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 power involved in a Sacrament than the bigot misinterprets stating new rules can comprehend… 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 time 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?
Season’s grievings!
I guess I am supposed to start with ‘Now that the holidays have passed, with good and bad things…’, as I have seen it is quite trendy when it comes to writing about them. Sorry to disappoint you. Yes, we all know they have passed, yes we all know they’ve had their ups and downs. And what I certainly know is they’ve had carols. Wherever I went, from bars to parks and even in the goddamn streets, the a-caroling was ubiquitous. Carols in the train station, carols in buses, carols in cabs. Everyone is better these days, sure, but is it too much to ask for a slight variation in music? No matter what your musical background is, from rapper to houser or ‘manelist’, carols are a must this time of the year. Well, guess I’ll never get the gist of this kind of Christmas spirit. Why has Christmas become so sanctimonious? Couldn’t gifts be given silently, without asking or expecting a reward? Can’t carols be understood and sung deep within, quietly, understanding the miracle, not shouting it… Well, I reckon it’s part of being a Romanian - lacking measure. It’s a default setting. It may seem a reminiscence of Latin spirit, but nowadays it’s just a instinctual way of living. Is it Christmas time? Let’s sing and listen to carols.. continuously. Is it New Year’s Eve? Let’s party like there’s no tomorrow… Speaking of New Year’s Eve - ever notice how humans are the only ones to celebrate? For the rest of the planet, for all beings, time flows as it did before, there are other cycles, much more profound, those of life, to be followed…
I wish you dreams in this new year. Not fulfilling wishes, because that’s killing them. May you dream, may you fight for your dreams, may you keep them alive.
And, as I always say - May you have a new year!
The day I tried to change the world
Every single trip I’ve taken abroad has been marked by a very special feature, which I did not notice immediately, given the mental accommodation with another country. No, it was not the politeness and amenity of citizens. Nor was it the tidiness and respect for the law clearly visible almost everywhere. No, the thing that struck me most was this minor detail: everywhere I went to buy something, the change was given back to me to the last penny. Amazingly, no chewing gum was involved. A foreigner reading this would surely not get the gist of it. But for those living in Romania, having two currencies, leu and Orbit/Airwaves, can be a true pain in the neck. Instinctively, you take the ‘change’, unwrap it and start chewing, feeling slowly your money going down the drain with every icy and fresh expiration.
Sick and tired of all that, I decided to make things take a different turn today. So, having bought some two dozens of gums thoroughly stuffed into my pocket, with a premonition of great accomplishments thoroughly stuffed into my soul, I hit the road. It was that vibrant mood which gives you a sense of kinship and brotherhood with all the great heroes. I felt as if I was fighting along Che Guevara in the jungle or marching alongside Gandhi towards the ocean, not merely going to a shop in a little mountain town, as I was doing. The day for a social revolution was finally here. I was about to overcome an entire monetary system. Yes, my time had come!
Acting very naturally, I entered the store, took a bottle of mineral water and asked for the price. While I was slowly counting the gums I was placing on the counter, the Che Guevara in me was elaborating various scenarios of arguments in case of a rejection, while the peaceful Gandhi within was thinking of nonviolent methods to react in such an occasion. ‘What are you doing?’ said to me the ominous-sounding voice of the salesclerk. Here it comes, it’s time for war… ‘I’m paying’. What will it be, peace or violence? Mahatma or El Comandante? All these dilemmas running through my head came to an abrupt halt, killing both heroes in a minute. The salesman laughed and smilingly took all the gums I had placed on the counter…
We’re all better in Christmas times, aren’t we?
