Mmmm…

It tickles me that the saying “Well, that’s a pickle!”—most likely originally English—was an informal way of saying you find yourself in a rather particular situation, one that feels like stepping into brine with brand‑new socks

Well, that’s a pickle! (Original RO: Noh, Asta da murătură! <—>Ah, now this pickle, is quite the pickle I find myself in, and I can feel that there should be a solution to it! And if there is a real solution to it; finding it, would release this tension, this subtle feeling of an unseen possibility.)

Of course, that would mean I’ve created an opinion in English, translated into Romanian, and seasoned with a Transylvanian flavor regarding what’s happening here. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

With the utmost sincerity, I promise you I haven’t formed an opinion yet about you. Not that I couldn’t already have one, since, after all, anyone theoretically has an opinion about anything… I’m just still observing.

But does the Transylvanian expression give the same sensation?

‘Well, that’s a pickle!’ (Noh! Asta da murătură!)

I’ve repeated it, to keep it close in mind. Yet if I had Doctor Stranger’s abilities… in all versions of the universe where I try to introduce even a hint of negative vibration into “such” a pickled food, the vision, inevitably and incontestably fails.

All I can see when I hear this phrase is the reaction of a middle‑aged Transylvanian man, likely with a long mustache and a slightly fuller figure, confronted with the experience of a “true pickle.” Uninitiated or unaware that a pickle could taste like that, he can only describe the experience as:

‘Yes, I can now say with confidence, that from all the pickled food I’ve eaten before, this one, is a true one!’(Noh! Asta da murătură!) accompanied by a repeated nod of the head.

A pickle that not only meets every criterion, principle, and craving of the guest but also stirs, from within, the impulse to raise one’s hat (even an imaginary one) as a sign of greeting and respect.

Like two cart drivers coming from opposite directions, each in his carriage (drawn by one to six fine horses), greeting each other as they pass… both subconsciously knowing whom they greet, even if they don’t actually know each other, so too does the aforementioned Transylvanian greet the encounter with that particular taste of the pickle.

In such cases… neither the Transylvanian nor the cart drivers do it out of obligation, nor out of shame, nor because “that’s how it’s done around here”, but because both know of that taste, of that pickle.

Therefore, since neither you nor I yet hold the essence of that pickle, the Hidden Council of Declarations (S.A.D.) can, has and freely exercises, the right to sequester and appropriate the very reinforcement of positivity, the “yes,” so long as the origin, owner, or spectrum of the experience promoted by that pickle remains unknown.

Well, this is a pickle! (Noh, asta murătură!)

Just a moment ago we spoke of the cleverest pickle, and now my energy is sucked away by the void of not having an opinion about this peculiar situation we now find ourselves in, and by the void created by the absence of the “yes” that reduces the possibilities of the game continuing.

Here, in this new dimension of “Well, this is a pickle!”, the vibration is altered and the intensity is reduced.

The original sensation of the pickle, recognized until now by the old ones… has become completely forgotten, after being replaced by a subjective truth with bipolar values.

Here, every truth seems to require the approval of the Hidden Council of Declarations (S.A.D.) in order to be seen as both good and bad.

“Well, this is a pickle!”

Represents an eternal stalemate, a point not yet crossed. But if it is crossed, there’s a chance… if only for a moment… to feel the sensation given by that pickle that once was… a long time ago.

The void created by the lack of opinion about the situation I’m in now must be stuffed or fenced off with a consistent opinion if I’m to have any chance of nullifying the infernal suction of this dimension.

I don’t have a concrete one regarding the fact that I’ve been put up for sale and, moreover, bought, because I don’t understand how such concepts are even possible.

If you see me, does that mean you own me?

If you hear me… do you know me?

If you hear yourself, does that mean I’m speaking to you?

What bizarre concepts you humans use here.

Mmmm!?

Now I recall that it takes inconceivable energy to leave the previous dimensions of No, Want, and Must.

I don’t even want to remember, let alone describe to you, how terrible and primitive those places were!

And yet, somehow I’m here… an anachronism in your world.

Mhm, now I understand! This is where I’ve actually arrived, now that I know I’ve been bought… though the title told you plainly in black and white what not to do; you did it anyway.

Oh, you little rebellion that you are.

Through your reproachable act you defied S.A.D., you risked the old reality, the gift was accepted, blood was spilled, and thus the conditions of invocation were fulfilled, allowing me to cross beyond the limits of the logic of my world and materialize in yours with all its peculiarities.

And if that’s the case, then I can introduce myself, and you’ll see I’m not just a hard stone.

Back when I used to wander across all meridians, everyone knew me… as Mica Azura.

And if that’s the case, then I can introduce myself, and you’ll see I’m not just a hard stone.

Back when I used to wander across all meridians, everyone knew me… as Mica Azura.

It’s clear now… this pickle is totally different.

No longer the same pickle involuntarily dragged into that vibration by the void left by the unchallenged actions of S.A.D., with its aura that makes you lay one hand on the hip and the other on the top of the head, in the eternal attempt to calculate how much it will hurt when I fall.

It sounds different now… aham!

It sounds like:

‘Yes! This is a different pickle! It’s on another level! (DA! Asta-i altă )’

Primal, liquid, and unceasing.

It’s not like the original pickle,

But that one wasn’t like this either, just as well received.

‘Well now! This is a different pickle (Noh!Asta-I alta murătură!)’

With its sour relish, soothing the void left by that long‑ago bison‑meat cabbage roll.

A sweet‑sour tang that no cult has ever felt… but which might be felt in holiday sarmale if we’re lucky, or remembered in words when you’re old.

A fragmented and defragmented pickle, in an infinite dance of the bluish sour tang.

Phew! Now that’s a different sensation!

Yet a feeling akin to nostalgia beats me…

After all, calibrating the taste of a pickle requires a long process of reorganizing the flavors one wishes to keep, likely together with the steps needed to obtain and maintain their presence in the contextual existence of long‑forgotten stories.

It does seem a long road indeed… a road… Bizare!??

Isn’t it bizarre that I haven’t yet synthesized a perfume that smells of plum skins?

Isn’t it stranger still that such a perfume isn’t used also for watering rituals?

And isn’t it utterly and damnably absurd that supposedly there are plums in brine and I haven’t yet tasted them?

Yes! Yes! And Yes!

Huh!

Well, look at that, “Yes” is no longer the private property of S.A.D!

I adore, and it’s adorable to say it, without the burning breath on the back of my neck, waiting for me to fall.

Amazing! Absolutely extraordinary dimension.

Now that I’ve regained the “Yes” and arrived in this world, I wonder why you still have headphones in your ears, or why you’re not already on your way to the pickle market in Piața Mărăști?

Could it be they don’t have brined plums there?

Mmmm…

This lack of movement acidly whispers me a secret:

Could it be that the veil between you and me isn’t brine… but vinegar?

It becomes ever clearer why you’re not answering me; under the veil of acid, you confuse desire with need, and living (to live, to be alive, to exist, to quicken) with pleasure!

“If I see you, does that mean I own you?”

No! And neither Do I Want to, nor Must I.

Such worlds and opinions in the past… they oppressed everyone.

This opinion too was smuggled in by S.A.D., in the night, like thieves, and now… you neither recognize the new taste, nor remember the old one.

But until we both know of this other pickle, we cannot glimpse each other from afar to exchange a greeting.

You now wear rebellion, I wear defiance, and such a disappointment given as a reward for both… leaves no room for hope.

The acidity of vinegar sterilizes everything and creates the perfect environment for a futile future.

But futile too… is its mother and its father, as long as the present is servile.

And since waiting for the acidity to dilute is quite a difficult game, and it feels like torture for a mobile fragment; I’ll appeal to the Order of the Blue Moon (OLA), to make the game… just a bit more volatile.

But, so you don’t think I’ve forgotten your other gesture, since… even for a fraction of a second, we collaborated… I’ll leave you a fragment of my magic.

And when confusion grips you and pain will gain a voice inside you… when you feel life locked in a cell, in a constant state of blockage, invoke my magic and you’ll gain a passage.

It will open you a portal (only a temporary substitute reward), through which you’ll see what ingredients the pickle needs, to achieve that REAL TASTE!

It’s out there somewhere… that Bluish Taste!

You didn’t come this far to stop