A Suitcase of Thoughts

Saturday is not my favorite day of the week. I don’t know why, maybe because everybody loves Saturdays and I just want to be different. No, seriously, now! What can you do on a Saturday? You wake up lazily late, you stretch and scratch and then you walk around the house in your pajamas until lunchtime when you throw something in a pot or grab the phone to order pizza or Chinese, as these are the ones you know the best. The afternoon comes with football games, or thoughts knitting about how you could or should politely make somebody at work understand he’s an idiot, or how you could reach the dentist, the salon and the laundromat in the same time on Monday morning. You take a peek on Facebook to see if there is someone there still remembering that you exist, instantly post something about what you were doing to “keep in touch” and to convince yourself that you were actually doing something. Later you surrender in front of the TV and your own weakness.

I say bye for now, I’ll go and see what I’m doing on Facebook.

I’m in an emotional dilemma. I don’t know if I should admire or get pissed off with all those hearts at CVS where I went to get some aspirin. I have a cold… I had aspirin at home but I felt such an urge for a new kind of aspirin, something special, something that would quadrate with the holiday. I don’t know… maybe I was just unconsciously looking for a reason to get out of the house. As I had taken my bad disposition with me, I thought it would be good to stop at the grocery store, where at this hour of the day, waiting in a line for about 20 minutes to pay for your baguette and yoghurt, may be a blessing. I couldn’t even unleash my nerves because… what can you do when you’re fenced in by heart shaped balloons and the ample smiles of Valentine’s Day consumers. I was there just thinking that… there was nothing else I could do but take my headache and my pathetic bag of groceries and withdraw into my incapacity of enjoying myself.

I woke up this morning and I was upset. I was mad with the wind.

Actually, the wind made me happy. What really upset me was that it didn’t whisper nice thoughts to me as it used to. It was just a simple wind from somewhere not far away, a wind with no emotions or the experience meant to bring up hours of melancholy and the hope of that colored dream; a dream from which you wake up stuffed with the desire of memorable facts and admirable creation.

I felt this pleasant smell of something I could not identify so I started to sniff around the house in every corner, hoping I would find the compensation to my morning sadness.  It was just a vague smell of a story with new and old elements, with memories and projections of happenings that never happened.  It was the smell of a trip somewhere to a world of good deeds, of mistery and of the play about being a child; a world full of depth and reverberations in the rhythm of a dance, a world complicated by its own simplicity.

I stopped for a second and imagined the hearts of all the ones who are spending their present on this oval thrown, apparently negligent, somewhere out there in the universal endlessness.  How repetitive and predictable their beatings are. What message does this song of life transmits to us and what makes us so incapable of decoding it?

 We rub our hands and invent new fears with precision and art, we send messages of personal disillusion from the laptop of our soul and then we quietly wait for the result of our creation. We are surprised when x and y and z don’t equal what we expected, and when we do the math of our desires and dreams again, we are disappointed that what’s given is with aminus sign, no matter how many algorithms we would apply. We are convinced that a number with lots of digits would bring us or reduce our beings to normal, so we augment our experiences and over satisfy the glands in charge with daily pleasures until we abandon ourselves in the ’so much’ , and yet little of what we obtain.

 We entered the door that led us to a variety of sensations, an ocean of defeated borings and an infinite sea of stimulants of plastic joy. A door with promises of the new but with no map for returning to the truth, to the pleasant smell of the happenings that never happen.  

When I was more than sure I knew myself very well, I realized that I actually didn’t have any idea who I was. I mean, I am the same responsible citizen for all my deeds and vanities, but lately, I have felt helpless trying to stand up against my own person.

She, my person, wanted to go …away.  

Far away!  

And far away she got without reflecting too much. As quick as you rip off a bandage and don’t think of how it is going to be.  Once she got far away, my person wanted to be back home. Because, you know, grass is always greener at home.

But the grass was not green enough or, at least, not as green as it used to be; or it was green, but the type of green she didn’t like, as it was a green full of unjustifiable airs and unfair nuances.  So she decided the turf you buy far away was better. 

“Ok, Lady!”, I told to my undecided person. “I’ll take you back to the far away place, but this is it. No more transatlantic jokes with me. Aren’t you ashamed? Take your lousy whims, dreams and suitcases and throw them to the bottom of the closet, get out there and grow some roots…“

She thought I was right and after a while she tossed away the little box with emotions and Romanian facts of life. She encouraged herself and dashed through the sea of daily life happenings from across the ocean. Seconds and minutes and hours happening in different languages and colorful attitudes that only have in common the label “Made in China“.

My person found a little, peaceful corner and a store with east European aromas and she was okay for a while,  for as long as you say, “How many days until summer?” 

But, by the time she got the answer, she was crazily looking for the box full of promises from back home.

I have no idea what she’s going to do when she finds it, but right now I try to make her forget today and remember tomorrow.

I don’t know if right now, on the top of the things that scratch my nerves, there is something that could piss me off worse than the LEAF BLOWER. I have nothing against the doer himself. He just makes some honest money, probably without realizing how much mielina he peels off my nerves every Wednesday morning at 10 minutes after seven… sharp!   My “boooooo” goes to the monster he carries on his back that successfully penetrates my circumvolutions and patience in the same time. The poor monster, unadapted to the 21st century, defies any logic and spreads dirt and stinkiness all over with the innocence of a 2 year old whose facts and deeds are useless and ineffective, but yet tolerated.

He puts some money in his pocket while at the same time …he puts some leaves on my patio. He’s there taking the blowing stuff very seriously even if there is nothing to blow. So, I can’t help not to wonder. What if this is a all a conspiracy concocted by some psychiatrists?