The Merry Cemetery of… Suceava
The funeral cortege ambled with grief carved deeply into the faces of the mourners. Yielded to sorrow, every heart beats slower to match the rhythm of the hearse. Is there any point in a eulogy now, when the ever-present, but seldomly acknowledged futility of man looms on the horizon, forcing us into acquiescence? We all seem part of an archaic, arcane ritual, offering sacrifices to the ever-hungry grave so that we apease him, so that people can die tomorrow too… Then, suddenly, through all the sobbings and gloomy murmurs echoes a dissonant cry, but it’s not a sad one. No, it’s a joyous one, as if someone were laughing. But not any laughter. No, it’s an Cartman-in-With-Apologies-to-Jesse-Jackson-ish laughter, a convulsive, cosmic one.
Unfortunately, this is only a make-belief situation. Albeit a very possible one, provided the opportunity of a stroll through the Suceava Cemetery. Just like in the Simpsons, a guy selling hot dogs and popcorn for the general entertainment would not be very misplaced. Hilarious tombstones, statues or inscriptions are bound to give you a good time. Luckily I had my camera, to give you a glimpse of what I am talking about.
Here we have the Samba-Jesus, a depiction of the costume Jesus used for the Rio Carnival (5 days before the Last Supper). The bananas on his head have unfortunately faded away, but you can still notice the exquisite bathing suit used solely for this ocasion.
After the trend of buying terrain on the Moon or buying stars, it seems that eternity itself can be purchased. For the right price of course. The only inconvenient is that they run on a first come, first served basis. So 140 other lucky guys have beaten this one to buying their share of immortality. I wonder if the retailers give discounts?
Here’s someone who surely has had a problem coping with the afterlife. I understand you’re having a hard time admitting you’re dead, but must you wish for my death too? Perhaps we should get Bruce Willis to film The Sixths Sense part two, and intersperse the drama with some Diana Malos trivia.
Squash-the-Angel, version 1.0. An early game, it did not have 3d graphics, as you can see. An interesting feature is the parallel allignment of the wings, suggesting either getting run over by a monster truck (slightly improbable) or a collision with a speeding plane (a claim with a far more sustainable basis)
Now, the ultimate masterpiece, providing the final dethroning of the Merry Cemetery of Sapanta. Two more RIP-plates were nailed to the same bench, as a gruesome invitation to rest upon it.. at your own risk.
Finally, a typical second grade essay ending, quite suitable for this post: “What a great time we had in the cemetery!”
The coming of age
Almost a year’s gone by since the last time I wrote but, like the character in this post, all things must come of age. Although I have always reveled in being pissed off and writing about it and although there have always been consistent reasons for doing such, it seems as though exiguous happenings can cause more determination in me than the other ones would.
One of the local shops. While in queue I observe the old lady in front of me. She’s definitely the “self-respecting” type. The compulsory fur coat, the dyed hair – the works, to put it shortly. To my awe, she pulls out a 100 lei bill to pay for two packs of napkins. It’s her right, of course. I cash my buys, and exit the store. Or at least I try to. The building has a sort of antechamber, so you can’t leave directly into the street. And right there, blocking the entrance, stood the furred hag counting, obviously, the haystack of change she had been given. I wait and I wait, I glance over her shoulder so as to make her, perhaps, inch, but to no result. When I tried to squeeze myself through the gap she’d left in the door, I saw the woman moving. One step to the left would have sufficed to let me pass. But that would have been to easy. No, the freakin’ hag had to steer slowly, covering what was left of the door, stepping out of the shop then stopping once again to… count the change.
I know, it’s no big deal. But that lady’s an archetype. She’s the one who, with that same dignified demeanor, tells you to let her sit in your place in the bus. And she’s the one who, if you don’t, starts nodding her head, scolding the “youngsters nowadays”. And there’s always another hag (always!) who shares her viewpoint thus commencing the mindless bullshit about their time, respect and how “it used to be”. “I know we were young too, but we had our limits!” etc. She’s the one who tells (or – in a modern day rendition of the smoke signals – send the message through the radiator pipes ) you to turn down the music so she can listen to Dan Diaconescu peacefully, when in fact you were trying to cover up the noise of her TV. And of course you’re the rude one if you don’t rise or if you don’t lower the volume but the simple “bisexual” fact that respect “goes both ways” isn’t as obvious, it seems. The Sex Pistols said “Hope I die before I get old”. That’s downright stupid. What I want is to get some common sense before I come of age…
The training of falcons
“Do you know how a falcon is trained my dear? Her eyes are sewn shut. Blinded temporarily she suffers the whims of her God patiently, until her will is submerged and she learns to serve – as your God taught and blinded you with crosses.” (Theatre of Tragedy – And when he falleth)
Taking the quote cum grano salis and to a less atheistic extent, its truth seems obvious, especially – and now I tend to repeat myself – if you’re living in the all-faithful Bucovina. And now, complying to the same narrative framework used some time ago… here goes…
A normal scene in the classroom. I enter and, as I head towards my desk out back I pass a whole line of sitting colleagues. As most teenagers do – in a surreptitious attempt to underline their partially unacknowledged maturity – I shook hands with the boys I was passing by. One after another, they put forward their hands, until one of them looks at my stiffened hand without lending me his own. I chased away the awkwardness of the situation, since we were looking eye to eye, and I asked: “What’s the deal? Shake hands, goddamit!” The answer was truly a shocker – “I can’t, I’ve received the Eucharist!”
I’ve heard other claims that during the day of the Communion you cannot kiss and spit. They seemed at least weird, not to say preposterous, but this one crosses the line. Then I’ve heard you’re not allowed to run either during those 24 hours. Will the divine grace be chased away by a simple touch of the hands? Will the wine and bread be tossed in the stomach and cause you nausea? I wonder if you’re allowed to drive faster? To pee? (since spitting’s out of the question…) Isn’t it obvious that there’s much more power involved in a Sacrament than the bigot misinterprets by stating new rules?… Women in the period days aren’t allowed in church… Could someone point the Bible passage that says “Damned art thee, fro which blood floweth, if thou walkest to church”? No, surely not… But, until a mentality change will occur, let’s not shake hands and run… God might be angry…
Do you know how my classmates are trained? Their hands and legs are sewn shut…
Minus human
A recipe for masterpiece.
Take one dog. One living dog. Tie it inside an art gallery. Leave it there without food or water. Invite visitors, even place an entrance fee perhaps. Let the dog die. Call it art.
A Costa Rican scumbag, self-titled ‘artist’, has put this into practice. Some have claimed his work puts art’s limits into discussion. No, it puts humanity’s boundaries to the test. When can one be called a ‘human’? And for which reasons? For the mere possession of two arms and legs? For having opposable thumbs? It appears so…
The Neanderthal dog-slayer had the aberrantly sadistic idea of writing, with dog biscuits, ‘You are what you read’, on the wall behind the dying dog. People passed by, gazed at the macabre sight in front of them, saw the inscription on the wall, and nodded sagely. I’m pretty sure some remarks such as ‘He’s a genius’ have been uttered too in that slaughter gallery. Furthermore, the psychopath behind all this, Guillermo Vargas Habacuc, has been selected to represent his country in an international festival, subsequent to his despicable ‘exhibition’. No-one seemed to notice the sheer inhumanity and bestiality behind it all. Another ‘artist’ was widely praised some years ago for his photo of a crucifix submerged in urine… Taboos and rules may not be welcomed, but there is one rule which is a must – being human. Up to this extent can art be called art – having the inner obliging dignity of proving that more than a finger distinguishes you from an amoeba…
And the servants of the cross…
Everything’s wondrous if you live in Bucovina. If it’s a sacred edifice we’re talking about, then the description is surely hyperbolical. Sometimes it’s best not to approach the myth too carefully, and surely not critically… I went to the Humor Monastery, but to my surprise it was locked, although the wall’s door was open. Seeing me trying to enter the monastery, one of the nuns says to me: ‘It’s closed, but this one’s open’, pointing to a smaller church nearby. Seeing me falter, she said, as if she were advertising on TV: ‘Go in, we’ve got holy relics too’. I was expecting some offers and discounts – ‘Buy three candles, get one free!’ or ‘Pictures with the saint’s bones’, but none was presented. The Church needs to work on its marketing…
This happened several years ago. I was inside the famous, cliché-interred Voronet Monastery. While I was kneeling in front of the altar, the Mother Superior walks by me towards the stacidia where the choir would normally sit. I watched her surreptitiously slip her hand under the cushion on one of the armchairs. I didn’t quite get the gist of the gesture, as nothing seemed to be concealed by that pillow. Yet she had such a certain hand I was assured the divine empowered her. To my greatest awe and praise of the Lord, the nun drew from underneath the latest Metro catalog… Hallowed be cash&carry’s name…
Best before… Best?
A usual scene in the classroom – a game of cards. To chase away his boredom and to enhance mine, one of the players takes out his hi-tech mobile phone, mp3 included. So, a dull, syncopated and monotone rhythm floods the class. ‘House’, they called it. Or ‘trance’, or ‘drum ‘n bass’… My lack of (quasi-) musical culture is obvious in this domain.
Under these auspices I heard the following reaction of one of my classmates, some seconds after the song had started. ‘This song is sooo old’… It wasn’t the fact that the song could be recognised at all, and furthermore so easily, that bewildered me. No, what truly puzzled me was the age statement. ‘So old’ meant 6 months old.
To me it was a revelation. The axiological dimension of music is strictly perfunctory nowadays. Musical quality bears the stigma of ‘being fresh’. A sort of ‘best before’ label is attached to every trendy song. 3 months have passed. The song’s ’so last summer’. Half a year gone, the melody’s entombed. On the other hand, the utter lameness exhibited shamelessly on MTV and other ‘hit music stations’ has triggered this sort of reaction. Songs are seldom really good, therefore their only fitfully given attribute is freshness. I guess it’s a form of natural selection, as in biology. Just that nature’s law does not apply here. The weak and untalented do not perish, they resurface, again and again… One ear-scorching masterpiece after another. And, all in all, why did Body’n Soul have to vanish, for instance? To let Morandi rule today?
Welcome Home (Sanitarium)
More than a month has passed since the last entry. Everyone needs a settling time, and I have truly been in need of it. Since I tend to defy the general “blog” trend – write daily, provided the subject (or not) – this lack of rhythm suits me.
I feel as if I have become immune to the Romanian nonsense. My rage has a constant autochthone support, but everything gets weary in the end… Fear not, my fervent readers, I will be back soon with irated pages! I’m sure I can rely on my beloved country to supply me with the daily ration of aberrations.
After all, how could I be enraged when I’ve just found out I’m going to a Leonard Cohen concert?
Grim and evil
A friend of mine described what I’ve written in this site as ‘a bit too riotous’. ‘But, for a rocker, it’ll do’, he added. I am aware of the grimness and anger written here, but it’s time for one more irated piece now.
An assignment in English class. ‘What would you like to do in the future?’ One of my colleagues asks me to translate his work. Oblivious to what I was about to read, I took the piece of paper he handed me. Here goes: ‘I wanna open a firm, and be my own boss. Also, I would like X (another colleague’s name) to be my workmate.’ The end. In the tenth grade, this is the dream and aspiration level… Should I generalise or not? Well, here’s another piece of evidence… During the same class, it was time to translate X’s assignment as well. Here’s a sample of his ideals: ‘I’ll buy a truck. Make transports, and with the profit earned I’ll open a timber factory’. All in all, this may be the real thing, the step-by-step approach on life that could turn out successful. Why the devil worry about the future, make far-fetched plans and so forth? Use this instinctual view, as a monkey during its jump thinks only about which branch to grasp next.
OK, he’ll buy his truck and he’ll probably make loads of money. But it truly did struck me to understand the ‘Weltanschauung’ (vision of life) of one of my congeners. What, I wonder, are his anxious questions about life, death, God etc, given his age now? Or, even better, do those questions exist? Because it seems that there’s an inner vacuum perduring in him. How else could that given answer in that bloody class be explained?
What more can I say? That I wish for a country in which money won’t be the main concern and in which an average teenager will have higher goals than to become a driver? In which patriotism will be more than a biannually conveyed notion – on the 1st of December and the 24th of January… In which patriotism will have a reason, not just a face – a true country for which to strife…
‘I’ve seen, the future, brother, it is murder’…
What if?
Aristotle once said that ‘to wonder’ (τò θαυμαζεîν) is the origin of philosophy. Perceiving the world ingenuously, as a newborn would do, wondering, is a true source of knowledge. In this respect, everyday life in this little mountain town is very philosophical. In the end, isn’t ‘WTF?’ a form of wondering?
Starting with an example, I went to a newly opened bar to have a cup of hot chocolate. The waitress comes and leaves on the table something that bewildered me. First of all.. it wasn’t a cup, it was a glass – steaming hot, of course. Then.. above the chocolate was a thick layer of whip cream. The whip cream was sprinkled with some caramel sauce. And now comes the touch of genius – a slice of lime was there too. Now let’s get phenomenological. Living in Romania means you must always seek to be original. If it means defying common sense, even better… You plan to open a new bar? Open it, and serve there chocolate with lime. I’m sure nobody ever thought of that before.
‘What if?’ – this is the golden principle. Sure… this was the starting point for many of the world’s greatest inventions. But, the ‘romanisation’ – that turned Renault into Dacia, for instance – puts her mark on this concept. Let’s innovate where there’s nothing left to innovate. Amalgamate incongruously everything (there’s another restaurant here in which the walls are adorned with Slavic writings, Greek bas-reliefs, Turkish swords, African bow and arrows, Roman-style painting… and… la pièce de résistance… Romanian voivodes’ portraits), and you will surely be labeled as ‘original’. Don’t fear of being ridiculed, for others lack critical sense as much as you do. Just take a deep breath… and something truly unique will come out of your mind’s parturition. And the fun part’s you needn’t have competence to be taken seriously. If you happen to have it, rest assured, others are long since in a position that may be rightfully yours. In a country where sportsmen have more media coverage – and, subsequently, more authority – than writers, why the heck do I wonder that there’s lime in my chocolate? After all, how much can that poor lime drink?
