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My Failure to Remember

I’ll soon add a new year to the row of the other ones and, as some people say, this is an important one for a woman (or for a man; I don’t want to be a misandrist). As this is the way it should be, I started to weave nostalgias and sum up the things I’ve never done but I wanted to or the things I forgot to do, for reasons even I am not aware of.
I forgot:
- to forgive, not just to say that;
- to pack a sandwich and a bottle of water and lose my steps
somewhere in a park for hours;
- to talk to the ocean and ask him if he ever feels lonely;
- to crazily dance and laugh when I actually feel like crying out my
thoughts;
- to go to the store and look for some joy on the shelf;
- to look into somebody’s eyes and be able to see that it is actually love
there;
- to close my eyes and wake up on a green wheat field, murmuring its
anxiety that the clouds are gathering and the wind won’t shut up;
- to expect unrealistically little;
- to understand and accept without “but…” or “well…”;
- the moment, and I idiotically chose the hours;
- the words but I chose to speak;
- to take a deep breath and feel lucky because I can do it;
- that a lot means very little and everything means nothing;
- the snowdrops;
- that I don’t belong only to myself;
- to kill number 2 and replace it with 3;
- to put the Moon and stars on a night sky;
- to see with my own eyes;
- the fresh green and I rushed myself to color in grey;
- to smell tulips;
- to listen to sounds and I chose the unfinished symphony of noise;
- to just sit somewhere and simply don’t care;
- to fall asleep hugging myself;
- to widely open the window until all the coldness gets inside;
- to badly sing a song and burst into laughing;
- to learn about small things and feel like I did a big thing;
- to pick some wild flowers and give them to someone who doesn’t like
me;
- to have colored dreams;
- to print out one thousands copies of “who am I?” and spread them
around;
- to put a snail back in the grass and apologize because he might not
have wanted to end up there;
- to enter an ugly room and feel like it’s the Louvre just because
somebody calls it “palace”;
- to write something in the sand and quickly delete it after that because
it’s my secret;
- to ask and wait for the answer;
- to see people giving each other heart shaped gifts and feel happy for
this;
- to be the only “YES” in an ocean of “NOs”;
- to count memories up to one hundred;
- to call a dear person just to listen to her;
- to care today about what I ignored yesterday;
- to remember that this moment, this one right now, will never come back;

Somebody said that if you can’t go back to yesterday to start a new beginning, then you should start today a new ending.

The curiously long case of Benjamin Button

I didn’t see the Oscar Ceremony because I was at the movies last night. I saw “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”. Pretty good, I’d say. I give it about three stars, if anyone asks me. Good plot, interesting idea, well done special effects, a little too long (was it because of that clock running backwards, I wonder?). I liked it and I’ll file it under the I’D NEVER SEE IT AGAIN BUT IT IS WORTH SEEING IT cathegory. Now, I also understand the parallel between Button and mister Forest Gump from the movie of the same name.

Note: I stole the title from my husband’s blog, because I liked it. He also thinks that the sequel will be “Benjamin Button 3″ as the first … two happened last night.

A story of a loved cat

Everybody loves their mothers, their fathers, uncles and grandmas, peace and sunsets. I love them all, as well, but in addition, I love “mieunel”. His name is Stanford, or Strudelicu, or Babicu, or Burdihanu or three times as many. He found a place in my soul two years ago, when he was 3 months old, under 3 pounds and the noisiest fluff around that animal shelter.

We couldn’t take him home the first time as he didn’t weigh enough so we had to wait until he gained the missing ounces. He did his best by eating like it was the last day of his life but it didn’t help too much, he was still under the proper weight. As soon as they put him back into his cage, he went straight to the litter box and made a long “caca”, and his face was saying: “I held this, as long as I could, but it was for nothing.” That was the moment when I fell in love with my little tiger.

Why Stanford? He’s from a family of two other brothers whose names were Harvard and Yale. We liked his name and decided to keep it, thinking that he might be a “big” cat someday.

 

 

 

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It’s the weekend! Again…

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.

A Valentine with headaches

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.

The Lost Highway

I’ve finally seen San Francisco. Why finally? Well, I think I was the only one left in this part of the world who didn’t have a story about that “different” city.

Of course, it rained, soft and petty, just enough to get on my nerves and spite me. I still had my share of little breaks, though. Long enough to allow me to cast an eye to the red bridge, with its emergency phone number for the suicidal, to Al Capone’s prison and to the gay neighborhood, where you can buy chocolate covered marshmallows shaped like a penis. It aroused my curiosity and I felt I should point to it out, but I only discretely smiled. I didn’t take any pictures as I was interrupted by two guys holding hands, eagerly waiting for me to step away so they could purchase their erotic treat. They were not smiling at all …

Beside these, we fell into the tourist traps ourselves and tired out our steps in commonly frequented locations, mingling our curiosities with those of Germans, Polish and French tourists, all hectically wandering around, feverishly skimming “San Francisco – A Guide Book”, in search of new memories. We also gathered some, but I’m not going to narrate our peregrination story here because I’m afraid I might experience the same situation I went through with my lady dentist today. I hadn’t volunteered, she asked me. Where were we, what did we do… When I was more excited sharing my story she politely smiled and interrupted me to ask about…clam chowder, if I had eaten any.
Yes, I had!
Just let me recite my story about the Golden Gate, and Lombard Street, and downtown…
But the clam-chowder gained better reviews, and it was that moment when I understood that I was the only one there getting high on what I had seen.

There is something, though, I need to tell about, no matter what. I know that any mortal, living on the west coast, has already seen San Francisco, but how many of them had the chance to admire the breathtaking scenery from PCH, the lost highway, somewhere between the mountains and the ocean, in February? When it drizzles here and there and then the Sun comes out revealing nature in its richness and grandeur. When the ocean gets so close that you feel you need to drive closer to the left. When you are the only car driving on the meandering road which is presenting new paintings and sensations with every loop. When you are literarily lost, at nature’s expense and keeping your eye on the gas gauge, praying not to run out of fuel right there in the middle of nowhere but coquetting with the idea of such an adventure.

Beautiful! There’s nothing else to say…

pe coasta Pacificului 

 

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RAwGrLRLRLRLrrLgLRL!!!!

I don’t know if it’s the rain but … something must be blamed

Ruined weekend in Laguna Beach
Happy Anniversary without …
Anniversary
Terrace only for party of 4, party of 2 eats inside
Hotel room with an ocean view and a large hole in the budget, already “taken” by a cockroach (economy?!?)
Furious bags back in the car
And leave
And such beautiful weather…
How about my ocean view?
Corndog at the beach and promises of San Francisco next weekend
This weekend
Not any way
With a plan
By car
Crazy way, because you can’t see anything by plane
No freeway,
The long route
With an ocean view
We’ll get there…
Saturday, Alcatraz
And seals
And cable car
And seals
Sunday or so
And Golden Gate Park
And Chinatown
All with a view…somewhere

And now it’s raining
Bad
And everybody’s happy
As it so rarely rains in California
But when it rains, it pours down all my joy

Out …

“De cacat”, Romanians!

I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t read Romanian news anymore, but it’s too late, I’m addicted. The more I want to read about our authentic values, about things that would caress souls that have travelled afar, the stronger the words about my fellow citizens appear: “De cacat, Romanians!”

 Ignoring the bad smelling connotation, what else is there hidden behind these words?

 Thefts in Switzerland, rapings in Spain, crimes in Italy. And they all are of a Romanian brand, because, you know … it’s in fashion.

 The Swiss are really upset. They want no Romanian foot to step on their alpine meadows. Italians are ready to fight and set on fire all owners of a Romanian identity card.  The Spanish carry repulsion within their pockets everyday, just in case they might meet a Romanian.

 I move my eyes to a spot somewhere on the blue sky that enters my living room through the window and try to figure out what exactly I feel. I didn’t put my head down in shame, so it means I’m not ashamed. And if I am not feeling ashamed, then I really don’t have any reason to be.

 I left behind a Romania where people steal and bribe and politeness has no definition, where the only values are the material ones, where coarsness is a good quality and cheating equals intelligence. A Romania where everybody is smart and all the people around are stupid (especially the ones who manage to prove the contrary). Yes, Romania is a beautiful country. It’s a pity is populated. Populated by mediocrity and airs, by arrogance and bad taste, by pathetic poor human beings with limited knowledge and no desire for getting beyond their own condition. Yes, all these might be true but NO, Romanians are not shitty! I know this because of all the exceptions that contradict it.

 My Romania is hard to live in but honest and my Romanians mean quality people, people who I’ve met or I wanted to meet, modest but valuable. Romanians can be mean and envious and stupid but those are not my Romanians. And if they’ve ever been, I politely apologized and turned my back while I searched for something I thought would fit me and my expectations better.

 Yes, a few Romanians went to some 5 star countries to do bad deeds. What do I care? There is Justice to take care of them. Some call them crows, some say they are gypsies, some believe they are just ’Romanians.’ We can easily call them Hungarians or British or Chinese or Somalian.

 I don’t care!

 They are not my Romanians.

 Nothing from what they do, defines me as a Romanian because my Romania is not theirs.

 We are just put on the same boat by the media. The same media I used to serve a while ago and from which I divorced due to my principles that would never align to what I like to call ‘propaganda behaviour.’

 The media is the one that applies labels and nourishes people’s desire for sensationalism in a sort of masochistic attitude. And, let’s admit it, Romanians are thrilled when it comes about yelling and criticizing. If there were only positive news, Romania would become a depressed, inert country. This never happens, we are champions at overcovering an event, providing daily pleasure to the aroused readers.

 And reactions are always erectile!

 I’m not the best to judge things, but in my opinion, Romanian criminals and their acts in and outside the country are not a journalistic subject. They are actually no subject at all. They are the undesired consequence of a frustrated, poorly educated or mentally challenged people. They are, unfortunately, the reality of an imperfect world, but they don’t define Romania.

 For every bad Romanian I can give you one thousand good ones, from which maybe 10 are exceptional.

 Why will be all defined based on the actions of some? Why wouldn’t I want to speak Romanian anymore? Because, instead of cleaning our dirt and painting the fence white, we’d rather scratch more at the dirt and put a lot of effort into this. So much effort that, in the end, being worn out, all that’s there left is to invoke the bad smelling dejection.

 I declare: I’m Romanian and I’m odourless!

Oooops, we forgot to laugh!

I went to the theatre to see Paul Blart: Mall Cop; “I’m sorry, I did a bad thing and I won’t do it again!“. I don’t know what really urged me to see this movie. It must have been the promise of the comedy of the year or the sweet memory of that convivial Kevin James from King of Queens, but my eyebrow lifted in disapproval after the first five minutes, even though I had handfuls of popcorn richly coated in butter, the generator of cinematic pleasure.

 Bebeloi tried to laugh a few times so we didn’t declare the evening totally compromised, while I was there praying that, at least this time, a minute would have less than 60 seconds.

 Mall Cop is to my, of course, unproficient opinion, such a flimsy, lightweight story, it makes me surprised it was even released. What I mean is that, when it comes about movies, the American consumer takes everything very seriously, their expectations are high and there is no place for errors.

In these two little years of America (they still have baby teeth), I’ve seen tons of good movies, movies that saturated my desire for value, that had outstanding acting and good directing, whether fictions or nonfictions. But this new face of Kevin James and his production have nothing to do with what was intended to be (or maybe not?) a quality moment of laughter.

Just a thought

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.