Rainbow Child

I dont know how you can carry around as much love as I’ve given you – (March 1919)

And so you see, Scott, I’ll never be able to do anything because I’m much too lazy to care whether it’s done or not – and I don’t want to be famous and fêted – all I want is to very young always and very irresponsible and to feel that my life is my own – to live and be happy and die in my own way – to please myself. (Fall 1919)

Was it fun in Paris? Who did you see there and was the Madeleine pink at five o’clock and did the fountains fall with hollow delicacy into the framing of space in the Palace de la Concorde and did the blue creep out from behind the colonades of the rue de Rivoli through the grill of the Tuileries and was the Louvre gray and metallic in the sun and did the trees hang brooding over the cafés and were there lights at night and the click of saucers and the auto horns that play Debussy. I love Paris. How was it? (Summer1930)

Do you still smell of pencils and sometimes of tweed? (Fall 1930)

It’s fun thinking of Christmas and the night you will get home and how you’ll look as you come out the gate. I will be surprised at your mondanity and very amazed that you are concice and powerful and I will be happy that you are so handsome and when I see how handsome you are my stomach will fall with many unpleasant emotions like a cake with too many raisins and I will want to shut you up in a closet like a dress too beautiful to wear. (November 26, 1931)

Dearest – I suppose I will spend the rest of my life torn between the desire to master life and the feeling that it is, au fond, a contemptuous enemy. (Februrary/March 1932)

Happily, happily foreverafterwards – the best we could. (August 1936)

Dearest: I am always grateful for all the royalties you gave me, and I am always loyal to the concepts that held us to-gether so long: the belief that life is tragic, that a mans spiritual reward is the keeping of his faith: that we shouldn’t hurt each other. And I love, always your fine writing, your tolerance and generosity; and all your happy endowments. Nothing could have survived our life. (March 1939)

Dear Scott, Dearest Zela, Bloomsbury, 2003

Every Saturday morning I go to the market. Although I seldom cook, I need to know that I have fresh vegetable in the fridge. So we went shopping and on the way home I saw a woman who was selling blueberries, or so I thought. Anyways, I bought a bag of blueberries (she confirmed they were the right fruits) and went home.

I put the groceries in the fridge and proceeded to wash the blueberries. When I tried one I was shocked to find it had a core. Wtf? I tried another one: didn’t taste like a blueberry and it still had a core! I was getting angrier and angrier. I called Mum, told her about the core, about how they look like blueberries but they’re not, how that woman lied to my face and sold me something else! She laughed and told me that what I had bought are some cheap good for nothing berries. FUCK!

So I grabbed the bag and stormed out of the house. The anger had now reached its peak, I was literally fuming! I got to the lady who sold me the blueberries and we had a surrealistic talk:

- Hello, can you tell me what berries are these?
- Yes, they are ???berries.
- But I specifically asked you if they were blueberries and you said yes.
- You can make jam out of them or liquor!
- That’s not the point! I wanted blueberries and these are not blueberries!
- No, they’re not.
- Then why did you tell me they were blueberries?
- Have you tasted them? They are good! You can make jam out of them or liquor!
- I WANTED BLUEBERRIES!

In the end she agreed to give me back my money and I gave her back her fucking berries. On the way back I calmed a bit but I still can’t get over the fact that people would do anything for money. Or maybe she was just deranged and thought that I just wanted berries, no matter if they were blue or not… And again, I am so pissed that people think they can fool me. They look at me and probably see a teenager and they think that I don’t have anything to say, that my opinions don’t count, that they can fool me and I won’t do anything against it… I should lock myself inside cause I hate what’s going on outside!

I have a theory: in order for all the working people out there to stay sane and not lose it during all those years of working from 9 to 5, a three-day weekend should replace the inefficient two-day one we have. Hear me out: Friday evening is for going out, having a nice dinner, drinking a couple of beers with friends or staying at home and watching a relaxing movie. Saturday is for shopping, cleaning, cooking, all those chores we hate but we have to do. Sunday is for going out again, photowalking, going to a concert, whatever. And Monday (yes, the day we all hate) is for ourselves: sleeping in, reading in bed, cooking a delicious breakfast, uploading your blogs, doing whatever you feel like it. So who’s with me on this one?

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On most days I hate Bucharest. I hate the crowds of ugly people, smart-asses, people who hit you with their bags, step on your foot or push their way out/in the metro without caring, without looking back and, of course, without apologizing. I try to stay out of their way, to find a corner in the metro and read and ignore them but I can’t. I can’t because they don’t let me: they always talk loud to each other, bump into you, look at what you’re wearing, how your hair looks etc. They don’t let you be! One day I’m going to lose it and… and… I don’t know what I’ll do, but it won’t be pretty, that’s for sure!

On other days I am at peace with this city. No, I don’t love it anymore, it’s more like a medicine I know I have to take in order to stay alive but that doesn’t mean that I enjoy taking it. It’s sour and it makes me feel bad but on the long run it keeps me alive.  It’s a necessary evil.

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Well, Vio came and went. We didn’t get to spend very much time together and I’m a bit upset about that but in the end it’s still OK: we got to talk late in the night, something which I hadn’t done in a very long time. I think I give the impression that I care more about my friends who are far away, which is not true. It’s just… well, I don’t get to see them often and when we meet it’s great! We have so many things to say to each other, so many stories to tell, so much gossiping to do Even if I don’t meet my friends who are here as often as I’d like to, I know I can count on them and we can always meet when we feel like it so that thought comforts me.

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