Fragrance (novel) [9]
Pr. Dr. Dorin Octavian Picioruș
Fragrance
(novel)
*
And we, who wants to say, we, the sole of the country, remain unwritten, sir! Instead of letter 10, to us is break. Instead of being Stan Limbă’s slippers, it’s Mahmud’s slippers, who could this turk be, because I don’t feel like reading about him?! That it encompasses me such a flaccidity, a hallucination, a self-loathing when I want to read. I see the letters, because I know them. But when I read some words, maybe they make sense, but to me they don’t. Or they make sense, but not all of them. I understand that some people use some dictionaries or the phone provided to search like that, all kinds of words. But why should I put my head with all the words? Because what is the word, good people, friends, people with a good heart? What is the word that we say so easily, that we pull it out of our mouth like the conjuror from sleeve?
But what is the word?! Because if the word were that easy, everyone would write like the author of this novel. They would write pages upon thousands of pages. But the word is something that gives you a headache! You read three phrases and you get hungry. But what a hunger: wolfish hunger! You feel like drinking beer like the crazy after a page. The beer goes up to your mansard, although it also goes down in discharge, and you still can’t finish. Because the book is like a long and wide vineyard, which your grandmother makes you dig up with a spade, then put vine props on it. And it’s better to take a plane to Spain, via Craiova, go there and humiliate yourself picking oranges, than to dig up your own vineyard from the field. That’s the book, heavy! And, as I tell you and repeat, I have big problems with the history, with what is written in these books: I don’t have the time or, better said, the strength to read. And these being said, I stand like a cow at the new gate instead of opening the book, I eat a little one[1], but I don’t understand some priceless thoughts.
The railwaymen are broken of sleep. They are day commuters, because they work at night. And since they have the guild facilities, they all sleep like piglets in first class. We must protect their sleep. We speak slowly, among ourselves, so that the train with many restrictions can crawl like a snake changing its skin. We will not dream of the chinese arrogance of 1000 km per hour. Because we go slowly, leisurely, so that we have something to talk about, something to see, something to sleep about. The chinese don’t want to see, they want to arrive. They cross mountains with bridges, they cut through rocks with colossal machinery, they build high-speed trains under the ocean. Because the internet, some say, goes under the ocean and doesn’t stay in the air, in satellites. Some people put their hand on the end of the world, the peace is negotiated in Alaska, street art is always an unexpectedness. Because you never know when the one who will excite the audience for decades will step on stage. He steps on, no one believes in him, but he knows who he is. And when he brings the audience to their feet, it’s no surprise to him, because his real work is behind the scenes.
Why does your mouth smell like flowers in Roșiori? Because here poetry lies in the human heart. And the flowers bloom in your mouth, spread everywhere, make noise, and Leo sings about his brother. Because if you have a brother, you have someone to argue with. Or if you have a brother, you have someone to back you up. Behind you is your brother. The one who smiles at you like an armful of gladioli.
At Scrioaștea, the novels are written in your heart. Here is the world of writing, where you write essential things. When you want to write, this is where you learn the writing. And you go with it to Bucharest, you live with it in the house, and you are full of color, with a plural perspective of reality.
At Belitori, people rip off meanings from reality. And hang them on people like travel bags. Because at Atârnați, the art hangs on people like the smell of ascetic perfume.
By mistake I presented the return tickets. A sign that I had already bought them. Then the morning ones too. Because the wind outside is good, but the first-class air is restful to the heart, invigorating, and we are in no hurry at all. Why would we rush on vacation?! The rest of vacation is unhurried.
Tranca-fleanca, fleanca-tranca and you read, drink aloe vera, read, pray, contemplate, write a novel, write your memoirs, you grow leaves, houses, worlds in your heart. Don’t rush, don’t worry, the worries are for those who don’t travel. If you got on the train, it means you’re not in a hurry. Because if you did, you’d call a helicopter to pick you up. But you, taking your time, are here with us, you are part of the people who are resting, who are preparing for work, for life. Because, undoubtedly, the life is a pool in which there are no ships floating, but only those ignited by the heat. With different panties on and bras of different sizes. Bras are always aggressors. They are visually aggressive. Even children have under- stood that bras are not clothing, but intrigues. Countless questions and uncertainties begin from an amorous intrigue. Why would someone like her be with someone like him?! Or vice versa. There’s something dirty in the middle. And aunt Romera thinks incisively in this sense. Who is she and her mother? What have she learned in her life, that nothing has entered in her head? It goes in one ear and gets lost in the sahara desert. A desert like all days.
The question of the day is related to intensity. If people are patients without intensity, what kind of deglutition do they have? The pH index is low in certain stations, which denotes a significant increase in gigacalories. The spokesperson for Romania or woe to his mother, how he is called in people, speaks rarely, so that people don’t understand. He speaks to them bluntly, to each one of them, and they don’t understand a thing. Or does everyone understand what they want. So much so that, in big political arguments, whoever understands less screams louder. The shrill scream, out of love for the country, is delightful. The one who has jokes at oneself and doesn’t love any country, is also ordinary abomination. That Cocoloș’s Gica had heard about get out of the country, ordinary abomination, and she felt discriminated against.
[1] To be seen: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mititei.