And this
moment feels so great. It’s a part of the universal conscious, as most people
say these days without really being conscious. I left my hometown penniless,
searching for the undercover truth which most of the time stretches just in
front of us. Jazz is what I like because it
brings the dream and breaks it in a high tone while one lingers among uncommon
situations. Hate is the answer to your love brother. Stop your quest and stay
where your god seated you. In this morning I went out walking. There I realized
what I stand for now. I am the unholy piece from the eternal mechanism that
runs around for many years now. That broken piece.
I leave my
wallet on the counter as I stand next to the bar stool. My finger points at the
waitress that passes by like a tornado, fiercely approaching the tip left on
table number one. She grabs the money without hesitation and with a dexterous
move she dips it into her bra. I explore this image, contemplating over the
impossibility of mankind to disrupt the course. This time she turns back at me
with a demonized smile and asks if she can be of any service.
Two beers, one
whiskey with two cubes, and a glass of water! I shout as the band starts playing.
The boys start in a fast tempo, picking up bits of Gillespie’s harmonic structure
as they continue improvising, I grab my first beer. My foot starts tapping on
the rhythm as I encompass the atmosphere of the surroundings in a quick glance.
After gulping away the first bottle I take the second and enter my humming
mode. After all, don’t need approvals as the band is a bebop feature of the
bar and my face is well known here. My moods are also known in the same
measure. But the new lady doesn’t know much about anything. I guess observing
how she gapes at my shouts of “Re-Bop!” after every number finishes. I take my
coat after soaking the glass of whisky and step outside without hesitation. The
suffocating atmosphere grabs my lungs and my breath enters into an impasse.
The narrow
streets soured me and I can’t smile anymore. “Mircea!” A drunken demon shouts.
I look at him and there he stands, on the sea front waving at my presence. “Is
he real?” I wonder approaching the imagery. I collapse underneath society like
a snail caught by the patrician’s shoe.
I wonder whether
or not, to continue without my shell. I feel discovered as they call my name.
The sacred thing you get as a new-born. That’s another reason for not telling
them my real name. But somehow they found out. “Mircea!” they shout from their
backyard. “Mircea!” they shout from the narrow streets. With one step I follow
with the other I go back. Need to change things.
I am traveling
from Bucharest with a low speed train. The night is smiling through the window
glass. My arms are covered by different scars as my body is weakened from yesterday’s
parties. In the same compartment the girl sitting next to me is devouring a
dead rabbit. The locomotive mechanic is very drunk from consuming large
quantities of alcohol because Christmas is close. Thousands of blooded rabbits are
struggling under the wheels of steel. But no one is interested in this maybe just
the wolf or the fox waiting in the bushes for the train to disappear into the
darkness.The rabbit-eating lady offers me a piece of dead meat. I decline. On the next station an old couple enters. The man is drunk. The woman
is a grey mare full of proverbs and advices. The drunken man goggles towards the fox-head
lady while she smiled unveiling her blooded teeth. They start feasting together
on the dead animal. The wind blows towards the locomotive’s headlights.
From the right side snowballs hit the window
with power. I am thinking of my shadow as I leave it behind. Farewell!
After a seven
hour journey I arrive in my hometown. It’s snowing. On the platform some dogs
welcome me with enchanting barks. I salute the happy family and enter the city
through the side stage. As a child I left behind an unfinished snowman. I forgot
to offer him the char eyes to manage in life. It’s a pity for now he’s probably
wandering around, searching for his creator. As I insert the key into the door
lock a strange sentiment covers my existence. I’m back, I tell myself as I push
the old creaking wooden door. A dead air breaks my nose. The lights are brought
on by the electrical commutator. As I wonder through the rooms I stumble upon a
tent in the dorm. I enter. There, paper sheets are thrown together with books,
socks, a sleeping bag and other objects placed in a disorderly order. The image
brings concerns over the lone inhabitant. A
fight against yourself is the hardest battle; to defeat yourself is the most
glorious victory. The words are laid down on a piece of paper. I also lie
down in the tent. I embrace the papers, the books and the socks. It all becomes
a part of my current state as my spirit molds onto the energy beamed by the
tent. I remain two hours in a
contemplating state until my stomach howls after his pleasures. I have to enter
the food laboratory and prepare a magical potion for it. But then I see the
unplugged fridge. Food is scarce in this house as no one is here to provide. In
the North parts you have to become one of the predators. Therefore I exit the
apartment in search for a midnight snack. The street of my childhood welcomes
me with snow-drifts. My feet plunge into the fluffy snow and leave marks for
the other passers. In this time my mind is drifting as a car on icy roads. I
abolish all sinister thoughts and keep walking towards the 24hour booze/food-serving
entity that I knew well enough as an adolescent. Though I still wonder where
Leibniz might be. Since the one letter found in the tent indicated the peaks of
the Carpathians. I assume he went there, pushed by angst and other devilish
existentialist undetermined factors. A man should not be left alone with his fears;
depression always follows and grips his soul. I find the place and enter
without knocking on heaven’s door. The same woman stands behind the counter.
She smiles as she reminds my visage. I order my usual sauerkraut with sausage.
It tastes the same after all this time. Nothing changed at least for the recipe
and the woman behind the magic. She also throws in a full pint of beer on the
house as she is really fond of arriving well and healthy back to her little
establishment. “Love, people are mean these days. I am really glad to see ya.
The big city can be very dangerous. I’ve heard many stories you know.” She
keeps me company as I am the only one in the late hour. I finish my doings and
leave her happy, sticking the money deep in her own personal piggy-bank. She is
happy, another client, some more currency.
When I exit
the prestigious food providing entity I think of where to go. My steps guide me
to the river side. On the banks of the river I was always feeling speculative
over society’s demands, a place where dreams collapsed on the wall of reality
and provided answers for my doubtful questions. I fly away like a butterfly in
a dreamy atmosphere neglecting winter’s cold.
There, I could grind the grains of truth away from life’s broken mill. I
am looking to strain a purely quantity of good and evil. Only then I will
discover enough to understand. Dawn comes out naked in the distance, as nymph
appearances dance on chirping noises coming from the field birds. Not far from where I stand, a hut rises
majestically between willows and a dogberry. The entrance is guarded by a great
white dog that looks after the girls’ dance. I must go inside the hut. I invoke
my willpower and step closer to the animal. I cover my body with flowers and
approach the beast. Only to realize after awhile my frozen flesh under a snow bank,
and above my childhood snowman waving at me and laughing without a mouth. He
says he changed it for a twosome of eyes and blames me for his past handicap. I
hope on a case of sever hallucinations provoked by my tent discoveries combined
with a series of vodka doubles on my way to the river. Just to get the chill
out of my bones. But this? This went too far. I try to whisk the heavy weight, to
recover slightly from snowman visions and penetrate reality with protruding
eyes.
I get together
with the sun and follow my previous snow marks. I enter my room where I keep the
treasure. There, other papers fly under my eyes. Words fuse on a paper. “I can not forgive you ... I hate that you
have no power to say no, analyze your moods and feelings, you get lost in so
many words and decisions.You are lost in your foggy thoughts.”
As the old
river flows, my eyes are filled with watery memories of those who were and now
they’re not. As the old bridge articulates under the weight of the passers, my
legs start to shake as I watch me old clique
chanting on the other bank. And this moment will be washed away like everything
that flows and strays.
