Thursday, August 14, 2003
More memories...
At 4 or 5, a pressing need wakes me up in the middle of the night. Sleepily, I call out “Mummy, I want pee pee!” I hear motion sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom and my father’s voice saying: “Sorry, we don’t have any!” My mother laughs and I am suddenly both amused at his joke and ashamed of the fact that I woke them up, like a silly little kid, instead of going to the bathroom on my own, which I was perfectly capable of doing.
***
At around 3, I am sitting in my brown wood high chair, at the table with my parents. We are having lunch. We are all in a good mood. Towards the end of the meal, my parents ask me to lift my arms above my head. I hurry to oblige them and find out, not without horror, that my fully outstretched arms only reach the sides of my head. There is no way I can make my hands meet above my head. My parents are highly amused by my frantic endeavors, but I am not. When they realize that I am on the verge of tears, they comfort me by pointing out that my arms are sure to extend as I grow up.
***
A couple years later I am, once more, sitting in my high chair, in the little secluded space between the table and the fridge which was all mine before Nan came to live with us and I had to move next to my mum, on the long external side of our rectangular table. My Dad has prepared me a lunch of steak and veggies. He has cut the steak into little pieces on my plate and has left me alone in the kitchen, to eat. But I do not want to eat; I do not feel hungry. I know I am supposed to eat, I even know, vaguely, that food is good for me, and yet I cannot swallow the little pieces of steak. Angry and frustrated, I pick up a few bits of meat and throw them on the floor. It is liberating! I feel good for a few moments, before I realize that I'm not going to be able to climb down my chair and pick them up quietly, and my Dad is going to come check on me and then he'll see what I've done.
***
When I was little, before the age of 10, my family used to spend almost every vacation in the mountains, in a breathtakingly beautiful place at the foot of the chalk-white Piatra Craiului (which is now a national park; too cool!). We would rent a couple rooms in the house of an old couple, utter mountain people who bred sheep and kept huge, bear-fighting dogs and had lots of land that they worked themselves. It was great. And while the ferocious dogs always seemed to be partial to me, the rooster wasn't.
During that particular vacation, the moutain couple had a particularly evil rooster that considered me appropriate bullying material. I must have been 5 or 6 at the time, and had a red jacket that I absolutely loved (I was pretty darned vain as a little girl!). It could well have been the bright red of the jacket that pissed the rooster off, for every single time that I walked outside, the rooster would jump on my chest, flapping his wings menacingly and trying to peck at my head. I was terrified to the point of refusing to leave the house. When apprised of the situation, the mountain woman had a swift solution: she cut the rooster's throat and boiled him in a soup -- which I chose not to taste because, even though I'd hated him, the rooster had been an acquaintance...
At 4 or 5, a pressing need wakes me up in the middle of the night. Sleepily, I call out “Mummy, I want pee pee!” I hear motion sounds coming from my parents’ bedroom and my father’s voice saying: “Sorry, we don’t have any!” My mother laughs and I am suddenly both amused at his joke and ashamed of the fact that I woke them up, like a silly little kid, instead of going to the bathroom on my own, which I was perfectly capable of doing.
***
At around 3, I am sitting in my brown wood high chair, at the table with my parents. We are having lunch. We are all in a good mood. Towards the end of the meal, my parents ask me to lift my arms above my head. I hurry to oblige them and find out, not without horror, that my fully outstretched arms only reach the sides of my head. There is no way I can make my hands meet above my head. My parents are highly amused by my frantic endeavors, but I am not. When they realize that I am on the verge of tears, they comfort me by pointing out that my arms are sure to extend as I grow up.
***
A couple years later I am, once more, sitting in my high chair, in the little secluded space between the table and the fridge which was all mine before Nan came to live with us and I had to move next to my mum, on the long external side of our rectangular table. My Dad has prepared me a lunch of steak and veggies. He has cut the steak into little pieces on my plate and has left me alone in the kitchen, to eat. But I do not want to eat; I do not feel hungry. I know I am supposed to eat, I even know, vaguely, that food is good for me, and yet I cannot swallow the little pieces of steak. Angry and frustrated, I pick up a few bits of meat and throw them on the floor. It is liberating! I feel good for a few moments, before I realize that I'm not going to be able to climb down my chair and pick them up quietly, and my Dad is going to come check on me and then he'll see what I've done.
***
When I was little, before the age of 10, my family used to spend almost every vacation in the mountains, in a breathtakingly beautiful place at the foot of the chalk-white Piatra Craiului (which is now a national park; too cool!). We would rent a couple rooms in the house of an old couple, utter mountain people who bred sheep and kept huge, bear-fighting dogs and had lots of land that they worked themselves. It was great. And while the ferocious dogs always seemed to be partial to me, the rooster wasn't.
During that particular vacation, the moutain couple had a particularly evil rooster that considered me appropriate bullying material. I must have been 5 or 6 at the time, and had a red jacket that I absolutely loved (I was pretty darned vain as a little girl!). It could well have been the bright red of the jacket that pissed the rooster off, for every single time that I walked outside, the rooster would jump on my chest, flapping his wings menacingly and trying to peck at my head. I was terrified to the point of refusing to leave the house. When apprised of the situation, the mountain woman had a swift solution: she cut the rooster's throat and boiled him in a soup -- which I chose not to taste because, even though I'd hated him, the rooster had been an acquaintance...
Monday, August 11, 2003
I am leaving in 8 days.
The experience of preparing for a Big Move is new to me. I have actually never Moved in my life. When I left my parents' place for my own, this spring, it was immediately after my return from Seattle and I only took a backpackfull of clothes with me, so it didn't really count. This time, though, it is much more serious. I have to buy a big suitcase, decide which shoes and clothes to take with me, decide whether to carry my books and records with me or have them sent my mail at a later date. I must purchase panties and possibly a new pair of trousers. I want to throw a farewell party. I need to make sure that my friends have my email address.
Holy shit, dude, I'm moving to a new country! I am giving up my temporal ownership of one place in order to acquire new dibs on a new place, literally half the world away. And even though I know my life won't be radically different in Seattle, for I have already lived there a total of 10 weeks and, besides, I carry my personal universe with me, it will be a change.
I guess it really is Going Away to College in a way, too: I am taking out a loan; I will probably not be able to be very liberal with my expenses; I will have a real (financial) incentive to get very good grades, not just my, ahem, natural inability to not do well; I'll possibly have a part-time, student job; I'll go to school on a real campus. Only that, instead of the customary 3-to-6 hours on the train or 2-to-5 hours on the plane, my journey will take a total 13 hours of flying plus a 2-hour stopover. And I'll have to perform onerous services on my landlord so as not to be evicted -- I try not to use emoticons in my entries, but :). Pardon me.
As I was saying, I am leaving in 8 days and I am very excited and a bit melancholy, too. And this is a good thing.
The experience of preparing for a Big Move is new to me. I have actually never Moved in my life. When I left my parents' place for my own, this spring, it was immediately after my return from Seattle and I only took a backpackfull of clothes with me, so it didn't really count. This time, though, it is much more serious. I have to buy a big suitcase, decide which shoes and clothes to take with me, decide whether to carry my books and records with me or have them sent my mail at a later date. I must purchase panties and possibly a new pair of trousers. I want to throw a farewell party. I need to make sure that my friends have my email address.
Holy shit, dude, I'm moving to a new country! I am giving up my temporal ownership of one place in order to acquire new dibs on a new place, literally half the world away. And even though I know my life won't be radically different in Seattle, for I have already lived there a total of 10 weeks and, besides, I carry my personal universe with me, it will be a change.
I guess it really is Going Away to College in a way, too: I am taking out a loan; I will probably not be able to be very liberal with my expenses; I will have a real (financial) incentive to get very good grades, not just my, ahem, natural inability to not do well; I'll possibly have a part-time, student job; I'll go to school on a real campus. Only that, instead of the customary 3-to-6 hours on the train or 2-to-5 hours on the plane, my journey will take a total 13 hours of flying plus a 2-hour stopover. And I'll have to perform onerous services on my landlord so as not to be evicted -- I try not to use emoticons in my entries, but :). Pardon me.
As I was saying, I am leaving in 8 days and I am very excited and a bit melancholy, too. And this is a good thing.
More memories are coming up, but in the mean time I want to gloat.
I had more than 10 visitors last week, none of which were people I know. That's great! They were mostly refered to my blog by Google searches for various things. So I want to take this moment and tell the person who arrived at the Illy Funpack after typing in the phrase "I like big cocks" that they are my hero! Seriously! Dude/dudette, if you see this, get in touch and I'll dedicate an entry to you as my favorite visitor of the month.
I had more than 10 visitors last week, none of which were people I know. That's great! They were mostly refered to my blog by Google searches for various things. So I want to take this moment and tell the person who arrived at the Illy Funpack after typing in the phrase "I like big cocks" that they are my hero! Seriously! Dude/dudette, if you see this, get in touch and I'll dedicate an entry to you as my favorite visitor of the month.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Memories...
A sunny morning in late spring. I am standing at the end of the hallway adjacent to my room, looking at the carpet -- we had a lovely old Persian rug, predominantly green in color, with the borders worn thin, that covered the abhorrent green lino; it disappeared after we had the lino replaced with pale pinkish tiles. I can distinctly smell the spring air wafting in from the open window in my room: it is fresh and warm, a bit smoky and dusty. This is my earliest recollection of a consciously acknowledged sense of physical good. I could have been anything from 3 to 5 years old, stopping to bask in the spring sunshine before continuing my journey to the kitchen in search of, probably, a piece of fruit.
***
An even earlier recollection is that of a very hot midsummer afternoon. I must have been 3. I am standing on the living room balcony, looking at the reddish sky and forcefully desiring my mother to dress me in my cute sailor's outfit. We are going to go out for a walk. Presently, she joins me on the balcony, wearing a brightly colored cotton dress and a significant amount of green eyeshadow. I am pretty sure that is the only time I have seen my mother wearing eyeshadow.
***
I am 6 -- I remember that it is the year before I started school. My mother is not doing well (she is having what I will later find out to be a migraine). She's lying in bed, looking rather pale, but tells me chirpily that she will do better once she's "burped". The doctor has been sent for, and my Dad will take me out for a walk -- probably to get me out of the way and out my mum's hair for a bit. So I put on my white-and-blue jacket with a cool elastic belt and a metal clasp that I am so fond of, and we go out. It is Sunday, sunny, and the streets are deserted and very quiet. My dad takes me on a very long walk, all the way downtown, to the residential area of the party Nomenclature. I find it rather impressive, but strange: the streets are wider and the buildings taller than what I'm normally used to; there's also an awful lot of white, marble-like stone around. I am heated after the long walk and thirsty, so my Dad cups his hands, collects water from a sprinkler and gives it to me to me drink. When we get home later that afternoon, my Mum is obviously better, ambling about the house.
A sunny morning in late spring. I am standing at the end of the hallway adjacent to my room, looking at the carpet -- we had a lovely old Persian rug, predominantly green in color, with the borders worn thin, that covered the abhorrent green lino; it disappeared after we had the lino replaced with pale pinkish tiles. I can distinctly smell the spring air wafting in from the open window in my room: it is fresh and warm, a bit smoky and dusty. This is my earliest recollection of a consciously acknowledged sense of physical good. I could have been anything from 3 to 5 years old, stopping to bask in the spring sunshine before continuing my journey to the kitchen in search of, probably, a piece of fruit.
***
An even earlier recollection is that of a very hot midsummer afternoon. I must have been 3. I am standing on the living room balcony, looking at the reddish sky and forcefully desiring my mother to dress me in my cute sailor's outfit. We are going to go out for a walk. Presently, she joins me on the balcony, wearing a brightly colored cotton dress and a significant amount of green eyeshadow. I am pretty sure that is the only time I have seen my mother wearing eyeshadow.
***
I am 6 -- I remember that it is the year before I started school. My mother is not doing well (she is having what I will later find out to be a migraine). She's lying in bed, looking rather pale, but tells me chirpily that she will do better once she's "burped". The doctor has been sent for, and my Dad will take me out for a walk -- probably to get me out of the way and out my mum's hair for a bit. So I put on my white-and-blue jacket with a cool elastic belt and a metal clasp that I am so fond of, and we go out. It is Sunday, sunny, and the streets are deserted and very quiet. My dad takes me on a very long walk, all the way downtown, to the residential area of the party Nomenclature. I find it rather impressive, but strange: the streets are wider and the buildings taller than what I'm normally used to; there's also an awful lot of white, marble-like stone around. I am heated after the long walk and thirsty, so my Dad cups his hands, collects water from a sprinkler and gives it to me to me drink. When we get home later that afternoon, my Mum is obviously better, ambling about the house.
