Opening the book.

Anyway, let’s turn a few pages more and let us move on. Where are we now? Ok, that’s it. So now we’re going through a period in which I’m being read by individuals worthy of being remembered. I guess I got lucky that way. And I don’t know if this has to do with my having a cracked spine, bent page corners, or being rough around the edges. Nor if it has anything to do with my front cover saying “DON’T TOUCH THIS!” The important thing however is that there is something which attracts them enough to pick me out, off the shelf. Who knows what genre I’ve been put under once I got published in ‘88. Classics? Likely not. Books that should have never been published? Hope not. Comics? Mm, not necessarily, unless I was about kid-heroes. Self-help books? So help us God. Sweet quirky shizzle? Hmm, that’ll do. There have been no huge profits from the sales so to speak, sales which took place in charity shops and not around HMV Best Sellers, along Twilight and what have you. And frankly, I’m more than fine with that. Up till now I’ve had quite an interesting readership, good folks who read well, and in some vain ways I feel rather happy for choosing them more or less intuitively. How nice to be able to pick your readers. To this day I look into their eyes and watch the corners of their mouths stretching in their heights; usually they seem bemused, if not fascinated by what they read. What else can I say – I must be a real page turner.

Now I’ve landed in the hands of a person who tries to read me between the lines. For what is true, he is very cautious when he turns the pages if he is interested in finding something new. Pricking up his eyes he warily studies the typeface of every single letter, he looks for words written in invisible ink (but let’s be serious, I’m too old-school to be written in that), sometimes he even feels and strokes the page in an inspective manner until he finds out what new or old ingredients it is made of, how thick it is, whether the binding is tight, etc. I guess that all of this physical examination adds to the reader’s whole experience, but with his nose so close to the page, I am far too easily misread. A paragraph of some importance will then have no meaning to him in the face of this hunt for nonexistent ‘important’ details.

Whenever he is unhappy with what he reads, like happenings that are written before they actually happen, or incoherent emotions, or even when he does not understand the style of writing, which is rather ‘different’ (and nonsensical at times, I suppose), this mature reader begins to ruffle through the pages just like a despotic child. Sometimes he is too tired to stress himself even longer, and he chucks me away on a shelf next to Top Gear, where I’m forgotten for days. Sometimes when he reads me and I look into his eyes, sad or frustrated by what they read, I can see a strange desire to rip out a few muddled pages. But like the pathological collector that he is, instead of throwing the ripped pages away, he would put them away in a drawer containing worthless objects needed for ‘just in case’ situations, only to end up forgetting about them too.

Instead, I’d like to think that he would make paper planes out of those lonely pages, and write love messages on them. He would then let go of them from his window on the fifth floor, and they would never hit the ground, ever. And if, while reading me, it happened to rain, what if he would then put me under the pillow which he lays his head on every night? He would read me dreaming, and would dream beautiful dreams.

QFT

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no. It is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

A Perfect Looking Day

Today was all about appearances. The sun broke through my window and started inspecting itself in my mirror. Rather vain. The room came alight, as one would expect. The shrubs outside were also trying to branch in, but I pulled the curtain’s veil in time. Nina joined in and was waving her words at me. Birds flyin' high you know how I feel, sun in the sky you know how I feel, breeze driftin’ on by, you know how I feel; it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me... and I’m feeling gg -- gggh -- [crackling sound] I’m feeling GGHHGHHGGHH. Hush.

Mmkay.

In truth, I wasn't feeling good. So I spoke out, as one does. "I ain’t feeling that good, OK? Is that ok with you shapeless matters of weather gaiety? I’m like a square peg in a round hole. Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don’t you?"

Crime Scene No 1. Culprit trying to ray himself in.

Crime Scene No 2. Shrubs trying to be nosy.

Then I decided to retreat myself, or rather, glue myself here ^ because that's my stimulating rigid work corner. Yes, I know it looks more like a play area, but it has to, else I can’t take anything seriously. Today it didn't work though. My corner was bathing in too much warmth and light, and my responsibilities simply melted away in the sun. The glue did too. Or maybe it's just my brain going through a perpetual global warming.

I ended up being dragged outside by appearances, and old habits, where all God's creatures were happily bathing in the new dawn of the final term. In the words of a pretty lyricist, if it's not a rainy day, you simply don't go outside.

Now that I'm back in my inspiring chamber, those bunnies in a box are giving me silly ideas.

One of those dreams in April

'Azi noapte am visat ca inotam intr-un lac de acumulare si ca tata ma urmarea prin apa. Totul era foarte clar. Desi era adanca, el mergea prin apa si nu puteam sa-mi explic cum putea sa faca asta cu asa usurinta, si fara sa inoate; dar in acelasi timp si eu pluteam fara mult efort. Aveam urechile sub apa si nu auzeam tot ce-mi spunea. Poate de-aia nici nu am prea facut conversatie cu el, mi-am vazut de plutitul deasupra apei. Era placut. Nu aveam decat un tricou si niste pantaloni scurti pe mine, si vedeam totul ca printr-o camera de filmat. Filmam apa si cerul de un albastrui palid si ma gandeam ca totul era asa cum trebuia sa fie. Eram un corp strain plutitor pe tot intinsul apei. Am strabatut lacul de doua ori pe spate, dar tata nu ma anunta cand ma apropiam de mal, si ma incurcam in algele de la mal de fiecare data.

Dupa ce-am iesit din apa ne-am indreptat spre o alimentara unde asteptam sa mi se dea o paine si un vin rosu. Pe el il lasasem afara. Cand am iesit din alimentara un cuplu de tigani stateau langa el. Barbatul avea in mana un pumnal. S-a uitat la noi din spatele femeii cu care era si printr-o miscare repezita i-a taiat burta femeii in lat. Reactia ei nu a fost una prea surprinsa. Ochii ei s-au transformat in doua pietre si urechile mele au inceput sa tiuie groaznic. Tata nu mai era acolo, iar eu m-am trezit cu ochii umezi.'

Inapt people make me ill, and sometimes delirious.

- Hi, I would like to book an appointment with the doctor for today, please.

- Eh, is it an emergency appointment you wantin'?

- Uh, yes [I lied because I knew that otherwise I would have had to wait at least a week]

- Right, can ye just hold the line for a minute?

- Okay.

[At this moment Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto starts playing while I’m put on hold]

- Eh, sorry ‘bout that. What’s yer name?

- Tra la la.

- Aand how dew spell ‘at?

- T for ‘troll’ , R for ‘retard’, A for ‘arsenal’, L for ‘lugnut’.

- You’re not registered with us.

- Yes, that’s because my medical records have been moved to the university where I study. Can I not register as a temporary patient?

- Eh, probably but I’m not sure.

[I didn’t know what made her so dumb but it really worked.]

- I just need to see someone while I’m home. I was given a referral by the university hospital to see a doctor at the end of term.

- Okay, I’ll put you in for an appointment today at 11:30 with Cath Bowell.

- Thank you. [hang up]

So I walk into the medical practice centre at about 11:25 and I give them my name and the time of my appointment. They tell me to take a seat and I do. I pick up ‘Vanity Fair’, since it seems to be the only periodical that’s slightly more decent than ‘OK!’ and ‘The Sun’. 10 minutes later my name appears on the screen followed by “...to Sr Cath Bowell”. Ehm, “sr”? as in, SISTER? What happened to my DOCTOR’s appointment?! You sure that’s not a typo? I swallowed the thought and rose to my feet totally unenthusiastic.

I knew I was on the way to the doom of 20 minutes of my life. They were buh-bye from then on. In moments like this, I start thinking about things that I’ve always wanted to do in 20 minutes but never have because if I did do them, then I’d probably run out of things to imagine and I’d be stuck in awkward jiffies seeking solace. Wakey wakey silly, your pants might catch on fire.

In front me there was a door that had the inscription “Sister Cath Bowell – knock before you enter”. My eyes must have somehow muddled the letters for I could now read a twinkly “Fairy Godmother Cath Bowell’s Headquarters – where all your wildest dreams will come true.”

Moriccone’s ‘Paranoia Prima’ starts running through my head. I push the door wide out of its hinges and I stand there, feet apart, eyeing her with my glass eye, fingertips opening. As she grows aware of me, the song changes to Luis Bacalov’s ‘The Grand Duel’.

- You alright love? What can I do for you today? [Song changes again to Bernard Herrman’s ‘Twisted Nerve’]

- I’ve had this problem since November, so please... don’t let me be misunderstood. Sometimes I feel a little mad, but don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel? When things go wrong I seem to be bad, but I'm just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood. If I seem edgy I want you to know that I never mean to take it out on you! Life has its problems and I’ve got my share, and that's one thing I never meant to do...oohh noo.

[Thank you Santa Esmeralda for the inspiration. It broke her heart it did. I could see it in her eyes, the juice of emotion!]

- Flowerpot, unfortunately I don’t qualify in these matters, I think you should probably see a doctor instead. Go to the girls at the reception and ask them if you can see a doctor.

- But I already did, this morning over the phone, when they booked my appointment in with you.

- Oh, sorry ‘bout that, things like that can happen.

- Ok thx bye.

- Bye love.

I left the room wishing that I slammed the door behind me. When I walked past the reception, I kept wishing to shout in anger: “A nurse can’t make my wildest dreams come true, you thickos!”. They might as well have started singing gaily in chorus: “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, it’s you that pays us for the shambles!”

I walked out with my loyal cough holding me by a sweaty hand, and outside a lonely shepherd’s song was playing. Se rupsese filmul.

History repeats itself, it does.

So two years later we're back to where we started. Against all odds, I'm giving Mr. Blog another chance, we roll that way. Maybe this is another phase we're going through, for those times that never hanged around much. Maybe there'll be no abrupt cuttings this time. It's a writing-for-the-love-of-blabbing exercise after all. Discipline my dear Waldo, discipline!

Note to self: it's all about remembering what you want.

Noted.