Archive for ‘romanian’

January 25th, 2017

Feminine Exceptionalism

The following is a[n attempt at] translation of the Trilema piece Exceptionalismul femenin.

You’ve doubtlessly come across at least one side or another of these strategies/social psychopathologies in day to day life (depending on where you’ve found yourself, on the outside or the inside of the disease), even if it didn’t seem in the respective moment that they’d make up part of a structured and describable whole, just as not everyone who trips over a mastodon bone sticking halfway out of the ground will start to reconstruct the entire animal with its habitat and everything. Excusable, but man’ve we got work to do, and man’ll it be tough.

Feminine exceptionalism begins, as the name suggests, with an exception. “Sure, smoking’s not allowed here, but can’t I smoke?” “Sure, it’s written on the card not to tell anyone the PIN, the bank sent letters to remind you not to tell anyone the PIN, on the ATM screen there’s an advertisement to not tell anyone the PIN, but you’ll tell me, won’t you?” The list, in principle, is neverending, but in practice it always reduces to a very simple pattern. The rule is X, surely it’s so, but the girl doesn’t consider it to be the case that it applies to her.

She doesn’t contest that in truth the rule exists, she doesn’t contest either that it’s a good and necessary rule. In fact, any discussion of whether the rule is good or bad doesn’t interest her at all; on the contrary, such a discussion would detract from the real point of interest for her. She doesn’t contest either that she makes up part of the category of applicability of the rule. On the contrary, for feminine exceptionalism to function, a valid, useful rule whose applicability she falls within is absolutely necessary.

Why? Here we arrive at the true psychological reason for the whole operation: the girl suffers from a problem of self-esteem. She feels, she considers, or she was taught to believe herself to be inferior. Eventually all three. Inferior not just to the other men, and not just to the other women, but even to she herself, to her own “potential”.

To combat this psychological sequela, she feels it necessary to prop up her existence with special treatment. Every valid and applicable rule which is broken offers her a bubble of oxygen: maybe she’s not a piece of shit, because hey, in that moment she’s that special.

The poor form of asking to smoke somewhere the owner doesn’t, of the same species and class of asking for vegetable oil when the table’s having butter doesn’t interest her, because she is not in fact well-mannered, but on the contrary, she still carries under her nails the filth of the existence of the low to (about) the middle class which blessed her with the stretch-marks and soul-marks of which we speak.

And of course, like any psychological problem of the transactional class, this complaint exhibits two specific particularities. Firstly, it is progressive. If yesterday she’s been allowed to smoke though smoking’s not allowed, it’s no longer sufficient today, it no longer produces an effect, so she’ll smoke two, four, eight, sixty cigarettes. Until the end, the stimuli have to progress geometrically in order for the receptors to be stimulated in arithmetic progression.

If yesterday you’ve waited on her five minutes, today you’ll have to wait half an hour, and tomorrow we’ll be forced to go to another city instead of the cafe we’d planned on, for no other reason than that the girl doesn’t feel so great. In the head.

And secondly it is, like any transaction, prone to disproportionate reactions. If the girl has negotiated in her mind that for today proof of the fact that she isn’t a piece of shit will be manifested through letting her drive the car, and you don’t let her drive, for whatever reason, no matter the reason, like for instance that the car’s fallen in a lake, or it’s been stolen overnight, wasps have made a nest in there or whatever else, the girl’s head is going to explode, and she’ll bawl on about how could you say that she’s a good for nothing piece of shit.

Which, honestly, she is, preferably to be shat onto a cart headed somewhere in the direction of a hospital for nervous disorders, where who knows, with attentive care and the help of experts, something else might be done with her.

January 31st, 2012

Batoane de Carne

Jurnal Capitanului, 30 Aprilie 2020, 6 zile in afara de Planet #$*!

Toata echipa doarme. In 6 zile, vor ajunge la #$*! cu incarcatura, care este cel mai mare sarcina trimit pana acum. Am in 5,000 barili aproximativ 750,000 litri de petrol. Nu-mi place sa zbor cu acest mult de greutate, dar extraterestrile au zis ca revendicarea a crescut nebuna in ultimul an. Amintesc cum, cand contact a fost facut cu ei, nimeni pot credeau ca primul lucru ei vreau era petrol. “Orice lucru vrei, poti ai,” ziceau lideri noi, “dar petrolul –am o nevoie prea mare, si este foarte, dar foarte limitat ca o resursa.”

“Faci lucruri prosti cu acest substanta.” Spuneau extraterestrile. “Materiale plastice sunt urate, si au un gust rau. Si pentru combustibile, n-ai nevoie de petrol. Poti faci fapturi noi mici.”

Fapturi erau…ciudati la inceput, a spune cel mai putin. Ca niste cincile, moi si cu ochi mari. Acum ei fac toti masini sa muncesc, si am primit douasprezece perechi de reproducere pe an, care-i mai mult decat suficient pentru toata lumea. Nava cosmica a mea zboara prin cerii din cauza o echipa de sase fapturi puternice. Din cand in cand, fac griji despre intrebari de durere. Ma intreb daca fapturi simt durere, in timp energiei ei este sugit pentru comoditate al oameni. Posibil e mai bine sa nu baga in seama….

Batoane de carne, suntem chemat. Extrateristrile au in loc de piele ceva metal de nu stiu ce compositie, in loc de sange, un fel de noroi negru, care curge ca melasa. Ei radeau cu bucuriei a unor bebelusi cand descopereau muschii si maruntaie nostri. Dar nimic e haios in ochi ei in comparatie cu politicieni. Nu conteaza care partid sau filozofie au oameni noi de stat. Daca politicieni se imbraca-n costumuri si fac argumente, tot e bine cu ei.

De fapt, in afara de petrolul, chestia de cea mai mult branza la Planet #$*! e politicieni la kilogram. In acest moment, cinci persoane –din Japonia, Franta, Guatemala, si doua din Sudan– sunt in nava impreuna cu barili. Probabil, vor aparea pe programe de comedie la video dupa debarcam. Am auzit ca-i o viata usoara pentru ei, chiar daca este un pic umilitoara.

Deci, noi primim o solutie din blana pentru energie, si fiinte din #$*! primesc tirani, mincinosi, si manuitori nostri pentru divertisment. Bineinteles, votam pentru cine vor fi primit la lumea noua-n cosmosul. In general primim cel mai rau indivizi putem, si ei sunt mai mult productivi ca asa, ca obiecte de umor. Gaseam cateva ani in urma ca petrolul e folosit si intr-un mod subit: este o baza pentru parfum. Inca nu stiu cum merge sex intre fiintele, dar aparent mirosul de petrol ajuta. Aici am aproape un milion de litri de afrodisiac.

Cred ca-i o relatie buna in sfirsitul, adica-i eficient pentru toti. Vai, dar drumul la #$*! este lung si obositor, fara multe obiective turistice, si nu pot dorm in nava. Doar sase zile….

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Pentr-un concurs de fictiune.