Something unexpected came out of the weirdest of quarters the other day.
I was reviewing our yearly vacation trip itinerary to Italy, a most endearing task, if I may say so myself, when one thing certainly led to another.
I was going over my wife’s 2-night stay in Livorno, and having cut it down to only one, after removing sightseeing in Livorno and Lucca, I proceeded to explain how we must be merciless in our designs.
I commented that while it pains me to do so since the Lucca-Pisa rivalry started 7-8 centuries ago from a goddamn water well bucket stolen by men from Lucca, you cannot take a step in any direction in Italy, without bloody well stumbling upon something of historical significance. There, everything is steeped in the toil, labor, sweat, hopes and aspirations of hundreds upon hundreds of generations of people, low- and high-born, who all left something behind them.
And that is when I put the pen down and started going down memory lane, in a psychological trek reminiscent of Proust or Joyce. That is when I realized something that had come to be before.
And that now revealed itself to me clearly and unequivocally in all its naked brutality. Truth is like that, brutal.
Context
My mother’s passing last year left indelible marks on my soul. I am still trying to come to grips with the plain fact of life that we are all doomed, sooner or later, to the same implacable fate.
But, while this is a weight that I must wear alone for it is mine, my dear mama also bequeathed me a certain burden that I must also compose with.
She left me some properties, land and a house, that can barely pass the muster of being called so, since it is more ruin than abode. Not only that, but she also left me these properties in a state of legal entanglements that would drive God insane.
Long story short: I proposed to one of the co-owning cousins to buy me out since I do not intend to live or be near my uncle’s family. We spoke on the phone, and we agreed to settle things amicably. I also agreed to give him a family discount of 15% off. Just to show him how committed I was to never see their faces again.
But wait, you will say, what is with the obvious bad animus between you and your own flesh and blood.
Well, again to simplify matters and adapt them to the meanest understanding, one of my other cousins told me in front of my wife that my grandfather was the illegitimate son of his father, who was the original proprietor of the real estate in question. Hence, how can I even make a claim to the property. In other words, she called my grandfather a bloody bastard. Unbeknownst to her, I personally have also been called that before. So, I took it in stride, remembering that most of the historical figures worth their salt were illegitimate sons, born out of love and out of wedlock.
The other cousin, the one I spoke with and agreed to settle things amicably, also tried to pull a familiar stunt on me. When I asked him for written confirmation to proceed with the buy-out and validate it with our lawyers, he told me, and I kid you not that, “I am disappointed that you cannot trust me. I am not sure how we can move forward from here. Sad.”
And this is why and how nobody ever managed to get out of a pesky situation that prevents any one inheritor to build, rebuild, or just sell the goddamn property. And while this imbecilic trans-generational bickering continues, with relatives expecting and counting on outliving their own kin, to finally become the sole proprietor, the houses continue to decay, rot, and look like ruins that surely feel the pinch of time.
My family’s business model is the plot line of the original Highlander series. That’s how dumb they are.
And no, I am not with them. I do not want to have anything to do with them. If there was another planet for me and mine, I’d take us there in a second.
But to understand my bad animus, the extent of this loathing of mine, one must understand where I am coming from.
You see, the cousin who is disappointed with me, is the son of my uncle, who is my mother’s own brother. Sometime around the year 2000, some 25 years ago, I came home one day from school only to find two things gone from my room.
My Jules Verne original, hardcopy, color illustrated book collection and my Bburago car sets, I had left in their pristine state that same morning, were gone by early 4 pm.
What had happened that morning was this. My dastardly uncle decided to teach me a lesson in redistribution of assets by absconding with the two things that I cherished: my beautiful Jules Verne collection and my unopened Bburago car sets my mother had purchased and brought back from West Germany in October 1990. I still remember their place in the vitrine where their plastic boxes accumulated dust without any harm coming to them. They were for all intents and purposes – pristine. I had never taken them out to play or even show to anybody. They were NIB.
Incensed with rage, I confronted him. Do you have any idea, folks, what he told me?
“How old are you, nephew? 20? Well, at this age you don’t play with car toys anymore, right. So, you don’t really need them. As for the Jules Verne books, did you not read them all already? I bet you did, and a few times at that, right. Then, you don’t need them anymore, either. But hey, you know who needs them? My young sons.”
And just like that my ‘dear’ uncle whisked away my books and my Bburagos.
And this is the same man who told me on the phone when I returned to Romania to lay my mother to rest, in front of my friend who was driving “Nephew, you do not intend to make a life here, right? Then, you don’t need the Busteni property anymore. So, in that case, it’s settled. It will go to my two sons.”
Present
Coming back to today, and my thoughts on how Italy is full of cultural artifacts ample proof of many a generation attempting to leave something behind for their own offspring or future generations. That is when I realized that I am the construct of my past experiences. And how my uncle made me into the man I became today.
All my adult life, I’ve had this yearning to hoard stuff, books, collectible items, memorabilia, coins, stamps, photos, historical artifacts, paintings, helmets. You name it.
Fact is that I never examined the underlying reason that underpinned this urge, this drive to hoard, to accumulate stuff. I knew that the more valuable the item, the happier my children will be on that fateful day when having gone to another realm of existence or into nothingness, they’d open my last will and testament to find that I left them something tangible.
Something that I pray, and hope will allow them to build a life better than my own. A life built on my sacrifices, my hard work, my resilience, and yes on the back of my hoarding. For what is the meaning of life if not that we wish our toil served a higher purpose, enabling our sons and daughters to lead a better life, or to survive the trials of difficult times in relative safety and security.
This is why I am who I am and why I do what I do: to allow my daughter to not have to make choices borne out of desperation for having been born into a despicable life, raised by a loving mother, who did not know better than to call upon her despicable and morally bankrupt brother to help her raise her son.
In this, I am not judging my mother for her choices. But let it be known that my choices are different.
Where she chose to squander her 200-year-old gold coins to the four winds, some being stolen by the men she allowed in her boudoir, others by rapacious characters who took advantage of her anno domini to steal and misappropriate her belongings, I chose instead to build a nest, to hoard, to accumulate.
And who for? Not for me. I won’t always be around. Nobody is. Everything that I do I do for my daughter. That’s it. That’s all.
Another lesson I learned that day, that took immediately in my subconscious mind without my becoming aware it had happened, was the very fact that my uncle also taught me a valuable thing.
He taught me all about the redistribution of assets, aka theft. That was how I found out what it feels like to experience somebody take away your stuff for the purpose of giving it to another person.
In case you never knew the feeling, let me tell you it sucks balls. In fact, that is how and when I discovered my first concrete rationale for hating Marxism-Leninism, Leftism, and in general redistributive Socialism and Communism.
You see, it is my deepest belief that, most people in this world do not have a clue what an equitable society looks like. Well, folks, if it had a face, it would pretty much look like that of a 20-year-old young man finding out that his book collection and Bburago toy-car sets are gone. To be handled and enjoyed by other people, who did not pay for them. Theft is theft no matter how you rationalize it to people.
Robbing Peter to give to Paul doesn’t justify or excuse its basic amorality.
That is the world the WEF, Klaus Schwab, Yuval Harari, the entire Left, the EU bureaucracy, Soros and his globalist cronies, work so hard to make into a reality for 8 billion people.
“You will own nothing, and you will be happy!”
That is their design.
But you know what I say,
To hell with their nefarious Marxist plans!
So, I guess I have to thank my uncle for making me into the protective and defensive hoarder I am today.
Thank you, uncle! I kid, of course. Je rigole. What, you don’t think I lost my mind to thank that bastard now, do you?! Fuck him!
So, you see, even in adversity, one can find good lessons. One needs to be on the lookout and good things will come out of bad events.
And that is how, my friends, I discovered myself while planning the trip to discover the sights of Italia.
P.S. I love you, daughter!
Götterdämmerung 