Petty private satisfactions

This is a translation, of a 2010 article, Marunte satisfactii personale.

In spite of pretending she's li-ving the life, and forces herself to appear a refined lady of the upper crust of Bucharest, Monica Columbeanu is nevertheless stuck counting every bill and economizing drastically, especially given that of late, the businessⁱ of her husband doesn't go so well. So it came to pass recently that she had to take a low cost flight to get to Italy, and also get rid of a few clothes because her luggage exceeded the weight and she'd have had to pay a surcharge worth 20 euro.ⁱⁱ

Looky what we find in Libertatea. No, we don't read Libertatea, but nevertheless we find things on occasions.

The matter wouldn't have any sort of relevancy were I not to mention it, nor does it have any sort of objective relevancy. It so happens, as a remarkable coincidence, that Libertatea also played a hand in the birth of Trilema!

On which topic, a paranthesis. Two years ago, when I returned to Romania after years abroad, two things shocked me. First was that I turned the TV on for five minutes to see what's being yakked about in the home country, and I was hit by a show of some dumbass, pretending himself an expert in matters of restaurants, casinos, whores and other such fine subject matter for the mind of Dimbovita valley shepherds with money burning their pockets. As I was fresh after a cvasi-complete tour of the larger hotels, restaurants, casinos and brothels of the New World, you might imagine what impression this made. Later I found that the derp's name is Irinel Columbeanu, and wasn't at the time a TV actor paid by the hundred to pretend the millionaire, and the dollie isn't hired by the hour, but by formal marriage contract. Which only adds to the ridiculous, because I could have sworn, you know ?

Yeah, well, such were the days. To that shock, "look man what losers with visible black under nails pass for authorities in the fields that matter in Romania" was added also a discussion with a dumbass meanwhile fallen in some pit of irrelevancy, at the time making "tops of relevancy" among blogs in collaboration with various other dumbasses such as Pizdafu (of which you still hear, a few years, while that lasts)ⁱⁱⁱ. Some friend of my mother's, assistant professor or whatever, who confronted with the perfectly legitimate question as to how is it that her top fails to include anyone who actually matters among the Romanians who own the Internet responded something along the lines of "since she's never heard of them they don't exist". Something like that, I forget exactly what she said.

Well then, this article is made from all the Romanians that don't exist, going with a special dedication^iv for all the Romanians that don't matter. With a freshly minted 20 euro bill spit-glued in between their tits, so you lot don't see yourselves forced to throw away your knickers in airports the next time you try flying with an external engine.^v

As well as for all the smart guys that were telling me back in 2005 that I'm stupid to sell out and get out, and if I were smart like them I'd borrow more and buy more real estate, they've got a great deal. Same smart guys that couldn't afford the lease payments on their Audi or whatever the fuck they had in the yard and lost them, but this barely in 2008, which is to say a year after they've had no money for gas so therefore "didn't feel like" going for a cup of coffee back in 2007, even if it were my treat.

As well as for various others. The great advantage of living among idiots is that you don't have do to much, even sitting quietly on a chair you'll end up surrounded by a troop beaten black and bloody, because they keep running about with their eyes closed, hitting trees, poles and walls. By themselves.

Which is why I was saying that the matter doesn't stir me, and that's why it doesn't stir me. A rock, no matter how large or small, no matter how aerodynamic or whatever else, no matter how strongly thrown can nevertheless not fly on anything but a parable. Half the time it spends climbing, half the time freefalling. No matter how you launch it, or from where. Whereas a bird, no matter whence and how it takes off, will fly as long as it feels like flying, and land when and where it chooses. No difference of mass, volume, force or kinetic momentum can supplant the essence, nor change the boulder into swallow.

1. The Romanian notion of "business" has absolutely nothing to do with the meaning of this word in English and absolutely everything to do with the understanding of that meaning, in America. To illustrate this point, let us quote from the article of a spanophone idiot, seeing as the difference between Argentina and the US is very faint on this score :

   La idea de la Argentina como país rico es sin duda una de las creencias más fascinantes y arraigadas del nativo promedio. La riqueza, según esta fantasía, no es algo que se produce, que se genera, que se transpira, sino algo que "está ahí" (¿Ahí dónde? ¿En el aire? ¿En la tierra? ¿En el cielo con diamantes como Lucy?). O sea, la riqueza es algo que existe sin necesidad de que hagamos ningún esfuerzo, sin trabajar, sin rompernos el bocho ni el lomo, sin planificar... Es una parte constitutiva del país, que lo recorre y lo fortifica de forma natural, como la sangre en el cuerpo, como pétalos de una misma flor. Es algo que estuvo, está y estará por los siglos de los siglos y pase lo que pase.

   Una de las consecuencias más calamitosas de esta creencia es suponer que la riqueza es una herencia de la cual los argentinos somos beneficiarios forzosos. Como este país es rico, y yo me considero parte de él, ¿para qué voy a trabajar? ¿Para qué voy a generar lo que ya existe de sobra? ¿Por qué tendría que vivir mal o con pocas cosas si mi país es rico? Solo tengo que reclamar la parte que me corresponde de esa riqueza, y chau. Sin duda, ésta es una de las muchas discusiones en las que suele perderse la brújula de los argentinos.

   In English :

   The conceptualization of Argentina as a rich country is without doubt one of the folkloric beliefs most fascinating and deeply rooted in the native mind. Richdom, by this fantasy, isn't something produced, generated, sweated, but rather something "that is" (Is where ? In the air ? In the ground ? In the sky of diamonds like Lucy ?). Or maybe this wealth exists without requiring any sort of effort, without work, without breaking either brow or back, without need for planning... It's perhaps a statutory part of the country, that runs through it and fortifies it naturally, like blood in the body, like petals on a flower.

   One of the most calamitous consequences of this belief is the expectation that richdom is an inheritance of which the Argentines are fortuitous beneficiaries. As the country is rich, and as I consider myself part of it, then why work ? Why should I try to generate that which already exists abundently ? (Such as, you know, clubs in Buenos Aires - n. MP). Why should I live poorly with few things when my country is rich ? All I have to do is demand the part of the richdom that corresponds to me, & see ya. Without doubt, this is one of the many dead ends which suck many Argentine energies.

   The Romanian reader has no doubt recognized the "very typical" and doubtless "unique" idiocy known as "sentimentul romanesc al fiintei", discussed pluriously by people who, as you'd expect per this article, "don't exist". What now ?

   But meanwhile, the "wealth as objective quality of country" is precisely what the locals mean by "soberania", a delusional attribute applied to a place that has absolutely never been sovereign. Argentina declared independence at some point in recent history, and has been somewhat independent ever since. It has never been sovereign, nor can it conceivably be sovereign these days - Gadaffi has all the details you might need on that score. Go, ask. [↩]

2. Seriously, someone spent half an hour fucking with clothes to save 20 euro. Minimum wage Monica ftw! [↩]
3. Needless to say this prediction came true exactly. [↩]
4. The form is copied from a stylistic convention of an officially proscribed genre of music (manele) that meanwhile utterly owned the would-be proscribers. [↩]
5. The ass of a competent woman counts as an engine in Romanian, for many practical reasons captured in "ma, tancu' are motor ?" as well as "nici macar nu trebuie s-o incalzesti, e pe benzina, poti direct sa o pornesti" and so on. [↩]