My Expensive One

                                                                      "Sárika, Drágám", 1970

  Don't let anyone tell you that Hungarian is an ugly language.  Challenging, yes.  Very much so.  Trying  to pronounce this language, attempting to speak it with at least a fascimile of accuracy, makes me very thirsty.  The English speaking mouth and tongue get a rigorous workout when pronouncing Magyar and the production of saliva seems to increase dramatically.

  Before hearing Magyar spoken with any regularity, I thought it sounded like the language of Mordor, with its "ok", "unk" and "ak" endings, tacked onto nouns and verbs that looked harsh and clipped in print.

  After hearing the language spoken everyday for six months now, listening to conversation, laughter, anger, gossip, pleading, and every other human verbal expression there is, I've come to realize that Magyar, wrapped in impenetrable, Finno-Ugric mystery, is as sensual, expressive, and beautiful as any Indo-European  language could be.

  My favorite Hungarian word of the moment demonstrates the language's rich, sultry sound.  "Drágám" (roll that "r" or it is not correct) might be translated directly into English as "my expensive one" but is understood as "darling or "sweetheart".  

  When that word is spoken to you, regardless of whose face it tumbles out of, the sound wraps you up in its warmth and affection, caressing your ears lovingly.  It feels so sincere.

  And if a Hungarian is anything, a Hungarian is sincere. x

  

  

Water Monkey Theory

  I once saw and episode of Star Trek in which most of the crew members regress to their pre-evolutionary states.  One woman transformed into an amphibious creature, cold-blooded and water dwelling. In her wildness, she sought refuge in a bathtub filled with warm water, peeking from time to time over the edge of the tub with yellow, newt-like eyes.
  Given my own visceral tendency to seek refuge and comfort in a bath of warm water, it would be easy for me to be persuaded into believing that I had evolved from some primordial salamander.  Oh, the exquisite feeling of that first dip into a sultry, bubbly bath, the transition from cool air to steamy water.  Skin orgasm.  My receded gills quiver with gratification. I slide down into the shallows and peer warily over the edge of the tub at homo sapiens, content inside my amphibious confines. My brain cooks up all kinds of euphorically ridiculous schemes. I feel cozy and utterly safe.

  I noticed on facebook recently a status update in the form of a question, asking if women needed rituals and rites as much as men do.  And while I shrink away at the idea of any kind of dogmatic group ritual (i.e. celebrating one's menstrual cycle), especially a ritual exclusive of any particular gender, I'm forced to admit that my daily bath is indeed a sort of ritual I absolutely require, even as it may annoy the rest of the household.

I have been teased, admonished, scolded for loitering in the bath tub for extended periods. Many times this is completely justified, it's true.  I'm sure the whole thing is simply viewed as a waste of time in this wash and wear, in and out, burnin' daylight world we live in. Surely, time is a precious commodity but its value to me is defined much differently than the ol' time is money chestnut.
  My bathroom, wherever it may be....the big, decadent one I enjoy here in Budapest to the tiny, mold prone Portland hovel I shut myself into... will forever be my sanctuary.  Be it ever so humble and all.

 


Bathroom as chapel.  Is it so far fetched?  Inside this relatively small room, we are alone with ourselves or, if you prefer, our gods, away from the influence of the world at large. Something about the nudity and the tending of basic needs that forces unabashed honesty....the warmth and seclusion of the bathroom buffers us from the harshness of that rectitude. How many times have you been on the toilet and come to a final, crucial decision while sitting (and shitting)? How often, have you spilled a confession of any sort, to yourself and by yourself, within the solitude and privacy of your powder room? How many times, as you submerge your naked body into warm, fragrant water, have you felt a fleeting millisecond of sharp euphoria that softens into a delicious sense of contentment? Kind of like heroin for the soul.
  Perhaps everyone's day would be mellower, easier, less hectic if more people would allow themselves this simple joy.  Showers offer their own benefits; great spells of thinking and problem solving can occur while standing under an invigorating spray, but the bath alone gives you the time to contemplate and commiserate with yourself.  Let's face it, we all need a good talking to, and we might as well have honest conversations with ourselves when we can.  Here, in this city of public baths, among a population convinced of their healing properties, I feel justified and emboldened to express my love for them and to indulge in this therapy, daily, in the privacy of my own home. I save at least 2000 forint this way and I don't have to put my hair up in a rubber band.

  I think it is good for humans to revert to a slightly animal state on a daily basis.  Keeps us tied to the earth (and water) from whence we came. Being naked and alone in the bath is an excellent way to ensure this.  No need for sacraments, liturgy, or shame.  When the powers that be finally ask me for advice as to what to do about this gnarly fuck up or that, I will tell them what I read, in the bathtub, years ago from the pages of that snarky, tub- friendly rag, the New York Observer.
 I will look them straight in the eye, armed with oils of eucalyptus and coconut, offer these treasures with outstretched arms and state emphatically, "Good God, man, go take a bath!" x

Men Who Hate Women

  Young Lisbeth Salander is beautiful, damaged, brilliant, socially awkward.  I love her. She may be a mere invention, a sylph, a flawed yet idealized projection of cruelly interrupted womanhood, but her presence forces its way from the pages of Stieg Larsson's "Millenium Series", like a soul searching for  corporeal station.  As a grown woman, I wish to hold her (she would hate that), comfort her (she would snarl at the thought of needing comfort), remind her how remarkable she is (she would stare blankly and suspect cheap flattery), and cook her a nice, hot, fatty meal (this she would devour while chain smoking). If I were a teenager, she would be my heroine, my role model.  She is one of the most well-developed, fascinating, and sympathetic characters in all of  modern fiction.
  Lisbeth is a character so appealing, so powerful, that she all but carries what many consider a slightly above par piece of fiction.  The Millenium Series is an undeniably addictive trilogy (abruptly cut short by the untimely death of author Stieg Larsson).  I  voraciously devoured all three books during my first three months here in Budapest, momentarily put off by Larsson's sometimes awkward writing style, contrived dialogue, and tendency toward pages of seemingly pointless details (he describes every piece of IKEA  furniture that Lisbeth purchases, in some chapters, everything she eats).
  The hook is Salander herself.  She stands out among the book's many characters not just because she is  humbly yet  frighteningly exceptional and complicated, but because most of the others are not.  Many of the other women in the novels seem to be to be little more than alpha-female feminist fantasies, overachieving bores despite their active sex lives and high powered careers.  Not that they are  unlikeable....indeed Erika Berger, editor of  Millenium, the magazine which gives the series its name, is exactly the kind of woman I would want to work for: smart, thoughtful but decisive, a woman who recognizes the strengths in her employees and uses them to her magazine's ultimate advantage. She just seems much too perfect and her life, which includes a devoted, bisexual husband who accepts her decades long affair with the story's lead protagonist, Mikael Blomkvist, seems like a contrived fantasy.  The other female characters, except Salander, seem like similar spin-offs of Berger, with slighty different names and circumstances.
  Stieg Larsson loved women....not just sexually, but he was also enchanted by them as fellow human beings. When he was alive, he identified as a feminist and often wrote about the fate of women suffering under oppressively patriarchal societies. Therefore his books, the first of which was originally titled Men Who Hate Women, portray women with a kind of amazonian sheen, (with the exception of one or two bitchy, needy, minor characters) without much depth, seemingly unwilling to delve into what makes them human, flaws and all.
  Salander is the exception.  She skulks her way through the streets of Stockholm like a little black cloud, a lovably toxic imp, an arresting but tiny package of lethal and heartbreaking surprises.  The reader follows her, almost like a voyeur, through her life, her jobs, her harrowing experiences.  She is the reason we put up with the noble yet slightly selfish obsessions of Blomkvist, the dithering, enlightened yuppie concerns of Berger, and the cold, maddening ignorance of much of the Stockholm police force (there are a couple of exceptions to this criticism, of course). The reader finds he or she needs to know what becomes of Salander and wants to understand why she is the way she is.
  Aside from my love for Lisbeth, reading The Millenium Series  taught me a smidgen about honest human relations.  All of the "good" characters in the books are refreshingly honest with each other, about their abilities and emotions (which is probably why much of it seems so unrealistic).  I love that Berger knows she's a shitty writer and happily relies on Blomkvist's journalistic talent.  I respect the fact that Berger and Blomkvist genuinely like each other, sometimes fuck like rabbits, and yet admit to not being in love with each other.  I like the clarity with which Blomkvist enters his sexual dalliances, which, again, makes the stories all to unrealistic on a human level.  The personal relationships are highly idealized...but that doesn't mean we should not strive to emulate them, right?  They make me want to be more honest with myself and with those I love, about myself and about other people. That is one tall order, I tell you.
  These reasons alone are enough to begin, fall in love with, and finish "The Millenium Series."  This is one massively popular bandwagon I'm so glad I hitched my side-cart to.  Blessings to St. Stieg and his delightful, deceptively powerful, earth bound demon, the girl with the dragon tattoo. x

Life is a Thrice Baked Potato

It's all a crusty shell with the vague promise of something tender and tasty inside, only I discover it is really just a wrinkly, rattling husk.  So, I need a potion, a lotion, a pomade, a poultice. I need lots of butter and sour cream. I need a trusty method with which to restore and maintain hope.

  We are all planets orbiting our own, self absorbed solar systems.  A thousand and one misunderstandings occur every day, throwing harmony out of whack.  And it's no one's fault and everyone's fault.  Some one simply must be to blame...it always feel much better when we have someone, anyone, upon whom to focus our displeasure. Straw men and scapegoats are the real heroes in this never-ending tragicomedy.

  I'm feeling philosophical again.  Someone shut me up before I raise my voice. x

Drink Me

                                                     from Prague to Budapest, hot wine is the best

   I'm revelling in sickness today.  I'm an ugly bag of mostly snot.  My body is too warm but I shiver nonetheless.  The spirit is willing, the skeleton says, "forget it, girl."  I'm going to self medicate and share my remedy with you all.  It will not cure me but it will help me muddle through with much more cheer.
  There is only one way I can drink red wine.  I have to warm it up, add cinnamon, clove, lemon or orange slices, and a touch of honey.  It is therefore forralt bor, hot wine...drinking it otherwise means  treating myself to raging and relentless headaches.
  Try it, on the downhill side of winter, amidst the doldrums, while the cold weather still encourages a  warm, soothing drink.  Use cheap wine (two buck Chuck would do quite nicely), don't spend too much, but feel as if you are really treating yourself.  Enjoy the ritual of adding whole spices to your specific taste.
And please use whole spices...powdered cinnamon while create a funky slime at the bottom of your cup.

                                                                  FORRALT BOR

     One bottle of red wine...I prefer dry
     assorted citrus slices....I actually like to use lemon only, but oranges, having marinated in the bor for a
     spell, are succulent and  humble joy to savor
     whole cloves and cinnamon bark chunks, to taste...use a tea ball to flavor the wine if you don't want
     a chunky drink
     drizzles of honey, to taste

     Place everything except the honey into a medium saucepan, on medium heat.  Bring to just under a
     boil...let simmer about five minutes.  The longer this simmers, the more alcohol burns off.  Keep the
     mixture warm on a very low heat.  Ladle out a portion and add honey to taste.  Add a splash of rum,
     Vienna style
     Do share, spread the cheer, or enjoy in delicious solitude. x

                                                           homemade forralt bor with lemon
    

Ain't It Just Like The Night....

                                                                             fekete hollo

The birds of Csillaghegy are busy at night. The little ones who populate the small, twisted fruit trees in the blocks chirp feverishly, up and down the phalanx of flats, right after the sun has set and the darkness is brand new.  I can see their little bodies rise and drop from branch to branch, chatting madly as they move.

The songsters outside my bedroom window, whose songs seep delicately into my dreams, keep me wide awake for ar least an hour just after the middle of the cold, dark night.  Could have been the slight fever I'm nursing....no, this has happened before, when I was relatively healthy.
  There is something subtlely alarming about bird song at night.  Such a seemingly humble occurence  feels like an omen of some sort.  It is not supposed to happen,  it's an anomaly....only bats make noise at night.  Birds who sing at night are preparing for the apolcalypse.

Or they are pining for home and freedom.  The other night I was taking a walk when I heard, very nearby, the sharp cry of a hawk.  It took me off guard, naturally, until I realized that these were the hawks that live up the street from our house, in a cage.
  Two hawks live in a cage low to the ground and cry out many nights, each cell bursting with the memory of the way it should be.  They should be surfing thermal currents, manipulating gravity, nesting in tall pines.  They should be hunting for their food instead of having it tossed in their general direction. It is very possible that this low-life is the only one they have known but those cells, those cells...they know and are pregnant with the possibilites despite the hawks lack of such luxury.  So the birds and their cells instinctively cry out, yearning, however subconsciously, for deliverance. Hawk song at night is not so alarming as it is tragic.
  "Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're trying to be so quiet..."

Meus Filius

  I love my Aidan.  This photo captures his essence perfectly.
  He is different from any other child his age.  Every mom thinks this about her kid and each mom is correct in her own way.
  But my son is not a pack animal.  He is not a mini alpha male.  He does not try to live up to anyone's standards but his own.
  My Aidan is like Ferdinand the Bull.  And in this way he is like me.  Perhaps this annoys some people. To them I say tough shit. More people should be like Ferdinand and Aidan.  This world would be a more peaceful rock if more people "sat just quietly and smelled the flowers".

  "Some would try for fame and glory...others just like to watch the world." Daniel Johnston