In so many ways my life is a giant box of Proustian cakes. Take that away from me, and I am unable to strike the slightest in depth reasoning, conversation or whatever one might want to use phrases for. Most of the times tasting my madeleine happens within a vortex of little big facts, and I shipwreck on the arid shore of lists. As of my recent past, I have not made it a secret that I am tired and bored and generally lagging behind (social) life and its complexity of aspects. Furthermore, I feel like everybody wants a piece of me with every demand. No communication is simple, no feedback without its thousand clarifications to follow or to digress. Nothing is made easy for me, no straight-line action, every development is a plot. Bit by bit, every atom in the universe of my close proximity is conspiring to wear me down. Yes, I know, the doctor said I should take those pills. Anyway, the city is melting under the sun, nobody called for the garbage car, it smells like New York over here, and trust me this is the only thing we have in common with that place.
Taking time in reverse, I invite you to taste my little lunatic cookies. And talking about taste, let’s move to the sense most related: smell. As I was arriving to work today I finally parked my car on my usual spot, the only difference being the pile of garbage spilled in the middle of the road. I decided to ignore the scene, and moved on to the non-stop grocery to grab a sandwich. This is the very downtown of Bucharest, mind you. Cars are parked aggressively, at least two wheels on the side-walk, the streets are rather narrow and never straight, they pour their irregular flows into oversized boulevards. There is a work-road every now and there, strategically strangling the circulation. Passers-by have to survive the heat of the day, the rudeness of drivers and find their way through inexistent spaces, in spite of all laws of Physics. Riding a bicycle is a hazard for your health, or at least an extreme sport, provided you find your ride somewhat agreeable. Some buildings are new, some are breathing an old air, some are old, some are being re-done. It is not that unusual to find sheer shabbiness neighboring against affluence and even pointless luxury. Such is the case of this little shop next to the Italian restaurant I like. For a long time I thought it was an old dying business of some sort, where an old master of a trade was trying to earn his living, quite unsuccessfully if you asked me. This morning, as I almost bumped into this guy, it all dawned on me. It’s not his shop, it’s his house. It must have been some shop of some sort, it still has a sign out, but he only uses for dwelling. Insane and unsanitary, as he was emptying his piss from a two liter plastic bottle of cheap still water. A thin liquid trail was headed for the road uniting the pool of urine at the base of the tree with the rest of the world. And the smell was getting high in the hot air, making me think a thousand frame-thoughts about the misery around just to forget everything the instant I got to a safe distance. We don’t like to think about an old man’s urine, do we.
In further retrospect I might add nothing works properly. I left my mobile at home, I know, I should’ve taken the memory pills, but no, and decided I would leave it there for the day, since I needed to do some quiet and non-glorious reporting. As work progressed during the day I of course needed to make different inquiries to contacts stored in my mobile only.
Other major hick-ups of the last days, proving Mercury is retrograde at full speed, were arranging a shooting at the airport, dinner from hell with classy diplomats speaking a language I only studied briefly during my first grade, missing Van Dyk’s concert although I have purchased two tickets two months in advance. And installing air conditioning to counter the heat wave. Oh! Also not taking pictures in more than one month now. I can officially be dismissed as an amateur photographer.
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