanilla and chocolate while discussing how they played that day against someone who participated in the tournament for the first time when they were still not born.

The little girl should have fantasized about an ice cream booth.

It is late now. Yet another night when I won’t get my eight hours of sleep, but that’s not because of those heated debates, or music, or dancing. Tonight, my breaking the rules is due to Simone de Beauvoir and, as she said, “Sacrifices are no longer painful when they’re behind you.”

Forget and forgive

The 1^st of January, 2025

Warsaw.

Europe, I’ve missed you! What a relief to be back to the Old Continent!

Anxiety gone, the annoying cold- almost gone too. No more blinding lights, dizzying heights and rushing dreams around. Heart rate back to fifties- finding a good companion in my mental age. A forgotten feeling of control slowly reinstating. No more intense living all around. A laidback indifference embracing me. Once I got off the plane, I immediately felt I could breathe! Is it my brain which has finally relaxed when getting back to known lands or my maniacal use of sea salt nose spray has gotten through? I wonder, why do I feel so good touching European ground? Perhaps I’m growing old and proximity to roots has become a necessity. I can’t be that old though, can I? Of course, not- just remember how the other day I was asked to show my ID when buying a bottle of wine. Some could say it’s just standard procedure in the US, but there’s no immediate necessity to ruin my vanity’s self-love moment.

Witnessing the most scenic sunset while looking through the window, I regret not being a poet. If only I could write a love letter to this piece of land! There are other ways of honouring it though. I can hold still and let my roots silently grow deeper.

My trip to NYC has been enlightening. Apart from playing chess, I found definite proof of some things I’ve lately suspected to have changed inside me. Do you know how they say that one should travel to the other part of the world to find themselves? Sometimes cliches have a point.

February the 5th, somewhere between Amsterdam and Bucharest

 

I find it interesting how with years, you’re still mostly clueless about what you really want. However, a rather long list of things you don’t want compels. No to useless gatherings, yes to good friends, no matter of time and place. No to sleepless nights and morning flights, unless very strong reasons provided. No food is better than fast food, under any circumstances. No to saying ‘no’ to yourself, yes to saying ‘no’ to anyone else. No to carrying about what others would think, yes to thinking with your own brain. Do we become inflexible? Perhaps. Though those few things we say ‘yes’ to- we’ve mastered them like gods, haven’t we?

Half of this post was written on my way back home from the US and the other half, some weeks later. I was curious if when my feelings settled down, these thoughts would still make sense, and it appears to be the case. I’ve had some tough few weeks, but them being on the Old Continent, have coloured those dark moments when I would say ‘no’ even to myself.

Europe will forgive me. We’ll settle things down over a bottle of good dry wine. I will promise to cease the ‘no’ to myself for indefinite time and my sins will be forgotten. Top it with an invite to a seafood dinner over which we’ll discuss the next Mediterranean island to discover, and the sins would not only be forgotten, but also forgiven. Afterall, we- the old ones, are too good at these things- forgetting and forgiving, aren’t we? Europe is laughing herself out after my last remark and it is contagious. To feel old at 31, one must… What? ‘Play chess’ wouldn’t be too bad of an answer I suppose.

On this positive note, time has come to end this post and make the promise that a new one will come in near future. Though if it doesn’t, please don't judge too harshly- forget and forgive.

 

Party for one

Midnight.

Hard rock spoiling my senses. It’s a party for one. ‘We live together, die alone’ comes to mind. There is nothing truer. At times it feels like we belong, living our day by day lives, fooling ourselves. Seeking for relief in people around isn’t the answer. No one will be able to tell you who you are and what’s your purpose. There might be a temporary solace you’ll delusion yourself into, but in the end, the answer will not come from outside.

There is a morning round deviously awaiting tomorrow. Yesterday I was thinking that the value of a game is only given by yourself and the way you look at it. There’s really nothing more to it.

I’d better go to bed, but this party feels just too good to abandon. It is a precious feeling- enjoying your own company, and I don’t want to lose it. Interestingly, we tend to feel good about ourselves when the ones surrounding us do. But we do die alone. I play Danzig’s ‘Mother’ song on repeat for the ‘n’ time.

It’s been over an hour since I have put down the light. The room is dark, and I notice that it doesn’t stop me from typing. No need for people for a party, no need of light for writing, no need for meaning to live. Is it the logical chain of thoughts? Pouring myself a glass of wine, I remember yesterday’s doping test I was subjected to. “Please take your underwear off, pull your dress up and turn around” wasn’t exactly the way I pictured my afternoon to develop.

The championship is yet to be decided. With two teams sharing the 1^stplace with perfect equality in all of the tie-breaks, tomorrow’s scores will determine the winner. One more title, or one less, there’s only one way to find out.

I’ve caught myself distancing from everything recently. What is this ‘everything’? People, worries, life. It is a relief. Interacting and blending in has never been easier, yet it feels completely meaningless. “Cherish it while it lasts!”, I seem to hear a voice in my head.

Why am I here? I don’t have an answer to this. I could be a fool, a clown, a role model, a champion or anything else. It could easily be for all of those to be true at the same time. It all depends on how you see the world. Nevertheless, the probability that you’re wrong tends to infinity.

Whoever you are, wherever you might be reading this from, please make sure to take a moment for yourself every once in a while. If this will lead you to a party for one, blame me and enjoy.

Stormy greetings and complains

Pulling the curtain aside, a stormy Black Sea greets me. A cyclone felt like visiting the Romanian League in Mamaia, sharing with us the delights of heavy wind and rain. As chess players are widely known for their lack of imagination when it comes to complaining, let me not fall out with this presumption. 

Settling comfortably in an armchair right next to the wide window, I deliberate on what to start with. They say this weather makes it impossible to sleep at nights as it is way too noisy. Well, I can’t really relate, as I cohabitate with a nice pair of noise cancelling headphones, occasionally having flings with random earplugs. And the alert the government kindly provided us with in the middle of the night (read: early morning in chess language)? There’s a reason my phone enters the airplane mode whenever I reach the heights of my 6^th floor room, closer to early evening (read: approaching midnight). Continuing the weather criticism- how not to fall victim to the meteorological blues under these circumstances? Unrelatable to me as well- just find a photo of me smiling or looking happy during a chess game. I’ll spare you the effort and just tell you- no such thing exists. Weather blues are just part of my natural state. 

What should I complain about next then? Let’s pick food. “Too salty, undiversified, not tasty.” With this I can relate, and I’d even add that the two minutes distance I must overcome every time I walk through wind, rain and gigantic puddles to the nearby pub are very hard to bear.

The "CSM Iasi 2020" team.

Should we take the playing hall next? “Too little space, too warm, too cold”. What can I say? There hardly was any playing hall which had ever fully satisfied me. It would take something shockingly bad for me to get annoyed.

No hot water on some floors, with the only offered solution being to let it run for 30 minutes before taking a shower. That’s not ideal indeed. I see a few ways of fixing it. First- try moving to another floor, second- challenge your inner fighter with a cold shower, third- find a friend with a room on a different floor, fourth- train those prophylactic skills and try estimating the time you’ll need hot water, fifth- if all these are not possible, don’t despair, you won’t be the first chess player skipping showers for a whole week.

What else might there be left to complain about? People! The hardship of living among like-minded souls can’t compare to anything else… You whine about making some inaccuracies on your way to winning against a lower rated opponent while your companion replies that they didn’t manage to win at all.

Let’s now touch the money subject. “I get peanuts for playing here.” To this I can only remark that if it was money you wanted to get in this life, perhaps a career in chess was not exactly indicated. Looking to the restless sea I take another sip from my sparkling water and let this thought sink.

Certain that I could continue this post, I think I’d rather stop now and get back to how I initially intended to spend my free day. The plan was to enrich myself with some Salinger dialogues while listening to the ‘Discover Weekly’ playlist. I actually managed to read two of his stories before feeling the urge to complain. For now, I can just say that those hardships I hinted at while at the ‘People’ paragraph include more interesting dialogues with like-minded friends than the ones I’ve been trying to enlighten myself with. Perhaps the best is yet to come. As about the ‘Discover Weekly’, I ended up with my ‘Classical’ playlist, though music isn’t something I’d like to add to this list of complains, for now.

Stormy greetings from the Romanian seaside and may you have a week full of something else than grumbling!

Before (!) game 1.