Muziejaus 11-13. Things of No Importance

This is probably the introduction to the book Muziejaus 11-13, which is an address of the place where I grew up.

————

I had a slight notion, that the place where I lived was special. But when it really entered my mind was when I was 13. I lived alone my myself and I will explain to you at some point later why. However, I was listening to Pink Floyd “The Dark Side of the Moon” on an old soviet vinyl player while writing my diary, as all at a sudden a flushing water sound entered my ears. It perfectly fitted to the music played, but it was the sound of real water really flushing into the apartment. The door bell started ringing without interruption. I made my way to the door to get help from neighbors and wondered what all this strange tingling in my body was about (it was electricity flushing down from the doorbell). Neighbors managed to get the water turned off. The rest I had to do myself. So, I went to a soviet neighborhood management office and asked for plumbers to fix the pipe. Wait, they told me.

After two weeks two remarkable guys appeared. One was very tall and thin, the other one was short and round. Both were in their years and drunk. They would have fitted into the comic to deliver the message that the job has no chance to be completed. But things took an unexpected turn. Petia, do you remember us being drunk in that corner once? Yeahh, I guess so, it has been a while, ugh?

It turned out that once they were guests of my grandfather, great poet and notorious drunkard. All nation must have passed by here once. I missed that era completely, since my grandfather died when I was just 4. But the same place happened to be a nod of trajectories crossing of many more people to come later.

A great percentage of my childhood time was dedicated to cook coffee for the guests. I had no idea who they were and I had not much idea about coffee since I did not drink any myself – I was a very young child –  but I must have been really good at it. Coffee Turkish way. Very low flame. Plenty of fresh grounded coffee, three times letting the foam come up. My mother would have been a good trainer and will breaker in any detention camp. However, after resisting to learn to deal with the fire, I gave in and was trained to cook probably the best coffee in town. At least this was what the guests would say, and note that these people were not particularly generous with compliments or any kind of superficial remarks as usual in some other parts of the world. At some point I didn’t mind this job. When people ask me when I started meditating I realize that it must have been around that time. Watching coffee cook very slowly.

Thus I witnessed the guests of Muziejaus 11-13 coming and going. Things of no importance. It just turns out that in a small country things of no importance make history.

—— 

This is me and my grandfather in Muziejaus 11-13. This and most of other photographs to be posted about Muziejaus 11-13 were take by my mother, a great photographer Dange Sirvyte

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One Response to “Muziejaus 11-13. Things of No Importance”

  1. Beautiful story! And I need that coffee recipe.

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