A Litany of Breaths

[Leila]

Ti me vertete qe din te shkruash, po une e paskam shume te veshtire te te
kuptoj dhe pse flas anglisht. A mund te me perkthesh fjale per fjale kete fjali
se po mundohem ti jap dum dhe spo mund.?

God, I'm flattered. Only one post qe kishe nen belt and you dedicate it ALL to me. Duhet te kuptosh se mallengjimi im erdhi si pasoje e menyres se vetme te jeteses qe kam njohur, dhe kjo eshte ndarja as in SHARING (s'e ke idene se sa kam dashur te isha femije i vetem). Pra une kam kohe qe s'kam patur dicka vetem per mua (except tampons), dhe qe s'ka patur nevoje ta ndaj me binjakun tim -- Humdinger (yes, we're sick like that; you roll with it... life, I mean). Hame nga e njejta pjate dhe pijme nga e njejta gote. Edhe ne restorant, perlajme gjysmen e pjates tone dhe i shkembejme pjatat me nj-tj. Ose i vihemi te njejtes pjate ne mes dhe vetem per mungese kohe dhe prej urise se tmerrshme qe na kap (atehere kur kap), perdorim 2 luge ne vend te 1.

Ah, po... perkthimi. Nuk mundem te ta perkthej, per mungese te pasurise se fjalorit tim Shqip. Por... me pelqen te mendoj se jam njeri zemergjere (pak rendesi ka se si eshte realiteti) dhe si e tille, MUND te te perkthej emrin e dyqanit Grek ne NY ku nje bjonde (vagabonde, e lyer dhe e perlyer... lol) me kembe ne forme kryqi beri shopping te premten e kaluar (e ke parasysh, trashaluqe qe nuk i bashkohen kycet e kembeve por i ikin one east and one west... dhe si per fat te keq, to add on to her misfortunes, ajo nuk e hedh njeren kembe perpara tjetres, por leviz me nga nje hap ne secilen ane si patok me Down syndrome). Natyra ka sens humori po aq sa eshte e pameshirshme, dhe medeomos ia ka bere kembet e tilla si per ti kujtuar asaj dhe botes burrat e shumte (nje nuk i mjafton) qe vdiqen mbi kryq per mekatet e saj. Dhe sa here ajo hap shpellen, kryqi i saj sherben si paralajmerim per viktimen e rradhes -- KUJDES! DANGER ZONE! Ose te pakten si lutje per shpirtin e tij te prehet ne paqe.

Dyqani: DIAFORA IDI = ARTIKUJ TE NDRYSHEM. Treat yourselves to a bon-bon, my dears... or should I tempt you with something that won't irritate that yeast infection? How does smoking in a green Jeep sound? Nje femer e lezetshme mban te shemtuaren afer per moral kur t'i krahasojne meshkujt perbri njera tjetres (e shemtuara trashaluqe, nderkohe, shpreson se nje dite nje cike lezet will rub off on her). Ve re se si ajo nuk i tregon "shoqes" se vet with the inferiority complex about her HORRIBLE, WRONGFULLY mismatched lipstick with BROWN LIPLINER (brown?????????? why would you commit such monstrosity??????) which is the 1st no-no; because it's in her best interest to have an ugly step-sister forever envying her. Rub-a-dub-dub away, now.

[Humdinger]

I LOVE THIS GIRL...jo këmbë "x"-en, por ty agapi mou ;)
Hey ... do na falni, se po shkojmë të...flemë neve, se kaloi mesi natës këtu !!
Really I LOVE YOU !!

[Leila]

Eh, kalla... ti je me i keqi i te gjitheve. Te me falesh (if there's anything left to forgive) qe i marr fjalet e tua with a grain of salt... or two. Por mos harro se kur fle ti eshte ora ime per te bere "roje"... si Psyche qe shikonte Kupidin e bukur kur flinte aq embel and her heart went out to him. E kuptoj se si mund te jete ndjere kur priste monstren dhe llampa i zbuloi nje engjell. Ne ato ore te nates ka nje shpjegim rracional per gjithshka. Pastaj zgjohet perbindeshi-drago dhe fillon furtuna e te dashuruarve te Dantes as your fire breathing swirls us round and round (didn't Franscesca & Paolo fall in love like we did -- by reading to one another?) As you're reading this, kam pershtypjen (judging from past history) se you're squinting your eyes as you try to will & squeeze my words out si leng nga nje limon i thate, all the while I'm lost outside of the window, staring at the not-so-special tree outside our window, under which Ugolino is feeding off of Ruggieri's daughters. Oh, but if he did...
H. N. jote (H-ë N-ë as in moon)

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

ai eshte i keqi? you don't even know what "i keqi" means. ;) Listen to this ok?
All my life I have been killing rats to cure the disease. Foolish! Why can’t I just kill the disease? Rats are funny. They insist upon going down my basement despite my consecutive refusal, and when they can’t make it down the stairs, I am the one to blame for their misfortune. In my own basement! my property…they dare accuse me of blurring their vision. Can you believe it? “Listen, you idiot. I told you not to try; I told you the stairs are too steep and there is absolutely no chance that you will make it down there.” “Because you don’t turn on the lights” – they proclaim so confidently. Why should I when I can perfectly see through my own darkness? Let’s be honest this time: is this my problem or theirs?
And then, this anatomy business is driving me bananas. According to their sophisticated mind, I should appreciate the fact that extrinsic anatomy is beautiful, and if possible, subscribe my vocation to it. “But I find it utterly repulsive! I’m so used to looking under the skin –I exclaim furiously—any attempt to deviate from this path would prove unworthy to me.” They don’t understand no shit (excuse my language), and I’m so sick of reasonable explanations. I’m afraid they have succeeded in making me believe the world is a rat’s hole, full of filthy rats which run around as if by an earthquake, and if I won’t be able to kill them all, they will start eating me alive. Believe me my friend, in the real world, killing is not a fun sport—it’s a necessity.

[Humdinger]

Një vajzë e vogël, foli papritur, me zërin që të bëje të mendoje se dikush e sulmoi dhe fliste ashtu e frikësuar. Kokët kthyem ...asgjë nuk kish ndodhur...ajo i fliste të jatit, me dihatjen e lodhjes nga biçikleta.
Qeshëm të dy, sepse të njëjtën gjë menduam...menduam se rosat e egra e kishin sulmuar.
Po sikur aty buzë lumit, mes pemësh e lulesh (duke puthur një ildë) rosat do na sulmonin??
-Come on...rosa janë, jo arinj
- Rosa janë vërtet, por janë shumë...
-Prapë rosa mbeten
Një puthje ta vodha duke qeshur...si duket...nuk isha ngopur !!

[IsiNYC]

...hmm seems i've been out of the loop for quite some time - so much has transpired

Leila, as always, you do not disappoint ever consider compiling all of this...could be worth something.

[Humdinger]

Its (sgjej dot apostrofin te keyboard-i i Humiet) been compiled already. Im merely uniting it piece by piece nga e-mailet that Ive sent out during the summer... like a puzzle (minus the many dot-dot-dots that I use ceaselessly, those I edit). Its value is more abstract than *something*. Sell it I would never! Had I any such ambitions, Id never post it ne internet, and surely Id be more careful with it than Ive been this whole time... Id edit and edit nonstop and still wouldnt think it enough. No... if I ever publish anything, itll be a study or something like that. This is... my garbage... where I ooze my crippled, rotting bishta lulesh infested with ennui by the hotness of the past dry summer air (for Litany is only meant for the summer... winter drives it away, locks it in the underworld, the coccoon of great, albeit lost, heroes). But this isnt to look down on it and be patronizing... because one can find out a lot about a person if they go through that persons garbage (if hes smart enough)... such as what do they eat (chocolate, in my case), what color boogers they have (transparent, in my case), kur ndryshon hena gjate ciklit mujor (psych! as une se di kete but Humie times it like a clock, the weirdo... its just a line from a movie where the stalker goes through Ashley Judds characters trash and she finds out and is terrified and then Morgan Freeman finds out, too, and comes to her rescue or to tell her that hes cracked open the case and that the criminal is after her, and he finds them both struggling in the kitchen floor, with knives flying all over the place, etj. etj.) Sorry mods.... spo bej dot log off nga accounti i Humdingerit dhe me qe ra fjala, ti tjetri me kujto se kam 1 jave qe harroj te te them qe ne skemi humidifier which I need (nqs kemi, it sucks). Ika te provoj my new shampoo. How exciting! (really, no irony... cause you people are weird... if new shampoo wont uplift your spirits, I dont know what can)

[Leila]

I decided one day to remain in the butcher's shop just a little while longer. Zytka took care of everything else in the apartment, which left me a lot of free time on my hands. By then I had learned the tricks of the trade without ever having touched a piece of meat. He would talk while cutting and I would drift in and out, staring at the passerbys who would disappear into the carelessly painted black borders of the glass doors. The flicks of paint slathered on the glass so mindlessly did not rattle them the least bit as they walked on like imperturbable, brave soldiers with enough willpower in them to keep themselves composed at the face of death as the black painted spears pierced them through, only for them to come to life on the other side of those jagged borders walking with confident strides as if nothing had happened.

A woman with runny stockings came in interrupting our lesson and asking for grinded meat, which reminded me of a sandwhich with meatballs at Subway's that He wouldn't let me have because He knew all the dirty tricks of the trade and couldn't have me put such things in my mouth. It was nothing out of the ordinary so I didn't bother to make an effort to understand the dialogue, but I later came to understand that He wanted to give her grinded meat with some bone parts but at a much lower price. She was taken back for a moment and argued when she saw the meat He was holding in His hand. She pointed rather obnoxiously to the meat that was hanging behind His back, wanting that one instead. It was the same meat, He explained to her (even I knew that and up until then I had never cooked meat in my life), only that the one He was holding in His hand was cut up a moment before she came into the store. If He were to cut up the one she was pointing to, it would waste the meat He was holding in his hand, which was the same body part she wanted. It was bad enough she wouldn't have any of it, but she also wouldn't let Him explain. Like a spoiled little girl, but less elegant for lack of youth rather than that of experience, she slammed her foot numerous times (how many times she slammed her hand, I lost count), with a less steady answer because she didn't really know what she wanted. So He behaved like all jaded butchers do sooner or later -- He screwed her... with a vengeance. He went back and started all over again, giving her grinded meat with bone parts for the full price, not saying a word. She left... happily elated by her orgasmic ignorance, the means to her limping victory. Here was a man who did her a favor most butchers wouldn't dream of doing and she literally said, "Plaç!" and walked away in such a hilarious stance, self-pleased in her humiliating gaffe made worse as one of her drooping stockings made its way to her ankle. He said in Albanian as she turned away, "Mbaje në b... tani!"

* * *

The owner of the store, the sister-in-law of the man who hired Him, came into the store to remind Him some hypocritical, but mollifying to the right parties, phrase that the customer is always right. There had been other complaints by -- surprise, surprise! -- friends and neighbors of the woman with the pitiful stockings. The point was that the owner, never having taken any real interest in her own business other than its profits, didn't understand the business and hung on to such cliches for dear life if she, the successful businesswoman, were to lecture someone on the secret to a booming business -- a good butcher never sells what the customer wants, He had said, but only what the butcher wants. The difference is some will admit it and some will lie. If a butcher sold only the good body parts, the business would go bankrupt, or at best the owner couldn't afford what he or she would like to afford. And with that He quit, leaving the position open for an overly charismatic native who had yet to put a razor to his unruly beard (but to women that's part of the rugged, dirty mountain man charm, right?), who possessed all the clairvoyance one needs to be blessed with if they ever found themselves with a knife in their hands -- the notion that a knife is not just to be jammed onto animals' backs and that people are a sort of animal, too, if Darwin knew a thing or two about what he was talking about. They deserved someone who was more than willing to oblige their orgasm-inducing ignorance that only their much loved and saintly, selfless butcher could provide them with. He didn't just give them the meat they (supposedly) asked for, neither did he stop providing them with exasperating self-doubt over their ever failing cooking skills, and really, why did their dishes come out so strange when the meat was exactly the meat they had asked for? No, he gave them much more -- he gave them a good screw that sealed the deal in such a way that no man had ever done for them -- çorbën që gatuan vetë.

[Manulaki]

Një vajzë e vogël, foli papritur, me zërin që të bëje të mendoje se dikush e sulmoi dhe fliste ashtu e frikësuar. Kokët kthyem ...asgjë nuk kish ndodhur...ajo i fliste të jatit, me dihatjen e lodhjes nga biçikleta.
Qeshëm të dy, sepse të njëjtën gjë menduam...menduam se rosat e egra e kishin sulmuar.
Po sikur aty buzë lumit, mes pemësh e lulesh (duke puthur një ildë) rosat do na sulmonin??
-Come on...rosa janë, jo arinj
- Rosa janë vërtet, por janë shumë...
-Prapë rosa mbeten
Një puthje ta vodha duke qeshur...si duket...nuk isha ngopur !!

NICEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE


EHHH... keto "kafshet" s'jane gjithmone te keqija, ja keshtu ne vjedhje te bejne ta shijosh "mallin" lol

[Leila]

Ho mi, te mori ca sa ta kuptoje c'shkrojti... lol. Ty sigurisht s'te kane sulmuar pata apo pulebardha te egra -- jo, xhanem, ty te ka vajtur jeta vaj fare... :D

P.S.: "Une jam ajo teta me fund te gjate dhe nje vogelush per dore." :)

* * *

Money was tight at such a frustrating time, as if there's such a thing as a right time to experience financial jams. It seemed that there were so many great deals out there and they were still out of reach even for us. The truth of the matter was that a European supermarket, the Wal-Mart of the lot, had had ambitions in the island and started its autocratic campaign even before we came. It drove all the other stores out of business with its ridiculously low prices that made life just a little bit more bearable for us during our financial crisis. It was the major event of the summer and its sweepstakes were a holiday on their own right -- they enabled the first 10 customers to walk out with everything they could carry for free. Once everyone else went bankrupt the prices climbed back up in the new supermarket, maybe even higher than they originally were (sometimes I find myself play-living the part of the swarm of worms who kidnapped the caterpillar sun bride when I can't remember such monumental details like the rising of prices), and then the big man in charge finally said to the islanders, "Mbaje!" And so they did.

There was enough money for plane tickets to get back but we never touched it and if our minds wandered in that direction, we secretly chided ourselves viciously. Although everyone has gone through a financial dry period at some point in their lives, up until then I had never held back on eating the most nonsensically expensive out of season fruits. It was not beneath me to pay $20 for a teensy box of 4 exotic berries, no matter how badly we were doing. If money was tight that meant I would simply not go shopping for clothes that month -- with a loophole of unless-an-important-dinner-or-occasion-called-for-it, and I would pick my restaurants carefully. Going to our parents or relatives for money was out of the question and the same went for people who owed us money. We'd eat dust if we had to. We had made a life for ourselves that most people would not think to advocate and thus saw it as our failure if we were ever to do something as innocent as to borrow a cup of sugar or a spatula from them. And with this sort of life came a necessary sense of independence and arrogance from us. Oh, but it was perfectly fine should we ever want 2 or 20 or 200 cups of sugar from them, if only we both stuck to 9-5 jobs and had children and went to their school recitals and pinched them behind their backs laughing forcefully when they'd announce something to the effect of "Daddy hit mommy." So Peyton Place '57!

Gone were my bad habits of weekly throwing out rotten, untouched food that sat in the refrigerator for so long, all the while I would lay in my bed at night thinking of all the poor people who had nothing to eat -- how (eventually) fitting! Whatever was bought was eaten; there was no "maybe" pile of food that I helf off consuming until it went to the trash. Gambling brought in little profits, enough to put food on the table and to pay the ludicrously high rent, which I was only then noticing. I tiptoed around Him constantly because unlike me, He was capable of taking His anger out on anyone and according to Him, I was fair game if I approached at the wrong time. When I brought up the subject to suggest change on His part, He smiled sincerely and slapped me on the shoulders, "See? You're already getting to know me -- you've begun to understand when to back off. All couples go through this when they start living together," and with that He moved on missing the point I was trying to make. Deep breath.

When He was in a good mood -- which I had to find out for myself because He'd never alert me of the possible change that may or may not have taken place -- we talked about the job without talking about it. For example, I told him about Upton Sinclair's 1906 fiasco and once He got over the funny name "Upton," I went on to explain how he wrote a book, "The Jungle," which opened America's eyes about the meat industry -- the mice that would fall into the sausages -- "They began questioning the meat industry that late?! P--- i s'ëmës!" It was one of history's funny but sad moments -- here Sinclair tried to show the horrible working conditions of the meat industry toilers, hoping for a change out of compassion and humanity from Americans, but he underestimated their selfishness. Nobody cared about the workers -- they were freaking out from all the meat they had eaten, puking rats' fur out of their stomachs and memory both, and a good portion of them turned vegetarians.

The phone rang as we were lolling around in our balcony, secretly calculating our finances at the back of our minds but talking about April 1985 -- the black guy who cried openly at Enver Hoxha's coffin the day he died and how the guards had to rip him away from the coffin and the appalling, yet touching, scene. I never pick up the phone, as a rule, so He got up from His seat and answered the phone on one of our nightstands. A man named Henri (as in awn-RRHEE) Something-French called and after much discussion about a very common name that threw them into a heated argument over a right or a wrong person, an interview was set up the next day for an experienced butcher at the new European supermarket, the Wal-Mart of the lot. So Mr. Something-French turned out to be the big man in charge who said to the islanders, "Mbaje!" And so they did.