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…
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?
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?
Winter customs
I’ve just returned from the yearly ‘winter party’ held in honor of the teachers by each promotion’s graduates. It consists in an adaptation of the traditional apotropaic ‘wishings’, a Romanian custom marked by lack of grace and, very often, lack of intelligence.
The habit in my school is to write several programmatic and perfunctorily humorous poems for each teacher, following the model of the classical popular poems, such as ‘The Little Plough’. In some odd way, the writers seem to lack rhythm badly, given the fact that the metrical pattern is harshly violented.
Naturally the majority of ‘performers’ are dressed up in popular outfits, but the rest create a very peculiar dissonance. Every 10 verses a prolonged ‘Hăăăăăi’ echoes, overdubbing the obnoxious sound of the ‘buhai’, an autochthone masterpiece of an instrument.
I have nothing against the show I have just watched. It is a recrudescence of tradition. What is truly a marvel of brutality is the way our winter customs (besides carolling) take place. Meaningless shouts, grunts, brusk movements, melody-lacking songs, annoying rhythms, hideous masks. All under the auspices of ‘I was born amidst these traditions’. No-one knows exactly what they mean anymore, but the aforementioned statement acts as a perfect motivation.
As for the ‘buhai’, it makes a perfect couple with the ‘zongoră’. Both are peaks of Romanian music. Since Paganini managed to play a concert on a one-string violin, why not give ourselves a shot? Thus the ‘buhai’ was born, the one-roped instrument. You can use a series of tunings for it, starting with dropped C, E flat, E straight and ending with the tuning in Noise major, most oftenly used. The ‘zongoră’… Now that’s art. The Spaniards took the guitar and turned it into the flamenco guitar, which puts those frets on fire. Yngwie Malmsteen made the guitar play more notes than one can hear. But can this stand comparison to what this glorious Romanian nation made out of the guitar? Naturally it can’t. Put it upwards, in an impossible position, where you can merely grasp an accord, now that’s virtuosity.
Am I evil? Yes I am…
A country of aberrations
Time and time again, the country in which I am currently residing doesn’t cease to make me sick. One side effect was that I’ve given up watching TV. Another one is a certain amount of masochism, which stimulates me in turning that wretched appliance on. Today, the case heavily debated on all channels was an minor accident caused by the minister of transportation. So far, so good… so what? Well, the minister did everything to conceal his flaw, lying to the press and so on. Finally the truth (or a simulacrum of it) was revealed. What really made me tick was the moment I saw the parents of the girl involved in the accident – screaming at the reporters, aggressing them, cursing them. After all, the media were there to support the victim’s cause and record some recriminations against the minister. No, Romanians are afraid. Afraid of anything, and especially afraid of being free. It’s better to keep a low profile, to be quiet, because you never know… This ‘you never know’ is the key to understanding the profoundly altered ethnic mentality. The indefinite fear. Psychology calls that an ‘apprehension’. But it’s not that sort of thing here. It’s just about taming yourself to walk more and more crouched, crushing your backbone until you learn to crawl, without anyone asking or forcing you to do so. Then finally all you do is crawl… If an ‘official’ takes part in the equation, be sure to count on the complete lack of morality and ’spine’ of this nation. Anyone can have his way with this jellyfish-like people. Naturally, when I first found out the news I was like ‘The hell with the minister’. But it wasn’t until the parents appeared that I understood this very simple yet hard to understand/admit truth – they all deserve each other. Both the ruler and the ruled are the same. The same vomit flows through their veins. Yes, vomit. Blood was what brave soldiers spilled on the battlefield, blood was what ran through the love-crazed body of Dante seeking his lost love, Beatrice. No, these humanoids have vomit in their veins. And I’m not talking about exceptions here.
Why did it take a blood-drenched revolution to eliminate the Communist regime back in 1989? Because the so-called ’system’ was strong, would be the first thing that comes to mind. But the ’system’ isn’t made up of digits, 0 & 1, or machines. No, it’s made of people, of individuals. That’s where the regime had its deepest roots. It the depraved minds of those who consented to support the Party and its beloved leader. It was the same sort of Romanians, the fearing kind. And this time I’m pertaining to majorities. Where there not millions who joined the PCR willingly? When the wind of change blew here as well, those with vomit in their veins stood cautiously hidden behind curtains, while those with blood offered it to sacrifice. Naturally, the elite is far less numerous then the mass, but the utter inner quality of the mass is outrageously poor. We are certainly the only country in the world that could produce Dan Diaconescu and his totally unique way of interpreting mass-media. It is only in Romania that a large-scale success of ‘manele’ could occur. Only here could imbeciles like Stolojan, Becali, and others gain power. A country of aberrations….
