A Suitcase of Thoughts

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?

Neighbors! An almost extinct species. At least, the ones I used to know when, as a kid I was pushing my red bike on the pavement in front of my apartment building with one hand while eating the fresh end of the bread with jam with the other hand.

The neighbors were Tanti Maria from the first floor who used to make us lollypop candy out of burnt sugar; the neighbors were Andreea and Emilia with whom I used to exchange the doubles of my napkins collection; the neighbors were Nenea Sandu from the ground floor who could never come out of the house but who used to stay in his window all day long couching our games and furies; neighbors were all those people saying “Hello!” even to us, the snot-nose kids, and those who left the checkers game on the bench in front of the building and rushed to help Gherasim , the new neighbour, push his couch up the stairs.

Neighbors were … beautiful. Old, young, fat , tall, bearded or bald…they were beautiful.

Time, times and facts gave birth to a new species. The surrogate neighbors. Tanti Maria was replaced by a naturally born upset wife with a sharp look, voice and attitude. Andreea and Emilia are those two dolls whose blonds curls and parents’ ambition must transform them into models. They don’t have time for napkins… “Good Day!” is obsolete, unuseful and not cool at all.

The gypsy tune that starts with “of” and “aoleu” and ends with thousands of euros is the key element for the inter-floor relationship. It might have given birth to beautiful friendships, drunken parties or fights, richly spiced up with swear words, but the tune remains an important social fact. As important as the entrance door that must be made out of metal and with at least three locks, as important as the windows that must be termopan and embellished with vertical blinds, as important as the car that must be financially overweight, as important as the teacher from the third floor who must necessarily be “Mrs. Teacher” and, last but not the least, as important as the policeman from the second floor with the pretense of a law school graduate and airs of a tribe leader who says when, where, and why or why not you qualify for being accepted by the crowd and by himself as well. And on top of all these, an intimidating attitude and few ounces of impertinence (even more if your consciousness can afford it) guarantee the success.

I don’t know why I left so far away. Maybe I got intimidated. Maybe I was just afraid I would disappoint my fellow people by not being able to align my reality to theirs.

The thing is that without waiting too much, I found myself punched right in my nose by a brand new reality. And by new neighbors. The “Beings” neighbors. I named them Beings because they just…are. I wouldn’t go that far to say they… exist because that implies more than the simple status of being a being. I share the livable space  with them. I’ve tried sharing a story, a good laugh or my delicious waffle cake with them but… Nothing! BEINGS have no curiosities, no questions, no frustrations, no desires, no indiscretions, no thoughts… I share the same space with people with no thoughts. I’ve tried to launch a thought or at least half of one (anything would have been good) by pushing the thoughts button of one of the neighbors. Nothing! I’ve tried again this time with extra politeness and some Poiana chocolate, highly admired by any mortal American. Nothing! “Maybe she doesn’t speak English, as she’s Asian”, I thought. “I should try some smiling as it is so very in fashion here anyway“. I quickly mount a large smile on my face, from one ear to the other one and I spell an even nicer “H-e-l-l-o!” out for her. I got a cute reaction from the bunny living in a luxury bunny apartment on the patio of the neighbor across the street. But that was all!

I changed neighbors; I forgot to change myself. I forgot to want less, to expect nothing and to not hope for anything.

I’ve recently celebrated Christmas (the temporality of the events in my life is interesting; the way they crowd and compete to be the most recent.) 

For reasons independent from my wish, desire or whim, we celebrated here, in the country from where Christmas used to come to Romania by TV every year, loaded with jingle bells, flying reindeers and perfect packages with big bows under perfect trees adorned with shiny lights. Perfect ones, of course!

I went, together with Bebeloi (my other half, in charge with the equilibrium and mental health of our relationship) to purchase the perfect Christmas tree, as is required of those who want to have the status of being the beneficiaries of a perfect Christmas. On our way to the location where we were supposed to buy our little piece of Christmas joy, there came to my mind this Romanian site I accidentally googled the other day. They were inviting you to a savory Christmas.

“I want one”, I tell to myself, more decided than ever.

Now, let’s see. What are the ingredients for such a thing?

The tree, nice presents, a fire in the chimney, good food, carols…

The guy selling perfect Christmas trees nicely asks me what size the joy of our holiday was. I tell him that the size doesn’t really matter but we would like some savory coming with our tree, if possible. He smiles at me with a sort of complicity in his eyes and then he asks me to follow him. From a stack of tall, green, perfect Christmas trees, he takes out the most perfect one with the afferent savory and tells me, “Buy two and I’ll give you the extra savory for free.” “No, thanks,” I say. What am I supposed to do with that much savory? There are other things on my shopping list.

Ok! I put up the tree, gave it water and nutrients to keep its perfectness unaltered, adorned it and then waited for the savory to embrace me and make me feel the way those Romanians promised. There was some savory floating in the air already but nothing serious. And I wanted the serious version of it.

I get a little bit upset and promise myself I won’t give up. I light up a fire in the Californian must-have – the fireplace, although something doesn’t feel right. With about 86 degrees outside, it feels quite disrespectful to the beautiful wheather to have a fire warming up the house. But if this is the recipe to obtain my savory Christmas, I’ll do it no matter what.

I grab our cat’s new bed, wrap it in a shiny, red wrapping paper imprinted with bells ( jingle ones) attach a big, red bow to the new born, perfect Christmas present and throw it quickly under the tree. I repeat the same operation with the rest of the gifts, which were planned to be brought by Santa in their original bags.

But again, if I want savory, I need to put all the effort into this.

Overall, I have my perfect tree, the perfect presents and fire, Stefan Hrusca in HD, rolled cabbage in the crock-pot, piftie in the fridge, panettone and a good, coarse wine sent by my mom… PERFECT!

But there was still something missing…

I access the site again and recap: tree, fire, red bows, bells…

I walk around, scratching the top of my head and I just can’t figure it out.

Maybe I should have purchased the second tree, the one with the free savory. Who knows, I might have given the tree to a neighbor and kept the extra savory for me.

I’ve recently turned two.

It’s been seven hundred and… something days since I gave a push to the snowball of this American adventure. The snowball kept rolling down. It ran over bumps, it got stuck here and there, it gathered wonders and existential debris but it kept rolling down without any stops.

Now, what can I say?

I’m watching it and cannot help thinking, “What am I going to do with it? No doubt, it’s nice and big and well structured, admired and envied, it’s the ideal snowball. But what should I do with it?”

I can store it in a cold place so I have it forever, but where can I find that much coldness? I have some detachment stored in the warehouse of my soul, but this is it. I don’t think it’s enough.

I can, as well, let it melt away, but I’m thinking it would be a waste of all those laws of physics, dynamics and the soul that contributed to putting it together.

Maybe I should just forget about it and give a push to another one.  Simpler this time… one with less airs and pretensions, one that is not so concerned  with the perfect shape of an ‘authentic’ snow ball.