Reference has been already made to these people as the New Lithuanians. However, my firmest conviction is that this was not right. At least not correct. It may confuse those familiar with the expression New Russians – the new rich people, products of the capitalist revolution in Post-Soviet Russia.
In fact, these two fenomena may well be related yet they are not to be identified with each other.
To my readers not acquainted with the concept of the New Russians I will leave the pleasure of investigation – in my honour and to my satisfaction.
To myself I will leave the evil pleasure of describing the attitude of a group of people towards life and values they take for granted. An attitude I am easily revolted at.
This is perhaps due to the fact I’ve never had this in my life. I used to be a part of another elite. An elite that would meet in the evening, ambling in a silent street under the veil of dim lights, discussing poitics, arts and other pillars of local culture, an elite whose looks and books were what I was nourished by and what made me the person I am.
Now, this elite is not. Or at least I am not a part of it anymore, as I was torn away from it by an act that also tore away from it in a way those that incited that act themselves.
(I know this story is bound to excite disbelief from most of you or at least seem exaggerated, even though my unending quest for home is itself a proof to its being for real.)
I can easily imagine that in the country that thus stopped being my home there is such a new elite, too, and a reason why I can is that looking back I believe its traces can be tracked back in the late 90’s.
I call this group of people beautyfools not because I am unaware of the way the adjective beuatiful is correctly written nor because I don’t know an adjective is not set in plural.
They are just fools of beauty, fooling themselves into the importance and self-importance of what they consider beautiful: expensive clothes, watches, fancy phones and restaurants.
In my time there were no smartphones or shopping malls, but had there been any, I am sure the ones that I now believe to have seen the seeds of this movement back then would have spent a lot of time there – the way my usual companians, the beautyfools do.
I have no idea as to whether their parents have worked hard for the money their posterity spend so lavishly – or they are just lucky and inventive businessmen that have grabbed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that have served them the means to provide all this to their offspring.
Richness is elusive and maybe this is the subconscious reason behind their taking advantage of this situation.
It is not this I am revolted at. Is is the fact they could make a lot more of it.
They are now «free» and they take it for granted. They don’t speak Russian, but some swearwords, such as «блядь», which is actually the first or second most often word used by them . In a sentence consisting of, say, 10 words, three of them can easily be «блядь», and, given most of the others most probably differ, this points to the fact that what I am giving is likely a fair account of reality.
Something that has also happened several times, though luckily not that very often, is the phrase «what the fuck блядь» adorning the soundspace in the mall.
They could have learnt this beautiful language from their peers, and could thus take advantage of this knowledge in later life. They wouldn’t and they won’t.
Sure they speak a lot about me behind my back. Surely they would do it in my face, too, should they know I am not that fluent at their language. And still when I’m there they do not.
They may perhaps feel a certain feeling of me being at least one of them, taking into consideration the branded clothes I wear, the branded headphones and the smartphone I use. Well, to be honest, I’ve had these clothes and smartphone for a while and while I also tend to try swapping this for the prestige I had as a member of that elite, deep inside I remain a bitter rival of consumer society by using something until it is torn and even after.
And of course, little do they know that all that I’ve bought I’ve bought at the high cost of sacrifice, work and studying – something I still do when I am where they are. I use my devices to develop myself within the measure of the possible – something that, in turn, makes me lofty and haughty, and leads to the despise I harbour for such people. They, certainly, also harbour some for me. Who knows what they call me. Who knows what it would look like, were I their age and in the same situation I used to be, being mocked by their counterparts and developing this sense of elitism as a countermeasure, not without the active help received from one of the members of that elite, a now departed friend of my grandparents’.
Who knows, maybe I’d be dreaming of being kissed by one of those girls who would just laught at me. And when I did not receive it, I would call her a «блядь», too. For she certainly is. Or maybe I would not, although she certainly is.
What is more than certain is that I am happy to have spent this time with those guys. Their presence and attitude give me the feeling of being not so lost. At least, I am there at that mall for something and not just for spending m(one)y (and) time.
As long as I use and not spend these so that I can eventually produce something, I can be a fool of my own kind – and dream of the beauty I still miss without procreating a new one that serves nothing a no one but the horned one.
Whether they are happy or not I know not, maybe they are – and so should it be. I, for my part, am happy not to have had to apply such methods of (self)-beautification.