This One Goes Out To.....

  I'm a failed American.  I have no ambition, I cannot fasten dogged loyalty to any professional sports team, and I despise huge expanses of artificially fertilized lawn, stretched out like in front of massive garages like an endless crew cut. I also refuse to identify with any Judeo-Christian credo.  "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine". 

  These days I'm feeling more American than I thought possible.  Natch, right?

   Davis Foster Wallace suggested that Americans have a need to give themselves up to something, anything, and that this can be indulged privately.  I've wrestled for the past couple of weeks as to what this means and whether or not I agree. I'm still wracking my brain for examples. 

  Wallace also proposes that everything practiced in the life of a young European, sports, education, creativity, is simply a manner with which to glorify the community at large.  "Okay, the State," he observes.  Not such a bad thing until you realize the kind of conformity that this ideal requires and the unquestioned leap of faith in one's government it demands. Let's face it, conformity and unquestioned faith in government  has not been so good for Europe, particularly eastern and central Europe.

  I do see that this attitude winds through Hungarian thought, evident particularly  among the privileged class. As much as they hated Communism, it simply was not the kind of  conformity they were seeking. Consensus building is not a cultural strong suit in Hungary, and the privileged simply wanted their kind of conformity, one spiked with nationalistic tang.  For instance.....

  Zsuzsa is troubled by the fact that more young women are choosing to either not get married and have kids or are waiting too long to have children.  She is fearful for The Hungarian Family at large. She loves Orban Viktor, the center right prime minister of Hungary, who champions Family (specifically, the Christian, Hungarian Family) above all else. She never questions his party's (Fidesz) intentions to rewrite the Hungarian constitution or the new, favorable- to- Fidesz media laws.

  "I worry about the Hungarian family."  She gently shakes her pretty, blonde head. "Girls are placing more importance on their careers and having fun. They are going to wake up one day, sad, alone, and bored." 

  Oy.  I'm having, at this point, a "well, in America..." moment, which I avoid expressing at all costs because it is simply obnoxious. 

  This is what I do say, "Well, I have several friends who are not married, have no intention of getting married or bearing children and they are quite happy and productive.  Not lonely either."

  Zsuzsa shakes her head.  "It seems boring.  And no children.  Isn't that selfish?"

  I've heard this one before, in the States.

"How is it selfish?"

  "Well...they are not giving their parents grandkids.  They are not replacing themselves. The family is important. It is good for the society."

  In a country whose brain drain is alarming and whose population is actually dwindling, the fear of not replacing oneself is not altogether ridiculous.  Zsuzsa herself has the Hungarian standard, three children, two to replace herself and her husband, plus one more to add to the population.  The Holy Trinity in Hungary is not only The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit, but also those three kids you push out for the survival of your people.

  "I guess I think there is not just one definition of a family.  My single friends are part of my family. And many women feel as if they can benefit society more effectively by remaining single.  Besides, just because you can have kids doesn't mean you should."

  "Hmmm...how do you mean?"

  "I mean, pretty much anyone can make a child, unless there is some medical reason for that not being possible. But not everyone can be a good parent.  You are a good parent.  You love your kids and they are thriving.  Not everyone can or should do that, even if they want to. Bad parenting is a generational curse."

  Zsuzsa looks at me intently for a moment.  She is considering these words. I think she gets it, but her own situation is so ideal, she still can't relate.

"This is true, but...." She narrows her eyes and shakes her head. "Seems sad and lonely.  And I want grandkids."

  Next topic.  

  To me, it is selfish to expect everyone to live up to one, limited ideal, the one that may work for you, but not necessarily for me.  This seems to ensure depression and ultimate failure.

  I see evidence of the Hungarian Ideal all around me.  Most of the married couples I know have exactly three children.  Most of couples I see strolling on Margit Sziget are wrangling three little ones who roll around on their tiny scooters (a must have for the under four set) or sucking rhythmically on their passies,  like tiny Buddhas in their prams.  Currently, The Family rules...but only this narrow definition of family. At least, within the currently dominant paradigm. 

  I realize that marriage and family is virtually fetishized in the United States as well.  But there definitely seems to be more room for new and different descriptions of what a family actually is. Americans are beginning to accept the idea that gay people have the right to marry their loved ones. Many of these couples have children.  I can't help but think that this idea would be overwhelming to mainstream Hungarians. Procreation, to this thick stratum of society, is the reason God gave us sex, and to stray from that is deviant.  Of course, there are many Americans who hold fast to this drab and depressing definition but these people are increasingly being forced to accept that which is different from their strict world view.

  I am forced to admit that I have been lucky.  Yes, lucky.  Lucky to have lived among progressive minds in a part of my country where people value the things I do.  I have existed within an moveable, liberal bubble. I am willing to admit, since being away from Portland, U.S.A. that I may be guilty of viewing the entire country through a liberal lense. I may also be guilty of assuming that my way of viewing the world is good for everyone. And yet I recognize that Portland is just as American as Oklahoma City, and has become what it is because it exists in the U.S.

  I love America because we do place value on the individual.  The U.S. has shown that what is good for the individual and what is good for society are often the very same thing.  For example, the young woman who decides to reject the expected track of marriage and motherhood, who sets different goals for herself because she knows her strengths lie outside those confines.  Her happiness, her success, is good for our society. You know, "free your mind and your ass will follow....the kingdom of heaven is within."  Happy and healthy people are vital to society, not strict adherence to some authority figure's idea of how things should be. Hungary, with its ridiculously affordable, top notch healthcare system gets it right when it comes to the "healthy" part of this equation. If we could combine the best of the two countries, we might just have an ideal society on our hands.  

  I thank my country for giving me my tendency to question everything, to consider the many facets of an idea or argument, and, regardless of my pessimism, the constant feeling that things will get better and that change can and will be a good thing. I've learned a lot about myself here in Budapest, and I will be forever grateful to her for forcing the mirror in front of my face, insisting that I re-examine my desires, my assumptions, my abilities, etc.  She has shared some great food and good times in the process. That said, I can't help but long for the day when I can bring all of this back to the U.S., to Portland, where I hope I will continue to flourish and become a better human being. How fucking American is that? I have given myself up to that desire! xxx

  

  

                                                                    

                                                        

   

Ebb And Flow

  I'm risking being accused of wearing my heart on my sleeve, over-sharing, seeking attention, whatthefuckever.  Maybe I'm guilty of all or none of those things.
  I can feel the chemicals sloshing around in my brain...those hormones, endorphins....dopamine flows (ahh, suddenly I feel thankfully hopeful) dopamine ebbs (ugh, what was I thinking? there is no hope), so I know my moods are mostly chemical and that there is nothing I can wrestle with and overcome realistically.
  Leslie, stop being so sensitive.
  Well, that's impossible.  the best I can do is curl up and wait for it to subside.  The mood, that is.
  The problem with these chemicals surging in my brain is that when they finally settle, what's left is stasis.  It's as if something inside of me is afraid to move lest the surging begin again.
  Well, you'd better do something, you're burning daylight.  If I were you...
  There they are.  The four words, placed together, into a phrase I hate with a seething passion.  I would like to say to the next person who says this to me, "Firstly, you are not me.  We should both be thankful for that.  Secondly, when you preface any sentence with those words, you are telling me you think I give a shit what you would do and that you think I am seeking your so-called wisdom.  You insult me with those words.  Fuck off until you can stop inserting yourself into my trip and vice versa."
  I realize I have failed to grow up in many areas of my life.  I'm a failed American.  A failed person of faith (thank Dog for that one).  A rejected member of the so-called "productive class" and a failure at pulling myself out of this miserable, mental, chemical stew.  The only words I wish to utter are "fuck off" and at no one in particular.
  My moods piss people off.  Inevitably I get so wrapped up in the sharp pangs of memory and shame, the bottomed -out gut, the uncomfortable rush of blood to the face, that I for all practical purposes crawl into myself and forget my loved ones.  I'm really sorry, you all, I love you incredibly but am still not comfortable expressing it without fear.  I'm trying to recognize it before it happens.  Again, another fail.
  Anyway, this post is supposed to serve as cheap therapy.  I had to get it all out....the flow was too much, had to spill it somewhere else.  I'll try to keep it to myself in the future. x
  

Cats From The Interzone

                                                                              Starfish


My dear friend Dean (residing now and forever in bonnie San Francisco) sent me an intuitively apropos and enchanting gift.  It arrived last Friday, an exquisitive surprise, a gift from home, across the pond and the plains,West Coast, USA.
  Honestly, almost any scrap of paper sent from the States will entertain me for a long while.  You could send me the classified section from your local weekly and I would be thrilled to read every single "I Saw U" listing.
  But this slim package contained a humble literary treasure, along with a charming black and white postcard of MFK Fisher and her cat (Consider The Oyster?). It was a brief novella I'd never heard of previously....both of these embellished with loving care in Dean's elegant, artful script.
  Not only does it offer a brief diversion from the intriguingly semi-penetrable "Infinite Jest", this book of short essays also eases the pain of a void I've been suffering since moving to Budapest.
 The only creature who could fill that void is my stout and proud kitty, Zissou, whom we left in Portland in an effort to preserve his sanity.  He is, of course, in the best of hands with our pal Stacey Diane Mitchell.  William Burroughs book, The Cat Inside, helps me honor my far away friend, offers validation of my intense feelings for cats.  I love cats. I love this novel.

                                                                                    Zissou in neon grass




      
   This chance rehappening with William Burroughs has been  quietly sublime.  I have always liked his writing (his essays in particular), his persona as junkie wise man, his occasional cameos on film.  I took a stab at reading Naked Lunch in high school, couldn't quite handle its random, dream-reality flow, picked it up again as a sophomore in college and enjoyed it very much, however long it took me to finish.  The whole thing seemed to have been conceived at that middle moment between being awake and being asleep, and I quickly learned to love that about Burroughs.
  The Cat Inside preserves the illusory appeal of Burroughs writing...the distillation (maturation, perhaps) of his style perfumes the air of this much less surreal novel, while Burroughs discusses cat relations, offers mesmerizing testimony as to his becoming a "cat person", denouncing humanity's thoughtless cruelty towards them and all other animals, real and imagined (there is brief mention of Bigfoot).

 "Man is a bad animal!" Brion Gysin, The Cat Inside

                                                                    Zissou catching ZZZZZZZZZZs
  

  William Burroughs took in many cats after converting to Cat-atonia.  He describes a recurring, teenage sensation, one of "cuddling some creature against my chest".  He later interpreted this sensation as an indication that he was to be a Guardian (his captitalization) of something "as yet unimagineable", something that is part cat, part human that has not evolved yet.  He felt his cats were his familiars and treated them as such.
  Several of the essays feature a white cat.  A large, white tom cat first greets Burroughs when he moves into a house outside of Lawrence, Kansas.  This cat, Ed, turns out to be a sort of diplomat for the other cats who eventually glide in and out of the rental home.  Just as I seem to attract and be attracted to black cats, Burroughs received wisdom and love from a bevy of white ones.
  But now I'm on the other side of the world and things have changed dramatically.  My black cat stayed put,  patiently waiting my eventual return, and now a white cat is speaking to me with her slinky charms.  Love the one you're with, right? She's the neighbors' cat, Hípo, but I call her Starfish.  She comes to the back door, dancing for food and a little affection and then she is on her way.  Poor, sweet little thing has worms and mites, but damn, she wears it well.

                                              Cosmo and Starfish: a Cold War and a Separate Peace

                                                                                that's "macska" to you, külföldi


  Starfish has been a great little visitor.  Hungarian cats, for the most part, seem terrified of human beings (I've driven this point home many times) and indeed, Starfish's cat housemates are definitely so.  My little girlfriend learned nothing from her older companions and approached Aidan and I one day with undecidedly un-Hungarian enthusiasm and optimism, purring and chirping, ready to leap into our arms if we did not pick her up right this instant.  During that first meeting, we must have spent forty-five minutes outside our gate with this little flirt.  Since then, she has visited a couple of times a week, just to say hi, roll around fetchingly on the floor asking for food, and to offer and accept warmth and affection.

  "The white cat symbolizes the silvery moon prying into corners and cleansing the sky for the day to follow.  The white cat is "the cleaner" or "the animal that cleans itself", described by the Sanskrit word "Margaras",  which means "the hunter that follows the track; the investigator, the skip-tracer." The white cat is the hunter and the killer, his path lighted by the silvery moon.  All dark, hidden places and beings are revealed in that inexorably gentle light.  You can't shake your white cat because your white cat is you. You can't hide from your white cat because your white cat hides with you." The Cat Inside

  Animals are unconditionally grateful when a kind human takes them in, rescues them from certain hardship. We bonded very quickly with  Zissou after we found him, wailing with a howl a hundred times as big as he was, small, puffy, discarded, underneath the bushes outside the side doors of Amity Creek Elementary School. I remember peeking under the bush to find the little face from which the noise was issuing forth...our eyes met and his tiny black head at once became all mouth as he let out a final cry.  I scooped him out from underneath the low branches and he looked up at me, purring thankfully, with crusty blue eyes.  He closed them faithfully, still holding his head up, as I gently wiped the goop away.  I loved him immediately.  He became our second black cat, a bully to my dear, departed girl cat Beast (her friendship with me is another saga in itself), a spiky, devilish playmate for our dog pal, Cosmo. That summer, spent mostly outside with black animals, was a sweet one.

                                                                  Zissou loves gardens


  
"The cat does not offer services. The cat offers itself. Of course he wants care and shelter.  You don't buy love for nothing. Like all pure creatures, cats are practical. To understand an ancient question,  bring it into present time.  My meeting with Ruski and my conversion to a cat man reenacts the relation between the first house cats and their protectors." The Cat Inside

  I'm always on the look out for cat friends here in Hungary.  A few have been very friendly but many more have run away, feral and terrified.   I find cats to be among the most beautiful of creatures (despite their ubiquity), even the frightened ones, and I snap pics of them whenever I can.  I can't open up my Budapest home completely to a cat but I can offer respect and friendship, a few moments of kindness. Hungarian cats may for the most part be suspicious and unavailable but the friendly, mellow ones are as sweet as dobos torta.

                                                            two friendly felines from Vác
 


  "Ginger was Ruski's old lady, always around.  So I started feeding her and hoping she would go away.  How American of me...'Who's that at the door? Give her some money, send her away.'" The Cat Inside


  I think the main appeal this novel holds, for me, is the communal feeling the stories describe collectively.  It's idyllic...an artist living in a large country house, with a massive porch, sharing it, in mutual respect, with several cats. The artist feeds them, has the time to observe them and relate to them. The time Burroughs spent in the house outside of Lawrence, Kansas, was perhaps a golden respite from his otherwise rather extreme lifestyle. Not extreme so much as unconventional...and there was something endearingly conventional (punctuated, of course, with sessions of shooting-up heroin) about his relationship with his beloved familiars. Cats seemed to have taught Burroughs so much about himself as he cared for and loved them.  His experiences served as little allegories for American life in general.  He discovered certain truths, enacted through little cat vignettes with cat actors. They gave everything to him, they gave themselves.  Of course he became their Guardian.

  

Sour Puss

I do not drink booze that much.  Alcohol has been unkind to me, too much makes me feel as if I am embalming myself alive.  And, alas, too much comes too soon.

  Sparkling wine (champagne, if I'm lucky), however, tends to treat me quite well, particularly if I chug plenty of water before, during, and after partaking.  I'm willing to do that to feel the fizzy buzz I get when enjoying a flute or two.

  My favorite sparkler right now is blue label Hungaria. It's a nutty, lemony quaff whose flavors are  equal to and sometimes surpassing any of the cheap but tasty cavas available in the states.  Hungaria costs about 1400 forint, seven bucks, which is a mighty nice price for the quality....crisp, dry, and refreshing.

   Adding juice to a bubbling, pale gold flute of Hungaria is further insurance that I will not wake up wishing I could saw off my own head.  Orange is an obvious choice for a mimosa, and the peach juice available in these parts makes for a splendid bellini. 

Hmmm...what would happen if I added my favorite sour cherry juice to this pale blonde Hungarian bubbler?  The Sour Puss is born.  Try it, you'll like it, although you state siders might have a hard time finding a cherry juice worth the effort.  Try the German markets if you got 'em, otherwise, opt for the dankest, richest sour cherry juice you can find.

  Fill a flute or wine glass 2/3 full of cava (I don't think Hungaria is readily available in the U.S.).  Add sour cherry juice to taste...cheers and Egészségedre (to your health)!

Infinite Jest in Budapest

This season, on the downhill slide from late winter into early spring, I have chosen to delve into a dense novel that has been called both "a daunting task" as well as "one of the best English language novels since 1923".  Not sure which novel marks the 1923 milestone.  It was, indeed, a great year for literature.
  Infinite Jest  is the magnum opus of the late, tragically brilliant writer, David Foster Wallace.  It is a thick read, one thousand seventy nine pages of small print, which begins with the group vetting of young tennis prodigy, Hal Incandenza. Thus far, the stream of consciousness, highly descriptive and dense prose has kept me in the bathtub each night for an hour.  I'm hooked, but the bait is proving to be a mighty wad to swallow.
  Why am I reading a Great American Novel here in Hungary when I should be reading the works of local literary luminaries such as Krúdy Gyula, Móricz Zsigmond, or Molnár Ferenc?  Indeed, Mólnar's A Pál Utcai Fiúk (The Paul Street Boys) is a must read for book lovers anywhere, as it is often touted as the most famous Hungarian Novel in the world.  I'll get to it.
  Infinite Jest  has been on my mind since the author committed suicide in 2008. Since I ordered it three weeks ago, it has been particularly heavy in my heart, for reasons unknown.  I just have to go with the jones. The heart wants what it wants.
  David Foster Wallace, although not Hungarian, seemed to possess a bit of the Magyar sensibility.  Serious, intellectual, sincere, depressed, and free of bullshit, he may have fit right into this culture and may have admired its fellow, suicidal literary heroes (Atilla Josef, I'm thinking of you and your train tracks).
  Ah, David, "this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you".
  Play by play reviews of this novel will be appearing on this blog.  I will attempt to tie what unfolds to life here in Budapest.  A dystopian novel with themes that range from addiction, terrorism, separatism and tennis should give me plenty of latitude. Stay tuned, my pretties. x

  

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