Love minus zero/No limit

How much should you blame somebody for his culture, for his roots, and how much should you put on the individual? What are we made of? Are we what we accumulate through self-exercise, practice, human interaction, or are we just simple carriers of the place where we come from? I'm not even asking about the role of biology - I know how much we act as our hormones dictate us, but now I wonder solely about what we are, not what we do.

I know somebody who seems to have the patriarchal attitudes so deeply implanted in him that they became his skeleton, the axis around which he is built and shaped. What is left if you take out what you were taught to be? Do you become less or more? Or simply different, but too different to be able to recognize yourself in the mirror? As a matter of fact, CAN you remove this part?

What was I raised to be? A good wife, a good mother, a good professional? For what role were they preparing me? For nothing specific... they were just raising somebody who should feel happy with him/herself and this would be it. Should I blame my grandfather for giving me the entire freedom to choose? Should I consider that him and my grandmother haven't done their jobs properly, since I do not see in myself anything they voluntarily planted there? Or is it quite the opposite, since they didn't shove anything down my throat, but only gently touched my soul?

I look at the things I value the most - freedom, respect for life and nature, love for animals and everything alive, non-interference in other people's life - and I do not recognize them as being put there by my grandparents. Some I feel as being borrowed, because I admired and respected them at my grandpa, but I am aware of the fact that he never tried to make me become like him. I am, just like anybody else, built around these ideas - but I do not feel as an artifact or some weird sort of cyborg, I feel them as being me, as being what I wanted, chose and decide to leave there. There are many others small reflexes that I have for growing up where I did, and I know they are memories of my childhood and I try to keep them quiet, not to make them the backbone of what I am.

Maybe we actually take from home whatever fits us best. Maybe that is why I took freedom and he took patriarchy - this is what fits us best. Maybe it is not a matter of what we either consciously choose or we simply take, but it is a matter of how flexible we are, of how much we love our frames of existence or we are willing to change them, according to what life has to offer us. Maybe there are non-negotiable, irreconcilable differences between people and no matter how much you love, you simply cannot be with the other. It doesn't matter whether you blame the other or the place he is coming from.. what matters is that you cannot be more than you are. There is a French saying, that you cannot ask even from the most beautiful girl more than she can offer. Maybe it is as simple as this, and all the rest is just for those prone to philosophy - you cannot be more than you are, you cannot become what makes you unhappy no matter how much you love.

Careful with that axe, Eugene

I am afraid of monumental people, of the people who have no doubts, only certainties. It is in my nature to question things, but I try to do it humbly. If it happens to run into an answer, then I try to understand it as being limited to myself, to my own Weltanschauung. I can share it, naturally, but I do not walk around with a Bible in my hand trying to teach THE TRUTH to the barbarians. I don't believe in pyres for the unfaithful and in knives sharpen to cut the flesh which shows the signs of the devil. You doubt, hence you sin. Death to the post-modernists!

The monumental people are those who naturally take the position of judge and executioner. You ask them to evaluate, they do not give you back their opinion but the truth. The one and only, absolute truth. And if you dare to doubt, like you are doubting everything else, the wig flies and the axe is brought to front. You were judged and sentenced for infidelity.

They do not look at the details unless the details help them sentence you. However, the rituals have to be followed to the letter. A "Thank you" has to be said in a certain moment, on a certain tone - there are no implicit 'thank you's, just the loud, spoken, ritualized ones.

Mistake does not belong to their vocabulary. If, by some god-like act, you manage to make them see they have made a mistake, then they will quickly find the circumstances and blame it on them. The most common - you made me do it, with your behaviour. The unsaid 'you deserve it' lurks in the corner, for you to see it without the living monument having to say it out loud.

What confuses them most is playing. If you play around them, with them... they start getting lost and doubting the marble of their own impost. Hence, their first task is to kill the playing from the roots. You laugh when you should cry - let me twist the knife till you finally cry. What the hell, we live by the rules here... And they will end up making you cry - they are made of a tougher substance than you and you will cry hitting your head onto the wall of their certainties.

Welcome to our museum.

Prison break

I hate this country... I hate it from the bottom of my heart and with all the strength I have left after living here for so long. I simply hate it. It is the loneliest place I've ever been to, it's my freakin' personal desert.. sea of emptiness, festival of solitude. Benvenuto in Italia...

I went home for a couple of weeks. I used to go home or anywhere else like on a mission - my mind, my heart, my soul... they were all staying behind, in Italy. The empty shell was somewhere else, but I could never leave my problems behind. They were coming with me, the invisible luggage - not taxed at the airport but being heavily paid for. The Stockholm syndrome overtook me, I guess. But this time... this time it was different. I went home to bury my dog... and there was nothing I could spare, nothing I could leave behind and nothing I could carry extra. I went back home entirely, all of me in the same piece and without the marks of Italy and my life here imprinted in every pore of my skin. And I finally became happy. The dog of my youth brought me back my youth and my peace, as her final gift to me. I owe you one more, my dear Tofa.

Somebody told me I remind him of a calm sea... I first smiled, thinking how wrong he is, and how many storms haunt these waters, how many currents break the depths, how many dead bodies lie on the bottom. But then again, I understood he was right ... I went home and the sea calmed down. No giant waves were tormenting my waters and no wind was blowing off my peace. I was home and it was good. I was home and it was me again, finally. No more addiction to my misery, no more waves of self-compasion and no ambivalence. Just me.. I met spring home. Not like going in a shelter, but like breaking out of a prison. They tied me back now, but I did remember what I used to be. And my term is ending soon. Thank you, Romania... thank you, Tofa.. and thank you, unnamed guy, for helping me notice and badge the break-out.

Happy counting!

Counting is a fascinating human habit. We count everything - how many times one has mistaken, how many times we got hurt, how many times we paid more, how many times we made an extra gesture. We count and ask for more. Nobody cares what you can offer - we live by abstract principles, by iron rules. You have to pay HALF, your fair share. Half of sex, half of the meal, half of the dog food. The perfect abstract half - your share, established somewhere outside reality. No one cares that you CAN'T pay - you have to pay. PAY, DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME??? You don't have the money? WHO GIVES A SHIT, YOU HAVE TO PAY!!! Make an overdraft or blow a guy in the corner of the street. But for fuck's sake, pay your half.. And yes, I haven't told you today how much I love you, right? But you don't appreciate my efforts, my dear dear bitch... You don't respect me, you don't see my efforts. I hate you, bitch.... I hate you too, my love. Let's go count together, for ever.

Things we lost in the fire

There are those days in which you just want to lie down in a corner and die silently. Make no final statement, look for nobody, share nothing - just go away and stay away. Anything to make the noise stop - not the abstract voices, not the imaginary voices, but the very real ones of the people around you. Asking things from you, making claims from you, having expectations from you, demanding you to be perfect and yelling if you are not, blaming you for being whatever you are. Ripping you off for not living by their standards and trying to recompose you into something that you are not. Pushing you into the matrix of what they programmed you to be, without caring that you do not fit in there, reproaching you every step you imperfectly make, any attitude you might have that does not fit the pattern. In a very simple Pavlovian manner, they reward and punish your behaviour - you are supposed to drool every time to bell rings. "This is the dogma, these are the requirements. Live by them, or thou shall be punished. The Inquisition sleeps in your bed."

I am not perfect. Fuck you all, all those you want me to be what you expected me to be. I am not THIS or THAT. Yes, I am imperfect and yes, I make mistakes. So what? Life is flexible, you build it as you go... why would I try to live it your way? Is my way perfect? Who the fuck knows and who the fuck cares... I am happy with what I am and I do not want to take YOU, all of YOU and any of YOU anymore.

The warm wind

It should have rained ... She became wind and cloud today, my dear Tofa and I wish I could feel her coming back. But she preferred to fly for a while, and let me take home just her ashes. I kept watching the chimney, to see the smoke coming out, but it was nothing there. Then I looked at the shadow of the building and I saw how it was reflecting a wave of heat from the incinerator. That's how she went over the rainbow... as a warm wind. How could I think she can become grey smoke? The dog of my youth is now gone for good, not even her little body is with us anymore. And it was the hardest decision ever to nod towards the guy and let him take her and put her into the incinerator.

My ex came to the funeral. It is so strange to see somebody you've shared your life with after a while ... He is a stranger in front of you, and yet such a familiar stranger. None can fake anything ... you can lie to a stranger, or just hide from him. But this stranger knows you way too well, and you can't seem what you are not. Whether you changed or not it's barely relevant... it is still you and it is still him. And in front you lies the dog of your youth, of the youth of both... And you both cry for your lost youth, for all the "could have been"s but were not, for the time you had together and is forever gone.... nostalgia, not regret for not having it anymore. You cry for the little dog who loved you both till death, for the loss, for her and for yourself.

We waited for some time and then they brought me the urn. It was warm, from the ashes inside. And then I took her home. Memories in a box, life burnt and packed and an inscription - "Meet me at the end of the rainbow".... where true beauty meets the eye of the beholder.

In this farewell
There's no blood
There's no alibi
'cause I've drawn regret
From the truth of a thousand lies.

So let mercy come
And wash away
What I've done.
I'll face myself
To cross out what I've become
Erase myself
And let go of what I've done

Put to rest
What you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands
Of uncertainty.

For what I've done
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I am forgiving what I've done.

(Linkin Park, What I've Done)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oI8h9Wf7LjU

Immortality and other life dilemmas

Until I was like 22-23 I thought I was immortal. I was having this overwhelming feeling that, if I decide to sit on the rails before the train, something would happen and the train would not reach me. It was the same for everything else - we were living suspended in time, in a world of young, healthy adults.

Then, my first boss died. I still remember the smell of a dead body, that too sweet odor of rotting flesh. I suddenly came to incorporate a new concept - never. I was looking at him lying there, dead and pale, and it struck me - I will NEVER see him again. Until then, it sounded very vague... "never" meant sometime during the rest of my life, which was almost entirely in front of me. In this case, it was different - I was NEVER EVER going to see him again.

I started to grasp the idea of death and dying. But it was still happening outside my private garden. Those I love cannot be struck by death. They are, like me, immortal. Just to disprove my theory (well, his heart condition contributed a lot also), my grandfather died. I was NEVER going to see him again, but this time it was a painful never. And I started to fear death ... not in an obsessive way, but as a steady presence in a corner of my mind - we all die, one die I will die. I should do my best to avoid it.

I lived the last years fearing mortality and having this secret hope that my grandpa's death was an accident, that dying is something that happens eventually. Which is, actually, but that eventually is not suspended in time but actively coming towards us, towards me. I didn't want to get old, I didn't want to die. And I wanted to keep the ones I love around, for as long as I live. And then... then we can all go. But not before, that NEVER is not going to happen to me again.

I idiotically believed Tofa can't die. It was not as it's supposed to be, the kind and loved ones have to live. Death is an undeserved punishment, so it can't happen to her. It did. But her last gift to me was this - I don't want to be immortal anymore. I don't like the idea of dying, but now I somehow realized that I will die, that the day is coming, and I do not fear it anymore. Who the fuck wants to live forever, and keep losing the ones around him, over and over again?

There is no beauty in death, but it is even less in living and losing what you love. Wait for me in the dogs' Heaven, Tofa. If there has to be a Heaven, then dogs are fully worth of it. It might take some time, but one day I will come to meet you. I wouldn't want to stay in a world that will NEVER have you back.

Wait for me, at the other end of the rainbow.

What do you do when you are in pain? Do you cease any form of regular life, or you keep moving and breathing like before, doing all the small gestures you used to do, continuing the daily routine?

What do you do when you feel guilty? Unforgivably guilty for the death of someone you love? For the death of somebody who died (like she lived) waiting for you? Do you still drink your daily coffee, surf the web and wait for the funerals? Pain does not freeze you, death does not freeze the universe. Everything else keeps moving and you keep moving. You cry and you move. In the same day your dearest one died, you eat and drink water and breath as usual. You are alive.

She died today. Yesterday actually, around 7 am. They couldn't tell me the exact hour of death. She was "the dog with diabetes". She was Tofa, but not for them. For me, she was the only Tofa that has ever existed or ever will. She died waiting for me to come home. And I haven't, I planned the trip for the coming Wednesday. I didn't think that death can wait, I simply excluded death from any calculations. Forgivable? Maybe, if I were in my 20s. But I am a 34 yrs old adult. I should have known, I should have listened, I should have thought.

It's strange how we lose the pain through words. We talk about one thing and pain exhales, it gets out of you like through some word-shaped pores. So I will talk about Tofa, pushing the pain out. In the end, pain does not matter - I am alive. But even if this blog has only one more reader, then somebody else will hear about her.

(RIP. Tofa: Feb/Mar 1998 - Feb. 21, 2009)

I found her 11 years ago - April 30, 1998. She was a small puppy and I took her home, for a portion of milk. I thought I'd take her back on the street, where I found her. I didn't, I couldn't. She started to count on me and I couldn't let her down. I did it after, I did it now - she waited for mommy to come till her last breath. It didn't happen.

She stayed with us - she learnt not to pee in the house, then I tried to teach her not to chew my perfumes and books but she kept "reading" and "sniffing". She took my moods without a blink - she loved me like only dogs can do. Me as I am, without any mask, with all my defects. I loved her back, I loved her from all my heart, but I was offering her so little, comparing to what I could have... I always thought there is time. Not true, our time together ended and I cannot keep any of my promises.

For a few good years, she's been living with my grandmother and another dog. I left my home country and I left both of them there. From the 5 dogs I had (6 actually, but one stayed with my ex), I took 3 with me, and 2 I left with my grandmother - the smallest, nicest, sweetest ones, Tofa and Ugly. I missed them a lot, but I couldn't find a solution - I can barely afford the 3 dogs I have with me, and nobody else would hold these 3 (for very objective reasons, they are kind as crocodiles to any stranger, be it dog or human). So I made the most rational choice - I left the 2 nice ones in the care of my grandma and I took the 3 big bad ones with me.

Tofa stayed. She had what she needed and she was loved - but mommy wasn't there, and she was always waiting. I was going home every 3-6 months and she was SO happy... An old dog re-becoming a puppy, playing and jumping like a little deer. You were so gracious, so beautiful... my dear, dear Tofa.

About one year ago, we discovered she had diabetes. We started to give her insuline, changed her diet... she seemed to be ok. But she was not neutered and it was impossible to have any surgery untill the blood-sugar level was stable. About one month ago, she started to be on heat. And from there on, everything went crazy - her body wasn't taking the insuline anymore. She stopped eating and she was fed through perfusions for about 10 days. I knew her state, but I planned the trip for Wednesday. What is to be forgiven here? Objective reasons? None should have mattered, my girl was dying... while I was thinking she is just having a bad episode. Not because I was not informed, but because I ... I simply couldn't see her dying.

She was my first dog, to me she was eternal. My mind couldn't grasp the idea that one day Tofa will die. She did, and I still find it surreal. I can't believe that she is not in the same world with me.

I'm sorry, baby. I am so sorry... forgive me, I know you can. I am sorry for all the long walks I promised you but never had time to make them, for all the love you invested in me and I couldn't return it as you deserved. I am so sorry I was not near you, to help you pass into the other world, to hold your paw and tell you mommy will always love you. Forgive me, my dearest, dearest creature. I won't forgive myself, but who cares? I am alive, while you are not.

Forgive me and wait for mommy for one more time, at the other end of the rainbow.

Laymen's politics

I've been watching lately the most recent war between Georgia and Russia. Almost surreal and so many times reminding me of the Romanian Revolution from almost 20 yrs. ago. "The terrorists are poisoning the water pipes" then, "the Georgians are bombing the city sewage"; "our troops are attacked by foreign terrorists" then, "there are black mercenaries among Georgian troops" now. And so on and so forth. One would expect the propaganda to undergo more changes... but there are, most probably, some "oldies but goldies" that will always work like a Swiss watch. Like the Russian costume of "rescuers", for example. Since World War II, Russia has been saving the working class heroes from everywhere, particularly from those countries who didn't like communism too much: East Germany 1953, Hungary 1956, Czechoslovakia 1968. Nowadays, Russia is saving a different category (Russian nationals) from a different threat (ethnic cleansing), but the essence is the same. I guess we can call it post-colonialism, but I wouldn't want to start a discourse a la Spivak. Moreover, I cannot be suspected of an unbiased perspective. I was born and lived under communism for 15 yrs, in the SE Europe communist block, where USSR/Russia doesn't have so many fans.

Of course, there are many opinios about this. Some try to argue that South Ossetia does not want to belong to Georgia and, since most of South Ossetians were given Russian citizenship ... you can guess the continuation. However, if this is the case, then I wonder why PKK is labeled as terrorist organization for trying to create a state independent of Turkey, or why ETA's ideals of an independent Basque country make them terrorists as well. Who says that in South Ossetia there were no conflicts and that the independence is claimed through Gandhi-type methods? Furthermore ... regardless how the conflict looks like from inside, I still cannot understand Russia's place into this. Politics... justification is now in the eye of the actor, while the beholder just stares ;)