Aout us :
Editorial
 THE TAMING OF THE IRON.
The Walk, the Food, the Fire, the Stone, the Wheel, the Iron, the Sky…
The Man, entity procreated under the rules of the current civilization, has always looked to the shy.
The Sun rules his days, the Moon watched over his nights, the gods came upon the face of the Earth from the sky, and towards the sky the man raised his arms in joy, in helplessness and in victory. The signs of the sky made the man understand his designation and planned his becoming, and from the sky his weapons came also. When Cortez asked the Aztec rulers what their knives are made of, they pointed to the sky. The Maya people of Yucatan, the Inca from Peru, as well as the Aztecs of Mexico, all were reshaping only the meteoritic iron, which was much more precious for them than gold. The ancient people had the oldest name for iron, made of the “sky” and “fire” pictograms. The celestial origin of the iron remains certified by the Greek word “siedros” – “bright star.”
The sky – immaterial and borderless – has always tempted the human spirit.
Delicate in it’s composition and perceived as a brief touch on top of the head, changing and fragile as a vague vibration, filled by the weightlessness of any passing, the sky remains the vigorous armor of the world and the life. It is the ferm ground in which the flying grows roots, where frailty resembles durability, suaveness resembles consistency, delicacy resembles power.
The iron – the mineral transcended into living thing, symbol of toughness and durability – has given us the tools. And them, the tools, from the simple word to the most advanced of the space probes, are a rearrangement of nature and primordial reality. The plane – the only and last perceptible and material reliance in the immaterial vastness of the moving sky – unites today, amazingly fast, the fixed points of this planet. We receive it as embodied iron, bringing to us an historical illustration of a royal trio – Vuia, Vlaicu, Coandă – of the Romanian spiritual powers, revelation of bright minds and modest dignity. Breaking the apparently invulnerable density of the matter, artfully turning it into a spring-like compression, the creators of the flyer’s brotherhood have given the iron the explosive power of their spirits and brought the world with a huge step forward. They’ve raised it into the sky. They’ve given it wings.
The flying – this privileged designation for the act of walking in the air under the sign of the road of the weight converted into gravitation, it’s the measure of taming of a fall which, under the breath of the human mind, gains the impetus of the ascension. The flight remains a building in the rocks and iron of the sky, a high-ranking ennoblement, oiled with the victory’s chrism and invested with the dignity of the human being.
The iron, once domesticated, it stays this way.
And thus, just like reading out of a book of life, we understand: the man, the sky, the iron, the flight.
A perfect composition, which shall last forever!
THE GUIDE
 Since childhood, we were left with the habit of entrusting our parents, bigger than ourselves or/and even without looking like giants, unlimited powers of intervention, doubled by an absolute wisdom. For a long time, grownups being, we’ve let ourselves into their care with undoubted openness and trust. Dearly.
My father, to whom I’m always secretly thinking, as if I wouldn’t want to erase the aura dug into my emotional memory, for years has been my guiding mental image. My work with the planes, rising them up into the sky, meant the opposite of my father’s, who for a lifetime was “working, on the ground”. My field and his upturned land – our sky and earth – rewarded both of our fidelity: bored fruit at the time of the fall.
My school teacher, who I recall standing in that classroom, with her gentle and peaceful air, putting her hand on my white notebook, I secretly guard her image. I worship the patience she used in opening my mind for the enlightening letter of the book to enter, adequate as the right key to open the world’s heavy locks.
My flight instructor, the one who nursed my conciliation with the sky and awoke in me the taste of the well done things in my profession, I still feel the trace of his hand left on my shoulder, like on a rank ennoblement, after horrible landings. The man who, between a takeoff and the act of putting the wheels on the runway of returns, had shortened the meaning of this visible present and eased for me the acceptance of any hidden future.
Each and everyone of us is, in our own particular way, a tree. And those who cleared our branches, regardless if we want or not to admit it, have guided our growing and shaped our future. My school teacher planted a seed which now, grown up into a tree, casts a proud shadow. Their secret, of the people who, without perceiving it exactly, build us into distinctive human compositions, lies into the fact that they exist. And the chance that they are a part of our own reality, we can perceive it only with all our senses awake and with the consciousness alive. Their greatest valor to us is that it cannot be reproduced. Each and everyone awoke into us the need to know by ourselves – the mystery which contains in itself the pleasure and the motivation to live beautifully.
They, these secret guides in this life on people just like them, can be found out and known by everyone of us but only in own present time. Not by you through me, not by any you through any me. When inner peace unveils inside us, innocently and altruistically, living human icons, clear under the light of the eyes, we discover that strange phosphorus of life which lively lights the crossroads of our destiny. |
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