Pitesti Experiment (film)

Victoria Baltag is a filmmaker from Romania, who I met on LinkedIn and she has a very unique and powerful story to tell, that is very unsettling about Romania between 1949 and 1951 and the re education camps, she is now raising money for the postproduction with which I hope you will help her succeed .

“ The state entities in Romania refused to fund this project”.

Victoria Baltag, Master of Arts, University of Birmingham, PhD Film Studies, Queen University of Belfast and Postgraduate Teaching Assistant at UCL made a remarkable movie about one of the darkest pages from Romanian History.
Pitesti Experiment.
Generations of Romanians did not learn about this subject at schools, colleges, Universities. Censorship and hiding the dark moments from history left many Romanians clueless about the history of their country.
Pitesti Experiment project needs support. Art in pandemic needs support. Our support.
Media exposure, funds, event organization, all are ways to support.
Every time this movie is promoted, every donation, every effort is a different manner to say“ I am sorry for how much you suffered”.
This project is about the victims of Pitesti Experiment. Victims who for many are unknown, forgotten.
Their story has to be told! Let’s help it!

more info here https://www.film-fest-report.com/home/victoria-baltag-interviewhttp://more info here https://www.film-fest-report.com/home/victoria-baltag-int

https://gofund.me/d00e45b3

https://www.thegenocideofthesouls.org/public/english/the-pitesti-experiment/

Have a look, have a read then give to what will be a harrowing yet amazing film

In The Scheme Of Things

gutless form of

grey flannel

and bowler hat

tapping briefcase

with finger

pencil callused

autocratic directions

of how the

shapeless should fit

tailors chalk on cloth

decisive lines

to trim or sew

mouths stitched so

neatly shut

limbs severed so that

the fall of material

should be so suitable

old money new money

contra entries

that become the washerwomans

laundry

in colonial towns

with brighter sun

and sweated brows

grey flannel choke

and soft eton tones

cruciform stretched

with benefits denied

g&t cold pink lemonade

taking canapes on landscaped lawn

take a bow doff your cap

grateful for what you

don’t receive

inbred subservience

of the golden age

long shadows

keeping us in the dark

mouth torn open

begins to shout

blood on lips

blood on tongue

strike a match

to cauterize

and light the beacon torch

flannel shadows

cannot keep us hidden

or denied

we have voices

as we are many

and you are few

 

copyyright Chris Lawrence

 

 

fierce candles

winters thorns bury deep
flesh pierced by that uneased dark
until candles dripping pale
tore aside the emptiness
illuminating dust
and a heart enclosed deep beneath a breast
her warmth reflected in those eyes,
he would embrace,
beyond all walls a snowy temper raged
sweeping alongside doors
muffling all that was brutal,
in hold and secure
dawn was a long way off
a thousand years would pass
before a few magic smitten would know
stars would die
and planets turn
winding in secrets so human,
lips tremble withholding so many words
that he would say
and she would reply
as a chosen wonder,
that urge carnal became a vapor
glimmer of hope,
and futures peace at stake,
memory fickle put upon pages
of a shameless scrawl
edited by many kings
dissolved into legend and myth
springs reaction would reveal much,
embrace over
fragile reflections and shadows
for the movement so vividly intact
would leave so many
damaged echoes
that conflict is inevitable

http://dversepoets.com/

life and all inbetween

knotted wings of crows

with scarce strength

rise into rain,

below vegetation

burnished by fall

listens to the calls,

damp rooted trees

in eroded soil

cover to our

consummation,

revisited after twenty

years,

as one we move

our lives wove a story,

origin in these fields

birth from these fields

as cells would watch

these fields and woodland,

a last exhalation,

we would not return

an act of memory

physical and intricate

framed in the cortex

for tomorrow

 

Sunday Whirl 119

 

elephant looks in a broken mirror

when a thought becomes a fraction

divided into memory

and everyday fatigue

it settles not happy to remain

will divide again

into dreams and realization

long cerebral passageways

cluttered with electric snapshots

of a life lived long,

thinking was a process

started in the morning

after rinsing mouth and bathing

combed and prepared

opened the mind

some fractions found division harder

and became elongated spools

of tension and agitation

hands that tremor

ever so slightly

as sipping a glass of lemonade,

beneath this mass of

seething activity

normal had almost resumed

old fractions worked

looking at a photo album

your son found in the loft

other debris of a life in one place

gathered and divided

and will be when your

gone

 

 

From Wasted Sleep

the space between each hour

is almost a decay,

clock conspires in awful silence

mirror reflected hands

reverse that moment

when that realm of waking

is at it’s edge,

straw taste upon the tongue,

as on curved eye

darkness and it’s folds descend

tattered fingers reach upwards

to a point where ceiling once was,

a wicked frost is felt,

gravity in a raw form

will not resist

a man with scattered thought,

chilled he must

throw back cotton anchor

wrapped taut about body,

it would be a while before

the yellow spikes of light

would transform as morning,

bone chimes fine resonance

in the soul,

darkness a swell pushed aside

dreams skirted and lost,

nature would not find any tears

if he fell soundless to the floor,

beyond the door a reprieve

and a new vast openness

spread as a cold

desire

 

Heart and Snow

white snow, bright snow

raw to eyes and heart,

last night she fell asleep,

by morning he was gone,

note now twisted on table

next to coffee pot,

with little explanation

a cowardly run,

stood on porch

looking to the furthest point,

snow blended landscape

so that it looked the same,

tears held back,

for something in the light

told her

it would get better now

 

 

http://jennymatlock.blogspot.co.uk/

Waiting In Line

frosted lens one secret eye,

it’s time almost gone,

other vibrant blue watery,

she waited to be served

packaged meals enough for

a few days,

tremors with age

cellular collapse,

life’s abrupt stoop to spine,

coat drawn snug,

cold reaches more easily

through mottled paper,

her turn,

trolley a support to feet

more unsteady than an infant,

red leather handbag

leather fashion for forty years

cracked and glazed,

pleased to talk to the assistant

juddering conversation,

sprawled out topics of conversation

no linear trail,

topics of weather,

her husband passed twenty years,

lack of pension,

always broke,

children dispersed seed unconnected

and when she was younger

flew planes in the Pacific

a job few knew of,

no government medal,

yet she offered her life

as she did now to survival,

gnarled arthritic hands

struggled with notes and coins

tomorrow a fragile

premise