Patti and V.S.

  Regardless of how we age and how jaded we inevitably become, we are always profoundly disappointed when the intellectually and expressively gifted among us spew hateful, idiotic, narcissistic blather. It is a blow to the psyche when the supremely talented (and successful) fail society in this way, behaving like ignorant jack-asses. We assume such conduct is beneath an artist's dignity and its expression is definitely too much for our tolerance.
  Recently, Nobel Prize winning author V.S. Naipaul stated in an interview with the Royal Geographic Society that, "Inevitably for a woman, she is not a complete master of a house, so that comes over in her writing too."
  He then spoke of his publisher who, when she crossed over into writing, produced nothing but "feminine tosh".
    That phrase is destined to return to bite ol' V.S. in his saggy ass, a simple but damning expression that illustrates both Naipaul's nasty gender bias as well as his clever way with words.
  Without pontificating, without ranting, I will let Naipaul's words stand on their own.  I don't know his work and it's too bad because these recent statements do not entice me to explore his venerable anthology.
  Instead I will issue a check mate to his statements by discussing my favorite new read, Just Kids by unapologetically sentimental female author, rock and roll pioneer Patti Smith.  The high priestess of punk poetry relays the achingly beautiful story of her relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe.  This book is a last request at last fulfilled, the story having brewed, aged, and acquired a luminous patina within the memory of Patti Smith.  During one of their last conversations, before he died of AIDS in 1989, Mapplethorpe asked Smith to "write our story.  No one but you can write it".  Smith subsequently wrote Flowers and The Coral Sea in remembrance of Mapplethorpe but waited twenty years until she "found the right voice" with which to tell the tale.
  That voice is wistful and ageless...I was immediately drawn into her world from the beginning of the book.  Smith is unabashed and open in her retelling of her precious, unique relationship with Mapplethorpe.  That relationship, that deep love defied definition, and the two artists struggle to figure out how to define it themselves.  Classic soulmates, their love transcended mere sexuality and simple friendship.  I doubt there are many couples who are lucky enough to find that kind of life long devotion. Smith aptly describes their relationship as being similar to the siblings Elizabeth and Paul in Jean Cocteau's "Les Enfants Terrible", brother and sister who live and love in a world of their own invention.

In many ways I was predominantly drawn into the story as it speaks of life as a burgeoning artist in NewYork City at the beginning of the 1970s. That life, as wrought with sickness, hunger, and desperation it was, was still golden, wonderfully simple, and endlessly creative. A single hot dog from Nathan's was, to them at the time, a luxury to be cherished and savored.  Second hand trinkets and imported baubles, traded between them as tokens of their unique bond, became auspicious talismans. These bits and pieces of their creative lives together tell of a lifestyle that no longer enjoys the respect it should.  Simple joys, humble treasures, bestowed with profound meaning then passed along. And art, the creation of art, by people who literally, outspokenly, dedicated their lives to that muse. It is a long lost national treasure, that way of living, that set of values...it would be nearly impossible to pull off in this day and age, when more is more.
  Smith and Mapplethorpe occupied crumbling residences and historic hotels.  They were showered with glitter tossed upon them by the deliciously kooky drag troupe from the West Coast, the Cockettes, during their infamous visit to New York City. They were personally touched by the tragic rise and fall of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, they skirted the edges of the whole Warhol/Max's Kansas City crowd without becoming jaded victims of its influence. They were witness to the alpha and omega of many an artistic legend. Smith discusses how beloved Warhol transgender stars Candy Darling and Jackie Curtis were brilliant, loaded with talent, but so far ahead of their time they would not live to experience the veneration they deserved.  All of this time was spent in a microcosm of their own special planet, where Smith and Mapplethorpe wrote, drew, created, critiqued, and supported one another faithfully.
  Back to V.S. Naipaul and his hatred of feminine "sentimentality"... the literary world is a far richer place because of this (and so many other) woman, Patti Smith's, sentimentality, which never spills over into the cheap or maudlin.  As if longing and cherished memories have no place in exquisite writing.  With her tender memories, Smith has given readers a threefold gift. One is the  history of a distinguished artistic scene, one whose echos reverberate still within popular culture. The second is the story of a life long friendship that defies definition, one that gave birth to so much beauty and creativity, some of it too remarkable to understand.  The third is a lesson, almost an opportunity, to examine that history and that friendship and hopefully glean for ourselves a better understanding of life and how to live it.

Romkocsma is a Ruin

                                                                        oh!!! I can't sleep!


     My dear friend Dean Volker left town a couple of weeks ago after a lovely visit.  I miss him and, as usual, he left behind some fantastic music and magazines as well as some brand new knowledge.
  Dean is the kind of tourist that does his homework, really researches a place and gets to know it, indirectly, as best he can.  I'm not sure if, during his stateside research, he came across his knowledge of romkocsmak, or ruin pubs, but I am quite sure I may never have been introduced to this phenomenon, which is distinctly "Budapesti", had it not been for Dean's pre-voyage curiosity.
  The concept behind the ruin pub is simple as well as being a squatter's/DIY enthusiast's wet dream. At the turn of the 21st century, many of the derelict buildings inspired the creation of ad hoc gathering spaces, overflowing with art, ideas, beer, booze and loud music.  These buildings were furnished with cast off furniture and decoration and henceforth, became known as ruin pubs.

                                                                        Szimpla Kertmozi
  
  Romkocsmak represent the evolution of the speak easy...sometime after the rave phenomenon started getting weary, romkocsmak began appearing and disappearing all over Budapest. A sort of hundreth monkey effect took over, devoid of rules and how-tos.  Some romkocsmak are seasonal, some change venue from time to time, some remain within the buildings in which they began.  Since necessity is the mother of invention, these ruin pubs maintain a DIY aesthetic, the kind that calls for clever themes and commentary when establishing the mood of a place.
 So far, in Budapest, I've only been to Szimpla Kertmozi (Simple Garden) and then only for an hour or so.  It was Saturday night and the buildings nooks and crannies were filled with conversationalists, seductors, and thrill seekers.  We strolled a pass or two around the third floor foyer, spied an empty table, and quickly nabbed it before anyone else did.

                                                             third floor, Szimpla Kertmozi

                                                                    um.... a little irony

                                                                             Dean and Esther, fun and fellowship


   
  A few weeks ago, my family and I took the train down to Pécs, to enjoy the mediterranean climate and ogle the architechture left by the Turks.  We loved the mid-sized college town for many reasons, but were particularly charmed by Cool Tour Café, a charming little ruin pub just off the cobblestone promenade. The aesthetic of Cool Tour was much less frenetic, much more soothing (at least during the day), and when we were there, we got to watch this work in progress...folks were adding space to the outside bar as well as doing a bit of landscaping.

                                                   soothing colors, comfy but spare furnishings

                                                                  Cool Tour al fresco bar

                                                               outside seating,  Cool Tour  

                                                                                 colorful corner at the Cool Tour

                                                        Boone, enjoying feher bor at Cool Tour


    The concept of ruin bars is one that I think could go over quite well in certain parts of the United States, namely the West Coast, specifically Portland, San Francisco, Seattle and most college towns tucked in between the urban areas.  Dean brought up the point that property costs as well as stringent building code regulations might doom the possibility of any ruin pub phenomena in the U.S.  Which is too bad....the romkocsma represent the kind of individualism and self- sufficiency the country supposedly regales.  Of course money would be the main obstacle to something like the ruin pubs flourishing....and they say monetary incentive is the best way to get ideas flowing.  Bullshit.  Exibit A:  the romkocsma of Budapest, a fairly poor city still trying to throw off the shade of the Iron Curtain. x
                                        
  

Squares and Ters

The often bizarre and ever evolving legacy of Elvis Presley just took a load off  here in Budapest.  

  Back in 1956, Elvis, performing on the Ed Sullivan Show, dedicated the hymn "Peace In The Valley" to the revolution here in Hungary, urging viewers to donate to the passionate but short lived Hungarian cause. 

  Fifty-odd years later, mayor of Budapest, Tárlos István, has declared that Presley will become a "posthumous, honorary citizen" of the city, and will heretofore christen, in the name of the King of Rock n Roll, a new, if postage stamp sized, city park.

  One of the sites which may be chosen is at the western foot of the Margit Bridge, right next to The Hid (a popular, centralized rendezvous site favored by a pod of American and British expats I kind of know), where the magical Number 17 tram takes on a Hogwart's Express persona at its end of the line, right in front of The Hid (and perhaps, soonish, right in front of the future Elvis Presley Ter).  The 17 looks as if it should be entering a wormhole at the point of its termination...every time I see it I half expect the serpentine cars to get swallowed up by a vortex of unknown origin,  a secret tram passage to Quantum Budapest (wait, maybe I am in Quantum Budapest).   It never does, though, sadly.  After a five or ten minute smoke break, the conductor simply walks up to the other end of the tram, hops back aboard,  the yellow trolley slithers, squeaking, back through the second and third district.

  My tutoring student, Bénce, declared the other day, however, that the likelihood of that particular site  becoming Elvis Presley Tér is quite slim, as there are existing, unnamed térs all over the city which are much more, um, deserving of such an honor.
  The decision for the site will be put to a vote and the Hungarians who bother to cast a ballot will follow their hearts as opposed to their heads, much as they do on the very popular X Faktor, a show on which the biggest sob story paired with the most saccharine of voices will win hands down over genuine talent.
Because of this, the chances for Elvis Presley Tér manifesting in front of The Hid might be quite good.
  I would like to think that the confluence of the 17's terminus and the spirit of Elvis Presley could conjure up some excellent mojo, maybe unplugging that wormhole to a secret Budapest that I just know is hovering there, somewhere, beneath the Margit Bridge.  x
 
  

"We Have Lied By Night...."

I've discovered the Hungarian prince of the absurd, one Örkény István. There he was, featured on the back page of my well worn issue of Time Out Budapest, staring at me with a face worn by the kind of experience only a Hungarian of a certain age could withstand.  Boone mentioned reading about him a while ago...his name slipped my mind.  Dean spoke briefly of his One Minute Stories....briefly intrigued, I forgot him once again.  I rediscovered him and became obsessed in a bathtub full of coconut bubbles. I guess that's just my way.
  It has been said that if one wishes to understand what it means to be Hungarian, to come close to understanding the Hungarian experience, one need only to read the works of Mr. Örkény. Through his writing, and I have yet to delve in as deeply as I want to, I feel as if I am beginning to understand certain cultural quirks...what seems to be numbing slackerdom might really be inertia  as a result of an abyssmal fear of the Next, Big, Devastating Change. And one does feel more change is indeed a comin'.  What seems to be pointless and ineffective bureaucracy might truly be a residual attempt to hold on tightly to some kind of progressive order.  I dunno.  But I'm seeing things in a bit of a different light, one which helps me relate to the Hungarians more than I have these past eight months.
  If reading the absurdly, darkly delightful works of Örkény István effectively describes what it is to be Hungarian, then this flies in the face of the Fidesz party's recent rewriting of the Hungarian constitution, which now proclaims the country a Christian one, whose symbol is the "Holy Crown of St. István" (no relation to Mr. Örkény).  The author/playwright/philospher/pharmacist/military officer/prisoner of war was Jewish, socialist, and remains a national treasure, with a namesake theatre in the seventh district of Pest (my current favorite).
  Do read a bit of Örkény for yourself....his works, translated into English, read like a thrilling, disturbing harmony of Franz Kafka and Flannery O' Connor.
  Remember to "Stand with your legs apart.  Bend forward all the way.  Look back between your legs.  Thank you."

http://orkenyistvan.hu/the_grotesque

Sweet Thangs

Howling girls at the cukraszda....smirking everytime I or my boys come in for meggyes rétes or malna fogylalt, ....then begrudgingly taking our time and money....you are not the best your country has to offer.  It seems those folks lie mainly east of the river.
  Instead, you are too much like the worst my country has to offer.
Simple and elegant lesson learned:  do not judge a country by its lowest common denominator.  Also, those who have very little power over their lives wield that power like a spiked mace, when they can. x

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