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?
This is not a blog (II)
No, it is not, as I have previously, and, to some extent, unsuccessfully stated.
There are several reasons for this, which have been amiss from the homonymous post. It may appear as paradoxical, but the fact that I say that this is not a blog, is the cause and effect for its subsequent true nature. For I give birth and sense to every letter written here. And by doing so I dictate its character, its identity. I choose my own creations. The only term I could somehow cope with is a ‘dreamlog’. It is more adequate. This is a detail upon which I would not have insisted unless others had done it.
Another major reason is the fact that, at least ab initio, a blog is understood as an online diary. Or, any diary has a major temporal component. Not the case here. It’s in my way of life to be, in a certain respect, atemporal. It is true, my posts are dated, but that’s almost irrelevant to their content. They’re just a form of scholê. This ancient Greek word is the etymon for the modern word ’school’. And – awkwardly, or not – it meant ‘time off; pause’. Consider everything here under these auspices. Of the time off needed in order to create.
Finally, the title, ‘Assertions of awareness’, tells it all. I know the amount futility implied in a pompous name – ‘aware of nothingness of being… of being aware…’ – still… I have no intention of proving anything (not even that this is not a blog) to anyone. It’s a self-contenting action. Whether or not others can make something out of it…
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….
Do not try to convince me…
“Do not try to convince me, with messages from God. You accuse us of sins, committed by yourselves”, raged a stance in an Epica song. One of the main reasons I started this whole page was a small, glossy leaflet I found one day lying on my desk at school. So did everybody else in my class. It was called “Tinerii azi”, and it bore the name of the Archbishopric of Suceava and Radauti on its cover. So, it appears the priests are trying their shot at the youth of the nation. Don’t get me wrong, I am a Christian believer. But living in such a freakin’ pious and religiously annoying region like Bucovina really puts ones faith to the test. And it’s the priests, monks and nuns that contribute essentially to it. I started reading that magazine and immediately noticed its quality paper. It appears the church is wealthy… So wealthy it cand afford paying for such an imprint… Something doesn’t fit… What about the alleged lack of interest for the worldly possessions?
Perhaps it was for a noble goal, I tried to make myself believe. But the content, or lack of content, proved me wrong. So, the introductory pages: an endless jabber signed by the infamous Archbishop of Suceava, a guy desperate for money and timber. Every two words there was a quote from the Bible. What, I wonder, was the author’s contribution?
Moving on. What really triggered my anger was the part in which there was a depiction of the Judgement Day, like the famous Voronet fresco. Just that this very one had some explanatory parts for the dumb teens they thought we were, I guess. As consequence, the molten river of lava flowing towards hell had these words floating on its waves: atheists, fashion, theatre, cinema, Satan, whores, Judas, Antichrist, thieves, greed, etc. Naturally rock and metal were on the list, and so was, to my surprise (and some minor satisfaction), football… Mentioning all other stupidities is futile…
And this shitty magazine was distributed in schools, in the very institutions that were meant to teach us about freedom of thought, speech, independence and rights.
Had the too honorable church donated the money to charity instead of printing the pages of scum, wouldn’t a minor part of the world be a bit more happy? But I guess common welfare and church have nothing in common…
This is not a blog
First things first. This is not a blog! For all you newcomers out there (assuming that you exist), I want to stress the sole fact that this is, under no circumstance, a blog. I hate the term, as well as the ‘trendy’ outfit it has been given. It’s a mere page for my ideas, assertions and reactions to this proposterous world in which we are confined to live.
More recently I’ve noticed a sort of a paradox in which I’m dwelling: I haven’ t written in a long, long time. So, perhaps this will somehow facilitate my creative ideas.
For further explanations on the nature of the page you are currently viewing, I suggest taking a glance at the following image – a painting by surrealist belgian artist René Magritte.
