Taking a stand against drinking, as a wannabe writer, is always a dubious sort of thing to do. Seriously, when is it best to write things? Right after your third high ball glass of homemade hooch with the color of wine and the reputation of gin. In less than half of one hour. With people whose language you don't speak. With unnamable parts of unnamble, tame animals displayed on the table.
That is, Maria and I commiserated about how stupid the villagers of Balatina are. She via her accountant business she has going and me through all their children. Laurentiu was drunk and assuming it was a holiday was trying to get me there as well. I'd just spent 9 hours trying to get those mentioned children to pronounce “th” and connect the word “dog” with the countless drawings of such creatures in a best-selling classic Go Dog Go.
And it's not like they don't have these creatures to relate to. Every morning now, Adriana's puppy greets me at school. You can track how much earlier to school she is than me by when I see her retreating pup. Right outside school. By the student-stalked, candy-filled shop on the corner, by the student-haunted, booze-filled shop on the further corner, out side my own gate.
Meanwhile, loud music in split, phonic something earphones makes me close my eyes and meditate in a way Siddhartha could never have done with such technology and savor the delights of contemporary voices cracking over agnostic wishes of death and invitations to eternal darkness with steel and slide guitars. Oh man.
It makes me wonder what the fuck people in the 70s needed acid for. How could this feeling ever get old?
The next time possible, I will be on a train to Bulgaria. Those who wish, and are able, make contact.
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