As I move in the streets of Bucharest, I can't help but think that this country is in the phase of a tumultuous adolescence. On the path to finding its identity - tripping, falling, the resulting scars and outbursts are all commonplace. Normal, yes, as it seeks to find the way with no true models to follow. Imagery to support this was put forth at the human rights concert the other night that pairs well with my thinking. A few tears were shed as I was overtaken with the power of the imagery.
A popular Romanian rock band took the stage. I am an official "groupie" now having gone out with them after the concert and sitting for hours together on the roof of a building overlooking the square where the revolution met its final days. The concert was started by an adult male gymnast walking a female child on stage strung together with marionnette strings. He calculated and controlled her every move as the rhythm of the music grew ever louder. At the end of a long-awaited crescendo played out by the band on stage, the marionnette strings broke away and the child became free. What proceeded were five minutes of dancing and dizzying twirling as her freedom broke into full dance that included spinning above the gymnast's head, full-body weaving of the child between th gymnast's legs in a sawhorse manner as a nod to Romania's gymnastic tradition and an ending that included triumph as the child was carried offstage full of hope. An adolescent frenzy.
Being the R. that I am, I broke into tears, so moved was I by the power of the marionnette imagery. I have come to know well the power and passion of these people that are now friends and the cost - the terrible cost - of a controlled attempt in their recent history on these personalities and ways.
I balance this reaction with one of my fondest memories as a three-year-old on my grandfather's lap as he sang and taught me the french nursery rhyme "Les Petites Marionnettes" (Ainsi Font), including the arm and finger movements. The memory is so powerful I can feel the Michigan sun streaming into the family room window as it permeated the corner in which the scratchy fabric of the gold-colored chair held me and my grandfather. Grandpa taught me "Les Petites Marionnettes" but he also supported me along with my parents in letting me fly far beyond marionnette strings. Such flying included trips to India/China/Hong Kong in the summer I turned 14 and well beyond that even.
I have this to thank as I sit alone in a small cafe overlooking a fountained lake in the city center of Bucharest - a lake populated by small row boats. I'm eating a vegetarian pizza with greek olives and red peppers, much to my heart's content, and listening to the staccato of the fountain's streams of water as they hit the lake. Marionnette - not am I and nor are the Romanian people.
As I write this last paragraph, a young boy attempts both oars on a row boat slipping through the surface of the lake. He is struggling to find a rhythm that his heart knows well but he can't seem to find the physical strength to make it out with the oars. It will come with time - as he grows. This is the way of life. Surely, another image to add to my collection.
Ainsi font, font, font
Les petites marionnettes
Ainsi font, font, font
Trois petits tours
Et puis s'en vont
Elle reviendront
Les petites marionnettes
Elles reviendront
Quand les autres partiront. (Ainsi Font, French Nursery Rhyme)
